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Not surprisingly, he found himself on Caroline’s doorstep. Despite her new offices in Paris, she still lived much of the year in Nantes. Now he heard music inside, her delicate fingers on the keys of the pianoforte, no doubt playing one of her own secret compositions, a mournful and ethereal melody that sounded like a dirge. When she answered his insistent ringing of the bell, Verne saw from her drawn face, reddened eyes, and tear-streaked cheeks, that she too had received a letter.

“He went to the Crimea because of me,” Caroline said. “He wanted to get away for a year. We should not have waited! I cared nothing for any public scandal.” She looked at him with her glittering blue eyes. “Ah, Jules, I pushed André from Paris, and he went off to the fighting so that he could forget about me until I was free.”

Verne didn’t know what to say -- but then, he had always been tongue-tied around her. Just seeing the beautiful woman who had consumed his youthful, imaginative passions reminded Verne of all the things he had not achieved in his life. “No one could ever forget you, Caroline,” he said.

Without a further word, she leaned forward to let Verne awkwardly gather her in his arms. He embraced her, thinking of all the times he had longed to do just this. But now grief made her touch cold and desperate.

“I will survive somehow, Jules,” she said. “I cannot believe André is gone, when his memory lives so strongly in my heart. Could it be a mistake? We thought him dead before, and yet he returned. He promised me he would return.”

“I . . .” Verne found himself at a complete loss for words, again. “I would not want to give you an unreasonable hope, Caroline. This letter leaves no doubt.” He held up the paper note he had wrinkled in his grasp.

“We must remember André as the wonderful man he was, you and I. No one knew him better.” She brushed her fingers across Verne’s unruly reddish-brown hair, sending a shiver down his spine.

His heart pounded, and his blood grew hot from reawakened longing. But now that she might finally give up waiting for her lost captain, and waiting for Nemo . . . Verne himself was married. They stood together for a long moment, until Caroline pulled away.

“Yes, I’ll certainly remember him. He was closer to me than my own brother,” Verne said and understood that he had to go. His wife was waiting for him back at home.

iv

Rurapente’s cove had become a massive construction site. Ramps and scaffolding extended into the deep water. The sounds of Robur’s slave workers hammering rivets echoed like gunfire off the close mountain walls. The slaves pounded hull plates, bent framework pipes, and twisted steel support ribs into proper shapes. Gritty smoke and chemical fumes from the refineries filled the air faster than ocean breezes could sweep the stench across the Mediterranean.

Nemo stood on a platform deck, directing construction and supervising the captive engineers and indentured workers. Rather than just watching, though, he spent most of his time up to his knees in water that sloshed into the drydocks. He tried to maintain the morale of the men, while searching for subtle ways to resist their despised captor.

The skeleton of his sub-marine craft was taking shape. Despite being forced to this labor against his will, Nemo admired what he had accomplished and felt pride in his design. If only the innovative vessel had been for a different purpose, other than hated war . . .

The bottom hull had been reinforced according to Cyrus Harding’s instructions. The British boatbuilder teamed up with the German-born metallurgist to inspect the progress. Riveted plates crawled up the walls, sealing the underwater vessel so that it floated like a dragon inside the construction dock. Muscular Turkish slaves used hand-pumps to drain water from the bilges.

Nemo’s son Jules was a year old now, a bright joy in an oppressive life. The boy had his mother’s black hair and full mouth, and his father’s determined, optimistic spirit. The child had no idea that his loving home was