The Keepers (35 page)

“But still,” Chloe said after a minute, “there was no fire in the heart. I waited. I thought someone would come and put the fire out. I figured I would be able to stay thin long enough, often enough, so that I wouldn't get burned.”

Mr. Meister cleared his throat. “And yet you could have escaped, yes? A quick leap through the wall, through the flames in an instant? Surely you could have done so.”

“I thought about it. There were no flames in the heart, not then, but it was starting to get hot. Terribly hot. But I stayed.”

Mr. Meister leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers across his lips. “Why?”

Horace couldn't take it any longer. “They were trying to flush her out, right?” he said. “The fire wasn't an accident. Dr. Jericho was still there, waiting for her.”

“That's right,” said Chloe.

Mr. Meister shrugged. He continued on with the same softly pushing voice he'd used on Horace. “Let them flush you out, then. How could the Mordin possibly hope to capture you?”

Chloe threw a sharp glance at him, her eyes like a wary animal's. “I don't know,” she said. “I thought they might have a way.”

Mr. Meister said, “It is possible that they
think
they do. Perhaps Dr. Jericho believes he could trap you with a dumin. But you know better.”

“Why are you giving her such a hard time?” Horace demanded.

Mr. Meister held up a flat hand. “Let her answer.”

“Look, I just hid,” Chloe said. “I waited. I did what I do best.” She coughed and hacked up a wad of spit as dark as syrup. It plopped onto the carpet. “I let the house burn up around me. I went thin as often as I could, stayed thin as long as I could—”

“And how long is that?” interrupted Mr. Meister. “How long can you . . . stay thin?”

“Almost three minutes.” Horace perked up his ears at that. She was getting better. Mr. Meister took the little notebook out of a vest pocket and scribbled in it as Chloe went on. “But I had to keep doing it, over and over again. I got tired. So it got to be much less than that. And the air was . . . bad. It hurt to inhale. But there was a draft up the chimney, and most of the smoke was getting carried up and away, and there was just enough air to breathe. I knew Dr. Jericho was out there, and I knew I could outlast him. I knew people would come. Fire trucks, and a crowd. I guess I thought they might scare Dr. Jericho off. So I kept waiting, but then I started to feel the house shifting around me—the floor kind of gave way a little bit, and one of the chimney walls started to buckle. I knew the house was going to come down, so I went thin one last time and I just . . . leapt out of the heart and let myself fall through the floor. Down into the fire.”

She paused, and Horace could see her trying to capture
words in her mouth, as though the things she had to say now were tastes that resembled nothing else. “I remember sparks flying up through my closed eyes. And then I was down in the rubble below, and it was hell. So, so hot. A heat you can't even . . . I was on my hands and knees, trying to stay under the smoke where I could see, and even though I knew I wasn't being burned I felt glued to the floor. Melted. I was crying and my tears were falling, and they turned to steam. Everything was so loud. I kept holding my breath and I crawled, thinking no one would be able to see me in there anyway—if the Riven were still around, I mean. And there were sirens. I crawled through the ruins, but I couldn't even tell where I was. . . .” She gave in to another cruel battery of coughs, her feet curling. She let out a raspy sigh.

Horace was so caught up in the story, imagining what it would be like to be immersed in fire, that he jumped a little when Mr. Meister spoke. “But still you did not leave.”

“No.”

“You said you heard the Mordin speaking, before the fire. You could not understand everything they said.”

“That's right.”

“But some of it you did understand.” Chloe just glared at him, and the old man went on. “They spoke to you of your father, didn't they?”

Chloe flopped back onto the bed and rolled to face the wall. Horace was bewildered. “What's happening?” he said.

Mr. Meister straightened his glasses. “While I do not
think that the Mordin could manage to capture Chloe, physically, that does not mean that she could not be brought under their influence.”

“But how?”

“The Riven have taken Chloe's father. He is their hostage. And one does not take a hostage unless one wishes to negotiate.”

Of course. The Riven wanted the Alvalaithen, but more than the instrument they wanted the entire package—Keeper and instrument both. Because Chloe was all but impossible to capture, and because the dragonfly could never be taken from her, the Riven were trying another strategy. Kidnapping. Blackmail. Coercion. And Chloe—fierce, brave Chloe—had been bearing the full weight of that threat while her house burned down around her. Horace ached just imagining it.

Chloe stirred, rolling onto her back. “Dr. Jericho called out to me while I was hiding in the heart,” she said. Her hands were balled into fists. “He told me they had my father. He mocked me. He told me there were certain favors they wanted me to do for them—just a few—and that if I complied, I could see my father again.”

“I see. And did you consider their offer?” Mr. Meister said, as casually as if he were asking if she'd like more tea. The question took Horace's breath away.

Silence hung in the air for several seconds. At last Chloe said, “That's why I didn't leave the fire. I couldn't say yes to them. But I was . . . afraid to say no. I imagined my father
might be there. So I just hid. I figured maybe they weren't even sure I was still there.”

“I understand,” Mr. Meister said, and then he slipped a little steel into his voice.
“But that still does not answer my question.”

Chloe sat up, her voice growing sharper too. “You want to know if I considered it? Yes. He's my father. In fact, maybe I'm still considering it.”

Horace stepped forward. “You don't mean that.” He turned to Mr. Meister. “She's upset. Anyone would be. Look at what she did—she didn't give in. She stayed all through that fire, knowing the Riven had her dad.”

Mr. Meister ignored him. “And what if it had been your sister?” he asked Chloe. “What then?”

Chloe's eyes narrowed. “You said she was safe.”

“We keep watch over her. Your aunt's house is protected. She is safe. But again . . . what if she were not?”

“You
keep watch
? But you don't actually even care about her. You're only watching her because you're protecting an investment. You're afraid they'll take Madeline to get to the dragonfly.”

Mr. Meister shook his white head. “We want everyone safe. And your sister—”

“When I showed up here tonight, you asked about the dragonfly first. Then me.”

Horace didn't remember if that was true or not, but a fleeting look of embarrassment on Mr. Meister's face told him
that it was. “A habit of my profession,” the old man said.

“And what is that profession, exactly?” Chloe asked. “Not a protector—you're a treasure hunter.”

“Your well-being is—”

“You wouldn't be the least concerned with my well-being if it weren't for this,” Chloe said, yanking the dragonfly up out of the nightgown. “Admit it . . . if it came down to a choice of what to save, you would choose this over me. And you would choose the box over Horace, too.”

Mr. Meister stood, his long shadow looming across the ceiling. Horace took a step back, his hand reaching involuntarily to cover the box. “Just so,” Mr. Meister said, carving the words with teeth that flashed in the candlelight. “That is the way it must be. Have you forgotten risking your own life to save the Vora? Might you not give your life now to spare the Alvalaithen? We are the Wardens. We do not put ourselves first.”

“That's painfully obvious.”

“Is it?” Mr. Meister thundered. “Is it as obvious as the lack of concern you've shown for your own family all along? You elected to lie about the malkund. You elected to lie about Dr. Jericho being in your home once before. Is this how you would protect your father? Your sister?”

Horace's heart was pounding. Mr. Meister wasn't wrong—so many lies Chloe had told, so much she had withheld. He felt torn and unsteady, angry at Mr. Meister but angry at Chloe too, with a ribbon of fear running through it all. Suddenly he
realized Mrs. Hapsteade was standing at the top of the ladder, watching Mr. Meister.

Mr. Meister rolled on, unaware of her presence. “Perhaps the two of you think you are beyond me—you and your Tan'ji. That your powers could prevent the worst from happening, even after the enemy had appeared in your own halls—and in mine! Perhaps you think your instruments alone are enough.”

“Henry,” Mrs. Hapsteade said.

The old man took no notice of her, continuing to fume at Horace and Chloe. “You are the Keeper of the Fel'Daera. And you are the Keeper of the Alvalaithen. You are worthy of esteem. But do not forget that there have been many Keepers of the box and the dragonfly—perhaps dozens. Some held the reins for a lifetime. Some for just a few hours. And most are now forgotten. You are the Keepers of your instruments—for now. Perhaps you have noticed my respect for the fact that the box and the dragonfly are Tan'ji. And perhaps you have mistaken this respect for subservience, or childish awe. Perhaps you believe your instruments give you a power over me. If so, I wish to correct that misunderstanding now.”

“Henrik!”
Mrs. Hapsteade snapped, stepping forward.

But Horace hardly heard her. Other Keepers of the Fel'Daera—of course, there had to have been others. The very thought filled him with a startling rage that burned away every other emotion, a queasy and jealous blaze. The box was his. It would always be his. He caught Chloe's eye and knew that the same shocked outrage he saw on her face was
mirrored on his own.

“Henrik,” said Mrs. Hapsteade yet again. “A word, please.”

Mr. Meister swung his head around, seeming to see her for the first time. She gestured down the ladder, and after a moment, after another brooding look at Horace and Chloe, he climbed nimbly down.

Mrs. Hapsteade gave them both a little bow. “We'll come back shortly, Keepers. I hope you'll forgive us our occasional tempers.” She followed Mr. Meister below.

Once the Wardens' footsteps had faded away, it grew so silent in the room that Horace swore he could hear the candles burning. He and Chloe went on glaring at nothing, and when at last Chloe spoke, Horace actually jumped.

“I'm feeling mean,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Maybe because . . . because we deserved that.”

This was about the last thing he expected her to say, but he only nodded. “A little bit, maybe.”

“Me more than you.”

“Probably.”

“But I'm not wrong about him. All he cares about is our instruments.”

“No, you're not wrong.” And she wasn't, not completely. But did it matter? The box had been hovering in the back of Horace's brain, brought to life by the argument. It was his. It belonged to no one else. Not now. Not ever, if he could help
it. He wondered how far he would go to keep the box from being taken, or destroyed. When he tried to imagine a hardship he would not endure in order to save the Fel'Daera, he had a hard time thinking of one. The thought terrified him, made him wonder if he was imagining hard enough. “I guess the question is, do we really care if that's all he cares about?”

Chloe sighed. “Probably not. I'm mad at everything right now. I had a pretty rough day—my house burned down. My dad is missing.”

Horace had no idea what to say to someone whose home had just been destroyed, whose father had been kidnapped. Chloe held out her arms and looked down at them. Horace wondered what new scars she'd gotten this night. “You never finished your story,” he said. “How you got out of the house and hid. How did no one see you?”

Chloe opened her mouth as if to speak, but then let it hang. Her brow crinkled and she blinked once, long and hard. “I can't really . . . ,” she began, then started again. “Something happened. I think I don't want to talk about it.”

“No more secrets, Chloe. What happened?”

“I said I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it and I don't want it to happen again. I made it into the train yard, and I saw you from there.” Her face softened. “You looked worried. You looked mad. I appreciated that.”

“I
was
worried.” And he was still worried. What had happened to her in that house? Why wouldn't she talk about it?

The ladder rattled slightly. Mrs. Hapsteade's dark head
appeared. A moment later, Mr. Meister followed her up into the tiny room. To Horace's surprise, Mr. Meister crossed and sat on the bed beside Chloe. Chloe scooted over to make room.

“I am sorry about your father,” he said warmly, bowing his head. “For your own sake, and for his.”

Chloe opened her mouth. She glanced at Horace and said, “Thank you. But it's not your fault.”

“I am aware of that. Nonetheless, I am sorry.”

“I am too,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. “I know what it is like. Many of us have . . . lost people close to us.”

Lost
, Horace thought. Chloe looked away, her jaw working and her eyes blinking fast.

“Yes,” said Mr. Meister. “And because of that, and with your help, I believe we can attempt something we have never been able to do before. Something to set right what has gone wrong.”

“What?” Horace asked.

“We are going to attempt to rescue Chloe's father.”

“Rescue him,” Chloe said, whipping her head around. “You know where he is, then?”

“Not precisely, but the Riven will have taken him to one of their nests. A secret place, underground, much like this one.” Horace shuddered at the thought. He felt sure that a
Riven nest was a much less pleasant place than the Warren.