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The storm arrived suddenly during the night as the wind howled in from the ocean, whipping the waves and sending them crashing in fountains of foam against the pair of high rock columns that rose from the churning seas by the shoreline. In the small cottage near the waterfront, the shutters rattled in the wind, and the man in the cottage’s lone bed snapped awake. He lay still and silent for a few moments, identifying the cause of the noise. Then he was up and dashing for the door, fully clothed, pausing only to seize two things: the Sig Sauer which lay within easy reach on the bedside table and a jacket from the peg beside the door.
Outside, the rain beat sideways, driving against the man’s skin with the strength of the breaking waves below. The wind plastered his drenched hair against his face, and he shook his head violently to clear the wet strands from his eyes, flinging a cloud of black droplets that were lost in the surrounding deluge. He sprinted along the shoreline toward the towering stone columns that jutted from the heaving ocean, surefooted despite the wet ground. The jacket, already saturated with rain and salt spray, weighed him down. He retrieved a small object from an inside pocket, then tossed the sodden garment aside. Barely pausing in his stride, he neared the smaller of the sea stacks and the suspension bridge linking it to the shore.
The strong rope structure swung violently from side to side until it almost flipped in the wind. The boards clacked faintly against the rocks, the sound nearly lost in the roar of the gale and the smashing, bellowing sea. The bridge swayed as the tall figure stepped gingerly onto the first of the slippery wooden slats. The structure felt remarkably flimsy despite the solid metal supporting cables, but the man barely paused; he had faced much worse. He moved swiftly along the walkway with the balance and coordination that came from years of training. As he crested the plateau of the first sea stack and hurried on to the second bridge, a particularly wild wave broke against the rock. The wall of water rebounded, almost reaching to the boards of the bridge a hundred feet above the heaving ocean.
The man topped the second stack and planted his feet, leaning into the wind as he raised the small object he was carrying. It was a pair of military-grade, night-vision binoculars, and the man pressed them to his face, peering through the scopes into the green-tinged world of the storm. He could barely see ten yards in front of him in the deluge, and the binoculars provided little advantage against the curtains of wind and rain. The tall man settled his bulk against a small outcrop on the sea stack’s relatively flat surface, staring into the dark, alternately with the binoculars and his bare eyes. He strained his vision against the gale and stood like a statue, waiting as the storm finally blew itself out, the rain lessened and the sky brightened in the east.
Dawn found the man still standing, drenched to the bone and soaked with salt spray, atop the high column of stone as he stared out to sea. He remained there, unmoving, gazing intently at the horizon, as the sun came up and the last of the clouds cleared. His eyes moved in a search pattern over the sparkling waves. The raucous cry of the sea birds eventually penetrated his singular resolve as a pair of gulls alighted on the rock a few feet from the stationary giant. He straightened, shaking out his stiff limbs and sending the gulls screeching into the air. The huge man cast a last, searching glance over the uniform expanse of waves. Then Butler turned away, stumbling across the suspension bridges and trudging back along the shoreline.
The bodyguard walked heavily up the path to the cottage. The first thing he noticed was that in his wild rush to the cliff face, he had left the door unbolted and the alarm unset. The second thing Butler noticed was the blinking red light on his phone. Someone had left him a voice message. He bypassed the phone and moved quickly around the cottage’s small interior, checking for signs of an intruder. One of the shutters had blown open in the gale, and there was a small puddle of rainwater beneath a leaking corner of the roof but no suggestion of unauthorized entry.
Butler concluded his check and returned to the phone on the table. He pushed a button at the base of the cradle and the recording began to play, sounding tinny through the cheap speaker.
“Bonjour, Mr. Butler.” The speaker was young and female, with an unmistakable French accent. Butler recognized her voice immediately.
“This is Minerva Paradizo. I will be arriving earlier than planned. An urgent matter requires my attention and I will not be able to stay for long, but I wanted to see you before I leave. You can expect me midmorning. À bientôt!”
The message clicked off and Butler suppressed a sigh. In his current state, the last thing he wanted was company to entertain. The manservant sighed again, then composed himself. No matter his current mood, he appreciated Minerva’s continued efforts to visit him. The cottage was a lonely place, and Butler kept mostly to himself, rarely mingling with the locals down at the harbor. It always cheered him when the French girl took time out of her busy schedule to call or drop by.
Butler turned away from the table, aware of the puddle that was forming at his feet, and hurried to the bedroom, trailing water behind him. He bathed and changed in a matter of minutes and returned to the main room to clean the floor. Then he set about patching the corner of the roof. He had just replaced a couple of shingles outside and was clambering down when he spotted Minerva’s slight form making her way down the path from the village. The bodyguard dropped lightly into the thick grass around the cottage and watched his visitor’s progress as she made her way to his door.
“Hello, Minerva,” he greeted her as she drew within hearing distance.
“Butler, bonjour my friend!” the girl called back, hurrying the last few steps to his door. Despite his exhaustion, Butler was genuinely happy to see her. He ushered Minerva through to the small table in the cabin’s main room. He turned away to open the shutters and draw back the curtains and then returned and seated himself at the table.
The morning was fine, with no sign of the storm from the night, and the sunlight streamed into the cabin, lighting its dim corners and almost bare interior. They sat in silence. Minerva seemed a bit uncertain, but perhaps it was merely Butler’s imagination.
“I apologize for the change of plans,” she began after a few moments. “I just received a notice from the United States of America. There is a psychological study they wish me to consult on. Of course, they do not know my true identity.” Butler nodded. The subterfuge was rather expected.
Minerva smiled as she continued. “They believe they have just contacted Europe’s leading expert in retrograde amnesia, Dr. Jo Blee. They have no idea I am French; after all, it is an Irish name. And of course, Dr. Blee is a middle-aged woman.”
“That will be a bit of a surprise for them,” said Butler. Minerva shook her head.
“Actually, they will not be meeting with my alias directly. I am an intern of Dr. Blee’s. They were quite disappointed to learn that the doctor cannot attend herself, but they have accepted my help on the project nonetheless. I am simply there to carry out my employer’s directives.”
Butler nodded appreciatively. Minerva displayed a level of subtlety that Artemis lacked. He recalled how difficult she had been to investigate when Artemis first discovered her, even for the tech-genius Foaly. It seemed the French girl still preferred to keep a low profile, despite her numerous accomplishments.
“You seem tired,” she observed. “There was a storm last night, yes? Were you out in it?” Butler nodded wearily.
“It came in so suddenly,” he explained, “without warning. I thought perhaps it was Hybras, perhaps they were coming back, but…” the manservant broke off, staring at the table for a few moments.
When he glanced up, Minerva appeared genuinely sorry, and Butler realized suddenly that it sounded as though he were accusing her. After all, Minerva was at least partially responsible for the chain of events that forced Artemis and his companions to flee into limbo. The bodyguard hesitated, searching for a way to show Minerva that he didn’t blame her for Artemis’s situation.
“I didn’t mean—” he began, but Minerva cut him off.
“I know,” she said. “I miss him, too.”
They fell silent again, but it was a companionable silence. Then Minerva rose and excused herself from the room. Butler collapsed back into his chair as soon as she had gone. The bodyguard was physically and emotionally exhausted. His mind flashed back to the storm and the sea stacks. He had been so certain that this time it really was Hybras, but then, he was always certain. The truth was, Butler had no real idea when or how the magical island might return. Who could tell how long Artemis’s journey through time might take? The bodyguard was getting on in years and felt even older. Not for the first time, the thought occurred to Butler that he might die never knowing if his young charge had survived. He pushed the crippling notion aside. Now was not the time for doubts.
Butler looked up as Minerva returned from the kitchen. She was carrying a pot of tea, and the bodyguard was vaguely surprised. Artemis had never shown much interest or aptitude for culinary arts, even something as simple as tea, and Butler had expected Minerva, girl or no, to display a similar disinterest in any form of cuisine. This young lady had hidden depths...and she was French, Butler reminded himself as he accepted a steaming cup of green tea with lemon. A mood enhancer, he noted with a touch of grim amusement. It seemed all child genii were the same after all.
Minerva filled her own cup with the steaming liquid, expertly squeezing lemon slices over both cups. She seated herself gracefully and spooned sugar into her portion, stirring gently. Butler ignored the sugar bowl completely. The tea served, Minerva sat back, took a small sip and then leaned forward again, eager for conversation. Her gaze drifted out the window to the rocky cliff tops and the glittering sea beyond. The bright sunlight glinted off the tip of each small wave.
“It is beautiful here,” Minerva said, “but so grey. You need a bit of color. Perhaps some window boxes.”
Butler snorted. “Window boxes? Minerva, you’ve known me for over a year.”
“Exactement. You are far too grim. A few flowers would do you well.”
“Me? Grim?” Butler managed to look almost innocent and Minerva laughed, the sound filling the small room with a brightness that made the bodyguard feel wistful.
He had missed having a young person around more than he had realized. For all his intellect, Artemis had been—was still—a teenager, with an almost boundless energy that Butler could never hope to match. He wasn’t certain what he would do now if it weren’t for Minerva. She was the single bright spot in this entire fiasco.
The girl chattered on about summer in France and a book on quantum mechanics she had read that morning and her latest piece of research, science that Butler barely understood. The scene felt so familiar, and Butler found his mind drifting, imagining what it would be like when Artemis returned. It was easy to picture his employer having a tête-à-tête with the young French girl, playing chess or—dare he think it?—dating. A snatch of dialogue sprang unbidden into his mind, a conversation with Artemis two years previously in a Chicago restaurant. Something about school dances and communication, a challenge that with Minerva, at least, Artemis should find quite easy. It all seemed pleasantly normal...or as normal as life with Artemis Fowl could ever be.
Minerva’s voice broke through his thoughts, dragging the bodyguard reluctantly back to the rough walls of the cottage and the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the open shutters.
“I must go,” the French girl was saying. “It is growing late, and I have a plane to catch. I brought you this.” She placed a heavy book on the wooden table. “To pass the time,” she added, as she stood to leave.
Butler barely glanced at the weighty volume. He pushed back his chair, towering up and filling the small room as he rose. He stooped awkwardly to place a hand on Minerva’s shoulder, but the girl threw her arms around his neck, stretching on tiptoe to kiss the bodyguard on the cheek. Then she was gone out the door, one hand waving in farewell.
Butler stood in the doorway, watching the slight, blond figure making her way down the path along the waterfront, curls bouncing about her shoulders. Minerva crested a small rise and disappeared as she reached the village. Butler turned back to the cottage, noting the bare ledges beneath the panes that flanked the door. Window boxes. Ridiculous. Unbidden, his gaze drifted to the pale pink and white flowers growing in the long grass beside the cottage, and he shook his head, as though to dislodge the idea.
He ducked slightly, reentering the low doorway and turned to reset the alarm on the door. Butler moved swiftly to the table to light the lamp and then made his way around the cottage’s interior as he closed the shutters, moving with a grace that belied his bulk. His space secured for the evening, the man returned to the table, glancing at the heavy volume on the rough tabletop. His eyes traced the words on the dark cover: War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. Fiction. He turned back to the tea tray.
Butler carried the remains of their refreshment back to the kitchen and began to systematically clean the cups and spoons, rinsing and drying each piece before carefully replacing them in the solitary cupboard above the sink. The sun had just set as he finished. He could see it in the cracks of the shutters, which he resolved to patch sometime soon. Tomorrow, he decided. He had nothing better to do.
He left the kitchen and settled himself in the big chair near the door, watching the shadows lengthen almost imperceptibly as the sky darkened outside. Minerva’s bright laughter seemed so long ago. The bodyguard sighed, stretching out in what, for Butler, qualified as a relaxed position. Then he extended one long arm and retrieved the book from the table. His calloused fingers traced the cover thoughtfully, feeling the slight embossing of the words and the rough fabric of the binding. He ran one thumb down the edge of the crisp pages, causing them to fan out and brush together with a soft rasping sound. Butler sighed almost imperceptibly, adjusted the lamp on the table and opened to the first page.