There in Bartholomew’s fabulous dining room we feasted on an exquisite dinner with seemingly endless courses, including Caesar salad, shrimp cocktail, and filet mignon. The only thing I didn’t touch was the escargot. After mouthwatering strawberry cheesecake, we spent two hours on a tour, going from room to room—two libraries, drawing rooms, dining rooms, an enormous kitchen and pantry, recreation rooms with pool tables and exercise equipment, an entertainment room with a huge screen, and an indoor swimming pool.

“There’s the sauna you dreamed of on the mountain,” Malaiki said, pointing and giggling.

We spent the night in gorgeous private bedrooms, each with its own bath. On Earth I’d always been a shower guy, never taking time for a bath. But now I stayed in the tub until the water started to get tepid, then turned on steaming hot water, soaking in the warmth, as if it were a commodity I might store up for the journey. I slept soundly, with no dread of noises in the night.

Over the next few days we swam in Bartholomew’s lake, fished in a gray cold river, and hunted with bows in one of his forests. I kept thinking how Quon would have loved the hunting.

“I could stay here forever,” Victoria said after dinner on our third evening.

“We must leave tomorrow,” Shad said. My heart sank.

“How about one more day?” Mr. Bartholomew asked. “You can ride my horses and see more of my estate.”

We all looked at Shad like little children at their father, begging with our eyes.

“All right, then,” he said with a slight smile, “but tomorrow will be our last night.”

We rose early, brimming with anticipation. Bartholomew led us to the stables, where we were greeted by dozens of horses. All the mounts were well-fed and most were frisky, front hoofs rising at our entrance.

“Choose your horse, Nick,” Bartholomew said to me. I looked past a proud pinto and a striking blood bay that reminded me of the one ridden by the mysterious girl in black. Then I fixed my eyes on a magnificent blue roan.

“That’s Megan,” he said.

A powerful white stallion, deep-chested and restless, reared up and whinnied. “He’s Pegasus.”

“And this is Missy.” He pointed to a lovely chestnut mare with a flaxen mane.

“What’s his name?” I asked, nodding at a dapple-gray Arabian with dished face, wide-set eyes, and a high tail set. Sleek and shiny, he was unusually large, at least sixteen hands, and built for strength, with powerful hindquarters. He eyed me, not the others, and blew air out his flared nostrils.

“Sauto. You’ve chosen well, Nick,” Bartholomew said, smiling. He’d read me right—I’d already picked him. “Sauto’s one of my most refined steeds. He’ll take you as far as you want to go—and farther.”