Flicker Blue 3: Momentum

by Brea Nicole Bond

  Chapter II

  Another Interview

  Jane never forgot the expression on her godfather’s face when she descended the staircase and met him where he waited in the foyer. Part pride, part fear, and a pained look of nostalgia that she would leave her puzzled for a long time afterwards. “Jane,” he whispered to her as she stepped onto the harlequin-patterned tiles. He cleared his throat and resumed his normal volume as he clapped his hand over the shoulder of the red-headed man who stood next to him. “I’d like to introduce you to my friend Liam. You met his sister, Lorena, at our own party last Friday night.”

  Jane shook his hand. He was quite tall, like his sister, and unusually muscular for his lithe frame, with a square jaw and perfect teeth set into a laughing smile. Well, not so old a friend. He couldn’t be more than thirty. Kind of cute, too. “Jane Thomas Sylfaen,” she said as shook his hand with a firmness of which even Gregory would approve. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Liam.”

  “And you, Jane. Lorena talked my ear off ‘bout you when I spoke to her Saturday.” His accent was more pronounced than his sister’s, and his demeanor was infinitely more agreeable.

  I’ll bet she did. Despite her instant liking for Liam, Jane smirked at the mention of Lorena. Dr. Sylfaen cleared his throat again, this time in attempt to draw Jane’s attention to the other man standing in the room. She recomposed herself and took the next man’s hand. “Jane Thomas Sylfaen.”

  “I am Albert Manech, a dear friend of Madame Antoinette’s. I have heard accounts of you, as well, and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Jane.” His accent was so heavy that she scarcely made out more than her own name, but she smiled just the same. He was a bit older than Liam, still younger than her godfather—maybe forty, if she were to guess. His skin was a dark olive that made her think of Cris and scold herself for grinning like an idiot while she shook hands with Liam. His eyes, though a darker green than any of the others with special talents—Cursed, Cris had called them, and she’d begun using the term in her own thoughts despite her dislike for it—were still startling against his tanned skin. He was strikingly handsome, despite his heavy jaw and the dark twinkle that emanated from his metallic green eyes, but his strange apparel distracted from his good looks. He wore a deep green, narrowly cut suit with pinstripes of yellow, and a heavy silver bar pierced the septum of his nose. Lucy would love this guy.

  Madame Antoinette made a grand entrance (she had no doubt delegated Dr. Sylfaen to door-duty for that very purpose) and led the company into the archway to the right of the staircase, which opened into a lavish dining room. Dinner was a short affair, but as fancy as everything else in Madame Antoinette’s home. The meals had been set on covered silver dishes, and a choice of wines stood uncorked on the table, one left chilling in an ornately etched bucket of ice. Jane’s presumption had been correct: apparently, the lady who seemed to possess the best of everything lacked someone as trustworthy as Angelita to keep house for her—not one member of her kitchen staff had been invited to stay for the dinner, even in a domestic capacity. When everyone finished their meals, Jane looked around uncomfortably before standing and gathering the dishes herself to clear them from the table. Liam barked a hearty laugh and stood to assist her; Madame Antoinette, who had made no effort to lift any of her own lily-white fingers, nodded in approval as Jane and Liam returned to their seats.

  Without warning, the ceremony began, very much like the first time Jane had seen it. Her godfather vouched for her first, then Madame Antoinette. Liam followed, smiling the entire time like he’d just heard a good joke, and Manech served as the fourth. Their hands were joined at the center of the table, and Dr. Sylfaen and Madame Antoinette began to speak. As they did, Jane unfocused her eyes to better see the snakes.

  “Antoinette, we have come for the Book.”

  “And it was here, Dr. Sylfaen, as you already know. Old Moll delivered it to me herself, just two days after Christmas.”

  December twenty-seventh, Jane thought. The night my parents died. Her focus faltered, and the roiling clouds of black smoke that twined their way around Liam and Manech became invisible. Invisible, but evident in the beads of perspiration lining Manech’s dark brow, in the transformation of Liam’s smile into a sneer of pained concentration. Jane tried to make herself see them once more—she found it unnerving not to be able to see the forces attacking her new acquaintances—but she failed. December twenty-seventh. She had been so blissfully ignorant of everything then, most of all the existence of a book upon which her survival would depend less than half a year later. Yet it had existed, even then. And, on the early morning that Officer Harris had knocked on Jane’s door with his hat in his hands, Madame Antoinette had held that very same book, the Book, in her own.

  “And you delivered the Book over to whom, Antoinette?”

  Jane’s head snapped up from where she had been studying the wood grain of the dining table as she reflected. The Book isn’t here?!

  “I…,” Madame Antoinette paused, and a regretful twinge strained her eyes. “I took it to Cairo,” she whispered. “I had no choice, of course, but I am sorry just the same.”

  “To Ahmose?”

  Her slender shoulders shrugged. “Does it matter? While the Book was in Cairo, it was surely in his possession.”

  The old man considered that, nodding pensively. “That is a complication.”

  “It may be for you, my friend, but not for Jane.” Her gaze shifted to the girl, and Dr. Sylfaen’s eyes followed. Jane thought she saw his eyes dart downward to the great green stone pendant around her neck, but it happened so quickly that she might have imagined it.

  “Even so, I cannot send her alone. I would no sooner throw her into the lion’s den,” her godfather said.

  Madame Antoinette drew a long breath. “No, you must go with her. She will not be refused, but you must take great caution while you are in The Egyptian’s city.” Her voice was nearing the commanding tone she used when addressing the Mouse Man—she wasn’t merely expressing concern for her old friend’s well-being; she was issuing orders for Jane’s safety. “He is not a man to be trusted, and I cannot predict how he will react when he finds himself honor-bound to help a Sylfaen.”

  Considering how she’d slept following the first ceremony, in which Old Moll revealed that she had turned the Book over to Madame Antoinette, Jane did not want to consider the unsettling dreams that awaited her now, on her first night in Paris. The reputation of this man Ahmose—the Egyptian, as her hostess had called him, certainly seemed the stuff of nightmares, though Jane knew nothing more about him than his name. Ahmose. But, in spite of the anxieties that were forming a hard knot in the pit of her stomach, like a pearl cultivating around a grain of sand in the belly of a clam, Jane Thomas Sylfaen slept like the dead.

  “We’re leaving so soon?” Jane was eager to continue on her quest for the Book, but she regretted having to leave Paris so soon. It seemed like such a waste to go before seeing some of the city first. If they left that evening, she wouldn’t even have one full day to take in the sights. And I wouldn’t mind having a little more time to prepare for our meeting in Cairo, she added wryly.

  “Yes, Jane. The sooner we depart, the sooner we will find the Book. Any unnecessary delay could put us weeks behind.” He cringed as he said it, so Jane knew it to be truth.

  Madame Antoinette enveloped her arms around Jane, her dress rustling softly as she pressed the girl close. She wore lavender this morning, and her perfume smelled of lilacs and honeysuckles, heavy but by no means unpleasant.

  “Do not fret, mon cherie. We will see each other again very soon.” Tears slicked her fair green eyes as she spoke, and Jane wondered whether she really believed that, or if she had spoken to convince herself. “Come, we will make the most of the morning while your godfather makes your travel arrangements. Where would you like to go?”

  Jane had to think. “Um…I’d really like to see an art museum. Would that be okay?”

  M
adame Antoinette’s usual gaiety returned, and she made a coquettish gesture as she concealed a giggle. “That, mon cherie, I can arrange.”

  Ten hours later, Jane found herself seated next to Dr. Sylfaen on a late afternoon flight to Cairo. It was evening, really, but the summer sun was still far from retiring on the western horizon.

  “So, Jane…what did you think of Madame Antoinette?”

  Jane’s mind flashed to an image of the elegant lady leaning over her as she fastened the pendant around her neck. “I think she might be the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

  Dr. Sylfaen arched an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, she’s…strange. I’ve never met anyone else in the world like her. All those dolls, and the fancy furniture, and the weirdo butler. Very strange. But I liked her—liked her a lot. She made me feel warm.” Warm, and protected, and beautiful, and loved, and nurtured, and empowered. It would take Jane a dozen flights to Cairo to express everything she’d felt in Madame Antoinette’s presence.

  “Yes, she seems pretty one of a kind, doesn’t she? I’m not sure the world could handle more than one person like Madame Antoinette d’Asp.” He began to wince, not in reaction to true pain, but as if his words were conjuring the warning stabs that preceded an attack. Jane was all too familiar with those cautionary pangs, so she tried to change the subject.

  Unfortunately, she chose the wrong question to ask. “Is she a Compassionate?” Not that I know what that means, except that you’re one, too, she thought.

  Dr. Sylfaen’s struggle with the pain became more evident as he selected his words. “That is not a question I can answer, Jane. Suffice it to say that, in this matter—as in most others, not all things are black and white.” He turned to peek out the window, signaling an abrupt end to the conversation.

  Her godfather’s response struck a chord in her memory. The words, so offensive then, that Mr. Everword had used on the evening of her birthday. He’s not your kind, he had said, and in no uncertain terms. Jane had dismissed his referral to Cris as sheer prejudice, an issue of black and white, so to speak. But she had learned so much more since then…Maybe he meant that Cris is not my kind because he is not Cursed…because he is mortal, as Old Moll said…like my parents were…like I used to be. But what does that make me now?

  She was too numb, too lost in thought, to feel the tears streaking down her cheeks. The truth behind the perceived prejudice dawned on her, and, somewhere in her brain a dam broke, releasing an onslaught of questions. Terrifying questions. So what is my kind, then? What’s our kind, Uncle Mederick? She knew that she was separated from the vast majority of humanity by her freakish new talent—her “supernatural ability,” as Cris had labeled it in his writings—but she’d never in her wildest dreams excluded herself from it altogether. Her thoughts darkened, and she began to fume. The decibel of her thoughts was so high that she wondered that nobody else could hear them, even if they were only ringing in her own head. What does that make me? Am I still human at all? What else is there, Uncle Mederick?! What have you turned me into?! Jane felt the urge to strike the old man in the first-class seat beside her. All affection she’d felt the previous evening was momentarily lost in her instinctual realization that, somehow, this absurd situation was his fault—even if he hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. Her parents were gone, her old life was gone, and now her very humanity was being stripped away. She turned to look at Dr. Sylfaen, at peace watching the white puffs of cloud pass by, and she gathered herself to confront him—to demand some answers, once and for all.

  As her mouth formed the first word, the snakes appeared. Visibly appeared. Jane hadn’t noticed in her fury that her vision had become blurred with emotion; the effect was the same as when she had unfocused her eyes during the interviews with Old Moll and Madame Antoinette. They were coming at her fast, and though she stopped short of speaking, they still inflicted a great deal of pain as they crashed against her.

  She gasped, and Dr. Sylfaen’s head shot away from the window. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “Jane?” he asked in a fervent whisper, a high note of alarm audible in his hushed voice. He removed his hands, and Jane saw that a vivid blue mark, in the exact shape of the old man’s hands, was left on each of her shoulders where he had touched her. The handprints were luminous, electric, and she wondered why she could not feel them—surely something so bright would be burning hot to the touch. The pain had abruptly dissipated when he laid his hands upon her, and now his eyebrows were knitted together in a furrow of concentration. She didn’t know what had just happened, but she was grateful enough that her anger lessened a little. A very little. She watched the electric handprints fade into the fabric of her t-shirt, into the skin underneath.

  When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Easy, Jane,” his eyes swept over the other passengers aboard the plane. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, for now.”

  She tried to reply, but whatever she’d meant to say was transfigured into a croaky whimper by the time it reached her lips. The tears had grown from streams to rivers as her frustration heightened.

  Dr. Sylfaen managed a sympathetic smile between deliberately slow breaths. He leaned over to her and kissed her forehead. “For the time being, just take comfort that your thoughts are on the right track. But I will not have you harm yourself by recklessly jumping to conclusions. Please be patient.”

  Jane pressed her head back hard against the leather seatback. On this occasion, the fact that her thoughts were on the right track brought her no comfort. Patient, my ass. If I have to endure too much more of this, I may just let the pain take me next time.