Alek de Vries entered the office of Augusto Righi, the current elected head of the Order, and found Filippo already seated across the desk from the man himself. Righi was a portly gentleman with a prominent nose and a dramatic oxbow mustache. He looked close in age to Filippo, making Alek his senior by a decade or more, though Alek did not expect much deference from him; Righi carried with him the full authority of the Order and all the pomposity that went with it.
Filippo looked up, and Alek detected worry in his gaze. “What’s happened?” he said, even before easing himself down into the last empty seat.
Righi leaned forward in his fine leather desk chair. “Tell me, Signor de Vries: when Signorina Elsa arrived at Casa della Pazzia, did she bring anything with her?”
Alek flicked his gaze over to Filippo, wondering where Righi was going with this, but his old friend held his tongue. Reluctantly, Alek said, “Yes, she had a stack of Charles’s books. And a Pascaline mechanical calculator, which is how I learned about her other abilities.”
Righi raised one thick eyebrow. “And you didn’t mention this to the Order why?”
“The house was on fire, she grabbed some books at random … I didn’t expect any of them to have relevance for the Order’s investigation.” This was the reasoning he’d told himself when he left Pisa without the books, but now Alek recognized it for the excuse it was. Even before arriving in Firenze, some part of him was already hedging his bets—leaving Elsa the chance to investigate, in case the Order proved unhelpful. Which, apparently, was exactly what she was doing with the help of Casa’s other wards. He didn’t know whether to rue the day he’d urged her to befriend them, or to be grateful that at least she wasn’t chasing this danger all alone. Really, he had no one to blame but himself.
Righi did not look pleased with his answer. “Well, apparently one of those ‘random’ books contains recent correspondence from Garibaldi.”
Alek felt as if a shard of ice were piercing his heart. He hadn’t heard that name in twenty years, and could have happily gone to his grave without ever hearing it again.
Beside him, Filippo said, “Ricciotti Garibaldi? I’d assumed he’d gotten himself shot in the head by a Papal executioner, or something of the sort.”
Righi pressed his lips together in an expression of grim humor. “Oh come now, Filippo—when have we ever been that lucky?”
Alek swallowed the lump in his throat so he could speak. “You think he’s been in hiding this whole time? Why resurface now? If that is indeed what’s going on.”
“How much do you know of him?” said Righi. “If I recall, you were hiding in Holland the last time Garibaldi confronted the Order.”
Alek did not appreciate Righi’s insinuation of cowardice. He’d run from the acute agony of Massimo’s death, not from his responsibilities to the Order. Still, that was ancient history, so he let it go and said simply, “I was not much involved at the time, no.”
“They say the worst threats always come from within.” Righi’s eyes turned hard with disapproval. “Garibaldi was one of those—a pazzerellone who believed, devoutly, that we’re meant to use our abilities to plot the course of history. Who could not see the dangers of applying science to warcraft—either the dangers to the world, or the dangers to the scientists themselves.”
“Italian unification at any cost,” Filippo added quietly. He shared a weighted glance with Alek.
Alek knew all this already—knew it intimately—but he let Righi speak his piece.
“If Garibaldi makes a play for power and fails, it could be catastrophic for us,” Righi continued. “Widespread loss of intellectual freedom, as governments the world over slap chains on their pazzerellones. It could even cost us the Order.”
Privately, Alek thought the world over was a bit of an exaggeration. The Order served pazzerellones throughout Europe and the Near East, as far south as India even, but it was far from all-powerful. Alek held up his hands. “Hold on, let’s not jump to conclusions. It could be a mere coincidence.”
“Or it could mean Garibaldi’s back,” said Righi. “We can’t take that chance, not with evidence of direct communication between him and Charles.”
Alek sat back in his chair. “What exactly are you saying?”
Righi broke eye contact, as if he knew Alek would not like what he had to say next. “I’ve decided to put a hold on the investigation into Jumi’s abduction until we know if and how it relates to Garibaldi. We need to focus the entirety of our resources and efforts on him.”
Alek felt the news land like a punch to the gut. He did not know Righi well—they were barely acquainted—but still it felt as if the Order itself had betrayed him. Filippo was already protesting Righi’s decision in the typical argumentative fashion of the Italians, but Alek himself could find no words. His mouth had gone as dry as a desert.
It was true, Alek had not been here for the final schism, but he remembered the first time Ricciotti Garibaldi pleaded his case to the Order. It must have been 1862, or ’63? (And Alek was usually so good with dates.) In either case, Ricciotti was hardly out of boyhood, no older than Elsa, and full of the hot righteous indignation of youth. He’d lost his father and eldest brother to war, and he sought vengeance against the Kingdom of Two Sicilies—not only for their deaths, but for using pazzerellones to build the weapons that had killed them.
Young Ricciotti wanted to fight fire with fire, mad science with mad science. The Order, of course, said no.
But Massimo’s eyes had lit up at the idea, and later he confessed his interest to Alek in private. Alek still remembered Massimo’s exact words: The kid’s right, you know. If we put our heads together, we could be the ones running this continent instead of living in fear of those who do.
The world-weary old Alek who sat in Righi’s office wanted to shout at the memory, You have to be careful! But there was no way to change the past, and the younger Alek of 1863 had not dissuaded Massimo from that path. He had, in fact, supported Massimo’s pursuit of such ideals.
Massimo met with young Garibaldi in secret. The two of them went to Napoli to change the world, but only one of them ever returned. By the time Garibaldi made his final plea to the Order, Alek had already fled his grief.
Alek could have blamed Garibaldi for planting the seed of the idea that would kill Massimo. He didn’t. He blamed himself for encouraging it to grow. Had blamed himself every day since.
*
Later, when Alek and Filippo were freed from Righi’s presence, they retreated to the Pisano apartment on the third floor to strategize. While Filippo told Gia about the meeting, Alek poured three glasses of grappa from the decanter on the sideboard. They were all going to need a stiff drink.
“There’s still a chance,” Filippo was saying. He stood with one hand resting on the mantel above the lit fireplace and accepted a grappa glass from Alek with the other. “Perhaps we can convince the other members of the council to oppose Righi’s plan.”
Alek cast him a look mixed with equal parts skepticism and weariness, though it was Gia who said, “I wouldn’t lay money on those odds, dear.”