“We could speculate all day,” Iris said, reaching out for me. I did not take her hand. “But what we need to do is try and understand how this all relates to what’s happening with your sister.”

“But if you are right, and Maisie and I are somehow linked to whatever our mother joined Tillandsia to accomplish, we have to figure out what that was. How else could we begin to figure out how it relates to Maisie?”

“She’s right,” Oliver said. I felt apprehension flare off Iris in an almost palpable wave. “But where would we start? After Emmy died, Ginny claimed her journals.” I don’t know what it was—a lack of finesse in his tone, the absentminded way I could feel him flipping through the alternatives, or the way he didn’t even try to act smooth—but something told me he really didn’t know my mother was alive. I felt a pang of relief, but that was derailed by the massive doubts I still felt about Iris and Ellen. “And you, Gingersnap, are all too aware that those have been reduced to ash.” He paused. “We could try, and I do mean try, to search for echoes, but it all happened so long ago now.”

“Search for echoes?” I hadn’t heard of that before.

“Charge the atmosphere of the places Emily spent the most time. See if we can replay any memories the surroundings might still hold.”

“After all this time?” Iris asked. “No, I don’t think it’s worth the trouble or the risk of drawing the golem’s attention to what we’re doing.” She looked directly at me. “You know he’s here to spy. That’s the sole reason for his presence. It’s ridiculous for the families to insist that he’s somehow more qualified to train you in the use of magic than we are.”

“It’s true, Sandman is under foot, but what better way to keep him occupied than to have him show Mercy how to sift for memories?” Oliver said. “He doesn’t have to know the real reason. Just that Mercy would like to know how.”

Ellen turned in her seat. “I agree with Iris. It’s a bad idea.” I saw her eyes telegraph Iris a quick look of concern, but Iris remained stoic.

“Do you have a better one?” Oliver asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “No, I didn’t think so. It’s settled then,” he said, and then addressing me, “Let’s go find Emmet. Oh, wait”—his voice dripped with sarcasm—“here he is now.” He saluted the window where Emmet had been standing stock still the entire time.

TEN

Emmet stood as still as a statue when we entered the room, turning only when Oliver called out, “Hey, Sandman. You ready to teach our girl here a trick?”

“Of course I’m ready to assist in Mercy’s education. It’s my sole purpose for being in your home,” he said, and then his dark eyes burned into me. “It’s my sole purpose for being period, as best as I can reason.” A certain heaviness, manifested by a physical darkening of the air around us, filled the room.

“Not awkward at all,” Oliver said under his breath, and even though I felt sure Emmet had heard, his expression didn’t change. “All right then, Mercy here wants to learn how to shake loose some memories from this old house. Charge the atmosphere and see what pops out. Maybe get a glimpse of her mom or her grandparents.”

“I”—Emmet looked directly at me, acting as if he had forgotten Oliver was even in the room with us—“would be more than happy to show you. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I’ve been approaching your education in the wrong way, trying to teach you what I think you should learn instead of what you’d like to learn. The families have perhaps objectified you in their rush to have you meet the responsibilities of being the line’s anchor. They, I, have forgotten that you are a person and a witch in your own right.”

“Thank you,” I said, touched by his words. They summed up so much of the way I’d been feeling lately; the families merely saw me as a seat of power, and to Peter’s parents, I was the incubator of his child. Somewhere in becoming who I was going to be, who I was had been getting lost.

“However,” he continued, “I have been forbidden to assist you—any of you, for that matter—with any attempt to reach Maisie.”

“We aren’t asking you to do anything like that,” Oliver said. “I mean, I could teach her what she wants to know myself. We merely thought it would make you feel like you were serving your purpose here.” His tone grew heated. “And we hoped that it might get you to knock off the skulking a bit.” I realized he wasn’t trying to provoke a reaction from Emmet; he still considered the big man a walking hunk of clay, unworthy of his consideration, perhaps even incapable of feeling any barbs.

“I was unaware that I have been ‘skulking.’ My sole intention was to keep myself available to Mercy.” His voice was measured, unflinching. Only his eyes revealed that Oliver had struck a nerve. Emmet annoyed me, it was true, but I had no desire to see him in pain.

“Come on, Emmet,” I said, taking his hand and drawing him away. Oliver’s tone was growing more sardonic by the moment, and I knew that if he stayed around Emmet, he’d use the former golem as a whipping boy, taking out all his anger and frustration on him. In truth, Emmet and I had much in common. The families saw both of us as pawns, means to their desired ends. Truth was, he was every bit as lost in all of this as I was.

The heat I felt in Emmet’s hand surprised me; he burned a bit more brightly than the average man. He followed me dutifully, so I let go of him. When I did, something tangible came over him. Disappointment? Lately I had felt buffeted by others’ emotions. Their feelings would try to take me over, and that constituted a major part of the reason I’d felt so lost lately. I had to talk to Emmet or someone else about this problem, but I doubted that this was the best time.

“The memories of your mother, your grandparents,” he said as we reached the second-floor landing. “They may be more difficult to summon, since a bit of time has passed, and since they are . . . gone.”

“Okay,” I prompted him.

“Perhaps we could start with something a little easier,” he said, and for the first time since he had become real, I saw the shadow of a grin on his lips. “And have you work your way up? I want you to have a sense of accomplishment,” he explained. “Success will provide a much stronger encouragement for you to continue your studies than early failures.”

I laughed. “You have been reading books on teaching, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he said, lowering his eyes and stepping back a bit, acting as if I’d stumbled upon an embarrassing secret. “Does that offend you?”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him. “Come on. How do we start?”

“Follow me,” he said, leading me to my own room. He stepped inside, and I followed. “May I close the door?” he asked.

“Of course. Why not?”

“I thought you might feel vulnerable, being in here alone with a man. A stranger.”

“You aren’t a stranger,” I said. “I’ve known you all your life.”

His broad shoulders relaxed and his full lips curved into a smile. The sadness that haunted his eyes dissipated, if only for a moment. “You are the only one who sees me as real. Everyone else—your aunts, your uncle, and the other families—sees me as an empty shell. An automaton.”