People spoke of the damage from the sandstorm and of its wondrous works, flinging up from its hidden depths the very partner of the sandal Dr. Lightner had found in a tomb. Strat could not quite hear. The winds of Time spun through his ears and thoughts and made him deaf.

He became aware that his father was speaking, almost courteously. His father seemed to be apologizing. Strat stared at his parent.

“I have judged you wrongly,” said Hiram Stratton, Sr. “You are not a thief.”

Around them, in this necropolis, more generations of fathers and sons were on display than anywhere on earth. Here had a thousand generations loved and hated. And what was Strat's destiny? To love or to hate?

“I wish you to come home with me,” said Hiram Stratton, Sr., “and be my son.”

“You said that once before, Father,” said Strat softly. “When you snatched me from school and put me in an insane asylum.”

“I was wrong,” said his father.

Neither Strat nor any other person had ever heard those words from the mouth of Hiram Stratton, Sr. Strat was touched beyond measure that his father would make such an effort, such an admission. Could it be? he thought. Could my father and I be at peace? Could that be the gift of Time?

Not Annie, but my father? My family? Those I want so badly to love and cannot?

CAMILLA

Camilla Matthews was looking at Hiram Stratton, Sr. She was looking at evil.

Good people, because they are good, want to believe in good. She saw Strat wanting to believe that his father was good. Leaning into the hope that his father cared for him after all. Would welcome him home. Would love him.

How the world was driven by love. This was a desperate love; a son's love.

Hiram Stratton was gloating, revenge within his reach. Camilla understood because she, too, was a friend of revenge. This was a man who excelled at cheating and pretending and convincing all around him to believe his untruths.

Camilla said softly, “Strat, there is a place for you in the British war. Go south. Vanish again. Use a different name. Carry on in a different life.” She took his hand and turned him and gave him a slight shove toward the south.

Far away, as if somebody at that very moment were painting her on a gold background, Camilla could almost make out a shadowy girl in a white gown. “Go, Strat,” said Camilla softly and insistently. “Go, and I will give you time.”

Strat stared into Camilla's eyes. “You were sent by Time?”

“Go,” she said, and he went.

Hiram Stratton, Sr., opened his huge maw to bellow after his son.

Camilla caught the sleeve of the man's jacket. He weighed far more than she, but she was taller and her touch startled him, and he paused.

“It is not your son, at this moment, who matters, Mr. Stratton.”