It was a large spider crawling across his face that woke Nils Chapman up. It tickled his right nostril and then continued on its way down his right cheek and over his right ear. He turned his head and watched it as it went over the edge of the mattress. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to count—one thousand nine hundred seventy-nine… No! No, he wasn’t going to do that. He felt sick to his stomach. He had felt sick to his stomach ever since he had seen the impossible undulating movement of the wall in prisoner 89’s cell. He hadn’t gone back to the cell since, but the uneasiness, the slowly creeping nausea did not go away.

He turned over and looked toward Karl Drury’s bunk. The sadistic guard was not there. On the one hand, this made Chapman happy, because he found that he was increasingly happy whenever Drury was not around. On the other hand, if he wasn’t here and he wasn’t on duty, he was probably in 89’s cell, abusing her. Chapman shuddered. He had become increasingly sickened by Drury’s treatment of women in general and this one in particular, but now he felt even more ill at the thought of the cell itself, and the wall, and the strange writing, and the undulating movement… He shuddered.

He sat up and rolled out of bed. Taney was the only other guard in the bunkroom.

“Where’s Drury?” he asked.

“The filthy bastard’s got duty at the loading dock,” came the reply. “I wouldn’t want to be one of the boys working down there.”

“Somebody should stop him.”

“Go ahead,” said Taney, “if you want a knife between your ribs.”

Chapman didn’t want a knife between his ribs, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he went down the ancient spiral stone steps to the docks. Six boys were unloading a skiff, but Chapman didn’t see any guards. But as he stepped out into the open, he noticed something strange. There was a shadow in the middle of the dock where a shadow had no right to be. As he stepped closer, he realized it wasn’t a shadow—not in the real sense of the word. It was a man-shaped blob of shadow, occupying the same area that a man would occupy had he been standing there, but with no mass and no substance and completely translucent.

“What is that?” he asked.

The boys stopped and looked at him.

“What is that?” he asked again.

“What is what?” asked one of the boys.

“Where’s Drury?” he asked, his voice rising.

“He’s standin’ right in front of you, you great tosser,” the boy replied, pointing at the shadowy blob.

“That’s not Drury! I don’t know what that is!”

Turning, Chapman ran up the stairs, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares of the boys. He ran past the bunkroom and down the corridor to the north wing. He ran into the door of prisoner 89’s cell, banging it with his fist, as if she could open it from the inside. Finally he rummaged through his pockets for the great key and unlocked the door, rushing inside.

Chapman screamed. Karl Drury was hanging, naked, upside down from the ceiling. His neck had been sliced open and his blood had been drained into the piss pot on the floor beneath him. His gut had been sliced open and long lengths of bowel and a few internal organs hung down like ghastly wind chimes.

Chapman screamed again, as he felt the feather light touch of the woman on his shoulder.

“I needed more ink.” Her sultry voice cut into his soul like a knife cutting through pudding.

She stepped past him and picked up the bucket of blood, tip-toeing like a ballerina to the north wall of the cell, where she dipped her fingers into the gore and began painting strange images onto the stone blocks. As she drew, she spoke to herself. Chapman didn’t need to hear what she was saying. It had been bouncing around in his head since he had gotten up.

“One thousand nine hundred seventy-nine days.”

“Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it! Stop counting!”

The woman turned toward him and grinned fiercely. “Not much longer now— just a few more days. Go on back now. Don’t want to draw suspicion.”

He crept out of the chamber like a dog that had been beaten. He didn’t go back to the south wing though, instead climbing the stone stairs until he found an alcove with a small opening to the outside world. Here he dropped to the ground and curled up into a ball and wept.

* * * * *

“That’s pretty,” said Senta. “Is that a sunset or a rainbow?”

She was walking down Contico Boulevard, hand in hand with her cousin Bertice. Mrs. Gantonin, who lived next door, had told Granny about a family whose boys had died and who were now giving away their clothes. With a house full of children, free clothes were not to be overlooked lightly.

“What are you talking about, you little bint?”

“Up there.” Senta pointed off to the right.

“Didn’t you learn that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west? That way is south. How could it be sunset? Besides, it’s only half past four. I’d still be at work if they hadn’t run out of number four thread.”

“A rainbow, then?”

“There’s no rainbow. There’s not been a drop of rain for a week. How could there be a rainbow. I don’t see anything at all.”

“Well, I see something. It’s swirly with red and yellow and blue and purple, like a storm that’s coming, only made out of colors.”

“You need to get your eyes fixed, you do,” said Bertice, giving her arm a yank.

“What do you suppose this is supposed to be?” asked Arthur McTeague.

“I suppose it was a city a long time ago,” replied Augie Dechantagne, with an emphasis on the second word.

The two lieutenants and the full platoon of soldiers were standing on a smooth surface of stone slabs that had been fitted together. There were steps here and there, breaking the area up into several terraces of varying heights. In a few places there were piles of stone that might have indicated that a wall had once stood there, but there were no buildings. On the far side of the clearing were a series of seven large stones. Each stood about eight feet tall and they were roughly oval in shape. At either end of the row were the remains of other similar stones that had once stood in the line, but had long ago crumbled, either from exposure to the elements or from ancient vandalism. Though those that remained were weathered and worn, one could see that each had been carved long ago to represent a dragon.

A loud squawk announced the arrival of eight or ten creatures that burst out of the trees and ran across the ancient stones. They were only slightly larger than the average chicken and were covered in hairy feathers, though their faces looked all too reptilian and their mouths were full of needle sharp teeth.

“Now, are those birds or dinosaurs?” asked McTeague.

Augie shrugged, but pulled out a book from his tunic.

“And what’s that?”

“That my friend is called a book. People, not artillery officers mind, but other people, sometimes read them.”

McTeague gave him a withering look. “What book is it, you great tosser?”

“It’s Colonel Mormont’s journal. My brother sent it to me.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of the chap. He was here in Birmisia a few years ago, right?”

Augie didn’t reply. He was busy flipping through the pages.

“What does he say about those little buggers?”

“Hold on a minute. I’m looking.”

McTeague folded his arms and waited. Several of the men were chasing the small creatures around the edge of the clearing.

“Here it is. Here it is. I knew I recognized them.” Augie held up the open page to a drawing that did indeed bear a strong resemblance to the creatures in question.

“Buitreraptors,” McTeague read. “Why do you suppose they all have to have such strange names?

“You know how these naturalist types are. Besides, if you just went with ‘chicken-lizard’ and ‘turkey lizard’ you’d soon run out of names. Face it. That’s really what they look like.”

A much louder squawk than those heard before announced to all the soldiers that something larger and more frightening than the skittish buitreraptors had arrived. A monster burst out of the brush and ran toward the tiny creatures. It was a bird lizard too, covered with feathers ranging from a deep turquoise on the head to a light green around the legs, but it didn’t fit Augie’s earlier nomenclature, if for no other reason than size. Its body was as large as the biggest horse, its head bobbing back and forth about seven feet above the ground, but it’s long, feathered tail stretched straight out behind it to make it more than twenty feet long. Though the puny wings would have made any attempt to fly laughable, the clawed fingers and the huge sickle-shaped clawed toes prevented any such jocularity.

The monster apparently had been stalking its tiny cousins through the woods, but now that it saw the human beings, it abruptly changed its targets. Why chase after a tiny morsel when a much juicier and slower prey could be had? It needed only to shift its weight and maintain the same stride to put it on its new trajectory. With a leap into the air that amazed everyone watching, the beast flew more than forty feet to land on top of Private Holloway, clawing him and bending down to give him a killing bite before anyone could react. A second later, the beast was peppered with more than twenty shots fired from all over the clearing.

“Kafira damn-it!” Augie shouted. “Color Sergeant!

“Sir.” Color Sergeant Bourne ran toward him and came to attention.

“Set up a perimeter watch. Make sure all the men have chambered rounds. And prepare a burial detail.” The Color Sergeant hurried off to his duties. Augie turned to McTeague. “Come on.”

The two lieutenants stepped over to the giant bird and Private Holloway. It was only too obvious that he was beyond hope. His head had been bitten half through, though his extremities twitched slightly.

“Nothing to be done,” said McTeague.

“Not for Holloway,” Augie agreed.

Yuah Korlann woke so suddenly that for a moment she didn’t recognize where she was. She was of course, in her own bed, in her own small room, in the servant’s quarters of Number One, Avenue Dragon—in Brech… in Greater Brechalon. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and stuck them into her house shoes. What a queer dream that had been.

She had been walking down a road. It had been winter. Patches of snow lay here and there on the ground and some of the trees were bare, although there were many evergreens. She had been bundled up in a thick fur coat, far more luxurious and expensive than anything she would ever really be able to afford. She even had a fur muff. The most extraordinary thing though, wasn’t where she was, but who or more precisely what, she was with. It was an alligator, walking upright and wearing a yellow evening gown. As they walked along, they talked about the strangest things: the state of the Kingdom, literature, and religion.

Reaching for the glass of water on her nightstand, Yuah saw the open book lying there. She had been reading Night of the Snake by Ebrahim Detsky. That was the problem. She ought not to read books like that right before bed.

Getting up and throwing the housecoat over her nightdress, she shuffled out the door, down the hallway and into the servant’s hall. It was just light enough to see and she realized it was a quarter past four when the wall clock sounded four sharp chimes.

Padding her way on into the kitchen, she thought about having a cup of tea, but that would have meant starting a fire in the oven. Instead, she opened the door of the icebox and withdrew a bottle of milk—one of six, and got a glass from the cupboard. She poured her milk, put the bottle back, and carried the glass into the servant’s hall, where she sat down at the great table. As she drank her milk, she could hear the clock tick-tocking in the other room. It seemed to get louder and louder.

“You’re up early.” At the sound of the voice Yuah jumped, dribbling milk down her chin.

“Heavenly days! What’s wrong with you?” Both the exclamation and the question were out of her mouth before she turned around to find Terrence staring wryly at her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Don’t look at me! I’m practically naked!”

“You’re kidding, right? You’ve got more clothes on than an Argrathian virgin.” He stepped past her and made his way into the kitchen.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Yuah.

“About Argrathians or about virgins? Shouldn’t there be some cheese in the icebox? Oh, here we go. Now where’s the breadbox?”

“Why didn’t you just press your buzzer?”

“What?” He poked his head back in through the doorway.

“You have a buzzer in your room next to the bed. When you press it, whoever’s on duty, I think it’s Eunice, will bring you whatever you want.”

“When did I get one of those?”

“Your sister had it put in a few months ago.”

“How much do you suppose that cost? Oh, here’s the bread.”

“You would think that you would know. After all, it is your money she’s spending.”

There was a clattering of knives and plates, but Terrence said nothing else until he emerged back from the kitchen with a cheese sandwich on a plate in one hand and what was left of Yuah’s bottle of milk in the other.

“If I’m not worried about it, you shouldn’t be,” he said, sitting down.

He took a bite of sandwich and they were both quiet for a moment.

“That’s your problem, you know,” Yuah said quietly. “You never worry about anything.”

“You’re overstepping yourself, little maid. It’s not your job to worry about what my problem is.” He drained the milk bottle and set it down, hard, on the table.

“Somebody has to. You’re hiding out somewhere poisoning yourself, aren’t you?”

“Shut the hell up,” he said, getting to his feet.

“You’re not taking care of yourself and nobody else is either. I nursed you when you were little, but who’s looking after you now?”

“And just who did you think you were, when you were nursing me? My sister or my mother?”

Yuah flushed.

“I see,” Terrence stepped close and leaned down to look her in the face. “You thought you were my woman. Well, you’re not.”

Yuah felt tears flooding unbidden down her cheeks. She wanted to scream that she wouldn’t marry an idiot like him in a million years, but all that came out was “I hate you!”

“Yeah, welcome to the club.” He stood up and tossed the sandwich onto the table, where it fell apart and scattered.

Yuah jumped to her feet and rushed toward the doorway, pausing just long enough to yell once more at Terrence. She wanted to tell him that he hated himself so much that he would never be able to love anyone else, but all that came out was “You can’t have me.”

“Why would I want a skinny little bint like you?” shouted Terrence after her.

Avenue Boar ran west from the Great Plaza of Magnus to St. Admeta Park, which was a lovely square expanse of fruit trees and green swards open to the public only on holidays or special occasions. To the north of St. Admeta park was Palace Eidenia, home of the Princess Royal, though since the death of Princess Aarya some ten years prior it had been unoccupied by any member of the royal family. To the west of the park was Avenue Royal which led to Sinceree Palace, where King Tybalt III spent his days while in the city, and to the south was Crown Street which led to the Palace of Ansegdniss where the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Greater Brechalon met. Along either side of Crown Street were the official homes of the King’s ministers.   Number 3 was the home of the First Lord of the Treasury while number 4 was the home of the Second Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer.   The Foreign Minister lived in number 7 and the Judge Advocate General lived in number 8, but the largest of the homes on Crown Street was number14: that of the Prime Minister.

Stepping out of her steam carriage, Iolanthe Dechantagne retrieved her parasol from behind the seat and opened it, even though it was a walk of only thirty feet to the door. She tucked a small envelope of papers under her arm. The parasol matched Iolanthe’s outfit, a grey pin-striped day dress framed with waves of antique lace. The single police constable stationed at the Prime Minister’s door nodded affably and made no mention of the fact that Iolanthe’s parking skills had resulted in both tires on the right side of her car being well up onto the sidewalk. He opened the door for her, and she stepped into the vast foyer of the official residence. A maid was waiting to take the parasol and lead her into the offices of the Prime Minister.

Iolanthe had not expected to be kept waiting and indeed she was not. The PM, The Right Honourable Ewart Primula stood up from behind a massive oak desk that had been fashioned from the timbers of the ancient battleship H.M.S.Wyvern. He was a tall, balding man with a thick middle and rather loose jowls that tightened up when he smiled.

“Lady Dechantagne,” he said, hurrying around, but waiting for her to shake his hand.

Iolanthe pursed her lips. “Prime Minister, you know that title is not appropriate.”

“Well, it should be,” the PM replied. “It is most unfair that you should suffer because of… well, because of your father. If it were up to me, your title would be restored and your brother would be viscount.”

“We both know it’s not up to you, and the one man that it is up to is not likely to share your inclination.”

“Let’s not speak of it then,” said Primula, gesturing toward a comfortable antique chair. As Iolanthe took it, he walked back around the desk and sat down. “What can I do for you today?”

“As you already alluded to, my once historic and distinguished family is not quite what it was.” Iolanthe licked her lips. “No viscounts in the house at present, I’m afraid. My two brothers and I could of course live comfortably for the rest of our lives on our household income, but we have bigger plans. We are going to bring the greatness back to our name.”

The Prime Minister nodded.

“Our plan is not just to help ourselves though,” she continued. “Freedonia and Mirsanna are building colonies in distant lands and are becoming wealthy as a result. Greater Brechalon must do the same thing. We propose to build a Brech colony, assuming a royal charter is available”

“In Birmisia,” the PM said, nodding.

“We have as yet not decided. Birmisia is one possibility. Cartonia is another.”

“I think you have settled on Birmisia. You went to a great deal of trouble to have your brother stationed there.”

“Why Prime Minister,” said Iolanthe, with a thin smile. “I didn’t know that we warranted such attention.”

“If anything, I believe I have not been paying enough attention. You are quite a remarkable person, particularly for a woman.”

“And you are quite a perceptive person, Prime Minister, for a man.”

Primula chuckled. “So what is it that I can do to facilitate this expansion of our empire?”

“First of all,” said Iolanthe. “There is the question of the aforementioned charter.”

“I see no undue complications there.”

“Then there is the question of transportation.”

The Prime Minister looked puzzled. “You will charter ships, yes?”

“I will arrange for a number of ships to deliver both settlers, and equipment and supplies. But in order to assure the safe transit of the first settlers and to guarantee the establishment of the colony, I would like the use of a Royal Navy ship, preferably a battleship, along with its crew, of course.”

“Of course,” Primula laughed. “You know you just can’t charter a battleship like it was a yacht for the Thiss Regatta.”

“Talking of which, congratulations on your victory yesterday.”

“Thank you. The regatta is one of the few pleasures I still allow myself.”

Iolanthe leaned forward, her hand reaching out with a heretofore unnoticed small envelope, which she gave to the Prime Minister. He accepted it, opened it, and unfolded the document inside.

“Sweet mother of Kafira,” he gasped, his face turning white. “Where did you get this? No. I don’t want to know. Does anyone else know about this?”

“No.”

“But they will if I don’t accede to your demands?”

“Don’t be silly, Prime Minister.” Iolanthe leaned back, folding her hands in her lap and smiled. “This is the original. There are no facsimiles. This is a gift.”

Ewart Primula jumped up from his seat and pulled aside a large portrait of His Majesty on the wall behind him. He quickly turned the combination on the safe, which was revealed, and in a moment he had placed the paper and the envelope inside, closed and locked the safe, and replaced the stern portrait of the King. Turning around, his face took on a wary look, as if he only just realized that there was a tiger seated across the desk from him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said slowly.

“Don’t mention it, Prime Minister,” Iolanthe smiled. This did nothing to drive the image of a tiger from his mind. Neither did her next words. “I consider it my duty, one I can perform again. There are a great many similar documents drifting about, you know.”

The PM dropped heavily into his chair.

“As I understand it,” he said with a sigh. “There are two battleships coming in for extensive refit in the next few months—the Minotaur and the Indefatigable, if I’m not mistaken. One of them could be held until you are ready. It is of course, in the best interest of the empire to establish this colony.”

“Oh, indeed it is,” replied Iolanthe.

“Is there anything else?”

“Oh, export papers and manifest waivers, and things of that sort; nothing we need to discuss face to face.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a government wizard?” More than a hint of sarcasm was present in these words, but Miss Dechantagne appeared not to notice.

“No. When the time comes, we will hire our own spellcasters—ones we can trust.”

She stood up and the Prime Minister walked around the desk to take her hand, though he seemed far less enthusiastic about it than he had on her arrival.

“You can’t trust any of them,” he said.

“It is not a question of whom one may trust, Prime Minister,” said Iolanthe. “It is a question of how far. I will trust them precisely as much as I trust anyone else.”

It was the first time that Nils Chapman had seen prisoner 89 doing anything other than lying curled up in a fetal position. Today she was sitting, cross-legged in the center of the room. It was hot and muggy and he had to wipe the perspiration from his eyes in order to see her clearly. She was muttering something, but he had to listen for a minute to make out just what it was.

“…nine hundred seventy-four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days.”

“Why are you counting the days?” he called to her through the small window in the armored door.

She locked eyes with him, but didn’t stop repeating her words.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She stopped. “Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll get you something.”

Chapman made his way down the stone corridor toward the south wing and the kitchen. He hadn’t quite reached it, when he ran into Karl Drury going the other direction. The other man wore his usual scowl and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He didn’t need to ask what the other man wanted.

“Why don’t you leave her alone?” said Chapman.

“Why don’t you piss off?” Drury replied and shoved him into the wall.

Chapman immediately leaned back toward Drury.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he growled, which was in fact not true at all.

“You’d better be,” the other man hissed, producing a knife from somewhere. “I could gut you right now… or maybe I’ll do it tonight, while you’re asleep.”

“Tosser,” said Chapman, but he hurried away toward the kitchen.

Purposefully waiting a good half hour before returning to the north wing, Chapman unlocked the door after he was sure that his sadistic fellow guard had gone. Prisoner 89 was sprawled across the stone floor like a ragdoll. It was no surprise that she had been raped, but the guard was shocked at how badly she had been beaten. Apparently she was not nearly as acquiescent as she had been before. Her eyes were open, but they stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

“I brought you a Roger’s Pie.”

He sat the wooden bowl containing the bun filled with meat and turnips next to her. Her eyes rolled around in her head and then looked at him. She sat up and snatched the pie from the bowl, stuffing it into her mouth.

“Have to keep my strength up,” she muttered with her mouth full. “One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days.”

“Why are you counting?”

She finished the pie, but didn’t reply to his question.

“Is your name Zurfina?”

Suddenly her eyes came alive, full of fire, of danger, and of power.

“Zurfina the Magnificent,” she said.

“Can I get you something else?”

“Why?” she asked, the now dangerous grey eyes narrowing.

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Bring me a knife!” she hissed.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “Even if it wouldn’t get me sacked, you’d hurt yourself.”

He now saw that the woman had a series of slash marks up the length of both arms and on both thighs.

“You’re trying to kill yourself.”

“I promise I’m not going to kill myself,” she said.

Chapman turned to leave and stopped in his tracks. Covering the entire wall of the cell all around the door were strange symbols, black against the grey of the stone. Though they weren’t really letters and certainly weren’t from any language that he knew, there was something nevertheless familiar about them. They seemed to swirl and move unnaturally, as if the wall was made not of stone but of rubber or something similarly malleable, and it was being manipulated from behind, creating waves and bulges.

“Kafira,” he swore, and then he jumped as he heard the woman stir behind him. When he looked at her though, she was only getting to her feet, slowly.

“What is that?” he asked, afraid to look back at the wall and afraid to keep his back to it as well.

“That is Omris and Siris,” she replied cryptically. “That is Juton and Treffia. It is Worron and Tommulon.”

“I don’t know any of those words.”

She moved so close to him that her smell gagged him. She stank of years of sweat and urine and filth, and something else.

“That’s your blood!”

“Tell no one about this,” she ordered. “Tell no one. Tell no one.”

He stepped quickly away and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. He ran down the corridor toward the south wing, and he didn’t look back. Still, he could hear her voice behind him.

“One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days. One thousand nine hundred seventy-four days.”

Yuah knelt down and used the buttonhook to fasten the twenty-eight buttons on each of Iolanthe’s shoes. As she fastened the last button, Yuah had to smile appreciatively. These shoes cost more than she made in a year, but unlike most wealthy aristocratic women, Iolanthe paid a premium not because the shoes were encrusted with jewels, but because they were exceptionally well made, and they were very comfortable.

“What are you smiling at?” demanded Iolanthe.

“Nothing, Miss. I would never smile in your presence.”

Iolanthe pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

“What do you think about moving to some faraway land, Yuah… say for instance Mallon?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuah feigned.

“Oh please. I know you’re all a bunch of spies. There is nothing that goes on in the house that you and your father and the cook don’t know about.”

“I’m just the servant, Miss. You’re the mistress.”

“You’re cheeky too. I would fire you in a minute if it weren’t that Augie is under the impression that you are his sister instead of me.” Iolanthe stood up and brushed out her dress. “Have you heard from him, by the way?”

“Yes, Miss.” Yuah had gotten at least three letters from Augie since Iolanthe had last asked her. He did indeed think of her as a sister, and she thought of him as a brother. She sent him a letter for every one she received. They were the same age, two years younger than Iolanthe, and six years younger than Terrence, and had spent an enormous amount of time together as children.

“And?”

“Hmm?”

“And what did he say?” asked Iolanthe, pointedly.

“Oh. He wrote mostly about the native…people. Can you call them people? They aren’t really people are they?”

“It matters little what you call them,” said Iolanthe as she crossed the room to the cheval glass.

“Well, he’s been talking to them and learning their language. Isn’t that marvelous? Imagine talking to reptiles. And he writes about the creatures that live where he is. It’s all quite amazing.”

“Amazing that he hasn’t managed to mess it all up.”

“Not at all,” replied Yuah, raising her chin defiantly. “I think Master Augie is doing the family proud.”

“My family,” Iolanthe reminded her.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Still, he’s not the brother you would prefer to hear from, is he?”

Yuah’s face turned red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… Miss.”

“Returning to my previous topic.” Iolanthe carefully placed her new hat atop her carefully coifed hair. “Life would be different for you outside of Brechalon… in a colony, I mean. Colonial life is different. You wouldn’t be a servant any more. In fact, you could probably afford servants of your own. You might be quite an important part of the community.”

“Are you trying to tell me that in the colonies I might marry Terrence?”

“God no!” Iolanthe laughed musically. “Perhaps we could marry you off to a tradesman.”

* * * * *

Zeah sat on the step in the courtyard and sipped his tea. It was hot and muggy and many might have preferred a cold beverage but the butler found tea soothing. The courtyard sat towards the side rear of the house, separated from the street on the east side only by an eight-foot tall stone wall. Though windows looked down onto it from all three stories on the other three sides, most of those rooms were not in use, so it was relatively private. Nevertheless, the door behind him opened and young Saba stepped out. Hopping down the steps, he sat down next to Zeah.

“Good morning, Mr. Korlann.”

“Good morning.”

The boy had a large brown glass bottle with a rubber stopper, which he pulled out with his teeth and spat onto the step. Then he tilted the bottle back and took a great swig.

“You’ll pick that up in a minute, I trust,” said Zeah, indicating the stopper with a nod.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“What are you drinking?”

Saba held up the bottle and Zeah read the label. Billingbow’s Sarsaparilla and Wintergreen Soda Water.

“Is it any good?”

“I love it. Would you like a taste?” The boy pointed the open mouth of the bottle at the man.

“Um, no, thank you.”

“Is Miss Dechantagne really going to move to Mallon?”

“Where did you hear that?” asked Zeah, looking at the boy.

“I overheard my mother talking to Yuah about it.”

“I think it best not to speculate what Miss Dechantagne might or might not do.”

“You’re afraid of her, huh?”

“Ah… afraid? No, I’m not afraid of Miss Duh… Dechantagne.”

“Sure you are. Don’t feel bad. Everyone’s afraid of her. I’m afraid of her. I think Master Terrence is afraid of her.”

“I, um…”

“You know how you can tell that you’re afraid?”

“I’m not… um, how?”

“You only stutter when you’re nervous.”

“I duh… don’t stutter… and nuh… nervous is not the same thing as afraid.”

Saba took another swig of soda. “Sure it is. It’s just another word for it, like hart is just another word for horse.”

“They’re not the same thing at all. A hart is a deer.”

“You know you shouldn’t be nervous. It’s not like Miss Dechantagne is going fire you.”

“It’s not?”

“No. She always says she’s going to fire somebody, but when was the last time you saw her really do it?”

“About five minutes ago,” said Zeah.

“Really? Who’d she fire?”

“She dismissed Nora.”

“I don’t know anybody named Nora.”

“She was the girl I hired the other day.”

“Well, you see there,” said Saba, knowingly. “She was new. When was the last time Miss Dechantagne fired anyone that had been with the house for a while?”

“She dismissed Tilda yesterday.”

“Yeah, I miss her,” said Saba wistfully. “So is Miss Dechantagne really going to move to Mallon?”

“Um, I think it’s best not to discuss this. Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I was just thinking. If she goes, then I imagine that we would get to go with her.”

“Do you want to move to Mallon?” asked Zeah.

“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”

“Um, I wouldn’t.”

“Sure you would. It would be great. It would be just like living in a Rikkard Banks Tatum novel.”

“Don’t all of his books involve monsters, chases, and narrow escapes from danger?”

“You bet,” the boy grinned. “It’ll be the dog’s bullocks.”

Saba drained his bottle of Billingbow’s and stood up. “Well, I guess I’d better get busy. I’m supposed to wash the steam carriage. Do you think I could drive it out of the motor shed?”

“No,” Zeah replied. “You had best push it out.”

The boy’s grin disappeared. He sighed and then walked across the courtyard to the motor shed. Zeah reached down and picked up the rubber stopper that Saba had left, then stood up, stretched his back, and went up the steps and back into the house.

It had been Pentuary too when it happened, sixteen years before. Iolanthe, Augie, Yuah, and Dorah were sitting in a circle on the floor around Master Akalos, who was making them recite the names of the books in the Modest Scriptures. That two of them were the children of aristocrats and two were the children of servants made no difference to Master Akalos. That three of them were Kafirites and one of them was a Zaeri did, and the tutor gained a perverse delight in drilling them on the set of scriptures that the Zaeri did not believe in. Terrence, who was watching from beyond the door, could see the queer laughter hiding behind the man’s eyes. Both twelve-year-olds, Terrence and Enoch, had finished their lessons for the day. Enoch had hurried off to his chores in the stable, while Terrence had made himself a sandwich.

He leaned against the doorframe and took a bite. From this location he could see both the other children at their studies through the door and the carriage sitting in front of the house through the open window. His mother’s friend, Simon Mudgett, was visiting again. His carriage was out front, the horses still harnessed. He squeezed the last two or three bites together into his mouth.

“Julien, Wind, March, Magic, Raina, Egeria, Dallarians, Zaeri…” the four children recited, almost together. Iolanthe missed Raina and went right from Magic to Egeria. Yuah was determined to recite the loudest. Augie was moving his mouth without actually saying anything at all. All of them were casting envious glances at the scant breeze blowing in through the window.

Then Terrence saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was his father down the hallway. Quickly heading down the hall after him, Terrence saw the shotgun in his father’s hand. This was a great opportunity. Terrence liked shooting as much as any boy. But his father was going the wrong way. He was headed up the stairs. Had he already been shooting? Was he going to clean his shotgun now?

Terrence followed, now just a few feet behind his father, and as the elder Dechantagne opened the door to his wife’s bedroom, Terrence followed right on in. Then it was as if everything was in slow motion. Terrence’s mother was in bed, the bedclothes covering only the bottom half of her naked body. Next to her was Simon Mudgett.

With agonizing slowness, Lucius Dechantagne raised the shotgun to his shoulder and fired. A red spray blossomed from the bare chest of Iphigenia Dechantagne, covering the bed in blood. A second shotgun blast hit the bed just to her left, but Mudgett was already on the floor running for the window. The snap of the shotgun being opened was drowned out by the crash as he broke the glass from the already open pane, crashing through and falling naked and bloodied from the sloped roof to the grounds below.   Terrence’s father snapped the weapon shut again, having replaced the two shells. He walked to the window, only to find nothing to shoot at. He turned around to find his wife, her mouth and eyes wide open as she gurgled a few last dying breaths and his twelve year old son, his face gone white, staring at each other. He shot his wife once more in the chest, turned and gave the boy a long look, and then turned back and shot her in the head, leaving a corpse that no longer at all resembled a living human being.

* * * * *

Terrence walked into the parlor to find it surprisingly cool. Iolanthe was there sipping an iced beverage. The outside of the tall glass was covered with beads of condensation. She looked up casually, but narrowed her eyes at his appearance.

“What have you been doing?” she asked.

“What are you drinking?”

“Iced tea.”

“Really? Is it any good?”

“Very refreshing. Would you like one?”

He nodded, taking a nearby chair, and she waved to a servant standing in the doorway, who then hurried off after the drink.

“What have you been doing, I ask again?”

“Reminiscing.”

“I have been as well.” She gestured to the family scrapbook on the divan next to her.

“You should burn that.”

“We can’t do that. But you are right, dear brother. We should stop looking to the past. Our future begins now.”

“If you say so, Iolanthe.”

* * * * *

Minutes before her brother had arrived in the parlor, Iolanthe had indeed been thinking over the past. It was not the same tragedy that Terrence had been reliving though. She knew that Terrence carried a scar from the murder of their mother, though she didn’t quite understand exactly what it was or how deep it cut. She had her own, more recent scars—scars scarcely ten years old.

Iolanthe had continued to live in her father’s house near Shopton, long after her brothers had gone away to military school. By her seventeenth year she had grown into a strikingly beautiful young lady. Not one to stay in the brooding mansion, she spent her days happily riding across the countryside. It was here that she met a young man named Jolon Bendrin. At first, she found him attractive. He certainly found her so. They met several times and talked and she enjoyed his company.

Then one day, he changed. They both attended a party at the Banner residence. Afterwards they had walked in the garden. Nothing seemed strange. When he kissed her, she had let him. But then he forced her down onto a stone bench and reached under her dress. She only realized the danger of her situation when he put his hand over her mouth. He raped her. Then week after week, he did it again. She tried to avoid him but she couldn’t. He seemed to be everywhere. What could she do? She wasn’t strong enough to fight him off, and there was no male protector for her—her father was in a drunken stupor and her brothers were both away. And who else could she tell, without disgracing herself? When she turned eighteen, she left Mont Dechantagne, moving to Brech, and leaving her father to waste away by himself.

* * * * *

Iolanthe took another sip of iced tea and looked at her brother sitting across from her. No, there was no point in living in the past. One must look toward the future. There was a great deal to do. But there was always the possibility that Jolon Bendrin might come to Brech. What would she do then?