Stirl, not far above Peverell Castle, where the city streets, broad and lined with huge old trees, grew quiet. The water traffic there tended toward rich barges and sailboats; working vessels rarely came that far beyond the docks except to pursue a run of fish. The house, built of fieldstone centuries earlier, retained a few of its early eccentricities, including a pair of unmatched windows inset on a side wall as awkwardly as floundersâ eyes. Inside, time sped forward into oak and marble walls, thick rugs and carpets, softly glowing lamps that revealed Jonahâs enormous collection of oddments from everywhere in the world, including several places that Phelan couldnât find on a map. His mother, Sophy, herself an heiress with family connections to the Peverells, favored all the modern conveniences, only drawing the line at keeping a car. They were slow, she said, and noisy, and you couldnât tell them what to do.
Sophy, fully dressed and wrestling with a skintight glove as she came upon the yawning Phelan in the living room, left a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of her sonâs jaw and asked briskly, âHave you found your father?â
âAm I looking for him?â
Sophy nodded vigorously. Phelan had inherited her pale hair and gray eyes, even her charming smile, but not, he realized early, her stubbornly temperate disposition, which provided a formidable barrier to any questions about Jonahâs behavior. âI told you, didnât I?â
âNo.â
âOh, dear. Well, you must find him for Lord Grisholdâs supperââ She stopped, loosed a chuckle. âNot that the duke is planning to take a knife and fork to him, but we must all attend. The king wrote a tiny note on our invitation that he expressly desired Jonahâs presence, to finish a certain conversation.â
âWhen?â
âWhen, what, dear?â
âThe supper?â
âOh. In a day or twoâIâve forgottenââ She smiled at him brightly, patted his cheek. âJust find him, Phelan. Youâre always so good at it. The invitation is around here somewhere. I must rush away. We are knitting socks today for Caerauâs poor, and then Ursula Barisâs cookâs grandmother will teach us how to divine the future in a birdâs nest.â
She left Phelan wordless, awake at last. He moved finally, stepped toward the cluttered desk in her study to look for the invitation, then veered abruptly at the door. It didnât matter: clean, fed, his pockets clinking again, Jonah might be anywhere in the city. Phelan would either stumble across him in time for the occasion or not. He had a paper to write; his father could wait.
He did turn from his chosen path, walking across Dockers Bridge again for a quick search around the dig site, before he buried himself in the school library. In the clear morning light, the desolation lost its mystery and became simply the sad ruins of an earlier century, walls slumped into one another, charred window frames staring empty-eyed at the colorful buildings across the river, ruined warehouses and broken pilings haunting the abandoned waterfront. Fire had gutted it; everyone had gone to more prosperous parts of the city; no one had found a need to rebuild the waste. Still, in the eerie silence, Phelan heard voices, brisk and cheerful, with no visible owners and seemingly from underground.
He walked to the edge of Jonahâs latest project and looked down at the top of a head ascending. It was covered with a soft cloth hat; he couldnât see the lowered face talking to someone below.
He did recognize the voice.
âPrincess Beatrice,â he said, and the head came up abruptly. She smiled at him; the hat slid, its tie catching at her throat, loosing a burnished curl or two from her rigorously pinned hair.
âPhelan.â She accepted his hand briefly, politely, as she stepped off the ladder, then let go and beat a cloud of
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