"He'll do for it. Not too bad, is it, old boy?"
"Not too bad," said Innes, gingerly touching his wounded arm. "Clean through, I think."
Doyle kicked down a wall of the shack to get to his brother and improvised a field wrap from a strip of his shirt to staunch the bleeding.
"Handy having a doctor along," said Innes, watching him work. "I should be good for an action medal now. Service ribbon, at the least."
"Victoria Cross, if I have anything to say about it. From the old girl herself."
"Younger brothers are good for something, after all," said Innes.
Doyle finished applying the bandage and patted him on the back, afraid that if he tried to speak he'd burst into tears. He helped Innes to his feet as the other two men ran up to join them; he noticed that Lionel carried the crate that contained the Book of Zohar.
"We must find Jack," said Doyle. "And then I think we'd better be getting you along to that church."
They returned to the horses and Doyle grabbed the medical kit from his saddlebag. Armed to the teeth, the four men I walked down the middle of Main Street. The buildings to their left had already collapsed as the heart of the fire laid waste to ' the southern half of town. Red cinder and ash drifted toward them. The wind was shifting to the north; Doyle estimated it wouldn't be long before the other side of town ignited and began to burn.
As they neared the largest building left standing on their right, a solid adobe hacienda, Jack called out and waved them into the shelter of an alley.
"Someone here to see you, Doyle," said Jack.
Eileen stepped out of the shadows.
"Hello, Arthur," she said.
Doyle stared at her, stunned to his core, a thousand fragmented memories rushing into his mind at the trigger of her voice, riding a dozen colliding powerful emotions.
"Hello," he said.
She looked sheepish, relieved, bashful, ashamed, frightened, happy—in other words, the same violently oscillating range of feeling she had always managed to simultaneously convey during their brief and unforgettable romance.
"Someone you know?" whispered Innes, with the intuitive insinuation only a brother could manage.
Doyle nodded slightly, waving him away, unable to speak.
"You got my letter, I guess," she said when they were alone. The letter in which she'd said good-bye when she left England ten years before; the letter that had snapped his young heart in two.
"Yes," was all he could manage.
"How have you been?" she asked, then before he could answer: "What a stupid question, I know perfectly well how you've been; you're famous, for God's sake, probably fabulously wealthy, and married—"
"Yes."
"—I remember reading somewhere, with a lovely wife and three gorgeous children. And how have I been? Well, look at me."
"You look... beautiful."
She smiled ruefully and pulled the paste tiara off her head. "Awfully nice of you to say, Arthur."
"I mean it."
"If I'd stayed with you, I'd most likely own a real one of these by now. Really know how to back a winner, don't I. . .No, I've been all right, it's been a fine life. I'm just not at the top of my game at the moment...."
She burst into tears. Doyle put a comforting hand on her shoulder, then allowed her to hug him briefly before she pulled herself together. "Give me a moment, would you, dear?"
She walked off a short way without meeting his eyes.
The thousand things he had longed to say to her. All the experiences they'd never shared. He still wanted her, he knew that much. And it was impossible; not here, not now. And unless he wanted to destroy the life he'd worked so hard to build, not ever.
Jack had gathered Presto and Walks Alone at the edge of the street. He moved to where Doyle was standing. "We need to move on."
Doyle nodded wearily. Jack looked over at Innes, favoring his wounded arm. "Innes all right?"
"He'll survive."
"Will you?" said Jack, with a sly glance back at Eileen.
Doyle took him in. "That remains to be seen."
"Arthur, you're under no further obligation. Already far beyond the call. We'll carry on from here."
"But Jack—"
Sparks raised a gentle hand to still him. "We were the only ones actually invited to this party, remember?"
"What will you do if you find him? Alexander."
"I don't honestly know."
Through the net of his turbulent feelings, Doyle realized that standing in front of him was a man bearing an exact resemblance to his old friend Jack; light in his eyes again, life animating his gestures, a curl of amusement lifting the corners of his mouth.
How extraordinary to find him here, now, in this moment. Just when I might lose him again.
"My God, it's you," said Doyle, blinking in amazement.
"None other. Ever so faithfully yours, old friend," said Jack.
He laid a hand on Doyle's shoulder; Doyle covered Jack's hand with his and gripped tightly; the rest, a great deal, passed wordlessly between them. Doyle nodded in gratitude, wiping away the single tear that rolled down his cheek. Jack pulled away, snapped a jaunty salute, and with Presto and Walks Alone flanking him, started down Main Street toward the black church.
The bells in the church tower stopped ringing; the howling of the fire filled the silence.
"I'm coming with you," said Lionel, trotting after them, still carrying the Book of Zohar.
"We should follow behind," called Doyle to Jack. "Lay down some covering fire...."
"Up to you, old man," shouted Jack over his shoulder. "I can't stop you."
"So," said Innes, who'd been slowly working up to speaking with Eileen. "Where do you know my brother from?"
Eileen, sitting on the steps of the House of Hope, resting her head in her hands, looked up through bleary eyes and gave the young man a once-over. "Church group."
"Shared the same pew, did you?" said Innes, with a knowing smile.
She smiled back; cheeky one, wasn't he?
"My dance card's a little crowded at the moment, junior," she said. "But thanks for asking."
"Sorry?" said Innes, thoroughly perplexed. For the first time, it occurred to him that there might be some women in this world who were out of his league.
Doyle walked back to them, holding a pair of rifles.
"Do you still know how to shoot?" he asked Eileen.
"I haven't forgotten much of anything."
"Good," said Doyle, handing her a rifle. "Then follow me."
As the city collapsed, so too did the white shirts' organized pursuit of the two intruders; Frank and Kanazuchi raced ahead of the fire through the southern side of town, shadowing the escorted group of children. They passed the workers' quarters where Kanazuchi had spent die night and drew within sight of the cathedral; the wide gap separating it from the shanties had acted as a firebreak, so neither the church nor any of its surrounding structures was in any immediate danger.
As the children marched over the open ground to the church, Frank and Kanazuchi realized they had no chance to attack and kill their escorts without endangering the children. They hung back at the supply shacks and watched as the children folded into the white shirts outside the cathedral, moving obediently along with the crowd through the entrance. With most of the town's population, including the armed militia, now secured inside, the doors to the cathedral slammed shut behind them.
"Wrong time for the Sunday sermon," said Frank.
The bells in the tower stopped ringing. As the echoes faded, they heard only the windborne moaning of the fire.
Kanazuchi gestured and led Frank closer, to a tool shed on the edge of the work area. As they ducked inside, an assembly of guards wearing black trotted toward the church from a number of different directions and fell into a defensive formation across its entire facade.