Bryde pocketed the orb and told Ronan, “I let Hennessy think she stole one, so we’ve got just this one left. So be efficient.”
“Where is she?” Declan asked. “Hennessy, I mean. Is she here?”
“She’s going to see Jordan,” Ronan said, and Declan felt a little pang of uncertainty in his gut. To Bryde, Ronan said, “She was pretty wound up. Do we know that … ?”
“She’ll be back,” Bryde said with absolute certainty. “She knows where she belongs. Go on. Eye on the clock. This won’t last forever.”
He pulled back into the dim courtyard, disappearing among the complicated black shadows of the tropical palms and flowers.
Declan found himself alone with his brother, experiencing the impression of privacy if not the reality. He had not seen him since they’d parted on the banks of the Potomac River, and he realized that part of him had been preparing itself for the idea that he might never see him again. It was a worry that he hadn’t fully felt until now that the danger of it had passed, and he found his knees wobbly with relief. Ronan, his family, his brother. Older, stranger, but still obviously Ronan.
“You heard him,” Ronan said. “What room have you always wanted to go into? What other rope have you always wanted to step over?”
Declan didn’t fancy touring the museum under these circumstances, but he wanted some space from Bryde to talk to Ronan, so he walked with his brother through the eerie, quiet building. They found themselves standing in the Dutch Room, the green wallpaper looking black in the dim. Two empty frames hung on the wall in front of them, one for each of the brothers.
“What’s the deal here?” Ronan asked.
“I was about to ask the same.”
“The empty frames.”
Any other time, Declan would have had the whole story at the ready, but tonight he simply said, “They were stolen. Twenty years ago. Thirty, maybe. It’s been a vigil since then. This whole place was made by a woman who wanted it to stay the same even after her death, so after the paintings were stolen out of the frames, the museum hung the frames back on the walls to wait, until the—do you care about this? You don’t care about this. Ronan, I’ve been hearing the news. What are you doing?”
“Sounds like you already know.”
“I’m worried,” Declan said, following Ronan as he began to walk again. “Don’t forget there’s a real world you want to come back to. The point was to get to a place you could do that.”
“Was it?”
“Don’t do that. I remember what we talked about. Don’t pretend it was me telling you how to live. Adam. You wanted Adam.”
“Adam,” Ronan said slowly, as if remembering, as if he were a man enchanted himself, and Declan realized he did not know any of the things Bryde could or couldn’t do with his dreams. Perhaps this was not even Ronan at all, perhaps this was a Ronan—no. He was not going to let himself even picture it; that was the way to absolute madness.
“The Barns,” Declan added, voice terse. “You told me you wanted to be a farmer.”
Ronan’s mouth slid to a grin, surprising Declan thoroughly. “You remember that.”
And now Declan himself was confused, because he didn’t think Ronan looked nearly as enchanted as he had thought he did a moment before. Now he looked sharp and alive, eyes bright and mirthful. “This isn’t about me. It’s about people like me. And it’s not about Matthew. It’s about people like Matthew. They don’t get to live, but they will. Is that really all this meeting is about? I thought Matthew was having a meltdown. I thought you needed weapons. I thought you needed dreams to build your empire. Cash. Cars. Girls.”
“It’s a family meeting to make sure you know where you’re going to be in three years,” Declan said. “Long-term goals.”
“Oh, God, it was a meeting for Declanisms? The more things change, blah de fucking la.”
“What is your plan doing for other people? Are you breaking the world?”
Ronan laughed merrily. “I hope so.”
He had led them back around to the Spanish Cloister. Declan did not generally think of Ronan as a particularly timely person, but Bryde had told him to be efficient, and he’d been efficient. He had brought Declan right back here without Declan even thinking about how they were being led back here. It was a very dream thing to do. It was a very adult, strategic thing to do.
Bryde waited in front of El Jaleo, his hands tucked in his pockets, eyes in shadow. His voice was a little knowing, “You could take anything from here right now. You could take this painting to hang in your living room and never have to worry about your brother Matthew again.”
It had already occurred to Declan that anybody with that impossible dream orb of Bryde’s could steal anything they liked from this place. Do anything they liked. Declan had heard Bryde’s hidden threat earlier. The entirety of Declan’s memories could have been destroyed for good, by an unkindly dreamer.
Declan’s hands felt a little shaky.
“This museum’s already had enough taken from it,” Declan said. “Even if I didn’t care about that, I don’t want to walk around with a target on my back. And it fixes very little, as I’m sure you’ve already considered. Matthew can’t wrap that painting around himself and have a normal life. Rob from this place, and for what? A prison of my apartment?”
“Good,” said Bryde. “So you understand what we’re doing, then. You want Matthew to live like anyone else. So do we.”
Declan said, “You could do this without Ronan.”
“No,” Bryde murmured. “I could not.”
There was a sound from somewhere within the museum. Not an alarm, not yet, but movement.
Bryde looked up sharply. To Ronan, he said, “We are nearly out of time. I’ll need to use this last one here, and I won’t be able to get another one until I am out of the city; it’s too loud here.”
Declan couldn’t think of what to say. He had thought the conversation was going to come around in his favor but he was the one going round and round instead. All he could think to blurt to Ronan was “You should see Matthew before you leave Boston. In case …”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Ronan. But he glanced to Bryde to confirm. It was only after Bryde nodded imperceptibly that Ronan repeated, with certainty, “Right.”
Bryde owned his brother completely.
Ten. That was the number of coffees Carmen Farooq-Lane ordered while waiting in the Somerville café. She didn’t want to cheaply hold down this table when another paying customer could have it, but she also didn’t want to float away on a lake of coffee.
She glanced at the time on her phone. Thirty-five minutes had passed since the agreed-upon rendezvous time. When did she give up?
“Just one more, please,” she told the server.
God, but she was nervous. She didn’t know if she was more nervous about the meeting or being found out by the Moderators. She’d resigned right after checking out of the quaint little rental cottage. Just like that. Strip the sheets from the bed, make sure all the dishes were in the dishwasher, turn off all the lights, hide Hennessy’s moonlit sword in a linen closet, quit the only job that seemed important. Lock had accepted the keys to the bullet-ridden rental car and had her sign a nondisclosure agreement.