With an effort of will that I wished somebody had seen and could be proud of me for, I sat up. My foot clattered against the breakfast tray that was still lying upended on the bed, and with an attack of something vaguely approximating virtue I got up and cleared it away. The sheets were an unsleepable-in mess, but I figured I’d at least saved some maid and/or footman from having to risk cutting her and/or his hands on the wreck Tara and I had made of the crockery. Perhaps one day I’d be in a relationship that didn’t have collateral damage. But I hoped not.
I dressed. I’d steadfastly resisted keeping a change of clothes at Safernoc because that made the whole arrangement too relationshippy, but Tara had done what I should have known she’d do, and bought me one anyway. Which was infuriating, slightly hot in a problematically controlling way, and maybe kinda sorta for the best because I was there most days lately and Tara tended to subject my wardrobe to more than the usual amount of wear and tear. Suited but not booted—I wasn’t quite rude enough to wear my DMs while I mooched around the bedroom of a woman I was banging—I sat down on the edge of the bed and began the heartburn-inducing ritual of checking my phone. I tried to avoid it wherever possible, because while the steady stream of where are yous and we’re worrieds had finally ebbed to a trickle, there was basically nobody I wanted to hear from.
On this particular morning I had a “just checking in” from Eve, a “your minutes have refreshed” from my phone company, a “please call me” from Ashriel, who could profoundly go fuck himself, a “you don’t know me but I think I might have some information you’re looking for” from some random, and a “please rate your order from the Happy Wok Chinese Takeaway” from some website I’d ordered food from.
I hit delete a bunch of times, then realised that one of them might have been important. Shit. How did you un-get-rid-of stuff again? I eventually found the undo button and sat there looking at a series of messages from a total stranger.
You don’t know me, but I think I might have some information you’re looking for.
My name is Dr Nicola Bright, and I’m emeritus professor of theology at University College London.
Contact me if you want to know more about the Book of Living Fire.
Well that was … something. The Book of Living Fire was the best translation I’d managed to get for the title of a book that Hephaestion—the animated statue who as far as I could tell still worked for the Prince of Wands—had smuggled to me after his master destroyed my best friend. I’d never quite worked out why he’d done it other than lithological solidarity. Then again, maybe that was enough. I’d hoped the book would hold the key to saving Elise, but I’d not been able to make head or tail of it, and nor had any of Eve’s people, back when I’d still been talking to her instead of ducking her calls and drinking. I vaguely remembered her reaching out to the academic community for information, although I’d hoped that anybody who had information would come to Eve rather than to me.
Thinking about it, that raised an interesting point.
How did you find this number? I texted back. Not that it would have been that hard to get hold of—mine was the kind of business where clients needed to be able to get through to you outside office hours, so it was a work number as much as a personal one. But I was a bit surprised that a presumably busy academic had bothered to do the legwork to track it down. Then again, it did say emeritus professor, which I think meant she was off duty or something, so maybe she had a lot of time on her hands.
There was no reply, probably because emeritus professors didn’t get up as early as werewolves, but I still felt like I’d done something at least a bit productive. I snuck a guilty look at the bed. I could probably get away with another twenty minutes if I wanted to. After all, I’d still be getting up at what most people thought was a sensible time.
Except that wouldn’t be how it worked. I’d lie down, spend an hour beating myself over the head with how badly I’d fucked everything up, and then somehow lose track of wakefulness and it’d be three again. Probably eating something was a good idea. I fished the least crushed croissant from the mess of the sheets, pried the butter dish off the floor, and had what passed for breakfast.
I was coming quickly to the conclusion that I’d done all I could in Tara’s bedroom. At least, I’d done all I could alone in Tara’s bedroom, so I set off into the bowels of Safernoc Hall. I was never sure what the etiquette was at times like this—when I’d been a kid the polite thing to do would be to make sure I tracked down my hostess first and gave her a polite thank you for having me, but I didn’t think that had quite the same connotations in the current circumstances. And while I was at least a bit curious about what exactly had gone on, and whether Tuffy had got lost in some otherworldly labyrinth or if she’d been torn apart by a hell-beast from beyond oblivion, I suspected that the pack wouldn’t appreciate my intruding. “Hi, I’m fucking your alpha and have a history of getting her to make incredibly questionable decisions” isn’t a good opener.
In the end I left a note with a servant who probably had a weirdly specific title like deputy under-valet in charge of cutlery or something. I hesitated far too long about what to write and wound up with something like Going into work. Trying to be less of a fuckup. Thanks for kicking me out of bed.
Once I was in the grounds—Safernoc has serious grounds, like proper spooky haunted castle grounds—I began the long, slow walk back to somewhere I could get a bus. I’d almost entirely stopped driving because the car had been Elise’s thing. Plus staying strictly on public transport meant I could feel slightly less irresponsible about being pissed by lunchtime. Of course the downside of having a regular fuck date with the type of person who lives in a massive country estate, and giving up on using your own wheels, is that you’re stuck relying on the kinds of routes that run once an hour if you’re lucky. Waiting by a bus-stop in a quaint little village that was probably called Much Pissing on the Meadow or something, I checked my phone again to see if I had any more updates from people wanting to know why I was being such an arsehole all of a sudden. And by all of a sudden I meant for at least a year and a half.
There weren’t, but there was a reply from Nicola Bright. I guess emeritus professors got up earlier than I thought.
Academic rumour mill was the message. I wasn’t sure that counted as an answer. But it was followed up with. And your number is on your professional website. I’ve been looking for a copy of the Book of Living Fire my whole career.
The problem with my line of work was that everything read as ominous. You got a text like “I’ve been looking for a copy of the Book of Living Fire my whole career” and you automatically tacked on “because when I watched my lover die at the age of twenty-three I swore I would have them back if I had to tear down the sky itself, and that book is part of my secret master plan to invade hell with an army of robots.”
How come? I replied as casually as I could.
I don’t want to bore you with details, but it represents an interesting example of evolving conceptions of the soul in classical thought.
She was right. The details were boring. I sent her the address of my office, such as it was, and my business hours, such as they were. When the bus arrived I was feeling pretty damned good about myself. Yes, this wasn’t strictly paying work, it was a side hustle driven by a vortex of guilt and shame that was slowly swallowing me, but it was still a big tick in the productivity box.