“He’s so much smarter than you.”
“He is,” Eian agrees, and I don’t need to turn around to see the sappy smile on his face. I pat him on the leg again, he deserves it.
“So each Chair has a ring, and each ring has a different piece of the puzzle you could say, so when every Chair puts their seal on whatever it is we’re doing, the seal of the Turris appears. When it does, it says,aequilibrium servandum est ut turris stet. It means balance must be met for the tower to stand.” Harrison’s blue eyes fly up to connect with Eian’s then. “Did you know my dad suggested the name Brett for you?”
“He did?” Eian asks quietly.
“Yes, he told me that one time when I came home on break from college. I can’t know, of course, if this is why.” He reaches for the ring on top of the papers and offers it to Eian. “But I’m choosing to believe it’s a sign that he would have approved of this move, and a sign that you should hold the Chair of People.”
Eian takes the ring, and in the sudden silence I feel this instinct to move things along, to bring Harrison’s focus back to me so Eian can process this... this insanity.
“So everybody has to put their seal in for something to be like... validated?”
“Exactly. But there are some exceptions, like today. Sometimes a Crawford makes a decision, and everyone else just needs to kind of... deal with it.”
“Deal with it?” I repeat, hoping for some clarification.
“Harry’s an entitled asshole,” Eian says and I turn to look at him. “But he kind of has his reasons.” He shrugs while still looking at that damned ring, then grips my chin to turn my head back toward Harrison.
“What are those reasons? What does the Turris evendo?” I demand.
Harrison stares at me for a long moment. I don’t know if it’s to let the silence linger and make me uncomfortable or to think of how to answer. I don’t know him at all so it’s really hard to tell.
“Do you remember a few years back when the news broke about this TV producer who was taking advantage of young artists who were homeless?”
I reel back a little at the question, but then...
“Yes, I remember.”
“Okay, well, the first person to come to us with a report of young artists going missing was Michelle Blackwell. Then Brent looked into it, and with his contacts in the NYPD they conducted an investigation. They found out who it was, but didn’t have solid proof. Michael Ellsworth used his contacts in the media world to get us more information, then his son Eli did his thing?—”
“Histhing?” I ask.
“He can hack into anything,” Harrison answers quickly then keeps going. “And we had even more information onhim. Shirley Wall made sure the IRS looked into him, and I evicted him from his house.”
“How can you evict someone from their own house?” I remember the slimy asshole had a lot of fucking money and a brownstone. There were pictures of him getting arrested just outside it splashed all over the news.
“Because he might’ve owned the building, but I own the land.”
That statement hangs suspended in the room for a long moment until I narrow my eyes at him.
“You own a lot more than people think, huh?”
“I do,” he says simply, but with a satisfied smirk lifting his lips. “In any case, that’s one of the last times we dealt with something together, but mostly we do our best to put our efforts into fixing the toughest problems the city faces. Mostly, we let people live. We need to be able to trust the words of our Chair of People to know what’s going on, because frankly, we’re all so far removed from what passes as a normal life here that we can’t imagine it.
“This wasn’t the intended purpose of the Turris when it started, but it’s what it has evolved into. Yes, we also help each other out. The Altons are everyone’s lawyer, if Michelle needs help with a play, Michael pushes for a promotional spot on a late night show or talk show. If something scandalous happens at a Certon hotel, then we make up some event to host there to help people get over itfaster. Stuff like that happens regularly. I even bought the Kings when Barclay just couldn’t manage it anymore.”
“Wow,” I whisper. “It’s like a support group.”
Harrison snorts and shakes his head. When he combs his fingers through his silver hair it strikes me how attractive he is. Yeah, I’ve noticed that before, but tonight... I hope it means I’m relaxing around him, because as Eian’s cousin I’m probably going to be seeing him a lot.
“We’re just a bunch of rich assholes trying not to make everything worse.” His sardonic tone has me rethinking some things.
“Sure, but at least you care. What was the original purpose of the Turris?” I’m sure he’s sick of the questions, but I can’t help myself.
“When all our ancestors arrived here they wanted to become kings, in a way they never would back in England. They were all friends of the Duke of York, the King’s brother, and all in their own right were the spare to some type of heir. When the Duke didn’t like it here, he left it in the capable hands of his best friend, a Crawford. There were only seven members back then. But then two hundred years ago, another spare to the heir of the Duke of York came here and demanded a seat at the table, demanded that Crawford build him a place for all his art. So he was brought into the Turris and his descendants eventually became the Windsors.” He snorts out a laugh. “They changed their names so no one would forget where they came from, or some bullshit like that, but Crawford retained power over the land, and so he retained power over everyone.”
“Okay.” I breathe out the word, not knowing exactly what will happen next. So I ask.
