Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(62)

By midafternoon, they’d finished mapping out the theoretical framework and were ready to start committing the worldtext to the page, so they moved the whole operation up to Porzia’s study. Her rooms were set up much like Elsa’s, though her study was a little larger and much neater, since Elsa hadn’t yet taken the time to clean up the supplies she’d been using for worldbook repair.

Elsa sat at Porzia’s writing desk with a new worldbook open before her, scribing in the bare necessities—air, gravity, Euclidean geometry. Porzia stood in front of her shelves, considering and discarding possible reference books.

Elsa finished a sentence about temperature and paused, tapping the end of the fountain pen against her chin thoughtfully. “We need a reference map.” She fished around in a drawer, found a wooden-handled stitch cutter, and held it out to Porzia. “You’ll have to take a page from the atlas.”

Porzia stared wide-eyed at the stitch cutter as if the little implement might bite her. “You can’t be serious. You want me to destroy the binding on Mamma’s good atlas? She’ll be furious!”

“It’s just a regular book—it’s not as if I’m asking you to tear apart a worldbook.”

“Atlases are very expensive to print,” Porzia said.

Elsa pressed the tool into the other girl’s reluctant hand. “If you insane Europeans weren’t constantly invading one another and moving the boundaries all around, we could use an older map. But as things are, I need the most current version.”

Porzia sighed. “Oh, fine, you’re right. Copying the map would take too long. We’ll have to paste it into the worldbook.” She went for the door, grumbling, “Mamma is going to kill me for this.”

While Porzia was in the library extracting the map, Elsa finished scribing the fundamentals into the worldbook and looked through Porzia’s notes. They had yet to decide upon the exact methodology for scribing the locator machine that would complete the world. Linking the scribed representation of southern Europe to the real-world geography would be reasonably simple—it required a tweaked version of the same principle she’d used for the doorbook. And locating a particular person was not so different from locating a particular place. Elsa scowled down at the loose sheets of paper scribbled all over with ideas. The real problem was how to identify the person she wanted the locator to target.

Porzia returned with a loose page from the atlas, and she peered over Elsa’s shoulder to see what part she was stuck on. “We should break for the night. Get some food and sleep, and look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

Elsa let out a heavy sigh. “But we’re so close!”

“If by ‘so close’ you mean ‘almost halfway done,’” said Porzia. “You may be indefatigable, but I was up doing research most of last night. And anyway, we should wait on a response from Firenze before we go charging off after Garibaldi. For all we know, the Order’s already hatching their own plan to rescue your mother.”

Elsa pressed her fingers against her eyes. She was tired, and Porzia was right to worry. A mistake now could prove catastrophic later—such was the nature of scriptology. But there was no way to know if her telegram had gotten through to Alek, or to be sure he would correctly interpret her message. And every hour that passed might be the hour that ended her mother’s life. There was no time.

Porzia went to bed, but she left the gaslight in the study burning so Elsa could continue to work long into the night.





14

I HOLD THAT THE MARK OF A GENUINE IDEA IS THAT ITS POSSIBILITY CAN BE PROVED.

—Gottfried Leibniz

The moon glowed faintly from behind a veil of clouds, barely visible, but the mirror-smooth surface of the river Arno shone like liquid gold in the light from the gaslamps. Leo spotted Rosalinda as soon as he got close to the old bridge. She leaned against the sidewall, looking stiff and severe, as if she might merge with the stone and become a gargoyle.

As Leo walked up beside her, she said, “Thank you for coming.” As if there were any doubt that he would.

“After yesterday, I’m not entirely sure Porzia hasn’t banned you from the house. I thought I’d better come to you, and not the other way around.”

Rosalinda nodded solemnly, no trace of amusement crossing her features. “How are you?”

Leo bit the inside of his cheek. “Fine.”

She exhaled through her nose, almost a snort, but she let the lie go unchallenged. “I made some inquiries. There’s a rumor circulating through the Carbonari network that your father has acquired a very dangerous weapon, and that the weapon is … scriptological in nature.”

“A weapon made with a worldbook?”

“If the rumors are to be believed. But this could explain why Ricciotti needed to forcefully conscript your friend’s mother—assuming it is Ricciotti who took her.”

“Maybe,” Leo said. “Except … you were right.”

“About?”

“Aris. He’s definitely alive, and he’s with our father. Helping him attack my home.” His throat felt raw and tight, as if he’d swallowed an entire lemon slice by slice.

Aris the polymath, who could compose worldtext in three languages by the age of twelve. What did Ricciotti need Jumi for, when he already had Aris on his side?