Something was wrong with Frederick. Celeste had known this since yesterday when she had paid him a visit during their break from the “audiences.” He had been distracted, fobbing her off with a very transparent excuse about a translational problem in the prophecy. He had been studying the Book for over two hundred years with and without help; not for a second did Celeste believe he had made an error in translation. She had scraped the edge of his mind, not enough for him to feel, but enough for her to realise that he was hiding something. Celeste did not dig any deeper, such an intrusive act was not her way. They had been together for the best part of three centuries and, other than when she had first encountered him in Posen, she had never needed to enter his mind to get information from him. She would not start now. Celeste had to confess, though, at least to herself, she was sorely tempted. Even more so when the waves of confusion and hurt had struck her in her private chamber at the factory that night.
