But it’s always if, isn’t it? Sophronius would scream blue murder if he were ever to read my manuscript. But there are fifteen stairs to the room where I’m now sitting. I’ve counted them many times for myself. Many more the times I’ve counted the heavy tread of Sophronius as he’s passed up and down them. Later today, as he passes down them with my immense heap of papyrus in a box that I know he will insist on carrying by himself, he will reach the seventh stair. When I’ve pulled hard on the length of twine that snakes so unobtrusively from the stairs into this room, I promise that he will never set foot on the eighth. Two really can keep a secret, if one be dead.
I haven’t seen my dear, young Theodore in over a month. But, when I stand behind him at the funeral, whispering into his ear, will he really be able to resist the matchless eloquence of the Magnificent Alaric, his adoptive though somewhat estranged father? I’ll lay a bet with you, gentle reader – the next chapter of my story will be written in Jarrow.
Oh, you just wait and see!
The Ghosts of Athens (Aelric) Page 46
