Your friend,
Simeon
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
4 Pluvis
Arrived at Lord Gleinleigh’s estate today, in a torrential downpour that transformed me into a drowned rat in the brief interval between motorcar and door. Wouldn’t have happened if his footman had the common sense to keep an umbrella in the car. Bad service? Or calculation on Lord Gleinleigh’s part? I know Simeon doesn’t think the earl will feel the need to posture at me, since I’m not a man, but I am unconvinced. My impression, based on an admittedly short acquaintance thus far, is that he’s utterly delighted that the granddaughter of Lady Trent herself has come all this way to look at his tablets—but from what Simeon said Alan said, I can’t help but wonder if he fears the stories will start being all about me, instead of him. Letting me get soaked might be his way of putting me in my place.
If being put in my place is the entry fee for seeing the tablets, I will pay it. From what I hear of him, Lord Gleinleigh’s usual habit is to huddle over his find like a mother dragon brooding over her eggs. (Why is it that we still use that simile, even though Grandmama has made it clear that most of them don’t brood?) It is nothing short of a miracle that he is eager to see his new find published, and I can’t quite trust that he won’t change his mind. If he does . . . well, I am not above smuggling out copies of my papers, and the consequences be damned. Father will bail me out, I’m sure. Then I can look all tragic and determined for the press, who will eat it up with a spoon.
Lord Gleinleigh was taken aback when he saw me, and I don’t think it was because of my soaking. People have a tendency to forget who my mother is, even though anything our family does becomes headline news. They expect me to look Scirling, and are always surprised when I don’t.
But he recovered quickly, I will give him that much. “Miss Camherst,” he said, offering the appropriate courtesies. “Welcome to Stokesley. I am sorry your journey was so fatiguing.”
“It’s like the monsoon out there,” I said, dripping steadily onto his marble floor. “But that’s all right. I would have swum all the way here if that’s what it took. When can I get started?”
That took him aback again. “With the—My dear girl, you only just got here! I would not dream of putting you to work so soon.”
It always sticks in my craw when someone calls me “girl.” I am twenty-three, and a grown woman. But I’m likely to be a girl in everyone’s eyes until I’m grey or married. “You’re not putting me to work,” I said. “I’m putting myself. Really, I can’t wait to see the tablets. Just let me towel myself dry—”
Of course I was wasting my breath. First I had to be shown to my room. Then Lord Gleinleigh’s maid tried to insist on drawing a bath, saying I must be chilled to the bone. Which I was, a little, but I didn’t care. I did dry myself off, and then happened to glance in a mirror and discovered my hair was going every which way, as it does when the weather is damp. The maid wanted to fix that for me, but it was obvious she didn’t have the first notion how to subdue my mane. I pinned it up myself, put on dry clothes, and sallied out again in search of my host and my purpose for being there.
Only of course he had to take me on a tour of the family pile, entirely so he could show off his collection. The man has no taste! Nor any sense of order whatsoever. He has crammed Nichaean friezes around Coyahuac frescos with a monstrous great Yelangese vase in front of them so you can hardly see what’s behind. And the Draconean antiquities . . . I don’t think he knows or cares that he has hatching murals looming over mortuary stele in a way that would have appalled the ancients. But Simeon warned me, so I oohed and aahed as expected, and only made faces when his back was turned.
Eventually we got down to business. Lord Gleinleigh said, “I should tell you, Miss Camherst, that I have some requirements for this undertaking. If they are agreeable to you, then you may begin work tomorrow.”
No wonder he hadn’t shown me the tablets yet. Mind you, he could have had the decency to inform me about these “requirements” before I came all the way out here . . . but Lord Gleinleigh isn’t a complete fool. He knew it would be that much harder for me to refuse when I was in the same building as the tablets, separated from them only by a few thin walls. “I should be glad to hear your requirements,” I told him, as politely as I could.
“They are not onerous,” he promised me. “The first is that I will need you to work here, rather than removing the tablets elsewhere. I shall of course provide room and board as part of your compensation for as long as you require, and make arrangements for your belongings to be brought here.”
Live at Stokesley! I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s entirely reasonable for studying materials in someone’s private collection. But from what Simeon said, this won’t be a quick job. I’ll be here for months.
I could hardly argue, though. “Quite right. I don’t think I’ll need much; I’m used to living on ships, with all my belongings crammed into a single trunk, and most of that filled with books.”
He nodded in a way that made it clear he was entirely uninterested in my personal life. “The second is that I do not want word of the tablets’ contents leaking out until I am ready to present them in their entirety. Given bits and pieces, people will speculate and form all kinds of theories. I would rather they have the whole text at once.”
Diary, I almost squawked in frustration! Of course he wants to make a grand reveal of the whole text—and to be honest, I don’t entirely blame him. It will be much more exciting if people can read it all at once, even if the more usual thing would be to publish portions as I go along. But given the length of the main text, that means I will have to wait for ages before I can share it with the world!
Then I thought through what he had said. “When you say ‘leaking’ . . .”
“I mean that you will not be permitted to share information about it with anyone. Not until you are done. I’m afraid I must insist on security, Miss Camherst—I’m sure you understand.”
Oh, I understand. He is a greedy old worm, that much is clear, and he doesn’t have the first idea how such things work. “But what if I run into difficulty? It’s common practice to consult with other scholars along the way.”
He affected surprise. “I was given to understand, Miss Camherst, that you are one of the brightest minds in your field. Your grandfather was a pioneer in deciphering the language, and your grandmother—well, her reputation is known around the world. Dr. Cavall at the Tomphries told me that you began studying Draconean writing when you were six. But if you need to consult with others, perhaps I should approach one of them instead.”
I went hot all over. “What I mean is—ancient texts are often very unclear. I might need to compare what you have against different tablets, things at the Tomphries or in private hands.” That’s only one of the reasons, but it was the only one I could think of that he wouldn’t hear as a confession of incompetence.
He said, “Surely you can do that without needing to divulge what you yourself have learned.”
I can; it will only be a tremendous annoyance. And yet . . . the alternative is to not work on these tablets at all. He knew very well how much they tempted me, and how much he had needled my pride.