3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." Oscar WildeThe automobile sputtered two times and came to a dead halt at Santo Amaro Avenue. Pedestrians passed, turning their heads to gape at the vehicle. Henrique jumped out of the driving seat and opened the engine. The exhaust had clogged again. He pulled on his fob. Five-thirty. Forty minutes to fix it and arrive at the hotel in time for dinner. A minor setback wouldn’t sour his mood. The evening demanded celebration. His business in town had been highly successful. The Italian count had made an exorbitant offer for his Braganza estate. Before embarking on the steamer to Liverpool, all that remained was to ask the king to sign the deed and say goodbye to his friends. He would tackle both tonight.

"Gardenia, thy mouth blooms in exquisite delight." Sprawled in the passenger seat, Dio pulled a pencil from his meticulously disheveled locks and scribbled on a notebook. "She loves my poems… Said I was her blond Byron." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I’m glad she has no literary taste."

Henrique shook his head, laughing. Diomedes da Veiga, Marquess of Faial—assumed bon vivant, a passable poet, as entertaining when drunk as in a hangover... Of all Henrique’s friends, he would miss him the most.

"She loves your money." Not that Henrique judged it. As long as both parties understood what they got from a relationship, they could enjoy themselves without the added burden of unfulfilled expectations. Henrique cleaned sweat from his forehead. "Can you give me a lift here?"

"Of course. How lazy of me." Dio straightened and looked at him, all seriousness. "You are the greatest scientist this country has ever known. Handsome, too, if a little long in the tooth. If those scurvy politicians ignore your work, the fault is in their shriveled minds. Is that enough, or should I write an ode to your twinkling blue eyes?"

“I’m thirty-two, hardly older than you.” Henrique lifted his brows. "And I need a literal hand."

"I would lend it to you, but I cannot possibly do it without ruining my clothes." Dio leaned back and crossed his ankles. "Why did you leave the palace early last night?"

Henrique stopped rattling the manifold, gazing at nothing in particular. Mossy green, the Tagus River flashed at him from gaps in the two-story buildings. The color of the frosty lady’s eyes. "I was ambushed by a dangerous species."

Dio sighed dramatically. "What was it this time? A nasty disease you spotted in your microscope?"

"This species is glaring to the naked eye, I assure you. They stalk their prey and disorient them, using their venomous tongue to administer the final blow."

Dio glanced at the Rocio square as if it were the Serengeti plains. "Do we have a loose viper in Lisbon?"

"Worse. A virgin." Virgins were a bachelor’s natural predator. Especially a green-eyed one with a retroussé nose and a cutting wit. The temptation to prove how much passion she had underneath her breastplate had been so strong he almost forgot his vow to restrain his amorous conquests to the married variety.

Dio laughed. "One of the princesses’ maids of honor? That’s rich."

"Why does the princess keep them in chains?"

Dio avoided eye contact, polishing his nails on his superfine coat. "Some blame her time in Victoria’s court. That it turned her into a prude. Others say she hates women. Who knows? She could be the priestess of a cult to the hymen."

Dio was being cryptic on purpose. If anyone knew about the princess, it was him. As the son of the Duke of Palmella, the country’s top diplomat, he grew up with the royal brood... Until he refused a post as an attaché in Geneva to pursue his literary vocation and became his family’s bete noir. No news there. In this country, you either followed your aristocratic father’s footsteps, or you received said foot in the arse.

"Hymen cult? What nonsense."

"Careful, a feminist might call you a misogynist."

Of course not. Henrique loved women. "Society is misogynist. I’m merely prudent." He pointed at Dio with his screwdriver. "I find it hard to understand all the fuss around the hymen. Women cling to it as if it were their Achilles’ heel, while men venerate it like the holy grail. The body possesses countless membranes, synovial, cutaneous, connective, mucosal... Among all those, society chose one to determine the fate of fifty percent of the population—the hymen. Is a one-inch membrane sealing the vagina more important than its five-foot owner? Nature tried to lock the vulva from bacteria, but it locked women in a lust-free prison."

Dio’s face flushed bright red, and he glanced at the crowded street. "You love to squander scientific terms, don’t you? Was she attractive?"

He shouldn’t have mentioned the girl to Dio. The sudden light in his black eyes meant trouble. And Henrique didn’t find her attractive. Too thin and stiff, she had swaddled herself to the neck with starched cloth and piled up her hair atop her head like chains. High-strung. That was the right word. High-strung like a mountain lioness. But then he witnessed her combustion. His provocation had been the catalyst for a thermal reaction. Her eyes... Her eyes burned.

She’d singed him.

If he was frustrated, it was not attraction but the futility of it all. Why should a healthy woman be kept from nature’s pleasures? A ripe grape forcing herself to be a raisin? What a waste.

"I never saw your interests engaged so." Dio smoothed his goatee and eyed Henrique thoughtfully. "The muse came to you at last. Will you forget England? Will this belle dame sans merci settle your quest for meaning in life?"

Henrique scoffed. "If you are searching for meaning in life, you better find yourself a microscope." True happiness lay in hunting for pleasure and avoiding pain. All else was mental masturbation, and he much preferred the physical kind.

Henrique gave one last shove, and the engine sputtered awake. "If anything, it means I must leave with all haste."

By the time they neared their destination, Henrique had pushed thoughts of the green-eyed she-cat to the recesses of his mind. He breathed in the afternoon, the river’s breeze mixed with the gas lamp’s oil. Sunset shone copper on the mosaic walkway. The golden hour. When the hard-working city sighed, doffed its uniform, and went back home, while the fun-loving city yawned awake, donned its finery, preparing for the opera, the Fado taverns down the Aterro, the cabarets.

"Won’t you miss Lisbon?" Dio asked, lifting his hat to greet the Count of Burnay. The older man stopped chatting with clients in front of his double business—Burnay Bank and the Havanesa House. "Where else in the world can a gentleman enter the bank, contract a loan, and, on his way out, buy Cuban cigars?"

"They have cigars in London." As Henrique watched people strolling, their faces illuminated by the last traces of sunset, an empty feeling swept his chest. Why this now? He had experienced Lisbon to its dregs, bedding all available women, tasting every wine and pleasure. Now, to ladies plenty and pastures new.

The church bells started their six o’clock toll as they climbed the steps to the Grand Central Hotel. When the old doorman opened the oak portal, a cough racked his torso.

Henrique reached inside his coat pocket and passed him a package of mints. "Here, Damião." Poor man suffered from the luxurious hotel’s constant drafts.

His rheumy eyes lit up. "Oh, Your Excellency, always so kind. Your guests have arrived already."

"Did the chef manage the paio with peas?"

"It came all the way from Quinta do Lobo. The Ananás soaked in rum the whole day."

"Terrific. Same table?"

"Of course. Only the best for Your Excellency."

Henrique tapped Damião’s bony shoulder and strolled over the crowded saloon to the separate room reserved for his dinner. A single candelabra cast shadows over the oak-paneled walls, adding to the cozy atmosphere. His friends occupied the round table. Griffin Maxwell and Pedro Daun were under the same roof, if not chatting amicably, at least tolerating each other. Whoever saw them like this couldn’t guess that only last year they had been mortal enemies.

Pedro Daun clasped Henrique’s shoulder, and Henrique pulled him in for a hug. It took a damn slave trader to make them close. Pedro dressed informally, a black velvet coat over a plain white shirt. At first glance, he seemed the same, with blond hair tied behind his neck, the old-world elegance that could turn into deadliness in a heartbeat. Still, after that horrible day at the bullfighting arena, his gaze was no longer haunted. Marriage to Maxwell’s sister suited him.

"How’s the sweet Anne?"

"Engaged with society functions."

Maxwell rose to greet him, his lean frame encased in the staid frock coat preferred by the British community. "Won’t you ask about Julia?"

"I don’t have to. I’ve seen your lovely wife today." Julia Costa blended the best port in the Douro, and he admired her tremendously. He had stopped at Maxwell’s townhouse to give her one of his latest inventions, a steam machine to separate stems and seeds from grapes, reducing the wine’s bitterness. Obviously, he omitted the business-like reason just to aggravate his friend.

Henrique ignored Maxwell’s angry retort and turned to his last guest.

Charles Whitaker didn’t bother to stand. He lifted his eyes from a full glass of Scotch and shook Henrique’s hand distractedly. The lad also seemed different. And when Henrique sat by his side, and alcohol fumes didn’t attack his nostrils, he understood why. Charles was sober.

Dio greeted the others and slouched by Henrique’s left.

The waitress brought his favorite dish—paio with peas. He would miss the sausage filled with pig blood after he moved to England. While they attacked the food, they talked about wine specifically and politics in general. Henrique noticed with amusement that his friends avoided the subject of his departure with the same effort as the picky eater Maxwell avoided the paio.

After the plates were cleared, they covered the table with green baize. Pedro chose dice to begin their game night.

A few rounds later, thoughts mildly murky after a bottle of Vesuvio’s Port and pockets considerably lighter, Henrique leaned back. "I should give up. I have the devil’s luck tonight."

Maxwell collected his earnings, his gaze straying to the mantelpiece clock.

"I know my charms are feeble compared to the lovely Julia, but can’t you keep your eyes on the table for a change?"

Maxwell bristled. "To watch your ugly face? Shut up and play."

Henrique would miss flustering the stoic Englishman. Finding another uptight friend who put up with his provocations would be a hardship.

Pedro Daun collected the dice. "I thought Dom Luis would be here tonight."

"He sent me a note. He will arrive later. Couldn’t leave the palace before dinner." The man led a country and still had trouble leading his own household. He’d better come, though. Henrique needed the king’s signature to conclude the sale of his estate.

Dio looked both ways and lowered his voice. "Rumors have it he does not visit the queen’s bedchamber."

"Who told you so?" Pedro speared Dio with a stare.

Since Pedro became the king’s chief adviser, his power in court had grown exponentially. Still, Henrique had high standards for after-dinner chat. "Why, I beg of you, did Luis’ activity between the royal sheets creep into our conversation?"

Pedro gave each one of them an accessing gaze. All eyes were on him, except for Charles, who kept mumbling to his glass.

"The ministers are restless. Until Luis produces a male heir, the monarchy is vulnerable. His hold on the throne is secure while his popularity is high, but the populace is fickle."

"Another blight on the Braganzas," Dio said, lowering his voice and brushing his goatee. "The family is cursed."

Maxwell snorted. "What in Hades are you speaking about?"

Dio pulled in a long breath. "It all started with Dom João IV in the seventeenth century. He kicked a Franciscan who asked him for alms. The monk cursed the king, saying no male firstborn of the Braganza house would ever live to inherit the throne. Since then, all the firstborns of the dynasty died before they could rule. Dom João VI and his wife tried to revert the curse to no avail... They never found the monk’s grave."

A moment of silence descended. Against his will, Henrique’s thoughts climbed the royal family tree for the past two centuries, and in fact, he could not remember a single firstborn who had lived long enough to assume the throne. Dom Luis himself had been a second son, his older brother, raised to be king, had died when he was nineteen, forcing Luis into a commitment he neither wanted nor had been prepared for. Henrique couldn’t fathom what had shocked Luis the most, the death of his brother or the need to give up his devil-may-care life in the navy.

"Curse or no curse, Luis better produce an heir soon. Otherwise, his reign is at risk," Pedro said, genuine concern weighing his voice.

Henrique wouldn’t want to be in Luis’s skin or other body parts, for that matter. Being discussed by his friends as if he were a stud? "I’m sure he will apply himself to it in due time. Now, did we come here to speak about the royal cock or play dice?"

Dio chuckled, and Maxwell wrinkled his nose at the crude joke. The seriousness dissipated, and the air of camaraderie returned.

"Seven." Pedro flung the ivory cubes. The lucky bastard hit a four and a three. "When do you plan to leave?"

"Next week. First, I need to conclude Braganza Castle’s sale."

Maxwell shook his head, looking aggrieved. "You will dispose of the Princess Tower?"

"The Italian count will turn the property into a luxury hotel. He will even hire a writer to embellish the tower’s myth."

At the word princess, Charles startled from his tête-à-tête with the untouched brandy glass.

Henrique turned to him, as Charles didn’t know his estate’s story. "According to legend, my ancestor used the tower to lock his wife in so she would not pester him over his mistresses. The gruesome tale will scare tourists, so the buyer will make it more romantic." Why didn’t the medieval Penafiels keep their wives well-pleasured instead of in chains? Sad brutes, one and all. More intent on warring than lovemaking. Perhaps their wives were green-eyed vixens. The stray thought brought images of naked limbs, iron fetters, and much better uses for her sweet tongue. Cursing under his breath, Henrique swallowed the port.

Charles frowned and returned to the perusal of his glass. His shock of russet hair caught the light from the lamps as if his head had caught fire.

"Knowing these Italians, he will write an opera about it," Maxwell said, disgust seeping into his voice.

"Unlike you, I like a romantic story." What was the harm in giving the tower a happy ending?

Maxwell lifted his brows. "Just like that, you will sell the property and tamper with an age-old legend. Have you no love for our country?"

There. It took them two hours to breach the subject.

"Our country? First, you are British. Second, I am as patriotic as everybody else—I keep a flag stored in the attic. In the improbable event of war between Portugal and another nation, I will know who to cheer for. Third, I can’t help it if I lack my friend’s marital bliss. If I had Julia for a wife..."

"Leave Julia out of it."

Henrique grinned. "When will you forget it? It was a good-natured flirtation, nothing more."

The Englishman glared at Henrique. "I know your problem—Don Juan’s fever. You have a pathological need to search for the ideal woman, chiefly among other men’s wives. Like Don Juan, as soon as you attempt one, you flash your unrepentant smile, say, ’Sorry, my mistake’, and move on. Acting like this in Spain, Don Juan tried one thousand and three."

Henrique laughed, lifting his palms. His conquests weren’t so numerous. "What can I say? As a scientist, I must apply a method of trial and error. One day, the system will prove effective, and I will find my better half."

Not that he was in a hurry. Of all types of love, men and women could only share one. Eros, alias lust. But lust, like any combustible, flared brightly and died quickly. In Aristotle’s own words, the only lasting relationship was friendship. Friendship only existed between equals, something women and men were not.

Pedro Daun rolled the dice between his fingers. "Chasing your fated mate is pointless. When the timing is right, she will come to you. You are here at Chiado, and she may be in Ceylon. While you are the country’s most celebrated scientist, she could be an exotic dancer. Like two armies charging a mountain pass, you are both irrevocably, irresistibly, marching one for the other."

Henrique gaped at Pedro. When had the cynic Count of Almoster developed such eloquence?

Maxwell grimaced. "Bank the stars in your eyes, will you? You are thinking about my sister, for Christ’s sake."

Charles shot to his feet. "That’s it! I won’t let the prudish princess keep me from my dove. Goodbye."

Charles had been so quiet, Henrique forgot his presence. Charles Whitaker strode to the exit, his steps sure and his posture erect. Who would have thought he could walk in a straight line?

"What bit his ass?"

"I don’t know who that was," Pedro said.

Maxwell frowned, staring at the door. "Charles is being most peculiar since the king’s musicale. His father is worried. Asked me to look after him."

Dio rose and adjusted his coat. "I’ll go with him. If his dove needs saving, who knows? She might have a friend or two in the same predicament."

Henrique watched both men leave and lifted his palms. "Listen, gentlemen. The fairer sex did not affect my immigration. Director of Oxford’s Life Sciences studies? How could I refuse?"

A commotion was heard outside their private room. The waiter opened the door and admitted Dom Luis, who strode to their table, bulky frame clad in civilian clothes. So he was not king tonight, but Dr. Tavares. He used the alias to take a breather from Court life.

Griffin made his excuses and rose. Pedro did the same and pulled the king to a corner. After some whispered words, he also left. Married sheep they were, no doubt their ladies awaited outside with their leashes.

Dom Luis enthroned himself in the armchair. He tugged his neckcloth and reached for the card deck. Henrique stifled a groan. If they started playing whist, Luis would get carried away, and Henrique would have better luck extracting a signature from the king of spades.

He took the estate deed from his briefcase and passed it to the king. "We should sign this before the brandy blurs the paper’s lines."

The king ignored the documents, a flush rising on his fair skin. "No risk of that happening."

Why the reticence? The signature was a mere formality. A relic from the feudal system.

The king shuffled, gaze fixed on the cards. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"As the king or as Dr. Tavares?"

"As a friend."

"I’m listening."

The king exhaled through his mouth. "I need you to accompany my sister to Spain."

Henrique laughed. "Is this my surprise? Are there dancers hidden somewhere?"

"I’m not jesting."

"You cannot be serious. My ship sails next week."

"Postpone the trip."

And they wondered why he wished to leave? He could be one microscopic step away from finding the cure to typhus, and yet, his king wanted him as a babysitter. Henrique gripped the dice, pressing the ivory against his palms. "Why me? Ask for your equerry, or even better, Santiago." If the princess were the stickler for morality the rumors implied, she would appreciate the priest’s company much more than his.

The king dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, his eyes going to the door and back to Henrique. "I can only trust you."

Trust. He should be flattered. The king or any of the country’s politicians never recognized his research. Some sneered he shunned a public life to become a natural philosopher, no better than a sawbones in their narrowed minds. Henrique lifted his brows. "It’s only Spain. What’s the worst that can happen?"

"Since the Spanish queen was exiled and the army placed my brother-in-law on the throne, their political situation has deteriorated. That hapless Italian doesn’t even speak their language. Their aristocracy is cooking something, and it is not paella."

First, the king’s marital affairs, now this. And Henrique had hoped for a pleasant goodbye dinner. "You could have accepted the throne yourself. The Spaniards asked nicely."

Dom Luis straightened, his face turning somber. "My ancestors shed the country’s blood to maintain Portugal’s independence from Spain. If I had agreed to become their king, the next generation would see Spain and Portugal united. I cannot allow it. I wasn’t coined for this." His gray eyes turned humid like they always did when he spoke about his deceased older brother. "No matter what happens, I will not be the king who loses Portugal’s autonomy."

"If the Spaniards are troublesome, I have a much simpler solution. Keep your sister in good old Lusitania."

Glancing away, Luis tugged his cravat. "I... can’t. You haven’t met her. Isabel has a mind of her own."

"And you are king. Really, Luis, you shouldn’t let the girl decide important matters." If Luis had put limits on this princess, she would not try to keep women in the Middle Ages.

Dom Luis snorted. "You don’t live with them. My wife knows how I value punctuality. Do you know what she does? Runs late on purpose for every function requiring her presence. Not to mention her unbridled spending—"

"Women do not control my life because I don’t give them the opportunity. You should try to be a king inside and outside your palace. My answer is no."

Dom Luis swept all semblance of friendliness from his face. He placed a hand over Braganza’s unsigned deed and pushed it back to Henrique’s side.

Henrique lowered his voice, gripping the port glass with enough force to shatter the crystal. If the king was not already cursed, Henrique would do it now. "Damn it, Luis. I won’t be manipulated."

Crossing his arms above his chest, Luis lifted his brows in an imperious display of kingly demeanor. Dom Luis was more than willing to forget he was the king... as long as nobody else did.

Henrique drained the port. The liquid went down his throat with the ease of a struggling frog. "Curse you. I’ll go. But I won’t be ordered about by a spoiled princess. You’d better tell your sister who’s in charge."

Henrique entered the Bacchus Club. Smoke clung to the wine-colored leather coaches like past patrons fighting for the best place. Sirens and satyrs frolicked over the arched ceiling. He found Dio lounging at his customary stool, scribbling on his notebook more fervently than usual.

Rolling the tension from his shoulders, Henrique massaged his temples. Worse than cheap brandy, the king’s blackmail gave him a sour mouth and the devil’s headache. But he wouldn’t cry over the spilled experiment. What was done, was done. Henrique had a journey to plan, and Dio would have to help.

"I see you found your muse. Charles’ Dove, perchance?"

Dio lifted his eyes from the paper. "No. I left him at the palace, of all places. Forget Charles. I decided on a subject for my literary masterpiece. I want to write Hercules’ biography."

"What?"

"No, before you object, listen to this. I will do it in twelve cantos, heroic verses. It will be brilliant. I’ve penned the first stanzas already. It begins with our hero dwindling on a farm, raising bovines. He is visited by Lady Virtue and Lady Vice. They fight for his allegiance until he follows the path of greatness."

Henrique drummed his fingers over the bar, wondering how to stop Dio’s nonsense about Hercules and breach the subject of Comillas. "The poor fellow should have stayed at the farm. What boon came from his toil? His only rewarding labor was the thirteenth."

"Hercules did only twelve."

"Chronologically, it should have been his job zero, but the Greeks lacked the concept of zero as a number. I’m talking about the impregnation of fifty girls in fifty nights while hunting lions. Before your man became a hero, he became a danger to the fathers of teenage daughters."

Dio laughed. Henrique shared his friend’s mirth, and after the humor faded, he rubbed his hands and eyed him askance. Henrique only had to ask. Dio would pester him but would relent.

Dio pushed away from the bar stool. "You look like the proverbial horse manure. What’s the matter?"

"I need you to take care of my bacteria."

Dio batted his eyelashes. "You flatter me, Your Excellency. I thought you would never ask."

"It’s only for a few weeks."

"Aren’t you moving to England for good? Why leave your research behind?"

Henrique sat on the bar and poured himself a liberal dose of port. "The king asked me a favor. I must become the princess’ escort. Luis and his damn problems."

"He should count himself lucky… Modern-day monarchs only have to keep an eye on aggressive neighbors and ensure their subjects pay taxes. A king in Hercules’ age had to deal with monsters roaming the countryside and the constant worry Zeus would rape his daughter—"

"Would you drop the mythological crap? This is serious. Luis blackmailed me into escorting the prudish princess to Spain, of all places, and avert some peninsular crises—"

"Spain? Crises?" Dio frowned, his heavy-lidded gaze lighting up. "This is your hero’s call."

Dio could utter the most absurd nonsense with a straight face. Henrique didn’t need a call, heroic or not. What should a fellow do in this country to get on with his life? Henrique massaged his forehead, the pain drilling into his skull. He was so close to finding a microorganism capable of killing typhus. "I came here to ask you to take care of my colony. They need to be fed twice a day and—"

"When I met you, just out of Sorbonne, you had this passion for science. A curiosity to know all about the world, including how we fit into it, the wholeness of nature, the harmony of its patterns… It’s all in the past, isn’t it? You’ve been complaining about ennui since that terrible business with Pedro Daun. This is your mythical awakening."

"The only thing resembling a myth in this is the Trojan horse Luis gave me as a farewell gift. After I’m back, I’ll return to my plans." By God, if the princess turned out to be a bore of herculean proportions, he was doomed.

Dio snorted. "So typical. Every time a hero receives a call to action, he refuses. This is a chance to make your life interesting."

"You’ve been reading Hesiod? It makes you delusional."

"I don’t know why you hate myths so… Mythologists and scientists are both in the same business—explaining cause and effect so people’s lives can be more predictable. You explain wine as the nasty byproduct of yeasts digesting sugar. To me, wine is Bacchus’ gift, a delicious elixir that helps humankind escape their worries." Dio tapped his chin with his aristocratic finger. "Who has the more captivating story?"

"Myths are nothing more than society’s way of forcing poor males to do things they don’t want to do in exchange for a transcendence that does not exist."

One had to wonder if the whole concept was not invented by females.

"And accomplish the greatest deeds humanity ever accomplished. Think about it. You could be our Portuguese Hercules."

Henrique gasped. He? A hero? "I fail to see the similarities."

"Hercules is prickly and proud. So are you."

Henrique would not bite Dio’s bait. "Hercules’ problem-solving skills are faulty. The chap is always ready to fall back on his core strength, which is, well, his strength. I shun violence."

Dio laughed. "Well... Your articulation has a mighty punch."

"Hercules is inconsiderate, willful, and impulsive. He will chomp something off first and see if he can chew it afterward."

"But his impulsivity is freeing. Whether Hercules is right or wrong, he is never uncertain." Dio wiggled his brows. "Existential fear is unknown to him."

Henrique had no existential fear. He had no fear. At all. "Dire traits in an ungovernable train." Henrique threw a cork, aiming at Dio’s head.

Dio ducked before it could hit him. "True, but one thing you two have in common. Hercules is intelligent. He starts each of his labors with careful research—"

"Tricks from a trickster.” Henrique sank into an armchair, suddenly tired. The weight of responsibility settled over his shoulders with the finesse of Hercules’ clubbing. Tomorrow, he would escort a prudish princess up north. His heart sped up for no reason. Anticipating meeting Joan again? Nonsense. He had no interest in green-eyed viragos. Henrique stared at Dio, passing his hand through his stubble. His friend might pretend to be a dissolute poet during evening hours, but by daylight, his blood ran as blue as the sky. "What is she like?"

"The Princess?"

“No, the Hydra of Lerna. Of course, the princess. Who else? Is she a dried-up maid with long teeth and short-sighted views?"

Dio choked on his wine, coughing his lungs out. "I wouldn’t put it into so many words, but as always, my friend, you have an interesting way of stating things."

"I knew it." Henrique groaned. It was just his luck. Spending his summer babysitting a shrew. "Will you take care of the bacteria or not?"

"Of course I will. Pack the nasty bugs! A hero needs a faithful companion, and today, my affair with Gardenia made the news. A spell away from Portugal will take my father off my heels. I’m coming with you."