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Mirabelle’s brow furrowed. “Physically, he should heal. I just hope the exposure to sunlight didn’t damage his eyes. But I’m more concerned about his mental state. He’s incoherent, virtually insensate. Something’s very wrong here, Eminence.”

Fanule glanced up. “I can see that.”

“He can’t keep wandering around in the daytime. Sooner or later he’ll either vaporize or be burnt to a crisp. It’s a hideously painful end for a vampire.”

Fanule knew that, too, and his stomach cramped at the thought. “Is Simon putting himself at risk by feeding Clancy?” Once he got the fire-tube boiler going, he rose from the ground and brushed off his clothing.

“If he keeps it up too long, yes. He’ll become weak and anemic. And he can’t let Clancy’s teeth sink into his flesh. I explained all that to him before I left the house, but I can’t be sure he was listening. He’s utterly distraught.”

“I’ll remind him, Belle.”

In addition to his grief at the thought of losing Clancy, Simon was in an agony of self-recrimination.
“Me and my stupid fucking ultimatums,”
he’d earlier said.
“I forced him to put his life in danger by doubting him. He has nothing to prove to me or anybody, Perfidor. What was I thinking? What the fucking hell is wrong with me?”
Fanule had done his best to assuage Simon’s guilt, but his assurances hardly came from a place of authority. If William were to suffer any harm, all gods forbid, Fanule knew he’d also blame himself. And he’d have every reason to.

Hell, he’d want to flay himself alive.

The OMT began to howl as its steam pressure built.

“What a remarkable fellow Mr. Bentcross is,” Mirabelle said. “Precious few people would cut themselves open night after night to save the life of a vampire.”

“He’s in love, Belle.”

She smiled wanly and approached the OMT. “Indeed he is.”

“How long can Simon safely feed Clancy?” Fanule asked as Mirabelle tucked her bag, then herself, inside her transport. “And how much?”

She checked the transport’s gauges and pulled a lever before looking up at Fanule. “While Clancy’s sedentary, he’ll need considerably less blood than usual. That’s one thing Mr. Bentcross can be grateful for. The other is that he can turn to animal blood, although he can’t mix his own with it. So if he limits himself to giving up a tablespoon every other day and alternates those feeds with a cup from another warm-blooded creature, he’ll be all right.” Before Mirabelle released the brake on her transport and put it in gear, she added, “Dear goddess, I hope Betty gets here soon. She knows so much more than I.”

A
S
SOON
as Fanule reentered Simon’s cottage, he voxed his own house. There was no answer. Which meant there was no William.

Why would he not have returned? Mrs. Scrubb had surely told him Mr. Perfidor had come looking for him. Or had she already retired for the night when William got back to the boardinghouse?

Fanule checked his watch. It was too late to vox Mrs. Scrubb.

To the lullaby of Simon’s soft snoring as he slept on the floor beside the bed, Fanule stoked the fire, then settled onto the sofa to read.

The last thing he heard before drifting off was Simon’s voice, tender and cajoling. “Please, Clancy, try to open your eyes. It’s safe now. It’s nighttime. Please, sweetheart, just let me see those beautiful blue eyes.”

William had blue eyes, too.

F
ANULE
AWOKE
before dawn to muted thumping and rattling. Stiffly, he rose from the sofa in Simon’s parlor. Awareness of William’s absence and Marrowbone’s condition hit him like the rapid onset of a life-threatening illness.

He glanced at the mantel clock as heavy footsteps crossed the kitchen. A chair scraped across the floor. Simon must have just settled Clancy in the cellar, for sunrise was roughly an hour away.

Bentcross lifted his head from his hands and glanced over his shoulder when Fanule entered the room. A lone lamp’s feeble light licked away some of the darkness.

“How is he today?” Fanule asked.

“The same.” Simon sounded hoarse, drenched with exhaustion. “I laid an oilcloth on the dirt to keep his dressings clean, put a tarpaulin over the doors to keep out any light. The sky looks cloudy, no moon or stars, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Then he should be all right.” Fanule poked about the kitchen in search of food and coffee. As eager as he was to vox Mrs. Scrubb and inquire about William, he had to look after Simon. “Now you need to start taking care of yourself if you want to take care of Clancy properly.”

“You’re right.”

Sluggishly, Simon lifted himself from the chair, but Fanule put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and eased him back down.

“I’ll make us breakfast. Then I have to leave and you have to get more sleep. I’ll check with you later.”

Simon nodded. “Is he going to die?” His breath hitched, but he kept himself from weeping.

All Fanule could bring himself to say was “No,” abruptly and unequivocally, although he wasn’t entirely convinced. He repeated Mirabelle’s instructions, all cautions included, as he began to prepare their meal.

Simon’s kitchen was smaller than Fanule’s but well stocked with food. They were able to feast on fried eggs and potatoes, sliced ham and bread. They both gulped coffee sweet with sugar and rich with cream.

Lost in their own thoughts, they didn’t speak.

A shade less glum, Simon cleared the table. “Have you gotten Will back yet?” he asked, as if William had been lost or stolen.

Sick worry crept through Fanule’s chest. “No. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

Simon caught Fanule’s gaze with his sad brown eyes. “Keep trying, Perfidor. You don’t want to end up feeling the way I feel. Believe me.”

“Then you won’t mind if I use your vox.”

Tiredly, with a tic of a smile, Bentcross lifted a hand toward the parlor.

Mrs. Scrubb sounded breathless when she answered. “Oh, Eminence, I’m so glad you called.” Her voice spiraled through the air. Suddenly Fanule felt he was in a room packed with razor-sharp tin coils, jigging around his head. Already he knew something was wrong. “Mr. Marchman didn’t dine with us last night, and he’s missed breakfast two mornings in a row. I finally peeked inside his rooms. Everything looks the same as it did yesterday when you were here.”

“I’m coming right over.”

Heart thudding, Fanule dashed through the kitchen. “Bentcross, I have to go. William’s disappeared.”

F
ANULE
STOPPED
at home to drink his tonic, wash up, and change clothes. Every room was dim and cold and empty. Five notes had been dropped through the recently installed mail slot. When Fanule had gone back to working as a stonemason, he’d come home to find messages tucked around the door or lodged in the shrubbery. Villagers weren’t accustomed to the Eminence being unavailable.

The frustration level of Doder Cormorand and the Rumpitons was building. Their loved ones’ conditions hadn’t improved, and the man responsible had made himself scarce.
Do something!
both notes shrieked between the lines.

If Zofen didn’t turn up within the next couple of days and Betty’s gazing box yielded no clues, Fanule might have to work with Purinton officials to organize a search. With enough balloons and aeropods in the sky, and horses and transports on the ground, the gleaming, lumbering Spiritorium would surely be spotted. Even if Zofen had found a barn or warehouse in which to secret his wagon, he couldn’t keep it there forever.

First, though, came William. As Fanule put Cloudburst’s feedbag and a sack of oats into his saddlebags, he thought with bitter irony that if he’d always put William first, this dear young man would now be safe and sound and at his side. He would help with Fanule’s search rather than be the primary focus of it.

What could reasonably account for his absence?
Fanule wondered as he made his way to the boardinghouse. Surely there were mundane explanations. The most logical was that he’d leased a horse and wagon because he’d decided to combine his job search with a stop at the Mechanical Circus. He still had things to pick up at the Gutter, and he had his caravan to sleep in should he want to linger in Purinton for more than a day.

Purinton. Where there were many handsome young twors. And public houses and hotels of every sort. And a person could be anonymous.

Fanule’s stomach hurt at the thought.

No, no, William isn’t a profligate. He would never….

Why not? He’s young and hot-blooded, and hasn’t received any intimate attention in….

Stop it! Just find him!

Fanule pulled up to the boardinghouse rail and outfitted Cloudburst with the feedbag. His OMT, still in the adjacent lot, hadn’t been moved. He bounded up the porch steps and through the door. The sun was up now, the air crisp and glassy-bright, and Fanule fleetingly hoped Simon Bentcross was sleeping rather than fussing with the canvas over his cellar doors. It was heart-rending to see that stalwart, happy-go-lucky man so beaten down by grief and worry.

“He’s still not here?” Fanule asked Mrs. Scrubb, who’d immediately come out of her makeshift office when he’d banged through the door.

Looking a bit guilty, she shook her head. “If Mr. Marchman isn’t back at your place, I’ve no idea where he could’ve gone. Then again, I’ve no business knowing, do I? He’s not a child. I could be making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Gazing blankly down the hallway, Fanule stood with one hand on his hip as he rubbed his forehead with the other. He’d have to go the Circus next, not only to look for William but maybe to talk to that boy, Leander Wadsworth. He’d seen and heard
something
on the night following the flea market.

“Mrs. Scrubb,” he said without forethought, “I need to find someone who knew my father.”

“Your father,” she repeated in a tone Fanule couldn’t interpret.

“Yes. And quickly. I need to find someone as soon as possible.”

“Major and I knew your father. And your mother.”

Of course! They were old enough. Better yet, Elva Scrubb, although a dear, helpful soul, had been a busybody as long as Fanule could remember.

“Let’s have a seat in the dining room,” she said. “I’ve just cleared the table. It’ll be easier on my old bones to fetch refreshments if we’re close to the kitchen.”

“That’s fine.” Fanule followed Mrs. Scrubb down the hall.

“Coffee? Tea?” she asked as they turned right into the dining room. “Never mind. I’ll bring both.”

Fanule sat hunched over the table, his hands clasped, his mind tossing around a hundred different thoughts. He pushed most them into the background and concentrated on matters of immediate concern, like the fastest way to get to the circus. If he traveled east for a bit through Howling Wood, which wasn’t far from the boardinghouse, he could cut south to Crosstown High Road, then proceed directly southeast to the circus. The last thing he wanted to do was wend his way through the clogged and reeking streets of Purinton.

“Do you want to know why Mercy left?” Mrs. Scrubb said as she set a tray on the table. After pouring coffee for Fanule and tea for herself, she sat across from him. She must’ve been contemplating his interest in Zofen while she was in the kitchen, and she must’ve decided that Fanule’s mother was worthier of discussion. She did seem a bit irked.

“I believe I know,” he answered, not having the heart to tell her it was Zofen who interested him.

“She blamed herself for your ear-cropping. She felt like a failure as a mother because she couldn’t protect you. Every time she saw what those monsters at T and J had done, it went through her like a sword. She couldn’t bear to look at your injuries day in and day out.”

Since this was more a reminder than a revelation, only the smallest lump formed in Fanule’s throat. He easily swallowed it away. “You don’t have to exonerate her. I knew what a difficult time she was having. Besides, I was an adult by then. It wasn’t as if she was deserting a child.” Regardless of his mother’s flight, he’d never doubted that she loved him. And he was certain she’d find him again when she felt ready. “It’s Zofen who’s a mystery to me,” he said, steeling himself.

“Didn’t Mercy ever tell you about him?”

Fanule shook his head. “My mother refused to talk about my father. Most of what I knew came from Master Pebblesworth at school.” All students had to study Mongrel or “Out-dweller” history and personal genealogy. Zofen Perfidor had evidently been Taintwell’s official historian. Pebblesworth admired him, so of course his name had come up.

Fanule remembered how confused as well as intrigued he’d been, hearing about a father who was nothing more to him than a rumor—and one his mother refused to acknowledge.

Mrs. Scrubb sighed as she folded her arms on the table. “May I speak plainly?”

“I want you to.”

“All right. Do you know your father was considered a great scholar?”

“I do, but nothing beyond that. Aside from the lineage we share.”

“Yes, Quam Khar origin. Zofen didn’t have much human in him, but there were some other ancient races.”

Jaunty footsteps, those of a spry young man, sounded from the stairs. It was all Fanule could do to remain seated. He wanted to bolt into the hallway and assess his potential rival, for surely that was the drummer William had mentioned in his journal.

Fanule forced his attention back to the conversation as the house’s front door jingled open and thumped shut. “Did you and your husband have occasion to socialize with my parents?”

Mrs. Scrubb sipped the tea she’d poured for herself. “Mercy and I visited on occasion, but the four of us? Probably not more than twice. Zofen’s ratio as well as his intelligence made him think rather highly of himself. He was arrogant and aloof. Major thought Zofen believed he was a ‘superior being.’”

“Did other people think that too?”

“Yes, but nobody much cared what Zofen thought of himself. Nobody much liked him. Except our former schoolmaster.” The widow blushed at her bluntness.