Enduring the teeth-grinding ache of my daily routine, I begin to lay down plans. In secret letters, I open negotiations for a new, distant home—a manor house where Elena can live in opulent safety. Visiting recruitment parties put on by the army, I discuss joining the king’s martial force. Collecting supplies and making plans, I am able to do everything except discuss the subject with my sister.
On our last day, I find Elena in her library sitting on a velvet cushion. Her bare feet are dangling over Persian rugs, sharp elbows propped on a little French desk. Eyes raking over the page, she scratches out a letter. Elena looks to me like some beautiful, angelic machine. We have not spoken in several weeks.
I clear my throat, a human affectation.
“Your friend Rousseau says children learn faster without their shoes on. Are you taking his advice?”
The girl ignores me completely.
“Who are you writing?” I ask.
“You,” she responds, monosyllabic, eyes not leaving the page.
“Me? Why not speak to me?”
“I am writing as you,” she says, “to complete the purchase of a grand estate.”
She taps the page, her hard fingertip knocking against wood veneer. Though my speech is still rusty with the soft vowels of Eastern Europe, the little one has adopted a precise, lilting English accent designed to put her visitors at ease.
“You clearly needed my help negotiating,” she adds.
Elena has discovered my offer to purchase a mansion far north of here. The secluded property will permanently separate us from the dangers of London. I notice she has also pulled out my army haversack and leaned it against the wall. Duty assignment papers are scattered on the floor.
My hidden plans are, of course, transparent to her.
“I see the structure is isolated,” she continues, not looking up. “No neighbors. Very little staff. I imagine it will simplify my life greatly and finally complete our great retreat from the world.”
Standing over her shoulder, I scan the letter. She has negotiated a viciously low price. It seems the road to the estate has been in disrepair, some argument over who should maintain it, and it is difficult to get food transported there.
Obviously, not a large concern of ours.
“I should have told you,” I say.
Stiffening, Elena looks up at me. Her eyes are two black wells of anger, face empty. A savage math is taking place behind her eyes. Her Word is logicka. In the mind of this little doll, the world is a sequence of cold mathematical equations, actions and reactions. It disturbs me to contemplate, but I must not forget the way she thinks.
“Why, Peter?” she asks.
“We must each follow our Word,” I say, speaking carefully. “It can be a burden, I know—”
“You know?” She spits the word at me. “You’re free to go anywhere you like, to converse as equals with anyone. While I am trapped here in these apartments, in the body of a little girl. Writing letters with a man’s name on them.”
I kneel beside her, eye to eye, thinking of Favorini’s workshop so long ago. I remember when my sister was a newly made doll, her eyes clicking with each blink. And now she is so venomous—such a livid and living creature.
“I am not free,” I say. “My soul calls for justice, yet I cannot risk pursuing any. The city is a chaos of nepravda and there is nothing I can do. The orphans run in packs, Elena. Children as young as three.”
“A consequence of the rules of this society.”
“Logical to you, but it sets my Word alight in my chest. It…hurts me, Elena. It hurts my soul.”
“Then you know how I feel, Peter,” she whispers, standing, watching me intensely. “It’s only logical to find others like us. Perhaps they could explain how our Words function? Perhaps they are older than we are, they might understand—”
I back away from her desperate words.
“I forbid it. You know this. The others will bring only death.”
Or am I simply jealous, worried the others will steal her away?
“Stop it!” she shouts, snatching up an ink pot and throwing it against the wall. Black streaks of liquid spray in a starburst against gilded wooden panels. “I tried to make you happy, but now I don’t care. Don’t you see I don’t care anymore? I don’t care if they kill us. I don’t want to live trapped like this.”
Fists clenched, eyes shining, she stares fiercely up at me. Both of us know what she has said is not true—it violates logicka. The underlying logic of a living thing is its own survival.
She can never disregard that.
“The estate is ready, as you know,” I say, lifting the haversack to my shoulder. “You will be safe there. The staff are instructed to obey you. With my seal and letterhead, I am sure you can prepare the necessary documents while I am away.”
She stares at me blankly.
“Where?” she asks, a ragged edge to her voice.
“India. A war has begun. King George is mustering troops.”
“And you plan to serve this new monarch, as you once served the tsar?”
I nod.
“I have enlisted as a soldier of fortune. I am pledged to the king.”
Elena falls back into her desk chair. She turns away from me, then lifts the pen and continues to write her message. I watch her for a long time. She does not look up again. Finally, I leave her, sitting hunched at her desk, scribbling furiously, the nib of her fountain pen scratching black welts into the paper.
25
SEATTLE, PRESENT
The far-off murmur of traffic permeates cool concrete walls around me. The unremarkable metal door has led us to an even less remarkable elevator, its rusty face visible in the dirty-orange glow of a single button. Peter presses it, leaving his finger for a long time. Finally, the thick metal doors part and we shuffle into a closet-size compartment, dead black walls lit by a sputtering fluorescent light.
A row of steel buttons gleam, featureless as loose bullets.
Struggling now, Peter leans against the elevator wall and studies the panel. His jacket and pants have been shredded by lead pellets and knife wounds, and a barely visible seam of stitches meanders down his face. Under this harsh light, with no blood or swelling, he looks like a hastily repaired mannequin.
The steel doors close and I clench my teeth against a wave of claustrophobia.
Peter’s fingers course over the elevator buttons in a complicated pattern, pressing and holding different spots for different amounts of time. Nothing changes as he enacts the routine. When he stops, nothing happens for a moment. Then I hear the mechanical thunk of the elevator motor engaging somewhere in the shaft.
The floor drops out from under us.
As we accelerate downward, Peter slumps against the wall and closes his eyes.
“What’s wrong inside your chest?” I ask him. “You’re not telling me something.”
He speaks without opening his eyes.
“If my wound is fatal,” he says, “protect the relic and find its purpose. If Batuo offers his help, take it; otherwise…flee from here.”
“Fatal? What are you talking about?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. “Hey!”
The elevator lurches and Peter’s knees buckle. The huge man rolls off the wall, mouth moving without making sound. I try to catch him under the armpits, but his body is too heavy. All I can do is lower him to the floor.
Kneeling beside him, I push my ear against his chest. I hear sounds coming from inside. He’s still alive.
“Peter, tell me where we’re going.”