Page 46 of The City of Stardust

Marianne Everly is one such crossroad. In his office, rain pitching down the windows in fat droplets, he considers the last time he saw her. They’d both still borne the arrogance of supple youth, he only a few years older than her. And perhaps because of that youthful arrogance, he’d laughed in her face when she’d suggested they be allies. They were both ambitious, she’d said. They both knew the current system of scholars would fail sooner rather than later. They both believed in the presence of doorways beyond the reveurite keys—and what it would mean for Fidelis to be whole again, to have unfettered access to the resources it lacked. Why not?

He’d sat at a desk much like this one, his arm freshly pink underneath his new key tattoo, as he refused her. Already tasting that first sip of poisonous knowledge, already craving more. Why not, indeed. If only he’d been a little older, a little wiser. But with supreme—misguided—confidence, he’d thought, why bother when the wheels of his own success were already in motion?

On the other side, Marianne Everly stood in front of his desk, her arms folded over her chest.

“You’re a weak, snivelling excuse for a man, Johannes,” she said, every word carefully drawn out to a vicious point. “I thought better of you. Let me know when you find your spine.”

A week later, he opened his drawer to find all of his research—a lifetime of work on Illios and his Hands—gone. He shouldn’t have been surprised; he’d known Marianne was looking for a way to cross between worlds without the reveurite keys at all, if such a thing was possible. Yet there it was, her knife dipping into his chest before he’d even seen the blade.

And today? Today was like seeing his choices summed up in a vicious haunting: Marianne Everly, returned through her daughter. A chance to right a historical wrong. Instead, he did what he’s done for over twenty years: hide in his office and proclaim ignorance.

Marianne was right. He is weak. Though the key tattoo has faded, it still stands out in dark reveurite ink, shimmering under the light. Even in his self-imposed exile, he is tied to the scholars. There are debts to be paid.

For a long time, he sits with his head in his hands. Then, wiping his face, he dials Violet’s number.

In a secluded street, Aleksander picks up his phone.

The voice at the other end is calm, assured. “What did you learn?”

Aleksander tells Penelope everything.

CHAPTER

Twenty-Three

IN THE MIDDLEof the night, Violet’s phone goes off. Half the room’s occupants groan; the others continue to snore furiously. She staggers out of bed and pads into the hallway, still wreathed in the fog of sleep. The number is unfamiliar; not one of her uncles, then, she thinks with an unexpected pang.

“Hello?” she says sleepily.

Johannes Braun’s voice is urgent on the other end. “Violet, I’ll give you the map. But there’s more to the story—I must explain—”

All at once, she’s wide awake.

“It’s complicated,” Johannes continues. “You don’t know the whole—It’s better if I explain in person.”

“Now?” Outside is inky and still, an inhuman hour.

“If you can.”

“Wait, what address?”

“I’ll send it to you,” he says. “Just—come. Please.”

She closes her eyes, fighting off the wave of exhaustion. She knows her face is pale and drawn from too many sleepless nights. But this isit.

“I’ll be there,” she says.

In Johannes Braun’s dusty house, the door sighs open so softly it could be an errant breeze. A floorboard creaks, a piece of paper ruffles.

Johannes pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, sweaty with exertion, and surveys his bedroom. He has only just finished packing the last of his suitcases, each one stuffed to the brim with documentation,clothes, mementos he can’t bear to part with. Hidden in the lining of his briefcase are five passports under different identities, his photograph plastered in each. His car sits idling in the garage, ready to go.

First he’ll drive down the coastline of Italy, he thinks. It’s been so long since he’s seen the ocean. Blue waters, and a hundred different villages to disappear into. He’ll get fat on rich pasta and wine. Maybe a few months to lay low, then another country, and another, until he’s too much effort to chase. There are so many wayward scholars—one more will surely go unnoticed.

In the kitchen, something topples over.

Slowly, Johannes reaches for his bedside table drawer, and the gun hidden beneath the false bottom. His hands tremble as he fumbles with the safety.

“You should have cleared out by now, Johannes.”

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