Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I prefer the slower tempo actually, Uncle Viktor. Don’t you, Mr. Merrick?”

  Joseph sat alone in a wingback chair, a plump pillow behind his overly large head. He was still somewhat weary from the rail journey, but enjoyed being part of this loving and large fellowship and therefore hated to sleep late.

  “It is one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard,” he wheezed; the words muffled by bulbous tumours round his deformed lips. “Lady Della must play for us, too, though. I’ve heard very good reports of her talent from the duchess.”

  “Oh yes!” Blinkmire insisted, clapping his large hands like a child. “I think it’s time our young friend gives us a preview of what she’ll play for us this evening. Music, music, and more music! Truly, I’ve never enjoyed myself so much in all my life. This home’s entertainments are without equal. Not only music, but books! Mr. Merrick, have you seen the main library? Why, there must be ten thousand volumes, covering every subject one can imagine! Truly, I could remain here for the rest of my life, if God so willed it.”

  Adele poured Merrick a second cup of tea. “Books are like paper windows into other worlds, aren’t they, Uncle Stephen?” she asked the Irish giant.

  “Oh, my yes! Paper windows! I do like that, Lady Della. I admit to taking several dozen of those literary windows to my room last night and reading until dawn. But with so many things to occupy our time, sleep must wait for less busy days. Mustn’t it, Viktor?”

  “At my age, I sleep very little. A few hours suffices.”

  An elderly woman entered the room upon the arm of Henry MacAlpin. All the men stood, and even Merrick made the attempt, but the lady rebuked him.

  “No, no, my dear Joseph, you mustn’t rise on my account. I simply won’t hear of it. Please, stay seated,” Lady Stuart insisted.

  Lord Salperton eased the disguised queen into an upholstered chair and offered a selection of pillows. “I see thick ones and thick ones, Auntie Drina. Which do you prefer?”

  “The little yellow one with the bluebirds, I think. I’ve always loved bluebirds. So cheerful and bright! Now, let us all enjoy the comfort of these lovely chairs, shall we?”

  The men returned to their seats, and Adele brought the queen a cup of tea. “Here you are, Auntie Drina. Three sugars, just the way you like it. Milk?”

  “Not this morning, dear. I wonder, Henry, would you bring me that needlepoint footstool near the fireplace? My gout begins to complain. I shall have to ask Mrs. Alcorn for a cup of bicarbonate to add to my bath. Soaking the foot eases the swelling, you know. I should have done so last night, but James and I talked until nearly three.”

  “I can offer you a liniment that often proves effective. I haven’t a bottle prepared, but I have the ingredients with me,” the viscount told her. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Anderson,” he said as the former ‘Mr. Thirteen’ joined them. “You’re looking much better this morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “Moderately well, sir,” Anderson replied. “The room I share with Mr. Stanley faces north and has heavy draping, which restricts the chance of light intrusion.”

  The queen found this comment strange. “Why do you avoid the light, Mr. Stanley? Are your eyes sensitive?”

  “My entire body used to be troubled by natural light, my lady, and I wish never to experience it again. It’s kind of you to ask.”

  Victoria Stuart joined the growing group, dressed for outdoor activities. She’d chosen dark trousers, paired with a yellow blouse and brown waistcoat, and her salt-and-pepper hair was bound into a chignon. Dolly Patterson-Smythe arrived with the Scotswoman, also dressed for riding. Behind the two women, followed a troupe of friendly dogs. Bella, Briar, Samson, and Dumpling scampered into the room, greeting each of the humans in turn. Dumpling sniffed at the music room’s small Christmas tree, examining the lowest ornaments. Adele’s new puppy lay in a basket near the fire, apparently dreaming, for her tiny legs twitched beneath the tartan blanket. Dumpling noticed the movement and decided to sniff at the puppy, causing it to stir.

  “Come now, Dumpling,” called the queen. “No more of that. You must leave Della’s little doggy alone.” The animal nimbly leapt onto Lady Stuart’s lap. “Good dog,” she told the animal, petting her perky ears.

  The mantle’s anniversary clock chimed the hour, and Henry turned to Patterson-Smythe. “Eleven already? How this day is flying past!”

  “How’s Seth this morning, Henry?” asked Dolly as she spread jam on a bit of cracker.

  “Improving. The gash across his chest will take many weeks to heal, but he has a strong constitution and a fierce determination. Baxter mentioned a Bath chair in the attics. I’ve ordered it brought down and cleaned. If Seth wishes to join our festivities later, then he can do so with relative comfort. Has anyone heard from Lord Salter yet?”

  “Not a peep,” answered Patterson-Smythe. “Dickie sent a telegram to Paris yesterday. He’d heard the Salters might be staying there with a friend. It’s so hard to find them, you know. They’re both such gadabouts!”

  “And Seth’s two sisters?”

  “I wrote to them. Both live in Vienna with their aunt. I believe Ruth is engaged to a Baron von Something-or-other. One of those hyphenated German names.”

  Drina laughed. “Like Saxe-Coburg?”

  Dolly smiled back, her eyes twinkling. “Yes, something like that. Or even Patterson-Smythe, I suppose. Dickie’s family chose to hyphenate it several generations back when Gerald Patterson married Lady Catherine Smythe. Her father, Lord Colderoy, insisted upon it. You know, I’m a little surprised Elizabeth and Charles didn’t hyphenate theirs.”

  “Stuart-Sinclair?” asked the queen. “I rather like the simpler name. Elizabeth Sinclair is quite refined, I think. Tell me, Count, are there many hyphenated names in Romania?”

  “Not usually, Lady Stuart. Though, the so-called ‘double barreling’ of a surname is sometimes done in peerage families to maintain traditions in both houses. I wonder, will the duchess’s firstborn son inherit both titles? Duke of Haimsbury and Branham?”

  “It’s very likely he will,” Drina replied. “Though, Robby Sinclair may inherit grander titles yet to come. Who knows?” she added with a wink. “Dumpling, you mustn’t beg. Della, I apologise for my dog. She keeps pawing at your hand. It’s the biscuit, you see. She loves almond bikkies.”

  “May I give her one?” asked the youngster politely.

  “Not yet. She’ll have plenty of treats as the day continues. Best not spoil her too much. Speaking of names, have you named your little doggy yet?”

  “I’m still thinking,” she answered. “She sleeps a great deal. Perhaps, I’ll call her Napper.”

  Blinkmire giggled at this, his small eyes bright. “Forgive me! It is just the name is so very apt, Lady Della. Napper! Oh, I do like that one.”

  “Then, it’s settled,” she declared. “Napper Stuart. Or perhaps Lady Napper Stuart-Sinclair.”

  All applauded, and Henry took the opportunity to stand. “Lady Napper has a regal name to it; quite fitting. Now, as I’m to meet with our hostess shortly, I’ll bid you all a good morning. Drina, I’ll prepare that liniment and leave it by your bed.”

  “You’re too kind,” the disguised queen answered, taking his hand. “By the way, Henry, I’ve written to your father. He might be coming down this way after the new year.”

  “Really? To say I’m shocked is understatement!” he exclaimed. “Your powers of persuasion certainly outmatch my own, Aunt Drina. Truly, nothing short of an earthquake would rouse my father from that house. Is he truly coming down?”

  “He said so in his letter. We’ll arrange a little party, if he does; or rather, when he does.”

  “I’ve not seen your father in years. Dickie and he used to hunt grouse together. Lovely days!” Patterson-Smythe reminisced as Della offered everyone blackberry tarts. “Oh, thank you, my dear. These look quite de
licious.”

  “I helped bake them,” she said proudly.

  “You bake as well?” asked Henry. “Adele, you are a true renaissance woman, much like your Branham cousin. You’re going to make some man very happy one day.”

  This caused Adele to blush slightly, and she curtsied to the viscount. “I do my best, Lord Salperton.”

  “It’s a shame your father can’t make it down for the wedding, Henry,” Dolly said wiping tart crumbs from her hands.

  “Wedding?” asked Count Riga. “Do you mean we’re to have a wedding?”

  “It’s supposed to be a secret,” Tory said with a harsh look at her garrulous friend. “But, yes, we might have one. It’s still being arranged.”

  Blinkmire’s face opened in delight. “Oh, I do love weddings! But who would be involved in so serious a ceremony, I wonder? Our little duchess is already married, and I’m aware of no engaged couples staying with us. Surely, Lady Della isn’t pledging her troth so soon,” he teased the youngster.

  “Not yet,” Della replied with a mischievous wink. “I’m still trying to decide whom to marry. Dr. Holloway is rather nice, if one likes men with ginger hair.”

  “I find red hair quite attractive,” Dolly interjected. “Dickie’s hair was red when we first met. Now, it’s gone white. Pity.”

  Della laughed. “Sir Richard hardly has any hair at all,” she noted.

  “Yes, well, he used to have loads of it. Keep that in mind when you choose your husband, my dear. Even your brother’s lush mane may all fall out one day,” Patterson-Smythe warned her.

  “Paul’s hair would never do that,” Della declared. She turned her gaze to Salperton, noting with a bright smile, “Your hair is very nice, Cousin Henry. Dark and thick, and it curls like Cousin Charles’s does. You’re rather handsome, too. Don’t you think he’s handsome, Auntie Dolly?”

  Salperton stared, wondering if she’d spoken in jest or meant the comments seriously. Della allowed him to wallow in his doubts for several seconds before running over to offer a hug.

  “Don’t worry, Cousin Henry. I shan’t marry you yet. Perhaps, when I’m older. Besides, you’ll find someone else to be your wife before I’m eighteen. Won’t you?”

  Salperton’s thoughts turned to Violet Stuart, and he wondered where she’d gone; why she’d left. Was she safe? Had the police found her yet?

  “I’m content to wait,” he decided to say, gallantly kissing Adele on the top of her head. “You know, my mother was somewhat prophetic; seeing visions now and then. She always said I’d end up marrying one of the Stuarts. Perhaps, she was right. Now, if we’re not going to plan weddings, then I really must find the duchess.”

  He left, but Adele stood quietly, watching the handsome viscount depart. “Come here, Della,” the wise queen called. “Let’s discuss tomorrow’s festivities, shall we? I see Dolly and Tory are planning to ride. Perhaps, we can tour the stables with them, if the weather’s nice.”

  Riga and Stanley returned to the somber arrangement: a slow rendition of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel that evoked the miraculous beauty of the Saviour’s birth. Victoria Stuart chatted with Drina, failing to notice anything unusual in the girl’s manner, but Lady Patterson-Smythe perceived a familiar ‘look’ to Adele’s pleasant expression. It was that same wistful gaze she’d seen upon the trusting countenance of Elizabeth Stuart, whenever she spoke of her love for a mysterious man she called ‘Captain’.

  Dolly made a mental note to speak with Charles. Young Adele Marie might be developing an attachment.

  2:30 pm – Branham Library

  Martin Kepelheim sat with his friends and colleagues at a large round table, adding sugar to a cup of coffee. A series of magnificent mahogany shelves lined the three-storey library’s walls, rising upwards into a grand dome that allowed natural light to illuminate the many tables and chairs. As the largest private library in England, the Branham collection drew scholars from Oxford and Cambridge and housed many thousands of original books, diaries, and ledgers rescued from the 1666 fire by a team of inner circle agents.

  “My what a lovely day it’s turned out to be!” the tailor exclaimed. “Snow on the ground, the sun in the sky, and music throughout the house. Christmas at Branham! It’s enough to inspire any poet.”

  “Do you plan to offer your report in verse?” asked Sinclair, stirring a dollop of cream into his coffee.

  “Perhaps,” Martin teased. “You know, Charles, it occurs to me how different this visit is from our last. You and the earl have spent time here since October, but the last time I slept at Branham was during that battle with Trent’s men! My, who can forget it?”

  Cornelius Baxter had a satisfied look upon his ample face, and he thoughtfully nibbled on a slice of fruit cake. “An epic battle indeed, Mr. Kepelheim; fit for the pen of Virgil or Homer. A war twixt men and beasts.”

  “But not only men,” Martin reminded his friend. “Also, our beloved Mrs. Alcorn! How that dear woman rose to the mark!”

  “Ah, true,” mused Baxter. “But our little duchess and her companions would never have escaped without Mr. Reid’s magnificent balloon.”

  Edmund and his wife Emily had arrived just before luncheon, and the inspector smiled at the memory. “The Queen of the Meadow is lovely and so easy to manoeuvre. One of these days, if my wife allows it, I should like to own one and sail it out over the sea at Brighton.”

  “Not here?” asked Sinclair. “Anjou-on-Sea has a sheltered bay for storage, and the limestone cliffs provide enough natural beauty to rival any coast.”

  “Perhaps, I’ll keep a balloon in every port city,” joked the inspector.

  “Perhaps, you will,” Charles answered slyly, for he’d purchased the Queen of the Meadow for his friend, and it now sat, wrapped and waiting, in a nearby barn. “Despite these lovely reminiscences, we must turn to business, for our agenda is long, and the day is not. Mac, are you and Martin prepared to offer any insights into the Haimsbury House puzzle room?”

  “I believe so,” answered Ed MacPherson, “but before we begin, may I offer my congratulations to Lord Aubrey? I can think of no better reason for delaying our project than a wedding.”

  “Thank you, Mac,” replied the earl.

  “Does the prospect please you?” Mac asked, noting a lack of enthusiasm.

  “Of course, it does,” Paul answered vaguely. “Lady Cordelia’s a lovely young woman. I’m a lucky man. Shall we begin?”

  Sinclair also noted his cousin’s odd response but decided to let it pass. Paul was making a chivalrous sacrifice by marrying Wychwright, but Charles believed that—deep down—his cousin truly loved Cordelia. Standing, he faced the table of circle members.

  “Thank you all for making the time in your busy schedules for this meeting. For many reasons, I felt we needed to join hands this afternoon, but as Martin said, we also celebrate an important milestone. For our records, Baxter, would you jot down the names of all members present?”

  Acting as secretary, Cornelius entered the names in the circle’s log book. Beginning with Duke Charles, the clockwise list as recorded that afternoon included Lord Aubrey, Mr. Martin Kepelheim, Dr. Edward MacPherson, Inspector Edmund Reid, Lord Malcolm Risling, Sir Thomas Galton, Lord Salperton, and C. Baxter.

  The duke opened the meeting with prayer. “Gentlemen, let us seek the Lord’s wisdom.” Every head lowered, and Haimsbury began. “Father, it is with humble hearts we offer this gathering to you. Our circle is small this morning, but your word promises that where two or more are gathered in your name, you are there in the midst. Therefore, we welcome you into our meeting and pray for your guidance. We praise your holy name and offer thanks for the many times you’ve intervened on our behalf; unseen, unfelt, often unbidden. We may not always recognise these moments, but your hand is ever upon us.

  “I confess, my king, that I sometimes allow the weight of responsibility and worr
y to overwhelm me, but when I finally turn to you, Lord Jesus, you lighten the load by taking it upon yourself. What a gift that is! What joy unspeakable! As men, it is our nature to be self-reliant and energetic when a problem arises. We want to repair what is broken, mend what is torn, heal that which is wounded. Perhaps, we do these things, because of your imprint upon us. You made us your imager upon this earth, and in so doing, you presented us with two choices. We can either allow your image to shine, or we can selfishly rework it into something else. Something darker. Something irrefutably perverse and evil. I speak, my Lord, of those men who seek power from your enemy. It is a malevolent tree which dominates throne rooms and board rooms alike, the roots of which descend into the very pit of hell.”

  Charles paused, troubling thoughts overtaking him as though warring factions fought for control of his mind. His hands began to tremble, and he could hear the dragon’s voice whispering more loudly than ever:

  I’m here, boy! I have arisen! Find me and claim your rightful inheritance!

  His knees grew weak, and he nearly collapsed, but a strange sensation passed through his muscles, and Charles could sense warming hands upon his arms and shoulders. His hands and feet tingled as though an electric spark flowed through every nerve.

  “Trust in the One, Charles,” a soft voice whispered in his mind. “Trust in the nail-scarred hands and feet.”

  Ignore the weakling! the seductive voice interrupted. We will change the world, my son. Find me. Claim that which is yours! The kings of the earth will bow to you, even as they bow to me, for you are mine. I have designed you.

  “Trust in the Way, the Truth, and the Life, Charles,” the other voice whispered sweetly. “Your destiny was determined long ago. The Dragon lies.”

  Remember when we used to speak, boy? Remember the attic and the sparkling mirror? I showed you my friends, and explained how they long to gain release. We need you, boy. I need you! I OWN YOU!

  Charles leaned heavily upon the table, gasping for breath as a thousand demonic claws raked at his spirit. At that moment, his very soul was the prize, and the room grew intolerably warm.