Based on the notes of Blaire Faraday.
Deciding to uncover a mystery moved by personal curiosity is a noble task done by those who seek knowledge. Trying to uncover a mystery protected by one of the most terrifying witches on known history? Not so much. In hindsight, I should have thought a proper plan, but this didn’t really sink in until I was in the bus. But, also in hindsight, if my fears were to be true, there would be no book and I would be a stone statue in some park.
I arrived at Crystal Palace Park in South London. Forever will be in my memory that humongous building. It was built in the high of the Victorian Era to be the central piece of the Great Exhibition, originally close to Kensington Palace and inside Hyde Park. Man, it was an incredible piece of engineering; that’s the main reason they moved it to Sydenham Hill instead of demolishing it. It was so immensely large it could be seen from far away points in the area, giving name to the borough in which stood. But none of those things came to my mind when I walked to the large doors of the entrance, no. The thing that came to mind was how I was going to open the door.
Everything done as a framing and decoration was either glass or cast iron. And I, much like the rest of my father’s family, have a deathly skin allergy to cast iron. I break in horrid hives.
I guess I could have used my umbrella. That day was raining and almost everyone on the streets, including myself, was wielding an umbrella to protect us from the rain. Still don’t really get why; is not like we are going to melt like the Wicket Witch of the West.
But it didn’t occur to me at that time. So, when I walked up the steps in my way to use magic, something one should never do in public, or risk setting out my allergy, I had no idea what I was going to do. It was then when I realised someone was walking besides me. It was a short girl, with short dark hair cut in a bob, but not a stylish one from the movies, but a dishevelled one that appeared self-performed. She was wearing head-to-toe black, and had a copy of the first page of the Times crumpled in her hands.
—Oh, hello! —she said rushing to open the door in front of me—. Do you know if I’m in the right place? I’m looking for the Crystal Palace and a sculpture exhibition.
Her accent was certainly American, but what captivated me was her mention of the exhibition.
—Yes, this is the Crystal Palace, but I’m also looking for the— I waited, doubting if I should tell her or not—, the New Earth Sculptures.
—You are looking for the Tower too! —yelled but immediately shushed herself— Sorry. You read the clues too?
—I did, but I have no idea what to do.
—Well, let’s ask.
For once in its existence the Crystal Palace was practically empty. The building had two humongous floors, but I could only see one woman strolling around and looking at the tree next to the fountain close to the entrance. She was carrying one of those heavy briefcases on which one has a typewriter. The logo stamped on the side of the briefcase said “Rain-Falcon Transport. Co.” on one side and “Athenida Industries” on the other, which we saw when she moved. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t there by accident.
—Excuse me? —I inquired, after the girl next to me felt silent— Are you with the New Earth Exhibition for any chance?
—Yes, hi— the woman seemed pleasantly surprised—. Sadly, I must tell you the exhibition has been suspended, but those interested can approach the Rain Corporation across the street for information about your future. We are having a short meeting soon, so stop by!
She smiled to us again, but turned again to face the tree and ignore us. The girl and I exchanged a puzzled look, since the woman began humming and her dialog seemed to be over.
—I saw a building called “Rain Corporation” on my way here— the girl said, while we walked outside—. We should probably have a look. I’m Leslie by the way, Leslie Holmes.
—Blaire Faraday.
We walked outside the park and Leslie walked in the opposite direction I went in. A short walk of a couple of blocks and we ended up on the steps of a narrow four-floored crème building with neoclassical decorations. Above the revolving entrance door, the words “RAIN-Falcon Transportation” were chiselled in the marble. The windows were large, but even though the clouds were gone by this point, the drapes were drawn in each of them. The ones on the ground floor were hidden behind decorative bushes perfectly trimmed. It seemed more a repurposed house from the late Georgian Era than a real office building.
Leslie looked at the door, then to the sign, and then to me before asking.
—Should…should we enter?
Before I could answer, someone came out of the building. It was a tall man with curly hair and a snowy white beard and a wine-coloured three-piece suit, but was wearing black cabbie boots, which clashed with his overall appearance.
—Blaire Faraday and Leslie Holmes, I presume? —he said to us, with a joyous smile and tone—. Please, come on in. The collective interview is about to begin and Daedalus is waiting for you in his office. Run along, now. I have to go get some things to the baker, but Amelia should point where he is.
Said that, he went in the way where we came, leaving us alone in the street. With no other information, we looked at each other and, taking a steep breath, walked to the revolving door.
The door lead to a large entrance with white walls and a checkerboard marble floor, twin sets of stairs that went to the upper floors, and a small lobby area at the end of the entrance hallway. A very expensive writing desk, which was obvious due the decorations in gold at its corners, three moss green armchairs, potted plants, and a couple of Greek sculptures. At the desk, the same woman we saw at the palace was there, typing effortlessly at a small white typewriter, and checking herself on a small hand mirror prompted on a stand. Behind her, the painting of a ship with a small plaque that reads “Last sail of the Avalon, 1951”; it was probably an oversight of whoever made the artwork”.
—Hello! —she greeted us, without lifting her sight from her reflection— I’m so glad you made it just in time. He’s waiting for you, first floor, last door on the corridor at the right.
Pointed with one of her elongated fingers to the twin stairs and continued typing. We went on our way. The wooden stairs cracked and screeched while we went up. Turned right in the white corridor filled with white doors, until we reached the last one, where a bronze plaque was anchored to it.
This was not a common plaque, like those that filled attorney offices or other highbrow places. At least, not a modern one. When most of those would just point up a name and title, this was more on the style of those one had seen two centuries ago. “Daedalus Athenida, Lord Forxnorth, KG. Treasurer of the Royal Household”. And the plaque itself, more than the styling of the writing, seemed extremely old, with rust in greens and teals between and inside the letters.
—Seems the rumours are true after all— Leslie said—.
There was about half a dozen of rumours regarding Mr. Athenida, which keep coming up. These were like the flu, and came and went every time he was on and off some sort of spotlight. One of those said the name wasn’t that but a title, inherited seamlessly from fathers to sons, uninterrupted at least since the 14th century, due to appearances in portraits and mentions in documents related to the Guerre de Cent Ans and Joan of Arc’s death. Other, that it was the identity for leaders of a secret society that keeps the magical and human communities separated; having ties and influence not just to the British Crown, but had a hand on the creation of the United States, Revolutionary France, and a lot of others. And the last one, it was that he was always the same man, immortal, living through the eras changing his age and titles as time went on.
In my opinion, this last one has to be the most idiotic one. Someone with that kind of money, influence, and overall power cannot be as uncaring to always use their real name. Right?
I knocked the door and we heard an enthusiastic “Come in!” coming from the inside. Twisting the doorknob and walking in lead us to a room that couldn’t exist inside that building. The ceiling was so height it could very well fit the two stories on top. It was wooden panelled with mahogany floors and bookshelves covering opposite walls. In the centre a group of armchairs like the ones at the lobby, about a dozen of them, and most of them were occupied by people chatting and having drinks.
Mr. Athenida was one of the people, having a laugh and enjoying conversation. He waved at us and showed two empty armchairs in the circle.
—The worst part of the whole thing was explaining Vicky how the time zones worked! —he laughed looking at us—. Welcome, Blaire, Leslie, I imagine you didn’t have much of an issue finding this quaint little place, right?
—No…what is going on?
—We put your invitations in the newspaper this morning, along a dozen others, and waited for you to arrive. To be honest, we were beginning to worry, you took a heck of a long time.
—How can four articles be an invitation to us? —Leslie asked, which Mr. Athenida responded giving her a copy of the paper—. Yes, this…where are they?
She gave me the copy and I checked she’s right. Where the announcement of the facility was, now was one about the closing of the park at Drury Lane this Thursday due to a Druid meeting. Where the advertisement to the cruise, the ferry to Calais with safe spots for Werewolves. The company looking for clerks on the contracts was no longer the Rain-Falcon Transportation Co. but Caversham accountants. Lastly, the “New Earth Sculptures” weren’t the thing in exhibition at the Crystal Palace, but a collection of paintings by a V. Fawkes. Everything that lead us to the office was nowhere to be found, and Mr. Athenida seemed most amused.
—See? Nothing there at all. We double-spelled the pages so only a few selected ones can read the proper clues. So—he said, smiling—, shall we begin with the interview?
—For me there’s no problem— I said, crossing my arms on my lap—.
—Good. What is the common utilisation of the Treaty of Arcadia of 1692?
—It forbids the magical community to perform any kind of expressive magic in the open. In layman’s terms, we are prohibited to use magic that couldn’t be explained in the presence of humans even if this doesn’t have lasting effects.
—Thank you— he said, giving a glance at my boots before turning to Leslie—. When do wands began rising in popularity?
—1680s, during the dissolution of the Coven of Paris. Staffs and other similar objects have been used since the druidic times of Anglo-Saxon Britain.
He went into asking questions to others, but I couldn’t stop but think the questions were veiled and specific to us. Asking me about the treaty, when it was obvious, I’d enchanted my boots so they didn’t attract any mud while walking through London. And to Leslie about wands with the outline of one on her right sleeve. His questions seemed to sting exactly in the proper place so everyone was on permanent edge while answering.
The remaining of the collective interview went…well, I guess. It lasted about two hours, however, with Mr. Athenida drilling all of us with unrelenting questions. There was not even a single one that was about us, personally, or what competences do we have. No, the questions were just about facts. I had to answer about twelve questions, related to almost everything he could come up to. About the excavation of the Cnossos Palace in Crete, the British stance on the Overseas Territories, who Tycho Brahe was, why the Holy Winged Kingdom called the centre of their government the Rosebud Palace, and others of sort. By the time he finished my interrogatory my head was pounding from the inside and, by the looks of it, I wasn’t the only one feeling that way.
—Alright— he ended, sitting. He hadn’t sat in the whole time he’s questioning us—. I think that’s quite enough for the first part. I have to make a call to the Palace, so, if you don’t mind waiting outside for a couple minutes. I’m going to call each of you in order.
He pointed at the door, which immediately opened. From the hallway came the smell of pastries and freshly baked bread.
—In the meantime, you can wait at the lounge next door. I promise this won’t take long.
The other applicants and I shared a perplex look, but each of us grabbed our things and filed to the door. He turned his back to us and went to a telephone he had wired in his sturdy desk, while we went outside. The door next to his office was open and it was from where the smell of pastries came from. It was a comfy lounge with large sofas, a stove with pots of coffee, tables with while plates filled with finger food, like sandwiches, pastries, and scones.
We spent a lovely half an hour just chatting with everybody. I confirmed my suspicion that Leslie was an American, she came from a small community at the northern east coast. The others were graduates from London University, Oxford, Harvard, Yale, Cambridge, and other respectable fountains of academic knowledge of renown fame. Much of them, to my chagrin, were more confident of their place in the vacancies than I. For them the interview was merely a rite of passage and not a task to accomplish. They, if that weren’t intimidating enough, seemed to know each other from their academic years. But were incredibly charming and sweet, asking about what we knew, and not even trying to up each other with knowledge and degrees.
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