“You know of the amulet, don’t you?” she said.
“I believe I’ve heard of it. It’s a children’s tale.”
“Well them Heart rebels ain’t breaking in here every chance they get because of some children’s tale. We think they got information that it’s here at the Zoo.” She had edged closer as she spoke, so that she stood over him. “I think Hester’d probably cut your throat if she knew you din’t stop that raid, don’t you?”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell her,” he said. There was fire behind his eyes, and it struck Ilsa that she would never want to make an enemy of this man.
“’Course I ain’t gonna tell her. It’s done. She won’t never walk again. Never shift.” She let the words hang in the air until they weakened him again, and he sank back in his chair. “But you can find Gedeon and you can stop these bloody raids.”
Aelius’s hand tightened on the top of his cane.
“If anyone can find out what the rebels know ’bout this amulet, ’bout where it is, or where they think it is, it’s you. Whoever your contacts are, go back to them.”
A flash of his usual condescension flickered across his face. “Do you think I haven’t considered it? There is more at stake here than some mythic relic, dear girl. If I don’t tread carefully along my channels in the Heart we may never make an ally of their new High Sorcerer. We may find ourselves at war on several fronts.” His fingers toyed with his cane in an uncharacteristically bashful way. “Besides, one can never be certain who one’s friends are. To pull the wrong string would not just be dangerous, it would be suicide.”
Coward, was the word on Ilsa’s tongue, but she bit it back and sighed deeply. “Fine. If I can’t convince you to redeem yourself, least I can say I tried, right?” She made to leave, then turned back again. “Oh, by the way, Fyfe’s helping me now, so I should probably tell him everything you said, but I’ll make sure he don’t repeat it to Hester, promise. And Eliot knows, ’course, but who’s he gonna talk to?”
She had her hand on the doorknob before a muttered for pity’s sake sounded from the hearth. “I’ll do what I can,” Aelius called morosely. When she turned he was rising from the chair, something like a smile playing on his lips.
“ You’re only half as clever as you pretend to be, you know” he said, “but pretending is three-quarters of the game.”
“By my count, that makes me pretty unstoppable.”
He chucked her under the chin as he passed her. “Pretty unstoppable indeed.”
29
The metal clang of something awkward and heavy crashing against stone called Ilsa into the garden.
It was late. The air was balmy and pleasant, and crickets were calling to one another. Someone had hung lanterns above the terrace, and their warm yellow light illuminated Eliot.
He stood at the top of the steps to the lawn, a wrought-iron chair on its end at the bottom. All his uncanny calm had dissipated. He drew heaving breaths, and ran both hands through his hair.
Before Ilsa had a chance to speak, he turned and saw her. Fury swathed him like mist, and echoed in the tempest of his eyes.
“Enough,” he growled. “Enough of this damned game.”
Ilsa folded her arms. “This ain’t a game, Eliot.”
“But it is to you! You have nothing to lose, nothing to grieve. You think you can win if you find your brother, like he’s some kind of prize.” He was pacing, his voice rising with every acid word. “You have no idea what you’re meddling in.”
Their eyes met; Ilsa’s flaming with indignation, Eliot’s desperate and angry and afraid.
She took a step forward. “Then tell me,” she said, her voice breaking.
He shook his head. His fist closed around the back of another chair, and Ilsa braced herself for him to throw it too. “We can’t find Gedeon. We can’t go back to before. The family you think you’re looking for is already torn apart.”
“And I’m telling you no. I don’t need your help if you’ve given up, but I ain’t gonna.” Ilsa felt tears well up. She took a breath to try and rein them in, but it was little use. “How can you say this is a game to me? A family what’s torn apart is still damn better than anything I ever had.”
He turned on her, disgusted and shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ilsa brushed her tears away calmly, as if pretending she hardly noticed she was crying would stop Eliot from noticing too. It didn’t. His iciness cracked, and he took a tentative step towards her.
“P’raps,” she said. “P’raps you know better. I still want to know for myself. I can’t help it.”
“Ilsa…” Eliot came closer – too close – until Ilsa felt that tug that had pulled them together in the rose garden. But he was shaking his head. Whatever war he was fighting inside, he was losing. “I can’t… Gedeon’s gone, Ilsa. Please listen to me—”
“He’s not.” She knew she sounded petulant and stubborn, but she didn’t care. Eliot was wrong. She would keep fighting him until he understood. “This ain’t over. I told Aelius everything we know. He’s gonna go back to the Heart and—”
“You did what?” Eliot’s tone was ringing with danger, hard and resonating and utterly merciless, and Ilsa swallowed.
“You heard,” she said. “I think you’re right, in a way. We ain’t gonna find Gedeon like this, without trusting no one. We need his help, and Fyfe’s, and probably everyone else’s too.”
He stepped back slowly, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths. “You’re a fool,” he hissed. “You’re a stupid, naïve fool.”
Ilsa snapped. “And
