The room she led him to was large, and empty save for a sturdy table affixed to the floor, and rows of shelves along one wall, some with small boxes sitting on them. Magically, it was dampened, with its own set of wards cutting it off from the rest of the house. It was, Cassiopeia realised when Richard began his spellwork, an unnecessary precaution to have taken, but it was always better to be cautious about such things.
She watched him work, noting the considerable skill that went into it, the sense of artistry. A wand for each hand was unusual, and in others she would have deemed it a showy affectation, but Richard made it seem both natural and practical. She accepted the second rose with a smile, although the conclusions that she drew from the demonstration were a little different from his. If it was an old art form, from a time that pre-dated the international secrecy laws, then it could not properly be called either magical or muggle. That was the point of divergence, when co-operation had broken down so utterly that the magical community had insisted on separation, both for their own safety and that of the muggles. Despite this, however, Cassiopeia had gained new insight into the way Richard thought, which was perhaps more important. He believed that what he was doing with those muggle technologies was for the benefit of the magical world. She disagreed, of course, but it was a different scenario to that which she had imagined. Richard didn't want to promote muggle things above magical ones. He wasn't against their way of life. He simply envisioned the separation differently, and wasn't that understandable, given his line of work?
Cassiopeia might have raised the point, in gentle debate, but before she had the opportunity, there he was telling her that she had disturbed him and that he wished to leave. After she had tried so hard – after almost everything he had told her was disturbing to her, in one way or another? It made her profoundly uncomfortable. Others might have been angry, but Cassi – Cassi just shook her head, sadly.
'Of course you may leave, if it pleases you,' she said. 'But first I will tell you this. It is a difference in temperament and not in time. I know far, far too many back home who think it is quite right and proper to be heroic. To be brave, and noble...and to die. Yes. That is what it leads to. You buried your friends. I am sorry for you, and for them. But I am not the sort of person who can take pride in heroics. I shall tell you what I did, in wartime. It was a secret, but no matter. A group of us – witches of London, pureblood – we taught ourselves construction spells. We went out to rebuild what we could, after the bombings. In secret.' It was against tradition, and against the law. 'When I think of the wars I do not think of heroes. I think of the bodies of children pulled from the rubble, too late.' It had always been a matter of balance. If Cassiopeia and her group did too much, they risked discovery, by the muggles or the magical government. Too little, and more people died.
'That is why I tell you I care only for preservation. It is my work. And I hope-' she paused, looking back at Richard searchingly, 'that if a wizard ever comes to Preya from your future and tells you of a fourth war, a fifth, and their Summerby heroes, and you wonder if that means the death of a son, or a beloved nephew, or children of your family yet unborn, and you decide that you do not want to know, because you are powerless here? I hope he judges you less harshly.' Cassi shed no more tears as she spoke, but her hands were trembling, and at the last few words she turned away.
'Lilsey? Mr Summerby has decided that he does not wish to stay for tea. See him out.' The elf moved silently to open the door.