Page 42 of Hawk & Sparrow

Maximilian leaned forward. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” A touch of annoyance colored Vesper’s voice. “What the Gladwell Machine does is provide access to those who would never have it otherwise. Thaumaric is only taught at expensive private institutions that most people can’t afford. It’s a form of gatekeeping. Mr. Gladwell’s device creates equality.”

“It creates the illusion of equality,” said Maximilian. “Sure, that machine might allow someone to say a Thaumaric incantation, but without proper training, they could hurt themselves, or worse, others.” He leaned forward. “Sometimes, there’s a reason things aren’t widely accessible. Sometimes, power has to be guarded and protected.”

Vesper’s mouth twisted, as though she’d tasted something sour. “Spoken like someone who’s always had access to power.”

He sat back and crossed his arms. “Spoken like someone who’s never had something worth protecting.”

Vesper recoiled, as though he’d struck her. She tried to remind herself that Maximilian didn’t know her background, that he had no idea exactly how wrong he was. Anger bubbled up in her anyway. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

“Do you really think my life has been a walk through a rose garden?” she said quietly.

Maximilian tensed. “Hang on, Evans. That’s not what I—”

Vesper rose. “Good day, Mr. Kite.”

She dropped a five-gild bill onto the table and turned before the sorcerer could say anything else. It was an odd reversal of the first time they’d met here: This time she was the one who headed out the door.

Outside the coffeehouse, Vesper hugged herself tight as the late autumn breeze picked up. Just an hour ago, people had stood on the sidewalks milling about and socializing. Now everyone was walking with stern purpose, keen to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. She was still looking back and forth along the street when her eyes caught on something. Someone.

The man walking down the opposite side of the road was of medium build, with wavy golden-blond hair, and a cleft chin. He was wearing the plain white shirt of a laborer, trousers, and dusty brown boots that looked like they’d seen far better days. Vesper’s mouth went dry as she stared at him. His clothes were different, but there was no mistaking that man.

It was Francis Gladwell.

No. Logic told Vesper that that was impossible. She’d seen Francis Gladwell’s corpse with her own two eyes; she’d watched a medical examiner cover his body with a sheet. The inventor was dead—everyone knew that—and yet she stood there and watched as that very same man continued down the road. He was almost to the end of the block when she found her voice.

“Mr. Gladwell!”

The inventor’s head shot up, confused. His eyes panned the street a moment before landing on her.

“Francis.” Vesper took a step forward. “It’s Vesper Evans, from the Globe. I—”

Without warning, the inventor turned and ran, sprinting away in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Vesper ignored the looks of people around her as she hitched up her skirts and started after him. “Mr. Gladwell, please!” She tried to cross the street, but now it was congested with coaches and horses. Vesper maneuvered around them as quickly as she could, disregarding the coachmen who shouted at her as she darted around them. She reached the other side of the road and looked around, but the inventor was already gone.

FOURTEEN

THURSDAY, 10TH OF NOVEMBER—7:58 A.M.

Every time Vesper had the nightmare, it began in the same place.

She recognized the living room she was standing in. It was as cramped as it was squalid, and as always, it was burning. She watched as the surrounding flames grew higher and higher, devouring everything in sight as they filled the tiny apartment with thick black smoke. Down on the street, frantic voices rose; a man was shouting, asking if the building had been cleared.

There are still people up here. Don’t abandon us, please.

The man never came for her, in this version of the nightmare, or in any other version that’d come before. Vesper knew what she would hear next, but nothing ever prepared her for that second voice. It was small, faint.

“Vesper?”

She cringed. Sometimes she heard her mother, sometimes it was her father. But in the very worst versions of this nightmare, it was Ethel’s wavering voice that called to her from the dark. Vesper lowered herself to the floor and began to crawl. The fire had consumed most of the apartment by now; in a matter of minutes, she knew the whole building would come down. She needed to find a way out, but Ethel’s voice was still perfectly clear, anguished and pleading.

“Vesper, I’m scared.”

“Ethel!” Vesper tried to draw breath, but took in a lungful of smoke instead. She coughed violently, retched, then forced herself to look up again. “Ethel, follow my voice. I’ll get you out, just tell me where you are.”

“Please.” Her sister’s voice was growing fainter. “Please, it’s so hot.”