“Yes, very well,” he muttered impatiently. “But Arthur? Centuries off, and problematic in any event, as you well know.”
“It’s common for stories to become conflated with others,” I pointed out. “Suppose the true story goes something like this: Eadberht offered his daughter to one of the Pictish kings to seal a truce. For whatever reason, the deal broke down and a spell was cast. She fell into a slumber, from which she never recovered.”
Von Stroheim scowled. “Ach, incredible,” he said. “Eleven centuries and no one falls in love with her?” He looked toward the tent where she now lay, properly dressed in my wife’s own clothes, guarded by de Laurency. “I’m half in love with her myself.”
I grinned at him. “Well, kiss her, then,” I told him.
He looked at me startled. “Why not you?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I, sir, am a happily married man.”
He snorted. Von Stroheim is a cynic on the subject of marriage. “Very well. And why not?”
We entered the tent. The girl slept on a pallet of straw; de Laurency sat by her, gazing at her fair face by the light of a kerosene lamp. He looked up as we entered.
Von Stroheim went directly to the pallet, knelt, and kissed her: first on the forehead, then on the lips.
De Laurency sprang to his feet, a flush on his pale cheeks. “What the devil are you doing?” he demanded of von Stroheim.
Von Stroheim raised a bushy brow and stood to face the student. “That’s ‘What the devil are you doing, Professor,’” he said.
De Laurency flushed. “Do you often attempt to kiss women to whom you have not been introduced?” he demanded.
The two were silent for a moment, standing in the flickering yellow light under the low canvas roof. It is an image that has stayed with me; the young, sickly Romantic attempting to defend the honor of the girl; the older, bearlike man of science astounded that his simple experiment should rouse such antipathy.
“Be serious,” he said at last, and ducked to leave the tent.
De Laurency sat, fists still clenched. “He had best leave her be,” he said.
“Simmer down, boy,” I told him. “It was an experiment, nothing more. If the story has any truth, it is a kiss that will awaken her.”
“Not a kiss from the likes of him,” said de Laurency fiercely.
Outside the tent von Stroheim was gazing at Orion, hands in his pockets against the chill. “It is all nonsense, anyway,” he said. “You have erected an enormous structure of conjecture on an amazingly small investment of fact.”
“Yes, Herr Doktor Professor,” I said, a little sardonically, amused at this change in mood. “It is time we telegraphed the Royal Thaumaturgical Society.”
Janet sighed when she heard the news from London, sitting on the chaise in the parlor with me, her arm about my waist and her thigh against mine; the children were asleep, coal burned in the fireplace, we sipped hot cider before retiring. “How long?” she said.
“No more than a week,” I said. “Sir James has promised to investigate directly we arrive, but I wish to be present for at least the preliminary examination. I do want to return as soon as I may; it is important that we find out as much as we can at the dig, before cold weather sets in.”
She laid her head on my shoulder. “And is that the only reason you want to return quickly?” Her lips were on my neck.
“No, dearest,” I whispered in her ear. “Neither the only nor the most important.”
She kissed me, and I tasted the cider on her tongue.
The trip to London — de Laurency insisted on joining me — was, as usual, quite dull. But Sir James Maxwell made us quite welcome at the Thaumaturgical; after a cursory examination of Meg in his laboratory, he joined us in the society’s lounge.
I was not insensible of the honor. While I have a modest scholarly reputation, Sir James outshines me by several orders of magnitude; it was he, after all, who through his discovery of the field equations, put thaumaturgy on a firm mathematical and scientific footing.
Ensconced in leather armchairs, we ordered Armagnac and relaxed.
“Precisely what do you hope from me?” Sir James inquired.
“Two things, I think,” I said after a pause for consideration. “First, a spell clearly binds her; it would be useful to learn as much of it as we can, to cast light on the state of magical knowledge during the period. Second, it would be marvelous if we could awaken the girl; wouldn’t it be grand if we could talk to and question someone who had actually lived a thousand years ago?”
De Laurency rather darkened at this, and muttered something into his brandy. I glanced at him. “Speak up, Robert,” I said.
“She is a freeborn Briton,” he said, rather defiantly. “If she should waken, you would have no right to keep her, study her, like some kind of trained ape.”
“‘Briton’ in the period would mean ‘Celt,’” I pointed out. “She is Anglo-Saxon.”
“Pedantry,” he said.
“Perhaps. But I take your point; she would be a free woman. However, I suspect that learning to live in the modern age would be difficult, and that she would be grateful for our assistance. Surely we can expect cooperation in return?”
De Laurency coughed, a little apologetically. “I’m sorry, Professor,” he said. “I’m sure you mean her no harm. But we must remember that she is a person, and not an … an artifact.”
Sir James nodded sagely. “You are quite correct, sir,” he said, “and we shall take the utmost caution.”
Sir James promised to begin his studies on the morrow, and we parted.
I had taken rooms at the Chemists, my own club and not far from the Thaumaturgical. The next morning — a fine, brisk autumn day, the wind whipping London’s skies clean of its normally noxious fumes — I walked back toward the RTS. And as I did, I heard the omnipresent cries of the street hawkers:
“Globe, Wand, Standard, Times! Getcher mornin’ papers ’ere, gents. Sleepin’ Beauty found in North Country. Read hall about it.”
“Blast,” I muttered, handing the boy a few pence for a Wand—one of the yellower of Fleet Street’s publications. The article, and the illustration that accompanied it, was rather more fallacy than fact; but it contained the ineluctable truth that our discovery was now at the Royal Thaumaturgical Society.
I fully comprehend the utility of publicity when the need to solicit funds for research arises; but I feared, at this juncture, that public awareness of Meg could only serve to interfere with our investigation.
My fears proved immediately well-founded. While I checked my coat at the Thaumaturgical, a man in a rather loud herringbone suit spied me and approached.
“Dr. Borthwick?”
“I am he,” I responded, wondering how he knew me; I caught the eye of the porter at the front desk, who looked down slightly shamefacedly. A little bribery, I supposed.
“I’m Fanshaw, of Fanshaw and Little, promoters,” he said, handing me a card. It bore a picture of a Ferris wheel and an address in the East End. “Wonder if we might chat about this Sleeping Beauty girl you’ve got.”
“I fail to see—”
“Well, sir, you see, I read the papers. Can’t always believe what they say, but this is a wondrous age, ain’t it? Magic and science, the Empire growing, strange things from barbarous lands. That’s me business.”
“Your business appears to be sideshow promotion,” I said.
“Dead right, sir. Educational business, educational; bringing the wonders of seven continents and every age to the attention of the British public. That’s me business. Though the gentry may view us askance, we serve a useful function, you know, introducing the common people to the wonders of the world. The Wand says she’ll be awoken by true love’s kiss, is that right? Can’t believe what you read in the Wand, of course, but you could make such a spell, could be done, I understand.”