Episode 3

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope

The room was freezing. Shivering in her blue woolen shawl, Valeria got up, poked at the fire until it sprang to more convincing life and sat again staring at the spidery little scrawl of words; her fingers idly stroked the notebook's cover. What had she meant by this, hastily jotted down last week and then forgotten once more in the bustle of school matters? Maybe she'd meant to attempt a poem? Silly of her--someone else in the family had inherited all that particular talent. She honestly didn't remember why this had seemed so important.

Because I do not hope to turn again

She frowned, shook her head and turned to a blank page. She had no idea what she'd meant last week but right now, for some reason, it felt very important to write down what had happened last night.

Last night, I dreamed I went to--

She didn't want to write down the word. Wasn't that funny? To be afraid of something so silly, the made-up name of a little imaginary world of her childhood? A trivial thing, a forgotten set-aside memory, yes. Nothing to be afraid of speaking aloud. Every child alive had their own imaginary kingdom, and every one of them forgot about it immediately they were grown.

Bloody hell. She was afraid of her own name, never mind that. Ludicrous.

The fire crackled. She tapped the pen, sighing. Last night, I dreamed I--

She'd got ink on her sleeve. She brushed absently at it, fingers stroking the fabric; all this time, and she still couldn't get over the pleasure of having a dress that was wholly new and hers and pretty. Plain silvery gray this had been, until the local seamstress Jenny Harlowe got her hands on it and embroidered it with some sort of fanciful blue flower; Jenny had also added a deep blue fichu, making the dress over from sensible to lovely, and waved away Valeria's attempts to pay her what such work was really worth. One of her favorites now. She didn't mind the ink stains, though; those were a strange sort of comfort. A connection to things past.

She scratched out the unfinished sentences, and started again.

Last night, Virginia dreamed she went to Allerleiruah again.

Yes. It was Virginia after all, wasn't it? Not this person renamed "Valeria," not the sensible pragmatic headmistress of a beleaguered inconsequential school. Not her. This meant safety. Her pen began moving faster.

Allerleiruah, as you know, is the actual world in which everything of importance resides, which disguises itself in the pretense of being mere imagination. Though it looks like only one world, it is actually comprised of seven-within-one: The Realm Allerleiruah itself. Glenndinnia, the Realm's bitterest enemy. The Republic of Umbria, disguised as the most beautiful places of our earth. The Sturm, disguised as the ugliest--

Five, and six. Why couldn't she remember five and six? No, why would she? It had been nearly twenty years past now, and she was wasting her time with childish games, she ought to be ashamed of herself, worlds five, and six--

There was a knock on the door.

World seven, the hell that Umbria once was, will be. Gehenna.

She slipped the green notebook hastily beneath a pile of desk papers as the knocking grew louder. "Mr. Wales?" she called out. "Please come in."

******

Josey handed his hat and coat to the maid and gave himself one last inspection before knocking on the door, straightening his tie and smoothing his lapels. He was still rather stunned at Ada's "surprise", and a little irritated--she could have given him a bit more warning to prepare himself, though what preparation he could have made for a job for which he was completely unqualified, he couldn't say. He wondered if he should have put a flower in his buttonhole. Robbie had always insisted a gentleman was never fully dressed without one. It would have been simple enough to pick one from the Earl's hothouse, but even though most likely no one would have minded, or even noticed, it would have felt like theft, or worse--charity. Besides, it seemed a shame to drag something as delicate as a flower from its warm, bright home out into this bitter, gray cold.

Finally satisfied that there was nothing he could do to make himself more presentable, or qualified, he knocked lightly on the door. Nothing. He knocked again.

From the other side of the door came a female voice, Miss Fate's presumably. "Mr. Wales? Please come in."

Miss Fate's office was quite small, as was Miss Fate herself. The top of her head barely reached the knot in his tie, and her hand, when he shook it, nearly disappeared in his. Her fingers were icy cold. She sat down at her desk and indicated the chair opposite. "Have a seat, Mr. Wales."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Now, then," she said, settling her spectacles and shuffling through a the heap of papers on her desk, "where was that? Ah, there it is." She seemed a bit flustered and her eyes were ringed with fatigue. At last, she drew Ada's letter out from under a large green-bound book. "Forgive my absent mind, it has been a bit of a chaotic week. So, Ada tells me you are applying for the position of teacher of Modern Languages."

"Yes, that is what she told me as well." His voice was perhaps a bit overly wry, and Miss Fate gave him a questioning look. "She's sprung this on me as a bit of a surprise," he added, by way of explanation.

She smiled in sympathy. "She is most proficient at that."

******

Valeria read through Ada's letter once more, glancing at Mr. Wales over the edge of the paper as she did so; he was much younger than she'd expected--she having concluded, wrongly, that the family to which Ada said he was reluctant to return might be an unwanted spouse and children--and was sporting a suit which, if it weren't the product of Ada's lavish giftgiving, meant he was also far more prosperous than the average schoolteacher. Or headmaster, for that matter. Her fingers worked unconsciously at one inkstained lace cuff.

"Right, then," she smiled, putting the letter aside. "Which modern languages? And, forgive me, are you fluent in the scholar's sense of the word or the tourist's?" She winced a little, recalling last week's painful ordeal with a candidate who seemed to know precisely a dozen words of German, and hoped Mr. Wales wouldn't take the question personally; to her relief, he smiled back.

"Well, it depends on the language," he admitted, gazing easily down at the large hands folded in his lap and back at her again. The chair, a worn but comfortable red leather in which she was easily swallowed up, looked almost too small for him; not a fat man, but the tall, broad-muscled sort who might someday run to fat if he weren't careful. She had always preferred smaller-framed men, those shorter than just about everyone but herself. If you were going to spend your whole life looking up to everyone you met--and in her case it was unavoidable--better the distance not be quite so wide or intimidating as it might.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"My Italian and Spanish are pretty good"--his brow furrowed in thought--"though I've been told my Spanish is more Mexican than Castilian."

Spanish--good, very good, they needed someone who spoke the language of the sciences. She was already feeling more amenable to him. But she wasn't going to let him think Ada's mutual friendship assured him anything. "Well," she replied, dutifully scribbling notes on a spare sheet of paper--more to have something to do with hands and eyes than anything else--"that's good to hear. We need candidates proficient in the languages of scholarship. Such as Spanish, however accented. So I'd like to hear about your German."
"Ah, well, a year ago I would have said my German was nothing to brag about, but I spent last spring with a friend of mine in Vienna, and she was adamant that I use proper German in her house." He looked up with a rueful grin. "And she wasn't shy about correcting my grammar when I misspoke, so it is much better now than it was. Again, there's the accent, more Austrian than proper Prussian, but she found it satisfactory by the end."

"And your Italian, by 'pretty good,' you mean..."

"I'm quite comfortable in conversation. I spent some time there."

Valeria nodded. Not the ideal amateur scholar, maybe, but passable--more than passable, really, far better than the supposed certified candidates whose self-congratulatory blunders she'd been enduring the past few weeks. A pity, though, that she couldn't test his claims for herself; the only other language she was truly fluent in was one the school didn't teach and which she doubted he knew. Though, with his references to all that travel, she could be wrong.

"No teaching experience, though," she mused aloud.

He nodded in acknowledgement of this, though he seemed unfazed. "Well, other than my brothers and sisters--I'd help my mothers teach them--"

"Mothers?"

Josey rubbed his hands against his trousers. Clearly, he'd been waiting for this to come up. "I'm a Mormon," he explained. "The Church permits a man to marry more than one--"

"I'm familiar with the Latter-Day Saints," Valeria interjected quickly; she appreciated his candor, but didn't want him to think this required lengthy justification. Sun knew, her own background would never pass such strict muster. "I teach the ethics classes here as well, that incorporates comparative religion."

He leaned back in his chair, no doubt relieved to be spared both the need to explain himself and the experience of being an exotic curiosity. Though he might not credit it, she knew exactly how he felt. "That's how I came to study languages, actually," he said. "I've always had a knack for picking up other languages, so they decided to train me up for missionary work abroad."

That explained all the travel, then; the brief flicker of envy she'd felt at his mentions of Europe quickly subsided. "Is it going to bother you, having...less people of your own faith around you than you might be used to? We only have one other Christian teacher, and almost none in the village itself." She glanced down at her piece of paper again, writing "notes" that were actually a wordless chicken-scratch. "And not that I would expect this to be a problem, but any...er, attempts to be a missionary to the community, they're bound to prove wildly unpopular at best." She looked up again, embarrassed at the words coming from her mouth but also determined to get the matter over with. "Not that I would stop you, it's not my place--I just warn you."

His smile tightened slightly, as she was afraid it might. She wished suddenly that she could explain about the trouble they had had with Mr. Hughes, what an embarrassment he liked to make of himself when the proselytizing spirit got hold of him, how angry he'd made more than a few parents in the process--but it wasn't his place to know that, any more than it was hers to know how many wives his father had. Though she was free, in her own mind, to reflect on how well men of all faiths managed to arrange things just as they liked them. And the women? Ah, well.

"I've left the church," he replied. "And if I may be frank?"

"Of course."

"Their missionary activities? They weren't very popular with me, either."

Valeria nodded. The moment of tension hadn't quite passed, but it had lessened the slightest bit. She still rather wished she could explain about Mr. Hughes.

"May I ask why?" she said, and wondered if she shouldn't have.

******

"And your Italian, by 'pretty good,' you mean..."

"I'm quite comfortable in conversation. I spent some time there."

She seemed rather nervous, Josey thought, almost as though he were interviewing her. And the way she kept looking down and peeping at him over the rims of her spectacles--Lord knew he still wasn't expert at the whole rank business, but if Robbie were to quiz him on it, he'd have guessed her to be a Pet. But of course, they'd never put a Pet into the position of headmistress, would they? So she must be a Hare, petsy as she was. He looked at the dark rings under her dark eyes. Perhaps it was just fatigue. He could remember more than one day when, not having seen or heard a word of English all day, he could barely bring himself to answer the simplest question. Perhaps the way she kept her chin tucked in and her eyes down had less to do with shyness than with exhaustion.

"No teaching experience, though," she pointed out.

Here was his opening. Best have it out now, so she could gawk or pry or look superior, or whatever she was going to do, and get it out of the way.

"Well, other than my brothers and sisters--I'd help my mothers teach them--"

"Mothers?" She caught the plural. So she was listening after all. With the meaningless scratches she'd been making on that paper, he wasn't sure.

He continued, "I'm a Mormon. The Church permits a man to marry more than one--"

She cut him off. "I'm familiar with the Latter-Day Saints. I teach the ethics classes here as well, that incorporates comparative religion."

Well, that would save him some explanation then. He'd never been particularly keen on "witnessing" to the unconverted, but it seemed as though he always ended up doing it anyway, to satisfy their idle curiosity, rather than his missionary's mandate. It was a tremendous bore. "That's how I came to study languages, actually," he said. "I've always had a knack for picking up other languages, so they decided to train me up for missionary work abroad."

"Is it going to bother you, having...less people of your own faith around you than you might be used to? We only have a few other Christian teachers, and almost none in the village itself." Was she concerned for him or concerned for the school? He couldn't tell. "And not that I would expect this to be a problem, but any...er, attempts to be a missionary to the community, they're bound to prove wildly unpopular at best."

The school, then. If she taught religion then shouldn't she know the difference between the Utah Saints and the crusading, one might even say fanatical, Mormon Baptists. Not that it really mattered now, he supposed, since he'd walked away from all of that a long time ago. "Not that I would stop you, it's not my place." (Wasn't it? She had that right.) "I just warn you."

Josey was more than happy to set her mind at ease on that point. "I've left the church," he replied, "and if I may be frank?"

"Of course."

"Their missionary activities? They weren't very popular with me, either."

"May I ask why?"

Yes you may, so we can just put this whole thing to rest for good and all. "Well," he said, "being raised in a religion and having a faith are two very different things. Consider me as the first, and not the second."

Miss Fate seemed rather pleased to hear this. "Very well, file you under 'a' for apostate and move on. Very good." She paused and jotted a few more nervous nothings onto the paper. "Now tell me this, Mr. Wales," she said, addressing the paper rather than him. "Why on earth would a young American with what surely are all the prospects in the world ahead of him," she flicked him another avoidant glance, "be yearning to come to a backwater part of a very quiet county such as this one to take on a job at which he has absolutely no experience?"

Was she poking fun at him? "All the prospects in the world?" And that jab--"absolutely no experience," there was no need to push that in his face. He might be down on his luck, but she needn't act as though he'd come like a tramp to the back door, looking for work. This was Ada's idea, not his, and she should know that. But then, taking another look at her anxious expression as she darted another look up at him, he was again overcome with the impression that she was being interviewed as much as he was. Maybe her intent was self-deprecation, however awkwardly stated, and not to knuckle him down at all. Either way, the plain, honest answer was the best and she could make of it what she pleased.

"I'm afraid my prospects in London haven't turned up much." He looked her in the face as he spoke, which seemed to discomfit her, not that he cared, just now, "and I would prefer not to go back to the States."

"What were you hoping for?" she asked.

Nothing. Anything. "Well, as I said, this was sort of sprung on me, so I haven't had the opportunity to give it much thought." Miss Fate nodded, with a conciliatory smile that made him think she'd been on the receiving end of one or two of Ada's "lovely surprises" herself. "But as for the locale, I was raised in Utah Territory. The nearest town was more than three hours ride away." He returned her smile with one of his own. "So my idea of a backwater may be a little more extreme than yours."

"Utah Territory!" she exclaimed. "Great sun, trapped right between the Pottawatomie Territories and the Californias. I concede the point!"

Josey suppressed a chuckle. The Pottawatomies? She taught ethics, did she? Clearly, she didn't teach geography as well.

******

From over her spectacles, she saw him suppress what looked like a laugh. What had she said? No, she knew perfectly well what she'd said--she'd made him angry, all these questions, and she didn't even care if he worshipped bloody sheep in the field but she just wanted to avoid any more trouble. Doubtless he'd taken her apostate comment seriously too. She never could put people at ease with humor, the way Mr. Ireland seemed so effortlessly to do; no matter what, it always came out wrong.

"You've probably heard," she began, as carefully as she might, "that we had certain...problems, with some of our former staff."

"Yes, I've heard of it," he replied, his voice equally calm and even. No particular moral outrage that she could see, Christian or otherwise. "It's been in the papers--"

Valeria shook her head. Bugger the papers, she thought, I want to know what Ada's been telling you. If anything. "Have you heard the details of what happened?"

He seemed slightly puzzled at the question. "I know you lost a lot of people after the Wilde trials," he said. "I understand there's a court case between the school and one of the student's parents."

Nothing, still, he couldn't have read in any newspaper and parroted right back to her. She worried the edge of her cuff again, knowing she was doing it but unable to quiet her fingers, and silently willed herself to say nothing, and then realized that she couldn't leave it where it lay. Someone else's welfare might well depend upon it, and she had already failed him more than once.

Bloody hell, why couldn't Roland have fallen ill some other time so he could be conducting this dumbshow? She wasn't any good at this sort of thing, as he well knew. Nonsense, Miss Fate, he'd reassured her between fits of coughing, still with the unshakeable enthusiasm that sometimes was deeply reassuring and sometimes nearly maddening, you are quite wonderful with people if you only knew it, there's no need to be so shy! If it hadn't seemed a bad way to act before a sick man, that really would have made her laugh out loud.

"There are other...cases, sir," she began. "One in particular..."

She was silent for so long that he leaned forward in his chair and frowned. Let him wait, then, he was the candidate here and not she; she needed to say this properly.

"I'm not asking after deviance," she finally said, "however anyone defines it. I've heard enough debates about that word and its meaning to last a lifetime. All of us have." Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded quiet and tentative, but the thought of whom she meant to protect made it stronger and steadier. "But the matter of which I'm speaking involves a repeated criminal attack, under anyone's definition. And the...object of that attack is here, at this school, and their protection is our responsibility because they have no one else. And I cannot...I cannot in good conscience retain anyone who has any connection to the people responsible for his--their--persecution, people who clothed themselves in the pretense of being part of Mr. Wilde's circle of companions. Even the most tenuous connection can lead backwards, and that could be disastrous for this person."

She forced herself to remove her hand from her sleeve. "I'm sorry not to be more specific, but I can't do so and maintain any confidentiality. You see why I must be entirely certain you have...no such connections, for both their sake and our own."

******

"You've probably heard," Miss Fate said, speaking almost as though trying not to wake some sleeper in the room, "that we had certain...problems, with some of our former staff."

This was not a sleeper Josey particularly cared to wake, either. "Yes, I've heard of it. It was in the papers--"

"Have you heard the details of what happened?"

Oh, indeed he had, more than she had, quite possibly. "I know you lost a lot of people after the Wilde trials," Josey said. "I understand there's a court case between the school and one of the student's parents."

Miss Fate hesitated, continued with with difficulty "There are other...cases, sir. One in particular..." then stopped again. She was pulling at her sleeve fit to tear the lace. If she had been a Pet, he would have thought her on the verge of curling up at her desk and hiding her head in her arms. And indeed he had to suppress the impulse to soothe her as he would a distressed Pet. Instead, he did the only thing he could do. He waited.

"I'm not asking after deviance," she finally said, "however anyone defines it. I've heard enough debates about that word and its meaning to last a lifetime. All of us have."

Asking after deviance? What had Ada told her about him? But Miss Fate was Ada's dear friend, surely Ada would not have brought him here if she thought doing so would cause trouble for either of them. Miss Fate collected herself and went on in a more even tone. "But the matter of which I'm speaking involves a repeated criminal attack, under anyone's definition. And the...object of that attack is here, at this school, and their protection is our responsibility because they have no one else. And I cannot...I cannot in good conscience retain anyone who has any connection to the people responsible for his--" She seemed to stumble for a moment. "--their persecution, people who clothed themselves in the pretense of being part of Mr. Wilde's circle of companions. Even the most tenuous connection can lead backwards, and that could be disastrous for this person."

He tried to assume in expression of disinterested concern and prayed the shock didn't show on his face. Who?

"I'm sorry not to be more specific," said Miss Fate, too busy with her sleeve to look at him, "but I can't be and maintain any confidentiality. You see why I must be entirely certain you have...no such connections, for both their sake and our own."

Josey considered all of this in the long silence that followed. It had to be someone new, or Ada would have known, would have warned him of the possibility of this unpleasant coincidence. Who could it be? Had it not been for that accidental "his," he realized, he could almost have sworn that Miss Fate was speaking of herself.

If only he knew who the fellow was! Repeated criminal attack? He couldn't think of anyone in Oscar's circle who would be capable of such a thing. Except Douglas, of course, but with Douglas, it wouldn't have been a repeated criminal attack, because Douglas tired of his toys too quickly, preferring to rent them rather than keep them long enough to break them. Of course, at one time it seemed as though anyone who'd ever staggered out of the St. James' bar claimed to "being part of Mr. Wilde's circle," so really it could be anybody. And it was also true that the fellow might never have been attacked at all, but simply caught at it, and if he were a Pet particularly, it would have been easy enough to claim that he'd never consented to any of it. Even if the attacker had been some part of Wilde's circle, he still might not recognize Josey. After all, Josey had only ever been on the very fringes of it, dangling from Robbie's coattails, not to mention all that time in Europe where he hadn't seen any of them at all.

It was maddening not to know whether the victim of this alleged criminal attack would recognize Josey or not, and if he did whether he'd flee, turn Josey in or try to strike up a flirtation. If he were superstitious, he'd take this as an omen, thank Miss Fate very politely and leave directly. Leave for where, though, that was the question. Back to Italy was impossible, Prague was too expensive, Vienna--well that was too expensive in a very different way, and knocking around France with Marie would be the death of that friendship, he didn't doubt that one bit. And he really could not continue to sponge off of Ada and Anna. It was too shameful.

Then he realized to his chagrin that he was acting as though it were a sure thing, his coming to stay here. But this was an interview, not another one of Ada's gifts, and he was completely unqualified. Best leave it to chance, then. If, against all odds and common sense, Miss Fate decided to take him on, then perhaps he was meant to be there. He could at least try to find out who the mystery man actually was before fleeing the premises. And if worst came to worst, he'd simply be fired and sent away in disgrace. He'd never done anything "criminal" on English soil with anyone but Robbie, and Robbie would never peach on him.

"I think you may be assured ma'am," he said, "that you will have no trouble in that way from me." A bit of a stretcher, perhaps, but true for the most part.

"Sir," replied Miss Fate, coloring a little, "I assure you that that was the farthest thing from my mind. I only wish to ascertain that you have no...sympathies, with certain lifestyles."

"Ma'am, I have absolutely no sympathies with anyone who could perpetrate a criminal attack on a helpless victim." That, at least, was the honest truth. "Besides," he added, "I was raised to follow a very high standard of morals. Whatever else you may think of the Church of Latter-Day Saints, you can't fault them for being permissive of any deviance." That too was nothing but the truth, and besides, it was about time that he be able to turn his church upbringing to his benefit for once.

******

No, I very much doubt your church smiles upon such things, Valeria thought, but you just told me you have no more use for them and their rules, now didn't you? Not that it mattered. Though she certainly would never have said as much, to him or anyone else, she had about as much faith in religion's power to keep the human heart sound as she did in the power of orange-water to cure consumption; it wasn't his church upbringing, which he obviously wished to defend after her oblique attack upon it, that convinced her he might be sincere. Rather, it was the initial shock, and then the telltale flicker of skepticism, in his eyes when she told him of her true concerns. Oh, surely it could not be as bad as all that, now could it? Surely she had been taken in by some silly little Pet's self-serving sob story? Oh, yes, she thought with a flash of the old anger that she quickly, firmly extinguished, that was what they always thought when you asked someone for help. Always.

Except for Roland, save him, and she would always be so grateful for that.

The letter had arrived in the midst of the scandal, the worst and yet the best possible timing as she and Roland were left with the school in roiling chaos: a letter on halfpenny paper addressed in a neat, square handwriting she didn't recognize, and as she had opened it in front of Roland and read its contents she first felt certain this was a horrible, cruel joke, someone long-forgotten person's idea of a prank, and then began growing hot and cold and feeling her head spin as she read it over and over again.

Dear Ginny: I don't imagine you ever expected to hear from me again in this lifetime, nor did I ever think I would find you...

No. No, she had not. Roland had seen her face, immediately was seating her in the nearest chair and asking what had happened, what was the matter, she was pale as a sheet could he fetch some water my dear Miss Fate what had upset her so?--and she had thrust the letter into her pocket, concealing it as quickly as possible, and blurted out the first thing she could think of: A friend is very ill. I need to go to London. And it hadn't been entirely a lie, and her worst problem getting there was to convince Roland that he did not need to pay her train fare or lodging. She spent the entire trip feeling alternately dizzy and faint.

The address that Percy had given led her to a tiny, shabby but neatly kept house in Reading, nothing about it to attract undue attention; it looked very much like what it was, a safehouse for Pets needing protection and having nowhere else to turn for it. The woman at the gate had been told to expect her, but still grilled Valeria top and bottom about who she was, what she was doing there, who had asked for her, why she was there, how long she meant to stay--and she knew it was right, knew it necessary, but had to dig her nails into her palm to keep from shouting, Let me in, let me in, he's my brother and I haven't seen him since I was thirteen years old God's death let me in!

Then eternity ended, and she was in a sitting room waiting with clenched aching fists--and suddenly standing in front of her was a short, slender man in worn, once gentlemanly clothes and the bright pink of a healing burn running down one forearm. He saw her glance, and rolled down his sleeve. Hair still fiery as when they were children. He'd become handsome, in a thin-faced, bespectacled sort of way.

Ginny, he said, and she burst into tears, and he wept, and they were huddled on the couch clutching each other tightly for a very long time.

How did you find me? she finally asked when she could form words, and the answer made her want to laugh out loud: When teaching work had run thin he had done errands and filing in a solicitor's office, the same solicitor her husband had hired many years ago to end their marriage. Percy had been searching for her for nearly twelve years, long after Valeria had given up on finding him, and he had had no compunctions about searching the office files there, or his previous office, or the one before that, on the bare chance he might find her name; he had never expected to, it was simply that he might tell himself he had made an effort, but there one afternoon he found her and had to suppress a shout of shock.

She'd forgotten, Valeria had, that her husband had discovered her real name by his own means, something else to use against her; once Percy saw in writing that "Virginia Marlowe" (and how many women so named could there be?) was now "Valeria Fate," his search was no longer a futile hobby. It had taken him four more years, but many months past now he had found her--and until desperation drove him, had had no courage to write. She cried again when he said this and he clutched her hand fiercely.

What happened to you? she demanded. Why are you living--

A hollow laugh. I was covvened, but I'm not any more. Then, quietly and without an ounce of emotion or self-pity, he told her a story that made her chest tighten and bile rise into her throat. Those people. Again. Always those people.

Percy couldn't find work, something he also told her without self-pity and clearly without any pleas for her assistance: Thanks to his former Hound--hyena--his reputation was in tatters in and around London, he couldn't keep living here forever but he had no money to leave with and nowhere to go where he might not be found. For his Hound, hyena, was looking for him. Those people. Always. She returned home with determination burning a hole in her stomach, and when she told Roland--quite casually, at first--that she knew of someone who might be quite perfect for their Classics department, would he be willing to have the man come down from London for an interview, Roland had been delighted to. Valeria waited until Percy had been vetted (after his many protests that he hadn't meant to play beggar--bloody hell, it was a fine world where a Pet seeking aid from other ranks thought he was playing beggar), and Roland had pronounced him the best candidate he had seen, and praised Miss Fate's efficiency and sound judgment, before she revealed that this was the friend who had written her from London. And why he had.

Their family relation, though, both she and Percy had failed to mention, kept well to themselves; they had their reasons. It hadn't mattered. Roland's doggish rage at Percy's story had been bracing, satisfying, even as she sat observing it as if from a distance; for once, somebody believed them both and wanted to behave like a proper Hound in the face of it all. She would never forget that. Nor the way Roland had turned to her, smiling despite a face still flushed with wrath, and said in complete sincerity, Miss Fate, you have such a good, kind heart.

A good heart? Roland, with your good unsuspecting heart, if only you knew. But she meant to assure he never did.

Mr. Wales had settled more comfortably into his chair, clearly confident that he had allayed all her concern. Such silly little concerns over nothing, of course. And what if he was lying? She was quite certain that he, himself, had not had any part of this, yes--but what if he knew those who had? Those people, they might fight among themselves, but when trouble came they all stuck together. Thick as thieves.

Oh, do they? another, clearer-headed part of her demanded. You mean the way all of Mr. Wilde's friends stood by him when he was arrested? And Headmaster Almond's?

Percy would know, anyway, and if Percy recognized Mr. Wales from elsewhere she and Roland could send him packing immediately. And where else would they find someone who spoke German, and Spanish, and Italian, beyond a child's primer's worth? And she had worn herself out over this, as she always did when the past came creeping up upon her, and felt too weary to wish to continue much further.

"Well," she said, putting down her pen, "you are in need, we are in need--we seem to be a perfect match for one another. I still have to speak to the headmaster, of course, but if you still wish the position I'm offering it to you, effective immediately."

******

"Well," said Miss Fate, "you are in need, we are in need--we seem to be a perfect match for one another." She sounded almost as though she were out of breath, and there were spots of high color on her cheeks. Josey wondered for a moment whether she might be coming down with whatever had laid the headmaster low. "I still have to speak to the headmaster, of course, but if you still wish the position, I'm offering it to you, effective immediately."

He was surprised by the abruptness of the offer, and how relieved she seemed to have been able to make it. Who had interviewed who, just now? He wasn't sure. He supposed he should inquire after wages and such, but really, at this point such things no longer mattered, did they? Accepting the hospitality and generosity of friends was one thing, openly living off them was quite another. It was this or manual labor at this point, and London was full of men with plenty of muscle and no work to put it to.

"Immediately?" he asked.

"That's no trouble, I hope."

"N-no. No, not at all, it's just--when does the school year start? I mean, there aren't any students here now. When will they be arriving? I'm not familiar with your calendar. How soon will you need me aboard?"

"Ah, well, spring term starts after Lupercalia." She saw his puzzled look and explained, "That's mid-February--"

He frowned, worried. "That's only a couple of weeks!" God help him, how would he possibly be ready in time?

"Oh, don't worry," she assured him, "Mr. Ireland had hoped to open then, but it's utterly impossible. Nevertheless, the offer is immediate, at his insistence. You would receive reduced wages, of course, until we are able to open the school, but you would also have room and board."

"All right, then. You had me a bit worried there," he said, not bothering to hide his grin of relief.

"Oh, I think summer term more likely, after May Day, so you should have some time to get yourself settled. And though the offer is immediate, I understand if you need time to settle your affairs and and pack your things. There's certainly no hurry, not unless you happen to be an overly eager and optimistic Hound who thinks he can make everything right by sheer force of will."

This last she said in a wry voice, with a smile composed of equal amounts of exasperation and affection. What sort of a man must he be, Josey wondered, who could win a smile from this chilly little woman? The sort of man, he decided, that he would very much like to meet.

"No, that's fine," said Josey, "the sooner the better, really. If I know Ada, she's probably got movers over at my place right now."

That earned another smile. "I do know Ada," she replied, "and I'm certain you are right."

The interview over, he rose and made a little bow of farewell, which she returned with a slight nod of her head. "Good day, Mr. Wales." She seemed amused by something, probably him, but he wasn't sure. The Europeans always bowed, the Americans always shook hands, the English did both and he could never keep straight when to bow or shake hands. He'd probably made a fool of himself again. Best to go now before he knocked over a vase or something. But he paused and turned back at the door.

"Ma'am, if I may impose upon you..."

"Yes?"

"I know you have your hands full, but as you said, I've no experience teaching." He put his hands in his pockets, took them out again, and not knowing what else to do with them, put them back in. "I was wondering if I might come to you for advice, once in a while?"

She seemed genuinely surprised. "Good heavens, sir, I certainly hope you would."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Especially as you, as you yourself admit, are not entirely familiar with the local culture."

"Well, I'm not exactly a Mormon Wild-Man from the Far Desert Wastes of Utah, but yes, I think I'm apt to blunder about a bit, if left to my own devices, so any advice you could give me would be very welcome."

"I'm sure you will do very well, Mr. Wales," she said, and added as he turned to go, "Sir, I appreciate your willingness to give us the benefit of the doubt. Many have not and will not, believe me." Her voice, when she spoke, was weary and sadder than he would have expected.

"I assure you, ma'am," he said, surprised in his turn, "that goes both ways."

******

I'm not exactly a Mormon Wild-Man from the Far Desert Wastes of Utah--he'd said it cheerfully, but she had a feeling he'd had to explain this in earnest far too often to far too many people for comfort. A pity, really; it was quite nice to meet someone whose idea of an adventurous life wasn't choosing to finish his degree at Lady Margaret instead of Oxbridge. She would have to be careful, not to make him feel like he had to sing exotic stories for his supper. His life was his own.

He actually wanted her advice? Ah, well--she wasn't going to break his heart by admitting what a bad, indifferent sort of teacher she really was. She had a few bits of experience that he didn't to pass on, at the very least.

"Sir," she said, a bit awkwardly, "I appreciate your willingness to give us the benefit of the doubt. Many have not and will not, believe me."

He actually seemed surprised by this. "I assure you, ma'am, that goes both ways."

When he had closed the door behind him she sat back in her chair, allowing herself to relax, and wrapped her shawl tighter around herself; was it just she who was cold? Mr. Wales hadn't seemed the least uncomfortable. Her chest was tight, too, and her throat scratchy and breakfast had tasted very off; she had the sinking feeling that she was contracting whatever Roland was now recovering from. Luckily, she had--as Maggie had once put it--an ox's constitution though she didn't look it; a few very welcome days' rest and she'd be fine.

Roland would like him, she thought; despite his inexperience he seemed a steady sort of fellow, a bit ungainly at moments but with an underlying, unmistakable air of natural authority. Very much a Hound, if you liked that sort of thing, and not the braying bombastic sort either. They'd get on, he and Roland. Thank earth all these blasted interviews were nearly over and finished.