The little phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket as if it were a tiny rodent come awake to plead for mercy. And I could hear Benji shouting as he ran towards the church.

“She is on the line,” cried Benji. “It is Kapetria.”

16

Derek

AIX-EN-PROVENCE

HE WASN’T FRIGHTENED anymore. Not now. Not with Kapetria holding him in her arms. He wasn’t frightened. Oh, how beautiful she was, his Kapetria, with her hair swept back into a braid pinned to her head, in her fine saffron silk blouse and sleek black skirt, legs sheathed in translucent black nylon, and feet so dainty in her high-heeled shoes, Kapetria here, the real Kapetria sprung to life in a cloud of French scent, her mouth rouged, and eyes as dark as the night sky above them. No, no longer afraid.

She kissed his tears, kissed his eyelids, made the others stop questioning him. “Quiet now, both of you! And to think, this is your brother, and after all this time, what do you do, but interrogate him?”

And indeed they had, as to how in the world he’d ever been held captive for all those precious years, and why hadn’t he done this to escape, and that to escape, and finally she had said,

“Welf and Garekyn, if I had a riding crop, I’d whip both of you.”

Dertu sat there on the long low modern couch with the most placid expression on his face, studying the others intently, never saying a word himself, just studying them as if he were learning marvelous things from their gestures, their expressions, their horrid questions.

No more fear. No more tears. Kapetria had her arms around him.