Chapter 30: The Trouble That Came Calling
Dr. Elias Wakati had spent most of his life avoiding attention with the sort of dedication other men used to build careers, raise families, or collect expensive things they had no business needing.
Privacy had never been a preference for him.
It had been a system.
A protection.
A carefully maintained wall between his work and the rest of the world, built one refusal at a time, one ignored invitation after another, one sealed gate, one private road, one polite rejection, and, when necessary, one deeply unpleasant legal letter written by someone paid far too much money to make curiosity feel like a criminal offense.
For many years, it had worked.
Most people knew the name Dr. Elias Wakati. Fewer knew what he looked like. Even fewer could say with confidence where he lived. The exact location of the Wakati mansion was the sort of information that changed depending on who asked. Some said it was farther north, buried behind the mountain. Others claimed the place had no permanent location at all, which Elias found ridiculous, even if a small part of him was pleased by how close that rumor came to certain experiments he had never publicly discussed.
Then his grandson attended one birthday party.
One.
A single birthday party.
One small, ordinary attempt at childhood, followed by one short trip to the zoo, and now the gates of Cranston Estates looked as though they were holding back an invading army made entirely of reporters, photographers, camera crews, gossip writers, freelance investigators, and the especially shameless sort of people who believed carrying a phone and shouting questions counted as journalism.
Thankfully, Cranston Estates had been designed by rich people for rich people, and rich people valued privacy almost as much as they valued reminding everyone else they had it.
The estate gates were tall, reinforced, heavily monitored, and currently guarded by security personnel who had become increasingly creative with the phrase, "No, you may not enter."
The news teams made it nowhere.
Not one of them got farther than the outer entrance. A few tried talking their way through. One attempted to follow a delivery vehicle. Another claimed she was visiting an aunt who did not exist. Someone from a very aggressive online channel apparently tried hiking around the side of the mountain and had to be rescued after becoming trapped in a drainage ditch.
Elias had not laughed when Anika told him about that.
He had, however, coughed suspiciously into his hand for nearly a full minute.
Even if the reporters had somehow made it through the gates, they still would have had trouble finding his home. Cranston Estates was not laid out in any sensible fashion. Roads curved around ridges, disappeared behind hedges, split without warning, and occasionally ended at ornamental ponds large enough to drown a small car. The oldest properties were deliberately hidden from the main roads. The Wakati mansion sat deeper than most, surrounded by old trees, temporal shielding, and enough private security to make trespassing a very memorable mistake.
The press had been irritating.
The police had been exhausting.
Dr. Wakati leaned back in the chair behind his study desk and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose while he tried to remember whether he had slept properly at any point during the last week.
He suspected he had not.
The desk in front of him was buried beneath notes, printed reports, legal documents, medical summaries, security logs, and several cups of coffee in different stages of abandonment. One had gone cold. Another had developed a skin across the surface. The third was fresh enough to still steam, but Elias could not remember making it, which usually meant Anika had passed through while he was distracted.
Bless that young woman.
His mind still hurt from the police interviews.
Commissioner James Worthington Gordon had been reasonable, which was saying quite a lot for a man responsible for keeping Gotham City from chewing through its own foundations. Gordon had arrived at the mansion tired, polite, and visibly prepared for Dr. Wakati to make his day more difficult.
Elias had not disappointed him.
The first conversation had taken place in the smaller receiving room near the east wing, chosen specifically because it contained no visible research equipment, no experimental displays, and only two clocks. Gordon arrived with a pair of detectives and enough unanswered questions to fill the rest of the mansion. Elias gave them tea, allowed them to sit, and answered perhaps one question in six.
He was cooperative when the subject concerned the children's immediate safety.
He became significantly less cooperative whenever anyone asked about Kairo's abilities.
"Your grandson was seen moving during what several witnesses described as a complete freeze in motion," one detective had said, looking down at his notes with the stiff expression of a man who believed writing something made it less impossible. "We have multiple reports that two children changed positions without crossing the space between them."
Elias had folded his hands over his cane. "Children say many imaginative things after frightening experiences."
"The witnesses were adults."
"Adults are often imaginative when frightened as well."
The detective had not appreciated that.
Gordon had.
Not openly, but Elias saw the corner of his mouth twitch before he covered it with a cough.
Then came the questions about the psychic dome, the giant bat, Ace, the Mad Hatter, the flowers, the mind-control devices, Beryl's role, a strange woman that went by the name of Madame Xanadu's presence at later medical evaluations, and the strange condition of everyone's watches after the incident.
Elias answered what he could without exposing the deeper truth of his grandson.
What had happened inside that garden had already attracted too much attention. He would not hand Kairo's life over to the government, the police, the press, or anyone else who believed a child's power automatically belonged in a report.
At one point, Gordon asked gently, "Dr. Wakati, is your grandson a metahuman?"
Elias had looked at him across the table for a very long time.
Then he answered, "My grandson is five."
Gordon held his gaze.
"So I've been told."
"That is the only classification relevant to this household."
One of the detectives shifted in his chair, prepared to push.
Gordon lifted one hand and stopped him.
That was the moment Elias decided he liked James Gordon, or at least respected him enough not to have the man removed from the property by security.
Gordon understood limits. He might not enjoy them, but he understood them.
By the end of the meeting, Elias promised a more detailed discussion at a later date. The promise was carefully worded, offered with no date, no time, and no guarantee that the word detailed meant what Gordon hoped it meant.
Still, the Commissioner looked almost relieved.
"Thank you, Doctor."
Elias adjusted his glasses. "Do not thank me yet."
Gordon stood and buttoned his coat. "In Gotham, I've learned to appreciate partial cooperation."
"That is a deeply troubling statement."
"You live near Gotham. You should be used to those."
After that, Gordon left with his detectives, and Elias watched from the window until their cars disappeared beyond the tree line.
He had believed that would be the most difficult part of the week.
He was wrong.
The parents came next.
Never in his life had Dr. Elias Wakati received so many visitors in such a short amount of time. The mansion, usually quiet enough for him to hear the old pipes settle inside the walls, had become a revolving door of worried families, legal representatives, security consultants, medical specialists, household staff, and people who had opinions about what should happen next.
Some opinions were useful.
Most were not.
The visits all shared the same purpose, even if nobody said it plainly.
The children had survived something terrible together.
That created a connection between the families whether any of them wanted it or not.
And, strangely, some of them did.
Oswald Cobblepot arrived with his wife first.
Elias knew exactly who the man was before the front doors opened.
Oswald Cobblepot.
Businessman.
Public figure.
Owner of several properties, clubs, restaurants, shipping interests, and a suspicious number of businesses that somehow remained profitable despite operating in Gotham.
Also known, allegedly, as the Penguin.
Crime lord, allegedly.
Smuggler, allegedly.
Blackmailer, allegedly.
A man with deep criminal connections, allegedly.
There were enough allegations surrounding Oswald Cobblepot to build another mansion from the paperwork alone.
Elias expected arrogance.
He expected some type of threat dressed in manners.
He expected some attempt at leverage, influence, intimidation, or at least a comment meant to remind everyone that the Cobblepot name still carried weight in Gotham.
What entered his sitting room was a short, sharply dressed man with a dark tailored coat, a polished cane, an old-fashioned vest, a long nose that gave his face its famous birdlike cast, and the immediate air of someone who had spent his entire adult life refusing to be underestimated.
Beside him came his wife, elegant, watchful, and far less interested in making an impression than she was in making sure her husband behaved.
They had barely sat before Oswald asked, "Where's the boy?"
Elias glanced at him.
"Kairo is resting."
"Good. The twins are doing the same, though Addison has apparently decided rest means interrogating every member of staff about security failures, and Alaric has drawn the zoo from memory four times. He keeps adding more exits."
His wife sighed, though fondness softened it. "He has always found comfort in knowing how to leave a room."
"A sensible boy," Elias said.
Oswald's eyes brightened at the compliment. "Exactly. Finally, someone understands."
The meeting went differently from there.
They spoke first about the children.
Not the incident itself. Not the public version. Not the growing rumors.
The children.
Oswald leaned forward in his chair, both hands resting atop the handle of his cane. "They do not make friends easily, you know."
His wife gave him a look. "Oswald."
"What? They don't. There is no shame in saying it." He looked back at Elias. "My daughter is forceful. Very forceful. She has opinions about everything and assumes everyone should hear them immediately. My son is quiet and would rather study a room than join it. They are good children. Brilliant children. Strange children, perhaps, but Gotham has no right to judge strange."
"That would require the city to possess self-awareness," Elias said.
Oswald stared at him for a heartbeat.
Then he barked out a laugh.
His wife smiled despite herself. "I think you may have found someone as unpleasantly honest as you are."
"I am charmingly honest," Oswald corrected.
"You threatened a florist last month."
"The arrangement was insulting."
Elias almost smiled.
Almost.
Oswald continued, his voice becoming more serious. "Penelope never cared who their father was because the Penderghasts have enough money to believe consequences are a rumor. Rebecca never cared because her own family history makes mine look almost respectable."
His wife lightly touched his arm.
Oswald patted her hand.
"Kairo changes the balance," he said. "Before him, it was mostly the girls. Alaric put up with it, of course, because he loves his sister and has the patience of a saint, but every group needs someone new. Someone who does not already know the old arguments."
Elias thought of Kairo returning home after the zoo, exhausted, frightened, and still talking about the other children as though he had known them for years instead of hours.
"He liked them," Elias said quietly.
Oswald's expression softened. "Mine liked him too."
"Addison called him suspicious."
"That is affection from Addison."
"She also asked if she could inspect his grandfather's laboratory."
"That is curiosity."
"She tried to bribe a member of staff."
Oswald looked proud.
His wife nudged his leg with her shoe.
He corrected himself. "That is a behavior we will address privately."
The conversation should have ended there.
It did not.
Oswald had questions.
Of course he did.
At first, he asked carefully. He praised the mansion's security. Asked about Dr. Wakati's work in broad terms. Mentioned that several of his businesses had access to private transport, specialist manufacturing, rare materials, international shipping, and a network of people capable of making certain problems disappear with minimal paperwork.
"Properly," Oswald said, smoothing one glove over the other. "I mean proper help. Legal help. Security. Transport. Private medical care. My family has resources."
Elias gave him a measured look. "And the improper help?"
Oswald smiled.
His wife looked toward the ceiling.
"I may know individuals," Oswald said, "who understand discretion."
"I do not require criminal assistance."
"Allegedly criminal assistance."
"I expected that word to appear eventually."
"An ugly habit of the press."
Elias leaned back, studying him. Oswald was not subtle, but he was not foolish either. The offer had layers. Protection for the children. Support for the families. An opening into Dr. Wakati's world. Perhaps business in the future. Perhaps influence. Perhaps simple gratitude wrapped in ambition.
Elias respected ambition.
He distrusted nearly everything attached to it.
"Mr. Cobblepot, I appreciate the offer, but I do not need help."
Oswald interrupted him before the refusal could fully settle.
He reached into his coat, produced a small black card, and slid it across the coffee table with two fingers.
The card stopped exactly halfway between them.
"We're friends now," Oswald said. "No need to make decisions too quickly."
The room became quiet.
Elias looked at the card.
Then at Oswald.
Oswald held his gaze, no smile now, no little joke, only certainty.
Elias understood what the man was really saying.
Their children had been endangered together.
Their households were now connected.
If something came for one child, the others might be caught in it.
Oswald Cobblepot protected what belonged to him, and the edges of what he considered his had just widened enough to include a strange little boy with silver hair.
That did not make the man good.
It did make him honest.
Elias took the card.
Oswald smiled again, smaller this time.
His wife leaned toward him. "Darling, I believe you may have made a friend."
Oswald scoffed. "Nonsense."
Elias adjusted his glasses. "Absolutely not."
The two men looked at each other.
Oswald's wife laughed.
They left on good terms, which worried Elias more than an argument might have.
The black card remained in the top drawer of his desk.
He had not thrown it away.
Then came Priscilla Penderghast.
That conversation was another matter entirely.
Priscilla arrived alone at first, though Elias was certain several vehicles waited beyond the gates. She entered the mansion carrying herself with the familiar control of a woman who had never walked into a room without measuring who held power inside it.
Her clothes were perfect. Her hair was perfect. Her posture remained perfect.
The woman herself looked exhausted.
The strain appeared around her eyes, in the tightness of her jaw, and in how often she checked her phone even after silencing it.
She sat across from Elias in the same receiving room where Gordon had questioned him. Madame Xanadu occupied a chair near the window, saying nothing, her hands resting in her lap, her deep green eyes fixed on Priscilla with enough quiet attention to make the whole room feel examined.
Priscilla noticed her immediately.
She did not ask.
Not yet.
The first part of the meeting concerned secrecy.
Priscilla placed a leather folder on the table and opened it with crisp, efficient movements. "The public account remains a supervillain attack interrupted by Batman. The Mad Hatter used experimental compounds and technology. A metahuman event occurred inside the dome. The exact identities of the children involved are not to be discussed."
Elias nodded. "Agreed."
"The zoo has signed additional confidentiality agreements. Most of the staff witnessed very little once the dome formed. The footage from inside is incomplete."
"Not by accident."
Priscilla's eyes sharpened. "Yours?"
"Not entirely."
She glanced toward Madame Xanadu.
Xanadu smiled faintly.
Priscilla chose not to pursue that question.
"For Penelope's sake," Priscilla continued, "there can be no public discussion of the Pegasus."
Elias looked at her.
Priscilla pressed her lips together.
"The horse."
"The flying horse."
"Yes, Doctor. The flying horse."
"Your daughter has named him."
"Nimbus."
There was a small pause.
Elias folded his hands. "That tends to make secrecy more difficult."
"I am aware."
"Where is he now?"
Priscilla's face tightened in a way that suggested the answer had ruined several days of her life. "In the west garden."
"At your home?"
"He refuses to leave Penelope."
"Have you tried asking her to send him away?"
Priscilla looked at him as though he had suggested negotiating with a hurricane. "Have you met my daughter?"
Elias conceded the point with a small nod.
Priscilla rubbed her temple. "She sleeps with the window open because she believes Nimbus becomes lonely. The animal has eaten two rose bushes, frightened the groundskeeper, and followed her to breakfast."
"That does sound difficult."
"It put its head through the dining-room window."
Elias cleared his throat.
Madame Xanadu's mouth twitched.
Priscilla's gaze snapped toward her, but Xanadu's expression had already returned to perfect calm.
They continued discussing the incident.
Priscilla was cunning. Elias knew that within minutes. She understood reputation, leverage, contracts, timing, and the exact amount of pressure required to make another person agree while believing the decision had been theirs.
None of that cunning had vanished.
It had changed color.
Every calculation in the room revolved around Penelope.
Priscilla wanted the story buried because she feared what would happen if people learned her daughter had somehow called a magical creature into existence. She wanted privacy because government offices, magical organizations, criminals, cults, collectors, and the endless collection of lunatics that wandered through Gotham might take an interest.
She wanted control because she had nearly lost her child.
You could accuse Priscilla Penderghast of many things.
She spoiled her daughter.
She used Penelope's name socially.
She controlled the child's schedule, behavior, appearance, education, and expectations with a precision that made even someone like Elias uncomfortable.
She was proud, demanding, and capable of making a threat sound like an invitation.
But she loved her daughter.
Nothing in that room could hide it.
"I will not have Penelope studied," Priscilla said, her voice lower now. "I will not have her photographed, tested, interviewed, registered, or placed on any list."
Elias looked at her over his glasses.
"Then we understand one another."
Priscilla studied him.
For the first time since arriving, some of the tension left her shoulders. "Yes. I believe we do."
They agreed to share information between the families before speaking to any outside authority. They agreed that the children would need care, support, and some version of the truth suited to their ages. They agreed that the press would receive nothing useful.
Priscilla gathered her documents and stood.
Only then did she look directly at Madame Xanadu.
"I have been trying very hard not to be rude," she said.
Xanadu remained seated.
Priscilla's smile tightened. "Who are you, and why have you spent this entire meeting staring at me?"
Elias leaned back.
He did not answer for Madame Xanadu.
He had learned that lesson years ago.
Giving answers on Xanadu's behalf usually ended with her correcting you in a way that made your own thoughts feel undereducated.
So Elias shrugged.
A real shrug.
Priscilla looked at him, clearly offended by how little assistance he intended to offer.
Madame Xanadu rose.
The movement was smooth and unhurried. Her long black hair fell perfectly over her shoulders, and the dark green of her clothing seemed to belong to no particular decade. She crossed the room with the patient grace of someone who already knew where everyone would stand before they moved there.
Priscilla straightened.
Xanadu stopped in front of her.
"Your daughter has awakened a form of magic," she said.
Priscilla stared at her.
For several seconds, the wealthy and usually articulate Priscilla Penderghast had nothing.
Then she looked at Elias.
Elias lifted one hand slightly, indicating that this conversation belonged entirely to the woman in front of her.
Priscilla looked back at Xanadu. "You mean the…"
Her face tightened.
"The horse?"
Xanadu nodded once. "The familiar."
"The flying horse."
"Nimbus, yes."
Priscilla's eyes narrowed. "Penelope named him."
"Yes, Names have power."
"She named him after a cloud."
"Clouds have power too."
Priscilla did not know what to do with that.
Elias could see the exact moment she decided not to argue with a mystical woman in his sitting room. It was a wise decision.
Xanadu stepped closer, studying Priscilla's face. "The magic did not begin with your daughter."
Priscilla became very still.
"What does that mean?"
"It is in your family."
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
Madame Xanadu's expression remained calm. "Yes."
"My family has no history of magic."
"Your family has no history you recognize as magic."
Priscilla opened her mouth, then stopped.
Xanadu moved around her slowly, not circling like a predator, but examining something faint and half-hidden. Her eyes seemed to look past clothing, posture, practiced expressions, and generations of respectable family stories.
"There is an old line around you," Xanadu said. "Familiar magic. Bonding magic. The kind that does not command creatures so much as invite them. It has slept for a long time."
Priscilla's voice became quieter. "Why would it wake now?"
Xanadu looked toward the high windows, though there was nothing outside except gardens and afternoon light.
"Because the world is changing."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the answer available today."
Priscilla gave Elias a frustrated look.
He offered her no rescue.
She turned back to Xanadu. "And Penelope?"
"Found hers."
"The horse."
"Nimbus."
Priscilla inhaled through her nose. "Yes. Nimbus."
Madame Xanadu smiled. "Your daughter will require instruction."
Priscilla's protective instincts rose immediately. "From whom?"
"Me."
"And what exactly would you teach her?"
"How not to accidentally call something larger next time."
Priscilla's face lost a shade of color.
Elias lowered his eyes, mostly to hide his reaction.
Xanadu continued, "She will join Kairo during his lessons."
Priscilla glanced at Elias. "Lessons?"
"Supervised lessons," he said.
"That does not answer what kind."
"It answers the part you should care about first."
Priscilla did not seem satisfied.
Madame Xanadu took her gently by the elbow and began guiding her toward the door.
Priscilla looked down at the hand, then at Xanadu. "I have not agreed to anything."
"You will."
"I do not appreciate assumptions."
"I am rarely assuming."
They reached the hallway.
Priscilla tried to slow down. "Penelope has tutors. She has school. She has riding lessons already."
"Not for a Pegasus."
"That distinction has become painfully clear."
"Beryl Hutchinson can assist with the practical riding instruction. I will handle the magic."
Priscilla was now being moved steadily toward the front of the mansion, not roughly, but with an inevitability she clearly found infuriating.
"When?"
"Next week."
"I need a date."
"You will receive one."
"A time?"
"Of course."
"What should she bring?"
"Comfortable clothing."
Priscilla frowned. "Penelope does not own comfortable clothing."
"Then purchase some."
They crossed the main hall.
Elias followed at a safe distance, less because he needed to and more because watching Madame Xanadu politely remove one of the most controlling women in Cranston Estates from his house had become the most entertaining part of his week.
Priscilla attempted to turn back. "And what did you mean when you said the magic was in me?"
Xanadu kept walking.
"You have the same line."
"I do not have powers."
"Not all magic announces itself dramatically."
"I would know if I had magic."
Madame Xanadu gave her a look.
Priscilla fell silent.
They reached the front doors.
Anika, standing nearby with a folded stack of linens, paused to watch.
Madame Xanadu opened the door and guided Priscilla onto the front step.
"Prepare your daughter," Xanadu said. "Come next week with an open mind and a limber body."
Priscilla turned sharply. "A limber what?"
"Body."
"Why?"
"Horses are taller than they appear."
"I am not riding that creature."
Nimbus's distant whinny seemed to echo through Priscilla's memory because her face tightened all over again.
Madame Xanadu smiled.
Priscilla pointed one finger toward her. "I have questions."
"I know."
"Many questions."
"I know."
"You have answered almost none of them."
"That is also true."
Priscilla looked past her at Elias. "Doctor, are you going to allow this woman to push me out of your home?"
Elias stood in the hall with both hands resting on his cane.
He considered the matter.
Then he said, "She has pushed me out of rooms in my own home before."
Priscilla stared at him.
Anika quickly looked down at the linens to hide her smile.
Madame Xanadu gave Priscilla one final, gentle push beyond the threshold.
"Next week," she repeated.
The doors began to close.
Priscilla stepped forward. "Wait. What does Penelope's magic actually do?"
Madame Xanadu's green eyes glimmered with quiet amusement.
"We will find out."
The doors shut.
Silence settled across the entrance hall.
Elias looked at Madame Xanadu.
Madame Xanadu looked at him.
Anika looked between them.
From somewhere outside, Priscilla's voice could be heard demanding that one of her staff call the family lawyer, the veterinarian, and someone who understood magical horse insurance.
Elias exhaled and leaned more heavily on his cane.
"Well," he murmured, "that went better than expected."
Madame Xanadu turned away from the door. "No, it did not."
Anika finally laughed.
And Dr. Elias Wakati, who had spent the entire week dealing with police, reporters, frightened families, supervillains, magical children, and one crime lord who had apparently decided they were friends, returned slowly toward his study with the uncomfortable understanding that his quiet life had ended the moment Kairo first walked beyond the mansion gates.
He had spent years protecting his family by keeping the world outside.
Now the world was arriving one worried parent at a time.