Alastair looked out of the carriage window onto the street, where the rain cast dark mirrors of water onto the stone. The specter of the carriage's mirrored image was riding beside them.
She agreed with him and hoped he would guide her—of course she did. He sighed. That bored him even more.
It was, in fact, not the case that the particulars of bloodlines interested Alastair very much. He glanced over at the valet and the servants, who he well knew were observing him closely to report everything back to Mr. Rosier senior.
This whole outing was not Alastair's idea at all. Like all his life, in this moment he was little more than one of the damned silver horses that were pulling their vehicle. The reins were firmly in the hand of his father, who had instructed him to test the Blackwood girl on her stance on blood traitors.
Even now, he felt Bartholomew's presence. It was like he was looking at him, right through the eyes of his loyal spies.
Alastair was putting it on quite thickly with the story about the alchemist, who had in truth vexed him simply because Alastair was vexed by every man who seemed to have a talent that he himself could not compete in. But it served its purpose. Ginevra Blackwood appeared to fully agree with everything he was saying, which was all he required.
The carriage came to a halt. They had arrived at the museum.
“Well, here we are,” said Alastair and extended one of his rough hands to help her.
They were ushered inside the museum and headed into the genealogy exhibition. Portraits of notable wizards lined the walls. Massive tapestries with family trees stretched meters long.
Now to the part that he dreaded most: having to give a tour of the exhibition.
“As you can read here, Miss Ginevra, this is the eldest known ancestor of the Rosier family, Urizen the Cruel. He founded the wizard council of Albion and brought forth four sons, Thiriel, Utha, Grodna and Fuzon… —”
Alastair meandered on, recounting countless generations of great and terrible wizards, conveniently leaving out any mention of their wives and daughters.
He talked with a measured confidence that may or may not conceal the fact that at some point, he simply started to make up names and histories on the spot.
Ginevra Blackwood, he presumed, was not listening anyways.
She agreed with him and hoped he would guide her—of course she did. He sighed. That bored him even more.
It was, in fact, not the case that the particulars of bloodlines interested Alastair very much. He glanced over at the valet and the servants, who he well knew were observing him closely to report everything back to Mr. Rosier senior.
This whole outing was not Alastair's idea at all. Like all his life, in this moment he was little more than one of the damned silver horses that were pulling their vehicle. The reins were firmly in the hand of his father, who had instructed him to test the Blackwood girl on her stance on blood traitors.
Even now, he felt Bartholomew's presence. It was like he was looking at him, right through the eyes of his loyal spies.
Alastair was putting it on quite thickly with the story about the alchemist, who had in truth vexed him simply because Alastair was vexed by every man who seemed to have a talent that he himself could not compete in. But it served its purpose. Ginevra Blackwood appeared to fully agree with everything he was saying, which was all he required.
The carriage came to a halt. They had arrived at the museum.
“Well, here we are,” said Alastair and extended one of his rough hands to help her.
They were ushered inside the museum and headed into the genealogy exhibition. Portraits of notable wizards lined the walls. Massive tapestries with family trees stretched meters long.
Now to the part that he dreaded most: having to give a tour of the exhibition.
“As you can read here, Miss Ginevra, this is the eldest known ancestor of the Rosier family, Urizen the Cruel. He founded the wizard council of Albion and brought forth four sons, Thiriel, Utha, Grodna and Fuzon… —”
Alastair meandered on, recounting countless generations of great and terrible wizards, conveniently leaving out any mention of their wives and daughters.
He talked with a measured confidence that may or may not conceal the fact that at some point, he simply started to make up names and histories on the spot.
Ginevra Blackwood, he presumed, was not listening anyways.