Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
25 April 1019
Veronica’s College, Edenford, Cumbria
My dearest cousin Armand,
I am certain that you wish to hear the latest news from Provençe, bearing as it does on events in Mont-Havre, so I will begin by setting out what little news I have.
Were I to rely on Cumbrian sources I would have nothing to tell you; events in Provençe have received little notice even in Yorke, so I am told, and less than that in Edenford. But Maximilian has been keeping up a correspondence with Alec Gainsborough, his old chief at the Cumbrian Embassy in Toulouse, and we have had word from him.
In a nutshell, the fighting continues. And by fighting, I mean small skirmishes, and by skirmishes I mean short bloody brawls between rival Royalist factions—and in one case, what I believe Jack would refer to as a “good old fashioned bare-knuckle bar fight” between the supporters of M. Montreil and those of M. D’Alphonse. That is, he would do so if Mama were not in the room. M. Montreil’s forces held the day but have since disappeared from view; Mr. Gainsborough expects that they are in hiding, for fear of reprisals from the better armed men of M. D’Alphonse, and are waiting for the right moment to re-emerge.
The bloodshed, from noses or otherwise, remains mostly in the provinces; the bar fight was in a market town well north of Toulouse.
Things remain tense in the city itself. The folk of Toulouse are still wearing their cockades and stepping carefully when they leave their own neighborhoods; but though there has been a brawl or two, no barricades have been built. Alec believes that the city will remain in relative peace so long as the authorities refrain from doing anything rash.
Alec didn’t say, but Maximilian expects that the younger men among the embassy staff will have started a pool as to when the barricades will rise—which he then had to explain to me, as I had never heard of such a thing before. The pool, of course, not the barricades.
Maximilian and I remain here in Edenford. Jérôme is now established at Veronica’s College as a “visiting scholar,” while Maximilian and I have been mapping the ley lines in the vicinity. As we had expected, the charts that the undergraduates pore over and pontificate about are woefully incorrect. Some of Dr. Tillotson’s colleagues have scoffed at our efforts, but most of the naysayers retreated with loud “Hmmmms” when we showed them our chart of the edges of Cumbria and Provençe.
I do have one anecdote for you, which I believe will make you smile.
Dr. Tillotson escorted me to the Cadwallian Library shortly after we arrived in Edenford, so that I could resume my research into the Iturians—not to gain me entrance, as the library is in theory open to anyone, but simply to show me the way. Once inside those grand halls, next to which the circulating library in Stourton looks like a poor orphan, he led me to the reading room for the Antiquities section, and then faded into the background.
The reading room is a modest place by the standards of the Cadwallian. The ceiling is no more than forty feet above the floor, the stained glass and the marble floors are simpler than in the main halls, and the chairs the line the library tables are a bit shabby, which I suppose is in keeping with the subject read there.
A servant was laying a coal fire in the hearth at one end of the room when we entered, a sight I was most pleased to see. The day, which had started out fine, had turned cold on our way to the Cadwallian, and I did not relish making notes with cold fingers. I made haste to leave my things on one of the tables nearest the fire-to-be, and then approached the desk at the other end of the room.
The librarian at the desk was a gaunt old man with long side whiskers and spectacles. He had a stack of books at either hand, and was transferring books from one stack to another while making notations in a ledger. He gave me an unwelcoming grimace as I approached.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but this—” he began to say. His tones were quiet but cuttingly dismissive. Unfortunately for him, I had made the acquaintance of librarians at the Grand Library in Toulouse—and no one can be as cutting as a Provençese with his nose in the air.
I did not wait for him to finish, accordingly, but I did give him a chance to correct his tone. “I wish to see whatever you might have concerning the Iturians, please.”
I thought I saw one eye brow contract slightly at the word “Iturians”, but he simply went on, raising his voice without raising his volume, “—this is a place of scholarship. The lending library is down by the shops.” Then he returned to his work.
Rapping him on his bald pate seemed unlikely to gain me the books I required, tempting though I found notion. I looked at Dr. Tillotson, who simply smiled at me; and then I happened to happened to notice that the servant was patting his coat pocket in the manner of someone who has lost something. Judging from the unlit state of the coal in the hearth, he had omitted to bring something with which to light the fire.
I turned back to the librarian. “I beg your pardon,” I said to him pleasantly, but in louder tones than I might have, for I wished to gain his attention. “I will just be a moment.” And as he was staring at me, shocked, I could tell, at my temerity, I turned toward the hearth, gathered my will, and snapped my fingers. The neatly laid coal burst into flame with a rush, casting shadows all about the room, before settling down to an even warming glow.
“Now, about the Iturians,” I said, turning back to the librarian, but he was staring at the fire, and seemed to have lost the power of speech. I was prepared to wait patiently for him to recover, but Dr. Tillotson came to his rescue.
“My good man,” Dr. Tillotson said, “Mrs. Archer is the young woman who single-handedly destroyed the remains of the Maréchal’s fleet off the coast of Provençe some years ago.” The librarian’s eyes grew wider still, if that were possible, as he looked from the fire to me and back again. “She is also a visiting scholar from the School of Sorcery in Toulouse. Do stop being an ass and get her what she needs, won’t you?”
As Dr. Tillotson left me at my chosen table, he said, “I’m afraid that sort of thing simply won’t do here in Edenford, Mrs. Archer. I beg you, please refrain from doing it again.” But he smiled cheerily as he said it, with a side eye at the librarian, and walked off with a spring in his step.
Word spread quickly, or so I surmise, for I have had no further trouble from anyone associated with the Cadwallian Library.
Your belatedly-respected cousin,
Amelia
____
Photo by Juan Encalada on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 