Now, before you demand to know where we acquired enough funding so quickly, I shall tell you: it was provided by a Mr. and Mrs. Lang. They say they knew you, and they are quite eager to see the Sheridan Institute come to life. Mrs. Lang, in particular, has been immensely helpful. She has aided Jie in filing three of your patents already! One for the pulse pistol, one for the goggles, and one for the crystal clamp. Jie says they have to wait to submit paperwork on my mechanical hand, as they must sketch it and I am not there.
But I will go there as soon as I finish touring Paris. And then London—and Vienna and Rome, of course. It is a good thing I pulled that feather off the Pullet. I daresay, I would have run out of money long before I ever reached Munich.
Speaking of Munich, I am very displeased with you for never mentioning how much it would hurt when Herr Doctor Quitterer sewed on the mechanical hand.
Blazes, Daniel. It was worth it in the end, but really. Blazes.
While we are on the subject of suffering—and in case you are curious—I do not know what became of Allison. Last I saw her, she was old and wrinkled. She begged for our help at Saqqara; we ignored her, and we left her.
The Wilcox family has suffered so much, and yet there can never be too much suffering for Allison. Not to satisfy me, at least. If it hadn’t been for her betrayal, I would not be standing here speaking to a statue.
Yet I have learned something, Daniel. From you.
Vengeance solves nothing. None of us was a winner in the end. Not Marcus, not me, not Joseph. And of course, it was you who paid the price for our sins. You—the only one who never sought revenge against his wrongdoers.
We will never forgive ourselves, you know. Joseph, Jie, and me. We miss you so much.
I miss you so much. And I love you.
I always will.
Tears ran down my cheeks, but I didn’t mind. They were as common as spring rain these days—and I hoped just as cleansing.
Thwump! I smacked the spyglass shut, and ever so gently I laid it atop the glass. Then I withdrew my humming mechanical hand and scowled at the Anubis statue.
“You are all he has now. All that Mama, Elijah, Father, and Clarence have, so please, look after them. It is, I daresay, the least you can do after all you have taken from me.”
The statue’s eyes flashed gold. My scowl only deepened. . . .
But then my eyes settled back on the spyglass. My face relaxed with a sad, broken smile.
I would never forget my Daniel Sheridan. My inventor. My scalawag. I would always remember the freedom in his smile and the power in his touch.
“I love you, Daniel,” I whispered. “Too.”
“Jennifer!” A woman’s voice cried behind me. “Hurry up!”
I blinked, realizing the girl with unruly curls still stood beside me, gaping.
“Must you always be so strange,” the voice went on, shouting from the next room over. “You are holding up your classmates, and no one else wants to see the Egyptian exhibits.”
I shot a glower at the fussy-looking teacher. Then I shifted my gaze to the girl’s blue eyes.
“Jennifer,” I said softly. “Since you have listened to my monologue with such rapt attention, I will give you a piece of unsolicited advice.”
A blush rose on the girl’s cheeks, but she did not stop me as I powered on.
“Contrary to what your teacher might suggest,” I declared, “it is perfectly all right to be strange. For ever after, you will be glad you did what you wanted instead of what everyone else expected. No doubt you wonder how someone as young as I can possibly know this, but trust me: I have seen more deadly, dark, and . . . lovely things than you can possibly imagine.”
The girl narrowed her eyes skeptically.
I shrugged one shoulder. “You may listen to me or not. It is your choice. But”—I raised one mechanical finger at her—“should you ever decide you want a more interesting curriculum than what you’re currently receiving, you might consider the Sheridan Institute in North Carolina. I’ve heard they have the best teachers in the world. Certainly they are the strangest.”
I flashed her my most rakish grin (of which I was certain Daniel would approve), and in a flurry of skirts, I strode from the exhibit and left the Louvre behind.
When I stepped into the orange glow and bustling insanity of a snowy Rue de Rivoli, there was a lightness in my step that I had not felt in months. Years, even.
People in winter clothes swarmed among carriages and horses dusted with snow, and as I pushed into the evening traffic, I couldn’t help but murmur an old favorite quote. “The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.”
“El!” The tenor voice trickled into my ear. I scanned winter-flushed faces and carriages. . . .
“Over here, silly girl.”
I spun around and found Oliver sauntering toward me. He wore a lazy smile and his top hat askew. “Finished?” He twirled a hand toward the Louvre. “Because I know of a lovely place on Montmartre, if a Bohemian meal would interest your palate.”
“I am finished here, and I am famished.” My lips lifted, a sad but freeing smile. “Has Laure arrived yet?”
He shook his head no and slipped a hand into his coat pocket—a new coat that was part of a new suit in a handsome, chalk-gray color. He withdrew a silver flask. “Care for a drink?”