"You are free of all such distractions at present. Try to enjoy the journey, Meg." As she picked up her Amelia Edwards, I rummaged through my bag in search of a book for myself. I had taken Philip's copy of King Solomon's Mines from the bedroom at Ashton Hall and soon was engrossed in Mr. Haggard's story of adventure in Africa. Presently Meg asked if I was hungry and produced a spectacular picnic lunch, which I invited Andrew and Arthur to share with us. They appeared as unsettled at the prospect of dining with my maid as she was at eating in the company of gentlemen, but I did not pay them any notice.

Soon we reached Dover, whence a steamer would take us to Calais. Meg's face was still tinged green when, hours later, we boarded a train to Paris. My thoughts of calm seas of course had no effect on the Channel, which was at its choppiest, taking away any hope poor Meg might have had for a pleasant crossing. Andrew and Arthur fared no better than my maid; I alone did not fall sick on the ship. My companions staggered onto the train and were all asleep within moments of our departure from the station, leaving me to my reading. Rather than return to King Solomon's Mines, I turned instead to my Greek grammar. I had spent sadly little time on my academic pursuits while preparing for my journey and did not want to fall hopelessly behind. After passing nearly half an hour staring blankly at a passage I could not focus on enough to translate, I opened Philip's journal. I had already read the parts that pertained to myself but now wanted to peruse it in its entirety. The volume I carried with me spanned a period from the year before our engagement through the time of Philip's disappearance. I hoped that reading it would provide me with a greater insight into the character of my husband.

The early entries in the volume had been written in Africa and chronicled what evidently was a thoroughly satisfactory hunt. For over a month, Philip, Colin, and their fellows stalked more types of prey than I care to remember. Colin appeared to have spent more time trekking through the countryside than hunting, for which I admired him. Philip was in his element, tracking prey and planning strategies; he filled page after page describing the process in maddening detail. Clearly he loved what he was doing. I, however, found the topic rather boring and had a difficult time doing more than skimming the pages. I was thankful when the party eventually returned to Egypt, where they played tourist for another month. Philip's descriptions of the monuments of Egypt were not particularly inspiring, but for this I could forgive him. Greece, not the land of the pharaohs, was the area of his expertise.

I closed the book and gazed out the window as the train ripped through the French countryside. It had been very easy to fall in love with Philip when I believed him to be dead. Looking at his journal brought to mind the reasons I had never been interested in him in the first place; hunting encompassed a terribly large part of him, and it did not interest me in the least. How would I feel next year if he wanted to leave me home for three months while he cavorted around Africa?

I shook off these troubling thoughts and continued to read. Philip had spent the spring in London; this was the time during which we met. Rereading these passages dissipated my melancholy, and once again my heart filled with ardor for the man who had written so beautifully as he fell in love with me. I found mention of the Judgment of Paris vase and an account of his decision to purchase both it and another vase. To this point there had been not a word of anything that I could interpret as underhanded or suspicious in the least. The only surprising revelation was the fact that he'd brought to the villa an English cook. Despite his love of the Greek countryside, he did not fully embrace the culture.

To this day it distresses me to admit it, but reading Philip's journal in detail proved rather tiring; I began skimming again. Our engagement, a trip to Santorini, another African safari, our wedding, our wedding trip, flew past me in short order. After considerable deliberation he donated the Paris vase to the British Museum shortly before our wedding and did not write about it again. It was just as Mr. Murray had told me. I skipped ahead to Philip's last entries, which unfortunately gave me none of the information I had hoped to find. He spoke of Colin in the warmest of terms, even in his account of their final argument.


"Achilles heard, with grief and rage oppress'd; / His heart swell'd high, and labour'd in his breast. / Distracting thoughts by turns his bosom ruled..." Hargreaves cannot understand what I am doing, and we argued bitterly, but of course he supported me in the end, as he always does. Nonetheless, I shall not let him be my Patroclus.


I wasn't entirely sure what that last phrase meant. Did it suggest that, although they were friends, he would not consider Colin to be as close to him as Patroclus was to Achilles? Or was Philip attempting to protect Colin, by not accepting an offer of assistance? Achilles allowed Patroclus to fight for him, and his friend died in battle. Although I could not make complete sense out of Philip's statement, I could not but think that it must pertain somehow to the forgeries.

Philip was buying stolen antiquities; that much was certain. Perhaps Colin was the one who had them copied and removed the originals from the museum. Philip, after our marriage, may have decided to stop his nefarious activities and told Colin that he would no longer be a buyer. He may have gone a step further and told Colin to stop the thefts altogether, giving him the opportunity to reform himself. Colin, unwilling to abandon a profitable enterprise, would have argued with Philip, not comprehending why his friend had suddenly changed his feelings about their activities. This made sense to me. Marriage would make a gentleman more aware of the importance of his code of ethics and morals. The two friends may have started down their illegal path together by letting a joke or a challenge go too far. Philip recognized that the time had come to stop; Colin was not ready. His friend, although they had been close for years, would never be his Patroclus.

None of this was of much concern to me at the present; before long I would be reunited with Philip and insist that he reveal everything, but I liked trying to decipher the puzzle. I wondered if the time had come for me to bring Andrew into my confidence. I did not require his assistance but would very much have liked to have his emotional backing in my quest to reveal Colin's thievery. As I considered my options, he opened his eyes and smiled at me. I decided instantly to leave him alone. I had caused him suffering enough.

The conductor tapped on our door and told us Paris lay only a few miles away. Soon I felt the train begin to slow, and I shook Meg gently to wake her. We had arrived. Monsieur Beaulieu greeted us on the platform and escorted us back to the Meurice, where he put me in his best suite, assuring me that he had personally overseen the changing of the locks only that morning. I convinced him that I felt perfectly safe in the hotel, thanked him for his hospitality, and then told Meg to leave until morning what little unpacking she had to do. We would spend only enough time in Paris for Andrew to tie up his business, and I planned to enjoy myself thoroughly while I waited for him.

Cécile's carriage collected me immediately after breakfast the next day. My friend had not yet dressed and received me in her ornate bedroom, where she and her maid were arguing over what she would wear that day and did not even notice me enter. Marie Antoinette herself would have envied Cécile this chamber, with its white-paneled gilt walls whose centers were covered in white silk brocade embroidered with flowers.

"Non! Madame! The rose is too soft a color," Odette insisted, stamping her foot and sending Caesar and Brutus running to hide under the tall bed that dominated the room. "A brighter hue suits you better."

"I am not looking for a husband, Odette," Cécile retorted, lying back on a chaise longue, her lacy dressing gown fluttering around her. "I like the rose. Monsieur Worth would not have allowed me to purchase it if it did not flatter me."

"Monsieur Worth is terrified of you, madame."

"I cannot believe that Monsieur Worth is terrified of anyone," I said, raising an eyebrow. "More likely it would be the other way around."

"Except that I fear no one," Cécile reminded me, rising and hugging me emotionally. "I am so pleased to see you, Kallista."

"The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you."

"Fine, Odette, bring me some other dress. The rose would clash with Kallista's dreadful mauve. How much longer must you mourn, my dear?"

"The moment I see Philip, I shall burn all these clothes," I said. I had written extensively to Cécile; she knew every detail of my present situation.

"Chérie, chérie, truly you think too much of this man. I hope his return to you is as joyful as you hope."

"I think it shall be," I replied.

Cécile disappeared into her dressing room. "You do not sound as confident in person as your letters did," she called to me.

"I am quite confident, just a bit tired from the journey."

"Your trip to this point has given you only a fraction of the misery you will suffer on the rest."

"Thank you for your kind support." I laughed.

"Well, at least your bedroom will no longer be lonely. You will be happy of that?"

"Yes, immensely happy," I said, glad that Cécile could not see me blush.

"That is encouraging," she replied, sailing back into the bedroom, grabbing my arm, and leading me into the hall. "If that is your attitude, then Philip cannot be all bad. Come. You must see my lovely miniatures while we talk."

Behind Cécile's drawing room ran a long, wide corridor lined with miniature reproductions of rooms from the palace at Versailles. She began collecting them as a girl, after her father had designed her first one for her. This was the only thing I knew of her father; she gave no further information about him. I wondered if her family had been aristocrats before the revolution and if she still harbored sympathy for the lost monarchy. My mother was convinced that they had been closely connected to royalty. The history of noble families was the only subject on which my mother could claim expertise, so in the case of Cécile's ancestors, I felt inclined to agree with her.

"However did you get that done?" I gasped, looking at the Hall of Mirrors, the latest addition to her spectacular dollhouse. The detail stunned me. Cecile assured me that every bit of tiny gilt trim, the twenty crystal chandeliers, and the seventeen beveled mirrors perfectly mimicked the originals.

"You know better than most people that anything can be accomplished with enough money," she said, adjusting some of the golden maidens holding elaborate candelabras that stood at intervals along the walls. "Your friend Monsieur Pontiero has turned out to be a most skilled miniaturist. He painted the ceilings for me."

I bent down to look at my former drawing master's work and felt duly impressed. "Never having seen the original, I shall have to take your word for the authenticity. That Monsieur Pontiero's work is exquisite cannot be questioned."

"Much has changed in the palais, but what can be expected to happen after the revolution?" She shrugged. "Next time you come to Paris, I shall take you there."

"Philip would love that; I know that he wanted to take me to Paris," I said with a sigh.

"None of this romantic nonsense, chérie. I said you, not Philip. He will be left with the impressionists or at the Louvre. Love him if you will, but I am not sure that I would enjoy his company."

"You are dreadful, Cécile," I moaned.

"I am too old to be subjected to your foolish sentiments," she said, smiling. "What would I have to say to a man whose prime entertainment is hunting exotic beasts? What conversation could we have?"

"His interests include many other things, Cécile. Be fair." I did not like the fact that she had focused on my only real fear in being reunited with my husband. "Do not forget that he is also an avid collector of art."

"Yes, I had put that out of my mind." She picked up a tiny table and dusted it off with her handkerchief. "Perhaps I shall find that he is not hopeless."

"Thank you," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Do you think he will continue his habit of prolonged hunting trips? It hardly seems fair to you."