A few moments later, Bryony entered the room in a rustle of starched petticoats, followed by the youth bearing a tray. Bryony turned on the gas, clicked the lighter. Silverware trembled, plates chimed, and soup slopped over the side of the tureen as the manservant laid the tray with its carved silver legs across Rafe’s lap. Rafe eyed the youth with misgiving. He was lanky and overgrown and didn’t seem to be in control of his limbs.
“Leave us,” said Bryony and the servant fled, closing the door behind him.
After a moment Rafe said, “I forgot that you still used Wellfound.” To him, Bryony had been a Grenfeld from he moment he had learned she was his sister.
Bryony made a sharp, cutting-off motion with her hand. Rafe looked down at his tray, bowl sitting in pool of soup, silverware jumbled together, bread rolls crumbly, and said, “I thought the fellow was going to dump the soup all over me. Wherever did you find him?”
Bryony raised the lighter. “You’d rather I trusted him with a gas lamp? Your uncle sent him over from the ministry after you didn’t turn up for work yesterday. I gather the Minister wasn’t too pleased to find me here.”
So Isabella hadn’t been here. Why that inexplicable pang of disappointment?
If she had come here, it would’ve been to steal the Renat Key.
“How long have I been like this?”
“Two days. Not as bad as that first time.”
“They do say the first time’s the worst,” agreed Rafe. He’d managed his quartz sickness by staying away from agri-caves. Now it had followed him into the city, and it had something to do with all those colors flowing into Isabella’s dagger. He cast a quick look around his room, but his furnishings weren’t bleeding colors. In fact, he couldn’t even hear the undercurrent of machine speech. It was as if that part of his mind had been shut off from the rest. “How
did
you come to be here? Unless I sent letters in my delirium, I don’t recall letting anyone know of my condition. At the time all I cared about was crawling into a hole and dying.” He smiled to rob his words of any seriousness.
“Verney told me about what happened at the Minister’s house. He said you’d chased away a burglar and exploded half the street.”
Rafe stared at her, appalled. “Half the street?”
“Not quite. But half of Grenfeld’s house is in ruins, including some of his precious collection—don’t look so stricken, Rafe! It wasn’t your fault that the Minister keeps dangerous mage artifacts around. Anything could’ve triggered them.”
“Then what?” Rafe’s voice was so remote, it hardly seemed to come from his own mouth.
“Well, I know there aren’t all that many people troubled about your personal welfare—least of all yourself—so I came to see how you were. You’d left the door unlocked.” She gave him an exasperated look.
Rafe managed a wan smile. “Nursing me back to health, again.” They were both silent, remembering that first meeting. Giving his second son up for dead, Lord Grenfeld had sent for his daughter, ready to reinstate her as his legitimate child. But Rafe had survived, and Bryony had been packed back to the convent after a mere two-week stay, two weeks in which they had forged a bond of friendship and loyalty.
“Eat your soup.” Bryony busied herself with a pile of linens.
Rafe stared at the broth. “Tell me what’s been going on.” Two days. In two days, Verney could’ve covered up any tracks linking him to Pyotr, Blackstone could’ve declared war on Oakhaven, the antimachinists could’ve attacked the trolley system, someone else could’ve found the Tors Lumena…
Bryony sniffed. “Nothing that needs your urgent attention.” She waited until he’d dutifully swallowed several mouthfuls of soup. “There are more foodstuffs on the ration list, including the mushrooms and bluefins that Lady Brenwood so adores. A minor vein in the Oakhaven agri-caves cracked a couple days ago. The antimachinists attacked a scooper yesterday.”
“Any messages for me?”
“Yes, some, but they can wait.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve nearly gotten yourself killed doing ministry work. Surely no one begrudges you a few days off to rest.”
Rafe leaned back, suddenly very tired, his neck muscles unable to hold up his heavy head. His eyelids drooped shut.
“Poor Rafe.” Bryony’s voice was soft and a little sad. “You’re not suited to all this politicking.”
Rafe twitched; the tray jerked and silverware clinked together. He opened his eyes and sat up. Bryony watched him with a look that was at once maternal and brooding and fierce. He dipped his spoon in the cooling soup, to give him something to do, somewhere else to look.
“Tasty,” he commented, knowing that it was a lame remark.
“Yes.” Bryony’s mouth twitched. “I can afford to buy herbs from Shimmer now.”
Eyes half-closed, Rafe said dreamily, “Someday I’d like to see Shimmer. Just think—the last of the mages live there! They say that the very buildings are made of stones that radiate light and heat, that they have fields of flowers—
flowers!
—and everyone owns an animal—a dog, or a cat, even a horse.”
“I don’t. Shimmer is haughty and exclusive, and doesn’t care about the rest of us.”
“Shimmer has to protect its people and its borders, just like Oakhaven does, Bryony.”
“Well, I hope Shimmer is doing a better job of it than Oakhaven,” flashed back Bryony. “Because the Lower City isn’t looking very good these days.”
Rafe yawned, suddenly, hugely. Bryony leaned forward, looking contrite and concerned. “I should let you sleep. Finish your soup first.”
A door banged, loudly. Rafe lifted his head, but Bryony was already out the room, leaving the door ajar in her haste.
Verney’s voice. “You’re always with the fellow, Bryony. It has to stop. I’m the one who pays you.”
Bryony, low and furious. “I am not your property, I’ll have you know.”
Verney, getting louder, “You are for now. Why else do I pay you so much, rent that Elm Street flat, bring you my wife’s dresses to wear?”
Bryony interrupted. “Shh! Keep your voice down. This is a sickhouse.” Their voices dropped to a rumble. Rafe looked down at his tray, wishing he could jump out of bed and thump Bryony’s protector on the head.
He didn’t think she’d appreciate his interference.
A door slammed, a lock clicked. Bryony spoke sharply to the ministry man. Rafe wondered if she knew that the youth reported to the ministry daily. Her shoes tapped across the floor and she sailed in, majestic and irate.
Bryony came to a stop by his bed and glared at him. “Don’t look so innocent. I bet your ears have been straining all this time.”
Rafe loved seeing her like this. This was more like the Bryony he knew. “What did you say to send him off like that?”
“I told him where he could shove his mangy dresses and his Elm Street flat.” Bryony turned away. “I like my place on Belle’s Row. I needed Verney to get me the right contacts, but I’m going to go independent for a while.”
Rafe didn’t want to ask what “going independent” entailed. It was too much to hope she had decided to become a florist or milliner.
“Oh, don’t worry so,” Bryony said. “I’ll be all right. I just need to get enough capital for my own business, then I can get out of this—profession for good. I’m not one for stuffing myself into layers of tulle and organza and being at the beck and call of any man. You know that.”
Affection for his brave beautiful sister flooded over Rafe. She had few choices, and who was he, who had been so lucky in his life, to deny her a chance to make her own way? “If—no,
when
, I get finder’s fee, Bryony, you’ll have as much money as you need for your business.”
“Finder’s fee?” She raised her eyebrows. “For what?”
“The Tors Lumena, the Tower of Light. It’s in the Barrens, Bryony.”
Bryony’s eyes widened. “What? That old nursery tale? No, you’re teasing me, Rafe!”
“No, I’m not. It’s really out there. That’s what the mission to Blackstone was all about, what I’m working on right now.” Rafe reached out and took Bryony’s hand.
“It’s real? You think it’s actually real?” Dawning wonder replaced the disbelieving look on Bryony’s face.
Rafe nodded.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” Bryony whispered. “If you should find it… oh, I can’t even begin to think of what all that would mean!”
“Oh, I’ll find that Tower for Oakhaven, rest assured.” Rafe squeezed her had. “But you must keep this secret until we secure it.” He smiled slightly, confident she would. She was a Grenfeld to the bone, his sister.
“You know I’m discreet, Rafe.” Bryon stared at the curtained window, as if she could see the future beyond it: golden light flooding in from the rocky plains, seas of peaches and apples and oranges, plenty rivaling even that of Shimmer.
Bryony shook her head as if to clear it of reverie. “This came for you.” She handed him a letter, sealed with Leo’s signet.
Rafe tore it open and scanned the few lines. “Scorch it!” He sat up.
Bryony grabbed the tray before he slopped cold soup all over his sheets. “What’s wrong, Rafe?”
“I have to go to the palace right away. Cooper’s being deported back to Ironheart and I’m to escort him.”
“O
H
, R
AFE
! I’
M SO
sorry!” Lady Amanthea swept into Rafe’s bedroom. Her great-nephew looked up, startled, from his packing. There was an open case on his bed and he held a blue book with an indecipherable schematic on its cover. Amanthea recognized it.
A Modest Theory of Universal Mechanics,
by that troublesome Newvale fellow that had caused such uproar in scientific circles recently.
Amanthea had very little idea what it was about and less interest in finding out, but it was so like to Rafe to involve himself in such controversies.
“Aunt Amanthea?” Rafe looked worse than she’d anticipated, his skin stretched over his cheekbones and a dull look to his eyes.
Amanthea dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief. That dreadful woman had been right. She had not done well by her great-nephew.
“What happened at Leo’s house is
my
fault. You could’ve been a rohkayan, at least, like those people in Shimmer, but you were so very young and the quartz-sickness was killing you. I didn’t know what else to do, so I…” Unable to go any further, Amanthea put her face in her hands.
“Me? A rohkayan?” Rafe gave a hollow-sounding laugh. “Sit down, Aunt. You’re distressed.” He came out from around the bed and guided her to a plain iron chair with a hard wicker seat and back.
Amanthea perched on it and stared in wonder at the dismal surroundings her nephew lived in. “My dear, these rooms, this décor, so plain and cold—surely they are not invigorating to the spirits!”
“You were saying, Aunt Amanthea,” prompted Rafe. Not a hint of impatience colored his tone, though Amanthea perpetually strained for it. That was why she was so inordinately fond of Rafe—he’d never seemed contemptuous of her quirks or the dramatic persona she’d erected around the frightened child she still was inside.
But now he would hate her.
“We gave you a potion,” whispered Amanthea, “when you were a boy and you had that first attack in the Grenfeld caves. There are herbs and rituals which, combined, can block a young rohkayan’s powers.” She stopped.
Rafe was frowning, not looking at her.
Amanthea swallowed, and plunged on. “Your mother, and her mother, and I… we talked it over. Your grandmother knew what to do.”
Rafe’s expression cleared a little. “Yes, she would’ve,” he sad, dryly.
“I talked them into it. The quartz was killing you. I had to do something, so I tried to shut off the part of you that reacted so strongly to it. And because of that, you never got any training, you were never sent to Shimmer, and then it all came out at Leo’s house that night…” Amanthea wrung her hands.
A muscle twitched at the corners of Rafe’s mouth. “… And so I destroyed half of Leo’s house, and damaged several others besides. They didn’t tell me, but I saw the news-sheet. Those other houses had people in them. People who”—his mouth twisted—“died.”
Amanthea shriveled into herself at the bleakness in his look. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”
“How did you know I had these—kayan—powers?” He held the word at arm’s length, like one would hold a dead rat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Quartz and kayan have always gone together, from the very beginning.”
Rafe nodded, slowly. “The kayan and their last stand at the Tors Lumena. Shimmer and its insatiable appetite for quartz. Quartz in everything mage-made. And what is quartz sickness but a hypersensitivity to whatever power runs through quartz.” A distant look came into his eyes. “And all this time I thought it was a disability. That I was unnatural, like my father said.” His smile was self-mocking.
“She was right, I should’ve done more. I thought that it might go away on its own, or that you would marry and have a son and there’d be another chance, but…” Amanthea knew she babbled, dropping words like pebbles into the vastness of his hurt.
Rafe’s brows snapped together. “
She
?”
Amanthea hadn’t meant to say it, but her wits were so scattered. “Yes. A woman. Tall, dark eyes, pale hair.”
“Isabella.” He ground the name out.
“You know her?”
He laughed, a short mirthless bark. “You could say that. Poor Aunt. Did she terrify you? When did she come see you? On the night of the Brenwoods’ ball?”
“Why, yes. And yes, she is rather terrifying and cold. And rather sad, too.”
Rafe did not look as if he understood. “One more reason for me to get going. She’s left Oakhaven.”
“And headed to Ironheart?” Amanthea guessed. “Just as you are now?”
“Yes, ostensibly I’m escorting Coop back home now that Roland’s decided he’s overstayed his welcome by penning satirical articles in the
Rag
.” Rafe pulled a face. “But really I have to use my influence as his friend to pressure Ironheart…” He broke off.
“… into giving up their Key,” finished Amanthea. “I know, Rafe. I told Leo where the other two Keys were. I had to—I can’t let Blackstone learn Renat’s secrets, ever. But…” Her gaze traveled to Rafe’s pocket; she hadn’t told Leo about the suspected sixth Key.