Rhain was a short, stocky man with hair the color of red clay. He had a broad, freckled face and broad, short-fingered hands. He was taller than an elven man, and he greeted her with the smooth manners of an upperworlder; but Mathew Rhain had elven blood.
Why would a Netherworlder be living and working in the upperworld?
But why shouldn’t he? McCabe had. Mag had, once. No one knew how many Netherworlders had escaped the tyrannies of enslaved nations to live in the free world above.
Rhain studied her with intense interest, as curious about her as she was about him. He took her hand, searching her face. “You are McCabe’s daughter. Even if West hadn’t told me, I would see it.” He drew her into his private office and closed the door. The room was furnished with colored leather chairs, an oriental rug, and more sailing ships, in paintings, and as models arranged along the tops of the bookshelves. On a table at one end of the room lay three black leather binders.
Rhain seated her at the table. “McCabe was my good friend. I wish he could know that you are well—that you are here.”
She squeezed his stubby, square hand. “Braden said you would want some proof of who I am, but I’m afraid I don’t have any proof.”
“I think I can arrange some proof. These are McCabe’s journals. I have kept them safe since he died.”
“Was there—anything besides the journals?”
He settled a quiet look on her. His eyes were rust colored, with little lights that softened them. “There was nothing else. John Kitchen has McCabe’s paintings, those that were left, and what few books survived the earthquake. Perhaps he has other things. Do the Kitchens know you’ve—returned?”
She supposed Braden had explained to him about her memory. She said, “Not yet. Braden says they are in Europe.”
“They’re expected back in a few weeks.”
She said, “Have you lived in the city long? Did you know my father long?”
“My grandfather and McCabe’s grandfather were friends, in the gold fields. I—have lived in many places.” He reached for the leatherbound books. “You may find the journals difficult to open.” He sat down opposite her, watching her. Reaching to open the first journal, she understood why she would need no identification. The journals were sealed. She glanced up at Rhain. If she wanted to open her father’s journals she must use Netherworld powers. She must put all her trust in this sandy-haired elven man if she were to find any clue to the Amulet.
She was afraid—of being discovered, of Braden learning about her.
But she must do this.
The books had dates on the front, written on a white label in a bold script. She chose the volume that would cover the year Timorell came up into the upperworld. Not looking at Rhain, she made a silent spell for opening.
The cover freed itself. She opened McCabe’s journal then looked up to meet Rhain’s eyes. Their secrets were shared, and she knew he must trust her now, as she was forced to trust him. He rose, and left her, shutting the door behind him.
She touched the velum page, admiring McCabe’s neat, square script. She meant to flip through until she found McCabe’s description of Timorell, but the journal fell open to that page as if McCabe had gone back often to this passage where he first saw Timorell.
