In my attempts to become “more outgoing” – as I have been accused of becoming more like my father with each passing day – I climbed out of my hole (left my room) and entered the kitchen to search for the newspaper. It was the usual pre-dawn routine when the Reeves are in town, me being welcomed by a nearly pitch-black kitchen, starlight dimly pouring in through the window over the sink. Usually, the smell of rain gives him away, but this time, it was the rustling of paper as he turned a page. “How do you do that?” I asked, lighting the oil lamp on the island. “Do what?” came his melodic reply as those familiar, prism-like amber eyes lifted from the pages. “Read in the dark?” “Magic,” Erik replied with a soft smile. “Anything of interest going on in the world today?” I rounded the island and sat on the stool beside him to get a better look at the paper. “Actually, there is,” he replied, flipping back through the pages to the very front. He pointed to a picture – a large photograph – of many world leaders. “There is a conference in Versailles this week. Prime terrorist-attack target.” Sometimes, with that mix of Czech and Irish in his accent, it’s a bit difficult to understand what he’s saying when he gets excited – he starts talking faster. Have you ever tried to listen to an Irish Czech when they start talking fast? It’s painful. Beautiful, but painful to someone who has only been speaking English for three years. “Speed limit,” I commented, which warranted an apologetic smile. Slower, he went on, “All these political heads in one place, plus all this rioting that's been going on lately - security is going to be tight and – oh look, isn’t that your friend?” He pointed out a redheaded youth in a dark green suit; I recognized those jaded jade eyes immediately … but where was the tall, dark-haired figure that he usually accompanied the side of? “Sydney …” “I wonder what the Brat Prince is doing in Versailles.” “Probably attempt to further world domination …” “This can’t be good,” Erik muttered. “Nothing good ever came out of the English,” I retorted with a scowl. “That’s not true. What about Shakespeare?” “… touché.” “Wait …” Erik suddenly said, looking to me with alarm. “Isn’t Jeremy in Versailles?” The realization of such things caused the pit if my stomach to grow cold and lead-heavy; I was frozen and stationary, barely even able move my lips to say “I have to go to Versailles.” Suddenly, I had mobility again, and was moving to the den for my coat and shoes. Erik followed. “But – the security.” “I have my ways.” “I’m going with you.” “No, you are not.” “Yes, I am.” He was so determined. “Someone has to make sure you come back.” Sometimes, it is impossible to argue with Erik. The train leaves this afternoon. I have left a note for everyone explaining where I have gone. I hope they understand. I hope ... I make it back ...