Only minutes more and he would see his father. He would not collapse now, so close to his goal. He was breathing heavily, sweat had cooled down his back, and the very door wavered before his eyes. He hung his knife by his side and mounted the steps of his home. But the door with its brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head was still there. He squinted, staring, wondering if he was dreaming. He walked and walked for hours and then suddenly-miraculously-his father’s house was before him. People he met made a wide berth around him. Reynaud continued, his feet dragging, his knife in his hand. “Find some other prey,” Reynaud growled, and they scattered. Two youths had been coming toward him, but they faltered, their eyes widening at the look on his face. He braced his feet wide apart, throwing back his head and snarling. Was the beggar a lookout? Footsteps rushed toward him and Reynaud whirled, the knife in his hand. A beggar lolled in a doorway, watching him as he stumbled past. When next Reynaud was aware, he realized someone was following him. Time wavered and slipped away as he staggered. He had nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the knife hanging at his side. His father’s town house was in the West End of London naturally, and he’d have to get there by foot. Reynaud shook his head, walking swiftly along the dock.
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