Page 26 of Confounding Oaths
“Sal?” Mr. Caesar said to the young soldier, hoping that he wasn’t making an embarrassing error.
“Hello, sailor,” Sal replied. “Can’t get enough of us, eh? Sorry to hear about your sister, but if we find anything we’ll tell the captain and he’ll tell you. You’ve no need to come back to the slums.”
The mix of greeting, reassurance, and implied rebuke in the space of two breaths gave Mr. Caesar a certain degree of social whiplash. “I’m here to see Barryson,” he explained.
Sal yelled through to somebody who yelled through to somebody who was presumably going to rouse Barryson from a back room and I, from an abundance of caution, adopted an insectoid shape to aid my concealment. Then Sal turned back to Mr. Caesar with a lazy smile. “So who’re your friends?”
Conscious that the ladies’ virtues were potentially at stake, although equally conscious that each of them had the option to bemore lax about their reputation than was typical, Mr. Caesar tried to keep introductions formal. “Sal, this is Miss Bickle and Miss Mitchelmore”—it struck him that given the company and Captain James’s willingness to be on first-name terms with servants, it was best to introduce the men as well—“and these are …” He became rapidly conscious of a flaw in that plan. “Two gentlemen who work for Miss Bickle.”
“Harris,” said one.
“Hawkins,” said the other.
“Which is pleasingly alliterative,” added Mr. Caesar, who immediately regretted it.
With a level of gallantry that Mr. Caesar felt sure either of his sisters would have found head-turning, Sal kissed each of the ladies’ hands (that is, he kissed one hand of each lady, not each hand of every lady; if there is ambiguity in that sentence it is the consequence of your limited mortal language, not of my intent) then bowed warmly to each of the gentlemen. “Charmed,” he said, “on all counts.”
“Hawey,” called a voice from the back as Barryson emerged from whatever bowels the Folly possessed, “what you yelling for?”
Mr. Caesar looked contrite, or as contrite as it was possible to look while maintaining a patrician façade. “I’m sorry to disturb you. But as I believe you’ve been told, my sister is missing.”
“Bad business that,” observed Barryson.
“And my friend here”—Mr. Caesar indicated Miss Bickle—“is of the opinion that she might have been”—here an unwarranted embarrassment overtook his tongue—“abducted by fairies.”
At the mention of fairies, Barryson’s wild eyes scanned the room and I inched myself into a crack in a ceiling beam. “Couldbe,” he said. “You bring watchers with you, John Caesar. There’s an otherworldly air about all three of yez.”
Miss Mitchelmore paled ever so slightly. “Oh, John, you don’t think—this couldn’t be because of me, could it? Did I somehow draw supernatural attention to your family?”
She did, of course. Just not the supernatural attention that was causing their present difficulties.
“We can’t assume that yet,” Mr. Caesar told her, “and even if we could it would still not be your fault.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Miss Mitchelmore. “But Georgiana swore off love for a lifetime rather than expose others to mystical peril. I might at least have thought about the possibility of my situation affecting those I care for.”
Mr. Caesar’s sometimes overbearing attitude towards his cousin had its advantages, and this was one of the rare moments in which it could be almost a comfort. “If you had, what would you have done to prevent this? Tied witch knots in her hair? Hung myrtle and wild roses over her window? Warned her to beware of fair ladies on white horses and handsome knights with sweet-sounding horns?”
Miss Mitchelmore conceded that she would not, indeed, have known which if any of those things would have proven efficacious (for the record, the answer is “two of them”; the others will kill you immediately) and that she would therefore have been no actual help in protecting Miss Caesar from supernatural danger. But she conceded it grudgingly.
It was agreed amongst those present (or most of those present; Harris and Hawkins had little say in the matter) that to determine if the unfortunate Miss Caesar had indeed been taken by my people then Barryson would need to examine the room from whichshe had disappeared. They returned, as a foursome (a sixsome, counting the servants, but who does?) to the carriage, and set out back through London en route to the Caesar residence.
We now encounter a slight problem. Mr. Caesar’s plan, to recruit the services of a known seer in order to determine what might have become of his sister, was a good one. But since that involved determining whether there had been supernatural interference with the family in general, the sister in particular, and her room most particularly of all, I was conscious that my own presence might disrupt his divination.
Not that I cared. Or at least, not that I cared for reasons that you mortals will understand. My concern was entirely in thwarting my master’s rival. I was loyal then, O my dread lord, and I remain loyal now. Ever your servant. Ever safeguarding your interests even when you do not know it.
Just saying.
But this left me with something of a quandary. My duty as a storyteller is to record every significant event that transpires and to relay it to you, my beloved readers, without embellishment or deception. My duty as a zealous (ever zealous, ever faithful, ever committed) servant of my lord was to permit this interference in Titania’s plans to proceed. The deciding factor, in this case, was that I suspected staying out of the way would lead, eventually, to a better story.
As a consequence, I was not actually present in the room where the divination took place. But I have reconstructed it as best I can from my own speculations.
“Hoo hoo,” said Barryson, standing mortally by the window with a mortal look on his face. “Well, this be a right pickle you do be in and no mistake. Fortunately, I have somehow conceived the vainglorious notion that having read a few runic scribblings by dead Norsemen, I am fully qualified to tangle with the immortal powers of the cosmos.”
“I think this is a bad idea,” said Mr. Caesar, looking mortal and priggish. “And disapprove strongly even though it is to my direct personal benefit and I am literally asking you to do it.”
“Well, I think magic is fun,” countered Miss Bickle. “And should like us to do more of it because my beliefs are extremely sensible and will get nobody killed. Of that I am certain.”
“And I think our first priority should be assisting Mary,” opined Miss Mitchelmore, “who you both seem to have forgotten in all of this.”
