Fic: Notes of an Antiquary, The Cornish Manuscripts Part I

[foolish_m0rtal]

1. THE CORNISH MANUSCRIPTS



Part I.

Dr. Matthias Harsh had lived at Pevensey University in Kent for the majority of his academic life. He’d read mediaeval history at Martin Court as an undergraduate and then come back to complete his doctorate at Philby. He’d published a few papers in the meantime, worked at Martin Court as an adjunct instructor and then after finishing his doctorate, had been hired as an assistant professor upon the glowing recommendations of his academic advisor and former professors.

After the headlong struggle of completing his degree and securing a teaching position, his life at Pevensey seemed comparatively sleepy now. He taught introductory mediaeval history classes at Martin Court and played a bit of piano for the Pevensey Singers in the music department every Tuesday and Thursday. He had a little house in Worshire where many of the other professors lived; it wasn’t too grand and a bit smaller than the others since the other professors were older and had wives and children to accommodate, so they were allowed a bit more space.

On the weekends he usually holed up in the library’s antique documents vault or worked on his research in the library basement, where the university had afforded him a carrel of his own for his books and papers. Jeremy Dactley from the Maudslay Engineering college had taken it upon himself to get Harsh out of the library once in a while and sometimes suffered him to go out golfing with some of the other younger professors. Harsh found it boring, usually because Dactley brought his fellow engineering professors with him, and they had the habit of standing around on the golfing green loudly arguing about trajectories and optimising the putter without ever actually playing. The score cards and little pencils were usually put to use writing out equations and jotting down dimensions rather than any kind of score keeping.

The golfing for the weekend had been cancelled because of rain, so Harsh spent most of Saturday at his study desk at home preparing his final exam since the end of term was coming up in the following week. He realised sometime in the afternoon while sorting through his drawers that he was out of the little seed cakes he liked to eat in the evenings with his tea. So he put on his good woollen coat and hat and started off for Worshire square, where he picked up the last of the morning’s cakes from the little bakery that always put aside a fresh bag for him on Saturdays.

On the way back from the store he decided to stop by at the post office, not because he particularly thought he had any mail, but he often received misplaced mail that was meant for the professor that had lived in the house before him; he usually didn’t care to wait till the post office realised their mistake and forwarded the mail himself.

There was a single slightly bent letter waiting for him in the box, and that itself was a surprise because he’d just emptied the box a few days before and hadn’t really expected anything. He stared at the letter for a moment thinking it was more misplaced mail but then saw his own name and address running across the front in quick half-legible cursive. There was no return address.

He smoothed his fingers across the paper- it was good quality despite the severe creases and little smudges of ink half-blurring out his address. His elder brother James wrote to him occasionally out of some kind of guilt, but this wasn’t his handwriting; it was too cramped, and some of the angles of the loops were from an older style. He had thought at the very least that the letter was one of the few James sent every month.

James had naturally inherited all the family’s money and property after their father had died and didn’t seem to understand that Harsh enjoyed earning his own salary and living in the tiny professors’ quarters at the edges of Pevensey. He usually wrote to Harsh at least once a month for news and to ask in a somewhat scandalised tone why Harsh still hadn’t signed the papers that would allot him £500 a year from the family’s money. Harsh always wrote back saying he was perfectly fine the way he was and usually enclosed some sweets from the local shop for James’s three children. It was his usual answer to any of James’s questions, from salary to marriage to leaving the university to come work closer to home.

The clock in the square chimed four o’clock. He stuffed the letter into the inside pocket of his coat where it couldn’t get wet and started back to Pevensey so he could get a bit of reading done before going to dinner at the High Table. Dactley had invited a guest professor to come from Keating and asked everyone from the golfing club to attend dinner to show a united front. Dactley was quite popular in the department, and most of the Maudslay professors were planning to come. The professors from the other departments had heard about it and made plans to be conveniently elsewhere tonight. Harsh was only going because the rest of the club would be there, and it would have been rude to be absent when Dactley had asked them all in person.

In the few hours before dinner, Harsh managed to finish a few more paragraphs of St. John Beneficio’s first-hand observations and footnotes on the retranslation of the Vulgate Bible during the Carolingian Renaissance. The manuscript itself was a hand-copied translation by Michel le Forte, who had been an Abbot of Saint Anthony’s at Tours in the 1600s. Harsh was having a difficult time understanding it, though he didn’t know whether it was because of his poor grasp of 17^th century French or Michel le Forte’s somewhat hazy translations of mediaeval Latin. To be fair, mediaeval Latin had not been without its somewhat appalling inconsistencies. Harsh made a few sour notes in the margins of his notes before marking his place in the manuscript and getting up to rummage through the coat track for his good jacket.

When Harsh arrived at the High Table, he saw that Dactley’s guest professor had already arrived. Harsh thought he fit in very nicely with the rest of the golfing club- he wasn’t terribly old despite the round little pair of spectacles on the end of his nose that he squinted through every once in a while, and he seemed genuinely interested in whatever conversation the rest of the club was carrying on. Dactley was sitting to his left and spotted Harsh as he walked in and waved him over.

“Ah, Harsh,” he said. “This is Dr. Jacob Francis, the guest lecturer I told you about from Keating. Jacob, this is Dr. Matthias Harsh- he’s part of our golfing club.”

“It seems everyone here enjoys golfing,” Francis said, smiling and shaking Harsh’s hand. “You must be quite good.”

Harsh refrained to say he had not so much as touched a golf club for months and instead found a place at the table near Professor Walden from Martin Court, who had shown up to the High Table tonight despite the other professors’ warnings. Harsh suspected Walden had only come to show solidarity since they were neighbours in the professors’ quarters and taught in the same department. Harsh liked Walden- he had a huge white moustache that always caught crumbs, a great large stomach, and often invited his little grandchildren to Pevensey on the weekends to play on the South Green.

“What department do you teach in at Keating, Dr. Francis? If you don’t mind me asking?” Harsh asked politely while reaching over to fill his plate. Dinner tonight looked like mutton and some kind of potatoes.

“Naval engineering,” Francis said, and Harsh’s stomach plummeted, all sympathy for Francis suddenly vanishing. No wonder Francis fit in so well with the rest of Dactley’s minions- Harsh just prayed on behalf of himself and Walden that they wouldn’t start an argument over dinner about the aerodynamic capabilities of boats or some such nonsense and put him off his food.

“-else teaches at Maudslay, but Dr. Harsh is the only non-department member of our club,” Dactley was saying smugly.

Francis looked at him with interest. “Really? What department are you in, Dr. Harsh?”

“I teach introductory mediaeval history at Martin Court,” Harsh replied.

“Which is a pity,” Walden said stoutly. “I’ve read some of the research you published in your doctoral portfolio. I think you ought to be advanced to teaching our graduate students. Or our upperclassmen at least.”

“Surely that’s the privilege of the department’s more eminent professors,” Harsh protested. “I wouldn’t know what to do teaching in a graduate class.”

“They probably wouldn’t be able to pick you apart from the students,” Dactley needled. “How old are you again, Harsh?”

Harsh sighed, because Dactley always asked that like it was some kind of wonderful joke. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-nine!” Dactley repeated to Francis, grinning. “My word, you must be the youngest of us here.”

“He is,” Walden said proudly. Harsh glared at his potatoes, stricken by this unexpected betrayal from a supposedly close ally.

“Do you know what I was doing when I was twenty-nine?” Dactley continued. “I had been married for four years and was wondering if I even had any business going back to university.”

“I had just undertaken a commission from Naval Engineering to design their new warships,” Francis replied.

“The warships they’re using now?” Fordham asked. “The Strickenhams? What are the specs?”

Fordham was one of the older professors in the club and always seemed to be the first to produce a pencil and equation sheet during their golf outings, as if they had no business spending time together if they didn’t crack at least two impossible engineering problems before the seventh hole. Harsh looked at the way the club was leaning forward at the mention of warships and concluded that he and Walden were doomed.

At first, Fordham and Francis were happy to talk between themselves, but then Francis broached the topic of steam engines and suddenly everyone was crowding forward to loudly give their expert opinions. Someone produced a few pencils from their pocket and Harsh knew the rest of the evening was ruined. As he shifted further towards the edge of the table, he felt something crinkle in his pocket and pulled out the letter. He looked back over to the other side of the table, which seemed to be ignoring him, and then finally reached for his dinner knife to slice open the envelope.

There was a short letter inside, folded up neatly into thirds. Harsh turned the envelope upside down and shook it, but nothing else fell out. He unfolded the letter and smoothed it out to read under the dim lamp hanging over his end of the table.
 

Dear Dr. Matthias Harsh, the letter read.

I apologise for the sudden correspondence; I’m afraid you may have forgotten me since our last meeting six years ago when you were studying for your doctoral degree at Pevensey University. We were introduced through our mutual acquaintance, my cousin Terrence Wimbley. You helped me immensely in my little project, and I haven’t forgotten your patience with me and your interest in antiquarian research.

I was surprised and pleased to learn you have established a more permanent position there for yourself as a professor at Martin Court. Congratulations. (Forgive me, but I couldn’t resist looking up your credentials after reading your recent research paper, which I believe was published in the Arts & Letters journal this year.) It was a wonderful alternate translation of the Liber Maioris Praecantationis chapters regarding spagyric alchemy, chapters that I personally feel are often overlooked or treated poorly compared to the book’s famous later chapters on metallurgical alchemy.

In the spirit of research, I was wondering if you would be interested in meeting again to look over a few books I’ve found in my grandfather’s library, which I’ve been taking pains to re-catalogue after I inherited it in wake of his passing. In the proper Latin, the first book is called Sinistra Quae Speculum Tenet, and if my grandfather’s notes are to be believed, it dates back to at least the thirteenth century. The second book is untitled and has no date but the handwriting leads me to believe it was written by the same author.

I realise my letter is very sudden, but I thought you might consider spending some of your time during the summer holidays meeting an old friend who wishes to see you again. I still live in my family home in Tintagel but will be in Truro for the first three weeks of July to do research in their university library, which is of considerable repute in Cornwall. I will be staying at the Helford Inn, and you may ask for me at the front desk there when you arrive. Cornwall itself is also very beautiful in the summer and if I may say, quite a pleasant place to spend a bit of your holiday. I look forward to seeing you again and hope you have the time and convenience to accept my invitation.

Yours in friendship,
Jonathan Cosway

Harsh sucked in a breath. “Jonathan,” he said wonderingly.

Dactley stopped talking and looked in his direction. “Hm? Sorry, Harsh, did you say something?”

“No no,” Harsh replied, still staring at the letter. “Only…an old friend of mine just wrote to me very unexpectedly. He wants to know if I can meet him in Cornwall in two weeks to look over a few old books.”

“Ah!” Dactley said delightedly. “As a matter of fact, I’m due in Falmouth to meet Brunel to go over the designs for the Royal Bellcroft Bridge. I haven’t bought train tickets yet. We can go together- I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“I’m not sure if I’m going,” Harsh said quickly. “I’m not familiar with the books. Sir,” he said, turning to address Walden, “Have you heard anything about a book from around the thirteenth century called Sinistra Quae Speculum Tenet?”

Walden frowned. “No. But Sinistra quae- that’s the left hand-”

“that holds the mirror,” Harsh finished breathlessly. “That sounds like…well, the phrasing follows Roger Bacon’s Mirror of Alchemy.”

“It’s the same thought,” Walden agreed, leaning forward. “The hand that holds- it suggests the idea of controlling alchemy rather than just observing its forms like any other science. And the left hand- that is very curious. Left hand- sinister. An ill omen perhaps or-”

“’The sinister branch of alchemy. Black magic,” Harsh finished then backpedalled hastily. “Well, I’m not certain the first book is about alchemy or if the two books are related. Jonath- my friend who wrote to me about them says they both have the same handwriting, but he might be unfamiliar with Carolingian miniscule.”

“It’s a possibility,” Walden allowed. “But how will you know if you don’t see them yourself?”

“I thought I should bring the Liber Maioris excerpts I contributed to the journal a few months ago,” Harsh said. “The book itself…might be good to have as a cross-reference if the library at Truro is poor, but it belongs to the library-”

“I’m sure no one minds you borrowing it for a few weeks,” Walden said conspiratorially.

“Are you sure?” Harsh asked uneasily. “Because I don’t want the department to-”

They both looked up as they heard silence at the other end of the table. The other professors were staring at them. Francis was sitting frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“I have no idea what you just said,” Dactley said finally. “That sounded like…like gibberish- is that what we sound like to you? Because our conversations make sense to me. Right?” he asked the others, who murmured and nodded their heads.

“My good sir,” Walden said with grave dignity. “Your conversations never make sense to me.”

 

“Brought enough things to occupy yourself, Harsh?” Dactley asked drily as Harsh squeezed himself into the train compartment with his satchel of books.

“Yes,” Harsh grunted as he swung the bag around and put it down on the seat. “Most of it is just reading I’ve wanted to do for a while. Some of it is for the project in Truro.”

“Mhm,” Dactley said, tapping a fingernail against his own book. It was one of those Joseph Crowther books, Harsh noticed. He didn’t see why an educated man like Dactley read rubbish like speculative fiction. Harsh opened one of his own books and started to read, hoping Dactley would have the courtesy to be quiet.

“I admire your work ethic,” Dactley continued breezily. “I don’t see why I should start my work for the bridge at this very moment. Brunel will just muck it all up again anyway and then we’ll bicker about it for far too long.” He sighed gustily. “If only Jacob hadn’t decided to duck out at the last minute. He always manages to keep Brunel in line.”

Privately, Harsh thought Jacob Francis would have done better to keep Dactley in line instead. He almost pitied Brunel- the thought of working with Dactley for more than a few hours sounded nothing short of nightmarish.

“I didn’t see Dr. Francis today at breakfast,” he said instead. “Did he already go back to Keating?”

“Oh no, he was taking his breakfast with my family, since he’d wanted to see our house before he left,” Dactley said. He pulled a face. “And of course my wife wanted to see me off. I had her take Jacob into town to see if he wanted anything before leaving for Keating. It kept her busy, at least- no use taking her with us to Canterbury just to me off at the platform. Bah, her father taught at Pevensey so she’s lived in Worshire all her life- perhaps she wanted to see the trains.” He raised an eyebrow. “You married, Harsh?”

“No,” Harsh said, staring intently at his book without actually reading it. “But it seems married life suits you very well.”

Dactley shrugged. “She keeps the house while I’m away, decent cook,” he said in a bored voice. “Keeps everything neat but knows better than to touch any of my papers. And she doesn’t bother me while I’m working.”

“Ah, very polite,” said Harsh, who wished Dactley wouldn’t bother him while he was working either. “It sounds nice, having a wife.”

Dactley made a sound and sighed. “I suppose.”

Harsh thought Dactley sounded slightly ungrateful and pressed on in spite of himself. “Must be good having someone to talk to, at least. Sometimes I get a bit tired of my own company.”

And he shouldn’t have said that, because he’d been perfectly happy ensconced with his books and papers and studies till Jonathan had come along and bothered him. Harsh hadn’t realised how much he’d grown to like Jonathan’s company till they’d finished up their research at Pevensey and Jonathan had gone back home to Tintagel. Harsh didn’t dwell on it.

“Oh God, no,” Dactley said long-sufferingly. “She’s a dull little thing- I can’t talk to her about anything. Certainly not anything I’m interested in- she’s…well, you know women don’t have a head for things like maths and sciences.”

“I don’t know,” Harsh said neutrally, finally putting down his book. “I think Juliet Radford’s contributions to the field have been quite impressive.” Harsh actually knew next to nothing about Juliet Radford, except t hat she contributed to some branch of mathematics called number theory and was the only female member of the Britannia Gentlemen’s Mathematics Society and Board.

“Mm, Juliet, yes,” Dactley said, and his eyes were soft and thoughtful for a moment. Then he shook his head and made a disparaging noise. “There’s…there’s nothing to prove she’s done any of that work. She was never even properly educated- no, I’m of the camp that thinks her brother Christopher is the one that’s really been sending in those papers. He’s the one that read mathematics at Everley, after all. Honourable Pevensey alumnus, all that.”

“I think she’s proven she knows the material,” Harsh argued. “I remember someone from the golfing club telling me about that mathematics conference she attended where she defended one of her articles to Peter Falkner-”

“-I’m not saying she hasn’t been taught anything,” Dactley said quickly. “She must have helped Christopher arrange his work. Christopher, the dear man, must have taught her enough to support his efforts. But…” He waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t see how she would be capable of constructing such things on her own.”

“Have you met Juliet Radford?” Harsh asked pointedly.

“Ah, yes. I have. Many times.” Dactley’s expression was thoughtful again. “She’s remarkable. Er, for…a woman.” He coughed and looked away.

Harsh took this as an indication that they was done with the conversation. He turned back to his book and then wondered for no reason whatsoever whether Dactley’s visits to Christopher Radford had really been excuses to see his sister Juliet. All the evidence he needed was apparent in the painfully open way Dactley’s expression softened whenever he spoke of her. He never looked like that when he spoke about his wife.

“What?” Dactley asked suddenly, and Harsh realised he was staring.

Harsh shook his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about…complexities.”

Dactley barked out a laugh. “Complexities! Yes, that’s very good. You’re a bit of a complex man yourself, Harsh, did you know that? Shut away in that dark little library carrel for years, and suddenly you’re off to Cornwall for the holidays.”

“I’m meeting an old friend,” Harsh said defensively and took Jonathan’s letter out of his coat pocket. “See, he says he’ll be in Truro the first three weeks of July.”

“A bit late then, aren’t you?” Dactley pointed out, grinning. Harsh scowled at him.

He had meant to set off the first day on July, he really had. But he’d kept putting it off- papers to grade, books to collect. Kent to Cornwall- it was the longest he’d ever travelled in his life. Except for once long ago when he had come to Pevensey from Manchester with all his paltry student luggage and the crumpled up one-way ticket in his pocket.

Perhaps it was also the idea of seeing Jonathan again for the first time in years- they hadn’t parted very well, if he recalled. They’d had a sudden row about something one evening over dinner at the little pub in town (Jonathan had been spoiling for a fight for days with the way he’d been simmering and glowering over anything Harsh did) and had been asked very firmly and politely to leave by the wait staff. It only served to make their trip back to Pevensey even less civil- that they had both said many extraordinarily cruel things to each other, and Harsh had ended their outing by slamming his dormitory door in Jonathan’s face. The next day, Jonathan had left for Tintagel without telling him.

Harsh winced and rubbed his eyes. He would be arriving a few days later than Jonathan had proposed. He had deliberated for far too long till Dactley had finally just bought them both train tickets without consulting him first and made the decision for him. It was the first time Harsh had been grateful for Dactley’s impatient and somewhat thoughtless approach to everything.

So now he was on the train bound for Truro whether he liked it or not. He just hoped Jonathan…he wasn’t sure what he hoped Jonathan would do. He wasn’t even sure he wanted Jonathan to wait for him or whether he wished he’d come to the inn to find an impossibly familiar letter, so much like the first, that had a few lines of cool apologies and a notice that Jonathan had gone back home.

He had met Jonathan Cosway through a friend of his from undergraduate named Wimbley, who had introduced Jonathan as a visiting cousin from Cornwall interested in mediaeval folklore. Harsh’s first impression of Cosway had been rather pessimistic; Cosway had cut quite the brooding Gothic figure with his old-fashioned black coat and decidedly forbidding expression. Harsh had been suitably unimpressed and coolly remarked that he was busy moving all his books to his carrel.

Instead of taking the rebuff gracefully, Wimbley had drafted himself and his cousin to help shift Harsh’s books to the basement, with Cosway offering a few awkward startlingly astute compliments about Harsh’s choice of books. And somewhere between thinking Cosway perhaps just came off as an intimidating person without meaning to be and getting into an argument with Wimbley over a manuscript they both wanted, Harsh somehow ended up tagging along with Wimbley on a partially improvised grand tour of Pevensey.

They showed Cosway their favourite niches in the library and, in Wimbley’s case, the most ridiculous statues in the Provost’s Gardens. (The university wasn’t quite sure which provost they had originally belonged to and, as an extension of that, which college owned the gardens now, so they were open for public use.) They took him to the old cathedral with its hollow-throated bells that chimed on the hour and the arched little bridges that ran across the fingers of the Regina Maria Basin, which was fed by the Gravesend and Rochester Canal.

They cut through the practice rooms where the Wallace music students went to rehearse, and Harsh pointed out a young undergraduate student named Godfrey who was quite the stock figure in the music department and always seemed to be hunched over his practice piano no matter the time of day. Harsh often heard his piano whenever he came in to go over his own music for the Pevensey Singers, and it would not have surprised him in the very least if Godfrey actually lived there.

“He plays very well,” Wimbley whispered as they passed.

“I prefer the hammered dulcimer,” Harsh grumbled.

“You would, you old antiquary,” Wimbley retorted, and Cosway smothered a laugh.

Without really planning it, they concluded their tour at the St. Bertrand Panorama, which had one of the best views of the whole Pevensey campus. It was a good day for it- clear and cold with faint wispy clouds reflecting off the surface of the Regina Maria in the distance. Cosway liked it immensely.

“Oh look, isn’t that Martin Court over there?” he asked, straining against the railing and pointing off into the distance. “That’s your college, isn’t it, Harsh?”

“Would you like to audit a class?” Harsh asked jokingly, trying to be friendly because he could see Cosway was making an effort. “Seems like an awfully odd thing to do on the tour.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to see a real university for myself,” Cosway replied. “I’ve heard so much about them.”

“About them?” Harsh asked. “What do you mean? Where are you going to school?”

“I was taught at home by my grandfather and some private tutors,” Cosway replied, looking slightly embarrassed. “I er, finished a good while ago.”

Harsh supposed he was from an older more traditional family that tended to do that sort of thing, but when he inquired politely into the matter, Cosway just smirked and invited him out to lunch.

Wimbley complained bitterly all the way to the library that Cosway always stole all his friends.

 

Cosway approved of the little shop Harsh chose for lunch. It was just a small sandwich place that was popular with many of the other students who liked having something quick to wrap up and take away with them to class. Harsh and the other doctoral candidates appreciated having something mildly cheap and nutritious to subsist on while poring over their books.

“It reminds me of the teashop in Rome where I used to have breakfast every day,” Cosway said fondly as he and Harsh squashed themselves into a small sitting table near the window.

“You’ve been to Rome?” Harsh asked, unable to keep the hushed envy from his voice.

Cosway grinned at him, looking pleased with himself. “I was born in Italy.”

Harsh leaned forward, nearly upsetting the salt cellar in the middle of the table. “What is it like? Did you see many of the ruins?”

“A few.” Cosway accepted the cup of tea the serving girl put down in front of him and drank half of it in one go. “My sister made some sketches- I’ll have her send them to you, if you’d like.”

“Oh no,” Harsh said quickly. “I wouldn’t want to presume.”

“It’s nothing,” Cosway said comfortably. “She detests sketching. She only drew them because Mother said she ought to. There, I’ll write her tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to,” Harsh said uneasily. “We, er…we aren’t exactly friends, are we?”

“Hm,” Cosway had said, smiling at him in a considering way. “Well I hope we might be by the time I leave.”

“How long are you here?” Harsh asked.

“Are you tired of me already?” Cosway asked drily and gave him a quick grin. “Mm, don’t answer that, please. I suppose you could say I’m on holiday.”

“Doing research at a college?” Harsh asked doubtfully.

“Perhaps more of a working holiday,” Cosway conceded. “I’m helping my grandfather with a project on old local folklore, and we’ve reached a dead end. Terry heard about it and invited me here to look through the Pevensey reserves, which I’ll admit are much more extensive than anything we have. And he-terribly sorry, I’ve invited you out to lunch on false pretences- he told me about you. Said you were brilliant at this.”

“Brilliant?” Harsh shook his head. “No, I’m barely out of undergraduate- I haven’t even earned my doctorate yet. You would have better chances asking Professor Bloom. He’s one of the foremost experts in old British folklore.”

“But you are brilliant,” Cosway said warmly and Harsh coloured at that for no evident reason. “Terry showed me some of the rough drafts of the thesis you wrote for your undergraduate degree-”

“The little sneak!” Harsh hissed. “I was wondering where those had got to.”

Cosway laughed and held up his hands. “No no, this was after you’d submitted it, he swears.”

“Hmph.”

“If he had copied from you, his thesis wouldn’t have been such rubbish,” Cosway said reasonably, looking completely unrepentant. He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow at Harsh. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“We’ll see,” Harsh had replied evasively. Cosway had given him a sharp second glance and then a lopsided grin. Harsh had returned the smile cautiously and then looked away. “Er, what is your grandfather’s project about?”

Cosway had pursed his lips and poured himself more tea. “Mythological monsters.”

 
 

“Oy,” Dactley said, snapping his fingers beside Harsh’s ear.

Harsh jolted back and then stared at Dactley blearily. “Wha…what?”

“You’ve been sleeping for the last six hours,” Dactley said, jerking his chin towards the darkened window. “We’re almost at the station. I would stay in Truro for the night but Brunel said he would put me up for the week on the government’s penny, so I’m taking a coach to Falmouth as soon as we get our luggage. Pack up your things.”

Dactley swept up a series of papers with structural sketches and strings of mathematical equations that Harsh could not even begin to comprehend. “Is that your bridge?” he asked, blinking down at them in the dim lamp light.

“Yes,” Dactley said sourly, bundling the papers into a neat packet. “Although I know Brunel is going to find some fault with it, no matter that I’ve checked everything down to the last rivet. It’s going to be made of wrought iron. In a…” Dactley sketched out an elegant curve and then some quick hash marks going across it. “Like this with the weight distributed here and here on the piers.”

“Oh, I see,” said Harsh, who didn’t. As Dactley continued mapping out the stresses and possible arrangements, Harsh grudgingly admitted that Dactley might have been a conceited pissant, but he was quite innovative as an engineer.

He gathered up his books and notes that had accumulated in a small pile next to him and stuffed them carefully into his satchel. They had been mostly reading for Jonathan’s project, so Harsh had found as many references to Bacon’s works as he could as well as any relevant articles he could find about mediaeval alchemy, including the most recently updated version of the Liber Maioris manuscript. There was apparently a more recent version from the Innwich Society, who had successfully translated the chapter on divination, thought to be one of the most difficult chapters in the book to translate properly. But Harsh didn’t think too highly of the integrity of the society and hadn’t bothered buying a copy.

Dactley flagged down a coach for Falmouth outside the train station and said his goodbyes as he waited for the coach driver to load up his luggage. He had Harsh make some half-hearted promises to visit Falmouth and go sight-seeing sometime on the weekend; Harsh had no intention of following through on any of those promises but didn’t think Dactley really cared one way or the other. Harsh wished him luck on the bridge, which he was clearly going to need with a design like that, and saw him off.

It was starting to drizzle slightly, so Harsh collected his luggage and got directions to the inn mentioned in Jonathan’s letter. Truro was actually quite nice, Harsh had to admit. There were strings of small cosy shops and elegant townhouses towering over the narrow streets. It was very different being in a city that wasn’t defined by its university; Worshire was very much a university town, slow and scarcely populated in the holidays and springing back to life at the start of another term. But Truro had a quietly defiant personality all on its own that he found he liked very much.

Jonathan’s inn was a quaint little place- the front was brick and whitewashed window sills but the inside was all gleaming varnished wood, dark and smelling like old-fashioned polish. There was a front desk for checking in guests and a staircase that went up to the rooms on the next two storeys. The rest of the first floor was occupied by a tea room, a little sitting area with a kitchen that served basic breakfasts, sandwiches, and tea at certain hours of the day. The lights were on, but it looked like the staff was closing up now. The chairs were all stacked upside down on top of the round mahogany tables, and a woman was cleaning the floors.

After a moment, a man with a very impressive beard and a pair of glasses clipped to the front of his jacket came out of the kitchen and to the front desk to meet Harsh. “Excuse me,” he said with a tinge of an accent. “Are you renting a room?”

“I’m meeting a friend of mine here,” Harsh replied. “Name of Jonathan Cosway. Perhaps he told you- I’m Matthias Harsh. Can you tell him I’ve arrived?”

The man’s eyes widened and he ushered Harsh to a table. “Please, Mr. Harsh, come sit.”

“But my bags,” Harsh protested, resisting.

“I shall have them put in Mr. Cosway’s room,” the man assured him, taking down one of the chairs for Harsh before sitting down himself.

“What?”

The man paused. “Ah, Mr. Cosway asked for a double room for his friend who would be coming along. I supposed that was you- but of course, I may have been mistaken-”

“No,” Harsh said, not knowing whether to feel comforted or outraged that Jonathan hadn’t ever doubted he would accept his invitation. “No, that’s correct. But where is Jonathan?”

“Ah, I shall tell you in a moment. Sit, sit. Mary, some tea for our guest,” he shouted toward the kitchen and then turned back to Harsh. “Forgive me, I haven’t given my name. I’m Ethan Drescher- I own this inn.” A young woman came in from the kitchens with a tea service. “My daughter, Mary.”

“Please to meet you Mr. Drescher. Ms. Drescher,” Harsh said politely and moved aside so she could put down the tray. Drescher poured them both a cup. Harsh was tired enough to drink the half of the cup black before slowing down and adding a bit of milk.

Drescher took a huge gulp from his teacup. “Ah, Mr. Cosway, he said freut mich when I met him.” He laughed. “A very good man, Mr. Cosway.”

“Yes,” Harsh said, trying not to sound impatient. “He told me to ask for him first thing after I arrived. I take it he isn’t here?”

Drescher put down his teacup. “No,” he said, looking very grave all of a sudden. “He is not. Mr. Harsh…I have not seen him for the past three days.”