Scheme

by Jennifer Sommersby

  Henry, his hands still on his text, meets my eyes. “It’s the incantation for the Undoing. It’s our backup plan.”

  “But . . . I thought only Nutesh knew it.”

  “Well, now we do too,” Henry says.

  36

  IT’S A PAIN TO GET THE LETTERS TO HOLD STILL LONG ENOUGH FOR US TO transcribe the incantation. The whole thing is mostly in French, which Henry translates—my mother, always thinking ahead. We put our books and the cards away and shake on it that we’re not going to tell anyone else about this, including Xavier.

  We take turns in the bathroom, but when I come out, Henry’s pushed our twin beds together. He’s sitting on the bed closest to the bathroom door. “You need help with anything?”

  I shake my head no. “How did you know about the prayer?” I ask, and immediately recognize the look on his face.

  “She offers memories she thinks might help us. That’s all,” he says.

  I nod. “And she showed you this?”

  “She showed me your mother painting the cards. Which means Delia wanted you to see it. The memories have to be shared willingly.”

  “Or taken unwillingly.”

  “Yes . . . or that. But if Alicia and Delia think we need this, it’s important.”

  “It would be a lot easier if either or both of them could do something about Aveline.”

  “I know. I wish that too,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can we be friends again?” He stands, and I fold myself against him.

  “We’re never not friends, Henry. There’s just a lot going on and I think we’re both trying to get through it without losing our minds.”

  “I’m so sorry about Vi. I’m sorry I got angry about you phoning Ash,” he says against the top of my head.

  “Thank you.” I bite back a sob. “We have to focus on the next few days. If we can get through this, we can get through anything. When—if—we get home again, then I’ll fall into a million pieces.”

  “And I’ll be right there to tape you back together.”

  “Literally,” I say, pulling my shirt out from my sternum and looking at my bandages.

  Henry reaches down and kisses me, his ungloved hands clutching my shoulders and nestling me against him. The images he sends into my head through the contact with his lips show me how worried he was when I was so sick from the infection in Aveline’s carving on the boat and later in Naples, how worried he was earlier when he stood by helplessly and watched Xavier save me from Sofi’s Aveline-driven attack.

  “I would give anything to be able to do more,” he says. “To heal you myself.”

  “But you did, remember? You and Alicia saved me back in Naples.”

  “I love you, Genevieve.” But before I can say another word, he scoops me up and carries me over to the twin bed pushed next to his. He climbs in alongside, in the same bed, promising to keep his gloves on but his arms around me. “No one is getting to us tonight.”

  He kisses my forehead, and I nuzzle in against his chest, grateful for this one perfect moment in a sea of so much awful.

  In light of Sofi’s performance yesterday afternoon, we’re moving to a different apartment this morning, across from Tanrilar Sirk, so we can do a little reconnaissance before we step foot onto the circus grounds. Even though that plan is a new development no one consulted Henry nor I about, it’s smart, and necessary.

  I have enough time to cradle a cup of strong coffee near the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room while watching the dawning sun paint the sky in hues of pink and orange. It reminds me of Southern California—the skies aren’t the deeper blue of the Pacific Northwest but rather like someone took a wide brush and whitewashed the atmosphere.

  Xavier helps me tend my wounds, followed by a quick check of the broken front tooth to make sure it’s still embedded in the gum. Not like he could do anything about it here anyway. Xavier is many things, but I don’t think dentistry is among his special skills.

  Then our packs are on and we’re moving. I’m not sad when the apartment door clicks closed behind us.

  The air in the parking garage reeks of exhaust, but even under that, you can smell we’re near water. And it’s cold. For a city that is reportedly sunny 80 percent of the year, the chill is a subtle reminder that it is only February.

  How is that possible . . . it feels like a million years ago, and not just six weeks, that my mother fell from her lyra and took her final breath in my hands there in the circus dirt. And yet, it feels like only yesterday.

  We’re back in the hefty SUV from before, flanked by our escort cars, and just as we pull out of the underground garage, Sevda informs us that this vehicle is virtually impenetrable. Bulletproof glass, reinforced side panels, the works.

  Surreal we even need this.

  The AVRAKEDAVRA texts, still in our backpacks, have been locked inside a lead-lined case in the very back, accessible only via thumbprint—Xavier’s or Sevda’s, but I insisted they add Henry’s and mine, in case something goes wrong—and a code dialed into the digital pad. “They would have to blow up the whole car to get to the box, and even then, good luck cutting into it.”

  I want to believe her, but I also know that if a thief wants something badly enough, they’ll find a way to take it.

  The streets are busier than I expected—people and cars and horns everywhere—but just because my life has been turned on its ear doesn’t mean the rest of the world doesn’t still have jobs and bosses and bills to pay.

  As we approach a stoplight, a woman at the corner looks up from her phone and stares at my darkly tinted window, as if she can see right through it.

  My heart thuds.

  Aveline.

  The light turns green and we’re moving again. She watches me as the car screams down the street.

  A few blocks down, we’re stopped again. Whose idea was it for us to be holed up in the city? We’re vulnerable stopping at all these lights. I don’t want to look out my window again—my mouth is so dry from fear, it’s making my injured tongue throb—but I feel eyes on me.

  I look.

  A crowd stands waiting for their light to change; many are looking at the car in front of us, ours, the one behind us. We’re about as inconspicuous as a fireworks display.

  But there she is again. Except it’s not just one Aveline—it’s two, then three, then four and so on, until every woman in that block of humanity is staring at me through the dark glass.

  I’m panting with terror.

  “Gen?” Henry asks.

  “She’s here. She’s everywhere. Aveline. She’s in my head. I see her in every face,” I say, stuffing the butts of my hands into my eyes so I don’t have to look out the window. My stomach aches. I’m so thankful when the light turns green, to get me away from the unbearable pressure of all those eyes, like a lead blanket on my back pushing me to the ground.

  “Eyes forward. Don’t let her in,” Xavier says from my other side.

  Easy for him to say.

  Sevda is quiet, bent over a black padded case opened in her lap. She turns in her seat, her hand cupped and extended toward Henry. “Earpieces. Everyone gets one.” He takes the tiny, flesh-colored device with the clear coil running from its end. He fits it in his ear and then she hands him a small square black box to clip to his belt. “It’s a transmitter outfitted with a mic and GPS. That way we can hear you and find you should we get separated.”

  She proceeds to give me one too. Seems Xavier’s and Lucas’s are already in place, except theirs have mics wrapped around their wrists, like watches. We’re screaming down a six-lane highway, three lanes in each direction separated by a pretty green space, along Izmir’s iconic waterfront. What I would give to be one of the people walking along the promenade or leaving the port on a ferry, destined for a day out that doesn’t involve risking my life.

  We turn inland again, and Sevda explains that the circus is set up in a sprawling municipal park built over land that once was home to a huge number of Greek ci
tizens before a raging fire chased them to the sea. We’ll be staging in an apartment just across the way until we receive word from Mazhar that he’s in the city. There too we will meet our decoys—they’ve managed to find people who look enough like Henry and me after all. The decoys will wear American-style clothing while Henry and I will be outfitted with Kevlar vests under impact-resistant jackets.

  “The fabric is made with spider silk,” Sevda explains. “No one gets stabbed on my watch.”

  A chill washes through me. I don’t want to get stabbed on anyone’s watch.

  Certainly enough, through the wide windshield, the first glimpses of Tanrilar Sirk come into view. It’s a massive big top with three spires, much bigger than I’d anticipated for how it was described earlier as just as traveling circus.

  Nostalgia flickers in my chest. God, I miss home. I love the circus, so much a part of my whole life, the excitement of seeing the big top, the promise of delicious food and death-defying acts and side-splitting hilarity just inside the tent.

  My eyes sting with the memory. It makes me forget this hellscape for a few welcome seconds.

  The main big top is flanked by at least half a dozen smaller tents. Sevda explains these house the menagerie, side acts, and vendors who offer everything from temporary tattoos to palmistry. “One beautiful thing about Izmir is the tolerance for differing beliefs—though most Turks are Muslim, they live in peace alongside followers of Judaism and Christianity, and have for millennia. It is why so many followers of La Vérité make it their home.”

  “And why so many of Dagan’s loyalists do as well,” Xavier says.

  Sevda nods in agreement, and then points out the window as the car slows. “We will have our gathering in one of those smaller tents. If we wait until the circus grounds open for visitors, no one will be the wiser.”

  Our convoy slows and turns into the underground of a tall building across the way from the circus grounds. Sevda adjusts in her seat to face us fully. “We will exit here. Fifth floor. Follow closely. Stop to talk to no one.” Lucas brakes hard in front of the elevator bank, and we pile out, waiting only for Xavier to unlock the lead case and retrieve our packs with the texts and two key pieces.

  This latest apartment isn’t nearly as fancy, and it’s not empty. Sevda introduces us to two new faces: the couple who will act as our stand-ins. I eye them warily—I have no way to tell if they might be loyal to Lucian based on outward appearance.

  They look enough like us from a distance that people will probably buy it, but that’s only if they’re going off the photos they’ve seen on the news of us with our shorn, darkened hair. The girl, named Doria, is pale like I am—and at least the eye colors match.

  As do the La Vérité keys each of them pulls free upon introducing themselves. I watch; as they recite my mother’s line, the keys don’t turn black. Then again, they’re just standing here. Does the key only reflect the evil within when the wearer moves against us or appears before us with malicious intent? And how do I know they’re real keys or that they keys actually belong to them?

  Xavier’s voice whispers in my ear. “Don’t worry. We are among friends. I can smell the electricity coming off your hands.”

  My fists unclench, my shoulders dropping from their perch near my ears. The energy dissipates in a puff of ozone.

  “The next few hours will be a wait. These windows aren’t coated so people can see you if you’re looking out onto the street. Stay behind the curtains and leave the surveillance to us,” Sevda says.

  Xavier and Sevda position themselves at the window, again covered by a set of sheers that just mask their faces from the outside, sharing a pair of binoculars and exchanging tips on the best approach, the best way to exit, what we do if something goes sideways.

  Over the next few hours, while one watches, the other gives Doria and Jakub, our stand-ins, a few simple answers for questions La Vérité members might ask. “Mostly they will just want a blessing from you,” Sevda says. “‘The key to good is found in truth’ is enough. You may wish them well or tell them you will pray for their good health. Less is more.”

  “Especially since your accents are different from Genevieve and Henry,” Xavier points out.

  “I’ve been practicing my American accent all night,” Jakub teases. “Hey, who likes baseball and Katy Perry and look at my new Nikes!” Good for a laugh, except he sounds like a guy from New Jersey who maybe got hit upside the head with a brick one too many times.

  And Henry’s accent is decidedly British.

  “Like Sevda said, less is more.” Xavier pulls out his cigarettes. When Sevda gives him a dirty look, he stuffs them back into his pocket, grumbling before replacing the binocs at his eyes.

  The hours crawl by, but they’re thankfully uneventful. Plus it’s kinda fun to talk to Doria and Jakub about their lives in Turkey. It’s nice to be still and safe for a minute.

  Especially when Xavier announces it’s time to go, the main room takes on a raw, frenetic energy that puts everyone on edge. Sevda pulls us into a back room where she and Lucas outfit us with the promised tactical vests and black, impact-proof coats. My head and neck are wrapped in an olive-green scarf, and Henry is given sunglasses. He’s near indistinguishable from Lucas and his cohorts.

  Doria and Jakub are dressed casually in jeans and plaid shirts and jackets, given backpacks that look just like ours. Our actual packs are locked in the lead case again, and then we’re off.

  Henry grabs my hand where we’re standing next to the SUV in the parking garage. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Let’s move,” Xavier announces. Our lineup is predetermined—Lucas and another soldier in front, Doria and Jakub in the middle, and then Xavier, myself, Henry, and Sevda in a line along the back. We walk out of the parking garage via the driveway where we entered, and then it’s down the block, around to the front of the building, and across the wide boulevard that separates the apartments and the grand park where Tanrilar Sirk is set up.

  Men, women, and children excitedly move down the sidewalks along the expansive green lawns and into the heart of the park toward the big top. Henry nudges me with his elbow and speaks under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “If we survive this, I promise I will try Shakespeare again,” he says, his lips quivering with a nervous smile.

  “Well, in that case... you will learn to love Hamlet. Trust me.”

  “I do. Implicitly.” He winks.

  “Eyes front, lover boy,” Xavier scolds.

  The approach to Tanrilar Sirk brings about such a whirl of emotions. It’s a beautiful tent in reds and golds, the tallest of the three spires topped unsurprisingly with a massive Turkish flag flapping proudly in the coastal air. The excitement of the crowds making their way toward the entrance gates is palpable. Vendors around the edge offer everything from skewers of fresh grilled meats to ornate ribbon-style candy twisted hot onto bamboo sticks that will cool into lollipops. My stomach growls. Music pours through speakers mounted at the tent corners; families take photos and videos of small children dancing and posing with the clowns who roam the grounds.

  Food and happiness and smiling people everywhere.

  Like I’ve said before, circus is the great equalizer.

  Rather than follow the circusgoers toward the main ticket gate, however, Lucas and his partner lead us around the edge of the big top. How I wish I were here as a tourist, to visit the menagerie and watch the acrobats, and not as an heir to a book that has the power to erase all of this with a single uttered spell and a few drops of blood.

  Sevda presses a finger against her ear, speaking softly into the mic at her wrist. I’m trying not to look at faces, especially those belonging to women. But with Sevda’s quiet utterances into her sleeve, I notice eyes in the crowd among us, eyes attached to bodies that change course and start moving in our direction. Men and women in plainclothes, scarves around necks and heads and purses draped over shoulders. Only upon closer
inspection do I notice the lumps of concealed sidearms under a long coat or the bulge in a fashionable boot that extends up a leg.

  My chest aches with the effort of not freaking out, and my hands sing with renewed electric pain. “Xavier,” I whisper.

  Sevda’s voice crackles in our ears. “They are with us. La Vérité. All is well. Stay focused.”

  We approach the back of one of the long side tents. Though I don’t at first see the split in the canvas, Lucas reaches out, pulls it aside, and ushers us in. It’s about the size of our mess tent back home—it will easily hold a hundred people or more. It has a doorway at its northern front side, blocked by a sapphire-blue velvet rope and two men dressed like Lucas, standing guard and looking a little too obvious.

  As soon as we’re inside, Doria and Jakub are placed on sturdy wooden chairs with thick upholstered seats on a small dais along the middle of the southern wall—like some sort of royalty. It looks like La Vérité members will then be allowed in via the front, once the velvet rope is moved, to pay their respects. The tent interior otherwise is laid with thick carpet, stacks of ornate pillows in rich earthy colors, as well as a long table along the northern wall with shining silver teapots, small glasses, and an endless buffet of pastries, dates, and tiny oranges. Incense sits heavy in the air.

  Henry and I stand along the eastern wall, watching. With a few quick exchanges via the earpieces, the velvet rope is unhooked, and people enter—all of them pausing just inside to pull their keys free and show them to Lucas.

  “Genevieve, keep your eyes on the keys,” Xavier says. One by one, people move to the dais and say hello to the fake Genevieve, the fake Henry.

  “Do we have a twenty on Mazhar?” Xavier asks.

  Sevda pulls her phone out, scrolls through, and tucks it away again. She presses a finger against her earpiece. “He’s here. Making his way toward us.”

  I watch the keys but also the faces of the people greeting Doria and Jakub, relieved when none of these strangers takes on Aveline’s visage. Many of the guests are dressed in their circus finery—they’re performers—but still others who enter are limping or holding a sick child or their own skin looks pallid with illness. They stop in front of Doria and she only utters a few words and pats their hand or arm but doesn’t do anything to help them—because she can’t.