That kind of power.
“There are more journals piled over here on the chairs,” Whit commented. “Why don’t we take our time and look through everything? Olivera, if you see anything worth keeping, shrink it.”
Reflexively, my hand went to the scarf around my neck.
“We’re just going to stay here all night?” Isadora asked. “What happens if Mother comes back?”
“We’ll all take tea together,” Whit said.
Isadora glared at him. Whit dropped to the floor and began thumbing through the journals and old books. Isadora read through letters, and I perused the shelves slowly. This turned out to be a messy task. The teakettle whistled flames when I touched the handle; various figurines loudly sang lewd songs, reminding me of that old music box; most of the scarves behaved like chameleons, changing color and shape based on what they touched; the bottles of ink were actually medicine, and I shrunk them all down, recalling a story my uncle had told me back on Philae. Mamá constantly worried about getting sick, but then she had found a cache of ink bottles that held the remnants of healing spells. Now she could cure anything: broken bones, heat rashes, fevers, chills, stomach pains.
I felt no qualms in taking the stash.
There was also an earring that seemed to magnify the noise in the room (Whit quietly reading to himself sounded like he was bellowing right in my ear), a bracelet that warmed up my body temperature, and several charcoal pencils that were tied up in a ribbon. I didn’t know what they did, but I could always use more of them.
I turned away from the shelf and went to one of the chairs, moving the large stacks of paper to make room. An icy claw of dread pierced me. Somewhere in Alexandria, Mamá was hiding with hundreds and hundreds of artifacts, preparing for them to be sold.
“Where could she be?” I fumed.
“That,” came a voice from the doorway, “is a very good question.”
Fear pricked my skin. I knew that voice, the greasy quality to it, as if every word was dipped in a vat of oil. Slowly, I lifted my gaze.
Leaning against the frame nonchalantly was Mr. Basil Sterling.
His hand held a pistol pointed at my heart.
CAPÍTULO DIECIOCHO
Mr. Sterling straightened and took a step inside the room, his presence seeming to take over the space, darkening the corners, dropping the temperature to a frightening chill. He wore his usual three-piece suit, dark trousers, matching jacket, and a vest that buttoned over the curve of his belly. I didn’t have to look at his shoes to know that they were polished to a shiny gleam. His outrageous mustache quivered in amusement as he took in our astonished expressions.
“I would not reach for your knife, Mr. Hayes,” said Mr. Sterling in his nasally voice, adjusting his spectacles. “In fact, why don’t you raise up your hands high for me?”
A muscle jumped in Whit’s jaw. His eyes flicked to the barrel of the pistol and then up to meet mine. He let me see his fury, twin blue flames. I knew what he was capable of, knew the kind of damage his hands could wreak.
But he would not risk me.
And slowly, deliberately, he raised his arms, palms in a tight fist.
“Young lady,” Mr. Sterling said, turning his attention to my sister, “if you’d please mimic our young hero, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
Mr. Sterling had followed us here, presumably looking for clues to Mamá’s whereabouts. He’d take everything he could carry. Instinctively, I reached for the first shrunken object in my pocket and slipped it into my mouth. It seemed to be one of the tiny ink bottles I’d snatched from the bookshelf. Next, I reached into my other pocket and stuffed tiny pages underneath the collar of my dress.
“Now, young lady,” Mr. Sterling repeated, thick brows pulled into a tight frown.
Isadora’s lips pinched. Mr. Sterling studied her, his brow drawn into a straight, perplexed line. He seemed to find her familiar but couldn’t quite place how he would know her.
“Have we met?” he asked finally.
Isadora shook her head, anger bleeding out of her like an open wound.
“You look like a lady, but as you’re in the company of a disgraced soldier and the daughter of my enemy, it’s highly likely that you’d have no qualms about shooting me in the face.”
My sister’s voice rang out, cool and confident. I was never more proud of her. “You would be correct.”
“Hands,” Mr. Sterling repeated.
Isadora raised them higher.
