Bahrnagash was picking his teeth with his great knife. He grinned, every huge white tooth visible. No challenger had ever survived three hours, and rather than kill Simeon, Bahrnagash thought he’d like to have him in his army.
It took several weeks for Simeon to convince his new mentor to let him continue into Abyssinia. “No one even knows why they are fighting in that country,” Bahrnagash told him grumpily, “but they always are. They will have your head for no reason.” Simeon didn’t bother to point out that his welcome could hardly be less dangerous than that of the mountain king himself.
When Simeon finally left, he took with him the traditional insignia of a provincial governor, a lasting friendship—and a penchant for running.
Running cleared his mind. It energized his body. He meant to get Godfrey onto the road in the next few days; the poor boy was a bit tubby around the middle. Godfrey needed exercise as much as he needed male companionship.
Simeon let himself run another mile before taking out the fact that his father was dead and thinking about it.
He’d known his father was dead, of course. The news reached him relatively soon after the event, a mere two months after the funeral. Simeon had been traveling through Palmyra, going to Damascus. He had ducked into an English church that loomed up on a Damascene street and offered prayers.
But it wasn’t until he walked through the door of Revels House that he really understood. His burly father—the man who had thrown him in the air, and thrown him on a horse, and thrown him out of the hay loft once for gross impertinence—that man was gone.
The house seemed like a dry well, empty and lifeless. His mother had turned into a shrill, screaming dictator. His little brother was plump and indolent. The estate was neglected. Even in the house itself, things were cracked and broken. The rugs were stained; the curtains were faded.
Whose fault is it? asked his conscience.
I’m here now, he retorted.
He was back in England, to clean up the estate, manage his family, meet his wife.
His wife.
Another subject that he could examine only cautiously. He’d probably mishandled their first meeting. She was the opposite of what he expected. The Middle Way taught that beauty was only an outward shell, but Isidore’s beauty flared from within, as potent as a torch. She was like a princess, only he’d never seen a princess who had all her teeth.
At the very thought of her he had to slow down, because of confusion in his body about what he wanted to be doing at that moment. Running? Or—
The other.
He adjusted the front of his trousers and started to run faster.
Luncheon began on the wrong foot when Honeydew served bowls of thin broth. Simeon had forgotten that foolish English idea that broth was filling or, indeed, suitable for anyone but a wretched invalid.
He was ravenously hungry, having run an extra hour in a punitive effort to regain control over his body.
“I’ll wait for the next course,” he told Honeydew.
Honeydew nodded, but Simeon thought he saw anxiety in his eyes. The table was lit with tallow candles fit only for the servants’ quarters, so Simeon couldn’t see his face very clearly, but the reason for Honeydew’s anxiety was soon clear. Next they were each served one paper-thin slice of roast beef.
The following course was even more surprising. Simeon stared down at a sliced hard-boiled egg, across which was drizzled a brownish sauce, and lost his temper.
“Honeydew,” he said, keeping his voice even with an effort, “would you be so kind as to detail the menu?”
His mother intervened. “I designed the menu, as is necessary and proper. You can thank me, if you wish. This is a dish of oeufs au lapin.”
“Eggs,” Simeon said. “I see that.”
“With a sauce made from rabbit.”
“Ah.”
“Likely you have grown accustomed to rough fare,” she commented.
Godfrey was forking up his egg with a sort of desperate enthusiasm that made Simeon wonder about the next course.
There wasn’t one.
“You must be joking,” Simeon said, incredulous.
“We had eggs and meat in the same meal,” his mother said, staring at him. “And a sustaining broth to start. We do not eat lions’ flesh in England, you know! Your father and I always kept a moderate table.”
“This is not a moderate table,” Simeon said. “This is starvation fare.”
Godfrey leaned across the table and whispered loudly, “One of the footmen will bring you a large plate of bread and cheese before bed if you wish, Simeon. Sometimes there’s drippings as well.”
Their mother clearly heard, but she curled her lip and stared at the opposite wall.
No wonder the poor boy was round. Since his mother was not providing the food a growing boy needed, he had learned to hoard like a hungry beggar—and overeat when he had a chance. Simeon turned to the butler. “Honeydew, ask Mrs. Bullock to send whatever she can serve up within a few minutes, and I do not mean bread and cheese.”