SOME TIME LATER, as the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly-cooked bread signalled to the circus encampment that breakfast was being prepared, Quaint was still lying awake and alone in Madame Destine's tent. He still wore his blood-stained white cotton vest, and he hadn't taken his eyes away from a dirty stain of mould on the roof above him for the past three hours. He lifted his hands and looked at them, clenching and unclenching his fists. To his surprise, his wounds from the battle with Renard had almost completely disappeared, leaving his skin itchy in the places where they had once been. His previously scraped knuckles had healed, his arms and legs felt stronger, tauter, and the recurring twinge in his lower back (compliments of the Hungarian Premier's wife) had vanished completely. Quaint felt like a new man, and even the lack of sleep over the past twenty-odd hours was causing him no fatigue. He was in immaculate condition considering the carnage his body had been through.
Whistling a happy ditty, Butter breezed into the tent, carrying a metal tray full of deliciously smelling fried eggs, black pudding, bread and bacon.
'Some food, Mr Quaint,' the Inuit said proudly, placing the plate on a small stool in the tent. 'I am overjoyed to see you well, boss. When Prometheus and I finally returned from Crawditch and there was a telling of what happened to Madame, well…I feared the worst things. For you both.'
'And? How is Destine?' Quaint, asked hurriedly. 'Is there any news?'
A broad smile illuminated Butter's face. 'She is most well, boss. She is far from fully recovered, but she is awake now, and drinking and eating. She has asked for you.'
'Thank the Lord she's recovering,' Quaint mumbled. 'When can I see her?'
'Once you finish your eat. You need it; you have not had so much as a scrap for nearly twenty-four hours, boss.'
'Time flies when you're having fun, eh?'
Butter chuckled to himself. 'It is good to see your smile once more, boss. I was beginning to think that perhaps I would never see it again.'
'You're not the only one.' Quaint fell back onto his camp bed, and rubbed at his eyes. 'My thanks, Butter, for the good news, and the hot food. Both are greeted with welcoming arms.'
'It is pleasure for me, boss,' said Butter. He placed his arm around Quaint's shoulder and leaned him forwards, plumping up the pillow behind his employer's back. He rushed around the tent, and scooped up the metal tray, placing it upon Quaint's lap. 'You sit up,' he ordered.
As Quaint shifted his position to sit upright, something struck the china plate on his tray with a metallic 'chink'. He reached down to the ground and plucked up a dented metal object. 'How bizarre,' he said, holding it up to the light. 'Where on earth did this thing come from?'
Butter shuffled to his side to get a closer look. 'A bullet?'
Quaint looked around almost regretfully. 'Can it be…?' His hand moved to his shoulder, and he began to rub it gently. 'I'd almost forgotten all about it. Butter-I've been shot!'
Butter nearly fainted on the spot, and his eyes flared wildly. 'Where, boss?'
'Right here!' Quaint pulled his vest to one side, and twisted his neck to get a good look at the bullet wound in his shoulder, courtesy of Antoine Renard. To his surprise, there wasn't much to see; just a purple-grey bruise where the bullet had impacted, and small, spiralling tendrils emanating outwards, like knots in a tree trunk. Rather than a wound less than five hours old, it looked as if the wound had been healing for years. Quaint lifted his arm and rubbed at his itching shoulder. The pain was almost non-existent. How could that be? There was a wound there, albeit only a remnant of one.
'Boss, are you feeling unwell?' asked a concerned Butter. 'I can see no shot.'
'Well, no matter, Butter. I'll worry about that another time.' And, indeed, Quaint surely would. 'I must say, my friend, it feels good to be back in settled climates, after recent events. How did things conclude in Crawditch after my departure?'
'Sergeant Berry acting as Commissioner until Scotland Yard finds Mr Dray's successor. He has everything well in order, and the local people are much relieved.'
'I'll bet. I don't know what the Yard is playing at. Horace Berry would make an ideal Commissioner. I might just drop a little note to a few friends of mine; see if they can't stack the odds in Berry's favour. And what else have I missed?'
'Well…seems body of a Bishop Courtney was discovered in residence at Westminster Abbey, The Church is in dark to what happened, and are investigating so I hear.'
'And what of Tom Hawkspear?' asked Quaint. 'What is his fate to be?'
'He died shortly after you left, boss. Prometheus said about him having "hole in his gut the size you could ride a horse through". It saddens me for people of Crawditch, justice was not truly done.'
'Well, that all depends on your perception of justice, Butter. Some might say the manner of Hawkspear's death was a just reward. We'll let Hell decide his punishment.'
'I suppose…and the Constable Jennings is now in prison for aiding conspiracy and treason, to be sentenced in three days.'
'Excellent!' said Quaint with a nod, tucking into his warm bread. 'So, all loose ends are nicely wrapped up then. Just the way I like it. And how do you feel after all the excitement, Butter?'
'I have learned much from this adventure, boss.'
'We both have, my friend. I have lain awake for hours trying to soak it all in,' said Quaint with a wistful gaze.
'And how that make you feel, boss?' chirped Butter.
'Oddly enough, my friend,' Quaint said, as he chomped on a rasher of smoked bacon, 'for the first time in a very long while…I suddenly feel…revitalised!'
'That is good,' said Butter, smiling warmly. 'Even if you do not look so, I think.'
'And what do you mean by that remark, you cheeky little scamp?'
Butter laughed. 'I mean no offence, boss. I refer only to your hair.'
'My hair?' asked Quaint. 'What on earth are you talking about, Butter? What's wrong with my bloody hair?'
Butter picked up a small, hand-held mirror from Madame Destine's makeshift dresser next to the bed, and offered it to his employer.
'Take a peek,' he said.
Quaint scowled and stared at his reflection as if he were looking at a stranger.
'Good Lord!' he gasped.
His formerly brown-grey curls were now silver-white curls.
'This is terrible!' Quaint said. 'Butter, I look ancient.'
'Actually, boss, I think it makes you look…'
'Distinguished?' offered Quaint, optimistically.
'No,' replied Butter. 'I was going to say…wise.'
'Wise, eh?' Quaint pulled at his spiralled silver-white curls in the mirror, stretching his jaw and inspecting his teeth as if this were the first time he had viewed his face. 'Hmm, well…I suppose I can cope with "wise". Heaven knows, I have been called far worse.'
Quaint threw back his loose bed sheets and stood up straight, taking in a deep breath. 'Well, hasn't this week just been full of surprises? I wonder what else we have left to discover, hmm? Now…I need to have a word with Prometheus before show time,' he said, ominously. 'There are a few things I need to say.'
The conjuror left his tent, and meandered through the congregated pockets of his performers and crew, searching for Prometheus. As he did so, they clapped, cheered and patted him on the back like a soldier returning from war. Quaint was not expecting that, and by the time he had got halfway to the piece of open grass where Prometheus was doing press-ups, he almost felt like turning around-but he kept on going, for the conversation he needed to have with the Irish strongman was of the utmost importance.
Quaint's shadow drifted over Prometheus's sweating form, and he slowly registered that he had company. He rose to his feet, and greeted Quaint with a wide smile.
'Mornin' to ye, Cornelius,' he said, cheerily. 'Ye look well.'
Quaint prodded his ivory locks. 'Apart from the new look, you mean?'
Prometheus laughed. 'Well, if ye want the truth, I think it makes ye look-'
'Distinguished?' suggested Quaint hopefully.
'Yeah…distinguished…that's it,' replied Prometheus, none too convincingly.
'Prom… I wanted to have a quick word with you,' began Quaint. 'Things have happened so fast this past week. A lot of things have occurred…to us both. I suppose I just…I just wanted to make sure you were all right…with the upcoming show and all.'
'Cornelius, I've known ye for a long time. I can see through ye just as well as Destine can, me old friend. Ye can say her name, ye know…'
'Madeline…' said Quaint, reverently.
'Twinkle, boss. Twinkle was her circus name…her true name,' Prometheus said, drifting away from a group of engineers making last-minute adjustments to a nearby marquee. 'She would want us to remember her as Twinkle.'
Quaint nodded, and followed him. 'Quite right too. Listen to me…if you don't feel like performing today, I do understand. To be honest…everything has happened so quickly that I've hardly had time to take stock. I swore to myself that I would grieve for Twinkle once my enemies were vanquished…but now I find my time taken up by other matters.' He reached out with his hand, grasping the air. 'I just…didn't want you to think we didn't care, Prom…that I didn't care.'
Prometheus spun to face him. 'Ah, don't be daft, man! Course I know ye care! I know what she meant t'ye…an' more importantly, so did she. Just 'cos of all that's gone on, doesn't make ye a heartless monster, does it? Look, I know what ye did.' He grinned a broad smile. 'Ye saved the whole of bleedin' London, man! Ye're a hero!'
Quaint rubbed the back of his neck shyly. 'Well, I don't know about that.'
'Well, I do!' Prometheus strode over to him, snatched up his hand and shook it hard, the action causing Quaint's teeth to rattle in his mouth. 'Ye did a grand job, so ye did, an' I'm proud t'call ye my friend.'
Quaint nodded in acquiescence. 'Well…same here. Very proud…just keep it to yourself, all right? I have a reputation to uphold!'
Prometheus grinned, and folded his broad arms across his expansive chest. 'So…we're goin' t'put on a damn fine show here today for the folk o' London, right? An' we're gonna make Twinkle proud of us too, right?'
Quaint smiled. 'You took the words right out of my mouth.'
'I may have been mute all them years, but I wasn't deaf! Just like I heard ye say so many times-we're a family! We stick together, an' we'll pull together…no matter what fate throws our way! We always do.'
'Absolutely,' agreed Quaint. 'I have to prepare. I'll see you later, Prometheus.'
The conjuror turned, and walked back through the throng of gaudily dressed performers, his eyes on his feet and his mind elsewhere. How could he tell Prometheus that he was about to leave the circus, that he was abandoning them all? However he said it, no matter how much he sugar-coated the words, it still amounted to a betrayal in his eyes. But as close as he was to his people -things had changed. The world had changed. True evil had arisen in the form of the Hades Consortium, and with its members…he had some unfinished business.
Fate, it seemed, was in the habit of throwing things in Cornelius Quaint's way.