Coming September 2014 from Little Bird Publishing House
Prologue
A cat yowled somewhere in the distance. Further away, someone fired a
gun. A man, dressed in black, slipped out of a dark alley; the mist swirled
around him. He breathed in the acrid, smoky air, and glanced at the hazy moon.
Turning a corner,
he looked nervously behind him. Was that
a lantern? Or the gleam of the moon
on one of the burnt out lamp-posts? Ahead of him someone ducked out of
sight. He hunched his shoulders in an attempt to appear smaller and dashed down
an alley. Without looking behind him, he turned onto the next street and
crossed over a bridge, passing sooty stone walls and flickering lamps. Down a
dark lane, up another alley, he ran as swift and soft as he could. He stopped,
panting. Looking behind him, he saw a shadow move. As he had feared, he was
being followed.
He slipped into a
side street, one hand protecting the secret pocket in his waistcoat. Something
moved in the fog and caused him to alter his course. He went left, then right,
then left. A top hat loomed menacingly out of the darkness, blocking his path.
Ducking around a corner, he watched as the figure ambled by, its cape stirring
eddies in the fog. The figure stopped and looked about, then moved on.
Once it was gone,
he sighed in relief and set off again. Then he heard something ahead of him, a
scratching like a thousand pens on parchment, a scrabbling like fingernails
inside a coffin.
He turned and
fled down a narrow pathway, passing several dark openings. Slipping into one of
the openings, he emerging on a wider street that followed the river. The noises
grew louder behind him, the scuttling more frantic. Silent lightning forked in
the sky, lighting up the smoke wreathing the rooftops. The man in black ran
across an ancient bridge spanning the murky river. He looked to the right, down
the river. The top hat mirrored his crossing on the next bridge.
Shrill squeaks
drove themselves into the black clad man’s ears. Glancing back he saw a
moon-gilt mass teeming over the cobbles of the bridge. He suppressed a cry and
ran faster. If he could only reach the embassy and his comrades—but he had to
go downriver—he would have to outrun the top hat.
He careened
around a sooty corner, bumping into a ragged figure. He cried out, but the
figure was hatless, merely a beggar or murderer. The man in black pushed him
aside and continued to run. He was now on a lane lined with dark shop windows.
The squeals
followed him, building as they grew closer. The beggar screamed behind him. The
man plunged into a y-shaped intersection. He hesitated for a moment, then ran
left.
He stopped dead
by a cold lamppost as noiseless lightning again sliced the sky. He hugged the
lamppost with stiff, frightened fingers. The top hat stood in the middle of the
road.
Behind him, the
cobbles roiled under the moonlight, scratching, scraping, and scrabbling. The
moon winked out as the clouds and smoke choked off its light. In the murky
darkness the man could see hundreds of glittering beady eyes. The man whirled
around and made to rush the top hat, maybe slip past in the dark.
A lantern flared
red in the night. The man in black skidded to a halt. The lantern turned to
reveal the head of its bearer. The head grinned, all aglow, like a scarlet
carnival mask. The man was trapped.
The swarming eyes
surged towards him and rats crawled up his legs. Their claws tore his trousers
and scratched his skin, a froth of biting, clawing, squeaking terror. The man
in black fell screaming to the cobbles as the hungry rats poured over him. The
head turned its lantern so the light spilled onto the rats. They shied away
from the bright red glow.
“Back!” the head
commanded, sweeping off its top hat. The rats obeyed, squealing in protestation
of the light. The owner of the head and hat stooped over the wailing man in black
and searched his pockets. He soon found the secret pocket and its occupant. He
slipped the round shape into his own pocket and stood, replacing his hat. He
turned his lantern on the rats and strode off into the fog, driving the vermin
before him.
The man in black
moaned and a last silent flicker shot through the tattered clouds. The Thames
continued to flow sluggishly and darkly along. The moon reappeared from behind
a tattered cloud. Somewhere nearby a cat
yowled.
Chapter
One: When People Have Dinner
As
darkness fell, Parsifal paced in the upstairs hall, stopping every few minutes
to peer out of the window. He wanted to be the first to see his uncle’s
carriage, but the fog caused the gate at the end of the gravel drive to melt into
obscurity. Finally, when it was impossible to see anything further, he gave up his
watch and went to his room.
He collapsed
in a chair and picked up a book. But Parsifal couldn’t focus on reading; his
imagination wouldn’t stop playing with the possible identities of the guests
his uncle was bringing. What if the Prime Minister came for dinner? Or the Duke
of Wales? It was possible, given his uncle’s prominent status. Parsifal hoped
his uncle would stay a few days. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his uncle would go
riding with him before he left again. It had been so long since the last time…
Excitement
downstairs interrupted his reverie. Maids were rushing about and Mrs. Hue, the
housekeeper, could be heard barking orders. He hurried to the window in the
hall. Carriage lights glowed on the drive; wheels creaked and a harness
jangled. When the carriage pulled up to the house, Parsifal tried to smooth out the tail of his dress jacket
as he dashed down the stairs, wanting to make a good impression. He joined Mrs.
Hue by the door and heard the voice of his uncle, Lord Keazund, ring out with
authority, like a great pipe organ. Another voice answered, this one a musical
air on the viol. Mrs. Hue watched through the peep-hole and waited. Footsteps
sounded on the front stairs. At the last moment, before anyone on the other
side could turn the knob, Mrs. Hue flung the door wide open. Lord Keazund did
not seem at all perturbed. He merely stepped over the threshold, filling the
hall with his commanding presence. His chiseled features were handsome and
fashionably pale. Few people were taller than him,and
those who were, did not seem so.
“Good evening, master,” Mrs. Hue said
jovially, taking Lord Keazund's coat.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hue,” he said . Then he
turned to Parsifal and greeted him with a single nod of the head and the mere
acknowledgement of his name.
“Parsifal.”
Parsifal
nodded, mirroring his Uncle. He didn't let the cool greeting give him the pang
it usually did as he was too preoccupied looking at the people behind him.
Standing
directly behind his Uncle was a woman. As she stepped into the lamplight, her hair
shimmered. Her features were soft, like the lines of a light sketch. She was
not a glamorous Parisian; there was nothing overtly sensual about her, and yet
her simple pastoral beauty was completely riveting.
“This
is my nephew, Parsifal,” Lord Keazund said. “Parsifal, this is Lady Vasille.”
Parsifal bowed deeply and she curtsied back.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lady Vasille
said, and she sounded as if she actually meant it.
“The
pleasure is mine,” Parsifal said. Lady Vasille slipped out of her cloak and
passed it to Mrs. Hue with a friendly smile. Parsifal tried his best to stop
staring and turn his attention to the other guests.
Four
more people entered the hall. The next to be introduced was Sir Oaktree, an
average man with whiskers. The only remarkable thing about him were his cruel
green eyes that gazed over everything with a scorching ferocity. He was
followed by Mr. Carrion, a sallow looking man; Mr. Dorril, a fat man; and Sir
Morris, a cheerful red-cheeked fellow.
Lord
Keazund led the way into the dining room. He sat at the head with Mr. Carrion,
Sir Oaktree, and Sir Morris on his right. Lady Vasille sat on his left.
“Come sit here,” Lady Vasille said to
Parsifal, gesturing to the seat next to her; forcing a disappointed Mr. Dorril
to sit in the next seat down.
Parsifal
couldn’t believe his luck. He yanked on his cuffs and wished he’d paid more attention
to his appearance earlier that evening. He sat down between Lady Vasille and
Mr. Dorril and studied his uncle, wondering if he was really going to be allowed
to dine with them.
Mr.
Dorril took up slightly more space than the conventional table setting, pushing
Parsifal closer to Lady Vasille. Their proximity meant his elbow brushed hers.
Even through his evening dress, his elbow tingled at the contact.
He
turned to apologize, but somehow the words wouldn’t come out. She smiled at him
and he felt oddly warm. He smiled back. The maids were rushing the food and
wine to the table. Mrs. Hue had retreated to her place by the sideboard, making
sure everything ran smoothly.
“As I
was saying in the carriage,” Mr. Carrion said, “the Eastern Republics are a serious
threat to the control of power in Greater Europe.”
“On the
contrary,” Lady Vasille said, “They are completely unimportant.”
“Unfortunately,
Lady Vasille, they do have enough power to affect us,” Mr. Carrion said.
“How,
exactly?” Lady Vasille asked. “Besides trade being disrupted by their little
wars?”
“No,
but ideas and political movements are contagious.” Mr. Carrion looked annoyed,
“That
is entirely so,” Lady Vasille agreed.
“And
they might oppose our ideas and stir other countries against our movement,” Mr.
Carrion continued, unwilling to let his point go.
“Yes,
exactly! The Belarian Alliance is already doing that,” Lady Vasille said.
“But,”
said Mr. Carrion, “the Eastern…”
“The Belarian Alliance is the real threat, Mr.
Carrion,” Lady Vasille said reprovingly. “The Eastern Republics revere the
Belarian Alliance, if the Alliance dies, the Republics will lose faith; kill
the leader and then the Republics will die, too.”
Mr.
Carrion looked confused, “Well, I suppose...”
Lady
Vasille turned away from the discussion as the rest of the company joined in
with venom. “Politicians,” she said to Parsifal, “Talk, talk, talk.” She
yawned, and Parsifal gave a start. He had just been enjoying using all his
well-polished manners in front of such prestigious people and then one of them
yawned for the whole table to see and no one noticed.
“I
expect you know quite a bit about them being as you live with one.”
He
cleared his throat nervously. “Um, not exactly.”
“Oh, that's right, you probably don't see much of your
uncle, do you?” Lady Vasille said, biting her spoon thoughtfully.
“No, I don't. He's usually away, doing . . .”
Parsifal shrugged, “whatever he's doing.”
“How long have you lived with Lord Keazund?”
“I was seven when my uncle adopted me.” He
glanced over at his uncle who was in full political swing. “So about nine years,”
he sighed.
“You're just sixteen, then?” Lady Vasille
asked. Parsifal nodded. Lady Vasille continued, “Orphaned? That's terrible.”
“They never found my mother,” Parsifal said
defensively. “She disappeared on an expedition to Siberia. All they found was a
strip of blue ribbon from her hair.” It was what he always said on the subject,
trying hard to smother the ungracious feelings of resentment. He still wondered
why she had run off on an expedition to Siberia, of all places, when he was so
young. It didn't make any sense.
“Oh,”
Lady Vasille said, nodding her head and pressing her lips together to indicate
that there was little more she could offer. She changed the topic. “If you're
sixteen, you'll be introduced into society soon, won't you?”
“I hope so,” Persifal said, letting out a
light laugh, relieved that the tricky subject of his orphan status had come to
an end.
“Do you
live in London?” Parsifal asked.
“Sometimes,
but I also have a house in Berlin.”
“Germany,”
Parsifal said. “What's it like there?”
“It's a
wonderful place; it has a really old feel, like layers of memories hang like a
thick dust in the air.” She looked straight into his eyes. Hers were warm and
deep. Time slowed; his lonely heartbeats drawn out in the silence.
Lady
Vasille turned back to her plate and the clink of silverware resumed. Parsifal
looked away awkwardly, and caught sight of his uncle gazing at him and Lady
Vasille. His face was mostly unreadable, but there was a mixture of something
there that made Parsifal feel suddenly guilty.
“How
exactly do you know my uncle?” Parsifal asked as soon as his uncle looked away.
“I have
a little influence in areas that he would like to have influence in, so he has taken
me into his plans.”
“You're
not a politician, are you?” Parsifal asked with concern. He'd never heard of a
woman politician.
“Of
course not. I despise the creatures,” she replied, smiling at Lord Keazund who
had glanced over at them again. “But you don't have to be political, or even in
the government, to have power.”
“What
is my uncle up to?” Parsifal asked, suddenly interested in politics.
“He has
the most diabolical plan,” she said before turning to the maid. “Some pudding,
if you will.” She turned back to Parsifal. “It involves a trip, and that's as much as I should probably tell you.”
Deftly, she changed the topic, “Thanks for sitting between me and Dorril. I sat
next to him in the carriage. Not pleasant.”
Dorril
was close enough to hear, and Parsifal assumed he had by the way the large man
shifted uncomfortably.
“Um,
you're welcome,” Parsifal said. “Who are they?” He looked pointedly at the
assembled company. “What does my uncle want from them?”
“Some
of them may be useful in more than one way,” Lady Vasille replied. “Others...”
she pouted alluringly, “may not. Time will tell. That's why we’re all here
having dinner; talk reveals things.”
“Perhaps too many things,” Lord Keazund said,
looking directly at Parsifal. The rest of the company, except Sir Oaktree, were
in a loud debate about the way business was conducted in Belgium.
“Or too few,” Lady Vasille said.
Lord Keazund looked at Vasille and she looked
back defiantly. Finally Lord Keazund turned to Parsifal. “By the way, your
tutor is being replaced. Dr. Liam is no longer welcome under this roof.”
Parsifal
wanted to ask why, and would have, but his uncle had already turned away. The
rest of dinner passed in a flood of arguments and debates. Afterwards, Lord
Keazund and his guests departed to the sitting room, probably for more of the
same. Sir Oaktree was last through the door. He stole a look at Lady Vasille. Parsifal
watched Sir Oaktree's hand drift down to his pocket and Parsifal caught a
glimpse of something metallic. Sir Oaktree’s pocket watch? Sir Oaktree glanced
around again and this time caught Parsifal looking. His cruel eyes hardened and
his hand jerked out of his pocket, guiltily.
“Sir
Oaktree!” Lady Vasille called from within the sitting room. “Where is that
paper you wrote for The Critical, I wanted to see it.”
Sir
Oaktree glared at Parsifal before striding into the sitting room, “You have
heard of my modest writings?” he said. Parsifal watched the room disappear as
Lord Keazund closed the door from within.
Parsifal
waited a moment, then crept up to the door. He put his ear to the crack,
straining to hear. Sir Morris was saying something about Sir Oaktree and The Critical. Lady Vasille asked
something. Sir Oaktree replied and Sir Morris interjected.
“If only
someone had a copy of the article,” Lady Vasille said.
“I believe I left my case in the carriage; I
may have one in there,” Sir Oaktree said.
A chair creaked. Lord Keazund
spoke, “I’ll have someone retrieve it for you.”
“No need, your Lordship,” Sir
Oaktree said, “I need some fresh air and this is just the excuse to stretch my
legs. If I may?”
“The carriage house is around the back,” Lord
Keazund said. Footsteps came towards the door. Parsifal jumped back and
retreated hastily down the hall. The handle turned. Parsifal hid in the dining
room.
“Bloody
Morris, can't keep his mouth shut. They already suspected me. It'll be even
trickier now,” Sir Oaktree muttered as he hurried past.
Parsifal
waited until Sir Oaktree’s footsteps receded, noting how the footsteps didn’t
sound as if they went in the direction of either the back or front door. Parsifal
gave up the espionage; he didn’t want to be caught when Sir Oaktree came back.
He retrieved his book from upstairs, returned it to its shelf in the library
and headed in the direction of the bathroom. As he walked down the hall he
savored the moments of the whole affair. He tried to decide what to think about
Lady Vasille, and how radical she had been with her disregard for proper
etiquette.
The bathroom door stuck for a
moment, as if bolted, then gave way. Someone else was already inside.
Parsifal didn’t have time to
stop. He bowled into Sir Oaktree, who went stumbling into a shelf. Scented
soaps rained to the floor. Sir Oaktree dropped something, which clattered down amongst
them.
“Sorry! I didn’t realize…
I…” Parsifal offered in flustered apology.
Sir Oaktree grabbed something
off the floor and stuffed it into his pocket, looking around wildly, as if he expected
someone to attack him.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Parsifal continued, “I
didn’t know you were in here.”
Sir Oaktree glared at Parsifal
as he stepped around him to the door, then exited hastily, slamming the door on
Parsifal. He stared at the door for a moment. “Curious,” he said to himself,
bolting the door. The bolt was stiff; one could easily pull it only part way,
if they weren’t paying attention. Parsifal turned to the water closet. He
was reaching for the towel when he noticed something on the floor, laying amongst
the similarly shaped soaps on the floor. He picked it up. It was the size of
his palm and was slightly warm. The lid was clasped shut with asimple clip, and
a rectangle-shaped hole in the lid showed a wire suspended vertically across the
middle of it, making it clear that it wasn’t, as Parsifal had initially
assumed, a pocket watch. He drew it closer to his eye and looked into the slit.
Inside there was something moving, swirling; a throbbing, pulsing power.
Parsifal
was mesmerised with curiosity, he couldn’t resist flipping open the lid. A
small spinning wheel was suspended in
liquid; it quivered slightly
under the tremble of Parsifal’s hand. A small magnifying glass was hinged to
the side of the apparatus. Strangely distorted figures decorated the face, but
on closer inspection he could make out, N, W, E, and an S. The wheel spun erratically.
It was a broken compass. Sir Oaktree must have dropped it. Parsifal slid it
into his pocket. He’d try to catch Sir Oaktree before everyone went to bed; he
didn’t think Lord Keazund would be pleased if he barged in on their little
meeting.
The
next morning, sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the pale green
wallpaper and making it brighter than usual.
Parsifal began the morning ritual, rising, washing and dressing. Whilst
attempting to align his contrary cravat,
he caught sight of the broken compass laying on the dressing table. ‘Strange’
he thought, ‘I was sure I left it in my pocket.’ He reasoned that the maid, who
came in every morning before he awoke to fill the wash pitcher with hot water and
remove his clothes from the day before, must have found it in his pocket and
set it there.
Parsifal
had meant to ask Sir Oaktree if it was his and see it safely into his hands, but
the party of dinner guests had stayed in the sitting room until long after
Parsifal had gone to bed. He resolved to try and give it to Sir Oaktree at
breakfast. He finished his cravat with a resigned sigh and picked up the
compass, stuffing it into his pocket as he headed downstairs.
“This
house is much too green,” he said to himself, walking down the green painted
hall with its equally green carpet. “Makes one feel quite nauseous.”
He
arrived to discover that the breakfast table had only one occupant: Mrs. Hue.
“Are they all still in bed?” Parsifal asked,
sitting down at the table.
“No,” said
Mrs. Hue, “they left last night. All of them. Lord Keazund included. That man
just can't stay home!”
“You mean they left in the middle of the
night?” Parsifal asked. That was disappointing. Not only had he failed to
return the broken compass, but he hadn’t said goodbye to his uncle… or Lady
Vasille.
“Yes.
And with a woman, too,” Mrs. Hue said. Parsifal did not answer, he was too busy
eating sausage and thinking on the lovely Lady Vasille. Mrs. Hue continued, “Maybe
he's found himself a wife, at last.”
Parsifal
swallowed his sausage, almost choking, before exclaiming, “Mrs. Hue, please,
remember your place. Lord Keazund was with a party of politicians; they were
all about business.”
Mrs.
Hue brushed the admonishment aside, still seeing Parsifal as the small round
faced boy she’d bounced on her knee. “Ah, but that’s the perfect cover; he
can't go riding about with a lady by himself. Wouldn’t be proper,” Mrs. Hue
said knowledgeably. “By the way, before
he left Lord Keazund told me to tell you that he would be finding your new
tutor as soon as possible.”
“Why is
he replacing Dr. Liam?” Parsifal asked, sure that the all-knowing Mrs. Hue whould
have some insight.
“Your
uncle didn't say, he just muttered some vague thing about how he should have
realized earlier or some such rot.”
The
doorbell rang and the maid, Suzette, scurried past to answer it. She returned
with a man in tow.
“Dr. Liam,” Suzette announced before hurrying
out.
“Why are you here?” Mrs. Hue asked
indignantly.
“To fulfill my tutoring duties, of course,”
Dr. Liam said.
“Well,” Mrs. Hue said stuffily, “Lord Keazund
is replacing you, so we have no need of you.”
“Ah,
but until the replacement arrives, I should continue teaching, yes?” Dr. Liam
said. Mrs. Hue harrumphed and said, “Well, seeing as I don't know when such a
replacement will arrive, I suppose you may continue for now.”
Dr Liam
smiled.
Lessons
began after breakfast, starting with Advanced Application of Calculus, then the
Practice of the Fine Social Arts, followed by Dancing, Drawing, Music, Enhanced
English, and Geographical History. Every other day, Dr. Liam would insist on
French. It was pleasant to listen to his
Scottish accent. Dr. Liam was easy to understand.
The way he presented new concepts made them clear, and his lessons were
cleverly planned. Parsifal was doing marvelously well. So, why was Dr. Liam
being replaced?
“Dr.
Liam,” Parsifal asked, during Dancing, “why is Uncle sending you away?”
Dr.
Liam paused before replying, “I can only guess...” he paused again, “I thought
this would probably happen, aye, knew it would. I haven't gotten anything
official from him yet. I expected a warning.”
Parsifal
looked past the spectacles, into the stern gray eyes. “What about?” he asked.
Dr.
Liam shook his head, “I only know that one must be very careful about what is
done and what is said. This is not a conversation we should have.” Parsifal
went to protest but Dr. Liam raised a sad smile and shook his head again, “I
think we should take another go at this Bavarian Waltz, don’t you?” Dr. Liam
held out his arms and Parsifal took his hand in his. They went through the
waltz again and no more was said.
Throughout
the rest of lessons, Dr. Liam often glanced out of the window, or started at
sudden noises, such as when a pen dropped to the floor. It got worse as the day
wore on. The tutor glanced around more frequently, running his hands through
his hair and fiddling with his cuffs. Parsifal watched in concern, it was clear
that the Dr. was on edge, but couldn’t bring himself to ask what was wrong.
Dr.
Liam left earlier than usual, not staying for afternoon tea. Before he went, he
pressed a manila envelope into Parsifal's hand, saying,
“Sorry
I couldn't stay longer, lad. I hope you have learned enough. I tried. But
perhaps not hard enough.”
Parsifal
stared dumbly at the envelope. He didn't understand his tutor’s words, nor the
sadness in his eyes. Dr. Liam had been a wonderful teacher. What did he mean?
“Thank you,” Parsifal stammered, “thank you for
teaching…” There was more he wanted to say, but Dr. Liam was smiling sadly and
already turning towards the door.
With a
pang, Parsifal watched as Dr. Liam left. His good, amiable, brilliant teacher,
gone. When he returned to the tea table, he was more than a little irritated by
Mrs. Hue's attitude about it.
“The sooner the replacement shows up,” Mrs.
Hue said, “the better.”
“He was a good tutor,” Parsifal protested,
picking up his teacup.
“Not if
Lord Keazund is getting rid of him,” Mrs. Hue said, picking up a scone and
sniffing it suspiciously.
“I have no idea why he should do so,” Parsifal
said.
“Precisely. We have no idea what sort of man
Dr. Liam could be,” Mrs. Hue said.
“How does
that connect?” Parsifal asked testily, sipping his tea. It needed more milk.
Mrs.
Hue turned and yelled down the hall, “Suzette, are these scones perfectly
fresh?”
“Yes ma'am, baked 'em just now.” Suzette's
voice drifted back.
“What I should like to know,” Mrs. Hue said,
putting the scone back down, “is who will be replacing Dr. Liam?”
Parsifal
let Mrs. Hue ramble on; he was too busy thinking about other problems, like how
he was going to return the compass. The longer he left it, the more he felt
like a thief. Now that the guests had
gone, he'd have to wait until Lord Keazund came back. His uncle should know the
address.
“How well do you think uncle knows Sir Oaktree?”
Parsifal asked Mrs. Hue.
“Who? That creepy little man? Haven't the
slightest,” Mrs. Hue said. Parsifal sighed but she wasn’t quite finished. “He
seemed to know the Lady Vasille well enough. I wonder when they'll get married
– your uncle and that lady – she looked
like a good match. Pretty enough. Lord Keazund needs to settle down and raise a
family properly.”
Parsifal
had no wish to repeat the breakfast time conversation and so stood, putting an
early end to afternoon tea. He headed to his room with the intention of dressing
for a refreshing afternoon ride. Undressing, he found the broken compass and
manila envelope. He was about to open the envelope, but stopped. The old
compass tingled in his other hand, forcing him to set the envelope aside for
later. He opened the compass lid.
There
was something strange about the piece. Again, he felt the throb within it –
like a heartbeat. He lifted the magnifier and looked through it, expecting to
see enlarged cardinal marks. Instead, there appeared a substantial smudge on
the glass. He tried to wipe it off with his finger, but it didn’t do any good.
He scrubbed at it with his sleeve. Had the smear just changed color?
He
brought the compass closer and a chill settled on him as the smudge cleared to
show moving shapes. Impossibly, it was as if small figures moved on the other
side of the glass. Parsifal brought the magnifier right up close to his eye.
All at once there was a loud rushing sound and he could no longer hear the
birds chirping through the open window.
