Kiernan muttered something too low for Leo to hear. But when Xavier laughed, it felt like an ice cube had slipped into Leo’s stomach—it was a laugh that held all the darkness of a threat and not a shred of good humor.
“Did you think I was joking when I told you not to mention that name, Ezra? Did you think I was putting on a show for the sake of my children? You’re lucky I got you out of Pelago when I did. Ambrosine Byrne could snuff out this operation before you can say ‘mertag.’ I’ll not dangle my family as bait.”
That didn’t make sense at all—Xavier had had no contact with the Byrne family, much less Leo’s own grandmother, since his mother had died. But he was talking about her as if he knew her.
Kiernan’s reply was muffled, but Leo caught the words, “could be useful, is all.”
“I’m fully aware of what he looks like, thank you very much. But it would be Agnes she’d want, and I will never let that happen,” Xavier said with a tone that declared the matter finished. “Forget the sprites. Branson will find them or he won’t, and that will be the end of it. What we really need is another Arboreal, a bigger one, a stronger one. The droughts and heat waves are getting worse. The timing is ripe for the show to get on the road, so to speak.”
“We are trying but—”
“Try harder. They’re your sacred trees. Shouldn’t they be easy to find?”
“Not all naifa trees are Arboreals, Xavier. And we cannot go back to Culinnon.”
Leo knew from his father’s plays that naifa trees were sacred in Talmanism, and they only grew in Pelago. He had no idea what Culinnon was—another island, perhaps? Leo found himself wishing he had just gone up to bed when his sister had.
“Besides,” Kiernan continued, “many Pelagans will not accept the job we are offering, no matter what price.”
“Use my men then. They aren’t squeamish about some goddamn trees.”
“You really are the coldhearted bastard they say, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Xavier said. “I am.”
Leo kept stone-still as he heard the front door open.
“The island, Ezra. That’s all that matters.”
Kiernan sighed. “Xavier,” he said, “you are quite, quite sure this was not just some story she told you? To impress or—”
“It was not a story. It is real.” His father’s voice was brittle as new frost. “And she never sought to impress me.”
The silence that followed lasted so long, Leo wondered if they had simply parted ways without saying good night.
“We will speak again tomorrow,” Kiernan said, and Leo jumped. Once the Pelagan was gone, his father called for Swansea.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have that man followed,” Xavier said. “I want to know his every movement. Get Roth on it. He knows enough seedy characters and he damn well owes me.”
Roth? Leo thought. James Roth?
“I take it you don’t trust this Pelagan then, sir?” Swansea said.
“I don’t trust anyone, Swansea.” There was a pause. “Why are the lights in the drawing room on?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I was in the kitchen, I thought Janderson—”
Leo was intimately familiar with the sound of someone being silenced by his father. Quick as a flash, he sank into the nearest armchair and closed his eyes, his head lolling to one side to feign sleep. He heard footsteps approach and tried to keep his breathing steady. If his father knew he had been listening in on private conversations . . .
“Leo.”
He opened his eyes and rubbed them for effect.
“Oh, sorry, Father. I must have dozed off.”
“Mm.” Xavier frowned. “Get to bed. You have a big day ahead of you.”
“Yes, of course.” Leo got up and stretched. “Good night.”
But Xavier was already walking toward his study. Swansea disappeared after him and Leo was left alone, his heart pounding, wondering what exactly his father was up to.
10
Agnes
AGNES SAT IN HER LAB, A CANDLE BURNING DOWN ALMOST to the nub as she scribbled in her journal, trying to put down on paper as much as she could remember about the Arboreal and the mertag and her guesses as to what her father was planning to do with them.
There was no place in Old Port where Agnes felt more comfortable than in her lab. She had painted the walls a light green, but they were spattered with specks of blood, smeared guts, scorch marks, and various scratchings from when her notepad had been too far away. She didn’t have as much equipment as she’d like—just a lone microscope, a Bunsen burner, a few beakers in various shapes and sizes, some graduated cylinders, and a set of scalpels. She had bottles of chemicals too: hydrochloric acid, ethanol, xylene, paraffin . . . she’d been working up the courage to see if her father would allow her some potassium hydroxide.
She put the pencil down and cracked her knuckles. This one-night-only endeavor looked to be the splashiest of Xavier’s productions, as well as his last. She didn’t care a whit for her father’s plays, and she would be happy to see less anti-Talman shows being performed in Old Port. Agnes was not particularly religious, but it seemed to her that everyone in the world was required to ascribe to something, and as far as she could tell, science didn’t count. Talmanism didn’t seem as oppressive as Solitism; certainly not where women were concerned. But something about this new project left her with a cold feeling of dread that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—as if her father was moving past simple propaganda and on to something more dark and dangerous.
The candle sputtered and went out, dousing the lab in darkness. Agnes stood and stretched, then left her lab, locked it, and hid the key in its usual spot in an old jewelry box. She peered out her bedroom window; Creekwater Row was dimly lit with gas lamps and lined with brownstones as large and handsome as the one she lived in. All were silent and dark. The night air was thick with humidity.
Just as she was turning back, she heard a noise, like a hoot owl. It hooted twice, paused, then hooted again. Agnes went still.
“Eneas?” she called softly. The chauffeur stepped out from behind the motorcar, covered for the night in the driveway, and waved up at her. There was an envelope in his hand. Her knees turned to jelly. She pointed down toward the kitchen door and Eneas nodded and disappeared.
Agnes wanted to take the stairs two at a time, but she couldn’t risk waking anyone up, especially not Leo or her father. She froze when she saw the light was still on in his study, the door closed. Ever so cautiously, she crept to the kitchen, skirted the long table that dominated the room, copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and eased the service door open. Eneas was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a wide grin spread across his face. Agnes put a finger to her lips and pointed in the direction of her father’s study. He nodded and handed her the envelope. She took it with trembling hands. The postmark was from Pelago.
She stared at her name, Miss Agnes McLellan written out in perfect curling script. And the return address: University of Ithilia. Academy of Sciences. The envelope was thick and cream-colored and made a satisfying rip as she opened it. The paper that fell out shook in her trembling grasp, and she read it in the faint light from the kitchen.