The Eleventh Plague Read Online Free PDF Page B

his temper is most fraught.’
    ‘Ah! Well, I am certain that the journey will calm your temperament, sir,’ said Nadir to Quaint. ‘If there is one thing guaranteed to relax a body, it is sailing across the ocean. I wonder, Fräulein, perhaps we can meet for evening drinks after dinner? You and your fraught-tempered companion, of course.’
    ‘We should be simply delighted, monsieur ,’ Destine replied, nudging the conjuror’s ribs with her elbow. ‘Would we not, my sweet?’
    ‘Oh, yes…simply de light ed,’ cooed Quaint.
    ‘My name is Heinrich Nadir,’ said the German, removing his hat.
    ‘Destine,’ Madame said, offering the back of her hand.
    Nadir accepted, planting his lips upon it. ‘ Enchanté , Madame Destine! Until tonight then.’ He picked up his trolley and idled away towards the check-in desk.
    ‘What a polite man,’ said Destine. ‘Most sweet.’
    ‘Yes, in that he’s liable to rot your teeth,’ Quaint said.
    ‘Cornelius, shame on you,’ scolded the Frenchwoman. ‘He was being charming, a concept that it would not kill you to acquaint yourself with once in a while.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Destine, don’t tell me that he took your fancy. The man was obsequious! Not to mention the fact that you’re old enough to be his—’
    Madame Destine brandished her finger accusingly. ‘I may not be able to see the future any more, Cornelius, but if you complete that sentence I can accurately predict that you will be in a considerable amount of pain in your nether regions!’
    Quaint held up his hands. ‘I was going to say…slightly older sister.’
    ‘And for the record, he did not take my fancy! I was merely commenting on how polite he was. Companioning you, good manners are a rare commodity.’
    Quaint lifted their luggage, and they breezed on towards the administration desk inside the terminal building. Standing in the queue, the French fortune-teller struck up a conversation with an elderly couple and, in a heartbeat, they were discussing wine, the weather and whist. Madame Destine was soon thriving on sociality and conversation, happily chatting to anyone within earshot without the slightest thought. As her companion, Quaint was reluctantly dragged into the conversation, and he glanced to the heavens as a doddery old lady offered him a sticky boiled sweet. Something told him that surviving the trip with his sanity intact was going to be a far bigger challenge than defeating the Hades Consortium…

CHAPTER VIII
The Cruel Mistress
    S EVERAL HOURS LATER , once night had fallen, the Silver Swan set sail, leaving the ragged white cliffs of Dover far behind her. The steamship rode effortlessly across the English Channel, the waves parting for her bows’ blade.
    In his single-berth cabin, Cornelius Quaint made a final sweep with his cut-throat razor. He examined his face in the mirror as if it were something borrowed from a complete stranger. It had the usual wear and tear for a man in his mid-fifties, but it did not look too bad. His rugged face was decorated with furrowed wrinkles around his mouth and nose; crow’s feet spread like forked lightning from the corners of his black eyes, and his wavy, silver-white hair swept back from his forehead culminating in a nest of entwined curls at the nape of his neck. It was seemingly immune to any oil or creamed hair product, and Quaint had long since given up trying to tame it.
    He dressed for dinner in a black, long-tailed jacket cropped tight to his waist, matching trousers, and a broad-knotted bow tie at his neck. Perhaps a good meal would remove the ache inside him, he thought. He heard the reverberations of songfloating through the wall from the cabin next door and smiled, reminding himself that he was not alone.
    Madame Destine struggled with a hairbrush through her long silver-white hair, her thoughts just as entangled as her tresses. Although it was not evident from her outer appearance, inside her head and inside her heart she was in