Alex shut her mouth, trying to bite back the anger she felt toward Turner.
She wasn’t being fair, but it was hard to care about what was rational or right when she and Dawes were stuck fighting what felt like a losing battle to free Darlington. They needed allies, but Lethe and Michelle Alameddine weren’t interested, and she hated feeling like she was begging for Turner’s help.
And the Peabody was one more place where Darlington’s presence was too close—the real Darlington, who belonged to New Haven as much as he belonged to Lethe or Yale. Alex had been to the Peabody with him, a place that had rendered him surprisingly quiet. He’d shown her the mineral room, the stuffed dodo bird, the photos and letters from Hiram Bingham III’s
expedition to “discover” Machu Picchu, where he’d found the great golden crucible currently tucked away in Il Bastone’s armory.
“This was my hiding place,” he’d said as they walked past the Age of Reptiles mural, “when things got bad at home.” At the time, Alex had wondered how bad it could have been, growing up in a mansion. But now that she’d been in Darlington’s grandfather’s head, seen his memories of a little boy lost in the dark, she understood why that boy would come here, to a place full of people and noise, where there was always something to read or to look at, where no one would think twice about a studious kid with a backpack who didn’t want to leave.
The basement was dark and warm, full of plumbing that rattled and belched, noisier than the quiet upper floors, where the exhibits had been packed up and stored in preparation for the upcoming renovation. Their flashlight beams floated over exposed pipes and boxes stacked to the ceiling, odd bits and pieces of scaffolding leaning crookedly against them.
At last Dawes led them into a room with a strange, musty smell.
“What is all this?” Alex asked as Dawes ran her flashlight over shelves of jars full of cloudy liquid.
“Pond water, hundreds of jars of it, from all over Connecticut, all from different years.”
“What is the point of this exactly?” asked Turner.
“I suppose … if you want to know exactly what was in the pond water in 1876, this is the place for you. The basements are full of stuff like this.”
Dawes consulted a plan and then walked to a shelf on the left-hand side of the room. She counted up the rows from the bottom, then counted across the dusty jars themselves. She reached between them and rooted around in back.
“If you try to make me drink that, I’m leaving,” Turner muttered.
There was a loud clink. The shelf swung out and there, behind the dirty rows of jars, was a huge room with nothing in it but a massive rectangular table covered in multiple dust cloths.
“It worked,” Dawes said with pleased surprise. She flicked a switch on the wall, but nothing happened. “I don’t think anyone’s been down here in a while.”
“How did you even know this place existed?” Turner asked.
“I’m responsible for maintaining the armory archive.”
“And a room in the Peabody basement is part of the Lethe armory?”
“Not exactly,” said Dawes, and even in the shadows, Alex could tell she was uncomfortable. “No one wants to claim this. We’re not even sure which society made it or if it’s the work of someone else entirely. There’s just an entry in the book for when it arrived and … its purpose.”
Alex felt a chill settle into her. What were they about to see? She sent her mind searching for Grays in case something awful was about to happen, and braced herself as Dawes grabbed hold of one of the cloths. She gave a sharp pull, releasing a cloud of dust.
“A model?” Turner asked, sounding almost disappointed.
A model of New Haven. Alex recognized the shape of the green with its bisecting lines of protection and three pretty churches immediately. The rest was less familiar. She could identify some of the buildings, the general plan of the streets, but so much was missing.
“It’s made out of stone,” Alex realized, running a finger over one of the street names, Chapel, engraved directly into the pavement.
“Amethyst,” said Dawes, though it looked more white than purple to Alex’s eye.
“That can’t be,” said Turner. “It’s one big slab, no lines, no cracks. You’re telling me this was carved from one piece of stone?” Dawes nodded, and Turner’s frown deepened. “That’s not possible. Let’s say someone could find a piece of amethyst this big, then get it out of a mine, then somehow manage the carving, it would have to weigh over a ton. How did they even get it down here?”
“I don’t know,” said Dawes. “It’s possible it was carved right here, and the building went up around it. I don’t even know if it was carved by human hands. There’s really … there’s nothing natural about it.” She uncorked a bottle from her bag and poured it into what looked like a Windex bottle.
“I’m going to read from the incantation. You just need to repeat.” “What’s going to happen?” asked Alex. “It’s just going to activate the model.” “Sure,” said Turner.
Dawes took out a notebook where she’d transcribed the spell and began to read in Latin. Alex didn’t understand a word of it.
“Evigilato Urbs, aperito scelestos. ”
Dawes gestured for them to repeat and they did their best to follow. “Crimen proquirito parricidii. ” Again they tried to echo her.
Dawes picked up the spray bottle and squirted it aggressively over the model.
Alex and Turner took a step back, and Alex resisted the urge to cover her nose and mouth. The mist smelled faintly of roses, and Alex remembered what the high priest had said about preserving bodies at Book and Snake.
Was that what this map was? A corpse that needed to be brought back to life?
The cloud of mist drifted down onto the model, and the table seemed to explode into activity. Lights flickered on; a miniature amethyst buggy sped down the streets drawn by gemstone horses; a breeze moved through the tiny stone trees. Red spots began to appear in the stone, as if they were seeping up through it, spreading bloodstains.
“There,” said Dawes, expelling a relieved breath. “It will reveal the locations of anyone who has committed homicide.”
Turner’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You’re telling me you found a magical map that does exactly what you need it to?”
“Well, no, the spell is tailored to our needs.”
“So I could have it look for hot fudge sundaes? Women who love microbrews and Patriots football?”
Dawes laughed nervously. “No, it has to be a specific crime. You’re not calling on the map to reveal criminals in general, just people who broke a specific law.”
“Wow,” said Alex, “if only the NHPD knew. Oh, wait.” “Can I find my murder suspect this way?” Turner asked.
