SOME PLACES never changed. The King’s Arms, a tavern in Oxford where Ford and Rand had whiled away many an evening during their university years, was one of them.
Occupying their usual spot at one of the long tables, the two friends supped on pigeon pie and ignored a loud argument about radical politics taking place just behind them. That was nothing new, either. John Locke’s challenging ideas had germinated here in Oxford, after all, while he was an undergraduate at Christ Church College.
His pie disposed of, Ford nursed a tankard of ale, trying to be patient while Rand detailed his father’s latest transgressions against him. The two had never seen eye to eye, which explained why a marquess’s son would choose an unglamorous academic career in Oxford over a life of leisure and luxury at home.
Not that Rand wasn’t happy here. Only nineteen years of age and already gaining notoriety in his field, he was on track to become the youngest Professor of Linguistics in the university’s history. And he was doing it all with no help or encouragement from his family.
After finishing both his tirade and his ale, Rand stared pensively into the empty tankard, fingering his mustache. “If you’ve come to ask about the translation, I’m afraid I have no good news for you.”
Ford’s heart sank. “What seems to be the problem?”
“It’s more difficult than I had anticipated. There are words—and symbols—that seem unrelated to any language I’ve ever encountered.”
“Symbols?” Ford frowned. “I saw a few formulas, which was one of the reasons I thought it might be Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But those were just numbers, mathematics—”
“Not that. There were a few pages stuck together—”
“I opened a couple and saw nothing special, and I was afraid I might tear the paper.”
“I steamed the rest open. Most were stuck from age, I imagine. But one…one, I believe, was on purpose.”
“On purpose.” Ford sipped, swallowed, tried to tamp down his rising hopes. “Are you thinking it might be the page that reveals—”
“No, nothing like that. I see no indication the secret you’re searching for will be found on a single page. It’s not going to be that simple.” Rand’s words reminded Ford of his family telling him something similar. “But this page is at the end, and it seems to be a legend for part of the code—perhaps for the author’s own use. There are words—most of which I cannot read—with other words beside them, like a list, you understand?”
Ford nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, that’s the page that has some odd symbols.” Rand tipped his tankard, letting the dregs of his ale run onto the table. “One of them, I think, looked like this.” He used a finger to scribble in the wet, a design like a triangle with a three-branched candelabra perched on top.
“Air,” Ford said.
“What?”
“That’s the alchemical symbol for air. Or one of them. There are hundreds of similar symbols, some common, some not. Many whose meanings have been lost, but I can identify a number of them.”
Excitement lit Rand’s gray eyes. “So even though I cannot read the word beside that symbol—which is gibberish, I suspect—when I find it in the text, I’ll know it means air.” He smeared the puddle, then used a finger to draw another mark. “How about this one?”
Ford frowned at the squiggle. “I don’t recognize that.”
“And this?”
A circle with three dots that suggested eyes and a nose. “That’s a human skull.”
Rand grimaced. “You mean a dead person?”
“Yes. A skull can be powdered and—”
“Never mind. I’d rather not know.” He smoothed the liquid and sketched another design. “What’s this?”
It looked like the letter I with an arrow curving up through it. “That’s an instruction, not an ingredient. It means to filter.”
After four more tries, one of which Ford could identify and three which he couldn’t, Rand gave up. “I cannot remember any more. We’ll fetch the book later, and you can write down the ones you know. But, Ford…”
His friend’s gaze looked serious. “Tell it straight, Rand.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, will you? It’s a single page of clues, and the symbols are few compared to all the other things I find undecipherable. Even with this help, the rest of it could take years.”
Something fisted in Ford’s middle. Or rather, the fist tightened—it had been there for days already. “I don’t have years. Not if I want Violet.”
“Ah. It’s like that, is it?” Rand signaled for another round. “Tell me.”
Though Ford normally wouldn’t, his tongue was loosened by ale—and something akin to desperation. “My family approves. Her parents approve. But Violet refuses to marry for anything other than—”
Rand perked up when a comely serving maid arrived with two more ales. Smoothing his mustache, he flipped her a coin. “My thanks,” he said in a deepened voice. After watching her retreat, he turned back to Ford and his speech returned to normal. “You can’t mean Lady Violet refused you? Most women would leap at the chance to wed a Chase, given your family’s connections to King Charles. And most fathers would insist on it.”
“The Ashcrofts are not ‘most’ people. Their daughters are allowed to make their own decisions. And they have the most preposterous family motto: Interroga Conformationem.”
“Question Convention?” Rand’s lips quirked with amusement. “Regardless, she should choose you. For security.” He took a gulp of ale. “Even without the Philosopher’s Stone, you’re hardly a pauper. Take her to Cainewood if she wishes to live in luxury.”
“I don’t want to live at Cainewood.” He was tired of being a guest in someone else’s home. He’d much rather be in charge of his own life. “Anyway, it’s not luxury that Violet wants. She’s not a frilly sort of girl, and she has her own money.”
“Ah. I remember. Given to her by the eccentric grandfather. To ‘leave her mark on the world.’”
“Yes. And being familiar with Lakefield’s, um, deficiencies, she’s convinced herself I must be after her inheritance—which I’m not! I love her.”
Rand’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you tell her that?”
“Repeatedly. In every way I know how.” Closing his eyes, Ford lowered his head and raked both hands through his hair.
When he looked up, Rand wore an expression of sympathy. Or disbelief. Or maybe both.
“Man, you’ve got it bad.” Rand drained the rest of his ale. “I’ve never told a girl that.”
Ford eyed his young friend with skepticism. “When would you have had occasion to?”
“Pah!” Rand lobbed a bit of pie crust in Ford’s direction. “I’ve been involved with many women, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh? In the few months since I left here?” Dusting pie crust off his cravat, Ford raised a brow. “Do any of these women have names?”
“Of course they do,” Rand said, his face going slightly pink. He jutted out his chin. “But a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Ford snorted. “That’s what I thought.”