by Celia Lake
What he knew was that it was working. Yesterday, he’d walked across the entire length of the garden, with just the canes, Elen pushing the chair beside him. He’d had to stop in the middle to rest, but he’d gone the whole way. It had felt like real progress, finally, like he was getting a sense of himself again at last.
Now, she had managed to push him, by herself, along the paved sidewalk toward Treeve’s home. Standing outside, by the gate to the garden, was a woman, about Elen’s age. She had a light shawl, covering her hair and looped around over her shoulders, as his mother did when she was working on certain contracts in Egypt. Her skin was a deep tan, the bits of hair he could see at the edges of the veil were a dark black.
“Amet!” Elen sounded delighted.
Roland coughed. “You hadn’t mentioned?”
Elen leaned down to murmur, “Wasn’t sure she’d have something for us yet. Master Dixon said it was all right.”
Treeve’s man was coming to the gate now, perhaps alerted by the voices. “Master Dixon is glad to receive you. Mistress, Nurse, Major.” They made a little procession along the side path from the street to the back garden, moving into a beautiful walled garden that had not changed in all the time Roland had been coming here. Ivy grew up the walls, rose bushes were just beginning to consider budding, and a small fountain burbled at the back.
It was utterly quiet, as well, thanks to the charms and protections Treeve had installed. He was settled at a chair next to a circular table, with a small tray with drinks and cakes.
As he saw them come in, he stood up, waiting for them to be escorted over. Roland waved a hand at Elen, and pushed himself upright. “Treeve. Pleasure.”
“It’s good to see you, and thank you for coming here.” Treeve was business as usual. “Nurse Morris, a pleasure, again. And you must be Mistress Salah.”
Amet bobbed slightly. “Master Dixon.”
He waved his hand. “Please, do call me Treeve, if we are conspiring together. First, the garden is warded to a fare-thee-well, professionally, by the Guard, and I ensure they haven’t left any little ears. My man is entirely trustworthy. Nurse Morris, I remember you like your tea with a little cream. Mistress Salah?”
“If you are to be Treeve, then Amet, please. And just lemon for me, if you don’t mind.”
Elen nodded. “And Elen, yes.” She accepted the cup of tea. “I’m hoping that the fact Amet is here means there is news?”
Roland settled into his own chair, waiting for Treeve to pass him a cup.
Treeve nodded. “Both of us have some results for you. I am not quite sure what they mean, however.” It wasn’t like Treeve to be uncertain, which meant they were in deep waters indeed. Then he gestured. “Amet, if you would begin, that might be best.”
Amet took a sip of her tea, then set it down precisely in the saucer, gathering herself before speaking. Roland was fascinated by watching her, the ways her manner was similar to Elen’s, and the ways it was different. They both had a slight lull, before they did anything of importance, as if they’d been trained to take stock and not to rush.
When she spoke, her voice was clear and crisp. “The sample of the potion I received is rather curious, precisely because it is a blunt instrument. It is a mix of three herbs, at least.”
Treeve added, quietly, “Six, but three in trace amounts.”
Amet nodded, not offended by the additional information. “The three that I could discern in the time available are a particular type of tincture of poppy, an alchemical preparation of lemon balm, and a rather strong dose of valerian. By themselves, all preparations used regularly by healers, but the method and mechanisms of combination suggest they were thrown together, with some sort of alchemical layer, to produce a particular effect.”
Roland followed that much, for all his alchemy and potion-making skills were minimal at best. “The goal being to drug me for the night, then, no matter how they went about that?”
“But aren’t those all things that are used routinely? Common herbs, well. The poppy’s more usual for pain, and there are concerns about the use, but it has a purpose.” Elen was thinking out loud, and Roland was glad she wasn’t too overawed by Treeve to do that.
Amet snorted. “Just because we can use herbs sensibly doesn’t mean we do, you know that.” She then inclined her head at Treeve. “Though I’m guessing there’s a bit more to it than just the herbs.”
Treeve nodded. “The thing I notice is that, on the whole, all of the ingredients are quite inexpensive. I don’t claim to know all of the healing potions, or the apothecary standards, but the poppy is relatively easy to come by, widely used, as I understand it, and the other two grow abundantly in our climate.”
“The other three ingredients, according to my analyst.” He tapped a pile of papers by his right hand. “All alchemical distillations of similar status, heavy handed, but inexpensive to produce. Though two of them have some research attached to them that suggest they can have an effect of blocking one’s magic, they’re sometimes with prisoners awaiting trial for that purpose.”
Roland tapped his fingers. “We’d wondered about the block on the magic.” Then he considered further. “You think there’s something in them being all inexpensive ingredients then?” He could follow Treeve’s suggestion. “I don’t know much about the usual sort of thing for the Healing Temple. Elen? I presume it’s not that you give the least expensive dosage possible, even if it’s not very effective. Or worse, damaging.”
Elen shook her head and again, Roland noticed that small lull before she spoke. “No. The Temple of Healing is funded by a combination of the Ministry, various private donations such as the Garden Party every year, the winter gala, and so on. Bequests, and a certain percentage of money forfeited to the Ministry, I believe.” Treeve nodded at that. “And then there are requested donations from families who can afford it, especially for more complex cases.”
“For which I qualify. The family’s not short of coin, and I’ve certainly been there a fair while. Would that ordinarily be in my file?”
Elen shook her head. “Only a brief notation, if that. Everyone is supposed to get the same quality of care. On the other hand, normally, I’d expect that you’d have better care, not worse. All those things in the potion, they’re very blunt instruments, to keep you muzzy-headed and exhausted.” She considered, then asked, “And the daytime potion?”
“That one is less sedating, and it seems to be a mix of more or less nutritive herbs.” Treeve glanced at Amet, who nodded in agreement. “Much less damaging. I assume you are not taking the evening one at this point?”
Elen answered, quite promptly, and Roland let her share her expertise. “Entirely off it, and improving rapidly now.”
Amet furrowed her forehead. “Elen, do you have your notes on what you found in his file?” Then she looked up, obviously worried she’d said too much.
Treeve waved his hand. “I gather that Elen has been most resourceful. Why would I tell them something they’re apparently not bothering to notice or correct?”
Elen half-smiled at that, and then rummaged back in her notebook to the list, reading them out, one by one. Amet immediately grimaced as she got to the last name. “Those aren’t the potions he’s getting. The two that are listed as current, they’re actually both quite expensive. One has saffron in, for example, and the other has a mushroom that’s quite rare and difficult to harvest. A few other things like that, I’d have to check the formulary. It’s not anything we make, mind.”
Treeve had rather lit up, the way he always had, when he saw a particular puzzle forming before him. “Oh, now, that’s quite my line of expertise. One of them. How much do you think the potions would go for, if they were being made for the Temple?”
Amet looked down, doing the maths in her head, Roland suspected. “A full dose, taken every night, that would be, well. Half a senior healer’s salary for the day, or better. For each dose, and you’ve been there for months. I can check the numbers when I get ba
ck to our records.”
Roland blinked. “And they’d be asking my family for that?” It wouldn’t bankrupt them, certainly, but the family did not have that kind of money to be spending foolishly.
“For at least a portion of it, yes.” Elen shook her head. “Is that why the Ministry is fussing so much about you getting back to fitness? Could they be asked for some of it? Since it was due to battlefield injuries?”
Roland contemplated that. “That gives me something concrete I can ask Cadwell, at least. He’d be able to figure out the usual process, I suspect. Mind, this war is quite different from our earlier ones, and I’m sure that’s affecting the approved procedures.” He tried to count the days and failed. “If he’s still in the country, he was getting sent overseas sometime soon.”
Treeve waved a hand. “I’ll set Roger on it. Last name?”
“Cadwell Deschamps.” Then he added, “You might not remember, his brother was our year. Died two months ago, nearly three now.”
“A loss.” It came out flatly, then he turned his attention to the practical, as Treeve generally did. “I will see about finding him. Who else do you think knows about a potion exchange?”
Elen chewed on her lip for a moment. “I think Sister Almeda must know, and I don’t think she approves. But he might have some influence over her, somehow.” She then flicked through her notebook.
“The administrator I saw, the one who gave me permission for adjustments, she might be worth speaking to. Sister Florinda.” She paused. “Healer Rhoe and Sister Pomona were both helpful to me, but this isn’t their area of specialty. There were two women who were talking about accounts, and maybe Sister Pomona figured out who they were?”
“And have you found out anything further about Healer Cole?” Treeve was making notes about both the names.
Elen shook her head. “Not much, but I asked the librarian, at the Temple, when I was checking on resources about what to try next a few days ago. Casually, you know, they keep profiles on all the healers.” She had mentioned it to Roland, but they hadn’t been able to decide what it meant.
Treeve leaned forward. “And?”
“Healer Cole was in South Africa and India, for a number of years, nearly forty. Long enough that not that many people here would remember him. The senior healers when he apprenticed would have retired.”
“And other Healers he apprenticed with?”
“I couldn’t find that out without being rather obvious about my questions, but they could just be spread out. Anyone who could help with the War might well be focused there.”
“What was his speciality, originally?”
“Healer Cole trained as a surgeon, but I gather he did a bit of everything overseas. And Sister Pomona pointed out that people may stop being surgeons, after a certain age. However…” Elen hesitated. “I didn’t find anything that made sense of why he’d be assigned this case. No speciality in magical injury, or anything like that. Though the War is bringing in cases that don’t fit tidily into our specialities all over the place.”
Treeve frowned. “Indeed. I will see what I can find through my sources. You let me know if you learn any more.” He tapped the book. “Roland, would you like to see your family, or would you rather not?”
That made Roland grimace. It was like Treeve to go to the heart of something complicated without noticing it was difficult. “They’ve not written. I don’t even know if they’re in the country right now.” It sounded entirely feeble to him, and even if they were out of the country, he’d have expected to be hearing from Nanny. “One thing at a time. Let’s take the mess in London first, maybe?” He asked Elen, as much as said it outright.
Elen nodded. “That might be fair.” When Treeve looked puzzled, she added “Roland is being shipped off to London for a discussion or demonstration or whatever they want to call it. I’m to go with him, at least, and it’s not far from the Bedford Square portal, I gather.”
“Ah.” Roland wasn’t sure how to take that. “For next week or so, then. Right.” There was a soft cough from about ten feet away, and all of them turned to see Roger waiting. “Sir, I’m afraid your next appointment will be waiting.”
Treeve pushed himself up. “Take your time heading out, if you would like. I’ll be in touch. Amet, with you sooner than later, I suspect.”
Amet nodded. “I should get back as well, if you both don’t mind.”
Elen shook her head. “Not at all. Send a note round.”
Amet grinned. “Try and stop me.” Then she reached for Roland’s hand, to shake it, quite deliberate. “A pleasure to meet you, and I hope to have a chance to talk more soon.”
Roland was pleased she approved, at least, but when he looked up at Elen, she had the kind of expression he suspected was universal when a good friend was perhaps amusingly predictable.
Chapter 35
Thursday, May 27th, London
Elen had worried, without ceasing, the last three days. She had been sure something awful was going to happen. But now here she was, through the London portal, with Roland. Harry was pushing his chair, and they had a short walk to the inn where they had rooms. Roland would have time to rest before the presentation this afternoon, and they would stay the night, so as not to do two portal trips in the same day.
Roland had taken one look at the inn, and snorted. “What I expected.”
Elen asked him, once they were in their rooms, what he meant. The rooms themselves were entirely reasonable. They were panelled in wood and plaster. It was the sort of generic Tudor common in many buildings aiming at quaint rather than the heights of Georgian elegance.
They had two adjoining rooms with a door between them. Someone had arranged space for Harry in the attic, with a bell to summon him as needed. She had a rather broader bed than the one in her lodgings, and his was downright spacious.
Thinking about the size of his bed made her blush. It was as if being out of the hospital made it possible for her to think about what it might be like, to be intimate with him. What his interest - and hers - could lead to. He was a handsome man, and more importantly a kind and thoughtful one. Why he was interested in her, she still wasn’t sure, but she wanted, very much, to find out if their feelings for each other lasted beyond his care.
“This is exactly the sort of inn the Ministry puts people in, when they are on official business. It’s somewhere private enough, and comfortable enough, and with decent food, but excellence is not required in any dimension.” He gestured. “There must be a dozen of these in different places, all near enough identical except for the details of the bric-a-brac. Father and I used to play games of telling them apart, when I was with him over the summers, in my school years.”
“You’d travel with him?” Being away from his room in the Temple seemed to have changed things for him as well. This was more about his family than she’d heard yet, and she could hear his fondness.
“Occasionally. Sometimes there were training exercises, and he thought it was educational for me to see those, when it was a public demonstration or display. My last two years at Schola, I’d act as his aide during hols if he didn’t need to bring a proper one. Fetch and carry, take notes, all that.”
Elen nodded. They were sitting in Roland’s room, at the table and chairs, having finished an early lunch that was indeed unremarkable. Not bad, that would have been notable. Just there. The scone had been promising. “You should have a rest. I gather we’re to leave at half-two.” It was half-eleven now. “When do you want to change?”
“Two would be fine. I do feel much the better.”
“You keep saying that.” Elen helped him settle into bed, and went off to her own room, leaving the door cracked between them.
In the end, getting to the presentation turned out to be fairly simple. It was in a Ministry-owned building on the edge of this area of magical London. Roland murmured that like the inn, it was kept for just such meetings. It seemed to soothe him to explain things to her, and she honestly appreciated it.
Other than passing through a few train stations during her deployment to the French hospitals, she’d barely had any contact with the non-magical community.
Once they were there, a man younger than Roland took over the arrangements. He made sure Elen had a cup of tea, and a place to observe, well out of the way. It was a sizable room, a long conference table able to fit fifteen or so. Roland was positioned at one end, facing the door. He looked most sharp in his uniform, and he was managing very well with the canes, now. And she at least felt properly dressed, in her uniform dress without the pinafore apron, but with her watch and her own signs of rank properly showing.
People filed in, with an exchange of salutes. A couple of the uniforms were from the magical side, she recognised the special insignia they wore, the single red ring worn on the collar. She could see three of them, and one more she couldn’t be certain of, with the angle and the slant of the light.
It was all men, besides Elen, which was one difference. She was used to the Guard, when she saw people in uniform. While they were fewer than half women, she’d never been the only woman in a room like this before. Mind, she’d never been in a room like this, but Roland had been clear that she should stay with him. They had talked through, in their plans for this, about what she could do if his magic flared, and of course she had a handful of emergency potions on hand.
As expected, things began precisely on time. There was a brief reminder that the discussion today was covered under the oaths they had taken, referencing something called the Official Secrets Act. She assumed it must be something similar to their oaths on the Silence, or at least everyone seemed to be nodding and taking it seriously.
Roland was introduced by a person she assumed must be senior by the number of bars on his uniform, whose name she didn’t catch. There were a round of introductions, two from their own community, the rest from non-magical units.