Harte didn’t have any idea how to respond without giving away his true feelings. He hadn’t realized that the Brink kept the power it took from Mageus, but to increase that danger?
If ?Jack succeeded, if the Order ever controlled such a machine, magic would be doomed everywhere, as would every single person with an affinity. If ?Jack was right about the machine’s possibilities, Harte’s plan to leave the city was pointless. If he didn’t find a way to stop Jack, to destroy the machine, there wouldn’t be anywhere to hide.
“You said the machine doesn’t work?” he asked.
“No.” Jack scraped his hand through his hair, frustrated. “Not yet, at least. I haven’t found a way to stabilize the power that it collects. There’s something about feral magic that isn’t stable. The last one I built didn’t last a week before it blew up and killed my machinist.” His eyes were a little wild as they searched the silent metal, as though it would whisper its secrets if he waited long enough. “All the power it generated was lost.”
Just like Tilly. The existence of the machine explained the strange boundary on Fulton Street, but if Tilly had died when the machine exploded . . . what did that mean about Dolph’s plan to destroy the Brink?
“It’s not the machine,” Jack continued, not noticing Harte’s dismay. “The design is flawless—I did it myself. The mechanism works perfectly when it’s in motion. But after meeting your Miss Filosik, I’ve realized what I’m missing.”
“You have?” Harte asked, not liking the sound of that one bit.
“It’s the Aether I’ve been forgetting about.”
“The Aether?” He could barely make himself say the word.
“Yes, of course! I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.” Jack ran a trembling hand through his hair again, making himself look even more disheveled and unhinged. “Without isolating the Aether, the power would be unstable, unpredictable. In the Philosopher’s Hand, Aether is what stabilizes the elements, so it might also stabilize the power this machine harvests. The problem is no one since the Last Magician has been able to isolate or produce it.”
“The Last Magician?” Harte’s head was still spinning. “I’m afraid I’m not sure who that is.”
“No?” Jack’s brows wrinkled in surprise, and an unwelcome wariness flashed in his eyes.
“At least not by that particular name,” Harte amended. It felt as though everything were spinning out of control.
Jack studied him a moment longer. “The Last Magician was someone like us, devoted to studying the hermetic arts many centuries ago. It’s rumored that he succeeded in ways others haven’t since. Some of his breakthroughs helped to create the Brink.”
“He was a member of the Order?”
“Not exactly, but the Order built upon his work. We have his journal, a record of all he’d learned and all he accomplished—a tome called the Ars Arcana. Arcanum, of course, being another name for the philosopher’s stone.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” Harte said knowing that Jack could never, never get the Book. “You think this book will help you isolate Aether?”
“I do, but the Order keeps it under lock and key. Only the highest ranking members have access to it. I’ve been trying to take a look for months now, but I’m not a member of the Inner Circle. Now, that no longer matters.” Jack smiled, an unholy excitement lighting his face. “If you’re right about your Miss Filosik, I might not need to see those records. Not if we can get her to share her father’s secrets with us.”
Harte’s mind raced to stay ahead of Jack. The machine changed everything. . . .
Harte suddenly remembered the old man’s prediction, that he would somehow destroy the Book. He hadn’t completely believed Esta, hadn’t believed in the prediction. But now he understood, because he could see clearly what he had to do.
He needed the Book, now more than ever.
“You’d have to get her to trust you,” Harte said as an idea struck him: If Jack was interested in Esta, if he was still on the hook, they could still run their game. If they could hold off Jack and get the Book, maybe he could still get out of the city. As soon as he was out, he would destroy the Book and any chance Jack or the Order had of finishing this machine.
He wouldn’t be able to tell Esta until it was over. She didn’t understand what was at stake, if not now with Jack, then someday with someone. And he knew that with her faith in the old man’s words, he would never convince her that the Book was too dangerous to exist.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still help him.
When everything was done, when they were safe, maybe he’d be able to explain. Maybe she’d even forgive him.
And if she didn’t?
He’d lived with worse.
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Jack said with a devilish smile. “It’s possible my machine could be working before the Conclave, as I planned.”
“The Order won’t have any choice but to recognize your genius,” Harte told him, hiding his true feelings behind his most dazzling smile. Inside, he felt like he could barely breathe.
“And the maggots won’t have a chance.”
Harte nodded his agreement and clapped Jack on the back, but silently he vowed to do everything in his power to make sure that future never came to be.
A CHANGE OF HEART
It was nearly three in the morning before Harte finally got rid of Jack and made his way back home. He let himself into the apartment, expecting to find Esta already locked in his room. Or, more likely, wide-eyed and ready to throttle him for leaving her. After what Jack had shown him, though, he’d be happy to take his chances with her anger. He couldn’t get away from the docks, and from that nightmare of a machine, fast enough. But when he lit the lamps, there was no sign she’d even been there.
He told himself he’d wait an hour and forced himself to sit, watching the clock on the side table as the seconds ticked by. By the time thirty-seven minutes had passed, he’d had enough. Grabbing his coat and hat, he headed out again to find her.
The streets had been long since cleared by the time he made it back to the Haymarket. Police barriers were up, and the front door of the dance hall had been boarded over. The smell of smoke still hung in the air. The sidewalks were mostly empty, but a boy was asleep in one of the doorways nearby, curled against the street. Harte tapped him gently to wake him. When the boy’s eyes blinked open, angry at the disruption, Harte held up a dollar and watched the boy’s eyes go wide.
“Did you see a woman in a gold-colored gown tonight?”
“I’ve seen lots of women,” the boy said, straightening his soft cap and reaching for the money.
Harte pulled it away. “She was wearing a necklace with garnets and diamonds that looked like a collar. And black feathers in her hair.”
“I might have seen her,” the boy said, eyeing him.
“Where?”