Illusions of Fate
Page 55
“I can think of any number of things I would rather do on my first trip from the house, but if it gets me out, I suppose it is enough.” The idea of going back to the school fills my chest with an ache. It was often awful, but it gave me purpose. I don’t like being caged, don’t like the sense that by sitting here being safe, we still are doing nothing to remove ourselves from Downpike’s claws.
Finn takes his cane and puts on a hat. It emphasizes the dark curves of his brow, the line of his chin, and I suppose that being locked in a house near him has not been all bad. Indeed, I think it a good thing Eleanor is here as a nontraditional chaperone. Finn catches my look and a secret smile pulls his lips.
I glance to the side, trying to hide my own smile, trying not to think about his collarbone hidden just under his shirt.
“I would also like to state for the record that I am happy to be godmother to your children, but they must address me as Miss Eleanor. None of those silly nicknames.”
“I don’t know what you are on about,” I say.
“Oh, please. Get out of here and into some fresh air before you two spontaneously combust.”
“Would you like to come?” Finn asks.
“No, unlike the pacing wonder that is Jessamin, I am content to sit inside all day, reading and writing letters and napping. I’m quite suited to a life of protective custody. Besides, Ernest might call later.”
We leave her with a promise to bring back a surprise, which she dictates should be fresh flowers, but not daisies or mums. Finn chooses a door that opens from the long, dark hall to a narrow alley crossing a street filled with vendors.
“How many doors do you have?” I ask.
“Right now, fifteen. Several are permanent, the others rotate.”
I nod, trying to remember the specific combination of symbols and elements needed to create a door between areas. I know I read it in one of his books.
“You’re talking to yourself,” he says. “Are you nervous?”
“To see my father? Goodness, no. I’m working out a puzzle. Hush.”
He’s quiet, watchful as we merge into the crowds of people traversing the sidewalk, men and women shouting and competing for attention over their wares. I feel safe here, far safer than I ever did at the symphony or gala. It’s easy to be invisible among so many people. Even I don’t stand out with my skin and hair amidst so many other transplants converging on this street. It smells of fish and wheat, and for some reason things feel easier here. Maybe because everyone is on equal terms. No one haggling has enough money. There are no manners, no formality. A woman has a baby at her breast, sitting on the steps to a money-exchanging house. A man and his girl lean against a lamppost, finding a private moment amidst such a public place to share a passionate kiss.
I suppose mathematically it makes sense. With a large enough number, a single digit will not have any impact. It’s when you isolate the numbers, set them apart, that they become important on their own.
Back to doorways. I know I remember how they are formed. And thinking about doorways distracts me from looking over my shoulder for bird spies. Must keep my mind busy.
Finn is still talking. “It is not a matter for your father, but I have been meaning to ask. Would you—I mean, when this is over—”
The symbol for earth, and the one for air, and a third for . . . movement. Yes. The door functions as a transfer point, a focus for the magic. Like the quadratic formula. A stable base for all of the different variables to function around.
“Are you listening to me?” Finn asks.
“Running water.”
“What?”
“When we were escaping from Lord Downpike’s home. The symbol was under running water, and you said it helped. There was no door there.”
“Oh, right.” Finn looks disappointed to be discussing doors. “It’s a trickier matter to move without physically moving between thresholds. Takes a good deal more power. Using the earth and natural elements helps. That’s why I put that transport point underground.”
“Were you planning on spending much time running through the sewers and needing a quick escape when you came to the city?” I shake my head at the woman aggressively shoving ribbons at me.
Finn is quiet, then says, “Yes. I was. I didn’t come here for the fine society and opportunities to dine with lords and ladies.”
“Why did you come after so long of avoiding it all?”
He lets out a long, sad breath. “I came to find my parents’ murderer.”
I stop, blocking the flow of foot traffic. “They were—oh, Finn.” I suppose I should have realized, or at least suspected, but he only told me they were dead. Suddenly, the fact that Finn appeared in the city out of nowhere, striving to make connections and immersing himself in magical society without forming any real friendships makes perfect sense.
“Have you . . . do you have any idea who did it?”
His eyes darken like a cloud passing over the sun. “No. I thought for a time it was Lord Downpike, but his alibi is airtight.”
“How?”
“He was in jail that evening. Picked a fight in a tavern and nearly killed two men.”
“But a man of his skills, surely—”
“They have special cells for the nobility. There is no way he could have been out that night.”
“But with magic, maybe he set something up? Did it . . . long distance?”
“It was . . . messy. Whoever did it took his time, and he did not use magic. Not for the end. It was personal for him. As near as I could tell, my father was killed first, and then my mother . . .” He passes a hand over his eyes. “It was not the work of someone uninvested in the outcome.”
Finn takes his cane and puts on a hat. It emphasizes the dark curves of his brow, the line of his chin, and I suppose that being locked in a house near him has not been all bad. Indeed, I think it a good thing Eleanor is here as a nontraditional chaperone. Finn catches my look and a secret smile pulls his lips.
I glance to the side, trying to hide my own smile, trying not to think about his collarbone hidden just under his shirt.
“I would also like to state for the record that I am happy to be godmother to your children, but they must address me as Miss Eleanor. None of those silly nicknames.”
“I don’t know what you are on about,” I say.
“Oh, please. Get out of here and into some fresh air before you two spontaneously combust.”
“Would you like to come?” Finn asks.
“No, unlike the pacing wonder that is Jessamin, I am content to sit inside all day, reading and writing letters and napping. I’m quite suited to a life of protective custody. Besides, Ernest might call later.”
We leave her with a promise to bring back a surprise, which she dictates should be fresh flowers, but not daisies or mums. Finn chooses a door that opens from the long, dark hall to a narrow alley crossing a street filled with vendors.
“How many doors do you have?” I ask.
“Right now, fifteen. Several are permanent, the others rotate.”
I nod, trying to remember the specific combination of symbols and elements needed to create a door between areas. I know I read it in one of his books.
“You’re talking to yourself,” he says. “Are you nervous?”
“To see my father? Goodness, no. I’m working out a puzzle. Hush.”
He’s quiet, watchful as we merge into the crowds of people traversing the sidewalk, men and women shouting and competing for attention over their wares. I feel safe here, far safer than I ever did at the symphony or gala. It’s easy to be invisible among so many people. Even I don’t stand out with my skin and hair amidst so many other transplants converging on this street. It smells of fish and wheat, and for some reason things feel easier here. Maybe because everyone is on equal terms. No one haggling has enough money. There are no manners, no formality. A woman has a baby at her breast, sitting on the steps to a money-exchanging house. A man and his girl lean against a lamppost, finding a private moment amidst such a public place to share a passionate kiss.
I suppose mathematically it makes sense. With a large enough number, a single digit will not have any impact. It’s when you isolate the numbers, set them apart, that they become important on their own.
Back to doorways. I know I remember how they are formed. And thinking about doorways distracts me from looking over my shoulder for bird spies. Must keep my mind busy.
Finn is still talking. “It is not a matter for your father, but I have been meaning to ask. Would you—I mean, when this is over—”
The symbol for earth, and the one for air, and a third for . . . movement. Yes. The door functions as a transfer point, a focus for the magic. Like the quadratic formula. A stable base for all of the different variables to function around.
“Are you listening to me?” Finn asks.
“Running water.”
“What?”
“When we were escaping from Lord Downpike’s home. The symbol was under running water, and you said it helped. There was no door there.”
“Oh, right.” Finn looks disappointed to be discussing doors. “It’s a trickier matter to move without physically moving between thresholds. Takes a good deal more power. Using the earth and natural elements helps. That’s why I put that transport point underground.”
“Were you planning on spending much time running through the sewers and needing a quick escape when you came to the city?” I shake my head at the woman aggressively shoving ribbons at me.
Finn is quiet, then says, “Yes. I was. I didn’t come here for the fine society and opportunities to dine with lords and ladies.”
“Why did you come after so long of avoiding it all?”
He lets out a long, sad breath. “I came to find my parents’ murderer.”
I stop, blocking the flow of foot traffic. “They were—oh, Finn.” I suppose I should have realized, or at least suspected, but he only told me they were dead. Suddenly, the fact that Finn appeared in the city out of nowhere, striving to make connections and immersing himself in magical society without forming any real friendships makes perfect sense.
“Have you . . . do you have any idea who did it?”
His eyes darken like a cloud passing over the sun. “No. I thought for a time it was Lord Downpike, but his alibi is airtight.”
“How?”
“He was in jail that evening. Picked a fight in a tavern and nearly killed two men.”
“But a man of his skills, surely—”
“They have special cells for the nobility. There is no way he could have been out that night.”
“But with magic, maybe he set something up? Did it . . . long distance?”
“It was . . . messy. Whoever did it took his time, and he did not use magic. Not for the end. It was personal for him. As near as I could tell, my father was killed first, and then my mother . . .” He passes a hand over his eyes. “It was not the work of someone uninvested in the outcome.”
