pâtissier, a pastry chef. I supply all the best hotels in Londinium.”
“Paris trained?” It wouldn’t surprise me. The small cakes and pastries I’d tried had been superb.
Somers inclined his head. “I am. I keep trying to tell Mr. Pearse he should sell my goods in here. Increase his trade, and send his customers to me to buy by the dozen.”
“So he should,” I agreed, much struck. “It would save me the walk next door each morning. I’m all for things that would save me trouble.”
One regular I hadn’t yet seen was Mr. Pearse’s favorite. Professor Winter of the Britannic Imperium Museum and University College was away in Aegypt for the winter on an archaeological expedition. He would return in spring.
Winter, eh? That was the Gallowglass family name, and not one to ignore. This professor had to be the House man who was something or other to do at the museum, the one the publican had mentioned. The one whose guard had pointed harquebuses into the faces of innocent passersby who happened to have rounded the corner into Museum Street at an inopportune moment.
But since the man was evidently well in with Mr. Pearse, I made no comment about the sort of person who employs trigger-happy guards to frighten the local populace. “An archaeologist? Don’t tell me. He’s ninety, doddery, and eccentric.”
“Not quite so old.” And Mr. Pearse smiled. He sighed, and for a moment he looked strained, as if something worried at him. “I’ll be glad when Ned gets home,” he said, half to himself.
“Seventy, then. I’ll wager he keeps bones in his bedroom.”
I was glad to see the anxious look disappear and Mr. Pearse’s smile broaden. “He’s never mentioned them if he does. He does have bodies in the cellars, though, over at the museum and the university.”
“Lovely,” I said and rolled my eyes.
All in all, I was enchanted with the coffeehouse. It kept me from fading into a real decline. You know, I hadn’t realized such comfortable, homelike places still existed in the world. I’d forgotten, in fact, what “home” meant. Pearse’s reminded me.
T HE COFFEEHOUSE stayed open until late, but I usually returned to my room at the Stravaigor hostel as dusk fell to spend an hour or two before the fire with a book on my knees. Sometimes my eyes were well enough to allow me to read it, so long as I shaded the lamp and angled the book carefully. Odd that I embraced scientific developments in some areas, notably my wonderful aeroships, but I still preferred an old-fashioned book to a datareader screen. I knew all the arguments for the convenience of datareaders—and, indeed, I owned one—but I loved the feel of paper and leather bindings. Hopelessly out-of-date.
At around eight, I ventured out to find somewhere to dine in one of the local chophouses, where the photon globes were usually dimmed to hide the poor quality of the food offered to the customers. I ate occasionally in one of the grander restaurants on Oxford Street, but these were often more brightly lit with great globes of aether hanging from the ceilings. A couple of hours in the strong light would have my eyes stinging and watering, and my head aching.
After dinner came play. Not every night, of course, but three or four times a week, I looked for some companionship.
I went back to Margrethe’s twice over late November and early December. I didn’t, of course, expect to see Edward Fairfax there since he’d been so careful to tell me he would be away for some time, but I had two very enjoyable evenings nonetheless. Neither of those were anything but casual liaisons with pleasant-enough men who wanted no more than a night’s entertainment. Margrethe’s, though, could be only an occasional treat, given the costs. I was very cautious with my funds in a most un-Lancastrian way.
Luckily for me, though, more of my old haunts still thrived than I could ever have expected. They may have been a little quiet following the shock of the
“Paris trained?” It wouldn’t surprise me. The small cakes and pastries I’d tried had been superb.
Somers inclined his head. “I am. I keep trying to tell Mr. Pearse he should sell my goods in here. Increase his trade, and send his customers to me to buy by the dozen.”
“So he should,” I agreed, much struck. “It would save me the walk next door each morning. I’m all for things that would save me trouble.”
One regular I hadn’t yet seen was Mr. Pearse’s favorite. Professor Winter of the Britannic Imperium Museum and University College was away in Aegypt for the winter on an archaeological expedition. He would return in spring.
Winter, eh? That was the Gallowglass family name, and not one to ignore. This professor had to be the House man who was something or other to do at the museum, the one the publican had mentioned. The one whose guard had pointed harquebuses into the faces of innocent passersby who happened to have rounded the corner into Museum Street at an inopportune moment.
But since the man was evidently well in with Mr. Pearse, I made no comment about the sort of person who employs trigger-happy guards to frighten the local populace. “An archaeologist? Don’t tell me. He’s ninety, doddery, and eccentric.”
“Not quite so old.” And Mr. Pearse smiled. He sighed, and for a moment he looked strained, as if something worried at him. “I’ll be glad when Ned gets home,” he said, half to himself.
“Seventy, then. I’ll wager he keeps bones in his bedroom.”
I was glad to see the anxious look disappear and Mr. Pearse’s smile broaden. “He’s never mentioned them if he does. He does have bodies in the cellars, though, over at the museum and the university.”
“Lovely,” I said and rolled my eyes.
All in all, I was enchanted with the coffeehouse. It kept me from fading into a real decline. You know, I hadn’t realized such comfortable, homelike places still existed in the world. I’d forgotten, in fact, what “home” meant. Pearse’s reminded me.
T HE COFFEEHOUSE stayed open until late, but I usually returned to my room at the Stravaigor hostel as dusk fell to spend an hour or two before the fire with a book on my knees. Sometimes my eyes were well enough to allow me to read it, so long as I shaded the lamp and angled the book carefully. Odd that I embraced scientific developments in some areas, notably my wonderful aeroships, but I still preferred an old-fashioned book to a datareader screen. I knew all the arguments for the convenience of datareaders—and, indeed, I owned one—but I loved the feel of paper and leather bindings. Hopelessly out-of-date.
At around eight, I ventured out to find somewhere to dine in one of the local chophouses, where the photon globes were usually dimmed to hide the poor quality of the food offered to the customers. I ate occasionally in one of the grander restaurants on Oxford Street, but these were often more brightly lit with great globes of aether hanging from the ceilings. A couple of hours in the strong light would have my eyes stinging and watering, and my head aching.
After dinner came play. Not every night, of course, but three or four times a week, I looked for some companionship.
I went back to Margrethe’s twice over late November and early December. I didn’t, of course, expect to see Edward Fairfax there since he’d been so careful to tell me he would be away for some time, but I had two very enjoyable evenings nonetheless. Neither of those were anything but casual liaisons with pleasant-enough men who wanted no more than a night’s entertainment. Margrethe’s, though, could be only an occasional treat, given the costs. I was very cautious with my funds in a most un-Lancastrian way.
Luckily for me, though, more of my old haunts still thrived than I could ever have expected. They may have been a little quiet following the shock of the
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