“Lorine,” Silk said, using a gentle tone. He knew doing so would be more effective with this nervous woman than bullying her. “Do you happen to know the person in this portrait?”

He showed it to her, and she looked hard at it, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the lady’s face is too faded out.”

The child looked too, and her reaction was almost immediate. “I know her! That’s Miss Goodgrave. I hate her.” Lorine placed her hand on the child’s shoulder as if to quell her outburst.

“Lorine?” Silk said. “Your young charge appears to recognize the person in this image. Are you sure you can’t tell?”

“It could be Miss Goodgrave, sir, but it’s just not clear enough to say.”

Silk nodded. Most likely the truth. While he knew who had sat for the portrait, the child, at least, confirmed that the image was becoming more visible and it wasn’t just his imagination. He had questioned the two about Miss Goodgrave, but they’d only told him what he’d already heard.

“I want a portrait of me!” Arhys declared.

“And you shall have it.” And much more, Silk thought.

Arhys twirled and clapped. “You are much nicer than the professor!”

“Then you shall not be dismayed to hear that your professor is dead.”

Lorine stumbled back raising her hand to her mouth. Arhys watched her uncertainly. Silk turned on his heel, not interested in witnessing the wailing of females that was likely to begin as soon as his words sank in.

Now that he knew the portrait was becoming more identifiable, another impulse led him to leave the comfort of the cabin for the outside world. He stepped out on deck and paused to take in the air, which was moist and heavy. A mist drifted up from the smooth water of the canal, hazing the running lights of the boats. The thrum and splish-splash of the chug were louder outside. The still water carried snippets of conversation back to him. Frogs chorused along the banks. Others on duty outside cursed as they were bitten by insects, but the biters never seemed to bother Silk.

He made his way back to the stern. The freight barge floated quietly behind, though the coupling that joined it to his packet squeaked intermittently. The circus wagon, a rectangular shadow in the night, was tied down to the barge’s deck. Guards and boatmen moved about in the light of deck lamps, the mist swirling around them. Mostly he saw just pinpoints of light and silhouettes. Unlike boatmen who agilely leaped from the stern of one boat to the bow of the next, Silk required a more cautious course.

“Boatman,” he called to the nearest man on watch.

“Yessir?” The fellow was little more than a boy.

“I require the bridge and a light.”

The boy sprang into action, lifting the wooden arch bridge and securely setting it from the stern of the packet to the bow of the freighter. Another boatman on the freighter helped place it. Bridges were generally for the use of ladies and the elderly, but Silk felt no shame in using one himself. After all, he was a gentleman, and an important one. He did not have to prove his manliness.

He accepted a lantern as he stepped up onto the bridge. It was wide enough to make the crossing comfortable. Once on the other side, he went straight for the circus trailer and slid open a viewing panel on the near end. He focused the light of the lantern so it shone into the depths of the wagon.

The Eletian sat cross-legged on straw in the middle of the wagon, his eyes open and unblinking, his stillness uncanny. Silk did not know if it was simply a trancelike state the creature went into, or more like a torpor. He had shed most of his armor, which Silk had carefully packed away for later study. The underlayer of black cloth was stiff with the dried membrane that had clung between the armor and the Eletian’s flesh. The cloth itself was tattered, looked moth-eaten. The Eletian appeared to be deteriorating day by day, his aura diminishing.

Still, he was beautiful, the aural light still radiating from him. Perhaps it was dimmer, less vibrant, but it was still ethereal, the embodiment of magic.

“Eletian,” Silk said. The creature did not stir.

“Eletian!” Still nothing.

“Allow me to give it a try, sir,” said one of the boatmen. Without awaiting permission, he walked down the length of the wagon and battered its wooden side with a club. The drubbing echoed up and down the canal. It was enough to rouse the dead.

“Stop,” Silk ordered. He’d punish the boatman for his insubordination, but the tactic appeared to work. The Eletian’s eyes focused. His aura became . . . more contained.

“Eletian,” Silk said, “look at this picture. Do you know the person in it?” He held the portrait up for the Eletian to see.

The Eletian gave no hint he understood, but his gaze shifted subtly, narrowing in on the picture. Outwardly he showed no sign of recognition, but in Silk’s vision, his aura pulsed, almost urgently.

“You do know her,” Silk murmured. The Eletian’s sight had to be extraordinarily sharp to see the image from that distance. “Who is she?”

The Eletian, of course, did not answer.

“You may be interested to know she died in a fire last night.” Whether or not it was true, it had been worth saying for the effect on the Eletian was startling. His gaze dropped and his aura either faded out or turned to some dark shade that Silk could not discern. Otherwise, there was once again no real outward sign the creature had heard a word Silk said.

Silk nodded to himself and closed the panel. That would give the Eletian something to mull over. So, the Eletian knew Miss Goodgrave. Could it be that she, like the Eletian, was out of step with time? He’d known there was something special, different about her from the beginning—the uncanny glimpse he’d had of dark wings about her. When they found her, and he still felt strongly she had not perished in the fire, he would have many questions for her. Many, indeed. No wonder the professor had laid claim to her.