The waiter in the cafe was reluctant to seat a young woman with no shoes and a young man who had clearly slept in his clothes. But it was the morning rush; there was no time to argue. He hid them behind a column.
• • •
Perched on the edge of her chair at the little table, Adi practically inhaled her breakfast. Surely, she’d never tasted anything so wonderful in her life as this bread and coffee.
Across the table, George, bleary-eyed, stirred cream into his coffee as he examined the watch. Adi slathered butter on her bread and studied George.
She pointed to her name inscribed on the top of the watch.
“ ‘Adi,’ ” he said. She nodded. He bowed his head. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He sat back and took another sip from his cup and looked at her anew—now that she had a name.
Opening up the watch, he looked at the portrait of the boys with the names below. “And who are these? Xander and Xavier.” He glanced up at the girl. “Your eyes. Same tapered chin. Your brothers? Half brothers?”
She nodded.
George signaled to the waiter. When he came over George whispered, “Do you have a little brandy or something you could—?”
Adi almost concealed her look of disapproval.
“Maybe not,” George said. “Can I borrow your pen?” The waiter surrendered it, reluctantly.
“As we’ve established that pantomime isn’t your strong suit,” said George, “why don’t you simply—”
Adi looked at the pen with an expression close to horror and shook her head in distress—which turned to a humiliated blush when she realized the effect she was making. He thinks I can’t write!
George withdrew the pen. “Well, lots of people can’t, umm . . .”
Adi’s jaw tightened. George fiddled with his spoon.
“I guess we’ve whittled it down to Twenty Questions then.” George opened the watch up to the boys’ pictures.
“All right. We’ll start here. Your brothers.”
Adi took a breath and nodded.
“Something has happened to them? Your brothers—ran away?”
Adi shook her head.
“Somebody—took your brothers?”
She nodded vigorously.
“What?” he said. “What do you mean, like, kidnapped?”
She nodded again.
“Really? I mean, are you sure they didn’t just run off somewhere? When I was kid, it was a weekly occurance.”
Adi looked as if she found this entirely credible.
“Okay,” he said. “Do you know who kidnapped them? It wasn’t that fellow you were chasing?”
No, no. Adi waved her hand dismissively. Pantomimed snatching the watch.
“A thief,” said George. “This is . . . quite a morning you’re having. But do you know the man who did take them?” She shook her head. “I’m assuming it was a man? One man?”
Adi nodded.
“You’ve seen him? But you don’t know him?”
Yes.
“And this happened when? Today? Yesterday? Day before?”
Adi indicated yesterday.
“And they could be, where? Anywhere?”
She nodded.
“But where are your parents in all this?”
Adi shook her head.
“No parents. You . . . have no parents?” Adi hesitated, unsure how to respond. She waved her hand, indicating, far, far away.
“Relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”
Adi shook her head.
“Good Lord. Take some of mine. I’ve got more than enough.” He spread some jam on his bread.
“And where is this, far away? Not hearing you speak, it could be any number of places. You might be Italian. Though I wouldn’t call Italy far away. From the look of you, I’d guess Indian? Half British, maybe?”
Adi nodded. At least he’d not thrown in Spanish or American Indian. Or Hawaiian. She’d heard all of these since she’d arrived.
“So has this man asked for some kind of . . . ransom?”
Frustrated, Adi chewed on a piece of bread, trying to think of some way to explain.
She couldn’t believe it herself. A madman followed them home, took her brothers and burned down their house, then presented her with something that very well might be one of their fingers. And if she speaks a word—more pieces of them will be brought to her, in little boxes!
It wasn’t supposed to be like this! This was not the plan! She was going to deliver the boys to Tillie. Thank you very much. She’d catch her breath, make her apologies. And then make her break. To London. To Paris. She’d be a writer. A painter! And she would live a fabulous life, ecstatically alone—for the rest of her life! Far from this heartbreaking, tragic family of hers and these damned damned boys! But here . . . here she was, sitting across the table from this man, his hair full of leaves, holding this accursed contraption in his hand.
Adi, stop.
She put her hands over her mouth as if she’d been shouting out loud. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. What was she doing? Did she have anyone to turn to but this young man?
George sat, watching the storm rage in the girl’s eyes.
“Why?” said George. “Why has this man picked you and your brothers?”
She took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. Why? thought Adi. Because I broke his bottle of cognac?
She smiled sadly and shook her head.
“Are they . . . do you know whether or not they might be in immediate danger?”
She shook her head again.
“No—you don’t know? Or no—you don’t think they’re in immediate danger?
Adi bit her lip, thinking about it. She shook her head again. She just didn’t know.
“All right,” he said. “Anything else to work with?”
She debated whether or not to flip the face around and show him the countdown clock. It made her head hurt to think about trying to explain that.
Instead she clicked the stem four times. The portrait popped open, revealing the riddles. She handed it to him.
George read one to himself, “ ‘Were there a hundred sons of Alcmene, each one wielding an olive tree—”
“Oh,” he said, “riddles!”
Adi pointed out the three others. He flipped through, read one out loud.
Adi listened. It made no more sense than it had before.
“That’s the thing about riddles,” George said. “Gibberish till you . . . figure it out.” A troubled look crossed his face.
“But what is all this about?” he said. “What is this doing in your—” George stopped suddenly, struck by a preposterous notion. “Did the—did the kidnapper give you this watch?”
Adi stared unblinking into his eyes and nodded. Yes.
George blinked.
“This is”—sounding much more sober—“getting a little complicated for yes or no questions, isn’t it?”
He sat back in his chair, studying the young woman.
The bells from the clock tower began to ring. George clicked the riddles shut and looked at the clock. “Oh, hell! Is that what time it is?”
He got to his feet and took the bill and the coins from his pocket and dumped them on the table. Looking uncomfortable, he pulled on his earlobe. “I—I need to be somewhere, so—”
She stared up at the young man. What did she expect? He barely had enough money for coffee, and he seemed to be some kind of drunkard. He didn’t even remember her speaking in the restaurant yesterday.
“I’m getting the impression,” he said, “that you don’t have any place to stay.”
Adi stared. Shook her head.
“Well, under the circumstances”—he glanced at the young woman’s bare feet—“I think we might have to disregard some formalities here. I’m not as disreputable as I look.” He brushed grass out of his hair. “And,” he said with a distracted look, “I do, actually, have an automobile around here somewhere. We don’t have to walk.”
Adi looked a little skeptical.
A bit impatient, George said, “Mademoiselle. I hate to be rational so early in the morning, but what were you planning here? You think this man’s going to drop your brothers down on someone’s front stoop for you to stumble across?”
The look on the girl’s face told him this thought had occurred to her.
“All you’re going to do is get yourself killed, or worse. Particularly seeing as how you’re at something of a disadvantage as far as communication skills are concerned.”
Adi looked around, as if some other more suitable alternative might present itself. But there was only this young man.
She reached out her hand. George pulled her to her feet.