Elsa felt her throat tighten with grief, and she pushed the memory aside. Best not linger on those thoughts, not while she was trapped at the table surrounded by strangers.
Dessert involved tangy yellow fruit and some kind of sweetened, white fluffy substance, and Elsa wondered if she would ever be allowed to leave. Finally, when all the food was gone, they were permitted to stack their plates on the train’s empty serving trays. As the younger children rose from their seats, Porzia shouted orders. “Sante, take the little ones to the nursery, please. Aldo, bedtime in one hour, and I’ll be up to check so you better not still be reading.…”
But even as Porzia orchestrated the children’s bedtime, Leo and Faraz lingered in the dining hall, standing about and chatting some more. They acted familiar with each other in a way that made Elsa uneasy, but in light of de Vries’s request for her to get along with them, she didn’t want to be rude so she stayed as well. Mostly she watched them; the boys clearly shared a long-standing friendship, unconsciously matching their tones and gestures to each other. Leo had his pocket watch out, but he was fingering it idly instead of using it to check the time.
When the children were gone, Porzia circled back around to the sphere of their conversation.
“Done?” said Faraz, glancing up at her return.
“Time for my parlor trick,” Leo boasted.
“Parlor trick?” Elsa asked, hoping her alarm didn’t show in her voice.
“He observes and deduces,” Faraz said with a slight shake of his head.
Leo clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Step back and give the deductive genius some space, will you?”
“You may not have noticed that Leo must be the center of attention at all times,” Porzia said dryly. Then she leaned closer to Elsa. “It’s something of an initiation around here, you see. And quite popular at parties.”
For all their posturing, Porzia and Faraz seemed not just tolerant but eager to hear Leo’s analysis. In the pause before Leo spoke, the empty dining hall fell disconcertingly silent.
“Let’s see…,” Leo said, narrowing his eyes at Elsa. “The dress is well-made but the tailoring doesn’t quite fit, so it’s likely secondhand. Not exactly proletariat, but she doesn’t come from money either. Speaks excellent Italian but pokes at the food as if it might bite back, so she was educated but cloistered—hasn’t seen much of the world yet. Oh, and hesitant with her peers. Quite reserved. I suspect she’s spent too much time around adults and not enough with those her own age.”
Elsa felt hot with embarrassment at his scrutiny, at her own awkwardness, but she held her tongue. She broke eye contact and ducked her head, looking down at her feet. “What an impressive trick.”
“Oh, look at that!” Leo crowed. “Falsely deferential. You think yourself superior, but you’re accustomed to hiding it.”
Elsa’s patience was rapidly waning. She pulled herself up to her full height and quietly said, “Engine oil beneath your fingernails.”
“What?”
“Engine oil. You spend enough time working that it’s not worth scrubbing it all the way out until the end of the day. The nails themselves are bitten down, a nervous habit, but you avoid letting other people catch you doing it. You put on a nice show of self-confidence, but secretly you worry about how other people see you.” At this, he visibly paled, but Elsa kept going.
“That pocket watch you keep fiddling with, are you planning to tuck it away anytime this week? It’s old, the silver backing a bit scratched up—a family heirloom perhaps, given to you by someone significant, someone who stays in your thoughts.” She paused, wanting to take the watch all the way to its ultimate conclusion, but decided it would be unwise to say your father is dead purely for the sake of showing off. Instead, she let her gaze travel up to meet his own. “That is just your hands. Shall I go on?”
Tight-lipped, Leo said, “You’ve made your point.”
“Excellent. I do so appreciate successful communication.”
“Quite,” he said, his tone putting worlds of meaning behind the word. He sounded embarrassed and furious and intrigued all at once.
“And no, I’m not from around here.” With satisfaction, she added, “In fact, I’m not from Earth at all.” She turned away from their shocked faces and paced unhurriedly from the room, a smile playing on her lips.
She might not be able to blend into their world as de Vries hoped she would, but when it came to verbal sparring, she could still hit the hardest. She was untouchable, the way Jumi taught her to be.
*
It was late by the time Alek de Vries arrived at the Order’s headquarters in Firenze. His bad hip protested as he climbed the front steps, stiff from sitting still for too long on the train ride. He was getting too old for all this excitement and intrigue. But Jumi needed him.
He located the secret lever concealed within the intricate stone facade beside the entrance, and gave it a yank. The door unlocked and swung open for him with a ratcheting click-click-click. Inside, the main floor was eerily quiet—most of the Order members must have already gone home, or else up to their guest rooms on the third floor. Gia had sent a message ahead over the wireless, though, so her husband was waiting in one of the burgundy leather armchairs that decorated the broad, flagstoned lobby.
Filippo looked up at the sound of the door and stood. He was shorter than Alek, and he had more gray in his hair and more paunch around his middle than the last time they’d met.
“Alek,” he said, “it’s good to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“It’s been a long time,” said Alek.
“Too long.” Filippo pulled him into an embrace. In their youth, Filippo had been like family to Alek. But now every time Alek visited the living brother, all he could see was the ghost of the dead one. Massimo.
It was a little easier now. After all, Filippo aged, while the memory of Massimo in Alek’s mind stayed always the same. Always in his prime, with ink on his fingers and that devil-may-care grin, achingly beautiful forever.
Alek cleared his throat. “So, what have I missed?”
“You know the Order,” Filippo replied with a rueful grin. “We can’t possibly arrive at a course of action after only a single afternoon of debate. But finding the people responsible for Montaigne’s murder is now a top priority. This matter will not go unresolved, I promise you.”
“And Jumi,” Alek corrected him. “Finding the people responsible, and rescuing Jumi.”
Filippo blinked. “Yes. Yes, of course. Jumi, too.”
Despite Filippo’s reassurance, there was no denying the doubt that began to twist in Alek’s gut. The Order had their own priorities, and in this matter, they might not be the stalwart allies Alek had expected. Perhaps Elsa was right not to rely on their assistance.
He had hoped the damaged worldbooks would simply serve to keep her occupied and safe; now he hoped she would prove him wrong. Jumi’s life might depend on it.
*