Mikayla climbed the steps to the white porch on the front of the house. It creaked and groaned beneath her feet as it settled beneath her weight. A pair of cane-backed rocking chairs that looked like they were brand-new rocked gently in the late afternoon breeze that blew down the street. It was a cozy sight, one that was repeated on the porches of all of the houses that lined the skinny street.
Mikayla pushed the door opened and entered the main room of the house. The polished wooden floor beneath her groaned slightly. It was a comforting sound. It spoke volumes of the age of the house and its upkeep. The main room was dim with the afternoon sun on the opposite side of the house. Dust floated in the air, the dust of being kept closed for too long. A heavy wool rug the color of the midnight sky covered the center of the room. A deep, brocaded couch leaned against the front wall, beneath the front windows that were opened to the warm spring air. It was covered in an old rose pattern of ivory and blood red. A matching chair sat across the room from the couch beneath a bronze floor lamp. The ivory shade was tipped to cast light on the chair.
Mikayla ran a fingertip along the wooden arms of the chair and continued her scan of the room. A wooden chiffarobe sat along the far wall; its doors scarred by age and use. She pulled open the door and was surprised to find the latest in home entertainment. A big screen television, a DVD player along with a variety of recently released American movies, and a stereo that allowed for playing CDs. She hadn’t expected to find the luxury of the home entertainment center while away from the United States. In fact, she had looked forward to the escape from watching CNN and knowing every detail of every crime from around the world. Mikayla had hoped that this journey to a tropical paradise would be a vacation, a working vacation, but a vacation none-the-less.
“Well, just because it is here doesn’t mean I have to turn it on.” She mumbled to herself as she firmly closed the doors to the cabinet. She turned to her left and looked into a brightly lit dining area that was open to the kitchen. Friendly yellow paint covered the walls and was complemented by the oak table inlaid with white ceramic tiles. White ice cream parlor chairs circled the table inviting a body to sit and dream in that sunny spot. Lavender exotic flowers that Mikayla couldn’t identify invited her to sniff from their glass vase at the center of the table. Their fragrance scented the air, soft and comforting.
Mikayla moved around the table to the sliding glass doors. She flipped the lock and stepped out onto the broad, wooden deck that spanned the back of the tiny beach house. It walked out onto a white, sand dune, and beyond the dune was the azure blue Mediterranean Sea. She lifted her arms and breathed in the fresh sea air; salt tickled her nose. She twirled in that one spot for a moment; her head lifted to the sky, and her eyes closed. Peace smoothes over her and enveloped her in a calming hug, bringing peace to her, a peace that seemed to have always alluded her in Washington.
Mikayla stepped back through the slider into the dining nook. She decided that if there were ever a time to use the phrase dining nook to describe a spot, this was certainly the time.
The kitchen was a large, spacious area decorated in bright green and white. The counters were covered in a checkerboard of green and white tile. Each tile had the Amor crest painted in the opposite color. It was a busy countertop, Mikayla mused. The island in the center of the kitchen contained the counter-top cook space with the electric cook top and the brass pots hanging from hooks in the ceiling. In the far wall was the matching oven. A small window above the white porcelain sink looked out on the deck and sea beyond. A skylight in the ceiling invited the blue sky into the room, giving it an open, friendly feeling.
Mikayla ran her hands along the counter and worked her way to the stairs following the hall. Old pictures of long-dead royals and VIPs decorated the hall, reminding her of her purpose, of the people of Amor just as her mind and heart wandered into a world of fairy-tales and sea-swept vacations. She craned her head to peer up the dark stairs. “Well, if the upstairs is anywhere as nice as the downstairs, I may have to remain here permanently.” She giggled like a teenager as she flipped the switch on the wall just inside the staircase and bounded up them like a child.
At the top of the stairs, a bay window covered in pillows in silk shams and whispy cotton curtains invited a dreamer to gaze out the window and step back in time. Mikayla knew that spot would be one of her favorite spots in the house; though, there were so many spots that could be a favorite spot for dreaming, thinking, reading, or whatever a body had in mind, it was hard to believe she would ever just sit in one spot.
Mikayla peeked in the door that was next to the bay window. It led to the tiny office Dejeune had mentioned. A practical oak desk sat next to a window that looked out on the rooftop of the house next door. She sat down in the desk chair and swiveled. It was new. It was comfortable. It was designed for a person who spent a lot of time sitting at a desk. That meant she wouldn’t be spending much time there since she very rarely sat at a desk.
The walls of the room were lined with practical oak bookshelves filled with books. These books varied from the practical such as an English dictionary to the more fantastic such as the occasional romance novel. Each book looked well-used. Mikayla mused that the former occupant must have been quite an avid reader.
She flipped on the ceiling fan to move the still air around and moved back to the hallway. She walked around the stairway opening to the next door. Inside that door she found heaven. Heaven was a bathroom. The carpeting on the floor was soft, luxurious. Her bare feet sank into the carpeting. The vanity was painted white and illuminated by the tulip shades above the mirror. The pale blue walls were reflected in the deep blue towels hung on the rack and stacked on the wicker shelves above the commode. Mikayla rubbed one of the towels against her face and bit back a sigh. Then, she lifted her leg and stepped into the tub. Perhaps, tub was too common of a word for the experience she knew would occur. The tub was actually a Jacuzzi designed for two people. Flowers and candles lined the edges of the tub and would give off a decadent glow when lit. Mikayla knew she would end each and everyday in that tub as she now leaned back against the cushioned pillow that had been built in by the previous occupant. She closed her eyes and waited for just a moment before climbing from the empty tub mentally promising herself a dip before bed that night.
The last room in the upstairs was the master bedroom. It looked out the back of the house towards the ocean. A wall of windows allowed the ocean breezes to stir the curtains and ruffle the spread on the bed. A marble topped fireplace ran along the opposite wall. A heavy cherry mantel clock ticked the local time. The grate in front of the fireplace had the Amor crest inlaid in what looked like silver and bronze. The wolf in the crest was frozen in a lonesome howl to the full moon behind its head. Mikayla gripped the bronze footboard before allowing herself a quick glance around the room. Once she was sure she was alone, she jumped and landed on the bed. She sank into the mattress and stretched, lapping up the luxury of the feather mattress and the feather comforter. If heaven were to be found in the real world, Mikayla was pretty sure she had found it there in the house next to the Secluded City’s sheer cliff walls.
Chapter 2
He watched her dip her toes in the curling surf. Her long tresses flew out behind her in a wild dance with the Mediterranean breezes. He inhaled impatiently from the French cigarette he favored. He squinted against the bright evening sunset. She was a sight to behold. She chased the seagulls from their perches on the boat moorings and appeared to laugh at their screeches from above. She jumped in the surf like a child.
She may have looked like a teenager and played in the surf as the sun set behind her in a flame of orange, but he knew that Dr. Mikayla Knight was not a child, nor was she a person to be trifled with. Her knowledge of the Middle Ages and European history were world-renowned and dangerous. She was dangerous to him. Her presence in Amor could destroy everything he had so beautifully constructed, only she didn’t know her power. Why King James had insisted on bringing
this outsider, this American to their quiet kingdom was beyond his comprehension. She could unwittingly destroy their clever plans. If she did, where would he be? Where would they all be?
He flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette and contemplated it for a moment before turning his attention to the neatly typed report in his hand. Dr. Mikayla Knight had grown up in Michigan. She had attended public schools all of her life and had graduated from the Ph.D program at the University of Michigan just three years before. She had traveled the world and written numerous sections in numerous textbooks about the medieval monarchies of Europe. She had been chosen for this project because she was the best. She spoke French and Greek fluently. She also read and wrote Latin. She was able to translate documents written in ancient script into modern language for study. The report also revealed she had broken her engagement to come to Amor. These facts made him nervous. She would not be distracted by anything; he needed her to be distracted.
He knew that she had settled quietly and quickly into the sunny house at the bottom of the stone staircase. The house had originally been the home of the king’s minister of state close to 200 years before. He doubted that Dr. Knight knew of the secret door and its passage that led the king’s chambers. Spies had lived and worked in that house, shaded by the Secluded City. Spies had protected Amor from that house. Now, the possible ruin of them all resided there, frolicking in the surf.
The report told him Dr. Knight had strolled the streets of Amor for several hours with her camera in hand taking photos of the quaint houses, shops, and restaurants that kept the tourists happy while bringing dollars, francs, and pounds into their economy. The report said she had dined at the small café on the seaside edge facing Greece. She ate alone. She ate outside. She jotted notes in a small notebook and enjoyed the glass of Merlot that sat in front of her. She only had one glass before walking away to jump in the surf where he watched her now. He knew her every move; he would continue to know her every move until she left the island for good and never looked back. She was dangerous, but he was more so.
He stepped back from the edge of the balcony as Mikayla’s eyes were drawn upwards. She shielded her eyes with her hand and scanned the top of the wall that surrounded the Secluded City and separated times and worlds from one another. When she saw nothing, she shrugged and looked at the birds floating on the water in the calm waves. She walked away from the water, picked up her tennis shoes and her camera, and strolled towards her house at the top of the dune. As she neared the house, he threw his cigarette over the edge of the wall and walked back into the tower chamber where the meeting would take place at the stroke of midnight. He shredded the report in his hand of her movements since her arrival that afternoon. There would be another the next day, and for everyday until she arrived back in Washington, D.C. three months from that day.
Mikayla rolled her shoulders as she neared the back deck of her small house. She felt as if she were being watched. She looked over her shoulder and to each side of her but saw no one. She shook her head and knew there was no reason for her to be feeling that way. However, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling since she had left the house earlier to explore Amor and to find dinner. Perhaps it was just that feeling that many city people got when they travelled to a new place, especially a place that was so peaceful, quiet, and friendly. The maitre’d at the restaurant had been friendly and helpful. He had pointed out various points of interest to help her get her research started beyond what the books had already told her. He had brought her the Merlot without her request and suggested that since it was made in his family’s vineyard she had never tasted better. She had to agree; it was the best she had ever tasted.
Before slipping inside of her new home, Mikayla took a moment to stare at the wall that stood next to her home. The granite cliff shot into the sky, shadowing everything, making everything seem smaller, more insignificant. A roughly cut staircase cut through the granite and wound through the stone to the top of the protective wall. Mikayla could barely see the top of the wall from where she stood, looking straight up. What secrets were hidden behind that wall? What was the royal family trying to protect by staying behind the wall that had stood against revolutions and tropical storms for the past 900 years?
Mikayla was about to turn away from the walls when she caught the briefest glint of glass from the top. She cupped her hand over her eyes and craned her head back even further. She could see nothing. She dropped her hand and headed indoors. Whatever secrets the Secluded City was hiding would have to remain hidden for at least another day.
Chapter 3
Mikayla trailed Monsieur Dejeune through the halls of the Amor Museum of History. The halls echoed with the sound of footsteps on ancient tile. His voice filled the cathedral ceilings with hushed tones as he explained the most current project, the restoration of art discovered in France that had been stolen by Allied pilots stationed at Amor during World War II.
“The paintings were discovered in the wine cellar of one of the oldest chateaus in the Loire region.” Dejeune gestured to one painting, a dramatic portrait of a regal, angry man.
Mikayla felt somehow repelled by the eyes of the subject in the painting, the former King of Amor. His eyes were almost sinister and cunning, peering from the canvas, seeking entrance to her soul, hypnotizing her. Mikayla forced herself to look away as Dejeune’s hushed voice moved on to another canvas.
“The new owners of the chateau were kind enough to contact us when they discovered the paintings were original to Amor. There aren’t many people out there today who would have done the same.”
Mikayla made noises she hoped were of agreement and turned her attention to the landscape next to the portrait. The use of color and the subject of water lilies brought Monet to her mind. “Isn’t this a Monet?” She pointed to the landscape and followed the curve of the brush with her finger.
“You have an excellent eye, Dr. Knight.” Dejeune stepped around the preservationist who was delicately cleaning the canvas. “This one was discovered in London at Buckingham Palace. The Crown Prince just recently purchased it from Prince Charles even though it was one of the paintings stolen during the Allied presence.”
Mikayla walked around him and on to the next artifact, a bronze statue that reminded her of the bronze statue by Leonardo Da Vinci that stood in the park in Grand Rapids, Michigan when she was a child. It was a beautiful piece that shone like velvet in the light. She gently trailed a finger along the bronze and felt the heat of the metal. Bronze always seemed to give off heat instead of the cool one came to expect from metals. It was the statue of a horse, strong, powerful, majestic.
“Beautiful.” She murmured. Beneath her fingertip, she could almost feel the quiver of the muscle of the Thoroughbred it was meant to represent. In her mind’s eye, she could see it run across fields, soar over fences and gullies, and graze lazily in a green field as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. It was peaceful, yet the power of the animal was intimidating.
Dejeune cleared his throat and fidgeted with his tie. He smoothed his sideburns with a fingertip and stroked the silver goatee on his chin “Yes, yes it is. That piece is a reproduction of the original by da Vinci. It was done by the Princess Royale. She is quite an artist.”
He gestured to the door and guided her away from the preservation project into a hall with glass cases and soaring ceilings. The ceilings were painted with images reminiscent of the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican.
“Please, look at some of our most important artifacts.” He led her to the first case and pointed out several crowns and scepters. “These are from the original monarchy. The crown to your left,” he pointed to a crown covered in sapphires and rubies set in silver, “was the crown of our first king, King Henry. He landed on our shores while returning from the Crusades.”
Mikayla peered inside the case. The crown of King Henry sat on a purple satin pillow and winked in the gentle light. Her hands practically itched to touch the silver. It was a m
agnificent example of medieval silver-smithing. “It is very similar to the Crown of Richard I in the British Museum in London.” She glanced at him. “I suspect they are from about the same time period?”
Monsieur Dejeune smiled at her and adjusted his glasses. “Excellent, Mademoiselle. You have placed the timing of the crown’s creation perfectly.” He pulled a key chain from one of the pockets on his vest and inserted a small brass key into the key hole of the case. “King Henry was, in fact, King Richard I of Britain’s third cousin. He was sent on the Fourth Crusade in Richard’s place.” He lifted the glass of the case and carefully lifted the crown from its place on the pillow. He held it out to Mikayla.
Mikayla gingerly took the crown in her hands from Dejeune and examined the fine detailing of the silver. “The craftsmanship is exemplary. I haven’t seen anything to match it, except the crown at the British Museum.” She turned it in her fingertips. Swirls of silver met various precious stones. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and topaz sparkled in the soft lighting of the exhibit room. The stones were set deep into the points of the crown that rose from the main band meant to encircle the most royal of heads. The silver winked in the light, finely polished. Mikayla ran her fingers along the intricate Celtic knots that adored the main band of the crown. It certainly was amazing workmanship, especially since it was at least 900 years old. The preservation was incredible; it looked brand new. She turned the crown carefully in her hands to look at the inside of the crown for a symbol to indicate its silversmith. Inside the band, Mikayla caught a quick glimpse of a design, perhaps scroll work, but more like writing. She turned the crown slightly to get a better view, reading,
The Eye of the Wolf Page 2
