At three o’clock, she entered Lyton Hall and climbed to the second floor where the law library was. She’d been inside the room only once, on her initial exploration of the campus, and had not been impressed. Compared to the Royal Library, still housed in the palace, it was small, barely filling a room only three times the size of her little sitting room. The books were new, arranged in groups where the spines all matched. It gave the law library the look of a stage set for a boring opera where people sang about dry legal matters, though the Opera House wouldn’t smell of paper and dust as this room did.
Carlton was already there, seated at a table. A few other students sat here and there, reading or making notes. The spaces between them were great enough to prevent eavesdropping, if anyone had been inclined to eavesdrop on what would surely be boring conversations. A short stack of books lay near Carlton’s right hand, all of them fat and with the page edges unmarked by use.
“Lady North, have a seat,” Carlton said. He moved the chair next to him a few inches, but didn’t stand to hold it for her. That relieved Veronica’s mind. She wanted him to treat her like a student, not like the former Consort.
“I didn’t ask which law class you’re taking,” he went on, “but I guessed it was the second fundamentals class, because the first one would have listed these books.” He tapped the stack.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, these are the ones you’ll want to refer to when something doesn’t make sense. I’ve marked the places where they reprint important foundational documents—anything legal experts relied on in writing later works.” Carlton flicked a slip of paper that protruded from the pages of the top book. “Did you have specific questions?
Veronica handed him a folded sheet of paper. “These are the things I felt most confused by.”
Carlton scanned the page and grunted acknowledgment. He picked up a pencil and began scribbling. “Here are some specific references you can look at, listed by book—I’m afraid I can’t give you exact page numbers. I’m not that good, whatever Master Tyndale apparently thinks.”
A thought occurred to Veronica. “Why is Master Tyndale teaching such a low-level class? I’d have thought he was too important for that, given how many upper-level classes he teaches.”
Carlton grimaced. “They make all the Scholia masters teach a few beginner classes. It’s supposed to keep them in touch with the students. And it’s not like they do more than lecture, so I doubt it’s a hardship. Don’t feel sorry for Tyndale. He doesn’t deserve it.”
He sounded so bitter Veronica asked, “Why is that?”
“He’s hard on everyone, regardless of who they are or whether they deserve it. I—” Carlton shut his mouth. “It’s not important. Anyway, it’s not like it will matter to you, given that you’re not studying law. What are you studying, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Architectonics.”
“That seems out of place for someone like you.”
Irritated, Veronica said, “People keep telling me that. I’m not sure why it’s so surprising.”
Carlton smiled. It was the first time she’d seen him do it, and it made him look even handsomer. “I’m sorry, that was rude. It’s just such a practical field, and one doesn’t think of the Dowager Consort needing to do anything practical.”
“That’s what Ian said, too.” A pang of sorrow shot through her. She wondered how long it would take before mention of Ian didn’t hurt like a knife through the chest.
“You mean Ian Frost?” Carlton’s smile fell away. “I heard he died. Were you friends?”
“We were.”
“Then I’m sorry for your loss.” He sounded distant, like he’d already lost interest in the conversation.
“You weren’t friends, were you,” Veronica said. “Was it…it was over Samantha Wilde, wasn’t it?”
Carlton’s eyes narrowed. “As if I had anything to worry about from someone like him.”
“Someone…like him?” Veronica knew this was gossip, but his dismissive tone angered her, and she couldn’t help prodding him further.
Carlton laughed a short, barking laugh that earned him a glare from the nearest student. “He only cared about Devisery, not about Samantha. She should have dumped him months ago. But she thought it was funny to torment me by not making our relationship exclusive.”
“That doesn’t sound like Samantha.”
“Then you don’t know her well enough.” Carlton laughed again. “Maybe now he’s out of the picture, she’ll stop playing the field.”
“That is a cruel and horrible thing to say about both of them,” Veronica said hotly, making the irritated student glare at her instead. “Ian is dead. Are you saying you wanted him that way?”
The words had barely left her lips when she realized what they meant. But Carlton didn’t have anything to do with Ian’s Device, so he wasn’t the killer…except Tyndale had said he suspected everyone…suppose she was wrong about the killer’s motive?
Carlton shook his head. “I don’t want anyone dead. But I’m not going to pretend to be broken up about it when we weren’t friends.”
Veronica watched him closely. He wasn’t meeting her eyes, and he sounded distant again—two signs that someone wasn’t being entirely truthful. Impulsively, she said, “I suppose that’s only honest. Did you know he was on the verge of a breakthrough with a new Device? So his death is doubly tragic. Not that that matters to you, either.”
If she hadn’t been watching so closely, she wouldn’t have seen Carlton twitch before regaining his calm. “I hadn’t heard, but I doubt it was anything important,” he said. Was his voice a little too calm? “Frost was always on the verge of a breakthrough, and nothing ever came of those.”
“This was different. I think. But it’s true, I wouldn’t know.” Her heart’s pace had increased either from excitement or fear. She was sure Carlton was not being forthcoming with her. If only she were Tyndale, who she was certain would be able to turn the conversation in a useful direction! “I only heard,” she said, pretending not to look at him, “that his workshop in Saunders Hall wasn’t the only one he had. Don’t you think he must have been on to something, if he was so secretive?”
“Or he was paranoid,” Carlton said. He was back to being calm again. Veronica considered her options and decided not to push. The only other thing she could say was that Ian had been murdered, and that wasn’t something she was allowed to give away, even if it might startle Carlton into revealing he’d done it.
“I suppose we’ll never know,” she said. “Now, about this text by Carruthers…”
She kept Carlton busy for half an hour, but never found a way to turn the conversation back to his relationship with Ian or the missing Device. Eventually, Veronica gathered up the books, thanked Carlton, and walked back to Patience House. She felt low in spirits and discouraged. Carlton had been so dismissive of Ian and Samantha both, and Veronica wasn’t sure what disturbed her more, that Carlton and Ian hadn’t liked each other or that Carlton had described Samantha as a rapacious tease. That wasn’t at all the Samantha Veronica knew and liked. It had to be Carlton’s spitefulness and jealousy speaking.
She wasn’t sure, either, whether to tell Tyndale her suspicions of Carlton. On the one hand, she’d promised not to obstruct his investigation anymore, and withholding evidence—if this was evidence, which she doubted—would qualify as that. On the other hand, all she knew was that Carlton hadn’t liked Ian and had wanted him out of the way. She had no proof that he was the kind of person who might take direct action to make that happen. And she didn’t want to throw around accusations that might hurt an innocent person.
She set the books on her table and sank onto the sofa, closing her eyes and stretching out muscles taut from hunching over notes for half an hour. On a third hand, Tyndale knew Carlton much better than she did, and he would know what his personality was like. It was probably Veronica’s duty to let him know there was a different line of inquiry he could pursue. But not today. She wasn’t up to facing Tyndale again today. She didn’t care if that made her a coward. It could wait until tomorrow.
That night, the Lucky Star tavern was more crowded than ever. Its warm interior, welcome on a chilly Autumn night like this, smelled of beer and sweat and the beef stew Margo, the tavern owner and cook, always made on Fifthday. It smelled delicious even though it was made of the tag ends of meats from earlier in the week and vegetables gone slightly wizened. People jostled one another in a friendly way, not taking offense at a stray elbow or a heavy foot, as if the crowding made the evening better rather than worse. Veronica was grateful to be with a group of friends, all of whom were more assertive than she was. She might never have found a seat else.
Bec commandeered a round table in one corner, briskly shooing away the courting couple sitting at it, and sprawled loose-limbed in one of the seats. “Really, the nerve of some people,” she said, glaring at the retreating couple. “Thinking they can take up a whole table when it’s just the two of them.”
Veronica sat next to Percy and was immediately shoved closer to him by Bridget, who apologized. “There’s going to be a lot of us, and we’ll need to squeeze close,” Bridget said.
Veronica nodded. The chairs were filling up fast with students, all of them laughing and greeting each other loudly. She knew only a few of them, but they all addressed her informally, like she was one of them. After a few minutes, it even felt true.
“Randolph, you get the first round,” Percy shouted. “Everyone settled? Then let’s have a go at the school song!”
Veronica sat in mute amazement as the entire table burst out in a tremendous noise that might have been music. The students sang in different keys and tempi, some apparently racing others to get to the end first and cheering themselves when they “won.” She made out scraps of lyrics occasionally, but for the most part, it was a terrible discordant noise that nevertheless seemed to please the singers by how they slapped one another on the back and laughed. For a moment, Veronica felt like an outsider again, ignorant of their traditions. Then she told herself to stop maundering. All of them had been in her position once. In a few seasons, she would be the one singing.
Laughing, Bec put her arm around Veronica’s shoulders and hugged her briefly. “I know, it’s terrible,” she said, “but we always start a gathering that way. It’s tradition.” She accepted a mug from Randolph and gulped down half its contents in one go. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she added, “And tradition must never be broken! Up the Scholia!”
“Up the Scholia!” the rest shouted.
Percy shoved his chair back and stood, awkwardly due to how closely he was pressed on both sides. “Let’s remember Ian Frost,” he said. “He was a good friend and a clever Deviser—”
“Whose Devices never worked!” someone else cut in.
More laughter. Percy saluted the speaker with his mug. “Or worked too well. Don’t forget the automatic nose hair trimmer!”
“He was destined for greatness, though,” a woman on the edge of the crowd who hadn’t found a chair said. “Never gave up no matter how many failures he had. Blandings swore we’d all look back someday and be honored we’d called Ian friend.”
Percy nodded. “Let’s drink to Ian,” he said, “and hope he hears us, wherever he is in heaven.”
The group went silent as everyone, Veronica included, drank deeply. Veronica liked the ale she’d been handed. Ale wasn’t something served at the palace, and she’d been surprised to discover she had a taste for it. She set her mug down and listened to the background noise of the rest of the pub. So many people talking, laughing, celebrating—and here she was to honor the memory of a friend. It was hard to stay melancholy in a place like this.
“Stories!” Bec shouted, slamming her mug on the table. “I’ll go first. There was a time—maybe two years ago? Doesn’t matter—when Ian had this idea that he was going to invent a better light Device. He worked at it for hours, messing about to get it to burn brighter or longer or something. Lots of explosive failures, I remember. And he succeeded! Of course, it turned out to need about ten times the amount of motive force for about twice as much brightness, so it wasn’t practical. We teased him about it, but all he ever said was, ‘If we assume we already know everything, we’ll never learn anything.’ He lived by those words.”
A murmuring went up around the table, people nodding in agreement. “And another thing—” a portly young man began. Veronica took another drink and listened to the humorous story about Ian and some practical joke. The storyteller kept losing the thread of the story and made numerous digressions, and Veronica found his tale impossible to follow, but she made herself look attentive anyway.
She wished she’d known Ian long enough to have stories to tell. They’d spent a lot of time together over the last four weeks, but it was all boring stuff, and the interesting stuff, like how he’d been murdered, wasn’t hers to tell.
“I’ll get the next round,” she said when the tale wound to a halt and everyone had given the teller an awkward laugh.
“No, you’re stuck back here,” Bridget said. “You can pay, but we’ll send Marie to fetch. Marie doesn’t mind, right?”
Marie indicated that she didn’t mind at all. Veronica finished her ale and had the mug snatched away from her and replaced all in one motion. She surveyed the crowd as the current storyteller wound up her anecdote, which was funnier than the last, and said to Bec, “I don’t see Samantha. I thought she’d come.”
Bec’s laughter died away. “I didn’t,” she said bluntly. “She and Ian were over.”
“Yes, but she told me…that is…” Veronica stumbled over her words and took a drink to cover her confusion. “I thought, from what she said, that she regretted how she’d treated him.”
“I don’t think Samantha Wilde ever considers anyone but herself,” Bridget said. “I know she’s your friend, Veronica, but she’s sort of carelessly cruel to anyone who doesn’t matter to her.”
“And she played Ian and Carlton Dunn off each other,” said a woman Veronica didn’t recognize. “I always thought it was Ian’s one weakness, that he couldn’t see what she was really like.”
Veronica didn’t know how to respond. She wanted to defend her friend, but she was acutely aware that she hadn’t known Samantha as long as these people had, and what if she was mistaken? “I think,” she began.
“It’s Carlton who ought to feel like a jerk tonight,” Percy said. “I don’t know that he and Ian ever resolved their issues. They were always arguing, Carlton getting up in Ian’s face about how he wasn’t worthy of Samantha, Ian standing his ground and accusing Carlton of unwarranted jealousy. If I were Carlton, I’d be eaten up by remorse.”
“Carlton never feels remorse no matter how he uses someone,” Bec said. “He used to wheedle me into copying his essays for him because he couldn’t be bothered to improve his handwriting. I’m pretty sure he has no soul.”
“You would know!” shouted a man who’d just joined the group and who hovered on the outskirts, pressing forward so the people in front of him leaned into the table.
Bec waved a hand. “I’m not saying my judgment is perfect. And Carlton is handsome. But I’ve learned my lesson about being swayed by a pretty face.”
“Hey!” Percy exclaimed.
Bec kissed him soundly on the lips. “Pretty is one thing. Devilishly handsome is another.”
“Nice save, Bec,” Bridget said.
Veronica realized there was another absence. Howard wasn’t there. Worry crept over her. Howard shouldn’t isolate himself, and if anyone needed to celebrate Ian’s life, he did. “Is Howard—” she began, but someone else started telling a loud story, and her words were swallowed up.
She remembered her suspicions about Howard being the murderer. Tyndale hadn’t said what had come of his interrogation, naturally, and Veronica felt irritated by that. Her not being part of the investigation was one thing, but Howard was her friend, and if Tyndale suspected him, she deserved to know, if only so she could stay away from him.
Two more rounds passed. The stories grew wilder and less plausible. Veronica drank enough to feel dizzy, an effect made worse by the warmth of the pub. Her worries about Howard and Samantha faded as she was wrapped in a beer-scented cocoon, surrounded by friends, safe and warm.
“All right, all right, but try this,” someone was saying. “What if it wasn’t an accident?”
Veronica woke as abruptly as if she’d taken a bucket of ice water to the face. “What accident?” she said, her words running together. Her tongue felt thick and her muscles were as loose as melted honey.
“No, see, not an accident,” the man said. Veronica knew him as a student from her art history class, but she couldn’t remember his name. “Don’t you think it’s funny that Ian was able to fall hard enough to kill himself? I’ve seen his workshop. There’s not enough room to move, let alone get up the speed—”
“Tha’s enough,” Bec said. Her words were even more slurred than Veronica’s. She waved an empty mug in the speaker’s direction. “Not supposed to talk about death. S’posed to talk about life, Marcus. And my mug is empty. Tha’s a crime, an empty mug.”
“You mean you think someone killed Ian?” the woman draped over the speaker’s shoulders said. “Why would anyone kill Ian? Everybody liked him.”
“Not Carlton. Not Ginger Hartford. Not—”
The woman shushed him with a finger to his lips. “All right, not everyone. But killing—”
Veronica felt she should stop this line of discussion, but her head was fuzzy and she was afraid if she spoke, she would only make things worse. Someone else was talking, and to her surprise, she realized it was herself. “Just an accident,” she was saying in her slurred voice. “Nothing to do with his Device.”
“Hah!” Percy said. He looked and sounded moderately less drunk than Bec. “His Device! Wonder if it was worth killing for?”
“No—” Veronica began, feeling desperate.
“Imagine that,” Bridget said dreamily. “He invents something that turns straw into gold, and somebody steals it and coshes him over the head. Or I guess it could be the other way around.”
“Are you all still going to Ravensholm?” Veronica said loudly. If rumors like that spread, Tyndale might blame her. And they would interfere with his investigation. Or the other way around. Her mind seized on the one thing she could remember that might distract them. “The project is still there even if Ian isn’t.”
Percy belched and waved a hand in front of his face. “Project’s there. We’ve been pulled off it. Grief, you know. Plus Ian was important to building some of the Devices that go into the bridge.”
“But if his Devices were never successful—”
Bec leaned over and breathed a beery breath into Veronica’s face. “He was fine at building other people’s Devices, so long as he didn’t invent one himself or try to alter the existing design. Which he always did. Tha’s what I loved about Ian, he never gave up.”
“Even if someone stole his design. I bet that’s what happened.” It was the original theorist, Marcus. Veronica wished she could make him disappear. Or maybe it didn’t matter. They were all drunk; probably they’d forget this conversation in the morning. Though she wasn’t likely to, so what were the odds of everyone here conveniently forgetting such a compelling theory?
Bec snapped her fingers, or tried to; it took her about five attempts to make a satisfactory snapping noise. “I bet you’re right,” she said. “Ian wasn’t climsy. Clumsy. Somebody killed him and stole his Device.”
“That’s stupid,” Veronica said, and regretted it instantly when Bec turned on her.
“You found his body,” she said angrily. “Why didn’t you tell us the truth?”
“I did. It was an accident.”
“I’m going to find out who killed Ian,” Bec declared, “and then I’m going to punch him straight in the eye.” She swayed once, then sagged, her head coming to lie on the table, her fist letting go of her mug. Ale spilled everywhere.
Veronica decided it was time to go. The stories had stopped flowing, and most of her friends were either in Bec’s state or singing lewd songs with great vigor. She stood and shoved past Bridget, who said, “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I feel sick,” Veronica said, which was true; her stomach felt like she’d filled it with acid instead of good beer. “I need fresh air.”
“I should walk with you,” Percy said, though he made no move to get up. With as wedged between people as he was, getting up might have been impossible.
“It’s not like there’s any danger. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” Veronica made her way around the table and forced a path through the taproom, which wasn’t as full as before, but was still very crowded. Someone pinched her bottom as she passed, and instead of being outraged, she was amused. Fifty years old should be past the point where anyone was interested in a pinch.
Outside, the chilly air struck her over-warm body like a slap. She sobered instantly, though she could tell she still wasn’t fully in command of her faculties. She tilted her head back to look up at the sky, wishing she knew how to read the stars to tell what time it was. She’d left her watch in her rooms and had no idea whether it was before or after midnight. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow was Endweek, a holiday from classes and tutorials, and she decided she was going to sleep late and let her worries over Ian’s murder slip away.
Knightsbury’s main street, home not only to the Lucky Star but to a host of other pubs, was still busy even at this hour with men and women strolling along, some in groups, others in pairs. As far as she could tell, she was the only lone pedestrian among them. That made her tipsy self feel sad, and she indulged in a moment’s grief over Landon, dead nearly five years now. She’d stopped missing him quite so much after Elspeth had come to Aurilien to take the Crown, what with her fresher grief over her dead son and then Elspeth’s cheery presence. But occasionally his loss would hit her like the ache of a broken tooth, forgotten until an incautious jab starts it hurting again. She’d needed him, and he’d left her. She didn’t know if that made her angry or just sadder than before.
She left Knightsbury behind and trod the verge of the highway, vaguely fearing some night carriage or post rider overrunning her in the dark, unlighted space between the city and the Scholia. The stars were brighter now in the absence of a moon or the lamps of Knightsbury, and once again she tilted her head back to look at them and immediately had to look down when she tripped over her own feet.
She thought about the possibility that the rumor of Ian’s murder would spread. If Tyndale blamed her for it, she would…well, she’d think of something that didn’t require yelling or being sarcastic, neither of which she was good at. But she wasn’t going to let him criticize her when she’d done her best to quell it. Though he hadn’t yelled at her at all that day, even though yelling might be considered justified. He’d been polite and honest and even complimentary. She still couldn’t reconcile that man with the harsh-tempered, mean-spirited Tyndale everyone kept telling her he was.
All the Scholia buildings were lit, if only by lanterns over the doors, when she arrived, shivering and wishing her cloak were heavier. It was as if someone knew most of the students were in Knightsbury and would need help finding their way home. She found the door of Patience House locked, fumbled with her keys until she opened it, then fumbled more locking it again from the other side. Then she staggered up all the stairs to her room and fell onto the sofa. She shouldn’t stop there. She should go to bed. She’d end up tired and aching again. But her muscles refused to move.
Someone knocked on her door. “Veronica?” It was Samantha.
Veronica groaned and pushed herself upright. She fumbled with the Device light, then turned it down when its full brightness hurt her eyes. Samantha stood at the door in her brightly colored dressing gown. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her mouth trembled.
“Is it true?” she said.
“Is what true?” Veronica said, too drunk still for courtesy.
Samantha swallowed. “That Ian was murdered?”