grandfather clock. In a corner there was an untidy collection of musical instruments; in another corner lay a heap of tools—a broom, paintbrushes in a bucket, a ladder, a rifle.
Atwood leaned over the railing. “Now, that’s Jupiter down there, in the black dress. She has a temper, and considers herself one of the great brains of England—which she may very well be, for all I know! I don’t consider myself more than a stumbler in the dark, after all—and so I make up for my deficiencies by having a circle of talent always around me. And that chap there in the green, the bald one with the philosophical beard, he’s a theologian—he goes by Uranus, when he’s a guest here. The chap who resembles the Prime Minister goes by Neptune. Do you see the rules of the game? We have a vacancy for a Venus. Now that I think of it, we’ve never had a poet before! Ah, and the Indian fellow there—”
“ Mercury.” The woman Atwood had named Jupiter called up from below. Her voice was sharp, ringing, impatient. “Can we begin?”
Atwood glanced at Josephine and rolled his eyes. Then he turned back to the door behind them and performed a quick series of gestures with his hands, rather like the stations of the cross, and muttered something too quiet and quick for Josephine to hear.
He leaned over the balcony again. “It’s safe,” he said. “As safe as anywhere in London these days, anyway.”
The woman he’d called Jupiter pointed at Josephine. “You invited a ninth, without telling me?”
“A happy coincidence. Can we squeeze her in, do you think?”
“I think you’ve been keeping me in the dark, Mercury, and you know I dislike that. Now, come down, and stop playing the fool.”
“Wait,” Uranus said. “How do we know she’s not one of theirs?”
Atwood sighed, turned to Josephine, and took both of her hands in his. “Are you,” he said, “one of theirs ?”
“I hardly know who you are.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
Atwood descended the staircase, and Josephine followed.
The man they’d called Uranus grumbled but returned to his conversation. He was talking to a fat, pale young man in a turban; discussing the news of the campaign in Afghanistan, where the Army was encountering difficulties. Hangings all round. Crack of the whip. So on and so forth. She was both relieved and disappointed that their conversation was so utterly conventional.
It all reminded her in an odd way of her first arrival at Cambridge. The book-lined room and the stuffy opulence. The sense of ancient ritual and a club to which one was being admitted, on sufferance; the cast of eccentrics, bores, wits, and geniuses; the looming threat of Examination.
“Well,” said Jupiter. She was arranging cards on the table, and rearranging the lamps, while the man in the black coat—who gave Josephine a business-like nod—arranged the chairs. The man who went by Uranus and the young man in the turban were now talking about the depreciation of the rupee—or, at least, Uranus was lecturing and the younger man was nodding. The turbaned man did not look Indian; the man Atwood had identified as Indian—solid and dark and white-haired—wore a bright red tie, and no turban.
Atwood took Jupiter’s hand, smiling, and kissed it.
“Not now,” she snapped. “You—Venus, if you’re to join us. Has Mercury troubled himself to tell you anything? Or has he been playing his usual games?”
“He was … intriguing.”
“Hah,” Atwood said.
“I’m certain he was. Are you a believer?”
“A believer, ma’am? I don’t quite know. A believer in what?”
Jupiter raised an eyebrow. “Hmph. That’s a fair answer to an unfair question, my dear. May the gods preserve us from believers, spoon-benders, table-rappers, psychometrists, levitators, mesmerists, tea-leaf readers! Well—all you must do is follow instruction. Please sit. There.”
Josephine sat. Something about the woman’s voice brooked no question. In
Atwood leaned over the railing. “Now, that’s Jupiter down there, in the black dress. She has a temper, and considers herself one of the great brains of England—which she may very well be, for all I know! I don’t consider myself more than a stumbler in the dark, after all—and so I make up for my deficiencies by having a circle of talent always around me. And that chap there in the green, the bald one with the philosophical beard, he’s a theologian—he goes by Uranus, when he’s a guest here. The chap who resembles the Prime Minister goes by Neptune. Do you see the rules of the game? We have a vacancy for a Venus. Now that I think of it, we’ve never had a poet before! Ah, and the Indian fellow there—”
“ Mercury.” The woman Atwood had named Jupiter called up from below. Her voice was sharp, ringing, impatient. “Can we begin?”
Atwood glanced at Josephine and rolled his eyes. Then he turned back to the door behind them and performed a quick series of gestures with his hands, rather like the stations of the cross, and muttered something too quiet and quick for Josephine to hear.
He leaned over the balcony again. “It’s safe,” he said. “As safe as anywhere in London these days, anyway.”
The woman he’d called Jupiter pointed at Josephine. “You invited a ninth, without telling me?”
“A happy coincidence. Can we squeeze her in, do you think?”
“I think you’ve been keeping me in the dark, Mercury, and you know I dislike that. Now, come down, and stop playing the fool.”
“Wait,” Uranus said. “How do we know she’s not one of theirs?”
Atwood sighed, turned to Josephine, and took both of her hands in his. “Are you,” he said, “one of theirs ?”
“I hardly know who you are.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
Atwood descended the staircase, and Josephine followed.
The man they’d called Uranus grumbled but returned to his conversation. He was talking to a fat, pale young man in a turban; discussing the news of the campaign in Afghanistan, where the Army was encountering difficulties. Hangings all round. Crack of the whip. So on and so forth. She was both relieved and disappointed that their conversation was so utterly conventional.
It all reminded her in an odd way of her first arrival at Cambridge. The book-lined room and the stuffy opulence. The sense of ancient ritual and a club to which one was being admitted, on sufferance; the cast of eccentrics, bores, wits, and geniuses; the looming threat of Examination.
“Well,” said Jupiter. She was arranging cards on the table, and rearranging the lamps, while the man in the black coat—who gave Josephine a business-like nod—arranged the chairs. The man who went by Uranus and the young man in the turban were now talking about the depreciation of the rupee—or, at least, Uranus was lecturing and the younger man was nodding. The turbaned man did not look Indian; the man Atwood had identified as Indian—solid and dark and white-haired—wore a bright red tie, and no turban.
Atwood took Jupiter’s hand, smiling, and kissed it.
“Not now,” she snapped. “You—Venus, if you’re to join us. Has Mercury troubled himself to tell you anything? Or has he been playing his usual games?”
“He was … intriguing.”
“Hah,” Atwood said.
“I’m certain he was. Are you a believer?”
“A believer, ma’am? I don’t quite know. A believer in what?”
Jupiter raised an eyebrow. “Hmph. That’s a fair answer to an unfair question, my dear. May the gods preserve us from believers, spoon-benders, table-rappers, psychometrists, levitators, mesmerists, tea-leaf readers! Well—all you must do is follow instruction. Please sit. There.”
Josephine sat. Something about the woman’s voice brooked no question. In
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