Page 49 of A Rare Find

“New subject,” they declared, because the rejection stung like a poison dart, and they wanted to move on as quickly as they could. Unfortunately, their mind was blank. They turned their gaze back on Elf. She was blinking normally, but emotions churned in her eyes, all maddeningly indecipherable.

The new subject arrived unbidden.

“What did your father mean,” they asked, “this is an Anglo-Saxon nation? The rot about heritage and forebears?”

“Oh.” Elf looked nonplussed. “Nothing. He only said that to annoy Sir Graham.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry it annoyed you too.”

They shrugged.

“Because of your mother?”

They shrugged again. “Because of my mother and the nation’s numerous other non-Anglo-Saxons.”

Elf leaned forward, eager to explain, or maybe justify. “The Angles and Saxons were two tribes among many. But of course, all sorts of peoples have been living in the British Isles, for millennia.”

“Of course,” Georgie echoed. “These other peoples just don’t matter as much. To the nation. Because only people who do matter get to define what the nation is.”

Elf clasped her hands. “Your mother mattered.”

“I said it’s not just about my mother.”

“Papa wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t hwat?” Mr. Marsden loomed.

Elf mumbled something inaudible, scooting over to allow him room.

“You were talking about your excellent mother.” Sir Graham settled himself beside Georgie, wafting the odor of bergamot cologne and spirits. His eyes were glassy. “I had the pleasure of meeting her once. Not in Twynham—the grudge between your family and Marsden’s prevented any intercourse.”

Mr. Marsden grunted.

“I never saw such taste and elegance,” continued Sir Graham. “We met quite by happenstance. I was on an archaeological excursion. She was seeing the sights. We ended up dining together, by the sea.”

The carriage jerked and began to roll. Mr. Marsden closed his eyes.

“She was indeed elegant,” said Georgie, politely, “but I believe you’re mistaken. She was never in Italy.”

“Did I say Italy? No, this was during the war with Napoleon. It kept me from Italy.” From Sir Graham’s vibrato, one might suppose this was the war’s absolute worst consequence.

Across the compartment, Elf turned her gaze to the window.

Georgie sank back in their seat.

“I spent years going from hillfort to cairn to cist,” said Sir Graham. “And I came away with the requisite jet beads and staghorns and silver coins. I collected for myself all the miscellany that overflows the nests of those antiquaries for whom the medieval is an obsession.” He squinted at Mr. Marsden’s faux-slumbrous face, then back at Georgie. “Sir Grand Tour. That’s what Marsden calls me. Did you know that?”

Georgie gave a too-vigorous shake of their head.

“I have a nickname for him as well. Do you want to hear it?”

No answer was safe. Luckily, Sir Graham didn’t wait for one.

“Magpie,” he said. “Harold Magpie, esquire.”

Mr. Marsden, hoping, perhaps, for Barrow King, gave an angry thrash, nearly kicking Georgie in the process. They drew back their feet as far as they would go.

“That spring, I traveled to Scotland.” Sir Graham picked up his narrative with a sad smile. “That’s where I met your mother, while excavating a midden near Lud Castle. She was staying in the village, with Lady Beverly. Both women made such a strong and favorable impression on my mind. It was but a few days before the tragedy.”

Georgie’s insides had just started to thaw. They were ice again in an instant. Ice and more ice.