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Chapter One
I first encountered Mr. Caesar during the unfortunate business with his cousin that had begun with her losing her clothes at a ball and ended with her sacrificing a British peer to an ancient goddess, f***ing a disgraced noblewoman, and developing a lifelong aversion to marchpane, not necessarily in that order.
In the near year that had followed, I had been observing that lady’s friends and family closely in case they should prove likewise diverting, but, thus far, they had not. Mr. Caesar in particular had proven deeply tedious. His studies for the bar had languished somewhat (and were about to begin languishing rather more for reasons you will soon discover), and he was spending the majority of his time at various London institutions that catered to a certain sort of gentleman with a certain sort of interest.
This latter point you may think would grab my attention, but I am not mortal and I am not so prurient in my outlook that mere sodomy arrests me.
Indeed I would probably have given up on Mr. Caesar as a prospect entirely had he not, at a ball hosted by the Vicomte de Loux, punched a fellow guest in the jaw.
The blow in question would not land until later in the evening, but I mention it now in case you, like me, find balls in general rather dull unless something unexpected is happening and might, therefore, put the book down in disgust were it not for the reassurance that in a few short pages you will be able to watch an irritating man get smacked in the teeth by a slightly less irritating man whose teeth-smacking skills—if we are honest between ourselves—leave a great deal to be desired.
I begin my tale in earnest, then, clinging in the shape of a woodlouse to the ceiling of a carriage whose occupants, in descending order of age, were Mr. Caesar, his friend Miss Bickle, and his two sisters, Miss Caesar and Miss Anne. We are starting early partly to build tension ahead of the much-anticipated teeth-punching, and partly because I am given to understand that you mortals find it more enjoyable to watch other people’s misfortunes if you learn a little about them first.
And on the subject of learning a little about people, there is some context surrounding the Caesars which will, over the course of the narrative, prove pertinent. Their mother, Lady Mary, had been born the youngest daughter of the Earl of Elmsley but had defied the conventions of the ton by marrying a freedman of Senegalese birth whom she had met through her work with the abolition. And whereas in the enlightened twenty-first century the marriage of a British aristocrat to a Person of Colour is a wholly unremarkable thing that results in no hostility whatsoever, in the bad old days of the 1800s it caused quite a scandal.
Isn’t it wonderful to know how far your species has come?
At any rate, those are the inhabitants of the carriage and this, as best I recall it, was their conversation.
“I was wondering,” Miss Bickle—a fair-haired, doe-eyed creature who stubbornly remained an ingenue despite being some way into her nineteenth year—was asking the group at large, “if after the ball is over, or if the ball becomes wearisome, any of you would be interested in reading my ction.”
“What’s a ction?” asked Miss Caesar, who, at sixteen years of age, was now formally out in society and thus learning the fine art of pretending to care about things other people cared about. Of all her siblings, she was the one who most favoured her father, her eyes and her complexion both a deep brown that almost glowed in the waning sunlight.
Mr. Caesar—immaculately presented and patrician as ever—gave his sister a warning look. “Please don’t encourage her, Mary.”
“Ction,” Miss Bickle explained, ignoring her friend’s admonition, “is an abbreviation of avrection.”
Unable to quite help himself, Mr. Caesar disregarded his own advice and offered the obvious question. “And what is avrection?”
“Ah”—Miss Bickle’s face lit up—“well, you see, that is itself an abbreviation of avid reader fiction. I am an avid reader of the works of the anonymous lady author of Sense and Sensibility and I, along with some lady friends, have formed what we call an avidreaderdom devoted to the wider anonymousladyauthorverse.”
Miss Anne gave a thrilled gasp and tossed her fashionable ringlets. Though she was by far the youngest in the carriage, her grasp of the mortal art of flattery was greater than any of her companions. “How fascinating.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” admitted Miss Caesar. “What do you actually do in this . . . this . . .”
“Avidreaderdom,” Miss Bickle reminded her. “We meet, and we discuss the works of the anonymous lady author—”
Mr. Caesar, growing increasingly aware that he was the only gentleman in the carriage and beginning to wonder if this was hampering his ability to follow the conversation, continued to look sceptical. “These works you insist upon calling the anonymousladyauthorverse?”
“Yes.” Miss Bickle had a fine line in confident nods, and she deployed one of them now.
“You don’t think that’s a rather silly name?”
Never having considered anything silly in her entire life, and being, I suspect, one of the few mortals who appreciated the etymology of the word, Miss Bickle was unperturbed by the criticism. “Not at all. I think it rather splendid.”
The Misses Caesar, to their brother’s chagrin, both agreed that it was splendid indeed.
“Although,” added Miss Caesar, “I am not entirely certain how this group of yours differs from a literary salon.”
“Ah, well,” Miss Bickle explained, “we do not only read and discuss the works, we also write our own stories set within the wider anonymousladyauthorverse.”
Miss Anne clapped her dainty hands. “Oh, how marvellous.”
“Is it, in fact, marvellous?” asked Mr. Caesar. “Is it not, in fact, a slightly peculiar thing to do?”
Before Miss Bickle could either deny or embrace the peculiarity of her chosen hobby, Miss Caesar was leaning forward with fatally sincere interest and asking, “But what are these stories about?”
“For example,” Miss Bickle began with the joy of an enthusiast encouraged to expound upon their area of enthusiasm, “my current wtiitpobw”—the look of perplexity on the faces of her audience was enough to make her clarify—“that is, work that is in the process of being written, is called The Heir and the Wastrel, and it concerns events that I imagine occurring between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy in their youth.”
“What sort of events?” prompted Miss Anne, with an innocence that caused her brother to chime in immediately with “Do remember that Anne is fourteen.”
Miss Bickle, who had indeed overlooked the lady’s age, opened her mouth, closed it again, and then said somewhat demurely: “Japes.”
“And would I be able to join your avidreaderdom?” asked Miss Caesar. “I have read all of the anonymous lady author’s works and might like to try my hand at writing avrections.”
“Oh, that would be lovely.” Miss Bickle beamed. “At the moment it’s just me and Miss Penworthy.”
“I really don’t think you should be encouraging Miss Penworthy’s attention,” warned Mr. Caesar. “She may take it in ways you don’t intend.”
With casual bonhomie, Miss Bickle gave Mr. Caesar a pat on the arm. “Don’t worry, we’ve established the parameters of our friendship very thoroughly.”
A suspicion crept into Mr. Caesar’s mind, and quite without any mystical influence on my part. “How thoroughly?”
“Very thoroughly. Exhaustively, really. Miss Penworthy can be very detail-oriented.”
To Mr. Caesar’s relief, the fates decreed that he would not need to pursue this line of enquiry any further, as they had arrived at their destination, the temporary London residence of Alexandre, Vicomte de Loux.
While Mr. Caesar and his lady companions disembarked, I took the shape of a sparrow and flew out into the night.
And there, in the sky, I saw a star fall.
