Rotke sees it differently. “It matters to me, William. It is a part of all that I am. A reminder of my parents and my grandparents. I can’t dismiss them and their struggles so easily. If I marry Jake, I’m afraid I shall be erased.”
She began to cry again, softly. I didn’t know what to do. I am not adept with crying women, especially crying women whom I secretly love. Before I knew it, I was kissing her. Yes, I kissed my closest friend’s fiancée. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do, Cornelius. I know you do not approve. I wish that I could say I regret it. I do not.
Rotke broke away from me, pink-cheeked from more than just the cold. Naturally, I apologized profusely until she had recovered enough to say, simply, “I believe we should go back now.”
You warned that my passions would get the better of me, Cornelius.
Jake greeted us upon our return. He was in grand spirits, practically boyish. “We have our money,” he said, waltzing Rotke around.
I looked away. Once you’ve learned how, it gets easier to do.
Jake clapped me on the back. “This is the start of everything. And you needn’t worry: I’ll handle all the affairs. You won’t have to engage with the Founders Club at all. I’ve ordered champagne to be sent up to the drawing room. See if you can find Margaret, and meet me there.”
Jake wants money for his experiments and inventions in his quest to build an exceptional, unassailable America. Margaret, the victim of this country’s less shining side, wants to prove that all men and women are created equal. Rotke wants to understand the realm beyond this one as well as her own gifts. As for me, my ambitions are great but without form. I don’t know what I want, save for the one woman I cannot have.
This is far too immodest a letter, Cornelius. The champagne was a fine vintage, and I am quite drunk. It doesn’t matter a whit. You won’t respond to this letter, as you’ve not responded to any of my entreaties. Likely, you won’t even read this.
I hear from Lucretia, whom Margaret saw in the market when she visited the city last week, that you’ve had a troubling cough. I do hope your health improves.
Fondly,
Your prodigal son,
Will
Dumbfounded, Jericho put the letter down. Why had they never talked about any of this? After Jericho’s illness crippled him and his parents had abandoned him to the state, it was Will who’d stepped in as guardian. He had sheltered Jericho, fed and clothed him, and taught his ward what he could about running the museum and about Diviners. For that, Jericho supposed he owed him a debt. But Will hadn’t given Jericho the parts that mattered most. He hadn’t given himself. The two of them had never gone fishing in a cold stream early on a summer’s day and shared their thoughts on love and life while they watched the sun draw the curling morning mist from the water. They’d never discussed how to find one’s place in the world, never talked of fathers and sons, or what makes someone a man. No. He and Will spoke in newspaper articles about ghosts. They conversed through the careful curation of supernatural knickknacks. And Jericho couldn’t help but feel cheated at how little he’d gotten when he’d needed so much more.
Why was there so much silence between men?
“Jericho?” Mabel called, bringing Jericho back to the present. “Sorry, but I have to head home now.”
“I’ll be right down,” Jericho said, pushing the letters to the side. As he did, an odd scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. It was a very brief note in Will’s handwriting. There was no date. It read, simply:
Dear Cornelius,
You were right. I was wrong. I am so very sorry.
Sincerely,
Will
“Thanks for your help today,” Jericho said, easing Mabel into her coat. “It was a nice change. I’m used to working with Sam. Or rather, working around Sam.”
Mabel shifted from one foot to the other and back again. “I could come back and help you some more. If you want me to,” she said, agreeable to the end. The way she looked at him just then, with a mixture of curiosity, affection, and admiration, was rather nice. Maybe it would be nice to be adored for once.
“That’s okay. I can manage,” Jericho said after a pause.
“Oh. Sure,” Mabel said, trying to hide her disappointment. “I suppose you’ve heard the news about Evie and Sam,” Mabel said as they walked the long hallway. “I had no idea she and Sam were engaged. She never said a word. Did Sam say anything to you?”
“No,” Jericho growled.
Mabel knew she shouldn’t have brought up the topic of Evie. But now that she had, it was like a scab she couldn’t stop picking. “Well. I suppose we should be happy for them.”
