Tobias’s jaw tightened, but he restrained himself from snapping at her. He needed Munroe on his side. “Your mother said this morning that she was committed for a sickness in her head.”
She sighed. “I think she’s a straight-up terrorist, but Dr. Mellior diagnosed her with circeto…” She shook her head. “I keep forgetting the name. Oh yeah, circetomania. There are new laws since the terrorists attacked. Diagnosed circetomaniacs can be committed against their will. Dr. Mellior helped pioneer a conversion therapy for them. Anyway, her parents have been notified that she’s getting purification treatment.”
Tobias raised his eyebrows, hoping to convey innocence. “Purification? What’s that like?”
She waved her hand, half fanning herself. “It’s all very secretive right now. National security. But soon the whole country will know what people like my father are doing for them. After the attacks, Americans want the government to do something.”
He nodded. “What did you call it—circetomania?”
“A lust for magical power that drives people to madness. They’ll try to cure her in the institution.” She took a step toward him, placing her hand on his shoulder and blinking, her gray eyes nearly as pale as her skin. “You should join the Brotherhood.”
Play along, Tobias. “You’re obviously very powerful. And I’d like to help with Mariana’s treatment in any way that I can.”
“I think Dr. Mellior will take care of that.” She ran a light finger down his bicep. “But like I said, I need an escort to the party.”
He swallowed. “I would love to be your escort. And maybe you could tell me more about this wonderful institution at some point.”
She beamed, swishing her skirt. “Perfect.” In the heat, her neck glistened, and she swished her skirt again. “Anyway, I’ll see you at dinner.” She rubbed her fingers over her chalice pendant for a moment and then turned around to saunter back toward the house.
He exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. This morning, he’d crept up to the holding room in the attic and knocked on the door, but there’d been no response.
He strode along the path, heading toward the river and squinting into the harsh glare of the sun. Would it be possible to convince the Purgators that Mariana had actually fought the terrorists? It didn’t seem likely. They thought all philosophers were unified in a sinister plot against Blodrial. Blodrial was beyond a doubt the most irritating of the earthly gods.
As he neared the murky river, a second set of footsteps came up behind him. He turned to see Fiona’s determined expression. Though her hair was tied up, rogue curls escaped and floated around her blotchy face.
She rubbed her eyes as she got closer. “I shouldn’t have convinced everyone to sneak around. I’m sorry I thought you were with the witch-hunters.” She was trying to stifle her tears.
“I told you I wasn’t working with them. I’m not really sure why you thought that.”
That was a lie—he did know why she thought that. She could tell he was keeping secrets, and she had no idea what they were. Still, this recent catastrophe had only strengthened his resolve to sort out what he could on his own.
“I know. I should have listened. Mariana said I was being paranoid.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead, her eyes shimmering.
“Well, now you know I’m not on their side.” He fought the urge to come right out and say, I told you so. I told you that you’d only mess everything up.
She squinted at him. “What happened at the end? Why were you shaking? It seemed like the guard’s spell was driving you backward.”
He shook his head. “The Purgator magic was affecting me, I guess.”
She paced, and he awaited her follow-up questions. It was a lame excuse, and she would know it. But she just let it hang in the air. She still doesn’t trust me. And maybe she shouldn’t.
“I should have just accepted that we were here and got on with the cult.”
Despite his irritation with her, he couldn’t suppress a wave of sympathy. “We’ll find her, Fiona.” He pulled her in for a hug, and she sniffled into his shoulder, her tears dampening his T-shirt.
“I’m going out to look for her tonight.” His shirt muffled her voice.
“Where? Munroe says she’s in an institution.”
“Is that what you two were talking about?”
He stepped back, holding her at arms length. “That. And she wants me to escort her to the party.”
The dazzling sunlight brought out the gold in her eyes. She narrowed them at him. “You’re not going to, are you?”
“I think she’s starting to trust me. She might tell me where the institution is.”
Fiona flushed, crossing her arms. “I think I know where it is. I think it’s through the crypt door. Why else would Mrs. Ranulf have been going in there? And we already know they’ve locked someone else up there.”
Absentmindedly, he rubbed at the scar on his chest. “You said the crypt door was locked. Any idea where the key is?”