Lost Things

by Graham, Jo

  Alma started to her feet, a choked noise escaping from her throat, and Lewis came down the bank carefully. His eyes were dark.

  She came to him but did not embrace him, just stood forearm to forearm, looking into his face.

  "It's me," Lewis said. He took the amulet from his pocket and held it in his hand, unblemished steel shining with power. Beside it lay a red stone, carved carnelian. His voice was steady, almost dispassionate. "I buried him in the woods in the old grove, where the first altar was, the tablets with him. He was a French Marine. I don't know his real name." His eyes roved over Alma's face as Jerry and Mitch came up, Mitch's hand on his knife. "I buried him as king of the grove. That's what took so long. I dug the grave with my hands."

  Jerry swallowed.

  "Is that only Lewis?" Mitch asked.

  Jerry nodded and put his hand on Lewis', the amulet and stone between them. "Yes," he said. Lewis, marked with blood, with fading marks of power. "You are Her priest," he said.

  Lewis nodded. He looked at Alma, and his eyes were bright with pleading. "It was the only way," he said. "It was the only way for the story to work. Don't you see? The only way to fix it was to make it right."

  "Two men go into the wood," Jerry said. "And one returns Rex Nemorensis, Diana's priest." He looked up at the paling sky. "But Her grove is the world, and Her dominion far greater than this valley."

  Alma lifted one hand, put it against Lewis' cheek. He almost flinched, stilled himself with will. "You killed him."

  "Yes."

  Her eyes were on his. "And you are Hers for how long?"

  Mitch made a slight movement. He knew the answer, but Jerry gave him a warning look.

  "For the rest of my life," Lewis said gently. "And God willing that will be long."

  Jerry felt his eyes prickle. "Until She takes back what she has given," Jerry said. "Until She calls for the sacrifice. Until it is needed."

  Alma nodded, her gaze never moving from Lewis' face. "Ok," she said. She looked away, casting around at the valley. "Do you actually have to stay here? I mean, I like Italy, but…."

  "I don't think so," Lewis replied. "It's like Jerry said. Her grove is the world, and we are all within it, hunters and hunted alike."

  The rose flush of dawn crept higher, and a water bird took flight, long slow lazy strokes gliding over the lake. Jerry took the stone from Lewis' hand, held it up to the growing light. "Seal stone," he said. "Roman, probably second century." The carving was deep and sharp, clear as though it had been carved yesterday. A running hound.

  "I found it when I dug the grave," Lewis said. "I thought…."

  Jerry handed it back to him. "It's yours," he said. "Your office." His voice was oddly choked, and he cleared his throat. "We should get out of here before people start showing up for work."

  "Right," Mitch said. "Let's go."

  Jerry needed Alma's help to get down the bank, and she put her arm around his waist to do it. Mitch fell back beside Lewis, and Jerry heard what he said, though he spoke quietly. "I'll be here when the time comes," Mitch said.

  "I know," Lewis said, and there was certainty there.

  They came slowly down out of the hills in the swelling light, Jerry leaning heavily on his cane and whoever was closest to hand. Except Mitch, Alma saw with relief. Jerry managed himself so that it was always her or Lewis who took his weight, and that was a good thing. Mitch was looking gray, not bothering to hide the fist pressed into his belly, and she’d seen Lewis steady him when they thought she wasn’t looking. One more thing to deal with now that they had survived.

  The sun was not yet up beyond the rim of the hills, but the sky was bright, the last clouds fading to the west into the promise of a clear day. A beautiful day for flying, the air gentle, thermals on the hills and cooler air in the bowl of the lake. She’d seen the birds soaring yesterday, too high to be more than the flicked sketch of wings against the blue. They’d be up again today, riding the rising air, circling silent and uncaring over the bustle of the Prime Minister’s visit. And no one would faint, there would be no political shocks, no spreading scandal. All the things that might have happened now would not. She closed her eyes for a moment in silent thanks, then concentrated on keeping them moving together toward the road.

  The woods looked vastly different by daylight, but Lewis led them unerringly, down paths that at first were so faint that Alma barely recognized them as more than an occasional break in the undergrowth, and then by wider tracks that had been made by human feet, and finally at last onto the rutted track that led to where they had left the car. The sun was up at last, just breaching the ring of the hills, and Alma paused to take stock.

  They looked better than they had after the airship crash, but that wasn’t saying much. There was mud on the knees of Jerry’s trousers, and on the elbows and cuffs of his well-cut jacket. Mitch was muddy, too, and disheveled, but Lewis…. She grimaced, and he met her eyes with a apologetic shrug. He was frankly filthy, and in the rising light, some of the stains showed rusty brown. She doubted she looked much better herself, crumpled and water-stained. At least the car would hide the worse of their disarray, and there was a back entrance to the penzione from the old stables where they’d been told to leave the car.

  “We need to keep moving,” she said, more for the sound of a human voice than because they didn’t know it, and Jerry dredged a smile from somewhere.

  “Thank God for modern transportation.”

  He made easier progress on the road, and now it was Mitch who lagged behind. Alma watched him out of the corner of her eye, saw him disappear into the woods for a moment and return wincing. It was the old trouble, then, and that meant they’d have to find a doctor sometime soon.

  The car was where they had left it, pulled neatly off the pavement into the shadow of the pines. Alma rested her hand on the door, still chill with dew, and waited for the others to come up. Jerry couldn’t drive, of course, and Lewis needed to be hidden —

  “I’ll drive,” Mitch said.

  She drew breath, ready to protest, and he smiled.

  “Come on, Al, three guys, and you’re driving? That’s asking for the Carabinieri to take notice.”

  And Jerry couldn’t drive, and Lewis needed to be hidden. Alma gave a reluctant nod. “You’re right. But — take it easy, will you?”

  “Trust me,” Mitch said, and she almost believed him.

  The back seat was narrow, a struggle for Jerry, but once they were in, it was hard to see past the round rear windows. Jerry had taken off his jacket, handed it to Lewis, who flung it over himself like a blanket. They might pass for travelers, Alma thought, living rough. She took her place at Mitch’s side, and waited while he coaxed the engine to life. They waited, letting the car warm up, and Alma tipped her face to the sun, relaxing for what seemed like the first time since they’d left Los Angeles. She could almost sleep now, safe here, all of them safe for now….

  “Al?” Mitch said, and she shook herself awake.

  “I’m ready if you are.”

  “Ok,” he said, and slid the car into gear.

  There wasn’t much traffic on the road at this hour. They were behind the milkman, Alma guessed, and ahead of even the first workmen, though as Mitch swung the car onto the main lake road, they passed a farm cart piled with hay. And then they were at the crossroads, where the pilgrim road came down from Rome, and a man in a dark uniform and a bicorn hat worn crossways held up a hand to stop them.

  “Carabinieri,” Jerry said quietly, to Lewis, and Alma saw Lewis slump down further beneath the concealing jacket.

  Mitch downshifted, bringing the car to a smooth stop, and rolled down his window. “Is there a problem?”

  The man looked down his nose and didn’t deign to answer, but a second policeman moved back from the intersection. He was carrying a carbine in white-gloved hands. “The Prime Minister is coming,” he said. “The road is temporarily closed.”

  “Oh,” Mitch said. “All right, then. Thank you.”


  He left the window down, and Alma could hear already the sound of engines, coming rapidly closer. Across the road, a third policeman had stopped another cart and a pair of young women on bicycles; another bicycle stopped behind their car, and then a battered canvas-topped truck. The engines were louder now. She could make out motorcycles, the deeper note of several heavy cars. And then the first of the motorcycle escort flashed into view, more dark uniforms and polished boots and gauntlets. The Carabinieri snapped to attention, arms extended in the Roman salute, and the first of the three cars slid by. It was followed by an open car, and in it sat a man in uniform, jaw jutting proudly, the sunlight glinting from a chest spangled with medals.

  “That’s him,” Jerry said, leaning forward.

  We were in time, Alma thought. We did it — Lewis did it, at a cost I don’t want to think about. But — we did what we came to do.

  “He’ll go to Nemi,” Jerry said, softly, as though he’d read her thought, and the same tired wonder was in his voice. “He’ll look at the finds, and he’ll make a speech, and he’ll go back to Rome none the wiser.”

  A third car roared past, and a fourth, smaller: a press car, Alma guessed, and shook her head. Dust hung in the air behind it, hazy in the morning light. The policeman checked the road, then motioned them impatiently across. Mitch put the car into gear, and eased forward.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The warm morning sunlight danced on the cobblestones of the terrace of the Hotel St. Charles in Paris. Alma sipped her café au lait, sweet and rich with cream, her forearms resting on the edge of the white clothed table. Hotel St. Charles had been built in the 18th century as a private house, and no doubt in that day this had been the stable yard, but now it had been converted into a lovely outdoor dining area surrounded on three sides by the hotel. An ancient elm tree made up the fourth side, spreading its limbs over the courtyard, while palms in pots created secluded seating areas. It was late morning, but she and Lewis were nearly the only patrons.

  Lewis took his coffee black. Freshly shaved and washed, his hair combed like Valentino, he looked quite handsome. If there was a shadow in his eyes, it was less than it had been. The awesome weight seemed to sit on him less heavily every day. Perhaps he was just growing used to it, or perhaps Diana had nothing she demanded of him at present, and so her power and her favor rested lightly upon him, an ordinary seeming man of thirty nine, good looking and a little shy.

  "It was nice of Henry to spring for the hotel," Lewis said. "I mean, under the circumstances."

  "Under the circumstances that we saved his life, prevented the complete ruination of his business, and haven't gotten him indicted for murder?" Alma asked. "Yes, under the circumstances paying for the hotel was nice of him."

  "It wasn't Henry's fault," Lewis said fairly. "It could have happened to anybody. It didn't seem right to rat him out when he couldn't prevent what was happening."

  "I know." Alma took another sip of her coffee. "Henry's not guilty of anything except the unwise decision to go after Davenport alone, and he feels responsible for everything that happened anyway." She put the cup down with a sigh. "Sûreté seems to have decided that it was an anarchist plot against capitalists. Which I suppose makes as much sense as anything else. Jerry and Mitch are having one more meeting with Inspector Colbert, and then perhaps they'll be satisfied."

  Lewis shook his head, looking around the pretty dining area. "It seems so unreal."

  "Everything that happened?"

  "No, this." Lewis gave her a rueful smile. "That seems like the realest thing in the world." He reached across the table to take her hand, his eyes on her fingers as though he dreaded to look at her face. "Alma. I can't ask you to go through this again, through losing someone like that. I'm a marked man, and…."

  "Let me be the judge of what I can take," Alma said tartly. She closed her eyes, closed her fingers in his, searching for the words. "I know you're hers. I know She can take you at any time, call for the sacrifice to be made. But it's no difference, do you see?" She opened her eyes. "You and Mitch are in the Reserves. You could be called out any time for mountain search and rescue or for a disaster. Or God help us if there's ever another war, though maybe we're done with that for our lifetimes! You're already on call, and I already accept that, just as you accept my oaths. I know Diana will take you, sooner or later when the time comes. But I can't think about that and worry about that, not anymore than I can about the other. There's plenty of time to mourn when the time comes."

  Lewis closed his eyes, his fingers tightening around hers. "I love you so much. You know that."

  "I was beginning to guess," Alma said. Unexpectedly, tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. "I love you too."

  "Well," Lewis said. He swallowed. "I suppose the lodge isn't so hard to accept next to that." He looked up at her. "You make a great Magister."

  Alma smiled. "Thank you," she said, oddly touched. "So you'll stick around then?"

  Lewis squeezed her fingers. "I think I'll stick around."

  Mitch made his way down the stone steps outside the Sûreté, pausing on the sidewalk to wait for Jerry and Henry. They were still arguing over something, Jerry with his cane in his hand, the mended leg braced against the marble, Henry with his hat pushed back on his head and both hands in his pockets. With his neatly trimmed beard and curling hair, he looked a bit like a bull at bay, and Mitch looked away to hide his grin. Henry’d been through hell, it wasn’t fair to laugh at him. And his story of saboteurs, farfetched as it must have sounded, at least offered something like an explanation for the crash. It had also made the aviateurs américains who’d kept Independence from a worse wreck into heroes for a day, and incidentally offered an explanation for their disappearance from the crash scene. He wasn’t sure Inspector Colbert really believed the story, but it was a better set of headlines for Sûreté than anything else that was likely to come out of that mess.

  He arched his back slightly, feeling the scars pull: painful, but not nearly as bad as they had been. Alma’d been right, a few days of actual rest had stopped the bleeding entirely, and allowed new scars to form. And, all right, there had been a consultation with a first-class medical man, who’d examined him to be sure none of the fragments still in him were working their way toward anything life-threatening, and then shrugged and said that monsieur knew perfectly well what to do to take care of himself, and perhaps should try those things instead of racing about the countryside chasing anarchists. He wasn’t in perfect shape yet, but by the time they got home, he’d be perfectly capable of flying. They’d collect the Terrier at Flushing, head back to Colorado Springs by easy stages….

  Jerry was working his way cautiously down the stairs, and Mitch straightened. “Everything settled?”

  “It seems to be,” Jerry answered. “I’m not sure Inspector Colbert fully believed us, but there won’t be any repercussions.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t believe us,” Henry said. “I don’t believe it, and I — came up with it.”

  Mitch glanced over his shoulder, but there was no one in earshot, and Henry had spoken English anyway. “Well, I can’t see the inspector going for the real story.”

  Jerry grinned. “No, ‘possessed by a demon’ isn’t going to look good on his books. Anarchists are much better.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch saw a grimace cross Henry’s face. It wasn’t fair to make light of what he’d been through: half his crew dead at his own hand, his airship wrecked, his company damaged God only knew how badly, most of all the guilt of knowing it was all his fault, one bad choice.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked, and Henry gave a flickering smile.

  “I have reparations to make, that’s for sure. And a lot of work to do — and undo, for that matter. But I’ll be fine.” He paused, and lifted his hand for a passing taxi. “And speaking of which, if you’ll excuse me….”

  “Of course,” Mitch said, and watched him
drive away.

  Jerry shook his head. “I have no idea how he manages —”

  “He’s paid for what he did,” Mitch said, shortly, and Jerry gave him a look.

  “And he’ll keep on paying, I know.” He sighed. “Back to the hotel?”

  It wasn’t a long walk, the sun warming the air, releasing the fragrance of the flowers in every windowbox and front-door urn. Alma and Lewis were still in the courtyard, finishing a last cup of coffee, and Mitch was glad to see the look of peace on Lewis’s face. And Alma — there was an ease there he hadn’t seen since Gil died.

  “How did it go?” she asked, and Lewis waved the waiter over.

  They all ordered more coffee, and Mitch leaned back in his chair, feeling the new scars stretch and pull. “Well. The Sûreté has pretty much decided that it was anarchists, and will pursue that line if possible. And we are free to go home whenever we like.”

  “Yes, but how?” Lewis asked. “I mean, none of this is coming cheap —”

  Jerry reached into his pocket and tossed a thick envelope onto the table. “We have tickets on the Bremen. Courtesy of Henry.”

  Alma opened the envelope and looked up sharply. “First class?”

  “That’s pushing it,” Mitch said.

  Jerry shoved his glasses up further onto his nose. “Henry tried to throw me out of the window of his airship,” he said. “I think first class passage, and on a first class ship, is only fair.”

  “Bremen,” Lewis said thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the one with the mail plane on board?”

  “Henry did suggest we might take a look at it for him,” Jerry admitted.

  “Oh, Jerry.” Alma looked down at the tickets and slid them back into their envelope.

  Something rustled in the branches above their head. Mitch squinted up into the sun-sparked leaves, but couldn’t find the source. He looked at the others, Lewis watching Alma with the faintest of smiles on his face, Alma frowning at the envelope, obviously calculating the best way to meet the boat, Jerry lighting a cigarette, long face at last relaxed. “It’ll be good to get home,” he said.