The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(74)

Reina faked a hard right, which Nico read like a book. He slid backwards, one hand on his cheek, the other falling with inconceivable arrogance to match the quirk of his smile, and gave her a little beckon of uh huh, try again.

The idea of staying in a place occupied by boys in their early twenties gave Reina an unpleasant itch. “No thanks,” she said.

Nico was not the type to be insulted by these things, and predictably, he wasn’t. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, ducking a wide hook as Reina caught Libby glancing over at them, a little half-frown on her lips. She was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend, or so she said, though Reina wasn’t convinced. Libby’s boyfriend (none of them could remember his name, or perhaps Libby had never actually told them what it was) seemed to exclusively call at unwelcome times, leading Libby to make a face of irritation when she glanced at her screen. She denied her annoyance, of course, most vehemently to Nico, but as far as Reina could tell, Libby’s Pavlovian response to any mention of her boyfriend was to quickly stifle a grimace.

In anticipation of their brief leave, the others mostly shared Reina’s reluctance. Tristan appeared to dread the prospect of leaving, probably because he had burned such a wide variety of bridges in order to come in the first place; Parisa was irritated about being temporarily deposed, prissy as always; Callum, true to form, didn’t seem to care much either way. Only Nico seemed to have any genuine interest in going home; then again, Nico was so adaptable in general that Reina suspected he could make anything comfortable enough to stand it for a time.

The past few months had been relatively peaceful ones. They had all fallen into a rhythm of sorts, and the disruption of their fragile peace felt especially inconvenient, even troubling. True, they hadn’t bonded, per se, but they had at least warmed enough to exist in each other’s physical space without persisting tension. Timing, Reina thought, was a sensitive thing, and the house plants made no secret of mourning her impending absence.

In the end, Reina decided to stay in London. She had never ventured beyond the grounds of the Society’s manor house, so now she was ostensibly a tourist in her own city. On her first day, she toured the Globe Theatre, then wandered the Tower. On the second day, she took a brisk morning walk through the Kyoto Garden (the trees shivered cheerfully, thrumming with frosted whispers as they recounted their origins), followed by a visit to the British Museum.

She had been looking at the Utamaro painting of the Japanese courtesan when someone cleared his throat behind her, causing her to bristle with impatience.

“Purchased,” said a South Asian gentleman with thinning hair, addressing her in English.

“What?” asked Reina.

“Purchased,” the gentleman repeated. “Not stolen.”

His accent didn’t sound entirely English; it had a mix of origins.

“Apologies,” he amended, “I believe the technical term is ‘acquired.’ The British do hate to be accused of theft.”

“As do most people, I assume,” Reina said, hoping that would be that.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

“There is some service to it, at least,” the gentleman continued. “Here the treasures of the world are on display, not hidden away.”

Reina nodded vacantly, turning to leave, but the gentleman turned after her, falling into step at her side.

“Every five years, six of the world’s most talented medeians disappear,” he remarked, and Reina’s mouth tightened. “A few of them emerge two years later in positions of power and privilege. I don’t suppose you have any theories?”

“What do you want?” Reina asked impatiently. If that was considered rude, so be it. She didn’t feel any particular need to be polite.

“We expected you to be in Tokyo,” said the man. A continuation of his earlier thought, as if she had not interjected at all. “We’d have been here sooner, in fact, but you’re not easy to track down. With a family like yours—”

“I am not in contact with my family,” Reina said. “Nor do I wish to be bothered.”

“Miss Mori, if you would indulge me for just a moment—”

“You clearly know who I am,” said Reina. “So shouldn’t you know, then, that I have turned down every offer I receive? Whatever you imagine I accepted, I did not. And whatever it is you plan to offer me, I decline it as well.”

“Surely you must feel some obligation,” said the man. “A scholar like yourself, you must think it valuable to have access to the Alexandrian records.”

Reina stiffened; Atlas had always said the Society was known among certain groups, but still, she hated to think the place she prized so mightily could be referenced with such open disregard.

“What good are the archives,” the man pressed, catching the look on her face, “when only a small percentage of the world’s magical population can ever learn from them? At least the artifacts contained in this museum are offered to the whole of the mortal world.”

“Knowledge requires caretakers,” said Reina flatly. “And if that’s all—”

“There are better ways to care for knowledge than to hide it away.”

Another version of her might have agreed with him. As it was, though, she spared him half a glance.

“Who are you?”

“It’s not who I am, but what I stand for,” said the man.