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It was not, Tacroy thought, that he did not appreciate the efforts that Gabriel went to to prevent him going to prison, leveraging all the weight and dignity that the position of Chrestomanci brought and reminding everyone that Tacroy had, in part, acted as he did to prevent a worse fate befalling Christopher. Or that he was not ungrateful to still be allowed to work for the Chrestomanci but what is, effectively, house arrest is not, in his opinion, an experience made more bearable by everyone treating him alternately as if he is akin to a murderer or as something to be pitied.
“And I know,” he said to Flavian as they reshelved some books one day, undoing the damage that had been done to the system in the library by a well meaning governess with knowledge of a new classification system, “that I am, in some way, a murderer, or at least accomplice to murder. I’m sure the mermaids would agree. But,” he paused to consider if Examinations and Thoughts on Iron should be shelved in Theology or Practical Applications, “I am not about to find a different smuggler to work with.”
“No,” Flavian nodded, “we all know it would be foolish to do the same idiotic thing twice. You’re many things, Mordecai, but rarely an idiot.”
From the corner of the library there was an audible “pfft” and they looked over to see Rosalie looking incredulous. “What?” she said, “He’s a complete idiot most of the time. It’s just that the times he isn’t an idiot are outstanding enough to make you forget.”
“Well,” Flavian said, as they watched Rosalie leave the library, “that’s a sentence I didn’t expect I’d hear.”
“Nor me,” Tacroy said, looking a little pensive. He and Rosalie had, after she’d shouted and told him several times, in several languages, exactly what she thought of him and how his actions had been atrocious, reached a tentative detente. She sometimes played the harp when he was sent on very limited spirit journeys, following very strict instructions, but only music he didn’t enjoy and that he knew she didn’t particularly enjoy playing either. It was as if they could only spend time together in a way designed to make both of them miserable; a strange distorted echo of the very mode of being that had, thanks to some innate weakness of character, led to the current circumstance.
Tacroy had tried to voice this sense of an innate weakness to both Flavian and Gabriel in the weeks following the siege of the Castle and the trip to Series Eleven, when he was making initial amends. Flavian had rolled his eyes and slammed a book down on the table before telling him that his attempts at pretending this was something other than being easily led and a complete nincompoop were not helping the matter. Gabriel had just looked at him benignly before turning his attention back to a staggeringly large pile of paperwork. Christopher, who had overheard, had said something which Tacroy assumed was meant to be helpful but which came off as a little condescending about everyone having their own personal silver. Everyone in the household acknowledged that Christopher was working on lessening his levels of condescension and rudeness but it seemed as if it might take some time.
Millie was, it turned out, a more sympathetic ear for Tacroy’s musings on his personal failings. Tacroy tried to not think entirely too hard about the fact that this was because he slotted directly into the way she had ordered the world that she was now in via what school stories had taught her. He was, he knew, the archetypal disgraced brother who would learn a valuable lesson when helping his sister and her friends out of a spot of bother. Possibly this would involve the Tyrol in some form, or at least a misunderstanding about train timetables and a frankly baffling assortment of midnight feast foods. But Millie had a way of categorising actions and people separately, relying on knowing that good people sometimes did bad things and because they then told the truth and changed their ways, they were still good. Having an innate weakness was, she said, not a hindrance in the slightest if he was willing to always keep it in mind. And then she said what Christopher had said about everyone having their own personal silver, but sounded at least eighty percent less condescending with it. When he told her this she laughed in a way which could, if he were writing one of her schoolstories, have been described as a ‘peal’ and grinned widely.
He was musing that evening over a glass of brandy about the general indignity of having had a life lesson delivered by a child whose one overriding desire in life was for game and japes and to learn the rules of field hockey. No one in the Castle had been able to help, even Rosalie who had once played but, she said, had gleefully discarded all such knowledge when she learned how to play cricket. As if summoned by his chuckle Rosalie entered the library and they both startled at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Tacroy said, “I’ll go.”
“Nonsense,” Rosalie replied. “You were here first and we can’t spend the rest of our time working for the Chrestomanci leaving a room if the other person is there. The Castle is only so big and we do have to keep up the pretence that we don’t know about the secret passageways.” She smiled and put her brandy glass down on the table next to his. “You are here to … well, I was going to say read, but it seems that you’re moping, so you are here to mope and I am here to finish the crossword and we can do those things in the same room at the same time.” With a firm nod she sat down in the other armchair, carefully tucking her feet under the blanket on the footstool, and began to scribble anagrams in the margins.
It was considerably harder, Tacroy found, to mope when there was company in the room than when you were on your own, and by the time Rosalie had defeated the crossword, he was part way through making scornful marginal notes on the third chapter of a review copy of a new book about the dangers of crossing between worlds which had clearly been written by someone who had read too much romantical fiction and not enough science.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Rosalie said, with an enquiring arch of her eyebrow. She had a smudge of ink on her nose. Tacroy decided not to tell her.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d forgotten how much fun it is to read something completely idiotic and to be able to scathe at people about it. According to the author of this book, a person who spirit travels must always have a guideweight who is constant, true, and a devoted companion tethering their soul to the world. Undoubtedly it is true that there must be a companion, but somehow the author makes a guideweight sound more like a labrador than a person.”
“I’d like to see a labrador play a harp,” Rosalie laughed. “Or does a guideweight hum at a mystical frequency known only to the spirit walker?”
Tacroy frowned, “Yes, yes they do. How do you know that?”
“I know who the author of the book is,” Rosalie said with a grin. “Or at least I have a strong suspicion it’s a ghastly bore I met at one of Gabriel’s dinner parties a couple of years ago. Wouldn’t stop talking about how it was important for a spirit walker and their companion to vibrate at the same magical frequency.”
“Golly,” Tacroy said. “Did they say how they would ascertain or measure the frequency?” He held up the brandy decanter and Rosalie nodded before holding her glass up so he could reach it easily.
“Usual guff about precious stones and light beams. Sort of thing they keep trying to get us to fund research into. I sometimes think we should give them some money just so as they go away for a few years and stop writing letters to Gabriel about it. They put him in a terrible mood and I have to answer them.” Rosalie said, tipping her brandy glass at his.
“Well,” Tacroy said, “Be pleased that all I ask of you is vaguely melodic noise that keeps my spirit tethered. No precious crystals or ‘ineffable connection’ needed.” He gulped down the rest of his brandy and stood before Rosalie could answer. “I’m heading towards bed, is there anything you require before I go?”
“No,” Rosalie said, and Tacroy thought she sounded somewhat disconsolate but passed it off as an aftereffect of the brandy, “I’m sorted, but thank you for the thought.”
It was not until a fortnight later when Rosalie had packed her harp away and they were both having a cup of tea that Tacroy had a realisation about why Rosalie had sounded that little bit upset in the library. He put his cup down and leaned forward. “Rosalie,” he said, “do forgive the unforgivable honest sentiment I am about to display, and discard it as an aftereffect of spirit travelling if you so wish. But, I do feel we have some sort of connection. I might not, as that idiot author does, describe it as ‘ineffable’ and I have never thought of you as at all like a labrador retriever, but it is something I feel in relation to you.”
“Oh,” Rosalie said, looking a little startled and possibly a little teary-eyed, “that is nice to hear, thank you. Especially that I am in no way akin to a labrador.” She smiled and looked into her tea cup for a second before putting it down next to his and leaning forward so she could take his hand. “I also feel that there is one, and I am sorry for the part that I played in our past fallings out. I do enjoy playing for you, and spending time with you.”
Tacroy squeezed her hand and returned her smile. “In which case I propose we return to spending time together outside of these intimate musical soirees.”
“Proposal accepted,” Rosalie said brightly. “Perhaps a stroll around the village next Saturday?”
“Dinner out on Wednesday,” Tacroy countered. “We’re both in town for that meeting, we should capitalise on it.”
“Both,” Rosalie said. “Dinner on Wednesday, stroll on Saturday.” She stood and picked up her harp case. “And if you’re really good, I’ll retire the Mendelssohn piece you hate.”