The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [80]
Bert shifted his eyes to look at Daedalus, but the latter took no notice. His attention was completely focused on the three young Caretakers.
Charles began to move closer, then halted. He took another step forward—and then two steps back.
“I—I don’t think I can do this, after all,” he said. “To be completely forthright about it, I’m a bit worried that what I’ll become isn’t what any of us expect.”
“That’s the talk of a lunatic,” Jack exclaimed. “You are who you are. What else could you be?”
“I…I’m not really an Oxford man,” Charles confessed. His level of distress at admitting this was evident by the nervous tapping of his fingers against his belt. “Not by any legitimate reckoning, that is.”
Jack laughed. “That’s nonsense, Charles. Of course you’re an Oxford man. What are you playing at?”
Charles let out a sigh and sat down on a stump a few paces away from the Well. “I’m afraid all the playacting was done before…and when I thought better of it, it was too late.”
“But when we met in London those years ago, you said you were from Oxford,” protested John.
“No,” Charles replied. “I said I was employed at the Oxford University Press, and that fool inspector Clowes made the mistake of thinking that meant I was at Oxford University. And considering we were being questioned about a murder, I wasn’t of a mind to correct him.
“Actually,” Charles continued ruefully, “I attended University College in London for a few years, and that’s it and that’s all. I’ve been to Oxford a number of times, certainly, enough to know the schools and the city. But a lot of common people—like the inspector—are oblivious to the difference between the press and the university. So I don’t often clarify it for them.”
“But then why not tell us afterward?” asked Jack.
“Because the both of you were Oxford men,” admitted Charles. “And face it, Jack—I’m older than both of you. More so now than then, it seems. I’m a good writer, I think…but my true skills lie in editing and publishing. And I could tell very quickly the caliber of men you both promised to be. And…and I wanted you to respect me, Jack.”
“Charles,” said John. “I think you’ve already earned our respect, a long time ago. Really—don’t give it another thought.”
“There’s just one thing,” Charles added. “Please don’t tell Tummeler.”
Jack and John both grinned and clapped their friend on the back. “Don’t worry,” said Jack. “I don’t believe Tummeler will ever think any less of you, as long as you don’t take up a post at Cambridge, that is.”
“So,” said Daedalus. “You have made your choice.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Charles. “It’s just not for me.”
The inventor turned to John. “And you, Caveo Principia? Will you speak into Echo’s Well?”
John shook his head. “One day, perhaps, I might feel the need to recapture my childhood. But today is not that day. Thank you, no.”
Daedalus laughed. “The Well does not steal the years from you. Can you ever recall a time where your faculties were not fully engaged, where every experience of your life did not form a chain with all of the rest? This is merely another link in the chain—but it is a link forged long ago, and it will shape your current perceptions accordingly.
“You will remain yourself, however you appear to us.”
“I’ll do it.”
It was Jack who had spoken.
“It makes sense. I’m the least encumbered of any of us. I have neither a spouse nor children. If something goes awry, at worst I’ll have to wait out a few years to retake the exams at Oxford. I can do this.”
Daedalus bowed and stepped back from the Well.
Jack stepped forward, then leaned in and looked down.
There was no source of light in Echo’s Well, but like the sky of the Underneath, it glowed faintly with warmth. There was water not far below the rim, and Jack could see a reflection on the surface. It was his face—but it wasn’t his reflection.
It was an image he hadn’t seen in decades. It was himself, when he was a child. And so he said the only thing that made sense.
“Hello, Jacks. It’s good to see you.”
John and Charles gasped in surprise