“But you were born to lead,” Aregonda said, nonplussed by Sadie’s rejection. “We sent the evidence to you as proof.”
“Evidence?” I asked.
“Yes,” Aregonda replied. “We sent the scroll that details Sadie’s lineage directly to your home in the Otherworld.”
“But that would be the scroll everyone in the Otherworld has been searching for,” I said.
Aregonda and Lopez both nodded, and my mind traveled to the heaps of gifts in the manor’s atrium. The gifts were mostly of copper, as was fitting for the copper Inheritor of Metal, but there were a few books and scrolls mixed in. And I happened to remember one ornate scroll that held the family lineage of some folks with unpronounceable French names.
Great. We Corbeaus just happened to be descended from some folks with unpronounceable French names.
“The scroll is at the manor,” I said, dropping my head into my hands as I rubbed my temples.
“What?” Max and Sadie demanded in unison.
“When we started getting all those stupid gifts that were meant to show support,” I began, jerking my chin toward Lopez and Aregonda, “I found some books and scrolls mixed in with the rest. One of the scrolls is ridiculously ornate with these funky endcaps and everything. When I unrolled it a bit, it was a family tree for some ancient French line.”
“And you’re telling us this just now, because?” Max asked.
“Because until now I thought it was just someone’s family tree, not potentially our family tree,” I snapped, then I glared at Aregonda. “A note of explanation would have been appreciated.”
She shrugged. “We assumed you would read it, and thus understand its purpose.”
I fixed Aregonda in my gaze and called up Mom’s attitude. “At the manor, we have received hundreds, maybe thousands, of gifts over the past few months. Some were Beltane offerings, some were wedding gifts, and some were supporting Sadie as a leader. Many of them were books and scrolls, being that people across the Otherworld are well aware of Sadie’s desire to establish a library. Had you considered that perhaps the scroll you sent wasn’t the only scroll we’d receive, and included a description of its contents, it likely would have been read.”
Aregonda blinked and squared her shoulders; Lopez just looked pissed. Whatever. I could care less about what either of them thought. I just wanted to find Dad and get the hell out of this world. Our staring contest was interrupted by Max.
“Any coffee around here?” Max asked. “Or some kind of lunch?”
Aregonda turned to Max and blinked, which was apparently her all-purpose response. “Of course,” she murmured. “Please, follow me.”
We followed Aregonda toward the cooking fires in the middle of the clearing. Now that I was looking at the area in full daylight, I saw that in addition to the campfires and stone hearth there was a barbeque pit, topped with something that looked like a roasting spit. After she’d bustled about for a bit, Aregonda delivered us tin cups of coffee and plates of still-warm bread and sausages. After we’d had a few sips, Jerome appeared.
“Morning,” he greeted. He wasn’t wearing his Peacekeeper uniform, but a pair of faded jeans, black work boots, and a black knit shirt. His dark hair was damp and curling around his ears, making me wonder, rather jealously, if he’d taken a dip in a nearby stream. I never thought I’d miss the Clear Pool quite so much. “How’s the coffee?”
“Caffeinated,” I replied. I saw Aregonda offering a plate of sausages to Max out of the corner of my eye. He waved them away and dunked a crust of bread in his coffee before popping it in his mouth. “So, this is the resistance.”
“Just one of many outposts,” Jerome said proudly. “We’ve worked hard to set up bases and safe houses across the eastern portion of Pacifica.”
I nodded and looked over the bedraggled band of resistance fighters, seven of whom were copper Elementals like me. Somehow, I’d assumed that meeting others of my metal would be a momentous occasion, not one celebrated with over-boiled coffee and stale bread. “So, where’s headquarters?” I asked. “I mean, I know this is headquarters, but there must be a base with things like Internet access and indoor plumbing.”
“Portland,” Jerome replied, using Capitol City’s pre-war name. “Right in the heart of the Promenade.”
I fought the urge to smile. I loved that market for so many reasons. “Anyone find out where my father is?” I pressed.
“He’s probably there, at the Promenade,” Jerome replied. He would have said more, but Aregonda approached us with her platter of sausages.