Like every other visitation room in Aonach Sanitarium—and Simon knew them all—this one was painfully bare, with narrow windows set high in the walls. In spite of the brilliant September sunlight, the air felt chilled, as though the thick glass had leached away the sun’s vitality, and a faint astringent smell lingered, a hospital smell that Simon associated with having his tonsils removed when he was twelve. He shivered and wished he had kept his frock coat with him.
Across the room, his sister sat cross-legged on the floor, her white gown billowing around her thin body.
“141955329. Times two. Exponent 25267. Add one.”
Gwyn spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with painful care. Even so, her voice sounded furry—a side effect of the drugs, Simon knew.
“1031980281. Times two. Exponent 25625. Subtract one.”
When Gwyn first began these litanies, Simon had immediately recognized the numbers for simple primes. As the months and years passed, however, the numbers swelled to fantastical lengths, surpassing all the known tables. Simon could only assume these were primes as well.
Tara Gwyn Madoc. Twenty-three. Her age too was a prime number, as was his. Twins who had once been so close . . .
The faint bleating of a horn filtered through the windows—most likely from a motorcar as it pressed through Awveline City’s crowded avenues. Simon rubbed his forehead, trying to massage away an incipient headache.
Sit quietly with her, the doctors had advised. Your presence serves to heal.
He saw no sign of it, however. When had their lives changed from velvet curtains and silk-knotted carpets to this whitewashed room? Even the walls had been stripped bare, the carpets removed, and the floors sanded to eliminate splinters. Formerly, they had allowed him a stool, but one day Gwyn seized the stool and flung it at Simon’s head.
“1031980281. Times two exponent 25625 add one, Simon. Add one.”
Simon snapped up his head. Had she really said his name?
“353665707. Times two. 25814. Minus 1. 353665707*225814+1. 1958349*231415-1. 1958349*231415+1.”
The numbers poured out so fast that Simon could barely distinguish between them.
“1958349 times two exponent—”
Gwyn broke off, her face stricken as she groped for the next number. A moment’s hush followed, so profound Simon could almost hear the sunlight beating against the windows.
“Gwyn?” he whispered, hoping she might hear him today.
His sister’s eyes went blank, and she began to rock back and forth, keening. That too fit the pattern of their visits—numbers, confusion, silence, grief, then anger.
Still keening, Gwyn lifted her hands toward the barred windows, which cast faint blue shadows over the floor. In the brilliant sunlight, the silvery scars on her wrists and palms stood out against her pale skin. There was a theory associating particular numbers with certain colors. So far there were no practical applications, but several recent papers from Lîvod University in Eastern Europe claimed to support the theory—
Without warning, Gwyn launched herself at Simon. They crashed against the wall and rolled over, he grappling for her wrists while she tore at his face with her fingernails, shrieking, “Simon Simon Simon Simon Simon Simon.”
The door banged open, and five attendants burst into the room. Four of them dragged Gwyn away. The fifth helped Simon to his feet.
“You’ve taken a cut, sir.” The young man dabbed Simon’s forehead with a handkerchief.
Simon pushed away the attendant’s hand. “Thank you. It’s nothing. Do not trouble yourself.”
“No trouble at all, sir.”
Meanwhile, Gwyn shrieked and cursed and sobbed as the other attendants wrestled her into submission. Her pale blonde hair fell in snarls over her face, ugly red blotches stained her cheeks, and her mouth looked swollen. Simon could not tell if one of the attendants had struck her, or if she had injured herself in the struggle.
I was right here. I should have heard a slap.
Before Simon could say anything, the four attendants bundled Gwyn out the door. The remaining man gave one last dab to Simon’s forehead before he too departed. Simon drew a long breath. He flexed his hands, which ached as though he’d been clenching them.
“Mr. Madoc.”
Doctor Lusk came into the room. His placid gaze took in Simon’s bleeding forehead and rumpled clothes. “A difficult session,” he said. “But not unexpected.”
“We were too optimistic,” Simon said.
“Hardly, sir. Say, rather, that we were hopeful. Despite today’s setback, I still believe your visits comfort your sister. Minz and Gerhardt speak of the soothing effect of familiar faces, and their latest research shows great promise.”
Simon murmured, “Of course,” his thoughts still on Gwyn. Had she sounded more desperate today? And, yet, she had remembered his name. That had to be a positive sign.
Still distracted by that possibility, Simon only half-listened as Lusk escorted him to the sanitarium’s foyer, speaking in general terms about Gwyn’s condition. It was a familiar topic, this discourse on madness and obsession, and how a brilliant mind often shattered under unbearable pressure, only to seek refuge in that which had driven it mad.
For Gwyn was mad from too many numbers, and the damage appeared irreversible. However, they were trying kindness, as far as that went, and with Simon’s permission, they employed some of the more exotic cures—combinations of music and drugs, the newest electrical therapy, and other techniques Simon didn’t want to examine too closely. Lusk spoke of finding the root cause, as though Gwyn were a complex number whose illness they could calculate.
They came at last to the sanitarium’s foyer, a vast room filled with the sweet scent of roses, and decorated with opulent rugs and rich hangings. Several women dressed in promenade gowns sat in plush chairs by the windows. A lone man occupied a couch by the empty fireplace, apparently absorbed in a book. As Doctor Lusk took his leave from Simon, the man stood and approached.
“Pardon me. I’m told you might be Mr. Simon Madoc.”
He was a tall man, with a lean tanned face that certain women might call handsome. His eyes were warm and brown, his gaze direct. He wore a well-cut black frock coat and silk vest. Obviously an educated man, though his accent was hard to place.
Simon held out his hand. “I am Simon Madoc. But you have the advantage of me, sir.”
They shook hands, and the man smiled briefly. “Perhaps I should start again. Commander Adrian Dee is my name. I’d like a few words with you, if I may.”
He spoke politely enough, but something in his manner told Simon that the question was a perfunctory one. “What about?”
Another one of those business-like smiles. “I’d rather talk outside, Mr. Madoc. There’s a park nearby. I thought we might walk along the Blackwater.”
All the clues shifted—Dee’s manner, the way his gaze absorbed every detail—and Simon knew why Dee had sought him out. He’s come about the murders.
He studied Dee with greater wariness. “I’m happy to assist you in whatever way possible, Commander, but if you’ve come with questions about the cases from last spring, I’ve remembered nothing new.”
“I didn’t say you had, Mr. Madoc. Please. Come with me.”
They exited the foyer and set off along the sanitarium’s graveled pathways. Simon expected Dee to begin his questions at once, but Dee remained silent, gazing from side to side as they passed along a winding path bordered by late-blooming lilies, their rich scent hanging heavy in the warm air. Though it was still early afternoon, the grounds were nearly empty, and, from certain angles, Simon could almost imagine himself at home on his estates. It was for that reason, as well as its reputable doctors, that he had chosen Aonach Sanitarium for Gwyn’s confinement.
“You are a man of impressive wealth,” Dee said.
Recalled abruptly from his reverie, Simon nearly stumbled. “And you a man of abrupt turns, Mr. Dee. Or should I call you Commander?”
“As you wish,” Dee said with a faint smile. “And I merely observed the fact in passing. Forgive me if I trespassed into your private concerns.”
“Of course,” Simon said automatically. “Besides, curiosity and questions are part of your trade, are they not, Commander?”
“They are, Mr. Madoc. And for you as well, am I right?”
Simon shrugged. “As the poet once said, ‘The tools of mathematics are a curious set—the eye, the hand, the pen, the brain. It is with these instruments, we cast our net. And bring to earth a flight of numbers fantastique strange.’ ”
Dee smiled with recognition of the lines. “Henry Donne. Obscure Anglian poet of the late sixteenth century.”
“Obscure for many reasons,” Simon replied. “His meter falters more often than not, but I find his sentiments true.”
They had come to the outer gates, which opened onto a pleasant boulevard, filled with carriages and the occasional motorcar. With Dee leading, they crossed into the park, where a series of well-tended footpaths soon brought them to the Blackwater, a dark and sluggish river that wound through Awveline City’s heart. It was a sunny day and other pedestrians strolled the walkways—women in silk-lined pelisses, their faces hidden beneath sweeping hats; men in stiff-collared shirts and bowlers.
“As you’ve guessed, I’ve come about the murders last spring.”
Dee’s voice was curiously light, as ethereal as sunlight. Simon’s skin prickled at the sound. “I thought the police gave up their investigation for lack of evidence.”
“The department merely suspended their inquiries; they did not close the case.”
“And now?”
“And now we have reopened it. Or rather, the murderer has.”
Simon stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve had another death, Mr. Madoc. A young woman named Maeve Kiley.”
The news struck Simon like a physical blow. He’d talked to Maeve just yesterday afternoon.
“When?” he whispered. “How?”
“Last night,” Dee said. “We haven’t definite word yet, but we think sometime after midnight. A groundskeeper found her body at dawn, near the commons.”
Simon stared at Dee, still unable to take in the news properly. All around them, the autumn day continued, serene and lovely. A half-dozen balloons drifted across the skies, their motors silent at this distance—blue messenger craft heading across Éireann’s Sea to neighboring Albion or the Anglian Dependencies. Grand air-yachts in silver and emerald. A single red balloon floated above them all.
“We’ve notified Lord Kiley about his daughter,” Dee continued in that soft strange tone. “And we are talking to certain people who might have useful information. However, I would appreciate your silence until we make our formal announcement of the crime.”
With an effort, Simon recovered himself. “How do you know it’s the same murderer?”
“The evidence so far supports our theory.”
He could be speaking of mathematical theorems and their proofs, not of a young woman slaughtered by a madman. Dislike sparked inside Simon, and he had to consciously keep that reaction from his voice. “And you want it kept a secret. Why?”
“Let me say only that your Provost pleaded strongly for discretion. He plans on making a general announcement tomorrow. You knew the girl, did you not?”
“Of course I knew her!”
The words burst out of him, loud enough to startle a passerby. Simon wiped his forehead and tried to calm himself. “Of course I knew her,” he repeated quietly.
A pretty girl with delicate features and creamy skin, all the more fair against her coal-dark eyes and hair. Simon remembered how her cheeks flushed when she argued a theory in lectures. It was hard to take in that she was dead.
A breeze ruffled the Blackwater’s surface, drawing silvery lines over the dark waters—waters that had cradled the murderer’s first victim. The season had been early spring, the soft twilight air filled with newly blooming flowers.
“Did you like her?” Dee asked.
Simon thrust his hands into his pockets to still their trembling. “I—I respected her greatly, Commander Dee.”
“What about the others?”
“Are you asking if I liked them, or respected them?”
“Both. I’m sorry to disturb you with these questions, when you’ve surely answered them before.”
You know I have not, Simon thought. When they questioned him five months ago, the police had merely requested an accounting of his activities for every night the murderer struck. No one had asked Simon about personal matters, nor had they requested his opinion of his fellow students’ abilities. He suspected the Provost had used his political influence to shield the students, and thus protected the University against further scandal.
But Dee was evidently waiting for some kind of response. “I knew them all,” Simon said. “In some cases, I knew more than I liked. It’s a large university, but a small department—the graduate department, that is.”
Dee nodded. “The Queen’s Constabulary is much like that.”
Simon’s pulse jumped, and he had to suppress a start. The Queen’s Constabulary of Éireann did not normally concern itself with anything outside royal affairs. But with Maeve being Lord Kiley’s daughter, the matter had become one for a higher authority.
“You look unsettled, Mr. Madoc.”
Simon rubbed his hand over his face. “Of course I am unsettled, Commander. You bring me distressing news. Very distressing.”
“Understood. Come, let us keep walking.”
He motioned toward the path. After a moment’s hesitation, Simon shrugged and set off down the path. Dee kept pace with him with long easy strides. He seemed unsurprised by Simon’s outburst, nor did he seem impatient to ask more questions. “I’ve read about the new research in mathematics,” he said. “Some of the newer theories, those from Lîvod and Estonia, are quite intriguing, if somewhat whimsical.”
This time, Simon guessed that the abrupt shifts in conversation were deliberate. “You mean the theory of colors and numbers?”
“Yes, those. But also the ones concerning electrical properties of certain equations.”
Surprisingly, Dee seemed well informed about the current theories, even about the exotic corner of number theory Simon had chosen for his doctoral thesis.
“How numbers affect the dreams,” Dee said. “Is that a fair description?”
“Not quite,” Simon said. “My theory depends upon the concept that numbers have both abstract and tangible qualities. That is, we use numbers to measure and quantify, but we also use them to express theories completely divorced from the physical realm. I believe we might take that concept one more step—that numbers have a spiritual quality as well.”
“Some might call that numerology.”
Dee spoke politely enough, but Simon’s face immediately heated up. “How would you know?”
“Because I studied mathematics myself. I never completed my degree, which I sometimes regret. However, I read the journals still.”
So the detective was a failed mathematician. That would explain much. “My apologies, Commander Dee,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “I’ve had many arguments about my thesis. I’ve become somewhat sensitive on the topic.”
Dee shrugged. “We all have our prickly moments. I understand your sister also intended to study mathematics at Awveline University. I spoke with your advisor, Professor Oswalt, this morning, and he mentioned her name. He said she had begun work on prime numbers before the illness overtook her.”
“What does that have to do with your investigation, Commander?”
“Nothing, Mr. Madoc. I was merely expressing my sympathy, however clumsily.”
They had reached the next bridge. One of the main boulevards crossed the Blackwater here, leading into the city’s financial district. Simon stopped and faced Dee. “Have you any more questions, Commander?”
Dee tilted his head and studied Simon a moment before answering. “None for today, Mr. Madoc. The official investigation begins tomorrow after Doctor O’Neill makes his announcement. I’ll send someone by your quarters to take your formal statement.” He smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. “I thank you, Mr. Madoc, for your company and your patience.”
He held out his hand. Simon shook it, noting the strength in his grip. “Good day then, Commander.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Madoc.”
Dee turned to the bridge walkway and soon blended into the crowd of clerks and messengers. Simon lingered a moment longer by the river banks, taking in for the first time the sunlight upon the autumn leaves, shimmering like so many raindrops. His gaze returned to the river and he shuddered. Douglas Kerr’s body had been discovered not far from this bridge, his throat slashed and his face hacked into a purpled bloody mass.
Before the University had recovered, other murders had followed. Harry Sullivan. Agnes Doyle. Timothy Morgan. All of them graduate students—three in the mathematics department. The newspapers had focused immediately on that fact. They dwelt in loving detail upon university politics, the youth of the victims, and any irregularities in their past. That the murderer had mutilated his victims with a knife only heightened the titillation.
A madman, said the newspapers.
Surely not one of us, said the Provost, thinking first of his reputation, so entwined with the University’s.
The police had made no public statements, preferring to ask their questions in private. In the end they had run out of questions, and the cases remained on hold.
Until now.
Simon glanced up. Above the city, the skies arced clear and blue, empty of balloons for the moment. Then he glimpsed a speck moving across the brilliant sky—the red balloon from earlier, floating higher and higher toward the sky’s limit.
He arrived at the mathematics quadrant just moments before the clock tower struck the hour. Cursing his lateness, he ran up the steps and into the lecture hall. A quick scan of the room showed him that Emmett and Susan had saved him a seat near the back. He sidled along the row and sank into the chair between them.
“Late,” Emmett murmured.
“Within reasonable deviation,” Simon replied.
Susan shook her head. “Certain combinations do prove to be predictable.”
Simon managed a smile at the familiar exchange, which had hardly varied over the four years they had known one another. Susan, dark and neat and practical. Emmett, tall and fair and angular, his looks so much like Simon’s that many mistook them for brothers.
“How was Gwyn?” Emmett asked.
“The same. Always the same.”
Emmett glanced around the room, then leaned close. “A detective came by the library this morning. A man named Dee. I told him where he might find you. I hope that was right.”
Simon made a show of arranging his pens and books before saying, “He’s with the police, Emmett. Of course you did right.”
He ought to tell them about Maeve, in spite of Dee’s orders, but he could not think how to phrase it without sounding trite. Hello, did you hear? Maeve died last night. Murdered by a lunatic.
A door rattled at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Oswalt stalked through to his podium, his arms filled with books and papers, his white hair floating in an unruly halo. The next moment, a side door banged open. Seán Blake, a third year graduate student, darted through and made for an empty seat behind Simon. Papers spilled from his books, and he had a hurried, disheveled look.
“Ne’er a cab to be found,” he commented with a grin.
Simon shrugged, aware of Emmett’s sidelong glance and how Susan had pursed her lips in obvious distaste. Blake ordinarily did not speak to them, except in passing before exams. He was a student of the fringes, dabbling at his studies in between gambling and other questionable pursuits. His family had little money, and Simon often wondered how he could afford to stay at University.
Now Blake leaned over his desk, between Emmett and Simon. “No luck today,” he whispered to them. “But I can try again tomorrow. Will that do?”
His breath smelled sour, as though he’d been drinking already. Emmett shuddered and looked away determinedly. Simon turned around. “What are you talking about?”
Blake smirked. “Oh, so we’re the chaste and pure today. I thought you two might not dare—”
He broke off, and Simon was suddenly aware of a thick silence around them. Professor Oswalt was gazing fixedly at them. “My apologies for being tardy,” he said. “Please do not let it overset you, Mr. Madoc, Mr. Blake.”
Simon bent over his desk, his face hot. Blake muttered something unintelligible, but resumed his seat. Oswalt nodded. “Today’s lecture,” he rapped out. “Electrical impulses and higher-order numbers. Mathematics? Numerology? Or gin-fantasy?”
Someone in the back row barked out a laugh, just as quickly smothered. Oswalt gazed steadily at the culprit, one eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps someone experimented with these theorems last night,” he said dryly. “Indeed, that might explain your appearance, Mr. Blake.”
Emmett coughed. Susan, more discreet, covered her smile with her hand. The rest of the students settled into quiet, and with a last glance around the hall, Professor Oswalt launched into the day’s lecture.
The first incident took place during the winter holidays, shortly after their nineteenth birthday. Simon had attended his first semester at University, taking advanced classes; Gwyn had elected to remain with their aunt and uncle, pursuing her private research. When he arrived home from the train station, Simon learned that Gwyn had gone out walking in the gardens. She had left word for him to meet her there.
Footprints led him through the gardens and topiary, past the sunken garden with its pool lying silvery and quiescent beneath the gray skies. Once or twice, he thought he saw a flickering movement between the evergreen shrubs, but when he called out Gwyn’s name, no one answered.
He found her, at last, huddled under a thorn bush near the gamekeeper’s old hut. She was barefoot, dressed only in a thin shift. The tatters from her winter frock hung from one of the bushes.
Simon knelt beside his sister. “Gwyn? Gywn, what happened?”
Gwyn looked around vaguely. She must have been here for hours, Simon thought. Her skin was red, her lips chapped, and tears gleamed in her eyes. “It was a number, Simon. I followed it. . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and she frowned, as though confused.
Simon touched her arm gently. “Gwyn,” he said softly. “Did someone hurt you?”
Her eyes went wide and blank. Her mouth worked, as though she would speak. Then she screamed.
I was a coward. I said I was fetching my uncle, but I was really running away.
Simon tapped his pencil against his palm in an irregular rhythm. A blank sheet of paper faced him, one edge faintly darkened where he’d rubbed his thumb absentmindedly. Unable to face ordinary conversation with Emmett and Susan, he’d sequestered himself in the library, leaving only to take supper at a nearby tavern. Now the mutton lay heavily in his stomach, and the over-cooked vegetables had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Maeve was dead. The phrase echoed inside his head. Strange, he still could not quite take in that she was gone.
He glanced out the window. A harvest moon hung low in the sky, its orange disc sharply drawn against the black night. He and his uncle had called the doctors that same day; within a week, they had removed Gwyn to the hospital in Awveline City.
Only the best for her, he thought now. The best drugs. The best treatment—
The floorboards creaked behind him. Simon twisted around to see Emmett Moore standing quite close.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Maeve?” Emmett said harshly.
Simon hesitated, not certain how to reply. Emmett must have mistaken his silence for a refusal to answer, because his mouth twitched into a grimace. “Confused, Simon? That’s not like you.”
“No, I—”
“That’s why that detective wanted you, isn’t it? He told you about Maeve Kiley.”
“He did. He asked me not to say anything until tomorrow. Who told you?”
“Her sister.” Emmett pressed both hands against his cheeks, as though to suppress an ache. “I thought it peculiar when I heard about O’Neill’s assembly tomorrow,” he said in a muffled voice. “Even when I didn’t see Maeve at her afternoon lectures, I didn’t think anything amiss. I knew she was spending extra time with her advisors, and that I’d see her at supper. It wasn’t until she didn’t show that I—”
His voice broke. Simon started to speak, but Emmett waved for him to stay silent. He soon mastered himself. “I went to her rooms. Her sister was there with a crowd of servants, packing Maeve’s belongings. She told me what happened.”
Simon touched Emmett’s arm and felt him trembling beneath the apparent control. “Emmett, I’m sorry.”
His friend drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you. Whatever that means. I was so angry. Not with you. With—”
“I understand,” Simon said softly. “Come. It’s nearly ten. We’ll go back to my rooms for coffee.”
Emmett wiped away his tears. “I would like that.”
Outside, the wind had picked up, and clouds raced across the moon’s face. Simon and Emmett buttoned their overcoats and turned up their collars before venturing from the portico’s shelter.
Emmett shivered. “Last week I boiled in the lecture halls.”
“It’s the turning point of seasons,” Simon said. The sound of the wind sifting through leaves recalled Gwyn’s voice, reciting her numbers, and he had the unsettling impression of memories blurring together, like photographs of dancers whirling across the stage. He shook his head to dispel the sensation.
They set a fast pace across the empty green, while leaves whirled and danced about them. Few students were about at this hour, and the buildings loomed against the night sky. Simon could taste rain in the air. Soon frost would silver the pathways, the winds would strip the trees completely, and the world would become like an ink sketch, with sharp black lines and shades of gray.
A harder gust of wind caught him full in the face. Simon ducked his head, blinking away tears. Ahead, he heard Emmett’s footsteps slow, then come to a stop.
“Simon.”
Simon looked up to see Emmett pointing toward a spot farther ahead. Squinting against the wind, he made out a dark mass sprawled upon the brick walkway. Whatever it was lay motionless, except for a fluttering edge of cloth, as though a blanket or cloak had worked loose from the body’s weight.
His skin prickled. We don’t know it’s a body.
Emmett took hold of Simon’s hand. “Come on. We have to see.”
Together they approached the thing. No, a man. Simon could make out the head, resting on the grass. One arm was invisible beneath the cloak, the other extended, as though reaching for something in the last moments of life.
Emmett knelt and pulled back the cloak, exposing the face. “It’s Colin Rees.”
Simon couldn’t make sense out of his words at first. Colin? Dead? Numb with disbelief, he knelt beside Emmett and touched Colin’s face, which looked white and stark beneath the strong moonlight. Blood trickled from the slack mouth, painting a black trail over Colin’s cheek and onto his collar. Simon jerked back his hand.
“We’ll have to contact Commander Dee,” Emmett said.
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor first?”
“He’s dead, Simon. He’s past any doctor’s help.”
Emmett’s voice sounded muffled and strange. The wind, Simon thought, or was it the pounding in his temples that distorted his friend’s voice? He stumbled to his feet, then fell down, sprawling to avoid Colin’s body.
“Simon, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I—”
Emmett gripped his arm and pulled him upright. “It’s the body,” he said. “You’re faint because of seeing the body.”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t know.” He gulped down a lungful of cold air. Another. He was about to say he felt better, when he saw a shadow among the trees, not ten feet away. At first, he thought it was just branches, swaying in the wind, but then the moon broke through the clouds, and he distinctly saw the figure of a man.
“Emmett, look,” he whispered.
Emmett straightened up. “What do you see?”
The stranger turned and ran.
“Stop!” Simon shouted. He sprinted after the man, ignoring Emmett’s shout. The man dove in the alley between two nearby dormitories. Before Simon could follow the stranger down the alley, Emmett overtook Simon, and yanked him to the ground.
“Are you mad?” Emmett wheezed, falling to his knees beside Simon. “What were you doing?”
“Didn’t you see him?” A cramp took hold of Simon. He doubled over, retching.
“Who? I see that you’re sick. Here, let me wipe your face.” Emmett took out a handkerchief and cleaned the mud and vomit from Simon’s face.
Simon pushed Emmett’s hand away. “There. Can’t you see him? There!”
He pointed frantically toward the dormitories. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the alley, plainly showing the man at the far end, but just as Emmett turned around, the stranger vanished around the corner.
“Tell me where you spent the afternoon, Mr. Madoc.”
Simon pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Hours had passed since he and Emmett had tracked down the night sentries and led them to Colin’s body. By now he wished only for the solitude of his rooms.
“I was in the library,” he said, “writing up notes from Professor Oswalt’s lecture. I—how much do you want to hear?”
“Everything. Do not worry about boring us, Mr. Madoc.”
“Yes. I see. Well then.” Simon massaged his face again. He could still smell the blood and vomit on his skin. “I spent some hours writing my notes. Around seven o’clock I went out for dinner, then went directly back to the library. May I have more water?”
Dee signaled the nearest uniformed policeman, who refilled Simon’s glass. Simon drank half the water in one swallow, grimacing at its metallic taste. Dee waited patiently until Simon set the glass down.
“You attended Professor Oswalt’s lecture after we parted,” he continued. “Is that correct?”
“Yes. Emmett Moore can tell you that I was there. Susan Liddell can as well—”
“—and if I need confirmation, I shall surely ask them, sir. Right now, I wish to hear your account. Did you walk to the University or ride?”
“I took a cab.”
“Directly to the lecture?”
“No, not directly. Cabs aren’t permitted on the grounds. In any case, my rooms are in the square opposite the East Gates. I stopped by to fetch my gown and notebooks for the lecture.”
“Anything else?”
“Some pens and a book I had promised to Susan.”
“Did you meet anyone, talk to anyone, between your rooms and the lecture hall?”
Simon shook his head. “No. No one.”
Dee studied him a moment. His eyes, which had appeared so warm that afternoon, now appeared hard and bright in his weathered face. It was, Simon thought, as though Dee had stripped away every superfluous quality, leaving behind only that relentless curiosity.
“Very well,” Dee said. “What next? You came to the lecture hall. Whom did you first see?”
They covered Simon’s activities from when he and Dee parted by the Blackwater, to when the police arrived at the murder scene. Throughout, Dee’s voice remained calm, his manner detached, but his attention to detail was meticulous. In the background, Simon could hear the scratch of pens moving over paper. Three officers were taking notes in parallel, as though Dee did not trust the account to a single chronicler.
Eventually they reached the point when Emmett Moore approached Simon in the library.
“What was the hour?” Dee asked.
“Near ten. I remember the hour bell ringing just as we left the building.”
“And how would you say Mr. Moore appeared?”
Simon paused, sipped more of his water. “Upset, of course.”
“At you?”
“No!” Simon slammed the glass onto the tabletop, sloshing water over the sides. Hands shaking, he mopped up the spill with his handkerchief. “I’m sorry for my outburst, Commander. It’s been a long day.”
“To be sure, Mr. Madoc. We are all a bit weary and shaken. Tell me, if you can, exactly how Mr. Moore appeared. Upset, you said. Did he seem angry? Grieving? Nervous?”
His mouth tasted like cotton, but Simon resisted the urge to request more water. “Do you suspect him? Surely not?”
Adrian Dee’s expression remained bland. “I suspect everyone, Mr. Madoc. Did you know Colin Rees?”
The sudden shift in topic caught Simon off guard, and, for a moment, he couldn’t collect his thoughts into an answer. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I knew him. Not as well as Emmett does—did. But Colin attended a number of mathematics lectures, so we talked from time to time.”
“About electrical impulses in numbers?”
Simon thought he heard mockery in Dee’s level voice, and his cheeks turned hot. “Yes.”
“But you were not friends.”
“No. Colleagues.”
“Respected colleagues, you might say. I understand. Do you know if he formed any closer ties with the other mathematics students?”
So far he’d answered freely, but now Simon began to mistrust the shape of Dee’s questioning, which seemed designed to draw out his opinions in dangerous ways. “Not that I know of.”
Dee favored him with another thoughtful look, but apparently he had no further interest in Colin Rees, because he went back to the step-by-step questions, asking Simon about his departure with Emmett Moore from the library, what they saw from the portico and walk, who first noticed the body, and when Simon observed the unknown fugitive.
“Man or woman?” Dee asked.
“A man. At least, I believe so.”
A pause. “Tell us exactly what you saw.”
Simon considered how to phrase it. “First I only saw a movement. I thought it was the wind, moving the tree branches, but then I clearly saw a shadow amongst the trees. I said something to Emmett, and whoever it was started running.”
“Yet you are certain it was a man.”
“I am.”
“So. A man, standing in the shadows. He ran, and you gave chase. Very foolhardy of you, Mr. Madoc.”
“I know. I wasn’t thinking very clearly. Emmett shouted for me to stop, but all I could think was that I had to catch the murderer before he escaped.”
Dee nodded. “I see. Go on.”
Simon licked his dry lips. Without a word, the same policeman refilled his glass. Simon drank the entire glass, trying to ignore how Dee watched him. “I chased him across the green,” he said, “and toward the first-year dormitories. Emmett caught up and tackled me to the ground. By that time, the stranger got away. But before he did, I had a clear look at him in the moonlight.”
“You saw his face?”
“No.” Simon closed his eyes, trying to recall exactly what he had seen. Mist and shadows. The knife-cold wind blurring his vision. The hiss of leaves sliding over leaves. A dark figure outlined against the stone wall of the dormitory.
“He wore a strange squashed hat—nothing like the usual tall hat—and a loose coat. What with his hat pushed low and the moonlight, I could not make out his face. But it was a man.”
“Are you certain of what you saw? Mr. Moore says you took ill by the body.”
“I am quite certain,” Simon said evenly. “I knew by his height and his clothes and the way he stood.”
“Just so.” Dee exchanged a glance with one of his colleagues. “Mr. Madoc, I should tell you that we’ve spoken with Mr. Moore. He does not recall any stranger, man or woman.”
“Impossible. Emmett ran after me. He threw me to the ground and said I was a fool to chase the man.”
“Mr. Madoc, your friend was quite clear about that point. I saw no one, he told us, but with trees and darkness and clouds over the moon, I’m not surprised.”
Simon shook his head. “I cannot believe he said that. Sure there were clouds, but the moon was bright enough to see by.”
Dee’s expression did not change, but there was a flicker in his eyes, as his gaze shifted from Simon to the other policeman. “Tell me about your meeting yesterday with Seán Blake,” he said.
“I had no meeting with Seán Blake.”
“Do not lie to me, Mr. Madoc, else things will go badly.”
Simon reached for his water glass, then remembered it was empty. In a level voice he said, “There was no meeting, Commander. Not yesterday. Not ever. No matter what he said—”
“Seán Blake said nothing, Mr. Madoc. My sources are other witnesses. Three students have commented on seeing two men outside the dining halls near dusk. One was Seán Blake. The other was a tall fair-haired man, well-dressed. Normally they would have thought nothing, except that the fair-haired man seemed quite agitated.”
“Any number of men could fit that description.”
“No, sir. No, they could not. We have a list of those who resemble this description, who are also commonly seen on the University grounds. You are on that list. So are three others, including your friend Emmett Moore. Do you deny meeting with Seán Blake?”
“I do.” His voice came out as a whisper. Louder, he repeated, “I do deny it. I cannot explain it, however. You shall have to take my word.”
“That we shall, Mr. Madoc. That we shall.”
Simon thought the interview done, but Dee launched into another series of questions about Simon’s activities for the previous week—every lecture, every session in the library, every person who spoke to him, or who could confirm his whereabouts. “We are not singling you out, Mr. Madoc,” Dee said, during a pause. “We are asking everyone the same questions. Mr. Moore sits in another room at headquarters, and Mr. Blake in another yet. Tomorrow we shall interview Miss Liddell. I cannot expect you to like our methods, but I do expect your cooperation.”
“I am cooperating,” Simon said wearily.
“Yes, you are.” But to Simon’s ear, Dee’s tone sounded ambiguous. “Tell me,” he went on, “about the arrangements you have with your uncle. He manages your estates, does he not?”
“He manages our estates,” Simon said, with a slight emphasis. “My sister and I own the lands jointly. Why do you need to know this?”
“To complete my understanding of your circumstances, Mr. Madoc. Your parents left everything—land and money—to you without division, is that not so?”
“Yes. We had talked earlier about dividing the property—the will allowed us to alter the original arrangement once we came of age—but then my sister took ill.”
“And so you kept things as they were.”
Simon nodded, but his mind had wandered. He was seeing Gwyn’s face, chapped by hours in the cold, and hearing her sing-song voice as she talked about following a number. When Dee ended the interview, he stood and shook hands mechanically.
“I’ll have them call you a cab,” Dee said. “Remember that we might need to speak with you tomorrow.”
A uniformed policeman escorted Simon from the building and hailed him a cab. Simon climbed inside and collapsed. His entire body ached, as though he had worked every muscle from his scalp to his toes. When the cab stopped before his boarding house, he climbed down stiffly and was grateful when his valet met him at the door. Garret removed Simon’s grubby coat without comment and handed him a hot drink.
Simon drank down the tea in one long swallow. “Thank you, Tom. No need for you to stay up. I’ll take myself to bed.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Simon stumbled into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands were shaking again, and he nearly called Garret back to help him unbutton his shirt. It was then he noticed the stain on his sleeve. Blood, he realized, suddenly queasy. Colin’s blood, warm to the touch.
Their uncle invited Professor Glasfryn to visit the spring after they turned thirteen. Glasfryn was a retired professor, Uncle Niall told them, and had taught mathematics at Éireann’s largest university, in Awveline City. A man of considerable reputation, their Aunt Sophie added.
Glasfryn arrived at the house in mid-afternoon. Simon watched the liveried footman help the old man disembark from the carriage. He looked nothing like Simon had imagined. Old, yes. But with a face so brown and seamed, it was as though he’d spent his years laboring in the sun, not confined to offices and lectures halls. Gwyn stood silently beside Simon, but he could tell she was studying Glasfryn as intently as he did.
They took an early tea in the parlor while Aunt Sophie fussed over their guest, and Uncle Niall explained at tedious length about the twins’ schooling. Glasfryn stirred his tea and nibbled at the scones, but it was clear to Simon that he was ignoring their uncle.
“Let me talk to them,” he said, interrupting Aunt Sophie’s third inquiry about his health.
Aunt Sophie bit her lips, clearly irritated. Uncle Niall started to make excuses why he ought to remain present, but when Professor Glasfryn waved them away absently, their uncle rose and motioned for Aunt Sophie to come with him.
The old man began with straightforward questions about their lessons. They answered dutifully, just as they did with their tutors. Without their uncle to explain and repeat himself, the interview lasted only a quarter hour.
Glasfryn fell silent and studied them a few moments through rheumy brown eyes. “What do you think about numbers?” he asked suddenly.
Simon and Gwyn blinked. “What do you mean?” Simon asked.
“The ancient Greeks thought numbers were dead. Myself, I wonder if they were right. Maybe mathematics is like so much lumber. Take the sticks and build a house.”
Gwyn’s cheeks flushed pink. “What about Pythagoras?”
“Answer my question first.”
His tone was blunt, but Gwyn smiled, unflustered. “If you view numbers as dead, then you imply a dead house, and one that invites termites. Besides, the premise is wrong.”
Simon caught his breath at her words, but Glasfryn’s mouth widened into a slow pleased smile. “How so, young miss?”
“You assume a universal quality of men, just as your statement assumes a universal quality of mathematics, or even of numbers themselves.”
“Does it follow, then, that you believe numbers exist apart from mathematics?”
A slight hesitation. “I do.”
Another pause, while Glasfryn drank down his cold tea. When he spoke again, it was to ask Gwyn more questions. She answered—tersely at first, then with growing volubility. Glasfryn eventually turned his attention to Simon and, in the same way, drew out more and more of what the twins had worked at in mathematics, their private research as well as what they studied under their tutors.
Questions soon gave way to discussion. With the professor leading, they spoke of topics ranging from the mundane to the bizarre—of the origins of mathematics, of whether numbers had undiscovered properties invisible to the ordinary mind, and the newest theories from Brittany, Gaul, and the Dietsch Empire. Twice their aunt pleaded they stop for dinner. Both times, the professor waved her away. After another interval, a troop of servants brought in trays of covered plates and pots of tea, leaving them on the sideboard. Simon didn’t remember eating, but he assumed they did, because later the servants retrieved the piles of dirty dishes.
The bells were ringing midnight when the professor rose and held out his hands to them both. “We must have you at Awveline, and soon,” he said. “I shall speak with your uncle tomorrow.”
The old professor slept late and departed for Awveline shortly after luncheon. Simon and Gwyn watched his departure from the sitting room window. Once the carriage disappeared through the gates, Gwyn took Simon’s hand. “Come with me,” she said, leading him outside.
Simon retained only vague impressions from that walk. The sunlight upon Gwyn’s hair. The crunch of autumn leaves. The woodland scents of pines and damp earth and the warm pressure from his sister’s hand as she led him deeper into the wilderness.
* * *
The next morning, it took three cups of strong coffee before Simon could call himself awake. With Garrett’s help, he dressed in his best black suit, then walked the short distance to Emmett’s rooms, where Susan had already arrived. Susan’s eyes had a dull bruised look, as though she had been weeping for hours.
“You heard about Colin,” Simon said.
She jerked her chin in an abbreviated nod. “Emmett came by my rooms last night. Come. We should hurry.”
They took a cab to the University’s front gates and set a brisk pace across the University grounds to the assembly hall. Even so, they found nearly every seat claimed. At first, Simon took strange comfort in the huge audience, but as he listened to the Provost’s long unctuous speech, his mood soured. Colin and Maeve deserved better.
Throughout the assembly, Emmett wept in silence. Susan stared at O’Neill, her dark face grim. Her expression changed only once, when the Provost announced he would suspend classes for a week, in honor of the dead. “In honor of the police and their investigation,” she murmured with a bitter smile.
The moment the Provost dismissed them, Susan led them out of the building and onto the green, where crowds of students lingered. “We’ll go have a cup of tea,” she said. “The three of us. We’ll talk or not, but if we do, we’ll make more sense than that idiot.”
“I’d like that,” Emmett said. “Simon, what about you?”
Through the mobs, Simon caught sight of Seán Blake. He immediately looked in the opposite direction, only to see Professor Oswalt emerge from the crowds. Oswalt immediately made for Simon. “Mr. Madoc. I’m glad to find you here. Would you have time for a short talk?”
Simon glanced at Susan and Emmett. “Certainly, sir.”
“We’ll come by later,” Susan told him.
The faculty quadrant proved to be nearly empty. Simon followed Oswalt into the building occupied by the mathematics professors and up the stairs to Oswalt’s second-story office. Oswalt ushered Simon inside, then shut the door and turned the lock.
A general disorder met Simon’s eye. Stacks of books covered the long side-table, mixed in with loose papers, covered in calculations. Used cups and saucers were shoved up against the coffee pot and tins of spices, which bore Arabic lettering. More papers covered Oswalt’s desk as well.
“I heard what happened with you and Moore,” Oswalt said. “Terrible shock. Terrible. Come, sit.” He indicated a chair, which Simon took. “You went to assembly, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know about classes being suspended. Good idea. I’m glad O’Neill decided for it. Last night he wanted to keep up the pretense, but after Rees died. . . .” Oswalt sighed. “I’m babbling. The prerogative of old men, just as it is the prerogative of young men to despise that same babbling. So then, let us be forthright. You should know that I’m taking a short sabbatical.”
Simon started. “Why, sir?”
“Let us call it a break in habit—one to clear the mind and eye alike.” He shot Simon a sharp glance. “Are you worried about your studies?”
“I hardly know, sir.”
“So I gather. Well, let us discuss your studies, since those are my chief responsibility. Would you like a cup of tea? No, it seems I have none. Will coffee be acceptable? I brewed a pot not long ago.”
Simon accepted a cup of hot, bitter coffee, seasoned with cardamom and lightened by thick cream.
Oswalt filled his own cup and busied himself with the spice tins a moment. “As I said, I’m taking a sabbatical, but I shan’t disappear from the University. Unlike my coffee, any worries you have are groundless.”
He moved a heap of papers to one side of his desk. Rows and rows of calculations, Simon noticed, as he glanced over them. Then his skin went cold as he recognized the complicated formulae. He had presented these same formulae to Oswalt the previous semester.
And he’d rejected them.
He glanced to see Oswalt studying him with an unsmiling face.
“How goes your research?” Oswalt said.
“It goes . . . with difficulty, sir.”
“I warned you about that.”
“You did, sir.”
Simon took another sip of coffee. He wondered if Oswalt would admit to reviewing Simon’s work, but the professor’s next comment was about a new monograph from a Frankish mathematician that had caused a stir. They discussed the theory a while. When Simon finished his coffee, Oswalt offered him more, but Simon politely declined.
“Then I must beg your indulgence and bid you good-day,” Oswalt said. “I’ve stumbled upon an interesting line of thinking and would like to mark good progress by the afternoon. But do come again, especially if you have questions concerning your research. I would not like it said that I abandoned my students. And speaking of that, I meant to ask before—how goes it with your sister?”
Simon’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch at this change in topic. “Not well, sir. But the doctors are hopeful.”
Oswalt shook his head. “Then we must hope, but it grieves me to see such a bright promise so lost. So sad . . .”
Their interview trailed off into commonplace exchanges, and Oswalt’s repeated assurances that Simon should not hesitate to come again if he had questions. Simon descended the stairs, more dissatisfied with himself than before.
What did I expect? he wondered.
He took a footpath to the nearest gates—away from the University. Away from the recent deaths. The day had turned unseasonably warm; the sun had already burned away the fog, and the sky overhead had cleared to a brassy blue. Outside the University grounds, motorcars and carriages choked the wide avenues. The world in general appeared oblivious to the murders.
“News! News of the day!” A boy in a shabby coat thrust a newssheet at Simon. “News of the day, governor? Death in high places. Scandal in the capital.”
Still preoccupied, Simon paid the boy and stuffed the newssheet into his pocket. A horn blatted nearby, and an argument broke out between a cabbie and his customer. Simon hurried down the sidewalk. He had to get away from the crowds and the noise.
He hailed a cab. “To Aonach Sanitarium,” he said, climbing inside.
“Right, sir.”
The cabbie maneuvered his horses and cab into the thoroughfare. Simon settled back and pulled the newssheet from his pocket.
Sensation in Court, read the headlines. A renowned balloonist and scientist, the Queen’s presumed lover, had plunged to his death. Causes uncertain. Investigation to be conducted by the Queen’s Constabulary.
The rest of the article disappeared into hyperbole and incoherent smudges. Simon crumpled the paper in his hand and looked out the cab’s window. As though to confirm the news, a line of blue messenger balloons glided north toward the capital. Idly, he wondered if Dee regretted working on this case and not that of the Queen’s lover.
The cab stopped abruptly. The cabbie swore. Ahead, voices rose in complaint, and someone shouted about a blockage in the square. Simon leaned out the window and saw a long motorcade creeping through the plaza. Small pennants lined one car’s roof—the mark of a visiting dignitary.
Lord Kiley.
He drew back into the cab, feeling sick. Maeve’s father must have arrived by train that morning. Death in high places, indeed.
The noon bells rang, and still the traffic did not move. Simon glanced at the newssheet, but he no longer had any desire to read about Court gossip. He stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket and closed his eyes to wait. The closed cab smelled strongly of sweat, old leather, and horse—it reminded him of the stables at home. Soon he was dozing and hardly noticed when the motorcade eventually departed the square, and the lines of traffic oozed into motion.
He stood on a high peak, his gaze turned upward. Night had fallen. Bright digits, like pinpricks of fire, stippled the dark skies. Simon tilted back his head, trying to take in the entire number . . .
“Aonach Sanitarium,” bawled the cabbie, rapping against the cab’s roof.
Simon jerked awake. Still groggy, he paid the cabbie and dealt with the gate guards. By the time he reached the main building, his head had cleared.
His visit was unexpected, however, and there was a delay before Doctor Lusk arrived in the lobby. The man frowned, obviously unhappy to see Simon.
“Mr. Madoc. Sir. You realize today is not your regular day. I’m not certain we can accommodate you.”
“I realize that,” Simon replied. “However, you once mentioned increasing the frequency of our visits, as a means of anchoring her memories.”
“True . . .” Lusk frowned again. “Normally I would venture to experiment with our program, but I fear to disturb your expectations. She spent a somewhat restless night.”
“I understand,” Simon said. “If you might indulge me this once, I promise not to distress her.”
Lusk studied him a moment, his round face uncharacteristically pensive. “Perhaps you are right, sir. Perhaps we should not slavishly adhere to Minz’s beloved patterns. Come with me.”
He dispatched a crew of orderlies to prepare a room for Simon’s visit, while he and Simon followed at a much slower pace. “I’ve requested a different room for this visit,” he told Simon. “The room contains an observation window, so that we can watch without Miss Madoc’s being aware. Just a precaution, you understand. Do you object?”
They had arrived at the room, and Simon had laid his hand on the door latch. He paused and searched Lusk’s face, but found only a doctor’s reasonable concern. “No. Not really.”
He went inside. Gwyn sat by the window, hands circling through the air as she murmured her numbers. She wore a dress today instead of her usual hospital gown, and someone had brushed and plaited her long fair hair. Simon scanned the walls, noting the small round window at the far end. The observation window.
Gwyn appeared unaware of his presence. She continued to move her hands in a rhythmic pattern, her long fingers catching and stroking the air, as though weaving the sunlight. “Seven,” she whispered. “Seven and thirteen and seventeen.”
She had returned to the early stages of her illness, when she recited only the simplest primes. Was that a sign of regression? He even recognized the old intensity in her whisper, as though her numbers represented words in a different language. . . .
Simon’s skin prickled as he made the connection at last.
“Seven,” he said, when she paused briefly. “That’s when our parents died.”
Gwyn trembled, but did not look in his direction. “Thirteen. Seventeen.”
He remembered thirteen, when their uncle arranged a meeting with Glasfryn from Awveline University. Seven and thirteen. These were dates burned into Gwyn’s memory, which even madness could not eradicate. But seventeen?
He glanced toward the observation window. Witnesses be damned, he thought and crossed the room to Gwyn’s side. Gwyn stiffened, her jaw working in sudden alarm. Simon stopped a few paces away and knelt so that his face was level with hers.
“Nineteen,” he said softly.
Her eyes widened slightly. Simon waited, hardly daring to breathe. His patience was rewarded when, at last, she whispered, “Twenty-nine.”
Keeping his voice calm, he repeated the number.
Again, he had another long wait before Gwyn spoke. “Thirty-one,” she whispered. “Thirty-seven.”
Simon drew a pencil and the newssheet from his jacket pocket. Gwyn immediately tensed. He waited, motionless, until she calmed down.
This time, he initiated the exchange. “Seven.”
“Thirteen.”
“Seventeen.”
They repeated the sequence, Simon writing down each number in the margins and empty spaces.
“. . . Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.”
The third time through the sequence, Gwyn stirred restlessly, her gaze shifting rapidly from Simon’s paper to his face, as though she expected something more. He tried repeating the numbers, but she struck the pencil from his hands. Before he could soothe her, the attendants arrived and led an unusually pliant Gwyn away.
Lusk escorted Simon to the lobby in uncharacteristic silence. “You were right to come, sir,” he said, when they arrived at the front doors. “Quite right. We have made true progress today, you and I and Miss Madoc. Kindness—that is the key to your sister’s illness.”
Only part of the solution, Simon thought as he walked along the sanitarium’s winding paths, between the stately trees and their rain of falling leaves. A very small part. The true key was written on the smudged sheet of newsprint in his pocket.
That night Simon pored over Gwyn’s numbers. He started by applying a series of basic formulae, each designed to expose any underlying patterns. When these proved fruitless, he turned to the newer analysis methods discussed in academic journals. No success. Finally, on a decision based midway between frustration and whimsy, he turned to more fantastical methods—Lîvod’s color theories, Frankonia’s exploration into the electrical properties of numbers, the latest research from the Prussian Alliance, even ancient treatises from the Egyptian and Persian mystics.
Seven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.
He found himself doodling numbers on his scrap paper—huge numbers interspersed with smaller ones. Their pattern echoed Gwyn’s patterns and recalled his dream of numbers burning like stars across the night. Numbers whose voices sang to him, the notes changing as he transformed them through calculations.
He had Garret brew a pot of strong tea, then requested privacy for the evening. Garret, ever deferential, withdrew to his own rooms.
Simon pulled out a well-thumbed primer on mathematical history. He skimmed the sections on Pythagoras, with his belief in mystical properties; on Fermat and his seemingly logical theory on primes, which had proved false; on Fermat’s correspondent, the monk-conjurer Mersenne, and Euclid, who had posited that the list of primes was infinite, and therefore led to immortality.
I wanted my name written in the same list, Simon thought as he turned the page. An arrogant wish, but arrogance seemed a prerequisite for mathematicians, especially those who put forth unpopular theories, such as his own. Dee had mocked him. Oswalt had tried to discourage him, but Simon knew the proper sequence of numbers could transform lives. He distinctly remembered . . .
Cold washed over him. Slowly, he laid down his lead stick and stared at the open book on his desk. The scrap paper was gone—possibly now another crumpled ball upon the floor. Instead, the once-empty margins of his book were decorated with a tapestry of miniscule numbers. When had he written them?
He reached for the book to shut it. Paper crackled inside his breast pocket. Simon stopped, hand hovering above the book. He’d emptied his shirt pockets before the assembly—he was certain of that. Just another bit of foolscap, he told himself. He was always storing bits of paper in his pockets. He’d simply forgotten about this one.
He reached inside his pocket. His fingers met a rigid square unlike the usual crumpled note. Hands trembling, he plucked it out and dropped the object onto his desk.
It was a thin packet of stiff brown paper, its edges sealed and one flap folded over to make an envelope. Simon rotated the packet, looking for some marking, a label to indicate its contents. He heard a faint hissing from inside. Cautiously, he tore off the corner and tilted the packet.
A stream of white powder poured onto his desk. He stared at it warily. Not sugar. The grains were too fine. Where had he seen its like before?
You remember. You and Emmett . . .
He wet his forefinger and touched the white pyramid, making a slight dent in its smooth surface. After a moment’s hesitation, he transferred a miniscule amount to his tongue.
A sweetish bitter taste filled his mouth. Within a moment, his tongue went numb.
Cocaine. He and Emmett had experimented with it one night, after reading texts from the addict philosophers of the previous century—another of those laughably regrettable incidents from their first year at the University. Simon had forgotten it until now.
Simon closed his eyes. He had no memory of acquiring this substance, and yet he must have. But when?
Certain symbols have a mystical significance, Pythagoras believed. Our reality is mathematical. Our souls can rise to union with the divine.
Discounted theories from a long-dead mathematician, sometimes remembered as a genius, persecuted in his own time, whose secret society ended in bloody and violent suppression.
Seven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.
Now I remember.
The summer of their seventh year, an unusual heat wave muffled Éireann’s northern provinces. Every breeze had died off. Even the messenger balloons appeared stranded, and the buzz from their engines set the air vibrating, as though from gargantuan mosquitoes. Simon and Gwyn spent their hours in their playroom, or in subdued conversation with their aunt and uncle, who had come to supervise them while their parents traveled on holiday through Italy.
The news came on a Monday. That day, the skies were empty of balloons; the sun was a bright smudge against the dull sheets of clouds. Simon and Gwyn had retreated to the mansion’s cool cellars with boxes of colored chalk. Simon drew a series of squares, then rectangles, then circles. Whatever came to mind.
Gwyn worked more deliberately. She brushed the wall clear of grit, then laid out her pieces of chalk with care. Simon paused from his drawing to watch as she sketched the gardens surrounding their house. It was more than just a picture—woven in between the lush foliage and graceful trees, he could pick out a three curling between the branches like a snake, a six that also looked like a ripple in the pond, a seven disguised as the gardener’s scythe.
“Master Simon. Miss Gwyn.”
Gwyn paused, her chalk poised above the next number. Simon, always obedient, called back, “Down here, Sally.”
He expected her to give the usual retort, “That’s Miss Sally to you, scamps.” Instead, Sally clattered down the stairs, her face pale and her eyes bright with tears. “Come quick, Master and Miss,” was all she said. With gentle hands, she laid aside Gwyn’s chalk, brushed down their clothes, and smoothed their tousled hair. No time for washing their faces. It didn’t matter, she said as she led them upstairs and into the grand front parlor, before retreating with a final whispered encouragement.
Their aunt and uncle sat on the magnificent sofa where their parents so often entertained guests. With a twinge of apprehension, Simon took in his uncle’s black suit, his aunt’s black veil and dress, unrelieved by any jewels.
Uncle Niall stood and held out his arms. “Simon. Gwyn. Come here.”
When neither one moved, he glanced at his wife, as though puzzled how to proceed. Aunt Sophie swept her veil to one side and knelt. “Simon. Gwyn, love. I have terrible news.”
Their parents had died, she told them. The cause had been a freak accident—two balloons colliding in mid-air had scattered their wreckage over the train rails in the remote Italian countryside. Moments later, a train had rounded a curve, and despite the engineer’s efforts, the engine had derailed and plunged into a ravine, taking all the passenger cars, and Simon and Gwyn’s parents, with it. There had been no survivors.
“You’ll stay here, in your own home,” Aunt Sophie said. “We’ll take care of you, I promise. Your Mama and Papa made every provision for your upbringing.”
Simon opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, but his throat and chest hurt too much. Gwyn went rigid. She stared at their aunt and uncle, her pale blue eyes bright and angry. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not true. Not true. Not true. Not—”
She turned and fled. That night, Simon heard her whispering the same words as they both pretended to sleep.
Simon flung the cocaine out the window and went to bed. He had no dreams, for which he was grateful, but when he awoke, a strange lethargy enveloped him. He washed his face, shaved, and ordered a hearty breakfast. Coffee and eggs revived him, and he set to work at once.
The greatest purification of all is disinterested science, Pythagoras said. It is the man who devotes himself to that who is the true philosopher. Who frees himself from the wheel of birth.
He worked from mid-morning to midnight and later, drinking pot after pot of strong tea brewed by the faithful Garrett, while searching for the key to Gwyn’s numbers.
Late on the third morning, a loud knocking broke into his concentration. Simon paused, his pencil poised to finish off an equation, expecting Garret to answer the door.
But Garret did not appear, and another series of knocks rattled the door. “Simon! Simon! Open up, man.”
Emmett. He sounded panicked. Simon rose, unsteady from sitting so long. He had the strange impression of doubled voices, and though the hour bells were just ringing, he was convinced they’d rung not five minutes ago. He smoothed back his hair, arranged his pencils, and hastily covered up his worksheets.
And stopped, his heart racing.
A snowy white pyramid, the size of his thumbnail, occupied the center of his desk.
“Simon! Open the door, or I’ll get the key from Mrs. Dugan.”
Simon covered his eyes with his palms, willing himself to see nothing but blackness. No cocaine. No numbers. No dizziness after which the day had mysteriously dissolved into night. Emmett showered more knocks against his door, jerking him back to the present. “I hear you, Emmett. Give me just a moment.”
He swept the cocaine into an old envelope and shoved it into his desk drawer. With a damp rag, he wiped his desktop clean, then tossed the rag into the waste bin and stirred up the contents. A glance into the mirror showed that his face was pale but otherwise ordinary. He rubbed his hands over his trousers, then opened the door.
Emmett stood in the corridor, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Except for a stark white shirt collar, his clothes were entirely black. Simon gestured for Emmett to come inside, but Emmett did not move. “They held Colin’s wake yesterday,” he said in a clipped voice. “Why didn’t you come?”
“I—I didn’t know.”
“They sent a notice around.”
A red haze washed over his vision, and his stomach roiled. He wished he’d not drunk quite so much tea the night before. “I haven’t been well, Emmett.”
“So Garret told me,” Emmett said, still in that hard voice. “And Mrs. Dugan. So that is the excuse I gave Commander Dee, when we spoke at Maeve’s funeral.”
Pennants fluttering atop the long black motorcar. Lord Kiley, come to fetch his daughter’s body home. Dee saying, We’ve had another death.
“Simon!”
Simon flinched. His gaze swung immediately to his desk. He half-expected to see the cocaine again, but the desk remained innocently clear.
Emmett stared past him into the room. His expression softened to concern, looking more like his usual self. “What’s wrong, Simon? Can you tell me? Is it because of the murders?”
“Nothing.” Simon swallowed against the dryness clogging his throat and tried again. “Nothing that sleep and right food won’t cure.”
An awkward pause. Emmett shifted on his feet and glanced away. “I see. Well. The other reason I came was that we’re holding a wake ourselves, a private one, for Maeve and Colin together. It’s tonight, at Bantry’s Pub. You should come.”
“Bantry’s,” Simon repeated. Then a shadow crossed his vision, and he distinctly heard Emmett say, “I’m sorry you’re too ill to come. Shall I stop by tomorrow?” and his own answer, “Yes. Please do.”
When Emmett had gone, Simon closed the door and leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “I’m unsettled. My nerves strained. Nothing more.”
He stumbled into his bedroom and lay down. Hours later, he woke with a start, sweating, his heart beating against his ribs. His rooms were dark, the air stale and cold. A rapping sounded at his door—a steady rhythm as though someone had been at it a while.
Emmett.
Simon rolled from the bed, calling out, “Just a moment.”
He scrubbed his face with cold water and pulled on a fresh shirt and trousers. The cocaine had not mysteriously reappeared. Calmer now, he opened the door, ready to face Emmett.
But it was Susan who stood outside. Susan with her plain black skirt and white pleated blouse, her dark face serious. “Simon,” she said. “You must not do it.”
He blinked, confused. “Do what?”
She gestured sharply, taking in his appearance and the cluttered room behind him. “Make yourself a recluse. I haven’t seen you in three days. Emmett tried calling on you yesterday, but you wouldn’t answer the door. He said you were ill. Bollocks.”
“Susan . . .”
“Don’t.” Her voice scaled up, and she made an obvious effort to regain her control. “Don’t lie to me, Simon. I know you’re grieving for Maeve and Colin. We all are. I just came to ask—to say that you should not hide from your friends.”
With that, she turned and fled down the stairs. Moments later, the outside door banged open and shut.
Simon closed the door and turned back to his rooms. Only a day had passed since Emmett’s morning visit, but a veneer of dust coated the floors, and his rooms had an odd neglected look. Where had Garret disappeared to?
Emmett tried calling, but you wouldn’t answer.
Simon’s gaze veered to his desk. The cocaine had returned.
He had trouble remembering much after that. Morning. Night. Afternoon. The hours flickered past his eyes like pages of a book. Once he found himself crouched over his wastebasket, retching. Another time, he massaged his cramped hands, studying a list of numbers. Moments later, he stood in his bedroom, drinking coffee, bemused to find himself dressed and shaved.
He was still gazing at his carpet when someone tapped at his door. Emmett or Susan, he thought. Or possibly the long-absent Garret.
But his visitor was Adrian Dee, looking grim and weary. “You must come with me, sir.”
“Why? More questions?”
“More questions than I like, sir. I cannot tell you more until we reach the precinct office.”
Dee helped him into his overcoat and led him outside, where a cab with a uniformed policeman waited.
“Am I under arrest?” Simon demanded.
“No, Mr. Madoc. Not unless you give us reason.”
Dee remained silent throughout the long uncomfortable drive to the precinct house. Fatigue lined his face, making him look much older than he had that first day, when they walked along the Blackwater. Simon noted a scar below Dee’s left temple and faint hatchmarks beside his eyes. How many years had he served in the Queen’s Constabulary? And why had his superiors assigned him to this obscure murder case?
They arrived just as the sun was sliding behind the precinct house, which stood on a prominence overlooking the Blackwater. Dee dismounted first and scanned the walkway. When Simon climbed down, the detective took him by the elbow and hurried him inside.
Policemen and their charges filled the precinct lobby—tramps and beggars, a woman with gaudy makeup, a nervous man in evening dress explaining his possession of a gun. Dee guided Simon up the nearest stairwell, along a deserted corridor, and into a waiting room. He closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”
Simon hesitated. He had expected the same scene as last time—the several uniformed policemen standing along the walls, the assistants writing notes, another of Dee’s colleagues listening in. Instead, they were alone, and Dee himself remained silent, his narrowed gaze upon Simon.
“The newest victim is Susan Liddell,” Dee said abruptly.
For a moment, Simon’s mind went blank. Then the blood drained from his face and he sank into the chair. “Susan? When? How?”
Dee studied him a moment before answering. “Last night. Very late, if our witnesses are telling the truth. The coroner is confirming their testimony.”
Susan. Dead.
Simon leaned his head against his hands. “That’s not possible,” he whispered. “She visited me this afternoon. No, wait. She came by yesterday.”
Dee gave no reaction, except that his features turned a shade more rigid. “Tell me everything you did this past week. Leave nothing out.”
“I . . . I spent them in my rooms.”
“The entire five days? Doing what?”
Another wave of vertigo passed over Simon. He steadied himself against the tabletop and managed to meet Dee’s eyes. “Research. Studying.”
“For your thesis?”
“Yes. That and . . . something that concerns my sister.”
Dee regarded him steadily. “Susan Liddell was last seen in the mathematics library. She bid the librarian good-night just as the clock struck ten. The librarian looked out the window and saw a man waiting outside by the lamppost. Miss Liddell and he spoke, then walked off together. The librarian said he had only a glimpse of the man’s face, but he swears it was you.”
“Impossible,” Simon whispered. “I never went there. My manservant can testify—”
Dee stopped him with a gesture. “We spoke with Thomas Garret. You dismissed him two days ago, he claims. We also spoke with your landlady. Mrs. Dugan and the chambermaid both agree that you remained in your rooms throughout the day, but they cannot guarantee your whereabouts after sunset.”
Simon felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. “I did not leave my rooms, Commander. I—besides, my studies, I was quite ill, Commander. Ask Emmett Moore. He came to my rooms.”
Dee nodded. “We know. As did Miss Liddell. She spoke with Mr. Moore yesterday morning. She was concerned, as was he, about your health. He did not say it outright, but Mr. Moore thought you had had dealings with Mr. Blake.”
“That’s a lie,” Simon burst out. He stood up hastily, knocking over the chair. Simon righted the chair, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I can only say I’m upset. Any man would be with his friends dying and his sister—” But he would not speak of Gwyn to this man. “Never mind about my sister. I’ve enough to upset me these past three days.”
“Five,” Dee said softly.
“Three or five or twenty-five. Does it matter? My friends are dead, and you accuse me of being their murderer.”
“But I don’t.”
Simon stopped. He had been circling the table, unaware that he did so. Now he faced Dee across the table. One of the windows had been opened a crack. He heard carriage wheels clattering over the paving stones. A thin breeze filtered into the stuffy room. “You don’t?”
“No.” Dee watched him closely. His gaze was bright, disquieting in its intensity. “We have contradictory testimony, Mr. Madoc. We have other evidence I cannot share with you. Suffice to say that we do not have adequate proof to arrest you.”
“Then why bring me here?”
“To question you. Someone murdered Susan Liddell. Someone who knew her quite well, and that is telling you more than I should.”
Simon rubbed his hand over his numb face. “I wish I could help you.”
“So do I, Mr. Madoc. So do I. Now, please, sit. I have a few more questions.”
A few questions turned into several dozen. Once more, Dee led Simon through the past week. When had he entered his rooms? Who brought him meals? On which day did Emmett Moore visit him? Had Mr. Moore appeared distressed? What about Miss Liddell?
“Did you know that Mr. Moore and Miss Liddell had been lovers?”
Simon gripped the table’s edge to steady himself. “Lovers? No. I had no idea. I thought—” He eyed Dee, suddenly suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“We are certain, Mr. Madoc. We have that information directly from Mr. Moore.”
Simon opened and closed his mouth, unable to respond to that information. Dee watched him in silence. When he resumed his questions, they seemed to come at random, skipping over the past week, then suddenly leaping to years before, including his first meeting with Emmett Moore. Gradually, as he answered questions about Emmett’s recent behavior, Simon’s panic receded, replaced by a realization that brought him no comfort.
They think Emmett murdered Susan.
At last, Dee let out a sigh. “Enough. We’ve had a long day, you and I, Mr. Madoc.”
“Am I free to go, then?”
“Yes. But remember, the investigation continues. I would prefer that you not leave Awveline City.”
“Of course, Commander. I only meant that I was tired and would be grateful for some sleep.”
“That you may have, Mr. Madoc.”
A policeman called a cab for Simon and escorted him home. The ride back to his boarding house remained a blurred series of images. Moonlight alternating with clouds. Dusky purple skies. Faint stars pricking the darkness. Long shadows stretching over the roadway. He was vaguely aware of the policeman helping him inside. Even with the man’s assistance, it took Simon three tries to unlock his door, but at last he was inside. Safe and alone.
He scanned his rooms quickly. Nothing extraordinary met his sight. Books, papers, and furniture all looked the same. Aside from Tom Garret’s strange absence, his rooms looked as though the past few days had not occurred.
Save that Susan is dead, and the police suspect Emmett.
He dropped into the chair by his desk. After a moment’s hesitation, he yanked open the drawer and searched through its contents. Keys. Slips of paper with numbers scribbled upon them. An inkpot. A pair of dice he and Emmett used to play statistics games. But no white packet of strange powder.
Simon shoved the drawer closed and rested his head upon his hands. I was upset. Confused. Nothing more.
Work. He needed to work. To distract himself from the news about Susan and Gwyn. He reached blindly for the nearest book: Numerical Theories of the Syrians.
For an hour, he was able to lose himself in reading and making notes. As one reference led him to another, he pulled out other books, until he had an untidy heap upon his desk. Metaphysical properties. Particles of thought. Time streams. The various theories hung in his mind, vivid and clear. It seemed that he had finally found the necessary strands to pull his theories together. . . .
The vision wavered. The brightly colored strands of his reasoning unraveled into a handful of nothing.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn. Damn. Damn to all eternity.”
He pushed back his chair and stood. He’d go mad if he stayed alone much longer. He pulled on a hat, gloves, and overcoat as he walked out the door. There was no question of visiting Emmett, not with Dee’s questions fresh in his thoughts. But Oswalt—Oswalt had told Simon to visit if he had questions.
Those aren’t the questions you have.
Those are the ones I can bear to ask.
The cab dropped him off within a few streets of Oswalt’s house, and Simon continued the last distance on foot. Oswalt lived in a genteel neighborhood of aging gabled houses. Most of the windows were brightly lit, but the streets themselves were quiet and the sidewalks empty. A line of yellow haloes marked the procession of streetlamps.
Oswalt’s house stood on a corner, somewhat apart from its neighbors and shielded by a high wall of bushes. Simon paused on the sidewalk, where a brick walkway led up to the front porch. Lamplight glowed in one of the upper windows, but downstairs all was dark. He puffed out his breath in frustration and stamped his feet, suddenly aware how quickly they’d grown numb.
A fool’s errand, he thought. Oswalt might be awake, but he certainly wasn’t receiving visitors at this hour.
He turned away, ready to go directly home, but stopped when a light flared in the downstairs parlor window. A silhouette appeared before the curtains. Simon recognized Oswalt by the silvery halo of hair around his head. Moments later, the glow brightened as Oswalt lit the parlor’s lamps.
Now a second, taller figure appeared by the window. Curious, and somewhat apprehensive, Simon took a few steps along the front walkway. Who else had chosen to visit and rouse Oswalt from his early evening? Another student? Adrian Dee?
He left the walkway and ventured closer to the parlor window. If anyone looked out from that brightly lit room, they would not see him in the darkness.
Luck was with him. Oswalt had left the window open a crack, and he heard their voices clearly.
“Not possible.” That was Oswalt.
“But sir, surely you’ve read the theories—”
“And just as surely I’ve read their refutations, Mr. Moore.”
Emmett. Why had Emmett come here? Oswalt was not his advisor. And surely he would have remained at home, mourning Susan’s loss.
Simon crouched down, his head spinning from the onslaught of suspicion. Above him, the voices continued their conversation, but he could barely attend. They were arguing—something about formulae and the properties of numbers.
“Prime numbers,” Emmett said, his voice taking on that eager tone when he’d lighted upon a new and exciting idea. “You yourself wrote a paper on the subject.”
“Years ago,” Oswalt said. “Others have since disproved the theory.”
“True. But remember the new research from Lîvod and Dietsch—”
“Incomplete—”
“Not incomplete.”
There was a heavy pause, and Simon could picture the glower on Oswalt’s face. It was a look that intimidated less confident students. Emmett himself apparently required a few moments before he could continue.
“Begging your pardon and your indulgence, sir, but the evidence is not incomplete. Here are the newest papers, delivered just this week from a community of Iranian scholars. Have you read them, sir?”
“Not yet, Mr. Moore. I was engaged in my own research.”
“As was I, sir. One very similar to your own, I would imagine.”
Oswalt snorted. “Indeed.” A pause followed. “Mr. Madoc is your intimate friend, I believe.”
“Mr. Madoc is my dear friend and a respected colleague, sir.”
A long unbroken silence followed. Then Oswalt cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came to me, Mr. Moore. Come with me, we shall go to my offices tonight. I have some papers to share with you—”
Oswalt broke off with an exclamation. Simon heard Emmett’s shout, several thuds, then another broken-off cry. Without thinking, he raced to the front porch and flung the door open. A silent dark foyer met his eye. Cautiously he stepped inside, his heart beating hard against his chest. He heard a rustling sound from within the parlor and laid a hand on the latch.
The door swung open to reveal a brightly lit parlor. Two dark shapes lay motionless upon the carpet, one with thin white hair, one with blond hair, bleached to silver in the brilliant lamplight.
Emmett. Oswalt. But that means —
A table crashed to the ground. A man burst from behind the couch and ran full tilt into Simon. They both tumbled to the floor, arms and legs flailing as they wrestled. Then Simon broke free and rolled to his feet. The next moment the stranger had done the same.
He was a tall man, with pale blond hair escaping from underneath a thick scarf, which enveloped his throat and face. His light blue eyes glittered in the moonlight. He could almost be Emmett’s brother.
With a muffled cry, the stranger dropped the knife and ran.
Simon darted after him. “Stop!”
“Stop!” cried another voice.
Dee. In relief, Simon swung around. “Commander. Thank the Lord—”
Dee stepped over the threshold, his gun aimed at Simon’s chest. “Simon Madoc, I order you to yield. Give me the knife, sir. I promise that it will go better if you cooperate. Come, lay the knife down. You know you have not a chance.”
Simon edged away. “What are you talking about? Didn’t you see the man? He’s the one who killed—”
With a shock, he realized he gripped a knife in his hands.
Simon twitched his hand open. The knife spun toward Dee, who dropped to one knee and fired. Simon twisted away, but not in time. Bright pain blossomed in his shoulder. In panic, he stumbled down the hall and made it through the back door a few steps ahead of Dee.
A policeman loomed to his right. Simon swung a punch and connected. The pain in his shoulder nearly brought him to his knees. Ahead, he saw another figure darting through the gate and into the alley. Simon drew a sobbing breath and ran.
Dawn came as a dark red haze.
Simon pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to contain the pressure inside. He’d spent half the night chasing and chased. Twice he had spotted the murderer, and twice Dee’s men had nearly captured Simon. Finally he’d taken refuge in a derelict stable, deep in Awveline’s slum district.
He tilted his head back and breathed in the dusty air. His shoulder ached fiercely where Dee had shot him, and dried blood pulled at his skin. It would be only a matter of hours before Dee and his patrols located Simon. They would charge him with murder, try him, and execute him. He no longer tried to deny the charge. The knife lay at his feet, though he remembered clearly dropping it in Oswalt’s house. He also remembered a stranger fleeing with the same knife in his hand. Three memories, all vivid. Which one was true?
“Seven,” he whispered. “Thirteen. Seventeen.” He paused and listened a moment. A pattering against the doors and broken shutters told him that rain was falling. A faint silver light seeped around the shutters. Day had arrived.
“Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one—Fuck! Damnable fucking numbers!”
A coughing fit overtook him. Simon fumbled in his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. His fingers met a square packet.
“No,” he whispered. “That’s not possible.”
With a quick jerk, Simon pulled out the packet and ripped off one corner. He poured the contents into his hand. He hesitated a moment, then tipped back his head and poured the cocaine into his mouth.
A bittersweet taste filled his mouth. His stomach heaved in protest. Choking, he managed to force the powder down his throat.
His tongue went numb. Next came the tremors, which shook him so hard that his fist knocked against his teeth, and he tasted blood. His chest felt tight, as though a vise gripped him. Hard to breathe, hard to —
I had trouble finding you.
Midnight in the orchard. A bright half-moon illuminated the trees with clouds of light. Simon held Gwyn tight against his chest to quiet her trembling. Her hair smelled of new apple blossoms. Underneath, however, lay the distinct scent of fear.
What is wrong, Gwyn? What happened?
I can’t sleep, thinking about numbers. Remember what Pythagoras said, about numbers and the soul. What the mystics said about the paths our lives take. Numbers. . . .
One memory blurred into the next. Memories of comforting Gwyn after her nightmares. Memories of rigorous arguments, where each delivered their reasoning in dispassionate tones. Memories of a life shared so completely that Simon often wondered if their separate bodies were just an illusion.
Look, Simon.
Images of the moonlit orchard overlaid those of the stable. Even as he watched, the silver-dappled leaves faded into stone, and the moonlight dulled to a rain-soaked dawn.
The murderer crouched opposite Simon. His long hair hung in wet tangles over his face. Simon scrambled to his feet and snatched up the knife. The man did not acknowledge him at all as he poured out a quantity of white powder onto his palm.
Breathless, Simon watched him swallow the cocaine. The stranger wore his face, with all the differences age would make. Silver threaded the fair golden hair. Faint lines radiated from his eyes and mouth. The flesh along his jaw drooped slightly. A handsome man just entering middle age.
Simon put a hand to his own shirt pocket and found the cocaine packet. No longer surprised, he poured out the entire contents and swallowed them. When the stranger rose and walked out the door, so did he.
Outside, the slums had vanished into a haze. Simon and his twin walked along a strange path lined with dense green foliage. Above, stars burned like digits of a never-ending number.
They came to an intersection, where a dozen paths curved toward the horizon. Impossible, Simon thought. The Earth curved, certainly, but the unaided eye could not discern it. He glanced toward one of the branches.
They were nineteen. Sunlight, falling through the leaves, cast green shadows upon Gwyn’s face, which had the luminescence of youth.
“The past is not immutable,” she said.
“How?” Simon demanded. “You’ve not proved your theories.”
“I don’t have to. We prove it by living. Our parents proved it by dying.”
They stood by the sunken gardens, underneath a stand of ornamental trees. The late summer sun glittered upon the pool, and a bright haze filled the air, making the trees and foliage beyond appear indistinct. Simon blinked and rubbed his eyes. Paused. Gwyn had gone silent, and he sensed a difference in the air. When he glanced back to his sister, he saw creases beside her eyes and strands of silver in her hair.
Thirty-seven.
Colin Rees bent over a workbench, delicately twining copper wires onto a perforated board. Maeve standing by a tall desk, writing out columns of numbers. . . .
Forty-one.
The same room, but a different day. He and Gwyn stood by a table, which was hidden beneath an enormous sheet of paper. Lines covered the paper in a complex grid of red and black and blue. Green circles marked certain intersections; their distribution made a pattern that Simon could not quite grasp.
Gwyn was speaking in low urgent tones. “I thought Douglas could manage. He and I discussed it. I judged the risk acceptable.”
“You’re letting emotion distort your judgment.”
“Not this time,” Gwyn insisted. “Look. Forget the ordinary intersections. We’ve already identified the ones that matter. Here—” Her finger hovered above one of the green circles. “And here. And here.”
Seven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-nine . . .
“I know that,” Simon said. “But we have not identified all the permutations of twenty-three. Until we do, the path remains incomplete, and we cannot risk making even one journey.”
“141955329,” Gwyn said crisply. “Times two. Exponent 25267. Add one. Oswalt confirmed the latest pair of primes yesterday. He said that true pioneers cannot always wait for absolute knowledge before testing their theories. You used to believe that yourself.”
“In a different timeline,” Simon murmured. “A safer one.”
“This one is safe.” She jabbed her finger at the intersection marked twenty-three. “Colin ran the new primes using the same formulae. The results looked promising. Take the route through this intersection, and we have a clear path to the day in question. Alter one conversation—just one—and that balloonist might have known about the high winds that day. He might have—” She stopped, drew a deep breath. “He would have chosen a different route and avoided the accident. Our parents would have lived.”
“What about the permutations?” Simon asked softly.
Gwyn set her mouth into a thin white line. “Close enough.”
“Obviously not.”
Tears brightened her eyes. “Obviously not. Simon, we were so close, and when Douglas volunteered . . .”
It was Douglas Kerr who first had the idea of using prime numbers in their work. Harry Sullivan and Agnes Doyle had researched the formulae they needed, and Colin Rees had designed and built calculators to speed their computations. Timothy Morgan had alighted upon the inspiration of linking the human brain with the machine. From there, Emmett, Maeve, and Oswalt had begun to map out a viable path through the past. But it was Gwyn who deduced they could use a combination of numbers and drugs and electricity, just as the old mathematician-conjurors had claimed.
“We can start with cocaine,” she told the others. “And test its effects on varying levels of current.”
The results had proved terrifying. And effective.
We used our madness and our genius, Susan used to say, and from that we would benefit mankind.
Simon took his sister into his arms. “Hush, Gwyn. We’ll get Douglas back and try again next—after we check the numbers more thoroughly.”
She made an involuntary noise. Warned, Simon took a step backward and studied his sister’s expression. “What? What else happened? Tell me.”
Gwyn opened and closed her mouth. “Time fractures,” she said with obvious difficulty.
Simon drew a sharp breath. He’d read about the theories and discounted them. And yet, the concept of time fractures was no more fantastical than his and Gwyn’s own theory that said timelines followed the curvature of space, bending gradually over vast distances and meeting themselves again at different points.
“I’ll have to go back myself,” he said.
Gwyn’s mouth tensed. She was speaking again, but Simon could not make out the words. Something about patterns overlaying other patterns and creating chaos in the time streams.
“Too late.” Gwyn’s voice was a disembodied whisper. “We were too late to save them.”
“How do you know?” Simon asked.
Of their collaboration, only he, Gwyn, Oswalt, and Emmett Moore remained. Timothy Morgan had followed Douglas Kerr through the timelines, never to return. Lost, Simon told himself. Reluctantly, he’d allowed Agnes Doyle and Harry Sullivan to launch an expedition to recover their colleagues, but, instead, they were the next to vanish—their existence blotted out when two timelines re-converged. At that, Simon ordered the equipment locked up, and the experiment shut down. To his dismay, Maeve defied those orders, convinced she had the key to their problems. When Susan, mad with grief, chased after her friend to prevent another death, she too died. Time had fractured, and the paths no longer ran true.
“We cannot do nothing,” he said to Gwyn. “I must go—”
“But Simon—”
“I’ll take the same path as Douglas,” he said, speaking over her. “I’ll find him and do whatever is needed to remove the fracture.”
Gwyn pressed her hands against her cheeks. She made no objections, however, and when Simon gestured for her to assist him in preparing their apparatus, she did so, albeit silently.
One moment of inspiration, Simon thought, as he tapped the keys rapidly. Decades of necessary research and experimentation had followed, but it was that initial insight that counted most. Strange to think that that same moment intersected so many other timelines. It had taken the best minds in Éireann’s universities to invent the necessary formulae for traversing those lines, and more complicated formulae with ever higher primes to calculate all the factors involved in shifting those lines to alter the past.
Gwyn injected the cocaine and counted until the drug penetrated his bloodstream. Simon waited until she gave the signal before he pressed the last digit and set the last control. His gaze met Gwyn’s. She managed a smile, however unconvincing. Then Simon pressed the switch to connect the electrical current.
Darkness. The scent of raw earth and pine needles crushed underfoot. He walked by instinct, having made a brief essay with the machine before, when they had first tested its capabilities. Even so, he found the lack of physical indicators unsettling. The vivid scents, the cold prickling his face, the pinpoint stars, were all trace memories, Professor Oswalt claimed. Perhaps that accounted for the sensation of being doubled, as though another presence existed within his mind.
It did. It will. It does.
He paused and looked back the way he had come. A short distance behind him, the path split in two, each branch leading to a different future. With a chill, Simon could make out thread-like strands beside each branch, signaling further confusion in time.
I’m not too late, he told himself. If he intercepted Douglas before the crisis, time would heal itself, or so his research indicated. Even now, the worst would be a blurring of the past. Events doubled. Contradictory memories. Nothing fatal.
His pulse beat an irregular rhythm. Down each strand of time, another of his selves existed. He was doubled and tripled, each self bound to the other through a tenuous connection. When he glanced back, he could swear the strands grew more numerous. Was time unraveling toward the future and Gwyn?
He hurried down the path. With every step, the air turned thicker, pressing against his lungs. Voices whispered in the paths beside his. No, it was a single voice, speaking different words, depending on which direction Simon tilted his head.
Time fractures.
He could re-enter time at the next intersection. Oswalt’s calculations predicted a narrow crack, corresponding to the prime number pair. Twin primes, he called them.
But Oswalt had stolen his theories. Borrowed them for his own research, he called it. Or had he simply refined the formulae and shared them with Simon and Gwyn? Simon found it harder to remember which version was true. The voices distracted him, and the pressure had grown almost unbearable, drilling into his temples.
Panicked, he stumbled forward. He heard a roaring ahead, a cataract of time, spilling through the cracks into the world. If only he could reach it before he died from the agony. That was how Agnes had died. And Douglas. And . . .
He fell through the tunnel’s diaphanous walls into a muddy clearing. A cold wind swept through his clothes. His hands stung from the fall. Strange noises and images assailed him. Raucous cries overhead. Misshapen shadows blotting out the sun. Then, in the midst of strangeness, a human voice.
“Simon? Is that you, Simon?”
Simon twitched and spun around. He saw her now, a beautiful girl with golden hair, fair skin, and eyes like the bluest summer skies. She came toward him, her expression anxious, and spoke again, but all Simon could think was that her skin must be warm and silken to the touch, and he needed her, needed her more than he could express. With an inarticulate cry, he rushed toward the girl to bury himself inside her warmth.
Gwyn. Sweet Gwyn. What have I done?
When he came to, he was stumbling along a muddy path. Stars winked overhead between the budding trees, and a heavy watery scent filled the air. He was cold. Hungry. Terrified and bruised. Someone had attacked him. Simon had fought off the man and snatched away his knife. What came next was unclear. He only remembered that he came across a different man, walking alone by the river. Memory flickered. He recognized Douglas Kerr. Must stop Douglas. Must.
He blinked and saw a knife flashing through the darkness. He blinked again, and a woman’s shriek reverberated in his skull.
No!
He opened his eyes, the word still echoing in his ears. For a moment, he could not focus on his surroundings. Gradually he took in scattered details. Crows taking flight overhead. The craggy trunks of the oak trees. The gamekeeper’s hut. The scent of wood smoke and approaching snow. Leaves crackled in the distance. Someone was coming.
“Simon? Is that you, Simon?”
Gwyn.
Lines radiated from the point where he stood, shimmering in the cold clear winter light. He saw himself walking toward Gwyn, in three, four, a dozen directions. One future to invent a new machine so that he and others might travel through time. One to . . .
“One to heal,” he whispered. He glanced up, and across the wavering lines of the future, he saw a solitary red balloon, gliding toward the sun.
Simon’s fingers closed over the knife hilt. He set the blade against his throat.
“One,” he whispered. “Exponent one. Minus . . .” His hand shook. “Minus one.”
A quick strong movement.
A spray of blood.
Simon. Where are you, Simon?
Here. Oh, Gwyn, I nearly lost you. I nearly lost myself.
Hush. It’s all right. I’m glad you came back from the University. I have some new equations to show you.
But Gwyn, we have to be careful—
Yes, my love, I know that now. Come with me.
She took him by the hand and led him along the woodland path.
