Now, please forgive me if I presume, or if I have misjudged—but although I saw your defenses were strong, as strong as any that a Master could produce, I felt they were—there is no kind way to put this either—untutored.
Her cheeks heated, but she could not be honest with herself if she didn’t agree with him. She knew her protections were clumsy, cobbled together.
If this is the case, I do not know why you have had no schooling, although I can hazard some guesses. Neither do I care why this is so, to be honest, for that is none of my business unless you choose to make it so. I may be very wrong, and if I am, I can only humbly beg your forgiveness. If I am not wrong, I may have a solution for you. You have every right to ignore this—more right to tell me to go to Hades with my presumptions! If you choose to see me, you may also choose to tell me what you will of your past—or not. Your secrets may remain your secrets.
If she chose to see him? Her eyes raced across the lines of neat script avidly, suddenly impatient to find the meat of the matter.
If you wish, I venture to offer my services, to tutor you in the basic schooling that all of the Elemental Masters receive. For the knowledge particular to your own Element—Earth, if I am not mistaken—I can and will pass you to one far more qualified than I when you have achieved the basics. But I can give you what you need to make sense of what may, at the moment, be of confusion to you. I offer this because if you have erected defenses, you must have enemies. In my own self-interest and that of my colleagues, I feel I must see to it that you can meet those enemies and defeat them, before they become a peril to the rest of us.
Her heart beat faster and she felt light-headed with relief. Was this not what she had prayed for? Was this not what her mother, what Hanuman himself had told her she must find?
If you are not utterly insulted by this letter, if you wish to accept my offer, you have but to reply to this address. I will come to your office at any day and hour you specify, or you may send to make an appointment at any other venue you choose. This is not an offer made out of pity or contempt, Doctor Witherspoon. You have not become what you are and achieved your current status without being an admirable and formidable person, and as a woman, you must surely have faced longer odds and stiffer opposition in your endeavors than any mere male. This offer is made from one craftsman to another, who sees one who is struggling with inferior tools, and has the means to remedy that lack.
Sincerely, Peter Scott
A tugging at her skirt interrupted her before she got to the signature at the end of the letter. She looked down; there was Charan, his eyes fixed on hers, an inkwell and pen clutched carefully in one of his hands. Beside him were the mongooses, each with their sharp teeth piercing a corner of a piece of her monogrammed stationary, Sia with a flat sheet of notepaper, Singhe with an envelope, held high above the floor to avoid treading on it.
Torn between tears of relief and laughter, Maya gently took the writing instruments from them. There was no doubt how they thought she should reply.
Sia and Singhe had left neat little puncture marks in the corners of the stationery. She wondered what he would make of that, but put pen to paper, using the little table her breakfast had stood on as an impromptu desk. She wrote swiftly, without thinking, for she knew if she thought about what she must say, she would lose the courage to say it.
Dear Sir; I accept your generous offer. Please come to my surgery tonight, at eight o’clock, when the last of my patients will be seen to. There; short and to the point. She signed it, Doctor M. Witherspoon, and fanned the paper to dry the ink quickly. In moments, it was folded, tucked into the envelope and sealed with one of the gummed wafers she always kept in each envelope to avoid having to search for them. She didn’t recognize the area of the address, but then again, she didn’t know a great deal of London.
I’ve scarcely had time or opportunity to look about.
I haven’t even seen any of my theatrical patients at their jobs, and heaven knows they’ve offered me enough tickets, she thought wistfully as she searched in the hall closet for a hat with a veil. She donned the first that came to hand, pulling the concealing web down over her features. This was another Fleet day; she would have to hurry to get there in good time.
She stopped just long enough in her office for a stamp, making her decision to see Peter Scott irrevocable. No one, having put a stamp to a letter, has ever been known to change his mind about sending it, she thought wryly, gathering up her umbrella and her medical bag and going out the door. She was tempted to use a touch of magic to make the eyes of passersby avoid her, for she felt ridiculously conspicuous in the veil, but no one, not even people on her own street who knew her, seemed to take any notice of the change in her appearance. And now that she noticed, she was not the only lady to go veiled in the street. There was dust to consider, and the gaze of unwelcome strangers. The dust in particular was getting distinctly unhealthy. It hadn’t rained in several days, the air warmed with the first hints of summer, and the “dust” was mostly dried and powdered horse dung. She would have to make certain to brush off at the door of the clinic, and insist that everyone tending patients wear clean boiled aprons and smocks.
There was a postbox on the corner; the letter went in, and she moved on. It was done, and she felt the letter leave her hand with a sense of having put something in motion that it was not in her power to stop. She sighed and quickened her pace. One thing was certain. If this was a typical day at the Fleet, she wouldn’t have time to think about the meeting tonight, much less worry about it.
“Hello, old man—what are you brooding about? That’s a perfectly delightful bit of lamb you’ve been frowning at for the past minute, and I’m sure it hasn’t done anything to you.”
Peter Scott looked up from his luncheon with a start. Almsley stood just beside his table, looking at him with a particularly knowing expression. As usual, Lord Peter was impeccably attired in a neat morning suit of gray flannel, his cravat conservatively tied. He must have checked his hat with his coat at the entrance to the club, since he was bareheaded. Sunlight full of dust motes streamed in through the nearest window and glinted off his pale hair, giving him a kind of specious halo. Lord Peter Almsley was an excellent fellow, but no one would ever accuse him of being angelic.
Peter Scott had decided to eat at the club today, rather than one of the pubs or eateries local to his shop. He was out of the mood for bustle and noise, and there certainly wasn’t any of that here. If anything, the atmosphere was positively drowsy. No one had spoken above a murmur since he sat down.
“Almsley, I didn’t know you were in town!” he said, rather inanely, since it hadn’t been more than two days since the meeting they had all attended. Lord Peter took that as an invitation to join him, and folded his thin limbs down onto the substantial mahogany chair across the round table, a table which was far too large for a single diner. A waiter appeared immediately, waiting attentively on Lord Peter’s wishes. Where did they come from? Scott had never been able to catch one hovering, but the moment one wanted something, there was the waiter, at one’s elbow. It was a trifle unnerving.