It was true. Though the Depository Trust might be filled with counterfeit bonds, it’d be awfully hard to trace how they got there, or where the real ones had gone. Although Lawrence had bought out Tor’s loans—and taken over those callable bonds in the process—we couldn’t be sure he suspected that duplicates existed somewhere (after all, ours were the real ones!)—and he’d agreed to turn them over to us as soon as we signed over the island to him. We still had time to do so before their due date for recall.
As for Tavish and me, we had only to self-destruct our programs in order to erase them in an instant. We’d never used any passwords—or put any money into accounts—in our own names. In point of fact, none of us could be proven to have benefited from crime. For the most part, it would be hard to prove we’d even engaged in one.
So it was still possible for us to wrap things up neatly without getting caught. But that wasn’t enough for me. I’d progressed well beyond mere concern for saving my ass. I had wasted four months of my life—all without accomplishing one damned thing that Tor and I had initially set out to do. The picture seemed bleak, all right, but I was far from finished. That you’ve missed your goal doesn’t mean you don’t still have one.
Tor and I were passing through a grove where orange trees, heavy with blossom, scattered richly scented petals on the orchard floor. Tor snapped off a twig from a nearby tree, and twined it in my hair. Tossing his arm across my shoulders, he inhaled the aroma as we continued on our way.
We came upon a cluster of small boys, running down the rows of trees, carrying roughly cut wooden birds covered with spring flowers. Tor laughed, reached in his pocket, and scattered a handful of pennies among them. They scrambled to pick up the loot, chattered their thanks with merriment, and dashed away.
“It’s a very ancient Mediterranean tradition,” Tor explained. “Around Easter, young boys make hand-carved wooden swallows, paint them, deck them with flowers, and go about begging for coins. It’s mentioned in the oldest of writings and legends.”
“It’s a very charming custom,” I agreed.
“It reminds me of that children’s fable of the bird in the gilded cage. A bird that—like you—had to be left free in order to sing. I’ve thought of it often these last months. It’s been nearly impossible, staying away from you like this, after what’s passed between us. I couldn’t bear not to hear your voice—I wanted to phone you each night, and to wake with you each morning. But I knew any such gesture on my part—even if it were possible—would be construed by you as the worst form of—”
“What?” I said, halting in my tracks and staring at him. I couldn’t believe my ears. Then I burst into startled laughter. He, too, had stopped in surprise to look at me. But I couldn’t stop laughing; there were tears in my eyes. Tor watched me in stony silence.
“Perhaps you could share the joke, if it’s not asking too much,” he suggested with irritation. “It seems to amuse you that I should want you—and perhaps it is a bit odd, after all.”
“That’s not it.” I choked down the laughter as I brushed back my tears. “You don’t understand; I was furious with you for leaving like that. I’d have called you—if you’d only told me how! I was absolutely miserable, wondering why you didn’t phone, why you didn’t write, what had become of you. And all the while, you were only trying to make me happy by setting me free like that little bird!”
Tor looked at me with those strange flame-colored eyes as it dawned on us both precisely the sort of admission I’d at long last made. His stony expression faded into the familiar wry smile.
“It does seem odd,” he admitted, “that two people whose minds share a powerful wavelength—and whose bodies combine so beautifully, I might add—should require a translator to interpret such a simple thing as feeling.”
“Perhaps you can translate this simple feeling,” I said, returning the smile: “I love you.”
He paused a moment, as if he’d never before heard the word. Then he pulled me to him with one swift movement, embraced me, and buried his face in my hair.
“I believe we’ve arrived,” he whispered.
But though Tor and I might have gotten our romantic bearings at last, seas were still choppy when it came to more pragmatic ventures.
As the days trickled by, bringing closer the arrival date of the island’s new owners, my mood progressed from real fury (the vendetta impassionata, as Lelia called it)—to intense determination—to righteous indignation—to helpless frustration—to miserable desperation—at last to hopeless exhaustion. And though I spoke to Tavish daily and racked my brains day and night, in the end I had no solution, nor a way to snatch us from the grasp of the nefarious Vagabond Club.
At the forefront of all our minds, of course, was that these were the very men against whom we’d made our wager! It was to expose men such as these that we’d risked and lost everything.
These were the sort of men who’d leveraged Bibi out of his
