Free The Quickening Maze by Adam Foulds

like a tiny halberdier. Evidently she was listening with a keen degree of interest.
    Oswald looked down at the infant seated there. A typically pointless and ill-disciplined defiance of convention to have at table with them a child who ought to be in the nursery.
    ‘It’s when you practise writing different kinds of letters that you would send to different people,’ Hannah explained.
    ‘This was a letter to a magistrate,’ Oswald resumed, ‘so you can imagine what followed.The letter implored the full weight of the law to be laid upon Mr Mathers for his violent and disorderly conduct.’
    Eliza laughed. ‘I should think so. Beating poor Matthew.’
    ‘It availed naught, though.’ Matthew offered the postscript. ‘I remember his conduct for some weeks after was far from improved.’ He laughed along with the others, venting relief also that the anecdote hadn’t been very much worse. He met his brother’s gaze, which was warm but darkly eloquent with what had not been said. Even then Matthew found some recompense: he indicated with a finger where a pearl of fat hung from his brother’s moustache.
     
    The damp had soaked into Oswald’s beard; it hung sparsely down, bedraggled plumage. Matthew ran a hand down the cold threads of his own beard, tugged it out at the chin.
    ‘And what are the trees here?’ Oswald asked with a vague encompassing wave.
    ‘Well, that there,’ Matthew replied, pointing with his stick at the thick dark cylinder of one, ‘is a hornbeam.’
    ‘Ah, yes.’
    ‘Very hard wood. It’s being used now for machine parts. There’s a manufactury not too far from here.’
    ‘Is there? Is there?’
    They followed the wet path round, treading the rotted black leaves, back towards Fairmead House. Matthew Allen spied ahead of them two very acceptable patients for them to run into: the Tennyson brothers. But what were they doing with their faces? They walked with hesitant short steps as though half-blind, despite having their hands clasped against their cheeks, their eyes pulled open as far as possible between spread fingers.
    ‘Good morning,’ Allen called to them. They looked at him at first with those huge squirming eyes like sea monsters, then dropped their hands.
    ‘What on earth . . .’ Oswald muttered to himself.
    Matthew strode forward to meet them. ‘Do you mind if I enquire . . .’ he began jovially.
    Alfred explained, unembarrassed, as silent Septimus loitered behind his shoulder. ‘It’s something we used to do as boys. I’d just reminded Sep of it.’
    ‘To help you see better?’
    ‘Precisely.’
    ‘And does it?’
    ‘Good morning,’ Alfred said to Oswald, who had arrived and stood, arms folded. ‘It does mean that you can’t not see. In so far as you ever can.’
    ‘I see. Hunting that Grand Agent.’ Allen smiled, although Alfred hung his head a little shyly at that. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my brother, Mr Oswald Allen. Oswald, this is Alfred and Septimus Tennyson.’
    ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.’
    Alfred Tennyson raised his hand, compelling Oswald to unfold his arms and shake hands with the tall, peculiar brothers. Afterwards he clasped his hands behind his back and stood surveyingly, a visiting dignitary.
    ‘And how are you feeling today, Septimus? You look in better spirits.’
    Before Septimus could answer, a wood pigeon clattered out of the tree above their heads. Septimus cringed at the noise, then smiled. He made a gesture, softly raising his hands and floating them apart, half-apology, half-explanation. But Matthew waited him out, required that he should talk. Septimus looked again at the tattered leaves around his feet and said in a whisper, tangentially but positively, ‘I like the winter.’
    ‘Very good.Well, good day to you both. I shall leave you to your excursion.’
    Walking on into the asylum grounds, Matthew explained to his brother whom they had just met, but not before Oswald had asked, ‘What on earth