Based on the notes of Alice Fay Athenida
On the following days, I spent quite a lot of time inside the records room of the Tower. Mr. Verne taught me a special knock, so I'll let him know it was me on the other side of the door. It took us a couple sittings to finish his report, as he had a lot of questions and I had to chop my answers so they wouldn't reveal too much about the future. Still, I think a couple things went through my filter, as they appeared years later on some of his writings.
"Can you answer me something?" I asked, once I finished reading another unsolved report.
"I certainly hope so." He was trying, without success, to keep dust out of the books. "What's on your mind?"
"I know why some of these" -I waved at the records- "weren't recovered. Either too dangerous, or unknown location, or the artefact was destroyed. That I get. What I don't get, is why some of these aren't recovered. Look at these two."
I went back to the shelf and pulled some of the records.
"Non-threatening, known location, and artefact in perfect condition."
"Your father has given order that, unless an artefact is proven to cause harm to humans, is not to be retrieved."
"And even then, when there're too dangerous, you still have to leave them alone?"
"Pretty much."
This infuriated me. Not with Mr. Verne, but with my father. He had sent a telegram couple days prior, confirming my uncle's visit, and saying he and my mother would be back in London around the 30th. My father is a smart man, no doubt in that, but sometimes he can be overtly cautious. Artefacts just laying around without supervision more than an annual check-up, seemed uncharacteristically dismissive of him.
"Can I borrow this?" I said, pointing at the book.
"Sure, as long as it's back before your father. No one comes here anyway."
He was, unfortunately, right. In the two weeks I spent there, not a single person came to the records. Only me and Mr. Verne. No wonder the rumours I heard in the twenty-first century came to be true. A place with no respect for records, is hurling to a cliff.
"No surprise my boss left for a sabbatical in New York to work at the Astor Library." Mr. Verne said, while I packed the books in a bag.
I said my goodbyes and went back to the house. The staff was busy cleaning and putting everything in place for my uncle's arrival. So busy, in fact, that they didn't notice me going down the stairs and into the study. Next to his office, the large room that once was the master bedroom, now worked as a study, with large shelves and comfy chairs. The only thing remaining from the old chamber, the large silver-crested mirror on the back side of the room, between the shelves.
My father's study worked as a small library of everything he managed to recover from his stunt in the Americas. This included maps, accounting records from his company, and books.
The records I took from the Tower were about three artefacts in London. Or, at least, their last known location was in or around London.
Thomas Blood's hat, which, according to the record, can cause someone to try to steal the Imperial Jewels. At some pub near Lambeth. Under the care of the surviving members of the Blood family.
William the Conqueror's sword. Made by dwarves of Brittany before they went extinct. Has the ability to ensure the victory of anyone, as long as they wield it. This one's been under the care of the Royal Family for over eight hundred years, as an on-and-off relationship, changing hands from each monarch. Now, inside some room in Buckingham Palace.
And lastly, Robert Greene's Quill. Not as impressive as Shakespeare's work, but Greene harboured some deep resentment against the bard. His quill fills one's heart with hatred. This one is the "safest" of them, as it's under the watchful eye of the British Museum. They listed in the index a bunch of curator's names and I made a list of them in an empty notebook I found.
Noise, coming from the other side of the door, let me know my uncle had arrived. In either the 19th or 21st century, his arrival is usually heralded by chaos around him. He's a thespian, for lack of a better word at the time, and, at some point, he'll leave theatres for films and then the telly. Back in 2011, he had recently won another BAFTA. I heard the steps of himself going up to his room, followed by the footman and valet with his luggage. Probably would spent the night here, before heading to London.
"Now, what are you doing there?" I heard the voice of uncle Marcus speaking from the mirror. "What can be more important than saying hi?"
"Research. Sorry uncle. I'll meet you for lunch in the lounge."
"You begin to sound like your father. Try not to work yourself too hard. Fifteen is not the age to have mental exhaustion."
Mental exhaustion. Something my parents never had to worry about, since immortality comes with a side serving of invulnerability towards illness, both physical and mental. Exhaustion is as close to breakdown I was going to get in the 1800s. Mental health, back then, involved a lot less therapy and medication, and a lot more Bedlam and straitjackets. At least it's half a century before the trans-orbital lobotomy.
I made a couple maps regarding the artefacts and then went outside. A proper society lady, which is the title assigned to me in those days, should never be too many hours in front of books. Now, this is a lot of nonsense, but the structures of the time would make any unladylike behaviour suspicious. Therefore, if I wanted to go to London and check the artefacts by myself, I had to behave as a proper lady. My family never believed in those things, not even back then, but still tried to keep appearances.
Went upstairs, call my maid, and, after twenty minutes of changing uncomfortable Victorian clothing, for new uncomfortable Victorian clothing, went out to the parlour. Winter clothing, by the way, is more cumbersome and annoying than summer clothing, since the layers are more abundant, and made from thicker fabric.
The parlour, at the back of the ground floor. A large, well lit room, marble floors, and tainted-glass windows which turned the inside into a rainbow. While my parents are around, the place always remains closed, since no one uses it, and cleaning it regularly is a waste of the staff's time. The place slowly turned, in the year we've been back, into a warehouse for everything no one used in the house. So, the beautiful room also had droves of back-up linens, furniture, and even a piano that I never, not even in the future, I've seen someone play.
Found my uncle walking between the boxes. Reading the shipping labels, and looking for something in particular. He stopped when he heard me walk in, and quickly moved across the place, and gave me a hug. Victorian protocol in my family, specially with my uncle, was non-existent.
"Are you going down to London with me tomorrow?" he asked first.
"Certainly. Train or magic?"
"Since your father took the balloon, we'll go on the train. I sent Sweeney for the tickets. We're on the first one tomorrow morning" He kept looking around. "Now, where did your father put my mirror?"
"Not here, I'm afraid." I shrugged. "He sent it to Sophia a while ago."
"Damn it." He shuffled around, checking other boxes. "He's tried to store in Sophia ever since the Jacobites. Every couple of years, tries to ship it away."
His voice rose, as he was no longer talking to me. Instead, he chose to begin arguing with the empty house. Sometimes he did that. And now I kinda know why.
Featherhill, mainly due to its construction and residents, became an artefact with the passage of time. It had, slowly, become an extension of my father's eyes and ears.
"I need the mirror. I have rehearsal in two days." He looked at me. "Tell you what. Since I have to go there anyway, would you like to come with me?"
"To Sophia?"
Sure, why not? It'll take a couple hours at the most, and we'll be back for luncheon. "
Now I had a dilemma in my hands. Since my uncle has known me since forever, lying to him wouldn't be the best course of action. However, going with him could put me at risk of encountering Mr. Verne, and blowing my plans. Unwittingly, mind you, as I know he wouldn't do it voluntarily. Or else he would've done it by this point.
"Sure, I'd love to know where they stored the watch", I finally said.
"Good. Let's give them a fright for taking my mirror, shall we?"
I had my back turned to him, so when I looked again -when I heard the snapping of fingers- I gasped. Uncle Marcus had done away with his stylish clothing, instead wearing my father's suit. Even an identical cane on his hand.
I always seem to forget the uncanny resemblance between them. Not that I should, by any means. Uncle Marcus is not really my uncle, I think I should begin explaining that. He's not, on the traditional sense of the word. He's a doppelgänger, a copy of someone. My father tried to do it, ages ago. He did it wrong, though. Somehow. Therefore, Marcus is not a copy, but a unique entity with uncanny physical and magical resemblance to my father.
"Now, as I recall, your father has a door to the Tower from his study", he pointed, and began to walk outside.
"No, it's upstairs next to the lounge", I corrected.
Immediately regretted it. Why did I said that!?
"No, hat one's to the records room. No one goes there." He spoke mostly to himself, not paying attention to anything else.
So, I followed him through the corridor and into the study. Study in which, as you recall, I spent most of the morning. You can imagine my surprise when he tapped a shelf with the cane, and it opened a hidden mechanism inside it. A pane of the structure spun in place, revealing a narrow and antiquated door.
Same type of door as the one upstairs. However, instead of being painted, this one managed to age with dignity. Petrified grey wood, and a green-specked knocker.
Without knocking. Without waiting. He walked to the narrow door and snapped his fingers. A brief flash of light, and it swung open on its hinges.
As it happens, there's an enormous difference between Sophia and its record room. And only then, as I found myself standing in the atrium of the tower, I realized the magnitude of the endeavour I was about to enter.
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