I had better not shrug, then, thought Agent Savano, and twisted herself completely into the fireplace.
While Chevie was scraping her nose along the redbrick of a chimney, Riley was being interviewed in the writing room by society darling Tibor Charismo. Riley was an adoring fan of Charismo’s work, and Tibor seemed extremely satisfied to take this as the starting point of their relationship.
They sat at an extraordinary mahogany writing desk fashioned in the shape of a stylized gryphon, with a lion’s body and the head of an eagle, covered in gold leaf, protruding from one side. The lion’s flat back was upholstered in pale orange leather, with cubbyholes for bottles, pens, and blotter.
And even though Riley had visited the twenty-first century, he believed this desk to be the most fantastic single object he had ever seen.
“You are admiring my desk, I see,” said Charismo. On this morning he wore an old-fashioned powdered wig over his dark curls, his mask was painted in garish orange and red to give him a slightly demonic appearance, and his dressing gown was quilted silk with a lush fur collar.
“Yes, sir,” said Riley. “It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Charismo drummed his fingers on the wood. “A gift from the tsar of Russia. I baked a poultice for a boil on his nose, if you can credit that. The offending blemish was reduced in circumference by more than sixty percent. Alexander was most grateful.”
Riley’s jaw dropped. “You are a doctor, too?”
“I have no formal qualifications,” said Charismo, in a way that suggested formal qualifications were a waste of a gentleman’s time. “I am connected with the spirit world, which is composed of the sum of human experience, past, present, and future. The spirits communicate with me in my dreams. They whisper to me of words and music, but also of future events. Wars, catastrophes. Plague and famine. It is a terrible burden.” Charismo rested his weary, tortured brow on his knuckles. “No one can ever comprehend the cross I bear.”
Riley dared to pat his hero’s elbow. “Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.’ And surely, sir, you are the greatest genius who ever lived.”
Charismo smiled a touch sadly. “Dear boy. Yes, perhaps I am. And how pleasant it is to have the fact acknowledged. You truly are a perceptive young fellow.”
Charismo dabbed a lace kerchief near his right eye. “Perceptive and mannerly. You have no doubt noticed my various masks and yet made no comment.” Tibor Charismo tapped the smooth plaster of the mask molded to the left side of his face. “This particular model is a Japanese Noh mask representing the devil.” He giggled. “I wear it for séances. A little melodramatic, I know, but it gives the ladies such a naughty thrill.” He paused, his mouth drooping in long-suffering sadness. “I know what they say, those so-called gentlemen of the press. Charismo hides his warts. Or Tibor Charismo cultivates mystery because he is a sham. But the truth is, I wear these masks to hide a terrible disfigurement. A birthmark that was the subject of so much childhood ridicule that I cannot bear to expose it now. Even at night I wear a silken veil.” Tibor banged his fist on the desk. “Why must Tibor endure this curse?” he shouted to the heavens, and then, “Oh, look. Tea!”
Barnum, the enormous driver, was also a butler. He now entered, squashed into a uniform and pushing a trolley heaped with cakes and hot drinks.
“I know how you young scamps enjoy your treats,” said Tibor, filling a plate for Riley.
“Oh, no, sir,” objected Riley, his stomach already full to bursting after a glutton’s breakfast. “I’m not used to such rich food.”
“Nonsense,” proclaimed Charismo. “You must sample les macarons. My chef is French, and they are his speciality. Though I have been credited with inventing the different flavors. A tip from the spirits.”
“Perhaps just one,” said Riley, selecting a small cake.
Charismo filled his own china plate and ate for several minutes with concentration and enjoyment, growling low in his throat with each mouthful. Eventually he sat back and belched into his handkerchief with such force that the material fluttered.
“Now, what was our topic? Ah, yes, the trials of Tibor, but enough of that. You will think me a terrible boor. We are here to talk about you. The spirits assure me that you have had a fascinating life. Let us start with those unusual eyes.” Charismo placed a finger to his temple. “The spirits inform me that this condition is known as anisocoria, and it is usually the result of trauma, but it can also be inherited.” Tibor leaned forward, suddenly paying very close attention. “Can you remember, my dear boy?” he asked, flecks of sugar on his lips. “Can you remember your parents? Did they have anisocoria?”
Riley sipped his tea. “I do not know for certain, sir. Sometimes I have dreams, or visions. I was young when my parents died . . . were murdered, actually. By a man named Garrick. Now he’s on my trail.”
Charismo stuffed his kerchief in his mouth. “Quelle horreur! Murdered, you say. But this is terrible, awful.” He patted Riley’s knee. “You are safe here, my boy.”
Riley placed his cup on its saucer, tracing the pattern of dancing girls on the china with his index finger. “I can’t stay long, sir. You have been wonderful to grant us shelter, but Garrick will find me, and then you would be in danger. My conscience could not bear that responsibility.”
Charismo harrumphed. “With your leave, Riley, I shall worry about this Garrick individual.”
Riley’s scratched the scab on his shoulder, though the tattooist Farley had warned him against this. “Everyone says that, sir. Then Garrick kills them.”
“Shall we make a gentlemen’s agreement?” asked Charismo. “We will have our little talk and I shall take my silly notes, and then I will set all the resources at my disposal, which are considerable and include Otto Malarkey and his stooges, a-looking for your Garrick. How does that sound?”
Riley forced a smile.
“Capital,” he said, resolving that he and Chevie must be away before nightfall.
Chevie’s first thought upon emerging through the fireplace into the chamber directly above her bedroom was that perhaps she should not have worn a white shirt.
I am not having much luck with clothes these days, she thought, and then, These days? What does that even mean anymore?
The climb had been difficult, but far from impossible for someone whose first month in training had included a half-mile crawl along a disused latrine drain, with barbed wire overhead and a permanently disgruntled FBI instructor above the wire. Her only worry in the chimney had been that she would lose her purchase on the mortar between the bricks and slide down to the cellar.
Chevie climbed over the grate’s brass railing, then stood upright, grateful to have space on every side—she had been about two minutes away from developing claustrophobia.
She looked around. This room was three times the size of hers and infinitely more luxurious. The bed was the size of a trampoline and seemed to be built on a nautical theme, with posts designed to look like masts and drapes rigged like sails. Blue-and-white-striped cushions were heaped in a mountain in the center, and what looked like a veil was tied to a brass hook on the headboard. Chevie counted over a dozen gas jets on the walls, as well as four electric lamps. One of Charismo’s Farspeak devices stood on a marble-topped bedside table and another on the rolltop writing desk. Gold-framed pictures lined the walls, and all depicted Charismo. Some were seated portraits, but others documented his extraordinary career. Here he was onstage with Robert Louis Stevenson in Covent Garden, and there was Tibor presenting a leather-bound book to Queen Victoria herself. By the window was a framed cover of Harper’s Magazine, split by a Union Jack ribbon into two halves, the left depicting Charismo speaking into his Farspeak device, the right showing an amazed mother with her petticoated daughters listening raptly to the receiver.
Chevie looked around for anything that might justify her nagging suspicions about Tibor Charismo. She knew in her gut that something was wrong. Her in
stincts had served her well when she’d been undercover in Los Angeles.
I knew those guys were clean, and I just know that Tibor Charismo is dirty. I need to find the connection. There were only two men from the future hiding back here. One was Riley’s father, an FBI agent, and the other was the man he was guarding.
Charismo’s collection of half-masks was displayed on a board on the wall, each dangling from a dedicated brass hook.
This guy sure likes his masks, Chevie thought, tapping a mask that looked like solid gold but was actually painted plaster.
Nothing is as it seems.
Almost unconsciously, she began humming the intro of a song that her father had played over and over again on his beatup turntable: Eric Clapton, “Behind the Mask.”
Now this is real music, squirt, her dad said every single time he dropped the needle on the record.
Behind the mask. I wonder what is behind the mask.
There was a crack in the display board running right down the center. No, not a crack—a gap, because the board was actually a set of doors.
Where is the handle?
There was no handle, so Chevie put a finger against each door and pressed. The doors gave slightly and then swung open to reveal a recessed cupboard and bulletin board. There were line drawings pinned to the board and an assortment of objects placed on the shelf.
Calm down, she cautioned herself. And don’t miss a thing.
“Oh, my God,” she said aloud, surprised that her suspicions had proved to be spot on. “I’ve got you now, Tibor.”
What a fancy name he’s given himself, Chevie thought. Much fancier than Terry.
Suddenly she heard the rapid footfalls of a big person jogging up a nearby set of stairs.
I need proof for Riley.
Chevie snatched two small objects: a glittering ring from its velvet cushion, and the second to get her home again. She was back in the chimney before the masks stopped rocking on their hooks.
Inside the chimney, Chevie plotted her next move.
I need to get Riley alone and show him what I found. I hate to destroy his hero, but Charismo is not quite as gifted as he pretends to be.
She inched down the shaft toward the light below. The light. My room.
No one entered the chamber above. The footsteps she’d heard had been a false alarm. Still, it would be foolhardy to go back up. She should count herself lucky that she’d escaped detection this time.
Chevie imagined her Quantico instructor screaming abuse in her ear, and this motivated her to descend a little faster. In three minutes flat her boots were sticking out of the fireplace in her bedroom.
She twisted onto her stomach and pushed herself into the room, once again feeling that immense sense of relief at being free from confinement.
I made it , she thought.