Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(73)

Leo’s eyes narrowed at her and he leaned away, as if he somehow sensed what she was thinking. Apparently even drunk Leo had a firm sense of propriety.

Elsa could not help but smile at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I thought all you wanted was to get your mother and go home to Veldana,” he said, the edges of his words worn ragged with pain. Even in the dark, she could see the deep-rooted fear of abandonment etched around his eyes.

Elsa whispered, “That’s not all I want. Not anymore.”

Leo focused his bleary stare upon her, as if he were trying to will himself to sober up enough to comprehend her meaning. Subtlety was wasted on the intoxicated.

Taking pity on him, Elsa stood and said, “Come along. I think you’ve had quite enough wine, and it’s time to try your bed again.”

“That’s what all the ladies say to me,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Elsa snorted. “I’m going to assume that’s the wine talking.”

“It was a joke!” Leo threw his head back dramatically, as if to plead his case to the stars. “Why must you always assume the worst of me?”

“If you always assume the worst, you can never be disappointed,” Elsa quipped. Then she reached for his hand to drag him to his feet.

Leo did not resist her, but neither was he especially cooperative as they made their way inside and up the stairs. She tried to take the wine bottle but he fought to keep it, and since there wasn’t much left at the bottom anyway, she relented.

In his bedroom, he managed to kick off his shoes with only a little difficulty, then flopped onto the bed fully dressed, wine-spotted shirt and all. He curled on his side, facing away from her, but kept ahold of her hand.

As his grip relaxed, she tried gingerly to ease her hand away, but he mumbled, “Don’t go.”

“You’re drunk,” she countered.

“Yes,” he said, with surprising lucidity, “but I am not too drunk to know I want you to stay. That I always want you to stay.…”

Elsa huffed, but she gave in and stayed. It was pointless trying not to care for him—if she was honest with herself, she’d long since lost that particular battle. As his breathing slowed and deepened into the rhythms of sleep, she brushed his soft golden hair away from his face with her other hand.

People, like clockwork, needed care and maintenance. Leo’s gears slipped and ground against one another, and his brass casing rattled, and his mainspring was always, always wound too tight. The thought filled Elsa with such righteous anger, knowing Garibaldi had broken the one thing she couldn’t fix.

Before that moment, all she’d wanted from Garibaldi was Jumi’s safe return. She’d known he was awful and she’d hated him, but not like this. Now she wanted to see Garibaldi pay for what he’d done—not just to her family, but also to his own kin. Now she craved vengeance on behalf of them both.

“For this,” Elsa whispered to the sleeping boy, “for this I will destroy him.”





16

IF YOU WOULD BE A REAL SEEKER AFTER TRUTH, IT IS NECESSARY THAT AT LEAST ONCE IN YOUR LIFE YOU DOUBT, AS FAR AS POSSIBLE, ALL THINGS.

—René Descartes

Elsa spent the morning with Porzia, arguing over the possibility of modifying the map world to detect an object—namely, the missing worldbook—instead of a person. When their discussion devolved into a shouting match, Elsa decided that perhaps a different approach was called for.

Some time later, Faraz wandered into the library and set a plate of bread and cheese on the table beside Elsa’s elbow. “You missed lunch again. How goes the hunt?”

Elsa was flipping through Montaigne’s journals for the fifth or sixth time. “It doesn’t make any sense. There’s no mention of any political connections except Garibaldi. So if Montaigne wasn’t the leak, how did this mysterious third party even know the theft was occurring?”

Faraz pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat. “Perhaps we’re approaching this from the wrong direction. Could we make a list of everyone who knows the worldbook exists and might want to take it off Garibaldi’s hands?”

“Montaigne would be at the top of that list, except for the part where he’s dea— Oh!” she said, interrupting herself as a thought occurred.

“Oh?”

“Porzia!” she called.

Porzia leaned over the railing of the third-floor balcony. “What?”

Elsa waved a hand impatiently. “Get down here, I’ve had an idea.”

Porzia, clattering down the stairs, said, “Casa? I believe it’s past time you roused Leo.”

“Leo is … somewhat indisposed,” the house said delicately.

“I don’t care, Casa. Drag him from his bed if you have to.” She came over and leaned one hip against the table beside Elsa. “What is it?”

Elsa looked from Faraz to Porzia and back again. “Why kill Montaigne and burn the house? There are other ways it could have been accomplished. Killing Garibaldi’s men, or using their own knockout gas against them. Why the fire?”

Faraz shrugged. “To cause panic or to destroy evidence.”

“Evidence,” Elsa said, latching onto the word. “When Leo was a child he saw his father’s body, but it wasn’t his real body, it was an inanimate homunculus. A copy. What if Garibaldi, in the process of befriending Montaigne, told him that story?”