He was insensible to the world around him for some minutes while he frantically thought through the implications of this. He must have made intelligible responses, for he had a dim notion that the conversation went on around him without any strange looks.
Aubrey stood and re-engaged with the world around him. 'I really must get some rest.'
Sir Darius rose. 'And I must get to the Houses of Parliament.'
He dashed to the sofa, kissed his wife on the cheek and dashed out again.
Lady Rose looked at the doorway. 'I knew it would be like this when I married him.' She stood. 'That's why I promised I wouldn't sit around at home, waiting. I'm off to the museum.'
And Aubrey was left alone.
WITH THE HELP OF A MAGNIFYING GLASS AND A STRONG electric desk lamp, he spent some hours peering at the mysterious fragment from the underground shrine. He made little headway, finally admitting he needed expert help.
He'd made some tentative notes, enough to excite him about the link between the fragment and the Rashid Stone. He was sure the possibility existed that one, or both, of them might hold some clue to curing his condition.
He was unwilling to hope too much, but the chance was there that the knowledge of the ancients might come to his aid. Protection of the soul was a fundamental aspect of working with death magic – something he had come to understand all too late. And death magic was a major concern for early magicians, so perhaps they had ways forgotten to modern magicians, methods to reunite his body and soul permanently.
He rubbed his eyes, sat back, snapped off the desk lamp. The weariness he'd been holding at bay descended on him like a thick, black fog. He stumbled to his fish tank and hid the tablet under the sand, right outside the octopus's cave.
Sleep beckoned. Left alone, the house quiet apart from the muffled noises of the servants going about their business, it should have been the perfect time for napping.
So, naturally, Aubrey lay on his bed, unable to sleep. Somewhere along the way, he'd apparently decided to substitute worrying for sleeping.
He was worried about George, and his family. Aubrey knew that George's father was a modern farmer in most ways, adopting the latest techniques in scientific farming.
He'd not been averse to investigating magical techniques, either; his apple orchard sported several bird scarers that used a clever derivation of the Law of Opposites.
But in one way in particular, William Doyle was an old-fashioned man: he was loath to accept help, especially financial help. Aubrey could imagine a financial situation getting steadily worse and worse, while Mr Doyle tried one thing then another, and then one day waking up to discover the farm was owned by someone else.
Aubrey could think of several ways to fix the debt. It would be fun, organising a complex nesting of identities, a trail of Person A paying Person B who owed money to Person C and somehow having the Doyle farm ending up safe and secure. He itched to do it.
But he wouldn't. He'd promised.
Even if the Doyles lose the farm? a voice whispered.
George was no financial wizard, Aubrey appreciated that. But perhaps his unequalled ability as a good listener and sounding board would be of some help to his father. Aubrey hoped so.
And Caroline. Aubrey worried about her and about the goals she was setting for herself. Even though the world was changing, it wasn't changing quickly enough for a girl (young woman?) of Caroline's abundant talents and ambition.
At the back of his mind, he'd always taken perverse pleasure in the hard row he'd set himself to hoe. To excel in multiple areas – magic, the military, academia and politics – was foolish, overreaching, impossible. But it suited him. Some people enjoyed a challenge. Aubrey was bored to death without one – and more than one, preferably.
He had a difficult road ahead. But he had to admit, Caroline's aims seemed just as lofty – those she'd disclosed – but her sex was going to make them even more difficult to achieve. Aubrey worried that the realities of an unequal world would break her spirit. It was something he didn't want to see.
His father? Well, he was a fairly minor concern. Sir Darius was the subject of political plotting, backstabbing and general malfeasance, but he knew how to take care of himself. He'd managed for years – although the added strain of dealing with the shifting international situation was something that Aubrey wouldn't wish on anyone. If Albion went to war, Sir Darius would be responsible for the lives of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions.
His mother was fearsomely capable as well, but he did worry about her worrying about his father's worrying. His mother put great store on appearing unaffected by weighty matters of state, and by her husband's commitments. She had a rich life, she was prepared to tell anyone, one that was not dependent on her husband. This credo shocked many, to which Lady Rose declared she gave not a fig.
But lately, Aubrey had seen the hint of anxiety in her face. This tended to coincide with newspapers announcing further Holmland aggression on the Continent, or more fractiousness in the Goltans.
Both his parents were busy people and Aubrey was glad of this. Without their various distractions, he worried that they would notice his condition. He'd managed to keep it from them, but with his decision to use his magical powers, despite the dangers, they may notice his physical condition go up and down more than previously. He didn't welcome their intelligent regard turning in that direction.
Aubrey found worrying seductive. It was tempting to brood, sorting out 'Should have' and 'Why didn't I', teasing apart the strands of regret, fear and hopelessness. It was all-consuming.
Eventually, he shook his head and sat up. Worry was all well and good, but it wasn't achieving much – and going around and around over the same ground was so boring. If he wanted his worries to lessen, he should do something about them.
He glanced at the window, then stared. Evening had stolen in. The gaslamps in the street were already lit. A hansom cab trotted by; its lanterns were bright in the gathering shadows.
Somewhere, sometime, he'd slept, right through lunch. He'd worried before falling asleep, then dreamed worrisome dreams, then woken to more worrying, all without noticing the transitions.
'Well, that's enough of that, then,' he said aloud. He poured cold water into his basin and dipped a facecloth in. A vigorous face rub later, followed by an energetic application of his hair brushes, and he was almost a new person. That is, if he ignored the pinched look about his cheeks, and the redness around his eyelids, and the disturbing amount of hair his brushing had dislodged.
He stretched, squared his shoulders and decided it was hard to be gloomy when he had a plan in front of him.
After what he'd discovered from the mysterious inscription, he simply had to see the Rashid Stone before it was shipped to Holmland. Copies of its inscriptions were no good – he wanted to put his hands on the actual stone itself.
Which meant he was going to break into the Albion Museum.
Twenty