She had been right. Bertie’s death had been boxed up and tidied to keep the university from facing the scandal of possible murder. A headache hammered behind her eyes. She had the file, but what could she do with that? She wasn’t some Sherlock Holmes who could figureanything out from a few black-and-white photographs on a computer screen.
Ellsbeth considered sending the file to her parents,provingthat Bertie’s deathhadbeen suspicious, that she had been right, but what would that do? Rip open wounds that her mother and father had spent months trying to heal? Bertie was still dead, and nothing would change that. Even the darkest corners of arcane mechanicals theory hadn’t figured out how to bring someone back from the dead.
Sleep came fitfully. Ellsbeth’s dreams echoed with drawers left slightly open, staircases with missing steps, the sense that there was something that she couldn’t quite find, and that she would never find.
When Ellsbeth woke, her mouth was dry and thick with white scum. Rawlins had called twice in the night, and texted once more, but Ellsbeth plugged in her phone without responding.
There was too much to explain. Her relationship with Rawlins was supposed to be fun and casual. An escape from the real world. She didn’t have it in her this morning to be the girl he expected her to be—shiny and independent, vivacious. She would become that girl again eventually, and then she would be able to see Rawlins.
The shower was a hissing animal. Phantom blood appeared on the linoleum with every blink. Ellsbeth left the mirror foggy. She and Bertie had always looked alike from certain angles, and when Ellsbeth looked at her distorted reflection, she imagined her sister staring back at her. Bertie was a ghost, and Ellsbeth stood there, watching her in the mirror until the condensation rolled down the glass and she was looking back at her own face, blotchy and gray.
Rawlins
Rawlins gave himself two hours for the drive to Greywall’s office in Montpelier, but it took less than an hour and a half. The roads had been cleared, and this early in the season there was no accumulation of ice. Gray clouds hung low in every direction, casting diffuse light over the entire landscape, which had a flattening effect; one could not have guessed the time with any degree of accuracy.
As Rawlins parked a few blocks from the low concrete building, he checked his phone again, disappointed to see that Ellsbeth still had not responded. He bristled with irritation; she had calledhimin the first place, and left no message or text—and now, despite numerous attempts to call her back, she was ignoring him. He vacillated between concern for her well-being and wondering if this was merely a game she was playing, demonstrating that in their new arrangement she was not beholden to him. He decided not to press the issue.
The state parole board’s offices were among a collection of government buildings in the city center. Rawlins crossed an open mall, the lawn wet with snowmelt. He was as conscious of the clay compound in his pocket as though it were a loaded gun. When he entered the justice administration building and passed through the metal detector, he was halfway afraid it would trigger an alarm and he’d be surrounded by guards with guns drawn. But the security guard merely gave him a friendly nod and handed over the tray with his keys.
The building was bureaucratic to its bones—a relic of the 1960s,with green and white tile, fluorescent lighting, and radiators that rattled in the hallways. An ancient elevator delivered Rawlins to the fourth floor, where he found the door stenciledAlan Greywall, Director of the State Parole Board.
Rawlins was twenty minutes early for their meeting but nonetheless checked in with the receptionist, who informed him that Greywall was still at lunch and would see Rawlins as soon as he was back. The waiting area was tiny, and his knees nearly touched the receptionist’s desk; the room felt unreasonably stuffy, the heat cranked up and stifling in the cramped space. Rawlins took off his jacket, feeling himself starting to perspire.
Rawlins’s plan was simple: to apply the compound when he shook the man’s hand. That meant he needed to be ready to deliver it when they met. So he kept slipping a hand into his coat pocket, making sure he could readily palm it. But he was afraid to keep it against his skin, worried that his sweat might adulterate the mixture.
At quarter past two, the door Rawlins had come in through opened, and Greywall appeared—an aggressively bald man in his sixties with a thin tie. He carried his suit coat in one hand, while the other pressed his cellphone to his ear; he was mid-conversation, speaking with loud confidence. “Yes, and we won’t review them until next quarter, so there’s no use in posting their appeals now…”
Greywall went to the receptionist’s desk, continuing his conversation, as she handed him two notes on Post-its, which he read, nodding, and then headed through the door into his office.
Rawlins felt certain he hadn’t even been noticed, but Greywall paused at the threshold, still on the phone, and beckoned him to follow.
Rawlins did, stepping into the office. It was carpeted and poorly lit; legal texts overflowed the bookshelves, and Greywall’s desk was piled with stacks of mail and manila case folders. He sat behind it and gestured for Rawlins to take a seat in one of two identical chairs, holding up a finger to indicatejust a second.Rawlins sat, waiting as Greywall wrapped up his call—“Yes, yes, I’ll talk to you then…”—and then looked at Rawlins with a theatrical exhale. “I appreciate your patience. One of those days. Now, you are…” He scanned the indecipherable assortment of notes on the desk in front of him, apparently finding theone he was looking for. “…Right. The author guy. Wanting to talk about the Keene case.”
He looked at Rawlins and gave a subtle head-nod, the least-inviting invitation to state his business imaginable, making little effort to hide hislet’s get this over withattitude.
Rawlins swallowed hard, gripped with panic. He had not gotten the handshake he needed.
Without it, this entire visit was a waste of time. He had to force it, one way or another. So he stood up awkwardly. “That’s right, I’m Thaddeus Rawlins. Pleased to meet you.”
He extended his right hand across the desk. The clay compound was pressed into his palm, angled down so that Greywall would not see it—but that meant it was sticking to Rawlins’s perspiration-wet skin, and he worried it would fall off at any moment.
Greywall stared at Rawlins’s hand, clearly conscious of the strained effort at an introduction. But eventually he reached out and took it, shaking in return. Rawlins made sure to push his palm into the other man’s, needing to be confident that the clay compound made contact, but at the same time fearful at any moment that it would be noticed by Greywall.
He pulled away and sat back down. He wasn’t yet sure if it had worked, since he had built a one-minute delay into the effect; until that minute passed, he was merely vamping, since nothing he said would make much of an impact. “Max was a student of mine,” Rawlins said. “Prior to his…incident.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” Greywall said. “And if it was up to me, you would’ve been tried, too.”
Not a promising start to the conversation. Nonetheless, Rawlins pressed on. “I certainly acknowledge my own part in the tragedy that took place. And it’s undeniable that a crime was committed. But it was a crime of negligence, not ill intent.”
“Look. The study of arcane mechanicals is just inherently dangerous to the community,” Greywall replied. “It’s like teaching a class on how to build nuclear weapons, and hoping no one actually does.”
“I think the comparison is apt, but I would reframe it with a meaningful distinction,” Rawlins replied. “It’s more akin to teaching physics. There’s the potential that certain particulars of the study could givestudents tools to make powerful weapons—but we protect thatspecificknowledge, and we restrict the availability of materials that would make it possible. By all means, we should do the same for arcane mechanicals. But to stop teaching physics entirely would cut off hundreds of vital applications of that knowledge. And it would vastly limit our understanding of the world and how it works.”
Greywall’s face remained impassive. He ran a hand across his shiny scalp. “Physics didn’t kill anyone at Newlyn, as far as I know.”
Rawlins glanced at his watch. More than a minute had passed…yet Greywall showed no sign of the ritual’s effect taking hold.Shit.
Rawlins continued the conversation, stalling for time and attempting to lay out his arguments in a logical manner. But he was nervous and overly attentive to Greywall’s disposition, pausing every few seconds to try to read any shift that might indicate the obscuration was taking hold. Greywall was irritated by these pauses, feeling that his time was being wasted.
