“Why is it making that sound?” Sophia asked.
Martin smiled. “I have no idea. But I will find out.” He took a last look at the morning glory. “We have much to do! I will visit the library, and we will examine these flowers under a strong lens, and then perhaps we will attempt another sample.” He wiped his eyes, which were damp with emotion. “What a discovery!” Then he hurried back to his laboratory, followed by Sophia and Burr, who closed the greenhouse door firmly with a grim expression.
“Perhaps we ought to consider the matter, Martin,” he said, following the older man as he whirled around gathering supplies. “Must I remind you that the experiments on occasion have . . . unexpected consequences.”
“Nonsense,” Martin said absently.
“Nonsense?” Burr exclaimed. “What about the strangling creeper? What about the lying labyrinth of boxwood, which would have been the death of five royal attendants had you not killed it with poison? What about the blood-apple tree, which I hear is now the source of innumerable horror stories designed to keep children from wandering unattended in the park? Or the fanged potatoes? Or the walking elm? Martin!”
Martin looked up, startled. “What?”
“There is something strange about that flower. Its voice unsettles me. We have no way of knowing its true nature. We must be a little cautious. Please.”
The botanist looked at the tall nine-hour clock near the courtyard door. “Almost lunchtime,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll ask her to look it up in the library. Morning glory. No, that wouldn’t be it. Soils? Manufactured soils?” He shook his head. “There won’t be a thing.”
“Martin,” Burr repeated gravely.
The old man beamed at him. “Since when are you so serious, Burton? This is very unlike you. We must seize the opportunity! A discovery like this occurs once in an age!”
“It is you who makes me serious. Normally I throw caution and care to the wind, but I have learned that you need minding. I must be the voice of reason to you. Consider the greater circumstances. Consider . . .” He paused. “Remember the whispering oleander,” he said gently. “It too could speak.”
Martin hesitated.
“The whispering oleander?” Sophia echoed quietly.
“That was a different thing altogether,” Martin finally said. “It is an absurd comparison!”
Burr took a deep breath, clearly frustrated. “Martin, I am only asking you to proceed carefully. Silver roots—in this palace? You will be accused of treason.”
Martin rolled his eyes with exaggerated impatience. “I tell you, Burton,” he exclaimed, “there is no danger.”
“What dangers are you ignoring now?” someone asked.
Sophia turned, expecting Calixta, and saw instead a slight woman with hair piled intricately atop her head. She wore a long, close-fitting garment that swept the floor; it was covered with tiny silk flowers of a deep midnight blue. A high pearl choker encircled her neck. The dress left her arms bare, and at first Sophia thought there was a long line of sequins running from the woman’s wrists to her shoulders. Then, as she joined the group, Sophia realized that they were thorns: each no larger than a fingernail, they were pale green, slightly curved, and seemingly quite sharp. The woman smiled kindly at Sophia. She seemed young, but her expression was serious and thoughtful, as if borrowed from a much older face. Sophia suddenly understood what people meant when they called Sophia herself “wise beyond her years”—it was here, in the woman’s face. She smiled back. The woman turned to Martin, and Sophia noticed that her jet-black hair was dotted with tiny blue flowers.
“My dear, you’ve arrived just at the right moment! I need your help immediately!” he exclaimed, hurrying toward her.
“A great pleasure to see you once again,” Burton said, kissing the newcomer’s hand.
“Likewise, Burr,” she said, smiling. “How is Calixta?”
“Dearest, we have no time for this,” Martin exclaimed, seizing her hand. “You must come see the soil Burr brought me. It’s most extraordinary. You simply won’t believe—”
“Father,” she said gently. “Won’t you introduce me to your other guest?”
Martin caught himself. “Of course, of course—I’m so sorry, my dear. This is Sophia, a friend of Burr and Calixta’s. Sophia,” he said, turning to her with a little bow, “this is the royal librarian and court cartologer.
“My daughter, Veressa.”
23
The Four Maps
1891, June 28: 11-hour 22
Lock the doors, stop your ears.
The Lachrima will sense your fear.
And if it’s drawn in by your fright
You’ll surely see it in the night.
—Nochtland nursery rhyme, first verse
ONLY WHEN VERESSA murmured, “A pleasure to meet you,” did Sophia finally find her tongue.
“You are Veressa?” she exclaimed, the words spilling from her mouth too loudly. “The cartologer?”
“Yes,” Veressa replied, both surprised and amused. Sophia felt dizzy. She put her hand out toward the table, and Veressa seized it. “Are you all right?”
“You—my uncle,” Sophia said, attempting to collect herself. “My uncle sent me to you. I came from Boston all the way to find you. My uncle, Shadrack Elli. Do you know where he is?”
It was Veressa’s turn to stare, her eyes wide. “You astonish me,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I have not heard that name in many years.”
Sophia bit her lip as disappointment rushed through her. She had been hoping that somehow, once she found her, Veressa would know what had happened to Shadrack and have a plan for his rescue. Her hand closed around the spool of thread in her pocket. Why would you lead me so easily to Veressa, she asked the Fates, if she cannot lead me to Shadrack?
“Come,” Veressa said gently. “Let’s sit and talk this over.” She put her hand on Sophia’s shoulder and guided her gently toward the kitchen.
Martin and Burr followed them and stood uncertainly by while she and Sophia sat at the long table. “Now,” she said, “tell me everything, beginning with how things were before Shadrack sent you to me.”
Sophia explained as best she could, though it was difficult without being certain how much Veressa already knew about glass maps and railroad lines and any number of other things. Veressa stopped her to ask questions: once about Mrs. Clay’s story about the Lachrima, and a second time about Montaigne. Otherwise, she listened attentively, pressing Sophia’s hand encouragingly when the story grew confusing or difficult to tell. When Sophia was through, she sat thoughtfully for several moments. “May I see Shadrack’s two messages and the map?” she finally asked.
Veressa read the notes briefly and then held the glass map to the light for a moment. She placed it on the table with a heavy sigh. “I had not thought it would happen this way,” she said, “though it was bound to happen.” She glanced up at her father. “I’m sorry, Papá, there are some things I have not told you that you will hear for the first time.” She looked down at the table. “I had good reason for not telling you.”
Martin sat down abruptly, apparently more astonished by this than by anything else that had happened all day.