“He was hit on the head—there was a fight, and he was hit—” he began.
“Shush!” His mother placed her fingers against his lips, then handed him the cup of cider the cook had poured. “Drink first. Then start at the beginning. Do not rush. There is no reason to hurry.”
Benedict obeyed, taking a long sip of the sharp-tasting liquor, forcing himself to step back mentally to the time and place the tragedy began. “We arrived at the temple and dined with Anen,” he began, his voice finding strength as he relived the events. “During the meal Anen told us there was trouble of some kind—the people were angry—and we discussed whether to stay or go home. I wish we had come home . . .” His eyes sought her face. “I wanted to come home, but—”
“You could not know,” Xian-Li told him. “Go on.”
“The priests were going up to the pharaoh’s new city to speak to him—to see if they could settle things. We went along with them. The pharaoh met us, but he refused to listen and then, as we were leaving, a riot broke out. The people loyal to the pharaoh became very angry for some reason and they attacked the priests—throwing bricks and rocks, mostly, and pushing and shouting. Everyone started running, trying to escape. We made it through the gates to the river, but Father went back to help Anen and the high priest.” Benedict turned tear-filled eyes on his mother. “That is when he was hit—a brick, a stone, something hit him on the head and he fell to the ground.”
“He was killed then?” asked his mother, her voice low and soft.
Benedict shook his head. “No. He was badly injured, but alive. We fled to the boats. Some of the priests were injured too, but we were able to escape. On the boat, the high priest’s physicians tended Father, and I thought he would get better.” The boy paused, took another swallow of cider, licked his lips, and continued, “But by the time we got back to the temple, he was no better. Anen said they had to perform an operation—they had to open his head to get out pieces of bone and clean the wound.”
Xian-Li nodded. “I know they can do this. They are very skilled.”
“I did not watch them, but Father was awake and I talked to him before they started. He said good-bye and told me to take care of you. His last thoughts were of you, Mother. Then later, after it was over, Father woke one last time and called me—” Here Benedict faltered, unable to continue.
“Please, Beni,” said Xian-Li. “I need to hear it all.”
“He wanted me to take him to the Spirit Well,” Benedict said, putting his face in his hands.
Xian-Li was silent for a long moment. “That is what your father did for me,” she replied at last. “Did you know that? Did he ever tell you that I died of fever there in Egypt—this was before you were born. Did your father ever tell you?”
Benedict shook his head glumly. “He said once he had a secret to tell me. I asked him what it was and he said it was—” He paused, remembering the exact words. “He said that it was a good too wonderful to tell.”
A sad smile touched Xian-Li’s lips. “Yes, he would say that.”
“I asked him what could be too wonderful to tell? But he just said I must wait until I was older.” Benedict looked to his mother. “What did he mean?”
“I think he was speaking of the Spirit Well—and what happens there.” Her eyes flicked to the doorway where the servants huddled, nervously clutching their hands. Ignoring them, she urged, “Tell me what happened after you spoke to your father the last time.”
“He said he wanted me to take him there—to the Spirit Well—but I did not know what it was or where to find it.” Benedict dropped his gaze to his empty hands. “He tried to show me—one of his tattoos—but . . .” His voice faltered again. “By then it was too late—he just closed his eyes and died.”
“Was there pain?” asked his mother.
Benedict shook his head. “I think he was beyond pain. The priests did everything they could for him, but the injury was too great.” He raised doleful eyes to his mother. “Anen ordered his body to be embalmed and buried, but because of the troubles, I did not see Father again after that night.” He shook his head sadly. “I would have done anything he asked—anything. You must believe me.”
“I do believe you, Beni dear. I have no doubt that if the temple physicians could not heal him, then there was nothing more to be done.”
“But why did he want to go to the Spirit Well? What is it?”
“It is a place of great healing—and more,” replied Xian-Li. “It is where your father took me when I failed to recover from the fever.”
“Then I might have saved him? If I had known where to find this place, I might have saved him?” His head dropped again as misery overwhelmed him once more. “If only you had been there, Mother—if you had been there, we could have saved him.”
“You must not think that,” she told him, her voice firm. “Even had I been there it is doubtful I could have done anything more to help. I remember nothing about what happened when I passed from life. I only remember going to sleep in one world and waking up in another. What I know of the Spirit Well was told to me by Arthur.” She reached for her son’s hand and clasped it. “Whatever happened there is now lost forever.”
“Why?” asked Benedict.
“Because your father is gone, my son. All that he knew—the worlds he visited, the places he loved . . .” She shook her head sadly. “Gone.”
“It is not gone, Mother.” Benedict rose from his chair, saying, “Wait there a moment.”
He disappeared into the next room, returning a moment later carrying a cylindrical parcel wrapped in linen and tied with a woven raffia cord. He carried it across his palms and placed it in his mother’s lap as if making a sacred offering. She regarded the package and raised questioning eyes to her son.
“Open it,” he instructed.
Xian-Li untied the cord and withdrew the linen wrapper to reveal a scroll of thin parchment, which she placed on the table before her and unrolled. One glimpse of the surface and what was written there caused her to sit bolt upright. She gave a startled cry, her hands fluttering to her face.
She stared at the parchment roll with wide, horrified eyes, then at her son. “Is it . . . ?”
Benedict nodded.
“But how?”
“It was not my doing,” he said, and explained how in asking for a copy of his father’s tattoos his request had been misunderstood owing to his inability to speak the language. “This is what they gave me instead.”
“His skin?” she said, shaking her head in disbelief as she stared at the object. “How could they do this?”
“I cannot say, but it is done.” Kneeling down beside his mother, he said, “You see what this means?”
Xian-Li reached out a tentative hand and gently smoothed the thin papery object with her fingertips.
“Mother, it means nothing is lost. We still have hope.”
She remained still, silently contemplating the loose scroll as it lay on the table. Such a strange, unnatural thing; it filled her with fascination and revulsion in equal measure.
“Mother?” said Benedict, still on his knees beside her.
“No,” she said with a sigh, whether of resignation or regret Benedict could not tell. “No, my son. This is part of Arthur and must be allowed to die with him.”
“Why? I do not understand.”
Xian-Li made no reply but continued to gaze upon the parchment document that was her husband’s tattooed skin.
“Tell me,” pressed Benedict. “Why must we give it up? It is almost as if we were meant to have it, to keep it and use it. Maybe Father meant for us to save it so we could continue his work.”
Xian-Li considered this. Certainly, it was a strange and unnatural thing, and yet . . . here it was. Beyond anyone’s thought, plan, or desire—an indelible record of Arthur’s life’s work, faithfully preserved and dropped into her lap.
“Oh, Beni, it is so dangerous, and you are so very young,” she said, grief settling its full weight upon he
r once more. “It is a mistake—a temptation, and we must resist. Do you not see that? The secrets of his work are a danger to any who possess them. It brings nothing but pain and grief. You have seen what can happen.” She raised a hand to her son’s cheek and turned his face to hers. “You know what I am saying is true.”
Benedict, still wounded by the loss of his father and the circumstances of his death, accepted his mother’s verdict but was reluctant to give in. “I know, but it doesn’t seem right. Father endured so much and learned so much—that it should just end like this . . .” He waved a hand at the pale, flat parchment on the table. “He deserves better than that.”
Xian-Li was silent for a long moment, gazing at her son. “Perhaps you are right,” she conceded. “Perhaps we can do better. I want to say farewell to my beloved in the traditional way. I want to see his tomb, to know where he is buried and pay the last respects of a wife to her husband.”
“Return to Egypt, you mean.”
“We will return to Egypt,” continued Xian-Li, “and we will take the parchment with us. We will return it to Arthur. That is where it belongs.” She gathered Benedict in a motherly embrace and they held on to one another for a time, each drawing comfort from the living warmth of the other. “You must make me a promise, Beni,” Xian-Li whispered.
“Anything,” replied Benedict.
“You must promise never to reveal the secret of your father’s work to anyone—not even your own flesh and blood.”
When he made no reply, she insisted. “Promise me, my son.” She pulled away to look him in the eye. “I want to hear the words.”
“On my life,” Benedict said, taking on a solemn tone, “I promise never to reveal the secret of Father’s work to another living soul.”
She raised a hand and pressed her palm to his face. “Then it is agreed. We will return the skin to Arthur, and when that is done, that will be the end of it.”
CHAPTER 9
In Which a Coffeehouse Summit Is Convened
A return to the Bone House meant finding a way back to the Stone Age, and Kit was determined to be better prepared for the journey this time around. Knowing what he knew about the conditions to be faced, he determined to outfit himself as best he could and decided a stout pair of shoes was first on the list. He had in mind something sturdy with high tops and heavy soles suitable for rambling. In this the cobblers of Prague were more than happy to oblige; however, as Kit quickly learned, it was not so simple as picking a pair off the rack and popping them on for a waltz around the shop. And while Kit had numerous variations from which to choose—each cobbler had samples and specialties—his purchase would be handmade to order and the finished product would take a few days to manufacture.
In the end he selected an amiable craftsman with a line in hunting boots, allowed his naked foot to be measured, and, stressing through gestures and mangled German the importance of a good thick sole, left the shoemaker to his work. His mission accomplished, Kit was sloping across the square when he thought he heard an all-too-familiar voice calling his name. “Kit! Kit Livingstone!”
The sound brought him to a halt. He looked around, and there stood Haven Fayth sprung, apparently, from the damp brown flagstones of the square.
“Upon my word,” she said, her voice a honeyed purr. “This is an entirely agreeable surprise, I must say.”
“Haven . . .” Kit intoned dully. “Where did you come from?”
“Bless me, Kit, is that how you would greet a friend?”
“I’ll let you know when I see one,” he said, eyes searching reflexively around the square for Burley Men. “What are you doing here?”
“We have only just arrived.”
“We? Is Burleigh with you?” Kit intensified his survey of the square, searching left and right for any sign of a looming dark figure. “Where is he?”
“I honestly cannot say, Kit. The Black Earl and I parted company just after your disappearance.” She gave him a quick glance head to toe. “But look at you, my dear fellow. You appear to be in rude health.”
“No thanks to your friend the earl.”
“Oh, Christopher,” she tutted, adopting the tone of a parent chiding a disobedient child, “you cannot for a moment believe I would wish any harm to come to you. Indeed, when I discovered what Lord Burleigh had done, I did my utmost to thwart any success he might have had in discovering your whereabouts. You may ask Wilhelmina; she knows very well how I flummoxed his plans. Or,” she said, indicating the two figures advancing across the square behind her, “you can ask Giles. He will tell you the same.”
“Giles!” cried Kit, stepping around Haven to greet him. “Giles, you’re here.” Seizing his hand, he shook it with vigour. “How are you? How’s the arm? Are you healed?”
“Hale and hearty, sir,” replied Giles, wincing with pain under Kit’s enthusiastic greeting. As Haven had done, he took in Kit’s altered appearance with approval. “You, sir, have given us some concern. But I see you have fared very well indeed.”
“Fresh air and healthy living, that’s all,” Kit told him. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
Aware that they were being joined by another young woman, Kit turned to the stranger.
A couple inches shorter than Haven, her face half hidden beneath a broad-brimmed hat, she was gazing at him with intense interest in her large dark eyes. “You are Kit Livingstone?”
“I am indeed,” he said. “Have we met?”
“No,” she said quickly. “It is just that we have come here hoping to find you and . . . well, here you are—the first person we meet.”
“Pray allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Cassandra Clarke. I am certain you two are going to get along famously,” gushed Haven. “Cassandra, this is Christopher Livingstone, who much prefers to go by the name of Kit, heaven knows why.”
“Glad to meet you, Kit,” said Cass, extending her hand.
“Charmed,” Kit replied, accepting her hand. “What part of America do you come from?”
“It is that obvious?”
“Sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine. An English girl would have offered her cheek,” he told her, then leaned close and gave her a quick peck. “Very happy to meet you, Cassandra.”
In contrast to the willowy Lady Fayth—and judging merely from what he could see beneath her long woollen coat—the newcomer gave the impression of being more substantial somehow. Perhaps it was her compact, athletic body or the no-nonsense cut of her medium-length brown hair or her expressive dark eyes, which hinted at unfathomed depths; none of these attributes was remarkable in itself, but taken together her features combined to form an entirely pleasing whole.
Kit caught himself staring and blurted, “So, how did you happen to fall in with these two?”
Before Cass could reply, Haven interrupted. “All will be revealed in good time. Just now, however, might it not be best to move our glad reunion inside and away from prying eyes?” She gave an involuntary glance around the square. “Marry, do you think we might repair to more convivial surroundings? Somewhere warm, perhaps? We have been travelling a very long time.”
“This way,” said Kit. “Mina will want to know you’re here.”
“One could wish for a more fulsome welcome,” said Haven, taking his arm.
“Wish away,” replied Kit, gently but firmly removing her hand.
Lady Fayth drew breath to speak, but thought better of it and held her tongue, allowing Kit to lead them to the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus and usher them inside. “After you,” said Kit, holding open the door. Giles was last and Kit snagged his arm; leaning close, he said, “What is Haven up to?”
“Sir?” wondered Giles.
“Is it true she has split with Burleigh?”
“Indeed, sir. To the best of my knowledge, she has escaped his clutches—much as yourself, sir. My lady returned to London and has been very beneficial to my convalescence.”
“Do you believe she is sincere?”
“She has given m
e no cause for doubt,” replied Giles.
Kit nodded. “Well, I want us both to keep an eye on her anyway—just in case.”
“I understand, sir,” Giles assented. “You are rightly chary, but I cannot think there is any cause for concern.”
“All the same,” said Kit. “After what happened, I don’t want to take any chances where Her Ladyship is concerned. Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on her, okay?”
“I will make it my special concern,” Giles assured him.
They entered the coffeehouse, where Wilhelmina was already greeting the new arrivals. After the introductions were made all around and a table requisitioned for a chat over coffee and cheese sandwiches, it was decided that a proper discussion of the state of affairs should take place as soon as possible.
“Since we are all together for the first time,” Wilhelmina announced, “I propose that we hold a council so everyone can meet everyone else and we can all get better acquainted. A few things have lately come to light that the rest of you should know. I suggest we meet tonight after the shop is closed.”
“A coffeehouse summit,” said Kit. “I like it.”
There were nods of agreement all around.
“I must consult Engelbert, of course,” continued Mina, “but I think we can close the coffeehouse a little early in order to have plenty of time for discussion. I’ll arrange to have some food brought in and we’ll make a night of it. Okay?”
Again there was general agreement and no dissenting voices.
“Then it is decided,” said Kit. “I want to hear what some of you others have been up to while we were apart.” He looked narrowly at Lady Fayth.
Wilhelmina then busied herself with making arrangements for housing the newcomers. The inn on the square was thought to be too risky in light of Burleigh’s penchant for holing up there when visiting Prague. “The last thing we need is tripping over Burley Men while we’re here,” was how Kit put it.
“There are other places,” Mina told him. “Leave it with me.”
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