Bitter Seeds

three

3 August 1939

Reichsbehorde fur die Erweiterung germanischen Potenzials

Spring and summer brought a host of changes to the Reichsbehorde during the run-up to war. Nobody called it that, of course, but Klaus could see how the little things added up into one coherent picture.

It had begun soon after Spain, when training regimens across the board went to live-fire exercises twice per week. And the training periods with nonlethal combatants doubled in length. “For endurance,” said the doctor.

Around the time that greenery returned to the surrounding forests, the Reichsbehorde received its first-ever visitors from the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht. But the officers from the military high command didn't come for demonstrations. They came to speak with Gretel. Throughout the spring and well into summer, she attended numerous meetings with the doctor, Standartenfuhrer Pabst, and the officers from the OKW. She never revealed what went on in those closed-door sessions, but Klaus suspected they were strategy discussions. Why else would the Reich's military leadership spend so much time with a precog?

Gretel had been meeting with the OKW off and on for two months when the training regimens underwent more upheaval. Another first: the members of the Gotterelektrongruppe started training in teams, no longer as solo operatives. They trained in pairs, trios, and quartets, practiced for every scenario imaginable.

And then—as if the writing on the wall weren't clear enough—an OKW officer took the Twins away on the first day of August. That implied the Reich anticipated a need for rapid ultrasecure communications. No doubt one of the Twins would be ensconced in OKW headquarters for the duration of the war. The other sister's destination was a popular topic of speculation in the mess hall.

“I hear she's going to France,” said one of the mundane troops. They tended to sit together at meals, segregating themselves from Doctor von Westarp's more abrasive children. But Klaus preferred their company to Reinhardt's bluster, and they liked him more than most.

A second man shook his head. He speared a mushroom, popped it in his mouth, and said, “England.”

Klaus slid aside to make room for Heike. She took a seat next to him, nodding her thanks. They shared a connection through their powers, which although different had similar applications. Heike and Klaus both trained for infiltration, observation, and assassination. Recently they'd begun training in tandem. He took a small measure of comfort in the knowledge that Heike's mastery of her Willenskrafte didn't yet equal his own.

None of the mundanes objected to her company. Conversation faltered for a moment while they admired her. When she wasn't invisible, Heike was endowed with a head-turning beauty. The portrait of Aryan perfection. And Heike was easy company. She even ate quietly.

A third soldier picked up the conversational thread. Around a mouthful of potato, he said, “England? That's ridiculous. She'll be in Moscow by the end of the week.”

Crumbs flew as he spoke. Klaus smelled cabbage and sausage on the man's breath.

“If you're that curious,” said the second man, “you know who to ask.” A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Tell you what. I'll give you a Reichsmark for trying. I'll even double it if Gretel gives you a straight answer.” The soldiers laughed.

“And maybe she'll gamble with us later. We'll make a fortune!” They pounded the table in their laughter.

“I like playing cards.” Gretel stood in the doorway, dinner tray in hand.

The laughter stopped. The soldiers fell silent, suddenly fixated on their dinners. Their heads inched lower over their plates when she approached. Heike had been ignoring the mundanes, but Klaus felt the quiver of tension from her direction as well.

“Can my brother play, too?”

The trio of mundanes abandoned their meals. “Have to inventory the armory,” muttered one. “I'll join you,” said another. In moments they were gone.

One of Gretel's long braids tickled Klaus as she settled beside him. She took the fork and half-eaten piece of cake one soldier had left behind. “Mmm. Chocolate.”

She didn't, Klaus noticed, have any food on her tray. It was stacked with magazines. On top was an old issue of Time, an American publication he recognized from the infirmary's reading collection. She was reading about the abdication of Edward VIII and his subsequent wedding.

“Why are you reading that? That's old news.”

“Every girl dreams of her wedding day, brother.”

Klaus finished off his stew before it cooled. He nibbled on Gretel's purloined cake while talking with Heike.

“They're changing the obstacle course again.” Klaus could breeze through obstructions easily enough. But other tasks, such as navigating while inside a wall, still presented challenges.

“Yes,” said Heike. She rubbed her shoulder. Klaus recognized the dark bruises on her clavicle: wax bullets. She hadn't graduated to the live-fire exercises yet. “And they've hung bells on everything.”

“I think we'll get deployed soon,” he said.

Heike shrugged. “Some of us.” After that she fell silent again. Her meal consisted mostly of salad with just a little bread on the side. Heike ate greens at every meal.

Klaus and Gretel were finishing the last of the cake when Reinhardt entered. He smiled when he saw Heike. “Ah! There you are, Liebling.”

Heike deflated. She unleashed a long sigh as she set down her cutlery.

Reinhardt crossed the room to lay a hand on Heike's shoulder. “I'm disappointed. I'd hoped that to night we'd dine alone together.”

Heike tossed the dishes of her unfinished meal back on her tray. She stood, and with another brief nod to Klaus, swept out of the hall. Reinhardt crossed his arms, leaning back against the table as he watched her go.

After she was gone, he said, “You know, Klaus, we're uniquely positioned to help each other, you and I.”

“Is that so?” Klaus almost preferred Reinhardt when he wasn't trying to be charming. The artifice was both irritating and unconvincing.

“Oh, yes. It's no secret that things are changing here. I'll wager even stupid Kammler can see it.”

“Hmmmm.”

“It's only a matter of time before I'm promoted. But I'm afraid your career faces certain—” He cleared his throat, with a meaningful glance at Gretel. “—handicaps.”

Klaus looked at his sister, who didn't react to the insult. “What's your point?” he asked.

Reinhardt spread his hands in the air. “All I'm saying is that you could use friends in high places. And when I've moved on, I won't forget the friends I've left behind.” He shrugged. “Heike respects you, though I can't imagine why. Put in a good word for me, talk her out of this silly and frankly tedious resistance, and I'll return the favor when the time comes.”

You pig, thought Klaus. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“It's true,” chimed Gretel. “He'll get what he wants, eventually. She won't resist him forever.”

Reinhardt nodded, pleased by Gretel's prediction. “Listen to your sister, Klaus.” He waved a finger in the air as he walked away. “My offer stands.”

Gretel flipped through her magazine, still reading. “I like flowers very much,” she said to nobody in particular. “I think I'd want to be married in a garden.”

4 August 1939

St. Pancras, London, England

Marsh brought a bouquet of forget-me-nots and red carnations when he took Liv to dinner a week after meeting her at the Hart and Hearth. A month after that, she sneaked him into her garret at the boarding house, where they made love during a window-cracking hailstorm. A day after that, Marsh finagled a two-month advance out of Stephenson, added it to the cash he'd already saved, rode the Tube to Knightsbridge station, and bought a ring at Harrods.

He presented it to Liv on her birthday. They set the wedding for Marsh's birthday.

Liv, like Marsh, preferred a small ceremony. She was visibly moved when Stephenson and his wife, Corrie, offered to host it in their garden; she understood the significance of that place in her future husband's life.

Although he wasn't particularly religious, Marsh had taken to attending Sunday services with Liv. The Church of England vicar who had baptized Liv and eulogized her father agreed to preside over the nuptials.

The day had dawned gloomy and overcast, but the good fortune that had attended their courtship from the start saw fit to give them a blue sky by early afternoon. Corrie had draped the garden wall with ivy garlands and streamers of crepe paper. Marsh sucked in a sudden breath when Stephenson escorted Liv into the garden under an arbor strewn with hyacinths and roses. The sunlight on her milky skin and simple white gown made her luminous.

Will gasped. “You've outdone yourself,” he whispered.

“You have it, right?” said Marsh.

“Have what, Pip?”

Marsh turned. Will winked.

“You're terrible,” said Marsh as he turned back to admire his approaching bride. The Stephensons' tiny garden seemed ten leagues long. He'd never seen the old man move so slowly. But he knew he'd forever hold behind his eyelids the image of Liv under roses with daffodils in her hair.

“One of us has to be. Your bride is a perniciously civilizing influence.”

Marsh cast about for a retort, but then Liv and Stephenson joined them, and all he could think was, I'm getting married. This is real. I'm marrying this amazing, stunning woman. She's marrying me.

It was a simple ceremony, brief as it was small. Liv, like Marsh, had little in the way of family. In addition to Will and the Stephensons, the only guests were Liv's mother and a maiden aunt from Williton. Liv's auntie didn't approve of Marsh, but she teared up and tossed rice just like the rest.

Marsh and Liv took their first dance barefoot in the grass while listening to a scratchy recording of Vera Lynn. He kissed his wife, touched her, inhaled her.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” he said.

“Hold me, fool,” she said, head on his shoulder.

Stephenson produced a bottle of champagne and seven flutes. Will waited until everybody held a glass before raising his own.

“Raybould and I first met at university, meaning I've known him longer than most, with two notable exceptions.” Will nodded at the Stephensons as he said this.

Then he turned to Liv's mother. “Mrs. Turnbull, I imagine you find yourself wondering, 'Who is this charming, clever, handsome, and fascinating man?'” She nodded meekly, looking delighted but nervous. “It is my great plea sure to put your mind at ease, madam.” Will took her hand, kissed it, and said, “My name is William Edward Guthrie Beauclerk, and I am pleased to be at your service.” Laughter. “But perhaps you also wonder about this strange man who has stolen your daughter's heart.” Nervous smiles from mother and auntie. “My first impression of Pip was that he was coarse, neither handsome nor clever, utterly lacking in passion, rudderless, and without direction in life. But I give you my solemn word, madam, that I was utterly mistaken in every regard. Well, most.” More laughter. Marsh's face ached as he struggled not to grin like a fool.

Next, Will turned to address Liv. “Now, Olivia, all joking aside. I've known your husband for more than a decade, but in all that time I've seen him speechless exactly once. And that was when he met you, my dear. It takes a remarkable person to defeat Pip's quicksilver mind. You're more than a match for him, and in that, you've won him forever. Trust me. I know the man.”

Then it was Stephenson's turn for a shorter and gruffer toast: “This is the second time you've made a mess of my garden, lad. I trust you won't make a habit of this.” Marsh laughed, looking at his feet to hide the blush creeping into his face.

Stephenson turned to Liv. “You're a delightful lady, Olivia, and far too good for him. I only wish he'd met you sooner. Much, much sooner.” She laughed, too, her face shimmering with tears.

They drank. Will barely touched the champagne to his lips, and spit it back in the flute when he thought nobody was looking. He shrugged awkwardly when he caught Marsh watching him. But Marsh was too preoccupied to feel anything other than amusement.

The little garden party stretched into evening. Marsh danced with his mother-in-law, and Liv's auntie, and Corrie, but mostly with his wife. As the sky turned pink in the west, Will offered to take Liv's bleary-eyed mother and yawning aunt back to their hotel. Corrie took Liv inside to wrap up a watercolor of her choosing.

Alone in the garden, Stephenson and Marsh clinked their glasses together. “You've done well,” said Stephenson.

“I know,” said Marsh, staring after his wife as she entered the house.

Stephenson drained his champagne in one gulp. When Corrie shut the door, he said quietly, “You've had a lot on your mind, but I hope you haven't forgotten about Milkweed.”

Inwardly, Marsh sighed. “No.”

“Good. Because the film's ready for an audience.”

“Took long enough.”

Stephenson agreed. He nodded toward the back gate, where Will had departed with Liv's family. “Still think your specialist will shed some light for us?”

6 August 1939

Westminster, London, England

Oy! Keep yer bleedin' fingers off that goddamn film, Yer Highness!”

Will jumped away from the projector as if an adder, rather than acetate, were coiled about the reel. He lowered himself into a chair facing the far end of the room, where a Scot in gray overalls continued to curse while struggling to unfurl a screen.

“My apologies,” Will murmured. He'd been through a lot in the past hour; he didn't feel quite himself. His knees had gone wobbly and he hadn't quite regained his balance.

Pausing before he launched another volley of curses at the tripod, the Scot asked, “Why the hell is he here?”

“Because he's our local expert,” said Marsh.

The man with the projector screen snorted. “He is, eh? That's just bloody wonderful,” he muttered.

“Don't mind him.” Marsh joined Will at the table. “How are you feeling? You look ... pale.”

“Well, it's rather a lot to take in, isn't it?”

Marsh's message had been vague, saying only that he'd very much appreciate Will's opinion on a matter. Will had suspected it might have had something to do with their conversation in the Hart and Hearth back in February, the evening they'd both met Liv. But, having already agreed to provide his assistance, and being more than a little curious, he cheerfully attended this strange meeting in the Broadway Buildings. The concrete edifice stood a couple of streets south of St. James' Park, just down from the eponymous Tube station, and a ten-minute walk from Buckingham Palace. Will had dismissed it as an uninspired government building.

He hadn't known it housed SIS headquarters.

Or that his dear friend, for whom he'd stood as best man not a week earlier, was a spy.

As for Stephenson, Will had always regarded Marsh's putative father as a bristly but harmless codger. But the old man had seemed anything but harmless when he'd shoved a copy of the Official Secrets Act in Will's face. Technically—as Will now understood, thanks to Stephen-son's rather alarming speech—the Act was law within the United Kingdom, so he was bound by its provisions whether he knew it or not. This may have been Stephenson's attempt to comfort a bewildered newcomer. It didn't. But by making Will sign a sworn oath that he would abide by the terms of the OSA, he'd guaranteed that Will would pay attention and take the matter seriously.

The Scot finished with the screen. He returned to the front of the room, where he took up the eight-millimeter film reel and started threading it through the projector.

Will asked, “Pip, how long have you been an agent of the Crown?” He rubbed his palms on his knees, slowly warming to the subject.

Marsh gave him a guilty half smile. “Since leaving the Navy.”

“Ah. I see. And all the time I believed you worked for the Foreign Office ...”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Ah. Recruited you out of the Navy, did they?”

“No, it was before that.”

“Oxford?”

Marsh hesitated. He started to answer, but stopped when the door opened. Stephenson entered, carrying a file folder. The old man latched the door behind him.

Ah, thought Will. So that's it.

“It was a long time ago,” said Marsh.

“Does your blushing bride know about this?”

Stephenson and Marsh shared a quick, fraught glance at each other. Something unsaid passed between them. Will knew with certainty he'd just resurrected an uncomfortable topic. But the moment passed before he could find a way to gracefully rescind the question. Stephenson joined the gruff fellow at the projector, where they spoke quietly.

His eyes on Stephenson's back, Marsh said, “Look, Will. Were it the least bit possible, Liv would know all. But she's safer the less she knows. And I will do anything—anything—to protect her.” Again Will felt that sense of a powerful spring uncoiling inside Marsh, a warning tremor of intensity. Marsh pointed at the projector. “Which in fact is why we're here.”

“I think we're ready,” said Stephenson. “Time for you to get these gentlemen up to speed, Commander.” He walked along the wall, pulling every window shade until the room would have been dark if not for the light of a single lamp.

The announcement created opposing reactions inside Will. He shook off the tremor of unease, the sensation of a last chance slipping away. If I leave now, he thought, I've seen no secrets and there's no harm done. But as childish as it may have been, he also felt a tingle of excitement. William Edward Guthrie Beauclerk, special consultant to His Majesty's spies!

And as far as breaking ranks with the other warlocks went, he'd already done that at the Bodleian, years ago. It may have been a foolish thing to do, but the damage was already done. By helping Marsh now, Will could turn that foolish indiscretion into something good.

The Scot took a chair on the other side of Marsh. Marsh scooted his own chair back a bit so that he could address Will and the other man.

“First things first,” he said. “Will, meet James Lorimer. Lorimer, meet Lord William Beauclerk.”

Will offered his hand. “A plea sure.”

“Aye.”

As they shook hands, Will noticed mottled discolorations on Lorimer's fingers. The man was older than he or Marsh, too, closer to Stephenson's age. Perhaps his late forties. He enjoyed the occasional cigar, too. The smell wafted from him, and his thick black beard was dusted with ashes.

Will couldn't help but look down at himself: the Savile Row shirt of sea-island cotton, the double-breasted suit, the pocket watch. Perhaps the breast-pocket silk had been a step too far in this company. He could see Lorimer making the same evaluation as they looked each other over. Then again, Will hadn't known what to expect of this meeting.

Marsh continued. “Lorimer knows part of this story, and you know a different part of it, Will, though you may not realize it.” And then he launched into an incredible tale: sneaking into war time Spain to meet a Nazi defector; spontaneous human combustion; a half-charred filmstrip; a gypsy woman with wires in her hair.

Had it been somebody else telling the story, Will would have laughed it off as a fevered hallucination. Instead he had to accept the notion that in another century Marsh would have been the real-life hero of a Rudyard Kipling adventure.

What am I doing here?

“And that is how we recruited Lorimer into our little family,” said Marsh, gesturing at the Scot. “He was a sergeant back in the Great War, connected with the Army Film and Photographic Unit. Later he went to work for the General Post Office Film Unit. We needed somebody who could reconstruct the Tarragona film. Somebody good.”

Lorimer said, “Reconstruction's a bold claim. You haven't seen the end result, boy. Stitched it together as best I could, but there's a fair bit missing. Had to make wild guesses in some parts. Even so, that film ...” He trailed off, shaking his head. Then he pointed at Will. “Remind me again. What's His Highness doing here?”

Marsh said, “Stephenson and I feel, based on what little we've seen, that Jerry is on to something unnatural. Having seen the entire film, you may agree.” Lorimer canted his head, as if to say perhaps. “To best deal with this, we need an expert in the unnatural. Will is a, ah ...”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Pip. Let's get over heavy ground lightly, shall we?” Will turned to face Lorimer and Stephenson behind him. He took a deep breath. “My grandfather was a warlock. My father, too. While I didn't follow in the family hobby, I have had the training.”

Lorimer looked disgusted. “This is unbelievable. Five months. Five months I've worked on that sodding filmstrip, nightmares for free, and for what? So that you can hand it off to this chinless wonder.” He stood.

Stephenson laid his one hand on the man's shoulder. “Sit down.” Lorimer took his seat again, grumbling. “We didn't hire you for your beliefs. You're here as a film expert, and as such, you'll do your goddamn job.”

Will recoiled. The old man had a steely core, unpleasantly like his grandfather.

“It's no hoax,” said Marsh. “I've seen it.” The look in his eyes was clouded and distant. Will knew he was back at the Bodleian. Marsh shook his head, as though clearing his thoughts. He pointed to Stephen-son's file folder. “Is that what I think it is?”

Stephenson took a seat at the head of the table. He flipped open the dossier and slid it in front of Will, Marsh, and Lorimer. “This is everything we have on Doctor Karl Heinrich von Westarp.”

It was, Will noticed, a rather thin file. A single photograph clipped to the top page depicted a grainy black-and-white head shot of a man showing the first hints of baldness. He wore round wire-rimmed spectacles and a thin mustache. The graininess made Will think the image had been enlarged from a portion of a larger photo.

“Born in Weimar, Germany, April 13, 1872. Only child to Gottfried and Marlissa von Westarp. Wealthy family, owned quite a bit of land. Father died in 1899; mother died in 1915. He was apparently self-taught in his youth, and attended the University of Heidelberg starting in his mid-twenties, from 1896 through 1902. Quite the scholar. Studied philosophy, chemistry, physiology, and history. Wrote a well-received treatise on Nietzsche. Didn't obtain his letters in history, however. He may have had a falling out with the faculty.

“After Heidelberg, von Westarp came to Britain to study medicine at King's College, London. Stayed there until 1908 before returning to Germany.”

Marsh sat up. “He was here.”

Will said, “Thirty years ago, Pip.”

“This,” said Stephenson, tapping the photograph, “is our only image of the man. Class photo from King's, taken on the day their medical degrees were conferred.

“After that, our man disappears for the next ten years. We've been unable to turn up any sign of him prior to autumn of 1918, when he popped up again in Munich. Where he became one of the founding members of the Thule-Gesellschaft.”

Marsh whistled. “I'll be damned.”

Will shook his head, knowing he'd just missed something important. He looked back and forth between Stephenson and Marsh. “I'm a bit lost here, gents.”

“Thule Society. Bunch of Teutonic occultists,” said Marsh. “And anti-Communists, and anti-Semites.”

Upon hearing this explanation, Lorimer took on a more contemplative demeanor. His eyebrows pulled together in a small frown. Will remembered that Lorimer was the only person in the room who had so far seen the reconstructed Tarragona filmstrip.

“But von Westarp didn't stay with the Thulies very long. Had a falling out with them, too, within a year.”

“Do we know what caused this rift?”

“No. All we know for certain is that by 1920 he had returned to Weimar, and converted his family estate to a foundling home.”

“A what?”

Stephenson read from a card in the folder. “Yes. The Children's Home for Human Enlightenment.”

Marsh cracked his knuckles, thinking. Almost to himself, he said, “'His children. Von Westarp's children.' Krasnopolsky mentioned them.”

A wave of unease came over Will, closely followed by the memory of a long-disregarded myth. “Why the sudden interest in children? What prompted this?”

Stephenson shrugged. “Unknown. But our assets in the area have uncovered announcements in the local papers dating from around that time. Warnings of an outbreak of Spanish flu at an orphanage just outside of Weimar, warning people to stay away.”

“Is that true?” Will asked as he studied the doctor's photograph. Perhaps it was an artifact of the grainy reproduction, but the man seemed to regard the camera with a cold, almost clinical expression. Even on what should have been a joyful occasion. “Was there such an outbreak?”

“Impossible to say. Von Westarp ran the orphanage as a private enterprise, funded with his own money. There are no public records. No death certificates.”

“So he was taking in kids,” said Lorimer, “but at the same time he didn't want outside visitors.”

Marsh added, “And he ran the whole thing on a country estate, family land. Plenty of room for hiding things.”

Lorimer voiced the key question. “What was he doing?”

“Isolating them,” Will murmured, almost to himself. “Seeking the ur-language.” The others glanced at him, expecting elaboration. Stephenson appeared particularly keen to know Will's thoughts. But Will was preoccupied with legends and myths, hoary old tales of the first warlocks.

“What ever it was, the orphanage ran quietly for most of a decade. Until '29, when Himmler gifted von Westarp with the rank of SS Oberfuhrer.” Stephenson closed the file. “Here ends the lesson. Now let's see what Krasnopolsky died to bring us.”

Lorimer stood. He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness before the clattering projector tossed a bright white square on the screen and the wall behind it. Lorimer nudged the projector, centering it.

The film began with the Crown seal, and this notice:

MILKWEED / GRACKLE

MOST SECRET

UNAUTHORISED DISSEMINATION OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN

THIS FILM CONSTITUTES TREASON AGAINST THE UNITED KINGDOM OF

GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND AS DEFINED BY PARLIAMENT

IN THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT OF 1920. PUNISHMENT UP TO AND

INCLUDING EXECUTION MAY RESULT.

MILKWEED / GRACKLE

Well, thought Will, I'm in it now.

The room strobed dark and light so quickly that Will's eyes ached in the effort to keep up. A parade of images flashed on the screen, sandwiched in moments of darkness. The dark frames were placeholders, he realized, representing the portions of film damaged by fire. After the reel spooled past the outermost layers where fire had done the most damage, the dark stretches grew shorter. But not enough to make viewing easy or comfortable.

Will struggled to absorb the surreal tableaux. A shirtless man hovering twenty feet above an orchard. Half a second of nothing but a brick wall, then a nude woman standing before it with no transition. A young man with pale eyes laying his hand on an anvil, the film shimmering, the metal sagging. Another man standing halfway inside a wall, like a ghost. A muscular fellow on a leash (a leash?) scowling at a mortar emplacement that imploded upon itself. The ghost man standing in front of a chattering machine gun. The leashed man scowling at an upside-down tank. A soldier throwing something at the anvil man, and a flash.

The subjects of the film wore belts with dark leads running up to their skulls. Each and every one of them. Repeated viewings didn't make it any less horrifying.

They watched the film again. And again. And again.

Will was so wrapped up trying to assemble the images into a single story—trying to conceive of how von Westarp had achieved these unnatural results—that it wasn't until the third viewing he noticed an obvious problem.

“There's no sound,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Of course there's no bleedin' sound,” said Lorimer. “It's a silent fucking filmstrip.”

“That's a shame,” said Will. When Marsh asked him why, he elaborated. “If we could hear those proceedings, it would be a great boon. Alas, that's not an option.”

“So you do think this is supernatural?”

“Are you not watching the same film as I, Pip? Because I believe I just witnessed a flying man. A flying man. That is not natural.”

Stephenson said, “What are those things they wear? The belts, and the implants.”

Will shook his head. “Honestly, I haven't the faintest idea. This is a form of the craft utterly unknown to me. But I'd like to know how it works.” It looked like magic without blood. Was that even possible?

Marsh looked at Stephenson, then back to Will. “You'll do it, then? You'll help us?”

“I am at your service,” said Will.

“Welcome to Milkweed,” said Stephenson.