Chapter Twelve An Adventure in the Study #3
The three-dimensional architecture of Chancellor Fallow’s external memory unfolded before her.
Zada had explored school-issued Wavelengths at Dalrymple before, of course, but only the Founders’, and only under direct supervision.
Being inside of Chancellor Fallow’s Wavelength was extremely disconcerting.
She strode forward to start the program, but the wet purple sand beneath her was farther away and moved faster beneath her feet than expected.
It was calibrated for someone taller. Walking in this strange space was unnerving.
She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t really walking, not in the physical sense.
“Scan all incoming and outgoing data from Mozelle Drogace,” Zada thought, as clearly and distinctly as she could. “Keyword, Core.”
The Wavelength crackled as it scanned its recall, associative thoughts springing up around her.
The settings were more sensitive than anything Zada had ever encountered before, but she didn’t dare change them.
A surge of ocean water rushed over her feet, a snatch of a song that sounded like something that might have been popular in Chancellor Fallow’s youth.
“Though I swore / at my core / I knew I was sure . . .”
A small child darted into view, chomping on an apple. “Look, Papa!” the child called. “Look at me!”
“Mozelle Drogace,” Zada repeated, concentrating on each letter. “Core.” Hundreds of different Waves sprang up around her. She saw the face of an older blond woman who had to be Mozelle. Her eyebrows were so pale, they almost disappeared into her face.
“A core part of the problem is in the finances,” she was saying. “We need to requisition—” Zada flicked to the next memory. Mozelle, much younger. “—and of course, anyone can see that her core thesis is completely wrong. That so-called journalist won’t—”
Zada knew what a journalist was. It was one of those archaic jobs of the old world, like chimney sweep or leatherworker or town crier.
She hadn’t realized New Ionia had them in such recent memory.
These days, everyone got their news from their favorite feeds—once the alerts had passed review by the media committee appointed by the council, of course.
Interesting, but not what she was looking for.
The next three or so memories weren’t any more illuminating. The program had clearly picked up on the word core but not the proper application of it—not the Core. “Mozelle Drogace,” she thought. “Heartsong.”
Mozelle looked tired in the next memory.
“—sniffing around Heartsong again,” she said, “and whatever they’re up to—” With shaking hands, Zada froze the sequence and rewound to the beginning.
“Ambrose, we need to do something about this. They’re sniffing around Heartsong again, and whatever they’re up to, I don’t know if we can trust them to stay silent.
If they’re using some sort of secret press to print pamphlets—well, I don’t need to tell you what that means. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
Zada swallowed. This was huge. This was—something, even if she couldn’t see the shape of it yet. She willed herself to stay calm. There was almost no lead to follow, but Mozelle had said “again,” implying it had happened before.
“Sort by date received,” she thought, as distinctly as possible. The earliest message was from about a year ago, so she started there.
Mozelle appeared on the screen. The timestamp said it was about one a.m. “Ambrose,” she said quietly.
“There is a possibility that the Heartsong leak has made it to the sisters. Obviously we are not without our resources, but we must tread carefully. I still think that if they attempt to blackmail us, they could cause some degree of unrest, and that would be unpleasant for all of us.”
In the next memory, Mozelle appeared to be riding in a hyper-carriage. “Ambrose, I am more and more convinced they know something about Heartsong. I think what Lucretia found is only the tip of the iceberg, in fact—”
A hand landed heavily on Zada’s shoulder. She jumped, then minimized the program. The purple sand was gone. She was standing in Chancellor Fallow’s study, and Daphne was looking uncharacteristically worried.
“Time’s up,” whispered Daphne. “We need to go, now.” She set the Gem where she’d found it in the drawer. She shut the drawer and wiped the screen with her sleeve.
Together, the two of them carefully stepped over the lines of blue light that divided the floor and hurried to the exit. Daphne cracked the door, scanning the hallway for any sign of her grandfather.
“Clear,” Daphne mouthed. “Ready?”
Zada nodded, and they ran with as much stealth as they could down the hallway and up a flight of stairs.
At the top, the stairs split into two paths.
Zada hesitated, but then Daphne grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward in a mad rush.
They didn’t stop until Daphne tugged them through a doorway, flicking the door soundlessly shut behind them.
Zada dropped to the ground, sitting with her head between her knees on the polished hardwood, breathing deeply as she struggled to come down from the strangeness of having been inside Chancellor Fallow’s external memory.
“You good?” Daphne said, crouching down beside Zada.
“The cameras,” gasped Zada, and Daphne helped her to her feet.
Daphne’s window was screen glass too, just like she’d remembered, and the interface screen was discreetly set into the wall.
Zada looped the footage prior to their escape from the study.
You’d have to set a forensics team on the footage to notice that there was a slight discrepancy in the change of light.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough.
“You found something,” said Daphne.
“I—” Zada started, but Daphne froze, raising one finger. In a flash, Daphne ran to her dresser and furiously uncapped four or five lipsticks, smearing a crimson gash of each one onto the back of her hand.
“Autumn shades are popular right now,” Daphne said, “but you can’t go wrong with a classic red.” She widened her eyes.
“Oh yes,” said Zada. “I do like the red, it’s very—sanguine.”
“What does sanguine mean?”
“Oh. Uh, bloody,” said Zada.
A knock sounded.
“Come in,” called Daphne.
The door swung open. Chancellor Fallow stood in the doorway, fully dressed in a gray suit and looking nothing like a man who had just woken up less than twenty minutes ago.
“Daphne,” he said, nodding to his granddaughter. “Miss Chambers.” A noticeably more curt nod to Zada. “Do you have any idea why the motion gauge in my study just went off?”