by Garret Weyr
“Papa, I have to find a missing cat now. And I don’t know where to look.”
“Is the cat part of your quest?” he asked. “The potion’s not enough?”
“We need the cat so we can use the potion,” Maggie said. “She was in danger so she couldn’t go home, and no one knows where she is.”
“If I were a cat who needed a hiding place,” he said, slowly, “I would go to Rome and become one of many.”
“You mean hide in plain sight?”
“Yes,” Alexander said, closing his bag. “I’m off. Give me a hug.”
Maggie was glad to. As wonderful as flying to London without him had been, it was just as nice to come home.
“Order some breakfast and have a nap,” he said, leaving a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve left you a Latin translation and four pages of math problems.”
Maggie sat down at her desk and looked at her work in dismay. She was not interested in Latin and math. She needed to know where to find Tyr.
Rome was where Leopold was. Surely Tyr would not have gone there? A cat in Vienna could hide in plain sight as well.
When Grisha arrived at the Hotel Sacher, he discovered that his charge had spent all day in her room, ignoring her books and staring out the window. He had to say her name three times before she looked up at him.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “I’ve been making a list of places to look for a cat in Vienna: hotels, palaces, and museums.”
“If I were a cat, I’d live in Rome,” Grisha said, laughing. “It’s warmer, and everyone there loves cats.”
“Did you say Rome?” He nodded, slightly alarmed at how bright her eyes had become.
“That’s exactly what Papa said. We should go. It’s a sign!”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “Thisbe thinks Tyr is near Kator or somewhere in this city.”
“Let’s start looking,” Maggie said. She ripped a page from her notebook. “These are the kind of places where Vienna’s cats live.”
Three days and many hotels, palaces, and museums later, they had to admit defeat. It wasn’t that they hadn’t found cats in each of these places. As was expected in Vienna, each place had a proud and snotty cat, each of them deeply indifferent to questions about Tyr.
Maggie and Grisha even went to the university to track down the cat who’d scratched her all those years ago. They’d found him in the economics building. “I don’t go to the poetry offices anymore,” he told Grisha, sniffing. “And I certainly haven’t seen a cat with a short, bushy tail.”
Exhausted and empty-handed, Grisha and Maggie retreated to the lobby of the Sacher. They sat in plush chairs and ordered a plate of cookies that they were too disappointed to eat.
“I really don’t think Tyr would go to Rome,” Grisha said. He knew by now that Maggie liked to jump ahead to the next step.
“Tyr would have every reason,” Maggie said. “What better place than a city known to welcome cats?”
“I just don’t think she would risk being that close to Leopold,” Grisha said. “And we certainly shouldn’t either.”
“I thought Leopold lived in a villa outside of Rome,” she said.
“Yes, but—”
“Papa will go with us,” she said, firmly. “And if Leopold discovers we are in Rome, it will look as if you’re there as part of your job and that I’m traveling with my father. Not as if we are looking for Tyr.”
Grisha did see the wisdom of going to a city that had the largest population of cats in all of Europe. But he knew that the danger involved in going to Rome was not a stupid one, easily avoided. Every quest will naturally be different from the others that have come before it, but no quest worthy of its name will allow you to hide from your biggest fear.
Alexander, it seemed to Maggie, agreed all too quickly to take them both to Rome. At first she thought it was because he did not want to risk losing another argument about her travels. But when he said, “Rome is where Antiquity took root when the Greeks faded away,” she realized that the price she would pay for being allowed to search for Tyr would be a huge number of art and history lessons.
Maggie loved her father and suspected that she herself would probably become the sort of grown-up who loved sentences that began with “Rome is where Antiquity took root.” However, she was beginning to think that her education was interfering with the sort of person she wanted to be right now. She did not want to go to Rome because of Antiquity. She wanted to go because of buried dragons and enchanted cats.
All she said to her father, however, was, “That sounds nice.”
When they arrived in Rome, they went to an apartment that Alexander’s friend Matan Bassani had loaned him for a few days. Maggie had met Matan many times during his visits to Vienna and never liked the way he always murmured So like your mother. I’m glad he’s out of town, she thought, while walking up six flights of stairs to the top floor of a small, elegant building.
Everywhere in the apartment there were windows with balconies, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, or beautiful objects. By the doorway were two lamps in the shape of elephants and a large, brightly colored glass vase. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling and, on the floor, the sort of beautiful rug people are afraid to step on.
Maggie and Grisha stood quietly in the massive front hall.
For the first time in her life, Maggie wondered about the apartment in Vienna where she had lived with her parents before her mother died. Of course it wouldn’t have been anything like this one, which was grand and formal and felt a bit like a hotel lobby. But the Vienna apartment, which was the last place her mother had called home, must have had tall windows and bookcases for all of Papa’s books. And perhaps even some pretty objects.
Had it had balconies as well?
“Maggie, come here,” her father called. “I want to show you something.”
She and Grisha wandered through the apartment’s huge rooms, not finding Alexander until they got to a small alcove tucked into a corner of the dining room. It was empty except that on its curved wall hung five small paintings in various shades of blue and silver.
These were from a series Caroline had done when she was pregnant. Maggie had read about them in art books and magazine articles, but up until this moment, had seen them only in photographs. She had not realized that they looked as if the colors were moving. They shimmered with their blues and silvers.
“Oh, my,” Grisha said, his voice as soft and whispery as a dragon’s could get.
“Can I touch?” Maggie asked her father, and he nodded.
The only other paintings of her mother’s that Maggie remembered seeing this close had been three of the most famous—huge canvases covered in angular shapes of black, brown, and orange—and she’d been uncomfortable to find that she didn’t like them. But these small paintings were somehow different, and as Maggie put her hand against the surface of the one that seemed to shimmer the most, a word she’d never thought to use crept out from behind the shadow of her heart: Mama.
In just that moment, she felt the soft undersides of Grisha’s paws settle on her shoulders. No one said anything. Finally, she took her hand away from the painting and, still silent, hugged her father before going back out into the huge and beautiful apartment.
When Maggie and Alexander went to bed, Grisha curled up on the cool tile floor of one of the front hall’s balconies, all of which overlooked a small park. Soon Maggie joined him.
“I can’t sleep,” she said. “When I close my eyes all I see are blue and silver colors.”
“From the paintings?” he asked.
She nodded. “Until I saw those paintings, I never really thought about how Mama was once alive.”
“Do you want me to tuck you into bed?” Grisha asked, wondering if that would help her feel a bit less sad.
“No, I’m not at all sleepy,” she said. “And it’s not just the paintings. How are we ever going to find Tyr? The city is huge, and Papa has an endless list of things we have to see.”<
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Grisha laughed. He had seen the list, which was rather endless. A bit of smoke puffed out of his nose and floated up into the dark sky.
“The more of Rome we see,” he said, “the more cats we’ll see.”
“You’re going to ask stray cats if they know Tyr?” Maggie asked. “I thought you would smell for her.”
“We’ll do a little of both.”
“And how do you smell for a cat you’ve never met?” Maggie asked.
“It’s more that if Tyr is here, I will smell a bit of Thisbe. We carry the smell of those we have loved with us,” Grisha said. “We never lose that.”
“I hope that’s true,” Maggie said, and pressed her nose against her wrist. Was it possible she smelled like the famous and dead Caroline Brooks, who had also been her mother?
CHAPTER TWENTY
EXILED
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AFTER ENTIRELY TOO MANY museums and churches, Alexander had an appointment with his Italian publisher. He said he would meet Maggie and Grisha in two hours at the café across the piazza from the church of Santa Maria Maggiore.
Maggie was tired and her brain hurt from trying to keep straight all of the information Alexander had been trying to cram into it as he took her and Grisha around Rome, giving mini lectures on history, art, religion, and the fact that the pope had once had two armies.
“And five dragons on retainer,” Grisha had added, a bit of information that, much to Maggie’s delight, had prevented Alexander from speaking for a full two minutes.
“You should rest,” Grisha told Maggie now. “I can go places you can’t because no one in Rome notices me.”
Maggie only agreed when he pointed out that stray cats might talk more freely with a fellow four-footed creature than with a human girl. She refused to go back to the apartment, not wanting to nap in spite of being exhausted. Instead, she settled at a table outside the café near the church and ordered a chocolate ice.
Her eyes felt dry and scratchy, but every time she closed them, she saw only blues and silvers mixed up together. It was as if her feelings, normally things that behaved in an orderly manner, were now all jumbled and projecting paintings upon her eyelids. As well as questions with no answers.
For example, if her mother were still alive, would she be willing to help find and free the dragons? Her father had done more than just hire Grisha or give his permission. Alexander seemed to truly admire and respect Grisha, and at the very least, he could see Grisha—but had her mother seen Vienna’s dragons? Did she take time to notice, to spend time on things that didn’t belong? Maggie had to wonder if she would even have met Grisha in the first place if her mother were alive. Caroline had preferred Berlin to every other city in Europe and had lived in Vienna only because of Alexander’s job.
Maggie was nervous and uncomfortable at having so many thoughts about her mother. She tried to make a list of everything Alexander had said earlier in the day that was important for an educated person to know. Instead, she found herself wondering whether her parents had ever been in Rome together and when. She closed her eyes again, hoping to empty her mind, but it immediately filled up with blues and silvers.
“Crap,” Maggie said aloud, squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as possible. It was a word Alexander particularly disliked, as he always said that vulgar language reflected boring thoughts. “Crap, crap, crap.”
“Your parents visited Rome many times,” a voice said. “In fact, you were with them the last time they were here. It was the week of your third birthday.”
Maggie’s eyes flew open. At a table a few feet away from hers was an old man in a wheelchair. Although it was a warm day, he was wearing a heavy coat and a blanket covered his legs.
“You have memories of that trip,” the man said, wheeling himself over to her table. “You have memories of your mother too, but you have no idea where they are.”
The man stopped so that his chair was uncomfortably close to hers. He had eyes so dark that they seemed entirely black, which Maggie knew was impossible. “But I know how to find them,” he said. “And I could give them to you.”
Maggie looked at the man’s face. He did not look that old, in spite of his white hair and the wheelchair. The irises of his eyes were black, and the white parts were not white but a greenish yellow. Part of Maggie wanted to get up and run far away, but most of her wanted to stay. Whoever this was, he was from the world of magic. He was part of why she and Grisha had come to Rome.
“I understand you have met my Theodora and have seen what a terrible thing it is to have lost your memories,” the man said. “Poor, silly creature has no idea that she even lost them. I broke the neck of her dearest friend, and yet she still hugs me whenever we meet.” He gave a horrible, dry laugh that sounded like a cough.
Maggie’s back tightened up so much that she was sure she couldn’t move.
“You, however, know exactly what memories you don’t have,” the man said, his black eyes shining like polished gems. “Imagine how marvelous it might be if you could have them. A woman as lovely and talented as your mother should be remembered by her only child.”
“Leopold,” Maggie said, not having meant to speak at all. Had he known her mother?
“Miss Miklós,” the old man said, bowing in his chair. “A pleasure.”
So this was Leopold. Leopold Lashkovic himself was sitting right next to her. It was strange, terrifying, and marvelous all at once. He had captured Grisha, buried dragons, and had killed one of his own cats. And yet Leopold was also a man with hands that had spots and wrinkles. His eyes, while frightening, had lashes and lids just like regular eyes did. The fact that she was merely nervous when she should be terrified was odd, but also soothing.
“My young friend Gregory is an excellent spy,” Leopold said. “He keeps me informed of anything my traitorous felines forget to mention.”
Maggie, who might have remained silent otherwise, sprang into action at the implied criticism of Thisbe’s behavior. “She told me nothing I didn’t know already,” she said in as crisp a formal tone as she could manage. “Both Thisbe and Theodora have refused to help me and have warned Grisha—DR87, that is—not to do anything. So he hasn’t. We are here with my father. That is all.”
“Calm yourself, Miss Miklós,” Leopold said. “My cats are not in any trouble with me, but I myself have much to fear if you manage to wake those lost, slumbering dragons.”
“You buried dragons who had done nothing wrong,” Maggie said. “You ruined their lives with a spell that made them leave their forest. You should be happy at the idea of setting them free.”
“You understand nothing,” Leopold said, and the bitterness in his voice cut through the air like a sword, making Maggie flinch. He turned toward a waiter, who most certainly had not been there a second before, and said, “Brandy and a mineral water, along with some cookies for the young lady.”
The waiter murmured, “Here you are, sir,” and the food simply appeared on the table. It all happened so smoothly and quickly that Maggie had no time to be alarmed or surprised. She watched Leopold sip from his brandy glass before she bit into one of the cookies. It was filled with sugared almond paste—her favorite.
“Your whole future is waiting for you, but I am an old man,” Leopold said. “I live in exile from all I hold dear. Happiness is no longer mine to claim.”
Maggie had always thought of being happy as something you were, not something you claimed.
“But I am still alive,” Leopold continued, “and those dragons are buried as the result of my magic. If you reverse my work, I may die.”
The cookie in Maggie’s mouth suddenly tasted like wet cotton. If Leopold thought she was trying to kill him, who knew what he might do to her? She could feel her legs shaking under the table and she slipped her hands, also shaking, into her lap where he couldn’t see them.
“I can’t force you to abandon your plans,” he said. “But perhaps I can persuade you.”
“I mean you no harm,” Maggi
e said. “But those dragons have the right to be free.”
“As do we all,” Leopold said, moving his hands in front of Maggie. “Close your eyes.”
Without meaning to, she did. Instead of seeing blue and silver or simply darkness, Maggie saw a large, messy room with easels and a table covered in buckets of paint. A slim, elegant woman, dressed in slacks and a smock, was kneeling and talking to a very small child. The child had brown hair and large eyes; her hands were covered in yellow and orange paint, and she was smearing her bright, sticky fingers across paper taped to the floor.
The woman, whom Maggie recognized from photographs, was reaching out to pat the child gently on the face, and—
“Show’s over, dear.”
The vision vanished.
Maggie’s eyes flew open. She knew that what she had seen had actually happened. She’d been with her mother in her studio. They had laughed and played and painted together. It was a memory she’d been far too young to remember, but it still existed somewhere inside of her.
“The afternoons you spent in her studio were your favorite times,” Leopold said. “But there are also countless other memories of her putting you to bed, teaching you to read, playing peekaboo, and singing silly songs. All yours for a special one-time price.”
“How do you know this? How did you do that?” Maggie asked. What she meant was Do it again, please do it again; I have to go back there.
A smug, satisfied expression crept across the old man’s face. “I may be weak, but the taking and giving of your memory is still well within my grasp.”
“But those are my memories. You said so yourself!” Maggie cried, opening and closing her eyes again and again, hoping to see her mother. But now there was only darkness.