So I agreed. Of course I agreed. How could I do otherwise?
“Excellent!” he said, with such heartiness that I think he may have been genuinely worried that I would refuse. “You can start work first thing tomorrow, then. I’ve even lined up an assistant for you.”
The hypocrisy of that man! First I must keep everything secret; then he drops some stranger on me, saying nothing except that I will meet her tomorrow. And before I could tell him what I thought of that, he asked me how soon I thought I could be done.
My first instinct was to laugh in his face. How can I predict such a thing without first studying the text? But I have better self-control than that, whatever Simeon says. And I have Simeon’s report on the size of the tablets, the density of the script, and its archaic cast, which is enough to make at least a rough estimate. “A great deal will depend on how obscure the text is, you understand. But I would guess perhaps two tablets per month.”
“Splendid,” Lord Gleinleigh said, slapping his knee. “That will do very well, Miss Camherst.”
He was so satisfied, in fact, that I gave him a suspicious look. “I should be clear. Two tablets a month if it goes well, which it may not. And that is only for a first draft—something that gives a clear sense of the text’s meaning. Polishing it, making sure my translation is as accurate as I can achieve, will take a good deal longer.”
Lord Gleinleigh waved away my comment. “Of course—I’m sure it will need more study going forward—but the important thing is to know what it says, yes? The finer points can wait. You might be ready for publication by, say, next Gelis?”
Ten months from now. If he were only doing the simple arithmetic of seven months for fourteen tablets, he would have said Fructis; if he were speaking generally, he would have said a year or so. Gelis is both random and specific.
And I could guess why.
Maybe it would have been better for me not to have said. But I was calculating in my head, and when I got to my conclusion, it just popped right out of my mouth. “You mean, before the Falchester Congress.”
Really, I should have seen it coming. Why else would he be so eager to have someone translate these tablets, when up until now he’s hidden his collections away for the enjoyment of himself and his friends? Because the congress will be taking place next winter. Everyone will be thinking about the Draconeans then, with their delegation coming here and the future of the Sanctuary up for international debate; the translation will positively fly off the shelves.
He coughed delicately. “It would be convenient, yes.”
Not to mention profitable. With the way he spends money on antiquities, you’d assume he must be rolling in dough, but I hear that lots of peers these days are having difficulty keeping up their estates. Maybe he’s gotten himself into debt. Or maybe he just wants more money to buy even more antiquities with. Either way, he’ll be able to do it, if this translation comes out on time—not to mention that he’ll be famous.
And so will I.
That shouldn’t be the first thing on my mind. I should take my time with this text, and make certain it isn’t published until I’m absolutely convinced it’s the best I’m capable of delivering—even if that means it doesn’t come out until I’m forty. Fame means nothing if later people say, “Oh, Audrey Camherst? You mean the one who wrote that sad little attempt at translation a few years ago?”
But it’s so hard when I can feel everyone looking at me, waiting to see what I’ll do. Not my family, of course; if I decided I wanted to retire to a country cottage and spend my life growing roses—not even award-winning roses; mediocre, aphid-chewed ones—they would hug me and wish me well. It’s the rest of the world that expects me to do something spectacular, because Papa did, and Mama, and Grandpapa, and above all Grandmama. When am I going to prove my right to stand with them?
I don’t have to prove anything.
Except to myself.
And I know I can do this. If it means working long hours to get it done in time . . . well, that’s what coffee is for.
FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF CORA FITZARTHUR
A new woman has come to Stokesley. I knew someone was going to visit, but Uncle didn’t tell me ahead of time that she will be living here for months, which is very inconvenient of him. The good news is that she doesn’t have a little yappy dog that will shed all over everything like our last houseguest. (The dog was the one shedding, of course, not the houseguest.) I told Mrs. Hilleck to put her in the lilac room and to find out what she likes to eat.
Her name is Audrey Isabella Mahira Adiaratou Camherst. She is twenty-three years old, and Uncle has hired her to translate the tablets. I saw her going into dinner, though she did not see me.
Uncle says it is very important to know who someone’s people are, so last night I looked hers up in Webber’s Almanac of the Peerage and Other Illustrious Persons of Scirland. It says she is the granddaughter of Isabella Trent, née Hendemore, formerly Camherst, 1st Baroness Trent, who is a dragon naturalist, and both very famous and very scandalous. (The almanac does not say she is scandalous, but I know that much myself.) Audrey’s paternal grandfather was Jacob Camherst, second son of a baronet. Her step-grandfather, if that is a proper word, is Suhail, Lord Trent, who is Akhian, and an archaeologist and linguist. He is also famous, though less so, and not very scandalous. Her father is The Honourable Jacob Camherst, an oceanographer. Her mother is Kwenta Adiaratou Shamade, of the Talu Union, an astronomer. That explains why Audrey is a dark brown colour, except her hair, which is black and looks like a cloud when she lets it free. Her maternal grandparents are not in the almanac, probably because they are neither peers nor Scirling.
I don’t know why it is important to look these things up. The almanac has no entry to tell me whether they are the Right Sort of People. I don’t think Uncle believes they are, though.
My instructions are to help Audrey in any way she tells me to (even if all she tells me to do is fetch her tea) and to read all of her letters before they go to the post, and to tell Uncle if she tells anyone anything about the tablets, or if she says anything unkind or suspicious about him. The letter Audrey has written to the Tomphries Museum only says that she has arrived here and that Lord Gleinleigh is exactly as she expected, which might be rude depending on what she expected, but I don’t think that’s the kind of thing Uncle had in mind. Still, I suppose I should tell him, just to be sure.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
5 Pluvis
Lord Gleinleigh is not at breakfast. How inconvenient of him! The footman says he does not often take breakfast. I wonder if he is even awake yet? He spends a great deal of his time on the Continent; perhaps he has acquired the Continental habit of keeping late hours. I did my best to sleep in until what most people would consider a civilized time, but after so much of my life on ships with Papa and Mama, the habit of waking at daybreak is difficult to shed.
Someone must be up, though, or else the servants pinched bits of the food on the assumption that no one would be eating it. Who else is here, I wonder?
later
Well, that’s several questions answered at once. But what I think of the answer, I am not yet sure.
When I was done with breakfast I went straightaway to the library, where Lord Gleinleigh had promised the tablets would be laid out for me. I was half convinced he would have failed to do so—or possibly “failed”—because surely he could not let me see them without him present to gloat over his trophy. But there they were, set in an organized row on a sheet to protect the long table that dominates the center of the room. (Why does a man who cares so little for actual learning have such an enormous and well-stocked library? Prestige, I suppose.)