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whirled to glare at him. He caught me by the shoulders, saying, “God, I missed you,” and kissed me. It was a long, hard kiss that made my already wobbly knees go weak. Quinton had to haul me tight against his body so I wouldn’t slither to the floor and that was not at all disagreeable. Nearby a small child made a sound of disgust, which is the same in any language: “Eww . . .” We both gave the child—a little girl with a mop of short, dark curls—a stern look. She turned away to chase after her mother, saying something in Portuguese that was probably, “Those people are kissing!” because her mother laughed and shot us a curious glance.
    Quinton stiffened in my arms, staring for a second at the little girl as she grabbed onto her mother’s hand.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked, taking a small step back from him.
    Quinton shook himself. “She looks so much like Soraia. . . .”
    “Who?”
    “My niece. My sister’s daughter. My father kidnapped her.”
    “What?” I asked, appalled.
    “That was my reaction. I’ll tell you as we go.”
    Even angry and a bit shaken, he looked good to me. I hadn’t seen him in months. He’d cut his hair again, so it didn’t quite hit his shoulders, and had trimmed his beard much smaller and narrower, so he managed to look both shaggy and fashionable at the same time. His clothes were a little more fashion-conscious also, but not enough to stand out in a crowd of Europeans. He was carrying asmall-brimmed black hat and a smaller version of his usual backpack that looked more like a portfolio or messenger bag.
    We went downstairs together and Quinton paused to put on his hat as I slipped outside in the Grey to take a look around. I didn’t see a sign of anything immediately threatening, although the constant replay of Lisbon’s earthquake left me feeling disquieted.

FOUR
    W e walked out of the doll hospital and along the sidewalk toward a wide opening between the buildings on the west side of the square, making an effort to be casual when we both felt bleak and worried.
    “Why did you pick that place to meet?” I asked. He was tense even while he did a pretty good imitation of a man in no hurry.
    He paused to adjust his hat, cocking the brim down a little farther so his face was less exposed to the cameras dotted here and there throughout the public square. “About ninety percent of the agents working for my dad are male. They’d have been pretty easy to spot in there and I had been watching out the windows for anyone I recognized working the square. “Why did you go into the knitwear shop?”
    “Is that what it was?” I replied. “I thought it was World of Sweaters.”
    He gave a strained laugh, the darkness around us lightening for only a moment. “ ‘Malhas’ means ‘knits.’ So you were close.”
    “I didn’t know you spoke Portuguese.”
    “Only a little tourist pidgin. I looked it up. Why did you go into the shop?”
    “I wanted to get a better look and more information without wandering aimlessly around a haunted plaza.”
    “Haunted?”
    “Yes. There was an earthquake here, remember? It killed thousands of people and knocked down most of downtown Lisbon at the time. The building that was here then is stuck in a loop, and I could see it falling, burning, and being swamped with water over and over. It’s very unpleasant.”
    Quinton looked more unhappy than ever. “We’d better wrap up our business in Lisbon quickly, then.”
    “I’d appreciate that.”
    “How did you get here, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, I didn’t give you any helpful hints on that, I know, and I’m sorry.”
    “It wasn’t a problem. I went to Carlos.”
    “I can’t say I’m surprised. I assume he came along.”
    “He did. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
    He ignored my request, giving a tiny shake of the head. “I’m not sure how happy I am about Carlos’s involvement. . . .”
    I sighed. “He has a vested interest in the mages behind this