Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
19 June 1023, Achin Court, Nexing Cross, Nexinghamshire
My dearest husband,
I visited The Attic today, as I wrote to you that I would do, and to cut to the quick I have learned nothing to the purpose—nothing regarding Cathy’s affections, nor those of your brother Octavian. Nothing new, at any rate.
I approached the house with some apprehension, for you’ll recall that on our first visit John emerged spitting fire at yet another interruption before discovering who we were. I did not allow my concern to show, but banged the door knocker three times as stoutly as I could. I heard a muffled curse, which I will not record, and a clashing and clattering as though somehow had dropped an armful of tin saucepans. This was followed by a few words in another voice, calmer and higher in pitch, that I could not quite make out, and then by the sound of angry stomping that increased in volume until at last the front door was flung open and a rumpled figure stood in the circle of bright morning light.
It was John Gamble, of course.
“I have told you time and time again—”, he roared, and then scowled, seeming to find something odd about me. “And who might you be?”
“Hello, Mr. Gamble,” I said. “You once put a crown of light on my head.”
His eyes grew wide. “Amelia!” he said softly, and turning his head shouted, “Cathy! Cathy! It’s Maxie’s Amelia!” And then, “Of all the people to show up on our doorstep,” he said in tones of delight. “I thought it was Octie again. Now, come in, come in, for you’ll want to see what we’ve been up to!”
He drew me behind him, turning his head frequently to look at me as though I might have vanished, until we entered the parlor in which we had tea on my previous visit.
It is undoubtedly the same parlor, for I remember its outlines—the crown molding, the arrangement of windows, the wallpaper, now even more faded, but its contents have been transformed. The sofas and easy chairs are gone, all but the one on which you and I sat; it is now shoved up under one window with a low table before it. The various occasional tables remain, scattered about seemingly at random, and at the far end of the room is a rather larger table that I remember having been in the dining room. You must picture all of these are covered with lengths of metal cable, pulleys, gears, bits of metal plate, crystals of peculiar coloration, and various larger assemblages of these.
Cathy was standing at a new table, or perhaps one should call it a work bench, that occupies the exact center of the room. Before her was the largest of the assemblages, to which she appeared to be attaching one of the metal plates using a small metal tool.
“There, that’s got it,” she said. Putting the tool down, she wiped her hands on a dirty rag, and turned to greet me.
“Amelia,” she said with satisfaction. “Here you are at last!”
She looked quite as she did on my first visit, in a simple house frock and apron, though the scorch marks on the apron had been replaced by oil stains. She hurried to embrace me, and then, noting my dismay, said, “Oh, yes, I beg your pardon,” doffed the apron, and then proceeded to greet me like a long lost sister.
Afterwards I gestured at the assemblage of assemblages. “Ran out of room in the barn?” I asked.
“Burned down,” said John. “Two years—”
“Three years,” said Cathy.
“Three years ago. We’ll get it rebuilt eventually. But the work won’t wait!” said John.
“It never does,” said Cathy. “Now, do you have time for tea?”
“Of course I do!” I said. “It’s been eight years since I’ve seen you; you can’t think I plan to rush off.”
Cathy led me into the dining room, where I found that the dining table had been replaced by the chairs and other items that had been removed from the parlor. “We eat in the kitchen, mostly, but we sit in here,” she said.
“When we sit at all,” said John.
“When we sit at all,” agreed Cathy. “Now, give me just a moment,” and she bustled away, returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, which she placed on a low chest that was serving as an occasional table.
We chatted easily for a good length of time, about my coming to Achin Court and the reasons for my lengthy absence, and about all that has happened since—and I may say that you have been quite a good correspondent, for they seemed reasonably well up on our doings.
I asked about their work, of course, not that I had to. One could hardly have prevented them from speaking about it. “Automatons,” said John.
“Automatons?” I said. “I’m unfamiliar with the term.”
“Mechanisms,” he replied, “powered by magic. I’ve been writing to Old Tillotson, down in Edenford; Maxie put me onto him. He’s been using formings to power spells, as I guess you know.”
“I do know,” I said.
“So I thought that if formings could power spells, maybe those spells could move other things.”
“Like cables and gears!”
“Yes, precisely!” he said, with a wide grin. “I don’t have access to a former, alas, so nothing we’re building can work for long. I don’t know anyone at the Former’s Guild; and Tillotson says his tame former is too busy to help.”
I nearly choked on my tea when John referred to Jérôme Lavigne as tame.
“And except for Tillotson, the wizards down at Edenford have no patience with artisanry,” said Cathy.
“I might be able to help you with that,” I said.
And after that, is it any surprise that their doings and plans occupied the rest of my visit?
I did manage to ask about Octavian’s odd behavior, just before I left.
“Man won’t take a hint,” said John.
“Nor a direct refusal,” said Cathy.
But I wasn’t able to find out any more than that, not without being late for supper with your parents.
I suppose I must visit Octavian next. Is there any chance, dearest, that you could arrange to come over from Toulouse for a few days? He’s met me but the once, and on that occasion I spent far more time with the Myrtlewoods and John and Cathy than I ever did with him. I can’t see any reason why he’d confide in me.
Your very own,
Amelia
____
Photo by Chester Alvarez on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 