The Septenary Bureau

Well, well, well.

I've long suspected Rosier has been using our research for his own purposes, and when the wards on his records were triggered I thought he'd finally been caught. But it wasn't Rosier Constable Owens was after, it was Surya Ayyar, doing a bit of research on her own time. Research she hasn't been sharing with us.

And today her brother finally made an appearance and wasn't at all eager to explain his recent whereabouts.

I shall definitely have to keep my eye on them both.

I am so annoyed with Jameson that sometimes I think Jezebel is right and I should just leave, but Patty is happy here with him and I don’t think either one of us has time to handle the twins without the other. Not only has he refused to take Jocasta’s death at all seriously (and she is his sister, not mine) but he has also refused to try to get an invitation to that bloody wedding. And not only is Bitsy going to try and wear my ear off wanting to know what happened there, but it would be...a personal triumph if I could get into that bloody house even once.

There are so many things we don’t know about how that place works. And this country will never be safe till we do.

Of course Jameson thinks that all I do at my job is take notes and bring tea. And I realise that it’s all for the best, and even more for the best that he never questions late nights and odd hours. But it’s bloody demeaning—it is—that he actually does believe that’s my life.

This will be a good performance. I can feel it. I’m in the stalls, watching the others go through the ritual scene, and practice the transition to the scene on the cliffs and I can feel the excitement running through the theatre. The rehearsals have been good, and today, so far, it’s been flowing perfectly. And tonight, I think, it will do so again.

Uncle sent flowers. Gladioli. The doorman just brought them in. I’m having one last re-read of my lines, though I know them by heart.

Three hours until curtain up.

Whatever I’ve done to deserve a three-hour train ride on a local line with this perfidious little brat, I regret it, God. I swear. I had in mind that I’d write up all my reports for Dr Taverner while I was on the train with the boy. How much trouble can one eleven-year-old child be on a train? A lot, if he’s Asher Greengrass.

No trouble at all, if he’s drugged unconscious. I did warn him.

I don’t really think this child needs to be taken to Pantaleon’s. I think he needs to be turned over to Dr Taverner. Probably if I gave him to Surya to use as a subject he’d do more good to society than he ever will in any other capacity.

I am going to get Magister Jubal William Goyle, Thirty-Third and a Third Degree Mason, Knight Templar and Knight of the Grail, for this, if it is the last thing that I do.

I miss my daughter and I worry about her, but there’s nothing to be done for it right now.

I wanted to like Kerensky. It would have made things so much easier. But Kerensky really does not want to be liked.

Charis has made peace with Dracaena, and is safely under her protection. That makes everything so much easier. The papers say nothing about Dougie, and I cannot imagine Dracaena taking him in. I was barely within her limits of acceptability and she only really put up with me because she loved Kit. It was never about blood, not with her—but rather a matter of culture and also the fact that I was Gabrielle’s token mundane-born friend, a slap in Julia’s face to pay her back for Forrester. And Dougie is no kin to her. But he’ll be fine where he is, because no-one would ever believe that he knew anything.

Really, it’s a stroke of luck I even managed to find a copy of the Herald here—let alone that it happened to say anything about my daughter.

Still, I’ll be back in Londinium sooner than I care to think about. And I would write to Charis, but she’s better off not knowing what I do.

Poppaea hasn’t changed a powdered hair, and more’s the pity.

Priscilla hasn’t answered my letter, but that is entirely like her; I think she fears nothing more than what she conceives of as pity, even though it isn’t. It seems so odd to be thinking of her so much. There was a time when I thought of her as a very close friend, but she’s changed some since then, by all accounts. Haven’t we all?

I very much miss the stage and the footlights; these private performances of a more serious nature grow wearisome indeed, though for Britannia I would do far worse. (Close your eyes, and think of Britannia! Or in Lavinia’s case, the calculus.) There was never the slightest question that Julian and I would marry, except in Priscilla’s mind (and in Ned’s, when she put it there), but I sometimes wonder if the road I took instead wasn’t just as devastating to the career that I had planned as a marriage would have been.

I wonder if Teresa Silveira will be taking Lavinia’s place. Her old place, that is. I think no-one can take the place that she occupies now from her.

I’m glad they got Carmela; I’m glad Ercole and Isabella are safe; I’m glad Ignacio and Fernando are dead.

I feel awfully sorry for Priscilla, and sometimes I think I shouldn’t, because she manipulated me to her own advantage and managed to hurt Julian more than he will ever admit in the process; but I know what it is to want something desperately, and know you shouldn’t have it, and how hard it is to let it go.

I can’t help being concerned about Dougie and Charis collecting that wood. I know they’re just playing with it, but surely Charis must realise that any residual magic left in the tree was intended to harm her? The tree was so very old, such a sturdy oak. I shall miss it.

Then again, Charis (like Dracaena) is quite contrary at times; I cannot help but wonder upon what instincts she sometimes acts. No-one from the arcane world seems to have noticed what happened here. I hope it stays that way.

Father was in a rare temper this morning. When he saw the oak tree in our garden splintered by lightning, it was impossible for me to make him believe that it was just an ordinary storm, especially not when Charis woke up screaming like that. If von Thorwald is that angry with Dracaena, I don’t wish to imagine how angry he must be with me.

It was all that I could do to convince him to let us stay. I haven’t the heart to tell him that Gregor was probably aiming for Florian and the diverted shot was drawn here by my daughter’s blood. If he knew that he would send us all packing back to the arcane world, and I daren’t go back, not yet.

I don’t want to face Lily Taverner. I know that when I see her again—and it will be when, not if—it will be business as usual, nothing more. In a way I find that more frightening than the prospect of Gregor’s vengeance. And Dracaena, I know, was angry with me for taking her daughter, but even she has not forgotten what they did to Kit.

I suppose I shall have to go to Goblins Market today; Dougie is so excited he cannot stand it, and while I would prefer to send Charis out alone with him, I cannot afford to antagonise Father by permitting Charis so much freedom so soon after her indiscretion. After all I can hardly explain to him that Charis cannot possibly have been sleeping with that boy Foggington. He would not wish to be so reminded of Kit or of my own past indiscretions.

I can content myself with the knowledge that if it is true that Dracaena has died, all the Leffoys will no doubt be closeted within the Bois, and hopefully I will not be recognised in mundane dress, with my half-caste daughter and my thoroughly mundane-appearing nephew. I should like to permit Charis to spend some time with her friends, because it isn’t her fault Father is the way he is. But if we have to leave in a hurry, I must be able to find her at once.