Twenty-nine

Dearest Mama,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry not to have written sooner, but I was not sure what to say, nor did I want to have to tell you unless I was certain that it could not be avoided.

I have left the school. Circumstances rendered me unable to attend classes, and though it breaks my heart to have my months of hard work and studying count for naught, rest assured that I am continuing my studies on my own in a more rigorous structure than my professors instituted.

I know that you were against the idea of me attending school here. I had hoped to prove you wrong by excelling there and

I am sorry, the ink on this page seems to be running. What I mean to say is, I am grateful for all of the love and support you have given me, even when we did not agree. I hope to make you proud. I am staying at a new address, which is enclosed, at the home of a dear friend. Eleanor, who was recently ill, is staying with us as well and we spend our evenings in happy companionship.

The world is a much more complicated place than I used to think. I am trying to find my place in it. I miss you very much and wish you were here to chide me on my clothing choices and help me know what to do.

Your loving daughter,

Jessamin

P.S. I am delighted to tell you that Jacabo and Ma’ati, a lovely girl from the island, were married. They have found employment at the country estate of a wealthy lord and are happily settling in. Please congratulate his mother for me.

“Dashingly handsome,” Finn says.

“Beg pardon?” I blow on the paper to hasten the drying of the ink.

“You forgot ‘dashingly handsome.’ Dear friend is nice but hardly covers the extent of my qualities.”

Eleanor looks up from her own letter writing. “How did she describe me? Because I have always preferred my eyes to be referred to as the ‘color of a storm-tossed sea.’ If either of you were wondering.”

“You did not fare much better. In fact, I think I am ahead. I am a ‘dear friend,’ and you are merely ‘recently ill.’”

I push the letter aside and face him. “Reading private correspondence is in poor taste, Lord Ackerly.”

“Unless it is terribly interesting,” Eleanor says, “which Jessamin’s letters are not. Mine, however, are lurid tales of my near-death experience and subsequent sequestering against my will in the home of the mysterious and brooding Lord Ackerly. I fear I may have given you a tragic past and a deadly secret or two.”

“Are we staying in a decaying Gothic abbey?” I ask.

“Naturally. When I’m finished, there won’t be a person in all the city who isn’t writhing with jealousy over the heart-pounding drama of my life.” She pauses, tapping her pen thoughtfully against her chin. “I don’t suppose you have a cousin? I could very much use a romantic foil.”

Finn shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Alas. As long as I’m not the friend who meets a tragic end that brings you two together forever through shared grief.” Her line meets dead silence, and a sly grin splits her face. “Oh wait, I nearly was.”

“Horrible girl.” I tug her ear as I walk past. She yawns, though she has only been awake a couple of hours. She writes more letters than anyone I know, and it seems to exhaust her.

I, however, am well-rested. Several times Finn has asked after my dreams, which have remained free from cameos by Lord Downpike for the last two nights. I think he is not one to pursue something when he no longer has every advantage. I suspect Finn’s inquiries have more to do with the fact that he no longer has an excuse to stay in my room at night.

Perhaps I could make up more bad dreams.

No. I need to get some air. I need to do something—anything—away from here. Even three days trapped inside has been too many. Finn is in and out all the time, making appearances at various social engagements, keeping up connections, trying to keep the scales tipped toward peace, but Eleanor and I are utterly homebound.

It reminds me of a game all the children on the island played: Fox and Rabbits. There was a free area, the rabbit hole, where you could hide and be safe from the prowling child playing the fox. I never used it, no matter how many times I was caught. I loathed, even then, to pretend at hiding rather than running free and taking my chances.

I pick up today’s newspaper and leave the library and its perpetual sunshine. I am in the mood for a bit of drab gray. The washroom suits my craving for privacy and I sit in a chair next to the window, idly scanning the paper.

An article referencing Melei catches my eye. I frown, skimming, and then read the whole thing start to finish. It is written by none other than my father, a fanciful and horridly false account of the glorious era Alben colonization has ushered in for the poor, downtrodden, dirt-ridden natives.

“In closing, I would posit that, given the vast benefits seen in every aspect of life on this primitive island, the effects of an Alben system of government and oversight cannot be overestimated. Consider the colonies a case study. If such a savage people can be so improved, the patriotic Alben cannot help but envision what our impact could be on civilized countries’ fertile grounds.”

Practically blind with fury, I storm back into the library and throw the newspaper onto the table. “Have you seen this?” I remember now the girl in my class referencing his newspaper articles. I’d never bothered to look them up.

Eleanor glances down and then goes back to her letter. “Oh, that? He’s written a whole series on it. Terribly dull. Read the Society section instead.”

Finn picks up the paper and reads the article, the frown line deepening between his eyebrows. “A series?”

“Hmm?” Eleanor sets down her pen. “Yes. Most of the time he picks a specific negative aspect of native culture that the colonization was able to correct, and then compares it to a continental country and what could be done to improve their social systems or methods of government. I only know because Uncle insists on reading them aloud to Lady Agatha and then asking her opinion, which is always the same: ‘I think I will order a new hat.’”

I pace in a rage. “Of all the self-righteous, culture-blind, arrogant twaddle! I have half a mind to go to his office and box his ears!”

“Jessa.” Finn’s voice is soft, lacking all of my indignation.

“What?”

“I think we ought to call on your father.”

Eleanor drops her pen, leaning in eagerly. “To ask his permission? I have a list of requirements for the colors you may use at the wedding. My complexion ought to be taken into account. It’s only fair.”

“For spirits’ sake, Eleanor, I would not give my father the honor of asking his permission for anything. We’re going to box his ears! Yes?”

Finn doesn’t smile. “I’m concerned about the tone of these articles. I would like to ask your father about them.”

“I can think of any number of things I would rather do on my first trip from the house, but if it gets me out, I suppose it is enough.” The idea of going back to the school fills my chest with an ache. It was often awful, but it gave me purpose. I don’t like being caged, don’t like the sense that by sitting here being safe, we still are doing nothing to remove ourselves from Downpike’s claws.

Finn takes his cane and puts on a hat. It emphasizes the dark curves of his brow, the line of his chin, and I suppose that being locked in a house near him has not been all bad. Indeed, I think it a good thing Eleanor is here as a nontraditional chaperone. Finn catches my look and a secret smile pulls his lips.

I glance to the side, trying to hide my own smile, trying not to think about his collarbone hidden just under his shirt.

“I would also like to state for the record that I am happy to be godmother to your children, but they must address me as Miss Eleanor. None of those silly nicknames.”

“I don’t know what you are on about,” I say.

“Oh, please. Get out of here and into some fresh air before you two spontaneously combust.”

“Would you like to come?” Finn asks.

“No, unlike the pacing wonder that is Jessamin, I am content to sit inside all day, reading and writing letters and napping. I’m quite suited to a life of protective custody. Besides, Ernest might call later.”

We leave her with a promise to bring back a surprise, which she dictates should be fresh flowers, but not daisies or mums. Finn chooses a door that opens from the long, dark hall to a narrow alley crossing a street filled with vendors.

“How many doors do you have?” I ask.

“Right now, fifteen. Several are permanent, the others rotate.”

I nod, trying to remember the specific combination of symbols and elements needed to create a door between areas. I know I read it in one of his books.

“You’re talking to yourself,” he says. “Are you nervous?”

“To see my father? Goodness, no. I’m working out a puzzle. Hush.”

He’s quiet, watchful as we merge into the crowds of people traversing the sidewalk, men and women shouting and competing for attention over their wares. I feel safe here, far safer than I ever did at the symphony or gala. It’s easy to be invisible among so many people. Even I don’t stand out with my skin and hair amidst so many other transplants converging on this street. It smells of fish and wheat, and for some reason things feel easier here. Maybe because everyone is on equal terms. No one haggling has enough money. There are no manners, no formality. A woman has a baby at her breast, sitting on the steps to a money-exchanging house. A man and his girl lean against a lamppost, finding a private moment amidst such a public place to share a passionate kiss.

I suppose mathematically it makes sense. With a large enough number, a single digit will not have any impact. It’s when you isolate the numbers, set them apart, that they become important on their own.

Back to doorways. I know I remember how they are formed. And thinking about doorways distracts me from looking over my shoulder for bird spies. Must keep my mind busy.

Finn is still talking. “It is not a matter for your father, but I have been meaning to ask. Would you—I mean, when this is over—”

The symbol for earth, and the one for air, and a third for . . . movement. Yes. The door functions as a transfer point, a focus for the magic. Like the quadratic formula. A stable base for all of the different variables to function around.

“Are you listening to me?” Finn asks.

“Running water.”

“What?”

“When we were escaping from Lord Downpike’s home. The symbol was under running water, and you said it helped. There was no door there.”

“Oh, right.” Finn looks disappointed to be discussing doors. “It’s a trickier matter to move without physically moving between thresholds. Takes a good deal more power. Using the earth and natural elements helps. That’s why I put that transport point underground.”

“Were you planning on spending much time running through the sewers and needing a quick escape when you came to the city?” I shake my head at the woman aggressively shoving ribbons at me.

Finn is quiet, then says, “Yes. I was. I didn’t come here for the fine society and opportunities to dine with lords and ladies.”

“Why did you come after so long of avoiding it all?”

He lets out a long, sad breath. “I came to find my parents’ murderer.”

I stop, blocking the flow of foot traffic. “They were—oh, Finn.” I suppose I should have realized, or at least suspected, but he only told me they were dead. Suddenly, the fact that Finn appeared in the city out of nowhere, striving to make connections and immersing himself in magical society without forming any real friendships makes perfect sense.

“Have you . . . do you have any idea who did it?”

His eyes darken like a cloud passing over the sun. “No. I thought for a time it was Lord Downpike, but his alibi is airtight.”

“How?”

“He was in jail that evening. Picked a fight in a tavern and nearly killed two men.”

“But a man of his skills, surely—”

“They have special cells for the nobility. There is no way he could have been out that night.”

“But with magic, maybe he set something up? Did it . . . long distance?”

“It was . . . messy. Whoever did it took his time, and he did not use magic. Not for the end. It was personal for him. As near as I could tell, my father was killed first, and then my mother . . .” He passes a hand over his eyes. “It was not the work of someone uninvested in the outcome.”

“Finn, I . . .”

He looks down the sidewalk. His face is once again composed and carelessly handsome. “This isn’t our concern right now. It will keep. I can’t be focused on it when other things hang in the balance. I never found the information I sought, but I find enough else to trouble me.”

Before he can resume walking, I circle his waist with my arms and pull him close, nuzzling my face into his neck. Here I was, bemoaning my fate for being drawn into a conflict for a country I don’t love. Finn has given up something deeply personal and tragic to protect others. He’s noble in the sense of the word that matters. “I am so sorry.”

His back muscles loosen, and he pushes his face against my hair, breathing deeply. “Thank you.”

A woman passing us clears her throat and whistles approvingly. Sharing a small, sad smile, we resume walking, nearly to the school grounds.

“She would have loved you,” Finn says. “They both would have.”

“I wish I could have met them. And I’m sorry you have to meet my father.”

We enter the building, the smell of ancient wood and dust and leather making me homesick for my cozy library carrel.

Outside Professor Miller’s office door, Finn taps his cane against the frame.

“Yes, yes, sorry, I am nearly done, just a moment, I have it right here for you, Lord—” The door opens, and my father’s squinted and puffy eyes open wider in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”

“Lord who?”

Professor Miller wipes his forehead nervously, a sheath of papers clutched to his chest. “What?”

“Which lord were you expecting?” Finn snatches the papers. I remember how his assertive airs used to infuriate me, but today I am grateful for how they cow my father. “This is another of your articles extolling the benefits of imposing Albion on the continent. Who are you giving it to?”

“I . . . we haven’t been introduced. Jessamin?”

Finn walks forward, forcing my father to stumble back into his office. Without asking, he crosses to the other side of the desk and begins opening drawers, looking through them. “I have no desire to be introduced to you. You don’t deserve your daughter, and I won’t do you the courtesy of pretending to be polite.”

Professor Miller stutters. “That’s private. You can’t be in here.”

Finn pulls on a drawer, but it won’t budge. He taps it with his cane, muttering a single word, and it pops open.

“Hey! How . . . you can’t, and I . . . I’m calling for the guards.” I let him walk past me. I don’t care enough to stop him.

“Interesting.” Finn pulls out a small pistol and lays it on the desk. “And more interesting.” In his hands is a bundled stack of envelopes. He pulls off the top one and hands it to me. In the corner, where a return address goes, is stamped: THE OFFICE OF HIS LORDSHIP, THE MINISTER OF DEFENSE.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

Finn looks exhausted. “It means we know who is commissioning those news articles from your father trying to sway public opinion and make them view expansion in a positive light.” He puts the gun back in the drawer and closes it.

I feel it settle into place in my head. The attempts to win public opinion via positive examples. The criticism of other countries. The delicate balance that exists between Albion and the Iverian continental countries to prevent any one country from becoming more powerful than the rest.

The balance that hinges on both sides having their own magic.

“He wants to invade,” I say.

“And all he needs to ensure victory is access to Hallin magic.”