The Golden Specific (46 page)

“The good is not enough,” Winnie said sadly.

“It
is
enough. That's what I'm saying. It is enough. The
doing
is what matters.” He squeezed Winnie's hand. “Okay?”

Winnie sniffed. “Okay.”

“I want you to look after everyone for me. Mrs. Clay is a mess. And Shadrack and Miles are going to argue about what to do until nothing gets done. You're going to have to give them the advice I would if I were here. Talk some sense to them. Can you do that?” Winnie looked back at the ground. Then he gave a short nod. “Right, then.” Theo hugged the boy and released him. “Get out of here.” He gave him a wink. “Stay out of trouble.”

The guards, nearing the dark end of the corridor, had finally caught sight of the visitors. “You can't be here,” one of them snapped. “There were to be no visitors after eight-hour.”

“We are just leaving,” Shadrack said. Putting his arm around the inconsolable Mrs. Clay, he began walking down the corridor, followed by the others.

Theo watched them go. They made a sad little procession, weaving their way through the shouting, jibing prisoners, all the way to the entrance of Ward 1. Theo sighed. He felt a spasm of sadness as Winnie turned in the doorway to wave. Theo
swallowed hard and put his hands through the bars. “Theodore Constantine Thackary?” the guard barked.

“Yes.”

“You are hereby conscripted to the Armed Forces of New Occident. Your sentence of two months' imprisonment will be considered served when your unit's deployment has ended or, if this be sooner than two months, when your term of incarceration has ended.” He turned to the guard beside him. “Manacles.” The cuffs closed on Theo's wrists, and the guards made ready to open the cell doors.

Epilogue:
The Offered Sail

S
EVILLE
HAD
CHANGED
.
The first few days after the plague had passed, no one could believe it. They considered that the brief respite was only that: a pause in the dreadful progress. But after a week, people began to hope that perhaps, after so many decades, the contagion had finally turned and fled. The hope became relief, which became elation.

From one week to the next, Seville transformed from a shuttered and desolate city to a buoyant, living one; from a clump of dry soil to a tendril of green growth. Doors were unbolted, merchants opened their stores, horses clattered through the streets, children once more played together, and the houses of worship rang with the sound of music.

Most people did not know what had caused the plague to end. But Sophia, as she rode alongside Goldenrod and Errol, with Seneca gliding high above them, knew for certain, and she felt a rush of unexpected happiness thinking of the part she had played. She had to remind herself that she had taken a great risk and expended all her strength in doing so. It was too easy, now, as she rode with her friends, to forget the long journey through the Dark Age and the terror of communing with a Clime.

The time spent in Ausentinia had allowed for recovery. Sophia recovered, albeit slowly, and Ausentinia recovered gradually from its long isolation, and the Papal States recovered yet more gradually from the enduring effects of the plague. When the first traveler to Ausentinia arrived, following the path through the Dark Age and seeking a map for what he had lost, the city celebrated.

During her days in Ausentinia, Sophia spoke frequently to Alba about her journey, and she told her of Minna's phantom. “What I don't understand is where the apparition came from. I was afraid of it at first, but then I became certain that it somehow came from here—from Ausentinia. But how could such a thing be?”

Alba thought for a moment. “You are right that she came from Ausentinia. Let me ask you this: if you had arrived here seeking something you had lost, what would that thing be?”

“My mother and father,” Sophia answered without hesitation.

“And if Errol had arrived seeking something he had lost, what would it be?”

Sophia paused. “His brother.”

Alba nodded. “You would have sought maps to find these people. The maps guiding you to them, in truth, already exist. They have always existed. They are waiting here for you as they have always waited. But while Ausentinia lay trapped in the Dark Age, no one could approach the city. The guiding impulse that writes the maps of Ausentinia had to reach you, somehow—somehow find and guide you.”

Sophia reflected in silence.

“You might say,” Alba added, “that the apparition is the map brought to life—the physical presence of the guide that will, someday, lead you to your mother and father.”

“So they're not dead?” Sophia whispered.

“They are absent,” Alba replied gently. “Not departed.”

“Then does that mean—does it mean that bringing me to Ausentinia was part of my finding them?”

Alba smiled. “Yes. You will not see the figure any longer, for you will have the map now to guide you. The map that will lead you to Minna and Bronson. I have been waiting for the right moment.” She paused, reaching into the folds of her cloak. “Here it is.” She gave Sophia a scroll of paper tied with white string. “And here is the map you will one day pass along to another,” she added, handing her a small leather purse fastened with blue string. “Your map will let you know when the moment is right.”

Sophia took the scroll and the purse. She looked at the scroll but did not touch the white string. Her hand was trembling.

“I know it has been a long wait, Sophia,” Alba said quietly. “I will let you read the map in peace.”

• • •

S
O
PHIA
PATTED
THE
purse and the map where they sat in the pocket of her skirt. The purse, curiously, held not a scroll of any kind but a bundle of red stones that Goldenrod said were garnets. The map was similarly mystifying. Most of what was written upon it she did not understand. But the beginning was familiar, and it gave her a clear path to follow:

Missing but not lost, absent but not gone, unseen but not unheard. Find us while we still draw breath.

Leave my last words in the Castle of Verity; they will reach you by another route. When you return to the City of Privation, the man who keeps time by two clocks and follows a third will wait for you. Take the offered sail, and do not regret those you leave behind, for the falconer and the hand that blooms will go with you. Though the route may be long, they will lead you to the ones who weather time. A pair of pistols and a sword will prove fair company.

For now, she was simply happy to know that the path before her lay alongside Goldenrod and Errol. She had no wish to part
from them. Errol had received his own map, one as inscrutable as Sophia's, though he believed implicitly that his brother lay at the end of it.

But not all routes led in the same direction. Rosemary, having found what she had sought for so long, took her mother's bones to hallowed ground. She had ridden with them as far as Seville and there said her farewells.

As they neared the port, Sophia's heart soared. The sight of so many ships, their tall masts cluttering the harbor, filled her with excitement. Soon, very soon, she would be home.

“I say we find something to eat before we seek our vessel,” Errol said, dismounting. “My Faierie here might subsist on sun and air and water, but you and I need something heartier, Sophia.” He rested his hand on Goldenrod's gloved arm and gave her a brief smile.

“What about bread with raisins in it?” Sophia asked, allowing Errol to help her down from the saddle. “Remember the street where you found me? There's someone there I want to thank.”

“Very well. Bread with raisins it is.” He paused. “Can I be of service?” he asked, rather stiffly.

Sophia turned to look at the man who stood nearby, looking keenly at the trio. He was tall, with skin bronzed almost to brown, and his broad grin flashed a row of even, white teeth.

“It is I who wish to be of service.”

“Richard,” Goldenrod said comfortably. She gave a warm smile as she extended her gloved hand. “It is very good to see you. I had word that you had arrived, and I understood at
long last my very unusual Atlantic voyage.”

“You are impossible to surprise,” the tall man said, bowing slightly. He spoke English with a broad accent that pulled his mouth into a smile. “But I am very glad to see
you
, too, safe and sound. And you,” he said, turning to Sophia, “must be Sophia Tims.”

Sophia nodded, surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking her hand. “My name is Captain Richard Wren. I was given your description. I have been anchored in the port of Seville for some time, waiting for your arrival.” As if by habit, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch, examining it through an amber-tinted monocle. “Fifteen days and seven hours, to be exact.” He flashed his brilliant smile and returned the watch to his pocket.

Sophia noticed, with sudden awareness, that he had two pocket-watch chains. “Captain Wren?” she asked, her pulse quickening. The name was familiar: Cabeza de Cabra had recorded it in his map, in his memory of watching Minna and Bronson as they prepared to cross the bridge into Ausentinia. “Who gave you my description?”

“My associate in Boston, who, I believe,” he said with a hint of vexation, “instructed you to meet me here at the port of Seville.”

His reply recalled her to what seemed a remote past.
“Remorse?”

“The very same. It seems there have been some unexpected mishaps and detours, but at least you are here now.”

Sophia was astonished. “I—How—” She shook her head. “I am confused.”

Wren gave a hearty laugh. “All will be explained, I promise. Perhaps this will help—I have here the document you have been seeking.” Captain Wren handed Sophia a packet of folded papers. “It is a copy I made of a diary in Granada, and I brought it with me for our meeting to demonstrate my good intentions. And, as you shall see, it is in small part about me.” He said this abashedly, as if he had taken a great liberty by appearing in the pages of the diary.

Sophia took the packet of papers and stared at the cover sheet. It read:

Personal Diary of Wilhelmina Tims.
From the original found at the Granada Depository.
Copied on June 25, 1892, by Richard Wren.

Sophia's eyes opened wide. She looked up at the captain. “The diary! She wrote about you?”

Captain Wren nodded. “Your mother and father sailed with me in 1881. Not long after, they sent a message asking for my help. For several reasons, I could not come to their aid. I am arriving now, many years later, hoping I am not too late to be of some assistance.”

Sophia stared at the pages in silence, hardly believing she finally held her mother's words in her hands. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at Captain Wren. “Thank you.”

The captain bowed, beaming with satisfaction. “You are very welcome.” Turning to Errol, he gave another small bow. “And I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting . . . ?”

“Errol Forsyth, of York,” Errol said, shaking hands with the captain. He had at first watched the man with suspicion; this had gradually faded, giving way to a cautious curiosity. “I am pleased to know someone who offered aid to Sophia's parents, Captain Wren.”

“Please call me Richard. I am very glad to make your acquaintance. And if I could,” he said, gesturing toward the harbor, “I would recommend that we negotiate for passage with one of these ships. We are heading west to find the author of that document, are we not?” He smiled at Sophia.

Sophia nodded, overcome.

Wren grinned. “Excellent. I wish the vessel your parents knew, the
Roost
, was here with me, but for reasons I will explain I had to find other means of travel. But we will find suitable arrangements.” He led them toward the harbor, holding one large, weathered hand over his eyes to shield them.

The sun, as it always did in Seville, shone down so brightly that Sophia had difficulty making out all the various flags and sails that fluttered in the harbor. But as the sun hid behind a tall mast, Sophia suddenly spotted one particular flag that made her heart stop. Her eyes followed down the mast to the ship, searching eagerly for the ship's name. There it was: the
Swan
. A broad smile broke out across
Sophia's face. “A pair of pistols and a sword,” she said aloud. “Fair company, indeed.”

The hope flared up in her, quick and sudden, that Theo had found his way aboard. She could not wait to see him. “I think I know who will take us west,” she said, making her way to the dock.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

A heartfelt thanks to all the readers, booksellers, librarians, and fellow writers—young and old—who received
The Glass Sentence
with such warmth and enthusiasm. Your readership is inspiring, and it encouraged me to take some risks in this world of the Great Disruption.

To the readers who grappled with early versions of
The Golden Specific
—Pablo, Alejandra, Paul, Tom, Moneeka, and Sean—your comments were invaluable to the shaping of this book. Thank you for your willingness to read those very unpolished drafts, in some cases multiple times!

I feel extremely lucky that the Mapmakers books have a home with Viking and the Penguin Young Readers Group; thank you to Ken Wright and so many others who have supported these rather unusual creations in countless ways. The experience of working with Jessica Shoffel, Tara Shanahan, and the rest of the marketing team has changed my view of how books reach readers—entirely for the better. I am grateful to them and to Jim Hoover, Eileen Savage, Janet Pascal, Tricia Callahan, Abigail Powers, Krista Ahlberg, and the outstanding sales force at PYRG for transforming the stages that follow solitary writing. They used to be daunting, and now, thanks to you, they seem exciting and fun.

I am grateful to Dave A. Stevenson for bringing Shadrack to life once again through such wonderful maps and to Stephanie Hans for capturing so perfectly a sense of mystery, adventure, and foreboding in her artwork.

Laura Bonner has somehow persuaded readers in places all around the
globe to take the Mapmakers books in hand, and I am so thankful (and amazed) to know that this intentionally global story will be read globally.

I am deeply grateful to Sharyn November for caring about this world and these characters as if they were just as vital, just as real, as the ones around us. Sharyn, your passion for these people brings out the best in them. (And maybe sometimes the worst. No one will ever loathe Broadgirdle like you do!)

As ever, I feel lucky beyond words to benefit from the infallible reading sense of Dorian Karchmar. Thank you for your insights and sensibilities, which I have come to rely upon so greatly. I trust your judgment more than my own!

I am grateful to my mother for affirming in her every statement the value and importance of writing, to my father for all of the spirited ideas (even the ones I didn't take), and to my brother for the sharp-eyed readings and rereadings—despite the fact that this is “
fahn
-tasy.”

As he flipped through the first galleys of this book, tearing out my sticky notes, Rowan offered exuberant exclamations that I think were complimentary. Thank you, Rowan, for somehow putting it all in perspective.

Lastly, I wish to thank Alton, to whom this book is dedicated. Thank you for reading section by section, chapter by chapter, over and over and over. Thank you for making the best efforts of my imagination—Theo's humor, Errol's gallantry, and Goldenrod's wisdom—pale in
comparison.