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Her eyes pleaded, Come on, tell me the truth! What kind of a weapon is this? Her gaze looked so wise that for a moment Jacob felt uncertain whether he’d come to the right place. Maybe he’d already pushed his luck too far with the spear.
“The string is indeed made of glass,” he said. “A very rare technique.”
“So rare that I’ve never heard about it?” Fran adjusted her glasses as she scrutinized the silver. “Very unusual. I think I may have seen a similar pattern some years ago on a dagger. But that came from England.”
Another Elven weapon in this world? What could that mean? Nothing good. Jacob felt a sense of danger he’d so far known only in the other world. “Is that dagger in your collection?”
“No. As far as I remember, it belongs to a private collector. I can find out for you. How much for the crossbow?”
“I’m not sure I actually want to sell it yet. Would you mind storing it for me for a while? The dealer I got it from treats his merchandise so badly it would’ve been better off buried in a bog.”
Fran’s eyes darkened as if Jacob had told her the dealer was a cannibal, though in her eyes even that probably would’ve been a minor offense in comparison to ill-treating such a beautifully crafted piece of weaponry.
“Admit it—you got this from one of those crooks who cause more damage to our cultural heritage than all the world’s exhaust fumes combined. Which one? Thistleman? Dechoubrant? If it were up to me. I’d have them all executed—by firing squad. But why don’t you want to sell this crossbow? You’re not sentimental. How is it special?”
Oh, she would have loved the story. The palace of a dead king, the Waterman, the Witch’s clock, the marksmanship of a Goyl...
Jacob zipped the empty backpack. “Let’s just say I’m in its debt.”
Fran’s eyes pierced him as though trying to skewer the truth out of his head, but her fingers were already closing around the crossbow’s handle. Like him, she was a treasure hunter, guardian of a lost past that had left only its traces in gold and silver. Too bad he couldn’t tell her about the bolt that had pierced his chest and saved his life. Or about the two armies destroyed by this one crossbow. Fran would’ve appreciated these stories.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll have it archived—if you’ll permit me to let our conservators take a closer look.”
“Absolutely. I’d love to know more about its history myself.” And about the smith who could make bowstrings out of glass. But there was probably not much to be learned about the Alderelves in this world, even if one’s laboratory was as good as the Met’s.
“How long shall I keep it for you?”
“One year?”
By then, hopefully, he would have learned how the crossbow could be destroyed. Of course, he didn’t tell Fran about this. He’d already tried fire, explosives, and a saw, but these hadn’t even left a scratch. Only the fire had made the wood a little darker.
***
A museum made it easy to forget which world you were in. But back outside, at the top of the steps, the noise of the Fifth Avenue traffic gave Jacob such an abrupt reminder where he was he found it hard to handle the wave of homesickness washing over him. Not that the streets of Vena or Lutis were any less noisy. It was surprising how much noise horse-drawn carriages and coaches could make. Below him people were crowding the wide sidewalks on their way to bus stops and coffee carts, but in his mind’s eye he saw the castle ruin with the roofs of Schwanstein in the distance. When he spotted Clara at the bottom of the steps, he nearly stumbled into a tourist who was coming up.
Will? Jacob’s heartbeat was set racing by all the worries he’d tried to keep at bay ever since he sent his brother back through the mirror. It was ridiculous how any unusual gesture or expression he’d not seen on his brother’s face before immediately took him back to those moments in the palace in Vena where Will had nearly killed him. But Clara smiled at him reassuringly, and Jacob slowed so that he wouldn’t stumble over his own feet. If this wasn’t about Will, then what was she doing here?
Yes, what, Jacob? Oh, he could be such a fool. Naive like a puppy, he stumbled straight into the trap. But the face at the bottom of the steps was so familiar. It still reminded him of all they’d been through together. His memory’s soft focus had turned even the Larks’ Water into a pleasant anecdote. He noticed she was wearing leather gloves despite the warmth of this summer morning, but he didn’t think too much of it.
“What are you doing in a museum so early in the morning?”
Even the question didn’t raise Jacob’s suspicion. But then she kissed him on the lips.
“Just think of the unicorns,” she whispered to him.
And she pushed him into the oncoming traffic.
Screeching brakes. Horns. Screams. Maybe even his own.
He closed his eyes too late.
Felt a bumper break his arm.
Metal and glass.
The Prince
It was so quiet Jacob assumed he was dead. But then he felt his body. The pain in his arm.
