“Minus a tooth or two,” Matthew answered, referring to his recent appointment with a deranged dentist in the employ of Mother Deare, who had been if not a competent member of his profession, then a more competent practitioner of torture.

“But,” Julian repeated, “you survived. And here you are, hunting another bear with a beard done up like flames and wearing the uniform of a naval admiral. Interesting how these things come around.”

“I don’t look for trouble,” Matthew said.

“Unlike me, you mean? Oh yes, some would say I do revel in the intoxicating musk of chaos and catastrophe. My father’s opinion, in particular.”

Matthew had not wished to pursue the matter, but the moment seemed right for a simple question. “What happened to your brother?”

Julian poured another quaff of mead into his coffee. He swirled the liquid around in the cup like God commanding the maelstrom.

“Paul,” Julian said at last, “is proof of what a cannon broadside and a deck of flying oak planks can do to the human body. You know, it’s not the cannonballs that kill the most in a sea battle … it’s the oak of the ship itself. Those planks … ripped up, turned into jagged spears … those things … spinning through the air at tremendous speeds … and a small shard, enough to take off a man’s head. A human body … the flesh and the muscle … it’s no match for the violence of a ship coming apart under its crew … slicing through and maiming the men who have loved her.” He took his drink. “Paul was an officer aboard the frigate Newport. On the fourteenth of July in the year 1696 … the battle of the Bay of Fundy, two ships of our gallant navy against two ships of the French. The Newport … well, you have seen who got the worst of that encounter.” He narrowed his eyes at Matthew. “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. But I do believe in Fate. Take that date, for instance … the fourteenth of July.”

“What of it?”

“Paul was destroyed on the fourteenth of July, 1696. I was born on the fourteenth of July, 1676, and my mother passed away four hours after my birth. Do you see Fate at work there?”

“I see terribly unfortunate circum—”

“Fate!” Julian shouted, and he slammed his fist down upon the table. Coffee jumped from both cups. Red whorls had surfaced in Julian’s cheeks, and Matthew thought it was the better part of valor—and common sense—to keep his mouth shut. Julian’s red-rimmed eyes had become nearly in themselves demonic. “Fate,” he repeated quietly, looking away from Matthew as if pulling back into the hidden chambers of himself once more.

After a time, Matthew cleared his throat and said, “July … Julian. You were named for the month?”

“The nurses named me,” he answered, and that was all.

There seemed nothing more to say. Matthew felt he was hanging onto this world by a bootstrap, and it was fraying fast. He took off his tricorn and the woolen cap and placed the cap upon the table as a makeshift pillow. Julian leaned back in his chair until he met the wall and with his legs stretched out before him he closed his eyes, but not before he first closed his hand around the scabbard.