Tokat? “You were... with Father?” A dozen emotions sprang up inside me like unwanted weeds in the middle of a perfect lawn. Anger. Hurt. Jealousy... If he’d been with Father, that meant Huck had been helping him with the Turkey expedition. Behind my back. Both of them lying to me.
“The two of you have been in contact? For how long? This entire time?” I mean, I knew that Father communicated with Huck occasionally at least. Enough to report to me that Huck was still alive and living with his aunt.
“Theo...” He said my name as if he pitied me and was trying to spare my feelings—which only made me angry. And paranoid.
“Have you been meeting up with Father at other expeditions?”
“Not necessarily...?”
“What in the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a bit of a long story,” he said, eyes darting away.
“Oh-ho! I bet it is, and I’ve got plenty of time. And apparently so do you, since you’re taking baths in my room and exchanging our train tickets—was that you?”
“Christ alive, this hotel is gossipy,” he murmured. “Remind me to fill out a complaint card when we’re checking out.”
“And to top it all off, you told the concierge you were my brother?” I said, suddenly livid. “Mybrother?That’s rich.”
Worst part was, he nearly used to be.
Before the birthday incident last year—something I privately referred to in my head as Black Sunday—Father had treated Huck as if he were beloved heir and fortunate son. For the first few years of my teens, while I was continually left behind in hotels when we all traveled abroad together several times a year, Huck was climbing mountains and sailing the seas with my father, having glorious adventures. Huck knew how to fly a plane, pilot a boat, and pick a lock. If my father needed something done outside the law, Huck enthusiastically volunteered and was enthusiastically praised.
In Father’s eyes, I was trouble, but Huck the Magnificent could do no wrong.
And as far as whatIthought about Huck? That was complicated. When Huck first moved into our upstate New York Hudson Valley home, Foxwood, both us were children, grieving over the recent loss of parents. Huck’s father was an Irish immigrant who’d served in my father’s unit in the war; they were both awarded the Medal of Honor for swimming across a canal in France under fire to rescue a dozen imprisoned allies, an act that had created an unbreakable bond between our fathers.
After the war Sergeant Gallagher and his wife were killed unexpectedly in a terrible streetcar accident outside their Brooklyn apartment, one that Huck survived... the white scar on his cheek a continual reminder. Huck had no relatives in the States to take him in—and no money to return to Ireland. Father didn’t even think about it. He just left Foxwood one afternoon and returned a few hours later with a scared eleven-year-old boy.
At the time I was struggling, grieving. Would wake up in the middle of horrible nightmares, wailing... which was when Huck dubbed me “banshee.” Grief bonded us. We became inseparable friends. And the small, broken family of me and Father expanded to include Huck. We were more than family. We were a trio shackled by loss. A band of mourners, loyal to one another. Until I broke the rules with Huck... and broke my father’s heart.
Black Sunday.
One minute Huck was in my life every single day, and then... he was gone. Poof! I woke up the next morning and he was on an ocean liner to Northern Ireland. No goodbye. No nothing. For months it felt as if I were in mourning all over again—as if he’d actually, physically died. Maybe sometimes I even wished he had, because that would have been better than knowing he was across the ocean, still very much alive... and very much unconcerned that he’d broken my heart into a million pieces.
But now here he was, standing in front of me. Brought back from the dead as if he were a cursed mummy, risen from an ancient burial tomb.
Like nothing had happened.
“You arenotmy brother,” I remind him, poking his breastbone.
“Know that, don’t I?”
“Why did you tell Mr. Osman you were?”
“Was the only thing I could think of on the spot that would get me inside your room,” he argued, looking mildly sheepish. “It helped that the concierge was fairly easy to fool. By the way, is the man’s hair cut like that on purpose? Looks as if he made an enemy of his barber.”
“You could have waited in the lobby.”
He shook his head. “Negative. I needed a bath like you wouldn’t believe. Man was not meant to go without hot water and indoor plumbing for days while climbing mountains. It’s a wonder I don’t have lice.”
It should’ve beenmeclimbing those mountains and attracting lice—not him. I used to go in the field with my parents when I was a child—to ancient ruins, temples, and hidden gravesites. The three of us went everywhere together. But after Mom died and Huck moved in, Father became increasingly paranoid about my safety, claiming every expedition was “not a place for a young lady.” And that’s when I started getting left behind in hotels.
Huck ran a hand through his curls. “Let me just say, the shampoo here smells amazing. Like roses. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it feels good to be clean, I—” He stopped abruptly, glanced at my mud-soaked dress, and puffed up his cheeks. “Woof !Have you been rolling around in dog shite?”
“It was raining, and there was this harem ring...”
“Harem?” he said, one brow lifting slowly.
