Buch lesen: «The Alchemist's Daughter»
“Isidora, you should go to bed.”
His breath was warm against her ear, for he had bent his head—so that he could keep his voice low, she assumed.
“Lucien, I will go to bed when and where I choose. I have lived long enough to be fully capable of such a decision.”
“Have you? I wonder, even at your age, that you do not need some guidance in that regard, or at least some inspiration?” He turned her around. “Do you want some…inspiration?”
At the sight of him so close, the feel of him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight…his attention focused upon her alone…Isidora had all the inspiration she could handle.
She felt dizzy. She wanted to fall into his arms. Kiss him. And beat him with her fists, so thickheaded was he. Had he no idea of the torture he put her through?
Praise for Elaine Knighton’s previous titles
Beauchamp Besieged
“Sensational plot turns…a gritty but vivid picture…of medieval times.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rich details create a strong sense of place in this debut.”
—Romantic Times
“A definite must-read for those who enjoy a good medieval tale.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Fulk the Reluctant
“Knighton’s talent shines.”
—Romantic Times
“Be ready to be swept away to [the] 1200s in this fast-paced story.”
—romancejunkies.com
The Alchemist’s Daughter
Elaine Knighton
MILLS & BOON
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To my wise and beautiful daughters, Asmara and Angela.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
The Holy Land
Somewhere between Jerusalem and Acre
Spring of 1197
“L ucien! De Brus has fallen. We must stop.”
“Aye, Allan, I expected it to be so.” Lucien de Griswold’s heart sank as he turned in the saddle and looked back over the straggling line of weary men and horses. De Brus, who had gone with them on pilgrimage to Jerusalem only to please his lady-wife, had taken a deep sword thrust to his thigh. The attacking tribesmen, in search of plunder, did not respect the uneasy truce between west and east, no more than did many Crusaders.
The dry wind kicked up a spiral of dust and heat shimmered over the sand and rocks. This desert, this place…the Holy Land…was not a land of milk and honey, but of blood and pain and thirst. Only the Saracens, with great determination, faith and skill, were at home here.
Allan had dismounted and helped the ailing De Brus to the shade of an overhang. Lucien left his horse in the care of a servant and knelt beside De Brus. The knight’s wound was poisoning his blood. His red, sweaty skin, his leg so swollen that his foot was mottled, testified to that fact.
“He needs more medicine than the camp leech can provide, even could we get him there before he dies,” Allan whispered.
De Brus opened his eyes. “Don’t bother trying to spare my feelings now, Allan. I know full well I am a waste of further food and water. Just leave me here in the shade.”
“Be quiet, Brus,” Lucien said. He drew Allan aside. “There was a caravanserai going east. They may know of a physician in a town nearby. It is worth a try.”
“A Saracen physician?” Allan’s brows knit.
“Aye. They have the skill Brus’s leg requires. I have seen what they can do. I fear otherwise he will indeed die while our leech deliberates and Brus argues with him. He won’t be able to argue with a Turk.”
“Very well. But be swift, for we dare not tarry here overlong. If you must go, at least take someone with you. Do not go alone.”
Lucien shook his head. “To the Arabs we Franj are dangerous wild animals. A pack of us will only make them defensive. One of us may get a better result than many. And if I should fail, there will be fewer of our party at risk. No one in Acre even knows we are here, so we have no hope of them setting out to look for us.”
“But Kalle FitzMalheury is due to return this way. No doubt he would come to our aid.”
A surge of distaste filled Lucien at the mention of the knight whose reputation for brutality overshadowed his brilliance as a commander. “I hope we are gone long before then, for I have no wish to encounter Kalle FitzMalheury—especially if I need him.”
“Aye.” Allan rubbed his dagger hilt. “I know what you mean. He is a restless lion amongst men.”
“All the more reason for me to make haste.” After downing a mouthful of warm water, Lucien set out in pursuit of the caravanserai whose dust was still visible in the distance. It was a small procession, no more than a dozen heavily laden camels, but well supplied with guards, a mixture of Turks and mercenary Franks.
With a final burst of effort from his horse, Lucien caught up with the vanguard. He brought his mount around, just close enough for them to hear his shout. Some of the guards had already turned, arrows nocked and ready to fly.
“May peace be upon you, all honor to the Prophet!” Lucien began in Arabic.
But the guards’ bows stayed taut, the arrows level; the red tassels on their horses’ bridles fluttered in the wind.
Lucien took a deep breath. “I seek a ţābib. Know you where I might find a man skilled in medicine?”
“Why should we help a murdering Franj?”
To Lucien’s surprise, one among them replied, “Because it is the Law of God, both Christian and Muslim, to show mercy to those who ask it of us, if that is within our power to bestow.”
The man rode toward Lucien, his white robes pristine despite the dust and heat. “I am Palban, known in these parts as al-Balub, a physician come from Cordoba. What is the problem?”
As he drew near, Lucien saw that whether a Saracen or no, this Spaniard was fair of complexion and not one of the Turks by birth. He quickly explained Brus’s predicament and added, “I swear to protect you and see you safely back to your escort. I can but offer you a promise of compensation, as at the moment I have nothing of value beyond my honor and gratitude.”
Palban smiled. “I see you have manners befitting a prince, if not the wealth of one. And I consider the former of more worth than the latter. It would be a refreshing change to minister to a wounded knight be he French or English or German, instead of an overfed emir. Let me collect my things.” He galloped back to the caravan and returned with a bundle strapped to his saddle. “They will await me here, for a few hours only, while they rest the horses.”
Lucien’s heart leaped with hope and he led the ţābib toward De Brus. As they rode he plied the physician with questions, of medicine, of philosophy and of alchemy, an area in which he had a deep interest. Compared to this country, where such exalted knowledge was openly sought and arcane pursuits were more valued than feared, England was an abyss of ignorance.
“I seek a teacher in these arts,” he confessed to Palban at last. It was a vast understatement. He longed for knowledge of beauty unseen, of words unspoken, of music unstruck. Beyond that, he owed his lady-mother a heavy debt of the heart, and realizing the fruits of alchemy had become his last hope of easing her pain…and his own nagging guilt. But as this campaign in the Holy Land had unfolded in a sea of blood and anguish, he had begun to despair of ever realizing such a nebulous dream.
“Ah.” Palban smiled again. “There is an old saying, ‘When the student is ready, the master appears.’ Have no worry, Sir Lucien, you will find a teacher when the time is ripe.”
Lucien smiled grimly to himself. He had been ready for a long time, with no such manifestation.
As if Palban had read his mind, he said, “But in Acre, you should visit a man named Deogal. I have not seen him in years, but I think he may be of value to you.”
“My thanks, effendi, learned one. I hope one day I will be allowed the honor of repaying this boon of your service.”
“You can repay me by being of noble service to others, my young friend, that is how I was taught.”
Lucien marveled that in this desert he had been guided to such a jewel among men. Then, as they drew near Brus, he swallowed against the lump that formed in his dry throat. He could not bear another pointless death and prayed that he had not brought Palban too late. “He is just over there. The sun has moved, but I think there is still enough shade.”
Lucien waited while Palban remained at Brus’s side until the sun neared the horizon, a crimson blaze deepening into the dusky blue of evening. At last he rose and came to Lucien, his white robes no longer pristine. “I think he can be moved to Acre now. And once there, if his wound is tended properly, he will live. But there is no time to waste. I have spoken to your comrade, Allan. He knows what measures to take in the meantime. Now I must return to my own journey.”
Lucien looked to De Brus, who dozed peacefully, his lines of pain gone. “Many thanks, effendi. You have eased more hearts this day than you can know. I’ll summon a proper escort and see you back to your party.”
After a quick meal that put the final seal upon their friendship, they set out with a half dozen men. As they left their resting place behind, a rumble of hooves met Lucien’s senses. It was part hearing, part feeling and part knowing—danger approached, and would be upon them in but a few moments.
Allan looked to Lucien. “What shall we do? There is no cover.”
Lucien shook his head. “We cannot outrun them, our horses are too weary. We must simply keep moving as we are and meet them when they find us. Keep Palban in our midst.”
The sound of pounding hooves grew louder and the last few rays of the sun caught the helms and lance heads of a group of warriors as they neared.
“They are ours!” Allan stood in his stirrups and waved, his relief apparent. “It is FitzMalheury!”
“Then do not invite him to join us!” urged Lucien. But it was too late. Kalle FitzMalheury, who had been expelled even from the ranks of the Templars because of his extremism, came upon them in a whirl of dust and clanging metal.
He brought his horse up short and it reared. “What are you doing, Lucien de Griswold, wandering in the desert? Should you not be in the safe company of your men?”
Lucien resented having to explain himself to anyone, but decided not to argue. “De Brus needed help. I found someone to provide it and now am returning his savior to his own people.”
Kalle glared at Palban. “Savior? Whom do you serve? The lords of Constantinople, or of Cairo, or of Jerusalem?”
The physician sat his horse stiffly. “I am of Cordoba, my lord. I am here on an errand, upon the request of al-’Ādil the Just, may he live forever. But I serve no one but God.”
“Which God?” Kalle pressed, his pale eyes gleaming. His gauntleted fingers twitched upon his sword hilt.
Palban raised his chin. “There is but a single God. It is you Christians who are the polytheists, worshiping a trinity.”
“A cursed tongue have you, dog of an infidel.” Kalle swung his head to face Lucien. “You have done Brus no favor, Lucien de Griswold, by turning his leg into a pagan offering!”
“FitzMalheury, have a care as to your words,” Lucien said softly, and began to ease his horse between Kalle’s and Palban’s.
“FitzMalheury?” Palban’s face paled as if he had heard of Kalle’s reputation.
Kalle sneered. “And you, Lucien, watch your empty head, lest I send it rolling along the ground as a lesson to all friends of Salah al-Din’s brother.”
“Allan,” Lucien, his heart pounding, kept his gaze upon Kalle. “Take Palban on to his destination. I would stay here with Kalle and have it out with him to my satisfaction.”
“Had you the least respect for your betters, you’d not even think of raising your hand against me. But be advised—I’ve seen to it that nothing remains of the caravanserai. And I will send this Saracen to join his friends, to be purged by the hellfire that surely awaits him.”
Kalle spurred his horse forward, his sword unleashed.
“Nay!” Lucien sought to block his advance, but the heavy destrier’s shoulder knocked his own tired mount off balance. Palban tried to rein his horse around to flee, but Kalle was almost upon him. In desperation, Lucien kicked his stirrups free and leaped from his saddle to land behind Kalle, on the destrier’s rump. Anything to slow him down.
But Kalle’s speed was beyond stopping. Palban screamed as the knight’s blade flashed. A burst of red showered through the air. Then, with a snarl, FitzMalheury rammed the pommel of his sword backward and hit Lucien between the eyes.
And Lucien thought, as the blackness swooped in, Kalle has robbed Palban of his life—and me of my honor….
Chapter One
Acre
Capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem
Early summer, 1197
T he crunch of booted feet on packed earth and the rattle of swords echoed in the narrow, steep-walled lane. Shifting her precious bundle of glassware, Isidora hurried through the arched stone gateway into the courtyard of her father’s house.
She pushed aside her linen veil and looked back. Drying fabrics streamed and billowed like pennants from windows high above, creating a serpentine play of light and shadow on the street. Below, bareheaded in the sun, as if it were not the middle of the afternoon when sensible folk came in out of the heat and dust, a group of brawny young men strode nearer.
Tall, broad-chested warriors. Franks? English? She was not certain. But they moved with bold assurance, taking up more space with their extravagant movements and loud voices than was either seemly or wise in this city of many cultures.
When the great Salah al-Din had ruled, isolated westerners like she and her father had usually been left in peace. Then the city had been retaken by Richard Coeur de Leon and King Philippe.
Little enough blood had been shed when Acre shifted hands that time, but many a Crusader did not bother to determine who was Christian and who was Muslim before striking out.
Isidora’s stomach fluttered at the sight of the men with their fair heads and long swords. She swallowed her rising fear and took another peek. She had to admit they were glorious—like young, unruly chargers.
But joking amongst themselves and occupying half the lane, they acted as though they personally ruled the place.
Whatever their purpose, she should bar the gate before they drew any closer.
“Marylas, quick, help me.” Isidora put the glassware down.
The serving girl was a Circassian, her face and arms heavily veiled because her flawless white skin could not tolerate the desert sun. But she was strong and willing, and helped Isidora push the heavy wooden gate. It swung a short way, met a stubborn resistance and stopped short.
Isidora’s body stilled at a creak of leather and the faintest whiff of sandalwood. She looked around the edge of the thick planking. Her gaze moved from a gauntleted hand, up a muscular, linen-clad arm, and to the vivid blue eyes of the man who remained firmly in the way.
“Oh,” she breathed. If the lovely Marylas resembled a woman made of silver, this was as comely a man as could be imagined, made of red-gold. A straight nose, set in a lean, sculpted, sun-burned face, with high cheekbones and a wide jaw. Hair that flowed past his shoulders like liquid copper.
His eyebrow quirked. A charming, perfect eyebrow.
“Ma demoiselle?”
And a voice to match the rest. Resonant yet soft. Rich with nuance.
She blinked and was ready to kick herself. What am I thinking? One bewitching stranger cannot sway me from what I know to be the truth. Fair men are perfectly capable of destroying one’s life and happiness, just as are ugly ones.
“Pardon me, do you speak French or English?” he asked, still not releasing the gate.
“Or Latin? Or Greek? Lucien knows them all,” came another voice from beyond him, accompanied by male laughter.
“You are Franj?” Isidora ventured in French. His eyes were as blue as the sea beyond the walls of the city. Beteuse! What does it matter who he is or how handsome? Tell him to go away!
“Nay. But we need—guiding—to the, em, bathhouse. Can you help?”
His companions groaned. “Lucien—you and your hot water obsession! Why not ask where the nearest ale house is?”
Her father’s voice rang out into the courtyard. “Isidora! What’s keeping you?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Nothing, my lord! Just some travelers looking for the hammam. It is up that way,” she added, and pointed in the direction they should go.
“God speed you!” she urged the young men, but they did not depart.
Then her father, Sir Deogal, emerged, tall and spare and out of sorts. His eyes glinted dangerously from beneath his heavy gray brows. He moved in the stiff but determined way of old warriors, his faded blue robe dragging along the stones of the courtyard.
Isidora threw him a concerned look. He would still pick a fight, even though outnumbered and unarmed. Strong he might be, but men like these could cut him to pieces if they chose.
“Father, please do not trouble yourself. They are just leaving.” She turned and met the handsome intruder’s gaze squarely. “Are you not?”
Clutching the slender neck of a glass alembic in one hand, Deogal threw the gate wide with the other to reveal the group of four young men.
“Take yourselves off from here. Go find someone who has time to squander dealing with the worthless likes of you!”
Just this once, curb your temper, Father! Isidora’s heart pounded and she balled her hands into fists as the knights exchanged dark looks and fingered their swords. All but the one at the gate, whose eyes smiled even when his mouth did not.
The stranger gave a dismissive wave. “My friends, waste not your strength upon a demented old man. Go on, I will catch up with you later.” When they hesitated, he fixed them with his gaze and said but one word. “Go.”
“Don’t get too clean, Lucien, or we won’t take you back.” They resumed their joking and moved down the lane, away from the hammam and toward the closest wine merchant.
Deogal shook his flask at Lucien and its contents danced in silver waves. “How dare you speak of me thus, you sorry whelp of a—”
The young knight raised his gauntleted hand. “Sir, I could not but help notice that is quicksilver in the vessel you hold there. I have an appreciation for such things, but my friends do not, so forgive me for having discouraged them in the way that I deemed best for the situation…may I speak with you?”
“You may not. I have work to do and no time for curiosity seekers. Isidora, get inside.”
As Deogal retreated, slamming the workshop door behind him, Isidora was struck by the disappointment reflected on—what had they called him?—Lucien’s face.
It was similar to her own, what she felt every time her father barred her from entering his sanctum sanctorum. From the part of his life that mattered most to him.
This fellow did not belong here. Her father needed help, aye, but she would provide it, not some stranger off the street. As much as she resented the Work, it was indeed important, and given time, Deogal would surely let her in. She was of his flesh, his only child. Sooner or later he had to….
But for now, the least she could do was show the knight that manners did exist in this household. And that she was not afraid of him.
“Lord, would you like some wine?”
The knight, who she assumed belonged to Henry of Champagne, the King of Jerusalem—known to the native residents of Acre, his capital, as al-Kond Herri—took a long breath. He crossed his arms and seemed to consider her proposal, looking at her carefully all the while. Then he nodded, once.
She had half expected him to stalk away. Half hoped that he would. But here he remained, so Isidora ushered him into the small garden where her father received his rare but usually important visitors.
All was in order. A small fountain burbled, red-flowering vines wound around the carved sandstone columns and birds chirped, flitting in and out of the shadows.
“Please sit, sir.” Isidora indicated a polished marble bench. Off to one side, Marylas stood staring, her hand clamped over her mouth. Isidora gave the girl a reassuring look and she hurried toward the kitchen.
Marylas was easily frightened by the presence of armed men. Before coming to this household, she had suffered indignities that Isidora did not want her to be reminded of by anyone. Even this Lucien.
He settled his elegant limbs, removed his gloves and dabbled long, strong fingers in the fountain’s pool as he looked about. When Marylas returned with the refreshments, and hesitated before him, Isidora saw that Lucien recognized the maid with courtesy instead of treating her as an object of contempt.
He inclined his head to her and murmured something that actually made her eyes smile. No doubt he was hoping to lay the foundation for a future assault. He would meet with a sharp, unpleasant surprise, should he try. Marylas never went without her dagger.
Isidora poured a measure of water into a mazer, then topped it with the wine and handed it to him.
“My thanks.” Lucien raised the bowl but did not drink. “Will you not join me?”
“Nay. Forgive my rudeness, I have but little time to spare.”
In truth, every moment she was with him unnerved her more. She found herself staring like a foolish girl might. He was so foreign. Gleaming. Beautiful. He glowed, like a painting of a heavenly herald.
Her mind wandered, as if along the golden curves of the lettered illuminations she labored over each day. For one ridiculous, embarrassing moment she imagined him to be sent by God, to distract her from the frustration of working for her father. Working for him, but kept apart from his work. The Work. It was all that mattered to him.
A familiar constriction squeezed her heart at the thought. She adored her father, but the Work had become her enemy, for it always stood between them. At times she hated it, as much as one could hate anything so ethereal and elusive.
Isidora looked away, for fear the young man would see her loneliness and pity her for it.
But he did not seem to notice anything amiss at all. He took a swallow of the wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am Lucien de Griswold. What is your name?”
“Isidora,” she managed.
“Ah. Gift of Isis. A fitting name…for an alchemist’s daughter.”
She made a small sound. At his knowledge she was truly surprised and not a little alarmed. “You know of the Work my father does?”
“Of course. It is why I am here.”
Oh, dear. Isidora decided to have a drink of wine after all. She had to get rid of him. For his own sake, as well as that of her father. Deogal wanted no more outsiders, and few were likely to tolerate his deteriorating, increasingly erratic temper.
But “Gift of Isis”? Curse of Isis was more like it. Even her name was not meant for her, but only as a reflection of her father’s complete preoccupation with alchemy. And now here before her was a stranger, come out of nowhere. One who, it seemed, was only interested in the Work. Just like her father.
She filled a mazer without first adding water and, sitting upon the bench opposite Lucien, gulped the wine down.
To her chagrin, Lucien’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “You do not approve of me?”
Already the wine had a certain fortifying effect on Isidora. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove. I assist my father and do his bidding. Beyond that and my attempts to protect him from ill-informed churchmen or greedy fortune seekers, I have no part in it.”
Lucien leaned forward and rolled the wooden bowl between his palms. He met her gaze. “I am neither a cleric nor do I seek my fortune. I would be his student, his apprentice, if he would allow it.”
Nay, not another one! Kalle FitzMalheury had been fair of face and words, but he had hurt her father—and been the downfall of her mother…. Isidora would not let anyone hurt Deogal again. “What do you want, then, my lord Lucien?”
He looked away and the wine in his bowl shuddered. With his eyes still averted, at last he spoke. “I want the truth. I need to find the Elixir.”
“I see. Then all you wish is to attain perfect enlightenment and to live forever. Nay, I would not call that seeking your fortune.” Isidora had not intended for her words to sound cutting, but from the way Lucien’s brows drew together, it seemed he had taken them just that way.
“I need it for someone. Before it is too late.”
The sincerity and quiet regret in his voice touched Isidora despite her mistrust. Perhaps there was more to him than good looks and assorted weapons. But it was not likely to be much.
She could not help him. He was from another world and did not belong here. “There is nothing I might say to my father to make him change his mind.” Not that she wished to try, in any event.
Lucien’s resultant sad smile made her bite her lip. How did people as tempting as him come into being, after all?
“Nay, Demoiselle Isidora. If I cannot convince him of my merit, then it is not meant to be.”
There came a shuffle of leather-soled slippers. “What’s this—you are still here, boy?” Sir Deogal loomed at the edge of the courtyard. “Why?”
Lucien immediately rose to his feet, as did Isidora. Lucien was much taller than she. Broad-shouldered and well-made, he stood mere inches away. He smelled of smoke, horses and that elusive air of sandalwood.
In all her life she had never been this close to a man not related to her. And this man, she knew, from some secret place within her, was potent. Like mead or the red inks she used—a little would go a long, long way….
“I invited him in, Father. It is hot outside. It was a matter of simple courtesy.”
Lucien bowed. “I would have returned, in any case, and waited until you gave me audience, sir.”
Deogal raised his chin. “What do you want from me, then?”
“The chance to learn from a master alchemist, my lord.”
“Do you, now?” Deogal came closer and waved a hand at Isidora. Her nerves on edge, she tried not to spill as she poured him some wine, after a liberal dose of water in the bowl.
He sat beside her on the bench as if she needed protection, and looked Lucien up and down. “I have had students before. They invariably proved themselves either fools or corrupt, and had to be thrown out on their heads.”
Isidora closed her eyes against the flood of painful memories those words evoked. Not so many years past, Kalle, her father’s last partner in the Work, had brought Deogal’s wrath crashing down upon himself by his betrayal. Her father had beaten Kalle nearly to death. Then he had shoved her mother out onto the street…and lived to regret it the rest of his days. Isidora bit her lip.
She well remembered the look of rage, aye, and loss on Kalle’s bloodied face. She shivered despite the warm day. He was an enemy worthy of the fear he inspired. And her father, strong as he once had been, was no match for the cunning and evil Kalle was now rumored to be capable of.
Isidora eyed Lucien appraisingly. She had to consider that he might make himself useful as a champion to Deogal, and protect him from harm in ways Isidora could not. He seemed honest…but Kalle also had sounded sincere at first.
Lucien had remained standing. “I do not believe I am particularly corrupt or all that foolish. But I cannot promise that one day you would not be tempted to throw me out, on my head or otherwise.”
Deogal grunted a laugh. “We shall see, then, just how badly you want to be my student. But do not bother Isidora, do you understand? She is too trusting by far, to have spoken to you and allowed you entrance. Sometimes I regret raising her as the Franj do and giving her such freedom, instead of keeping her hidden away.”
Isidora refrained from groaning out loud. What freedom? The freedom to go to the marketplace and purchase supplies for his Work? And why must Father delude himself into supposing that a wealthy stranger might take interest in her?
After all, she was dark, and too outspoken. Often as not, folk mistook her for one of the servants. However, she knew who she was—the proud daughter of a noble house, and it mattered not what anyone else thought.
Lucien crossed his arms, as if closing a door around himself. A bastion not easily swayed. “I have no intention of bothering your daughter, sir.”
Then, the rogue disproved his words with but one look. His lips parted slightly and his eyes glittered with the light reflected from the fountain’s waters. His gaze swept Isidora’s skin in a hot wave and made her cheeks catch fire, as if she stood naked in the public square. How dare he show such insolence!
