Bastian by Elizabeth Amber Page B

quickly found herself pulled up short by Pontifex’s hand. “Father!” she called, struggling to reach him. He stood only a few yards away, his eyes riveted to her.
    â€œTell her how things are, brother,” Pontifex commanded from behind her.
    Her father’s eyes flicked from her to Pontifex and back again. Then he said softly and with crushing finality, “I am your father no longer, Silvia.”
    His words struck her like poisonous arrows and she drew back as if from a physical blow. What was so awful about her that her own flesh and blood could not love her? she wanted to cry out. Yet she did not plead with him. Instead, she closed her heart off, and silently vowed never to trust in love again.
    Turning, she went to rejoin the others, unaware that two sets of lustful masculine eyes burned over her back.

6
    B astian entered his tent at daybreak the next morning only to find his chair occupied, a small boy-sized coat hanging on his coat rack, and the notes of a crudely made reed flute infusing the air.
    â€œUp, brat,” he said.
    The music ceased midnote as his newest, youngest employee swung around, scattering the vellum sheets he’d been perusing. One fluttered to the floor and the boy bent to retrieve it before his dog could.
    â€œWhat are you doing with those?” Bastian demanded.
    Rico glanced down at the collection of erotic illustrations on the desktop. His brow lifted, and he absently wove the flute between his fingers one after the other, then back again, with the skill of one who’d done the maneuver often. He shot Bastian a baiting look. “Better question might be what are you doing with ’em?”
    â€œThey’re priceless lithographs.” Tossing his coat on the stand to cover the boy’s, Bastian waved him up from the chair.
    Rico guffawed. “Pull the other one.” He tried to sidle past, but Bastian stepped in his way, holding out the flat of his hand, palm up. “I’ll take that.”
    â€œWasn’t going to thieve.” The Imp let go of the thick vellum sheet just above Bastian’s hand and it drifted to lie on his palm.
    Bastian glanced at it and found himself abruptly struck dumb. The lithograph had changed drastically since the last time he had viewed it. Or rather, his perception of it had. Before, he’d seen it only in blacks and whites. Now, however, it was brilliantly tinted with dazzling color. Simply because this boy had held it. Hungrily, Bastian’s eyes roved the sheets of paper scattered across his desktop seeing that all appeared pigmented to him now. Leaning over the desk, he shifted them, trying to memorize colors that seemed like rare, precious jewels to a man who’d never seen them before. It was readily apparent which sheets were the ones Rico had touched more recently, for their color was the most vivid and lush. But all were quickly fading.
    He studied the illustration in his hand. It was most luminous and depicted three lovers in a ménage à trois—the eternal triangle. Two of the figures were standing and one prone. The latter was female, a receptive courtesan lying on her back upon a mattress. One of her shapely ankles rested high on the shoulder of a male lover, who stood facing her between her thighs. His cock was clearly in the process of embedding itself inside her, even as the other man who stood at his back was in the process of penetrating him. All was meticulously and tastefully rendered, almost in the style of a medical or botanical drawing.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Rico demanded, his brows drawing together.
    â€œNothing,” Bastian replied automatically. Hiding the fact that he was color-blind had required a lifetime of subterfuge on his part. But it had been necessary. An archaeologist who was unable to discern the subtleties of color was not one who could have risen to lead the prestigious Forum excavations as he had.
    Only his father had known. Bastian had