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The next time Harte woke, there was no delay between returning to consciousness and remembering everything that had happened. The pain in his head, the ache in his shoulder, and the maddening, burning itch on his ankle reminded him immediately of where he was—and of the reality of his situation. His failures washed over him in an icy flood of shame. He’d been outmaneuvered by his sham of a father, and the artifacts in his possession, the necklace and the cuff—Esta’s cuff—were gone.
Because you are weak, Seshat whispered. I warned you, and still you allowed a powerless rat to best you. Her voice was threaded with the same mockery that Harte was so used to. But there was a trembling energy to her words, except, no—the trembling was coming from him. His limbs were shaking a little, and the chill in the air made him feel almost feverish.
Maybe he was feverish. His body ached, and despite being unconscious for so long, he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes again.
Foolish boy, Seshat hissed. You would accept your failure so easily? You are too soft and far too pitiful to be worthy of the girl or the power she holds within her.
That was probably true, but Harte wasn’t ready to accept it. Certainly, he wasn’t going to lie there and wait for whatever his father had planned for him. But he felt so incredibly awful.
Get up, Seshat urged. Or you will die here, and the girl—and every possibility she contains—will be lost.
The tremulous energy in Seshat’s voice struck a nerve. If I die, what happens to you?
Seshat didn’t respond.
Harte realized then what emotion had colored Seshat’s words—fear. It was so uncharacteristic of her usual rage and fury that it was almost enough to distract him from trying to figure out whether his shaking was from exhaustion or fever. He and Seshat had been locked in a battle of wills ever since the moment he’d touched the Ars Arcana and she’d used his affinity to channel herself into him. If Seshat was well and truly afraid now, it meant that Harte was in more trouble than he’d realized.
A single word floated through his mind—plague.
Before the wave of panic that thought brought with it could overwhelm him, Harte realized suddenly that he wasn’t alone. He could hear breathing close by that didn’t belong to him. It was either the biggest rat he’d ever seen—and there had been plenty of those in New York—or… He rolled over to his other side and found a small face framed by a cap of close-cropped dark-blond hair sitting on the floor next to him. Curious and too-familiar gray eyes sat above a button nose. They widened, and the child scrambled to his feet when he saw Harte looking at him.
It was the same child who had been with Harte’s father. My brother. All thoughts of sickness were replaced with the strange and unsettling realization that he was not completely without connections in the world. Whether he would claim them, though, was a different matter altogether.
With some effort, Harte rocked himself upright. As he tried to make the room stop spinning—and tried to keep from heaving up the contents of his stomach—the boy backed up a little more. The child didn’t shout or call for anyone, though. His eyes were still curious, but also wary now.
As he sat up, Harte realized his head felt a bit clearer. His ankle still itched and burned, and now when he scratched at it with his toe, the bites there ached sharply. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with vermin, though, and he knew there was little he could do until the irritation ran its course. Still, they hurt more than most bites he’d had before—his entire leg ached—and he hoped that they hadn’t become infected. Or maybe he hoped that they were infected, since that would be a lot easier to deal with than the plague that had quarantined Chinatown.
Seshat remained quiet, still withdrawn and far away, but Harte knew she was watching… and waiting. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d last awoken. There were no windows in the cellar, so he couldn’t even tell what time of day it was. It could have been the next morning or days later. Esta might already have found the dagger. She might be traveling back toward the bridge, or she might have already arrived. Maybe she was waiting there for him, wondering if he had deserted her again. If she thought he’d truly betrayed her, she might not wait long.
No… she would wait, because he had her cuff.
Or, he’d had it. Harte needed to get it back, which meant that he needed to get out of that dank basement, even if he’d rather curl up and go to sleep.
Harte’s arms were still tied behind him, and his shoulders ached from being in that position for so long. With the small boy’s eyes upon him, he tested the ropes again and found they hadn’t been secured any better than they had been before. It wouldn’t be hard to free himself, but the boy posed a problem. With the child there, Harte would have a witness to his escape. Possibly, the kid might even sound an alarm if Harte tried to leave.
“Where am I?” he asked the boy as he considered his options.
The boy didn’t respond. He just stared at Harte without any indication that he’d understood.
“Do you speak English?” Harte asked, searching his brother’s face for some indication that the child comprehended. “Can you understand me?”
The boy’s brows drew together a little, but still he didn’t respond. He just kept staring.
It was possible that the boy didn’t know English. His father had spoken something that sounded like German to him before. It was likely that his brother had no idea what Harte was saying. At least he hadn’t yet made any move to alert someone that Harte had awoken.
“Can you tell me where I am?” he asked the boy, trying again. “Is this your father’s store?”
Nothing.
Harte tested the ropes again. They’d grown a bit looser from his earlier movements, and he could be out of them without much trouble. He needed to get out of them—and out of that cellar. He felt sore and tired and, well, he felt outright sick. But he pushed the thoughts of plague out of his mind. He had a feeling that the longer he stayed trapped in that dank cellar, the less chance he’d have of escaping successfully. Besides, he’d worked through illnesses before. He’d survived New York winters on the street; he would survive this as well. He had to. He had a promise to keep. But first he needed to get free.
“Would you like to see a magic trick?” Harte asked, trying to stop shivering long enough to give the boy a conspiratorial smile.
The boy’s expression shifted then, a slight widening of the eyes. A spark of interest warred with the caution and curiosity that were already there.
He understands, Harte realized, grateful for this small mercy.
“I bet you would like to see a magic trick,” he told the child, brushing away any misgiving he might have had about using the boy. “I’m a magician, you know. Did your father tell you that?”
