Page 83 of Angel of Vengeance

“He left the balcony by another way.” He paused. “Actually—just entre nous, you understand—I assisted him over the railing and into the Katarakt.”

Livia looked at him for a long time and then said, “Why?”

Why indeed? Though he had no desire to make this parallel universe his domain, Diogenes nevertheless had begun, unexpectedly, to feel a proprietary interest in its well-being. And he’d realized that a few small adjustments—tweaks, one might call them—could save his adopted world great agony… and loss of innocence.

He took a sip of his drink. Then, with sudden decision, he put it down and sat up again, swinging his legs onto the ground and leaning forward. “May I confide something in you, my nereid of the azure Danube?”

“Only if it’s incriminating.”

“It is indeed. You recall my telling you that execrable customs official had changed his name? It used to be Schicklgruber.” He paused. “It is now Hitler.”

Livia looked on, her expression unchanged. “Never heard of him.”

“Of course you haven’t. But the twentieth century will come to know that name in the person of his son, born eight years from now, named Adolf. Or rather, the world would have known. But thanks to this little accident today, the name Hitler will remain obscure forever—and, if fate is kind, many millions of lives will be saved.”

Livia’s gaze remained very steady, and her face had paled somewhat.

“There are two other places I’m anxious to visit on our grand tour,” Diogenes continued, “for the very same reason.”

“And those are…?”

“Have you any desire to see the Hermitage—in St. Petersburg, Russia?”

“Not particularly. I hear Russia is cold.”

“In the summer, parts of it are quite lovely. I would propose we visit the incomparable Amber Room in the Catherine Palace—the most beautiful chamber in the world—while it still stands. Our next stop will be Beijing—I mean Pekin—in China.”

She gazed at him steadily. “Whom will you be seeking in St. Petersburg and Pekin?”

“Two other fathers.”

“For the same purpose?”

“Yes. And after that,” he went on with sudden cheer, “we book passage back to San Francisco—on our way to, dare I hope, nuptials in New York?” And he tapped something hidden in his jacket that may or may not have been an engagement ring.

She remained silent so long he began to fear he’d revealed too much. At last, she spoke. “Before I answer, I have a question of my own.”

“What is it, my dove? Do you wish me to go down on one knee?”

But she’d fallen silent once again. Then, abruptly, her color returned. “Will I become Lady Jayeaux? Or shall I be taking your real name—whatever it is?”

And as she burst out laughing, Diogenes realized he’d just—for lack of a better term—gotten some of his own back. “You…!” he began, then stopped, momentarily at a loss for words.

“That, darling, was in return for the Campari-colored bugs. But you never needed to ask, you know: dearest Cedric—you lead, and I shall follow.”

He looked at her, returning the smile. Then he took a sip of his aperitif and reclined once again in his chair, closing his eyes to reflect on the vagaries of fate and time, as the setting sun poured cinnamon light over the lowering clouds of the Vienna Woods.

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