August never meant to lose his brother’s suitcase. In fact, he never meant to have it in his possession at all. But due to an insurmountable scheduling conflict, John had been called away to Oxford at a moment’s notice for a spontaneous lecture series on the life and death of supergiant blue stars. Calling in a brotherly favor, he asked August to follow on the next train with his luggage.

 

So he hauled John’s rather plain black suitcase in one hand, with his own brown one in the other, down the platform. He could only guess what was inside his brother’s case—it must have weighed four stone, at least. No doubt it was crammed with clothing and additional scientific gadgets, of which John seemed to have no shortage.

 

The train’s whistle pierced the smoky air, signaling its imminent departure. August’s heart sank; he was still a fair distance from his designated passenger carriage, and the suitcases weighed down his lanky frame a good deal.

 

“Oi, watch it!” a man hollered.

 

Realizing he had bumped into the man and knocked his hat off, August exclaimed, “Good heavens, I’m terribly sorry! Let me get that for you. A moment.”

 

He bent to retrieve the hat, only to drop one of the suitcases on the platform. He grabbed first for the suitcase, then remembered the hat and started to reach for it instead. Someone kicked the fallen suitcase, knocking it open and spilling its contents on the cobbled ground. The man snatched his hat up before August could lay a hand on it and continued on his way, grumbling.

 

Sighing, he moved to gather up the scattered items from his suitcase—but his foot caught on something unseen, and he pitched forward, slamming into the platform hard enough to force the air from his lungs.

The train pulled away from the station, chugging merrily into the distance.

 

August straightened; his shoulders dropped with his weary exhale, and then he bent to clean up the mess of spilled clothing and toiletries strewn over the platform. When everything was safely back inside its case, he trudged to the nearest bench.

 

Taking out his pocket watch, he checked the time. Two hours until the next train to the Oxford Rail Station.

 

It was then that he noticed the faint blue shimmer emanating from John’s case.

 

Frowning, August bent closer. Perhaps it was an illusion of the lights? He glanced up—no, they were all an exceptionally mediocre yellow color.

 

He stole a glimpse around the station. Everyone had either boarded the train or returned inside; he and a young woman in a grey hat were the only ones remaining on the platform.

 

August turned back to the suitcase and laid it down carefully on the bench so he could open it. He fiddled with the metal latch, but John had locked his case, and he did not possess the key.

 

“Good heavens,” he murmured, sitting back. He could not—and did not wish to—imagine what John might have locked inside his suitcase. Probably some deadly chemical or concoction. August preferred history, personally; the dates and politicians and motivations and dreadfully delightful tales kept him engrossed for hours on end, his nose buried in a fat book about this war or that degenerate king. What a lovely thing, he thought, to live in one of the worlds laid before him in the history books of his profession. Worlds were there was no such thing as mustard gas or muddy trenches or military drafts …

 

“And what have ya got there, friend?”

 

A man capped with a tweed, page boy hat stood before him, hands tucked in pockets. An older man with a voluminous mustache and a boyish-looking fellow with a toothpick protruding from his lips flanked the capped man, all three of them gazing steadily at August.

 

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Good afternoon. I was just sitting here contemplating history. Such a fascinating thing, isn’t it? I daresay they don’t teach enough of it in the universities these days. You see, I missed my train, and I was just—”

 

“What’s in the case?”

 

August glanced down at the two suitcases propped on the bench next to him. “Whatever do you mean?”

 

“The case, the black case. What’s inside it? Let’s have a look, shall we?” The capped man stepped closer, hand extended towards the latch.

 

He sprang to his feet before the stranger could touch John’s luggage. “Here, now, what’s the meaning of this? You can’t walk up to a man and ask to see his luggage! What an uncivilized thing to do! Be gone with you, you and your friends, and leave me be!”

 

The capped man gave a thin smile and nodded over his shoulder to his two friends. They grabbed August by his arms and hauled him away from the bench. When he tried to call out, the younger man clapped his hand over August’s mouth—he reeked of cigarette smoke and whiskey, but August could make no protests, muzzled as he was.

 

“Right. Arthur, get the case. Finn, take our friend back to the car. I’ll be along.”

 

The leader lit a cigarette and exhaled a puff in August’s direction as his friends did as he commanded. He tried to make a sound, but it was hopelessly muffled by Finn’s hand, and they dragged him away with John’s case in tow.

 

*********

 

August sat in the corner, his wrist shackled to one of the pillars that supported the ceiling. In the back room of a grandiose pub in Birmingham, he and the three strangers were gathered around John’s suitcase. A filthy rag served as August’s gag—it tasted of sweat, dirt, and possibly blood. He was perilously close to vomiting; the alcoholic fumes of the place coupled with the scents rising from the rag were stealing the clarity from his already-addled mind.

 

A door opened, and a young woman swept into the room, clad in a dress that pinned her to the highest society of England—ribbons and lace, a string of jewels, a grey hat …

 

Good heavens! August thought upon a closer inspection. The woman from the platform!

 

And yes, he realized that as she glanced in his direction with a cool grey stare, she recognized him as well.

 

Behind her trailed John.

 

August let out a squeak as his brother entered the room, and his handcuff rattled against the pillar. John’s brown eyes widened when he noticed August, but he said nothing. His heart sank to the floor as John followed the woman to the center of the room, where the suitcase was displayed on an oaken table.

 

“Key?” the woman asked, holding out a delicate hand gloved in white lace.

 

John dug in his pocket and produced a small iron key, wrought with some strange design. He laid it in her hand. The woman unlocked the case and pushed back the lid.

 

A blue glow filled the room, bright enough to make August squint. The luminous object was shielded from his view by the lid, but the woman merely smiled, looking full into the sapphire luster before her. John stood wordlessly beside her, eyes on the floor.

 

“Charming,” the woman said, shutting the lid. “Tommy, pay Mr. Alexander what he’s due.”

 

The capped man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and nodded to Finn, who stepped forward with a hefty wad of cash. John glanced briefly at August, wet his lips, and accepted the cash from Finn. He tried pulling away from his handcuff once again; the frigid metal stung against his skin, refusing to yield in the slightest, and bound him there.

 

“And what about this one, then? Should I have Finn put the pipsqueak out of his misery, or shall I be merciful? What’dya say, boys?” Tommy inquired, turning a lazy glance onto August. His heart skipped a beat as everyone in the room looked in his direction, including the lace-clad woman.

 

She inspected him for a moment while Arthur said, “Aw, he’s not worth it, Tommy. Shoot ‘im, right between them pretty blue eyes.”

 

“No,” the woman said, holding up a hand. “I have what I came for. Tommy, see these gentlemen out—and see that no one dies on the way.”

 

“As ya like.” Tommy nodded to Finn again, who came to unlock August’s manacle. A blindfold was looped over his eyes, and he had just enough time to see the same being done to John.

 

******

 

John caught him when the blindfold came off; Finn had given him a final push for good measure, and August nearly collided with his brother, his head spinning.

 

“Are you all right?” John asked, brow creasing as he steadied August.

 

“All right? All right? Good heavens, John, what do you take me for? We were just kidnapped by … by … thugs! Miserable miscreants of the lowest order! Gutter scum—they gagged me, with that repulsive old rag!” He sniffled, wiping at his nose, and faced John more completely. “And you said nothing, nothing at all! Whatever is wrong with you, John? Who were those people?”

 

John sighed and sat on the bench; they had been deposited back at the train station, and August had once again missed his train. Not that it mattered anymore. As far as he was concerned, John could handle his own luggage from now on, spontaneous lecture series at Oxford or not!

 

August crossed his arms and waited, refusing to speak until he received a satisfactory answer.

 

“I’ve gotten … caught up with some bad people, August.”

 

“I’ll say you have! What miserable creatures. Do they even bathe? And good heavens, what was in that case, John? What sort of mystical contraband did you have in there?”

 

His brother looked at him squarely and said, “August, there are some things about our family you don’t know.” He patted the seat beside him; August shook his head and remained standing. John paused and then continued: “Have you ever wondered how I know so much about astrophysics and astronomy? Why I’m always being asked to lecture on subjects that a twenty-four-year-old has no business knowing as well as I do? Haven’t you ever wondered about our parents?”

 

Stiffening, August was silent for a moment. “They were killed in an automobile accident when we were very young. That’s why we don’t remember them. There’s nothing more to it than that, John, and you know it!”

 

A sad smile curved John’s lips. “I never meant for you to find out this way.”

 

“John, whatever are you going on about?!”

 

His brother held out his hand. On his palm was a symbol. At first, August thought it was a tattoo, but on closer inspection, he saw that the mark was actually engraved in John’s skin, ridged and writhing like some sort of aesthetically-minded ringworm. He drew back sharply, then inhaled when the mark began to glow.

 

Blue.

 

The same color as the object in the suitcase.

 

“Remember the stories I used to tell you, August? About people who lived in the stars and could do amazing things because they weren’t from Earth and their bodies were composed of different elements? Those weren’t stories, August.”

 

“What do you take me for, John? A fool? What exactly are you suggesting?” A clammy sweat was breaking out on August’s skin, and a droplet trailed down his temple. He wondered if he ought to go and fetch a doctor for John.

 

John smiled. “I have so much to tell you, August. I’d like to formally invite you to my lecture on the life and death of blue supergiants. I think you’ll find it … enlightening.”

 

August’s palm began to burn. Hissing, he looked down at his hand.

 

And there on his skin was a luminous sapphire symbol, wriggling as it made its home beneath his flesh.