Elsa read on for a bit, then reported, “No, Montaigne keeps it fairly vague. But the entry is dated March 3, 1891—that’s not even two months past!”
Porzia said, “The timing is suspicious.” She thought for a moment, then planted her hands on her hips and took on a commanding tone eerily similar to Signora Pisano’s. “Faraz, could you send a wireless to the Order’s archives department, asking if there are any living Garibaldis registered with the Order? It’s a risk contacting them, but we need their information, so make up an excuse—tell them we’ve found a lost book or something inscribed with the name Garibaldi.”
“Right,” said Faraz.
“I’ll work through Casa’s library and see what I can dig up on Montaigne, the Carbonari, and anyone named Garibaldi. Elsa, why don’t you bring Montaigne’s journals back with us and see if we’ve missed any important details.”
Elsa’s first instinct was to snap at Porzia’s bossiness, but she clamped down on that urge. She didn’t understand this world, or its politics, or how best to acquire information on a potential abductor. So if letting Porzia take charge was the price she had to pay to find her mother, she would pay it and be grateful.
“What, no task for me?” said Leo dryly.
Porzia raised her eyebrows at him. “When we need something skewered with a rapier, I’ll let you know.”
Porzia picked up the portal device and opened the way back to the library. Elsa quickly stacked up the journals and loose papers, her heart hammering against her ribs. At last she had a direction in which to investigate. That infuriatingly ambiguous Oracle may have refused to provide her with any specifics, but now she had a concrete detail to sink her claws into. Now she had a name: Garibaldi. She hoped that would be enough.
*
Leo leaned in the doorway of the tiny room at the top of the house where the wireless transmitter lived. It was more of a closet, really, with a single wooden chair and a desk holding the teleprinter input—two rows of little piano keys with the alphabet written across them. Behind that was the large cylinder of the induction coil attached to the spark-gap transmitter, with wires snaking up the wall and through the ceiling to the antenna on the roof.
Faraz sat at the desk typing the message, each depressed key triggering a staccato electrical bzzz bz-bzzz. Music to Leo’s ears. Jokingly he said, “Hold on, shouldn’t the mechanist be the one operating the wireless?”
“It’s not as if Porzia asked me to build a Hertzian machine,” Faraz said, pausing as he tapped out the message. “Besides, I’m faster at typing and you know it.”
“Hmph. I admit nothing.” Leo folded his arms but failed to muster even a little annoyance at Faraz, knowing from experience how impossible it was to stay vexed at him for any length of time. And anyway, Faraz actually was the faster typist.
“Done,” Faraz said, pressing the last key and leaning back to wait dutifully for a reply. “I told them we found a book marked ‘property of Garibaldi’ and wondered who to return it to.”
Leo said, “You know, you needn’t do everything Porzia tells you to.”
“This is her house, Leo, or it will be soon enough.” Faraz threw him an arch look. “At least one of us ought to be a courteous guest, don’t you think?”
Leo suppressed a grin. “I think no such thing.”
“Obviously not.” Faraz raised his eyes to the heavens in a long-suffering expression, but a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Frankly, it’s baffling Gia considers you a candidate for inheriting Casa, given how much damage you cause on a regular basis.”
Leo made a face. “Porzia’s not going to marry me—I’m practically her brother.”
“A fact universally understood by everyone except Gia.” Faraz flashed a teasing grin. “She must really be desperate.”
“Thanks a lot.” Leo gave Faraz’s shoulder a good-natured shove.
Together they waited. Anxiety started to set in, and Leo struggled not to fidget. Faraz stared at the roll of ticker tape on which the reply would be printed, but no reply came.
“Huh,” said Leo, trying to hide his unease. “I guess the Order’s too busy to bother checking their receiver.”
“They’re probably waiting for some poor, hapless apprentice to run up the stairs and fetch the message for them,” Faraz replied, but there was a crease between his brows that belied the joking ease of his tone.
“Well, if they’re not in a sharing mood, I suppose we’ll just have to get the information some other way,” Leo said. “How are your robbery skills? Do you think we could break into the archives without getting shot?”
Faraz regarded him with a healthy dose of side-eye. “Proving your worth to Elsa won’t mean much if you get yourself killed in the attempt.”
Leo felt his best friend’s words landing in him like an arrow to the chest. Leo did not care to acknowledge the part of himself that craved approval.
He composed his features and feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m saying you’re running a bit low on self-preservation instinct, and it’s likely to get you killed,” said Faraz.
“As is the custom of our people,” Leo joked. “Really, Faraz—with all your caution, are you sure you’re a pazzerellone?”
Faraz opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the Hertzian receiver whirring to life, the metal typeface characters tap-tap-tapping against the ticker tape. Faraz held out a hand to catch the message as the tape unspooled from its roll, and bent his head to read from it.
“‘All materials pertaining to Garibaldi are to be viewed exclusively by the Order.’” He paused, staring at the message. “You’re not going to like the next part: ‘Sending courier to acquire.’”
“What!” Leo said, indignant at the Order’s presumption. “They can’t just steal all our clues! We worked hard to find Montaigne’s journals.”
Faraz raised his eyebrows, mild as ever despite the news. “Apparently we’re not talking about a dead general, after all. They must consider this Garibaldi fellow a serious threat.”
“Thank God for the Order of Archimedes,” Leo grumbled. “Interfering in everyone’s business since 1276 AD.” His well of patience had run dry. He pushed away from the doorframe and strode down the hall.
Faraz called after him, “Where are you going?”
“To my lab, of course. Where else?” Leo’s hands were itching to hold some tools. Perhaps he would repair the training bot Elsa had shot with her revolver when she’d first arrived. Even if he was powerless to solve Elsa’s crisis, he felt an urgent need to fix something.
*