Leaning as far as I can, I grab onto the sill and push the window open just as I lose my balance. I tip forward, falling into the room and landing with a hip-bruising thud on the black tile floor of Finn’s washroom.
Graceful, no. But effective.
Fixing my skirts and my blouse, I tuck the book under my arm and walk out of the washroom. The hall has more doors than I remember. I look for the library, but the first room I try is wrong. I back out, then stop, and slowly cross the threshold.
The walls are filled with art. More art than I’ve ever seen outside of a museum. And not just Alben art, studies of unsmiling people and unmoving fruit, placid and lifeless landscapes. Some of it is clearly Gallen, some Saxxone, and there . . .
I’m standing in front of the largest piece, a huge landscape painted on rough, inexpensive canvas, when Finn says, “Jessamin?” behind me, confusion coloring his voice.
I don’t turn around. “He dismisses our art.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
I wave the book in my hand without turning around. “My father. He has an entire section on the primitive arts of the Melenese people. He says our finest artists lack technique, lack the ability to translate the real world onto canvas. He can’t see that it’s not about transferring the world exactly how it is, but rather expressing how it feels.”
Finn stands next to me. We look at the painting, a riot of color in green and boldest red, a painting I recognized at once as portraying the fire-petals in full bloom. It is obviously Melenese, though few of our artists ever sell their work. There is no demand for it, no esteem for something so “primitive.”
“I don’t know who painted it,” he says softly. “My mother had it in her sitting room. When I looked at it, it was everything I wanted the world to feel like. It’s the most beautiful thing I have, and I would not change a thing about it.”
I nod, finding myself quite unable to speak for a moment. “It’s a horrible book,” I finally say. “He’s a dreadful writer. Pedantic in the extreme and showing a clear inability to see good in any culture other than his own. Patronizing, too, as though my entire island were filled with precious infants in need of learning how to do everything from caring for the sick to learning world history. Did you know that in the dozen years after Melei was colonized, we lost a third of the population to pox? Two of my aunts, half of my mother’s cousins. And the children are sent to ‘superior’ schools learn the history of a culture that is not theirs and does not want them. Many of us are not even fluent in our own language.” I sigh heavily. “It’s like a song I can’t remember all the words to. This is a terrible, terrible book.”
“To say nothing of the fact that Milton Miller is a dreadful name.”
I snort. “He’s the most horrible sort of man. Even the way he blinks his eyes irritates me. And his class is beyond dull.”
“He’s a fool. Here.” Finn takes the book from me and opens to a random passage. “‘The women of Melei, though too dark of skin to be truly beautiful, are given to great passion and must be trained in the ways of modesty, morality, and decorum.’”
“From the married man who took a lover while there on a research trip.”
“It is an odd training method.”
I look at the fire-petal painting. “I can’t believe someone could come to my island and see only how it could be reshaped as Albion. I don’t think this whole country a waste—”
“How kind.”
“Shush. It has its own peculiar charms, and admittedly does some things much better than we ever did. But why remake Melei in its image? Why not learn from its brightest parts, share knowledge and resources, and allow Melei to continue to exist as fits it best?”
“Because men are silly, prideful things, and what they love they must possess.”
“Not all men,” I say softly.
“No. Not all.”
“How did Lord Downpike know?”
“About what?”
“About how much you loved this painting. How did he know to dress me like a fire-petal on the evening of the gala?”
“Lord Downpike has never seen this painting, nor does he know how much it meant to me. I will allow him no credit for the vision of beauty you were that night.”
I look down, trying to control the smile taking over my face. So be it, Fate, whatever you are. I will stay this course, come what may. “I am deeply sorry. For what I said, and what I assumed about—”
“Never apologize to me. For anything. I’m glad you’re here. Though . . . how did you get in?”
“The bathroom. You really ought to lock your windows, arrogant magician. And don’t be too pleased. I’m merely here to ask you to take on Jacky Boy and Ma’ati immediately. And to visit my bird, of course.”
Finn stands, no trace of the cat in his smile, only sincere and open happiness. “Of course.”
Twenty-four
I SIT IN A SUN-DRENCHED SPOT NEAR THE FLOOR-to-ceiling windows in the library. Finn won’t tell me where it looks out to, and the glass is treated so that outside is nothing but bright blurs of color. This is my favorite room in all of Avebury.
Assuming, of course, that the windows actually look out on Avebury. Which I have found is not a safe assumption. Nothing is a safe assumption in this house, considering one of the doors next to the bathroom opens into my room at the hotel—an addition Finn insists he made while he was staying there.
After much pestering, Finn admitted he inherited most of the house from his parents. They’d taken the time to craft doors and spell them to open onto several residences throughout the city. One room from a house in Kingston neighborhood, another near the palace, another on the outskirts of the city along the river, so on and so forth. I haven’t been in most of them—it makes me nervous to open a door not knowing where it will take me—but it does solve the problem of finding space in a crowded city.
I find myself spending more and more time here. Using a new front door in the park, of course. I made him remove the door that connected to my hotel room. Though it would have been convenient . . .
Finn does not seem to mind my visits. Neither do I.
I watch him, bent over two books, comparing things and taking notes. That’s his main occupation. I write essays and study calculus. He copies things from the book that is Sir Bird and tries to puzzle out what the particular spells accomplish. His playful, arrogant face is nowhere to be found. A line takes up residence between his eyebrows, and I find myself wanting to trace it with my fingertip.
He looks up and catches me staring, so I stammer, “I—I thought I told you not to wear the brown tie anymore.”
“When did you tell me that?”
“I told your shadow.”
He laughs. “I promised you I wasn’t an eavesdropper. Any future instructions should be delivered in person.” He turns back to the book but I lean forward, wanting to keep him in conversation.
“Are you certain Ma’ati and Jacky Boy are out of harm’s way at your country estate?”
“Yes, of course. No one knows where it is.”
“Why did you hire them? I thought you couldn’t keep servants.”
“You trust them. That was recommendation enough for me. Besides, I’ve met Jacabo and can’t imagine a better man to employ.”
“What happens if they go through a closet door and end up on the moon, or wherever else your strange hallways lead?”
“The estate is relatively untouched. They should find nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you grow up there?”
His face clouds. “No. I was raised in a different house.”
I wait for him to offer more information about his childhood, but he is quiet as always on that subject so I let him go back to his studies while I continue mapping differentials, my mind only half on the problems. I am looking forward to finishing up this season of course work and taking more challenging classes, though again I will not be allowed in the advanced mathematics.
Finn slams the book shut, huffing in frustration. It immediately poofs into a mess of feathers, Sir Bird cawing angrily and jabbing his beak at Finn’s fingers.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I forget you’re both.”
“Take better care of my friend,” I say, trying not to laugh at their equally grouchy expressions.
“I feel so limited.” Finn scowls. “I can’t keep tabs on Lord Downpike like I used to.”
“Why not?”
“Oh.” He gets a look on his face that settles there when he does not wish to tell me something. “I’ve never employed familiars. They’re less than dependable, no offense to present company. Lord Downpike can store magic in them and have them act semi-autonomously, but, as demonstrated by Sir Bird, giving magic to a creature with a mind of its own is not foolproof. As far as I can tell, when Sir Bird severed the connection, he also cut off Lord Downpike from all these spells. He’ll have to start over from scratch on any that he was storing. Which makes me very happy.
“But I digress. No familiars, but my mother taught me to have an unusual degree of control over my shadow. In the past, I’ve sent my shadow on errands, used it for ears or eyes. Shadows can get away with a great deal. No one notices them, and there are so many dim places to hide.”
I frown, a memory tickling the back of my head. “The day we first met. When I got back to the hotel, I could have sworn I saw two shadows where only mine should have been.”
Finn is suddenly absorbed in looking at his own fingernails. “You asked me not to follow you home, and I didn’t. Exactly. But I had to make certain you got back safely.” He glances up, face defensive as though he expects me to be angry.
“So that’s how you knew where I lived.”
“And probably how Lord Downpike discovered you. I hadn’t suspected he would be watching me so closely. We’ve been playing political cat and mouse for two years now, and I was too relaxed. But if you noticed my shadow, no doubt he did as well.”
“We’d only just met! Why did you care enough to send your shadow?”
He gives me a shoulder shrug of a smile. “You make a first impression.”
A clock, buried beneath a pile of books on the mantel, chimes the time and saves me from the blood rushing to my face and demanding I answer him. “Oh, that’s me late. I promised to call on Eleanor today. She’s been lonely at Lord Rupert’s house.”
“I will—” He pauses. “Would you like me to come with you?”
I smile and shake my head. “No, you keep up your studies. The sooner you find something to use against Lord Downpike and tip the scales in favor of peace, the sooner we can let poor Sir Bird take up permanent residence in his feathers instead of constantly dwelling as a massive book.” I am tired of being on the defensive against Lord Downpike. I can’t imagine what Finn must feel like after two years of trying to subvert Downpike’s schemes. “Would you show me how it works? When I return, I mean.”
“How what works?”
“That.” I wave my hand at the bird-book and then sweep it to gesture to the bookshelves. “All of this. I know I can’t do it, but I would like to understand how it is done. It is a part of my life now, too, and I refuse to remain ignorant.”
When I enter Eleanor’s guest chambers, I find her leaning over an ornate desk, expression intent as she holds a flower up to her head.
No, not her head. Her ear. “What are you doing?” I ask.
She straightens with a surprised shriek. “Oh, Jessamin! It’s just you. Well. This is embarrassing.” She smiles guiltily. “I was eavesdropping on the parlor, actually.”
“With . . . a flower.”
“My own spell. Don’t tell anyone. It’s crass to invent new ways to use magic, and everyone would look down on me. But you’ll appreciate this! I gave my aunt a lovely potted plant that I recommended she place in the parlor. A very special potted plant, that allows me to pick a flower and use it as a conduit through which I can hear conversations. I did not gain my reputation as Avebury’s most skilled gossip by chance.”
“You have certainly elevated eavesdropping to new and complicated heights. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just listen outside the door?”
She leans forward. “Here, on my forehead, feel.”
Puzzled, I run my fingers over the spot she indicated. There’s a small indentation. “What is that?”
“When I was eleven, I was listening to an argument between my father and uncle. My father stormed out, and the door hit me so hard it knocked me unconscious and left a permanent dent! So I became more creative in the interest of self-preservation.”
“You are a wonder.”
She beams, lifting the flower again. “I know. Now hush. Uncle is hosting Lord Benton, who has his sights set on a union of the families through Ernest marrying his daughter, Margaret. We hate Margaret, in case you were wondering what our opinion is.”
I nod firmly, sitting on a velvet couch to watch as Eleanor reacts to things I can’t hear. Much eye rolling follows, along with a few sighs.
“Politics,” she mouths, yawning dramatically. But then her eyes narrow and she presses the flower closer to her ear. Her expression changes to one of alarm.
“What is it?”
She shushes me and I wait impatiently until she finally sets down the flower, twisting it distractedly and tearing off the petals. “Well. I do wish I hadn’t heard that. It would seem that Lord Benton, who has long been an advocate for peace along with Uncle, is switching allegiances.”