“It’s a black opal,” Grayson said, removing the ring from the box, running his thumb lightly over the delicate, diamond-encrusted leaves that surrounded the gemstone.
A black opal, Lyra reminded herself,that belonged to Alice. If this was a Hawthorne game, anything could be a clue—or an object with a hidden use. “Disassemble the box?” she suggested.
His eyes on her, Grayson removed the ring, probing the box, then gently pulling out the velvet lining. And there, on the bottom of the ring box, were three words, embroidered in metallic thread.
LYRA, MY LYRA.
Chapter 47
JAMESON
For the past seven hours, Jameson had received a steady string of deliveries at the London flat. Crucibles—so many crucibles. But as yet, he had not received the two items he most wanted: theAlchemistdrawing and an invitation to the Devil’s Mercy.
“You are making a mistake.” That was Branford, aka Uncle Broken Record. To say that he had not been pleased that Jameson had gone to his brother would have been an understatement. Threats had been issued. Personal space had been invaded. Branford’s accent had gotten posher and posher.
But it was too late. If Jameson had made a mistake—well, it was already made. Branford had asked him what he’d offered up to Bowen in exchange for this favor—or rather, thesefavors, plural. Jameson had answered in a single word:Vantage.
As much as that hurt, Jameson didn’t regret it. He wasn’t capable of regretting a gambit, not when it still might pay off. He was the Hawthorne known for Hail Mary passes, the one who took risks, and if there was anything on this planet worth risking everything for, it was Avery.
Heads she’d wanted him to look for her, tails she hadn’t, but either, he was hers.
No regrets, Heiress.So Jameson continued to pass his time scouring each and every crucible that Bowen Johnstone-Jameson sent him, looking for something—anything—that might make sense of that postcard of Hannah’s.If it really was Hannah’s.
A rap at the door broke Jameson from his thoughts.
“I’ll get it,” Xander volunteered, jackrabbiting toward the door.
This time, when the door opened, there was no package. There was instead a man holding a silver tray. The man didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. Jameson came up behind Xander, looking over his brother’s shoulder at the objects lying on that tray. There were three of them: a black envelope embossed with a platinum design, a curled scrap of paper, and a cell phone.
Jameson reached to pick up the envelope—marked by a triangle inside a circle inside a square, on and on.Patterns repeating.The phone rang the moment Jameson touched the envelope’s edge.
The man holding the tray remained motionless and unblinking. Jameson picked up the phone and answered it. “You have impeccable timing, uncle.”
“Before you open that envelope,” Bowen said on the other end of the line, “you might ask to hear my terms.”
“Your terms? I thought we’d agreed on terms.” Jameson turned his back on the tray—and on Xander—and found himself face to face with Branford.
“Did you?” Bowen’s voice said on the other end of the line. “Well, young Hawthorne, your lack of attention to detail is hardly my problem.”
Jameson realized then: He’d offered up Vantage, but Bowen had never accepted that offer—not explicitly. He’d just told Jameson to go back to the Hawthorne flat and wait.
Branford made a grab for the phone, and Jameson dodged.
“Feel free to set it to speaker, if you would like,” Bowen told Jameson, like he knew Branford was there, like he could see them.
Jameson set the phone to speaker and didn’t even have a chance totell his uncle he’d done so before Bowen spoke again, addressing his next words to Branford. “Say a word, Simon, and I will consider the young man to be in default.”
Bowen did not specify what it would mean if Jameson was determined to havedefaulted.
Apparently, he didn’t have to. Branford clamped his jaw closed.
“On the tray, there is a scrap of paper,” Bowen said in that not-rough, not-smooth, impossible-to-ignore voice of his. “Now would be the time, Jameson Winchester Hawthorne, that you pick that up.”
Jameson did as he’d been instructed.
“Unroll it.”
Setting the phone face up on the tray, Jameson did as he’d been bid, uncurling the scrap of paper. On it there were three words, written in impeccable cursive.