Page 57 of Sigma

“Valentine. He’s fifteen.”

“I’m not giving him a gun, honey, but I can’t leave him here by himself. Plus, I’d just feel safer with him in my sight at all times.”

“And you’ll have the full crew with you?”

He chuckles. “Yes, Kyrie. He’ll have an honor guard fit for a Roman emperor.”

“Promise me nothing will happen to him.”

“I swear, Kyrie. He’ll be safe.”

I swallow hard. “Okay. I have no choice but to trust you on this. I just don’t want him in on any action. I know that’s what he wants, but he’s fifteen. We can’t let that happen. We can’t expose him to that.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” A sigh. “We shouldn’t stay on too much longer, even on an encrypted line.”

“I’m going to get her back, Val.”

“I know, honey. I know you will.” A hesitation. “Just…be careful, okay? No stupid risks.”

“I’m with Anselm. He doesn’t do stupid risks.”

“Indeed I do not.” Anselm holds out his hand for the phone. “I need to talk to Harris.”

“Anselm wants to talk to Harris,” I tell Valentine. “I love you. See you soon.”

“Not soon enough,” he says. “Love you too.”

Anselm and Harris speak briefly, mostly in some sort of Special Forces bro code about threat assessments and recon and intel, and then the call ends with an agreement to rendezvous by phone again in a few hours, once Lear has done some digging with the information—excuse me,intel—I provided.

We take turns driving. Despite the urgency, we dare not attract attention by driving recklessly, so we’re forced to behave as if this is simply a road trip. It’s a twenty-two-hour drive from Berlin to Madrid; it’s a beautiful drive, but it’s hard to appreciate it.

Anselm takes the first shift driving, a marathon twelve hours behind the wheel, stopping to refuel twice. I try to rest, knowing I’ll need it, but I’m too amped up, too worried. So I merely sit and don’t quite doze, staring out the window at the scenery.

Finally, somewhere in France, Anselm turns the driving over to me. It’s mostly rural highway driving, he says, so as long as I watch my speed and stay awake, I’ll be fine. The moment he finds a comfortable position in the passenger seat, jacket balled up against the window as a pillow, he’s asleep.

I envy his ability to fall asleep so easily.

11

Damned in the Orangery

He’s gone the whole next day, which I spend in the library. There’s a couch there, and I sleep on that rather than returning to the tower. The same woman who brought our dinner the first evening somehow finds me and brings me meals—oatmeal with blueberries for breakfast; a charcuterie tray piled high with fresh deli meat, cheeses, honey, fruit, and peasant bread with a crunchy crust and delicate, fluffy interior; and fresh fish of a kind I don’t recognize, baked with a veggie medley and small red roasted potatoes. There’s a pitcher of mimosas with breakfast, a large bottle of dark, Belgian, small-batch beer with lunch, and a decanter of crisp, fruity white wine with dinner.

Other than the woman who brings the food—I never get her name, and she never speaks to me—I see no one. My time in the library is, honestly, refreshing. I can almost feel like I’m here voluntarily. Just enjoying a nice peaceful, relaxing day alone in a beautiful library in the countryside.

Almost.

It’s just past dawn on the second day of Apollo’s absence; I’m slowly rousing from sleep, still on the couch on the third level of the library. The woman appears, bearing a tray laden with a silver carafe that has steam writhing from the spout, a single white porcelain mug, a small jar, and a spoon. She sets the tray on the small side table next to the couch, pours coffee into the mug, and then lifts the jar in question.

I shake my head. “No, black is fine. Thank you.”

She nods.

“Do you speak English?” I ask.

A small shrug of one shoulder. “Little.”

“What’s your name?”