He saw George first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and at college gatherings, but since their academic leanings were so divergent, that was all.
He didn't see Caroline. They moved in different university circles. He promised himself he'd do something about this, when he had time.
The Department of Experimental and Theoretical Magic wasn't only the home of the mysterious Lanka Ravi. It was leading the way in all manner of modern magical research. Things Aubrey had only read about were being discussed and refined every day. But he soon learned that the department was made of people, the same as any other organisation. Fads, fashions, and favourites were rife. Some avenues of inquiry were seen as 'rewarding' and 'challenging', while others were yawned at, or even scorned as unworthy of serious exploration. Currently, the feverish area of speculation appeared to be the origins of magic, with many favouring the thesis that human consciousness was responsible for magic. The exact manner of this interaction was the subject of feverish discussions and exploration.
Controversy, too, was bread and butter for the department. It was a university, after all. One of the most divisive issues was military applications of magical theory. The majority of academics and students were firm patriots, and willing to countenance the notion that the army or the navy may benefit from their work. After all, their reasoning went, the alternative was worse.
However, a reasonable pacifist movement also had a presence, resisting any project that smacked of practical, war-mongering application. The result was that these people dealt with some of the most abstruse areas of magical theory – and that they walked the halls of the department building with distant, vague expressions, as if they were seeing things beyond the mundane here and now.
Only once did Aubrey hear his hero, Baron Verulam, mentioned. It was with tones of affectionate disdain, as one of the early progenitors of modern magic, but hopelessly – hopelessly – old-fashioned in these times.
Aubrey bridled at this, but bit his tongue. He needed a firmer footing before he engaged in arguments on this level.
The event, however, that caused Aubrey's studies to take a sudden sharp turn came when he was looking for George at the end of the hectic first week.
A letter arrived at their rooms from George's mother. Aubrey broke off from his studies – a little dazed, as he often was when disengaging from knotty magical theory – and immediately grabbed his jacket. He scratched his head over George's handwritten lecture timetable and went looking for his friend.
Aubrey crept into the back of the History lecture theatre and tried to spy George's sandy hair. His efforts, however, were distracted by the lecturer.
She was petite, with light brown hair, and wore rimless spectacles. Her hands were covered with rings, which flashed as she constantly gestured to emphasise one point or another.
She was passionately describing the difference between Chaldean and the Nineveh variant of the Assyrian language. 'While they are both aspects of the Babylonian,' she said, 'never, ever get them confused.' She took off her glasses. 'I did once, when I was your age. It took me a long time to live down the embarrassment.'
For the rest of the lecture, Aubrey forgot all about George. He was lost in the unfolding story of early language development in the ancient world.
When the lecture finished, Aubrey hurried down the aisle. He spotted George lingering near the exit, talking to a serious-looking girl in a green dress, and decided he'd be there for some time.
'Excuse me?' he said to the lecturer.
She was still gathering her notes at the lectern. She glanced at him. Her eyes were dark brown and Aubrey thought she was about the same age as his parents – considerably younger than any of the other dons he'd encountered.
'If you've come late,' she said, 'I'm afraid you'll have to get the notes from one of the other students.' She smiled. 'I did make a fair bit of it up as I went along, you see.'
'Er.'
'Chaldean is so intriguing, don't you think?'
'Certainly. It's perfect for most spells that require a careful timing factor.'
She looked over the top of her spectacles. 'You're not reading History.'
'No. I'm Magic.'
'Of course you are.' She slipped her papers into a case. 'So what can I do for you?'
'Ancient languages. How can I do more?'
She stood with her case in one hand and her other hand on her hip, and regarded him with amusement. 'Ancient Languages? I do a handful of lectures for you first-year Magic students in a few weeks time.'
'A handful of lectures? What if it's not enough?'
'Ah, bitten by the language bug?'
It was one way of putting it. Aubrey was thinking in more practical terms. 'The better I can handle these ancient languages, the better I can work spells.'
The lecturer put down her case and threw up her hands. She addressed the lofty ceiling. 'How long have I been waiting to hear someone say that? How long have I been saying it to those fusty Magic dons?' She dropped her gaze and smiled warmly at Aubrey. 'You'll have to give up one of your magical subjects, but I can get you into my Introduction to Ancient Languages. If you're keen.'
'Aubrey!' George said. He strolled over, looking most content with life. 'You've met Professor Mansfield, have you?'
'Mr Doyle,' Professor Mansfield said. 'You've completed all your reading on early Latin?'
George made an oddly indeterminate hand gesture – a flapping, twiddling motion. 'Not entirely, no. I've made a good dent in it, though. Fascinating.'
'I'm sure.'
'Professor Mansfield?' Aubrey said.
'Professor of Ancient Languages. And I hope you're not going to ask me how a woman my age happens to be a professor.'
'Wouldn't have dreamed of it,' Aubrey said truthfully. Knowing his mother and Caroline meant that he didn't find competent women a shock, unlike many of his contemporaries. 'I wanted to ask for a reading list.'
She smiled again, with dimples, and Aubrey was tempted to revise his age estimate downward considerably. 'Good lad. I'll get one to you. What college are you at?'
'St Alban's.'
'Name?'
'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'
'Fitzwilliam. St Alban's.' She looked up from her notebook. 'You're not related to Rose Fitzwilliam?'
'My mother.'
She tapped her nose with her pencil, thoughtfully. 'Wish her the best from me when you see her next. Anne Mansfield. Oh, and your father.'
She picked up her case. 'See the secretary in the Languages school this afternoon.' She stopped at the door. 'We'll make all the necessary arrangements.'
When she'd gone, Aubrey was left with a feeling that he'd just complicated a life that had hitherto been marked by a distinct lack of simplicity. 'George,' he said, and he handed the letter to his friend, 'remind me never to act on impulse ever again.'