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The letter thrills him a little. A direct invitation, not some sneaky Templar bullshit. Well, it’s probably Templar bullshit anyway, but at least he’s open about it.
For once a visit to the theatre won’t be boring. Dangerous? Yes. Potentially lethal? Certainly. Much more fun than dinner with Evie? Definitively.
Evie, professional killjoy, tells him not to go. He knows better than to argue with her about these things. He says one thing, does the other, same old, same old.
It’s with nervous excitement running through his veins that he passes the guard, eager to meet this infamous foe.
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Why do his enemies seem to like him so much more than his allies? Henry never sang his praises the way Roth does, never made his mission seem so thrilling, and certainly never discussed their plans over pints of excellent wine, left behind half emptied in their respective haste to wound Starrick.
Jacob is not stupid. He knows the man is flattering him, trying to lure him into complacence. He did offer token protests, but he can’t resist the siren call of destruction from someone who gets it. After all, it’s not like Roth could be a threat to him.
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It’s strange how Roth hands him the reins. There is nothing stopping Jacob from stirring the horse to friendly territory and have him killed, or even do it himself. And yet, this is still what he does this time, the next, each time they meet. He surrenders the lead to Jacob, like it costs him nothing to do so.
He talks about freedom like it’s his ideal, the core principle of its life. It’s an attractive philosophy, one Jacob can relate to. Who can care about consequences when Starrick’s hold on London is too tight for its citizens to breathe?
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Roth calls him Jacob, my dear, dear boy. It all makes them appear closer than they really are, but Jacob finds his doesn’t really mind the familiarity. It’s different from how anyone else regards him, a rare breath of fresh air piercing through London’s heavy fumes.
Never Frye. Never a mention of his twin, which is unusual. The renowned Frye twins, a pair of troublemakers, one never too far from the other. Roth must be aware of both of them, but he focuses all his attention on Jacob himself. To be the sole subject of such attention is somewhat heady.
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There are children in the factory, and Roth could not care less. If this is absolute freedom, Jacob wants nothing of it. Clearly the man is insane, if the obvious incredulity tainting his voice was genuine, and cannot be allowed to pursue his scheme.
The last letter he’ll ever receive from him starts with My dearest Jacob, and reads like a farewell letter to someone beloved. The bird, gifted too quickly for it to be a spontaneous delivery, betrays a completely different sentiment.
How fitting that their time together will end like it began, with an invitation to the theatre.
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Madness. He can hear madness in his booming voice, rising over the spectators’ excited chatters, in the way he calls Jacob near and dear to his heart, in the way he dedicates the evening to life and death. He doesn’t need to remember the countless bodies burning among the hellish decor of the theatre to confirm it.
It’s what he tells himself when he thinks back to the moment of the murder. It’s madness that had him so unrepentant. Madness that had pushed him to force that kiss on Jacob, sharing his dying breath with him. Only madness, nothing more.
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The cold body of the bird lies in its box. He knows he should throw it out, but its feathers are still glossy, myriads of colors dancing on its wings, and soft to the touch. It didn’t change much compared to when it was still living in Roth’s cage, back when its master had been so obviously enthralled by it.
And yet, it was set aside without a second thought when its use was over. He can't bring himself to do the same.
Evie notices the display, but the question he can see in her eyes dies on her lips.