As they focused on the planchette, their fingers poised to guide its movement, a rising tension mounted in the room. Yet the wooden piece remained stubbornly still. Their desperation and grief failed to stir any supernatural response.
The minutes stretched. The fire softly murmured. The wind whispered. But the planchette remained motionless.
With her free hand, Darcy gripped Julien’s arm. “I’m sorry, Julien.”
Julien swallowed down the disappointment and frustration that threatened to explode out of him. “Well, we had to try. For her.”
“We’ll get straight back to the elixir tomorrow,” said Elliot. “I think we’re so close to cracking the dose.”
Darcy scoffed. “Close? You almost died last time. In fact, youweredead for ninety seconds.”
“Oui, and it’s the closest we’ve come.”
With a scowl, Darcy spoke, in that annoying, firm voice she used whenever she decided she was in charge. “No. You are never again taking Mortalisfade. Ever.”
With a sudden burst of intensity, the fire crackled, tiny bright firemotes bursting out of it, glowing like stardust. Then it spat a smoking piece of yellowed parchment, to fall on an aged shaggy rug. A few lines of looping cursive ran across it.
Julien was the first to grab the note, warm to the touch. He read it, read it again, and looked up to say, “She’s got him. She’s bringing him here.”
three
Cinn
Cinn spent the entire aeroplane landing squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to think about the fact that he was still a million miles high, about to crash land in a fiery inferno. The awful pressure tormenting his eardrums didn’tpopuntil the very end. He clenched his armrest throughout the last few nerve-racking seconds before the jet hit the ground with a bump.
“I’m never flying again,” he ground out.
Another lady, dressed in a smart uniform, appeared and ushered them out of the door and down the boarding stairs. Glancing around, Cinn could only guess they were at another private airfield.
He’d never left England before. Switzerland seemed very similar so far. The same soft hues of pink and orange marking dawn, the sun’s gentle rays stretching across an otherwise blue sky.
“So… this is Switzerland?” he asked Madame Sinclair, who was trailing behind him as he crossed the concrete runway. Two attendants carried their bags: his duffle and her large suitcase.
“Indeed.”
“But you’re not Swiss.”
“No. I’m American, but I’ve lived in Europe for so long, I consider myself a citizen of the world, rather than one nationality.”
Cinn rolled his eyes. “And the other people at the Institute…”
“Are from all sorts of places. Mostly Europe. Lots from England. I’m going to introduce you to three people I trust. They’re Scottish, American, and French.”
Cinn snorted.Did they walk into a bar?
“They’ll help orient you and get you anything you need.”
Would one of them help him get home? Unlikely. He was on his own, just like he always was.
Cinn had a million more questions, but Madame Sinclair directed him towards the back of a sleek black taxi, while she took the front passenger seat. After she reeled off an address in another language, she poured over a notebook, leaving Cinn to sulk in the back. He slipped on his headphones and plugged them into his Walkman.
For the first half an hour, he attempted to take mental notes on which roads they were travelling, but the few signs he saw were hard to pronounce and even harder to remember.
Large dual carriageways eventually turned into winding roads, which turned into small streets—quaint, detached and terraced homes with neat rows of chimneys and windows.
The car slowed, pulling up onto the pavement. After payment was exchanged, the taxi driver handed Madame Sinclair a set of keys.
“We’ve got you a little maisonette. All to yourself.”
