He turned away from the children and pulled out a worn photograph from his coat pocket, the image now distorted from many creases. Love cracks, Gretchen would call them. A loved photo was carried, handled, and abused with affection. This one was a grainy image of a young boy, eleven or twelve years old—he’d forgotten exactly how old. Randall had finally settled into a comfortable routine at the castle. He had just given life to Willoughby and the look on his face was a priceless mix of wonder and pride. A smile couldn’t stretch any wider.

Coralis often thought back to his first encounter with the boy …

His trip to London had been unexpected. He had heard from a gem collector about a rare find and was set to enter the premises to negotiate a price when a small voice spoke from a nearby alley.

“I wouldn’t go in there, sir.” A pale, thin boy with unruly pitch-black hair showed himself but stayed to the shadows, where only Coralis could see him. Used to being accosted by the street urchins of London, Coralis was ready to move along when the boy did the most unusual thing. He wiggled both ears simultaneously.

“What’s that you’re doing, young man?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“Getting your attention, sir. And it worked.” The boy flashed a perfect smile of triumph.

“And why shouldn’t I go in there?”

The smile disappeared so quickly it might have been mistaken for an illusion. “He’s a fraud, sir. Has a couple-a goons. He’ll take your pounds and lay you up in the alley like the rest of ’em.”

“And did you warn the rest of them?”

“Course not, sir. They wasn’t you.”

“And I’m special, am I?”

“Oh, yes, sir! All gold around the edges!”

And that stopped Coralis in his tracks. The young boy was speaking about his aura. Only a person with extended age, experience, wisdom, and valor achieved a golden aura. And it took a very special person to be able to see it. “What is your name, son?”

“Randall Elliott Hawthorne at your service, sir.”

“Well, Randall, for starters, you can drop the act. You’re no more a street urchin than I am an opera singer.”

“Whew! Thanks for that. Do you know how hard it is to play that role?”

Coralis smiled. “Why don’t we go for a walk and you can tell me all about yourself.” For the next several hours, Randall talked, hardly taking a breath. He was ten years old—in an orphanage for the past two after his parents died in a freak accident while searching for something in the Himalayas.

“Some la-di-da thing,” he said sadly.

“What were their names?” asked Coralis.

“Evelyn and George Hawthorne, ‘last of the great explorers.’ That was Dad’s big joke. Guess the joke was on him.”