Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (29 page)

“Of course she does. I told you, my mother taught her to speak.”

“Teaching a bird to mimic a few human sounds is one thing, having it understand what’s being said is quite another.”

“Well I assure you, Pan does both.” His brows rise. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No. Not exactly—” He tugs at his waistcoat.

“You think Pan’s nothing but a common house parrot, don’t you?”

He yanks on the points of his waistcoat again.

“What would you say if I told you she can talk on her own? Without prompting?”

“I’d say you’ve snorted in a few too many Vapours.”

“Really? Say something to him, Pan.” Pan says nothing—just stares. “Go ahead, you have my permission, tell him what you think.” She cocks her head but remains silent.

“This is ridiculous,” Urlick says. “She’s not going to speak unless you speak first. There’s no magic to it.”

“There’s no what?”

“You heard me.” He pulls a hand through his hair. “All this nonsense about brilliant birds and floating worlds!”

Floating worlds? I never said anything about a floating world.

“Come on. We’ve got an Academy to break into, or have you forgotten?” He turns and stalks away up the hill.

“
This
from a man who crafts enchanted teapots, winged messengers, and a bewitched coach that can park itself?” I call after him.

He swings around, his lips pursed. “Those are inventions. That’s completely different—”

“How so?” I poke my nose out at him.

“It just
is.”

“You know what I think?” I move toward him. “I think you’re afraid. Just like all the cowardly professors at the Academy, unwilling to acknowledge there might be powers at work in this universe that science can’t explain.”

“You know what I think?” He whirls around, wagging his finger. “I think you a fool—”

“Really,” I gnash my teeth. “Well, I think you insufferably close-minded!” Pan lifts from my shoulder as I turn and stalk away.

“Eyelet!” He hesitates. “Eyelet, wait,
please.
” He chases after me. “Eyelet, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.” He lowers his head. “It’s just that”—he paces—“if magic really did exist, I would never have been born looking like this and my mother wouldn’t have died giving birth to me. Ida and Iris would have been normal and Crazy Legs would have arms, don’t you see?”

I swallow.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve called upon the powers of magic in my life to right the wrongs of it,” he continues. “To save my father, to spare Ida, to silence Cordelia’s screams! And—just as reason would dictate—it never
once
worked!” He bares his teeth. “Because Magic. Doesn’t. EXIST!”

Pan takes to the air, swooping above our heads, startled and cawing, as Urlick turns his back.

“That’s not true, Urlick,” I call after him, my voice wavering. “And you know it. A little bit of magic exists in everyone’s heart. Even yours!” My words tug at his step. “Otherwise you could never have designed a cycle with wings, in the hope that one day, the two of you could fly.”

He turns briefly, a hesitant look on his face.

Pan jumps from my shoulder and wings through the trees.

“Where is she going?”

“I don’t know.” I look up. “Pan!” I chase after her. “Pan, come back!”

She circles with something in her bill, swoops down and drops it at Urlick’s feet.

“What is it?” He turns to me.

“I’m guessing it’s a bit of magic,” I say.

T
hirty two

Urlick

Eyelet races over, snatching the small cotton pouch up from the ground. She loosens the ribbon that binds the top.

“Should we be opening this?” I say, as she dumps the contents into her palm—a fat package with distinctive markings—then passes me the empty pouch. I’m almost afraid to take it from her. All this talk of Valkyries and tongued birds has me on edge. I’m not even sure I know who she is anymore.

“Careful,” I say, as she breaks the wax seal. “That looks rather official. Even royal, perhaps.”

“Relax,” She smirks. “It’s my father’s.”

“Your father’s? But how’s that possible. I thought you said he was dead.”

“He is. This is from his royal stash.”

“His
what?”
I spin around. “I knew it. I was right. I’ve gone and kidnapped royalty! I
am
both a kidnapper and a thief—”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself.” Eyelet laughs. “My father was only the Royal Science Ambassador of the Academy, serving under Brethren’s Ruler. So technically, you’ve only kidnapped the daughter of a royal slave.”

“Oh, well, that makes it
so
much better.”

I check over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching. Though trees hide us, I’m still worried we’ll be discovered. And now with the royal pot.

“Not to worry, my father was stripped of that post shortly before he passed away,” Eyelet continues, “Besides, you’ve kidnapped nothing. If anything, it was
I
who commandeered
your
coach.” She grins, eying me hard.

“Here, hold this,” she says, turning her eyes skyward, rolling the contents of the pouch around in her hand.

“Why? What are you doing?”

Pan swoops in again, dropping a second item. I duck. Eyelet laughs. I swear the two of them are enjoying this.

The item billows down on the breeze, its gilded edges glinting in the grey of the day, coming to rest in Eyelet’s hands.

“And what,
pray tell
, is that?” I snatch a roll of parchment paper, tied in a red velvet ribbon, from her hand.

“A smudging,” she says, snatching it back.

“A what?”

“A magical message—”

“Why of course.”

She pinches me. “Ouch!”

She casts off the ribbon and unrolls it.

“A magical message that says…?” I hover in high anticipation over her shoulder. “
Nothing.
Well, there you have it.
”
I rock back on my heels. “What a brilliant bird, she’s dropped you a blank piece of paper.”

“To the naked eye, yes.”

Eyelet throws her hand out in front of my face, catching another pouch from Pan.

I watch as she struggles to loosen the knot on the top of the pouch’s drawstring. “If it’s magic, shouldn’t it come with a wand or something?”

She smirks. “Here,” she says, finally tearing it open. “Shut up and strike these.” She hands me a couple of dark rocks. “But not until I say.” She stops me from rolling them together. “And whatever you do, don’t drop them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they won’t light if they’re wet.”

“Light?”

“They’re flints,” she says. I scowl. “To make
fi-re
with
.”
She mocks me.

“Oh, yes...yes, of course.” I tug at my waistcoat, feeling a bit daft, confident that was the object of her game. “And that?” I nod to the herb in her hand she’s busy twisting around the end of a stick. “What is that?”

“Mugwort,” she says plainly, as if it’s something you come across every day.
Of course.
Mugwort. What else would it be?

I check again over my shoulder as she bites off the end and spits.

“Bitter.” She excuses her unladylike behavior.

I’ve never seen this side of Eyelet before, and I must say, I kind of like it.

“Mugwort’s used to stimulate psychic awareness and prophetic dreams”—she turns to me—“which, of course, you’d know nothing about.”

I smirk. “And this?” I hold up the small bit of root from the first bag she asked me to hold.

“That’s Osha. We’re to burn it after the smudging to rid ourselves of any evil influences.”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes.

“Perhaps I should wrap you up in it, instead?”

“Funny.” I crinkle my nose.

“Strike them, will you?”

“What?”

“The
flints.
”

“Don’t you think lighting a fire might bring attention to us?”

“Just strike the flints, will you please?” She coaxes me with her chin.

I take the flints in my hands and strike them hard. Eyelet raises the herb end of the stick up to the sparks. The aged Mugwort bursts into an inferno, comparable to that of the Great Fire of London. “Good Lord!” I panic, jumping back. The flame burns high and quick, from orange to black in seconds. A sweet mare’s tail of charcoal smoke pours from what remains of the withering nest.

“Hurry!” she shouts. “Get the scroll!”

I stumble into action, swooping for it.

“Now
quickly
roll it out over top!”

I do as she says and Eyelet steps forward, passing the smoldering stick under the page. She works her way from the bottom to the top corner of the paper. Smoke slowly penetrates the paper’s pores, releasing a hand-scrawled message into the air.

“It’s from my father,” Eyelet gasps. “I recognize the writing. Quick!” She launches to her toes. “Help me decipher what it says!”

Each puff billows up into fat, swirling, spiraling letters that hang for a moment then sizzle into ashes, dissolving into nothingness before our eyes.

She breaks away, leaving me to hold the paper, etching the message with what’s left of the stick into the dirt at her feet.

“Inside a tortoise, wisdom waits,”

“At the spin of a velocipede, or two.

Heed the underpinning of the raven’s troubled wing,

For beneath it hides the master key.

Inside a spoked and circular tomb,

You will find the treasure you seek.

Tucked away beneath the stars, a moon,

And a shimmering sun.

But beware the knowledge that lies within,

For once known,

It can never be forgotten,

Only unearth it,

If prepared to protect it,

For in so doing,

You become the guardian of both hope,

And doom…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I glance at her nervously as the message turns to embers and sails off over my head.

“I don’t know, exactly.” She stares, unblinking, then yanks up her skirt, exposing her white cotton petticoat below.

“What are you
doing
?” I gasp and pull my eyes away.

“Solving the riddle.” She tears off a piece and I finch at the sound, doing another check over my shoulder, terrified we’re going to be caught this way. Me stealing glances, and her with a torn petticoat and skirts about her neck. My face flushes twelve shades of red. I am hot and cold and a little shamelessly excited. I loosen the collar at my neck.

“
Heed
the underpinning of the raven’s troubled wing.”
She dabs her finger in the soot and records the riddle on the swatch of cloth. My eyes fall again to her snowflake white thigh.

“
Perhaps he’s talking about your mother’s raven?” I swallow, tearing my eyes away again. I tug at my waistcoat and smooth back my hair.

“No, not my mother’s.” She springs to her feet. “He means his own!”

“He means
what?”

Her eyes shine. “
Beneath its forever troubled wing.
That’s it! Come on!” She grabs me by the hand.

“Wait!” I shout, as she pulls me forward, the two of us lunging back up the hill, toward the gates, through the trees.

“What about the Osha?” It’s as if she doesn’t hear me. I look back to see it blowing off in the wind.

T
hirty three

Eyelet

“There they are.” I point.

Urlick staggers to a stop beside me, just shy of the Academy gates. He drops his head between his knees and gasps for air—a runner he is not. “There what are?” he says, glancing up at me. I clutch his sleeve and drag him in behind some bushes to hide.

“My father’s birds,” I point again. Robotically the birds bow from their posts. “The one on the left has a bum wing,” I add.

“How do you know that?” Urlick crinkles his brow.

“I’ve always known it. I just never knew it was important until now.”

He glares at me out of the corner of his eyes.