Cassia’s gaze was hollow. Ilsa couldn’t find it in herself to urge her on. She could only wait.
“They killed seventeen that day. Your mother and father. Your mother’s younger sister and her husband. Your grandfather. His brother, who was Hester’s father. Two of your mother’s three lieutenants, and nine wolves.”
A massacre. Ilsa felt the bile rise in her throat and forced away the images. She had to put her teacup down; she was shaking again.
Cassia produced the dagger Ilsa had brought from Blume’s flat, and held it across her palm. She pointed to the inscription along the hilt. Ilsa had not noticed at first, but the foreign letters were followed by a different sort of symbol, more intricate and pictorial. It was a cog, or sprocket, and contained inside was a head in cross-section, the brain outlined within.
“This is the Sage’s seal. The Zoo never learned who they were. I shan’t go into the aftermath of the massacre, but Hester pulled Camden back from the brink, and the Sage disappeared soon after you were born. As the years went on, it was assumed they had fallen from power. Only… this blade is newly made. Whoever it belonged to is still loyal to the person who killed your family.”
The dagger had been cleaned of Bill’s blood, but now it held new horror. It had belonged to someone who wished harm not only on Ilsa and her magician, but her whole bloodline and anyone allied to them.
Anyone Changeling.
Cassia shook her head. “I don’t know how they knew about your friend Bill, or even that you were alive. But the timing. It can’t be a coincidence. Perhaps if we knew who sent that messenger from the Docklands…”
It didn’t make sense that someone would warn both the Zoo and their enemies about the assassination attempt, but Cassia was right about one thing: it wasn’t a coincidence. Bill was dead because Ilsa had been saved. Ilsa squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears came anyway.
Cassia studied her, her usually cold eyes flecked with tenderness. “I need to thank you, Ilsa. I think you saved my life when that man overpowered me.”
“You saved mine too,” said Ilsa, remembering the haunting image of her steely fortitude as she pointed that pistol. Then she remembered her own slapdash self-defence, and the Sorcerer’s rapid-fire spells and shields. “Probably more than once.”
“I’ve never fired a gun before,” Cassia said, almost whimsically. “What violent things.” She read the question on Ilsa’s face. “My magic is… different. It doesn’t truly come from the soul, but it feels that way to wield it. We Sorcerers are just conduits, in reality. We have the ability to channel and shape raw power. But our bodies love magic, and the magic loves us. It’s intimate and sympathetic – friendly, you might say, at its core – even when it harms.
“But fire and metal. Holding that gun was a different kind of power. I don’t think any Sorcerer can wield magic as brutal. One can dream.”
Ilsa had to assume that was another joke, but the Sorcerer’s expression remained grave as always.
Cassia let a long moment pass before rising from her chair to leave. “None of this will be easy, Ilsa, but it sounds as though your old life wasn’t easy either. Now you have us to help you.” She sighed. “But I do wish we were better.”
Ilsa read the self-deprecation in her lovely face, and felt some tenderness for the girl too. For better or worse, she had nothing left to lose by falling down this rabbit hole. She didn’t know what would become of her if she went back to the Otherworld now, with Blume gone. Her secrets, and thus her stage career, had gone with him. Suddenly, her grim history here was not what she wished to run from. She saw a path forward, away from the lies and hardships of her old life in the Otherworld, and the legacy of loss she had inherited in this one.
Cassia was nearly at the door when Ilsa stood, arresting her attention.
“I want to help find my brother.”
Cassia’s mouth opened in surprise, and a light sparked in her eyes. It dulled just as quickly as doubt appeared to set in. “That’s admirable, Ilsa, but… how?”
“Gedeon thinks I’m dead, don’t he?”
Cassia nodded. “He never had cause to question it,” she said with a sad smile.
“And… the Sage. And the Fortunatae and this rebellion, they don’t know I’m here, neither.”
“We hope as much. Most of this city should never have known you existed.”
“Then let me find him,” Ilsa said imploringly. “Whatever it is Gedeon’s up to, he thinks he’s got nothing to lose. But things’ve changed since he went, and he don’t know. If he knew I’m here and I want to help him… p’raps I can make him change his mind.”
In truth, she had no idea how she was going to do what she was saying she would, but feigning confidence had made her hope. Ilsa wasn’t sure she believed in Fyfe’s stars, or any design that steered her course. But if she did, if there was meaning in all this, perhaps this was why she was here.
Cassia took Ilsa’s hands. “It occurred to me too that you could change everything,” she whispered. “Most days I don’t dare to hope. We’ve tried so much already, but perhaps it’s right that his sister should be the one to find him.”
Ilsa offered her a smile, and Cassia returned it, though the cracks were showing at the edges. It was plain in her eyes that any hope Cassia felt was fading fast. She had more to say, but she hesitated, her gaze haunted.
“Gedeon would be furious that I almost got you killed today,” she said carefully, and Ilsa wondered what she was trying to keep from her voice. “He’s always been this way, really. It’s why he left. He would always rather do things himself than risk anyone he cares for.”
It might have sounded like a noble thing, but not the way Cassia said it.
“And what’s he doing this time?” asked Ilsa.
Any softness in the girl’s gaze hardened in an instant. “If you really wish to find out where Gedeon is, you should ask Eliot,” she said tightly, then she let herself out, leaving Ilsa alone with her blood-soaked thoughts.
12
Ilsa’s grief kept her from sleeping that night, and the peculiarity with the clocks didn’t help. Around midnight, she gave up trying and slipped from her room, drawn back to the row of portraits in the long gallery where she had first laid eyes on her parents.
On this night, at this hour, the moon was at a different slant, and when Ilsa stood before the very last portrait – the one the shadows had kept from her the first time – she could see the face of the boy looking back at her.
He was a young man, really, at nineteen; captured here less than a year ago, she had been told. He wore a red sash, like the subjects of the many portraits she couldn’t bring herself to look at yet, and his hair was a thick golden-blonde. He was very handsome, with strong cheekbones, lightly tanned skin, and an indefinable decency in his expression. The artist had captured a sharpness and strength of spirit in his hazel eyes.
Ilsa felt an entirely different presence stood in front of this portrait than the one of her parents. She wanted to reach up and brush her fingers over his brow, his hair, and along the edge of his jaw, like she might be able to feel the contours of a real face. Her brother, who thought her dead. She ached with wondering what else he had thought about her while she was busy not daring to imagine him. If she was ever going to know, they needed to find him, and Ilsa was going to be the one to do it.
Cassia had told her to ask Eliot. The only trouble was, this was the only place she knew to look for him. Perhaps he was up and wandering the corridors too, but in a house so big, at an hour so dark, what chance did they have of stumbling across each other?
As the thought crossed her mind, a burst of noise made her jump. Her first thought was that she’d been wrong; Eliot was here after all, about to emerge from the shadows and frighten her like last time. But then she recognised the sound for what it was: a swell of raucous laughter, coming to her from somewhere outside.
Ilsa crept to the window. Despite the hour, a ground-floor window at the corner of the east wi
ng was illuminated, casting a swath of yellow light across the gravel path that ran by the house. As Ilsa watched, a second sliver of light appeared and widened as a door was opened, spilling two men into the garden. Not just men, Ilsa realised as they shifted. Wolves. They split off to their respective watches, melting into the night like shadows, but movement at the window told Ilsa there were more inside, and a sudden curiosity took hold.
It was a pitifully long time before Ilsa located the room; she could barely find her way around the Zoo in daylight. It wasn’t until another burst of laughter echoed through the corridors that she was able to follow the sound down a narrow passage that ran by the kitchen.
She found herself at the door of a guardroom; a plain space with a brick floor and white walls, with a long table and benches in the centre. Three wolves were in the middle of a card game, but they dropped their hands and stood at the same moment that Ilsa entered.
She shot an alarmed glance behind her, expecting to find Hester had followed her down there. But no; it was her the wolves were staring at as they stood to attention.
“What?” said Ilsa warily. They looked at each other as if deciding what to do, and Ilsa was suddenly unsure of herself. “I din’t mean to intrude. I saw the light on is all.”
Two of the wolves relaxed their posture. The third, a stocky young man with a mousy beard, looked Ilsa up and down distrustfully.
“Please, Miss Ravenswood, do come in,” said the nearest. She had a rounded mane of tight black curls, black-brown skin, and she was dressed like a lady in a lemon-yellow gown, her militia sash around one arm. Ilsa had expected the attire of a soldier, but of course, there was no need for a soldier who could shift at will to dress any way at all.
“Yes, do,” said the third, a man with russet-brown hair and freckles. He grinned at the wolf in the yellow dress as they sat back down. “I was about to take all of Georgiana’s money, and I think I’d quite like a witness.”
“You should be so lucky, Rye. Deal the next card. Miss Ravenswood…”
“Ilsa,” she corrected. Miss Ravenswood still sounded like someone else.
“Do you want to play with us, Ilsa?” said Georgiana.
“But we’re mid-game,” blurted the bearded wolf who didn’t appear to possess a smile.
“We can deal her in on the next round,” said Rye.
“S’alright,” said Ilsa before the other man could object again, though she did want to play. The card game, the moment snatched between other tasks, even the unpretty, functional room; it reminded her of being backstage at the theatre. “I’ll join some other time.”
She addressed it to the bearded wolf with a smile; a threat to ruin his fun at some unspecified point in the future.
The wolves kept playing as Ilsa wandered deeper into the room. There were no weapons resting by the table – the wolves didn’t need them – and the only thing adorning the walls was a schedule pinned to a board. Dozens of names filled in every watch over the course of a week.
“How many wolves are there?”
Georgiana glanced up from scooping her winnings into a pile. “Over a thousand in total, but ninety on rotation here. Others are posted to the guard points along the border, or the abbey, or they work the patrol.”
“And do they all know ’bout…” Ilsa bit her lip and studied their faces.
“About the alpha being missing?” said Georgiana grimly. “Only at the Zoo. We’ve been sworn to secrecy.” She made the word secrecy sound distasteful, and the wolves exchanged another look.
“And what ’bout them twelve what went with him?”
The bearded wolf raised his head. “What about them?”
“Why them twelve? Why not any of you?”
His scowl deepened. Ilsa had said something wrong. “Is there a reason you’re concerning yourself with militia business?” he challenged. “They made you a lieutenant already?”
She jerked in surprise. No one had mentioned the idea of making her a lieutenant, nor had the possibility crossed her mind. Now that it did, she wasn’t sure she liked it. What did she know of Camden that she could help lead it?
Georgiana interjected, sparing Ilsa from stuttering a reply. “Ilsa has joined the effort to look for the alpha, Selleck. Perhaps you ought to be accommodating.”
The ask was clearly too high for Selleck, who elected to leave instead, tossing his cards down and throwing Georgiana, then Ilsa a distrustful glance as he made for the door.
Rye rubbed his neck and looked up at her apologetically. “Some of the wolves don’t know what to make of you, Miss Ravenswood – I mean Ilsa. Secrets aren’t good for morale, you see, and… well, some of the old guard knew of Lyander’s pregnancy way back when, and they never told us you existed.”
Ilsa didn’t see how that was her fault. She’d known as little of it as anyone.
“And now the disappearance,” said Georgiana, her shoulders stiff. “The truth is, no one has any idea why he took the wolves he did. Perhaps they were just his favourites.”
She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice and Ilsa couldn’t blame her. Gedeon’s wolves had to have known about the plan beforehand, perhaps for days, and had told none of their comrades. She had been so hung up on her missing brother, she had barely considered the fact that it wasn’t just him, but thirteen of Camden’s own who had betrayed them.
“I din’t mean to suggest he had favourites or nothing. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
Georgiana smiled. “I’m sure there is,” she said unconvincingly. “Your bet, Rye.”
Rye dropped a handful of coins onto the table between them, raising the bet.
After a moment’s hesitation, Georgiana sighed and moved as if to fold. Ilsa’s hand shot out to stop her without her say so. They both looked at her in surprise, and Ilsa was forced to explain herself.
“He ain’t got jack.”
Rye’s eyes widened as he stared at her, and Ilsa shrugged apologetically. Georgiana looked from Ilsa to Rye and back again. “How do you know?”
Because Ilsa had been watching. She couldn’t help it. Years of playing cards with theatre folk, coupled with a deeply ingrained habit of observation, had made her a master of reading tells. Rye had folded his arms on the table, a tell-tale sign that he was trying not to fidget, whereas in every other round he had been still.
He was bluffing.
Of course, Ilsa said none of this in front of Rye. She knew better than to expose a player’s tells to them when it could give her an advantage, and she fully intended to come back and take them both for all they had.
“Trust me. Play the hand.” Ilsa turned away, before remembering one final thing. “Oh. Where can I find Eliot Quillon?”
Georgiana looked at her quizzically. “Second floor. Last door on the right of the north corridor.”
“Thanks.”
Ilsa was passing the kitchen when she heard Georgiana whoop and Rye swear, and she returned to her bed with a smile playing on her lips.
* * *
Eliot was evidently out of bed at night and loath to be woken in the mornings, so Ilsa waited until about breakfast time to be sure of catching him.
When she reached the last door on the second-floor north corridor, she rapped loudly, waited, then rapped again to be sure she woke him. There was no reply. She pressed her ear to the door and thought she heard motion from inside, but then again, it might have been the movement of her skirts.
“Eliot?” she called, her face close to the space between the door and the frame so that it echoed back to her and resounded in the wood beneath her hand. But there was silence from the other side. Tentatively, she tried the handle. The door was locked.
She crouched and put her eye to the keyhole. There was no key in the lock, but she couldn’t see much, so with a furtive glance down the corridor, she shrank.
Becoming a mouse always began with the feeling of her arms and legs being sucked into her body, and a tickling in the rims of her ears. She shrank unti
l she began to feel the sharp aching in her bones that told her she had reached her limit.
Nervously, mouse Ilsa squeezed into the gap beneath the door, praying for better luck than last time. Her head fit fine, then her shoulders and stubby mouse legs. This gap was wider; she was going to fit. She could see a shaft of light falling across Eliot’s floorboards, dust motes dancing in it, the leg of a chair or a table just beyond – a shadow moving by the window? – but somewhere around her waist the gap got too tight. Ilsa felt her heart race when her first attempt to back up got her nowhere, but a moment’s frantic scrabbling of paws ejected her back into the corridor.
Defeated, she changed again. Human height and with her field of vision expanded, Ilsa realised she was no longer alone. The door across the hall had opened and Fyfe stood on the threshold, black curls falling into his eyes, a cup of coffee in one hand. He was watching her and failing to suppress his amusement.
“Good effort, but there’s no door in this house anyone can fit under.”
Ilsa wanted to scowl, but there was nothing mean or mocking in Fyfe’s words, nor in the way his face broke into a grin, and Ilsa was grateful it was him and not Eliot who had caught her. Instead, she took her frustration out with a kick to the door. “Well, seems obvious now you say it,” she grumbled.
Fyfe nudged his shoulder into his own door and it swung wide. “This one’s open.” He beckoned her with a hand and disappeared inside, so Ilsa followed.
She couldn’t suppress a gasp as she stepped inside. Fyfe’s room was a study-turned-laboratory, laid out across a main level and a makeshift mezzanine floor – little more than scaffolding accessed by a mobile spiral staircase. Bookcases covered two walls, and ladders on rollers reached to the topmost shelves high above. Another wall housed a number of units like those a pharmacy or apothecary might have, with dozens of small drawers, each with a label in a brass brace, and there was a ladder for these too. Between them, the wall was plastered with maps, diagrams, mathematical equations, and papers in languages and symbols Ilsa couldn’t read. A door on the other side of the room led to what appeared to be a bedchamber.
Witherward Page 13
