“Oh, no,” she said, as if that would be preposterous.
So then I thought about what kind of witch Magnus would probably have with him and asked, “Did she look or sound, like, Scandinavian maybe?”
And she said, “Nope.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
She shrugged. “Maybe like Italian or Spanish?”
I couldn’t think of any Italian or Spanish witches on our payroll so I let that go and asked, “And is she in the ATTO right now?”
“Oh, no. They shut it down and locked it before they put it on the ship.”
“So where did the woman go?”
“I don’t know. She went away in a car with the shipping company guys.”
“So all of them—all of the shipping company guys—they all left?”
“Yeah.”
“And pretty much left you where you were standing.”
“Yeah.”
“But it looks like they didn’t hurt you or anything.”
“Oh, no. Why would they do that?”
“Just asking, Isobel.”
And at about this point a change started coming over Isobel’s face. Until then she’d been super relaxed, like she’d been sitting on a beach washing down Xanax with strawberry margaritas and listening to global chill music, but now it was like the circuit breakers in her brain were flipping back on. She seemed preoccupied, and sort of embarrassed. I felt a little bad for her and I didn’t want to, like, jump down her throat or anything. So I just sat there quietly and let her work it all out.
“Wow,” she said. “Oh, shit.”
“You’ve been missing for a week,” I said.
She nodded. “I’ve been missing for a week. I need to call my mom. And my boss. And the cops.”
“Do you remember DODO now?” I asked her. “And DOSECOPS.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Well, they’re all down there, staring at the ass of that big ship as it cruises out of the harbor,” I said. “And I can take you down there if you want. But maybe you could show me the shipping company on the way?”
“Sure. Yeah, I need to get down there,” she said, and by that point she was fully back to normal. The Isobel Sloane we are accustomed to. She stood up and kind of patted herself down, but she didn’t have her phone or any of her DOSECOPS electronic gear, just the Walmart togs she’d been given.
So we went down and got on my motorcycle and she had me drive along the north side of the shipping channel, which is just one long, long row of warehouses with little shipping companies all over the place. It’s hard to tell one from the next, and Isobel’s memories were fuzzy, so my expectations were pretty low. But as we were getting near the end, where the road terminates with a view of the harbor and the airport, I was sorta hit over the head with an incredibly focused and powerful sense of GLAAMR. And it quite obviously emanated from behind the door of one company, which was unmarked except for a suite number (2739) and a little piece of paper about the size of a business card with a drawing on it, a pattern of circles, wide at the top and tapering to the bottom, with a stem and a leaf at the top. Like a bunch of grapes. It was locked, and through the frosted glass window I could kind of make out a filing cabinet and a water cooler. Normal office stuff. Isobel seemed pretty sure that this was the place she’d been hanging out for the last week. It smelled like paint. But I didn’t need her help anymore to know that this was it. I’m a witch. I can tell. The GLAAMR behind that door was almost enough to knock me down.
I dropped her off on the other side of the channel, near the gates to the container port, and then came back to the hotel, where I’m now safely locked in my suite. As long as I paid for the damn thing I intend to get the most out of it!
From Tristan Lyons, 15:39:
Fantastic stuff, Julie. Glad to hear Isobel is fine. Stay safe.
From Mortimer Shore, 16:42:
BOG Container Lines Inc. is the survival into modern times of Bunch of Grapes, which is an extremely old presence in the shipping industry. I mean, it’s named after a tavern in Boston from the 1600s that was named after a tavern in London that dates back to at least the 1200s. Suite 2739 is a registered business address for them. One of many. I’m still waiting for some query results to come back so that we can discover their inevitable connection to the Fuggers. I don’t even know why I bother.
From Tristan Lyons, 17:03:
Mortimer, Julie, you are flying to London tomorrow. Pack.
From Mortimer Shore, 17:05:
My man, that is fascinating and I’m totally packing, but I just wanted to point out that Paris is closer to Le Havre. Assuming that is where you are trying to get.
From Tristan Lyons, 17:07:
Yeah, I have Google Maps too. Marginally harder for the bad guys to track your going into France if you’re arriving from a nearby country via ferry, vs. arriving in a commercial airliner from Boston.
From Mortimer Shore, 17:44:
Tristan? You around? I can’t find you anywhere in the house.
From Rebecca East-Oda, 18:19:
Tristan and Felix are incommunicado. I am giving them a lift to a helicopter charter service at Logan Airport. They have a lot of cash and a lot of equipment.
ENTRIES FROM PERSONAL JOURNAL OF
Karpathy Erszebet
ON THE TRAIN HOME TO BUDAPEST, 14 JULY 1851
Dear Diary,
Mother has been working upon me, or rather trying to, with her ever-weakening abilities, for I can feel her inside my very skull at times over the past few days, trying to convince me to put the spell upon myself willingly. I will not. I considered it, but I know I lack the fortitude to survive the endless decades to come.
BUDAPEST, 23 JULY 1851
Dear Diary,
I have resigned myself to learning a skill, to earn a proper living when magic is no more. With each passing day, I feel a diminishing of power and clarity of mind, an almost physical heaviness. I push through it. I have decided I might learn to be a seamstress, for at least then I shall spend my life around beautiful gowns (which I am fond of) even if I soon lack the means to own them.
BUDAPEST, 26 JULY 1851
Dear Diary,
As the days go by, Mother keeps to her chambers, and Father, when I see him, mostly scowls at me. The day after tomorrow is when this horrible eclipse will happen and then it will all be over.
MISSION LOG OF TRISTAN LYONS
Written in ballpoint pen on pocket notebook
DAY 1960 (10 DECEMBER, YEAR 5)
General intro: I have no idea whether the finder of this notebook is going to consider me a hero, a traitor, or a nobody, but I want to go on record stating I firmly believe my actions are (a) important and (b) based on a good-faith reading of my service oath, as well as a larger commitment to the principles of the United States Constitution and the post-Enlightenment worldview from which it sprang.
(Here’s where Mel would make some crack about how I take myself too seriously, but she’s stuck in 1851 at the moment.)