Epilogue

The silence in the office was broken only by the hollow tick tock of the antique clock, and a rustling of pages from time to time. Through the window came the faint patter of rain on cobblestones, and the rattle of the occasional carriage.

A soft knock on the door made the old man at the desk look up.

"Come in," he said, carefully setting the papers he'd been reading face-down on the table. The door opened; a middle-aged man dressed in black stood respectfully on the threshold.

"Yes, Phelps," Sir Boniface said.

"Agent Fogg to see you, sir."

"Show him in."

The secretary stood aside, holding the door open. A tall, gaunt figure walked slowly in, and the door closed softly behind him.

Sir Boniface stood up, but a moment passed before he spoke. When he did, his voice sounded a bit strained.

"Phileas. Welcome back," he said, stiffly, and went to his eldest son. He reached out his hand, not to shake his son's, but to touch his arm gingerly, in a sketch of an embrace. "Won't you… Would you like to sit down?"

"I'm fine, sir," Phileas said.

"I seem to remember Erasmus mentioned you were hurt," Sir Boniface said, causing great injury to the truth. Erasmus had described, forcefully and in great detail, the nature and severity of Phileas's injuries, and had made his father promise that he wouldn't keep Phileas from his recovery more than what was strictly necessary. "Do sit down, Phileas, I insist."

Phileas complied, lowering himself with great care on a hard chair. He produced a fat envelope from a pocket and handed it to his father. Sir Boniface took it, but his gaze was still trained upon Phileas's bruised and cut face.

"My report, sir," Phileas said, looking uncomfortable. "I understand that Chatsworth already brought you the Orsini documents."

"Yes," Sir Boniface harrumphed, fumbled a bit with the envelope in an uncharasteristic gesture, and retreated behind his desk. Once he sat down again he seemed more at ease. "Yes, he did. Along with his report. I found it an intriguing read. I trust yours will bring more light on some of the events he described."

"I trust it will, sir."

"He seems a bit undone. Is there any reason you'd care to mention for that?"

"There was… a certain amount of danger," Phileas said, carefully. Sir Boniface wasn't fooled by evasions.

"Would you say that Chatsworth did honor to the Service, Phileas?"

A long pause followed.

"He showed remarkable ingenuity in the forging of the documents," Phileas said, eventually, looking down. "And he was able to take us both out of Turin, while I was incapacitated. It's all in my report. Sir."

Another pause.

"Very well. I will read it immediately. But before that, I'd like your opinion on a couple of points."

Phileas raised his head to meet his father's gaze, and Sir Boniface started a little. There was a very clear, very urgent warning in those piercing eyes. It was a look Sir Boniface had seen once too many in field agents, when they came back from a mission, their minds and bodies hanging by a thread, holding just a little bit further until they could curl up in a dark corner and forget the world. Agents with that look had destroyed themselves slowly, over the years, through drink or laudanum or gambling.

Phileas, who had never, ever, asked for a respite, or a favor, who would die before let a complaint leave his lips, was begging his father and boss now, mutely, to let him stop being an agent. To let him be simply a man in pain, a son in need. The realization shocked Sir Boniface, although he never showed it.

Have I destroyed my son? He asked himself in sudden dread, looking at the exhausted face, the evidence of pain suppressed, and, worse, the memories lurking behind Phileas's eyes.

"Nothing that cannot wait, however," Sir Boniface said, gruffly. "You are in need of rest. Take a leave of absence, if you wish. Erasmus said before that he'd like to go back to Shillingworth Magna; you could go with him."

"If you wish me to stay…"

"No," Sir Boniface's voice was back to his dry, commanding tone. "You'd better recover your strength. I may go to the manor in a few days, there will be ample time to talk then."

"Thank you, sir," Phileas said, starting to rise. His breath caught in his throat and he had to lean for a moment on the chair's back. In his mind's eye, Sir Boniface saw himself going to his wounded son, his wonderful, beloved, beautiful son, supporting him, holding him, easing his pain with a caress and a murmured word, telling him how much he loved him. How brave and magnificent he was, much more so than his old, spent father. How proud he was of him and his younger brother.

He sat at his desk and pretended not to see anything, not to feel anything. Phileas left, and for a long, long while, there was silence in the room.

Then the pen started scratching again.

"I'll be away for a few days, Phelps," Phileas said to the secretary while the latter helped him with his hat and coat.

"Very well, sir. Your brother awaits downstairs with a hansom."

"Excellent. Tell my father he can reach me at Shillingworth if there's the need."

"I shall tell him, sir. May I wish you a pleasant stay?"

"Thank you, Phelps."

The door opened. Phelps recoiled instinctively when Phileas's body tensed as if an enemy was in the room, but it was only Chatsworth, dressed in a new suit, looking plump and smug. The secretary had seen many things in Sir Boniface's office, but he reckoned he never had seen someone's face go from pink to yellow at such speed.

"Fogg," croaked Chatsworth.

"Chatsworth," hissed Fogg. It sounded like a hiss. It was probably a whisper, Phelps told himself, and found that he had taken cover behind his small desk.

"I… Did you… Are you leaving?"

"For a while."

"I'll… see you when you come back, then."

"You will."

Chatsworth did a little hesitant dance, and then offered his hand, in a jerky movement. Fogg looked at the hand for a long, long instant.

Then he muttered something under his breath, tipped his hat ever so slightly, and left.

Chatsworth turned beet red and fled to Sir Boniface's office. It was the first time Phelps had seen someone actually longing to be in the same room with the old turtle. And he didn't know why the rush; after all, Fogg only had said something in Latin.

It had sounded like "Noli me tangere".

The End