“Since he’s taken it upon himself to be personal bodyguard to the sister who doesn’t even want to be part of our family, I thought other things might have changed, too.”
I had stopped trying to pretend I wasn’t listening. Jack didn’t react. Lydia just sighed.
“Cole, please be civil at the dinner table.” My father’s chair, at the head of the table, was bigger than the others, with a carved back like a small throne. He gestured to me. “We’re here to welcome your sister.”
“Half sister,” Cole muttered. Until now, it was as though he hadn’t noticed me sitting there, but now he stared, unblinking. “I was going to come into the city with Lydia to show her around, but then I realized I didn’t want to.”
Flustered, I looked down at my hands, which were twisting the napkin in my lap. I should be back in the US right now, I reminded myself. We would have just moved to Maine, and I’d be starting at an unfamiliar school at the end of the year, once again the new girl in a place where nobody had any use for a new girl. In a way, this wasn’t that different. And honestly, part of me didn’t mind Cole’s hostility. At least I knew it was real. If they were just pretending to be nice to me until they could use me, he wouldn’t be allowed to act like this. I let myself hope that Lydia’s and my father’s happiness to have me here was real, too.
My father cleared his throat and raised his wineglass. “A toast. Avery, you’ve belonged with us all along, and we enjoy nothing more than you being here with us now. Welcome to our family.”
I raised my glass of sparkling water, and so did Lydia. Even Cole picked his up grudgingly, after a pointed look from his sister. “Thank you. I’m glad to be here,” I said truthfully.
Once we all had dainty plates of salad in front of us, my father sat forward. “I assume there’s a reason you’ve chosen to join us now.”
I took a deep breath. We’d already told Lydia some of the story, but my father knew only the bare bones we’d told him on the phone. I glanced at Jack, still standing against the wall like a good Keeper, pretending he wasn’t listening to our conversation.
“As I mentioned earlier,” I said, “the Order kidnapped my mother.”
I paused to gauge my father’s reaction. He must have cared about my mom once, after all. For just a second, I tried to see him through her eyes, a young leader of the Circle, and wondered for the millionth time how their relationship had come to be. I had so much to talk to her about.
My father sipped his wine. “Again, I’m very sorry to hear this. Go on.”
“They want us—me—” I corrected myself. Jack wasn’t part of this now. “They want me to find Alexander’s tomb and exchange its contents for my mom, to keep the Circle from having a weapon against them.” That part was all true. The next part, on the other hand . . . “What I want is to find the tomb—with your help—and use it to stop them,” I said. It was close to the truth. As much as I wanted the Order taken down, I wanted my mom safe more and would happily do whatever it took for her freedom. But the Saxons didn’t have to know that.
My father shook out his napkin and set it in his lap. “And how do you expect us to help?”
“Before I knew who you were, and exactly who I was, I found some clues Emerson Fitzpatrick had left, before the Order killed him, too.” I swallowed. It was still hard to say. “The clues suggested that Napoleon found Alexander’s tomb during his campaign.”
All three Saxons paused. Lydia had a bite of salad halfway to her mouth, and my father carefully set down a saltshaker.
“Does that mean you already know where the tomb is?” Cole demanded, planting his elbows on the table with a bang.
I shook my head. “Napoleon found it, then hid it again. He thought whatever was in there was dangerous. But he left his own set of clues I’m following now, including this.”
I pulled up the sleeve of my cardigan and slid the bracelet off my arm. I ran a finger over the engraved lettering as I explained what it meant, and what we were looking for. “I was hoping to use your resources to search for the second bracelet and the password,” I finished.
I handed the bracelet across the table to Lydia. Cole looked at it over her shoulder; then she passed it to my father.
He slipped reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and inspected it, squinting at the rings on the inside. “Are you sure this is genuine?”
I glanced at Jack. We’d never questioned the bracelet’s authenticity. “I think so. Mr. Emerson—Fitz—thought so.”