Page 220 of Ashen Torment

“I am glad of it.”

The hubbub draws closer, beyond the hedge, the garden opens suddenly: small, tight-knit groups, wide skirts brushing the damp grass, dark cloaks fastened to the chin, canes planted in the earth. Someone laughs softly, someone else lowers their tone the moment they see us pass. At the center, a large gazebo has been decorated with festoons of fresh violets. The bright purple clashes with the milky sky.

“Viscount!”

Julian reaches us with a brisk stride.

“I feared you had misplaced my invitation.”

I have not the slightest idea what he is talking about.

I offer a slight bow.

“Monsieur Fairfax.”

He draws closer, lowering his voice. “I must absolutely show you something.”

He turns toward Agnes. “My dear, would you mind yielding the Viscount to me for a few moments?”

Her fingers linger on my arm.

“Naturally,” she says as she detaches herself from me.

I follow him through the crowd; I catch sight of a few familiar profiles, Elijah and Count Nádasdy engaged in conversation, Idris nearby, observing.

Julian slows near the gazebo; before us, planted in the ground, stands a bellows camera on a massive wooden tripod. Beside it, a man in a dark coat, hands bare despite the cold and his gaze fixed on the apparatus as if it were alive.

He spreads his arms with satisfaction.

“Progress, dear Viscount.”

My eyes slide to the glass of the lens, which reflects the garden upside down. For a moment, I have the unpleasant impression that it is not we who are observing the machine, but the reverse.

He rubs his hands together, visibly pleased.

“Photography. I have had Monsieur Viande come from Paris specifically so that we might enjoy this... delight.”

“But...” I say, without pulling my eyes away, “would one not require more light?”

He bursts into laughter, a sonorous sound that makes two ladies nearby turn their heads.

“Oh, do not trouble yourself. Monsieur Viande is a man of experience. He will manage in any conditions.”

I follow a line of shadow with my gaze. Just beyond the gazebo, at the edge of the lawn, is a dark field tent, tightly closed. Beside it, a young man waits motionless.

“It is for the plate-holders,” a voice says behind me.

I turn slightly; the man from before—who I assume is the photographer, Monsieur Viande—is providing explanations. His beard hangs long and unusual down his chin, looking more like an anchorite than a man of science.

Julian is called away a short distance. “Forgive me, Viscount.”

He moves off among the guests.

Beyond the gazebo, I spot Nathaniel standing beside two men, as I approach, he notices me.

He dismisses them with a sharp nod of his cane, a few briefly spoken words, then comes toward me.

“Evander. I did not know you were here.”