The Revolutions by Felix Gilman Read Free Book Online

Kensington by mistake on his way to somewhere infinitely more fashionable and important, but intended to make the best of his evening now that he was here. He dozed through Miss Shale’s dance. He leaned forward to peer at Chatterji’s photographs. He met Josephine’s eye once, and winked at her; she wasn’t sure what he meant to convey.
     
MR INNES blessed the conclusion of the proceedings, and closed the circle against evil.
    When the blessings were done, Mr Innes lit the lamps, waking several dozers. Chatterji gathered up his photographs in a leather briefcase; then he left without making conversation. Preserving the aura of mystery, Josephine supposed. Servants brought out wine and coffee. Miss Shale, who had fainted, was examined by Doctor Varley. Josephine tucked her notes away, collected her fee from Treasurer Park, and went in search of Arthur. She found him on the other side of the room, sharing a drink with Mr Hare and Mr Innes and comparing stories about the storm.
    Mrs Sedgley waved to her. “Josephine, my dear! A moment of your time?”
    “Of course, Matron.”
    Mr Atwood stood at Mrs Sedgley’s side, smiling. “Miss Bradman,” he said. “I’m really the one who should be begging your pardon; I’m the one who’s taking your time. I wanted to make your acquaintance.”
    Mrs Sedgley raised her eyebrows and attempted to wordlessly communicate that Atwood was a man of importance, and that Josephine should indulge whatever odd whim he had in mind.
    “Miss Bradman; may I ask what you were writing?”
    “Of course, Mr Atwood. Nothing of great interest: it’s my duty to keep the minutes of the Order’s proceedings.”
    “Ah. Very wise. Let nothing of the great work be lost.”
    “Quite,” Mrs Sedgley said.
    “The preservation of learning,” Atwood said.
    “Yes,” Josephine said, feeling that she was expected to say something.
    “A vital task. When one thinks how much learning has been lost to the world by the inadequate taking of minutes! Who is that, I said, who was taking such assiduous notes, and the Matron told me your name and a bell rang in my head—Bradman, Bradman, Josephine Bradman … I’m certain, I said, that I remember that name … such an awful lot of clutter in the attic, such an awful lot of empty space, too, but also all sorts of interesting people—have you read Bruno on the art of memory? No? I expect the Matron is familiar with the technique. I’m not half as good at it as I would like to be. Think, Atwood, think, I said; then light dawned. A bright star in the great infinite darkness of my own foolish head. The poetess!”
    Josephine couldn’t conceal her surprise. She wasn’t used to being recognised for her poetry, which had been sparingly published, and so far as she knew, quickly forgotten.
    “Hah!” Atwood clapped. “I thought as much.”
    “I’m very flattered, Mr Atwood.”
    “I’m relieved. My head is still of some use.”
    Arthur appeared, drink in hand.
    “Fascinating,” Arthur said. “Fascinating. The whole thing. I’m sorry there wasn’t a séance, though. I think I may have put my card in, so to speak, for membership. It’s hard to say. Mr Hare has an awfully indirect way of speaking. Mystical, I suppose.”
    He turned to Atwood and introduced himself.
    “Atwood,” Atwood said. “We were discussing Miss Bradman’s poetry.”
    “Splendid stuff. Are you a poet, Mr Atwood?”
    “Good Lord, no.”
    “Josephine,” Mrs Sedgley said, “is a treasure; simply a treasure. Poetry is so very important; indeed, I believe that poets are our truest guides to the spiritual realm; poets are waking dreamers, awakened spirits—”
    “Quite,” Atwood said.
    “Are you a member of this club, Mr Atwood?”
    “A guest, Mr Shaw.”
    “Same boat, Mr Atwood. Same boat.”
    “I should never have expected to meet the poetess Josephine Bradman here. But London is a very small place, sometimes, isn’t it? I expect Josephine’s quite tired of people