Brans smiles and pats Arthur’s shoulder. He turns to leave. “Siaka, there’s a manuscript in the library that Gaspard thought you and I should have a look at.”

“Let’s go,” Siaka agrees. And without giving me so much as a glance, he follows his uncle out of the room.

Chapter Thirteen

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable if you’re going to be babysitting me?” Arthur suggests. He nods toward an overstuffed armchair across the room. I drag it near the bed and try to sit in a way that I can hold the notebook on my knee while trying to still look somewhat competent—I want to nail my very first job in La Maison. But the chair’s so deep and cushy that I finally give up and scoot back, fold up my legs, and let it envelop me.

Arthur eats a few more things from the tray, then leans back and closes his eyes. I read in the notebook’s previous entries that Bran and Siaka have tried four variations of potions on Arthur over the last few years. Side effects have ranged from temporary blindness (only temporary because the next time Arthur was dormant, his body reset and reanimated with sight intact) to the humiliating hair loss Bran mentioned. From the dates, it looks like Bran spaces out treatments by at least six months. Probably to measure long term effects—whether negative or positive.

I flip through to some sections further back listing non-medicinal treatments they’ve tried. Acupuncture, meditation, aromatherapy... “Thermal baths?” I ask incredulously.

Arthur opens his eyes, sees what I’m reading, and smiles. “Yeah, that was one of my favorites. Gaspard arranged a one-month stay in Ischia.” Noting my lack of recognition, he explains. “It’s a volcanic island off the coast of Italy. Famous for the healing hot springs on its beaches.”

“Wow. That must have been really difficult for you,” I say with mock pity.

“Yeah, even more difficult because I convinced my girlfriend—I mean, Georgia—to come with me.” He grins slyly.

“Definitely better than cat-piss flavored potion,” I agree. “So, are you not supposed to use the label ‘girlfriend’?”

Arthur leans his head back, as if the mere subject exhausts him, but his grin remains. “Georgia is Georgia. She isn’t my girlfriend because she isn’t anyone’s anything, as she likes to put it.”

“But, from what Siaka says, you’re doing all these...” I gesture to the notebook, “...experiments for her.”

“That is true.” Arthur’s smile dissipates. “But then, I would do anything for her.” No more joking around. Now he’s one hundred percent earnest.

“Let me get this right.” I lean forward out of my chair-cocoon. “You’re how old?”

“I was born in 1472.”

“So, you’re over five hundred,” I say. “I thought the desire to die grows less over the years. That bardia like you...”

“Us geriatrics?”