The Golden Yarn (Mirrorworld 3)

The Witch’s comb Orlando pulled from his pocket was a particularly beautiful specimen. The teeth were shaped like feathers, which meant it could turn its user into any bird of their choice. Why was Jacob even surprised? Shape-shifting was perfect for spying.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warned. “She wants to be alone.”

Orlando went anyway.

Idiot.

But what did he know? Orlando had made her his lover, while Jacob couldn’t even take her hand without fretting over the consequences. Jacob envied the other man for having met Fox at a ball, instead of when her bloody leg was stuck in the metal jaws of a trap. And how he wished it could have been Orlando who’d had to ask the Elf to save her from the Bluebeard.

But that was you, Jacob.

Brunel looked up to where the Dragon’s heart would have been. Eating the heart supposedly made you fearless for life. Many Dragons had been killed for their hearts.

“We’re not flying westward.” Yes, in this world it was safe to assume most people knew their compass directions. “What’s our destination?”

“Only the carpet knows that,” Jacob said. “It looks like it’s somewhere to the southeast.”

“Ah. You fed it your memories. Such interesting magic. I once tried to utilize it for airplane navigation, but it seems to work only on old-fashioned materials such as sheep’s wool.”

Jacob heard no irritation in Brunel’s voice. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to return to Albion. The Walrus was dying, and his daughter was next in line to the throne. Maybe she was not as passionate about New Magic as her father?

“A friend of mine has a theory that this kind of magic is created not so much by the material but by the skill of the craftsman,” Jacob said.

“Interesting. Which would mean that in this world, even a master mechanic could imbue his contraptions with magic.”

Jacob wasn’t sure what gave him more pause—that Brunel had spoken of “this world” or how he’d pushed his hair back from his eyes. So familiar...

Brunel was still looking up toward where the Dragon’s heart had beaten. But then he turned. He did so slowly, like someone who’d decided to finally face down his fears.

“It won’t last much longer,” he said. “You can already see it, can’t you? The Goyl took the last of my frost-fern juice. I had a few seeds sown into my shirt for emergencies, but even those are now gone. I hadn’t planned for such a long trip.”

Brunel’s nose, the chin, his eyebrows, his whole face was shifting—not like it did on Spieler’s creatures. No, Brunel’s features were changing as if being kneaded by an impatient potter.

Tummetott magic. Therese of Austry had used it so she could mingle incognito among her ministers and listen to their intrigues. But the magic could leave permanent marks, and in the end Therese’s vanity had proven stronger than her hunger for power.

The man into whom Isambard Brunel was changing was all too familiar to Jacob, even though he hadn’t seen him in more than fourteen years. He felt hot and cold, was five, twelve, twenty-five years old. He’d imagined this reunion too many times to fully comprehend it was actually happening.

“So you recognized me in Goldsmouth.” Jacob wished him away, far away, like his father had always been.

“Of course. But I had to keep my cover. Isambard Brunel guarantees my survival. Of course, I considered revealing myself to you, but after the sinking of the fleet, I had to assume you were dead.”

His father. You are talking to your father, Jacob. How many times had he argued with him, screamed at him, ignored him in his mind? Years of searching for excuses for his betrayal, for answers to why he’d left them, him, Will, their mother. And now Jacob realized he no longer wanted to know.

He felt his mouth twist into a bitter smile, but his scorn was directed at himself. The yearning, the rage, the waiting, just to be standing there like an actor who for years had memorized the wrong lines. The heartless skeleton of a Dragon. What a stage for thei

r meeting. Couldn’t be more perfect.

“Drowned by the planes his own father built,” he said. “That would’ve been ironic.”

How he avoided his eyes. He seemed smaller. Of course.

“I assume it’s too late for an explanation?”

“Yes, it is.”

Jacob was going to leave him here. Orlando could stay with him if he wanted. For King, country, whatever. Maybe that’s why Jacob had never understood the concept…because he’d never had a father. And he still didn’t. Typical for John Reckless to steal the name of a famous nineteenth-century engineer to hide behind. “John Reckless likes to stand tall—on the shoulders of others.” His mother’s father used to say that, but Jacob had never wanted to believe it.

He turned around a little too abruptly (oh, he was so angry!) and stumbled out from under the petrified bones into the pouring rain. Brunel called after him. Jacob wasn’t going to think of him by any other name. A year ago he might still have had some questions, words he’d wanted to say, but too much had happened. And finding Will now was more important. Much more.