Light.
Coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I need to do a better job at explaining myself, or this chapter will make no sense whatsoever.
The differences between the records room and the atrium were glaringly obvious. For the last two weeks, I spent hours reading inside the records. A collection of small chambers with low ceilings, wood panelling, and dull stone floors. So cramped with shelves, books, scrolls, and whatnots, it made impossible to remain there for long periods of time.
Sophia's atrium, on the other hand, had light. Crystals and marbles and granite and gas-lamps. Open ceilings, several feet above our heads, and rows and rows of banisters, which made the centre go up for what seemed like forever. Not a single shelf in sight, and sparse furniture which made the place look larger.
Another huge difference, which made painful to think of Mr. Verne in his room, was people. On the Records Room, only he reigned supreme. An all mighty king, with an empty kingdom. Here on the atrium, people plagued the place, moving from side to side. Some of them empty-handed, but most carrying either documents, envelopes, ore small wooden boxes with padlocks on them.
Under the open foyer, right in the middle, rested a circular desk. Similar to those on the receptions of fancy hotels. A small man with round glasses sat in front of a large logbook.
My uncle, portraying my father magnificently, approached the desk.
"Good morning. I sent an old scrying mirror a while ago. Can you tell me where we stored it?", he asked to the small man.
"Good morning Lord Forxnorth. Please, sir, give me a momento to check."
We waited, while he spent a couple minutes reading lines on the enormous tome. Finally, while readjusting his glasses, gave my uncle an answer while trying not to stammer.
"I'm sorry milord. We don't have it here. Your daughter sent a requisition a couple weeks ago. We mailed it to her on the twelfth."
"That's absurd! My daughter is right there!", he pointed at me. "And I know for a fact that she sent nothing."
"Good morning, Ms. Alice. No, sir, not her. Your older daughter, Victorie. She asked for us to sent the scrying mirror to London for" -he read the book again- "restoration works."
"Restoration work!? RESTORATION WORK!!? Are you out of your mind!? Where's Ariel? I know they're here somewhere."
"Milord, the curator arrived to the offices upstairs this morning, but I don't think-"
"That's the problem. You don't", uncle Marcus interrupted. "Come, Alice."
He proceeded to ignore the man, walking towards the large staircases which flanked the edges of the atrium.
On the places above the atrium, I saw some artefacts. Small pedestals. Some of them made out of stone, but most made of a dark type of wood. Velvet cushions under glass cases. That was all the protection I saw. Not even plaques or something indicating what the object was, original owner, or its purpose. No padlocks or something keeping the cases from being open. Nothing.
Seven flights of stairs and two rests later, we arrived to the offices. These had been prompted on one side of the bannister, with fake walls. An improvised plaque said "Ariel Bonheur, Curator". My uncle burst through the door without knocking or stopping.
Ariel Bonheur may be a lot of things, but one they aren't is easily impressed. They kept writing on the desk, even after my uncle display and his crossing of the small, cramped office, in obvious displeasure, wielding the cane as if he were to strike them with it.
"I assume this is important", they said, while writing.
"Where is it?"
"Where is 'what', exactly?"
"Don't play dumb with me, doesn't suit you. Marcus' mirror. Where is it?"
"Per Mr. Athenida's instructions. we sent it to Victorie Fawkes via train a week ago", they pointed in a monotone voice, as if they're reading from a report.
"I haven't sent a thing!"
Ariel stopped writing and lifted their gaze to meet my uncle's.
"Not you, Marcus. Daedalus sent your mirror to London, because a crack appeared in it."
"A CRACK!?"
The shock of the news made him drop the cane. As soon as he did, though, his clothing changed back to his dandier, natural, ones. Ariel wasn't surprised by that either, putting the writing aside in a box without a lid.
"Yes, a crack. Some moron, who doesn't work here anymore, dropped it while cleaning it."
They pulled a clean sheet of paper and continued writing.
"We sent it to Victorie so she could take it to Marigold Bartlett. Remember her? The woman specialized on restoring antiquities."
Uncle Marcus seemed like he was about to faint. All colour vanished from his face and quickly went to grab the side of the building so he couldn't fall.
"You sent my mirror, my personal mirror, the personal mirror which contains my powers and existence, to an antiques dealer?", he asked, slowly.
"Since you were nowhere to be found, we did what we could. Now, can you please step outside? I have a few questions to ask your niece, and you saved me the trouble of going for her."
He didn't argue, or talked back. Just walked outside, closing the door behind him. Leaving me on the office with Ariel.
They opened a different drawer, taking out a small red box with some papers stuck to it.
"I arrived this morning and went through some new records. One of them, regarding this." They opened the box, showing me a familiar pocket watch. "This record is either the work in progress of Jules' next novel, or he had some outsider's help with it. Care to explain?"
"I have no idea what all this means", I lied through my teeth.
"Normally, I would attribute it to an eager imagination. However, some old records seem to be missing, and Jules has no idea where they are." They pointed at the pocket of my dress. "Records which are currently in your possession."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I'm no idiot. Since I know, from your parents, you tried to enter the Tower from the outside, it was a matter of time you found a way."
Ariel had the ability to make one feel small with one look. Very small.
As I waited for them to begin their spiel, I began to notice details of the improvised office. Though the walls had all the markings of something thrown together in short notice, they had hanged some pictures in silvery frames, The few statues on the shelves and tables not covered with documents, had a particular Egyptian style to them. Not surprising whatsoever, given that, in more powerful times, they were Anubis. The bridge between life and death, now reduced to the role of curator in a forbidden museum.
I feel somewhat silly, speaking about Ariel on such common terms. However, my father has an absolute rule on using divine names on Earth. I'm not talking about casual conversation. I'm talking always and everywhere, even on the written record. So, this is the only situation on which I'll talk about the subject.
I looked again at the watch. Somehow, it seemed wrong. Dull. Unpolished. As if it finally began showing the years it had. I notice some scratches on the lid when I approached. Scratches which didn't have the last time I held it.
"We managed to recover it, Thursday morning", Ariel noted. "By Derby."
"How did it get there?" This piqued my curiosity, since my father had taken the watch to the Tower late on the same fay of my arrival.
"It went there, not by its own, mind you, but by dragging with it one of our associates. It took him to Derby...in 1512. We found what we assume to be his body and a note."
Just on their hand, hanging by its chain, the watch glowed slightly. I remembered something my father told me, and decided to use it as a bargaining chip on my predicament.
"I can help you if you want. I can touch the watch without issue. Store it wouldn't send me packing to the Middle Ages."
Ariel looked at me with a mixture of incredulity and suspicion. Opened their mouth momentarily, but closed it with whitened lips. I knew what they thought at my offer, same thing almost everyone thinks when someone of the Athenida Clan manages to extend a helping hand. They think we'll ask for something in return, as if we were moved only by personal interest and our quests into forbidden knowledge.
They are right, of course, but where's the fun in letting them know?
"If you happen to be helpful, what do you want for your help?" finally asked.
"Information."
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