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“You could, I suppose. We might find a good curator for it. And then what?”
He met her eyes as best as he could, from the cellar. “I don’t know. I suppose I’d search for another apartment, perhaps in Boston this time. My publisher is in Boston. Find a quiet place to write my book.” Go on as he had before. Yet why did the idea unsettle him?
“Buy a home?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t really want to think about it, not while he was cold and out of sorts. “Have to save up a little longer to do that. Could build for cheaper, but I’d have to head west for that, and country life doesn’t really suit me. There’s no kinetic rails heading out there, either. Be hard to go back and forth.” His enthusiasm evaporated a little more with each word.
“Give us a chance, Mr.Fernsby,” she said, her mouth curving upward ever so slightly. “Imagine a future where you own a home flush with magic, on an island teeming with life. Imagine—”
She cut off abruptly, and Merritt craned to better see her. “Mrs.Larkin?”
“Pardon me. I just saw something in the debris.”
He paused. “A spider?”
She rolled her eyes. “A vision, Mr.Fernsby. By chance, do you know a well-dressed Black man with short hair? Someone who might have reason to come to the island?”
Relief bubbled up, easing the stress in his body. “Yes, I do, Mrs.Larkin. And God grant that he’s comingnow.”
Chapter 7
June 13, 1833, London, England
“Is this a zero or a six?” Silas asked, tilting the ledger toward his steward.
Lidgett adjusted his spectacles. “A zero, sir. My apologies. I was writing quickly.”
Silas nodded and turned the page. “And how is the—”
The door to the study flung open and filled with the body of Silas’s disheveled brother. He wasn’t even wearing a cravat, which made Silas wonder what he’d been doing before barging in. He’d been expecting this confrontation for days now.
“Is it true?” Christian asked.
Closing the ledger, Silas waved to his steward, who immediately gathered his things under his arm, bowed, and left the room, though Christian didn’t give him much space to do so.
Playing along, Silas leaned back in his chair and asked, “Is what true?”
“That you’reselling the estate!” Christian strode in, crossing the distance between door and desk swiftly.
Silas pushed an ink vial away. “You seem to be sure of the answer, given your conduct.”
A vein pulsed in his brother’s forehead. “You’re selling it for less than it’s worth! Taking it from the family! What about your future sons, Silas? What aboutmine? And why not tell me?”
Silas retained his composure. “Given the nature of this conversation, is that really a surprise?”
Christian’s jaw slackened. “You’re impossible. I would have stepped up. Taken on your role. You never even gave me a chance.”
Redipping his quill, Silas opened the ledger he’d been reviewing to a clean page to write down the numbers still in his head. “I’m not leaving us homeless. I intend to purchase another estate better suited to our needs.”
“Better suited.” Christian flung up his hands. “How? Where?”
“It’s called Gorse End. In Liverpool.”
“Liverpool!”He paced toward the bookshelf. “That’s away from... from everything!”
Silas waited for the numbers to dry before turning to the shelf behind his desk, finding the plans for the newly purchased estate tucked safely between volumes of his encyclopedias. “I’ve reviewed everything myself—”
Christian stomped back and snatched the plans, unfolding them on his side of the desk. Blew hair from his eyes as he looked them over. The study was painfully silent for nearly a minute.
