And then what? Fox took the medallion from Sylvain and held it to her nose. Always the vixen. And the vixen couldn’t smell the faintest trace of magic. Sylvain watched her like a worried dog who’d just dropped his quarry at his master’s feet. Then he took the medallion back, opened the window, and threw it into Baryatinsky’s vegetable beds. The curses following it were elaborate enough to fill the entire palace to the rafters with Canadian obscenities. That done, Sylvain filled a water glass with the cinnamon-infused gorzalka that seemed to be everywhere in their host’s palace and proceeded to immerse himself in the three-day-old copy of the Londra Illustrated News Chanute had found somewhere. The curlicued type gave him some trouble, but Sylvain read through every small item as though all the treasures of this world were to be found in that newspaper. Fox didn’t have the heart to rob him of that illusion as well.
Outside, the lights of Moskva gave the night sky a grubby glow, and even the moons wore veils of human haze. But Fox didn’t long to be elsewhere. The feelings flooding her heart had pushed aside the forests and the stars. She didn’t want to know how long that would last. She didn’t even want to give a name to the feelings.
“‘The opening of the Londra Tunnel was marked without its builder, ’” Sylvain read aloud. “‘Isambard Brunel’s illness seems to be worse than the court will have us know.’ Londra? Sounds like London. Is that what’s it’s called here?”
Fox shot him a warning glance.
She filled a glass with Baryatinsky’s sweet port wine, though she’d already drunk too much of it, and reached for the book she’d been reading for a couple of hours without remembering a single word. It felt as if Orlando’s touch had left a mark on her skin as clear as pollen dust on the vixen’s fur. She was so happy. And so unhappy. It didn’t help to remind herself of all the times she’d dusted some woman’s talcum powder off Jacob’s clothes or the times her nose had picked up strange perfumes on him.
Where was he?
When Chanute asked her for the third time to admire his new arm, Fox snapped at him so sharply that Sylvain shot her a nasty look over the top of his paper. Oh, to the Stilt with the both of them. To the Stilt with her. She wished she were back in Orlando’s bed. She wished she’d never gone with him.
Sylvain was asking Chanute what a Man-Goyl was. Outside, a carriage was approaching. Fox heard the guards open the gate. How her heart pounded as she approached the window. Yet it wasn’t Jacob climbing out of the carriage but Baryatinsky. Fox had given the perfume their host left in her room to her maid.
Sylvain got up for a refill, but Chanute’s new hand was quicker on the bottle’s neck. He gave Sylvain a triumphant smile, only to mutter a disappointed curse when the glass crushed between his steel fingers. Two servants immediately appeared to pick up the pieces, Sylvain blurted out an “Oupelay!” that made them flinch almost as much as Chanute’s laughter, and the younger of the servants cut himself on the shards.
“Ayoye tabarnak!” Sylvain grunted as he dropped onto the sofa next to Fox, sighing as though he’d just saved the world. “Nothing better could’ve ever happened to me than to end up in a cell with Jacob Reckless. To imagine I could’ve spent my entire life living in only one world.”
Fox shot him another warning glance, and Sylvain pressed his hand over his mouth like a schoolboy caught in a lie, but that didn’t dent his mood. Nothing in this or the other world could ever dent Sylvain’s mood. Or at least he was good at giving that impression.
“Shall I tell you a secret?” he whispered to Fox.
She wasn’t sure, but Sylvain didn’t wait for her a
nswer.
“Chanute and I will go to l’Arcadie! He’s already bought maps and explained the route to me. It’s a long journey, first on one of the river barges that take the pelt-hunters to Kamchatka, and then by ship to Alaska. Here they call it Alyeska. We’re still arguing over how to continue from there. Chanute says we have to cross native territory and that they’ll turn us both into marmots.”
Fox looked across at Chanute. As far as she knew, he hadn’t told Jacob about this plan.
“And when is this going to happen?”
Sylvain gave her a conspiratorial smile. “As soon as Jacob leaves Moskva. Chanute says you don’t need him and he’d only be a third wheel. Well, he probably means fifth. He’s not too good with numbers. If you ask me, I think he wishes you’d cancel the whole thing. He says that the Mirrorlings have only left you in peace because you’ve lost Jacob’s brother and that Jacob won’t admit even to himself how dangerous the whole thing is. And that everyone has to find their own path, even brothers. Well, you know Chanute better than I do—he doesn’t really hold back his opinions.”
And maybe he’s even hoping his expedition might get Jacob to turn back. No, he knew his apprentice better than that. But Fox could already see Jacob’s face when Chanute told him about his plans.
“When will he tell Jacob?”
Sylvain shrugged. “When the opportunity arises.”
Chanute had the servant bring a new bottle of gorzalka. His eyes gleamed at Sylvain as his new fingers closed around its neck and lifted it without breaking it.
From Her
The moth settled on Kami’en’s chest as he was reviewing a military parade with the Tzar—surrounded by Varangian generals and a bear wearing the same uniform as the soldiers marching below. Of course, he immediately recognized who’d sent the moth, but the images it brought only really registered when he heard the child’s cry. Why had Niomee sent the moth? To take revenge on Amalie? To prove he’d suspected and betrayed her unjustly? All he could think was that maybe he hadn’t lost her completely. And that his infant son was still alive.
After the parade, he immediately had a draftsman sketch what the moth had shown him: the river, the abbey, the nun holding the child. One of his officers thought he’d seen that building in Lotharaine, another in Lombardia, but Hentzau, after one quick look, shook his head.
“Bavaria.”
It made sense. Bavaria was allied to Lotharaine, and its young King was related to Crookback. (They were all related to each other.) Not a stupid choice for a hiding place, but then again, nobody had ever called Therese of Austry stupid.
It couldn’t be too hard to locate the abbey, but whom could he send to retrieve the child? Bavaria was enemy territory; even a unicorn would be less conspicuous than a Goyl. Hentzau’s human spies thought the Moonstone Prince was a monster, a freak that should’ve never seen the light of day. Even his own officers shared this view.
Whom could he send?
There was only one answer.