“No, Ican’ttell you.”
I stare at him. The way he said the wordcan’tis humming on the inside of my ear canal.
“Can’t,” I repeat, more softly, my eyes narrowing. “Did you make some sort of bargain? An oath?”
“More than that,” he says.
Valdemar takes the seat opposite me, a longing now in his expression. He wants me to know. He wants me to guess because he can’t tell me.
Hecan’ttell me.
“You’re bound by something—something you can’t break. What happens if you break the oath?”
“Nothing happens. Listen to what I’m saying, angel.” He scootches to the edge of the sofa, his knees square, leaning towards me. “Ican’ttell you.”
Like with the word games Ed and I used to play as kids, I toss the sentence around before the clarity of it hits me.
“You can’t physically say the words, can you?” I ask.
Valdemar closes his eyes.
“Oh my God, what is it? Is it magic or something?”
“Or something. Ancient. Beyond the realms of our understanding.”
“But not the realms of Adolphe Fortunato.” My eyes roam the drawing room, taking in nothing as this revelation settles. “No wonder he’s such a powerful man with so many people in his pocket. Is he some kind of magician?”
“Not him,” Valdemar says.
I take note of the simple answers, each one seeming to take such an effort, as if the spell he’s under is aware of the topic of conversation and is keeping a tight leash on it.
“Then who?” My forehead knots, but even before the question is out, I can see Adolphe Fortunato and his sidekick. They’re never without each other. And they were both there that night, in the very room with my brother and Valdemar when the gun went off.
“Dr Tem-Pest? He’s the magic wielder?” I guess.
I’m met with silence, which I take as confirmation. Dr Tem-Pest is the conjuror. He’s the one who bewitched Valdemar, Jupiter, and Jacinta.
“So, who killed Ed, Adolphe Fortunato or Dr Tem-Pest?”
Valdemar gulps as if the answer is lodged in the back of his throat.
“You can’t even answer questions about it, can you?” I say.
He stares at me as if he’s trying to project his thoughts.
“How did you manage to make a statement, to talk to me about it at the prison? I don’t understand.” I shake my head, all the possibilities loose and jangling about in my brain.
He runs his hands through his hair before he speaks, his words heavy. “I shot your brother. It was me. I held the gun and shot him. It was my bullet. My gun.”
Staring at him, I try to see through his words. “You’re programmed in some way to tell the same version of events that everyone else was, the magic somehow enchanting you to tell that version and only that version. Am I right?”
He smiles.
“You can only say what Dr Tem-Pest planted in your head somehow?”
Another smile.
“Shit. There has to be a way to cheat this.” Rubbing my palms together, I stand and stalk the room as Valdemar watches me.“Okay, let’s try this. There was this story I heard once about a famous poet who, one day, went out fishing on his boat, but he died while out on the water. His boat was washed up on the shore a few days later, smashed to pieces, his body arriving with it. The townsfolk had no idea what had happened to him, unsure as to whether a great storm had killed him or the tyrannical sea serpent that the locals feared. Have you heard this story?”
