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It was unsettling to have an enemy who could read your most secret wishes, while you knew nothing about him. Jacob again wanted to dispose of the card, but then he tucked it into his pocket. He was sure Spieler had anticipated that as well.
Chanute had been coughing all night. When Jacob got to his chamber door, though, he heard loud laughter. Chanute was not alone. Sylvain immediately stopped laughing when he saw Jacob. He looked at him like a schoolboy caught telling a dirty joke. He was seated in the chair that some upholsterer had sold Chanute with the promise it could cure the worst hangovers by simply sitting in it. A half-empty bottle of barley grog stood between Sylvain and Chanute. No prize for guessing where the other half had gone.
“Grand!” Jacob said to Sylvain as he snatched the glass from Chanute’s hand. “He hasn’t drunk in years. Did he tell you how he lost his arm?”
“You mean your version or mine?” Chanute snatched the glass back and filled it to the brim. “Be nice to Sylvain. He’s been through a lot. I was just telling him how I went looking for the magic lantern and caught borefleas. Before your time. My skin looked like I had woodworm!” Chanute’s laugh turned into coughing.
But he still downed the liquor.
“The Witch comes every day,” he slurred. “Every damn day. You think I don’t know what that means? And when were you going to tell me about the mirror? Before or after I join Snow-White in her coffin?”
Sylvain tried hard to look as innocent as a doe, but his face was not the kind that let him do that.
“We should’ve left you at the Elf’s until he’d put your face on all his golems!” Jacob barked at Sylvain. “Who else did you tell about the mirror?”
Chanute spoke before his new friend could. “I’m from Albion—didn’t I always say you have a strange accent? But you always were a better liar than me, and that’s saying a lot. Shifty as a Greenstilt, aren’t you? I showed you everything, and you? You hide an entire world from me! How’s that for a thank-you? What were you thinking?”
Sylvain gave Jacob an accusatory look, as though he too was owed an explanation. But what should he say? That he forgot all about his own world when he was here? That over there Chanute would be nothing but a crazy cripple who blabbered about Ogres and Witches? That he never wanted his friend to be seen like that? Or that he was worried Chanute would tell everyone on Fifth Avenue about the mirror? The truth was probably a dangerous mix of all that.
“What?” Chanute persisted. “I’m waiting.”
“You wouldn’t like it there.” That sounded feeble, even to Jacob’s ears.
Chanute eyed him like a traitor. “I should damn well be allowed to decide that for myself, don’t you think?”
Chanute was so hurt, his answer to Jacob’s question about Alderelves was uncharacteristically terse and to the effect that they were nothing but ancient tales, kept alive by old shrews who bribed trees with silver spoons. And Sylvain didn’t have anything to add beyond what he’d already told Jacob in Spieler’s warehouse. Jacob decided to give up and come back when both men were sober. His secrecy over the mirror was not going to be forgiven for a long time to come.
“I’ll have Sylvain show it to me,” Chanute growled as Jacob went to the door. He was right to be offended.
“I will show it to you myself,” Jacob replied. “But the mirror isn’t safe anymore. Your new friend can explain it to you. Let me know if you remember anything else about the Elves.”
And then he went to search for Wenzel.
***
Chanute’s cook was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for The Ogre’s lunchtime soup offering.
“Fox isn’t back yet,” he said when Jacob poked his head through the door. The previous night’s excesses still clouded his pale brown eyes. “Did she tell you about the Goyl who came looking for you? Onyx skin, speckled green?”
Great! Jacob knew only one Goyl who matched that description, and that one had shot an arrow through his chest. Upon which, of course, Jacob had snatched one of the most precious pieces a treasure hunter could find. Of course the Bastard had not simply accepted this, and of course he’d managed to follow Jacob’s trail to Schwanstein. Now all Jacob could hope was that nobody had told the Goyl that Jacob Reckless rode up to the old ruin all the time.
“You’re quite in demand these days, you know?” Wenzel threw some celery into the soup, which already smelled so much more palatable than the meals Chanute used to cobble together. “A Dwarf came by here several times to ask after you. Evenaugh Valiant…He spelled his name so I wouldn’t forget it. I’m supposed to tell you he plans to cut off your nose. And some other parts.”
Valiant. The Alderelf. The Goyl. Two Fairies. The former Empress of Austry. And don’t forget Louis, the crown prince of Lotharaine. More enemies, more honor, Jacob.
When Jacob asked whether Will had said anything beyond asking for him, Wenzel shrugged. “I was a bit distracted by the Goyl. No, wait. He wanted to know where he could find the Dark Fairy.”
Jacob’s stomach cramped tight.
“Call it a peace offering.”
What could possibly inspire peace if the feud was as strong as the curse suggested? Spieler had never said why the Fairies had punished his kind. But he’d given away why Will was the perfect messenger. “
She herself made sure she can’t harm him.” Whoever survived a Witch’s curse was forever immune to their powers. Why shouldn’t the same apply to Fairies? And, no, Jacob didn’t want to think about any other reasons why the Elf used his brother: Spieler was not Will’s father, just as he wasn’t Jacob’s. Both brothers were too human. He’d just have to keep repeating that to himself.
“Ludovik Rensman dropped off more flowers for Fox,” Wenzel said. “He turns up with presents every time he hears she might be in town. Otherwise he just stands on the square and stares up at her window.”
Ludovik Rensman. His father was one of the richest men in Schwanstein. Jacob! Focus! What is Will taking to the Fairy?
