“This way,” the professor said.
Karigan tore her gaze away from Cade with some regret and followed the professor into the stairwell, keeping close to his light.
“The upper floors were once the weave rooms,” the professor was saying, their feet ringing on wrought iron stairs as they climbed. “They were filled with looms and workers and the clatter of machinery, but no more.”
When they reached the landing, the professor stepped into the dark room and fumbled around a bit, muttering to himself, while Karigan peered into the vast, black space, discerning nothing. Just the rough, scraped floor in their immediate halo of light, pocked with small holes where very heavy objects must once have been bolted down. It was so quiet, she could not imagine the noise the professor spoke of.
“Ah, here it is,” he said. “Usually I enter from the other end.” He pushed up a lever embedded in a box in the wall, and the room exploded with light.
Karigan blinked until her eyes adjusted. Many plain phosphorene globes hung from the ceiling rafters, revealing row upon row of crates stacked high, shelves with articles covered by sheets, numerous freestanding statues and urns and pieces of decorative scrollwork; gargoyles, and columns. A portion of one wall was lined with imposing cabinets.
The professor set his taper aside and gestured grandly. “Behold my treasure trove. All artifacts that have passed into my care, and many that I, myself, have found or otherwise acquired.” He beamed proudly like a father looking upon his offspring.
“All of this? And you’ve kept it hidden from the emperor?” Karigan looked doubtfully at some of the larger statues, trying to imagine how one of those could have been concealed and brought here.
“I’ve been tireless in preserving our rightful heritage. If the emperor caught wind of my collection, well, I and everyone I know would be in very serious trouble. You do understand, do you not, that you are to speak to no one, absolutely no one, about this building or its contents? Not even Mirriam or Lorine. Not even Cade or me outside of this mill building unless I raise the subject first. I am placing great trust in you that you will not expose the secret. I’ve gone to great pains to keep you secret, as well, for your safety.”
Karigan studied him long and hard, his expression almost beseeching. “Why is the emperor so afraid? He’s in charge isn’t he?”
Professor Josston nodded, setting off toward the shelves, his hands clasped behind his back. Karigan limped behind him. “Yes, he runs his empire like a machine. Unfeeling, relentless, productive, and people believe it’s the way it has always been. Always the emperor, always the empire. That’s what makes our real history so dangerous—it would inspire hope in the populace, and he can’t allow that to happen.” He paused beside a shelf that held bottles of all sizes and colors, many cracked and broken, placed next to pieces of gold jewelry. He fingered a brooch of the crescent moon, tilting it so that it flared in the light.
“These objects,” he continued, “are not just old things, but symbols of what could have been, what should be. What we were before the emperor said we were nothing without him.” He set the brooch aside and faced Karigan, his expression intense. “My artifacts are the spark of a fire, a fire that will burn down the empire. Rebellion, my dear. This mill building and its contents are an act of war.”
In that moment, he reminded Karigan of the Anti-Monarchy Society and its leader. What was her name? Lorilie. Lorilie Dorran. She’d been eager, full of the fervor of her beliefs. She had plans to change the world, or at least how Sacoridia was governed, but nothing had ever come of them.
“Why keep it secret?” Karigan asked. “Why not reveal all this to the people and let them rebel?”
“Oh, we will, but not all the pieces are in place yet. If we act prematurely, we will be crushed.” He abruptly turned and continued to walk alongside the shelving. As Karigan followed, she glimpsed an ivory comb set with rubies. It had been placed next to the ruin of leather boots. Rotting chunks of wood that once could have been tools sat next to fine porcelain dishes. The mundane and the exquisite, all lined up one next to the other, a wagon wheel as prized as a pair of golden goblets.
“Truthfully,” the professor said, “the rebellion has been going on for some time, an unspoken war brewing beneath the polite workings of society. Our battlefields have been charity balls and banquets and evenings at the opera.”
Karigan considered the formal attire he currently wore and wondered if he’d been engaged in battle this evening.
“The opposition has been in play for as long as there has been the emperor,” the professor said. “The kings and queens of the past had a pact, a trust, to protect their people, not abuse them as chattel. The emperor keeps no such pact, only keeps his machine well oiled and productive, wearing out the spirit of the people.” He halted beside the worm-eaten figurehead of a swan propped against the shelving, pausing to allow her to weigh his words, before finally asking, “So, will you keep our secret?”
She regarded him carefully, his earnest expression, for she knew Mornhavon’s evil first hand. She had no argument with Professor Josston regarding the emperor. and, the professor, in turn, must have known how the Green Riders had opposed Mornhavon from the very beginning, which, she assumed, prompted him to take her into his confidence. She had no illusions, however, that if she ever posed a threat to his secrets, he would make her disappear as easily and quickly as she’d come into his life, no matter to what lengths he’d already gone to keep her safe. His secret was much more powerful, much more important to him than her life, intrigued though he might be by her passage through time and the part of her that was a living artifact. If the conditions in the empire were as bad as they seemed to be, she could not blame him.