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meant he could speak or translate anything, but he’d believed this was a secret known only to himself and the Emperor. The woman standing before Johnny couldn’t be a Hundra—they looked like floating, slightly flat, soccerballs. Warily he said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
    The woman laughed again—it was impossible not to warm to her. “I apologize if what I said made you uncomfortable, Johnny Mackintosh. Sometimes I forget myself. Why don’t I fetch Bram to speak with you?”
    â€œThat’d be great,” Johnny replied. “If you don’t mind … thanks.”
    â€œPlease remember that the Emperor is especially busy, today of all days,” said Ophia. “Try not to detain him long.”
    It was good to hear someone else on Melania refer to the Emperor as “Bram.” Normally they’d use some ridiculous title like “His Divine Imperial Majesty.” As the tall woman turned and glided away, Johnny couldn’t help thinking there was something more than a little odd about her—it might have been that he didn’t remember seeing her blink once.
    â€œJohnny—it’s good to see you face to face. That is, if a Cornicula Wormhole really counts.” Close up, the Emperor’s face looked worn and lined, as though a spider had woven its web directly onto it, but his blue eyes were as piercing and alert as ever, and his silver hair still sparkled with a life of its own. “Is this a purely social call, or is something troubling you?”
    â€œWell,” said Johnny, not sure where to begin. He didn’t want to make Bram think he was frightened by diving straight into a story about one Krun sphere. After all, he’d been in far worse situations and survived. Deciding to build up to that slowly, he said, “Social, I suppose. Clara’s not very well, but I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
    â€œPerhaps it is good, then, that I am coming to see you,” said the Emperor. “I had thought of making it a surprise visit, but I’d hate you to be out gallivanting and have us end up missing each other.”
    â€œGreat,” said Johnny, buoyed by this unexpected news. “When are you coming?”
    â€œI was wondering about Tuesday.” Bram laughed at the evident shock written across Johnny’s face. “I hope you can fit me into your busy schedule.”
    â€œOf course … yeah … that’ll be great.”
    â€œThen it is decided,” said the Emperor. “If you will excuse me, you’ll be aware I have preparations to make.” Bram stepped back and bowed, allowing Johnny to glimpse the activity going on around him.
    â€œBye,” shouted Johnny. “See you soon.” With a faint plop he pulled his head out of the Wormhole and caught sight of his reflection in the window, blond hair sticking up all over the place—he’d have to wash it before Bram arrived. He could tell the Emperor about the Krun then. He fell asleep under twinkling starlight—the streetlamp beneath Johnny’s window had long ago stopped working.

    Breakfast at Halader House was to be endured rather than enjoyed. It made Johnny long for the kippers or bacon and eggs that Alf would rustle up in the
Spirit of London
’s galley. Mr. Wilkins’s porridge was watery and full of salt, and included the odd crunchy black bit he didn’t dare think about. The huge bearded man ladled an especially large portion into Johnny’s bowl, as though relishing extra suffering he could inflict. It was too much to expect the cook’s beady black eyes to look anywhere else before Johnny had scraped every last spoonful of the gray sludge into his mouth.
    To make matters worse, Miss Harutunian, Johnny’s red-haired social worker, came over to sit beside him. He liked the American, who always seemed genuinely interested in him, but found it impossible to speak to anyone