When he stretched out still fully clothed, he heard an unfamiliar crackle of paper, and reached under the thin pillow.
It hid a folded paper note.
I will come at midnight.
She hadn't signed it, but he knew her handwriting, the bold and elegant sweeps of her pen. She hadn't sent it by Codex. She knew those messages would be read by someone - if not Wolfe, then someone hidden back in the Iron Tower.
She hadn't said it explicitly, but he knew she meant to come to say goodbye. That was both sweet and sour at once. He took the note and put it into his personal journal, then took up his pen and let his thoughts run about how he felt. About seeing her. Losing her. About all this coming to an end, and his friends scattering. What had he said to Morgan on the train? Reset the board. Start a new game.
He didn't know if he could, after this.
Jess turned to his journal for comfort. He'd always filled the pages with his feelings ... fear and guilt, in his earliest childhood. Then guilt, anger, and bitterness. His entries since Alexandria had been about pride and achievement, grief and horror, loss and love.
The last few had been about Morgan. Just Morgan.
Writing about it helped, but it didn't erase the pain completely; he left the journal next to his bed and turned to his blank. He'd loaded it with Inventio Fortunata, line after line of careful script, written in a time when every rounded letter was its own work of art. Tales of adventure and discovery from a man long dead.
A blank isn't the same. He remembered holding this book, feeling the history of the leather cover someone had tanned and stretched and cut to fit. The paper that someone had laboriously filled by hand and sewn into the binding. Years, heavy on the pages. Morgan had been reading a copy of it. An original. It felt like the old monk's story was part of his own.
But when he read it in the blank, it was just words, and it had no power to carry him away.
Someone knocked on the board outside his tent door, two quiet raps, and he sat up so fast the blank fell to the floor. 'Come in,' he said.
It wasn't midnight yet, and it wasn't Morgan at his door.
At the sight of Niccolo Santi, Jess grew cautious. This wasn't the friendly version of the captain; this was the closed, professional soldier.
'What do you want?'
'I know that Morgan's planned to leave. I know she's coming at midnight. I have orders to take her into custody.' When Jess started to speak, Santi waved it sharply aside. 'Don't bother to lie to me. I know. The question is, how did they know? She wouldn't tell anyone else. Just you. Who did you tell?'
Jess glared. 'I didn't tell anyone!'
'Then how did the bloody Artifex Magnus already know?'
Jess opened his personal journal and flipped it to the middle, where he'd left the pen as a marker. The folded note slid out. He handed it to Santi. 'Maybe someone else saw this. It was under my pillow.'
'It's not enough,' Santi said. 'Anyone who saw it would think it was romance, not intrigue.' His stare moved to the book in Jess's hand. 'Did you write it in your journal?'
'I - yes. I mentioned it.'
'When did you write it?'
'An hour ago, when I found the note. It hasn't left my side. No one read it.'
Santi grabbed the journal from him.
'What are you doing?' Jess lunged, but Santi was faster, and kept the journal out of his reach. 'You can't!' No one was allowed to read a personal journal without permission, not until the owner's death. Even his brother Brendan hadn't violated that trust.
'I'm not reading it.' Santi took out a knife, and that checked Jess's advance, but Santi wasn't threatening him. He slit open the inside of the back cover of Jess's journal and peeled back the paper. Behind the paper was a line of symbols in precise writing, and a splash of something that might have been blood.
Jess knew enough to recognise alchemical symbols when he saw them, but he didn't understand. Not immediately.
'Mirrored,' Santi said. 'They've been reading everything you write. When did you get this book?'
'I asked for a temporary journal,' Jess said numbly. 'I got it in the Welsh camp.' His mind raced over all the personal and private things he'd written. That was the purpose of a journal, to record a life in all its wounds and bruises, triumphs and sins. It was supposed to be for the future. 'Who--' His voice cracked, and he tried again. 'Who read it?'
'Either the Artifex, or someone close to him,' Santi said. 'Not much time between your entry and the order to stop her.'
Jess's neck felt stiff and hot, and the pressure in him was turning slowly from shock to rage. Had he written anything about Frederick? About his brother? He couldn't remember. Jess grabbed the journal back and flipped pages. He hadn't filled many so far, and as he scanned each with furious concentration, every very private thing he'd written cut him. Some went deep. He had written about Frederick, and Oxford, but Frederick had left and would be far away by now. Safe, Jess hoped.
Thank God, he'd not written a word about Brendan, or his father. But he'd put in too much about Morgan. Worse. He'd written that Wolfe had known about Morgan. That he'd helped her.
Jess sat down hard on the bed with the book in his hands, and fought to keep breathing. 'It's my fault.'
'It's not,' Santi said. 'Journals are supposed to be private. You're a Catholic; they're like confession, the law treats them the same. You couldn't have known someone was watching.'
'What about Morgan? If mine's mirrored ...'
'Morgan doesn't have one,' Santi said. 'I think her father taught her to never trust them. He might be a Burner, but he was right about that.' Santi was angry too. Vibrating with it. 'I was willing to let her slip away, as long as there was no proof we were complicit, but that ship's sailed now. They know. It's Wolfe's life if she gets away. And yours.'
'What are you going to do?'
'No choice. I have to take her. I know how you feel about Morgan, but it's too dangerous now. I'm not letting Christopher die for her,' Santi said, and immediately looked as if he regretted the words. He'd had too much to drink, too. He probably wouldn't have been so direct any other time.
'They won't kill Wolfe. He's a Scholar.'
Santi's gaze locked on his, bright and suddenly all too sharp. 'They can do anything they like. To anyone.'
Jess felt his mouth go dry. 'They did try to kill us, didn't they? They blew up the Express. Danton was right. They were blaming it on the Burners.'
'Take my advice,' Santi said. 'Never say that out loud again. Not to me, not to your friends, not to anyone.' He took in a deep breath. 'I could take Morgan before she comes here, but I won't. I'll take her on the way out. That's a gift, Jess. For both of you.'
And then he was gone, and Jess watched the clock hands grind very, very slowly on towards midnight.
Morgan didn't come at midnight. Mingled with the disappointment was a sour taste of relief. He didn't know how he could tell her that he'd cost her the only chance she had to be free. If she didn't show, if she ran without telling him goodbye ... maybe he would have done some good for her by being a distraction for Santi.
If she came, he'd have to tell her that he was the bait in the trap, and watch everything die inside her. He didn't think he could.
She'll understand. She deceived you on the train. And she'd been sorry for it.
He was unprepared when she pulled back the flap of his tent and let it fall behind her.
She was fully dressed in thick black trousers and a black Library uniform shirt that was too long in the sleeves. Stolen, he thought. The boots looked like her own. She had a small pack on her shoulder.
'I don't have long,' she said. 'I figured out how to slip the bracelet. I'll leave it in the privy.'
She still thought she had a chance. You have to tell her, Jess thought. It's going to crush her, but it's better coming from someone she trusts.
Or, it would feel like the last, fatal stab in her back, and she'd never trust him again.
'At least it's a nicer p
rivy than the Welsh camp,' he said, just because it was the first thing he thought to blurt out. She was too far away, and it seemed to him that she was moving away, even though she was standing still. The space between them was too vast. 'So you came to tell me goodbye.' She nodded, and he saw a sudden wash of tears in her eyes.
'Yes,' she said, and wiped at her face with her sleeve. 'I won't tell you where I'm going. I don't want you to have to lie to the others.'
He was already lying. He'd said she made him careless. Funny word. Careless. It wasn't true. He cared so much more than he'd ever thought he could.
The only thing they had was this moment. This one, last moment.
Jess crossed the space - not so big, after all - and kissed her, and she gasped her surprise into his mouth for just a heartbeat, and then he felt her responding with all the heat and desperation he craved from her. I am careless.
He pulled back far enough to whisper, 'Stay. Just for a while.' He kissed her lips, gentle, light touches that turned deeper. 'Stay.'
'I can't.'
'Morgan.'
'I can't.'
'You won't make it.'
'Jess, it's all right. I can do this. See this?' She held up her wrist, and the golden twist of the restraint. Passed her palm over it, and a whisper of symbols floated up from it. Shimmering orange and red, twisting like sparks from a fire. She stared hard at them, and the swirl of symbols paused and held. 'Right there. If I change that one symbol, from gold to iron, I transmute the property of this wire without setting off the alarm. I won't break it, and the seal doesn't change. I will just make it something else. I'll slip it off my wrist, they'll be chasing a ghost. And once I'm at the--'
He closed his hand over hers, and the sparks of symbols flew away, collapsing back on themselves. 'Don't try it. And don't tell me any more. Please.'
'I have to try it, you know that. I know you don't want to keep my secret any more, but I know you wouldn't betray it, either.' Her voice was soft. She believed he wouldn't hurt her. Somehow, horribly, he'd made her believe that. 'Believe me, I'm sick of secrets. Sick of playing by the rules other people set for us, of being trapped and robbed of choices. I'm sick of it all, aren't you?'
'Yes,' he said. And he was, rotten with secrets all the way to his core. But if he let them all go, who was he? He'd never known life without them, the way someone like Thomas lived it. What would that be like, to have that single, unshakeable faith in the world, to not see all the shadows?
'It doesn't have to be this way. You could ... you could come with me.' She said that last in a rush, as if she was afraid to say it, and the high colour that flooded her cheeks made him feel even more like a villain. 'You don't have to stay here. This is good. We're good. You're good.'
'I'm not,' he said. The clean, crisp smell of her hair made him want to hold it heavy in his hands, but he somehow resisted that. 'I'm not good. You know what I am.'
She shook her head. Hair moved over her forehead and draped across one eye, and he gently moved it back. She turned her head away. 'I know. Jess, I want you to come with me. I didn't want to go to the Iron Tower before, but now ... I can't let them put a slave collar around my neck and breed me like a prize mare--'
He hadn't heard that right. 'What?'
'Obscurists are rare,' she said. 'Why do you think they want me? I'm a new bloodline to add to their stock. I won't leave the Iron Tower. My children will never leave. Once I go inside, I have no freedom left. Not even that.'
Jess felt a massive emptiness inside, and then a sick surge of anger. 'No,' he said. 'That can't be true. It goes against everything the Library believes.'
'The Library isn't a person. It doesn't have a conscience, or a heart, or a soul. It does what it has to do to survive!'
'You sound like a Burner.'
'Maybe they make sense. You're smart, Jess. You've never hidden from hard truths. You know the Library's not what it once was ... what we were told it was, from out there.' She wiped tears from her face angrily with the back of a hand, and he caught her damp fingers and held them. 'Please, come with me. You know I can't stay.'
There was nothing left of hope now. Only this moment, he thought. He put all his longing into the kisses he placed on her hands and her shoulders and her throat, until they were both breathing raggedly with desire. He'd lied. He'd betrayed her, though he'd never meant to do that. Losing her had made him desperate. It had made him a liar, instead of lying to her with words, he was telling lies now with his body. With kisses and promises. Just tell her. Tell her that you can't save her, you can't go with her, there's no chance for her at all.
But he was a coward, and he couldn't.
When Niccolo Santi stepped inside the tent, Jess felt a surge of fury and bitter disgust. At Santi. At himself. At all the dreams breaking into pieces.
Morgan didn't see Santi. She saw Jess's face. He was a good liar, had been one his whole life, but he couldn't hide how he felt in that moment. One look, and she knew. She backed up a step, eyes wide, and whispered, 'No.'
Behind her, Santi said, 'Morgan. Please don't make this more painful than it has to be.'
'No,' she said again, this time a little stronger. 'Jess, you knew.' The disappointment in her, the look in her eyes, the wounded betrayal ... it was like knives cutting pieces of him away. 'You said stay.' It was simple, those three words. It was the world cracking open between them.
She lunged at him. He captured her in his arms and held her so tight that she couldn't hit him, couldn't struggle, until Captain Santi pulled her away.
Santi pulled out a pair of iron shackles, and he fitted them over Morgan's wrists. They were a favourite of the London Garda. No Obscurist tricks. Just a key. She went still as she felt the locks click shut, and her face, God, Jess would never forget that look as long as he lived. Her stare was as cold as a winter river. She'd have ripped his throat out if she could, and there was no changing it. No going back.
If he'd warned her the second she'd walked into his tent, if he'd told her to run then, maybe it would have been different.
But he'd asked her to stay, and she would remember.
Santi's face was remote and still, as if he was a stranger to both of them. 'I know it doesn't help,' he said, 'but I'm sorry.' He walked Morgan towards the tent's exit. Gentle, but firm.
Morgan dug in her heels long enough to give Jess one last, look. 'You told me there were always choices. When did you stop believing it?'
When I didn't have any choice but to love you, he wanted to tell her. But he didn't have the right to say it.
He was the reason she was in chains.
'You're damned quiet,' Dario said the next morning. He'd taken the seat beside Jess in the armoured carrier - this one had real seats, with padding, which was a vast improvement from their last conveyance. The Library had dispatched what seemed half an army to accompany them home, and yet Jess felt very, very alone.
'Tired,' Jess said. He had his eyes shut. There was nothing to see, and he didn't want to join in his friends' chatter.
He felt, rather than saw, Dario bend towards him. 'I heard Morgan is in the other carriage. What's wrong, she come to her senses and want nothing to do with you?'
Jess opened his eyes and stared Dario down at very close range. He didn't know how it looked, but he knew he was a hair's snap from punching the boy in the throat.
'Not today,' he said. 'Don't.'
Dario lost his grin and faced forward. He seemed suddenly very interested in the story that Thomas was telling about a bar in Munich where he'd made a dancing automaton puppet in exchange for his uncle's unpaid bill. It was a good story.
Jess wished he cared.
Khalila was both smiling at Thomas's story, and watching Jess in concerned little glances. Her sympathetic, questioning gaze was impossible to bear. Wolfe and Santi hadn't told anyone of Morgan's detainment, and Jess ... Jess didn't have the stomach.
He rose and shifted farther back from the others to an empty row, where he stretched hi
mself out across two seats and pretended to sleep. He hated the sound of his friends' laughter; it felt like a whetstone scraping his soul open. He wanted to be somewhere else. Gone.
'Shove over,' said a voice from over him. He took his arm off his eyes and frowned up at Glain. Her head wound had healed, but there was an angry scar cutting diagonally across her forehead that would probably be with her for life. She was proud of it. Battle scars.
'Plenty of seats up there,' he said, and put the arm back in place. She took his legs and pushed them over, and he came upright with something that felt and sounded like a snarl trapped deep inside his chest.
She dropped into the seat beside him. 'It's tiring, isn't it? Pretending it's normal. I know about Morgan.'
One less person he had to break the news to, then. 'Tell them, not me.'
'If you want.' She let a second or two slip by before she said, 'Wolfe's afraid you're going to be accused of Burner sympathies. Makes sense. You went off with them after the train blew.'
If she'd been intending to prod him into real anger, she succeeded. He slowly sat up, staring at her. 'I didn't go off with them. I was taken.'
'Then they just let you go free, with hardly a scratch on you that couldn't be explained by the train explosion. Look, I don't say I believe it. I'm telling you that it's easy to paint you that shade. The Artifex sees infiltrators behind every column in Alexandria. You should take care he doesn't see you that way, too. You've already got enough marks on your record.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'I mean your family, yn fytyn. I didn't know before Oxford, but now we all do. You don't think the Artifex knows? Even if he doesn't, don't you think Dario would use it if you came up against each other for a placement?'
'Or you would,' Jess said. Glain sent him a sideways glance. 'We've never been friends. You'd shove me over the cliff for what you want.'
'We don't want the same things, so that doesn't matter,' she said. 'I'm not well suited to be a Scholar, but I intend to be Garda Magnus one day. So I'm no threat to you. Nor you to me, I think.'
'I'm a threat to everyone right now.'