(A/N: We had some technical difficulties with the last chapter… they've now been resolved, if you care to re-read it. Plus, some reviews, and some of my responses to reviews, seem to have Disapparated. So this time, let's cross our fingers and hope for the best, shall we?)
(Disclaimer: HP7 is coming soon, and for the first time, I'm hoping a Harry Potter movie is nothing like the book. For what it's worth, neither is this story.)
*
"Coming Back Late"
by Paracelsus
*
XXXVII: Ebb and Flow
*
Blaise Zabini had never expected to feel that vibration in his temples again.
For a moment, he lay motionless in the darkness, gauging whether the buzzing under his skin was genuine or a product of morbid imagination. Finally, convinced that the sensation was real - and judging it too dangerous to ignore - he slid his feet from under the duvet and sat up in bed.
"Blaise?" Ginny called sleepily beside him.
"It's nothing, Flame," he told her quietly, using his pet name for her. "I'm too wound to fall asleep, is all. Thought I'd put the time to good use."
Ginny nodded; this wasn't the first time Blaise had made a virtue of insomnia. "Still say you should try Sleeping Potion," she mumbled.
Zabini managed a chuckle, leaned over to kiss her brow, and stood from the bed. He navigated the darkened room with the ease of long familiarity, grabbing a pair of reading glasses and Ginny's wand from the nightstand, and a dressing gown from its hook on the door. He closed the bedroom door behind him and made his way to his study. Once there, he gathered some Ministry documents from his desk and settled into his favorite comfy chair, looking just as though he were going to review the documents.
Instead, after hooking the reading glasses behind his ears, he tapped them with Ginny's wand and whispered, "Adsum."
The earpieces of the glasses began to vibrate in synch with the vibration in his own temples. After a moment, the buzzing began to die; as it did so, Zabini closed his eyes, to avoid the moment of vertigo that always accompanied this charm.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Svartalfer in the lenses of his reading glasses. The thin-faced Aryan wore his own set of glasses, charmed to link with Zabini's. Svartalfer's expression was more pinched with disapproval than usual - which wasn't surprising, Zabini supposed.
"Zabini." The word sounded in his ears through his glasses' earpieces. It lost none of its disdain along the way.
Zabini cleared his throat and began to carefully subvocalize, as he'd been taught for this charm: his lips barely moving, the barest thread of sound escaping. "I see you've evaded the authorities."
"No thanks to you. At that, I have fared better than Castigni and ibn al-Afrit," Svartalfer scowled. "You, also, seem Azkaban to have avoided." His tone, though hardly friendly, wasn't as accusatory as Zabini might have expected. Either the Cartel's current difficulties were more cosmetic than real, of no true concern to them, or else…
He wants something, Zabini realized. He wouldn't have summoned me to talk if I were to be simply killed or Obliviated. He still needs me.
Zabini would not allow his sudden surge of relief to show in his face. His voice remained less than a whisper: "I assume you've arranged…"
"I have to a secure facility retreated," Svartalfer interrupted. "Retrenching our agents, our top priority for the foreseeable future is. Many have been arrested; many are fugitives. How remarkable, that for once the ICW have so immediately acted."
"Blame Gawain Robards for that. He's used Shacklebolt's death to mobilize the international Enforcers."
"And has armed them with information by you provided."
"Which was not my fault," Zabini shot back. "Your Memory Charm expert didn't provide a failsafe for sequestering my memories. I was forced to give them up intact."
"Then you did not receive the key? Why?"
Zabini hesitated, unwilling to confess the full truth, and Svartalfer jumped on it. "Granger. It was Granger, nicht wahr? Again and always now, Granger. She has more than an inconvenience become. She is a… liability."
"She'll be worse than that soon enough. Hadn't you heard, Svartalfer? She's to be our next Minister of Magic. Merlin only knows what agenda she'll pursue once she's in office."
"Yes." The Cartel Lord said nothing more for a long minute, his cold blue eyes measuring Zabini… as though Zabini were being weighed in some imaginary balance, to see if he were found wanting. Zabini returned his gaze steadily, but silently. Let's see if Svartalfer comes out and says anything. Let him commit for once.
"Assassination of a political leader is too overt… too messy," Svartalfer said at last. "Our preferred modus operandi it is not." The unspoken implication, however, was plain enough.
His mouth had gone abruptly dry, making it even harder to whisper. "Plus, in Granger's case, rather difficult to manage," Zabini replied. "You must give me some time…"
Svartalfer gave him a tight, wintry smile. "Your offer is unnecessary, my friend. She is not your Minister yet - and my sources say she unexpected folly is showing. Ah! I see you did not know. Sehr gut. Perhaps, then, you will not displeased be, by news shortly to come." His expression became tranquil, almost benign. "And should fortune favor you when your Wizengamot again meets, I trust your friends in mind you will keep. We may yet together for our mutual profit work."
"I… would look forward to that," Zabini responded courteously, profoundly thankful the charmed reading glasses wouldn't show the cold sweat that had broken out over his entire body.
*
When Harry had suggested lunch in Athens, Hermione mused, he probably had no idea what happened in Athens on Sundays.
The Monastiraki flea market was in full swing around them, with vendors hawking their wares from carts, open-air bins, and storefronts. They'd early on found a small sidewalk café for their meal; as the crowds had gathered, Harry had grown progressively more nervous. Hermione held his hand in sympathy, and it seemed to help.
"Relax, you're perfectly safe," she reassured him. "No one here is going to recognize you, after all."
"Yeah, well, there's a reason it's called 'irrational fear'," he muttered back. With a deep breath, he straightened in his seat and made a visible effort to be more cheerful. "Y'know, if you're interested in shopping, I think we passed a used book store on our way here…"
"Oh, no, Harry," she laughed, "I'm not so easily distracted as I was as a schoolgirl." She paused. "Old books?"
"Probably." His smile at her response was genuine. "Would you care to go…?"
"You haven't finished your breakfast," Hermione pointed out. "And if we lose this table, we'll never get another." Plus, having Harry navigate the street traffic would bother him more than merely watching it flow by. Keeping her back to the crowds, she discreetly Transfigured her napkin into a paper cup, and transferred her remaining coffee into it. A quick Warming Charm completed the job. "I'll be back in ten minutes, I promise. If the waiter returns, have him bring me another coffee?"
The bookseller was not far down the street, and Hermione located the shop with ease. As promised, the books were quite old, with rich leather bindings and the delightful musty smell that Hermione loved. She scanned the shelves for any books that might be of magical interest.
"Are you looking for something in particular?"
The voice had a Greek accent. She looked up to see a handsome young man, smiling and prepared to wait on her. Too young to be the shop owner… his son, probably. She wondered in passing how he'd known to speak English to her, then decided it must be obvious she was a tourist.
"I was looking for books on the occult," she told him, using her stock phrase when dealing with Muggles. "Any Eastern European lore of that sort."
"Ah. Yes. Let me see…" The young man walked up to her and reached past her to grasp a book on the shelf.
He brought back his hand - and she noted with suddenly sharp clarity that it held, not a book, but a dirk, slender and pointed, which he had palmed. He'd positioned his body so that no one else in the shop could see it. Instinctively, she stepped backward - and bumped into another man who had approached her from behind, silently, blocking her retreat. The second man's hands were close to her elbows, not pinning them, but ready to do so.
Still smiling, the helpful, handsome young man said softly, "This is for Sabas Doukas," and struck.
*
Zabini awoke a bit later than his wont - understandable, considering his night - and to the smell of coffee brewing. A quick side-glance confirmed that Ginny was already up. He rose from bed, stretched and touched his toes. Shrugging his dressing gown over his shoulders, he made his way to the parlor, where a full coffee service was on display. Also on display was Ginny, delightfully deshabille in a thigh-length silk kimono, close-fitting and showing every curve.
She was writing on a piece of parchment, but looked up and smiled at him as he snagged his first cup of coffee. "Morning, sleepyhead. You must have been productive last night: you came to bed quite late."
"Mm. Yes, I think I can say I'm now ready to face the week." Zabini busied himself with adding cream and sugar to his coffee to avoid further questions along that line. He arched one eyebrow and nodded inquiringly at the parchment before her.
"Oh, this," she frowned. "I tried to send an owl to Harry this morning… arrange to get together with him soon, over lunch or something… but the owls didn't even seem to know his name, or where to find him. I'm wondering if they think he's still dead, or something." She scratched another line on the parchment, then lifted it and blew on it to dry the ink. "So I thought I'd try another tack. I'm writing my coach on the Harpies. I'm sure Harry would be delighted to receive a season pass to all the Harpies' matches… and it would be good publicity for the team as well."
"And what more natural that he discover you there, an old 'friend'," (his tone lent the word deeper significance), "as it were, and the two of you reconnect." Blaise kept his voice matter-of-fact, and willed his emotions to accept Ginny's plan in a spirit of cold calculation. He was disturbed to discover that he wasn't quite successful.
His thoughts were detoured by the arrival of Virgil, his paid house-elf (Zabini had long ago seen the political advantage in freeing and re-hiring his family's house-elf) appearing at the parlor door. "Excuse this one, Master," he said, "but there are visitors from the Ministry."
"Visitors? I was expecting an owl…" Zabini began to rise from his chair, but stopped as Ginny laid her hand on his forearm.
"They come to you… you don't go to them," she reproved, but with a smile. "Show them here," she told Virgil.
Zabini reseated himself, with a smile of thanks for her reminder. It was a lesson that most Slytherins were taught from a young age, and which Ginny seemed to know instinctively: Treat others as though their deference is your right.
He adjusted his dressing gown to look spontaneous but neat - let the visitors see they'd interrupted his morning, it would put them off their balance from the start - and tasted his coffee. After a moment,Virgil returned, escorting a witch in her late twenties, carrying a briefcase… and another elf, wearing a Ministry tabard. Zabini quickly searched his memory for the witch's name.
"Sheryl Binder, isn't it?" he smiled, rising graciously to extend his hand, "from the office of the…" And he almost faltered as his mind finally made the connection.
"Of the Senior Counsel," she confirmed, taking his hand. She didn't seem to notice his momentary pause. "Thanks for seeing me."
He gestured her to a seat with a restored aplomb. "Coffee? I take it you've come on behalf of our new Minister," he said, sitting down again next to Ginny. He could feel Ginny squeeze his arm; he pressed his arm against her hand in reply, but otherwise kept his attention on charming his guest. "Or our ex officio Minister, I should say. I believe you've been serving as her clerk?"
"Yes, that's right," Sheryl acknowledged, accepting a cup. "I thought I'd help out with the transition of office… take care of the routine mess. You understand, of course, nothing's official until the Wizengamot invests Madam Granger, but…"
"But she'll have enough to do without needing to worry about every fiddling detail," agreed Zabini cordially. "I believe it's pro forma for all Department Heads and their deputies to offer their resignations - we serve at the Minister's pleasure, after all - and I assume that's why you've come. If you'll wait here a moment, I have the letter ready in my study…"
"Actually, sir, we were hoping it was indeed pro forma in your case," Sheryl put in. "Because it looks like your boss, Mr. Kerricks, has decided to resign in earnest. I guess you're the acting Head of International Cooperation now… I think Madam Granger would be inclined to make it permanent. If you're willing," she added, seeing Zabini's astonishment.
"This is… unexpected." And indeed it was: both that Kerricks should resign, and that Granger should promote him. She knows about my involvement with the Cartel - why would she want to keep me around? As Department Head, no less?
"I'm honored, of course," he murmured, temporizing, "if Madam Granger is willing…?"
"I'm sure she will be," smiled Sheryl, and her wording gave Zabini the answer. Aha! Granger's gone into seclusion - Binder can't locate her - so she's taken the initiative on herself! And it doesn't sound like Granger told her lackey everything she suspected about me. With the dismissal of all my charges, I'm now exonerated in the Ministry's eyes - and I am far and away the most qualified person for the post.
By the time Granger reappears and is sworn in as Minister, I'll be in place… and it'll prove rather embarrassing to dismiss me at that point.
And of course, he congratulated himself slyly, everyone still believes it was Shacklebolt's spell gone wrong that strangled Granger. The truth of that, at least, will never come to light.
"Well, then… provisionally speaking, I would be pleased to work with Madam Granger," he replied with a broad smile. "And certainly act as the Head of the Department pro tempore."
"Splendid! Well, then, I need your signature on a few documents here. And I expect the new Minister will wish to meet with you Monday morning."
"Certainly. Let's go to my study and look these over first, shall we? Will you excuse us, my dear?" Giving Ginny a heartfelt kiss, Zabini rose from the table and led Granger's minion out of the parlor and down the hall. "By the way," he added quietly, when they were alone, "did Kerricks say why he was resigning?" His attitude was casual… mere minor curiosity, nothing more.
"No specific reason that I heard… simply something to the effect of 'it was time'." Sheryl met Zabini's gaze forthrightly. From what he knew of his former superior, Zabini had no trouble divining her unspoken message: Kerricks wouldn't work under a Mudblood.
Ginny's insight of the evening before was looking to be square in the gold. Zabini hid a satisfied smile as he ushered the clerk into his study.
*
Back in the parlor, the Ministry house-elf waited for Blaise and Sheryl to leave before clearing his throat. "Excuse Canby, miss… but while they are busy, may we speak?"
"Of course," Ginny said, a bit surprised. Not at the elf's demeanor - he was obviously a free elf in the Ministry's employ - but at the fact he might have any business with her.
"Canby only wonders if now would be convenient to collect the pictures you promised Miss Hermione."
"Pictures? I don't recall promising Hermione any pictures…" Ginny furrowed her brow in thought.
"Earlier this week?" Canby suggested helpfully.
"Oh!" That explained it, Ginny thought. "I'm sorry, er, Canby, but I wouldn't be able to recall anything Hermione and I talked about this week. You may have heard how I lost my memory on Thursday?"
"Was so much happening that day, miss. It would not be surprising." Canby looked wistful. "It was only… the pictures would mean much to Miss Hermione, and she was looking forward to receiving them…"
"I'm sorry, Canby," Ginny said more firmly. "I simply don't recall anything about any pictures. I don't have any idea where they might be. Miss Hermione will have to be disappointed, I'm afraid."
The house-elf looked so crestfallen that Ginny felt herself wondering why. "Are these pictures so important, then?"
"Canby doesn't know, miss. Canby only wants to please Miss Hermione…" The elf's voice died away, but Ginny thought she understood now. Another example of a free elf bonding itself to a human, pretending to have a "master" again. Really, I think Blaise is right when he says the elves are happier when they have a house to serve. Freeing them doesn't seem to make them better off.
"If miss will permit," the elf suggested, turning hopeful, "Canby can find the pictures. House-elves are good at finding things for humans. Is one of a house-elf's duties, so our magic can be used to do it."
"I really couldn't tell you where…" Ginny began, then reconsidered. "Well, I've no objection to your looking, in any case. Virgil!" Summoned, Virgil appeared by her side in a pop! of displaced air. "Virgil, Canby here is going to look for some pictures I've misplaced. I give permission for him to use his magic for that purpose. I want you to help him search, all right?"
"Thank you, miss," beamed Canby, and left the parlor in Virgil's company - the main reason for their visit to Zabini Manor having been accomplished.
*
The young man stabbed upward, the dirk coming from below to slip between her ribs or eviscerate her stomach. In the same instant, Hermione reacted instinctively - by throwing the contents of her coffee cup into her attacker's face. The man cried out sharply as the scalding liquid hit, and tried to stifle his cry as he pressed his attack - but half-blinded by the coffee, his aim was a touch wide.
Twisting desperately to one side, Hermione evaded the dirk while positioning herself to deliver a kick at the man behind her. He staggered back, groaning; the part of Hermione's mind that was still calm and methodical catalogued his description, to be passed on to the Aurors, brown hair, three-day growth of beard, small jewel in left nose piercing…
With a bound, she was away from the two men and ducking behind a display table. Outnumbered, and disadvantaged by the presence of Muggles, she decided retreat was the better part of valor. Crouching low behind the table to avoid being seen, she tried to Disapparate.
And nothing happened.
Anti-Apparation wards! These two weren't taking any chances, she thought wildly. How far do the wards extend? There wasn't time to ponder overlong; the men were coming for her again. Hermione stood quickly from her crouch, grasping the edge of the table as she did, and with a heave upended the table and its contents. The men dodged the falling books, but the resultant alarm among the bookshop's customers gave her the opening she needed. She threaded between two other patrons and managed to get out of the shop into the street.
Her initial thought was to rejoin Harry. Together, they'd be far better suited to repel an attack. But once in the street, she spotted another man, bulky and grim-faced, between her and the café where Harry waited. And he was making his way towards her.
At once, Hermione darted in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowds, doing her best to avoid causing a disturbance. We daren't get into a magical battle here! There are too many innocent bystanders! And even if there weren't, a fine thing it would be, for the British Minister-elect to violate the Secrecy Statutes before she's even sworn into office! I'm surprised my attackers care about that…
They're from the Cartel, she immediately concluded. Their primary defense is anonymity. They wanted this to look like a Muggle affair, a robbery or such. With no sign that wizards were involved, the Greek Ministry wouldn't have given it a second thought.
She wasted a second glancing behind her: Bulky Man had been joined by Handsome Young Blade, and they were following her as quickly as the crowds permitted. The third man, Nose Jewel, wasn't immediately visible, but Hermione had no doubts he was closing in as well.
The Cartel want anonymity. Maybe I should make a scene, then? Scream for help… make up a story about a lost child, or something… No. It would put every passerby at risk. Muggles against wizards, they'd stand no chance.
She'd come to a larger street, filled with more throngs, more street vendors - the Plateia Avyssinias, if the guide books she'd perused had been right. She made another attempt to Disapparate, again without success. The crowds here seemed to include more foreign tourists: at any rate, the locals appeared to be catering to them, with more signs in Roman letters, and what appeared to be actors or dancers performing on a low stage. The audience were taking photographs of them.
Their cameras had electronic flashes…
Even as the idea formed in her mind, Hermione was making for the crowd near the stage, surreptitiously drawing her wand. She tried to concentrate on a happy thought - hard to do when one is running for one's life! - and waited until the dancers had completed a particularly involved routine. Waited for the applause. Waited for photos to be taken.
The moment the flashes began, she whipped her wand downward. "Under attack. Can't Apparate. Come at once," she recited in her mind, and "Expecto Patronum!" from her lips. The tiny silver streak sped from her wand to the ground, lost amidst the bursts of electronic light, and zipped away, hugging the street.
It was an advantage her attackers didn't know she had. Using Patronuses as messengers had been a closely guarded secret of the Order of the Phoenix; except perhaps for Shacklebolt's lynx appearing at Bill and Fleur's wedding, all those years ago, only a select few had ever seen the method in use, much less knew it existed. Certainly Hermione had never advertised her ability to use it. Her attackers thought they'd isolated her. They were wrong.
Now she needed to stay alive until Harry arrived. Unfortunately, if she hid, Harry might not find her in time. She had no choice, she'd have to stay in the open - but keep moving, keep one step ahead of her pursuit.
She'd reached the far side of the audience in front of the stage. Up on the stage, the dancers had been replaced by a pair of jugglers, keeping half a dozen clubs spinning in the air between them. As Hermione began to dodge away, looking for cover in an unoccupied shop, the jugglers earned a round of applause, and more photos were taken.
And as the cameras flashed again, a bolt of deadly magic shot towards her from the street somewhere before her.
If Hermione hadn't already been dodging to one side, the curse would have struck her squarely in the stomach. As it was, the curse sliced along the outside of her hip, leaving a bloody gash that burned intensely. She stumbled, nearly knocking over a very fat tourist - and taking advantage of his size, she ducked around him, dropped to the ground, and rolled under the stage.
She didn't remain in one place, though her wound was causing terrible pain. Hermione crawled on elbows and knees to the back of the stage, where the performers made ready before going on. The troupe had erected several lightweight screens there, to form small enclosures, for costume changes and prop storage; Hermione waited an instant, making sure no one was watching, before emerging from under the stage and darting behind one of the screens.
There she collapsed onto a folding chair, finally giving way to a fit of the trembles. She pressed a hand to her wound, wincing, and drew it away covered in blood. Healing charms, she thought wildly, which healing charms can I do here? Episkey is for breaks, not wounds or burns…
First things first: the pain. For pain, she only knew the Anodyne Charm, which didn't relieve pain as well as potions, but it was better than nothing. Hermione cast it on herself, regaining a measure of calmness as the pain dulled. A quick Diffindo sliced away the smoldering bits of her skirt that were closest to the wound, leaving it exposed. Then, gritting her teeth, she pointed her wand at her wound. "Aduro," she hissed.
The burning pain returned fivefold, as the charm cauterized the wound and staunched the flow of blood. Hermione knew it was only a temporary measure, but it would last until a Healer could deal with it.
"Hermione? I know you're here," Harry's voice said from the other side of the screen. Seconds later, it spoke again. "I came as quick as I could. How, how bad is it?" Somehow, even though it was clearly audible to her, Harry's voice sounded… strangely distant.
Vaguely, she felt as though she ought to be responding, but she didn't raise her eyes. Instead, she kept her gaze firmly focused on her wound. After a moment, for no reason, she transferred her gaze to her left foot. At the same moment, she thought she felt… something… come to rest on her hand. The touch seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it…
"Hermione?" Harry's far-off voice said, "what's wrong? Why aren't you…" The voice cut off with a sudden intake of breath. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn."
And with those words, Harry's presence came rushing back into her senses like a bracing sea breeze. His hand was on her hand; he was bending over her, peering worriedly into her face. She could look up again, look at him again. She realized at once what he'd done, and that he hadn't known he was doing it until just now.
For his sake, she kept her voice light. "That's one heck of a Notice-Me-Not Charm you've got there, buster."
He lowered his gaze, disturbed. "Wasn't my doing," he mumbled.
"I think it was, Harry, at least subconsciously. You've had a fear of crowds since you came back - you've dreaded attention. It looks as though your magic has found a way to make sure you don't get it."
Harry looked sharply at her. "My magic? Or… a leftover of someone else's magic? Like how owls can't find me?"
"Evidently so…"
"Or how I found you?" She must have looked puzzled, for he continued, "When I still had the Wand, I could sense the magic flow through you, in and out, as you slept. Today, I sensed when you did that Anodyne thingie… and I followed the current of magic here, to you."
It was all very plausible, and corroborated with the mastery of magic Harry had shown with his new ironwood wand: a remnant of the awesome power of the Deathly Hallows, lingering on their former Master. Hermione promised herself they would investigate further, when they had a free moment - then put it aside. "We can worry over it later - we have more immediate problems."
Hurriedly she filled him on the events since she'd left for the bookshop. "They're definitely from the Cartel," she concluded, "since they mentioned Sabas Doukas."
"And there're three of them, you say?"
"Three that I spotted. There's at least one more. Someone had to have been ahead of me, to curse me from that direction." She shook her head glumly, and gave him the conclusions she'd reached. "Harry, we can't count on the Greek Aurors getting here in time - the Cartel has put Anti-Apparation spells over the entire marketplace - and there are too many innocent bystanders here. We need to get away, that's the safest for us and the crowds - but we can't Apparate, either. We'll have to use the Portkey Patches, even though they'll take us back to England without our luggage…"
"The Patches are with our luggage," Harry replied. "I left them on Aeaea - didn't figure we'd need them for a quick jaunt to the mainland." His fingertips hovered over her wound, as though he was trying to summon the healing power the Elder Wand had once given him. "You know - the same reason you didn't wear your birthday present."
"My sapphire," Hermione groaned. Her sapphire necklace, with its near-impregnable protection against magical attacks! Yes, that would have been useful in a firefight! Inwardly, she berated herself for her abysmal stupidity…
"You can punish yourself when we get home," Harry snorted, reading her thought. "You can do lines… 'Constant Vigilance' five hundred times, or something. For now, focus."
She bridled at him, but his attention was no longer on her. Harry was visualizing the street, gauging their enemies… planning. "I feel sure," he said slowly after a few seconds, "that I could take any of those goons, one-on-one. Hell, I bet I could take all of them - if we could catch them off-guard. So that means…"
Harry looked her in the eye. "Two things. We need to target them, and we need to distract them."
"Well, distracting them should be easy," she said dryly. "I only need to show myself."
His expression was intent and somber, and with a start, she realized that was exactly what he'd had in mind.
Harry gave Hermione a chance to object, to tell him she wouldn't risk herself that way. When she met his gaze with a look of determination, he nodded… as though to say he'd expected nothing less from her. "As for targeting them," he continued, "you can identify them for me… before you show yourself and distract them, I mean…"
"But that leaves at least one of them I can't identify," Hermione pointed out. "Maybe more. And if they try something in this crowd before you can get to them…"
He bit his lip. "Right. We need to make sure they don't pose a threat to bystanders… or to you, for that matter… while smoking out the ones in hiding…" He looked around the screened area, at the props and ethnic garb used by the troupe to entertain tourists. Slowly, for the first time since he'd found her, a smile spread on his face.