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From Phileas Fogg's private journal.

Rebecca discards me, of that I'm sure.  My profligate, self-serving ways have at last breached our ties of blood and kin.  She brings me sharply to task for gambling with my Shillingworth inheritance and demands I act a proper steward.  If it's what she desires, I shall try, although I must say she's done a fine job thus far.  But some other ill wind blows between us and every day brings me a new chill.  She no longer greets me with a kiss.  She flinches away when I touch her.  She barred me from her last Service mission and so I cannot even share her danger.

She gusts so cold.  Rebecca has always blown as warm and strong as a North African sirocco.

We had an especial closeness on the run in Serbia.  It has vanished in this wind.  Holding her, sleeping next her, my body burned much of those three days.  Although I did my best not to disgust nor step beyond brotherly bounds, I wonder if she sensed my fire and there lies the source of her distance.

Passepartout tells me that she's broken with Lieutenant Price.  If only . . . but it cannot be.  She made that plain to both Erasmus and me long ago.  "Always brothers, never lovers," I believe were the exact words Raz repeated.  I'd always hoped she'd relent and accept my brother's suit.  He loved her so.  And as for me, in her eyes I am only another brother.  I dare not sue for more when it could mean loss of all.

Since Eugene Price no longer attends her, tonight Bran Everley will have another chance to steal her heart.  I know he'll try.  That upstart horse purveyor seeks to rise above his station and has always wanted Rebecca's favors.  I rather fancy he knows not what he's in for.  Rebecca only dabbles in country life between her missions, and the begetting of children would not set well with her.  Ministries rather than nurseries are where her interests lie.

I am Rebecca's eldest male relative and thus by all British law and custom her guardian.  (And how ironic, how utterly mordant, that all she has and is belongs to me when I so thoroughly belong to her!)  I could forbid Everley's attentions; however, such an edict would be pointless as not even Father could prevent Rebecca from pursuing a course on which she set her heart.  Witness this career as Secret Agent.  If she wants Everley, I shall not stand in her way.

I cannot think of it.  I shall not.  If we few Foggs are to stay a family, retreat is my only possible answer.  I will leave the field of battle and thus win my private war.  Tonight I shall perform as Shillingworth's master and tomorrow night take my leave after the fireworks display.  Passepartout and I will return Jules to Paris and then on as far as the Aurora shall fly, perhaps even a world circumnavigation as Jean has begged to do.

From time to time I entertain myself that Rebecca truly needs me.  In truth I need her far more.  She is Chatsworth's best agent whether or not he admits it.  She should survive the game, even without me there to guard her back.  My bleak days will multiply without her sweet light, but somehow I will survive.

Here comes Passepartout with my evening clothes.  Likley he will joke of his below-stairs romance with Molly, the parlor maid.  I will try hard to frown.  His simple, adoring heart sweetens my life.  Strange how necessary he's become after only a year or two of service.  God help me if he ever leaves.

**********

Jean Passepartout?  Ah, yes, the valet, Miss Moneypenny thought.

And it looked as though her next document, pages in the unfamiliar block-lettered hand, had been written by said person.  Also dated Christmas Eve, they apparently recounted a strange event.  Miss Moneypenny glanced over to where Quillan was laying out tools for hardness tests.  She smiled.  It felt cozy here.  Her duties as M's secretary seemed a million miles away and Double-Oh-Seven's impending return a high improbability.  Who cared about such old fish anyway?  Moneypenny began to type.

**********

In Jules Verne's handwriting at the top of the first page - "Passepartout's account."

I've done all Master ask.  I think we ready for anything tomorrow.  He tell me to sleep when I finish, but I'm too chittery.  My eyes popping open every time storm rattles windows.  I think I write down story of first trip like Jules ask.  He will glean it for scientific clues about our strange goings on.  He promise only he read it so I not be afraid to write about my master.

Two days ago we tie Aurora down a dozen yards from Shillingworth's front entry.  Last night we hung her with lanterns so she shine in snow like gold beacon for the farmers sledding to Miss Rebecca's party.  My Greek wind, she a beautiful, smart lady.  There is no other airship like her.  I would not trade her for a dozen mistresses.  Well, maybe a dozen, but no less, and they all must be pretty as Miss Rebecca.

Shillingworth's cook one chienne jalouse, as the English say.  Miss Rebecca apologize but I cannot help with Tenants' Feast, so after dressing Master I went out to my workshop on my favorite mistress lady and play some with Master Jules' star man objet.  It do nothing, just lie there shiny and diamond hard.  Finally I give up and toss her on salon table and mix up currant biscuits just for fun, thinking I bake tomorrow when I can fire oven up nice and hot.

Mr. Fogg, he left the Tenants' Feast about midnight and come to Aurora.  Snow slippery and icy, but his gardeners dug path this afternoon and his shoes stay dry.  Just him come, no ladies, no friends, not even Miss Rebecca or Jules.  His grand debut as Shillingworth master not go well, I thinking.  Usually he look a young man, maybe thirty-five, and even younger if he let me dye the silver in his hair.  Last night he look older than his father's gray-hair pictures, and sad, so sad.

I think he watch me from galley hatchway for a bit until I see him.

"Master, something wrong?"  He did not stagger or smell of brandy, but his eyes look blurred and soft around the edges, a little red.

"No, Passepartout.  If you please, some coffee," he say.  "No one makes it quite like you."

He walk around cabin while I brew, looking so fine and black-on-white in evening clothes.  Straight as an arrow, he nocked and pulled tight, ready for a shooting.  He take a saber from wall rack and swish it back and forth like wishing for something there to cut.  Being Mr. Fogg, I know his heart pricks him.  He unhappy at Shillingworth Magna.  Only here because Miss Rebecca ask, and they fight all time.  We go soon, I think, and that sad too.  He only happy when she around or arriving in next to no time.  Even though Master not want to leave, it hurt too much to stay.

When I put coffee service on table and pour his cup, all black and hot just the way he like, I ask, "What happened, Master?  Miss Rebecca's party not go well?"

He not answer.  "Bring yourself a cup, Jean.  Sit with me a while."

"Certainly, Master."  I sat down.  Waiting for words Mr. Fogg not want to talk, I play again with the star man's disk, spinning it like the top.  It make nice top too, well balanced.

"What was your father like, Jean?" he finally ask me.

"I don't know, Master.  I never meet him.  Aunt Louisa say he pirate, but he never come see me."

"I could envy you.  I can't seem to get away from mine, even though he's dead."

"Shillingworth ghosts very lively."

That drew his little so-sad smile and a gentle snort.  "Yes, although they don't walk about anymore as they did last summer."  He take up sword again and test blade with his thumb.  "My father was a hero, Passepartout.  And I'm a degenerate.  No one in there let me forget it."  Most particularly Miss Rebecca, I thinking.  "They're all afraid I'm going to gamble Shillingworth away."

"Master?"  Not wanting to remind him how he'd won his beautiful Aurora from my Baron.

"I just wish . . . sometimes I wish I knew why Father decided to marry.  Families are such inconvenient things for heroes."

"Maybe he love . . ."  I started to say, but things happen really fast to Mr. Fogg and Passepartout.  The star man's objet I'm spinning on the table, it spin on its own faster and faster.  Everything shimmer, like water or outside of Phoenix when she trip through time.  "Passepartout!  What did you do now?"  Master yell at me.  He and I jump up and try to step through watery stuff.  We can't.  We're trapped so tight.  He slash with saber and nothing happen.  It just swishy up the air.

Then kerthump! we standing on the wet cobbles street, no Aurora cabin, no table.  It smell coal smoky, more like London than English country and it's halfish daylight, maybe morning, maybe evening.  Just us two there and we look at each other.  A yelling down the street and bunches of Leagues men in their toy soldier uniforms chase two peoples straight at us.  Guns and swords everywhere.  Scary, scary, I think I scream.

Mr. Fogg, he so brave, so thinking with his feet.  He shrug off all the weirdness, not even say his usual, "What the devil?"  He see Leagues men and he at them in a flash, charging like fol homme, waving his saber, screaming, shouting, you think an army follow him.  He scare them Leagues men so bad they not even think to draw their guns.  They stop and attack my master with their swords.  I count four Leagues men attack him.  The two peoples they chasing, a man and woman, they stops next to me.  In English, man tells his lady to stay in safety.  To me he says, "Come on!  Your friend needs help!"  He and I run at them.  I have no weapon, so I wave my arms and shout.  I run up behind a Leagues man and knock him down.  When he try to get up, I kick him in the head and grab his sword.  My new friend he fire a gun.  Down fall one Leagues man and the other two they decide to run.

When Mr. Fogg would've followed, stranger caught his arm.  "No, sir!  An you value your life, don't pursue!"

I looked at this stranger man in the dimmish light.  He about twenty-five or thirty, my height, and narrow in his build.  And his clothes!  I know clothes, and his should have been packed in a trunk forty years ago.

Master stare at stranger so hard I thought his green eyes would break.  Master knew him, Master knew him right away, but didn't want to think it.

Stranger's lady she there and cry, "Bonny?  Bonny, I thought I'd lost you."  Stranger Bonny wrapped lady with his arms.

"Phyllis, my love.  Can you forgive me for these dangers?  I shall take you back to your father and end our engagement.  This life I've chosen, it's not fit for a family man."

"I love you, Boniface.  There is nothing to forgive.  Try to keep me away, and I will be everywhere you turn.  Whatever you've chosen, I choose too."

"Our children, Phyllis . . ."

". . . will grow strong, my love."

Bonny, his eyes drink his lady up.  He say, "Then, by God, I'll never let you go," and kiss his lady hard, hard, hard.

It pretty dramatic moment, let me tell you.  These stranger peoples forget all about Mr. Fogg and me.  Just as Master stretch out hand to touch the lady (he tell me later she Dame Phyllis, his sainted mother), watery air come back and we snatched away, straight back to Aurora and our snowy Christmas Eve.  As things clear up we seeing watery air flow into star man objet.  Pretty obvious what sent us back, just not how or why.

Mr. Fogg so angry, he macerate air with saber.  He spin around and round, looking for Bonny and his lady.  He hit coffee service and star man thingy with his sword and knock it all a-flying.  Finally he stab my lovely parquet deck with sword point and sag to knees, head bowed over saber hilt, panting hard and shaky like a big steam engine fired up real high.  He look praying, but trying not to cry, I think.  I not mind.  Master just lose his mère and père again.  I crying lots.

After while Master get up.  He look at me and ask, "Were we even there, Passepartout?  Was it real or just a dream?"  I say nothing, just hold up Leagues man sword I still have in hand.  Looking at it, he take deep breath and say, "Passepartout, fetch your jacket.  We're returning to the party."  He gingery pick up star man objet from coffee mess on deck.  Flip it over, hold up to lamp.  It no different.  Still pretty, shiny, with secrets all hidden up.

"Yes, Master.  Perhaps changing shirt, sir?"  Mr. Fogg say no, so I just fresh him up a bit, snug white tie, smooth jacket shoulders, tug down tails.  He hate fussy, but like to look nice, so he stand quiet.  I towel up coffee mess so it not melt deck wax and turn off gaslights, then we go.  When we walk to house, path much slicker because it begin to snow again.  Master scoop up handful from snow bank and rub on face.  I do same.  We both look fresh and ruddy when footman open manor door for us, and sweet music and laughter pour out on snow like eggnog.

Much more happen after, and we have very hard night.  Master Jules say don't write down rest.  I'm glad to stop.  Writing his job, not poor Passepartout's.  I think I sleep now.  Tomorrow coming really soon.

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