Who: Adrien Green, Arabella Ward What: Assistance is requested and provided Where: A public library in London When: 4 August, 1888 Rating: G
Arabella stood just inside the library foyer and gazed at the long lines of wooden shelving. She did not like public libraries and did not come here often; she preferred private collections, with their unique forms of organization and unusual treasures. She had exhausted those she knew of, however, acquaintances of her father, and then of acquaintances of those acquaintances, until finally the river of information had gone dry and left her here.
She knew the thematic organization of books, and how to read shelf marks, but that was only of use when one knew what they were looking for upon arrival, and she did not. If she stood here for long enough, perhaps a librarian would find her, but Arabella did not like the idea of standing around waiting when she could be in motion instead.
Arabella began to walk forward, and diverted her course toward the first person she saw who was not clearly perusing books. He was an African, which was unusual enough in a library to be notable, but while there had been a great deal written about the superiority of the European cranium and intelligence over that of the African, Arabella was willing to give anyone in a library the benefit of the doubt. He had found his way in, after all.
She came to a halt in front of him and studied him for a further moment, before deciding to admit her failure of independence. "Do you know where I might find a librarian?"
She should likely have started with a greeting, or pleasantry, or inquiry or formal address or some other such triviality; her tutors certainly would have said so. But he did not know her, nor did she know why he would wish to, so approaching the heart of the matter directly saved them both from a pointless conversation which would only eat up their valuable time in the library.
Adrien was out running errands -- Mr Winslow seemed to take a certain pleasure in sending him out and about, something that Adrien didn't particularly care for, but a job was a job, and even though there were no end of things he'd rather be doing than being treated like a glorified delivery-boy, it could be worse.
For a week straight this summer, Winslow'd had him tramping around the English countryside on a wild goose chase for a grimoire.
A jaunt to the public library was, by extension, very nearly pleasant.
He raised an eyebrow as the thin, sober-looking young woman came up to him.
"I happen to be one," he said, crisply, "but while I know my way around this particular establishment reasonably well, I am not employed here." He looked around for a staff member -- they seemed to be in short supply at the moment -- and frowned. "If it's an easy enough inquiry, I may be able to point you in the appropriate direction," he added.
Winslow could stand to wait for another few minutes.
That was an answer that created more questions. Arabella chose to provide her own answer before she voiced them. "I'm looking for information on metal allergies. Medical texts, by preference, or historical references, if the family is known and the lineage can be traced. Not folklore." Folklore had its place, but it was impossible to separate the fanciful and imagined from useful data, and Arabella had no attention to spare for such puzzles.
Arabella dipped into a shallow curtsy, a belated introduction. "Arabella Ward." That was enough of a pleasantry, she decided, for her to give voice to her curiosity. "Are you an unemployed librarian, or do you maintain a private collection?"
He bristled a little despite himself. "I am employed by a private library," he said, a little sharply, "and am somewhat familiar with how scientific texts may be organized on the matter, although there won't be much in history, I'm afraid."
"Adrien Green," he said, belatedly, before he started walking in the direction of the relevant section, assuming she'd follow.
He frowned. "I say that, because those doing the recording may not have noticed the hereditary pattern as such, nor known exactly what it was -- and I'd imagine far too many simply were put down as having died of unknown circumstances in childhood, if it was a common enough substance."
He also knew that there was a distinct gap in the literature -- an intentional one. There were certain texts at the library at the Institute, but even those were spare, and merely suggestive -- one of the downsides, he supposed, to it being nearly entirely run by humans; the Institute's texts were exhaustive when it came to both science and magic (and the odd unholy amalgam of the two the Institute seemed to thrive on), but didn't extend far beyond that to matters of other species -- at least not the areas of the collection he was allowed access to.
"What sort of metal allergy, then?" He asked, raising an eyebrow as they walked.
That Mr Green recognized the significance of hereditary patterns in medical records was a reassurance that he understood the context of Arabella's inquiry, although his defensive tone made it difficult to follow-up graciously with a question about which library employed him, and whether Arabella might be able to arrange a visit.
"Primarily base metals, such as copper and iron, and the precious metals of gold and silver." From those, Arabella could expand her research after successful study. "My interest is in certain properties of metals which provoke immune system responses. I am not opposed to scientific texts, although I suspect that I have read most of what is relevant. I prefer private collections, and find them overall better-curated. I have visited most of those kept by the scientifically-minded in London."
She hoped that would smooth ruffled feathers, and it seemed a better statement than an insincere apology for an offense she did not understand giving. “I can see why you’d prefer the private collections,” Adrien replied as they walked to the stacks in question. “The sometimes narrow focus can be more than compensated for with the depth a given collection can go to, should the curator be appropriately thorough. The Institute is somewhat more focused on industrial processes, but we do have some rather significant alchemical texts that may provide some insight.”
He paused as they entered the scientific area of the library. “Genetics, then, or immune systems?” He asked. “I’d think the latter, to start.”
"I agree." Arabella's tone was warmer now, mellowed by satisfaction at finding a kindred spirit who understood so well. "The only use I have for genetics at this stage is to attempt to locate other family members with the same sensitivities, and identifying them won't help me to isolate precisely what they might be reacting to in the metals. I would prefer to focus on the elements themselves until I am prepared enough to test purified solutions."
Mr Green's casual mention of the largest center for technological advancement in London was further cause for intrigue. "Do you maintain the collection for the Institute? I've heard they have an impressive reading room, but I've never ventured in. You're exactly right about private collections; I'm sure there are resources here, but it is a bit like sorting through the chaff in search of a grain of wheat. Still, I might be surprised."
Arabella's estimation of her own success here had increased, in fact, in direct proportion to her esteem for her guide. She might find more here than she had hoped for. "Do you find the Institute's collection to have the overview and diversity of a public library, or does it have more the feel of a privately-curated collection?"
He tipped his head as they walked along the shelf, eyes scanning. “My superior, Mr Winslow, is in charge of the collection,” he said, absently. “It is a fairly ambitious undertaking -- and their areas of research interests are wide-ranging, so the offerings can sometimes bear unexpected fruit, and it has resources enough to have some truly rare works, often international in scope.” He shrugged. “I’d call it at a golden mean between the two extremes,” he said, with no small degree of professional pride.
“I’m assuming you’ve read Pasteur,” he said, tapping a small section of the shelf, “it starts here, from what I can tell, and there isn’t much, I’m afraid -- it is all rather new.”
"I have," Arabella acknowledged. "My father follows him avidly. His work on tartaric acid I found especially illuminating to my own work. And I have read all of his publications on germ theory, which unfortunately is no more helpful than miasma theory when it comes to metals. It is something innate to the material itself which must cause the body to react, which I hope can be purified through transmutation. The difficulty is that the characteristics assigned to each metal can be found in a variety of other substances, and if none of them cause the same reaction, then the truth must be that there is something else, something unique, which I hope can be filtered out."
Arabella turned from the shelves to face Mr Green. "Does the Institute provide library access to researchers? I would like to examine their texts on alchemy, if you believe it would be permitted. I can provide letters of reference."
“Transmutation, hm?” Adrien replied, raising an eyebrow. “Of the metal, I’m assuming? And just the properties of it that cause a reaction, then?” He pointed. “Metallurgy and Alchemy is one shelf over, I believe, if it’s of interest. Is it still iron, if an essential component of it has been transmuted?” He asked, more rhetorically than anything.
“And yes. We do accept applications for the Reading Room, where you would have access to a significant amount of the collection on request. References would certainly help matters.”
"That is a question," Arabella murmured, almost to herself, as Mr Green spoke some of her doubts aloud. "Can metals maintain their alchemical properties without retaining that which might make them dangerous? Is the hypersensitivity to the essence of the metal itself, or to one of its properties, which can be purified? Is something that causes an allergic reaction an imperfection?"
She had read nearly every text available on alchemy, but followed Mr Green's prompt and moved to the next shelf, pausing in front of the metallurgy collection. "There is so much we still don't know," she mused, but it was not defeat from her lips; it was the gleam of a challenge.
"We refine iron to create steel," Arabella observed, leaving off her musing to address Mr Green again. "Should we not explore refining it to create something else, something safer, even if we must give it another name afterward?"
The metallurgy collection threatened to draw her in, with its rows of titles that could mean anything, vagaries of academia holding their secrets within, on the page that listed the table of contents. It would take some time to work through them all, before she even knew which books to take with her.
Arabella tried on a smile, which nearly always felt cosmetic, like powder or rouge, meant only for company and not entirely suited to her face. "I believe you will be hearing from me at your library, Mr Green. I hope you would be willing to guide me there as skillfully as you have here."
Adrien’s own face tended to settle far more naturally into a frown than anything. He nodded, a little awkwardly, uncertain as to whether an offered handshake would be the proper thing to do -- it seemed like a dismissal of sorts, and he did have work to get back to.
The woman seemed young enough (a distinction he’d learned not to judge for a good long while now), but he could appreciate her focus, and when she launched into her own musing, sparked by his, her entire face illuminated with interest and excitement.
“Well,” he said. “Consider me willing, then. I shall be on the lookout for your application. Best of luck to you, Miss Ward.”