Ch 40

Hugo, Bernard and Celeste were not tired in the least, and as Hugo insisted that Bernard and Celeste accompany us in the carriage to their destinations, I sat back and stifled a yawn.

"This is lovely," Hugo proclaimed, looking at his three guests in what had become cramped quarters. "What an absolute treat being surrounded by two of my newest friends."

Celeste squeezed in beside Bernard, who took up most of the seat, while I found myself in between the wall and Hugo's soft frame, which he situated toward the middle of the bench.

"Would you like to stop at my home for supper?" Hugo asked. "A light meal, perhaps? Or dessert?" He fished his watch from his pocket and squinted at the time. "Ah, Dorthea will be in a mood when I return. A bit of wine instead? I have brandy as well, a good vintage bottle."

"Not tonight," Bernard replied. "My body is screaming at me for bed and something to dull the pain."

Celeste immediately turned her attention to Bernard and studied his swollen face.

"How badly are hurting?"

Bernard shrugged. "I'll be fine."

Celeste appeared unconvinced. "It makes me sad to see you injured."

"That's why I didn't want you there. Boxing ain't no place for little girls."

"I'm not little," she protested.

"You ain't big, either."

"I have laudanum," Hugo offered. "Some stronger remedies as well if you're interested, left over from my amputation."

Bernard shook his head. "Not tonight."

Celeste agreed with Bernard and Hugo nodded, extending his invitation for another time. His driver was given the addresses to separate hotels near one another, and the horses lurched forward and down the street.

Hugo made his best attempts at conversation while Bernard made it perfectly clear he wanted silence.

"Our wagers," I said suddenly. "What happened with our bets? Forfeited, I assume?"

Hugo snapped his fingers. "Would you believe we turned a profit, my fine fellow," he replied.

"Even with this disqualification?"

Hugo frowned at me. "Did you fail to read the fine print? Anything over four rounds is all that is needed for bets to remain in good standing." He proceeded to pull out a handful of banknotes from his overcoat pocket. "Four hundred for me, one hundred and twenty-five for you."

My eyebrows instantly shot up. "Off a total wager of twenty-five francs?"

"That's what happens when you bet on the man that ain't supposed to win," Bernard grumbled.

"Why weren't you supposed to win?" Celeste murmured with her eyes closed.

"Because I wasn't the favorite," he roughly answered.

"Why not?" Celeste questioned.

"Because I ain't been in the ring for two years."

"What did you do for two years?" the girl questioned.

Bernard's features twisted and I held my breath, prepared to intervene if he lashed out at Celeste for her innocent inquiry. Instead, the pugilist took a breath, held it, and released it slowly.

"I returned home to Wissant," Bernard answered. "To the place my Bea loved more than anywhere else." He took another breath, his eyes cast down.

"You are from Wissant?" I asked.

Bernard's hardened gaze lifted and slid toward me. "Born and raised. You been there?"

"I was born in Conforeit," I answered. "But years ago I passed through Wissant. It's a beautiful commune."

Wissant had been one of the last places I had stopped before returning to Bjorn's home in search of Erik when the letters stopped arriving.

At a time when I had felt impossibly lost, the coast town with its cliffs and row of homes along the water had allowed me a moment of serenity. I had hoped to find my brother there, creating his music on the wind-swept sand as he sat, sheltered by the thick reeds of beach grass. I imagined him lost in thought, appreciating the natural melody of the waves and gulls in harmony.

Bernard nodded. "Didn't leave the house for eighteen months," he said, emotion flooding his rough voice. "I barely left Bea's room the whole time I was there."

"Who is Bea?" Celeste asked.

"Beatrix." Bernard swallowed. "My daughter."

Celeste perked up. "The name written on your shoulder?"

Bernard sucked on the inside of his cheek. "That's my girl," he said fondly. "Best little girl in the whole world."

Celeste gave the barest of smiles. "How old is she?"

"She would be around your age if she was still..." Bernard finished with a shrug.

Realization crept into Celeste's features and she rested her hand onto Bernard's forearm, expression filled with grave concern. "Oh, Bern, I am so sorry. Was she ill?"

Bernard's swollen eyes glistened in the dark. "No, she wasn't sick. She was perfect her whole life, but someone took her from me and killed my little girl. They stole everything good in my life. Everything I ever wanted–and she was the last thing I ever thought I'd want."

Celeste took a shuddering breath. "Bern," she whispered, her hand resting on his. "I didn't mean to ask and upset you."

"You ain't upset me. I miss her, that's all." Gingerly he wiped his free hand down his face. "I hadn't seen my Bea for a month 'cause I had matches and I didn't ever want that sweet little girl to see me like this, all…all terrible and such. She would have been afraid of me with my nose broke and eyes blacked, just like you're afraid now."

Celeste pursed her lips and studied him. "I'm not afraid of you," she replied. "I'm sad someone would ever hurt you like this."

"That's boxing, kid. It paid the bill, but I regretted all the time I spent away from my daughter."

"What did you do while you were home?" Celeste asked.

Bernard felt along his swollen cheeks. "Everything Bea would have wanted me to do when I was home, which was a lot of bull sh…I mean to say a lot of foolishness."

Celeste grinned. "You were not going to say foolishness."

"No, I wasn't." Bernard grinned back at her. "My apologies, I forgot what it's like to speak all polite to someone your age."

"You are forgiven."

Bernard gave a half-hearted smile. "Beatrix always wanted me to make bird houses so she could paint them, but I ain't good at building stuff and she wasn't no painter, so them damned birds had a lot of lop-sided, ugly houses hanging from the trees.

"And then you know what she wanted? She wanted me to tell her what kind of birds we had in the baths and at the feeders, like I knew what they was called. Ain't that ridiculous?"

Celeste wrinkled her nose.

"I had to read this book," he said, gesturing with his hands that it was a hefty tome. "With all the bird drawings and their fancy names, just for her so she could paint the houses and I could label them so the birds knew which one was theirs, like they could read or some sh…something."

Celeste turned her head to the side and grinned wider.

"Yeah, yeah, I wasn't going to say 'something', but I ain't apologizing this time," he grumbled.

"I forgive you anyway."

Bernard grunted. "Those damn birds had two dozen different houses. That's how much I loved my Bea."

Bernard took a deep breath, his gaze distant.

"I ain't thought about it for a while, but the first four months I didn't want to do nothing at all, but sometimes doing nothing gets too heavy and it sits on you, square in the chest."

He described a feeling I knew all too well. I suppressed a shiver, feeling the weight upon me.

"So you did something?" Celeste asked.

"Yeah, kid, I did a lot of somethings. I fixed a few of the ugly, lopsided birdhouses before spring so the birds with their fancy names had somewhere to properly raise their young. Six months after my Bea had been killed, I had fledglings all over the property, chirping their little bird heads off until they flew away. She would have loved all them little ones all over the place."

"Not a bird enthusiast indeed," I said lightly.

"Beatrix made me a lot of things," Bernard said, a wane smile attaching to his split lips. "Including a builder of houses for birds. She would have liked that yellow painting of yours. Would have begged me to purchase it and hang it in the barn or something equally ludicrous."

"The painting with the tanagers?"

"Flame-colored tanagers." Bernard managed a smirk.

"I would have preferred the painting sold to someone who would appreciate the birds," I said. "Regardless of where it was displayed."

"Who was foolish enough to buy that yellow catastrophe?" Bernard asked.

"Madame Florine Fabienne," I answered.

"I don't know her, but it don't seem as though you like her much."

"She's lovely," I said under my breath. "But I was not intending to sell to her."

"Then tell her you want it back."

Celeste twisted to face Bernard and tapped him on the arm. "So you were not supposed to win tonight because you spent a year and a half making birdhouses?" she asked.

Bernard scowled again. "I wasn't supposed to win 'cause I'm a hot-headed fool who ain't got no sense," he growled, slouching against the backrest. "And because I got soft lounging in the sand, feeding those damn birds after they left their nests so the little bastards didn't starve to death."

Celeste looked him over, apparently searching for the part of her burly boxing instructor that was not bulging with muscles.

"Irish James is the golden god these days, that little prick," Bernard snarled.

"Well, I don't like him," Celeste said, her head resting against the window and eyes slowly closing. "That little–"

"Eh, you watch your mouth," Bernard warned.

"I was going to say he's a little fool and I abhor him."

"Good. He don't deserve to be liked by no one, especially a little song bird like you."

"If he were sitting here, I would tell him that he is not a nice person."

"If he were sitting here, I'd break his neck and leave him writhing around like a boneless worm."

"You've had a long-standing rivalry," Hugo interrupted.

Bernard scowled. "Rivalry? It ain't no rivalry. I beat him five times."

"But you faced him six times," Hugo said.

Bernard's scowl deepened. "The sixth don't count to me."

I knew Hugo would ask why, but the carriage slowed quite suddenly, and the horses made a sharp turn to the left where they pulled up to a shabby little hotel.

A group of men sat outside with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Bernard sat forward and peered out the window, his eyes narrowed.

"This you, kid?" he asked, nudging her with his elbow.

Celeste sat upright with a start and inhaled sharply, having dozed off during the brief ride. Her eyes widened once she realized that she was surrounded by three men in close quarters, but slowly she nodded and relaxed seeing familiar faces.

"Thank you for the carriage ride, Monsieur Duarte."

"A pleasure, Mademoiselle Frane."

"No," Bernard said, still eyeing the building. "You ain't staying in this flea-infested hole."

Celeste's lips parted. "But where would I go?"

"Not here," Bernard said firmly, appearing quite disgusted by the hotel. "Where are your belongings?"

Celeste immediately lowered her gaze and folded her hands.

"Where are your belongings?" Bernard asked a second time. "You got more than the clothes on your back?"

"In the alley," she answered softly. "Behind those refuse bins."

Bernard's gaze softened. "Whatever you got, bring it here."

She slinked out of the carriage and past the group of men leering at her, disappearing into the alley where I lost sight of her in the shadows. One of the men started to walk toward the alley, and before I opened the carriage door to discourage whatever he intended, Bernard leaned forward and kicked it open. He banged his hand against the exterior, garnering the stranger's attention.

"Oy!" he shouted. "I'll rip your balls off if you go anywhere near the girl!"

The man turned, eyes narrowed as he adjusted his trousers. "Oh yeah? And who the hell are you issuing me orders?"

"Bernard Montlaur, that's who."

The man slowly turned around and headed back to the rest of his friends, who promptly scattered like roaches. A moment later, Celeste appeared with a single pack that smelled of rotting food and other refuse.

"The hell you got in there, kid? I can't even breathe through my nose and I can smell it," Bernard groused.

Celeste appeared mortified. "Everything I own," she meekly answered.

"Sentimental value or necessities?"

"Both."

"Hmm." Bernard made a face. "Keep the sentimental stuff, but by morning everything else goes in the trash."

"But–"

"Everything goes in the trash," he said firmly.

"What about my clothes?"

Bernard thought for a moment. "That's a problem, ain't it? I got no girl stuff, but you'll find something else to wear that ain't been stewing in the gutter water."

"But I can't afford to purchase new clothing," Celeste argued, her bottom lip quivering.

Hugo cleared his throat. "Twenty francs, courtesy of the underdog," he said, thumbing through his bank notes.

"You stingy old man. Give her a hundred," Bernard growled.

Hugo's eyes widened. "A hundred fr–"

"You got this fancy carriage and ain't hurting for money. Give her a hundred. Now."

Hugo inhaled. "Very well. A gift, Mademoiselle, as suggested by the victor himself."

Bernard had barely switched his gaze from Hugo to me when I cleared my throat. "A hundred francs," I said, deciding not to argue with the prize fighter.

"You keep twenty," Bernard said to Celeste. "The Professor will hold onto the rest for you."

"Me?" I asked.

"You look quite frugal," he answered, looking me over.

"Frugal indeed." I made a face, uncertain if his words were meant as an insult.
"Responsible," he clarified. "Fancy university type and all."

Celeste giggled at his description as Hugo instructed the driver to continue to the next hotel.

"How long you been staying in that rat's nest, kid?" Bernard asked. He removed one of the cotton pieces from his nostrils and dabbed at his nose to see if the bleeding had stopped, which it had.

"Six months?" she guessed.

"You been in the city that long?"

"I've been here for…nine months," she answered, counting on her fingers. "There is a different hotel I found first, but when I couldn't afford it any longer, they told me to leave. This one was less expensive and I was closer to the theater and…other places."

"Places you shouldn't have been," Bernard said sternly.

Celeste averted her eyes. "I didn't know what to do."

"I ain't blaming you for nothing. Grown men should know better than taking advantage of a girl." He leaned toward her and nodded. "But that ain't happening no more, is it?"

When she failed to reply, Bernard nudged her in the arm. "Lift your chin and look me in the eye."

Despite sniffling, she did as he requested and blinked at the prize fighter through her glassy eyes.

"You are Mademoiselle Celeste Frane, and Mademoiselle Frane ain't for sale, you hear me? If any man comes up to you and offers you ten francs for the night, what are you going to tell him?"

Shamefully she looked away, small frame quivering.

"What do you tell the bastard?"

"No," she whispered. "No, I won't go with you."

The emotion in her meek voice raised the hairs on my arms, the reality of what had been her life and the loss of her innocence. I wondered how many times I had walked past her on the street, lost in my own thoughts, oblivious to a starving girl led away into the shadows.

"And what do you do if he don't want to take 'no' for an answer?" Bernard didn't wait for her to respond. He motioned with his hand, violently yanking an imaginary object straight down while gritting his teeth. "Rip 'em clean off. Right?"

With her gaze still averted, she nodded. "I didn't want to stay the night with them," she said under her breath, the tears in her eyes falling down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around her body and shuddered. "But it was cold and I had nowhere else to go. I was alone…I was lost."

"I know, kid." Bernard immediately wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb, meaty hands gently drying her cheeks. "And it ain't ever happening to you again, you understand? Not ever."

"I don't know what to do," she wept. "I don't have a home. I don't have a family. I don't have anything."

"One thing at a time," he said, holding her chin up with his finger. "I swear I ain't letting anything bad happen to you."

Celeste's bottom lip quivered.

"You been told that before, yeah?"

More tears fell, but she nodded her head in silence.

"You want me to swear on it?" he asked. "I'll spit on my hand, you spit on yours and we'll shake."

Celeste looked truly aghast at his suggestion, and Bernard chuckled to himself.

"Messin' with you, kid. I don't want no girl spit on my hand. But I swear on my Bea's grave that I'm gonna make sure nothing bad happens from here on out."

At last she smiled and leaned into the prize fighter, resting her head against his shoulder. Eyes closed, she breathed a sigh of relief and nestled up against him.

"You got three people in your corner," he said, meaty fingers spread against the top of her head. "That's a hell of a lot more people than ever had my back."

Celeste opened her eyes and looked from Bernard to Hugo and at last to me. I wondered what went through her mind, a girl of thirteen in the company of three adult men, none of whom made unwanted advances or asked for intimate relations.

"You have been so kind to me," she said. "All of you. And I don't know what I have done to earn your kindness."

Bernard offered a lop-sided smile, one I was certain he had bestowed upon his own daughter, possibly an expression he had not used since her death. Beneath the scowl and burly exterior, he was a father at his core. "'Cause you're you, kid, and that's reason enough."

The carriage slowed and Bernard peered out the window. He nudged Celeste in the side. "You go inside and tell the clerk you want a room on the fourth floor across from four eleven. Leave the bag here."

I turned my head to the side, realizing we had stopped in front of The Gold Medallion, quite possibly the most prestigious hotel in all of Paris. Celeste apparently realized the same thing and visibly swallowed.

"What if they ask me to leave?" she warily questioned.

Bernard thought for a moment. "You tell that stupid bast–" He cleared his throat. "That very well-mannered clerk that Bernard Montlaur said to add your room to his tab. He ain't gonna argue with you. He knows better."

Celeste hesitated, but slinked out of the carriage like a noodle off the edge of a plate and slowly made her way to the front door, head hanging low. Once she was out of earshot, Bernard re,moved the other piece of cotton from his nostril and inhaled, nose twitching like a rabbit.

"I will return home in three days," he said, keeping his voice low. "The girl can stay on my tab for the next two nights, but once I check out…" His hardened gaze switched to me. "She ain't going back to that hotel. Understood?"

"What do you suggest?" I asked. On my salary, I could not afford to become a benefactor housing an orphaned girl at a hotel like The Gold Medallion for more than a night or two, which was not a long-term solution.
Bernard exhaled through his mouth and turned his attention to Hugo. "You got children?"

Hugo shook his head. "Unfortunately, I was not blessed with a wife and family."

"Hmm." Bernard narrowed his eyes and studied me for a long moment. "You?"

I shook my head and turned my attention out the window where Celeste had finally reached the door. I could see her adjusting the sleeves of her dress before she walked inside and disappeared from my sight.

"No, I do not have children," I said at last, my gut twisting.

"You seem like you'd have one or two," Bernard said, his eyes narrowed. "Or maybe you got a few you don't know about."

I turned my head, but didn't meet his eye. Beside me, Hugo leaned forward, studying me with great intensity that made me regret my words.

"I have eighteen freshmen students and that is more than enough," I answered. "And a niece whom I am quite fond of as well," I added.

Hugo sighed, momentarily garnering Bernard's curious attention. "You're forty, ain't you?" he said to me. "Not too late to start a family of your own."

"Forty indeed," I muttered. "I'm thirty-five, thank you very much."

"Close enough." Bernard extended his right leg and grimaced as he cursed under his breath. "When you got a child of your own, when you wiped their runny nose and cleaned their filthy bum in the middle of the night, when you're exhausted as all hell and you can't sleep for nothin' 'cause they wake crying every two hours, you can't imagine how you could possibly survive. It's exhausting and frustrating, the hell they put you through.

"And then one day you wake up and that cryin' baby is having full conversations about some stupid bird that needs put back in the nest. And all you can think about is how you'd do anything for that little runny-nosed kid wearin' the same dress four days in a row 'cause it's her favorite. And you got to have another one of them dresses made a size larger 'cause she is going to have a fit when that filthy, tattered dress don't fit her no more."

Bernard rubbed his knee and swallowed.

"Beatrix was on dress number six or seven of the same style. Her bird dress, I used to call it, 'cause the back was a little longer and frilly and it looked like a bird's tail, and the arms were the same way so it looked like she had wings. She would pretend to fly around the garden, and at night, when I finally convinced her to change into her night clothes, I'd tuck her into her nest." He grunted, his scowl replaced by a frown. "The inspector found her newest bird dress behind a little house on the river just south of here. That dress was torn up, all filthy…" His blood-stained nostrils flared as he shook his head. "They left her body a half mile away in a ditch. I couldn't look. I couldn't live with seeing for myself what they did to my…my Bea. My everything." He sucked in a breath and composed himself. "My wife identified her body while I claimed the dress. That damn bird dress."

My blood ran cold at Bernard's description of discovering his daughter's remains. I thought of my stop in his hometown of Wissant, how I had hoped to find my brother toiling away on his music while at the same time I fully expected to identify his decaying body, the remains of my brother that had turned up somewhere between Conforeit and Paris.

Years had passed since I'd first had the means to search for my brother. My hope of finding Erik often dwindled, and I wondered if it would have been easier to find him deceased rather than survive off the meager hope he was still alive after all the years since I'd last known he was with our uncle.

"Celeste Frane, she ain't mine. She don't belong to none of us, but I swear to God, I ain't letting her suffer if I can help it." Bernard's expression was distant, but he looked me in the eye. "My little girl didn't deserve what happened to her. I can't bring her back, I can't apologize to her for what happened, but I sure as hell can try to keep another kid from suffering the same fate. Most of it, anyway. She's suffered enough. More than enough. More than any kid should ever endure."

Bernard's words made me shiver. Erik was no longer a child, and no matter if I found him or not, there was nothing I could do that would make up for the years we had spent apart. My resources were limited, but as the prize fighter had stated, he could not allow Celeste to suffer and I could not either.

"She's fond of you, Professor, and I know you're fond of her as well, like an uncle to his niece. You gotta find a place for the girl in the next two days," he said as he opened the carriage door. He plucked the bag from the carriage floor where Celeste had left it and stepped onto the street, making a face of utter disgust as he pinched the leather strap between his thumb and index finger. "Meditation at ten tomorrow."

"We're both invited?" Hugo asked.

"I got to invite The Professor. I ain't got a key. You can do whatever the hell you want, Duarte."

"I suppose I'll be there at ten," I said under my breath.

"Be there at nine-thirty," Bernard said over his shoulder as he limped toward the door. "Good night, gentlemen."

"Bernard," I said before he closed the door. "Tell Celeste to try Sowards Sewing for new apparel. The owner's name is Abigail."

Bernard eyed me. "Abigail, eh?"

"A friend," I said, leaving it at that.

"Hopefully a good one willing to give the kid a discount. If not..." He smiled to himself, wagging his eyebrows. "I'll have to use my charm."

"Charm indeed," I said.

Bernard grunted and closed the carriage door.

oOo

With half the occupants of the carriage gone, I moved to the empty bench and spread my legs. Hugo said nothing for the first few minutes, but his eyes remained open and pinned on me.

"You're upset with me," I muttered, annoyed by his silence.

Hugo shook his head. "No, I'm not upset with you."

"Frustrated, then."

"Should I be?"

My jaw clamped, my nostrils flared. "It's none of Bernard Montlaur's business whether I have children or not," I snapped.

Hugo inhaled and grabbed hold of his crutch, and my heart stuttered, expecting he would either strike me in the knee or signal the driver to stop at once so that I could be deposited on the street to walk the rest of the way back.

Instead he propped the crutch up against the inside of his leg and stared out the window. "Did you see him this evening?" he asked.

"Who?" I questioned.

Hugo met my eye and frowned. "Your son."

My breath stilled. It had been years since I had felt as though I disappointed my mentor, but in that moment, I was certain Hugo felt a great deal of dismay in my negligence.

Silently I shook my head, embarrassed by my admission that I had failed to notice Marco. "At Steoris or the gymnasium?" I asked.

"The gymnasium," Hugo answered. "He was in attendance with a few friends toward the back and to our right. We spoke briefly when you were away with Montlaur."

I nodded, acknowledging his words with nothing to say in return. With each passing moment I became increasingly agitated by the conversation.

"Phelan, do you want to be a father?" Hugo asked. "Do not answer hastily. I want you to think over your words before you speak."

My lips parted, but I found myself unable to answer. "I want to know Marco, if you are implying that I do not."

Hugo inhaled and clasped his hands around his crutch. "I know you have stated multiple times that you wish to meet him. I suppose at this time I must wonder if you want to meet him for yourself or for his benefit?"

Hugo's words sliced through me, and it felt as though the one individual who had always maintained faith in me was now unable to find anything admirable in my intentions.

"For both of us," I said, my words spoken barely above a whisper. "I want him to know me as well."

My words were met with dreaded silence, and with each passing second I felt the weight of my mentor's judgment, the way he disapproved of my reply.

"You don't believe me," I snapped.

Hugo turned his head to the side and passively studied me. "I have said no such thing, Phelan."

Frustration threatened to get the best of me and I wanted nothing more than to dig all four of my fingers into my left forearm until the burning sensation left me blinded with my self-induced pain.

Ever since I had ceased seeking trouble late in the night, pressing into the scar tissue was the only way I'd ever successfully dulled the emotion coursing through me. At least temporarily I was able to replace the chronic ache with something sharper and more acute, more physically excruciating than emotionally.

Instead, I fought the urge to hurt physically and placed both hands flat on the bench, palms against the cool, smooth fabric, and lowered my gaze, staring at the shadows. I forced myself to sit still, to imagine the weight beside me, the pain and the sorrow and the heaviness responsible for the overwhelming agony that followed my every move.

I could feel Hugo studying me in silence, waiting to see how I decided to proceed. He had known me at my most belligerent, at a time when I had been quick to instigate an argument and hell bent on heated words turning into swinging fists.

But he had thankfully seen me mature and work tirelessly for my place at the university. He had watched me earn the respect of my students.

"My intentions are far from nefarious, Hugo."

He nodded for me to continue.

"I want to paint beside Marco, to exchange ideas and thoughts on technique and different paints and brushes. I want to know if he prefers canvases, boards, cardboard or some other medium. I would like to be there for him in whatever capacity he desires, whether it's nothing more than another artist or the father I regret I haven't been to him for the last seventeen years.

"And if you want to know the truth of the matter, I don't know if I should call him my son because I have no idea if he wants me as his father. As of yet, I am aware I haven't earned the title. I don't know if I ever will, but I would like the opportunity to at least meet with him face-to-face and allow him to decide if he wants me in his life."

Hugo regarded me for a long moment, the edges of his mouth slowly exhibiting a smile. "If Marco is available, I would like to invite you to paint with us next Saturday morning. Nothing formal, mind you, just three artists gathering together."

My heart stuttered and I felt myself inhale sharply. "If you should extend the invitation, I will be there at your doorstep, no matter the hour."

Hugo sat back. "Good."