“You’re cold,” Caleb accused her, frowning at her wind-blanched face. “Why are you wearing such flimsy gloves and a cheap coat?”
Because I earn less than you, thanks to our different genitals,Amelia thought darkly. And because she’d not been raised in poverty like he had, and therefore didn’t feel a great desire to spend most of those earnings on fancy clothes and other outward shows of success. But a busy train station was hardly theplace for such deep conversation, so she answered with a lesser truth instead. “Because I visited the bookstore before the clothier. Where is Miss Tunnicliffe?”
“I don’t know, I got here after you.”
Amelia gave him an incredulous look. Just then, someone called out, “Yoo-hoo! Professors!”
They half turned to see Vanity Tunnicliffe waving to them from beside a stack of pink luggage. She looked far more keen about the journey ahead than any intelligent person had the right to be.
“Oh God, don’t make me,” Caleb grumbled under his breath. “Meely, sweetheart, tell them I caught tuberculosis and had to go home to bed.”
“Sh,” Amelia whispered, striding forward so he would have to follow.
As they approached Vanity, the girl’s grin expanded beyond all hitherto known laws of physics. “I was worried you weren’t going to come,” she said in her pseudo-rich accent. “Are we excited? I’m excited! It’s very exciting!”
“Indeed,” Amelia lied politely. Beside her, Caleb set down both their suitcases and began removing one of his fur-lined leather gloves.
“So exciting,” Vanity reiterated. Leaning forward, she confided, “This is my first field trip.”
“Really?” Amelia said, affecting surprise. Caleb took her right hand and began pulling his glove onto it, directly over the black kid glove already there, muttering all the while about her dying of pneumonia and thus abandoning him in the untamed wilds of Cumbria. “We’re pleased to have you with us,” she told Vanity, smiling.
“Oh! Oh!” Vanity responded delightedly. “We’re going to have so much fun! Let me introduce the other member of our team.”
She gestured at a large, dour-faced man standing to attention a few steps away. He appeared to be in his forties and possessed more hair above his lip than anywhere else on his head. If he knew the concept of “fun,” he clearly did not like it.
“This is Sergeant Jack Sheffield,” Vanity said. “He’s been seconded from the army to provide security for our assignment.”
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Amelia said.
“Hello,” Caleb said.
Sheffield nodded in response.
“So are we all ready?” Vanity asked. “Packed warm underwear? Updated your wills?”
“I beg your pardon?” Caleb paused in wrangling his second glove onto Amelia’s left hand to stare at the girl suspiciously. “Our wills? Why?”
“We’ll be dealing withmagical antiques,” Vanity explained slowly, as if they’d never taken a history class before. “Magic is dangerous!”
“Only rarely,” Amelia assured her. “And not so much with manufactured items. Even if something is constructed from a metal or animal material containing a significant amount of thaumaturgic conjures, that energy invariably dissipates at an exponential rate.”
Vanity digested this silently. But just as Amelia was drawing in breath to offer a more high school–level version of the explanation, the girl said, “So it’s like a rich man on a first date: all flash and no follow-through.”
Caleb appeared to choke on his saliva. Amelia, however, managed to keep a straight face. “Hm, yes, that’s a good analogy.Magic seldom lasts long in artifacts, which is why we don’t generally have people running around with weapons made from enchanted candlesticks. Sometimes itdoeslast, though, and in that case our job is to study it, then ensure the item is secured before the wrong person takes it to sell on the black market. All manner of villains are willing to pay a fortune to get their hands on magic, which they’ll use for nefarious reasons—”
“Such as publishing a report about it before we can,” Caleb said, grinning.
Amelia cast him a brief frown. “Such as assassinating the Queen by use of a thaumaturgic iron poker—”
“Even though a regular iron poker would be just as effective,” Caleb interjected.
Amelia’s frown darkened. Giving up her explanation before Caleb turned it completely into a game, she tried a new angle. “Of course, in the natural world things can be more dangerous, such as with magical birds—”
Now Vanity was the one to interrupt. “Ooh, did you see that contest for Birder of the Year? So exciting! Professor Lockley is just dreamy.”
Amelia said nothing, very carefully. She could only too well imagine Vanity’s response upon learning that Devon Lockley was her cousin. The girl might well perish from an overload of enthusiasm.
“According to Mr. Hunt,” Vanity said, “magical antiques can cause damage to the very fabric of time, killing us all instantly—and slowly—and a hundred years in the future. Because, you know—”
