"No," Jess said, and held up his hands. "No." He met Thomas's gaze and got the nod he expected. "Not to us. You have to understand: this machine has existed for hundreds of years. Discovered by Scholar after Scholar, who died for their daring to imagine it. We aren't the first. We're just the ones who survived to tell you, and show you, what the world can be. If you want to give credit, give it to Scholar Gutenberg, who was murdered for this idea. And to Scholar Christopher Wolfe, who suffered for it in prison, at the hands of the Archivist." Wolfe deserved the recognition, tonight of all nights. He saw Santi and Wolfe turn, saw Wolfe's face, blank for a moment, and then full of some storm of emotion Jess couldn't properly read. Didn't want to know.
People turned toward Wolfe in silence, and for a long moment, no one seemed to quite know what to do. Then someone applauded, a lone clap of hands. A scatter joined in, and then a wave, then a roar. Jess watched as Wolfe bowed slightly, accepting the applause. Santi squeezed a hand on Wolfe's shoulder. All of his friends were smiling now, applauding . . . all except Glain.
Glain was watching Jess, with a sharp intelligence that alarmed him. He turned away to talk to an imperious old man who wanted to inspect the type pieces in the tray, and felt her continuing to watch him.
He'd known his false face couldn't hold with her. Not for long.
His da was suddenly at his shoulder, and slapped his back and whispered, "Well done, son. Though I'd rather have not drawn attention to the bloody Scholar." And then he was gone down the steps to press palms.
As Jess stepped to the floor, Brendan blocked his way. For a moment, they just looked at each other, and then his twin threw his arms around him in a quick, fierce embrace. "Now I'll never catch up to you. Always seconds and steps ahead, you are. Why did you have to make it more difficult than it has to be?"
"Shut up, Scraps," Jess whispered, and the little broken pieces inside him healed a bit-crooked, perhaps. A touch brittle. But better. "You run your own race. You always have." He shoved his brother away. "Doesn't mean I can't still beat you if I have to."
"Right. And now I'm going to pretend to be you and tell people absolute bollocks about how this thing runs. Meet me in ten minutes." Brendan slipped away into the crowd.
When he turned, he found Morgan next to him. The room was full of noise, and it seemed too loud, suddenly, too warm, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd, nodding at those who wanted to congratulate him, answering a few questions about power and capacity, and then they were through and out into the icy, whispering fog. The rain had stopped, though it glittered like diamonds on the branches of the old trees in the forecourt. The heavy bulk of the fortress loomed over them, stone and steel. No stars showing, just some dim, cloud-veiled moonlight.
Enough for him to see her, even in the shadows by the carriage house. Enough for him to kiss her. The dark floral scent of her rolled over his senses and blotted out everything else but the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth. It was a long, sweet kiss, and when they finally parted, she just held him tight. "I know," she whispered. "I know."
"I can't do it," he said. He wanted to scream. He wanted to gather her up and take her somewhere, anywhere, to hide with her and pretend none of it was happening, none of it would ever happen. He wondered if some part of her wanted that, too. He didn't think so. She wasn't the coward he was. "I was wrong. I can't see this happen to them. To you. Morgan-"
She took hold of his tie to pull him even closer. He wondered rather wildly just how secluded this spot truly was, and whether they could find deeper shadows . . . and then she broke the kiss with a gasp and pulled back, lips damp and parted, eyes shining with tears. He hadn't meant to make her cry. Never that. "I'm not the one in danger," she said. "But Wolfe-"
"He's a survivor," Jess said. "We know that. I'm more worried about what the captain and Thomas will do tonight when they realize what's happening. Do what you can to protect them. Please."
She nodded and said, "I've got to go back in."
"Make sure that Dario does his part when you do," Jess said. "Make it look good."
He heard the distant bells from the clock tower and pulled out a pocket watch to check the time. He needed to go, but something in him wouldn't let go of her hand, as if he knew this might be the last time he held it.
Some of his father's guests were spilling out of the carriage house now, still talking, arguing, every one of them clutching one of the printed pages. Some had wrapped them into tubes, like scrolls; some had carefully folded them in half, to read later. All of them cradled them as if they were sacred, valuable objects. As usual, Callum Brightwell was going to get his way. And make a profit.