Even as the thought passed through her mind, the little yellow lights faded and died.
She stared at the thing, resisting the urge to shake it gently, and instead began walking again to see if that would bring them back. It did not. Motion, then, was not the trigger. She then began to try out various combinations in walking, touching, and direction as they occurred to her. This went on for a fair amount of time, but produced no result at all; the perimeter holes resisted any attempt on her part to coax them back into life.
Finally frustration got the better of her and, fed up, she turned around and started back to retrieve the mule and wagon. “Gus,” she muttered aloud, “what have you given me?”
At the mention of the alchemist’s name, the yellow lights sparked with a faint gleam. The effect was so quick and so definite she did not fail to discern the connection. She stopped and took a deep breath, clearing her mind of all thought. Then, very deliberately, she brought the image of Kit to mind and held it.
The pale yellow glow faded and the tiny holes went dark.
“That’s it!” cried Wilhelmina. “It works on sound.”
Gazing at the device, she raised it before her face and, speaking slowly and clearly, said, “Kit.”
But the holes remained unlit. “Kit,” she said again, but to no avail.
“Bother,” she grumped. “Just when I thought . . . ”
On a sudden inspiration, she brought an image of Etzel to mind once more—Etzel as she had last seen him working in the kitchen. Immediately, the row of lights took on the looked-for gleam.
Wilhelmina stared at the instrument in amazement. “Not sound, but thought,” she whispered. Still holding Etzel’s pleasant round face before her mind’s eye, she turned in the general direction of the city, and the row of lights grew gently brighter, with those pointed more directly towards the city taking on a deeper, warmer hue. Then, as a test, she switched the mental image back to Kit, and the little lights immediately dimmed and went out.
“I am gobsmacked.” She raised the ley lamp and pressed it to her lips. “You clever little thing.”
She tried the same small experiment a few more times, and each time obtained the same result: the lights winked on when thinking of Etzel— whom she knew to be in Prague—and blinked off the moment she shifted her attention to Kit. For a more difficult trial, she thought of Thomas Young, the archaeologist she had sought out to help Kit excavate the tomb containing the Skin Map. Again, the yellow lights came up, fainter this time; the marginally brighter area shifted along the perimeter, pointing vaguely towards the southeast. Directional signs . . . nice touch, she thought.
Instantly, the lights went out.
“Now what?” She stared at the gizmo. What had she done to make it behave that way? She decided to try again and consciously drew up the image of Dr. Young once more; the lights flicked on, as intense as before. Then, on a whim, she dismissed the doctor and thought instead about Giles. Again the little lights flickered slightly, then glowed, but the ring around the edge moved, the brighter lights indicating a different direction. “In-bloody-credible,” Wilhelmina murmured, shaking her head in wonder.
She tested this theory a few more times to be certain—each test with a different person—and it did seem to be the case that whenever she thought of someone she knew, whether in a separate dimension or not, the device reacted. But as soon as the mental link with the desired object of her attention was broken, the lights faded—as if, connection severed, the line went dead.
Head swimming with the implications of her discovery, she stood in the narrow gap between the trees gazing at the device, only stirring from her contemplation when she heard the rooks calling in the trees surrounding the adjacent fields and smelled pungent wood smoke on the air—hearth fires were being lit in nearby farmhouses. The short day was swiftly fading; evening was moving in. Stowing the ley lamp safely in her pocket once more, Wilhelmina hurried back to the mule and wagon and returned to the city, her mind filled with questions and half-formed possibilities. Indeed, it would take her some time to fully appreciate, let alone comprehend, the capabilities of the new instrument and what it all meant.
That could come later. There was something she had to do first. Right away. Before she did another thing.
Mina drove the mule and cart straight back to the city. The torches and smudge pots were being lit for the night as she passed through the gates; with a wave to the gatemen she rambled up the long street that led into the Old Town Square. She left the wagon outside the Kaffeehaus and went inside. The air was warm and full of the yeasty scent of dough on the rise. Mina drew a breath deep into her lungs. A few patrons idled over their coffee and strudel in an atmosphere of peace and calm. The warm scent of fresh coffee and rising dough mingled in the air. I love this place, she thought. Is there anywhere better than this?
She called a breezy greeting to her patrons and staff as she swept through the dining room and headed straight for the kitchen, where Etzel was instructing two of his young helpers about the next day’s preparations.
“We will make braided raisin bread tomorrow,” he was saying. “See that the baking trays are clean and ready before you leave tonight.” He half turned as Wilhelmina entered the room. “Ach, mein Schatz,” he said, breaking into a smile when he saw her. “There you are. Hilda was looking for you.”
“I will see her later.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then turned to one of the assistants. “Hans, the wagon is outside. Take it to the stable, please, and see the mule’s water bucket is full. Give him an extra handful of grain.”
“Jawohl, Fräulein Mina,” replied the young baker smartly.
“Barthelm,” she said to the other helper. “Go with him. I wish to speak to Herr Stiffelbeam alone.”
The two kitchen aides left the room. “Come, Etzel,” she said as soon as they were gone. She took his hand in hers and led him to the worktable. “I want you to sit down.”
“Mina, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she assured him. “But I have to tell you something.”
She drew a stool from beneath the table and perched him on it, then paused, thinking how to begin. Concern and curiosity wheeled across his good-natured face. Wilhelmina smiled.
“Dear Etzel,” she sighed. “What will I do without you?”
“I hope you will not have to do without me, Herzerl,” he said.
“But that is what I have to say.” She took his hand again and, clasping it in both of hers, raised it to her lips. “I think I may have to go away for a while, and I want you to know the reason so you won’t worry about me.”
“Go away?” His expression grew puzzled. “Why? Where will you go?”
“I have a confession to make,” she said. “This will not be the first time I have gone away.”
“I know you go out into the country,” he said. “To talk to the farmers and the beekeepers.”
“That is true,” she allowed, “but there is more. I have been travelling to other places too. Many other places.”
He stared at her in baffled silence.
“Etzel,” she said softly, “it is time you knew the whole truth. Some of the places where I go are not of this world.”
He continued to gaze at her until at last the light of understanding shone in his eyes. Nodding slowly, he replied, “Ach, mein Schatz, we are none of us belonging to this world.”
CHAPTER 5
In Which Lord Burleigh Takes a Stroll
Archibald Burley walked, as he walked everywhere these days, with a sprightly spring in his step. Life, in all its unique and unqualified splendour, stretched before him in glittering vistas of happiness, success, and unstinting prosperity. As the-man-alsoknown-as Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, his acumen in finding and securing the best artefacts and passing them on to London’s elite collectors had established him on the upper rungs of London’s social ladder. His eye for authenticity was extraordinary and his judgement
second to none. As the premiere purveyor of the finest antiquities and objets de désir for the aristos and would-be upper-crusties, Burleigh’s prices were as breathtaking as the artefacts were exquisite and beautiful and, with the current craze for all things classical, the young earl was squirreling away the dosh by the cartload.
If business was good, his personal life was even better. In fact, he could not recall a time when he had ever felt such joy: confident, optimistic, and so brimming over with good cheer he all but sloshed as he walked. Following the untimely demise of his guardian, mentor, and benefactor, Lord Gower, Archie had been at liberty to be, do, and go as he pleased, and he luxuriated in the freedom. He did not squander either his wealth or opportunity like so many of his ilk—the poor barrow boys, ragamuffins, and street urchins who, by one means or another, occasionally manage to rise above their station and gain a toehold on a higher rung of society’s ladder.
His rising fortunes notwithstanding, topping Archibald’s list of Reasons to Be Cheerful was the gladsome fact that he was in love. The object of his affection was the estimable beauty Phillipa Harvey-Jones, daughter of the notorious empire builder Reginald Harvey-Jones, whose roster of industrial conquests was precisely as long as his inventory of enemies. Truth be told, the Earl of Sutherland was not the man Harvey-Jones would have chosen for his beloved Pippa. Ever the shrewdly calculating businessman, Reg considered young Burleigh a jumped-up Northern bounder with a dubious title. Yet, for reasons he could not fathom, Phillipa loved the dark-haired lord, so there was nothing to be done about it but pour the champagne and announce the nuptials.
That this had not yet happened was not for lack of trying on Pippa’s part. She nudged and coaxed her paramour as sweetly as any maid ever coaxed a beau, but there always seemed to be some excuse why this or that close date could not be countenanced. The latest obstacle was an urgent business trip to Italy to collect certain promised objects for an influential client.
“We will be married as soon as I return,” Burleigh declared; he stroked her hand in the hope of making his words more palatable.
“You said that last time,” she pointed out, her lower lip protruding in a pout.
“The situation is quite different this time,” he insisted, not ungently. “If I win my way with Lord and Lady Coleridge, our future in society is secured. Clients will beat a path to my door. You’ll want for nothing.”
“All I want,” she replied petulantly, “is you.”
“And you shall have me, my sweet.” He raised her hand and brushed it with his lips. “One more trip and you shall have me all to yourself forever after.”
“How long will you be away?”
“Only as long as it takes the ship to sail there and back.”
“Must you really go yourself ? Can you not send someone to collect these trinkets for you?”
“If only I could,” sighed the young lord. “But no, the thing must be done by me in person. There is less risk of anything going wrong, and I dare not hazard the loss of this sale.” He patted her hand. “When I return we shall be married with unseemly haste, I promise.”
“We had better,” she replied, accepting his assurances at last. “I shall content myself with picking out my trousseau in your absence.”
“And all the rest—china, linens, crystal, silverware, everything. Choose whatever you like, my love, for if you like it, then I am sure to like it too.”
They talked about where they would like to honeymoon and other pleasantries, and this carried them up to the day of Burleigh’s embarkation. He called on her a few hours before sailing time and made his final farewell. They shared a kiss or two, and then he departed. No one but the coach driver saw him walk onto the dock to board the waiting ship. And that was the last that anyone in London saw of him for a very long time.
As for Burleigh, the trip began as routine and uneventful as any traveller could wish. The ship—a fair-sized packet steamer christened Gipsy—called on ports along the French, Spanish, and Italian coasts; she was tight and seaworthy, the captain a capable and conscientious seaman who had served in the Royal Navy. The steamer made its appointed rounds, collecting and delivering mail and freight and passengers to their destinations, and picking up the same for return to England. When asked later, the captain did remember dining with the young earl during the voyage. The purser even recalled seeing Burleigh drive off in a hired coach at Livorno—this he remembered because the earl had made a point of booking the same cabin for his return journey when the ship was to call back in ten days’ time.
In any event, the young lord failed to appear, and Gipsy returned to England without him.
After disembarking, Burleigh wended his way to Florence, where he acquired a small painting of the Duke of Montefeltro, two cameos from the time of Emperor Trajan, and a marble bust of Cicero. From there he went on to the capital to conduct his principal business. Somewhere between Florence and Rome, so far as anyone was able to figure out, disaster struck. The coach had put up for the night in Viterbo, and Burleigh checked into the inn. He had a fine supper of fresh river perch and a mushroom rissole, and went to bed early. The next morning the coach continued the journey, but a mile or so outside town, one of the horses threw a shoe and pulled up lame. This necessitated a wait while a blacksmith was fetched.
Burleigh and the only other passenger—a talkative Italian lawyer by the name of Lorenzo de Ponte—decided to stretch their legs. They began walking. The day was pleasant and the rural countryside a veritable medieval painting come to life.
“Have you ever seen one of the old Etruscan roads?”
“I cannot say that I have,” replied Burleigh.
“I am not surprised,” said the lawyer. “They are not well known beyond the region. Would you like to see one?”
The young lord regarded the rough-cobbled road on which they stood. “Am I to take it that this is one of them?” He indicated the bumpy, stone-flagged path stretching before them across the countryside.
Lorenzo chuckled. “By no means, my friend. This is a Roman road. Etruscan roads are far older. Also, they cannot be seen.” At Burleigh’s dubious expression, he laughed again and explained, “They are below ground, you see.”
Burleigh’s Italian was not as good as his French or German, so he asked, “Below ground? Underground, do you mean? Subterranean?”
“No, not like a tunnel.” The affable lawyer pointed off across the landscape and said, “This way. I will show you.”
As they walked the fellow explained, “I grew up in Tarquinia— not far from here. It is in what was once known as Etruria, which is called Tuscany now. The Etruscans were very clever people, yes? They invented many useful things. But they were also very mysterious. They invented many mysteries too, I think.”
Lorenzo led them off the road, across a shallow ditch, and over a stubble field towards what appeared to be a cleft or fold in the landscape. “They built houses of stone with red clay tiles and running water. They built wonderful temples and palaces and tombs—many, many tombs. You never saw people who built so many tombs. They also built roads—two kinds. Ordinary roads they made for travel, and secret roads for their secret ceremonies.”
“How very odd,” replied Burleigh, his sense of interest quickening. The mention of tombs and palaces brought the possibility of antiquities instantly to mind. Etruscan art was an area he knew little about—which meant it was an arena ripe for exploration and plunder. “Tell me more.”
“These Etruscans carved their secret roads deep into the tufa stone—the soft volcanic rock, yes? And they carved for miles and miles.” He waved his hands at the low hills around them. “Sometimes these roads connect the ancient towns and villages, but most times they simply connect one strange place with another. And”—he raised a finger for emphasis—“they are always, always lined with tombs also carved in the tufa stone.”
“Extraordinary,” said Burleigh. “These tombs—are they ever explored?”
“Always.”
&n
bsp; “And are there objects? Artefacts?”
“But of course. Wonderful things. They were very good craftsmen, and they made fine ceramics—and tiny little figures in iron. We find these things all the time.”
“Fascinating. I would be most interested to see some of them.”
“That could easily be arranged,” Lorenzo assured him. “I have a friend in Firenze who can oblige.” He stopped walking. “But now . . . Behold!”
Burleigh looked around, but saw nothing. They had come to the edge of the cleft, and so he took another step closer and looked down into a deep trench that, as the lawyer had said, was carved into the underlying tufa. The trench was perhaps twenty feet deep and no more than eight or ten feet wide, and it ran along the natural fold of the hill.
“The local people call them Spirit Roads—or Ghost Roads.” He shook his head gently as he peered into the shadowed trench. “They were considered sacred, but how they were used no one knows. It is one of the Etruscan mysteries.”
“Can we go down there?”
Lorenzo hesitated. “Getting down is no difficulty.” He smiled. “Getting out again—that is the problem.” He looked down the length of the Sacred Road. “You might have to walk many miles before you find a place to climb out again. I would not advise it.” He stepped back from the edge. “Perhaps another time.”
“I did not hear that!” came the shouted reply. “You’ll have to speak up!”
When de Ponte turned back, Burleigh was nowhere to be seen. He stepped to the edge of the trench and saw the young earl’s face smiling up at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.” He looked around. “This is extraordinary. Might as well explore a little as long as I’m down here.”
“I would not take too long,” the lawyer suggested. “We do not wish to delay the coach.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that,” Burleigh confessed casually. “I’ll just walk along here a little way and see if I can find a place to climb out.”
The Spirit Well Page 5
