Page 41 of The City of Stardust

“We arealllooking for this world. It’s what the scholars were made for,” Johannes says. “She seeks Elandriel.”

Elandriel. Violet rolls the unfamiliar name on her tongue.

“To be the first person to rediscover it… what a thing that would be. Our ancestral home, untouched for a thousand years. They said the very walls used to be lined with doors leading elsewhere, that scholars from countless worlds came to study in our hallowed halls. Imagine the knowledge we could regain. Imagine thepossibilities. The rebirth of an entire world.”

And Violet does imagine, with a kind of longing that stuns her with its ferocity. Her mind is already conjuring a city full of potential libraries crammed wall-to-wall with books, adventure only a step through a doorway. Even though it’s something she’s supposed to have outgrown, she can’t help the thrill that runs through her.

To the effervescent sea under the sun. To the witches in their forests. To mysteries beyond comprehension.

“Marianne was obsessed,” he says. “She read every origin myth she could get her hands on, every scrap of detritus that even hinted at Elandriel. She kept talking about doorways no man could open, magics we couldn’t comprehend. Fairy-tale stuff. Of course I asked her why. But she was always so secretive.”

“I need that map,” Violet says quietly. “If the object is real, if I can ask any question—”

“Do you realise what you ask of me? For you, Elandriel is a bartering tool. Just an interesting bit of history, to be stolen and thrown away. But do you know how many scholars would kill to possess the key? Or what it would mean for the person who found it—but you don’t understand.” Johannes slams his hands down on his desk, startling her. “You will never understand.”

Instead of backing down, she stands up. “Do you know what happens to the Everlys?” She can’t quite bring herself to say Penelope’sname, but she notes Johannes’ sudden stillness. “There isn’t a lot of time left. And if I don’t find Marianne—”

“I’m sorry for your predicament,” Johannes says. “Truly. However, that’s not my problem.”

“I thought you wanted to help. I’m Marianne’s daughter. You were friends,” she says, almost but not quite pleading.

“Were.”

She tries a different tack. “You said this was important to the scholars. That I could never understand. But if you tell me—”

“Don’t!” he says sharply, and for the first time, she catches a glimpse of fear underneath the easy professorial guise. “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Now, I think it’s best if you leave.”

“But I—”

He looks pointedly at the CCTV footage. “You can explain to someone else, if you’d prefer?”

Johannes’ gaze possesses a coolness that seems miles away from the placid curator he’d presented himself as only moments ago. He draws himself up to his full height, all sharp edges and promised cruelty.

Angrily, she snatches her bag. “You were desperate enough to ask my mother here. And you were desperate enough to talk to me even when she didn’t come. I need those answers. If the object is the only way to get them—”

“Object?” He appraises her once more, a curious look in his eye. “So she really didn’t tell you anything, then.”

The comment hits like a dagger in her chest. Violet sucks in a breath, trying to school her expression back into something that doesn’t resemble shock. After so many years, she should be inured to her mother’s inherent unknowability, to the lack of information that’s carved so many holes through her life. But itisa shock, to hear it put so bluntly.

And by a stranger, who so obviously was toldsomethingby Marianne Everly, once upon a time.

She tilts her chin up, jaw defiant. “I’m not going to stop.”

Johannes steers her towards the door, and the hallway beyond. They pause outside the staff door.

“Then you have my pity, Violet Everly. But not, I’m afraid, my assistance.”

Outside, the drizzle has turned to a full-blown torrent. All around her, people fumble for umbrellas, but as Violet reaches for her own, she realises it’s still in Johannes’ office. Swearing under her breath, she draws her sodden cardigan around her.

She’ll come up with a new plan. Find another way to persuade Johannes to hand over the map. She doesn’t need hispity—she needs him to answer her goddamn questions—

But she can barely think beyond her misery. Rain plasters her hair to her forehead, and she pushes it back irritably. Wind chases leaves across the street, and she shivers in her wet clothes.

Only one other person is getting soaked in the rain with her. A tall, angular man looks up at the museum with a thoughtful expression. The collar of his overcoat hides most of his face, but she catches a glimpse of sharp lines, a constellation of three dots inked around the curve of his ear. Violet blinks rain out of her eyes.Unfairly pretty, her brain says automatically. But it can’t be him. It’s never him. She starts to walk away, her thoughts already back in Johannes Braun’s office.

Then the man shifts, his face coming into the light. She stops in the middle of the pavement, her heart in her throat. She knows that walk, that particular tilt of the head. Those liquid grey eyes, bright and dangerous with promise.

It can’t be.

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