Mister Impossible - Maggie Stiefvater (ereader manga TXT) 📗

city. Probably it was destined to be sewn into a corset or back of a jacket, although an adventurous dresser might wear it on a truly elegant throat.

3. The Mary-Mary-Contrary engagement ring. Jordan found this one either very touching or very depressing. It was a beautiful little ring with an equally beautiful little diamond, and engraved on the inside of the band were the tiny words mary-mary-contrary. It begged several questions: Who was Mary? Was she dead? Had she sold this? Was the wedding called off? Why was this ring no longer attached to a Mary? Fisher did not know and did not care when Jordan asked. Regardless, it packed a potent punch, enough to wake a dependent and an entire host of dependent bridesmaids if needed.

2. The ink. The little bottle was shaped like a woman and was filled with the darkest green ink. It seethed with the energy that woke dependents from their everlasting sleep. It begged to be gazed into. It made one feel alive, awake, real, even if one had already felt alive, awake, real. Jordan was beginning to feel a little high.

1. Jordan in White by J. H. Hennessy. The portrait—one of the artist’s last before she died, the brochure noted—wasn’t portable, unlike the other most expensive sweetmetals in the collection, but it didn’t matter. It was a stunner of a piece of art, featuring an intense-eyed child posed in a simple white slip, her kinky hair piled upon her head. And it was incredibly potent. Anyone would be happy to display it prominently in their home to animate an entire dreamt family.

Jordan stood looking at Jordan in White for a very long time.

She looked first at the girl, at Jordan, and then she looked at the signature, J. H. Hennessy, and then back at the girl again. Mother painting daughter.

Although Jordan was supposed to be a direct copy of Hennessy, she’d never thought of J. H. Hennessy as her mother. For a while she’d thought this was because she hadn’t known Jay like Hennessy had. After all, Jordan had only come into being just after Jay died. But slowly she realized that shouldn’t matter; Jordan had all of Hennessy’s other early memories. Hennessy’s mother should have been as fresh as everything else.

But this painting underlined the unspoken truth. Jordan was missing memories. The Hennessy in the portrait looked wary, skittish, unlike the Hennessy Jordan had always known, but it was obviously her, back when she had been both Jordan and Hennessy. But Jordan had no memory of sitting for the painting, no memory of it existing at all.

This was something that had been kept from her.

Jordan felt very strange.

She didn’t know if this was because she was looking at some of her history, or because it was a sweetmetal, or because she was trying to figure out if Boudicca was playing a mind game with her.

She’d been staring at it too long; the guards were antsy. They were thinking about Project Bullets.

Jordan pointed finger guns at them before turning to Fisher. “How are the sweetmetals made?”

“I don’t understand the question,” Fisher said.

“Who makes these things into sweetmetals?”

“Isn’t that the same question?”

“This painting. Those spoons. Why do they do what they do? They are not just a painting, a spoon, they do other things, that’s why I’m here, don’t leave me feeling I’m talking to myself, mate— Was it put into them? Were they like that from the get?” When she saw Fisher’s exasperated face, Jordan answered her own question. “You don’t know how the sausage is made.”

Fisher said, “You’re a strange person.”

Without any hostility, Jordan went on. “All right, then. What’ll these set me back? I assume the price isn’t money. Because money’s too cheap.”

Fisher shrugged. With the sound of someone repeating someone else’s words, she said, “Our clientele includes those to whom money is no object.”

“Let me have a guess,” Jordan said. “I do whatever you want for the rest of time, and I get one of these.” She read Fisher’s face. “I get to borrow one of these. And you write me up a little contract on your phone.”

Fisher shrugged again.

Jordan studied her, trying to read her. “Is that why you’re here? For one of these, something like one of these?”

“Nah, some of us choose it.”

“Ah. I reckon this is the part where you tell me I should make a decision soon, ’cause they’re flying out the door each place they go.”

Fisher shrugged yet again. “You make my job easy.”

She watched Jordan very carefully as Jordan walked back along the sweetmetals, feeling everything in her shouting to stay close to them. Probably Fisher thought Jordan was trying to choose which one she’d ask for. Really, Jordan was trying to tell what they had in common. They were all art. Or at least, they were all made by a human. Crafted by a human.

Their secret hummed inside her.

“I was supposed to ask you,” Fisher said as she paused at the end of the sweetmetals, “if you were still in touch with Ronan Lynch.”

Jordan’s heart sailed right up and out of the wine cellar and into the sky.

Right.

She should have known it was coming. Boudicca thought there was just one Jordan Hennessy; somehow she’d managed to forget that. Now it seemed like she had two choices. Make up a reason why she was no longer aware of Ronan’s whereabouts after such a dramatic exit or let loose a story about her being a twin with no knowledge of him at all. It was hard to tell on the fly which was a more dangerous truth.

Or, maybe—

“Do I look like a phone to you?” Jordan asked.

“A phone?”

“If you want to get in touch with someone, that’s the way to do it. A phone, that’s the ticket. I am not a phone. I’m not some white boy’s answering service. Tell me, Fisher, do you like it when people act like you’re the direct line to ol’ Barb?”

This question landed with glorious effect. Fisher’s mouth worked unpleasantly.