At first light Turold emerged from a dream like a nesting doll: each time he woke up was merely another dream, another level of disorientation. It took several minutes to accept this reality as the right one, especially since all the others had been right—until he woke up. As he got up from the ottoman, his spine twisted and sore, he noticed her still at the window, her position unchanged. Though her face registered the same delighted repose, her body suggested tension, unease.
“Good morning,” she said, without looking back.
“Any sign of them?” he yawned, stretching.
“No, it’s been a quiet morning. And a lovely dawn. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Never? You mean, not since…”
“Yes, he never let me outside, and always drew the curtains. I thought that’s all there was, those dreary walls, that dismal apartment. I now realize there’s so much more to experience.”
“It’s a beautiful city. Perhaps I can give you a tour this evening?” he said, questioning the promise as soon as he made it.
“I’d like that,” she said, turning to him. “You, not her.”
It took him a moment to understand: she wanted to be kept a secret. Not surprisingly, Sir Otrygg had bred this distrust into her through a strict diet of paranoia and isolation. He had a litany of grievances against those who employed him, and once even accused Hildigrim of stealing his magic, though he could never explain which spells, or how he came about them. And while he could certainly sympathize, not everyone was a Lord Gramsteed. The Council itself held the highest moral standards and pursued sorcery for its own sake; that is, for the good of the realm.
“I don’t think you should go to her,” she insisted, taking his arm. “Sir Otrygg didn’t trust anyone, no astrologers or magicians. Except you. He told me to find you…and I think he was right.”
Surprisingly, her touch was soft and warm. Everything about her was alive, vibrantly so. So why did Sir Otrygg leave her like this? What had gone wrong?
“Listen, I know you don’t trust her, perhaps any more than you trust me. But I think she can help you. She’s not like Sir Otrygg.”
“You don’t understand, the more people who know, the greater the danger to the kingdom,” she said, drawing back. “Even if she means well, she’ll read too much.”
“Read too much of what? If he destroyed the book and so much of his research, what else is left?”
“If you promise not to tell her, I’ll answer your question,” she said, after a pause. “But you can’t take it back. You can’t betray me.”
“If you can’t trust her, why me? What makes me any different?”
She didn’t answer at once, her hands pulling at the folds of her cloak, as if to rip it to shreds. He asked her again, “why me?” but she waved him off, just asked him to promise, or simply let her be.
“Giacinta, I can’t hide someone like you from the Council. Eventually, they’ll have to know, I can feel it. Surely you understand that.”
“I understand, yes, but I beg you to ignore your instincts.”
“And if I do, you’ll tell me? Everything you know?”
“Yes, yes,” she insisted.
“So I ask you again: why me?”
“Because…you’re the only one who seems familiar. I knew you from the moment he said your name.”
“You knew me? But I thought you said—”
“I can’t explain, and if I could, it wouldn’t make sense,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I’ve always known you…that I do know, more than myself or my purpose on earth. So yes, I trust you, because you’re all I know. Which is why I’ll tell you what I promised Sir Otrygg I would take to the grave. I have the Codex.”
Turold danced backwards in surprise—and delight—and almost upset an entire bookshelf.
“I knew it! I knew you had it! Something about the way you said he destroyed it—I didn’t believe you! So you do have it! Where, where is it?”
“I’ll show you, tonight if you like, but not until you promise. It’s all I ask.”
He promised, though the words caught in his throat and the severity of his promise—defying Sonya Vasilyevna herself—astonished him. One way or another, she would find out the truth, and he would pay for it. Hildigrim always warned him not to cross her, as she had ways, terrible ways, of exacting revenge. And they were never as merciful as death.
At that moment the librarian entered the room followed immediately by Lord Gramsteed. Turold panicked and stepped in front of Giacinta, trying in vain to shield her; no easy task at four foot four (though she was only a good foot taller). Lord Gramsteed stopped dead in his tracks…then burst out laughing. The librarian, ever eager to please, joined in the merriment, but in such a forced manner that he silenced the lord at once.
“Turold, pray forgive me,” he said, with a faint chuckle. “I didn’t realize you were conducting research.”
“Oh—no, you don’t understand, this isn’t—” he stammered.
“Indeed? And what should I understand, my dear friend?”
Turold quickly realized that the misunderstanding would be far preferable to the unpleasant truth. With a whispered apology to Giacinta, he gave a repentant shrug and said he had no excuses to make; he was a man like any other.
“Small men have the biggest appetites, or so I’ve heard,” he said, with a wink. “Again, I do apologize for the intrusion. Normally I would have sent a note, yet my errand requires haste…and your prompt attention.”
“Is something wrong?” Turold asked, alarmed.
“It’s Sonya Vasilyevna. She’s been arrested.”
“Arrested? You’re joking!”
“Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are. Some compromising documents were found among Sir Otrygg’s papers. I don’t claim to know more than that,” he said, with a look that suggested he did. “To that end, you’ve been summoned in relation to her defense. They have some questions for you. We’re to leave for the Tower at once.”
“Now?” he gasped.
“You’re already expected; it took me some hours to find you,” he said, swinging his pocket watch.
“Of course, at once,” he said, grinning nervously. “Just give me a moment to conclude my business—”
“Never mind about that, a coach is waiting on the street. Go at once! I’ll follow after, and pay your woman generously for her service.”
Leaving her alone with him? Worse and worse! Yet he had no choice; with a desperate look at Giacinta, he left her in the protection (or so he hoped) of the gods. Though Lord Gramsteed was a notorious skirt-chaser, and never avoided an opportunity to flirt with women he felt were obliged to do his bidding. What a dreadful surprise he would get should he snatch off her mask for a clandestine kiss! Best not to think of it now…
