“You’ve become quite the creator, Will,” John said in honest admiration. “I think you missed your calling in life. You ought to have been an architect.”
“Thank you,” Shakespeare said gravely, bowing to the younger Caretaker, “but I think I am responsible for too much stress and strife already, and all I’ve built was that cursed bridge.”
“If it wasn’t for that bridge, sirrah,” said Twain as he stepped across the path and joined the others near the gate, “none of us might be here now.”
“That somewhat resembles my point,” said Shakespeare. “So much of this is my fault.”
“Responsibility, you mean,” said Twain.
Shakespeare shrugged. “What’s the difference?”
“That answer,” said Twain, “is what makes you a good Caretaker.”
“No,” said Jack. “That answer is what makes him a good man.”
Shakespeare blushed, and bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. “That is exceeding gracious of you to say, Jack,” he said, “but my responsibilities now are less than those of others. I cannot fathom how, as the current Caretakers, you grapple with the care of the world. It is so much larger than in my time.”
“I’m just happy that we aren’t expected to do even more than we are,” said Jack. “I have enough trouble just running the Kilns—”
“Ahem-hem,” said John.
“Ah, that is, Warnie and I have enough trouble running the Kilns,” added Jack.
“And Mrs., uh, Whatsit,” John said helpfully.
“Her too,” Jack admitted, “or rather, her mostly. My point is, I could never run a university, much less a city. And heaven forbid that I’m ever given my own country. I think I’d go mad—probably just lock myself in a tower and shut out the whole world while I stay in my room and read.”
“And that’s different from what you do now, how?” asked John with a smirk and a wink at Twain.
“Oh, shut up,” said Jack.
At that moment, they all turned to see Dickens walking purposefully across the path toward them. “Blast it all, Samuel,” he said as he drew near. “Are you going to tell them or not? Time’s a-wasting.”
“I was getting to it, Charles,” Twain said. “Nothing is as urgent as exchanging pleasantries as gentlemen ought, before going to business.”
“What business?” said John.
“The major has summoned us to the Kilns,” Dickens replied, looking at Jack. “Your brother says that our agents have returned and are bringing a guest.”
“The shipbuilder?” asked Jack. “I hope.”
“This is Quixote and Uncas we’re talking about, remember,” John said as the group followed Dickens back to the small ferryboat that Twain piloted. “For all we know, they’ve brought back the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“Don’t,” said Jack, “even joke about that.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The Caretakers crossed over Shakespeare’s Bridge fully armed, and prepared for any contingency. Warnie, Jack’s brother, was already waiting for them, as were Quixote and Uncas. The detective and the new arrival were still in the Duesenberg, but as the Caretakers approached, Aristophanes climbed out, tipped his hat at John, and moved over to join Warnie, who kept glancing at the detective’s skin tone as if it were a trick of the light.
A smaller, wizened man stepped from the other side of the car and placed his hand on the hood, taking in the heat radiating from the engine. “It’s warm,” he said admiringly, “almost like a living thing. I should not be surprised if one day someone chose to become one with a machine such as this.”
“We brung, uh, bringed . . . ah, we got the shipbuilder,” Uncas said, gesturing at Argus, who nodded his head in acknowledgment. His expression was grave, but a bemused smile played at the corners of his mouth.
John sized up the shipbuilder. “I must beg your pardon, but you don’t appear to be several thousand years old.”
“You have it,” Argus replied, “but considering you sent a purple humanoid unicorn, a talking badger, and a Spaniard who can’t drive to fetch me, I’m surprised you place such an emphasis on one’s appearance.”
“He’s smarter than the average mariner,” Warnie commented to Aristophanes.
The detective nodded. “You have no idea.”
“How far can we trust him?” Hawthorne asked. “After all, we have only the detective’s word he is who he says he is.”
“Why would I lie to you now?” Aristophanes sputtered. “I live at Tamerlane House!”