Текст книги "Ink and Bone"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

EPHEMERA

Text of a handwritten note from the head of the Burner faction in London to Danton in Toulouse:

Received your news on the action outside of Toulouse. Destruction of the train serves as a symbolic victory, if nothing else.

It’s too bad Wolfe slipped away. Now that we know of the man’s family connections, he would be a valuable hostage.

Condolences on the death of your son. He would have been a great asset in the struggle.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jess walked a while before he fell in the ditch on a bed of surprisingly soft fallen leaves. He stayed where he was for a while, until the rain started to fall. It was a soft, gentle mist, but he knew it would freeze him icy as the night’s chill took hold, so he grimly wrestled himself up to his knees, and walked until he ran into the line of High Garda searching for him. Once they spotted him, they reached him at a run. Somehow, he’d been expecting something else to happen to snatch it all away.

The High Garda men handed him off to Medica staff. He was flat on his back in a camp bed with his shirt off and a surgeon poking his stomach when Wolfe threw back the flap on the tent.

‘Sterile area,’ the surgeon barked, and Wolfe stopped a few feet away. ‘Talk from there.’

He cast her a look, but didn’t argue. ‘What happened?’

‘Burners,’ Jess said. ‘Took me off for a talk. One of them was Guillaume Danton’s father. He wanted to know why his son was dead.’

Wolfe’s expression hardly even flickered. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him what I saw.’

‘And what did he tell you?’

‘Someone told him where to find us.’

‘Enough talking,’ his doctor said. ‘Scholar, the wound in his side was aggravated by the force of the explosion. His stitches tore.’

‘Will he live?’

‘Oh, yes. A few days’ rest should put him in good order.’

‘I’m fine. Tell—’ Morgan, he almost said. ‘Tell the others that I’m all right.’ He didn’t want to mention Morgan. Maybe she’d already slipped off in the darkness, found a way to her freedom. He told himself, again, that he wanted that for her.

‘Your fellow postulants have been informed. It was all we could do to keep Schreiber from tearing around the woods after you when you disappeared.’

‘Wolfe,’ the surgeon said. ‘Go lie down. I haven’t cleared you to get up, and you know it. You’ve seen the boy. He’s breathing and his lungs are almost clear. Now leave.’

Wolfe gave her another piercing look that had absolutely no effect, and left. He tried – and almost succeeded, Jess thought – in making it look that it was his own idea. ‘He’s hurt?’ Jess asked, once he was gone.

‘Of course he’s hurt,’ his doctor said. ‘He and Santi both have concussion and internal bruising. Can’t keep them down, the fools. The others are all fine. Minor cuts and bruises. Miraculous, considering the shrapnel tossed about.’

‘There was a girl. Morgan. She’s all right?’

‘Mmm. Breathed in a lot of fumes from the fire, but she’s recovering. No worse off than you.’

‘What about the Burners?’

‘What about them?’

‘Did any of them survive?’

‘Not the ones we found. They’re in pieces.’

She called over a waiting assistant, and they inserted needles and fluids, and his constant pain began to recede like a wave pulling out to sea.

The doctor bustled off to see other patients, he supposed, and he floated for a while before Wolfe came back into the tent.

‘You’re supposed to be lying down,’ Jess said. ‘She said so.’

‘You had something else to tell me.’

Jess stirred uncomfortably. He felt sweaty, and the drugs were beginning to be less of a soft cushion. ‘Danton said they didn’t blow up the train,’ he said.

‘Did he?’ Wolfe seemed utterly still. ‘I don’t believe we should take the word of Burners for that.’

‘But if he’s telling the truth, someone else did.’ Jess swallowed a sudden taste of bile. ‘He said someone told him where we’d be. The explosion was white. Not green. It wasn’t Greek Fire.’

Wolfe considered that, but if he came to a conclusion, he didn’t share it. ‘The doctor says you’ll be well enough to travel in a few days. We’re fortified and heavily guarded here. There’s no risk in waiting. Rest.’

He headed for the tent flap, but Jess didn’t let him leave without asking the question that had been on his mind since Danton had planted the seed of it out there in the dark forest.

‘Scholar? Did someone in the Library just try to kill us?’

‘I hope not,’ Wolfe said. ‘Because if they have, they’ll try again. There’s no fighting them. I’ve tried.’

That seemed to beg a lot of questions, Jess thought, but Wolfe was gone before he could even begin to think how to ask them.

The next morning brought him a new visitor, as Jess was plotting how best to stage an escape from being fussed over by the surgeon. He’d just decided to ask Thomas to stage a collapse and draw her off when Morgan stepped into the tent.

He stared at her, because he didn’t know what to say to her, or how to say it; she had a way of making him feel awkward, as if it was the first time they’d met, every time. Part of it was because she looked different. Instead of wearing her hair up, it was down, soft around her shoulders, and it made him remember how soft and heavy it had felt in his hands. She’d been spending time outside in the sun. He saw a bright splash of sunburn on her nose.

‘You really should stop this,’ she said.

‘Stop what?’ She gestured around them, at the medical equipment. He nodded. ‘I should. Funny. Until I met you, I never needed stitching up.’

‘It’s my fault?’ She came another step towards him, but only one. He wondered bitterly if Wolfe had fitted her with a restraint again. Maybe the restraint was to keep her away from him.

‘You make me careless,’ he said. ‘I mean that as a compliment. I’ve always been too careful.’

‘I never thought that. You always seemed—’

‘Impulsive?’

‘You never seemed afraid of risking things.’

This felt all wrong, all wrong. They were talking like two people who were strangers, and she wasn’t coming closer. There were shadows in her eyes, and in her smile. Distance.

‘Morgan,’ he said, and heard the longing in his voice when he said her name. He didn’t know how to go on from that, and wasn’t sure he could. ‘You should have run.’

She took a step closer. No more than that.

‘Wolfe told me what you did. How you came back. I don’t remember any of it. I was hiding, and waiting for everyone to leave, and it took too long. The smoke came through the vents. I tried to stand up, and …’ She let it hang there, then raised her hands, palms up. ‘Then I was in the forest, and they said you were missing. How could I leave?’

‘How could you not? If ever they would be distracted, that would have been the time.’

‘I know.’ She came the rest of the way, across the floor, and settled on the foot of his bed. He was intensely aware of her, and at the same time, of the fact that he still smelt of toxic smoke, dirt, and sweat. ‘I had to know that you were alive. I thought – I thought the Burners had killed you.’ Her breath caught suddenly, and her eyes widened, and she turned her head to look at him. ‘That’s what it felt like, when you thought I’d jumped. Oh, Jess. I’m sorry.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I didn’t do it to teach you a lesson.’

A laugh burst out of her, and she leant over and kissed him. I taste of Greek Fire, he thought, but if he did, she didn’t pull away. She relaxed against him, and the sweet taste of her lips drowned all the bitter chemicals. All the bitter memories. He pushed her loose, dark hair back from her face, and sighed as she pulled back, just a little. ‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘But I really was hoping to never see you again.’

‘That is no way to charm a girl.’ Thomas’s voice, from the door of the tent. Morgan stood up in one quick motion, and Jess almost laughed himself at the expression on her face. Thomas did laugh. ‘Don’t you think I know? We all know. We have no secrets, we students.’

That was blackly funny in itself, but it didn’t incline Jess to laughter this time. We’re nothing but secrets, he wanted to say, but Thomas wouldn’t understand.

‘What’s that?’ Morgan asked. Thomas had something in a bag over his shoulder, and it wasn’t small.

‘Something to keep Jess occupied,’ Thomas said. ‘I had time to finish it. None of us but Khalila can beat him at chess. I thought I would make him a proper opponent.’

‘Make one?’

Thomas set down the bag, looked around, and found a small folding table that he carried over to sit next to Jess’s bed. Then he reached in and took out a large wooden chessboard that sat on a metal box frame almost two inches deep. He looked for the drawer where the chessmen would be kept, but the sides were seamless.

‘You brought me an empty board?’

‘Ach, sorry, no room for the pieces inside.’ Thomas reached back into the bag and took out a smaller matching box, which he opened. Inside were metal chess pieces in steel and iron. Thomas set them in quick, deft motions. ‘Black or white?’

‘White,’ Jess said.

‘Move.’

Jess obligingly pushed a pawn forward and waited for Thomas to do the same. Thomas didn’t. He just stood there with that delighted grin on his face.

A piece of black iron moved itself, gliding forward two spaces.

‘It’s an automaton,’ Thomas said. ‘One that plays chess. I had Khalila help me with all the calculations.’

Jess moved his pawn forward again. The automaton’s black pawn slid into his, and his white piece tipped over on its side, rolled off the board, and fastened itself to one side of the metal box.

Taken off the board.

‘Magnetic,’ Thomas said. ‘If I had more time I would make it smaller underneath so there could be a drawer for taken pieces. Next time.’

‘It’s incredible,’ Jess said. ‘It’s—’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Morgan said. She picked up the piece that had fastened itself to the side and ran it through her fingers. ‘Did you make all this? How?’

‘Yes. Captain Santi was kind enough to have it sent to Toulouse, and the soldiers brought it,’ Thomas said. ‘I finished it before we left Alexandria.’

‘Can it actually play a full game?’ Jess moved another piece, this time really putting thought into it, and it was eerie how quickly the machine countered him. Correctly countered him.

‘That was why it took so long to build,’ Thomas said. ‘A chess game has at least ten to the forty-third power of moves.’

‘How long did it take you, then?’ Morgan stood and watched as Jess moved pieces, and the automaton played its side.

‘Months, for the clockworks. A few days for the pieces. Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Jess.’

‘It’s not my birthday.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘I’ve known you this long. It must be coming some time. Besides, you need a distraction.’ A smile spread wide across his face. ‘Although it seems you have found a very pretty one, anyway.’

‘Flatterer,’ Morgan said. ‘Go ahead, Jess. Play.’

Jess moved pieces until it became clear that Thomas’s automaton was going to trap him in four moves, and, marvelling at the eerie intelligence of the thing, he tipped his king.

All the pieces, even the ones that had been fixed to the sides of the board, glided back into place. The board lifted, spun opposite, and the automaton moved white this time.

‘You’re bloody brilliant, Thomas,’ Jess said. His throat felt tight with emotion, and he knew it was in his rough voice, too. ‘I hope you know that.’

‘I know,’ Thomas said. ‘Wait until you see what I have back home at Ptolemy House.’

‘I thought this was what you were working on.’

‘This? No. It is a toy. Elaborate, but a toy. What I have there is different.’ His grin faded, and suddenly Thomas looked completely serious. ‘What I have will change the world.’

It felt like freedom for the next six days; their wounds healed, and the six of them were much in each other’s company. They held a chess tournament, and took the Toulouse soldiers’ bets on machine versus student; invariably, they made a profit. Khalila played Thomas’s automaton to a draw many times, and won twice; Jess prized the one time he’d managed to force the machine to tip its king in defeat. Soldiers took a seat. Even Wolfe had a try, which brought the most heated betting of all, but he, too, went down to defeat.

Thomas, curiously, could beat it every time. ‘I know how it thinks,’ he said when Jess asked, which was as mysterious as it was maddening.

It began to feel almost benign, these calm days in the sun. When the doctor released him, Jess treasured the hours spent with his friends, individually or in groups. He began to wish it would just … go on.

And then, on the sixth day, Wolfe called them to his tent. It was a pretty blue-sky day outside, with a crisp turn of autumn in the air.

Inside that tent the mood felt like winter.

They entered together, the six of them, and found Wolfe seated at a camp desk with his journal open in front of him, and a pen marking the centre. He closed the book.

‘The escort arrives in the morning,’ he said. ‘Another trusted commander. Nic has seen to that. We will be travelling in armoured comfort back to Alexandria.’

The armoured part Jess didn’t doubt. The comfort was questionable. Khalila sighed and shifted, as if she could already feel the kinks in her back from the trip.

Wolfe looked tired, Jess thought. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that he didn’t remember seeing before. The man hadn’t put on Scholar’s robes for some time, and Jess had almost grown used to seeing him without them now.

But the robes were out today. They were neatly folded on a chest, ready to don.

It’s almost over, Jess realised. We’re going back. Back to what?

As if he’d read Jess’s mind, Wolfe said, ‘When we arrive, I will be summoned to the Artifex to give him my recommendations for your placements. It’s possible that I won’t return in time to give them out, but someone will deliver the scrolls if I am unable to attend.’

‘Unable, Scholar?’ Dario asked. ‘Or do you mean, prevented from returning?’ When Wolfe looked up, he shrugged. ‘It’s clear that you’ve got powerful enemies there. You’re even worried here.’

‘Sir,’ Glain said. ‘They don’t have grounds to punish you. You were sent to retrieve the books from Oxford, and you did exactly that. We will all support it.’

Wolfe acknowledged that with a very slight bow of his head to them. ‘It’s been my privilege to be your proctor,’ he said. ‘It comes as a surprise, I assure you, to say that; I am the most reluctant Scholar ever to be forced to take on a year’s class, and the least inclined to charity. So when I tell you I am proud …’ He shook his head, and smiled. It was a tight, private smile, a little rueful. ‘When I tell you I am proud, I mean it.’

‘Sir …’ Khalila hesitated, then plunged on. ‘What happened to Guillaume and Joachim wasn’t your fault. We all know that, and if they ask us, we’ll tell them you did everything you could. There were risks; we knew that. Life is risk. But you brought us through it. And it is we who are proud. Honoured.’

She inclined her head to him. Next to her, Dario followed. Then Glain and Thomas.

That left Jess and Morgan.

Jess bowed his head, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan do the same.

‘Honoured,’ Morgan said. ‘Sir.’

Wolfe watched them for a long few seconds, and then opened his journal and picked up his pen. ‘Be ready tomorrow morning by dawn. Tota est scientia. Dismissed.’

He didn’t look up as they filed out, and when Jess glanced back, he saw Wolfe pressing pen to paper.

But the man didn’t write a word.

Dinner meant sharing a large, airy tent with the Toulouse Garda crowding the benches, along with the Medica staff they’d brought with them. Wolfe’s party was pushed close at one table. Jess had tried to take a seat beside Morgan, but she had been blocked in by Wolfe on one side, Santi on the other, and the best he was able to do was claim a place across from her.

It did give him a chance to study her as they ate. She didn’t seem to mind.

The food was better than Jess expected, or maybe his health was coming back; he ate with real hunger and savoured the lamb and fresh vegetables and crusty French bread. Wolfe and Santi were, at first, the only ones allowed wine. Santi had only a little, but Wolfe steadily filled glasses, emptied a bottle, then another. He called for a third, and glasses for each of the students. Dario applauded that. Khalila declined, but everyone else accepted.

As the wine was poured, Jess glanced up and saw Morgan watching him. The last night, he thought. Tomorrow, at dawn, it would be different. Tonight would be her last chance to run. He wondered if that was why Wolfe and Santi had so firmly blocked her between them.

Wolfe stood up, glass in hand. He didn’t seem quite steady. ‘Postulants,’ he said. ‘Your attention.’ He didn’t ask, he demanded, and they all gave it. ‘Guillaume Danton and Joachim Portero. Drink to them.’

They all stood, then, and toasted in silence, and drained glasses. He nodded, and they sat again, but he stayed on his feet.

Wolfe clumsily refilled his glass. ‘And a toast to all of you still here. Congratulations. You’re now in the safe embrace of the Library. Good luck.’ He threw back the entire glass at one long gulp. Santi sat back. He looked concerned.

Wolfe had to brace himself with one hand on the table, as if the room had tilted. None of them spoke. Jess had never seen Wolfe out of control before, and it felt deeply wrong.

‘Thank you,’ Khalila finally ventured. ‘You’ve taught us so much.’

‘Don’t thank me for risking your lives. You deserved better than that. Better than me.’ Wolfe refilled his glass, emptied the bottle, and signalled for another. Santi leant back to send Wolfe a look behind Morgan’s back, but Wolfe didn’t seem to notice. ‘I didn’t ask to be your proctor. Saddling me with your class was a kind of punishment. To teach me obedience.’

‘Wolfe,’ Santi said. ‘Enough. Sit down.’

‘No. Not enough.’ Wolfe slammed his glass down on the table with so much force the glass cracked up the side. A dining attendant, who’d come with another bottle of wine, deftly scooped up the damaged vessel and put another one in its place.

‘They’re no longer my students. No longer my responsibility. All that remains is for the Library to break their hearts, as it broke ours years ago.’ Wolfe levelled a finger at Santi. ‘Say I’m wrong.’

Santi stood up, put the cork firmly in the bottle, and leant close to Wolfe. ‘You’re drunk, and this isn’t the place or the time. If you don’t care about your future, think of theirs. Think of mine.’

Their eyes locked for a moment, and then Wolfe blinked and nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I’m … tired.’

‘You’re grieving,’ Santi said. ‘We’ve all got scars. Don’t show them here.’

Dario waited a second before saying, ‘Well, if you’re done with the wine and moved on to self-pity, pass the bottle down. That’s half-decent French. Not Rioja, but still. Hate to waste it.’

Glain, of all people, stood up, retrieved the bottle and poured herself a very respectable glass. Then she topped up Dario’s, and passed the bottle down the row. Thomas took a glass. So did Morgan, and then Jess.

Santi helped Wolfe to his feet and said, ‘I expect you to watch your behaviour. Morgan, that tether’s still active. If Wolfe’s not watching, I will be. We had that double-locked by an Obscurist. Don’t even try removing it.’

She nodded and picked at the restraint wound around her wrist. She’d been rubbing on it, Jess saw; there was a faint red mark on her skin around the golden coils. He wondered if she’d tried to take it off again. Probably.

Wolfe’s soldiers – the five of them who were left – sensibly took the rest of the wine. The mess cleared out, but their table stayed while the kitchen staff cleaned and sent them increasingly irritated looks. Jess only sipped at what remained in his glass, since his Medica surgeon stopped to remind him that his liver was needed for the future.

Morgan was the first to leave. ‘It’s late,’ she said, and shook her head when the others chorused a desire for her to stay. ‘No, enjoy yourselves. It’s our last night together.’

Khalila stood with her. ‘I’ll walk with you,’ she said.

Dario bowed them off with exaggerated deference. Jess drained a glass of water, watching Morgan go. Another bottle came around again, but this one was filled with fruit juice. He silently shoved it over to Glain. She filled her cup.

‘I’m going too,’ he said, finally. ‘I’m still getting my strength back.’

‘You are missing out,’ Thomas said, all too cheerfully; his face had gone pink. ‘Dario is off to find another bottle.’

‘Not if I get it first,’ Glain said.

‘I will wrestle you for it,’ Thomas said, and placed his elbow on the table. Glain handily pinned Thomas three times in a row, and claimed the bottle, which didn’t so far actually exist.

Dario was offering her a game of dice, which was probably far better odds for him, when Jess walked back to his room.

They’d moved him from the medical quarters to something smaller, but it had a comfortable bed, and that was all he cared about. He felt tired, and strangely restless underneath it. Unsettled. Seeing Wolfe come undone, even that much, made him feel that nothing was secure in their strange, new world.

When he stretched out still fully clothed, he heard an unfamiliar crackle of paper, and reached under the thin pillow.

It hid a folded paper note.

I will come at midnight.

She hadn’t signed it, but he knew her handwriting, the bold and elegant sweeps of her pen. She hadn’t sent it by Codex. She knew those messages would be read by someone – if not Wolfe, then someone hidden back in the Iron Tower.

She hadn’t said it explicitly, but he knew she meant to come to say goodbye. That was both sweet and sour at once. He took the note and put it into his personal journal, then took up his pen and let his thoughts run about how he felt. About seeing her. Losing her. About all this coming to an end, and his friends scattering. What had he said to Morgan on the train? Reset the board. Start a new game.

He didn’t know if he could, after this.

Jess turned to his journal for comfort. He’d always filled the pages with his feelings … fear and guilt, in his earliest childhood. Then guilt, anger, and bitterness. His entries since Alexandria had been about pride and achievement, grief and horror, loss and love.

The last few had been about Morgan. Just Morgan.

Writing about it helped, but it didn’t erase the pain completely; he left the journal next to his bed and turned to his blank. He’d loaded it with Inventio Fortunata, line after line of careful script, written in a time when every rounded letter was its own work of art. Tales of adventure and discovery from a man long dead.

A blank isn’t the same. He remembered holding this book, feeling the history of the leather cover someone had tanned and stretched and cut to fit. The paper that someone had laboriously filled by hand and sewn into the binding. Years, heavy on the pages. Morgan had been reading a copy of it. An original. It felt like the old monk’s story was part of his own.

But when he read it in the blank, it was just words, and it had no power to carry him away.

Someone knocked on the board outside his tent door, two quiet raps, and he sat up so fast the blank fell to the floor. ‘Come in,’ he said.

It wasn’t midnight yet, and it wasn’t Morgan at his door.

At the sight of Niccolo Santi, Jess grew cautious. This wasn’t the friendly version of the captain; this was the closed, professional soldier.

‘What do you want?’

‘I know that Morgan’s planned to leave. I know she’s coming at midnight. I have orders to take her into custody.’ When Jess started to speak, Santi waved it sharply aside. ‘Don’t bother to lie to me. I know. The question is, how did they know? She wouldn’t tell anyone else. Just you. Who did you tell?’

Jess glared. ‘I didn’t tell anyone!’

‘Then how did the bloody Artifex Magnus already know?’

Jess opened his personal journal and flipped it to the middle, where he’d left the pen as a marker. The folded note slid out. He handed it to Santi. ‘Maybe someone else saw this. It was under my pillow.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Santi said. ‘Anyone who saw it would think it was romance, not intrigue.’ His stare moved to the book in Jess’s hand. ‘Did you write it in your journal?’

‘I – yes. I mentioned it.’

‘When did you write it?’

‘An hour ago, when I found the note. It hasn’t left my side. No one read it.’

Santi grabbed the journal from him.

‘What are you doing?’ Jess lunged, but Santi was faster, and kept the journal out of his reach. ‘You can’t!’ No one was allowed to read a personal journal without permission, not until the owner’s death. Even his brother Brendan hadn’t violated that trust.

‘I’m not reading it.’ Santi took out a knife, and that checked Jess’s advance, but Santi wasn’t threatening him. He slit open the inside of the back cover of Jess’s journal and peeled back the paper. Behind the paper was a line of symbols in precise writing, and a splash of something that might have been blood.

Jess knew enough to recognise alchemical symbols when he saw them, but he didn’t understand. Not immediately.

‘Mirrored,’ Santi said. ‘They’ve been reading everything you write. When did you get this book?’

‘I asked for a temporary journal,’ Jess said numbly. ‘I got it in the Welsh camp.’ His mind raced over all the personal and private things he’d written. That was the purpose of a journal, to record a life in all its wounds and bruises, triumphs and sins. It was supposed to be for the future. ‘Who—’ His voice cracked, and he tried again. ‘Who read it?’

‘Either the Artifex, or someone close to him,’ Santi said. ‘Not much time between your entry and the order to stop her.’

Jess’s neck felt stiff and hot, and the pressure in him was turning slowly from shock to rage. Had he written anything about Frederick? About his brother? He couldn’t remember. Jess grabbed the journal back and flipped pages. He hadn’t filled many so far, and as he scanned each with furious concentration, every very private thing he’d written cut him. Some went deep. He had written about Frederick, and Oxford, but Frederick had left and would be far away by now. Safe, Jess hoped.

Thank God, he’d not written a word about Brendan, or his father. But he’d put in too much about Morgan. Worse. He’d written that Wolfe had known about Morgan. That he’d helped her.

Jess sat down hard on the bed with the book in his hands, and fought to keep breathing. ‘It’s my fault.’

‘It’s not,’ Santi said. ‘Journals are supposed to be private. You’re a Catholic; they’re like confession, the law treats them the same. You couldn’t have known someone was watching.’

‘What about Morgan? If mine’s mirrored …’

‘Morgan doesn’t have one,’ Santi said. ‘I think her father taught her to never trust them. He might be a Burner, but he was right about that.’ Santi was angry too. Vibrating with it. ‘I was willing to let her slip away, as long as there was no proof we were complicit, but that ship’s sailed now. They know. It’s Wolfe’s life if she gets away. And yours.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘No choice. I have to take her. I know how you feel about Morgan, but it’s too dangerous now. I’m not letting Christopher die for her,’ Santi said, and immediately looked as if he regretted the words. He’d had too much to drink, too. He probably wouldn’t have been so direct any other time.

‘They won’t kill Wolfe. He’s a Scholar.’

Santi’s gaze locked on his, bright and suddenly all too sharp. ‘They can do anything they like. To anyone.’

Jess felt his mouth go dry. ‘They did try to kill us, didn’t they? They blew up the Express. Danton was right. They were blaming it on the Burners.’

‘Take my advice,’ Santi said. ‘Never say that out loud again. Not to me, not to your friends, not to anyone.’ He took in a deep breath. ‘I could take Morgan before she comes here, but I won’t. I’ll take her on the way out. That’s a gift, Jess. For both of you.’

And then he was gone, and Jess watched the clock hands grind very, very slowly on towards midnight.

Morgan didn’t come at midnight. Mingled with the disappointment was a sour taste of relief. He didn’t know how he could tell her that he’d cost her the only chance she had to be free. If she didn’t show, if she ran without telling him goodbye … maybe he would have done some good for her by being a distraction for Santi.

If she came, he’d have to tell her that he was the bait in the trap, and watch everything die inside her. He didn’t think he could.

She’ll understand. She deceived you on the train. And she’d been sorry for it.

He was unprepared when she pulled back the flap of his tent and let it fall behind her.

She was fully dressed in thick black trousers and a black Library uniform shirt that was too long in the sleeves. Stolen, he thought. The boots looked like her own. She had a small pack on her shoulder.

‘I don’t have long,’ she said. ‘I figured out how to slip the bracelet. I’ll leave it in the privy.’

She still thought she had a chance. You have to tell her, Jess thought. It’s going to crush her, but it’s better coming from someone she trusts.

Or, it would feel like the last, fatal stab in her back, and she’d never trust him again.

‘At least it’s a nicer privy than the Welsh camp,’ he said, just because it was the first thing he thought to blurt out. She was too far away, and it seemed to him that she was moving away, even though she was standing still. The space between them was too vast. ‘So you came to tell me goodbye.’ She nodded, and he saw a sudden wash of tears in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said, and wiped at her face with her sleeve. ‘I won’t tell you where I’m going. I don’t want you to have to lie to the others.’

He was already lying. He’d said she made him careless. Funny word. Careless. It wasn’t true. He cared so much more than he’d ever thought he could.

The only thing they had was this moment. This one, last moment.

Jess crossed the space – not so big, after all – and kissed her, and she gasped her surprise into his mouth for just a heartbeat, and then he felt her responding with all the heat and desperation he craved from her. I am careless.

He pulled back far enough to whisper, ‘Stay. Just for a while.’ He kissed her lips, gentle, light touches that turned deeper. ‘Stay.’