"I am dangerous." Khun's eyes were slits. Ram horns curled down to his shoulders. Sinister and, no doubt, dangerous.

  Carlo's voice was still weak, but stronger. He decided slouching against the wall was a nice, neutral, nonthreatening position. "No one denies your potential for mayhem. When Drusus can't remember things, it's you, right?"

  Khun snorted. "Of course."

  "Why can't he remember?"

  "He shares nothing with me. Why should I let him have my memories?"

  "That's fair." Carlo had to approach his next question carefully. "You love Octavia. He's afraid you would hurt her. Would you?"

  Khun tossed his head back, his face a grimace. "She rejected me. She would deserve anything. Why are you asking me this?"

  Khun's question told Carlo what he needed to know. "You're lying. You wouldn’t hurt her. You never have. You gave her to Drusus, rather than hurt her, regardless of how much it hurt you."

  Khun crouched down and punched the bricks beside Carlo. Bits of stone chipped Carlo's face, and he coughed as dust filled his nose and mouth. Khun pulled back his fist and hurled it forward. This was going to hurt.

  Khun's fist hovered inches from his nose. "Like your foremother, you are clever. You like being clever for its own sake?"

  "I want to help you, Khun. What are you afraid of?"

  Khun lowered his fist. "I am afraid of him."

  "Drusus?"

  "His secrets. He has locked them away in his deepest jb."

  "His heart," said Carlo. He had read a lot about the Egyptian idea of souls. "He's keeping secrets from you?"

  "Whatever that woman wants, he will not tell me."

  "Octavia?"

  "The Vessel of Ra."

  "Lucy? Did you hurt her?"

  "If he said so, it is a lie."

  Khun did not remember hurting Lucy. Drusus did not remember hurting Lucy. Carlo wished he'd studied more of this brain science. "I believe you, Khun, and I am going to help you and Drusus. What do you want me to do?"

  "You must help my lady. You must do what I cannot. Keep Octavia and my son safe."

  "Sons?"

  "No. The one belongs to Drusus. The child of Horus is mine."

  Horus? Was that Gregorius' god? Interesting. "I will do what I can."

  "Will you go to her?"

  Carlo had been prepared to help Drusus here and now, but to return to Mistraldol? "I will do what I can."

  "You cannot wait for the husband to be better. He is weak. If the Vessel of Ra is being controlled by Ra, you must stop her. Promise me you will go to them."

  In a breath, Carlo was looking at Drusus kneeling near him, panting, his clothes destroyed. "How do you feel?"

  "Tired, but not poisoned. Egyptian gods are resilient. I'm still not happy with you." Drusus flexed his hands. "He hit something, didn't he? You?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. You deserved it. Did you learn anything?"

  Carlo eased himself off the mat. "Khun is afraid too. He says you are keeping secrets from him, and he's worried about all of you. He believes you hurt Lucy and will hurt Octavia."

  Drusus sat down and put his head in his hands. "And I believe he's the danger."

  Carlo sighed as he walked back to the bag. "He wants me to go to England, and I suppose I must, since neither of you can be trusted. One can only sketch so many internal organs before one is bored, anyway. The question is how do I go, and how do I help you at the same time?"

  The next two weeks moved forward with no further appearances of Egyptian gods. Carlo made preparations to journey to England. An agreement with Professor Nabrotzsky allowed him to return to his studies in the future, if he should wish to, which Carlo thought was very understanding. It was Carlo's intention to return to his studies as soon as possible.

  Drusus relocated to an upscale guest house once he was certain he would not embarrass himself by turning into Khun among the upper classes, although he chastised Carlo for saying so. Drusus was restless and Carlo grew anxious. Both he and Carlo prowled the city at night with little incident. Word about Carlo was spreading in the Berlin underworld.

  Early one morning, before the sun was up, Carlo heard scuffling in his apartment. He peered over the side of his bed, expecting a rat or a mouse. What he saw was a puddle of shadow emerging from a corner, rushing forward like the tide and then ebbing back to reveal a letter with a seal. He threw back the covers and stepped onto the cold floor in his nightshirt, shivering. The letter was on good quality parchment, frayed at the edges, black sealing wax with a K stamped on it. His name was written on the flip side.

  He scanned it. Seconds later, he folded it again. Carlo scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes, scoured his hands through his hair and patted it down, dressed, stuffed the invitation into his pockets and headed out into the street. No one else can lie to you as well as yourself. The thought followed him through the streets of the city like his own shadows, loomed over him like the tall buildings. He thought he could be clinical, detached, methodical. All it took was this one letter from Octavia to call him out on the lie that he was finished with Lucy. Or maybe it was the idea of planning to return, ruminating in his subconscious until finally he realized what it meant.

  Carlo wandered into the majestic hall of the building where Drusus was staying, his shoes clacking as he crossed the marble floor, the chandeliers above him twinkling. A gentleman next to a desk began to close in on him. Naturally, he assumed Carlo was riffraff. Carlo hurried up the carpeted stairs to the third floor and banged on a door. Drusus appeared, half dressed, only in his shirt sleeves, eying Carlo blearily. "What is it?"

  Carlo entered the room. "Still not an Egyptian god?"

  "Still not an Egyptian god." Drusus closed the door. "It's early, even for you."

  "Let's talk about this." Carlo held Octavia's letter by one corner like he was afraid he would get part of it on himself. "Octavia has found me. Or, perhaps she's always known where I am."

  "I see."

  "You should write her," said Carlo. "Let her know you are well, at least."

  Drusus scratched his neck. "I've tried. The act of writing also seems impossible. I can hardly tell her I am well."

  "You are heartless," said Carlo, opening the letter.

  "Not by choice. What does she say?"

  "All sorts of mundane details, the health of your children, the English weather, which sounds deplorable, by the way. Constant rain."

  "Carlo? Tell me something of substance. I know it's raining in England."

  Carlo swallowed. "Regarding you, she asks me to tell her if I've seen you. Let's see." Carlo tilted the letter toward the light shining in from the window. "'Drusus is traveling. It is certainly possible he may seek you out. I beg you to implore him to write me. It has been sometime since I have had word from him.' You are officially implored."

  Carlo glanced down at the letter again. "She's also told me about Lucy's engagement. 'You will be surprised to hear of Lucy's engagement to Atreus Galt. I regret I could not convince her to write you herself. I find myself quite alone, and was hoping I could convince you to visit us on the occasion of Lucy's betrothal party, as you have always been her truest friend, even if she is no longer capable of recognizing it.'" Carlo could barely speak. "Of course, since I am going anyway, there will be no difficulty." Carlo dropped the letter, covered his face with his hands.

  "Are you unwell?" Drusus asked.

  He hadn't expected to break down in front of Drusus, who had more than enough to worry about. "I am…taken off guard." Carlo's head ached. "Imagine. Lucy, transformed into a princess at some party. Dinner, grand clothes, and dancing." Not Carlo's usual way of thinking of Lucy. The image of Lucy as she came out of the Egyptian city in the Abyss, dressed in a robe of red feathers, was seared into his body. Nothing he could do could separate him from it.

  "Here. Sit." Drusus led Carlo to a chair. "You aren't going. We'll think of something else."

  "We both know Octavia is your salvation," said Carlo. "I'm not certain what to do regarding you and Khun, and to lose Lucy to Ra is unacceptable. I thought I had dealt with my feelings. Now is a terrible time to find I haven't, but inconvenience aside, go I must."

  Drusus paced. "I regret my problem has made life difficult for you."

  Carlo laughed, more of a hidden cry than humor. "No matter." Carlo shook his head. "I need to know more. What can you tell me about Atreus Galt?"

  Drusus leaned against the mantle. "Far be it from me to suggest absolutes like good and evil, but the Galts curve in the direction of using all the resources they can for selfish purposes. They run a sugar plantation in the Caribbean, you know. Have you heard what those are like?"

  "I have not."

  "The Galts go through plantation workers like you or I might go through handkerchiefs." Drusus clenched his fists. "The English are despicable."

  "You are English."

  "I'm not proud of what we do where we shouldn't."

  Carlo drummed his fingers on his lap. "You said you couldn't figure out why Lucy would marry him. Lucy does nothing without strategy. What purpose would she have in marrying him? Could she possibly love him?" No, of course not. Lucy had no emotions.

  "No one knows what goes on in Lucy's mind but Lucy." Drusus rubbed his temples. "Either she's working on a plan she does not wish Octavia to see, or she truly believes the family is safer with her removed. When do you leave?"

  "In two days."

  "Once you're gone, I have an idea about where to go next. I have someone I can stay with who could put Khun down if he had to."

  Carlo arched an eyebrow quizzically.

  "You don't know him."

  "Don't you think you should come back with me? What can I tell Octavia?"

  "Tell her I love her, more than anything. Until I am certain Khun has her best intentions at heart, I cannot see her."

  Carlo shifted. "She should know where you are. Khun tells me he will not hurt her."

  "I can't trust his word." Drusus smiled grimly. "You should marry someone else before you go. It would serve Lucy right."

  Hathersage, April, 1842

  The carriage rider pulled the reins and the horses stopped outside the coaching inn in Hathersage. An urgent rap from the driver above signaling the stop solidified Carlo's consciousness. He stretched, his muscles pierced by the pins and needles of travel. All of his internal organs were scrambled into one solid humor of phlegm, or perhaps black bile, not that he ascribed to Greek medicine entirely. Destiny pulled him around like a dog on a leash. It was ironic he had ended up in Hathersage, again, after he had so resolutely left it behind him.

  Carlo rubbed his eyes. He had questioned his feelings constantly during the days of the trip, the pendulum swinging from love and purpose to doubt and folly. One thing remained clear: he had work to do here, whether he had feelings for Lucy or not. Grandfather had set all of this in motion, and Carlo had to mend what Paolo Borgia had broken. The Klaereons were his family now, and he would make things right.

  He needed rest before re-entering Mistraldol, the house of shadows. Wind blew ice pellets at him on a colder than average April day, rain like glass beads which were guided by some secret hand to redden his nose. Early spring in England was as watery as Berlin had been. He flung his muffler behind him with a Bohemian gesture. Let the cold take him! At least as far as the coaching inn door, where there would hopefully be something warm to drink in this country of tepid drinks. The rock walls of the inn were covered with a grayish black crust. In the distance, he noted a factory sputtering charcoal smoke into the sky. He plucked his carpetbag out of the stack under the carriage, slung it over one shoulder, avoided the rest of the milling travelers, and slipped inside, where he was immediately scrutinized by the inn's occupants.

  Carlo removed his hat. He spun it on one hand as he approached an older, fat man who wore a grubby periwig. "Are you the proprietor?"

  "Wazzat?"

  Carlo smiled, tight-lipped. His accent wasn't that bad. He slowed down his English. "The owner? Of this establishment?"

  "Sir, I am." The man plunged a hand into his apron pocket. "Are you wanting a drink? A meal?"

  "A room. I have some business which keeps me in the area."

  "Some factory business, sir?"

  This was a curious innkeeper. "No." Carlo's bag slid onto the floor. "Do you have a room?"

  "I do, sir. Payment half in advance, or at least for four days."

  Four days it would be. Inside his cloak, he found his money. Not a great deal, but enough.

  The coins trickled into the hands of the man who tightened his fist around them. "What would you like to eat, sir?"

  What would he like to eat? The pizza his mother made, covered in fresh tomatoes and newly made cheese, with nose-stirring basil, yes. "What do you have?"

  "Leg o' lamb, sir. Some turnips."

  "Perfecto," said Carlo. He threw his cloak over an empty bench and took over the table closest to the back wall, facing the main dining room. They were all watching him, the drinking men, the soldiers, the laborers gossiping at the counter. What did they see? A young man dressed like he'd come from the city, a mustache, neatly trimmed and small, a small beard, not at all like the beards of the hearty workingmen in the room with him. Cold air followed more travelers inside. Carlo reconsidered his cloak.

  A young man, perhaps the innkeeper's son, placed a brown leg of lamb in front of him, with some mushy white lumps.

  "I'm going to ask you a foolish question." Carlo picked up a knife and sawed half-heartedly at the lamb. "Do you have any wine?"

  The boy grinned. "No sir. Perhaps you would care for cider instead of water?"

  It had been a good compromise, cider, during his English travels before. "Yes, I would. What's your name?"

  "Like it says on the outside, sir. The George."

  Carlo settled back in his chair. "I do not believe you are The George."

  "I am. George Hamwich."

  "Get me that cider, George. I will see if I can break into this piece of meat."

  He stuck the knife in the meat deeply, thinking of the sword in the stone, and rubbed his cold hands together before picking up his fork. The cider would be warm, but it wasn't beer, which made for a nice change from Berlin. Carlo sawed off some lamb and chewed, rubbery fat and salted meat. The taste of England.

  George returned with the cider. Carlo swallowed what felt like a musket ball. "George," said Carlo. "Is there anyone who is willing to cart me up to Mistraldol?" He preferred to arrive under his own steam.

  George wiped his hands on his apron. "Early in the morning you might have a chance. There's a couple of village girls what are driven up each morning. To clean and do."

  "Thank you."

  Carlo picked up his knife again. George had yet to go away. "Yes?"

  "Are you one of them?"

  "One of the Klaereons?"

  George nodded.

  How to answer that. "I am merely a friend of the family."

  George nodded. "Best keep that to yourself, sir."

  "Not very popular here?"

  "They're odd." George was getting bolder. "Even the ones who marry in get a little strange. You, being European and dressed like you are, well, you don't want any more attention, do you?"

  Carlo glanced for a napkin to smooth the grease off his lips. There wasn't one, so he used the back of his hand. "No. We'll keep the information about the Klaereons close to the vest."

  "Only if you are, sir…"

  "George!" The command came from somewhere behind the bar and George disappeared.

  Odd? The Klaereon reputation had improved. From evil to odd. Carlo smiled into his glass of cider.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, Carlo nibbled at warm cheese for breakfast. The patrons at the public house were less convivial than when he had come in last night. A few were drinking tea and having breakfast. The sparseness of people pointed out that most of Hathersage were in the fields and with the flocks, in the factory, or at school. Some of his fellow tourists wore hiking clothes, no doubt ready for a ramble in the country. Pity they had come during a cold, damp patch.

  George stood by Carlo, holding a pitcher of milk. He cleared his throat.

  "What is it, George?"

  "My friend Arnie Wells is taking his sister up to Mistraldol for her work. If you'd like to ride on the back of their wagon, sir?"

  Carlo stood. "Let me get my things."

  George introduced Carlo to the man with the wagon, a skinny man in a tricorn hat, and his sister, Evie, dressed in black with a white mob cap. Carlo climbed onto the back of the wagon next to crates and a bale of straw. He enjoyed the scenery as they wound their way up the rocky peaks. The morning was chilly and mist hugged the moor, but the sun was blazing a path of light in the blue sky. The ground blushed with a tinge of purple and green as spring reluctantly but inexorably came on. Since Carlo had been in rain for almost two weeks solid, he enjoyed the respite.

  "You have a lot of sheep," Carlo said over the creaking from the jolting wagon. He bounced upwards as Arnie's wheels struck a rut and then rattled from side to side as the wagon resettled on the path. Falling out would have been a near thing, but Carlo had ridden in the backs of wagons before.

  "That's right, sir. You have sheep where you come from?"

  Only mer-sheep, Carlo wanted to say. "My city is more of a fishing town," said Carlo.

  "Where do you come from?" asked Evie.

  "Venice," said Carlo. "Does that explain my accent to you?"

  Evie giggled.

  "Europe," said Arnie Wells. "How did you meet the Klaereons, sir?"

  "They toured Venice a few years ago." And the Abyss. The wagon slowed as the horses plodded, big, furry horses which were muscled enough to pull this wagon up the side of a mountain. "It's quite a climb up there."

  "It is." Awkward silence returned. The wagon rattled and bounced. Carlo could hear the gears turning in the driver's head. Since Carlo was visiting the Klaereons, was he also an evil magician? Or what was it George had said, was he just odd? The English, Carlo was certain, thought themselves the most important people in the world. Still, Arnie and Evie seemed sincere enough in their curiosity about him. Arnie and George both, unlike most English men, had admitted the existence of Europe.

 

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