The Lion's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

only when they were old and decrepit.
Gout, I understand, has reformed a great many rogues.”
    “Perhaps
Childe Harold suffers from toothache,” said Varian, leaning
back comfortably. He was relieved to find Percival once more his
usual self. The boy had been unnaturally quiet and well-behaved all
the way to Bari, a sad ghost who gazed dully out the coach window for
hours and passively did whatever Varian asked. The shellfish had
evidently enlivened Percival's disposition. Certainly his digestion
hadn't suffered. At dinner, the lad had consumed enough to bloat an
elephant. Where the devil did he put it? He was the scrawniest boy
Varian had ever seen outside a slum.
    “Did
you sin with Signora Razzoli?” Percival asked, after a moment.
“Rinaldo says you were her cavalier
servente, but that is an idiomatic
expression, isn't it? When you visited her house, did you —”
    “We
conversed,” Varian said. “She is very well-read. And it
is vulgar to gossip with servants, Percival.”
    “Yes,
that's what Grandmama says, but it's ever so interesting. Servants
know everything.”
    “I
expect your grandmother will be happy to have you and your father
back in England.”
    The
boy obligingly followed the conversational detour.
    “Well,
she makes the best of it, Grandmama says, since she hasn't anyone
else. Uncle John — but
they all called him Jack — was
the eldest. He died before I was born, though. And
    Uncle
J —” Percival hesitated, then closed
his book and pulled his chair closer to Varian's. In low,
confidential tones he concluded, “They pretend Uncle Jason's
dead, too, but he isn't.”
    “Your
mama's brother?” Varian asked. He knew Sir Gerald's elder
brother had succumbed to influenza ages ago. He'd heard of no other
Brentmor siblings.
    “Papa's
younger brother,” Percival explained. “He ran away years
and years ago, and they've always pretended he was dead, they were so
angry. But he's not. He's alive and ... and he's a hero.”
    “He
must be a very discreet sort of hero,” Varian said. “I've
never heard of him.”
    “Have
you heard of Ali Pasha, the ruler of Albania?” Percival tapped
his finger on the book cover. “That's why I'm reading this.
Lord Byron tells all about Ali Pasha and the Albanians, and that's
where Uncle Jason is. He's lived there all this time, and they call
him the Red Lion. That's for his courage and his red hair. It's the
same color as mine — and
quite rare in Albania, I believe.”
    “I
beg your pardon, Percival, but I do read upon occasion, and am
familiar with the poem. I recall no mention of the Red Lion. Where
did you read about this fellow?”
    Percival
wrinkled his brow. “But I'm sure I never said I read about my uncle.”
    “Then
how do you know so much about a relative everyone pretends is dead?”
Varian gave the boy a searching look.
    Percival
squirmed a bit, then sat back in his chair, his expression
thoughtful.
    “Perhaps
it was a dream,” Varian suggested.
    “No.
It wasn't a dream.”
    “A
fairy tale, then.”
    “No.
It's quite true.” Percival bit his lip. “I can prove it,”
he said. “If I may be excused for a moment?”
    He
ran to his room, leaving Varian to stare uneasily at the fire.
Moments later, the boy was back, bearing a pile of clothing. He
draped the pieces over his chair: woolen trousers with elaborate
braiding, a black, gilt-embroidered jacket, and a voluminous cotton
shirt.
    “Uncle
Jason gave them to me,” Percival said. “It's what the
Albanians wear — or
some of them. He said he didn't think I'd want the kilt until I was
older. Mama said I wasn't to show them to anyone, because Papa would
find out. But you wouldn't
tell Papa, would you?”
    “Tell
him what?” Varian asked, though he had a suspicion what the
answer was.
    “That
Uncle Jason came to see us.” Percival picked a minute piece of
lint from the jacket and smoothed a crease in the shirt.
    In
half an hour, Varian had most of the story. Jason had made