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With the ringing of the piano, the entire club went dark, and a single beam of light flickered on to illuminate a girl in the center of the dance floor. She had hair the color of fire and was holding an enormous translucent sphere, like a giant soap bubble. The orchestra hummed softly, and she began to dance.

“She’s not wearing anything at all,” Harte murmured, feeling his cheeks heat in embarrassment. He’d seen plenty of bare arms and legs during his days onstage, but nothing like this.

Esta glanced at him, and Harte could tell she was trying not to laugh. “I believe that’s the point.” But her expression shifted when the girl started dancing, and suddenly Harte felt the unmistakable warmth of magic—natural magic. “Did you feel that?” Esta whispered.

He nodded. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

In the center of the stage, the girl turned and dipped, holding the sphere so that it somehow never managed to reveal anything overly pertinent. But as lovely as the girl was with her willowy figure and softly waved dark hair falling around her shoulders, even the promise of seeing her entire body couldn’t hold Harte’s attention. It was nothing compared to the sight of the gentle slope of Esta’s exposed back, the delicate pearls of her spine traveling down into the low dip of her dress.

When the floor show was over, he would ask her to dance. He would take the risk and hold her close. He could almost imagine what it would be like to rest his hand on the curve of her lower back, skin to skin…

Yes, Seshat purred.

No. Harte fisted his hands beneath the table to be sure that he did not reach for her. He couldn’t allow himself to indulge in fantasies about being close to her again. He wouldn’t.

He forced himself to look away from the smooth expanse of Esta’s skin, ignoring the heat in his blood, and focused on studying the crowd instead. The people in the audience looked less titillated than vaguely interested in the girl on the floor, but Harte noticed one person watching the crowd instead of the floor show—an older man standing on the side of the dance floor with a scar that marred the corner of his mouth.

In a sharply cut black suit with satin lapels and a crimson tie, the man was dressed better than any of the other waitstaff. He held a set of menus in his arms, but he watched the room with the alertness of someone clearly in charge. He was older—so much older?—but Harte would have recognized Sammie anywhere. Despite the man’s lighter hair, Harte could see their father in Sammie’s features, but Harte’s brother wore them with a quiet dignity that Samuel Lowe had never quite managed.

Harte nudged Esta’s arm, careful to limit their contact. “I think that’s him.” He nodded to where Sammie still watched over the room.

“It could be.…” She didn’t sound as sure, but Harte knew.

The music was building, and before they could discuss it any further, the bubble burst and the girl pranced offstage to thunderous applause, exposing the pale globes of her bottom as she went. Sammie waited a second longer, but when a group of women in evening gowns emerged from the curtain behind him to begin circulating through the club, Harte’s brother ducked into a back hallway.

“I’m going to follow him,” Harte said, already on his feet.

“I’ll come with you.” Esta started to stand, but Harte was already shaking his head.

“I think it’s better if I do this on my own.”

Part of him didn’t want to let Esta out of his sight, but with the dress she was wearing and the way Seshat seemed to sense his weakness, Harte knew it would be safer for everyone if he went alone.

Coward, Seshat mocked.

Harte didn’t disagree. He was a coward. A braver man wouldn’t have been afraid to keep Esta close, and a stronger one could have easily resisted touching her. But Harte Darrigan had never been anything but a bastard and a con, and now he was a desperate one at that. The Dragon’s Eye had to be there. With the threat to his health behind him, he could already feel Seshat growing impatient. The sooner they had the crown, the sooner they could find the other artifacts, and the sooner he could put an end to the threat Seshat posed.

And until then? Harte wasn’t so careless as to put everything at risk—especially not Esta—for something as insignificant as his pride.

WHAT CAME AFTER

1952—San Francisco

When Harte ducked through the curtain to follow Sammie, he found himself in a hallway that ran behind the stage. For a moment he was overwhelmed by the memories of another life: the feeling he’d get waiting in the darkened wings for the cue to enter the spotlight, his nerves jangling as the scent of greasepaint and powder filled his senses. But those days were long behind him.

Harte shook off his regret. If he didn’t keep moving, someone was bound to notice that he didn’t belong backstage. When a chorus girl’s expression bunched with a question, he only nodded to her and kept walking like he was supposed to be there. Luckily, no one stopped him.

He passed by the dressing rooms and then turned into a long hallway that ran behind the stage. At the end of it, light spilled from an open doorway. Harte approached carefully and saw that it was an office. Behind a broad, cluttered desk, his brother was too focused on a stack of paper to notice him. Easing into the room, Harte pulled the door closed behind him. At the sound of it closing, Sammie finally looked up, irritated at the interruption. The irritation quickly turned to confusion, though… and then the color drained from his brother’s face.

Harte felt suddenly, unaccountably embarrassed. He tucked his hands into his pockets and tried to force himself to appear at ease. “Hello, Sammie.”

The man at the desk didn’t respond at first. He only stared at Harte, shaking his head as his mouth moved without any sound coming out. Finally, Sammie seemed to find his voice. “It’s not possible.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Harte tried to ignore the nervousness he felt. He’d known Sammie only as a boy, after all, and then for only a very short time. They’d never discussed who they were to one another, and after everything Harte had put the kid through, he hadn’t been sure what kind of reception he’d receive showing up so many years later.

Sammie stood and came around the desk, his hand reaching for Harte. “You look exactly like I remember you. Like a ghost—”

“I’m not a ghost,” Harte told him, stepping back before his brother could poke him.