Chapter 16
A, O, U, I, Y, X, W, V, T, M, H.
Watching Jameson try to work his magic on the letters was better than being a spectator at almost any professional sport. He wasn’t a person made for stillness, especially when he was thinking.
And thinking.
And thinking.
WITH MAY VOX U.
MOUTH IVY WAX.
MOUTH WAY XIV.
“Xiv?” I said, drawing his eyes to me.
“Roman numeral fourteen.” Jameson lifted his eyes to mine. “Though based on your expression and the fact that you just asked that question, Heiress, apparently not.”
Eventually, Jameson followed the maxim he’d once taught me: Whenever you get stuck on a game, return to the beginning. In this case, he picked up the marker. “Hypothetically speaking, what would you do if I asked you to write something with this pen now?”
I checked the time. He’d been working long enough. I wanted to get out of this hotel room and into the city as much as he did.
I shrugged. “I would say take off your shirt.”
A few minutes later, the same collection of letters from the charms was written on Jameson’s chest.
A, O, U, I, Y, X, W, V, T, M, H.
I checked my work with the black light, then capped the pen.
“Seriously?” Jameson asked me. “That’s my hint?”
“That’s your hint.”
Jameson threw back his head and laughed. He laughed the way he ran or drove or flew—with abandon, holding nothing back. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Heiress.”
“Tell me something about your secret and maybe I’ll be a little more generous.”
Jameson’s eyes sparkled. “Now where would the fun be in that?” He paced the room, circling it with an almost feline grace, and then, suddenly, he went still. He looked to me, then took the black light from me. He aimed it down at his chest. Eleven letters, all capitalized, all written in a plain hand with not a single flourish, all very difficult for him to see from his current angle.
“I cannot help but notice,” Jameson said, an undertone of energy building in his voice, “that you didn’t exactly make these easy for me to read.” He paused, and something about that momentary silence felt filled to the brim with an unspoken something. “Clever, Heiress.”
An instant later, he was scaling down the rooftop and swinging himself back down onto the balcony. I followed suit.
Inside our hotel room, Jameson stopped in front of an ornate gold mirror. Brandishing the black light, he flashed it on his own chest. The letters I’d written on his chest were reflected back—exactly.
“Even with the help of the black light, I couldn’t fully read what you’d written on my chest, due to the angle, but given that you burned two of your remaining three objects to write it there, it was obvious there had to be some significance to it, beyond what you wrote.” Jameson paused. “It occurred to me that the significance might be the angle. Perhaps I was not meant to read them by looking down. Perhaps I was meant to read them in a mirror.”
Yes. I didn’t say that out loud, just let him continue on.
“There are only eleven letters in the English alphabet that have perfect vertical symmetry.” Jameson arched a brow at me. “Just eleven letters that look exactly the same when reflected in a mirror.”
A, O, U, I, Y, X, W, V, T, M, and H.
I waited for Jameson to make the next leap.
“A mirror,” he murmured. I saw the exact instant that he realized where he was supposed to go next.
“Don’t forget your last object,” I told him. “You left the steamer up on the roof.”