Farther back in the shadows, the artifacts collected over his many lifetimes rested securely in heavy wooden cases. Their glass doors picked up and reflected the light from the fire pit, creating the illusion of flaming rows marching away into the darkening shadows.
But only one object truly dominated the scene — the translucent globe hanging suspended over Chesterfield’s workbench. Held aloft by an unseen enchantment, the cartographic construct depicted the world of the humans contained within a larger sphere representing the Fae Otherworld.
At key locations on the outer shell, holographic models of two Mother Trees sent virtual roots downward, penetrating the In Between to connect the realms. The filaments pulsated with simulated energy, lighting up regions on the sphere marked “Shevington” and “Rosslyn.”
Next to the map, the jumbled detritus of an evolving theory sprawled across a massive work board. There, Chesterfield had tacked scraps of paper covered in wandering handwriting to compete for space with illustrations pinned at odd angles, the torn pages of books, smaller maps, and even leaves and branches. Webs of multi-colored string plotted connections across the metaphysical chaos.
How many trees? — Nodes on a network?
Thirteen? A coven X 4? — 52 elements? Periodic table.
Chemical or metaphysical?
Thirteen — karmic — ground to be broken.
Selfish power — purpose — destruction/elevation of self?
Permutation of opposites?
The staffs — cut apart but not disconnected.
The amulets — embodiment of the elements?
The witches. — The blood.
And now a new resource to consider. The Strigoi.
Granted, the young ladies were unstable at best and unpredictably dictated by their hunger, but could they play a role in his larger purpose? He’d rescued them on an angry whim, incensed by Anton’s useless sentimentalism. At the very least, Seraphina and Ioana would create a distracting aside with which the Daughters of Knasgowa must deal, but if the vampiric wenches could be used to greater advantage, Chesterfield would certainly bring them into play.
Striding toward the globe, the wizard surveyed the overlapping, winding ideas. Was the whole endeavor the mechanical shorthand of a genius or the living scrapbook of a depraved mind?
As he studied the board, Chesterfield himself pondered the potential dichotomy. Then, a phrase caught and held his attention, sending his eyes darting over the conceptual landscape. A coil of red string lay on the floor beneath the board. With an idle gesture, Chesterfield unwound a length of the crimson cord, which he sent snaking upward with an undulating rhythm.
Weaving across the vertical surface, the string stopped at Chesterfield’s command. A brass pin lifted from a dish on the desk and impaled the twine, which now pulled against the anchor point to reach a new terminus.
With a snap of his fingers, Chesterfield pegged and clipped the now taunt crimson line. It ran with tight precision from a medieval sketch of a demonic Strigoi mort blasfematoare to a meticulously drawn ancestral chart bearing the title, “The Daughters of Knasgowa.”
“And there went out another horse that was red,” Chesterfield muttered, “and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.”
Perhaps there was a way to use the Strigoi to further his goals.
The sound of something falling broke the wizard’s reverie. Turning, he saw the white king from the chess set scurrying across the table as if in flight.
With long strides, Chesterfield crossed the space and snatched up the chess piece, feeling instantly the vibration of life in his hand.
“Be still,” he commanded, “or I will crush you into splinters.”
The king quieted instantly.
“Who are you?” Chesterfield said. “Tell me your name.”
Slowly, the king, carved in the shape of the musical bass clef elongated, the thick nob at the top of the symbol rising to look upward. Chesterfield saw the shadow of a face gazing out of the wood grain.
“Gareth,” the king said in a frightened voice. “I am the Alchemist, Gareth.”
Chesterfield considered the partially obscured visage. “Gareth,” he said, rolling the name around on his tongue as if tasting the flavor of it. “And how, Master Gareth, have you come to infiltrate my chessboard?”
Seeming to gather his courage, the man said, “Truly, Great Wizard, I did not. I have lived many years trapped in this chess set.”
“And no doubt spent your time spying on me as a result,” Chesterfield said, tightening his fingers. “Tell me why I should not destroy you this instant.”
“Please,” Gareth begged. “Please don’t hurt me. It was only the lightning that set me free. Before that, I heard nothing but the screaming. I saw nothing. Please, Great Wizard, I speak the truth.”
Chesterfield said nothing. Still holding the king trapped in his fist, he turned to the fire pit and held Gareth suspended over the flames. “Do you feel the heat, alchemist?” he asked in a silky voice.
“Yes, Great Wizard,” Gareth stammered.
“If you lie to me,” Chesterfield said, “if I even so much as believe you are lying to me, I will incinerate you without hesitation. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Great Wizard.”
Withdrawing his hand, Chesterfield sat down in one of the high-backed chairs. He reclined leisurely and placed the chess piece upright on the table.
“Now,” Chesterfield said, “let us begin again. How long have you been in my chessboard?”
“Since 1890, sir,” Gareth answered.
“And given that,” Chesterfield went on, glowering darkly, “you wish me to believe that you have not been gathering information on my activities?”
“Truly, Great Wizard, I have not,” Gareth said desperately. “Not at all. Never. I speak the truth when I tell you that I could hear nothing in that madhouse. Nothing. I have had not one moment’s peace until the lightning fell from the sky and . . . ”
“Stop!” Chesterfield commanded. “Let us deal with each topic singly. What madhouse?”
“Inside the board,” Gareth replied. “To live within its confines is to descend through the levels of hell. The music screams and wails to be free and a fearful presence stalks those chambers. For years I fled to stay beyond its grasp. I craved only the quiet. Nothing more.”
“Do not weary me with your babbling,” Chesterfield warned. “What did you mean when you said the lightning set you free?”
“Lightning came through the ceiling of the prison,” Gareth explained, “through the edges of the boxes and down into the cells. I thought the power came from the angels because one by one the voices fell silent. Then I saw it, an open channel, a way out. I reached for it, pushing through an unseen barrier, and then I was here, inside the king. The screaming started up again beneath me, but far away, better, quieter, so I stayed here.”
“And you did not think to make your presence known to me sooner?” Chesterfield said.
Gareth dropped his eyes. “Forgive me, Great Wizard, but I fear your power.”
“You would do well to continue to fear me,” Chesterfield said. “Tell me how you came to be in the chessboard in the first place.”
“In 1890 I worked as a gardener at the home of Richard Wagner in Bayreuth, Bavaria,” Gareth said. “I found the chessboard packed away in a box hidden in a shed. I confess, Great Wizard, I stole the set in hopes of selling it.”
“Why?”
“To raise money for my alchemical experiments,” he said. “But each time I tried to approach a buyer, the board itself stopped me. At night, I came to believe the set spoke to me. Foolishly, I attempted to make contact with that voice and allowed myself to become trapped in its depth.”
Steepling his fingers, Chesterfield considered Gareth’s story. As the silence in the room grew longer, the chess piece began to tremble slightly. Finally, the wiza
rd spoke. “You will sit in your place, for now, Master Gareth, and utter not so much as a single word until I decide what to do with you. Do you understand?”
Gareth opened his mouth to speak, reconsidered and opted instead to bow his head in wordless contrition.
“Excellent,” Chesterfield said. “You learn quickly. I recommend you cultivate that aptitude in the interest of your long-term survival. Otherwise, little chessman, you most assuredly will burn.”
8
As crazy as it may sound, Lucas, Greer and I managed to find other things to talk about on the way to Shevington. When I explained to Greer that we used the bikes to cut down on the walk time to the portal, she regarded me with a raised eyebrow and a look of mock horror.
“I think not,” she said, holding out one hand to me and one to Lucas.
When I hesitated, Lucas said, “Don’t worry. It’s no worse than a roller coaster ride.”
As much as I was tempted to tell them I don’t do roller coasters, it seemed like entirely the wrong time to even imply that I didn’t trust either of them. I took Greer’s hand.
One summer our church hosted a contest to memorize Bible verses. Mom made me enter, but I was determined not to be one of those kids who pulled out “Jesus wept” when the cards were down. I learned some pretty obscure verses including this one from the book of Hosea, “They that sow the wind, shall reap the whirlwind.”
That’s where Greer took us. The heart of the whirlwind. I saw it all. The endless rows of stacks. The dark places in the archives. The wavering lights in the sconces — and then we were standing in front of the portal.
The abrupt change made me stagger on my feet. Lucas caught my elbow. “Steady girl,” he said. “You okay?”
When I nodded, Greer said, “I would have tried to prepare you, but I’ve found most people just have to experience the flight of the baobhan sith.”
“No problem,” I said. “Do we have to do that very often?”
Grinning, Greer pointed to her high-heeled stiletto boots. “When I’m wearing these, yes,” she said.
“Do you even own sensible footwear?” I countered.
“Define ‘sensible,’” Greer said, just as Lucas coughed into his hand to hide the words “not a chance.”
Greer cuffed him solidly on the side of the head, knocking his fedora askew. Lucas yelped, “Hey, watch the hat!”
Leaving the two of them to their good-natured scuffle, I approached the portal, held out my hand, and softly chanted the opening spell. As the solid wall dematerialized, a shaft of sunlight from the Valley of Shevington flooded the basement. On the other side of the opening, a line of six dragonlets sat waiting.
“Welcoming party?” Greer asked, stepping up beside me.
“Always,” I said. “And don’t ask me how they know when I’m going to show up because I don’t have a clue.”
The three of us passed through the portal and into the big meadow below the city. The day was clear, but I turned the collar of my coat up against the cold wind blowing out of the north. We don’t really get snow in Briar Hollow, but Mom already had me looking forward to a white Christmas in the Valley.
Minreith, the dragonlet flock leader, and the others bowed low before me, their beaks scraping the ground. When I last saw them a few days earlier, the mischievous creatures confessed to some pilfering of minor, shiny objects in and around the city out of envy for the “big dragons” in Europe who get to have treasure.
Since I wasn’t supposed to be in the Valley at the time, we’d made a deal to hide each other’s transgressions. The dragonlets would get me into Shevington undetected, and I wouldn’t tell Barnaby about their thievery.
They upheld their end of the bargain, but things didn’t work out for me in the covert department. That was the day the Mother Tree sent Lucas to stop me from contacting my brother, Connor. Which, by the way, was a completely false charge. All I had wanted to do was see him, but the Mother Tree apparently didn’t trust me not to go a step further.
When Minreith raised his head to stare at me with his alert, jewel-faceted eyes, I said, “Did you take care of the returns?”
That touched off an earnest stream of clicks and chirps. I speak dragonlet, so what I heard was, “Just the way we promised, but we didn’t have anything to do with Lucas catching you.”
Without thinking, I said, “You know Lucas?”
“They do,” Lucas said, before Minreith could answer. “And just so you know, I speak dragonlet, too. What did they steal?”
“Nothing valuable,” I said. “Just odds and ends.”
“All of it shiny, I’m betting,” Lucas said, pushing back the open sides of his duster and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Big dragon envy is going to be the end of you, Minreith.”
The dragonlet glared at Lucas with barely concealed indignation and said something I didn’t understand about Lucas being a boastful “Gwragedd Annwn.”
Before I could ask what that meant, Lucas said sternly, “That will be quite enough out of you. We have business with Barnaby and Moira, and we need to get a move on.”
With that, he started up the path with long, swinging strides. I looked at Greer, who said in a soft voice, “Leave it for now.”
Since she knew Lucas far better than I did, I took her advice, falling in beside her as we set out after Lucas. The dragonlets rose in the air to fly escort.
Other than exchanging greetings with Bill Ruff at the bridge, the remainder of the walk passed in silence, but once inside the main gate of the city, the happy sounds of the busy citizenry surrounded us. Sunday in Shevington is a day of rest and socializing. The village green in the center of town plays host to picnicking families and romping children, all under the watchful eye of the Mother Tree.
Our destination was the Lord High Mayor’s house on the far side of the square. Innis, Barnaby’s matronly brownie housekeeper, welcomed us at the door.
When I immediately went to the fire in the front room to warm my hands, the round little woman exclaimed, “Where are my manners? You must be chilled to the bone. I’ll be right back with tea and scones.”
She bustled past Barnaby, almost knocking him down as he came through the parlor door. “Innis! What on earth!” he said, sidestepping to make way for the determined woman.
When Innis didn’t slow down enough to answer him, Barnaby turned questioning eyes toward me.
“She thinks I’m cold,” I explained. “Hi, by the way.”
“Hello,” Barnaby said. “I’ve sent for Moira as you asked me to. She will be joining us shortly. Lucas, Greer, a pleasure as always.”
Once the alchemist arrived, we’d be all business, so this was my only chance.
“Would it be terribly rude of me if I asked to have a word with Barnaby in private before Moira gets here?” I asked.
Neither Greer nor Lucas seemed to think anything about my request, but Barnaby’s brows arched in surprise before his native graciousness kicked in.
“Of course,” he said, “shall we step into my private study?” He held his hand out to indicate a door at the back of the room.
“Excuse us,” I said to Lucas and Greer. “This won’t take long.”
“Not a problem,” Lucas said. “We need to check in with the DGI anyway.”
Barnaby held the door open for me and I stepped into his small, cozy study. My grandfather is a scrupulously tidy man in every other part of his life, but in that one room, a kind of cheerful chaos reigns. Open books litter every available surface along with a profusion of loose notes and an odd detritus of curious objects that at that moment included what appeared to be a Viking helmet and what I could have sworn was Aladdin's lamp.
“So sorry,” Barnaby said, scooping a stack of books off the chair beside his desk. “I’m in the middle of multiple research projects.”
“About what?” I asked, sitting down.
“Principally human literature of the late 20th century,” he said. “I endeavor to stay abreast of the things
that interest our counterparts in the other realm, but I’ve allowed myself to become rather outdated.”
“How outdated?”
“The last human novels I read were by three sisters living in Yorkshire,” he said, sitting down behind the desk. “Their father was a clergyman . . . ”
“The Bronte sisters,” I said.
Barnaby’s face brightened. “You know their works?” he asked.
“I had to read them for senior English in high school,” I said.
“How intriguing,” he said. “We must find time to discuss the human educational system. That is on my list of interest. But do tell me, did you find Charlotte’s novel to be rather . . . sentimental?”
Well, that was a polite way to put it.
“I threw the book across the room when Mr. Rochester got his eyesight back,” I grinned.
Barnaby laughed. “Thank you,” he said. “I feared my reaction might have been a product of my gender rather than a solid literary analysis. It would seem we have somewhat similar tastes.”
That was the opening I needed.
“Like, grandfather like granddaughter?” I asked as lightly as I could manage.
At first, Barnaby looked as if he had no idea what to say. When he did speak, his voice was so soft I almost couldn’t hear him. “How did you find out?” he asked.
“The Mother Tree told me,” I said. “Why didn’t you?”
My bluntness seemed to make things easier for him.
“Moira asked me the same question,” he admitted. “I honestly did not know how.”
“How about just saying it?” I suggested.
Barnaby sighed. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I did not find the task quite that easy.”
“Did you find it easy to have a relationship with Connor all these years and not have one with me?” I asked.
The words came out much sharper than I intended and filled with a degree of hurt and anger that surprised even me.
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