he said. He ran his hand over the lioness’s head, and Calliope felt as if she, too, could experience that touch. Rough and chipped, battered by the centuries, but still holding the imprint of her creator. “They can’t breathe in such a gloomy place.”
“Exactly. With no one to see their true worth.” She paused, turning her gaze from the lion’s obsidian stare to meet Westwood’s. In this shadowed light his eyes were just as dark, just as mysterious. “But we don’t agree on what their worth is.”
“Do we not?” His hand tightened on the rippled stone. “I think we agree on far more than is first apparent, Miss Chase.”
If only that were true! Calliope remembered her long-ago daydreams, that he could be the one man who understood her, who shared her dreams. Those hopes were shattered when she had found the Hermes statue gone. “How so, Lord Westwood?”
Instead of answering her, of telling her what she found she yearned to hear—how they could find common ground and be friends at long last—he just smiled. “Do you not think that sometimes you could call me Cameron? I still look around for my father when I hear ‘Lord Westwood’. Everyone I met in Italy and Greece called me Cameron. Or Cam.”
“I’m not sure.” Cameron. How informal it sounded. How—inviting.
“Come, now! No one can hear us but our friend the lioness. And she won’t tell. She loves to keep secrets.”
Indeed, there did seem to be a satisfied gleam in those obsidian eyes, as if she relished having one more secret to add to the vast store she had collected in her long lifetime. Like the Aphrodite statue in the conservatory, and her remembered orgies. “Do you not think she holds enough secrets as it is? I’m sure this house has more than its share.”
“No doubt you are right. Nasty secrets. But, while she is the duke’s captive, she is our friend. She wants us to be in accord.”
“Very well. I suppose I could call you Cameron, when only inanimate objects can hear us.”
“Shh!” He put his hands over the carved ears. “She’s not inanimate, remember? Only sleeping.”
“When will she awaken? When she’s taken from this place at last?”
“When she sees the sunlight again?”
Calliope remembered Lady Tenbray’s Etruscan diadem, far from the sun of its homeland. “And will you be the one to liberate her—Cameron?”
He gave the lioness a considering glance. “Do you think I’m strong enough, Miss Chase? Calliope?” he said teasingly, flexing his—admittedly impressive—arm muscles.
“Are you a hidden Herakles, then?”
“Ah, fair doubter! But as I am not Herakles, merely Hermes, I fear your doubts are justified. She would be much too heavy for me, winged sandals or not. One day, though, someone will free her from this place. Free all these things.”
“Send them back where they came from?”
He shrugged. “Some place where they can be safe. I don’t think anything can be safe here.”
“Oh!” Calliope cried, sharply reminded of their errand. “Clio.”
“Yes, we should move on. If you’re quite recovered?”
“Of course.”
He held out his arm and she accepted his support, letting him lead her down yet another corridor towards a narrow, winding staircase. She couldn’t help but glance back at the lioness, so silent and stolid. Except for that gleam in her eye. That secret glint.
Had she seen Clio tonight?
“The Alabaster Goddess is up here,” Cameron said, clambering up the steps.
Calliope looked up. She saw only a stout wooden door, somewhat ajar, and yet more shadows. More darkness. “How do you know?”
“Still so suspicious! And after I asked you to call me by my given name and everything.”
“The duke said her location was a secret.”
“I have my ways. Come, do you want to see or not, Athena?”
She glanced again towards that doorway. It could conceal anything at all. She half-expected a many-headed Hydra to leap out at them, snarling and slavering. “I want to see.”
“Follow me, then. I may not be Herakles, but I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
He held out his hand, beckoning, and Calliope reached out and clasped it. Held fast to it, like a lifeline in a stormy sea. They climbed up the last of the stairs together, and slowly pushed open the silent door.
That entrance led not to Hades or a vast black river, but to a long, narrow gallery. Tall windows let in moonlight, which mingled with the glow of sputtering candles and cast a soft illumination on more antiquities, more statues and stele and sarcophaguses. Calliope blinked at the light, at first unable to see anything beyond the rich clutter.
Next to her, Cameron stiffened, and a curse escaped his lips in a soft, ominous explosion.
“What…?” Calliope began. Then she saw it.
The Alabaster Goddess, the pride of the Duke of Averton’s collection, lay on her back on the floor, her bow aimed upward at the inlaid ceiling. Her gleaming alabaster body seemed intact, tangled with a length of black satin, but her wooden base was split and splintered.
And, at her feet, lay the duke himself.
Cameron dashed forward, Calliope close on his winged heels. The duke’s bright hair was darkened with a spreading stain, his eyes closed, his skin as pale as Artemis’s. His leopard skin was torn beneath him, and the coppery tang of blood was thick in the cool, dusty air.
“Is he dead?” Calliope whispered.
Cameron knelt down beside the prone duke, reaching out to touch the base of his bare neck. “Not yet. I can feel a pulse, but it’s thin. See here,” he said, gesturing to a gash along the duke’s forehead. “It matches Artemis’s elbow.”
Calliope glanced at the goddess and saw that her arm was indeed stained, a dried smear of rust-coloured blood. “He must have been here for quite a while, for it to dry like that. Do you think the statue fell on him?”
“Maybe her base broke as he was gloating over her. It would seem to be poetic justice of a sort.”
“Or maybe…” Calliope leaned closer, pushing down her nausea. “No. It can’t be.”
“What?”
Shivering, Calliope gestured towards the duke’s hand.
Clutched in his fist was a ripped swathe of green-and-gold silk. Half-hidden underneath his arm was a scattering of sparkling green beads.
“What is this?” Cameron asked tightly.
“Clio,” Calliope groaned. “These are from her costume.”
Cameron straightened, peering intently into the shadows. But Calliope could not be so cautious. She shot to her feet, dashing behind the marble plinth Artemis fell from. “Clio!” she cried. “Where are you? Clio!”
“Shh!” Cameron caught her hand, pulling her up short. “What if whoever did this is still lurking about? What if your sister…?”
“No! Clio couldn’t do this, or if she did I’m certain she had a good reason. You were at the British Museum, you saw. We have to find her.”
“And we will. But there are no other bloodstains on the floor, are there? She isn’t hurt. We need to get help for the duke first. He’s still alive.”
Calliope looked at the man sprawled on the floor. He was still pale, yet she could see that he stirred. “You would help him? Even though you loathe him?”
He laughed wryly.