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Chapter Ten
To preserve the principles of their pupils they confine them to the safe and elegant imbecilities of classical learning. A genuine Oxford tutor would shudder to hear his young men disputing upon moral and political truth, forming and pulling down theories, and indulging in all the boldness of political discussion. He would augur nothing from it but impiety to God, and treason to Kings.
SYDNEY SMITH, ‘Edgeworth’s Professional Education’
Near the end of Michaelmas term that year, Griffin seemed to be around more than usual. Robin had been starting to wonder where he’d gone; since he’d got back from Malacca, his assignments had dropped from twice a month to once to none. But in December, Robin began to receive notes instructing him to meet Griffin outside the Twisted Root every few days, where they commenced their usual routine of walking frantically round the city. Usually these were preludes to planned thefts. But occasionally Griffin seemed to have no agenda in mind, and instead wanted only to chat. Robin eagerly awaited these talks; they were the only times when his brother seemed less mysterious, more human, more flesh and bone. But Griffin never answered the questions Robin really wanted to discuss, which were what Hermes did with the materials he helped steal, and how the revolution, if there was one, was proceeding. ‘I still don’t trust you,’ he would say. ‘You’re still too new.’ I don’t trust you either, Robin thought but didn’t say. Instead, he probed at things in a roundabout way. ‘How long has Hermes been around?’ Griffin shot him a droll look. ‘I know what you’re doing.’ ‘I just want to know if it’s a modern invention, or, or—’ ‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Decades at least, perhaps longer, but I’ve never found out. Why don’t you ask what you really want to know?’ ‘Because you won’t tell me.’
‘Try me.’ ‘Fine. Then if it’s been around for longer, I can’t understand . . .’ ‘You can’t see why we haven’t won already. Is that it?’ ‘No. I just don’t see what difference it makes,’ said Robin. ‘Babel is – Babel. And you’re just—’ ‘A small cluster of exiled scholars chipping away at the behemoth?’ Griffin supplied. ‘Say what you mean, brother, don’t dither.’ ‘I was going to say “massively outnumbered idealists”, but yes. I mean – please, Griffin, it’s just hard to keep faith when it’s unclear what effect there is to anything I do.’ Griffin slowed his pace. He was silent for a few seconds, considering, and then he said, ‘I’m going to paint you a picture. Where does silver come
from?’
‘Griffin, honestly—’
‘Indulge me.’ ‘I’ve got class in ten minutes.’ ‘And it’s not a simple answer. Craft won’t throw you out for being late just once. Where does silver come from?’ ‘I don’t know. Mines?’ Griffin sighed heavily. ‘Don’t they teach you anything?’ ‘Griffin—’ ‘Just listen. Silver’s been around forever. The Athenians were mining it in Attica, and the Romans, as you know, used silver to expand their empire once they realized what it could do. But silver didn’t become international currency, didn’t facilitate a trade network spanning continents, until much later. There simply wasn’t enough of it. Then in the sixteenth century, the Hapsburgs – the first truly global empire – stumbled upon massive silver deposits in the Andes. The Spaniards brought it out of the mountains, courtesy of indigenous miners you can be certain weren’t paid fairly for their * labour,and minted it into their little pieces of eight, which brought riches flowing into Seville and Madrid. ‘Silver made them rich – rich enough to buy printed cotton cloth from India, which they used to pay for bound slaves from Africa, who they put to work on plantations in their colonies. So the Spanish become richer and
richer, and everywhere they go they leave death, slavery, and impoverishment in their wake. You see the patterns so far, surely?’ Griffin, when lecturing, bore a peculiar resemblance to Professor Lovell.
Both made very sharp gestures with their hands, as if punctuating their lengthy diatribes with hand movements instead of full stops, and both spoke in a very precise, syncopated manner. They also shared a fondness for Socratic questioning. ‘Jump forward two hundred years, and what do you have?’ Robin sighed, but played along. ‘All the silver, and all the power, flows from the New World to Europe.’ ‘Right,’ said Griffin. ‘Silver accrues where it’s already in use. The Spanish held the lead for a long time, while the Dutch, British, and French were nipping at their heels. Jump ahead another century, and Spain’s a shadow of what it once was; the Napoleonic wars have eroded France’s power, and now glorious Britannia is on top. Largest silver reserves in Europe. Best translation institute in the world by far. The best navy on the seas, cemented after Trafalgar, meaning this island is well on its way to ruling the world, isn’t it? But something funny’s been happening over the last century. Something that’s been giving Parliament and all the British trading companies quite a headache. Can you guess what it is?’ ‘Don’t tell me we’re running out of silver.’ Griffin grinned. ‘They’re running out of silver. Can you guess where it’s all flowing now?’ This Robin knew the answer to, only because he’d heard Professor Lovell and his friends complaining about it for years during those sitting room nights in Hampstead. ‘China.’ ‘China. This country is gorging itself on imports from the Orient. They can’t get enough of China’s porcelain, lacquered cabinets, and silks. And tea.
Heavens. Do you know how much tea gets exported from China to England every year? At least thirty million pounds’ worth. The British love tea so much that Parliament used to insist that the East India Company always keep a year’s worth of supply in stock in case of shortages. We spend millions and millions on tea from China every year, and we pay for it in silver. ‘But China has no reciprocal appetite for British goods. When the Qianlong Emperor received a display of British manufactured items from Lord Macartney, do you know what his response was? Strange and costly
objects do not interest me. The Chinese don’t need anything we’re selling; they can produce everything they want on their own. So silver keeps flowing to China, and there’s nothing the British can do about it because they can’t alter supply and demand. One day it won’t matter how much translation talent we have, because the silver reserves will simply not exist to put it to use.
The British Empire will crumble as a consequence of its own greed.
Meanwhile, silver will accrue in new centres of power – places that have heretofore had their resources stolen and exploited. They’ll have the raw materials. All they’ll need then are silver-workers, and the talent will go where the work is; it always does. So it’s all as simple as running out the Empire. The cycles of history will do the rest, and you’ve only got to help us speed it along.’ ‘But that’s . . .’ Robin trailed off, struggling to find the words to phrase his objection. ‘That’s so abstract, so simple, it can’t possibly – I mean, certainly you can’t predict history like this with such broad strokes—’ ‘There’s quite a lot you can predict.’ Griffin shot Robin a sideways look. ‘But that’s the problem with a Babel education, isn’t it? They teach you languages and translation, but never history, never science, never international politics. They don’t tell you about the armies that back dialects.’ ‘But what does it all look like?’ Robin persisted. ‘What you’re describing, I mean – how is this going to come about? A global war? A slow economic decline until the world looks entirely different?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Griffin. ‘No one knows precisely what the future looks like. Whether the levers of power move to China, or to the Americas, or whether Britain’s going to fight tooth and nail to hold on to its place – that’s impossible to foretell.’ ‘Then how do you know that what you’re doing has any effect?’ ‘I can’t predict how every encounter will shake out,’ Griffin clarified. ‘But I do know this. The wealth of Britain depends on coercive extraction.
And as Britain grows, only two options remain: either her mechanisms of coercion become vastly more brutal, or she collapses. The former’s more likely. But it might bring about the latter.’ ‘It’s such an uneven fight, though,’ Robin said helplessly. ‘You on one side, the whole of the Empire on the other.’
‘Only if you think the Empire is inevitable,’ said Griffin. ‘But it’s not.
Take this current moment. We are just at the tail end of a great crisis in the Atlantic, after the monarchic empires have fallen one after the other. Britain and France lost in America, and then they went to war against each other to nobody’s benefit. Now we’re watching a new consolidation of power, that’s true – Britain got Bengal, it got Dutch Java and the Cape Colony – and if it gets what it wants in China, if it can reverse this trade imbalance, it’s going to be unstoppable. ‘But nothing’s written in stone – or even silver, as it were. So much rests on these contingencies, and it’s at these tipping points where we can push and pull. Where individual choices, where even the smallest of resistance armies make a difference. Take Barbados, for example. Take Jamaica. We sent bars there to the revolts—’ ‘Those slave revolts were crushed,’ said Robin. ‘But slavery’s been abolished, hasn’t it?’ said Griffin. ‘At least in British territories. No – I’m not saying everything’s good and fixed, and I’m not saying we can fully take the credit for British legislation; I’m sure the abolitionists would take umbrage at that. But I am saying that if you think the 1833 Act passed because of the moral sensibilities of the British, you’re wrong. They passed that bill because they couldn’t keep absorbing the losses.’ He waved a hand, gesturing at an invisible map. ‘It’s junctures like that where we have control. If we push in the right spots – if we create losses where the Empire can’t stand to suffer them – then we’ve moved things to the breaking point. Then the future becomes fluid, and change is possible.
History isn’t a premade tapestry that we’ve got to suffer, a closed world with no exit. We can form it. Make it. We just have to choose to make it.’ ‘You really believe that,’ said Robin, amazed. Griffin’s faith astounded him. For Robin, such abstract reasoning was a reason to divest from the world, to retreat into the safety of dead languages and books. For Griffin, it was a rallying call. ‘I have to,’ said Griffin. ‘Otherwise, you’re right. Otherwise we’ve got nothing.’
After that conversation, Griffin seemed to have decided Robin wasn’t about to betray the Hermes Society, for Robin’s assignments vastly increased in
number. Not all of his missions involved theft. More often Griffin made requests for materials – etymological handbooks, Grammatica pages, orthography charts – which were easily acquired, copied out, and returned without drawing attention. Still, he had to be clever with when and how he took the books out, as he’d attract suspicion if he kept sneaking away materials unrelated to his focus areas. One time Ilse, the upperclassman from Japan, demanded to know what he was doing with the Old German Grammatica, and he had to stammer out a story about pulling the title by accident in the course of trying to trace a Chinese word back to Hittite origins. No matter that he was at the entirely wrong section of the library. Ilse seemed ready to believe he was simply that dim.
By and large, Griffin’s requests were painless. It was all less romantic than Robin had imagined – and, perhaps, hoped for. There were no thrilling escapades or coded conversations spoken on bridges over running water. It was all so mundane. The great achievement of the Hermes Society, Robin learned, was how effectively it rendered itself invisible, how completely it concealed information even from its members. If one day Griffin disappeared, then Robin would be hard-pressed to prove to anyone the Hermes Society ever existed except as a figment of his imagination. He often felt that he wasn’t a part of a secret society at all, but rather of a large, boring bureaucracy that functioned with exquisite coordination.
Even the thefts became routine. Babel’s professors, it seemed, seemed wholly unaware that anything was being stolen at all. The Hermes Society took silver only in amounts small enough to mask with some accounting trickery, for the virtue of a humanities department, Griffin explained, was that everyone was hopeless with numbers. ‘Playfair would let entire crates of silver disappear if no one checked him,’ he told Robin. ‘Do you think he keeps tidy books? The man can barely add figures in two digits.’ Some days Griffin did not mention Hermes at all, but instead spent the hour it took to reach Port Meadow and back inquiring about Robin’s life at Oxford – his rowing exploits, his favourite bookshops, his thoughts on the food in hall and in the Buttery.
Robin answered cautiously. He kept waiting for the ball to drop, for Griffin to spin this conversation into an argument, for his own preference for plain scones to become the proof of his infatuation with the bourgeoisie. But
Griffin only kept asking, and gradually it dawned on Robin that perhaps Griffin just missed being a student. ‘I do love the campus at Christmastime,’ said Griffin one night. ‘It’s the season when Oxford leans most into the magic of itself.’ The sun had set. The air had gone from pleasantly chilly to bone-cuttingly cold, but the city was bright with Christmas candles, and a light trickle of snow floated down around them. It was lovely. Robin slowed his pace, wanting to savour the scene, but Griffin, he noticed, was shivering madly. ‘Griffin, don’t . . .’ Robin hesitated; he didn’t know how to ask politely. ‘Is that the only coat you have?’ Griffin recoiled like a dog rising on its hackles. ‘Why?’ ‘It’s just – I’ve got a stipend, if you wanted to buy something warmer—’ ‘Don’t patronize me.’ Robin regretted instantly that he’d ever brought it up. Griffin was too proud. He could take no charity; he could not even take
sympathy. ‘I don’t need your money.’ ‘Suit yourself,’ said Robin, wounded.
They walked for another block in silence. Then Griffin asked, in an obvious attempt at an olive branch, ‘What’s on for Christmas?’ ‘First there’ll be dinner in hall.’ ‘So endless Latin prayers, rubber goose, and a Christmas pudding that’s indistinguishable from pig slop. What’s really on?’ Robin grinned. ‘Mrs Piper has some pies waiting for me in Jericho.’ ‘Steak and kidney?’ ‘Chicken and leek. My favourite. And a lemon tart for Letty, and a chocolate pecan dessert pie for Ramy and Victoire—’ ‘Bless your Mrs Piper,’ Griffin said. ‘The professor had some frigid crone named Mrs Peterhouse in my time. Couldn’t cook to save her life, no, but always remembered to say something about half-breeds whenever I was in earshot. He didn’t like that either, though; I suppose that’s why he let her go.’ They turned left onto Cornmarket. They were very near the tower now, and Griffin seemed fidgety; Robin suspected they would soon part ways. ‘Before I forget.’ Griffin reached into his coat, pulled out a wrapped parcel, and tossed it at Robin. ‘I got you something.’ Surprised, Robin pulled at the string. ‘A tool?’ ‘Just a present. Merry Christmas.’
Robin tore away the paper, which revealed a lovely, freshly printed volume. ‘You said you liked Dickens,’ said Griffin. ‘They’d just bound the serialization of his latest – you might have already read it, but I thought you’d like it all in one piece.’ He’d bought Robin the three-volume set of Oliver Twist. For a moment Robin could only stammer – he hadn’t known they were exchanging gifts, he hadn’t bought anything for Griffin – but Griffin waved this off. ‘That’s all right, I’m older than you, don’t embarrass me.’ Only later, after Griffin had disappeared down Broad Street, coat flapping around his ankles, would Robin realize this selection had been Griffin’s idea of a joke.
Come back with me, he almost said when they parted. Come to hall.
Come back and have Christmas dinner.
But that was impossible. Robin’s life was split into two, and Griffin existed in the shadow world, hidden from sight. Robin could never bring him back to Magpie Lane. Could never introduce him to his friends. Could never, in daylight, call him brother. ‘Well.’ Griffin cleared his throat. ‘Next time, then.’ ‘When will that be?’ ‘Don’t know yet.’ He was already walking away, snow filling in his footsteps. ‘Watch your window.’
On the first day of Hilary term, the main entrance to Babel was blocked off by four armed policemen. They appeared to be engaged with someone or something inside, though whatever it was, Robin could not see over the crowd of shivering scholars. ‘What’s happened?’ Ramy asked the girls. ‘They’re saying it was a break-in,’ said Victoire. ‘Someone wanted to pilfer some silver, I suppose.’ ‘So what, the police were here at precisely the right time?’ asked Robin. ‘He set off some alarm when he tried to get through the door,’ said Letty. ‘And the police, I think, came quickly.’ A fifth and sixth policeman emerged from the building, dragging the man Robin assumed was the thief between them. He was middle-aged, dark- haired, bearded, and dressed in very grimy clothes. Not Hermes, then, Robin
thought with some relief. The thief’s face was contorted in pain, and his moans floated over the crowd as the police pulled him down the steps towards a waiting cab. They left a streak of blood on the cobblestones behind them. ‘He’s got about five bullets in him.’ Anthony Ribben appeared beside them. He looked like he might vomit. ‘Nice to see the wards are working, I
suppose.’ Robin balked. ‘Wards did that?’ ‘The tower’s protected by the most sophisticated security system in the country,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s not just the Grammaticas that are guarded.
There’s about half a million pounds’ worth of silver in this building, and only spindly academics around to defend it. Of course the doors are warded.’ Robin’s heart was beating very quickly; he could hear it in his eardrums. ‘By what?’ ‘They never tell us the match-pairs; they’re very private about it. Playfair updates them every few months, which is about as often as someone attempts a theft. I must say, I like this set much better – the last set tore gaping wounds in the trespasser’s limbs using ancient knives rumoured to be from Alexandria. It got blood all over the inside carpet; you can still see the brown spots if you look carefully. We spent weeks guessing which words Playfair used, but no one’s been able to crack it.’ Victoire’s eyes followed the departing cab. ‘What do you think will happen to him?’ ‘Oh, he’ll probably be on the first ship to Australia,’ said Anthony. ‘Provided he doesn’t bleed out on the way to the courthouse.’
‘Routine pickup,’ said Griffin. ‘In and out – you won’t even see we’re there.
The timing’s a bit tricky, though, so be on call all night.’ He nudged Robin’s
shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’
Robin blinked and glanced up. ‘Hm?’ ‘You look spooked.’ ‘I just . . .’ Robin deliberated for a moment, then blurted, ‘You know
about the wards, right?’ ‘What?’ ‘We saw a man break in this morning. And the wards, they triggered some sort of gun, and it shot him full of bullets—’
‘Well, of course.’ Griffin looked puzzled. ‘Don’t tell me that’s news to you. Babel’s got ridiculous wards – didn’t they rub that into your faces during the first week?’ ‘They’ve updated them, though. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, they can tell when a thief’s walking through now—’ ‘The bars aren’t that sophisticated,’ Griffin said dismissively. ‘They’re designed to discriminate between students, their guests, and strangers to the Institute. What do you think would happen if the traps sprang on a translator who needed to take some bars home overnight? Or someone bringing his wife to the department without first clearing it with Playfair? You’re completely safe.’ ‘But how do you know?’ Robin sounded more petulant than he’d intended. He cleared his throat, tried to deepen his voice without being obvious about it. ‘You didn’t see what I saw, you don’t know what the new match-pairs are—’ ‘You’re in no danger. Here – take this, if you’re worried.’ Griffin rummaged in his pocket, then tossed Robin a bar. Wúxíng, it read. Invisible.
It was the same bar he’d used the first night they met. ‘For a quick getaway,’ said Griffin. ‘If things really do go wrong. And you might need to use it on your comrades regardless – it’s hard to get a chest that size out of the city unseen.’ Robin slid the bar into his inner pocket. ‘You could be less flippant about all this, you know.’ Griffin’s lip curled. ‘What, now is when you’re scared?’ ‘It’s just . . .’ Robin considered for a moment, shook his head, then decided to say it. ‘It just feels like – I mean, I’m the one who’s always at
risk, while you’re just—’ ‘Just what?’ Griffin asked sharply.
He’d strayed into dangerous territory. He knew, from the way Griffin’s eyes flashed, he’d wandered too close to where it hurt. A month ago, when their relationship was more precarious, he might have changed the subject.
But he couldn’t hold his silence now. He felt irritated and belittled just then, and with that came a hot desire to hurt. ‘Why aren’t you coming on this one?’ he asked. ‘Why can’t you use the bar yourself?’
Griffin blinked slowly. Then he said, in a tone so level it must have been
forced, ‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I don’t dream in Chinese.’ His expression did not change, nor did his tone, but the condescending fury seeped through his words nonetheless. Watching him speak then was uncanny. He looked so like their father. ‘I’m your failed predecessor, you see. Dear old Papa took me out of the country too early. I’ve got a natural ear for tones, but that’s it. My fluency is largely artificial. I don’t have memories in Chinese. I don’t dream in it.
I’ve got the recall, I’ve got the language skills, but I can’t reliably make the bars work. Half the time they do nothing at all.’ His throat pulsed. ‘Our father got it right with you. He left you to ferment until you were literate. But he brought me here before I’d formed enough connections, enough memories.
What’s more, he was the only person I ever spoke Mandarin with, when my Cantonese was far better to begin with. And that’s lost now. I don’t think in it, and I certainly don’t dream in it.’ Robin thought of the thieves in the alley, of Griffin’s desperate whispers as he tried to make them disappear. What would he do if he’d lost his own Chinese? The very idea filled him with horror. ‘You get it,’ Griffin said, watching him. ‘You know how it feels for your native tongue to slip away. You caught it in time. I didn’t.’ ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Robin. ‘I didn’t know.’ ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Griffin said drily. ‘You didn’t ruin my life.’ Robin could see Oxford now through Griffin’s eyes – an institution that never valued him, that had only ever ostracized and belittled him. He imagined Griffin coming up through Babel, trying desperately to win Professor Lovell’s approval, but never able to get the silver to work consistently. How awful it would have felt to reach for flimsy Chinese from a barely remembered life, knowing full well that it was the only thing that gave him value here.
Small wonder Griffin was furious. Small wonder he hated Babel with such vehemence. Griffin had been robbed of everything – a mother tongue, a motherland, a family. ‘So I need you, darling brother.’ Griffin reached out, ruffled his hair. His touch was so forceful it hurt. ‘You’re the real thing. You’re indispensable.’ Robin knew better than to respond.
‘Keep an eye on your window.’ There was no warmth in Griffin’s eyes. ‘Things are moving fast. And this one’s important.’ Robin swallowed his objections and nodded. ‘Right.’
One week later, Robin came back from dinner with Professor Lovell to find the scrap of paper he’d been dreading wedged under his window.
Tonight, it read. Eleven.
It was already 10.45. Robin hastily threw on the coat he’d just hung up, grabbed the wúxíng bar out of his drawer, and dashed back out into the rain.
He checked the back of the note for other details as he walked, but Griffin had included no further instructions. This wasn’t necessarily a problem – Robin assumed this meant he should simply let whatever accomplices showed up in and out of the tower – but the hour was surprisingly early, and he realized belatedly that he hadn’t brought anything with him – no books, no satchel, not even an umbrella – that would justify a late-night trip to the tower.
But he couldn’t fail to show at all. As the bells struck eleven, he dashed across the green and yanked the door open. This was nothing he hadn’t done a dozen times before – open sesame, close sesame, and stay out of the way.
As long as Robin’s blood was stored in those stone walls, the wards shouldn’t sound.
Two Hermes operatives followed him through and disappeared up the stairs. Robin hung out by the foyer as usual, keeping an eye out for nocturnal scholars, counting down the seconds until it was time to leave. At five past eleven, the Hermes operatives hurried downstairs. One of them carried a set of engraving tools, the other a chest of silver bars. ‘Well done,’ whispered one. ‘Let’s go.’ Robin nodded and opened the door to let them out. The moment they stepped foot over the barrier, an awful cacophony split the air – a screaming, a howling, the grinding of metal gears in some invisible mechanism. It was a threat and a warning, the hybrid of ancient horror and the modern capacity for spilling blood. Behind them, the panels in the door shifted, revealing a dark cavity within.
Without another word, the Hermes operatives dashed towards the green.
Robin hesitated, trying to decide whether to follow. He might get away – the trap was loud, but seemed slow-acting. He glanced down and saw both
his feet were planted squarely on the university’s coat of arms. Suppose the ward was only triggered if he stepped off?
One way to find out. He took a deep breath, then dashed down the stairs.
He heard a bang, then felt a searing pain in his left arm. He couldn’t tell where he’d been hit. The pain seemed to come from everywhere, less a singular wound and more a burning agony that spread through his entire arm.
It was on fire, it was exploding, the whole limb was going to fall off. He kept running. Bullets fired into the air behind him. He ducked and jumped at random; he’d read somewhere this was how to dodge gunshots, but had no idea if it was true. He heard more bangs, but felt no corresponding explosions of pain. He made it down the length of the green and turned left onto Broad Street, out of sight and out of range.
Then the pain and fear caught up with him. His knees shook. He took two more steps and collapsed against the wall, fighting the urge to vomit. His head swam. He couldn’t outrun the police if they came. Not like this, not with blood dripping down his arm and black creeping at the edges of his vision.
Focus. He fumbled for the bar in his pocket. His left hand was slippery, dark with blood; the very sight set off another wave of vertigo. ‘Wúxíng,’ he whispered frantically, trying to concentrate, to imagine the world in Chinese. He was nothing. He was formless. ‘Invisible.’ It didn’t work. He couldn’t make it work; he couldn’t switch modes to Chinese when all he could think about was the awful pain. ‘Hey there! You – stop!’ It was Professor Playfair. Robin flinched, prepared for the worst, but the professor’s face creased into a warm, concerned smile. ‘Oh, hello, Swift.
Didn’t realize that was you. Are you quite all right? There’s a ruckus on at the building.’ ‘Professor, I . . .’ Robin hadn’t the faintest clue what to say, so he decided it was best just to babble. ‘I don’t – I was near it, but I don’t know if . . .’ ‘Did you see anyone?’ asked Professor Playfair. ‘The wards are meant to shoot the intruder, you know, but the gears seem to have stuck after last time.
Might have still hit him, though – did you see anyone with a limp, anyone who looked like they were in pain?’ ‘No, I didn’t – I was almost to the green when the alarms went off, but I hadn’t turned the corner.’ Was Professor Playfair nodding in sympathy?
Robin hardly dared believe his luck. ‘Is it – was there a thief?’ ‘Perhaps not. Don’t you worry.’ Professor Playfair reached out and patted him on the shoulder. The impact sent another horrible wave of pain through his whole upper body, and Robin clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. ‘The wards get finicky sometimes – perhaps it’s time to replace them. Pity, I liked this version. Are you all right?’ Robin nodded and blinked, trying his hardest to keep his voice level. ‘Just scared, I suppose – I mean, after what we saw last week . . .’ ‘Ah, right. Awful, wasn’t it? Nice to know that my little idea worked, though. They wouldn’t even let me test it out on dogs beforehand. Good thing it wasn’t you it malfunctioned on.’ Professor Playfair barked out a laugh. ‘Might have pumped you full of lead.’ ‘Right,’ Robin said weakly. ‘So . . . so glad.’ ‘You’re fine. Have a whisky with hot water, that’ll help with the shock.’ ‘Yes, I think . . . I think that sounds nice.’ Robin turned to go. ‘Didn’t you say you were on your way in?’ Professor Playfair asked.
Robin had this lie ready. ‘I was feeling anxious, so I thought I would get a head start on a paper for Professor Lovell. But I’m a bit shaken up, and I don’t think I’ll do any good work if I start now, so I think I’d rather just head to bed.’ ‘Of course.’ Professor Playfair patted his shoulder again. It felt more forceful this time; Robin’s eyes bulged. ‘Richard would say you’re being lazy, but I quite understand. You’re still only in your second year, you can afford to be lazy. Go home and sleep.’ Professor Playfair gave him a last cheerful nod and strolled off towards the tower, where the alarms were still wailing. Robin took a deep breath and hobbled away, striving with all his might not to collapse on the street.
Somehow he made it back to Magpie Lane. The bleeding still had not stopped, but after wiping his arm with a wet towel, he saw to his relief that the bullet had not lodged in his arm. It had only grazed a notch into the flesh above his elbow, about a third of an inch deep. The wound looked reassuringly small when he wiped the blood away. He didn’t know how to dress it properly – he imagined it might involve a needle and thread – but it would be foolish to go and seek the college nurse at this hour.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, trying to remember what useful advice he’d picked up from adventure novels. Alcohol – he needed to disinfect the wound. He rummaged around his shelves until he found a half- empty bottle of brandy, a Christmas gift from Victoire. He dribbled it over his arm, hissing from the sting, then swallowed down several mouthfuls for good measure. Next he found a clean shirt, which he ripped up to make bandages. These he wrapped tightly around his arm using his teeth – he’d read that pressure helped stanch the bleeding. He didn’t know what else he ought to do. Should he simply wait, now, for the wound to close up on its own?
His head swam. Was he dizzy from blood loss, or was that only the brandy at work?
Find Ramy, he thought. Find Ramy, he’ll help.
No. Calling on Ramy would implicate him. Robin would die before he jeopardized Ramy.
He sat against the wall, head tilted towards the roof, and took several deep breaths. He just had to get through this night. It took several shirts – he’d have to go to the tailor, make up some story about a laundry disaster – but eventually, the bleeding was stemmed. At last, exhausted, he slumped over and fell asleep.
The next day, after wincing through three hours of class, Robin went to the medical library and rooted through the stacks until he found a physician’s handbook on field wounds. Then he went to Corn Market, bought a needle and thread, and hurried home to suture his arm back together.
He lit a candle, sterilized the needle over the flame, and after many fumbled tries, managed to thread it. Then he sat down and held the sharp point above his raw, wounded flesh.
He couldn’t do it. He kept bringing the needle close to the wound and then, anticipating the pain, pulling it away. He reached for the brandy and took three massive gulps. He waited several minutes until the alcohol had settled nicely in his stomach and his extremities had begun tingling pleasantly. This was where he needed to be – dull enough to not mind the pain, alert enough to sew himself together. He tried again. It was easier this time, though he still had to stop to jam a wadded cloth in his mouth to keep from yelling. At last he made the final stitch. His forehead dripped with
sweat; tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Somehow, he found the strength to snip the thread, tie the sutures off with his teeth, and toss the bloody needle into the sink. Then he collapsed back on his bed and, curling onto his side, finished the rest of the bottle.
Griffin was not in touch that night.
Robin knew it was foolish to expect he would be. Griffin, upon learning what had happened, would likely have gone underground, and for good reason. Robin wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t hear from Griffin for an entire term. Still, he felt an overwhelming, black wave of resentment.
He’d told Griffin this would happen. He’d warned him, he’d told him exactly what he’d seen. This had been utterly avoidable.
He wanted their next meeting to happen sooner just so he could yell at him, say he’d told him so, that Griffin should have listened. That if Griffin weren’t so arrogant, perhaps his little brother wouldn’t have a line of messy stitches up his arm. But the appointment didn’t come. Griffin left no notes in his window the next night, or the night after. He seemed to have disappeared without a trace from Oxford, leaving Robin with no way of contacting him or Hermes at all.
He couldn’t talk to Griffin. Couldn’t confide in Victoire, Letty, or Ramy.
He had only himself for company that night, crying miserably over the empty bottle while his arm throbbed. And for the first time since he’d arrived at Oxford, Robin felt truly alone.
