“Those storage rooms were part of the original building that housed the very first class of Whybourne students. It was converted from a hat factory where working women once found their financial independence. From those noble origins, our college—”
Peter snorts, suppressing a laugh. The headmistress turns to him, concerned. Swallowing another laugh, he turns and puts his forearm over his mouth, hiding a wild smile. “Allergies. Excuse me.”
The headmistress stares at Peter for a long second, not blinking.
“Our original founder left explicit instructions to preserve this part of our heritage, so every class of girls would know they have joined a tradition older and richer than they could ever fathom. Now, if you will join me.”
The headmistress moves away, and Peter follows.
But something catches my eye about the wooden building. It’s so old, so out of place. On a hunch, I fish the cedalion out of my purse. Pressing the cold circle of metal over one eye, I squint at the building.
Nothing, besides a sheet of thick ivy.
Disappointed, I lower the cedalion, but not before I catch a wink of fire through wet leaves. I stop, looking again. Fiery letters writhe under a green rash of vines. Though I can’t see details, it looks like the avtomat domain sigil Peter showed me in Seattle. And beyond that, something else glows faintly inside.
“Excuse me!” I call, hiding the cedalion in my fist. “I’d like to see in there.”
Already several yards away, the headmistress stops and considers.
“Not a good idea, ma’am—”
“Just a peek,” I insist, interrupting. “The tradition is what I love about this place. The long tradition. Without that, why, we ought to just send the children to an American school. Right, honey?”
The headmistress licks her lips, eyes flicking briefly to the ostentatious diamond necklace slung around my neck. Finally, she takes a step toward the wooden building.
“Very well,” she says, wrangling a ring of keys from her waist.
We follow her to the door, where she jams a large iron key into the crude lock. Turning it with both hands, she pauses. “But just a quick glance of the entry. This isn’t on the official parent tour.”
I’m stepping forward, eager to see, but Peter has stopped on the lawn.
“Come on, honey,” I say to him, motioning.
Peter doesn’t move, staring out across the quad.
I follow his gaze and see only a column of plaid-skirted girls trotting across the grass, wearing heavy backpacks and clutching musical instruments. They are headed from one class to the next, walking in loose knots and chatting with each other.
Save one.
The girl stands alone, maybe fourteen years old, her dark eyes turned toward Peter. A small frown creases her delicate features.
“Elena,” breathes Peter.
“What did you say?” asks the headmistress, and her affected accent has disappeared. Now her voice sounds rough and low. Her teeth are bared, crooked, her knuckles white on the clipboard. Behind her, the keys still hang from the door.
“Who are you, sir?” she asks.
“Elena,” calls Peter, in a louder voice. The girl doesn’t move.
The headmistress pulls a radio from her hip, lifts it to her mouth without taking her eyes off Peter. She speaks in an urgent whisper.
“Sir,” she says, stepping forward and reaching into her pocket. “I’m afraid we don’t have a student here by that—”
Peter spins, dodging the twin barbed darts of a Taser. He brings his hands down and strips the device from the woman’s hands, slapping it to the ground. She bites down on a shout as he puts his hands on her shoulders, looming over her.
“Stop it!”
The girl with curly black hair stands behind us, her voice commanding authority. “Both of you.”
44
LONDON, 1758
Elena follows me outside to the alley beside the brothel, closing the door behind her. It is raining now, the clammy air heavy with smoke from the burned ship. The commotion on the river has thankfully drawn attention away from here. I step to the humped center of the narrow, deserted street, standing on the precipice of a jagged channel that runs down the middle.
My sister is holding a bundle of yellow silk in her hands.
The lines of her body are lost in a dark riding coat, too big for her, turning her into a shadow beneath a crimson lamp. Above us, small faces peek through one of the few dimly lit windows of the building. Girls locked inside an abattoir. We slaughtered every man in the building, and yet Elena did not free the children.
“What are you doing?” I ask her. “They are little girls.”
Elena steps out into the rain.
“Circumstances have changed, Peter,” she says. “I need to regroup, find a place where I can blend in. A girl’s school will provide me with both opportunities. You know that I am a quick thinker, and this is the best idea I’ve got.”
“This is insane,” I say to her. “Come with me back to the estate.”
Elena pulls back her hood, a dark mass of curls spilling out. Her eyes are wide and searching, lips trembling as she asks.
“Hypatia…”
“Gone. You saw.”
“Yes, but her anima?”
“Leizu kept it,” I say. “To add to her collection.”
“And what of Hypatia’s vessel—”
“Sunk to the bottom of the Thames, darling, please—”
“We could find her—”
“Come with me, Elena. Now.”
Hands curled into tiny fists, the girl stands in the middle of the broken street and throws her head back. Tensing her whole body, she screams, channeling the piercing shout into the rain-filled sky with inhuman force.
The scream lasts for a long time.
“Come,” I say, extending a hand. “Please.”
The rain is driving now, lamps guttering, drops sliding in watery veins across the leather of my face and backs of my hands. Beads of the misty rain perch like pearls in Elena’s hair. Each drop is washing away part of the horror of what just happened, but not enough.
The puddles around me are dark as blood.
“She was my only friend,” says Elena. “And she is gone because of you. Because you refused your duty.”
“I chose you,” I say.
“You were not made to serve me,” says Elena. Her voice has gone flat and emotionless in a way that I find frightening. “We each serve our own Word, Peter. Being true to that is the only path to happiness.”
She drops the silken bundle onto muddy stone. The yellow handkerchief and its precious contents lie in filth, soaking wet and stained with soot.
“There’s your destiny,” she says, nodding. “There’s who you were meant to protect. Your old master.”
“Elena, no,” I say, but I can’t take my eyes away from the handkerchief. A rivulet of rainwater tugs a corner of fabric away to reveal the anima. The glittering crescent calls to me. To hold it in my hands would feel right.
“You…I promised to protect you.”
“No, my dear Peter,” Elena urges. “There is no magic in our origin. We were simply repaired at the same time by a foolish old man who served an ambitious tsar. That does not make us brother and sister.”
I remember a grassy clearing atop a broad plateau at dusk. A little girl lighting a candle placed within a paper sky lantern, her smile lit from below. As the first stars hardened in the sky, my sister and I added our own constellations to the cosmos—