I’m not sure I can trust Kincaid. I know I don’t like him, but he’s opened his home to us. He’s also as eager to destroy Cormac as I am. I turn my attention back to the shelves. “I want answers about this world and Arras. I was hoping to find a book about Kairos.”

“That will be a problem,” Kincaid says, a note of apology in his voice. “Not many books have been published since the Exodus.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“It is, isn’t it? I never took to the Guild’s desire to limit the arts. They felt the arts were too dangerous to the controlled history, but I think it’s barbaric. It’s one of the reasons I settled here. The Guild occupied this estate for a long time. Apparently they weren’t interested in cultivating the arts in Arras, but they were keen on preserving those they took control of on Earth. I have been a much more attentive owner. My staff takes care to attend to the sculptures and libraries, so I’m certain you will find many treasures in my home.”

I’m not exactly interested in Kincaid’s artistic ambitions, but I nod to show I appreciate his effort. “What is Kairos?” I prompt.

“The correct question is, who is Kairos?” Kincaid says.

“Kairos is the name of a scientist, or at least, he’s come to be known as that. I’m told you bear his mark,” he says, returning to my original query.

I hesitate but then I stretch my arm out to confirm it. I see no point in hiding this information. He already knows I’m a traitor to the Guild.

“Who was he then? Kairos?” I ask.

“That’s complicated,” Kincaid stalls.

“Come on. I showed you mine,” I press.

Kincaid’s mouth twists into a bemused grin. “He was the scientist who started the Cypress Project. Rumor is that he didn’t hold with the Guild’s ultimate plan. Bit of a legend here actually.”

“What happened to him?” I ask.

“He vanished.” He sweeps a hand through the air, opening it with a flourish. “Poof! Some of the people left behind after the Exodus dubbed themselves the Kairos Agenda, determined to continue his work.”

“They rose up in his memory?”

“More or less,” Kincaid confirms. “Unfortunately, their ambitions died out as the resistance to Arras grew more futile.”

“But the Agenda had a plan to fight back against the Guild?” I ask.

“The Agenda believed Kairos left behind a machine.”

“A machine?” I ask in a breathless voice. “What did it do?”

“No one knows. It’s only known as the Whorl. Its myth is almost as legendary as Kairos himself. Some believe the Whorl could give Earth control over Arras.”

“Instead of the Guild controlling us,” I say.

“I believe it could do more than that. Kairos wanted to end Arras’s dependence on Earth. His machine would have to do more than simply control Arras. I vowed years ago to find it and finish Kairos’s work. If Arras became independent from Earth, this planet could prosper again. I ‘have no delight to pass away the time; unless to spy my shadow in the sun.’”

“Shakespeare?” I guess.

“An indulgence of mine,” he says.

I make a mental note to procure a volume of Shakespeare’s collected works to add to my book of sonnets. Studying them might give me better insight into Kincaid.

“If you’re right, with the Whorl, both worlds could exist?” I ask. It’s too much to hope for.

“I’m almost certain of it, but I’ve had my own men searching for intelligence on the Whorl for years.” Kincaid sinks back against the sofa, and my pulse quickens. He might have the information about the Guild.

“No luck?”

“False leads and dead ends. It probably doesn’t exist.” Kincaid pauses before adding, “But one can hope.” He stands and offers his arm to me, and my heart sinks. I loop my arm through his and he leads me away from the library.

“So that’s all there is?” I ask. “Rumors? Lies?”

“Oh no,” Kincaid says, patting the hand that rests on his forearm. “I have more to show you.”

He leaves me with promises of answers tonight, but little else.

* * *

“It’s an old film about the Cypress Project. Kincaid hopes it will enlighten you,” Dante says. His tone is formal as he leads us into a room with a large white screen at one end. I’ve been avoiding him since the day in the garden, but even though a few days have passed, none of the tension hanging like a cloud between us has dissipated. I wonder if Jost and Erik can sense it.

The walls of the theater are papered in crimson brocade, and the exaggerated figures of women bear torches overhead, glowing gold in the dim room. The carpets here are so plush they look like velvet and the row of armchair-like seats is equally divine. It’s nothing like the spare white room where we watched vids at the Coventry.

The Cypress Project. Greta spoke of it in the Old Curiosity Shop, and Kincaid mentioned it earlier today. He was following through on the answers he promised me. “The Cypress Project is Arras? Is that why our capital is named Cypress?” I say.

“I suppose,” he murmurs. “It would certainly be a reminder of their cleverness.”

“But they didn’t want anyone to know about Earth,” I say.

“Not subsequent generations, but the original population of Arras was quite proud of their achievement.”