Authors: Beth Bernobich
* * *
The next morning, it took three cups of strong tea to clear his mind. With Garret’s help, Síomón dressed in his best black suit, then walked the four streets over to Evan’s rooms. Yesterday’s sunshine had vanished behind a mass of gray clouds, and the dank breeze, with its taste of frost, brought him fully awake. It also reminded him uncomfortably of the previous night and the abiding cold he felt when he had touched David Levi’s face.
Susanna had arrived at Evan’s flat already, and the two of them were drinking tea. Susanna’s eyes had a dull bruised look, as though she had been weeping for hours.
“Evan told you about David and Maeve?” Síomón said.
She gave a short nod. “I knew last night. Evan came by my rooms to tell me.”
Evan himself seemed distracted. He gathered his and Susanna’s cups and set them on the sideboard. “It’s not an hour to the assembly. We should hurry.”
They set a brisk pace through the streets to the nearby gates, and across the grounds to the assembly hall. Even so, they found nearly every seat claimed. Síomón recognized only a handful of the students, and those were from the mathematics department.
Voyeurs,
he thought, angrily, glaring at the strangers.
Susanna laid a hand on his arm. He glanced down, surprised to see a smile on her face.
“They are frightened,” she said softly. “So are we.”
Síomón let the breath trickle from his lips and nodded. He even managed a smile in return. When the priests spoke of God and Mhuire and Gaia, he could take comfort from the familiar words. Other priests from other churches and temples made their appearance—rabbis from the Hebrew temple that David Levi had attended, a Protestant minister, a Vedic priest, and even the lone Muslim cleric. But then came the Provost with a long unctuous speech, and his mood soured. David and Maeve deserved better.
More speeches followed. When the last official gave way once more to the priests and rabbis, Síomón released a silent exhalation of relief.
Requiem Aeternam dona eis, Domine et Gaia.
Baruch dayan emet.
Assalaamu ’alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah.
On and on through the litany of faiths, but Síomón could bear these more easily than anything from Doctor Ó Néill and his minions. At last came the moment when the Provost dismissed them. Susanna took hold of Síomón’s hand. She already had Evan’s, or perhaps she had never let go.
“Outside,” she said. “I can’t bear the crowds.”
She led them out of the building and onto the green, where a mass of students lingered. “We can go to my rooms,” she said. “I’ve tea and coffee and stronger drink, if we like. Or would you rather something fancy?”
Evan made some reply that Síomón could not attend to. Through the mobs, he had caught sight of Seán Blácach. He glanced around, intending to make some excuse to escape the crowds and Blácach, only to spy Professor Ó Dónaill emerge from the assembly building. Ó Dónaill immediately started for Síomón. “Mr. Madóc,” he called out. “I’m glad to find you here. Would you have time for a short talk? It’s a question of your studies.”
In truth, Síomón wanted nothing more than to retreat to his own rooms, but he suspected his friends would not allow it. He politely smiled. “Certainly, sir.”
“We’ll come by later,” Susanna told him.
Síomón followed Ó Dónaill into the faculty quadrant, which proved to be nearly empty, and into the building occupied by the mathematics professors. Ó Dónaill ushered Síomón inside his office, then shut the door and turned the lock.
“I heard what happened with you and De Mora,” Ó Dónaill said. “Terrible shock. Terrible. Come, sit.” He indicated a chair in the corner.
Ó Dónaill kept his office in cheerful disorder, with stacks of books arranged on and around his desk. More books occupied a table off to one side, and these were mixed with loose papers, covered in calculations. Used cups and saucers were shoved up against the coffeepot and tins of spices, which bore Arabic lettering. Papers covered Ó Dónaill’s desk as well.
Síomón edged around the stacks of books to the chair.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Ó Dónaill said. “No, it seems I have none. Will coffee be acceptable? I brewed a pot not long ago.”
He offered Síomón a cup of hot, bitter coffee, seasoned with cardamom and lightened by thick cream. Then he filled his own cup and busied himself with the spice tins a moment.
“You know about classes being suspended?” he said. “Good idea. I’m glad Ó Néill decided for it. As late as yesterday afternoon, he wanted to keep up the pretense, but after Levi died…” Ó Dónaill shook his head. “I’m babbling. My apologies. I am distressed about the murders, but talk will cure nothing. So then, let us be forthright. You should know that I’m taking a short sabbatical.”
Síomón started. “Why, sir?”
“Let us call it a break in habit. Mathematics requires a suppleness of mind, and I hope to regain a certain flexibility, shall we say.” He shot Síomón a sharp glance. “Are you worried about your studies?”
“I hardly know, sir.”
Ó Dónaill nodded. “You are though. I can see it. However, do not fret. As I said, I’m taking a sabbatical, but I shan’t disappear from the university.”
He moved a heap of papers to one side of his desk. They contained rows and rows of calculations, Síomón noticed, as he glanced over them. Then his skin went cold as he recognized the complicated formulae. He had presented these same ones to Ó Dónaill the previous semester.
And he’d rejected them.
He glanced up to see Ó Dónaill studying him.
“How goes your research?” Ó Dónaill said.
“It goes … with difficulty, sir.”
“I warned you about that.”
“You did, sir.”
Síomón took another sip of coffee. He wondered if Ó Dónaill would admit to reviewing Síomón’s work, but the professor’s next comment was about a new monograph from a Frankish mathematician that had caused a stir. They discussed the theory a while. When Síomón finished his coffee, Ó Dónaill offered him more, but Síomón politely declined.
“Then I must beg your indulgence and bid you good day,” Ó Dónaill said. “I’ve stumbled upon an interesting line of research and would like to mark good progress before the day ends. But do come again, especially if you have questions concerning your research. I would not like it said that I abandoned my students. And speaking of that, I meant to ask before—how goes it with your sister?”
Síomón’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch at this change in topic. “Not well, sir. But the doctors are hopeful.”
Ó Dónaill shook his head. “Then we must hope, but it grieves me to see such promise lost.”
Their interview trailed off into commonplace exchanges, and Ó Dónaill’s repeated assurances that Síomón should not hesitate to come again if he had questions. Síomón descended the stairs, more dissatisfied with himself than before.
He took a footpath to the nearest gates, which opened onto Gúilidhe Square, a wide expanse paved with gray cobblestones, and fountains in each of the four corners. In the past two hours, the chill had vanished from the air, the sun had already burned away the fog, and the sky overhead had cleared to a pale blue, speckled with clouds. Here, outside the university grounds, motorcars and carriages choked the avenues bordering the plaza. The world in general appeared oblivious to the murders.
Síomón threaded his way directly across the square. He had just gained the northern edge, when a boy in a shabby coat thrust a newssheet at Síomón. “News! News of the day! Death in high places. Scandal in the capital.” Then as Simon shook his head, he added, “Just ten penny, sir.”
With a muttered curse for the boy’s persistence, Síomón paid the boy and stuffed the newssheet into his pocket. He had to get away from the traffic and the noise. As soon as he could break free, he hailed a cab.
“To Aonach Sanitarium,” he said, climbing inside the first one that approached.
“Right, sir.”
The cabbie maneuvered his horses and cab into the thoroughfare leading away from the square. Síomón settled back and pulled the newssheet from his pocket.
SENSATION IN COURT
, read the headlines. Doctor Breandan Reid Ó Cuilinn, a renowned scientist and the queen’s favorite, had plunged to his death from a balloon during an experiment. The cause for the balloon’s malfunction remained uncertain. The Queen’s Constabulary was conducting a thorough examination of the incident.
The rest of the article disappeared into hyperbole and incoherent smudges.
This has nothing to do with me,
Síomón thought, but he found his pulse beating faster at the mention of the Queen’s Constabulary. He crumpled the paper in his hand and looked out the cab’s window. As though to confirm the news, a line of blue messenger balloons glided north toward the capital in Osraighe and Cill Cannig. Aidrean Ó Deághaidh. A strangely unsettling man. Why had he quit his studies in mathematics? Did he regret working on this case of Awveline’s murdered students and not that of the queen’s lover?
The cab stopped abruptly. The cabbie swore. Ahead, voices rose in complaint, and someone shouted about a blockage. Síomón leaned out the window and saw a long motorcade creeping through the intersection ahead. Small pennants lined one automobile’s roof—the mark of a visiting dignitary.
Lord Ó Cadhla.
He drew back into the cab, feeling ill. Maeve’s father must have arrived by train that morning. Death in high places, indeed.
The noon bells rang, and still the traffic did not move. Síomón glanced at the newssheet, but he no longer had any desire to read about Court gossip. He stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket and closed his eyes to wait. The closed cab smelled strongly of sweat, old leather, and horse—it reminded him of the stables at home. Soon he was dozing and hardly noticed when the last vehicles in the motorcade passed by, and the lines of traffic oozed into motion.
He stood on a high peak, his gaze turned upward. Night had fallen. Glittering digits, like pinpricks of fire, stippled the dark skies. Síomón tilted back his head, trying to take in the entire number …
“Aonach Sanitarium,” bawled the cabbie, rapping against the cab’s roof.
Síomón jolted awake. Still groggy, he paid the cabbie and dealt with the gate guards. By the time he reached the main building, his head had cleared.
His visit was unexpected, however, and there was a delay before Doctor Loisg arrived in the lobby. The man frowned, obviously unhappy to see Síomón.
“Mr. Madóc. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but today is not your regular day. I’m not certain we can accommodate you.”
“I understand,” Síomón replied. “However, you’ve said more than once my visits are helpful. Is there a reason why I should not see my sister?”
Loisg frowned again. “I did say that. But she spent a somewhat restless night.…”
“Indulge me this once,” Síomón said. “I promise not to distress her.”
The other man studied him a long moment, his round face uncharacteristically pensive. “Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “Come with me.”
He dispatched a crew of orderlies to prepare Gwen Madóc for her visit, while he and Síomón followed at a much slower pace. He described the changes in Gwen’s behavior over the past day. She had left off reciting numbers, he said, his voice curiously distressed. She either wept or sat in dull silence, and when Loisg attempted to soothe her, she had struck him.
“We’ve installed an observation window,” Loisg told Síomón. “So that we can watch without your sister being aware. Just a precaution, you understand. Do you object?”
They had arrived at the third floor, to the visitation room itself. Síomón paused and searched Loisg’s face, but found only a doctor’s reasonable concern. “No. Not really.”
Loisg unlocked the room. Síomón proceeded alone. As always, he felt a jump of panic when the door closed behind him, and he heard the audible click of the lock.
Gwen sat underneath the windows, hands circling through the air as she murmured her numbers. She wore a simple, loose-fitting dress today, instead of her usual hospital gown, and someone had brushed and plaited her long fair hair. She appeared content, or at least absorbed, with no sign of the violence Loisg had described.
He scanned the room, noting the small observation window at the far end. No doubt Loisg was already stationed there, along with his orderlies. Telling himself that he had nothing to hide, and certainly not from his sister’s caretakers, Síomón eased around to a point opposite Gwen and lowered himself to the floor. Gwen seemed oblivious to his presence. She continued to gesture in those strange rhythmic patterns, her long fingers catching and stroking the air, as though weaving strands of light. “Seven,” she whispered. “Seven and thirteen and seventeen.”
She had returned to the early stages of her illness, when she recited only the simplest primes. He even recognized the old intensity in her whisper, as though her numbers represented words in a different language.…
Síomón’s skin prickled as he made the connection at last.
“Seven,” he said, when she paused. “That’s when our parents died.”
Gwen trembled, but did not look in his direction. “Thirteen. Seventeen.”
He remembered thirteen, when their uncle arranged a meeting with Glasfryn from Awveline University. Seven and thirteen. These were dates burned into Gwen’s memory, which even madness could not eradicate. But seventeen?
He glanced toward the observation window.
Witnesses be damned,
he thought and crossed the room to Gwen’s side. Gwen stiffened, her jaw working in sudden alarm. Síomón stopped a few paces away and knelt so that his face was level with hers.
“Nineteen,” he said softly.
Her eyes widened slightly. Síomón waited, hardly daring to breathe. His patience was rewarded when, at last, she whispered, “Twenty-nine.”
Keeping his voice calm, he repeated the number.
Again, he had another long wait before Gwen spoke. “Thirty-one,” she whispered. “Thirty-seven.”
Síomón drew a pencil and the newssheet from his jacket pocket. Gwen immediately tensed. He waited, motionless, until she calmed.