After the War: A Novella of the Golden City by J. Kathleen Cheney Page A

stood there with a terrible taste in his mouth. He wanted to pace, to work off some of his worry, but he felt queasy. Miguel didn’t look much better. He leaned heavily on his cane, his narrow face pale. Neither of them was drunk any longer.
    “Where do we go from here?” Alejandro asked Joaquim and Gaspar.
    “I’m going to go sit on the bench,” Joaquim answered. “I don’t have a feel for her right now, but if I could concentrate, I might be able to pinpoint her the moment he lets his glamour loosen.”
    And that’s our best hope? Alejandro surveyed the church. Phillips wouldn’t have gone there, not if he was part fairy. They loathed holy ground. They hated moving water, which eliminated the banks of the Leça and the port. Everything around the Douro River as well. How much fairy blood did Phillips have?
    Gaspar turned on Miguel. “If you read that version of the story, you’re our best hope for remembering whether Jandro wrote all this down at some point. Think, man.”
    Suddenly put on the spot, Miguel frowned, eyes focusing inward. “I . . .”
    A carriage pulled into the square at a quick clip. As it rolled to a stop, Rafael Pinheiro opened the door and jumped down without opening out the steps. Markovich followed at a slower pace, expression discontented. The swelling across his jaw had darkened to a livid blue in a few spots, a sign of how hard Roberto had hit him.
    “Is that the Russian?” Miguel asked.
    “He’s English, but of Russian descent,” Alejandro supplied.
    “Hmmm.” Miguel shook his head. “He has to be here.”
    Rafael approached the three of them standing near the spell circle, Markovich trailing him. “Miguel, what are you doing here?”
    “Alejandro gave me a version of this story to edit, Father,” Miguel said. “So I remember more than he does. I . . . I know more, so I’m here.”
    Rafael let out a colorful curse. “I should have asked myself about that. So what are we waiting for, Gaspar?”
    “Joaquim is trying to get a feel for where Serafina is,” Gaspar answered, then turned to Markovich. “What can you tell us about Phillips?”
    “Not much,” Markovich said.
    “Not good enough,” Gaspar responded. “You work for the English government, and he’s an Irish separatist. They have to be gathering information on him. Given the threat he poses to you, I’m sure they kept you apprised.”
    “I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know,” Markovich said.
    “The maledictor has to be here,” Rafael said. “But I don’t think he has any information. Son?”
    He’d looked to Miguel as he said that.
    Miguel closed his eyes, mumbling, “Story with a fairy . . . and a girl . . . and . . . I’m not sure what to say.”
    Alejandro wanted to shake Miguel for being so unhelpful. “What do you mean by that?”
    Roberto returned to the square just then, a paper sack clutched in one hand. “Bread,” he told Alejandro, holding out the bag. “You’ll feel better if you get something into your stomach.”
    Ah, that was where Roberto went . The young man had been talking to Miguel, and then wandered off. Alejandro gave Roberto a heartfelt thanks and opened the bag. It held a loaf of sweet bread. His mouth began watering, and he reached to pull it out.
    “Don’t eat that,” Miguel warned him. “We’ll need that later.”
    “What is it, Miguel?”
    “He’s made a portal,” Miguel said. “He’ll threaten to throw his hostage through it. We need the bread for . . . for the fairy.”
    That hostage was Serafina. Why was Miguel being so coy about what he remembered? Alejandro folded the top of the bag closed. “What do we do then?”
    “We have to find the portal,” Miguel said. “He’ll be there, waiting for us.”
    Gaspar stepped away from them and began sniffing the air.
    “And how are we supposed to find it?” Alejandro asked.
    “A fairy portal?” Markovich sneered. “Wait. You actually believe in these fairy