“In Prague for three days. Saw Dresden. She had a child she wanted me to take, a girl, six years old. A nasty little thing, scrawny, sulky, and far too intelligent for her age. Dresden was keen to show her off, as if I might be impressed. The girl’s clever, I’ll say that for her, but I wouldn’t trust her for two seconds. Dresden calls the girl Diamond, as if she’s a precious little star, but she needs far more than a polish. She would not be worth the effort. I wouldn’t train her for all the diamonds in the world. I’d rather eat my own liver.
“Dresden is an amazingly simple soul. I can almost feel sorry for her. She’s no great beauty: slight, small, brown hair and eyes; she should be forgettable but when she smiles . . . ah . . . her Gift is as simple as a smile, and the room changes, the mood changes. She is mesmerizing. When she wants to she can even lift my mood, make me smile. And Dresden’s laugh is a thing of beauty even to my heart. Her Gift is joy, which is ironic, of course, given that she really brings little true happiness.
“Dresden used her Gift to work her way upward in Black circles, most interestingly with Marcus. She met him when he was going through a particularly miserable phase, and expected to bring joy to him as was her wont. But, while to start with he was captivated, her influence on him grew weaker and he eventually saw her for what she was: a simple girl with a big smile.
“I asked Dresden where she met Marcus. ‘Near Prague’ was her answer, and I got the feeling that could have meant as near as New York or Tokyo. When they met? Here she was a little more giving—‘last summer.’”
Van breaks off and goes back a page. “This was written thirteen years ago. So Dresden met Marcus when you were four.” She carries on reading.
“Dresden is bitter about Marcus. She tries to pass it off as if she broke up with him but everyone knows that he has no real interest in her—or any other woman for that matter. A day with Dresden these days is a dreary time and I couldn’t wait to leave once I realized I wasn’t going to get more from her.
“Pilot joined us for one evening. She’s a good companion, such an intelligent contrast to Dresden. She’s moving to Geneva. Told me of a remote valley that I’d like. I’ll go to see it, travel with her. It sounds a suitable place for visitors.
“Pilot seemed taken with the girl. I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I think Pilot is somewhat under Dresden’s spell—though I don’t think that will last long either.”
That’s all Van reads and I don’t feel like discussing it.
I walk to the corner of the room, sit on the floor, and lean against the wall. I wonder about my father. I do believe he loved my mother and I’m sure she loved him. But she was married to another man, to a White Witch, one of her own, and maybe she did try to make that work. Gran told me that my mother agreed to see Marcus once a year, when it was totally safe. But there’s no such thing as totally safe and their final meeting ended in disaster: her husband dead and me conceived. And because of me my mother was forced to kill herself. As for Marcus, what did he get? Not even one meeting a year but a son who’s predicted to kill him.
So it’s not surprising if he sought solace, sought love, elsewhere. I can’t blame him. I wish he’d found it. But I think it’s clear it didn’t happen, and Dresden doesn’t sound like a promising candidate. She definitely smacks of desperation.
He must feel very alone. Totally alone.
And I look across the room at Gabriel and Annalise and I know they love me and I love them and maybe with the Alliance we have a chance of changing the world and making things better, not just for me but for those who care about me.
Gabriel comes over to sit with me.
I say, “You’re speaking to Annalise.”
“Know your enemy,” he replies but smiles.
I’m not sure if he’s joking so I say, “She’s not your enemy.”
“Don’t worry. I’m being polite. We’re both being very polite.” He holds up another of Mercury’s diaries, saying, “Annalise found this; she thought I should read it to you.”
“In Berlin, what was East Berlin. Rain. Damp apartment. Met Wolfgang. Haven’t seen him for twenty years. He looks much the same, only a few more lines on his face. But he’s different: weary, older obviously, and surprisingly a lot wiser too. He wasn’t happy to see me and he made the point that he was leaving for South America now he had.