«No, Madame. This is not the prey I was waiting for. You caught him, you may keep him.»

So it would have gone, the many creatures of the house jeering through cracks and windows as the beast was dragged inside. Saladin does not whimper. Even here, blinded by gold and crystal, he had stayed as silent as a captured stag, but I could feel exhaustion in the arms which gripped me, like a drowning man clinging to life. «What is this, Mycroft?» he asked in rasping Greek. «It’s like another world.»

«I know.» I stroked him. Thirteen years my silence had bought him, thirteen more years free in our old illusion. How I had prayed this day might never come. «Bridger?» I whispered close to his ear.

«Alive. Safe.»

My heart beat easier. «And Tully Mardi? Please tell me you’ve killed Tully Mardi.»

Apology’s shudder half stifled his answer. «No.»

Madame sighed down at us, white wig curls playing across her shoulders. “And here I thought I’d keep the new pup, but if they’re a pair I suppose I must give both to Jehovah.”

“No need, Madame,” Dominic counseled. “Keep the new one if you wish. I’m sure Maître Jehovah would say Mycroft is enough for His needs.”

Her fan concealed her thoughts. “Perhaps.”

Even Dominic looks like a suppliant when he has to petition her for favors. «Madame, may I speak with the pair privately for a moment?»

«Certainly.» She floated back, hovering like a summer butterfly just out of whisper range.

Dominic crouched over me, producing from a pocket a small tablet, on which he summoned a scanned handwritten page in hasty ink, one I knew as well as my own face in the mirror. “Thou shouldst be more careful with thy holy relics,” he warned. “Apollo’s Iliad in the hands of a child?”

My breath caught. “Where’s the original?”

“The boy stole it back, along with my hostages, leaving behind only the pitter-patter of extremely tiny feet. I’m curious, didst thou pick the name Bridger, or did the little soldiers?”

Fear mixed with prayers of thanks within me that the boy and men were safe. “Bridger chose it himself.”

“Thou knowest, Mycroft, when I heard the great Apollo Mojave had left behind an unfinished novel I didn’t expect it to be… how can one put this delicately?”

“Terrible?” I volunteered. “Apollo was one of the busiest vocateurs on the planet, they didn’t have time to master writing, too.”

“Apparently not. Tactics, military history, weapons technology, combat, not writing—that’s strange for a Utopian. Or is it?” He leaned almost close enough to lick my ear. “Thy mate here wore a fascinating pelt when he was taken.”

Saladin’s eyes caught mine, offering silently to strike out at this enemy who stood within claw’s reach, but I shook my head. “What are you going to do with it, Dominic? It’s not to your advantage to break Caesar’s heart right now.”

I hate Dominic’s smile. “Done is done.”

In the pause, I heard voices at the far end of the room, tense and familiar; we weren’t alone: