Chapter Twenty-Seven: Some Competition
It must be remarked that a first-class stateroom on the Trans-European Rail is one of the most singularly luxurious and impressive overnighting spots in the world. There were crystal glasses, brass fittings for everything, glorious leather armchairs that made even the best ones at Tickes and Sons look almost shabby by comparison –and, of course, dozens of little Victorian gadgets for making one comfortable. I was somewhat startled to notice an engraved brass panel with buttons at hand's point on the chair's arm, but assumed Jessie would try them before I had to ask what on earth they were for.
Also, while I was used to camping tents and such being rather bigger inside than they probably should have been, the train seemed to take the notion to unusual limits. Our stateroom's parlor was probably twelve feet wide –though I knew we had only one side of the car, with a hallway between two suites. I was surprised that Jessie seemed so perfectly used to it.
"Welcome to the Trans-European," an officious little voice announced, and I spun around in surprise to discover a house-elf in an elegantly embroidered red and gold not-garment that was probably a pillowcase. "I am Izzy and I'll be your steward this evening." It was odd –unlike the Hogwarts elves, Izzy had a very dignified tone. "Will you be requiring anything?"
"I don't think so…it isn't too long until dinner, I suppose?" Jessie asked.
"Dinner is at eight o'clock in the Roth car, though of course, room service is available at any time on request. There is also a fine band in the Lord car this evening, Gil Holzfaller and his orchestra."
"How delightful," Jessie's tone was as unusually formal as the little elf's. "I heard they were playing on the line this season."
"Yes, they are very nice. It's a pleasure to have you with us again, Madam Tickes."
"It's good to be back, Izzy. I noticed they've added two stations."
"Oh, yes," the elf agreed. "Has the gentleman traveled with us before?"
"No, this will be his first trip." She introduced me and explained only that I was a research zoologist and author, as if that was all anyone would ask. The elf didn't even appear curious as to why I was traveling with her, and rather than shaking hands, he bowed.
"Welcome to the line, Mr. Weasley," The elf turned to me. "Dinner is a black-tie affair on the Trans-European, holidays excepted, and many of our guests enjoy the dance in the Lord car, beginning at seven. There will also be brandy and cigars in the drawing room of the Morgan, while many of the ladies tend to prefer the piano lounge, and of course, we provide breakfast service in the staterooms."
"Ah," I replied, nodding, trying not to look too perplexed. It was like riding an old movie to Switzerland. "Sounds lovely."
"Yes. There will also be no murder this evening, as the detective is regrettably engaged on a case outside the line. I apologize for the inconvenience."
"That's all right. We have return tickets," Jessie waved her hand dismissively.
"Good, good. It's a shame to miss the murder on one's first trip, really, especially one of ours. The detective this season is particularly good –though it does make for the occasional cancellation when cases intervene. Can I bring you anything to drink, sir?"
"Er…yes, thank you." The elf waited expectantly, and it was a moment before I remembered that there were options from which to choose on this sort of train. "Just water, thanks."
"And you, Madam Tickes?"
"Does the Trans-European still have that excellent spice and orange tea?"
"Of course, madam. It is one of our specialties."
"How about early tea for the two of us, then?"
"Very good! It will be brought directly." The little elf seemed genuinely pleased to have something to do for us –that's always bothered me a little about house-elves. "It may also interest you to know that several other members of the Chronologie Mechanique will be traveling with us this evening. Shall I arrange the table accordingly?"
"Yes, please. Very kind of you to offer."
"Only the best service for our old friends, Madam. And, pardon my forwardness, but we of the Trans-European would all like to wish you the best of luck at the Convention." Jessie shook the hand he offered, which looked a bit strange, what with relative size and all.
"Thank you, Izzy. I get the feeling I'm going to need it." The elf let out a confident scoff of encouragement and patted her on the hand. I got the impression they'd known one another for awhile.
"Your tea will be by shortly. Good afternoon to you both." And with that, we were alone again.
"Nice fellow," I observed.
"Oh, yes. Isambard is the chief steward on this particular part of the line, now, but he used to have charge of the staterooms when Granddad and Uncle Gard used to take us to the Convention. I've known him since I was a little girl."
"Isambard?"
"That's his proper name. A lot of house-elves who work in Rail don't give their proper ones, on account of silly wizards and witches who expect them to have silly nicknames, so, as a matter of pride, they do. It'd be the height of presumption for a passenger to address him by his real name –as if he were to call you 'Charlie' instead of 'Mr. Weasley' or 'Sir.'" She did a fair imitation of the elf's officious tone.
"That's strange."
"Yes, but it makes perfect sense, really. I only know he's called Isambard because I used to insist on being called by my own nickname. Reciprocity and all."
"I wonder if all house-elves are like that."
"Rail ones are. A lot of house ones are actually named Dinky and Pokey and what-not, usually due to owners who didn't understand the system. It goes in cycles. Every so often you'll get somebody's Muggle-born wife or something who objects to servility or informality or whatever, and she hands out the proper names. Then, since they tend to like the lady of the house, they allow her to address them so. Anyone else gets told the nickname, and within a generation or two, you get odd-named elves. Then it resets again."
"That's mad."
"You think that's crazy, you should read the old sumptuary rules for tradesmen of Diagon." Jessie took off her greatcoat, revealing a very different outfit than what she usually wore –a kind of high-collared ladies' shirt that narrowed at her waist, with a wide belt and a long, black skirt. I suddenly understood what Ginny meant about rail travel, and was pleased she'd thought to charm some stripes onto my own trousers and Transfigure me a waistcoat. "Did you know that your brothers' green jackets are actually correct, according to the old system? Tenanted owners of shops less than three years open traditionally had to wear at least one green garment in public life."
"Is that where the description 'green' for neophytes of any kind comes from?"
"No, I think that actually comes from wood," Jessie explained, opening one of the side doors and sliding her traveling case out of it. Apparently the porters had put both of our cases there. "But it's meant to represent roughly the same idea."
"What would you be supposed to wear?"
"A corset, most likely. Those old rules date from long enough ago, female tradesmen weren't really accounted for. Blue is an appropriate color for journeymen owners, though, so I do wear a lot of that. Brown is also acceptable."
"How is it that you know all this old-timey trivia?"
"Occupational hazard, really." She undid the brooch at her throat and unbuttoned the high collar, stretching her neck as if it'd been uncomfortable. "Being the granddaughter of an amateur historian leads to very educational conversation, to say nothing of bedtime stories. And being a comparatively young person in a profession that's 'storied and historical,'" she imitated the stodgy tone again, "by which, of course, I mean 'full of old people,' one is usually obligated to pay attention. After awhile, it tends to stick."
"It'd be interesting to set a novel in olden times, I expect."
"If you ever want to, just sit down-ear from Granddad." Jessie looked at me suddenly. "What's it like to have parents?"
"Parents?"
"You know, of the proper age for it. Grandfathers are older and stodgier in some ways, but more permissive in others. And Uncle Gard's practically Ian's and my older brother –he was a teenager himself when we were small. Is it different, to have parents?"
"I would imagine so," I replied, realizing yet again how different our childhoods had been. "Mothers tend to make rather an issue of the exact duration of pregnancy when one misbehaves, and they also remain keenly aware that, having brought us into the world, they are perfectly capable of taking us out of it. And fathers are much like grandfathers and uncles, except they tend to delegate the day-to-day authority to the mothers. Mine, at least, is more a peacemaker than anything else –if I had to lay odds on who was more dangerous, it'd be Mum."
"I get that impression, too."
"It's also nice to have uncles, though. I can only remember mine a little. I think I lost them the same year you lost your mother and great-grandmother."
"Yes. I've read about it." She sank into a chair beside me and sighed. "I think not having my mother may have made me a worse person."
"Why do you say that? I think you're perfectly fine."
"I'm vindictive, petty and almost entirely unable to treat people decently if I feel they've failed."
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"Yes, there is. My stepmother cares a terrible lot about me, and I've treated her like an intruder for years. The one person who not only knew my Mum, but could teach me a little of what a mother should teach a kid, and I've never once called her by anything but her first name."
"Well, you can't very well call her 'Stepmother,' now, can you? I don't think they have a proper title for stepmothers other than first name. Has she ever asked you to call her anything in particular?"
"No."
"Has she ever seemed offended by how you treat her?"
"No."
"Do you get the impression she understands? I mean, she did lose your mum also."
"That's the worst part. I think she does understand. But it still doesn't excuse my ignoring her because I was angry about my stupid father."
"That's something I've always wondered about with you, anyway," I reached out and stroked her hand. "Why are you angry with him?"
"He's a coward and he was never there when we needed him."
"I'd heard he went mad when your mother died."
"He did." Jessie sighed and I realized she was finally going to explain. "They had to put him under Imperimenta at St. Mungo's to prevent him from offing himself like a great pillock. That's within an inch of Imperius. And for years, he was barely safe to leave alone. Our house-elf looked after him."
"Your family has a house-elf?"
"Had. Dixie died of old age when I was almost eleven and Granddad sent my father right back to St. Mungo's. Sarah –that's my stepmother, went in when she found out what he was like, and she did something…got his mind back. He married her inside of a month and went back to working in the family shop, but he never spoke to Ian or I –or even looked at us, really, unless Sarah or Granddad made him."
"Jess…I'm no authority on mental health, but did you ever consider the possibility that he can't?"
"Can't talk to your own children?"
"Everyone I've ever met who knew your mother has remarked on the resemblance. I've even seen pictures. You and Ian look just like her, in different ways, but it's very hard for someone who's been through a loss to see the same features and mannerisms without getting a bit prickly, if not outright bursting into tears. My Great-Aunt Muriel objects more than anyone else to my brothers' pranks, but it isn't because they annoy her. They remind her of my uncles to the point where it's painful for her. Mightn't it be the same with your dad?"
"Most likely," Jessie sniffed a little, clearly trying not to cry. "It just doesn't seem very fair. Ian and Granddad and Uncle Gard handle it. Even Sarah does. Why can't he?"
"Perhaps for the same reason I couldn't handle it if something happened to you," I got out of my chair and hugged her as the sniffles gave way to tears. She wouldn't let them run down her cheeks, but sleeved them away as if ashamed of showing such weakness, reaching up and behind her glasses every time. I was a little surprised; not many girls look good at all when they cry. Maybe it was how she did it. "Not everyone can keep their mind after a loss like that. It's not that he doesn't care about you –it's just that he cares so much, he's likely scared to get attached again."
"You think so?"
"I have it on good authority," I caught her arm before she could sleeve at her eyes again, placed a kiss on the back of her hand, and wiped the last tears away with my pocket handkerchief. She half-smiled ruefully and raised an eyebrow.
"Let me guess. Florean Fortescue."
"We had a long talk the day you tricked Umbridge," I confirmed. She looked thoughtful.
"You know, he's one of the only people who ever told me stories where my parents sounded like normal witch and wizard? Everyone else makes them out to be so heroically tragic, they come off as people in fairy tales. Florean tells me about the time my mother set a gallon of hot fudge on fire by accident, or about my father's inhaling a mainspring and having to have it fished out of his nose on the end of a magnetic stick." She wiped her glasses thoughtfully and put them back on. "I sometimes wonder why he bothers."
"Bothers?"
"To be nice to me."
"Perhaps he's got a long-standing political coup d'etat planned and he's grooming you to be a suitable manager of Diagon." Jessie stared at me for a moment and burst out laughing.
"Yep, you definitely talked to him."
"But what brought all this on?" I asked, tracing the pattern on the palm of her hand gently. "You spoke to your stepmother?"
"Visited, yeah. We had a splendidly…detailed chat, and I just came to the uncomfortable realization that I could've treated her much better."
With a soft 'pop,' a tray of tea and cake appeared on the small table and we both flinched, but no elf was visible. The distraction was welcome, and Jessie poured me a cup of tea before I could ask. I noticed she knew exactly how I take my tea –not a hard thing to notice and remember, but also not something most people bother with.
If I had to describe her with nothing but habits and skills, that trick of remembering little details about people, probably like she recalls gears in various watches, and applying the knowledge so casually it seems unconscious, well, I'd mention that.
"Well, introspection is nice, but too much or too often leads to indigestion," I remarked, by way of switching from an unpleasant topic to a nicer one.
"Who delivered that sterling quote?"
"I don't know. Some Minister of Magic who was subsequently not re-elected, I presume. Finding out hard truths about oneself and making them better is just part of growing up. At least you didn't come to the conclusion that you were lying to yourself about what you really wanted from life. You seem to have always had a good grasp on that."
"You didn't?" I sighed and she closed her hand gently around mine.
"I thought I wanted to play pro Quidditch once. I was in the Hospital Wing after a bad hex when I realized I was looking forward more to Care of Magical Creatures than practice. I tried to tell my girlfriend about it, but she didn't seem to understand." Even years later, the memory was still just painful enough for me to avoid mentioning it. "We broke up within the month and I spent the last few months of the year studying for my O.W.L.s and trying to decide what it was I really wanted to do. Finally, I asked Professor McGonagall what she thought I should do."
"What did she say?"
"She told me that as long as the team won games, she'd see to it that I had extra lessons with Professor Kettleburn and her, and she promised me a recommendation to intern with the naturalist of my choice if we beat Slytherin to the Cup."
"Bit obsessive about sport, isn't she?"
"Terribly. Not a bad teacher, though. It was on her say-so that they accepted me to work in Romania. I didn't yet qualify for the magizoological fellowship, but my Transfiguration marks got me a place there in Obfuscation and Concealment. I got the fellowship within half a year, and since then I've been able to do what I loved –learn and write about animals." Jessie took my hand in hers and smiled gently. "You seem to have always known what you were supposed to do –and you've done most of it already."
"Actually, taking over the family business was always a choice. I'm just lucky in that I happened to like making clocks and watches and running a small business."
"You're also very good at both, if that Gringotts expedition was any indication."
"'Prosperity is only an indication of talent for business,' as the impossible old gentlemen in the Guild would say. They claim that some of the most prosperous shops have remained that way by turning out mediocrity on a consistent basis." She grinned with a little half-shrug, as if uncertain whether they might mean her.
"I heard someone say that your shop's watches were very consistent. What does that even mean?"
"Reliable, in some cases. In other cases it means that one generally knows what one's getting, and that there's no difference between the same model of Tickes watch made in 1891 and one made in 1991. And they're right on that. If there's demand for a given model, we keep making it, the same way, to the same specs, forever. However, if someone likes about 90% of a given model and just wants a little change, we'll bring out a bespoke model that improves upon the old, and even put it into production if there's demand. And at least one model of timepiece per season is new. Last summer I put out six."
"So you do the innovation yourself?"
"Of course, things would be stagnating otherwise. And there's nothing worse than stagnation in a fashionable trade."
"That begs another question. How many watches do people really buy?"
"Not very many in a lifetime, at least, not among older men. A man often inherits a watch, and if he passes it along, he might buy a replacement that's a lot like the original –or just a little different, or a total change, depending on how much of a mid-life crisis is going on. Other times, there are more nephews or sons than expected, and more watches get purchased then. Parents who buy watches for their children get a few per child –kids grow, you understand, that and fashions change, and of course, a lady might buy two or three watches a year, to go with various clothing styles. Watches are much more like jewelry for ladies. For gentlemen, a watch is more about permanence –though a lot of younger men are buying them for style now, and I'm also noticing a collectors' market. There's also a roaring fashion in gadgetty watches for younger men and even some older ones –watches that do something, a different one for every hobby. I think that's Muggle influence, that, or because I've started banging out gadgetty ones. They're fun."
"So sales are picking up?"
"In some ways, yeah, what with guys buying many more watches and ladies going completely daft for style. In other ways, it's just evening out. After all, there aren't quite as many people as there once were –though the tourist trade offsets that."
She let out a heavy sigh and resumed petting my hand with hers.
"Why don't you feel successful, then?"
"I didn't make much of the shop's reputation myself. About the only designs of mine that fly off the shelves are ladies' watches, children's alarm clocks (which are really stupidly easy, by the way,) the gadget watches, like for swimming and racing and gardening, and one particular sort of Quidditch stopwatch that Ian's team was photographed with in a magazine."
"That silver one with the fourth hand and available team colors? With the holder-thing for practice that screws on and clips to a broomstick?" She nodded. "Merlin's socks! That was your design?"
"Oh, yes. The one displayed on the third center shelf on the left wall, it's sold out of drawer D-10 at the shop. You've heard of it?"
"Heard of it, I wanted one! I knew it was a Tickes watch, but I just thought it was the latest sports model."
"Oh, it is. I was just the one who did it. Got all manner of advice from Ian, though, and I bought some referees drinks at the Leaky Cauldron to get their thoughts. Would you like one? Inventory's down to just a few ready-made, but I could pop one together for you when we get back from our trip."
"That's a forty-Galleon stopwatch!"
"So?"
"…You shouldn't just offer to make me one, as if it were brownies or tea cake."
"Why not? You don't think Mrs. Fortescue gets a three-way banana split with coconut ice cream any time she pleases? Or that the Eeylop grandchildren don't have little pet owls soon as they're old enough? Even Abby Flourish gives out those wonderful bookmarks as Christmas gifts."
"But it's forty Galleons!"
"Actually, it's thirty-seven fifty this week on sale, but the materials cost about twelve Sickles and the team color licensing is only another two. Also takes me longer to make brownies or tea cake."
"I don't know. It just feels like you're spoiling me." I gestured around our palatial surroundings and she reddened a little before giving a defiant shrug.
"Well, I'm trying to. You deserve a bit of spoiling, especially after putting up with me."
"What's so odd about you?"
"I get into Beater-bat fights with terrorists and I keep a weird sleep schedule."
"I study creatures with not only the inclination to eat me, but the ability to cook me first. And I sleep on just as odd a schedule when I'm working on a book."
"So we're both odd?" I nodded and Jessie grinned. "Well, you still deserve spoiling. I'm a little disappointed about the murder, but there should be one on the return trip for you. I think you'll have more fun than most people, knowing what you do about plot and such."
"What does everyone mean by 'the murder' on this train? They don't actually kill someone?"
"Well, not permanently."
"Jessie!" She stifled a laugh and explained:
"About the time that the Trans-European Rail really got started, there were a couple of high-profile murders on trains, and a number of novels in the same vein followed. A lot of people started riding the train just in the hope there might be a murder and a mystery about who had done it and a big reveal with the clever detective and such. The novels made it sound really exciting."
"That's…a bit morbid, but I can sort of understand it."
"Yes. Well, the lines started hiring detectives, just because the likelihood of murder seemed so high after all the novels –even though there'd really only been two in real life and both were pretty straightforward cases of 'fellow needed killing.' Then, when there weren't any murders at all, people were disappointed. The line realized that murder was a big draw, so they hired some dramatists to work with the detectives, and on just about every line, there's at least one murder per trip now."
"But it's all play-acting?"
"Yes, like those murder parties that students have. Everyone gets a sealed envelope with what they need to know, and one person is tapped to be the body. Then that person is 'murdered,' sometimes with a potion, sometimes with a Body-Bind and a bit of fake blood –depends on the how-dunnit, and taken to a private car to watch everyone solving it."
"Oh."
"Yeah. It's just a nice little game. They've really gotten complex in the last few decades, too. It used to be everyone'd get a big envelope with their fake identity and everyone'd play all night as somebody fictional, but nowadays they write the murder around real identities. You'd be Charlie Weasley and I'd be Jessie Tickes, and we'd be suspects." She sounded inordinately gleeful at the prospect.
"…This sounds very fun and all, but couldn't it be a grisly way to conceal a real murder? I mean, if everyone assumed it was a jolly game, the train could be in a country without extradition before anyone realized the body was really a body."
Jessie laughed and kissed me.
"You're such a novelist." She leaned back into her side of the luxurious double chaise, without letting go of my hand, and demurely sighed. "Anyway, that's only happened twice."
I spit tea across the car.
"Kidding!" she explained. Before I could reach for a napkin to wipe off the opposite wall, an automatic Cleaning Charm took care of it before our eyes. "There was one political assassination during the Grindelwald war, and the other one, it turned out the person elected body had actually faked his death in the private observation car in an attempt to escape with his mistress. They still re-use that plot at times. I shouldn't scare you, it's very safe."
"Is there at least some kind of security?"
"Very good security, actually. And politically neutral, at that. It took three trips for the Secret Service to manage the assassination, and they got caught before the train got to Munich, too. You-Know-Who could probably ride the Trans-European and survive being elected body."
"Secret Service?"
"Oh, yes, the historical consensus is that the Americans pulled it off. Clumsy blighters, though, they might've gotten away with it if they'd read their Christie."
"…And this doesn't bother you at all?"
"No. Should it?"
"Jessie, you're an elected official and an Order loyalist. You could be a target for assassination."
"By whom? A Knockturn pickpocket? I'm really not as important as everyone makes out. That, and I'd never get picked to be the body." She actually sounded a little regretful at that.
"Why not? Because you're a girl?"
"No, silly! Because I've already been the body, when I was eight. You don't get to do it twice, I don't think." She sighed. "And being the body is awfully fun."
We finished our tea and spent some time playing with the various knobs, dials and gadgets in the stateroom. It was possible to change the view outside to suit your favorite season or time of day, and I don't even want to discuss the possible variations in air conditioning, let alone décor. Jessie also devoted about an hour to organizing and preparing her tools and various bits of kit for the great trial the next day. I knew from experience that there was piteous little I could do to help her with her tools, so I went over some of my notes for the latest book while she squinted critically at pliers and other things I couldn't always name.
"I think I probably should have packed my other sketchbook," she observed nervously at one point. "I mean, I know what I want to do, but I really wish I had some extra paper to hash out the case design." I slid a spare notebook across the tea table to where she was sitting on the floor before the big traveling case.
"Will that do?" I asked.
"Perfectly! You're wonderful!" She leapt up and kissed me on the cheek before joining me on the chaise. In a few moments, we were both happily engaged in our respective, matching notebooks –Jessie sketching out a movement, and me jotting down a half-chapter of dialogue. She closed the traveling case and set it where it made a nice ottoman for the two of us, though after a few minutes she had tucked her ankles up under her skirt in order to have a better angle for sketching. Every so often I would glance over and notice something new –the funny way she stuck out the end of her tongue when she concentrated, the movement's incredible detail…the way she turned the page and drew the same thing, but exploded to show every part, tongue out like a kitten who'd paused mid-lick. Jessie tended to look over her glasses a lot, also, and to hold the drawing out at a distance while switching to 'through' and 'above' the lenses of her specs with the other hand.
She was clever and hardworking and beautiful. I realized that no matter what inspiration struck, there wasn't going to be much more than a half-chapter of dialogue put down that day. I also realized that we were, at last, alone.
"What kind of a watch is it?" I asked.
"Compound chronometer with a gravity-reflex power wind. The little weight here moves on its' axis as the person walks and moves his wrist, which rewinds the spring, so it never needs winding. Also, of course, it'll have some extras I'm adding more to show skill than because anyone would wear such an overpowered piece. How's it look?" She held up a very detailed, nearly incomprehensible pair of drawings.
"Intricate," I replied. "I can tell which part the weight-rewinder thingy is, I think. It's a great drawing." She had used a common Muggle ballpoint, I noticed. Evidently she tended to draw with whatever writing implement came to hand, and her work really didn't suffer for it. The blue ink and the way she layered the shadows actually made the watch look like a cross between engineer's blueprint and designer's etching.
"Well, I have the design in my head…and it'll be a bit more complex than this when it's done. I just wanted to sketch it out once more, you know, in case of nerves…" She unconsciously slipped her hand back into mine again. "I'm scared," she admitted softly.
"I don't blame you."
"It's stupid. You-Know-Who doesn't scare me as much as the Guild trial does right now."
"That's often what nerves are like," I agreed. "One serious anticipation is often all the mind can take without stressful collapse. I'd almost bet you could do anything else you'd ordinarily be terrified of at a time like this, and it wouldn't bother you in the slightest. There's only so much brain we can use for fear, and if your needle's already in the red, you simply run out of it."
Jessie looked at me suddenly and very decidedly.
"That's likely how I keep doing it."
"What, the bits with the Bludger-bat?" I asked her gently.
"Yes." She had the dazed look of someone who's made a major realization and isn't sure what to do or think next.
"Last night? I'll believe it!" I laughed gently. "But what were you nervous about that first time? And that time at the Redferns' shop, when the Death Eaters were in Knockturn?"
Her eyes were a very clear brown when she looked at me like that.
"…Something I don't intend to be scared of now."
"Why? What are you…oh, Jess!" I cursed myself for an idiot. "Because you haven't…"
"Not that. The idea of that's been…well, desirable for some time." It was really fascinating, the range of blushes of which she was capable.
"Then what are you afraid of?"
"The day after." She was deadly calm all of a sudden, despite a shake in her normally-steady hands. "And the day after that. And the next day."
"I'm serious about you," I objected gently.
"And that's the frightening part." She ran a hand through my hair and I caught it in both of mine, drawing it to my lips, and then to my heart. "It isn't that I fear your leaving, or our breaking up…it's the possibility that we…well, don't."
"You're scared to commit to someone because of what's happened to everyone who's ever done so in your history?"
"Not the commitment part. I could do that in a-" Jessie suddenly stopped herself, for what reasons I wasn't sure, but I felt my own heart leap. "I…wouldn't have trouble with that part. But the losing you after, or you losing me…I've been so afraid of that, I almost didn't dare keep you in the first place."
"And let's say we don't lose each other? That we survive the war?"
"…What do you mean?"
"I like to imagine a bright, slightly dented-up Diagon, shops remodeling away the war damage, replacement glass going in…roaring business, as you call it, in weddings and baby clothes, like there always is after such turmoil, and I hop out of the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron, back from a run to Romania for a bit of weekend research. I pass Florean's and pick up something for dessert, and then I nip 'round to Redferns' and wave to them as I head between the buildings to back of their shop and yours. Then I skip over the broken step as I come in the back door, smile as I hear you finishing up with a customer, and pop the dessert into the icebox. The bell jingles as you flip the sign around to 'Closed,' and I set my knapsack on the table just before you appear…as strong and bright and beautiful as you look right now, only mine and going to stay that way."
Jessie looked a bit bewildered for a moment and I continued. "We…we wouldn't have to be married, if you didn't want to. But I thought…maybe we could just put the two lives together, as we're starting to do right now, and leave them that way. Forever."
"You'd…you'd put up with living in a tiny apartment over an ancient shop, London winters and my tools bloody everywhere?"
"If you'd put up with my rattling tap writer, trips out to look at dragons every few weeks and Sunday dinners both for and as guests…of course." She let out a little laugh.
"And your nieces and nephews asking Uncle Charlie for a pick-up game of Quidditch over the back lawn," she smiled.
"You said, back at the shop, that you wouldn't mind having your own children?"
"I never considered them much of a possibility before…but if you wanted some, yes, I think I might like that."
"Why wouldn't kids be a possibility? You…you can have them, as far as you know?" That was another notion that hadn't occurred to me. I was surprised that she wasn't offended by the question.
"Far's I know, I should be as good at it as the average witch right now," Jessie shrugged with a smile that went sad about the eyes a moment or two later. "But I've been warned that people in my sort of position, in the kind of situation in which we now find ourselves…well, the Cruciatus curse and many of the other popular nasty ones…there can be side effects."
"So don't get cursed if you can help it, and if it happens, and you can't…we'll just adopt a few war orphans. One problem corrects another, you know."
"You wouldn't mind?" She looked shocked and a little pleased.
"One child's as good as another, long as they're loved and brought up properly. The only reason to have our own would be to get one who looks like the two of us, and even that's not a cast-iron guarantee. I'm told I favor my uncle just as much as my dad, and you take after both sides almost evenly."
"And you wouldn't mind bringing up a child over a city shop?"
"It didn't seem to do you much harm."
"Well, I grew up both in London and Hogsmeade. And it doesn't look like I'll be able to do the same, unless I can buy my father out before he scarpers with his share of the business."
"You'll manage it," I said encouragingly. "You always do. And if the kid needs some country air, well, we'll just take him or her out to the grandparents. My mother wants grandchildren so badly she's managing to get along with Fleur Delacour…and she already likes you."
"Does she know about the two of us…whatever we're doing?"
"I haven't told her, but the twins and Ginny and Bill know, so she likely does. It's best to assume she'll find out anything we do."
"Bill knows?"
"I asked his advice on something not too long ago and the subject came up. He seemed rather pleased. And Ian knows…a fact which continues to puzzle me. I felt certain I was due for at least a lecture."
"He agreed to dispense with it once he saw how happy I was, now that we're…what exactly are we?"
"I'm not sure. 'Dating' seems too frivolous. 'In a relationship' is too non-specific…I'm technically in a business relationship with my publishers, and I feel rather differently about what I have with you."
"Lovers?" I looked at her, startled. "Well, we aren't engaged, and we…well…" Jessie stammered.
"Yes, we do," I said it for her, and she held my hand tightly enough that I understood.
"The only problem with that term is its' connotation. It distinctly implies that we…oh, hell." She suddenly stood and put out a hand to help me up. "Would you be…erm…interested in making it accurate?"
I let her stand there for a second before taking her hand.
"Sure." And then I gave her hand just enough of a tug to pull her on top of me for a proper snog. She let out a startled squeak, but soon I had her in my arms and the two of us really wouldn't have noticed much of anything else. We made it into the bedroom shortly thereafter, and Jessie surprised me by-
"I can't leave this bit in!" a furiously blushing young man objected. His dark hair ordinarily fell over his glasses, but he had actually taken them off to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was in his late teens, but there was some gray in his hair nevertheless, and he had a studious look to hm.
"Why not? Which bit is…oh, yes. That bit." Charlie picked up a piece of chocolate biscotti and nibbled it absently. "But it's such a nice bit."
"History books do NOT contain that sort of scene, Uncle," the young man explained. "And don't you tell me how many readers are curious to read just that."
"Well, they are."
"Don't you ever worry about the example you set for other historical memoir-writers?"
"I rather thought we were setting a good one. You're the one who complained that the one at school got us all wrong."
"The girls thought so, too, but they didn't mean like this!"
"Oh, I don't know, dear," a dark-haired woman with too many watches observed. "You can never tell with them. Their mother and I used to read the most scandalously bad novels –is that biscotti?" She took one and bit off the end, chewing thoughtfully. "And it's genuinely historically accurate."
"Auntie Jess!" the young man protested, looking a bit strangled.
"What's wrong?"
"It's…it's you two! If we leave it in, everyone in Diagon will…"
"Will what?"
The young man looked even redder.
"They'll know what you two get up to."
The red-haired man and dark-haired woman looked at each other for a second before bursting into laughter.
"As if they didn't already."
"After all these years, I'd hope they at least assumed."
"But…but…think what it'd do to the girls and I. This book comes out, and everyone in the History of Magic O.W.L. and up buys it, because students have to write a paper on something from the period and it's common knowledge the professor's sick and tired of Skeeter debunks and Granger analyses. And then it gets around school that there's …smutty bits in it."
"There were smutty bits in the war and I think it's high time professors acknowledged that," the dark-haired woman remarked decidedly. "As if it weren't flagrantly obvious…just count backward from almost any one of those kids' birthdays and you can generally pick out just which battle their parents had an excitingly near shave from."
"Auntie!"
"What? It's true."
"Yes, but think of what kind of pressure that puts on me." The young man seemed to have finally found an excuse that stood a chance of working. "Everyone knows I grew up with my Auntie Jess, and if it comes out that she and my dear uncle were already…well…"
"Living in sin?" Charlie asked.
"I was going to say banging like a box of Bludgers, but there it is," Jessie shrugged. The young man looked especially pained.
"Look, I already have the reputation of an outrageous upbringing, an unconventional mother figure, to say the least, and the disability doesn't really detract from what some of the graduate-assistant girls expect of me. If it comes out that I grew up in a…a Bohemian love nest, the expectations, well, it's just going to be too much to live up to."
"…Well, that's a load of hippogriff toss if ever I heard one. If people assumed other people took after the people who brought them up in that particular area of human activity, we'd be expected to produce at least six…oh, dear." Jessie gave Charlie a frustrated look. "It's entirely unfair of him to be right, isn't it?"
"Entirely. We should snog in front of him, he hates that."
"Let's!"
And they did.
"Bringing up uncles and aunts is such a chore, I'm almost resentful you haven't given me small cousins. At least then I could farm out some of the work to them," the young man growled in a remarkably Tickesian fashion. He was so busy making excise marks above and below a certain section of manuscript that he missed his uncle's sudden clasp of his aunt's hand. However, instead of the shut eyes and bitten lip that normally followed remarks in that vein, the woman with too many watches gave the redhead a secretive little smile and a second kiss, leaving Charlie more or less utterly gobsmacked.
"You do know that the next half a chapter isn't going to make sense if the scene in question isn't at least alluded to?" Jessie asked the young man.
"Well, I've actually been having a bit of trouble with this whole chapter. Isn't it enough to say you and Uncle took the train to Switzerland, have you come back, and then some dialogue about how it went? I mean, it doesn't really have spit or biscuits to do with the war, does it?"
"Actually, I think it's a fairly critical establishing section. Your Uncle is given information which leads to the addition of an important player in one of the later sections, the rivalry between our shop and Selney's is set up, which has a lot to do with what happens just after the Ministry falls, oh, yeah, and you're in the bit after. If we go directly from 'left' to 'got back' just before that shock, it doesn't really come across as much of a shock, now, does it?"
"Was it a shock, Auntie?" the young man asked, pouring a cup of cocoa and passing it to Jessie.
"Oh, no, I adopted war orphans by the hundredweight back then. Bulk discount." She took the cocoa and patted the young man's hand. "In all seriousness? I wasn't expecting it. But after about twenty minutes of sheer, undiluted panic, I knew what I had to do and I did it. And then, after about two hours of getting used to matters, I was, and then when the Ministry fell and that arsefaced cow had the brazen nerve to…well, let's just say, thank goodness for dear old Tonks. Do you remember her at all?"
"Of course. I can still remember her reading to me and eating pistachio pudding with habanero sauce. Never did understand that one."
"Well, she was expecting Teddy, dear. Women get strange cravings when they're…pistachio, you said? That does sound uncommonly horrid with habanero sauce. A dill pickle, though, that might go nicely with…"
And she disappeared into the kitchen. The young man stood, puzzled, for a moment, then wheeled on his uncle, who was just coming out of 'gobsmacked' and into 'abnormally good spirits.'
"Uncle!"
"Yes? Oh, yes, by all means, cut the scene. Don't want to set a precedent, like you said. I mean, supposing my brother Percy wrote a war memoir, he's all about precedent."
"Bugger the scene! Aunt Jess is off looking for dill pickles!"
"She hates dill pickles."
"With a passion. I learned my first curseword from her about dill pickles. What the devil'd you do to her?"
And then, with a supremely smug smile, Charlie patted his nephew's arm.
"Well, you could read the scene."
It was nearly seven-thirty when we woke up and decided to dress for dinner. The bedroom had two little closet-looking doors on either side of it, which Jessie explained were dressing rooms. I looked into one and found it a riot of floral prints, whereas Jessie found the other full of leather accents and dark paneling.
"Swap?" she asked.
"…Gladly. I don't think I need a little table with a mirror on it."
"I'll go get my traveling case."
"I'll go, too. Mine's still in the living-room-thingy."
"You really aren't used to staterooms, are you?"
"No. How is it you are?"
"Granddad took Ian and I on the train for business rather a lot when we were small. Sometimes he'd take just me, especially once Ian went off to school. I remember hating having to wear a dress for afternoon tea and then a different one for dinner, but Uncle Gard so loved picking them out for me, I never complained to anyone but Ian. And then when my father came back, Granddad planned a trip to the south of France over the school winter break for all of us, with Sarah along, partly to keep an eye on my father and partly because, well…I suppose they felt I needed some kind of female influence. She protested that I was old enough to pick out my own dresses and took me shopping herself, instead of letting Uncle Gard buy my clothes like always. I hated her for it at the moment, but then she helped me pick out one that didn't have ruffles and such. I actually looked a little grown-up in it, and then the two of us went and had butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks –first time I'd ever tried it, it made me hiccup. Ian and his friends came in, because it was a Hogsmeade weekend, and…oh, good heavens. I'd nearly forgotten!"
"That was you!" I remembered. "Ian and the Ravenclaws had lost the game the day before, and we'd made a bet that the losing captain would go up to a strange girl in the Three Broomsticks and buy her a drink!"
"That was what was going on?" Jessie laughed as she tugged the traveling case into the bedroom. The tie of her dressing gown caught on the door and came undone, but she didn't seem to care. "That utter rascal. He cheated!"
"Well, striding up gallantly and asking two apparent strangers if he might buy them a drink, only to have both agree and one to accept a kiss on the hand, we were all very impressed."
"I was ten years old! Didn't start school until the fall after!"
"You didn't look it in that outfit."
"Sarah always did have good taste in clothes," Jessie agreed. "Wouldn't you say?"
I went scarlet and agreed with her. Sarah had excellent taste in clothes.
"I felt like such a pillock, too…we'd made the bet out to be some great ordeal, and Ian just over and did it, easy as a hovering charm. So I did the only thing a Gryffindor could, given the circumstances."
"I did like being asked to dance," Jessie smiled shyly. "And then, of course, Ian had to be such a bloody git, taking me off and leaving you with Sarah."
"Your stepmother was quite the duck about it. I think she was the only one who figured out what was going on."
"And that does explain what she said earlier today." We were getting dressed then, talking through the slatted doors of the dressing rooms. Curiously enough, we could hear each other perfectly.
"What was that?"
"That you were the perfect height for dancing and all the Weasley boys knew how."
"Mum insisted," I laughed. "You were tall for a ten-year-old."
"You have me there, I was. For some reason, I grew in fits and starts, tallest in my year, then shortest next, then back again. And…it may sound a bit precocious…but I did want to dance with you that day." Her tone implied that dancing was not all she had thought of.
"You know, tonight will probably be the first time I get to dance with you properly. I did want to, you know, when you were ten…though if I'd known who you were, or how old, I likely would've talked about school and then patted you on the shoulder, like my school friends did with Ginny back then."
"I would've resented that, yeah."
"Well, I was mainly interested in Quidditch then, and all I knew about what to do with girls at that age was 'chat,' 'dance' and maybe, if I was lucky, 'snog.' I knew about the further options, but I didn't dare do more than wish, really. What were you aware of then?"
"'Chat' and 'dance' I could do, 'snog' I had read about and was interested in, anything else I hadn't yet figured out as anything but 'icky.' Even as it was, I was awfully nervous. I mean, big handsome…was it fifth year? You were so tall, and so obviously one of Ian's Quidditch player rivals…"
"You could tell we were rivals?"
"Ravenclaws of that age wear House colors to Hogsmeade, unless they're some kind of berk. The captains and prefects award colors to students who've done well, which gives them the privilege of wearing them outside the school, and it's also possible to 'strip' colors from a student who dishonors the House. They have to wear something plain until they undo the disgrace somehow. You had a great red-and-gold sweater with a Gryffindor lion on it –either you two were rivals or you'd done something so spectacularly foolish that the 'Claws had dressed you up as a Gryffindor as punishment."
"That is a bizarre custom. Gryffindor doesn't go in for that nonsense."
"Gryffindor also doesn't typically take the House Cup on sheer good behavior points. Ravenclaws are very serious about the self-discipline."
"Are you now?" I satisfied myself that her blush wasn't actually audible, though do I think she dropped a shoe.
"Quite, all innuendo aside. I actually lost colors twice myself."
"Whatever did you do?"
"Once, I tampered with a fellow Ravenclaw's watch so she was late for a detention with Snape. Got her five more in a row, and my Prefect felt I'd been devious and cowardly. I won the colors back by telling the student just what I thought of her in the Common Room and not crying when she punched me in the gut."
"I am so glad I wasn't in Ravenclaw. What was the other one?"
"Tampering with a doorknob. Umbridge had given me detention for fixing the giant clock, so I messed with the doorknob of her room and stranded her in the hall in a towel. Professor Snape knew it was me, but no detention. My fellow Prefects decided that the risk of another student's being punished for my act of revenge was one I shouldn't have taken, and I lost colors for one week. It was a Hogsmeade weekend, so I won them back by deliberately tripping and smashing a horrible desk clock with kittens on the face. Umbridge reckoned someone had greased around her desk, especially when I offered to fix the clock and did it spiffy-quick. Took her half a month to realize what I had done to it, but before she could give me another detention, your brothers made their daring escape and she had too much on her plate. Kind of forgot I was there, really. I wonder if she even remembers yanking me out of the giant clock."
"What did you do?"
"People often don't realize that pictures on clock faces are affected by the movement behind it if there isn't adequate shielding. I removed some, and every two minutes precisely, the kittens would lick their crotches."
"It'd be so hard to prove it, too," I admired the prank. "Didn't they do the same before?"
"Apparently, not in the middle of a meeting with Professor McGonagall. Umbridge is sounding forth about the Gryffindors' attitude and discipline and such, and poor McGonagall's watching the crotch-licking cats in fascinated confusion. 'Do they do anything else, Dolores?' she asked, pointing to the kitten clock, you know, as if Umbridge might have accidentally purchased a clock with catly pornography. And then Umbridge noticed it, and the meeting was suddenly over. Professor McGonagall was even decent enough to come and give me detention in her classroom, so Umbridge wouldn't find me until her temper had cooled down. And fifteen points to Ravenclaw for what she termed 'exemplary artwork.'"
"She is a dear old duck of a professor. I should write and let her know how I'm getting on."
"You'll have plenty of time while I'm in the trials tomorrow. Is it strange that I'm not nearly so worried about it now?"
"Well, I suppose it's possible you've run out of blushing capacity for the week. I mean, right after I –nope, you can still do it."
"I'm in a different room! How can you bloody tell?"
"You always blush when someone mentions naughty things."
"And you blush whenever anyone does them," she retorted wickedly.
"…You've got me. I match my hair."
"That is fun. I expect I see what the Redferns and Sarah are getting at, with their constant haze of innuendo. You nearly ready?"
"Almost. Bit of difficulty with the tie, I'm not used to the bow variety."
"Out here, then, and I'll do it."
"You can do bow ties?" I asked, picking up and putting on the dinner jacket Ginny had found for me.
"Brother, uncle and grandfather? Of course. I learned neckties before I learned shoelaces."
I stepped out of the little room and almost gasped. Jessie looked very different. It occurred to me that I'd really never seen her in dress robes, that I could recall, and certainly not a dress like the one she was wearing. It was pretty without being especially revealing in terms of skin, and the fabric seemed to have a shimmery look, not quite like dragon scales, but a bit like hippogriff feathers, and it was almost the same clear, light brown as her eyes, but with sort of amber and green accents woven into the cloth. She was just pulling on some plain brown dress shoes that went remarkably well with it.
Jessie looked up at me and noticed my expression. "What?"
"You…look different."
"What? I was wearing a skirt before."
"Dress, now…different dress."
"Well, yes, I was just saying you have to dress different for dinner on the…you look so adorably gobsmacked now."
"I've just…never seen you dressed that way."
"Do I look okay? Sarah said the color looked good, but I wasn't sure." She undid the leather hair-tie and shook her head, which completed her transformation. Jessie's hair is a medium brown, about the color of coffee when you look at it in a spoon, and it was longer than I realized. Even having seen it down not two hours previously, the act of letting it down in my view was still a novel and decidedly sensual act, even if she didn't realize I saw it as such.
And you know something? I got the distinct impression she did, and was as surprised as I.
"It's a very nice dress," I managed, just as she slipped over and did my tie.
I had on plain black tie, although the lapels were wider than they had been the last time I'd worn black tie –a horrible party thrown by one of the dragon compound's biggest sources of funding. When dancing and small talk with the rich ladies and their pompous, dull or both husbands had become too much for me, I'd made it over to the kids' table, where the forthcoming questions were really about dragons and the askers genuinely wanted to know. The compound was really quite lucky in that rich people like their children more than they like alternately boring, talking down to, and on one uncomfortable occasion, propositioning zoologists. I'd actually met my publisher there, and after explaining to his daughter that there was no way whatsoever for a dragon to eat her pet cat in Belfast, as well as giving her advice on last-line prophylaxis (dragons really are revolted by the smell of catnip, so it was beneficial to plant some and let Mistoffelees roll in it as he pleased in more ways than one,) I got the commission to do my first book. It had been a while, obviously.
That had been a hired suit, whereas this one was my sister Ginny's Transfiguration work, and therefore the more likely to be fashionable. It had kind of a late-Thirties revival look to it, just as Jessie's dress would have been perfectly comfortable for selling war bonds or singing to soldiers in. We both looked like escapees from old Muggle movies my mother liked –and it's strange, but I found that a bit comforting. There's always a party in those movies, and apart from a flicker of the lights and a siren during the nightclub scene, nothing bad ever happens at that point in the script.
There's also something very interesting about a costume change. Every time I'd ever seen her since school, Jessie had been in shirts and vests, with the odd leather apron or high-collared shirtwaist and skirt set. Between the clothes and the watches, she tended to look very much like what she was –a female clockmaker. I think part of what helped when she started whacking mad folk with the Beater bat was the fact that the bat itself didn't clash in any way with her outfit. Actually, with the short, pocketed apron she sometimes wore over her trousers and boots, one almost expected it. It even makes sense –take Victorian men's clothes, add ten or so brass, gold and silver watches, cut the shirt a bit differently to account for nature, and garnish with leather. It's a recipe for a look of competence, capability, and just enough anachronism to be interesting.
Put the same competent, capable woman in a late-Thirties dress of the sparkling, found-between-microphone-and-orchestra variety, and…
That was what was different, I realized, as we headed to the door of our stateroom. Jessie had only one watch. It was the littlest gold one on her left, her right wrist was bare.
"Erm…did you forget something?" I asked, glancing at her completely nude right wrist. Perhaps that's more of the Victorian –I thought of her wrists as naked when they didn't have watches on.
"No, this is all quite deliberate," Jessie replied. "I've locked the others in the safe. How else do I get the gloves on?"
She had long gloves. I would have loosened my tie if she hadn't just gone to the trouble of tying it. "Gloves?" I asked.
"Yes, they're kind of the thing here," she explained, slipping one on and letting it slink –there is no other verb, to her elbow. "Ladies wear gloves and gentlemen wear black tie and everyone feels silly for the first ten minutes, or until someone begins to talk shop. That's just kind of how it is."
"I can see what you mean about a murder not being out of place."
"Yes, you just about expect a Belgian with a moustache or an English lord with a monocle. Music's good, though." I noticed she couldn't quite hide a glance at my attire now and then, nor the slightest and most subtle blush I'd ever seen on her. "You look very handsome, Charlie. Not that you don't normally, but…you just look especially nice." The blush stopped being subtle.
"I think you're the most stunningly beautiful girl on this train, and more than that, you're likely the only one who made her own accessories." I raised her left hand, which now had a glove beneath the small gold watch, and kissed it.
"Ehh, don't be too sure. There are other members of the Chronologie Mechanique, and a few of them are female also." Jessie showed me the chain around her neck. "And my Great-Gran made this one."
"The Chronologie Mechanique's the Guild?"
"That's the European pronunciation, yes. Just means fancy clockmakers. Nothing to be scared of –though, if they ask your opinion on politics, say you're in favor of breaking the diamond cartel, against mountaintop removal and a big fan of carbon lattice synthesis. They'll love you in two minutes."
"…What are those?"
"The only issues they've all agreed on in twenty years."
And with that, we left the stateroom and headed for the Lord car, a spectacularly appointed ballroom that wouldn't have been out of place in any of Mum's movies. At one end, there was a large bandstand where a section of the orchestra was playing light incidental music while the rest appeared and began to prepare, and round dinner tables surrounded the dance floor on two sides, with a staircase and landing to separate. It was wider than it should have been, of course, but that's rather par for trains, and I was surprised to hear us announced as we entered by another elf in a pillowcase –albeit not one with as much gold trim as Izzy elf's.
"Mistress Jamesina Tickes the Fourth of James W. Tickes and Sons and Mr. Charles Weasley!" the little elf called.
"They announce people?" I whispered nervously, aware of how many people had turned to look at us –a substantial proportion, though obviously, not everyone had arrived for the dancing and socializing that preceded dinner. Jessie gave me a bright smile as we descended the staircase and whispered back.
"Of course. That way the waiters know who's who."
"The waiters?"
"Anyone else would introduce himself anyway. The waiters are the only ones who wouldn't dare ask, and with food allergies and such being what they are…" It was a surprisingly common-sense explanation.
"I like that they announce you first. It's a nice change, the successful woman first." That got me a sudden bitten lip and flash of nervousness from Jessie. I knew she was sensitive about my calling her 'successful,' so I explained; "Really. I'm pleased to see such gender equality."
"Um…T comes before W, actually."
"…Oh."
"Jamesina Tickes!" a tall, round-bellied older man in the same black tie as every other man in the room called out, stepping forward and around his table. He had an American accent, I couldn't be sure quite from where. "Ah haven't seen you since you were a li'l bitty thing!"
"Mr. Lyon!" Jessie put out a hand to shake, only to look momentarily startled when Mr. Lyon instead raised it to his lip European style.
I seemed to recall a similar look on Ginny's face when someone in Diagon Alley had done the same thing. In certain circles, I understood, the transition from handshakes to hand kisses was a mark that the young lady in question was considered grown up enough to be an object of romantic pursuit. I'm not ashamed to say I immediately suspected Mr. Lyon of being up to no good for a few seconds.
"Look at ya, all grown up and ready to take the test of the masterpiece! What are you, twenty-five years old? That's pretty danged young to be the favorite at five-to-one!"
"She's only twenty, Uncle, now stop teasin'!" a tall, friendly-looking woman interjected, before giving Jessie a big bear hug. "How are ya, Jims? And who's the fella?"
"Gilly, Mr. Lyon, this is Charlie Weasley –a magizoological researcher and author of several books. Charlie, this is Gillian Lyon, vice-president of Lyon et Fils, and her uncle, Beauregard Lyon, whom you might know as the person who developed the floating compass clock face for flying watches. Almost every long-distance flyer in the world owes not getting lost to his patent."
The surname was pronounced more like 'lee-on' than 'lion,' with a bit of Frenchness to it. I took a stab in the dark, remembering something Jessie had mentioned once.
"Yes! Lyon et Fils, that's the company in New Orleans?"
"Fella knows his clocks!" Gillian Lyon grinned as I shook and snogged hands accordingly. "I always say us redheads pick it up faster. You'll be one of the British Weasleys, then?"
"Yes, ma'am," I nodded. An elf brought everyone glasses of champagne.
"My granddad on my mom's side was a Weasley…we think. Later on, once Uncle Beau and Jims are busy with the shop talk, we can discuss genealogy and I'll catch you up on the clock-crowd gossip you might've missed." I glanced to my right and realized the shop talk was already showing signs of ignition –you can tell when clockmakers begin to talk with their hands that friendly chit-chat on mainsprings is imminent. "Must be a li'l etrange, room full of clock people, when your thing's fancy critters."
"…I'm getting used to it, I guess."
"I don't suppose you're Charlie Weasley the dragon man, wrote that new book everyone's talkin' bout?"
"I…I didn't think it was popular."
"It is, 'specially down home. The paperback jes' came out, what was it, a month ago? My mama already had it in hardcover, owl-ordered UK 'dition, and when the paperback came out back home, she sent me one, but you'll have to pardon me not startin' it yet, bein' as how there's rather more poker on the train than there used to be and I'm not as bored."
I nearly choked on the champagne. Jessie turned and gave me a proud smile.
"He's the one all right, Gilly." I basked in her approval for a moment before 'Uncle Beau' distracted her again.
"Really? Then I'll have to ask for your autograph sometime when we're not all sparkled up for dinner and dancin'. Mama thought 'The Dragons of Tirgoviste' was the best thing she'd read all year, and she'll be plumb tickled to hear we met the fella wrote it."
"I…I'm glad to hear that, ma'am."
"Call me Gilly, darlin', everyone does. How is it you know Jims, by the way? I see you're escortin' her on the train."
Had she somehow seen the passenger list? Did she know we had just booked the one stateroom? I panicked a moment for my…whatever Jessie was to me, before I remembered the train elf's announcing us as we entered the great ballroom.
"Well, we met a few times at school, and she's a very dear friend of my younger brothers –they have shops just opposite each other in Diagon Alley and were in the same year at Hogwarts." How much of our relationship was wise to reveal, I wondered.
"They didn't quite introduce us, though, did they?" Jessie asked suddenly, returning to my side.
"No, they didn't, now that I think of it. Mentioned her very favorably, of course, and they did send her over to have a look at my mother's family clock the weekend I was home from…oh."
"Oh." Jessie seemed to have come to the same realization as I. "And the fuss they made afterward. Darn them sometimes."
"These are the Weasley brothers of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, I 'sume?" Gilly asked.
"The very same," Jessie almost growled. "Right little incurable matchmakers, too. Why, I ought to send Kendra Redfern over there with a box of…" She trailed off into unintelligibility and Gilly Lyon's smile grew.
"So you are an item," she inquired, looking thoroughly pleased.
"We are," I confirmed, taking Jessie's hand in mine and relishing her sudden, complete failure to blush. Instead, she nodded with a warm smile and squeezed my hand.
"Some months now," she explained.
"Oh, I am glad to hear that, Jims!" Gilly Lyon was evidently one of those people who took unusual delight in any and all good news, lacked some of the polish of tact, and spoke with a mild accent. I found myself liking her. "And not just because the other four applicants for the masterpiece are eligible young men from prom'nent houses –and some of them with nothing more than prominent house to recommend them, especially Prosser and Selnikov, though of course Deroulede's alright. I always used to bet Uncle Beau that you'd pair off outside the per'fession. Any chance of its' sticking, or is it too soon to call?"
We looked at each other, and either we took too long to turn back and shrug or Gilly Lyon was simply incorrigible, because she chortled and made some remark about imminently collectable winnings and our making a simply adorable couple before being distracted by Uncle Beau.
Then we both got back to the usual blushing.
"She seems nice," I observed.
"Gilly? Oh, she's fun. She'll ask questions about anyone mentioned until she's nailed down a little of their where, who, and connects to who else and how. I think her ultimate goal is to know everyone everywhere, at least by reputation."
"Sounds like a Chocolate Frog card collector."
"She does keep cards; little index ones. I'll bet you coffee she has one filled out for you and a line of update to mine before the night's over."
"That's a bit strange."
"Not really. Gilly has a serious problem remembering faces, but if she has a name and some data to work with, she can usually bluff her way through a party on sheer 'is that so-and-so?' It's a case of hobby corrects disability."
"Nice how minds sometimes work like that."
"That, and she's a bit of a gossip because of it. Not the bad kind, but she will tell a person to his face that a person he's rumored to be interested in is totally wrong for him…and usually why. I'm glad we let her know we're…an item, she called us?"
"We don't normally seem to tell people that."
"Niels Nielsen the Eighth of Nielsen's Ure!" the announcing elf called. I glanced up the staircase and saw a tall blond man with a small, military-looking decoration on his jacket.
"Normally, we're in a country on high alert for terrorism, where your family is well known opposition to the belligerent party and mine is prominent both for my elected office and the age of the firm."
"So it's safe to be open about it here?"
"Maybe not entirely so, but I think we can get away with item-being behavior here that would be risky or lead to problems back home."
"Such as?"
"Paul Etienne Deroulede fils, of Clovier & Deroulede!" the announcing elf called. The man in question had brown hair cut much like my brother Bill's and a small black box in his hand, which he slipped into his pocket.
"Well…there are several people who've just arrived whom I know, and I may well be asked to dance once the music goes from tinkly incidental to serious."
"Is this a cutting-in establishment?"
"Not typically. But there's this." Since the conversation with the Lyons, Jessie –and the majority of the women there, I noticed, had been clearance-tagged at the wrist with a little folded bit of crisp red-and-gold cardboard with the Trans-European logo and the tiniest of little pencils. I examined it a bit closer and found that the cardboard had pages inside it.
"…The women are on special?"
"It's a dance card."
"Those are a real thing? I kind of thought they were made up for the kind of movies my mother likes."
"Hans Prosser, of Universum Zeitmechanische Uhrfabrik!" He was a stoutish fellow with dark brown hair and an insignia pin in his lapel.
"The tradition is somewhat out of vogue back home, I'll concede." Jessie eyed the little booklet critically. "Does it look like I'm on special? It does have a bit of the price tag in looks, doesn't it? Pity, really, it's such a neat custom."
"It is? I never understood it. Gentlemen essentially call dibs on certain dances with each lady?"
"Essentially," Jessie continued her critical inspection of the thing. "It's funny. I thought these were the height of elegance and grown-up splendor when I was ten years old. Now that I actually get them, though, they strike me as a bit on the side of 'line up for test-drives, gents, the broom auction starts at four.'"
"I can see the appeal, though. Saving a particular dance for a particular person seems romantic, depending on the dance, and having a paper trail to back it up prevents fights, I guess."
"Why'd there be fights?"
"Vladimir Pavlovich Selnikov of Selnikov Chasovnik Mekhanichna!" the announcing elf called. This young man was almost as tall as Nielsen, but with hair darker than Prosser's and worn almost as long as Deroulede.
I looked over Jessie's shoulder across the room, noticing how all four of the young, male clockmakers just announced were sending glances her way between pleasantries to the other guests.
"There'd be fights."
Jessie looked, then looked back at me bemusedly.
"Why worry about Chasers? You've caught the Snitch."
"...Have I?"
She reddened.
"A few hours ago…you recall it."
"Yes, that was a very good match. Trouble is, you don't win the Cup on one match, usually."
"You do if you're the only club in the league capable of flying, let alone scoring." Jessie gave me an arch little look and I half-smiled. "Don't get me wrong. The part of me that thinks dance cards are elegant and likes pretty dresses would be very flattered to think you'd get jealous and somehow fight off the other males like…well…a dragon."
She slipped the little tag off her wrist and showed me a line with a number. "But the sensible part of me would be happy with your calling dibs on this waltz, remembering how little clockmakers usually talk about besides gears, springs and casements, and…well…" Jessie had a shy, nervous look in her eyes, despite the smile below. Then she suddenly snapped out of it and held my hand. "I love you, Charlie. And I don't see anything changing that."
"I love you, too, Jess." I didn't dare snog her, especially as it was more or less obvious we were being watched, though probably not overheard, given the tinkly incidental music's increase in volume. But I held her hand and anyone with a brain could tell we would rather be somewhere else.
"I do have a question, though," Jessie asked as I led her in the general direction of the dance floor. "Whenever you talk about the future, you always say 'we wouldn't have to be married, if I didn't want to.'"
"Yes?"
"Can't see why I wouldn't, actually. Does that change anything?"
I stopped and stared at her, astonished. This went against everything I thought I knew, about Jessie, about her family, about successful businesswomen in general. We were very clearly headed in the direction of a very public, very noticeable display of affection when that damned announcing elf spoke up yet again, but this time with a pair of names we both recognized.
"James Worthing and Sarah Whipkey Tickes, of James W. Tickes and Sons!"
This announcement was followed by a very quiet and ladylike expletive from Jessie.
A/N: The story will continue in the next chapter. Due to sudden requests, a blanket permission to post fanart is hereby issued. If you feel like drawing something from this story, you don't have to ask me before you post it online somewhere...though I'd love to get a link so I can see it. Also, it is somewhat recommendable that interested readers Google the bands 'Abney Park' and 'The Clockwork Quartet' before the next chapter is uploaded. Their music may become...somewhat relevant. That, and I have been told anyone who likes this story will likely enjoy said musicians' work. As always, I can be reached via PM, email, AIM when I'm awake and on it, or via carrier pigeon. .