by Sean Russell
“Do you really think there is some possibility that Erasmus Flattery can read this script?” the countess asked quietly.
Skye shrugged. “It’s not impossible.”
The countess took a deep breath. “Well, if you send him to me, I will find the truth for you,” she said.
Skye turned to her, his eyes bright with . . . what? Smugness, Marianne realized. It was what he had hoped for all along.
“Do you really think you could?” he asked.
“Have no doubt of it,” the countess said, clearly happy to have his full attention finally. “Some men find me difficult to refuse.”
Skye almost leaped to his feet. “Then I will find him within the hour. Write a note, and I will see it delivered to him this night.” He turned to Marianne in his joy, and realized she was not so enthusiastic as he. But this did not cause him to reconsider.
* * *
* * *
Erasmus heard the note being slipped under his door, and after a moment rose from his bed to see what it was. Sleep after all, was not so easily found that night. There was enough starlight and moonlight in his room that he found the envelope easily—a rectangle of gray against the dark wooden door.
For a moment he stood by the window trying to make out the hand by the poor light—was it from Clarendon? Hayes? Perhaps even Deacon Rose? Finding a candle, he lit it from the coals of his fire and slit the note with a pocket knife.
My Dear Mr. Flattery:
I have just been informed that you are also visiting Castlebough (the joys of small towns) and wonder if I might entice you to visit. I have long wanted to make your acquaintance, and will confess that I have a very small favor to ask. I look forward to our meeting.
It was signed by the Countess of Chilton.
“Indeed,” Erasmus said to the room. “What in the round world does the countess want with me?” Erasmus slumped into a chair. There was no question of him having suddenly become an object of interest to the smart set in Avonel. That was not possible. No, it was this “small favor” that had occasioned the sudden interest. And if that were the case, it had either to do with botany or the ways of the mages, and somehow Erasmus did not think it had anything to do with botany, though he was not sure why. Even so, one did not pass up an opportunity to meet the Countess of Chilton. It was the kind of thing that would intrigue people a decade hence. “You actually met the countess?” “Yes, but none of the rumors are true. We were nothing more than acquaintances.”
Lost in thought, he sat by the window until his head suddenly rolled to one side, and he forced himself to take to his bed.
* * *
* * *
No report had been exaggerated.
That was Erasmus’ first thought upon meeting the countess. She was, if anything, more lovely than he had imagined—and his imagination was usually unrivaled in this regard. He found he was hardly able to take his gaze away from those exquisite eyes, that perfect face. Certainly, he thought, no man can look at those beautiful lips without wondering what it would be like to kiss them.
The morning sun cast elongated rectangles on the floor and turned the border of the countess’ tresses into a flaming nimbus about her heart-shaped face.
I should have worn my blade, Erasmus thought, I am prepared to fight a duel for her already. It is no wonder that men are driven to foolishness around her.
“It is very kind of you to come, Mr. Flattery. And on such short notice. I am honored.”
“It was the summons I’m sure every man in Farrland dreams of, Lady Chilton. I would have come on a moment’s notice.”
“Well, you are not letting down the family name, I see.” She smiled charmingly to let him know that she teased and motioned to a divan set in the light of the windows.
Erasmus took his seat stiffly, and Lady Chilton sat at ease near him.
“You are known to be a man of some genius, Mr. Flattery,” she said, perhaps not to be outdone, “so I will not patronize you. I was speaking truthfully when I said I had long wished to make your acquaintance, but as I wrote, there is a small favor I will ask, if you will allow it.”
“Lady Chilton, certainly any favor you ask will be too small. Please, do not hesitate.” Erasmus was glad that she did not indulge in an hour of aimless chitchat before coming to the point. Glad and a little disappointed. One did not want a visit to the countess to end any sooner than it must.
She turned her attention to two paintings that Erasmus had not even registered, though he had walked right past them.
He felt a certain disorientation looking at the paintings, though he could not say why. There seemed to be subtle breaking of the rules of perspective, and a hyperrealism, as though the painting were really part of a fever dream. And then he realized that the crypt in one painting was the same as he had seen above Castlebough. These were the Peliers Skye had found! He turned back to the countess, his manner guarded.
“It is the inscription on the tomb that I am interested in,” the countess said.
“Lord Skye has put you up to this, I see,” he said, his voice colder than he meant it to be.
The countess averted her gaze a little. “I rather put myself up to it,” she said softly.
Erasmus stared at her, feeling sorry that he might have caused her discomfort. One could hardly look at this woman and want to cause her anything but pleasure.
“But you are correct in your assumption,” she said. “How did you know?”
“I . . . I had heard a rumor that Skye found the paintings once owned by Baumgere.” He inclined his head toward the paintings.
“I see. And can you read this text? Skye believes it might have been a language used by the mages. He also wonders if it bears some passing resemblance to the writing on the Ruin of Farrow. I understand, Mr. Flattery, that you are an authority on the Ruin, among a great many other things.” She turned her gaze back to him, her look a mixture of defiance and guilt.
* * *
* * *
The countess could see by his face and the stiffness of his posture that Erasmus Flattery was not pleased with this development, and she was not so happy herself to be using him so. There was something in his manner that also told her Erasmus was hiding more than most realized. She wondered if Skye was right—Erasmus could read the writing.
“It is a mystery to me,” he said firmly.
The countess looked down at her fingers worrying the cushion’s edge. “Have I offended you, Mr. Flattery? It seemed an innocent enough request to me.” She looked up again, meeting his eyes fully, watching the effect this had. Yes, this man, at least, was not indifferent to her charms.
“Offended me? No,” he said, though obviously she had unsettled him.
“Does this have to do with your service to Eldrich? I understand that you mislike speaking of it.”
“In no way.” He hesitated, looking down for an instant, but he could not keep his eyes from hers. “Do not apologize, Lady Chilton. It is I who am sorry that I have no answer to your question.”
“Oh.” She blew air through her lips in dismissal of his apology. She favored him with her most charming smile. “There are some who say that you were bespelled by Eldrich and cannot speak of those years. . . .”
He laughed.
She had managed to save the moment.
“I am not bespelled, Lady Chilton. My brief time in the house of Eldrich was so utterly without incident that I refuse to bore people with the tale. I was a boy. I was sent to the house of the mage where I lived for three years almost to the day. During that time I was under the guardianship of a tutor who was so ancient that at the end of three years he still occasionally got my name wrong. I studied the things every schoolboy studies. I stole sweet-tarts from the kitchen. I confess I missed my mother and family. And then I was sent home, and at no time was I offered an explanation—either then or since. Oh, and I forg
ot to say; I never met the mage himself. I did, however, see him, or so I believe, on more than one occasion, though never close to. A tall man with black hair and a stiff gait. And from this rather odd experience, people think I learned the secrets of the mages.” He shrugged and smiled a bit helplessly.
“I see what you mean. Tea, Mr. Flattery?” She motioned for the servant to come in, realizing that Erasmus was more than relieved. He was hiding the real story, she was certain. She wondered what it would take to pry it out of him.
She sent the servant off and poured the tea herself.
Erasmus Flattery, she decided, was not a bad looking man. Oh, he was not fashionable, though certainly well enough dressed, but his entire manner was not what was currently acceptable in Avonel society. No, Erasmus Flattery committed the unforgivable sin of allowing his passion to show. He was a man of great intensity, and did nothing to hide it, unlike the fashionable gentlemen of Avonel who feigned boredom in almost any situation. Farrelle help them, they were so indifferent (except to her, it seemed). She found Erasmus’ manner rather refreshing.
Erasmus exhibited none of the openness and naivete that characterized many empiricists and scholars. Instead he seemed guarded, like a man who had seen a great deal and not all of it pleasant. She had seen men who had been in battles who wore this same look.
“I understand there is a move afoot, Mr. Flattery, to allow ladies to attend some of the lectures at the Society,” she said, turning to small talk, though small talk of his own world.
“There is, though I will tell you that I have little hope of its success. The old men are still very much in control there.”
“Are these the gentlemen known affectionately as the ‘fossils’?”
Erasmus laughed. “Very affectionately, I assure you!” He tasted his tea. “There is a plan to offer lectures to the public for some very small fee. Not on the Society premises or under its auspices, but most, if not all, of the lectures heard at the Society meetings might be offered. It would be a good thing, I think. The best we can manage until the old men step down.”
“Well then, may the fossils soon pass on into the collections of the cosmic museum.”
“Hear, hear.”
“Tell me about this ruin on Farrow, Mr. Flattery. It is rather romantic, don’t you think? This great mystery sitting there all these centuries, its purpose unknown, its builders long passed from history. What on earth could it have been for?”
Erasmus shrugged. “I don’t actually know, though I fear it might be something less than romantic. My best guess is it was a kind of calendar. Almost an instrument used to calibrate the movement of stars and planets, to gauge the exact moments of certain celestial events. The longest day of summer, the shortest of winter. It likely had ceremonial purposes as well, though what those were is anyone’s guess.”
“But it is sitting there nearly intact, and has been for who knows how long, and yet all the other ruins on the island are buried beneath the earth, the walls fallen to foundations. How is that?”
Erasmus sipped his tea. “The other ruins bear no resemblance to the Ruin of Farrow. They are of different stone, and not built in the same style. I think they predate the Farrow Ruin by some time. Perhaps centuries.”
“Astonishing,” she said. “I must make a trip there. I don’t know why I haven’t.” Her own voice sounded so false to her that the countess could not believe that Erasmus was not offended by her manner.
Look what I do here, she thought. This poor man has secrets he wants to keep, perhaps for good reason, and I have set out to charm them from him. A wave of self-revulsion swept over her. She thought of Skye jumping up from his chair like a boy when she assured him she could get the information he wanted from Erasmus Flattery.
How little he cares for me that he would use me so, she thought, and felt a sadness near to tears. And now I will use this good man equally poorly. She looked over at Erasmus and felt that they were both victims in this.
“I must ask—though please don’t let me pry—are you not haunted by what happened to you in your youth? If such a thing had happened to me, I’m sure I would think of nothing else. Your good father never offered an explanation?”
“The duke was not in the habit of explaining himself to anyone.” Erasmus looked up, reacting to the sympathy on her face. “And yes, I do wonder.” He looked down into his cup for a moment. “I’m sure there was a reason. I mean there must have been. It seems very likely that I performed some feat in my youth that brought me to the attention of Eldrich. It has long been known that mages required some kind of native talent that allowed them to be trained in the arts—just as a singer must have a voice. Perhaps I showed some signs of this, but either was found wanting, or more likely, the mage held faith with the others of his kind, and trained no apprentice.”
“But if he did not intend to train you, why on earth were you taken into his home?”
Erasmus looked out the window. “Perhaps Eldrich was not absolutely sure that he would not take an apprentice. No one knows for certain why the mages have stopped the practice of training the next generation. It is a mystery that will likely never be solved. But Eldrich may have reconsidered. Or perhaps true talent, in the measure needed to become a mage, has become very rare.”
“Overwhelmed by reason, perhaps?” the countess said.
Erasmus smiled. “Perhaps.” He met her eyes for a second then looked away, obviously unsettled by his own hopes, his feelings.
The countess felt badly for him. She was, after all, attempting to raise those hopes—not too much, just enough to get what she wanted.
What a truly awful woman I have become, she thought.
“Tell me, Mr. Flattery, how have you enjoyed becoming the ‘illustrious Erasmus Flattery’? Has it given you great pleasure, I hope?”
Suddenly, Erasmus sat very straight and met her eyes, his manner no longer congenial, or so eager to please. “The script, Lady Chilton,” he said more coolly than men commonly spoke to her, “is not the same as that found on the Ruin of Farrow, though a few characters have enough similarities that I would venture they are not so distantly related. I can’t tell you how Pelier could have written it, nor can I read it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
The countess felt herself shrink inside. “You do me disservice, sir,” she protested softly.
“Do I, indeed? Then please accept my humble apology.” He set his cup on the table and looked as though he were about to rise.
She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “No. It is I who should apologize. I. . . .” She searched for the right thing to say, but everything suddenly seemed false. “I should not have misused you so, Mr. Flattery. I hope you will forgive me. You see . . . I have found these last few years that . . . I am not always satisfied with my conduct . . .” She looked down at her hands which made small movements that seemed rather helpless at the moment.
“The attention you receive, Lady Chilton,” Erasmus said softly. “It cannot be easy.”
“It is not,” she said quickly. “Though it is no excuse for my behavior, and I have no right to complain. Some women have no suitors at all. Imagine the pain of that? No, I must not complain. But . . . I am really not so charming.” She smiled painfully.
Look at the effect of this on him, she thought. Farrelle help me, I have tried to be honest for once, and I think I have melted his heart.
“What is Skye’s interest in this?” he asked with some difficulty. “These are the Peliers Baumgere possessed?”
After what she had just done, she felt that she had no choice but to answer. “I believe they are, though I have been informed that one—the painting of the tomb—is not a Pelier. Skye believes it to be a close copy—including the inscription that you see on the tomb—of an original, but I am not sure why he thinks that.”
Erasmus turned his attention back to the painting. She wondered what he
was thinking at that moment, for his look was very dark and serious.
“Is it not remarkable, Mr. Flattery, that Pelier would paint such a thing—and then this man Baumgere would dig up the very crypt depicted?”
“Most remarkable, Lady Chilton.” Erasmus shook his head as though baffled, and then turned back to his hostess. “I’m sure I have taken enough of Lady Chilton’s time. It has been a great pleasure.”
She was certain her mouth dropped open. Men never volunteered to leave her presence. More often than not she had trouble ridding herself of them.
“It—it was very kind of you to come, Mr. Flattery, and I hope you will do so again.”
They both rose at the same time.
The countess could hardly remember such feelings of confusion. Look what she had been reduced to! Skye had her performing seductions for his own ends, and even if they were emotional seductions only, even so. . . . She felt such a sense of emptiness at her center when she thought of what Skye had her do.
You did offer, she reminded herself. But he did not protest, as a gentleman should.
And here was this poor man, Flattery, who had never done her harm, nor any other that she knew of, and she had used him so badly. And insulted him in the bargain. Treated him as though he were a fool.
She could almost feel his pain at this experience. Invited to tea with the Countess of Chilton for no reason but this information that he did not want to share. Terrible.
Anger toward Skye boiled up in her. Helpless anger, for she knew she could never let it show before him. He did not care for her that much. He might simply walk away, and she would never see him again. Was this anger focused on him, or upon herself for her weakness?
She accompanied Erasmus to the door, so lost in these thoughts that she could not even attempt polite conversation. The silence walked with them, like another, a ghost in their company that they could feel but not see.
