Turning Darkness into Light

by Marie Brennan

  I should take things in order. Otherwise I can’t hope to make sense of them.

  It was a little after midnight. I had gone downstairs like I said. Because it was so late, and because I already have a copy written out of the next tablet, I turned on only the little table lamp. From outside the library, I’m sure it looked like the room was deserted, because I had shut the door behind me.

  The first voice I heard was Lord Gleinleigh’s. It’s a silly thing, but I turned off the lamp, because I didn’t want him to notice even a faint glow beneath the door and realize someone was still awake. He was in such a bad mood after the mess today, and I was in such a bad mood, too, that I didn’t want to have any kind of conversation with him.

  I have no idea why he was still awake, or whether he got up again like I did, but I assumed he was talking to the housekeeper or the butler or someone about a domestic matter. In a moment he would go upstairs and I could get back to work, or try my own bed again.

  That’s when I heard Mornett. I recognize that voice, even through a library door. And then the handle of the door rattled, as if someone had put their hand on it.

  Oh, I am so ashamed of myself! I should have turned the lamp back on, or gone to the door and opened it and greeted them like a normal person. Or listened to their conversation, and pretended that I was just about to open the door if they entered. But did I do any of those things? No. I bolted for cover. All because I could not stand the thought of facing Aaron Mornett in the middle of the night, with my face all swollen and no shoes on.

  I might as well have stayed put, because they didn’t come in. But it means I didn’t really hear what they were saying—just muffled bits and pieces, none of them informative. Mornett sounded furious, though. Gleinleigh kept his voice too low for me to make out many words, but I heard Mornett say things like “unacceptable” and “if you think I’m going to.”

  If Gleinleigh thinks he is going to . . . what?

  Come on, Audrey; you know the answer to that. The only business Aaron Mornett could have at Stokesley involves the tablets.

  Is it me he’s angry about? Or Kudshayn? Or both of us; our work here must stick in his craw like two chicken bones. Mornett’s been Mrs. Kefford’s pet scholar for a while now—I wonder if the conversation Lotte saw was Gleinleigh trying to get her to loan Mornett to him. As if I would ever work with Aaron Mornett, after what he did.

  If that bastard comes anywhere near these tablets, I am going to burn him to ash, like I should have done five years ago.

  FIVE YEARS SPREVIOUSLY

  From: Audrey Camherst

  To: Charlotte Camherst

  16 Seminis, 5657

  #3 Clarton Square, Falchester

  Dearest Lotte,

  Welcome home! Aren’t you delighted to be back in rainy old Scirland, after visiting Mama’s family? For weeks now I’ve been prepared to say I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat—swarms of tropical mosquitoes and all—except that things have taken an interesting turn lately. I’m so glad you’re back, because I’m fairly exploding with the need to tell someone what’s happened.

  I was so convinced that my Season was going to be nothing but boredom. Everyone says it isn’t what it used to be, back in their day—which is the kind of thing the older generations always say, but in this case I think it’s true. And even if it were what it used to be, I don’t think I would enjoy it. You’ll probably have a splendid time of it once you’re old enough, but you know me; this isn’t at all my métier. Dances here, afternoon tea there, riding in the park . . . that last is not very appealing when one has never sat a horse in one’s life. Now, if there were chances to display one’s sailing skill, I might actually do well. But the closest anyone comes is paddling in little rowboats on the Immerway, and while I can paddle with the best of them, ladies are expected to sit quietly and let the gentlemen do the work. It’s all fine and well for them, getting to show off their strength (and I saw one fellow out there in his vest, if you can believe it—marvellous arms he had, too), but not exactly a thrilling exercise for the ladies. At least not if you’re me.

  But! I should have known that Grandmama wouldn’t put me through all that. She told me my first day in town that she didn’t care a fig whether I got a husband or not, unless I was in a hurry to find one, and when I said I had no particular thoughts in that direction, she simply nodded and said, “Then we will take you elsewhere.”

  She says that while the Season isn’t what it used to be, it’s still important to make one’s debut, because this is the point at which you leave childhood behind and become a member of society—with a little s, not a capital one. She means that I am an adult now, at the ripe age of eighteen. And as an adult, it’s time I started to meet my peers and predecessors.

  I’ve met some of them before, of course, because one can’t be a member of this family and not meet a whole passel of scholars. But being at sea so often with Mama and Papa means I’ve missed out on a lot of the social connections you got by staying in Scirland, and Grandmama is determined to make up for it.

  My Season has therefore consisted of very few dances and afternoon teas (though a few of those, for form’s sake), and a great many more literary evenings and afternoon lectures. Grandmama’s equivalent of introducing me to every eligible bachelor is making sure I meet people from all sorts of fields, not just philology: I have conversed with geologists, naturalists, physicists, chemists, and scads of other-ists, not to mention historians, geographers, mathematicians, and an architect or two. I must confess, Lotte, the awe-inspiring quality of the initials F.P.C. wear off when you can’t throw a shoe without hitting a Fellow of the Philosophers’ Colloquium. Which we could also say of dinner at home sometimes, but it’s different when it’s strangers—until you’ve seen one of those strangers have a bit too much brandy and begin lecturing everyone within earshot on the proper pluralization of “octopus.” (He insisted it should be “octopodes,” after the Nichaean.)

  It is funny, then, that I should possibly stumble across the very thing I was not looking for, in what everyone would say is the wrong place to find it.

  This afternoon, Grandmama abandoned me on the Colloquium’s premises while she went upstairs to have an argument with the President. (He is not at all keen on this notion she has of publishing her memoirs—I think because he knows they won’t be entirely flattering to the Colloquium.) I didn’t mind, since she got me access to the library, even though I’m not a Fellow yet myself. I could keep myself entertained there for weeks, if someone were kind enough to supply me with food and water.

  So I was wandering amongst the shelves when I heard an amused voice say, “You seem a bit young for a Fellow.”

  I turned to see a young man standing at the end of the aisle. The windows were behind him, so I couldn’t see his face, but he had a lovely build (I wouldn’t mind watching him paddle around the lake in his vest) and an even lovelier voice—deep and rich, with just enough of a burr to give it texture.

  I couldn’t resist being impertinent. “Henry Finsworth was inducted for having isolated caffeine when he was only fourteen,” I said. “Or are you suggesting that a young lady must inevitably take longer to do anything of significance?”

  He laughed. “I would never dream of it.”

  Then he came forward and a little to the side, so he was no longer backlit. “You don’t appear to be much older than me,” I said. Which may not have been the most polite thing to do—but he brought up my age before I brought up his, and besides, that was actually the least awkward thing I could think to say. He had a very nice head of dark hair, not varnished into place with pomade like the fashionable men do, and while his face was not the most beautiful I’ve seen, the intelligence and character of his eyes made up for it.

  “I am twenty-two,” he said, seeming entirely uninsulted. “As you just pointed out, that’s hardly a record-setter in these halls.”

  But that implied he was in fact a Fellow, rather than a hanger-on like I was. That q
uickly, I knew who he was. “You’re Aaron Mornett!”

  The confines of the aisle were close enough that he couldn’t really bow, but he inclined a bit at the waist and flicked his fingers from his brow in acknowledgment. “And you, I presume, are one of Lady Trent’s granddaughters.”

  I found it strange, when I first debuted in Falchester, that everyone seemed to know who I was. While in theory that is the point of a debut, in truth there are so many young people here that nobody knows them all. But very few of those young people are half Utalu, so after a while I realized that of course everyone was going to know about me. Still, it made me glad that I had guessed his name first; it put us on equal footing. “Audrey Camherst. You cracked the Draconean system of weights and measurements just last year, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t affect any false modesty. “Yes, I did. Not the kind of thing most people care a jot about, but with your family, I’m hardly surprised.”

  “I’m a philologist, too,” I said eagerly. “I keep up with all the journals—well, as best as I can when I’m at sea half the time with my parents. I’ve even published a few articles—”

  “Yes, now I remember,” he said, one finger in the air, as if to make time pause while he thought. “You had one in the Journal of Early Writing on triconsonantal root signs, didn’t you?”

  I can hardly tell you, Lotte, what it is like to have someone recognize your work. And in such an obscure little journal, too! It would be one thing if I had published something noteworthy in the Draconean Philological Review or a prestigious series like that—but he has read what I wrote! And he said it was insightful!

  I will not attempt to transcribe the rest of the conversation; the truth is, I hardly remember it. We stood in the aisle talking until some bent old twig came and scowled at us for being noisy; then we went out into the foyer, where there are some sofas, and sat and talked some more. I have never got along so famously with anyone so fast. I think it is the pleasure of meeting someone who not only cares about the same things as I do, but seems to be enjoying my company at the same time. We sat on the same couch, angled to face one another, and after a while I draped my arm along the back of it; at one point his own hand came to rest on the back of mine—just a light touch, and then he moved it. Lotte, I believe I have now observed that act known as “flirting” in the wild, and I enjoyed it a good deal more than I expected to.

  Aaron Mr. Mornett had to go before Grandmama was done, because she was having a good old row with Lord Wishert. I didn’t go back into the library, but sat there in the foyer and reviewed the whole thing in my mind several times over, basking in a warm little glow, until she came downstairs again.

  And that’s when things went wrong.

  Grandmama apologized for keeping me waiting, and I told her I didn’t mind, because I’d met a very nice young man. But her absentminded noises of approval went away with a crack when I told her his name.

  “Aaron Mornett?” she said, rearing up like a dragon. “Oh, Audrey. I am so sorry for abandoning you to him.”

  “Sorry?” I echoed, taken aback. “But he was lovely.”

  “He may look lovely,” she said darkly, “but he is not company I can recommend to you.”

  I have never heard her sound so much like—well, like a disapproving old grandmother. I said, “Why? Is he a gambler, or a drunkard, or a lecher?”

  Grandmama stopped in the middle of the outside steps and delivered the most scathing condemnation I think she is capable of: “He is not a reputable scholar.”

  I couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d slapped me across the face. “But—he’s a Fellow!”

  “Come now, Audrey; you know better than that.” Grandmama gestured up at the imposing facade of the Colloquium. “Yes, in theory the Colloquium exists to recognize and support brilliant scholarship. But people also get in for political reasons, or because they have friends in the society, or some other reason that has nothing to do with their work. And besides that, your Mr. Mornett is a Calderite.”

  She said the word as if I ought to know it, but I don’t think I’d ever heard it before. “And what is that?” I demanded, folding my arms.

  “Samuel Calder was a preacher in Gostershire, before you were born. He held that the Downfall of Draconean civilization was a sign that the Lord had cast them out, like He cast Apra and Atzam out of the Garden. Therefore, it follows that they have no claim on this world any longer.” Grandmama looked like she wanted to spit. “Some of his adherents took his ideas to their worst extreme, and now refer to themselves as Hadamists—I presume that at least is a name you recognize? They believe that Draconeans ought to be exterminated, finishing what the Downfall started and leaving humans in sole possession of the world.

  “Those who kept closer to his original ideas are known as Calderites—but do not mistake their moderation for anything you would find acceptable. They merely say that the Draconeans should only occupy such land as humankind deigns to grant them: the Sanctuary of Wings, and nowhere else. And more in the manner of a game preserve than a sovereign nation.”

  Of course I’m familiar with that debate. There are so few Draconeans, and even fewer of them outside the Sanctuary; most people have never met one, so it’s easy for them to imagine all kinds of foolish things. They hear “Draconean” and think of the Anevrai, lurid tales of human sacrifice and all that. But Aaron Mornett is far too intelligent to let such ignorance colour his views, and I told Grandmama as much.

  She sniffed and continued down the stairs to the street. “Trust me, Audrey. You’ll be happier staying away from him.”

  And that, as far as she was concerned, was that. But I am not convinced [. . .]

  29 SEMINIS

  Dearest Lotte,

  I don’t know if it’s coincidence or design, but I have been seeing Mr. Mornett rather frequently since our encounter at the Colloqium.

  I haven’t had the nerve to ask him about the things Grandmama said—I don’t want to drive him off. Whatever Grandmama thinks of his scholarship, I can’t cast any aspersions on his mind; every conversation with him is exhilarating. I constantly feel as if I need to bring every brain cell I have to bear just to keep up with him, and afterward I would swear my skull is packed full of new ones, like a muscle growing with use. With us there is no silly gossip about Society or idle talk about the weather; it is all ancient texts, archaeology, history, the things we both care about.

  And he doesn’t hate Draconeans, whatever Grandmama claims. He’s never met any, but he listened with perfect courtesy when I told him about Kudshayn and the others I know. Perhaps after the Season ends I can make arrangements for him to come to Yelang or Vidwatha and get to know a few [. . .]

  12 FLORIS

  [. . .] Honestly, Aaron makes plenty of good arguments. Kudshayn’s health is bad because his mother pushed her offspring into an unsuitable environment. Shouldn’t we be urging them to stay where they’ll be safe, rather than letting them take such risks? The Draconeans have been living in the Sanctuary for ages, and they’re very well adapted to that climate. It will take generations before any of them can hope to prosper in southern Anthiope. And that’s generations of failed hatchings and detrimental mutations.

  All so they can “return” to land they haven’t seen in thousands of years. Land that is already occupied! We can’t possibly drive those people out, and Aaron says it’s unreasonable to expect humans to live side by side with them again, given what happened in the past. So the only way they could take it would be by conquest. More dead Draconeans, more dead humans, more bad blood on top of the strata left over from thousands of years ago. For what? When they have a perfectly good mountain valley in Dajin where they can live?

  But I can’t say any of this to Grandmama. She’ll just think he’s corrupting me or something. This afternoon I finally got from her why she thinks he’s such a bad scholar; she claims his work on the system of weights and measures was plagiarized! But she hasn’t exchanged above ten words with him, and
I have. A mind as brilliant as his doesn’t need to steal anyone’s ideas.

  21 FLORIS

  Dear Lotte,

  Victory!

  It took a tremendous amount of arguing, but Grandmama has conceded that I may see Aaron, that she doesn’t have any proof of her accusations and she’s being unfair when she tells me I shouldn’t associate with him. Well, she didn’t put it in those words, but I know that’s what she really meant. And while it’s true that he has some sympathy with Calderite views, I’ve never heard him say a bad word against Draconeans as individuals.

  In celebration, I’ve told him that he may do one of the silly things people our age do during the Season, which is drive me around Arnessy Park in a little open carriage. But I am sure that most of the young people who do that won’t be discussing philology while they drive. I’ve heard the stories about how Grandmama courted Grandpapa; we Camherst women like men who think that sort of thing is romantic. (Well, I do. I know very well that my taste is not yours.)

  In fact—do not tell anyone I told you this—but I think I may share my theory with Aaron. You remember, the one where I asked Mama to help me with the calculations? It will be the first time I have mentioned it to anyone outside the family . . . but I’ve been thinking that I might even try submitting it to the Draconean Philological Review. Aaron can tell me if the idea is good enough; I trust his judgment [. . .]

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  18 Graminis

  That goddamned

  I can’t believe

  Heartless, manipulative BEAST!!!!

  From: Audrey Camherst

  To: Charlotte Camherst

  30 Graminis

  #3 Clarton Square, Falchester

  Dear Lotte,

  There goes my last hope.

  Grandpapa took me today to meet with the editor of the Draconean Philological Review. I knew it was a last-ditch effort, but still, I hoped—