A page entered the scriptorium, note in hand, which he gave to Alison. “It’s from my partner,” she told Henry, and read Come down to the theater when you get a chance. Alison sighed. That was Doyle-code for “as soon as possible,” but since he gave no specifics, it was impossible to tell whether or not it was important. Doyle had a habit of calling her down to the theater to confer on decisions he could, and should, make himself.
“Do you need to go now?” Henry asked.
Alison checked her watch. Almost time to lock up. “I think he can wait until I’ve had my supper,” she said.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Henry was smiling at her, and there was that light in his eyes again. She thought about it for a moment.
“I don’t mind at all,” she said.
They took their time over supper. Henry’s hand brushed hers more than once, though nothing else about his behavior told her whether it had been intentional or not, and she surprised herself by flirting a little and enjoying the look that came to his eyes when she did. Even so, she declined his offer of an escort and took a carriage to the theater, where she was early enough that the box office hadn’t opened yet. She went through the foyer to Doyle’s office and heard him talking to someone. She stood next to the door, listening not because she wanted to eavesdrop but to judge whether this was a conversation she could interrupt.
“…licensing…not really important…”
“I can’t find anyone…stonewalling.”
She recognized that second voice. Was she going to run into him everywhere she went? She pushed open the door. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said to Doyle and Anthony, “but someone sent me an urgent message to get down here immediately.”
“'Which I notice you interpreted as ‘whenever I feel like it because I’m a Countess,’” Doyle said. Anthony stood and offered her his chair, which she declined.
“If you don’t sit, no one will use it, because I won’t sit while you’re standing,” he said with a wry smile.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll get another chair,” Doyle huffed. While he was gone, Alison raised her eyebrows at Anthony and said, “Don’t tell me he summoned you, too? He really has no respect for the nobility.”
“It’s one of the many things I like about him,” Anthony said, and there was that wry smile again. She tried to summon her anger that he could behave so normally around her, but felt only a distant echo of her old resentment. Maybe her relationship with Henry was changing her. “No, I came on my own. I’ve started the process of opening a theater, and I needed his advice on a problem I’ve run into.”
“You’re actually opening a theater? I’m so glad to hear it. Where?”
Doyle came back, dragging a folding chair as if it weighed as much as the palace, and Alison and Anthony both sat down. “Over in the Grayford district,” Anthony said. “But it’s much harder than I expected.”
“Tony has the same problem we’re facing, Allie,” Doyle said, settling himself back into his seat and pulling out his bottle of whiskey. “Regulations. Twenty years ago you could do pretty much whatever you wanted with your business. Now there are rules for everything. What hours employees can work. How many employees we have to have.” He took a drink and offered the bottle to them; they both declined. “Worse than that, entertainers are supposed to be licensed, but there’s no licensing board for actors and no plans to create one any time soon. But that doesn’t matter—they still have to be licensed. We’re expected to comply with rules set up to govern businesses radically different from ours.”
“My problem is I want to renovate an existing building, but I can’t get the permits to do what needs to be done to turn it into a theater,” said Anthony. “I want to install too many light Devices, according to the planning department. They’re worried about a fire hazard, of all things, as if light Devices emitted heat. They want the building to have facilities of a certain size and they tell me I have to have more windows—in a theater! And there’s much more. I hoped Doyle would know what to do, but he’s dealing with the same nonsense. It feels as if someone’s sending up obstacles to keep us from operating.”
“Who could do that? And why?” Alison asked.
“Well, you’re going to love this,” Anthony said sourly. “This all comes under the department of Commerce. Zara said Lestrange was trying to expand his portfolio. I think we just found one of the places he’s trying to weasel into.”
“So that’s who, but I don’t understand why.”
“Permits cost money,” Doyle explained. “The more hoops we have to jump through, the more money goes into the Commerce department. Theaters are so new here in Aurilien that no one knows what to do with us, so I think someone in the Commerce department sees us as a money tree they can shake indefinitely.”
“So what can we do about it?”
“That’s what we’ve been talking about,” Doyle said, taking another drink.
“Making decisions while drunk? That’s a sound strategy.”
“Stop being my mother, Alison, you’re far too young and pretty.”
“I’m telling your mother you said that.”
“Anyway,” Doyle said, glaring at her, “the first option is bribery. Find someone responsible for handing out permits, lay a little lard on our guilders and get him to look the other way while we go ahead with business. That’s usually a short term solution, but we’re only talking short term here.” He ticked it off on one finger. “The long term solution is to petition for a sub-department for theater, or the arts, or whatever, so the regulations are made specifically to fit our kind of business. Lots of hassle, and it takes a while, but in the end you have stability.” He ticked that off as well.
“But that second solution means my plans get put on hold indefinitely,” Anthony said. “And I don’t think I should bribe anyone. Even if it didn’t get out and cause a scandal, Zara would be miffed, and I don’t want her miffed at me.”
“Which leads us to the third solution, which is that pretty-boy here goes straight to his sister and asks her to intervene.”
“Which I refuse to do on the grounds that I want to solve this problem without taking the weak and spineless route.”
“It’s the best solution. Hand it over to the Queen. You said yourself she’s concerned about what the department of Commerce is doing.”
“Concerned, yes. Willing to solve my problems for me, no. She’s made that clear.”
“What if I tell her?” Alison said. “I don’t have to ask her to intervene, but I think she should know about this. Theaters can’t be the only new kind of business suffering. Suppose that man with the invention, the telecoder, tries to go into business? There’s nothing to govern that either.”
Anthony nodded slowly. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “She’ll listen to you.”
“She listens to you, too.”
“Not the same thing.” He didn’t elaborate.
“Will you talk to her, Allie?” said Doyle. “Yes, I’d love it if she swooped down on the licensing department and made them squawk, but I think telling her about the problem will get her to come up with a solution none of us have thought of.”
“I’ll talk to her. But don’t expect anything soon. I imagine she’s preoccupied with the Magisters.”
“That’s an understatement,” Anthony said.
“Really?” said Alison, but Anthony shook his head. “I should be getting back,” he said.
“Me too,” said Alison, rising as he did. “Thanks for letting me know, Doyle.”
“Repay me by getting the government off my back, and I say that realizing that the two of you are the government,” Doyle replied affably, taking another swig. “Now get out before the audience gets scared off by your scruffiness.”
Alison looked down at herself, at her clean trousers and shirt, then looked at Anthony, who was dressed casually in a collarless shirt and trousers. “I think we look just fine,” she said indignantly, and Doyle waved them away with the bottle.
>
On the street outside, Anthony asked, “Are you going back to the palace?” Alison nodded, and he added, “Would you like to share a carriage? There are things I couldn’t say in front of Doyle.”
Alison hesitated, just long enough that Anthony’s expression went wooden. Guilt rushed through her. “I’m sorry, that was uncivil of me,” she said, and something about her words echoed in her memory. “Please, let’s ride together. I wondered what you were keeping back.”
Once they were seated in the carriage opposite one another, Anthony said, “The Magistrix has been stirring up more trouble than we expected. She’s been talking to councilors all week, trying to convince them to support her in the upcoming vote.”
“Vote on what?”
“The endowment that will make the Scholia virtually independent of Tremontanan governance. That will make it self-supporting. They already receive great sums of money from the Treasury, but it’s contingent on the yearly budget and it assumes the Scholia will get funds from other sources as well. For years now the Scholia has wanted the government to hand over properties and money enough for them to live off the interest and not depend on any other sources of revenue.” Anthony leaned forward so she could see him more clearly. “It could mean financial disaster, as far as Mistress Unwin can see, and she’s had a quarter century’s worth of experience in the Finance department.
“And Zara has to put it up for a vote?”
“Financial policy is set by the Council. Keeps the Queen from running the Treasury as her own personal pot of gold.”
Alison breathed out heavily. “How is her support?”
Anthony shook his head. “Hard to say. Lestrange is pro-Scholia, obviously. The Scholia is in County Cullinan, so their Countess supports them. Mistress Unwin backs Zara all the way and Albert Fisher in Transportation is an old friend of Zara’s. Other than that, we have no idea.”
“I’m glad it has nothing to do with me. I’m impressed you know so much.”
“Zara confides in me, which I confess still feels strange, considering that I was just her wastrel younger brother only a short while ago.”
“You were never a wastrel.”
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“I never called you a wastrel.”
“I drank, I gambled, I wasted my time…maybe you should have done.”
“I’d rather not have this conversation, if you don’t mind.”
“I apologize.” He sat back so his face was in shadow.
They rode in silence. Finally, Alison said, “You’ve changed. At least everyone tells me you have.”
“Do you think so?”
The question skirted the edge of what she was comfortable with, but she said, “You look different. Serious, all the time. And you care about politics now.” She felt exposed, her face now shadowed, now lit by the street lights they passed.
“I never realized I had a talent for it,” he said, “until Zara insisted I pay attention. She’s training me to be her heir, I think.”
“You already are her heir.”
“It’s about more than biology. If it were as easy as waving the scepter and spending money, I’d be qualified already.”
“Don’t—”He’d sounded too flippant, and she’d started to reassure him before embarrassment and anger stopped her tongue.
“Don’t what?”
She considered her words carefully. “I think, if you really have changed, you shouldn’t think so much about the ways you haven’t changed. Whatever those are.”
He shifted in the darkness. “I prefer not to forget about my failings, since I’d rather not fall into them again.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” She felt ashamed of her anger. Doyle was right; not everything Anthony was dealing with was about her. It was self-centered of her to assume otherwise.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Anthony didn’t offer to help her down from the carriage, for which she was grateful. Her peace of mind was disturbed enough already; she didn’t need his touch to confuse the issue further. They walked together as far as the east wing, since they were both going the same way, and bid each other good night as if they were acquaintances and nothing more. It was surprisingly easy to be civil. He’s changed, she told herself as she fell into sleep, and maybe I have too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“We’re going to start creating subject entries for the catalog,” Henry said. Twenty scribes watched him pace in front of the librarians’ desk. “These reference pages will tell you what to look for.” Gwendolen went down the aisles, handing out printed sheets. “Each book contains a paper listing its subjects; you make one entry for each subject, on the white cards. Remember, you’re not being paid by the card, but that’s no excuse for sloth. Any questions? Good. Please stack each book neatly when you’re done with it and put the cards in the basket. Thank you.”
“It’s almost like you’re a real librarian,” Alison teased as he came to where she stood behind the long desk.
“Funny how it all comes back to you.” He leaned on the desk. “Have you seen Trevers? He was supposed to be here an hour ago, and Declan said he hasn’t seen him since last night. Did you send him somewhere?”
“No, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon. He’s more responsible than Declan and Gwendolen combined. And now we need to be responsible and get to work.”
“I’m at your service. What are your instructions, chief?”
“I feel as though you ought to be the chief. You have actual experience.”
“But you have passion I never did. And I think you have a better eye for the quality of a book.”
“I wish I could afford to indulge my passion in new acquisitions, but I think it would be better to determine what we have before purchasing anything new. Although I had an idea….”
She led him into the Library and to the back wall, where scroll cabinets took up much of the space. “Look at this,” she said, drawing a scroll case out of its cubby and opening it. She gingerly slid the ancient, crumbling parchment out and unrolled it on the cabinet desk. It sent up a whiff of dust that smelled like history. “This is a long-form poem about the founding of Tremontane, maybe 800 years old. It’s incredible that it’s even legible. I’ve seen it referred to, but never read it. It must have been ‘lost’ in here for centuries.”
“You want it copied out.”
“Better. I want it printed. I want to see it published. I think we can set up an exchange, maybe not just with Quinn Press but with some of the others, to copy and print these for the public to read. Most of these documents are worthless, but there are some that are part of our literary tradition and ought to be preserved. They ought to be read. The originals are valuable, but what they contain might be even more so.”
Henry said, “What did I tell you? Passion. I don’t remember you being this passionate, Alison.” He took her hand, his eyes serious, all his attention on her. She looked away, uncertain. His touch made her shiver, but she still didn’t know if it was him or simply the novelty of being…courted? Was that what it was?
“I was much younger then,” she said. “I didn’t have anything to be passionate about.”
“And now?” he said. “Is there anything else you’re passionate about?” His voice was low. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. She closed her eyes briefly. What did she want?
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I still have so many things to learn.”
He put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face towards his. “Then let me learn them with you,” he said, and kissed her.
She froze. He was a very good kisser, and she liked being kissed by him, but he was her friend, and her friend’s husband, and something deep inside her cried out that it was all wrong. He sensed her stiffness and pulled away. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate,” he said. “I thought…but it was too soon, wasn’t it?”
“Too soon,” she agreed, and smiled ruefully at him. �
�Henry, I like you very much, and I won’t deny I’m attracted to you, but I want to see how our friendship plays out before…more of that.”
“I understand,” he said, and released her hand. “Don’t hold it against me, will you, that I wanted more of you than friendship?”
“I’m flattered that you did.”
“Then I’m going to get back to work, chief. Let me know if you need anything from me.” He winked at her in a way that suggested his double meaning shouldn’t be taken seriously, and bounded back up the stairs.
Alison leaned against the scroll cabinet and took a deep breath. So. Kissing Henry hadn’t cleared anything up. She still didn’t know how she felt about him, other than conflicted. In some ways, this was worse than being courted for the wrong reasons; at least the response to a man who only wanted her body was obvious and uncomplicated. She struck the heel of her palm against her forehead as if to knock her confused feelings out of her head, and went back to the scriptorium herself.
She wandered around the room, trying not to hover over the scribes’ shoulders. She opened a catalog drawer and flicked through its contents. She looked around the room, noted, not for the first time, the worn stone of the walls that would keep the room cool in the coming heat of summer, and reflected on how cold it had been in the heart of winter. She went back and looked over the Library from the landing. They were dependent on the Device to regulate conditions in this room that was, she realized, completely unsuited to housing a library. Would Zara consider relocating it? The idea of moving all those books again made her cringe. But if they were going to do it, if Zara agreed to the proposition, it was better to do it now while they were already in flux, before too many books made it back to the shelves. She tapped her fingers on the rail, a slim wooden pole whose stain had worn away years before. It needed renovation. The entire room needed renovation, more than she’d first realized. Something to ask Zara about. Better yet, ask the wrinkled old man who’d shown her the Royal Librarian’s quarters. He would know if there was even a place the Library could move to. If she had a plan, maybe Zara would take her request more seriously.
Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1) Page 29