The Blog of Roon

One of the fun things about Dragonhunt is rapid-fire genre pastiche. Renate and Godfrey fall quite naturally into Wooster-and-Jeeves. Aryk’s player does sidesplitting Jackie Chan; last night he pulled some buddy-movie schtick that left the GM rolling—all I had to do was sit there and play straight man, something I’m quite good at.

There’s coming-of-age material, a tidbit of noir, some pseudo-British snobbery (quite aside from the Wodehouse), plenty of anime, and of course video-game references galore.

Now, it’s unfortunate that I have to think before I do pastiche—I’m not fluent with it. I do, however, have a fantastic cop-show scene thought out for next session. Renate and Rien got themselves made fools of by the chap Godfrey fingered from the beginning. He’s hoodwinked the police (not just Renate and Rien) via mind-jiggering tricks. Details of his other crimes are unclear, but it appears that he’s at the very least standing by (and at worst, actively helping) while his family gets slaughtered like sheep.

If I may be permitted some litotes—none of this commends itself to Renate. (“I’ve got issues with people who run out on their families. Major issues. And I’ve been repressing them a long, long time…”) So if I get my way, she’s going back in there for an absolutely classic interrogation/intimidation scene. Because, you know, the only thing more intimidating than a big burly guy threatening to take you apart at the seams—is a little bitty blonde girl threatening it. With total conviction, of course; Ren doesn’t threaten anything she can’t do.

Ren reminds me of Li sometimes, actually.

Shirley puts out a hand to hold Margaret back when she would follow. They are quite alone, the sailors having smelt the same inviting odours as Shirley. “What a carnival freak I am making of myself, to be sure,” he says to her, warm with frank esteem and wry with regret. “If I were any sort of man, Margaret, I should be hopelessly enamoured of you, and if I were any sort of woman, I should call you my beloved sister forever. Yet here I am, neither the one nor the other; and how I am to proceed, caring for you as I do, I have not the faintest idea.”

Margaret’s answering laugh is rather shaky. “Well, then, we are in rather a like predicament, although surely you are no freak—no, I won’t hear you call yourself names! If you were as you present yourself to the world, I should be telling you frankly that your suit would not be rebuffed, and if you were outwardly a woman, I should have offered a sister’s embrace long since. I suspect you have shown more of your heart in these past days than you have since your brother died.”

He nods, looking downward almost guiltily.

“I am honoured and touched and humbled by your faith in me, and to speak quite frankly, I care very much for you as well.” She looks down, lips pressed together a little, for once at a loss as to how to proceed. She has lived a life entirely of the mind for so long, she would have no idea what to do if the situation were not complicated by the facts. As it is…!

Finally she looks up. “Man or woman, you have a sister if you want one,” she says simply. “It is yourself for which I care; the outward seeming does not matter to me.”

“Truthfully, I don’t quite know if I can have what I want,” he says, face clouded. “No other eyes in the world see as yours do.”

He turns away from her with an effort, and steps to the rail to look over, letting his words fall into the choppy sea below. “I want to stay with you, always, the way we are now—I love you, Margaret! there, I have said it—but I cannot for the life of me see how.

“The wildest schemes, the most bizarre fancies, pass through my head—and at the back of it all, the knowledge that I must not plan, dare not even hope, because a movement of Addison’s finger on a trigger may cost me my secret as well as my life. The latter I can lose, I hope, without too much repining—but I cannot see you made a laughingstock because of me; you must be able to deny you knew, much less that you were close to me.

“I don’t know. I find myself in a perfectly horrid state of perplexity.” He turns back toward her, though he comes no closer. The setting sun lights the candid, forthright brown eyes under the worried forehead. “I only know how very devoted I am to you, Margaret dear, and how I should despair if we should have to separate.”

She listens to him without a single interruption, mostly because she can’t find her voice for a minute or so. When he is done, she takes a step closer to him, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. Her voice is almost inaudible. “I scarcely know what to say,” she tells him “but that I love you, as well. Yourself, whether that is Shirley, or Elizabeth, or Rumplestiltskin. It is a conundrum, isn’t it?” The hard part over, her voice strengthens. “You need not fear that we will separate by any decision of mine, though! I thought I had made that perfectly clear.”

A laugh catches on a sob in Shirley’s throat. “Rather.”

“As for the rest… I am very glad to know that I am not alone in trying to find a reason to remain together once the immediate need is past; I should have thought that was clear by the enthusiasm with which I took up your proposal of a joint medical and legal clinic.” Her grin is obviously self-directed. “Otherwise I should feel very much the fool.”

“No need for that. My department.”

“You do not have a monopoly, then. I am not concerned with gossip, should you be unmasked. I have found that the best answer to it is a profound silence. If the victim does not respond, it becomes boring. It would be a nine-days’ wonder, and then something else would catch the public eye and I should fade out of it entirely.

“But my dear, I do not intend to permit you to be unmasked, neither in life nor—much as I do not want to think about it!—in death. That is not for my sake; it is for yours. You should be known for your accomplishments, and not merely as the woman who managed to fool the Bar in York for a decade. I can and will care for you myself if you are injured, and as to the worst… any physician can certify a death.”

Shirley draws her to the rail and puts his arm round her waist. His voice is shaking. “That is a greater relief than I can explain to you, Margaret. Thank you. It is not just you and I—there is Lady Hester, too. And they would exhume my poor brother, I don’t doubt, and—” The words trail off.

Her voice is none too steady either. “But I should miss you every day for the rest of my life. That is the only separation I truly fear. I am quite certain any other would be temporary, since it would be against both your will and mine. Only please,” with a flash of sharpness “now that you know precisely my feelings on the matter, do not try to send me away for my own good again!”

He tightens his arm. “I know, I know. I will be good, as long as you try to understand what it costs me.” The last phrase comes out in a voiceless gasp; Shirley is very near to tears, for only the second time in ten long years.

Margaret cannot put her arm around him in turn—his clasp is too tight—but she leans her head into his shoulder for a moment. She takes a deep breath, but her voice, though quiet, is quite steady. “But I do understand. The price is fear, of a kind you have never known as an adult… fear for another far greater than any fear for yourself, all the worse because it seems so totally beyond your control. You can walk into the lion’s den with your eyes open, but to watch someone you love do so is quite another thing. I think the only thing worse would be to go back to being entirely alone… but I may be speaking only for myself there.”

“You know better.” He loosens his hold then, speaks clinically and dryly. “There is a matter of responsibility also; but we have fought on this point before, and I should not like to do so again. Of course you understand, since you have Esperanza to consider.”

Her tone is acerbic in its turn. “I believe I understood the concept before Esperanza joined me. You should know, I have not told Esperanza you are anything but what you seem. I trust her absolutely, but that is too great a confidence to expect a girl of 16 to carry. My secrets I will share with her, but not yours.”

She feels his shrug through his arm. “I expected nothing less of you. If we get past Addison, I’ll tell her myself.”

“No, don’t. There is no need, and at this point in her life it will only confuse her. How can I be so easy with you when your outward appearance is so at odds with the facts? She has not yet learned to treasure the spirit regardless of its housing. Someday we may tell her, but not till she has a little more experience of people.”

“You know best.” A silent laugh stirs him. “Look what you have done to me, Margaret. Because I trust you, I want to trust the entire world. I do know better.”

She faces him squarely, not half a pace away. “Addison may want you, but he shall not have you. As you so rightly pointed out, Scotland Yard is watching your back. And you have an advantage Addison knows nothing about. One set of eyes cannot watch everywhere, but we have three, and we are all alert and aware, and now I have all the more reason to be careful. I will not lose you, when I have only just found you!”

“Oh, my dear. My very dear.” He dares not embrace her—a sailor or Esperanza could appear at any moment—but she can see his self-control under strain.

She does not quite dare either—although she is less concerned about being seen than whether Shirley would be appalled at himself in retrospect—but she can, and does, take both his hands very firmly in hers. Shirley hadn’t known a handclasp could convey quite so much pure affection. And then she laughs a little, more as a release of tension than in true humour. “I doubt your fancies are any stranger than mine! I have, among other things, been trying to figure out how to reconstruct adjoining townhouses so that they connected in a way that was unexceptional, but would give you access to my parlour.”

He cannot manage a laugh, but he does smile. “We will find a better way than that. Somehow.”

“Well, we shall certainly have time to think about it. But I think we had better go down to dinner, before the sailors start placing wagers on our behaviour.”

Shirley rubs his face vigourously with both hands. ““Right. I ought to go get into some decent clothes. Go and make excuses for the fop, will you please?”

“And Shirley? Thank you.”

“Me? For pity’s sake, Margaret! What have I done but—” But she is gone, so Shirley must needs choke back his amazement and go below himself.

Over on the Grand Ellipse blog, I’ve gotten Shirley as far as declaring his affection for Margaret.

Call it my small gesture of hope and well-wishing for what a great many lovers, far more real but no less in love than Shirley and Margaret, are doing in San Francisco and elsewhere.

Margaret is concerned by Shirley’s preoccupation. She had become accustomed, on the way to Bahrain, to the easy relaxed conversations they had shared on shipboard. Moreover, she has noticed that when he becomes silent, it is not a good sign so far as his emotional state is concerned. But she has taken his confidence by storm several times, and does not wish to do so again. So she finds a shady spot on deck near to the cabins, and settles with Esperanza. The clothing in the Bazaar of a size to suit Esperanza had been much too childish, so they are taking in and hemming the garments they found. It is still far faster than making them from raw yard goods. It is also a good thing she has the sewing to occupy her hands, though, as patience is not her strongest virtue. If Shirley is paying attention, he will find that she is humming—something from the latest offering by Gilbert & Sullivan.

Esperanza sees him flinch when he comes on deck finally and hears the tense hum. Nonetheless, he crosses the deck toward them. “May I join the sewing circle, or will I only be an obstacle?” he asks, his tone humble and apologetic. “I know how to hold a piece while someone else sews, and I can rip seams without leaving holes—Elizabeth taught me.” He smiles cautiously at Esperanza. “Pray do not tell anyone, but I can even trim hats.”

Margaret looks up at his approach. “I cannot imagine considering you an obstacle” she tells him. She isn’t quite smiling, but her face does not have the set, brittle look Shirley has seen, if only once. “In fact, you remind me of a young friend of my brother’s who visited us frequently. Father said of him, when he apologized for causing some extra work, that he couldn’t be a bother if he tried.” She pauses for a second, looking a bit sad. “He was terribly ill when he came to visit, but quite determined not to be an invalid for all that.” She sets a few stitches before she goes on, obviously thinking of the past. Michael had died a few months after that visit, and if she had only known then what she knows now…

“I am so very sorry,” Shirley murmurs. Perhaps this is why she has not married? For all the talk of puppies and fools, she must have had some sensible suitors—at least one. Surely one.

She sighs, then shakes herself a little and looks up. “You have the same tendency to self-deprecation, but not, thank G-d, the weak constitution. Now, if you could hold this out so I can be sure of basting the tucks evenly, I should be grateful. These gauzes are certainly more suitable to the climate than anything Esperanza and I brought with us, but they tend to stretch out unevenly. The weave is unstable.”

He folds his lean body a bit at a time into a sunny spot on the deck across from Margaret and her ward, resting his elbow casually on one drawn-up knee. “I apologize for defaulting on my word, Margaret,” he says. “Do you know, I once snubbed Lady Hester after a particularly odd court session—I was so absorbed I did not even recognize her when she passed. I’ve no idea why she forgave me.”

Margaret murmurs “I have”, but says no more than that.

He sighs. “Look, this is a worse mess even than I thought. Baxter did not say much; it is what he did not say that concerns me. He did not say they know where Addison is, or where he is going. He did not say they know where Addison gets his orders, or what those orders are. He did not say they learned anything from the Malta protesters. He did not say they understand the Damascus affair. What he did say is that they find the entire situation a confused frustration. That, from Scotland Yard!”

His voice has risen a bit too far; he takes a deep breath, and goes on in a more moderate tone. “What seems clear is that this has nothing to do with any silly wager. No wager could earn enough to offset the expense and trouble Addison has gone to. This must be serious, or Addison would have dropped it altogether and escaped to the States. What is more, there must be pressure of time to it, or Addison would simply go to ground and wait for his target in Glasgow.”

He shakes his head. “I tell you, Margaret, when I suggested some diplomatic angle to all this, I did so more than half in jest. Now, though, I am hard-pressed to find another explanation. One of the Ellipsoids, I must guess, is more than he—or she—seems. I rather suspect that Addison himself knows no more than you or I which one it is. He might well have shot poor Davies thinking him an Ellipsoid.”

He looks straight into the late-afternoon sun for a moment, then shuts his eyes tightly against it. “The one balm Gilead can offer is that we are only moderately likely to encounter him, I should think, though I can offer no assurance as to whatever henchmen he may have dispatched. The Yard is only hoping he’ll show himself in Madras or Rangoon. They’ve no more actual knowledge than we.

“And I—I cannot believe Addison takes much stock in revenge on his own account. Others’ revenges are his work, but revenge on his own account is bad for business. Nor can he think I am the dissembler, the way I have baited him in public. If he does come after me, it will be because he thinks me a danger to him—and why on earth would he think that?

“But,” he winds down at last, his voice sinking, “if I am wrong—well, I laughed with Edgar Middlebury while he witnessed my will, before I left York. I should not have. I hope the dissembler, whoever he may be, has the grace to feel gratitude. I have all but thrown myself onto a loaded gun in his stead.” Shirley gathers up a new section of the light cloth, coincidentally bending his head to catch a glimpse of her face.

Margaret sews quietly for a moment; it gives her someplace to rest her eyes so that she need not look at Shirley. He is worried enough; she does not want to add to it by letting him see how worried she is, although her concern is primarily for Shirley himself. “We do rather expect Scotland Yard to be omniscient where the criminal mind is concerned, don’t we?” she says at last. “And yet if they were, no crime would ever be committed, nor go unsolved. For all their training and resources, they are only men, after all, and they can only guess at the future. Presumably their guesses are better educated than ours, but they remain guesses for all that.

Shirley frowns. They ought to have been able to educate their guesses better than this. He does not think the Yard held anything much from him—Baxter’s annoyance at his own ignorance was genuine. It is no ordinary scheme, however, that keeps its plans and aims so rigidly segregated from its front-line men, like those in Malta. Margaret is right; it is pointless to speculate on the tiny drips of sure knowledge they have. That they have so little, so very little—that unnerves Shirley.

“I am inclined to think that you are right, that there may be more to this than a simple wager, but there need not be a dissembler among the Ellipsoids. Disrupting the event in ways that will embarrass her Majesty’s government by its inability to protect its citizens, and perhaps make Englishmen more cautious about travelling abroad, may also serve someone’s purpose. I don’t know; I keep coming back to Princess Ella’s presence at the ceremonies in London. She is a princess of Hesse, which is one of the German states, and betrothed to a Grand Duke of Russia. I confess I do not see how it fits together; I can only conclude we are trying to reason from too little information…and that Scotland Yard is in the same straits in that regard.”

“All my career, I have fought using knowledge as my weapon,” the barrister sighs bleakly. “When I have not had sufficient knowledge, I have at least known where to go to get it. Now I am a pawn on a blindfolded chessboard. Less than a pawn; I know not the rules of the game, even. My clients, poor ignorant souls—I understand now how they must feel in court.”

Margaret quirks an eyebrow, and nods. “If knowledge is power, then ignorance is surely helplessness.” Shirley shuts his eyes. His face tightens and closes into such a wretched expression of vulnerability that even Esperanza remarks it.

Margaret gestures to Shirley to shift the section of skirt he is holding. “As to why Addison should think you a danger to him, I can of course only conjecture. But for all your tendency to deprecate your abilities, your acumen is formidable, and he has no way of knowing that you are not prepared to counter him physically as well. In addition, you have spoken out very publicly against him. If there is a diplomatic aspect, then it may be that Addison’s superiors are as much in the dark about details as Scotland Yard, and we are all bumbling about barking our shins on the furniture. Since the opposition does not know upon which Ellipsoid to focus their attention, they will work against any they can find.”

She pauses to tie off her thread, snip it, and rethread the needle, holding the last scrap of thread up for the wind to carry away and watching as it floats out over the water. Then she returns to the tucks she is putting in the skirt of Esperanza’s frock. “We will have no contact with Addison or his minions at all, if luck and forethought can arrange it. We are not going by the route he anticipates, nor do we look anything like we did at the beginning of this adventure, and we are taking pains to increase that difference. What are three more Europeans in a crowd? We are hiding needles in a haystack, as it were. I had even determined that I would purchase a sturdy wicker hamper in Panaji, and transfer the contents of my medical bag to it. I can then fold the medical bag into one of my trunks…or if I can’t, I shall simply abandon it and replace it in London. A female carrying a medical bag is noteworthy; one carrying a basket is not.”

She sticks her needle in the fabric, and reaches across to touch his hand. “We know the gun exists; we shall do our best to prevent it from firing in our vicinity. We have done all we can, and so, I believe, has Scotland Yard. And if their wits have not brought them the information as to what is planned, then we shall also apply ours to the problem. It may even be more successful. I have noticed before this that specialized training sometimes leads people to ignore things outside of it, rather like blinders on a carriage horse. Who knows? Our lack of training may actually be an advantage. In the meantime, let us enjoy this voyage.”

He turns up his hand to catch hers in his fingers. Lightly, gently, he brings it toward him, giving her every opportunity to pull back, watching her for any sign of alarm or distaste. There is none; only a brief, startled blink and a world of questions in her eyes. He touches his lips respectfully to her fingers, no more than a moment’s light caress, and lets go her hand. “Bless you and your courage,” he says. “Now tell me what you really think.”

She takes a moment to answer, and then it is simply to say “I have; I think we are doing everything we can do. If you are asking me if I am afraid, then the answer is yes, of course I am. Only a fool would not be, and I try not to be a fool.” But her voice is abstracted; clearly, her thoughts are elsewhere. She takes up her sewing again. She is, to say the least, confused. Eventually she sets down the skirt, and shakes out her hands for a moment. “I am curious, though. What is it that you were writing in your cabin, if the question is not too personal?”

“Hm? Oh, a letter to Lady Hester. Nothing that need go in a telegram.” He hitches himself forward and reaches for her hand again, this time only to hold it. His other hand he holds out to Esperanza. “See here, ladies,” he says, the mild cadence at curious odds with the abrupt words. “I can assure you that I am at least as frightened as either of you—I daresay more, as you, Miss Garcia, are of an age blessedly immune to fear. I, however, have made certain commitments that neither of you has; they will do as well as anything else to stiffen a weakening backbone.” He smiles wryly at Margaret, thinking about what has been said regarding corsets and women’s health.

“On balance, your presence grants me greater safety, while mine—on balance, as I said—puts you at greater risk. For that, and because I care very much for both of you and do not wish you to suffer fear or, Heaven forbid, harm, I tell you now that either or both of you may leave me any time you wish. I will think no less of you; it is a great gift to have travelled with you as far as I have.

“No, now do not make me any promises; I will not hear them. If you stay, you stay. If not, may your journeys be safe.”

The sun, making ready to set, descends behind a band of thin cloud, sending a fantastic glow onto the scrubbed, salt-bleached deck. A smell of cooking food makes itself known from belowdecks. Shirley looses his companions’ hands and stands up, joints creaking a trifle. “Supper soon, I think,” he says. Esperanza, quick as always, gathers up the sewing, careful of needles and pins, and darts off toward the cabins with it.

When Shirley comes out of his room in the damp but clean garments the servant brought, he is again the familiar, commonplace Englishman abroad. “Baxter wants us to travel overland in India, insofar possible,” he says in businesslike wise to Margaret after they have left Government House behind them. “Train to Calcutta, I think, as we talked about earlier. I think we had better pick up some more Indian kit in the bazaar. Two more outfits each will do, barely, as while we’re travelling few people will see us more than two days in succession.”

“I think three would make more sense; it does not take much more space, and I should like to have at least one presentable frock remaining upon our arrival. I do not expect we shall have much opportunity to clean our clothing en route.”

“Yes, all right.”

“We also need to find a food stall. I need to refill our hamper, and I promised Esperanza” with a grin at the girl “that we would find something to eat, after that dreadful excuse for a luncheon.”

“As you wish.” For whatever reason, Shirley seems mildly distracted; he has let lapse the intense awareness of his surroundings that he maintained on the way from the port through the bazaar.

Margaret notices, and slips her arm in his. “Shirley? Tuppence for your thoughts?”

“I’m sorry? Oh. You are being sadly overcharged. We shall talk once we are on the water. All three of us.”

Yet he seems in no particular hurry to honour that commitment. Once they have chartered their ship and moved their belongings aboard, Shirley ensconces himself in his cabin to write something.

This will get a little complicated, so bear with. He’s putting together an envelope addressed to Margaret with a letter and two envelopes inside. Each of the two (tightly sealed!) inner envelopes is addressed to Lady Hester Davies. One has a small inconspicuous “1” in the lower-right-hand corner; the other has a small inconspicuous “2” in the lower-right-hand corner.

When the whole is complete, Shirley will wait his chance to slip it in among Margaret’s other papers—but he doesn’t want to wait long, as the contents are (to him) comparable to what blew up the Alexandria rail lines. He certainly doesn’t want this discovered in his things by someone other than Margaret or Esperanza if Addison should kill him.

The outer letter reads:

My dear Margaret,

I intend to conceal this letter in your belongings, in hopes that you will not find it before you must, or before the danger is past and I can steal it back again. If Addison is not captured, and I am not dead, and still you are reading this—kindly find a better place to conceal it when you are done, or destroy it.

The two letters are a sort of unofficial codicil to my will. The one marked “1” is to be given to Lady Davies in the event that my death does not unmask me; the one marked “2” is to be given her if in the end my long concealment fails. Neither need be legally witnessed; Lady Davies’s honour and goodwill are to be relied upon. If you use the first letter, be so good as to destroy the second.

While I can, let me express to you how much I admire and esteem you: your courage, your brilliance, and your admirable good sense. I could ask for no finer friend; certainly I cannot have deserved one so good and so patient as you have proven yourself to be. I wish you all conceivable happiness once the Ellipse is complete.

Hoping earnestly you never read this,
I remain,
Your faithful friend,
SHIRLEY

Letter “1″ reads:

Dear Lady Davies:

If this comes to you, then I have not managed to survive the Grand Ellipse. I am earnestly sorry to disappoint; I hope my dereliction can be forgiven. I do thank you most heartily for according me the opportunity to participate in the historic event, as well as for all your previous kindness and generosity toward me.

I have one small request to make of you. Edgar Middlebury has my will in keeping. It need not be altered nor its reading delayed, but I have an additional specific bequest which I must beg you to manage for me. Be assured it will not conflict with the provisions of the existing will.

My sister Elizabeth owned and left to me a sapphire lavaliere, which now lies in a small concealed compartment behind the third drawer from the top on the left-hand side of my writing-desk in the office. Please find it and give it to Doctor Margaret Byrd, who has proven herself a steadfast friend on this journey. I thank you sincerely for this final consideration.

I commend to you also Doctor Byrd’s plans for a health clinic for the poor.

I remain, madam,
Very sincerely yours,
SHIRLEY ADDAM, ESQ.

Letter “2″ reads:

Dear Lady Davies,

If this comes to you, then I have not managed to survive the Grand Ellipse, and the disguise I have worn for some years has been discovered. I am wretchedly sorry for the scandal you must now endure; believe me, I did my uttermost to prevent it. Do not hesitate to protest your utter ignorance of my deception; vilify me however you wish if that will in any way lighten your difficulties. If you will deign to consider a kindly thought from one such as I, please accept my heartfelt thanks for all your kindness and generosity toward me.

I must beg one small favour of you, if you will vouchsafe me one last kindness. In a small concealed compartment behind the third drawer from the top on the left-hand side of my writing-desk in the office, you will find a sapphire lavaliere which was mine before I took on my brother’s semblance. Please find it and give it to my friend, Doctor Margaret Byrd. I wish I had something similar to give you; I take comfort that you cannot possibly need any such gift.

I understand that it will be difficult under the circumstances to consider any attachment to Doctor Byrd at this time; nonetheless, I commend her and her projects to your attention. She is a brilliant, skilled, and energetic woman, and I believe you will find her company congenial also. Whatever quiet support you can give her I am sure she will requite in full measure.

Once again, I proffer my deepest apologies for the embarrassment I have caused you.

Very sincerely yours,
ELIZABETH (sometime SHIRLEY) ADDAM

Some fifteen minutes after leaving, Shirley returns to the dining room. “I beg your pardon, Lord Brixby,” he says at an appropriate pause in conversation, “but I fear I must take the ladies away. Plans to make for the race, you know.”

Once out in the hall, Margaret gives an exagerated sigh of relief. “Well! If I had to endure many such meals with the governor, I’m afraid my mind should degenerate into suet pudding! My thanks for the rescue, Shirley. Now, where are we going?”

“The library, to introduce you to Baxter. He’s a decent fellow. The plan is to get through Madras and Rangoon as quietly as possible; they want us to go overland when we can, I suspect to keep an eye on us.”

Even spoken quickly, this brings them to the library door. Shirley clears his throat outside it to give Baxter a chance to get into a presentable posture; it will not do to introduce Margaret and Esperanza to a loafer on a couch. He opens the door and looks in before holding it for the ladies. “Margaret, Esperanza, allow me to introduce Mr. Edgar Baxter. Mr. Baxter, I have the honour to present Doctor Margaret Byrd and Miss Esperanza Garcia y Gutierrez.” Introductions complete, he looks at Baxter for a signal to stay or leave. Baxter gestures to the trio of Ellipsoids, indicating that they should seat themselves. A quick glance at Shirley indicates that he may stay or go at his pleasure. Shirley stays; he has learned as much from watching Baxter as listening to him, and the chance for more observation is valuable.

Baxter smiles reassuringly at Shirley and Margaret. “Before we begin—Miss Esperanza, do you understand English?”

Esperanza suppresses an irritated sigh and replies “I understand the English well, Mr. Baxter.” Margaret gives her a little, conspiratorial smile.

“Excellent.” Baxter rubs his hands together. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Addam, but he and I agree that it is important that you have an opportunity to consent to the plan, and to voice any concerns you may have.” He looks at each person briefly, giving him or her the opportunity to speak. Margaret simply gives him an enquiring look, obvious encouragement to continue. She has no intention of letting him know she has any prior clue of Shirley’s interaction with the Yard.

“Right-o. The Yard would like you to travel through India together, in disguise. We hope that this will prompt Addison to keep watch on Government House, either in Madras or Rangoon, so that we may apprehend him there. Naturally, we shall have detectives on duty at both places, and they shall do their utmost to protect you all. If all goes according to plan, then Addison will be taken into custody before you even arrive, as we will have seen him before he sees you. Of course, there is no guarantee that all will go according to plan, which means that this may entail a certain degree of risk on your parts. Mr. Addam has already consented to this role. Dr. Byrd? Miss Esperanza?”

Esperanza looks at Margaret for a cue. She is obviously willing to go along with whatever Señora Doctor deems approrpriate. Margaret is thinking quickly. If she asks no questions, that will undoubtedly seem odd to Mr. Baxter. “May I take it, then that you wish us to serve as a stalking horse for Mr. Addison, and that you expect him to strike somewhere in the Indian colonies? My perusal of the Times gives me the impression that Addison may have some particular animus where Mr. Addam is concerned; is that why he, and we by extension, have been approached?”

“We do not know that we are the only ones,” Shirley puts in with a self-deprecatory shrug. “It seems not unlikely—and of course you need not confirm this, Mr. Baxter—that the Yard are contacting all the Ellipsoids they can.”

Baxter looks at Margaret consideringly. “At this time, the Yard believes that Mr. Addam is likely Addison’s preferred target—sorry,” a brief nod in Shirley’s direction “—as a result of the Times interview. Of course, with the attack in Damascus, we are not entirely certain, but as I said, it seems likely. We hope that if Mr. Addam travels in a small group, rather than alone, he will evade Addison’s notice. Under the circumstances, India seems a likely spot.”

Margaret gives him a brief, rather tight smile. “That makes sense. The Times interview was a trifle provocative, wasn’t it, and I doubt Addison would ignore it. But do I take it, then, that the Yard considers the attack on Lady Bonnet’s companion to be related to the other violence that has stalked the Ellipse?”

“We believe that the Damascus attack could be related, as an Ellipsoid was involved. It would be foolish to think otherwise.”

“Yes; I appreciate the distinction. Well, I believe that you may consider myself and Esperanza willing participants in your plans, but I would appreciate if you would explain the matter to us… to the extent that you are able to do so without compromising details you cannnot share with non-agents. As Mr. Addam can tell you,” and she nods in Shirley’s direction, “I am most averse to going into any situation blindly. That may in fact have been one of the first things I said to him. I believe I took him a bit aback at the time.” She smiles and nods at Shirley’s rueful expression, then turns back to Agent Baxter. Once again, Shirley sees the fierce intensity with which she sometimes listens.

“Very well, Doctor. As I told Mr. Addam, the Yard should like you to travel overland as much as possible to both Madras and Rangoon. We should also like you to travel in disguise as far as Rangoon. We think that Addison will be looking for individuals, rather than a small group. In addition, the fact that Miss Esperanza’s appearance is entirely unknown to Addison is a great benefit.

“We know that Addison knows exactly where Mr. Addam is going to be, namely Government House in Madras and then Rangoon. Of course, he doesn’t know when Mr. Addam will be there, and if Mr. Addam is indeed his target, Addison’s best chance to spot him is to watch the place until he arrives. All Addison has to do is watch who goes in and out until he spots his target. Therefore, all the Yard need to is keep an eye on for Addison when he arrives to watch Government House. We hope to apprehend him before you even arrive.”

“I assume,” Shirley says dispassionately, “you have forestalled any possibility that he is monitoring the customs agents. I can disguise myself, but my travel documents contain my name.”

“Indeed we have, although if you prefer a specific port of entry to India, we can focus our efforts there.”

Shirley decides to defer to Margaret, so that Baxter will not be tempted to underestimate her. “Doctor Byrd? I believe you had an idea.”

“Yes, I did,” she says, nodding once. “Two, actually. One was to sail to Panaji, and take the train from there to Madras. The other was to tell everyone, except the captain of whatever ship we are able to charter, that we will be going to Bombay and taking the train from there. We thought it would be safer for us if Addison and his minions were watching one route while we took another, especially since the two routes have no point of convergance before Madras.”

“In that case, the Yard will have agents in place at Panaji. It’s a good plan, and meshes quite neatly with ours. If Addison determines that he cannot find you en route, he will go directly to Government House.”

“In which case we might wish to mention someplace other than Bombay,” Shirley says with a small frown. “The other Ellipsoids may go in that direction, and we should not endanger them if we can avoid it. Possibly Ceylon? Plausible enough.”

“Mmm, yes, a good point. Perhaps Kochi would be better though; it also has a direct rail link to Madras, as Ceylon does not.” By this point, Margaret is thinking, Agent Baxter must be wondering if she’s memorized the railway map of India.

“I shall leave your false trail to your discretion. The important thing is to get assets in place at your real destination. If you have no other questions, I shall take my leave of you.”

Shirley makes his way to Brixby’s library and enters without hesitation. Agent Baxter is a tall, lanky man who has sprawled across a large sofa, making notes in a small, leather-bound notebook. As Shirley enters, he snaps it shut and puts it in his pocket. “Edgar Baxter,” he says, by way of introduction, as he rises and extends a hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Addam.”

“Shirley,” says Shirley as he shakes hands, finding the informality a relief after Brixby’s stuffy demeanour.

Baxter grins. “You look as if you’ve come from one of Brixby’s exceptionally sanitary meals.”

Shirley’s expression is eloquent. “I hope you have not had to endure many yourself.”

Baxter’s smile turns into a knowing grin. “Timing is of the essence, and
His Lordship is nothing if not predictable and punctual.”

“I see,” says Shirley, nodding ruefully.

“Alexandria was most complimentary toward you,” Baxter begins.

“I fear Alexandria has a way of overstating praise.”

“Alexandria is… most enthusiastic about his job. But, you have a race to complete—good showing so far, by the by—and I don’t wish to keep you from it.” Baxter seats himself on the edge of the couch, gesturing to Shirley to take a seat. “Here’s the meat of it. Scotland Yard should like to to travel overland as much as possible to both Madras and Rangoon. Obviously, some sea travel is unavoidable, but if you can keep it to a minimum, that would be ideal. We should also like you to travel in disguise as far as Rangoon.” Shirley’s eyebrows go up, but he listens without comment. Baxter leans forward, and lowers his voice. “I can’t help but notice
that you are travelling with Dr. Byrd and her ward. Excellent move, that—Addison will be looking for individuals, rather than a trio, and as far as we know, Miss Esperanza’s appearance is completely unknown to him. Do you think that the ladies will consent to a disguise as well?”

“We have a collective disguise planned already,” Shirley answers.

“Alexandria said you were a natural at this. I’m rather inclined to believe him.”

Shirley’s sour thoughts at this revelation do not show themselves in his face. “Forgive me,” he says, “but your account of things differs somewhat from Alexandria’s. He gave me the impression that I was intended to draw Addison’s fire. What you say indicates that I am to avoid him as best I can—unless there is something about this you have not explained.”

“I can see how it would be a bit confusing, Shirley. You see, Addison already knows exactly where you are going to be, namely Government House in Madras and then Rangoon. If he is going to make a move, it would be there. All he has to do is watch who goes in and out. Therefore, all we have to do his watch him. We’re already putting our men into position, as we expect him to arrive before you do.”

Shirley thinks about this, shakes his head. “Something about this does not add up, and I will be frank about it, though I risk causing offence thereby. Essentially you are asking me to do what I would do in any case, given what has happened to me already and what the Times has reported. Since according to Alexandria you have investigated me thoroughly, you might well have guessed I would take precisely this course.

“Why, then, go through the entire rigmarole of making me a temporary operative? Surely that is a breach of this mission’s secrecy?” Shirley carefully does not say that he believes Scotland Yard may be playing him for a patsy, but Baxter might infer it from his tone of voice. He is quite willing to do whatever is needed, but he would very much prefer to know what he is accomplishing for them.

Baxter pauses, and closes his eyes. He seems to remind himself that despite Shirley’s obvious talents, he is NOT a professional detective. “Shirley, the Yard is doing this in order to protect you. Firstly, I should think you would prefer to know that you were being used as bait, and have a chance to consent to it.” Baxter waits for his answer.

Shirley’s diction tightens into a barrister’s precise brevity. “You do not seem to be using me at all, sir, to be quite frank; that was my initial objection, if you will recall. And, I must add, you have said nothing to Doctor Byrd and Miss Garcia—or if you have, they have not revealed it. Surely they should consent as well?”

Baxter remains calm and patient. “Shirley, it is possible that this case will not be wrapped up in Madras or even Rangoon. The Yard expects Addison to appear in India, but we do not know for a certainty that he will. In the event that he does not appear in India, you may rest assured that there will be a more active role available for you. I’m certain that you can see the benefit in involving you earlier, rather than later.”

“All right, then,” Shirley says, relenting. “Now you make sense. That is all I ask. Enough of the world has gone mad as it is; I like to keep my own small part of it in order.”

Baxter relaxes as well, and grins wickedly. “An admirable goal—Alexandria didn’t mention you were such an optimist.”

“Not an optimist—merely a man who dislikes surprises. And of course I also understand—you need not say it—that Addison is probably not the utter end of this chain of events.”

Baxter nods. “I believe I can safely say that both you and I should be very surprised if he were.”

“Indeed.”

The agent stands up and wanders over to the window. “Added to that, you’ve had none of the training that our detectives do, and you are a temporary member of the Yard. Surely you didn’t expect us to send you out to tweak the Kaiser’s nose—or the Tsar’s—on your first go.”

“No,” answers Shirley quietly, “but I did not think it outrageous to have some part in capturing the man indirectly responsible for the murder of a former client who did me a number of good turns. Not to mention the terrible affair in Damascus, if indeed it is connected. With respect, I think you may underestimate the strength of my desire to see Addison and his employer taken.”

“Perhaps. However, the Yard considers you one of its assets now, one that it would prefer to retain for the duration, if possible. And rest assured that by helping flush him out, you are both assisting with the endeavour and, I hope, sparing other Ellipsoids from the danger he and his employer present.”

Shirley’s wicked and entirely undeceived grin echoes Baxter’s. “Alexandria—and perhaps Malta—told you how to talk to me, I see.”

Boyishly, Baxter waves his index finger back and forth, grinning. “I can only give you such information as the Yard decides that you need to know, Shirley. As for your travelling companions, I am authorized to speak to them as well—indeed, I have every intention of doing so—but until our conversation is complete, I cannot do so.”

“Good. That is a considerable relief. I have not liked the idea of keeping them in the dark.”

“From what little I know of Dr. Byrd, I doubt she would stand for it in any case.”

“Exactly.”

“You do understand that as she and her ward have not been deputized, they may not be privy to all the information that may come your way.”

“So long as none of the news touches her safety, I shall hold my tongue when asked to. Kindly explain this arrangement to her yourself; I think she will accept it more easily from you than from me.”

“Of course. The good doctor seems to be an eminently sensible person.”

“I have found her to be so. I shouldn’t wonder if in the end you are more grateful for her assistance than mine.”

Baxter lowers his voice to continue his interrupted enumeration. “Additionally, Shirley, in the event that you must defend yourself and Addison were to suffer—I shall be blunt—fatal consequences, even accidentally, such inquest as there is would be rather weighted in your favour if you are a member of the Yard, even a temporary one.”

“Hm. Alexandria did not tell you, then, that I do not go armed? Addison
is in more danger from the local water supply than from me.”

“Alexandria did mention it. However, a man may change his mind under difficult circumstances—and even if he does not, actions can have unintended consequences.”

“My mind is quite firm on this point. As you say, I have no training. A gun in my hands is more of a danger to myself, to my companions, and to you than to Addison—the more so because it might cause me to overlook other, perhaps safer or more useful, courses of action.”

“That is entirely your decision, Shirley, and a wise one, given your lack of experience. However, you do have a reputation as a resourceful chap—”

“Wholly undeserved.”

“—and a lucky one.” Shirley says nothing to that. “I have confidence in your ability to come up with a ‘more useful course of action’—and pull it off.”

“I wish I did—but thank you.”

“Finally,” Baxter concludes, “should something unfortunate happen to you during your time of service, you, or any heir or beneficiary you may have, would be entitled to compensation from the Yard.”

Shirley shrugs this off. “I am quite alone in the world, and in my specific case I doubt Addison has given or will accept orders to shoot merely to disable.”

Baxter begins to pace the room. “If we knew what Addison’s orders were, this entire situation would be much easier to resolve. There is a great deal we do not know, and so we take pains to take care of contingencies as best we may.”

“I am sure your preparations do you credit,” Shirley says mildly, knowing he should not ask for details.

Baxter stops pacing directly in front of Shirley. “This situation has been a tangled mess practically from the beginning. It’s frustrating work sometimes, but one must muddle through as best one can. Your co-operation is much appreciated, Shirley.”

“I have done nothing to be thanked for as yet. Shall I summon a servant to go for Doctor Byrd and Miss Garcia? Better, I daresay, if Brixby thinks they are meeting me rather than you.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer that you speak to her yourself. I expect she’ll have questions.”

“I assure you, only for Scotland Yard’s sake would I set foot back in that dining room,” says Shirley, leaving his chair. “I shall go and rescue them from Brixby, then.”

Shirley appears at lunch in highest condition of sartorial excellence. Margaret and Esperanza would not have suspected the man who lay about on deck in rolled-up shirtsleeves to have quite this much of the dandy in him. Yet that is a touch of ruffling about his cuffs, a few pleats about the shirt-front. His coat is faultlessly tailored, the length and colour just so. And is that cologne that he is wearing?

Margaret, already in the dining room, takes it all in with a slightly raised eyebrow, then exchanges a brief glance with Esperanza. She is not nearly so elegant, although she is quite neat. She has taken the opportunity to wash her hair, but as there was not time for it to dry, it is simply braided, coiled, and pinned up on her head—no puffs, no pompadour, nothing. Her gown is of excellent material, and a good colour for her—soft green—but its trimming is very simple, and its fullness comes from artfully placed pleats. It has no bustle, and obviously was designed to be worn without one, as it also has no train. It is like her hairstyle; simple, practical for travelling, in good taste, but by no stretch of the imagination elegant. After a moment’s silence to take it all in, she says only “You know, if I had known you were going to dress for dinner, I should have done likewise.”

Shirley looks around to be sure no servants will see, then winks at her like a naughty schoolboy. “I have my reasons,” he says, grinning. “Upon occasion it is useful to be—underestimated.” He makes them a courtly, if slightly exaggerated, bow. “In any case, both you ladies are such ornaments to the occasion that I suspected I should have to decorate myself fittingly in order to be noticed at all, and I see I was quite correct in my suspicions.”

Margaret’s response to the last sally is a slight “mmph” sort of sound; Esperanza’s is a giggle. “I see. Indeed, our hosts will be unlikely to look beyond the dandy.” She is grinning, but composes her face as she hears
footsteps—presumably servants—behind her.

“It is not precisely our host I am concerned with,” Shirley says through gritted teeth.

Margaret glances at him sidelong. “I know that.” Her response is very quiet, and very calm. “But if someone overheard that, it would be unexceptionable.” Her very posture is quiet and serene; she knows just how much on edge Shirley must be, and that any nervousness—or indeed, attempt at humour—on her part will only make matters worse for him.

“Exceptions may not be so bad,” he replies, matching her tone. “Anything to throw them off-balance a moment.” Though his nerves are indeed frayed, he has about him an air of preparedness that bodes well: a skilled fencer might gather up all his quickness and strength into just such a deliberate, circumspect posture.

Margaret remembers Judge Remington, and has a sudden inkling of what Shirley is like in court. He must win one or two. Or more. She smiles and nods as she takes his arm. This is an unaccustomed thing for her; she is proud to be on this man’s arm. She is rather thoughtful going in to luncheon.

Lord Brixby is already in the predictably immaculate dining room when Margaret, Shirley, and Esperanza arrive. The table linen is a blinding white, reminding one of snow even in the balmy climes of Bahrain. The silver is mirror-bright; the china and crystal spotless and perfect. Every item on the table appears to be in its mathematically perfect spot. Esperanza wonders if the tablecloth is marked with rulers underneath, but keeps the thought to herself for the time being.

Lord Brixby is likewise perfectly turned out, all starch, sharp creases, and shiny shoes. His attire is not nearly so fashionable as Shirley’s, but has an air of timeless and slightly stuffy propriety about it…as does the rotund peer himself. “So glad you could stay for luncheon, Mr. Addam, Dr. Byrd—and you as well, Miss Esperanza Please, do sit down.”

“Thank you, Lord Brixby,” Shirley answers, pulling out the correct chair for Margaret. “Your excellent hospitality has been most appreciated.”

Margaret simply smiles her thanks at Shirley, and echoes him, “Thank you, my Lord. Your arrangements were most thoughtful.” She nods to Esperanza to seat herself. Looking around, she wonders if a stray fly would dare to show a wing in this place, and hopes devoutly that his Lordship has no children. Then, since it is often incumbant upon the lady present to begin conversation, she asks him how he has found Bahrain during his tenure.

“I went to Damascus and took the train south.” Lord Brixby laughs heartily at his own joke.

Shirley chuckles politely, carefully refraining from looking at Margaret. Oh, heavens. This will be one of those luncheons. Margaret smiles politely and takes a sip of her wine. Then she tries again. “Do you find it a pleasant place to live?” The first word she had thought of was “interesting,” but she substituted “pleasant” at the last minute. She isn’t sure His Lordship would recognize something as “interesting” unless it was properly introduced, and possibly not even then.

“I find it can be made pleasant, Doctor, with the addition of a few comforts of home.” He gestures around the dining room, which could be in any country manor in England by the look of it—if said manor were aseptic enough for Margaret to perform surgery on the floor. “Beastly weather, in the summer, I’m afraid—even the mad dogs pack it in.” Lord Brixby once again laughs at his own wit. “Still, opportunity to serve Her Majesty, eh what?”

Two servants, in clean and freshly pressed uniforms, bring in the soup course in a blinding silver tureen, and begin to serve it. It would appear to be a consomme of some sort, although it lacks sufficient taste to determine its origin.

“May I inquire which of the Ellipsoids has preceded us in reaching Bahrain?” Shirley asks, devoutly hoping this a concrete enough topic to avoid any further essays into humour. “I hope there have been no further interruptions to the race.”

“I should have to check the register to be certain, Mr. Addam. Let me see, Lord Percy was first, of course. Quite the sporting chap—have you met him? And there was Lady Anastasia; most charming, I assure you. Then there was that—” he sniffs disapprovingly “—American chap. Possibly one or two others, I shall have to look it up. No interruptions that I know of, though. Why? Have there been others?”

“You might say. Pirate attacks at sea, terrible violence on land—I am indeed glad to hear Lady Bonnet arrived safely. As for Lord Percy, I wonder if—but surely his lordship will have considered all necessary details.” Margaret isn’t quite sure where Shirley is going, so she is just listening quietly, occasionally sipping at her broth to maintain appearances. He can’t be trying to wake their host up to the world; that is patently impossible. She doubts His Lordship would take anything she says particularly seriously anyway. Physician though she may be, she has a pretty good idea what his attitude toward a mere female is likely to be.

“Pirates, you say? Dreadful business, piracy. Still,
I should think that Her Majesty’Navy has the
situation well in hand. Surely you don’t think that
Lord Percy is involved in piracy, Mr. Addam!”

“My goodness, no! No such thing, I assure you. No, I was only concerned because of something I heard from the Burmese consul in London before I left. Civil unrest in Rangoon, he said. With tensions high, I merely thought that Lord Percy’s armed yacht might attract attention of a rather nasty sort.” Shirley looks unspeakable horrors at Lord Brixby. “If I were he, no matter my haste I should notify authorities both British and native of my arrival beforehand. Avoiding the shot over the bow, so to speak.”

“I am quite certain that Lord Percy knows what he is doing, as does his Captain. As for the civil unrest—Her Majesty’s troops shall have put an end to that by now, I should think. And he is flying British colours, of course.”

“Very true. Still, Lord Percy’s modesty—” Shirley dares not look at Margaret—“may have prevented him from considering the attention that his arrival ought naturally to attract. I daresay advance notification, from a suitably trustworthy and prominent source, would ensure that his lordship receives proper treatment.“

And the coup de grace, delivered with a negligent shrug: “Unless, of course, his lordship has been wholly satisfied with his reception in previous stops along the route.” Shirley simply cannot imagine that Lord Percy has found nothing to complain of, or that he would have missed the chance to complain to such an obviously kindred soul.

The servants enter the room, replacing the insipid consommé with an equally insipid fish course. Some sort of whitefish stares up from its sterile platter, as if regretting that it gave its life for this, rather than a good bouillabaisse, or at least fish and chips. Margaret looks at her fish and suppresses a sigh. Well, at least it gives her something to do with her hands and mouth, and if it is utterly uninspired it is also inoffensive. She reminds herself that Lord Brixby probably is accustomed to female guests letting the men discuss matters of policy and will not notice her silence. As she takes her first bite, she promises herself that she will stop for spiced nuts on the way to the Harbormaster’s Office. Shirley is briefly reminded of the dreadful boardinghouse fare he endured during law school. He starts in on the fish with grim courtesy, remembering regretfully the savoury smells of the bazaar. The fish course is, at least, inoffensive in that it is bland, rather than actually distasteful. Lord Brixby appears not to notice as he happily tucks into his serving with fussily precise use of his flatware.

“I assure you that Lord Percy was most satisfied with his reception here. He does not confide in me, you understand, but he certainly had no complaints about Bahrain, that much is certain!”

“That is why I mentioned previous stops, Lord Brixby. Naturally nothing was out of order here.” Naturally. How could anything be?

“He seems to be in a great hurry, even with his commanding lead. Didn’t stay for lunch, or even a cup of tea, you know. Came in, signed the register, obtained his token, and out the door. An important man on important business, His Lordship is. All hurry and bustle.”

“Yes, of course.” Shirley shakes his head sadly. “A shame if such an important man were to be delayed by pointless fuss in Rangoon simply because no one knew beforehand just how important he is.” Lord Brixby is proving a
difficult man to move, but Shirley is persistent at need; he wants that telegram sent.

And after that, Shirley imagines, bureaucracy and unrest (for Shirley is
by no means as confident as Lord Brixby that the Burmese have been pacified) will run their course. Ideally, Lord Percy will find his yacht confiscated for contraband armament—or to be employed by one side or the other. Failing that, however, bureaucratic fuss and bother, or the natural desire for proximity to Important Men, should prove an excellent delay.

Margaret nearly chokes; she has just figured out what Shirley is up to, and only hopes that Lord Percy has not already passed Rangoon. She hastily converts the involuntary reaction to a cough, and takes a sip of her wine. Then she decides that since Lord Brixby is now looking at her, she might as well add her persuasions to Shirley’s.

“Oh, but Mr. Addam, if Lord Percy paused as briefly as Lord Brixby reports, then surely he had no time to telegraph ahead to Rangoon! Oh, what a pity if in his haste he causes his own delay.” She looks directly at Lord Brixby as she says this. “My Lord, can you think of any way to assist His Lordship? It would be a great pity if he were delayed over some easily avoided misunderstanding.” For a moment, she wonders if she is overdoing it. But then she decides that it isn’t possible with Lord Brixby. He is as dense as an overcooked plum pudding.

“Mr. Addam, I assure you that Her Majesty’s authorities in Rangoon—as everywhere else on the Grand Ellipse—are well aware of the importance of the event and its participants. Neither Lord Percy, nor any other Ellipsoid need worry about any sort of official delay. Naturally, you are concerned not only about your competitors, but yourself as well. I shall cable Rangoon personally with your travel information, Mr. Addam—and Dr. Byrd’s as well. I believe that should settle the matter. Ah, the main course!”

The forlorn remains of the fish are removed, and the servants set down, in a triumphant lack of fanfare, boiled beef, accompanied by boiled root vegetables. The scent rising from the serving dishes assures the diners that there is little, if any, joy to be had from this meal.

“Dear me, I meant no offence, Lord Brixby. You are welcome to our plans, such as they are, but I fear they are only set as far as the Indian coast.”

Brixby sniffs loudly, but seems mollified by Shirley’s apology. The middle class used to know its place. Whatever is the Empire coming to? “And as to that,” he says, attacking the boiled beef with more enthusiasm than one would expect, given both his nature and the quality of the meal itself “I believe that the fastest way to Madras is to nip down the Persian Gulf and across the Arabian Sea by freighter or steam launch to Bombay, and then catch the train from Bombay to Madras. Of course, you could travel overland, but I am given to understand that the route is mountainous, primitive, and by all accounts, utterly filthy.”

Since sanitation would by rights be her concern as a physician, Margaret feels a little freer to join the conversation. “As to that, Lord Brixby, is there a member of your staff that might provide us additional information on such matters as a reliable captain to take us to India, and train schedules on the Continent? We will have taken quite enough of your valuable time with this pleasant luncheon (she hopes neither Shirley nor Esperanza will choke), and I’m sure you’re a terribly busy man. Should we inquire of the deputy governor perhaps, or the harbormaster?” She gives Lord Brixby her best lady-seeking-assistance-from-a-chivalrous-man smile, and thinks to herself that it is very well indeed that her nose, unlike that of Pinnochio, cannot grow if she tells a lie.

“I shall have my secretary attend to it,” says Brixby, obviously trying not to look as relieved as he feels. “I believe that Captain Glover is your man; I shall prepare a letter of introduction. A most reliable individual—steady, solid.” Margaret murmurs her thanks.

The boiled beef lies limply on the plates as if it has been excised from something long ill. It has lost all flavor and most of its texture. The vegetables are likewise lacking in structural integrity, falling off the serving spoon in an exhausted heap, and spreading into a loose pile, reluctantly absorbing the watery gravy. Esperanza has managed to push the food around on her plate to make it look as if she has eaten something, but the observant eye discerns that no actual consumption has occurred. It is fortunate that none of the other diners are both psychically endowed and fluent in Spanish.

Margaret has noticed that Esperanza hasn’t eaten anything. She catches the girl’s eye when Lord Brixby isn’t looking, and whispers “We will fill our basket and ourselves at the Bazaar.”

“Gracias a Dios,” Esperanza murmurs in a tone of voice known well to adolescent girls and those who must deal with them. Margaret hides a small smile with a sip of wine. At least that isn’t dreadful beyond redemption! After long, agonizing moments, the lifeless main course is cleared and the bread-and-butter pudding presented. It appears to be rather… well-done.

Margaret’s only saving is the relentless drilling her governess gave her in deportment. She looks carefully, then turns the glob of carbon in her bowl slightly, so that it looks disturbed. She takes a tiny bit of the amporphous mass on her spoon, and raises it to her lips, then put it down. Esperanza might notice that the tiny bite remains on the spoon. Then she lays the spoon carefully crosswise in front of the dessert dish, and folds her hands in her lap, signifying that she is finished. If Lord Brixby even notices, she will apologize and tell him that it is too hot for her to have much appetite. She occupies herself by thinking longingly of the lovely lemon ice that Esperanza’s father had presented when she lunched at Gibraltar.

Esperanza follows Señora Doctor’s excellent example, and remains grateful that the English believe children should be seen, rather than heard, at the table. Either the cook is a disgrace to his profession, or Brixby has battered all culinary sensitivity out of him somehow. Certainly this supposed meal is one of the many dangers of travel that Se?ora Doctor warned her about!

Brixby appears to relish the crunchy, blackened pudding, helping himself to a second portion. The benighted dessert is quickly cleared, and coffee is served. In fact, the coffee is very nearly strong enough to serve itself. One would suppose that it has been made with at least twice the normal amount of grounds, and perhaps fortified with paraffin.

After the alleged meal, a footman brings Shirley a note that informs him that Mr. Baxter is awaiting his convenience in the library. #8220;Lord Brixby, I pray your indulgence,” Shirley says, folding his napkin neatly for insertion into its napkin-ring, and laying the whole in the precisely correct position beside his plate. “A matter of business I must attend to. Again, sir, I must say that I shall not soon forget your hospitality.”

”Very kind of you to say so, Mr. Addam—very kind indeed. I shall not detain you further.“

He arises, pushing his chair back under the table so that it will not sit untidily askew. “Doctor Byrd, Miss Garcia—I shall be with you shortly, I hope. Should you depart before me, please leave word so that I may find you.”

Esperanza gives Shirley a slightly envious look—he has escaped the inevitable after-dinner conversation. He returns her a tiny sorry-can’t-help shrug. She rolls her eyes in that way that teenage girls have, even in the Victorian Age. He makes his way to Brixby’s library and enters without hesitation.

David and I spent our second wedding anniversary in New York City. It was more fun for him than for me, because I was there primarily to go to the first Open eBook Forum annual meeting. But we did manage to get out to the Cloisters together, whereupon I discovered that I love that place to pieces.

I think I ducked a business-type dinner of some kind for an anniversary dinner with David. We went to an important Indian restaurant in Midtown—and I rediscovered why I prefer little hole-in-the-wall places to haute cuisine.

It’s not the food. It’s all the intimidating, unwritten etiquette rules that I don’t understand that mark one indelibly as someone who does or doesn’t belong in That Kind Of Place. The restaurant staff at that place knew immediately, and communicated to us without a single word, that we did not belong. Some places actually think that’s kinda cute. This was not one of them. We were interlopers, David and I, and I suspect the staff breathed a sigh of relief and mocked us unmercifully when we left.

They say that etiquette exists to ease social relations, and to some extent that’s certainly true. What etiquette also does, though, is enforce social caste. Know the protocol, be one of us, whoever “we” are—this is as true of plain old ordinary handshakes as it is of secret ones.

But be that as it may.

My first few experiences with play-by-email RPGs were pretty low-crunch, low-stress affairs. An email comes, I react to it, end of story until the next email comes. As a rule, I answered email expeditiously because it seemed polite so to do, but the definition of expeditious varied inevitably by circumstance. And it was good. I enjoyed myself, and felt that my participation was providing enjoyment to others, too.

So thinking I more or less understood the genre, I joined a couple of other PBeMs. And walked right through the door of that Midtown Indian place. Rules, my heavens, rules! Quite an elaborate protocol, with a fluid but nonetheless indelible caste system organized around it. And for the most part not explicit, never explained or put into context. Break the rules, become the one everyone’s writing snarky protected LiveJournal entries about. Or the one kicked to the curb.

(You don’t see those LJ entries, of course, because you’re politely left off the list, but you do hear, and you do see a rant or two that send an arrow past your head nicking your ear rather than pegging you straight in the chest.)

To put it mildly, I didn’t get off to a good start. The protocol system enveloped me like a bunch of funhouse mirrors, and I tripped over my own big feet again and again and again, half the time without knowing I was doing it.

Truthfully, if the waiters at that restaurant were glad when we left—so was I. (Not least because we went to a really quite keen concert at Lincoln Center afterwards.) Trying to navigate an unfamiliar protocol is exhausting and paranoia-inducing. In the game, I felt the scorn looming, the same scorn of a haute-cuisine waiter for someone who doesn’t know which spoon is for the soup. You’re not fitting in here. You’re not clicking. What made you think you could come here?

I tried to bail on the game twice. Both times, I was talked out of it (the GM is enormously patient, and a couple of other players were supportive). And, you know, I do learn, now and then. I was starting to assimilate all the protocol rules, figure out how I could observe them and still be myself.

And it even started to be fun. I got to relax a little and just play. Until yesterday, when a scene that I experienced as gleefully energetic became the subject of a virulent “why was this even allowed to happen? how dare they?” rant from another player, a rant that picked up several supporters (as well as, in fairness be it said, a couple of demurrals).

Put a chill on the game, too (unless somebody called a time-out while I wasn’t looking). No posts today. I’m certainly not going to write anything until prompted. Mine might be the next head bitten off.

Argh. Starting to want out again. Even though I don’t want out because in spite of impenetrable protocol and the drubbings that follow violations thereof, there are scraps of enjoyment to be gleaned.

I guess now I know. Heavy-protocol games make me feel like a hayseed in a haute-cuisine restaurant.

(And lots of extra points to anyone who knows what the title of this post comes from. It’s pretty obscure. No fair Googling.)

After the sedan chair passes, a heavily veiled woman dashes out of the jostling crowd and runs up to Margaret, stopping short in front of her. The woman’s rapid Arabic is almost too much for Margaret—she seems to be saying something to the effect of “Beware the Ides of March”. The woman continues to repeat this message, without even holding out her hand for a coin, as one might expect from a marketplace prognosticator.

Shirley watches for pickpockets, armed men, or anyone taking an excessive interest in the interchange. He beckons Esperanza closer, looking around him for side streets or other ways out of the bazaar. He does not, however, insist on immediate flight. He understands no Arabic at all, though he hears the urgency in the woman’s voice; Margaret will have to gauge the threat and respond.

Margaret is a little taken aback, but says at once “A thousand thanks, Lady, but could you please repeat that a little more slowly? My command of the tongue of tongues is not yet so fluent as I would like.” She smiles, but does not try to touch the woman; she is being very careful to do nothing that might be interpreted as a threat. She is paying as much attention to their surroundings as she can, but her primary focus is on the woman. She trusts Shirley and Esperanza to warn her of other things.

The woman’s slurred speech slows slightly. “Beware! Beware the eagle!” The woman swoons, and begins to slowly crumple to the ground in front of Margaret.

Shirley steps forward to put his arm under the woman’s shoulders before she can collapse entirely. “I am not liking this,” he says crisply to Margaret and Esperanza. He is not looking at them, as they are known quantities; his eyes restlessly scan his surroundings. “Were we in York, I should say we were being pinned down for an unpleasantness. Esperanza, watch behind us, please. Margaret, tell me where best to go; we can do nothing for her in the middle of the street.” He tests the woman’s weight, to see if he can carry her.

“I quite agree.” Margaret looks up; they are mere feet away from Government House and relative safety. “Take her in. The guards should keep away any unpleasantness, and I can examine her in the entryway.”

A small boy bursts out of the crowd, pointing at Shirley and the unconscious woman. His eyes go wide as he takes in the scene. His high-pitched cry carries above the noise of the bazaar. “My grandmother—what have you done to my grandmother?!!”

Margaret looks up, takes in both the child and the response his shriek is beginning to attract. She turns to Esperanza and says, very quietly, “Run for the guard at the entry to Government House.” Esperanza is off like a shot, weaving through the crowd like the most experienced Bahraini messenger boy. Her slight form disappears from sight.

Then Margaret turns toward the child and calls, very clearly: “Come here, please, and help us! Your grandmother has fainted. We are trying to help her. I am a physician. What is your grandmother’s name, Child of Allah? Does she suffer any illness?” Margaret is both keeping her guard up and attempting to project reassurance. She is also shifting to be between the crowd and the woman and Shirley. Shirley stands as still as he can, supporting the woman’s weight against his shoulder and hip. His face is carefully blank of any expression, though his eyes still rove nervously about. Margaret and Esperanza are doing all that can reasonably be done; it falls to him not to spoil their good sense.

Another veiled woman steps out of the crowd, and puts her arms around the little boy, who is now weeping. “Ah, I am so sorry,” she says to Margaret in Arabic. “My mother-in-law is—often confused. I did not realize she had left the house until I heard Faisal crying out.” She ruffles the boy’s hairaffectionately. “But please, let me take her fromyou, and we shall not trouble you further.”

Margaret nods her understanding, responding in Arabic, “But how will you get her home? She cannot walk, and perhaps should be examined. I am a physician, and my companion has gone for assistance. Would you like us to take her to Government House, where I can examine her? I will see to it that no male eye sees her face, and of course, it would be a great help if you would come with her.” Though understanding none of it, Shirley nonetheless feels a slight relief at the tone of the exchange. He shifts the woman so that her head rests more comfortably against his shoulder. His arm is tiring; he tries not to let that show in his face.

Margaret looks briefly toward Shirley, then back to the daughter-in-law. “Your pardon, please. I must tell my friend what is happening.” She turns back to Shirley. “Evidently the woman who has collapsed is this one’s mother-in-law. I have offered assistance, if they will let us take her to Government House so I can examine her. I can’t do much here; if I lift her veil on the public street, I will create a scandal as great as disrobing in front of Buckingham Palace. Can you see any sign the guard is coming? And is she” nodding toward the woman he is supporting “showing any sign of stirring? If she can get home with her daughter-in-law’s assistance, it might be best for everyone.”

“It would, but I do not think the lady can cooperate,” Shirley answers. “I cannot turn my head to look for Esperanza and the guard without loosing my hold, I am afraid.”

Margaret catches the strain in Shirley’s voice. “Shirley? It does not appear will will need to run anywhere this instant, and that this lady will be cared for even if we depart abruptly. Can you let her down so that her weight is on the ground, and support her head and shoulders? That must be a terribly awkward position.” She reaches to help shift the woman, at the same time asking the daughter-in-law in Arabic, “Does your husband’s mother suffer often from fainting spells?”

“I can—manage a few minutes more,” Shirley says, arriving with Margaret’s help at a more secure two-armed hold. “A shame to—cover her clothes in dust.”

The daughter-in-law’s voice trembles a bit, perhaps in embarrassment rather than fear. “I cannot afford to pay you for your services, Doctor…” As she begins to speak, the mother-in-law stirs a bit in Shirley’s arms, as if she is slowly becoming conscious. At the same time, Esperanza bursts through the crowd, trailed by two British Army guards from Government House. “Señora Doctor—this Sergeant Andrews speaks the Arabic much better than I—”

“The cavalry is here, Doctor. Why don’t you finish your talk with the young woman?” Shirley catches Esperanza’s eye and with a motion of his head invites her to help him. Esperanza catches Shirley’s meaning and bounds over to his side to assist him in righting the mother-in-law.

Margaret sighs in relief, then tries to deal with everyone. To Esperanza, “Thank you, my dear, you did magnificently!” To the daughter-in-law: “I was not concerned about the payment. Your husband’s mother collapsed at my feet; since I have the skill to do so, I offer what brief aid I can.” That is said with a slightly preoccupied smile, as she notices the mother-in-law’s motion. “Call her name, would you? She is more likely to respond to you in this state
than to me.”

The daughter-in-law tells Faisal to stay put, in Arabic, then moves to the older woman’s side. Gently, she takes her mother-in-law’s hand and pats it, crooning, “Nura? Nura? Can you hear me?” The old woman groans and tries to sit up.

Then Margaret addresses herself to Sergeant Andrews: “Thank you so much for coming. Could you please ask the crowd to leave us some space? I have stretched my Arabic quite to its limits.” Sergeant Andrews says, first in English, then Arabic, “Move along, please. There’s nothing to see here. Please go on about your business.”

Margaret reaches around to check Nura’s pulse. She decides, from the young woman’s demeanor, that this has happened before. The young one is concerned and possibly somewhat embarrassed, but not shocked or surprised. “How long does usually take her to awaken, when this happens? Does she have any lingering difficulties beyond confusion?”

Nura’s daughter-in-law sighs heavily. She leans close to Margaret and whispers, “She claims to have visions. These visions make her—mad, somehow. She babbles, and does not remember where she is. This is why I try to keep her in the house, or with me. She must have gotten confused and wandered off—I apologize most humbly if she has discomfited you in any way.”

Margaret nods reassurance, and says to the other Guardsman, “I don’t know yet if it will be needed, but is there a quiet room in Government House where I can examine this woman in private? I rather feel honour-bound to render what slight assistance I can, if it is accepted, as I am
not certain she would have collapsed had our paths not intersected.””

“Er—I, that is—” the other Guardsman looks over at Andrews, who is still exhorting the crowd to move along. “It’s rather irregular, you see, but I suppose arrangements could be made…” he finishes lamely.

Shirley exchanges a brief amused glance with Margaret. “To be sure, sir, I shall take responsibility for any irregularities,” he says. “You need not worry.” Margaret nods to Shirley at that. At first he is not quite sure, but he is not mistaken; there is a definite twinkle in her eye at the Guardsman’s confusion.

If Nura’s pulse seems steady, Margaret will turn to the daughter-in-law. “Shall we go in? You and Faisal too, of course; she should not be left alone with strangers. Or would you rather take her home? I will be happy to assist further, and payment is not an issue at all, but I will not insist, since she seems to be waking on her own.”

Nura’s pulse is steady enough, if slightly fast. She is obviously trying to get to her feet, and her daughter-in-law stands to assist her. “You are most kind, Doctor, but I believe it is best if Faisal and I simply take her home. Perhaps she will sleep for a while.” She calls out to her son “Faisal, come here—help Grandmother.” Obviously, this is nothing new to the boy; he obediently goes to Nura’s side andtakes her hand in his. “I am terribly sorry if she has disturbed you, or your companions.”

The Guardsman who isn’t Sergeant Andrews watches as Nura and her family slowly make their way down a side street. “I suppose that’s, er, it then? But you must come along to Government House—you’re expected of course! Lord Brixby is quite keen to meet you.”

“Indeed,” says Shirley, a faint amusement still lurking in his voice. “Well, we must not disappoint.”

He offers Margaret his arm. As she takes it, she can feel his pulse still racing despite his unruffled exterior. When they pass through the gate, the wary sergeant behind them, he says quietly to her, “That was extraordinarily well-handled. Thank you. One wrong step and we’d have caused a riot.”

When she takes Shirley’s arm, Margaret’s hand is shaking ever so slightly. She is slightly rumpled, but outwardly serene. “I know; I was terrified of it, especially when the boy began screaming. I hoped you would not mind if I took charge, but a woman is often less threatening, and I had the advantage in the matter of the language.”

“Mind? Mind?” He chuckles. “What do you take me for?”

She laughes a little. “A most atypical Englishman, certainly! The young woman says Nura is slightly mad, and she may be; what she said to
me made little enough sense. She bade me beware the Ides of March, and the Eagle. The worst of it is,” and she sounds a bit embarrassed, “I’ve had odd encounters before, and I cannot quite dismiss such warnings out of hand.”

Shirley shakes his head. “We have had so many warnings that I cannot imagine doing anything different because of this one. I do not discount it, but I shan’t hide in a corner because of it, either. And sometimes it is better not to try too hard to understand. Consider Oedipus.”

“Mm, yes. I shan’t do anything differently, but please don’t be surprised if I give statues of eagles wide berth.” Obviously, she’s laughing at herself. Equally obviously, she’s still a touch unnerved by the whole encounter.

Shirley puts his hand over hers. “I will warn you of eagles,” he says. Margaret gives him a grateful smile.

Without further ado, Shirley, Esperanza, and Margaret are escorted into Government House and settled in a small, bright, immaculate sitting room. Esperanza is enchanted by a curio cabinet that contains an amazing variety of seashells. Not a speck of dust nor grain of dirt has dared make an appearance in the room. The windows have fine cotton-mesh screens over them. The furniture has been rigorously polished, as has the grate and the various fixtures around the room. Sergeant Andrews excuses himself, leaving the as-yet unnamed Guardsman with the Ellipsoids.

“Oh, dear,” says Shirley, surveying his dusty garments and the immaculate room with comic dismay. “We are a ruffianly lot, aren’t we?”

“Rather, but I daresay no one could have got through the past 10 minutes unrumpled. I, for one, am glad of the opportunity to sit down and catch my breath. I trust the maids will forgive us the extra work, and hopefully we shall have the opportunity to refresh ourselves later.” And she suits the deed to the word, taking her seat in a comfortable-looking chair then begins trying vainly to push her hair back into some semblance of order.

A shake of the head and a few finger-combs suffice for Shirley’s hair to fall back into place. His clothes he can do nothing about; Scotland Yard will simply have to deal with him as he is.

Scotland Yard. Shirley can hardly believe what he just thought.

A young woman in a maid’s uniform enters the room. She looks uncertainly at the disheveled trio of adventurers, and drops a brief curtsy. “His Lordship invites you to luncheon at one o’clock, Mr. Addam, Miss-Doctor-Byrd. And Miss Esperanza as well. If you should like to refresh yourselves, I can show you to guest rooms. His Lordship would be happy to send up a valet for you, Mr. Addam. And, ah, Mr. Addam, there’s another gentleman what wishes to speak with you after luncheon, a Mr. Baxter. Didn’t state his business, I’m afraid, but said the Major told you to expect him.”

“Thank you, miss; pray lead on,” Shirley answers, rising from his chair. “I need no valet, though I am grateful for Lord Brixby’s kindness. And I will be pleased to speak with Mr. Baxter after luncheon. Did our trunks arrive intact?”

“I believe that your luggage was delivered shortly before you arrived. If you’ll kindly follow me?”

The maid leads Shirley, Margaret, and Esperanza through immaculate hallways and up a spotless staircase. At the top of the stairs, she turns left,
and gestures to two rooms on opposite sides of the hall. “Mr. Addam, your luggage is in the blue room, and Dr. Byrd, yours and Miss Esperanza’s are in the lavender suite. Lord Brixby has already taken the liberty of ordering baths for you. If you should need anything, please ring.”

“Thank you, miss. I am sure all is satisfactory.”

Shirley enters the room indicated to him, and checks to be sure that the door locks. The lock, like everything else, is in apparently perfect condition. The well-oiled bolt slides home with barely a click.