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The boy didn’t speak, but he shook his head ever so slightly. His small, bright eyes burned with interest.

“I’m a rather famous one, actually.” Harte was already working the ropes on his wrists, making small, refined movements that would have been imperceptible to the boy. “Have you ever seen a magician?”

“Magic is an a-a-bomb-bli-nation,” the boy said, parsing out the difficult word slowly and carefully. His small voice was clear as a bell and uninflected with any emotion at all. The words came like they were something he’d memorized without understanding the meaning.

“Abomination,” Harte said softly, not missing the way the boy flinched at the gentle correction. He’d heard the echo of his father’s intonation in the boy’s voice, and he understood what that flinch likely meant. But Harte wouldn’t let himself be distracted. There was nothing he could do for this child. He was no hero—had never wanted to be. He was a liar. A bastard and a con, and he would not let himself forget that again. “That’s an impressive word for such a small fellow. Do you know what that means?” Harte continued working the ropes—he nearly had it now.

“It is against the path of rightless—” He paused, his young eyes widening a little in something that looked like fear before he corrected himself. “Righteousness,” the boy finished. He looked relieved to have gotten the word out.

Harte would have bet enough money to fill his porcelain tub that the child had no idea what he was saying. “I see,” he told the boy, careful to keep his voice gentle. “Well, I know some people see things that way. Perhaps your father does?” He paused, noting that the boy looked a bit more nervous. “But not everyone feels the same, you know. I, for one, happen to believe that magic isn’t an abomination at all. Magic can be beautiful or exciting, and sometimes, magic is nothing more than a skill that comes from a lot of practice,” he told the boy, and with a flourish, Harte drew the rope from behind his back with his now-freed hands.

The boy’s eyes were as wide as saucers now, and he started to scurry back, clearly afraid. But he didn’t yell or sound any alarm.

“Wait!” Harte said, putting his hands up to show he was harmless and offering the rope to the boy. “It’s okay. Go ahead and have a look. No abomination there. It’s only a simple trick I learned when I wasn’t that much older than you.” He offered the rope again. “Go on.”

Fear warred with desire in the boy’s expression, and Harte rubbed at his arms as he waited, trying to dispel the chill that had sunk into his bones. His skin was tender and his muscles ached when he touched them, but he couldn’t worry about what that might mean. Infection or worse, it didn’t matter. For now he needed to focus on the boy, to draw him in and earn his trust.

Finally, the boy inched forward and snatched the rope from his hands.

“See?” Harte said gently, hating himself a little for what he was about to do. “It’s nothing more than a regular old rope.”

The boy continued studying the length of rope with a serious little frown.

Now that his arms were free, Harte turned to the ropes around his ankles. As he’d expected, there was a series of angry red welts on his calf—flea bites, from the way they were clustered. They didn’t look particularly infected, but his entire leg ached. If they were infected, it might explain the way he felt. He hoped that explained the way he felt.

“Would you like to see another trick?” he asked, trying to ignore the burning itch and the way his body ached.

The boy considered this question seriously, but to Harte’s relief, the boy eventually nodded.

“My name’s Harte,” he said softly, tentative as he began the introductions. “Harte Darrigan. What’s your name?”

The boy stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then his small face screwed up with determination, and he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Sammie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sammie,” Harte said, and once the words were spoken, he felt the truth of them. He was somehow almost happy to know this child, a brother he’d never thought to want.

A brother who could never know him.

Use him, Seshat whispered. The faster you are free, the faster you can find the girl.

Harte tried to brush off her words, but Seshat had a point. He hadn’t traveled to California to find a family. He’d come for the lost artifact that held the Dragon’s Eye. He would find it, and he would only stay long enough to retrieve Esta’s cuff. He would use this boy if that was required, and he wouldn’t allow himself to give in to sentimentality. He would not hesitate. Not again.

He felt Seshat stirring in his depths, still far off from the boundary between them, but now there was a shivering anticipation to her waiting.

The boy simply stared at him with the look Harte had seen countless times in the eyes of children he’d grown up with on the streets, children who had learned young that adults couldn’t be trusted. Children who would never know a childhood free from the terror of living unprotected. It was a look Harte had probably worn too often himself. But there was nothing he could do for this boy, he reminded himself. He knew how his father—their father—would react when he learned that Harte had escaped. This child would pay the price. Harte couldn’t take a child with him, and he certainly couldn’t change the kind of man their father was. The most he could offer was a bit of happiness.

“Are you ready to see another trick?” he asked.

When the boy nodded eagerly, Harte gave Sammie—his brother—a few minutes of wonder. He offered a few simple tricks and illusions that could never make up for the nest of hornets Harte was about to overturn in his life. By the time he’d run through the tricks he could pull together from the supplies in the room, Sammie had become transformed. His serious little face was bright now, his gray eyes smiling in a way that Harte’s maybe never had. Not even when he was young.

Harte took an elaborate bow, making it into a ridiculous gesture that had his hands nearly brushing the ceiling of the cramped and musty cellar. His brother applauded, and Harte hated himself even more than he had a moment before. He had the sudden thought that there must be another way. Maybe he could take the boy with him—

The sound of footsteps and voices above him drew Harte’s attention, and he realized how stupid a thought that had been. He’d wasted enough time, and he needed to remember what was truly important—and what he still had to accomplish. It was time to go talk to his father.

REVELATIONS

1904—Denver

When Esta finally came back to herself, it wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t easy. She had to fight to regain her body, wrestling it away from the pull of time, until she emerged from the Aether—through the Aether—wrung out and feeling completely untethered to the world around her.