“Yes. The apprentice moved you out of harm’s way before fleeing the temple with your brother. The only question you should be concerning yourself with is why. What use are you to them? That, I cannot help you with.”
“Then we’re done here,” said Ilsa. “We won’t take up no more of your time.”
Before they could depart, Jorn sighed heavily and rose from his chair. When he locked eyes with Fyfe, his expression was mercifully kinder. “Don’t be afraid of love, boy. It can wound deeply, but it is also a salve. You can have that one for free.”
Fyfe, with his unfailing good manners, seemed to take this as an apology, and offered his hand to shake Jorn’s. But when their fingers met, Jorn’s clamped tightly around Fyfe’s as if by their own accord. His eyes moved as if he were dreaming; his features slackened. It was only for a second before Fyfe pulled away in alarm, and the Oracle gasped.
“The avarice of men!” Jorn said fiercely. “Do you think you’re the first to want what was never yours to claim? Every few centuries your ilk abandon your experiments when you learn the truth. Transference is a forbidding and dangerous magic, Master Whitleaf. Your alpha cannot wield it!”
“Transference?” said Ilsa. Jorn was talking about Fyfe’s experiments; the machines designed to replicate Wraith and Whisperer magic.
“It is what the Prince of Camden seeks.”
Ilsa saw her own startled alarm in Fyfe’s wide eyes. They had stumbled on more answers than they had hoped for, but Ilsa felt only fear, not triumph.
“What d’you mean he can’t wield it?” Ilsa couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Will it hurt him?”
Jorn’s whirling eyes settled on her, his mouth pinched into a cruel smile. “More questions?”
“Please.” Ilsa extended her hand again, even as Fyfe made a move to protest. “Is Gedeon in danger?”
“I want a part of your future,” breathed Jorn. “I want your next mistake.”
“Take your pick,” muttered Ilsa.
Jorn’s words about transference still hung in the air, yet what she wouldn’t give to see inside his mind the way a Whisperer could; to pluck her next mistake from the future and squash it under her heel.
Even more so when Jorn looked up, his unruly eyebrows pulling together. He tried to begin several sentences before settling on one. “To be like you,” he said. “To be so helpless and so unburdened… h ow does it feel? Regret?”
“You got your question,” said Ilsa. “Now answer mine.”
“The price just went up,” said Jorn, grinning.
Ilsa let a sharp breath out through her nostrils and considered. How could she describe regret to someone who had never felt it? “It’s like you’re travelling, but you can’t ever visit the same place twice,” she said slowly. “You had a different future in your suitcase, a better one, but you left it on the platform. You want to jump off the train but it’s moving too fast.”
Jorn’s white-eyed gaze bore into her as he pondered her answer, but he was satisfied. “Gedeon Ravenswood’s desires will do only harm,” he said. “To himself. To the city. You must do everything you can to stop him.”
* * *
Ilsa wanted to beg Jorn to save her from her next mistake. There were some things she knew she could never go back and change – things she would get just one shot at – and this thought weighed heavily on her psyche as they left the ambassador’s house.
Thankfully, an impression was not one of these things.
She had been suspicious of Fyfe when they had talked about Eliot; she had told herself he was hiding something. Now, she knew what it was. Knew why Fyfe had defended Eliot when no one else did. Knew what had caused him to tense and blush at the mention of the boy’s name.
Fyfe was in love.
And Ilsa was skimming through her memories of every interaction between Fyfe and Eliot like some would-be, amateur Oracle. Did Eliot know? Should she have known? Would she have done anything differently if she had? She imagined Fyfe witnessing those moments she and Eliot had been alone and close enough to breathe each other’s breath, and her stomach cramped.
When Ilsa dragged herself back to the present moment, Fyfe was several paces ahead of her and walking at a furious pace, and she tensed. Perhaps Fyfe did know. Perhaps he had caught Ilsa looking at Eliot when she thought he wasn’t watching, the way Jorn must have seen Fyfe looking at him too. Was he avoiding her now because he couldn’t pretend ignorance any longer?
“Fyfe…” said Ilsa tentatively, and she hurried to catch him up. “Fyfe, wait.”
When she reached him, Fyfe was chewing his lip and muttering under his breath. He didn’t acknowledge her. She tugged feebly on his sleeve.
“Fyfe?”
“Yes!”
He stopped suddenly, and Ilsa ran into him. His mad gaze landed on her, and Ilsa realised he wasn’t thinking about Eliot at all, nor was he answering her. She’d seen that light go on before, in the Screeching Hen, right before he said something brilliant.
“I know why they tried to break into the crypt,” Fyfe said. “I know what Gedeon’s looking for.”
26
While Ilsa and Fyfe were in Whitechapel, Eliot had apparently been in the library.
“Eliot,” Fyfe called breathlessly. He was propelling himself up the spiral stairs to the balcony where Eliot was leaning on the rail, tome in hand. Ilsa was on his heels, struggling to contain her impatience.
She had given up trying to get Fyfe to tell her what he’d worked out. To his credit, he had tried, but they were nearly home before he had calmed his excitement, and even then, few of the words he had gasped at her – transference, legend and something about Wraiths – meant much to Ilsa.
“Did you find out who’s buried in the crypt?” he asked Eliot, so quickly the words tumbled together.
Eliot snapped his book closed. His curious gaze slid from Fyfe to Ilsa, where it lingered. She shot him a glare that said she knew
