says.
“It was the other way around last time,” I remind him.
“Was it?” he muses. “I don't remember.”
He says it offhandedly, but the fact that it might actually be true strikes a sour note in our conversation, and neither of us say anything for a moment.
“We haven't heard from your team,” he says after clearing his throat. “There's been a lot of attention.”
“I'm out of touch,” I say. “I fell overboard…” I realize I don't even know the date. “What happened?” I ask instead, figuring I'll get the news straight from him.
“Where are you?” he asks, and I know he's asking about the security of our conversation.
“I'm in a two-room house in the middle of Kangaroo Island,” I point out with a laugh. “I'm the only one for a couple of kilometers in any direction. It's pretty fucking secure.”
“Nothing is secure,” he says. “Your mission was compromised. Maybe from the beginning. Maybe from this end. I do not know how deep the infection goes.
“What infection? I thought this was an isolated mission.”
“As did I, but there is something amiss, something that goes back into our roots. Why was the reporter there?”
My hand tightens on the phone. “Which reporter?” I ask.
“Vanderhaven. She was on the boat…”
It's almost a question from him, but not quite, and I hesitate on the cusp of replying.
Callis and I have known each other for a long time. We've schemed our way into and out of a number of tight situations over the centuries. Typically, he plays the scoundrel role—the charming and devious one—while I play the silent and invisible heavy, and I've seen him extract information with an insouciant ease simply by leaving a sentence hanging, neglecting a final piece of punctuation that his listeners instinctively leap to supply. In doing so, they also tumble along a path he has arranged for them to take.
“Vanderhaven,” I reply. “The one who did the Beering story?”
“That was your job.”
“It was.”
“The Grove has been expressing some concern.”
“Now? That was two years ago. I've been in Mother's care since then. Up until about a month before we went to Adelaide and got on the boat.”
“Why was she on the boat, Silas?”
I glance around. The phone is on the wall outside the kitchen, and I'm standing at the mouth of a narrow hall that runs from the living room of the small cabin to the other rooms. There's a single entrance to this cabin, and I can see it from where I'm standing, but there are also windows in the rooms. The doors to the rooms are shut. If there's a good place to be standing in this cabin, I'm in it.
I am in an isolated location, and I am the only one in the house, but his questions have set off a survival check in my brain. I'm doing a tactical assessment of my location. Figuring out my exit strategy. Wondering about my security.
“I didn't say she was,” I reply carefully.
“There's a poison at work here,” he says. “I fear it may touch members of the Grove. I don't know who you can trust.”
“Suggestions?”
“Stay away from Arcadia. Be rootless.”
Rootless . My breath catches in my throat. It's a hard word to hear. On my own, unable to return to Arcadia and to Mother's embrace. I have only the foul soil of the world to sustain me.
“Why?” I croak.
“The Grove is protecting its interests,” he says. “They started as soon as the story broke. It's been three weeks, Silas. We haven't heard from any of the team. We had to assume you were all lost, or compromised. The Grove doesn't want to lose the mission data, but they have to protect Arcadia.”
“Of course,” I say. I know the drill. We all do—the priority is always family. Arcadia must be protected. Nothing else matters. That is the price we pay. Rooted, we live forever. The rootless—those who can't return to Arcadia and Mother's embrace—they simply… die.
“Your assets have been reclaimed,” he says, a touch embarrassed, and I suspect
“It was the other way around last time,” I remind him.
“Was it?” he muses. “I don't remember.”
He says it offhandedly, but the fact that it might actually be true strikes a sour note in our conversation, and neither of us say anything for a moment.
“We haven't heard from your team,” he says after clearing his throat. “There's been a lot of attention.”
“I'm out of touch,” I say. “I fell overboard…” I realize I don't even know the date. “What happened?” I ask instead, figuring I'll get the news straight from him.
“Where are you?” he asks, and I know he's asking about the security of our conversation.
“I'm in a two-room house in the middle of Kangaroo Island,” I point out with a laugh. “I'm the only one for a couple of kilometers in any direction. It's pretty fucking secure.”
“Nothing is secure,” he says. “Your mission was compromised. Maybe from the beginning. Maybe from this end. I do not know how deep the infection goes.
“What infection? I thought this was an isolated mission.”
“As did I, but there is something amiss, something that goes back into our roots. Why was the reporter there?”
My hand tightens on the phone. “Which reporter?” I ask.
“Vanderhaven. She was on the boat…”
It's almost a question from him, but not quite, and I hesitate on the cusp of replying.
Callis and I have known each other for a long time. We've schemed our way into and out of a number of tight situations over the centuries. Typically, he plays the scoundrel role—the charming and devious one—while I play the silent and invisible heavy, and I've seen him extract information with an insouciant ease simply by leaving a sentence hanging, neglecting a final piece of punctuation that his listeners instinctively leap to supply. In doing so, they also tumble along a path he has arranged for them to take.
“Vanderhaven,” I reply. “The one who did the Beering story?”
“That was your job.”
“It was.”
“The Grove has been expressing some concern.”
“Now? That was two years ago. I've been in Mother's care since then. Up until about a month before we went to Adelaide and got on the boat.”
“Why was she on the boat, Silas?”
I glance around. The phone is on the wall outside the kitchen, and I'm standing at the mouth of a narrow hall that runs from the living room of the small cabin to the other rooms. There's a single entrance to this cabin, and I can see it from where I'm standing, but there are also windows in the rooms. The doors to the rooms are shut. If there's a good place to be standing in this cabin, I'm in it.
I am in an isolated location, and I am the only one in the house, but his questions have set off a survival check in my brain. I'm doing a tactical assessment of my location. Figuring out my exit strategy. Wondering about my security.
“I didn't say she was,” I reply carefully.
“There's a poison at work here,” he says. “I fear it may touch members of the Grove. I don't know who you can trust.”
“Suggestions?”
“Stay away from Arcadia. Be rootless.”
Rootless . My breath catches in my throat. It's a hard word to hear. On my own, unable to return to Arcadia and to Mother's embrace. I have only the foul soil of the world to sustain me.
“Why?” I croak.
“The Grove is protecting its interests,” he says. “They started as soon as the story broke. It's been three weeks, Silas. We haven't heard from any of the team. We had to assume you were all lost, or compromised. The Grove doesn't want to lose the mission data, but they have to protect Arcadia.”
“Of course,” I say. I know the drill. We all do—the priority is always family. Arcadia must be protected. Nothing else matters. That is the price we pay. Rooted, we live forever. The rootless—those who can't return to Arcadia and Mother's embrace—they simply… die.
“Your assets have been reclaimed,” he says, a touch embarrassed, and I suspect
Similar Books
