Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(67)
Elsa couldn’t puzzle out why there were so many northern Europeans until they had to squeeze past a particularly obstructive cluster of Englishmen, and Porzia muttered, “Bloody English vacationers.”
They followed the compass needle east and left the vacationers behind in favor of sailors and dockworkers. They circled around a ship-choked port that cut inland, the air heavy with the scent of brine and rotten fish. Leo slowed to a stop and tapped at the glass face of the compass.
“This can’t be right. My father was a man of means, not a”—he waved his hand in the vague direction of a raggedly dressed man stumbling out of a tavern—“an unemployed deckhand.”
Elsa took the compass from him, ignoring the way he looked at her when their hands touched. She pivoted back and forth on one heel, watching the compass needle hold steady, pointing to a run-down tenement house across the street. “It seems to be working fine. That’s the place.”
They ducked into a narrow alleyway to strategize. The sun hung low in the west, lighting up the wisps of cloud in shades of pink and orange, and the shadows between buildings had grown comfortingly dark.
Leo stared in disbelief at the ramshackle building. “This has got to be a malfunction.”
“No, it’s perfect,” Porzia said thoughtfully. “Unsavory characters can go in and out all day without anyone batting an eye. And who would think to look for upstanding citizen Rico Trovatelli here? Not even his own son.”
Leo’s lips tightened angrily. “My father—”
“Your father was a fiction,” Porzia interrupted. “We know little and less of the real Ricciotti Garibaldi, except for this: we know he can deceive.”
For a moment, Leo looked as if he might like to slap her. Then his gaze shifted back to the tenement house, and Elsa could practically hear the gears of his thoughts shifting. “All right,” he finally said. “I’m going in alone.”
Porzia lifted her gaze to the heavens, as if begging a higher power for patience. “You’re not leaving us behind now, Leo.”
“Look,” he said, exasperated. “We can’t all go in together. If this doesn’t go well for us, someone has to return to Toscana and report to Gia what happened. And, obviously, that would be accomplished most expediently if the return party had a scriptologist to open a portal.”
Elsa stepped closer to Leo. “I’m sorry, but he’s right.”
“What?” Porzia screeched, clearly surprised to have Elsa side against her.
“Leo and I go in. Garibaldi knows about us already, so even if we’re spotted, he gains nothing. But he doesn’t yet know we have help, and we might need that element of surprise later.”
“This is just ridiculous—” Porzia huffed, but Faraz put a gentling hand on her shoulder. She frowned but said, “Fine.”
“Here,” Elsa said, handing over the doorbook to Porzia. “In case you need it.”
Porzia accepted it gingerly, the scowl vanishing from her features. “Are you sure?”
“I’m quite sure I don’t want something this useful falling into the hands of our enemies.” She shrugged a shoulder, hesitant, then added shyly, “Besides, I trust you with it.”
Porzia nodded, her eyes wide, as if genuinely touched by the gesture. “I’ll take good care of it.”
Leo was fiddling with the grip of his rapier, anxious to get moving and oblivious to the weight of the moment Elsa and Porzia had just shared. He said, “Wait for us at the east end of the promenade. If we haven’t met up with you by midnight, get yourselves back to Pisa and tell Gia what happened.”
As Porzia and Faraz turned back the way they’d come, Elsa and Leo crossed the street, keeping to the shadows. The lamplighters had yet to grace this part of the city with their presence, so the growing dark was on their side. With whispers and hand gestures, they agreed to approach the building from behind. They snuck through the cramped, filthy alleyways, the walls of the tenement buildings muffling the sounds of the city. There was the splash of Elsa’s shoes in the alley’s damp muck and the steady hiss of her breath, but that was all. Leo moved as quiet as a cat—she knew he was still with her only by the dark shape of his silhouette.
They crouched low as they drew closer. The first-floor windowpanes were grime-smudged and warped, but they glowed with lamplight from inside, which would ease the task of spying somewhat. Leo crept up to the nearest window, and Elsa pressed herself close to the bricks beside him. The light drew a sharp line across his cheekbones as he peered inside. After a moment he withdrew, shook his head at her—nothing—and slunk over to the next. Pulse pounding in her ears, she followed. If the compass had led them true, one of these rooms might have her mother in it.
Elsa heard a click behind her. Before she could register what it meant, Leo spun around, his hand flying to the hilt of his rapier. Turning, she reached for her revolver, at the same time placing the sound: the click of a cocked-back hammer.
Black-clad Carbonari assassins emerged from the shadows, weapons out and aimed.
15
WHATEVER LIES WITHIN OUR POWER TO DO LIES ALSO WITHIN OUR POWER NOT TO DO.
—Aristotle
Relieved of her pistol, Elsa was half dragged inside by two burly Carbonari. Her instinct was to fight back however she could—with feet and fists and teeth—but Leo caught her eye and, with a subtle jerk of his head, warned against it. They were badly outnumbered and should wait for a better opportunity to effect their escape.