Free The Juliet by Laura Ellen Scott Page B

so much attention to himself.
    Toby didn’t care. “She is here.”
    The plan: the old jeweler would claim to have found The Juliet in a hollow of a statue in the rear courtyard of tiled paths and fountains, once a ragged garden that served as an unmarked graveyard for what must have been the institution’s most inconvenient patients. Upon announcing his discovery of The Juliet, Morecambe would make a great speech pledging to return ownership of the gem to the brothers, but only after he transformed it into a piece of jewelry so beautiful that it would eclipse its tragic history. The new brooch would then be displayed and protected in Morecambe’s New York store. It was a promotion unlike any other, and everyone stood to win, except those who paid good money to hunt The Juliet.
    Sailor addressed his audience again. “We urge you to focus your energies on those areas that have been subject to the least amount of disturbance by our rejuvenation efforts. Look in the carriage house, the garden, the attics, and even the cellar, where you will find the finest collection of bottles this side of the Atlantic, even if you don’t find The Juliet.”
    Emboldened by the success of his earlier joke, Morecambe boomed, “Well, now you are talking,” and gestured with his unlikely drink. He was behaving like a well-loved man, even though he was not.
    “Gentlemen,” said Sailor. “We are about to begin. When I ring this bell again, that will signal the start of The Hunt. Good luck to you all.”
    Morecambe leered at them now, and Sailor understood. The old jeweler carried The Juliet in his glass. He even sipped from it, knowing the crystal obscured the contents. It hadn’t occurred to the Stiegs that Morecambe disliked them as much they disliked him.
    Sailor did not believe in spirits. He did not believe in messages from the afterworld. But if Firebird really was with them, she would strike now by propelling that great chunk of emerald down Morecambe’s whiskered throat. That didn’t happen, and Sailor was reassured that this plane of existence was indeed the only one.
    Toby gripped the rail. “She is…”
    “She isn’t.” Sailor rang the bell.
    The crowd pulsed towards the exit like an unhealthy bowel movement. Eventually they dispersed, and the attendees who never intended to hunt in the first place ambled toward divans from which to observe the ludicrous spectacle of their peers acting like children and rats.
    Sailor gathered his girls under each arm. “You’re ill,” he said to Toby, who was perspiring, losing focus.
    Dellaire joined them, but before he could offer congratulations, Toby nearly fell forward into the lawyer’s arms.
    “Firebird is here,” Toby said. “Great tragedy is coming to us.”
    “It always is,” said Dellaire.
    Sailor was unavoidably disappointed. The defining event of his young life was finally under way, and it wasn’t perfect, was it? Only days before, Dellaire showed Sailor documents proving that Caroline Firebird had never been detained at the Bottler’s House. This meant that Toby was merely mad, not mad and possessed, which would have been a bit more interesting.
    “He needs to rest,” said Dellaire. Sailor agreed.
    Toby stared out over the balcony as if he couldn’t hear them. Sailor called for two of the staff to escort his brother to his rooms.
    As they took Toby away, Dellaire reached for one of the girls, and in his arms he made her giggle. She’d lost her wings, but no matter. They were always giggling, these little Stieg girls, and it never failed to surprise him given the bizarre disposition of their father and uncle. He put one girl down and picked the other up. He’d never learned which was which; were their names Lenoria, Clara, Cloris, Laurelia…? Something along those lines. He’d never heard their father refer to them by name, and they were too young to announce themselves sensibly.
    Sailor watched the lawyer play with his children. “This will be a very long