“That’s not possible.” Branwell crossed his arms.
“I know! I know it’s not possible. But he did. There was absolutely no one else in the room. He looked straight at me and then got this sly look. Like he thought it was hilarious that I was there. He pulled down on the skin below his eye—”
“The hand gesture forfurbo? For someone who is being sneaky?”
“Yes. He even mouthedfurbo, tugged on his lower eye lid, shook his fingernoand snuffed out the remaining candle.”
Complete silence.
“HeknewI was there. Cesareil Pompasoknew when he wrote whatever is on the blacked-out vellum, that I would use my GUT to try and see it. He effectively told menoand turned out all the lights so I couldn’t see.”
“That’s impossible,” Tennyson scoffed.
“Is it though?” Jack’s voice rumbled through me.
Ah. It was really nice being nestled with him like this. I may have huddled even more in his space.
“I agree with Jack.” Branwell nodded. “It’s not impossible. Cesare could have easily seen all of this in a vision. Let me have a go at it.”
“How’s the scar?” I had to ask it again.
“It appears stable,” Jack said. “Go ahead, Branwell.”
Branwell nodded, stripping off a glove and, like Dante, set a finger on the edge of the vellum.
Unlike Dante, Branwell closed his eyes, tilting his head.
“Scar?” I whispered, softly . . . so softly a person would have to have been practically inside me to hear.
“Glowing,” Jack murmured back.
Yeah, this sharing the same space thing was definitely working for me.
Branwell stood still for several minutes, head at an angle. Suddenly, he flinched, expression astonished as he winced and drew his hand away.
He took a step back, drawing his glove back on. “Uhmm, yeah. Cesare was definitely on to us. I don’t even know how this is possible.”
“What happened?”
“I skimmed past a few noises and then landed on an aristocratic Italian voice saying, ‘This is where you want to stop. I will tell you all the best things you need to hear—’”
“Wow.” Tennyson sat back.
“That sounds like Cesareil Pompaso,” I muttered.
“He continued, saying, ‘Like your brother, you will not find what you seek this way. You must be the smartest. All my children are the most intelligent.’ And then Cesare giggled. All I got after that was the noise of something rubbing over parchment.”
Silence.
“Again . . . wow,” Tennyson said.
“I’m telling you, Cesareil Pompasowas seriously messed in the head.” I had to say the obvious.
“On the bright side, we are clearly on the right track here. Cesare saw something and maybe he’s leading us to find answers.” Dante stretched out his long legs. “We just have to be smarter, like he said.”
“ButisCesare leading us?” Tennyson asked.
“Or is he a clinically-insane megalomaniac who finds it humorous to punk people from beyond the grave?” My tone so very dry.
