Chapter 26 Kane #2
Kane would simply have to hope that they did. Otherwise, all he had to rely on was a false primateria source.
He knew he needed to rest—his body was protesting after the hours spent walking from Seven Dials to Hyde Park, then back to the manor—but he couldn’t make himself relax.
The longer he stayed upright, the more each breath seemed to tear through his ribs like they were being cracked open.
He knew drinking wasn’t the answer, but he’d refused the laudanum and he hadn’t been able to focus on the documents Tom had delivered without something to dull the pain.
Then, somehow, afternoon had slipped into evening and he couldn’t put it off any longer.
Despite the hours spent in Ward’s former office, Kane hadn’t been able to muster the strength to enter this particular space.
He’d been afraid it would feel too personal.
As if Ward had never left, and then Kane would be forced to truly face what he’d done.
To his surprise, however, the kingpin’s lingering presence was stronger in the office than it was in this generic room.
Mostly Kane was relieved, but there was also a small part of him that felt… disappointed?
No. That couldn’t be right. He inhaled deeply, then winced.
He needed to do what he’d come here for, which was to search the room for Ward’s personal effects.
Everything related to the kingpin’s business dealings had been accessible in the office, but Kane was no longer looking for information about business.
He wanted to know why Ward had been writing to Cecile Meurdrac.
Whether their correspondence was something Ward would’ve kept, Kane didn’t know.
As luck would have it, however, there weren’t many places to search.
The desk drawers were mostly empty, and the closet contained only clothing, as did the armoire on the opposite wall.
There were a few pieces of jewelry, some alchemological items Kane couldn’t identify, and—his heart had leapt in his chest—a letter from someone named James, but the correspondence contained little more than formalities and vague descriptions of small-town life.
The letter was addressed to Alex, and the familiarity of it made Kane wonder if Ward had family outside of London.
Friends, perhaps. The idea was preposterous, but really, what did he know about the kingpin’s former life?
Ward had never spoken about his past. Knowing someone out there had called him Alex made Kane’s stomach do an odd little flip.
Finally, when he had exhausted all other options, he lowered himself painstakingly to the bedroom floor.
Gritting his teeth, he pressed his cheek to the cool floorboards and peered beneath the canopied bed.
Apart from dust and a stray sock, he saw nothing, save a couple of small boxes.
Kane pulled them out with some difficulty, coughing to clear his lungs of dust, then yanked the lid off the first box.
Inside was more jewelry, a pair of gloves, and what appeared to be a few embroidered handkerchiefs.
The second box, though, contained a stack of yellowed parchment.
Kane’s pulse quickened as he spread the pages on the floor in front of him.
It was strange, the care with which they’d been stored.
He couldn’t fathom the purpose of keeping a letter once you’d already replied to it.
But then he saw who the letters were from, and he was suddenly very glad Ward had done just that.
Alexander, the most recent one began—the handwriting identical to what they’d seen at Cecile’s apartment. Kane kept reading.
I don’t know what else you could possibly want from me.
They don’t trust me any longer. None of the Scriniarii do—her most of all.
Their plan remains the same, and we both know they’ll have to unseat you in order for it to come to fruition.
Truth be told, I find it all rather foolish.
They’re pursuing a fantasy. I’m certain of one thing, however: They know Itzal Mendoza was successful in creating a primateria source, and that he subsequently attempted to get rid of it. I don’t—
Kane started into the next sentence without fully digesting the one prior. Once it registered, his mouth dried, his thoughts slamming up against one another. Surely Cecile had to have been mistaken.
His heart pounded in his ears as he read on.
I don’t know what they plan to do with that information, but I have a guess.
It’s complicated to explain, and involves the Magnum Opus.
Still, I doubt they’ll be successful. My attempt to create a source using your energy was, as far as I know, the closest anyone has come since Itzal.
Either way, I unfortunately won’t have much to report from now on.
The Scriniarii’s trust in me has eroded.
I believe they suspect our connection, and they know what you did to the Durantes when you learned of their deceit and betrayal.
The letter continued for a few more lines after that, but Kane didn’t read any further. He couldn’t—his vision started to waver.
They know what you did to the Durantes when you learned of their deceit and betrayal.
The pounding in his ears grew louder, and it took him a long moment to realize someone had knocked lightly on the door. Kane turned, wild-eyed, to see Fletcher standing on the threshold. His friend’s hair was windswept, his stance unsure.
“The door was cracked,” Fletcher said by way of greeting. “I’ve never seen anyone in here before, so I decided to—Kane, are you okay?” Belatedly, he registered Kane’s expression, his own shifting to alarm.
Kane didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he would ever say anything again. He felt at once untethered, weightless, and infinitely heavy. He’d never devoted much energy to wondering why, exactly, Ward had killed his parents. A man like that didn’t need a reason for doing terrible deeds.
But then Kane remembered what Ward had said to him right before he’d died: You should have seen how quickly I shot your traitor parents.
Kane hadn’t thought much of it at the time. In that moment, he’d reasoned, Ward would’ve said anything to get under his skin.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Wordlessly, he lifted an arm, holding the letter out to Fletcher. His friend crossed the room with slow care, folding himself onto the floor beside Kane and taking the piece of paper. His voice was a rasp laced with concern. “You know I can’t read.”
Right. Kane let his arm fall. He didn’t know how to communicate everything he’d just learned. Shock and whiskey had turned his thoughts cloudy, intangible. He took a shuddering breath, and then, in a voice devoid of inflection, he read the letter aloud.
Fletcher frowned at the bit about Zaria’s father, then blanched when Kane got to the line about his parents.
A tremulous moment of horror passed between them before Fletcher finally severed it.
“I don’t… What does this mean? Cecile infiltrated the Scriniarii on Ward’s behalf ? And they knew of your parents’ deaths?”
“I don’t know what it means.” Despite having just relayed the contents of the letter, Kane’s voice felt hoarse from disuse. “It sounds like… like Cecile had taken over for my parents, maybe. As though they’d—I don’t know—joined the Scriniarii and betrayed Ward’s trust.”
Saying it aloud made him want to be sick.
How many years had he spent assuming Ward had killed his parents for no good reason?
That they’d been nothing more than victims of the kingpin’s foul moods and twisted sense of justice?
All this time, and they’d betrayed him. They’d known exactly who Ward was, what he was capable of, and they’d taken the risk regardless.
Even though they’d had a child to protect.
Kane wasn’t being fair. He knew that, even as the air got stuck in his lungs.
It wasn’t fair of him to judge their choices when he didn’t know their reasons.
But a younger, more primal part of him screamed that it wasn’t fair to him.
If they’d only listened to Ward, done their jobs as requested, and kept their heads down, they might still be here. Kane wouldn’t be alone.
He wouldn’t be this warped, miserable excuse for a man.
“If that’s true,” Fletcher said haltingly, “then they must have had good reasons. They must have truly believed in what the Scriniarii was trying to do.”
Kane shook his head. “Louisa Hoffman said the Scriniarii’s aim was always to make alchemology accessible. Why would my parents care about that?” More than they cared about me were the words he didn’t add, but Fletcher seemed to hear them anyway.
“Kane, they couldn’t possibly have known what the consequences would be.”
“Of course they could have. This is Ward we’re talking about.”
Fletcher didn’t appear to have a response to that. He stared at the floorboards between them, his mouth a thin line. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Kane’s voice cracked. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend to have sympathy for me.”
Fletcher reeled back to stare at him. “Is that what you believe? That I’m not sympathetic? That I think you deserve to suffer because I’ve been angry with you?”
Kane faltered. He hadn’t expected that reaction. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I was angry. I am angry. But years of friendship don’t just disappear. I couldn’t stop caring about you even if I wanted to.”
“Do you? Want to, I mean.”
“God.” Fletcher leaned back on his hands, tilting his chin to the ceiling. “Honestly, Kane? I want everything to be the way it was. I want to forget any of this happened. But if I let that happen—if I forgive you so easily—it feels like disrespecting myself. I don’t know.”
Kane could understand that. “Every day I want to beg for your forgiveness, Fletch,” he said softly. “Every single day. But I can’t, because I’m afraid you’ll give it to me. And if and when you do, I want it to be because you’re ready. I want it to be because you mean it.”
One side of Fletcher’s mouth ticked up. He didn’t meet Kane’s gaze but continued to stare at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. “Okay. You know what? I’m ready.”
“What?”
“I’m ready, and I mean it. I forgive you.
” Now he looked Kane in the eye. “You would’ve died for me last night.
Besides, it’s ridiculous, holding a grudge just because I feel like I ought to.
I hate it. I hate being alone, and I hate watching you beat yourself up, and I hate pretending I don’t know you as well as I know myself.
” Fletcher’s throat worked. “We’re brothers. ”
“Brothers,” Kane agreed, and the well of emptiness inside him seemed to crack, emotion rushing back in all at once.
Had he still known how to cry, he might have done just that.
He should have thanked Fletcher. He should have apologized again, then a hundred more times.
When he finally spoke again, though, it wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
“I killed him, Fletch.” His tone was even, but the crack in his voice betrayed him. “I killed him.”
Fletcher didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
He understood Kane’s relationship with Ward—knew firsthand how much Kane had both needed and hated the man.
It was better that he was gone. Kane knew that.
He couldn’t regret what he’d done. But that didn’t mean he didn’t lie awake each night remembering the look in the kingpin’s eyes when he’d realized his prodigy was going to end his life.
Kane couldn’t get it out of his head, that look, no matter how much whiskey he drank or how many bullets he fired at a target.
“I hated Ward,” Kane whispered. “So much. I hated myself for loving him, and now I hate myself for killing him. What the fuck is wrong with me?”
And Fletcher—steady, perceptive Fletcher, who had always been far too good for Kane—simply lay a hand on his knee, grounding him with a touch as they both stared wordlessly into the dimming light.
“You should show that letter to Zaria,” Fletcher said when either minutes or hours had passed. “This changes everything for her.”
It was true, Kane thought. He wouldn’t be the only one to have an unpleasant revelation about his parents today.
Strange, really, how he sorely wished he could have been.