The world returned to Mephisto not with a chime of bells, but with a rhythmic, pounding thud behind his eyes.
He was slumped on the floor of Wunder's wagon, his red velvet coat tangled around his legs. The silver-encrusted Tarot cards in his pocket felt unnaturally warm, and a heavy weight—the stolen tome—pressed uncomfortably against his ribs.
"Oi! Wake up, you painted gargoyle! I thought I told you a magician never sleeps past the first bell," Wunder's voice boomed, accompanied by the sharp kick of a boot against the wagon door.
Faust groaned, clutching his head.
It felt as if a thousand tiny hammers were forging a new skull inside his brain—the worst hangover he'd ever experienced, despite not having touched a drop of Dutch ale. As he sat up, the sensation began to dissipate, replaced by a nagging, hollow feeling in his gut.
He was forgetting something.
Something vital about emerald eyes, a hairless cat, and a man with amber light in his gaze.
Wunder stepped into the cramped space, the aroma of fried bacon and a steaming pot of Stamppot—mashed potatoes mixed with kale and a thick sausage—filling the wagon.
"Oh, you're already back," Wunder remarked, setting the tray down on a crate. "I just finished at the main tent. You look like you've been run over by a spice merchant's caravan. Get that greasepaint off and undress faster, boy, or I'm eating all the bacon myself."
Faust rubbed his temples, his fingers coming away stained with white grease.
"Why aren't you dining with the others? I saw the jugglers and the acrobats gathered at the main tent earlier. It seemed..."
Wunder grinned, a sharp, cynical expression.
"I don't speak with the them, Mephisto. Aside from the Chief of El Gloriosa, I find most people's conversation about as stimulating as a wet sack of oats. Besides, a master should always keep a little distance. Familiarity breeds contempt, and contempt is bad for the box office."
'Strange logic, but okay,' Faust thought.
Wunder began to pile a heap of bacon onto a thick slice of bread.
"By the way," he said, his tone suddenly dropping into something more guarded. "There was a rumor floating through the stalls today. Some Inquisitor came sniffing around the fair. They weren't looking for bears or fire-eaters. They were asking about you."
Faust froze, his hand halfway to a button on his crimson coat.
"Asking about me? What did they say?"
"They paid a decent sum of silver to get information," Wunder said, chewing slowly. "They used that name of yours. Faust. Tell me, kid... are you sure you were just a doctor before you came to us? That's a heretic's name if I ever heard one. If the Church thinks I'm harboring a warlock, my rabbit won't be the only thing disappearing in a puff of smoke."
Something clicked deep within Faust's heart.
"Could you tell me the name of this Inquisitor?" Faust asked, his voice losing its clownish lilt and regaining the cold edge of the Herzog.
Wunder stopped eating.
He looked at Faust for a long time, his gaze suspicious and deeply complicated.
He pointed a greasy finger at Faust's chest.
"Listen to me, boy," Wunder growled. "If you bring the shadow of the pyre to El Gloriosa, if you put this family in danger because of whatever ghosts are chasing you... I will never forgive you. I'll hand you over to the monks myself."
An awkward, heavy silence filled the wagon.
Wunder eventually sighed, the anger fading into a weary resignation.
"Go ask the mime, Sutus," Wunder muttered, turning back to his food. "He was at the south gate when the black-robes arrived. He sees everything because he never has to worry about what he's saying."
Faust didn't finish his dinner.
He stood up, the bells on his suit giving a final, lonely chime.
He reached into his pocket and placed a gold coin—real gold, this time—on the tray next to the bacon.
"Thank you, Wunder," Faust said quietly.
He stepped out of the wagon and into the cool Amsterdam night, his eyes scanning the shadows for a mime who said too much without speaking a word.