Notes from the Bench

Lavinia Scalara just asked us for everything I wrote up for Goyle about the thought-form I think is in Arabella Leffoy’s artifice, the one they moved from Avalon College to the Royal Academy. I found out about this two hours later, when Charlotte told me and told me not to worry, she’d already sent it over.

I have one main problem with that. Those notes are more a list of questions than a list of answers. I went to tell Lavinia that she finally has an excuse to justify extracting Séverine from Armorica forcibly if necessary (which I’ve been telling them they ought to do for a while now, damn it) and she told me Vince Rosenthal was on it already and by the way, did I have any idea where she was?

Right, send Vince to find Sevvie when she doesn’t want to be found. Never fails. So she showed me her numbers, can’t argue with those… Apparently Michel and the beribboned whirlwind are trying to fix the damned thing.

I will, when this is all over, impress upon Lavinia that you don’t call my office and ask for my notes, you call me at moments like this. I don’t care how drunk I am. I’m smarter drunk than most of those idiots down there are sober. And Michel is not an artificer. The beribboned whirlwind looked like she was going to be. The last time I saw her.

She might even be fuckable now. Not that it would be worth my life if Sevvie found out.

God, I hope Callista and Ambrose are doing all right…

This...is not happening. It is not eight o'clock in the morning. I am not awake at this ungodly hour. I am not awake at this ungodly hour, they are not about to read my brother's will, this is a joke, it has to be. I cannot possibly have wards. I am too sober for this to make sense.

The boy is...Fairlight's age. Fairlight who was always at the Alexander, till the middle of the summer when he disappeared. I should find out what happened to him; he had such interesting thoughts on transmutation. I just don't know who I know who would even know who he is. I'm sure that wasn't his real name.

I cannot believe that I have a nephew the same age as Fairlight and that I'm supposed to keep him on the straight and narrow. If I could even find it. And a little girl. I could send them both to Francis and my sister. I probably should. But I don't have the heart to do that to a pair of poor kids who have just lost their father and older brother and...one of their mothers. Not when I know how they treat Mercuria. Fuck this.

Séverine would know what to do; she had that little beribboned whirlwind of lace and organdy and equations they were always dumping on her. Couldn't handle iron to save her life, but she could tone crystals better than some of the lab assistants I've had. The jealous boyfriend's at Bletchley; I can't believe he left her there. She knew too much. I hope she and the little blond blur are all still alive. The Halász equations... No. I am much too sober to be thinking about the Halász equations. Damn. Sharolt, Séverine, the little blond thing...we've got to win this war before they kill all of the smart ones off.

Oh holy fuck. This is going to be in the Herald. I don't know if I even have time to write to Callista and Ambrose before they find out about this...wait, no, that's what Charlotte had me sign first thing this morning. That's done. I wish I thought she knew what to do about kids. But I know better. Still. She'll find someone who does.