The River of No Return

don’t know. I don’t know you.”
    “No one really knows Bertrand Penture,” Leo said. “Ofan or Guild? Friend or foe? Man or machine? When is he from? What does he believe?”
    Bertrand’s eyes never wavered from Julia’s. He had said that Ignatz taught him to live. Grandfather had taught her to be blind to life. They had learned very different lessons from the same man. They both loved him, and they both felt the enormity of his betrayal. But for all that they shared so much, and for all that she had seen him laugh and even sung with him, there was nothing in Bertrand’s beautiful face that suggested that he could be a friend. Julia was grateful for the warmth of Nick’s arms around her, his legs on either side of hers. Grateful for the way his breath matched hers.
    Bertrand continued. “Ignatz’s vision was a beautiful one. A community of Ofan working together to learn about the talent, to pierce the Pale and learn its secrets. But he could not keep it going. Alva and I are working to establish a similar community here, in England, in 1815. Alva’s catacombs beneath Soho Square are known as a safe space all up and down the river, but because they are known by the Guild and Ofan alike, we cannot build on them. I am the Guild Alderman and therefore I will be able to obfuscate our activities. But to expand, we need property.” His eyes caught the light and flashed. “A very specific property.”
    For a moment there was silence, except for the faint crystalline music of the dying fire.
    Property. Julia thought about Castle Dar. The home she had loved . . . the place where she had been made a fool. She thought of Grandfather’s stone that had caught and preserved the impression of a bird. Her life had been nothing more than an impression at Castle Dar. A hollowed-out trace. Now she was flown.
    Here in the open, around a fire, in a barn with a broken roof—here was where she had woken up. Here and in this place and in this moment she knew what she could do, who she was. “Is Castle Dar mine?” Julia asked after a moment. “Now that Eamon is dead? Or did Grandfather neglect to adopt me?”
    Bertrand smiled. “You are very intelligent, Julia. Like your mother. Ignatius spent a great deal of energy trying to disinherit Eamon so that he could establish Castle Dar as an Ofan stronghold. But he never managed to destroy Eamon’s claim. Which means that with Eamon’s death the property does, indeed, descend to you, his granddaughter. He had no need to adopt you, because from the very beginning he made sure you were his real granddaughter in the eyes of the law. He forged papers proving that his son had married a Scottish woman. You will find that your father’s wedding and your legitimate birth is on record in a little church in Prestonpans. For all intents and purposes, you are Lord Percy’s lawful descendant.”
    “And Castle Dar is mine.”
    Bertrand nodded.
    “Then you may buy it from me.” As she said the words she felt a final weight lift from her shoulders. “I don’t want it.”
    Bertrand smiled at her. “Thank you, Julia,” he said. “But it is not Castle Dar we need.” She watched as his eyes lifted from hers to Nick’s. “We need Falcott House.”
    Julia felt Nick’s body, wrapped so comfortingly around hers, tense. “Pardon me?” he said softly. “I think I just heard you demand my home of me.”
    “Indeed,” the Frenchman said. “Falcott House is perfect for our needs.”
    “Julia has just offered you Castle Dar. It is twice the size of Falcott House.”
    “Nevertheless. Yours is the house we need. And no other.”
    “Why?”
    Bertrand looked at Nick in some annoyance. “That is none of your concern. Give me the Blackdown estate, Davenant.”
    Nick’s body relaxed, but not back into inattention. “I recommend to you a certain document, Penture,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “It is called the Magna Carta. It was designed expressly to keep upstart kings from demanding property of their lords.”
    “But I am not a king,” Bertrand said silkily. “And in the eyes of the Ofan, you are not a lord.”
    The laugh broke through. “Ah, but there’s the rub,” Nick said. “If I am not a lord, then Blackdown is not mine to give. It is entailed to the Blackdown marquessate. And if I am a lord, then I cannot give you Blackdown, for exactly the same reason. I am only the brief tenant of the title, which must descend from me to my eldest son, should such an