Syrus felt terribly out of place. He looked for somewhere he could hide until the appropriate moment. He settled in a corner between the hulking wardrobe and a bookshelf. He didn’t want to hide in anything and unduly frighten her, much as the idea of springing out of a wardrobe amused him.
He crouched down and stared at the spines of all the books with their indecipherable letters. He hoped he would never have to learn to read the Cityfolk’s language. The thought of their deadly dull thoughts pressing in on him made him dizzy.
He stiffened and hunched as close to the wall as he could when the door opened.
“Good night, Aunt,” he heard the witch say. With a swish of skirts, she and her maid disappeared behind her dressing screen. He tried to think of something else, so as not to hear her undressing. He had kissed a girl behind the train car before, but that was as far as things had gone. The thought of what a witch would do if she caught him peeping at her was quite unpleasant.
The maid banked the fire and left. Syrus waited until he was sure the witch had climbed into bed and pulled the covers up around her. Then, he slipped out from behind the wardrobe.
He coughed slightly. “Miss Nyx,” he said, “I must speak with you.”
She sat bolt upright. It was hard for him not to laugh at her in her nightcap with the covers pulled up around her and possibly the most indignant look on her face he’d ever seen on any female. She narrowed her eyes.
“You!” she said.
“Listen, Miss Nyx, I . . .” he began. Such formal language coming out of his mouth was odd, but he didn’t want to offend her either. He knew the forms for dealing with Elementals, but a witch? He wasn’t quite sure what was proper.
“Give me one reason why I should not sound the banshee alarm at once,” she said.
“Because I’ve come to tell you . . . that is . . . we have reason to believe that you are. . .”
She let the covers fall and crossed her arms over her chest, much as she’d done when the clan surrounded her carriage.
“What?” she said.
“In danger,” Syrus said.
The expression on her face was indescribable. It was as though a mirror cracked, revealing something under the surface that was powerful but also very afraid. It was hard to tell in the dim room, but he thought her skin turned several shades of red until it was almost purple. The dimmed everlantern made obvious what day did not readily disclose—her features were very Tinker-like—high cheekbones, round face, somewhat tilted eyes. He’d never noticed before; perhaps it was her pale coloring or the way she wore her hair.
Syrus wished he could move toward the window and flee, but his feet were rooted to the carpet. This was not going well at all.
“You broke into my room in the middle of the night to tell me something I already know?” she said.
“The window was mostly open,” Syrus protested. “And it’s not the middle of the night.”
She glared. “The boy who stole my toad and won’t return it feels compelled to break into my room to tell me I’m in danger? That’s rich, indeed.”
He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry now that I took it. You don’t know how sorry. I’ve tried to get it back, but the place where I sold it . . . well, it’s been burned to the ground.”
Narrowed eyes again. The distinct and uncomfortable possibility occurred to him that she could shoot flames from her eyeballs and burn him to a crisp. This time, his feet managed to move a little. He shuffled toward the window.
“You have ten seconds to hand over the toad or I’m sounding the alarm.”
“I don’t have it!”
“One-one thousand, two-one thousand . . .”
“I really don’t!” He turned out his coat pockets.
“Three one-thousand . . .”
He unbuttoned the frog buttons of his coat and showed her the inner pockets. “I don’t have it!”
“Vespa,” a voice called from the landing, “who are you talking to in there?”
“Five one-thousand, six one-thousand . . .”
“Look, I know you don’t believe me. I know you think I’m a no-good Tinker thief. Your father is planning to use you as bait to lure the Manticore. He wants her Heart for some dreadful purpose. She needs your help. If you’d just be reasonable . . .”
“Nine one-thousand. Ten.” She smirked.
Syrus dove for the window as she reached for the lever over her bed. He shimmied down the drainpipe as fast as he could. Just as he touched ground, the banshee alarm atop the house began its ear-shattering scream. It was soon taken up by other alarms along his route as he dodged between shadow and everlantern down through Midtown.
CHAPTER 13
Talk at every meal for the last several days has been nothing but building castles in the air. It’s almost as though the break-in with the Tinker thief never happened. Aunt Minta rambles on about the fine clothes and jewelry I’ll have, the engagements with Lady Whatsit and Viscount So-and-so. I talk with her of these things because it feels too dangerous to speak of anything else. I keep hearing the Tinker boy’s words in my head. Your father is planning to use you to lure the Manticore. I can’t begin to imagine what he means by that. And I’ve still heard nothing from Hal.
Discussing dresses and shoes is a relief, but there’s no greater relief than being allowed to enter the Museum at Father’s side. I have so much work to catch up on. It’s wonderful to pretend that life is as it has always been—no Tinker thieves or dangerous Architects, no witchcraft in my blood. I can even imagine that Lucy Virulen will forget about me. Somehow, I doubt I’ll be so lucky.
I try to distract myself as we walk up the steps to the Museum’s arched entrance by asking Father what he thought of the strange, white-eyed man who leaped in front of the trolley. I haven’t asked at home because Aunt Minta wouldn’t find it fitting conversation for a lady.
Father frowns. “White-eyed man?”
“Yes, the one who caused the accident. What was wrong with him, do you reckon?”
“I don’t know what you mean about white eyes.” He sounds irritated. Why? “But,” he continues, “I’d guess he was just a vagrant. No one to concern yourself with. You have much greater things to worry over now.” His smile is weak as he pushes open the heavy wooden door.
He’s lying. He remembers just as well as I do. But why would he pretend that he doesn’t? As far as I know, Father has never lied to me. Why would he start now over such a trivial thing?
Unless it’s not trivial at all.
Might it have something to do with his Experiment?
A chill slithers up my spine.
We pass through the atrium with all my display cases filled with glittering wings and false eyes. I think again of Piskel stuffing his cheeks with jam cake, and I feel like a butcher rather than a skilled unnaturalist.
There’s a commotion when we enter the Main Hall. I look toward the Sphinx, ready to engage in our customary morning battle of wills, pretending to forget that day when it nearly became a battle of life and death, but her plinth is empty.
The Sphinx is gone.
Father and I look around wildly, all conversation regarding the white-eyed man forgotten. Everything else is in order—the Wyvern, the Dragon hatchling exhibit, and the Griffin are all still in their places. There are no signs of struggle. Several Pedants and Scholars are examining the plinth and the nearby field box.
“What happened?” Father asks.
“She’s just gone,” old Pedant Tycho says.
“Are you certain?” Father says. “You’ve checked all the Halls and places where she might hide?”
Pedant Tycho nods. “’Twould be very hard to hide a Sphinx. And we’ve already seen how she might react were she set loose.” His eyes slide toward me. “Looks like an inside job,” he says. Despite his intimation, everyone can see that this is not my fault. I haven’t been here for several days.