Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(18)
Tight-lipped, Leo said, “You’ve made your point.”
“Excellent. I do so appreciate successful communication.”
“Quite,” he said, his tone putting worlds of meaning behind the word. He sounded embarrassed and furious and intrigued all at once.
“And no, I’m not from around here.” With satisfaction, she added, “In fact, I’m not from Earth at all.” She turned away from their shocked faces and paced unhurriedly from the room, a smile playing on her lips.
She might not be able to blend into their world as de Vries hoped she would, but when it came to verbal sparring, she could still hit the hardest. She was untouchable, the way Jumi taught her to be.
*
It was late by the time Alek de Vries arrived at the Order’s headquarters in Firenze. His bad hip protested as he climbed the front steps, stiff from sitting still for too long on the train ride. He was getting too old for all this excitement and intrigue. But Jumi needed him.
He located the secret lever concealed within the intricate stone facade beside the entrance, and gave it a yank. The door unlocked and swung open for him with a ratcheting click-click-click. Inside, the main floor was eerily quiet—most of the Order members must have already gone home, or else up to their guest rooms on the third floor. Gia had sent a message ahead over the wireless, though, so her husband was waiting in one of the burgundy leather armchairs that decorated the broad, flagstoned lobby.
Filippo looked up at the sound of the door and stood. He was shorter than Alek, and he had more gray in his hair and more paunch around his middle than the last time they’d met.
“Alek,” he said, “it’s good to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“It’s been a long time,” said Alek.
“Too long.” Filippo pulled him into an embrace. In their youth, Filippo had been like family to Alek. But now every time Alek visited the living brother, all he could see was the ghost of the dead one. Massimo.
It was a little easier now. After all, Filippo aged, while the memory of Massimo in Alek’s mind stayed always the same. Always in his prime, with ink on his fingers and that devil-may-care grin, achingly beautiful forever.
Alek cleared his throat. “So, what have I missed?”
“You know the Order,” Filippo replied with a rueful grin. “We can’t possibly arrive at a course of action after only a single afternoon of debate. But finding the people responsible for Montaigne’s murder is now a top priority. This matter will not go unresolved, I promise you.”
“And Jumi,” Alek corrected him. “Finding the people responsible, and rescuing Jumi.”
Filippo blinked. “Yes. Yes, of course. Jumi, too.”
Despite Filippo’s reassurance, there was no denying the doubt that began to twist in Alek’s gut. The Order had their own priorities, and in this matter, they might not be the stalwart allies Alek had expected. Perhaps Elsa was right not to rely on their assistance.
He had hoped the damaged worldbooks would simply serve to keep her occupied and safe; now he hoped she would prove him wrong. Jumi’s life might depend on it.
*
The bed was too soft. After an hour or two of tossing around trying to get comfortable, Elsa yanked the heavy blankets off the bed and made a cocoon for herself on the floor instead.
The clear spring sunlight woke her early, and though the exhaustion of the past two days’ events had not entirely left her, Elsa resisted the urge to roll over, cover her face with the blankets, and go back to sleep. There was work to be done.
She needed to figure out who had taken her mother. The salvaged books were her only lead, and they weren’t going to repair themselves. While Jumi might very well rescue herself, or become a beneficiary of the Order’s assistance, Elsa couldn’t rely on either of those possibilities.
She untangled herself from the blankets and stood, stretching. “Um … Casa? Are you there?”
“Yes, signorina,” Casa replied. “I am always here.”
“Would it be possible to have some food brought here, to my rooms? I’m eager to get to work,” she said, which was true, of course, though part of her was also eager to avoid Porzia’s prying questions and Leo’s overcompensating self-assurance.
By the time Elsa finished washing up at the washbasin and dressed herself, her breakfast had arrived at the door, carried by a waist-high brass bot with an arm that ended in a serving tray instead of a hand. It rolled quietly inside and used its other arm—the one with digits—to transfer the food onto the low table in front of the sofa. Then the bot turned around and made a silent, dignified exit. Elsa nibbled at the soft cheese and white bread—still warm from the oven—while considering the dilemma of the damaged worldbooks.
There was no way around it: she would have to repair the books by hand before she could look for clues about Montaigne’s involvement. If he had hidden notes or plans or letters inside one of the worldbooks, she wouldn’t be able to tell just from reading the text—she would have to go inside the worlds to retrieve his papers. And for that, the worldbooks needed to be fully functional. Elsa rinsed her breakfast from her fingertips and began straightaway.
First she opened the cover of each book in turn and pressed her fingertips to the paper, concentrating. None of them felt dead; they all had a bit of the tactile vibration that indicated a live worldbook, but the buzz swelled and receded as if the books were struggling for breath. It was not the steady, strong hum of a complete worldbook, a world that would be safe to enter.