I spent the next day glued to my email. Just in case Milieu were all “we loved your article so much we got in touch with you straight away even though that literally never happens.”
It hadn’t happened.
So I dedicated myself to being moderately productive, which mainly involved restocking my food supplies and writing, and only fretting about Milieu/daydreaming about Caspian a little bit. Nik woke up hungover in the middle of my afternoon and we long-distance buddy-watched an episode of Supergirl, me curled on the sofa, Nik apparently still in bed and not consistently conscious.
I was back in the study and back at work—go me—when Ellery said, “Come on, we’re leaving.”
“Oh my God.” I finished having a minor heart attack. “Are you ever going to like knock or warn me before turning up?”
She thought about it for a moment. “No.”
“But what if you get here and I’m bonking your brother?”
“Then I’ll be psychologically traumatized and you should feel bad about yourself.”
I abandoned that line of argument as a dud and asked instead, “Where are we going?”
“I told you. Out.”
I glanced at the time on my phone, surprised at how quickly the day had passed. I’d damn near worked a nine to five, if you discounted the fact I’d gone shopping, watched TV, and not got up at nine. But, y’know, I was definitely getting there.
“Okay, okay.” I closed my laptop. “Let me get changed.”
Ellery’s own outfit—an off-the-shoulder jumper that simply said DEAD, a floral skirt, black tights, Docs, and a backpack with cat skeletons on it—didn’t offer much insight into possible destinations. It suggested something fairly casual but, knowing Ellery, that was probably how she’d dress for tea with the queen. I settled for jeans and my Boy George T-shirt. Another present from Nik, it was just a stylized eye, very blue, with the familiar slash of a brow, a touch of makeup, and a single colored tear sliding from the corner. I mean, the queen liked Boy George, right? She’d offered him an OBE once. Well, allegedly. I flung my velvet jacket over the top, grabbed my phone, and that was me: ready to go.
We headed out of the building and down into the street. It was actually shaping up to be a fairly nice evening. Not exactly warm because, y’know, England, but the sky was swirly blue and a pale silver orb was hanging in it. I’d seen pictures of such a thing on the internet and I think it was the sun. Ellery produced a pair of dark glasses and put them on. They were huge and round and covered her from brows to scowl.
Thus protected from the merest hint of summer, she led me into Hyde Park through the Albert gate. At least, I thought it was the Albert gate—it was sandwiched between a couple of embassies, wide enough to admit a carriage, and there were weird statues of animals on either side of it, which struck me as the sort of thing Victoria was liable to stick her husband’s name on. It led to a sandy avenue lined by hazy green trees, broken up every now and again by wrought-iron lampposts.
“Rotten Row,” I said, getting all excited.
Ellery turned her head slightly in my direction. “S’not that bad.”
“Are you seriously telling me there’s something I know about London that you don’t?” She didn’t answer so I took that as a grudging yes, and went on, “The name’s a corruption of Route du Roi, and it was the fashionable place for ladies and gentlemen to ride out during the Regency period.”
“I’m not into rich people shit.”
“Spoken like a true rich person.”
That earned me another head-turn, but her mouth wasn’t quite as sulky as usual. In fact, I would even have gone so far as to say her expression was amused. “How do you know this stuff?” she asked.
“Georgette Heyer. Obviously.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t see her eyes, but her tone suggested they were rolling. “Romances.”
“What’s wrong with romances? And don’t give me some line about them being trashy or patriarchal or always having the same plot because everything always has the same plot.”
“Nah. They’re just about people. Can’t be fucked with people.”
The righteous wind wheezed out of my sails. “Aren’t all books fundamentally about people?”
“Watership Down is about rabbits.”
“Allegorical people rabbits though.”
“No, it isn’t. They have their own language and faith and culture, and think about things totally differently.”
I wasn’t sure if I’d genuinely outraged her with my thoughts on Watership Down. So I did a conciliatory backpedal for the sake of social harmony. And also because I’d never heard her sound so passionate, and it was kind of adorable. “I guess. And, anyway, that book is really fucked up.”
She grinned. “Isn’t it?”
We walked on in silence. Turned left at the tennis courts and ended up back on the Kensington Road, between the Albert Memorial and the Royal Albert Hall. This part of London was basically a noncon Albert sandwich whichever way you went.
“Come on.”
Ellery stomped off purposefully, looping round to the south side of the concert hall. I’d never actually been this close to it before. It was a tiered cake of a building in red brick and terracotta, wrapped up this decorative frieze about the advancements of Arts and Science and works of industry of all nations. I knew that because it was written right there in huge shiny letters. You had to love the Victorians. I mean, apart from the colonialism. And the bigotry. And the widespread social oppression. Okay, maybe the Victorians sucked.
Once we got to what, I guess, was the front it was clear something epic was going on. There were two lines of people running down each side of the Queen’s Steps and, from the general relaxed atmosphere—there were even little clumps of picnickers—it looked like everyone was in it for the long haul. It was probably the most British thing I’d ever seen. Because, say what you will about us as a nation, we sure as hell give good queue.
Up near the front on the right was a little group all playing cards. Though they stopped when Ellery approached and an older woman, with a cluster of white curls, got up from a fishing stool in order to—OMG—hug her. And Ellery didn’t flip out or bite anyone. It was super weird.
“This is Arden,” Ellery said, when she was finally released. “Arden, this is Flossie, Dick, Mikhail, Janet, and John.”
I waved a little awkwardly, since I had no idea what these people had to do with each other, or with Ellery. With the exception of Mikhail, they were all in their fifties at least. John, in his tweedy, elbow-patch-sporting jacket, looked like an academic. And Janet like the subject of that Jenny Joseph poem.
Dick peered up from the latest George RR Martin. “Where’ve you been, Ellery girl? We thought you’d forgotten us.”
“Just been busy.”
“You’ve missed out.”
“Oh yeah? Highlights?”
Flossie reclaimed her seat. “This German couple took Miskha’s spot. But we soon had them put to rights.”
“I meant,” said the alien being who had replaced Ellery, “musically.”
“The Halle, I think. Gave us some smashing Mahler.”
Ellery shrugged. Now that was more like her. “Das Lied?”
They nodded.
“Eh. Every time I hear that, I’m like…hurry up and die already. Don’t hang there in D forever.”
John was polishing his glasses on the edge of his sleeve. “We should have guessed our lonely, half-forgotten Bela would draw you out.”
Another Ellery shrug.
“Did you know he was supposed to have composed much of this piece while at a nudist camp?”
“Look that up on Wikipedia, did you?”
John’s forehead went pink as the others laughed.
“Anyway”—Ellery pulled out her phone and checked the time—“we’d better get going. Got our own queue to join.”
Oh great. We were queuing as well?
My face must have reflected something of my feelings on the subject because Dick smiled up at me. “Never you mind, lad. It’s part of the fun.”
“You should come with us one day,” Flossie was saying to Ellery.
“Nah. Arena’s for people who want to be part of something. Gallery’s for people who don’t.”
“You know you’re always welcome.”
Ellery smiled—and, wow, she looked bizarrely sweet. “Save me a heave.”
“If you save us a ho.”
Then she caught me by the hand and dragged me off down the steps. And I couldn’t say I was any more illuminated. Our queue led all the way from the west side of the Hall, along a street, and past the back of a church.
“We’re good,” Ellery announced, having sized it up.
“Are we?”
“Oh yes,” said the lady in front of us, “I’ve been right at the bottom of Bremner Road and still got in.”
Since something was clearly expected of me, I offered a slightly anxious “yay.”
Ellery lowered herself to the ground, crossed her legs, and pulled her backpack into her lap. Then began rummaging around inside it like Mary Poppins had gone seriously off the rails.
Not really knowing what else to do, I plopped down next to her and pulled my knees up to my chin. A suspicion was…not so much forming as being ominously confirmed. “Ellery,” I asked, “are we at the Proms?”
“Maybe.”
“Why are we at the Proms?”
She shrugged.
My knowledge of the Proms was scanty to put it mildly: they were an annual classical musical festival and the last night of them was a big deal and would be shown on BBC2 or something, with much pomp and circumstance and fireworks. “I thought you weren’t into rich people shit.”
“Arden.” Ellery hooked a finger under her glasses and pulled them down her nose so I could receive the full force of her appalled look. “Anyone can go to the Proms. That’s the whole point.”
“But I don’t know anything about classical music.”
“It’s not about knowledge.”
“Right now it seems to be about my arse getting numb. How long do we have to wait?”
There was a lengthy silence. Finally, Ellery took off her sunglasses and folded the arms with a click. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.”
Should have seen that coming. I stifled a sigh. “How can I get it,” I said, as gently as I could, “when you won’t tell me anything?”
Silence again.
“Like…” Ellery’s newly naked eyes looked oddly vulnerable—their shades softened by the sunlight “…ever since 1890-something the Proms have been about making music available to the people who get told that shit isn’t for them. All you have to do is turn up and pay a fiver—well, it’s six quid now. And you can go to a concert.”
I risked a small smile. “Wow, that’s pretty cool.”
“She’s right,” said Unasked for Queue Lady. “This way you get to be part of something that goes back over a hundred years.”
Ellery didn’t exactly strike me as a raging traditionalist. “I just don’t know what we’re doing here.”
“Because I like it, okay?” Her raised voice startled a couple of pigeons on a nearby wall and they took to the skies with a crackle of wings. “And you asked. You asked what I liked. And I trusted you. So either…fuck off and die. Or have a strawberry.”
“Have a what?”
“A strawberry. I brought strawberries.” She wrenched open her backpack and pulled out a brown paper bag.
“Oooh. Don’t mind if I do.” Unasked for Queue Lady leaned over me and helped herself.
“Well, maybe I won’t fuck off and die,” I said.
Ellery was still flushed and full of scowls. “Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Can I have a strawberry?” I made my cutest face.
For a moment, I thought she was going to say no, but then she relented. “Oh all right.”
It was probably the closest to forgiveness I was ever going to get. And the strawberry tasted amazing, sparkly sweet and bright as the juice exploded over my tongue.
“What are we going to see…um, hear?” I asked.
“Bluebeard’s Castle.”
“I shouldn’t know that, right?”
Unasked for Queue Lady gave a little hop. “You’re in for such a treat, love.”
Ellery just put her sunglasses back on, her lips curving into an unreadable smile.