The Vorrh

here. ‘Mistress Lohr will not be able to help you, sir. Be off with you! Be off!’
    Ishmael tried again to explain, but his words only served to raise the man’s guard higher.
    ‘BE OFF! No beggars here, we’ve had enough trouble with your kind!’
    Ishmael gave up trying, picked up his bundle and walked wearily away.
    ‘What’s wrong, Guixpax?’ called Cyrena from the balcony.
    ‘Nothing, ma’am, just another beggar.’
    ‘Ringing the bell?’ she asked, surprised yet again at the rising levels of boldness that poverty seemed able to induce.
    ‘An insolent rascal who claimed to know you, ma’am.’
    ‘Really? Whatever next?!’ She turned and started to walk away from the balcony, but something outside of sight stopped her. She closed her eyes and stepped back to the rail, almost afraid to voice the question on her lips.
    ‘Guixpax – did the beggar give a name?’
    ‘Why, yes, ma’am. ‘Ishmael’, I think it was.’
    He was almost at the corner when he heard the sound of shouting and someone fast approaching behind him. He stopped, sensing that running would be seen as a sign of guilt, and hunched his shoulders, waiting for trouble to descend. He had only rung a bell and asked a question, but he realised this was probably enough to cause outrage in this neighbourhood. He heard the footsteps stop behind him and braced himself.
    ‘Ishmael?’ said the gentlest of voices. ‘Ishmael, is it really you?’
    His heart leapt. It was the voice of the Owl, and she knew him! He turned slowly into his hope, hesitant in her sudden company, his face half hidden by hair and uncertainty. She stared at his presence, her vivid eyes reading and absorbing every detail of his sheltering features.
    ‘You have two eyes!’ she said in amazement. ‘Ghertrude said you only had one.’
    ‘You know Ghertrude?’
    ‘She has become my dearest friend; I found her when I was searching for you.’
    ‘For me?’
    ‘Yes. I looked for you at once, there’s so much…’ She became abruptly aware of their surroundings and shivered at their exposure to unseen ears. ‘There’s so much to say. Shall we return to the house? It may be better to discuss things there.’
    She took the arm he offered and they walked slowly back up the road, past the gate, where the bemused Guixpax was waiting and watching.
    Inside the mansion, they sat like strangers, in chairs that faced one another. His hand returned repeatedly to his face. Neither quite knew what to do next, though their hearts strained palpably towards each other; their passions and unfamiliarity clenched together, forming a barrier of embarrassment between them.
    ‘May I ask to wash?’ Ishmael requested politely. ‘My journey has been long and arduous.’
    ‘Of course! I should have suggested it immediately!’ Cyrena rang the bell and Myra came into the room, subtly observing the injured young man from the corner of her eye. Her mistress ignored the question in her eyes and instructed her to prepare a bath and bring towels, perfumed salts and a dressing-gown. Guixpax was summoned and sent to town to buy suitable clothing.
    When alone again, Cyrena listened at the bathroom door, and heard him splashing with what she hoped was pleasure.
    Dim, bewildered old Guixpax returned with the weirdest selection of clothing she had ever seen. She pawed through the tangled mass on the polished table while the gatekeeper stood behind her, proud of his unique purchases.
    ‘Thank you Raymond, a fine choice. You can leave it to me now.’
    Guixpax left, glowing with achievement but confused by the situation that his mistress appeared to be so enjoying. Cyrena waited for him to depart, then selected a choice of garments and placed them outside the bathroom door.
    ‘Ishmael, there are clean clothes outside the door.’
    ‘Thank you, er…?’
    She realised, with some embarrassment, that she had not yet told him her name. ‘Cyrena,’ she replied. ‘My name is Cyrena.’
    ‘Cyrena,’ he repeated, the room of steam and perfume echoing the name.
    Tsungali’s ghost had followed its master as far as the garden; he had neither the will nor the desire to enter the elaborate and confusing dwelling.
    He watched from the dense colour of the unusual foliage. It was a pleasant place, and he passed through the plants and trees with idleness. His master was safe and at peace inside the house, with a woman and servant to look after him; the villain who had threatened Ishmael’s life was