direction, then got out and walked the rest of the way, shivering despite the coat.
The concierge at the apartment building where Fairfax’s guardian lived smiled as she saw him. “Bonsoir, monsieur.”
He had used the apartment earlier as an on-site laboratory, and had given her the impression that he was a friend of the family. He nodded. “Bonsoir, madame. Is Monsieur Franklin at home?”
“Yes, monsieur. Such a lovely gentleman. He will be glad to see you, monsieur.”
Horatio Haywood was indeed overjoyed as he opened the door. But his smile wavered when he realized that Titus had come alone.
“She is fine,” Titus said quickly. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course. Do please forgive me, Your Highness.”
He was shown to the salle de séjour, with its enormous paintings of nonmages frolicking in the countryside. Haywood ran to the kitchen and came back with a tea service and plates of puff pastry with savory fillings.
The man would probably have gone to the kitchen again to fetch more things, but Titus bade him take a seat and recounted what had happened since they were all last in a room together: the real story behind Wintervale’s spectacular display of elemental power, their hasty departure from Eton, and their few but eventful days in the Sahara Desert.
“When I left earlier today she was safe and well, or at least as well as could be under the circumstances. And I trust that our friend is looking after her to the utmost of his considerable ability—although at any given moment she could be looking after him, for all we know. She is very good at keeping her friends alive and in one piece.”
“Fortune shield me,” murmured Haywood. “I was worried—I thought she would have come to see me again, but I never anticipated that so much could have happened.”
They were quiet for some time. “So you remember everything now?” asked Titus.
The older man nodded slowly. “Yes, sire.”
He would have been able to guess at Lady Callista’s betrayal, judging by what they had learned the day they found him at Claridge’s Hotel in London. But to be engulfed by a tide of memories, to remember the fervor of love that had driven him to lie, cheat, and steal for her only to be abandoned so completely—Titus could not imagine his anguish.
His regrets.
“I would like to ask you a question, if I may.”
“Certainly, sire.”
“I can piece together most of the story, even if the details are somewhat sketchy. But one part puzzles me. What is Commander Rainstone’s role in all this?”
Commander Rainstone was the crown’s chief security adviser. She had also, at one point, served under the late Princess Ariadne, Titus’s mother.
“You said she introduced you to Lady Callista,” Titus went on. “I understand Commander Rainstone comes from a humble background. How did she and Lady Callista become friends?”
“Oh,” said Haywood, taken aback. “You didn’t know, sire? Commander Rainstone and Lady Callista are half sisters.”
Iolanthe and Kashkari did not risk flying into Cairo, which had its share of mage Exiles. And where there was a substantial gathering of mage Exiles, there were informants and agents of Atlantis.
Nor did Kashkari want them to walk in each carrying a carpet. They had covered the distance from Luxor to Cairo on travel carpets, but they still had their battle carpets, which were much more substantial in thickness and could not be folded into tiny squares and shoved into pockets. He feared that even rolled up, those carpets might still signal their mage origins.
Instead he bought a donkey on the outskirts of the city and laid their battle carpets across the donkey’s back. He offered the donkey to Iolanthe, but she declined firmly: she’d much rather walk than wrestle with an unfamiliar beast.
So Kashkari rode and Iolanthe walked behind him, her face largely hidden beneath her keffiyeh. The buildings they passed were like none she had ever seen, with each story projecting farther out than the one immediately below. Two top-floor residents on opposite sides of a narrow street could almost embrace across what little distance remained between them.
Their destination was a clean and hospitable guest house. The proprietor embraced Kashkari and greeted him by name. Sweets and cups of coffee appeared as soon as they’d entered their room, followed by bowls of a delicious green soup and heaping plates of dolmas, which were grape leaves wrapped around a savory rice filling.
“You’ve been here before?” she asked Kashkari as they ate.
He nodded, reaching for a dolma. “My brother has been in the Sahara for a