«You said you did not think you were … » She tapped her fist again, not frustrated this time, but searching for the word. «Challenging. I am offering you an opportunity to be that.»

A hesitation. Then, «I’m interested.»

«Come to my house at half eight, then. Around the back; the front is going to be a pack of vultures. I will explain, and then you can decide.»

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

Between the fish and the dirty laundry, Cyril vastly preferred the latter. It was a little rank, but at least it was warm. In the half hour he’d been crammed amongst the crates of ice, hiding under a string bag filled with clams, every extremity had gone numb. His suit was soaked through, and even his socks were wet. Hauled out to change vehicles at a way station he hardly registered, he stumbled when he hit the ground and had to be lifted bodily into his next conveyance.

The doors on this one were more substantial, too. The canvas had let in a draft, and street noise including police sirens. These grew more frequent, and then less so, the farther they got from the site of the … rescue? Kidnapping? Prison break?

All of the above, perhaps.

When he finally dared emerge from his cocoon of dirty linens, he saw the sky outside the van’s rear windows had gone dark. They had been driving for hours, and the quality of the road had deteriorated in the last few miles.

The bins of laundry rattled on their wheels, frames creaking, as the tires took on some rough terrain. Then the whole cargo, Cyril included, lurched forward once and settled when the truck came to a halt.

The cab door opened and then shut, shaking the van on its axles. Cyril burrowed back into the sheets, still leery. The rear doors creaked open and a frigid wind blew in.

“Are ye back there, darling?” asked the driver, in a northern burr so thick it almost obscured the words.

Cyril stretched tentatively. A savage cramp dug claws into his shoulders, but in spite of it he raised his head above the linens again and said, “Darling?” He hadn’t exactly expected endearments.

In the smothering black of countryside night, he couldn’t make out the man’s expression. Not even his face. Couldn’t be sure it was really Ari.

Not until he said, “Oh, sorry, that en’t your name anymore. It’s van Weill now. Or, say rather, Wallis.”

“What?” he struggled out of the bin, shoes squelching. “Who’s Wallis? Ari, is that you?”

“Perdition,” said Aristide, before he dropped the act. “And here I thought I could still manage Currin if I put my mind to it. How are you feeling?”

“Like someone peeled me off their shoe.”

“You look it, too.” He held out a hand, which Cyril took as he stepped down from the bumper. Frost and gravel crunched beneath his shoes.