The records room. A veritable mess of old and new information, without a single way on knowing which one. Almost all of them were kept in hand-binded books or scrolls. Written by hand. So, beyond trying to understand the meaning of some phrases, one has to be an expert on everything: from dead languages to shorthand out of use a couple centuries ago. I spent the following week reading as much as I could. though, not much of what I found was useful to anyone.
I came to find the records could be sorted in three categories. First, those which happened so long ago, there is no way to know if the artefact itself still exists. These seemed to be the joy of Mr. Verne’s boss, Alfted Tennyson, of whom I’d only seen a portrait and nothing else. Second, the ones about which nothing has been written, or, what someone wrote, is almost useless due to the lack of information. There’s about a thousand of those, and the stupidity on which someone wrote is infuriating. The third group, however, had to be the most stupid of all.
“Can you answer me something?” I asked, finishing reading a report and putting it on a pile.
“I hope so.” He tried, without success, to keep dust away from the books. “What’s on your mind today? Victorian customs, time travel, the golem again?”
I made amental note to watch out for whatever I told Mr. Verne about the future. I’m quite certain I’m responsible from some of his ‘predictions’ making their way into his books.
“Why there’s no recovery information on these records?” -I waved at the books- “I know why some of them weren’t. Either too dangerous, unkown location, or destruction. Common knowledge. That I get. Those, I don’t.”
I pulled a couple of books from the pile, which made the rest tremble. Howevet, the column didn’t fall over. Mr. Verne taught me a simple spell to keep them floating while reading.
“Look at this one. Archimedes’ Screw. Know location, it was moved to the University of Messina after the siege of Syracuse. Perfect condition, according to the testimony of Marcello Malpghi. Not dangerous at all, by the looks of it.”
“Sometimes we don’t move them because they are useful there.” He pulled a map from the shelf. “See? Archimedes’ Screw is responsible for the stabilization of the maritime disasters caused by Scylla. It’s better to leave it there than to try to move that monster.”
“Alright, I suppose that one has to remain there. But what about this one?”
I handed the scroll to him.
“Oh, that one. Well, sometimes we leave them there. We have orders that, unless an artefact causes active harm to humans, is to be left where it is.”
“Who came up with an idea so brainless?”
“Your father, the Duke of London, did.”
When I was young, I didn’t understand why Mother became so annoyed with Father’s antics. As I grew older, however, it became more and more aparent why. He had the ability to make everyone else’s blood boil. This became particularly true every time he planned for something and never told anyone why or how. Infuriating, to say the least. Father had send a telegram from London, confirming Uncle’s visit, and he’s the one who has known him the longest. A chance for answers of some kind.
“Can I borrow this one?” I motioned at the scroll.
“I don’t see why not. These books are on loan from the Athenida Family. Just try to return it before the duke returns.”
“It’ll take me a couple days to transcribe what I need. Don’t you think anyone else could come looking for it?”
“I very much doubt so. Beyond myself and Mr. Tennyson, the only other person to come here is the duke, once a year, to check some records.”
“Which ones?”
“The ones regarding the Arthurian Cycle, King Solomon, and others I can’t remember right now. Nothing of importance.”
“King Solomon is one of my father’s friends, he came to my christening.” I stopped. “Are you serious? No one else comes around?”
I had my suspicions for a while. In the days I spent there, no one came in. I knew people worked in other areas of the Tower, but still disturbed me. Not even Mr. Tennyson had come in the room during these days. Though that may had relation with him being a poet laureate. Still. No wonder the stories I heard in the 21st century. A place with no time for research or history is hurling quickly to a cliff.
I said my goodbyes and walked inside the house. I went pass two maids, busy cleaning the floors and putting everything in its place. Uncle’s arrival, for what caused on the staff, could be the same as if the King of Spain visited. No one even noticed me going down the stairs and into the study.
Father moved the master bedroom from the upper floor to the ground floor a couple years prior. He did it, I believe, to use the room next to it as a personal study for either him or Mother. I believe it’s the only comfortable place in the house, as most of it fitted the traditional Victorian fashion and style. Large bookshelves on both sides of the heart, nice chairs, and a writing desk on the corner. If one looks at it, wouldn’t mistake it for anything but a study. Yet, the large silver-crested mirror above the mantlepiece gave the place away as something else before. I didn’t have the floorplans then, but now I know it was an older bedroom.
Before I went towards the books, I heard a nose coming from the entrence. Uncle had arrived.
Chaos seemed to surround him everywhere he went. Either in the 21st or 19th century. He’s, for lack of a better compassing word at the time, a thespian. Around the turn of the century he’ll leave theatres for silent films, then talkies, and, at some point in the 1950s, the telly. Last time I saw him, in 2011, he had recently won a BAFTA -another one- for his work on a panel show. I decided to wait until he was settled before greeting him.
His voice, coming from the mirror, startled me.
“Now, what are you doing down there?” I forgot he had that ability. “You could, at least, say hello to me.”
“I’m doing some research, I’ll be with you at lunch in the parlour.”
“You begin to sound like your father. Be careful, dear. Try not to work yourself too hard. Mental exhaustion is not a thing to have when you are fifteen.”
With that, the voice stopped and the mirror went silent, but he left me thinking. 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. Exhaustion leads to a lack of magic, so I needed to be careful about it.
I went back to the bookshelves. Father owned a lot of books. While most of them were kept in the main library, the priceless or magical ones he kept on his study. Most of them came from America, but included not just books, but also the accounting records from his company, and a few maps from before the Schism.
Most of the books I read at the Tower were about artefacts in London. At least, their last known location as in or around London. And, while most of them had a nice reason to be there, and to be left alone, some caught my attention.
Thomas Blood’s hat, for example, which was left in the care of the family, in a pub near Lambeth. Not very dangerous in itself, but anyone could wear it and decided to try and steal the Crown Jewels. Or William the Conqueror’s sword. Made by dwarves of Brittany before they went extinct. Under the care of the Royal Family, in one of the palaces. Not sure which.
The one which caught my attention, was a quill. It belonged to Robert Greene, a contemporary of Shakespeare. He was the first known victim of the green eyed monster. Anyone who used that quill, would have their heart filled with hatred and envy. Though it seemed it was safe in the British Museum, nothing on the roll said a thing about containment procedures or even who was in charge of the artefact. I found among Father’s papers a list of trustees and curators, so I copied it in my notebook and went upstairs.
As a proper lady,the title which belonged to me by right of birth, I should never spend too much time reading. Nonsense, of course, but any unladylike behaviour would arise suspicion among others. Even the staff. Father had played the lie that I was sent to a girls school in the south of France. Since my desire was to look for the artefacts in London, it was better to keep the doubt to a minimum. Keep appearances as a proper lady, then, became second nature, even when my family in itself didn’t believe in that sort of things.
My maid helped me change my clothes. A morning dress for lunch was not proper. Though Victorian fashion is in no way comfortable -and I missed my 21st century clothes- became easier to carry with time. Still, winter clothing is more cumbersome than summer clothes. More layers. Thicker fabric. And, by the way, no chance to put it on without the help of a maid or magic. I’ll build one day an altar for the inventors of the elastic band and the zipper.
I can count the times I’ve spent in the parlour with one hand. It always caused me such a headache.
It’s large, second only to the ballroom. Marble floors and tainted-glass windows. The latter turned the room into a very litted rainbow. Without Uncle, the place remains closed. No one else uses it. Even the staff avoids it, since it’s a hazzard to clean and a waste of time. Uncle sends his spares to the house, and slowly we’ve turned the parlour into a warehouse of everything he sends. The beautiful room had towers of linens and cloths, furniture, and a piano which will meet a gruesome end in the future.
Uncle Marcus walked between the boxes and the pieces of furniture covered in sheets. Busy reading the shipping lables and peeking under the cloths. He stopped when I came in. Moved quickly across the place and gave me a hug. Victorian protocol can suck a lemon when around my family. Between us, is almost non-existent.
“Are you coming with me? I’ll leave for London the day after tomorrow.”
“Are we going by train ore magic?”
“Daedalus took the balloon to Thera, so the train’ll have to do. I sent Sweeney for tickets.”
“Not the best use for your valet.”
“My clothes are unpacking themselves upstairs, so he has nothing to do.” He kept looking around. “By any chance, do you know what your father did with my mirror?”
“Father sent it to Sophia when we returned.”
Uncle stopped and looked at me.
“He’s tried to store it in that damn tower ever since the Jacobite rebellion. One would believe you’ll get tired of trying eventually, won’t you? You cantankerous prune!?”
He rose his voice, but he no longer spoke to me. He began arguing with the empty room. Sometimes he did that, and I can’t blame him for it. With time, Featherhill became an artefact by itself. An extension of Father’s eyes and ears. If Unlce wanted to yell at him, this was the second best option.
“I have rehearsal in two days! How do you want me to use magic without my mirror, you old bat!?” He turned to me. “Since I have to go there anyway to get my mirror, would you like to come with me?”
“I thought I said I was going to London with you?”
“No, I know that. I meant Sophia. We’ll go after luncheon. It’ll take an hour at most.”
What to do? Lying wouldn’t be an option. Uncle had known me all my life, and he knew when I lied. Going with him could mean encountering Mr. Verne, and somehow blowing up my plans. I know he wouldn’t do it on purpose, but any mishap would alert Uncle. If he planned on ratting me out, he would have done it already. My best chance was to not go, but that would raise suspicion with Father, who heard everything inside the house.
“Sure, I’d love to go.”
We had a small lunch, nothing profoundly fancy, as Mrs. Gibbons -the cook- was busy packing some things to take to London. Athenida house didn’t have permanent staff, so we had to travel with the whole entourage. Which meant that we had to chose between Featherhill and Athenida House, since both of them open would be overspending. At least according to Father.
“We should give them a scare, don’t you think?” Uncle asked, with my back turned to him.
I heard the snapping of fingers and I turned. I gasped. In front of me, was Father. His antiquated suit, his cane with a silver owl on the handle, even the bronze cufflinks. It took me a moment to realise the man in front of me wasn’t Father, but Uncle.
“How do I look?”
“Horrifying.”
“Good.”
I always forget the uncanny resemblance between them. I shouldn’t, but I do. Uncle is not really an uncle. I should explain myself. He’s a doppelgänger, a copy of someone made by magical means. A very old experiment from Father. He did it ages ago. I think before Atlantis. Somehow, he did it wrong. Marcus is not a copy, but a unique entity with uncanny physical reseblance to Father. Oh, I believe I also shoud say, his mirror is not just a vanity proyect. It’s literally the mirror from which he came, and from which he gets his powers.
“As I recall, half of this house is a series of tunnels to the Tower.”
“There’s a door to the records upstairs.”
I regretted saying it, immediately. Why did I say anything?
“That one is useless. No one goes there, and only your father and Tennyson have keys to it.” He began to walk to the corridor. “There’s the tunnel under the house. I think he had an entrance in his study.”
I followed him through the corridor and into the study. Mind you, half of the things I worked on the last few days, was on the desk and on the floor. I spent most of the time in the house there, which is why I was surprised when Uncle came to the shelves. You can imagine my surprise when he tapped one of the far-reaching shelves with the cane, and the sound of machinery shrieked from inside the wall. The entire heart and wall spun in place, revealing an old stone tunnel going down into a narrow path.
“I’ll go first,” Uncle said, walking inside. “Watch your step, this thing is from before England.”
Uncle Marcus made a torch appear on his hand. We walked through the tunnel for a few minutes, until we reached a room with a door on the other side.
The door was old. Very. Magic probably helded in place, since rot should’ve taken out by now. The knocker may have been bronze at some point, but now was covered with turquoise rust. No handle or anywhere to fit a key. Uncle simply knocked on the door with the cane, and it opened with a shriek.
I hadn’t been in Sophia during it’s heyday. The first time I entered, back in the 21st century, the place was a ruin.
The place in front of me wasn’t a ruin.
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