Page 19 of Tomb of Ancients
“How is he—my brother? How is his cat?”
I smiled at the now-distant memory of sitting in Giles’s salon, only just having escaped death at the hands of a mad doctor. Mary had spoken so fondly of his cat, and I had watched it laze like a giant furry lump by the hearth.
“Francis is well, last I saw him, but off the biscuits, apparently.”
“Yes, Giles did have a dreadful habit of overfeeding his pets. A lesser sin, I think,” Niles said with a hearty laugh. Now that I was looking for the comparison, I realized that he and Giles were all but twins—tall, lanky, and birdlike—with arms so narrow a stiff breeze could make them snap. “Now then, what brings you illustrious folk to my shop this afternoon?”
Dalton looked charmed by the man’s effusion, though Fathom rolled her eyes liberally. I couldn’t help feeling an immediate kinship with the man—any connection, any touch of familiarity in this rapidly darkening world, felt like a beacon in the shadows. Dalton mimicked Fathom’s relaxed pose, leaningan elbow onto the case, which housed books so old they might have exploded into fine powder at the lightest touch.
“Given the clientele that moves through here, we thought you or Cadwallader may know of someone useful. A shadow binder, or someone with similar skills. We seem to have stumbled upon a powerful curse, one that we cannot lift ourselves.”
Niles took this in as if he were simply hearing the latest dispatches from the Peninsular War. Grimacing, he nodded along to every single word, adjusting his spectacles with quick little fidgets. I put the letter that had been meant for the proprietor on the countertop, showing him the notes I had taken.
“Mmhm, mmhmm. Yes, very interesting. Fascinating. In fact, I know just the sort. Are you familiar with the Birch and Fox? The barkeep there is ofboundlesstalent. Coaxed a nymph from a tree in Kensington Gardens not three weeks ago.”
Niles beamed at us, pleased and clever, but Dalton shook his head, his brow furrowing over his bandaged eyes.
“We cannot make the journey, friend. The streets are rife with enemies. If time were not so short, I would explain better,” he said. Then he nodded toward Fathom. “Could this barkeep be summoned? Fathom is less known to the Upworlders, and one woman on horseback is light and fast.”
She pulled up the hood of her coat, already determined.
“Tell me what to look for,” she said, sliding the parchment into her coat.
“Indeed, indeed,” Niles chirped, disappearing below the counter to search through unseen shelves there. “I will make the arrangements. A curse lifted in Cadwallader’s! How exciting. How simplymarvelous.”
Chapter Nine
1248, Constantinople
I had forgotten the hard, slicing winds of sand that sweep through the city in high summer. Where I was born was a temperate place, never too hot or too cold, and my whole self is melting in the relentless humidity. But Henry loves it. He loves everything, I think, or he masks his indifference with boundless enthusiasm so indistinguishable from the real thing that one is forced to believe it.
He is half-insane with a new obsession. The book Ara lugs around (she calls it theBlack Elbion, which I’m sure is meant to offend me, but I refuse to be baited) is all Henry can talk about now. I hear him whispering about it in his sleep. She claims it came from the depths of the ocean, that its powers cannot be studied or understood. While they slept last night, I tried to read it, but the cover burned my fingers and the marks refuse to fade. Ara has not yet noticed the bandages, but she is sure to interrogate me once she does.
This fixation of Henry’s is how we find ourselves in Constantinople. I would love this place were it not so unbearably hot. Ara makes us cover our faces with flimsy black shawls that wrap around our heads and pin to our tunics. She tells us that it will be easier to ask questions if we are concealed this way, dressed like the other citizens, our belts heavy with beads and metal, our eyesthe only indication of our moods. We sipped a strong, sharp tea in the shade of the Ayasofya, and I could take only one or two sips of the stuff. How anyone could stand to drink something scalding hot on an already arid day is beyond me. No, I ignored my tea, looking instead at Henry, looking at him while he gazed at the splendor above us.
I think the best way to love something is through another person’s eyes. He sees things I cannot, loves things with so much of his heart that I feel the echo of that passion and pain in my own. I know Ara caught me staring, and I weathered her sniggers with an air of humor I did not feel. Henry may adore this city, but I am a stranger here, and I feel the stirrings of ancient, unknown gods that frighten me. I long to be with my brother and sister and miss them constantly, and I am left to lie awake at night dreading what they will say when I return. Sparrow begged me not to leave, but I had an excuse, of course. The mission. This mysterious writer must be found, and the rumors of his comings and goings were so erratic that even this detour could be forgiven. Which brings me back to the books.
The books. There are more of them now, more than just ours and the thing hiding in Ara’s pack. While the two of them sipped their tea, Ara berated Henry for leading us on this fool’s errand.
“How many times must I tell you,” she snapped at him. “The books appear when they wish to. Pluck this idea out of our head, Henry. There will be no answers at the end of your search.”
She spoke with such authority. I noticed it, and naturallyHenry did, too. He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the water-bright tiles beside us, steam rising steadily from his cup. “How do you know? How can you be so certain?”
Ara tugged at her sleeves nervously then, and I could not help noticing the markings on her arms. She was not a very old woman, but something had aged her so severely that deep lines were already carved into her forehead and chin, wisps of gray spreading through her dark hair. Yet she was a handsome woman, regal in her gathered linens the color of wheat.
“I only want to protect you from disappointment,” she said, distant. “There are secrets in this world long buried and best forgotten.”
She reached across the table with one sun-leathered hand and touched Henry’s wrist. I looked away, embarrassed by the motherly gesture and feeling as if I were trespassing on a moment in which I did not belong.
Then Henry yanked his hand away, marveling up at the masterpiece that shaded us, the temple rising so tall we could not see its end point.
“Nothing will keep me from speaking to this Faraday person. I’ve already arranged the meeting, and besides, it’s only a few questions. What’s the harm in that?”
Ara had no time to answer, for Henry’s pack had spilled over, a wriggling bundle of fur tumbling out onto the dusty stones of the road. He squealed with delight and picked up the pup, settling it in his lap with a fond little pat.
“I cannot believe you insisted on bringing that thing,” Ara muttered, pulling her sleeves again.
“That thing is vital for any adventurer,” Henry replied with a sneer, holding up the brownish ball of fur and kissing it on its black nose. It pawed at his chin and made playful growls. “For what is a man without his dog? Anyway, this sweet fellow can sense a man’s true emotions. He will be of utmost importance this evening.”
