“What do you mean?”
“God, you ask a lot of questions.” Rather than lift his fork again, he pinches the piece of pie speared on it between two fingers and drops it into his mouth. “Well, the last job I did personally was overseeing the transport of the autobiography of an executed convict that was bound in his own skin.”
The few bites of pie I’ve managed to muscle down bubble back up, and I have to swallow hard to stop myself vomiting onto the table. “What?”
He shrugs. “Supposedly if you read aloud from it, you’d die a terrible death within the next fortnight. Two previous owners had already met their end that way.”
“Did you?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Read from it? God no.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m not much of a book person.”
I ignore how obviously pleased he is with himself for that joke. I can’t stop staring at my mother’s writing on the paper in his hand, her letters forming his name, Henry Montague. I had seen her write it before—it was my father’s name too. But here, it looks different, new words in a familiar language.
“So Mother asked for your help with her spyglass because you know about cursed objects?”
“She didn’t say it quite like that.” He returns to the letter, skimming the page until he finds where he left off. “‘During my return crossing to England, I came into possession of one half of a broken spyglass’—bit of description of the spyglass, something about the crack. She’s looking for the missing lenses, needs to return them to their owner.”
“Who’s the owner?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“Also a mystery. I think she hoped I might help her on that front.”
“Did she mention the wreck?”
He looks up. “What?”
“She went to Barbados when I was younger,” I say. “Her return to England was on a ship called the Persephone, and it wrecked. She was the only survivor—she was rescued off the coast of Portugal.”
“Really?” He looks down at the letter again, eyes skimming it. I keep hoping he’ll pass it over and let me read for myself, but instead he folds it in half and tucks it back into his coat. “That’s interesting.”
I swallow, about to ask what exactly is interesting when another worry interrupts it. “My father told me she was sicker after the shipwreck.”
“Well, I’d imagine it was rather traumatic—”
“Not like that,” I say. “All that too-muchness. It got worse. I think something happened to her—not just the shipwreck, something more. Something tied to this spyglass.”
Monty picks at the pie crust with the tip of his fork.
“Can I read the letter?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I think it would help—”
“Best not.” He takes a thoughtful bite. “You know,” he says after a moment, “I sort of thought that if you ever did show up, it would be to murder me.”
“Murder you?” I squeak. “Why?”
“You’re the second son now—your title is in jeopardy! Your land! Your inheritance! Your lordly honor! All those things men of your stature care so very much about. Not literal stature. But really—how tall are you?” I must look horrified at his accusations, for he amends, “Don’t worry, I haven’t any interest in my claim. But if you’re so inclined, we’re notoriously bad at locking our doors, and I sleep very soundly. All it would take is a quiet step and a pillow over my head and the job would be done. Consider that advice gratis.” He drains the rest of his coffee, then stands. “So, I suppose I’ll see you then.”
“See me when?”
“When you come to murder me.” He slings his coat around his shoulders, fishing around for that strange hedgehog hat again. “I’d say it was good to meet you but honestly it’s been really goddamn stressful, so let’s leave it here.” He starts to walk away, then seems to remember his pie, reconsiders, and hefts the entire thing from the table. I’m shocked its weight doesn’t pull him over.
I stand too—stumble, rather, my knees knocking so hard into the table I nearly break the mugs he spared. “You can’t go.”
He turns, walking away from me as fast as a man can hope to while hauling half his body weight in pie across a crowded barroom. “I have pressing plans I need to attend to, which is to demolish the rest of this pie in bed with no trousers on.”
“Can we at least see each other again? Or can I write you? Or something?”
He stops and stares at me, running his tongue over his teeth, and I think for a moment he might sincerely be reconsidering, but then he says, “Adrian.” And the downturned end of my name alone makes my heart sink. “You seem like a very”—a too-long moment of silence as he fishes for a flattering descriptor, comes up empty, and casts a broader net—“young man. But I’ve worked for a long time to be free of your family. Forgive me for not wanting to risk proximity once more.”
“What about the spyglass?” I ask, my voice pitching. “What about the Persephone? What about why she died?” I want to go home—I want so badly to be home and in bed or, better yet, at home and in bed and years in the future when I do not feel like an open wound. I’m gripping the edge of the table with shaking hands. “You can’t say it doesn’t matter, because you kept looking. Even after you knew she was dead. You’re still looking for answers about her and what she left behind, and so am I. We might as well do it together.”
Monty laughs. “Where do we start? She came by a spyglass on a ship that wrecked somewhere off the coast of Portugal. That hardly narrows it down.”
“Then I’ll go to Portugal.”
Monty raises an eyebrow. “Really? Forgive my assumptions, but you don’t seem the type to chase a whim across the world.”
“Well, maybe I can be.” I try to square my shoulders and stand as straight as possible, but Monty’s frown deepens and I slouch again, though still manage to say with some authority, “And it’s not a whim; it’s our family.”
“You didn’t know you had a family until an hour ago,” Monty replies dryly. “Look, it’s not going to be as straightforward as you show up in Portugal and a kindly stranger escorts you to a museum exhibit about the wreck of the Persephone.”
“I know that,” I say hotly.
“You’re probably going to be chasing records all over the country. And she might have been picked up on one of the fishing islands off the coast and then brought to a port, which would change records, and jurisdiction. And if you want to find the wreck itself—”
“Do I?” I ask. This is getting very big very quickly.
Monty shrugs. “What I’m saying is you can book passage to Portugal and then arrive and find you’re as lost as you were here, but now you’ve got to pay for seedy inns and unreliable transport.”
“Then I’ll hire a ship. And a captain—someone who knows the waters.”
“Christ Almighty.” He heaves the pie back onto the nearest vacant table and then stretches his arms like he’s been carrying an enormous weight. “Don’t do that—I know someone.”