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“She knows
what happened in 1893. She knows who beheaded her. She must know.”

Julian laughed.
“Of course she does. That doesn’t mean she’s
willing to tell me.”

I hadn’t
thought of that.

He looked down at
the head. “I suppose you could ask, Adam. Maybe she’d be
willing to tell you.”

“Yes,”
I said, a little too eagerly. “So how does it work?”

“The
mechanism operates via contact,” he said, removing the shroud
and holding the head out to me. “Whenever you are ready, place
your hands against her temples.”

I reached out
towards Mnemosyne’s head and closed the circuit.

I could feel a
distinct shift in my consciousness as our senses began to merge. My
vision doubled. Back in my body, I closed my eyes, but I could still
hear through two sets of ears, smell through two noses, taste through
two mouths. She spoke to me—and only me—without moving
her lips. Her voice was like the crackle of electricity, searing and
polarizing.

I know who you
are, Adam Fletcher, and I know what you intend to ask of me at your
brother’s request.

In her vision,
Julian’s figure was shadowed and faint. He flickered in and out
of view, perhaps due to the wards he’d erected against her
influence. He looked younger to her than he did to me, and despite
the fact that she found his features unobjectionable—perhaps
even appealing—something beneath his skin was grotesque to her.

I will not
comply on his behalf...

As she looked at
my face, I felt a disconcerting surge of nostalgia and regret. If she
had had hands, she would have caressed my cheek.

But I will do
it for you.

“What do I
need to do?” I asked, speaking the words aloud.

Give him your
blood.

“I—but
I don’t have a vessel.”

I could feel her
think of smiling.
Don’t
be silly, dear son. You are, yourself, a vessel—the very
conduit for the Well of Memory.

I shook my head,
grimacing. I felt sick.

First,
command him to relinquish his wards for the duration,
she insisted.
You
must be able to see what he sees.

I opened my eyes
and looked over at Julian. He was standing in a grave posture, as if
in prayer.

This
dream is for you; my gift to you, a gift of knowledge,
Mnemosyne continued.
Make
your request and make your offering. Do it here.

Hands shaking, I
walked to the tomb and placed her head down in the depression. I
slowly retracted my hands from her temples.

Do
it now,
she
commanded me as her voice began to recede from my awareness.

“Julian.”
The electric shock of Mnemosyne’s voice issued from my lips as
I spoke.

“Yes?”

“You will
lower your wards.”

He blinked, and
for a moment I could almost hear him resisting, but then he nodded.
He made a brief, deliberate gesture and his mental shields fell.

A tidal wave of
his emotions and thoughts immediately overwhelmed me. I was
unprepared for it; I had become accustomed to Aya’s stiff,
shallow sentimentality. Where Aya was a tinny old recording, Julian
was a crashing symphony, all complexity and dissonance. Anxiety and
regret and frustration and humiliation all roiled at his surface, but
underneath was an earnest and crushing sense of hope in the face of
profound alienation. He did and didn’t want me to look at him.
He did and didn’t think I’d be willing to understand what
I saw. For a moment I lost all focus, consumed by this odd communion,
but I shook my head and forced myself to come to my senses.

“Have you
told me the truth?” we demanded in unison. He heard her voice
as clearly as I did. Her will was a sledgehammer in my hands.

“I have,”
he swore, “to the best of my ability. Everything I’ve
told you tonight has been true.” His need for my belief was
staggering; it easily eclipsed the thousand other thoughts and
emotions that flooded from his mind into mine.

“All right,”
I said with a sigh. As I relaxed, Mnemosyne’s power receded. My
voice became normal again. “She wants you to drink my blood.
She says I’m a conduit for the Well of Memory, whatever that
means.” I looked away, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t
need to see his face to know what he was feeling. He could barely
contain his elation.

“It—it’s
that simple?” he stuttered, nonplussed. “I can hardly
believe it. Very well. I will put the head back in its place, and we
will return to the estate—“

“No,”
I said, shaking my head. “No, she said to do it here.”

He was taken aback
for a moment, then nearly as embarrassed as I was. There was
something he was forcing himself to keep at the back of his mind, and
it was taking a monumental act of will for him to succeed. I thought
of my own past misgivings, of the sickness I’d always felt at
the idea of taking someone’s blood through their neck, of the
presumption that I’d somehow insult them by doing so, deny them
some dignity or autonomy.

In that moment I
felt some of my revulsion begin to die—perhaps due to
Mnemosyne’s influence, or perhaps due to the startling affinity
I suddenly felt with Julian. We were equals; we were brothers. It
seemed ridiculous to be ashamed any longer. I turned my head to the
side, tilting my jaw toward the sky.

“It’s
nothing,” I said, trying to persuade the both of us to believe
me. “It doesn’t matter. Go ahead.”

He nodded,
swallowing hard. He was trying to remember I was just Adam Fletcher,
the dispossessed brain trauma specialist, born in 1954 in the United
States—not the other, dead and gone, whose face I nearly
shared. He would do his best to make this straightforward and
dispassionate. It was nothing.
Les
affaires sont les affaires.

“I apologize
in advance if I hurt you,” he whispered.

He placed his
hands on my biceps, leaned in towards me, and pierced my neck with
his teeth. Just two of them, his canines, just enough to call forth a
slow trickle of blood. I barely felt the injury. It seemed scarcely
more than an insect sting, neither painful nor pleasant. I couldn’t
help but appreciate his efficiency.

As my blood passed
through his lips and down his throat, the world began to shift. His
hidden memory unfolded like a knot from a rope, or an origami crane
being undone, and as it was revealed, my own sense of self
diminished.

We fell into the
darkness, into the abyss that was the Well of Memory, to awaken
ninety-nine years in the past.

{Julian
Radcliffe}

A shiver ran up my
spine as I approached the hotel.

A strong wind was
blowing off the lake, this was true, but the weather was temperate;
it was midsummer, just after sunset. The reflex had nothing to do
with the climate. No—as much as I hated to admit it, I was
nervous to face my daughter once again, and doubly so to meet her in
such an imposing setting.

I pulled out the
calling card and reviewed the address. Seventeen East Monroe
Street—yes, this was it, this was where she was spending her
days. How could she afford to stay somewhere like this, amongst
dignitaries and barons of industry? Even the façade of the
seven-story structure made me feel inadequate—impoverished,
disenfranchised, underdressed.

I tucked the card
back inside my pocket and walked up to the front doors with forced
nonchalance. As much as I was glad to be out from under the Wardens’
watchful gaze for a few weeks, I wished they had sent me on some
other assignment. I’d have preferred to go somewhere that
wasn’t so crowded, to spy on someone who wasn’t Mirabel.
At least this time they’d send me with a sizeable stipend; in
the past, they’d always assumed that someone with my abilities
could easily manage without that kind of help. But even given their
financial assistance, I didn’t imagine I could afford to spend
my daylight hours here, at the Palmer House Hotel.

As I entered the
gaslit lobby, I caught a glimpse of Mirabel’s slender form from
the back. I noticed her peculiar hair color first; then, as I drew
closer, winding my way through a loose crowd of guests, her delicate
features came into view. She remained engrossed in conversation,
speaking with a mortal man I didn’t recognize, giving no
indication she’d spotted me.

I stood several
feet away, folded my hands behind my back and pretended to admire a
garish still-life on the wall while waiting for the two of them to
finish.

Eventually the two
of them exchanged cards; the man excused himself. I turned and took a
few steps towards her, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on
end. As she noticed me, a look of panic flashed across her face, but
it melted away as quickly as it appeared, fading into a warm smile.

“Julian!”
She rushed to my side. “What a singular pleasure! Why didn’t
you tell me you’d be visiting?”

I bared my teeth
at her, amused that I’d been able to catch her off guard. “I
certainly would have, my dear, but I didn’t have time to send a
letter, and these newer means of communication honestly escape me.”

“Have you
been in the city long?”

“I just
arrived a few hours ago.” This was true. “I’ve been
contracted for some portrait work, but it’ll be a few days
before my supplies arrive.” This was also true, although I
hadn’t sought the contract myself; the Wardens had set it up
for me. “I heard you were in Chicago for the Exposition. I
suppose my curiosity got the best of me. I do hope I’m not
imposing on you.”

“Don’t
be ridiculous.” She grinned. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, I’ll
be staying at my patron’s estate. It’s not far from
here.”

“They’re
family, I assume?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Of course.
Distant relatives.”

“They live
in the city, I take it? Most likely, we’re already
acquainted...”

“Perhaps,”
I said. “I heard he’s a bit of a recluse, though,
particularly for a city-dweller. His name is Zenas Markham.”

“I believe
I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met. He’s a Son
of Thalia, if I recall correctly?”

“He is,
indeed. But enough about my affairs—tell me, how have you been?
It’s been too long since I saw you last.” I tried my best
to unearth all the fondness I’d ever had for her, to infuse my
words with that borrowed warmth. “If you’re not busy, I’d
love to take you to dinner.”

Her hazel eyes
gleamed. “As nice as that sounds, I have a much better idea.”

I allowed her to
lead me into the street, where we hailed a cab. Mirabel whispered the
address to the driver and we set off from the hotel.

She spoke at
length about her recent exploits. She had managed to secure some very
lucrative consulting engagements with publishers and advertising
agencies and the like here in Chicago. I was not surprised to hear of
her professional success, even though she was a woman traveling and
working alone; I knew from experience that she got just about
whatever she wanted.

I listened
politely, anxious to determine where she was taking me. Most likely,
wherever we were going, she had some ulterior motive in taking me
there, some plan to twist the situation to her own ends.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t very well begin my investigation by
refusing to spend time with her. I’d have to force myself to
endure whatever she had in store for me.

As the Wheel
appeared on the horizon, I surmised her intent.

“We’re
going to the White City? Isn’t it closed at this time of
night?”

Mirabel laughed.
“Of course not. Besides, I can visit any time I like.”

We stepped out of
the cab at a side entrance. She produced a certificate from her purse
and displayed it to a guard, who let us pass through the gate without
comment. After slipping through a series of narrow hallways, we
emerged in an otherworldly courtyard illuminated with thousands of
tiny orbs, flameless and cool. Electric lights. They transformed the
convocation of white plaster buildings into an ethereal landscape, a
court fit for gods or ghosts. I stood transfixed, my jaw slackening.