Empire of Ruins Read Free Page B

edition of the
Illustrated London News
and his cloth workout mask. He hadn’t been given permission to leave the mansion, and his confinement was beginning to feel like a jail sentence. No, what was really riling him was that it reminded him of his childhood in Ravenscroft. Thirteen years in a country house without being able to take so much as one step out the door or even look out a window! It had all been part of Mr. Socrates’ plan to raise him as an agent, and it had worked, but Modo couldn’t bear to be trapped like that again. He itched to be climbing and swinging his way across London’s tallest buildings, as he’d been free to do only a few months ago.
    “Enough sitting around!” He marched to the center of the room and began snap-kicking and palm-smashing thestuffed dummy hanging from the ceiling. Each move had been taught to him by Tharpa, his weapons trainer. It was a combination of
kalaripayattu
, an Indian fighting art, and wushu, a Chinese martial system. When he caught his reflection in the mirrors he grimaced at his flattened nose, his clumps of red hair; his ugliness. He punched and kicked even harder.
    Exhausted, he bowed to the dummy and sat down to do his breathing exercises, hoping to clear his mind of anger and frustration. Instead, Octavia’s face appeared. He hadn’t seen his friend and fellow agent since their return from Iceland. Nearly four months had passed! Did she know he was here? Did she miss him? He missed her, even the way she raised her eyebrows when she was annoyed. Or toying with him.
    The doorbell rang and a minute later there was a knock at the door to his room. He slipped on his mask. “Enter.”
    A Chinese servant in a silk suit came in. He answered only to the name Footman, and as hard as Modo tried he could never get the man to give his real name or have a conversation with him.
    Footman bowed slightly and said, “A visitor seeks an audience with you.”
    Mr. Socrates and Tharpa always arrived unannounced. It could only be Octavia!
    Modo nodded. “Thank you. Please bring the visitor to the parlor in five minutes.”
    Footman bowed again and walked quietly out of the room. He moved confidently, which suggested that he too had been steeped in the martial arts. This wasn’t a surprise; Mr. Socrates would have only the best-trained servants.Modo dreamed of testing the man’s skills. It would be good training for a change to fight a living, breathing opponent.
    For Octavia he would transform into the Knight. She already knew that character and seemed to like him. So he removed his mask and set about changing his features, wishing that the changes would last forever, not just a few hours. As the pain seared through his bones and flesh, as his nose grew straighter and his cheekbones emerged, he wondered how many times he’d used this ability since his birth. Did chameleons feel pain when they changed their color? The months of rest made it somewhat easier—shifting his shoulders, making the hump squash flat into his back, growing a dark swath of hair. He was wearing his sweaty training clothes, but that wouldn’t be too improper. She’d see that he hadn’t been twiddling his thumbs!
    He went to the parlor and dabbed away his sweat and combed his new hair.
    Footman opened the door to the room.
This is it!
Modo thought, his heart skipping a beat. He could have slowed it down using his breathing techniques, but his heart
should
beat faster! It was Octavia, after all.
    A woman in a large, fashionable bonnet, her face hidden by a veil, walked into the room. Footman closed the door behind her. Modo was distracted by the flowers—real flowers—poking out of her hat. She was taller than Octavia. He had been so certain that it would be his friend, had secretly hoped they would greet each other with a hug. Instead, a stranger.
    “Are you the one who is called Modo?” she asked.
    He couldn’t place her accent. German? Scandinavian?He froze. Was it Miss Hakkandottir? Her hands