Map of Fates (3 page)

M
y father must have had a jet on standby. By early afternoon, just hours after I'd called him, Jack and I were at Heathrow Airport, and my stomach was churning from more than the plane ride. We disembarked to find a sleek black helicopter waiting for us on the tarmac.

“Miss West, I presume. And Jack Bishop.” The pilot gave Jack a quick once-over, and I could see in his eyes that it wasn't just the Saxons who disapproved of Jack running off with me. Everyone who worked for them was so loyal—what Jack had done was unthinkable.

I glanced at Jack, who, for the first time, looked a little uncertain about this plan.

A Keeper—which was what Jack and Stellan were to the Saxons and the Dauphins respectively—were more than employees. A Keeper was a combination of security director, adviser, and personal assistant. As close to a family member as an employee could get. There were only two Keepers per family—one older and established, and one second-in-command, an apprentice who was preparing to take over when the older Keeper could do longer do his job . . . or if
anything happened to him. That was Jack and Stellan. Both Keepers did the jobs the family didn't trust to anyone else. When a family's Keeper suddenly disappeared with one of those jobs—in this case,
me
—it wasn't taken lightly.

Not to mention the fact that anything romantic between employees and family members was taboo enough to warrant termination—the Circle's euphemism for killing rule breakers. Even though Jack and I should be safe on that front now, the pilot's glare made me fidget.

But his gaze slid to me. “There's been a last-minute change of plans. You'll be meeting Miss Lydia in the city before returning to the estate.” He handed me huge yellow earphones. “Please, Miss West, make yourself comfortable.”

A moment later, I was gripping the arms of the seat as I watched the ground shrink away below. We rose quickly over fields of green and yellow toward the city of London, which grew closer by the minute. Though it had a river running through its center like Paris, London looked newer and more metropolitan. More gleaming skyscrapers, wider streets, bigger boats sailing down the wide river. The city stretched away as far as I could see.

We zipped over squares of bright green parks, a white Ferris wheel that looked small enough to scoop up with my ring finger—“
That's the London Eye,
” came Jack's voice through my headset—then a bridge straight out of a Dickens novel—“
Tower Bridge,
” Jack said as it hinged open from the center to let a cruise ship pass beneath.

Paris had come to feel so familiar that being in this new city was more of a shock to my senses than I expected. We passed over Big Ben, Parliament, the British Museum, all names I'd heard a thousand times. My mom would have loved this. One of her favorite things was touring each new city we lived in. And then I remembered with
a start that she'd lived in London, too. This was where she'd met my dad.

After what seemed like no time, we dropped onto a rooftop in the city's center. The rotors were still spinning when Jack swung open the door and helped me down, and I clung to him a little longer than I should have while I got my shaky legs underneath me.

He let go of me abruptly, and I turned to see why. Lydia Saxon was walking across the landing pad. My sister.

I'd only met Lydia once, at the Eiffel Tower ball, where I first realized the Saxons were my family. In the past two weeks, though, I'd taken every opportunity to look her up online. The Saxons' cover story for being so rich and well connected was that they were minor British royalty, and the tabloids reported on their exploits as such. Lydia dragging her twin brother, Cole, away from a fight at a bar. The two of them, him in a proper waistcoat and her in a hat, attending the christening of a new royal baby. Every time I saw a picture of her, it seemed more and more surreal. Seeing her in person was stranger still.

Lydia was wearing a classic khaki trench over a blue summer dress, her dark hair in a bun. Her eyes were like mine, minus the color. A little too big, a little too wide set under dark brows. Where I was so pale I was almost translucent, she had olive skin, and when she got close, I saw that without her towering heels we'd be just the same height.

Lydia stopped in front of us. “Hi,” she said, twirling a long pendant necklace around her fingers.

“Lydia.” I realized I was twisting my own necklace, and forced myself to stop. Was I supposed to hug her? Shake her hand? I did neither. “Hi. Thanks for picking me up. Is everything okay? I thought
we were going to your house.” I was rambling, one doomsday scenario after another running through my mind. She had security waiting to toss me in a cell. They had a wedding ceremony already set up at a nearby church, and I wouldn't have time to run.

But she shook her head. “Father's meeting at Parliament ran over. He was going to come get you, but now I'm meant to show you around until he's finished and then we'll meet at home.” Her eyes got wide. “Are you okay with the helicopter? I wasn't sure since you might not be used to them, but Father said it would be fastest, and—”

“It's fine,” I said, the tension draining out of me. A helicopter was the least of my worries.

Lydia was shifting back and forth on her heels. Could she possibly be acting so weird because she was nervous, too?

As if in answer to my unasked question, she looked up. “When we first met, I didn't even realize you were my sister,” she said. “I'm so happy you're here now.”

My heart exploded into a thousand relieved, ecstatic pieces. I had to force myself not to throw my arms around her. This feeling—happiness?—was foreign after the past few weeks.

“Me too,” I said. “I'm really happy to be here.” Lydia grinned, and the tension finally broke. I had a sister. I had a family. And they'd
have
to help me. That was what family did, right?

Lydia giggled at Jack, who had retreated a few feet and was looking off into the distance. “Oh, quit it,” she said, and crossed to plant a kiss on his cheek. Just like I remembered from the ball, Jack didn't seem anywhere near as comfortable with her as Stellan did with his charge, Luc Dauphin.

“Lydia.” Jack bowed his head formally.

“Father's not here. You don't have to be so bloody proper,” she said, and I relaxed even more. Lydia certainly didn't seem to harbor
any ill will toward Jack. “I want to hear all about the adventures you two have been having.”

She took my arm and pulled Jack after us to an elevator that let us out in a dark wood lobby off a bustling street. Jack kept up conversation with her, feeding her our lines about how we hadn't come to them earlier because I was scared, and about what he'd done to keep me safe.

“Were you in Paris this whole time?” Lydia said, and I watched a red double-decker bus drive by on the wrong side of the road, followed by a whole row of black cabs that looked like bowler hats.

“Yes,” I answered, tearing myself away from London's charms. “Like I told your father—our—Alistair—” What was I supposed to call him? “Like I told him on the phone, the Order has my mom, and I've been trying to help her. Paris seemed like the best place to do it, but I'm not sure that's true anymore.”

Lydia nodded. “You said the Order wants you to find the tomb? And swap it for your mum?”

Jack met my eyes quickly. We'd talked about this. We were going to tell the Saxons
almost
everything. “That's their demand,” Jack said. “Of course, we hope to stop them directly.”

A frown flashed across Lydia's face, but was gone just as quickly. “Of course,” she said.

I touched the bracelet on my arm, currently hidden under a cardigan.

We walked in silence for a few minutes. I couldn't help but gawk at the city. The stone turrets and gleaming skyscrapers. Bright red phone booths and crisp new street signs. The clean and modern contrasting with the charming, comfortably worn-in look of the rest of the city, like the buildings just wanted to sit down with you and have a cup of tea.

The people, though, were like people in any big city: crowded, rushed, pushing. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen so many different
kinds
of people in one place, either. You always heard London was a melting pot, but I hadn't quite realized. We passed a group of Asian businessmen in expensive suits, sitting on a bench next to a few kids whose accents sounded Eastern European maybe, and who were younger than me, but whose mullets and acid-wash jeans were from a time before I was born. And running between them, a whole swarm of preschool kids, one little Indian girl screeching to a pale redhead in the cutest tiny British accent that she wanted to
have the next go
with the jump rope.

I'd forgotten what it was like to understand conversations on the street. I paused for a second, listening to a couple argue about where to eat dinner, marveling at how
foreign
my native language sounded.

Out of everywhere I'd ever lived, this was where I technically belonged. My family lived here. London would have been my home if things had been different. My sister looked perfectly at ease on these wide, clean streets. I think I'd been expecting to feel some kind of connection to the city.

But there was nothing more than the usual feel of a new place. When you moved as much as my mom and I did, everywhere was home and nowhere was. You got as used to washing your hair at the Days Inn off the highway as you did to learning the quirks of a new kitchen. It was the same with people, I guess. Would I really feel like the Saxons were who I belonged to more than anyone else?

As if on cue, Lydia answered a phone call and told the person on the other end we'd be there shortly. “Father's ready,” she said. “Let's take you home.”

“
H
ome” was a gated estate on the outskirts of London, with a wide walkway leading from the front drive up to the house. We had touched down on a rooftop landing pad, and were now looking over grounds that stretched away into a sparkling pool, a stable complex, and what appeared to be a racetrack with a single car circling it. Keeping the estate from looking too formal were beds of wildflowers that swayed in the late-afternoon breeze.

The second Jack had helped us down from the helicopter, he'd disappeared with nothing more than a nod in my direction, leaving me and my sister alone. Lydia began giving me the full tour immediately and stopped talking only to change for dinner. She'd offered me a change of clothes, too, but I wasn't sure we were at the clothes-sharing point yet, and when we left Paris this morning, I'd dressed nicely on purpose, in a plain black dress. While I waited for her in a sitting room, my phone chimed with a text. I hoped it was Jack telling me where he was, and that everything was okay.

It wasn't. It was Scarface.
13 days,
the text said.

I tossed the phone back in my bag like it was on fire. Another reminder that not only was my mom's life on the line, but that I'd be
going behind the Saxons' backs. Up until now, I hadn't felt bad about that, but after meeting Lydia, I was starting to.

Lydia reemerged in a black dress with a lacy bodice and a flowing A-line skirt, and we made our way toward the dining room. The inside of the house matched what I'd seen of the outside—old and elegant, but understated in a way that made the Dauphins' décor in the Louvre seem showy.

Around every corner on the home tour, I expected to find my father waiting for us, but by the time we got to the formal dining room, we were still alone except for two girls in black uniforms who stood along the back wall. The dining room was wallpapered in a subtle damask and trimmed in dark wood, with heavy velvet drapes covering the windows. The light in the room came from a tinkling crystal chandelier above a long table, which was set with four places at one end, candles flickering down the center. Lydia sat on one side and pointed me to the seat across from her. “And you grew up in . . . Minnesota, was it?”

I nodded. “Minnesota, and before that Oregon, New York, Texas, Florida . . .”

Lydia set down her glass of sparkling water and wrinkled her nose. “That sounds ghastly.”

“It wasn't ideal.” I gestured around the room. “Not like living somewhere like this.”

“You
could
have grown up here.” Lydia leaned her elbows on the table and cocked her head to one side. “It's so
odd
your mother never told you about us. She kept so much from you . . . You could have had so much more in your life.”

I leaned back against the padded back of the chair, surprised. “I—” Of course I'd wondered what it would have been like to grow
up as part of the Circle. I'd been so angry when I'd found out how long my mom had been lying. But still . . . “She had her reasons.”

“I'm sure. Sorry. I don't mean to pry.” Lydia smiled, and it looked genuine, but I could see questions that I wasn't sure I wanted to answer churning behind her eyes. I changed the subject. “Is
your
mom coming to dinner?”

Lydia ran a finger along the gold fork next to her plate. “My mother is still getting used to the idea of you. She won't be joining us.”

Right. Even if this wasn't the Circle, finding out that your husband had an illegitimate child would be awkward.

I gestured to the fourth place setting. “And your brother—”

The hardwood floor creaked, and I spun to see my father in the doorway.

My father.

What a strange thing to be able to say. I'd only met him that once, at the ball, but he was just how I remembered him. The awe I felt was reflected right back at me from eyes so much like mine, it was as if I were looking into a mirror.

He took a step inside, and I snapped out of it. Was I supposed to stand? I pushed halfway out of my chair, but fell back to sitting when I saw Lydia leaning back casually. My father came around the table, and I stood again, awkwardly. He was handsome, with dark hair and heavy brows like mine and Lydia's, and he wasn't tall, for a guy—probably only six inches taller than me. I had my mom's complexion, and her little nose, but it was obvious that I'd gotten a lot from the Saxons.

My father kissed me on the cheek. “Avery,” he said, and I flashed back to the memory box under my bed back in Minnesota, where I'd stashed all the research I'd done on my father over the years. As
much as I'd wished and hoped and daydreamed, I don't think I'd ever really believed he'd be part of my life one day.

“I'm so glad you're here,” he went on, and squeezed both my hands in his. “I wish it could have been sooner, but it's good to have you now.”

He made his way to the head of the table, and for the first time, I noticed Jack. He must have come in with my father. He stood with his hands behind his back, blending into the wall like all the other servants. He didn't look hurt or upset, so maybe he'd been forgiven.

My father looked to Lydia as a butler pulled out his chair. “Where's Cole?”

Lydia shrugged, and just then, Cole Saxon strode into the room in a red and white jumpsuit, gripping a helmet, his hair sweaty.

My father pressed his lips together and waited for Cole to make his way around the table.

My half brother was just taller than my father, and the jumpsuit made his slight frame look a little bigger, but I could tell the whole family was small. Cole threw himself into the chair next to his sister and plucked a roll from the untouched breadbasket. There was a rip at the shoulder of the jumpsuit, and Lydia poked at it, raising her brows.

“Crashed the Ferrari,” Cole mumbled around a bite of bread.

Lydia's mouth dropped open. “Cole! The '64?”

Cole nodded. He had the same olive skin and dark hair as his sister, but there was none of Lydia's warmth in his violet eyes.

“That was the one car I actually liked.” Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you just leave it sitting there?”

“It's off the track. Somebody'll deal with it.” He glanced up at Jack, standing in the corner. “The Keeper's back. Send him.”

Lydia braced her small hands on the ivory tablecloth. “Jack doesn't work on cars, idiot.”

“Since he's taken it upon himself to be personal bodyguard to the sister who doesn't even want to be part of our family, I thought other things might have changed, too.”

I had stopped trying to pretend I wasn't listening. Jack didn't react. Lydia just sighed.

“Cole, please be civil at the dinner table.” My father's chair, at the head of the table, was bigger than the others, with a carved back like a small throne. He gestured to me. “We're here to
welcome
your sister.”

“Half sister,” Cole muttered. Until now, it was as though he hadn't noticed me sitting there, but now he stared, unblinking. “I was going to come into the city with Lydia to show her around, but then I realized I didn't want to.”

Flustered, I looked down at my hands, which were twisting the napkin in my lap. I should be back in the US right now, I reminded myself. We would have just moved to Maine, and I'd be starting at an unfamiliar school at the end of the year, once again the new girl in a place where nobody had any use for a new girl. In a way, this wasn't that different. And honestly, part of me didn't mind Cole's hostility. At least I knew it was real. If they were just pretending to be nice to me until they could use me, he wouldn't be allowed to act like this. I let myself hope that Lydia's and my father's happiness to have me here was real, too.

My father cleared his throat and raised his wineglass. “A toast. Avery, you've belonged with us all along, and we enjoy nothing more than you being here with us now. Welcome to our family.”

I raised my glass of sparkling water, and so did Lydia. Even Cole
picked his up grudgingly, after a pointed look from his sister. “Thank you. I'm glad to be here,” I said truthfully.

Once we all had dainty plates of salad in front of us, my father sat forward. “I assume there's a reason you've chosen to join us now.”

I took a deep breath. We'd already told Lydia some of the story, but my father knew only the bare bones we'd told him on the phone. I glanced at Jack, still standing against the wall like a good Keeper, pretending he wasn't listening to our conversation.

“As I mentioned earlier,” I said, “the Order kidnapped my mother.”

I paused to gauge my father's reaction. He must have cared about my mom once, after all. For just a second, I tried to see him through her eyes, a young leader of the Circle, and wondered for the millionth time how their relationship had come to be. I had so much to talk to her about.

My father sipped his wine. “Again, I'm very sorry to hear this. Go on.”

“They want us—me—” I corrected myself. Jack wasn't part of this now. “They want me to find Alexander's tomb and exchange its contents for my mom, to keep the Circle from having a weapon against them.” That part was all true. The next part, on the other hand . . . “What
I
want is to find the tomb—with your help—and use it to stop them,” I said. It was
close
to the truth. As much as I wanted the Order taken down, I wanted my mom safe more and would happily do whatever it took for her freedom. But the Saxons didn't have to know that.

My father shook out his napkin and set it in his lap. “And how do you expect us to help?”

“Before I knew who you were, and exactly who I was, I found some clues Emerson Fitzpatrick had left, before the Order killed
him, too.” I swallowed. It was still hard to say. “The clues suggested that Napoleon found Alexander's tomb during his campaign.”

All three Saxons paused. Lydia had a bite of salad halfway to her mouth, and my father carefully set down a saltshaker.

“Does that mean you already know where the tomb is?” Cole demanded, planting his elbows on the table with a bang.

I shook my head. “Napoleon found it, then hid it again. He thought whatever was in there was dangerous. But he left his own set of clues I'm following now, including this.”

I pulled up the sleeve of my cardigan and slid the bracelet off my arm. I ran a finger over the engraved lettering as I explained what it meant, and what we were looking for. “I was hoping to use your resources to search for the second bracelet and the password,” I finished.

I handed the bracelet across the table to Lydia. Cole looked at it over her shoulder; then she passed it to my father.

He slipped reading glasses out of his jacket pocket and inspected it, squinting at the rings on the inside. “Are you sure this is genuine?”

I glanced at Jack. We'd never questioned the bracelet's authenticity. “I think so. Mr. Emerson—Fitz—thought so.”

My father took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can have my intelligence people take a look, but . . . Fitzpatrick was a tutor, correct? I remember him going on about history and theories. The children liked him.” My father looked at Jack. “I know this is an exciting possibility, but we must look at the facts. No one has ever seen this before. What he left you could be a miracle . . . or it could be the ramblings of an incoherent old man.”

“He wasn't—” I bristled. He didn't know Mr. Emerson like I did. Like Jack did. He never would have left these clues and put us in
danger if he wasn't sure he was right. The clues being
real
wasn't the issue here. “The Order believes in it, too. They tried to
kill
us to get this information. They did kill Fitz. They took my mom.”

My father tapped the bracelet on his place mat. “The Order is desperate.”

I held out my hand to take the bracelet back, suddenly wary.

“I can keep it for you, if you'd like,” my father said. “Have it examined.”

“No!” I said. Across the table, Lydia coughed and raised her eyebrows, but I didn't care. “I'll take it back, please.” When the bracelet was safely returned to my arm, I said, “Whatever's in the tomb would be good for
you,
too. Don't you want to do everything you can to find it?”

“Of course.” My father sat back in his chair. He
looked
like a king now, about to make a pronouncement. “Avery, as new as this is for you, you're one of us. Family. And I want you to feel like family, but that means being realistic. It would be wonderful if your clues did lead to the tomb. Miraculous. But there's more for us to consider.”

My stomach knotted. The family reunion I thought was going so well had suddenly taken a turn I didn't like at all. “I still find it hard to believe my marrying someone would do anything,” I said.