Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Sara did as commanded. He knelt before Raziel and kissed his hand, feigning humility. “I do so agree.”

  “Then, arise, Brother! Arise and begin anew! We must find a form that will allow you access to human blood aplenty for your appetites without alerting the inner circle spies to our activities.” He turned to Alexander Collins. “Doctor, you once mentioned to me that you lack for scientific oversight at your institute. As Trent’s experiments failed to produce a hybrid of superior cognition, an elohim’s knowledge would be welcome, would it not?”

  Collins shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the suggestion. “But Sinclair is already suspicious of us, my lord. Would this not cause him to examine us more closely? I’m happy for the assistance, but I’ve no wish to provide cause for the police to shut us down. The work we’re doing is far too important to the final plan.”

  “So it is,” Raziel agreed. “Very well, I shall place this fellow elsewhere and offer my own knowledge to expand yours.”

  “Thank you, my lord!” Collins grovelled. “I should be pleased to receive any and all help you might offer.”

  Raziel turned to his brother. “What shall we make you, Sara? French? Spanish? American? Sara, have you a preference?”

  “May I be a Scotsman?” Saraqael asked, already plotting how he might destroy Raziel’s plans. “And one with royal blood, I think. A descendent of an ancient king with lands and a title—oh, and lots of influence.”

  “If it pleases, you, but only so long as you do not threaten the Stuarts.”

  “Of course not,” he replied slyly, for it occurred to Saraqael that such a promise allowed a loophole through which he might slither. After all, just what did ‘Stuart’ actually mean? “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “I do. There is a man who exists already, who can provide the perfect vessel for such a deception. To use him as a convincing spy, you must inhabit him rarely and even then, most subtly. He can never know that you are there.”

  “Rather like wearing a human suit,” Contessa di Specchio suggested. “Is this man handsome?”

  “Oh, yes, my dear Serena. He is most handsome indeed!” Raziel assured her, walking through the salon as though he owned it. “And you’ve already met him—in fact, you tried and failed to lure him into your bed several years ago. Twas at a soirée given in Milan hosted by your Cousin Umberto. Shortly after, this Scotsman naively attended a ceremony on the outskirts of Paris, though he fled before the ritual ended. It was then that I marked him for our kind. Therefore, entering him will be a simple matter. But bide your time, Sara, and keep silent. The human must never suspect he is inhabited by you. If you are shrewd, you can infiltrate the inner circle itself.”

  Saraqael’s mouth widened into a smile. “The Stuart scum will think me an ally?” he asked, almost salivating with glee.

  “They will invite you into their homes! You will have access to the inner sanctum, you might say. I’d originally thought to insert myself into this one, but I’ve far too many other matters to attend at the moment, and Samael is at the top of that list. You must vow never to reveal yourself to the Stuarts, but report all their plans and activities to me. The One’s rule stating that we may not enter a blessed house is most irritating and inconvenient, but there are always ways around rules. Clothed in the flesh of one whom the Stuarts trust allows us to circumvent the One, because they will invite you to enter.”

  “And may I feast upon their blood?”

  “Of course not! I’m placing you on staff at a certain hospital in east London. Indigent men and whores aplenty darken those corridors, and no one will notice the deaths of a few, penniless patients.”

  “And my name?”

  “Dr. Anthony Gehlen, who descends from the Stuart line, via James Charles Henry Stuart, the bastard son of Charles the First, whom he sired with a kitchen maid named Maria Watts. The philandering king admitted to fathering the boy, but never made him an heir. He did, however, grant him a noble title and settled upon him one of his many properties, Pencaitland Hall, outside of Edinburgh. Thus, thanks to the adulterous king’s generosity, the commoner maid became the wealthy mother of the 1st Earl of Pencaitland.”

  Sara’s smile became a pout. “Must I descend from a bastard line?”

  “I find it fitting, considering your character, Sara,” Raziel observed. “Mind you, Gehlen’s father is the current title holder, and they are estranged, but when the 10th earl dies, the outcast son will inherit all titles and lands.”

  “And where does this convenient suit of flesh currently abide, my liege?” the rebel asked.

  “In Cumbria, but he will soon receive an invitation to teach at London Hospital’s Medical School in Whitechapel.”

  “Excellent! I shall fly to this Cumbria place and make certain the fool accepts. Do I own property in London, or must I find other accommodations? The Empress Hotel is rather nice, and certainly convenient. I’m sure Madam Hansen would welcome a noble fellow such as myself.”

  Earlier, Clive Urquhart had left the room to clean his soiled trousers in the en suite water closet, and he emerged now, still brushing them with a dry towel. “Did I hear you mention Pencaitland? I’m familiar with this family, my lord. As the son of a Scotsman who had the wisdom to marry a wealthy Frenchwoman, I heard many tales of the nobles of Edinburgh. The Pencaitland earls once had riches beyond compare! If still true, then why is this son involved in medicine at all?”

  Collins entered the debate. “My question exactly, Sir Clive. Can we really trust anything this Gehlen fellow will do? If he can be controlled by you, might he not also be controlled by the other side? I worry about Anatole’s plans. He moves all too easily betwixt worlds, and it’s said that he can take on the appearance of anyone and anything. Should we not deal with him first, before trusting to infiltration? Surely, Prince Anatole will perceive Lord Saraqael’s possession of this Dr. Gehlen and end it. He may even use him to spy upon us!”

  “Silence!” Raziel shouted, his temper short and his eyes turning to flame. “Do you take me for a fool, Doctor? Lord Samael, whom your paltry Round Table calls Anatole Romanov, is far more powerful than you can possibly imagine. Dealing with him, as you so clumsily put it, must be accomplished with great care. It is better to coerce him to our side. We would benefit from his abilities. Sama controls the Bu’idu Flame and the Sword of Enir. His eyes opened even before my own, and his powers and cunning are unsurpassed amongst our kind. Therefore, I choose to overlook his betrayal, but he will not have the chance to betray me again. Samael will have one chance to join us, or he will die at my hand.”

  Saraqael stood in the corner, quietly observing Raziel’s manner and mercurial moods. He could see the inner workings of his brother’s mind, and unlike the mortals present, his keen eyes had noticed a faint light that shimmered above their heads, three inches to the right of the chandelier. A third Watcher had concealed himself as a cherub within the brightly muralled ceiling. Raziel had always assumed himself superior to the others who once guarded the One’s throne, but five thousand years’ imprisonment within the stone of Hermon had weakened him.

  Raziel is wrong about Samael. He will never join us willingly, and he’s too clever to be tricked into sin, Sara reasoned. However, his desire to please the One might prove useful and allow me to rise above Raziel.

  “Anatole is indeed strong, my liege, but let’s forget about the Russian for now. Tell me about this London house of mine.”

  Urquhart smiled broadly. “If I’m not mistaken, Lord Saraqael, there’s a vast estate called Pencaitland Manor in Westminster, and it sits very close to Drummond House.”

  “I shall be the duke’s neighbour?” Saraqael laughed. “That is quite delicious! I look forward to calling on him and introducing myself!”

  Di Specchio poured herself a glass of the altered wine. “It’s as though it was all ordained, is it not? Lord Raziel, let us toast to thi
s new member of the Scottish aristocracy, shall we?”

  Everyone raised a glass of the transformed wine, now an iron-rich composite of human blood. “To the bastard’s descendent, Dr. Anthony Gehlen!” she said. “May he be our Trojan Horse within the castles of the Stuarts!”

  Saraqael raised his glass to toast with his fellow conspirators, but his eyes glanced upwards at the cherub’s face. The painted eyes blinked, and the shimmer faded and then ceased. Anatole Romanov had departed.

  Smiling, the younger Watcher drained his glass.

  “Where is the lovely Madam Hansen? I should like to celebrate with all of her ladies at once. And then, we shall have a game of cards, I think. Raza, have you ever played Calabresella? It is similar to Tresette, but with four players instead of three. I have my own version, which involves punishments for the loser in addition to pleasant rewards for the winners.”

  “It sounds like fun,” the contessa said greedily. “And the punishment?”

  “I shall decide that, based on who loses,” Saraqael answered as the members gathered ‘round one of the tables. “Oh, and did I mention?” he asked in a whisper, his eyes on his brother. “I always win.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  4:09 pm – Sunday afternoon, 25th November

  The busy kitchens of Haimsbury House were amongst the most modern in Westminster, and the two cooks who kept them orderly and efficient could not have been prouder. Three primary kitchens, equipped with ten gas-fired cook stoves, dominated the below-stairs areas on the east side of the enormous mansion. A roasting room jutted out from the primary kitchens, where three open fire hearths with six spits apiece provided ample meats and savouries to hungry guests, which, during the early years of the mansion’s life, had included high profile businessmen, foreign ambassadors, and members of the British royal family. Three enormous, coal-fired boilers provided hot water to the kitchens, and then percolated upwards throughout the house, bringing comfort and heat to twenty-seven apartments, twelve state rooms, six large drawing rooms, four small parlours, four dining halls, a music room, three libraries, a nursery, two studies, three galleries, servants’ quarters, and the largest ballroom in London.

  Molly Anderson was a short, squat woman of fifty-eight who’d served the Duke of Drummond for twenty-seven years. Her younger sister, Katy Paget, had served as head cook for the Earl of Granndach for twelve years, and the two had joined the Haimsbury House staff in a sort of semi-retirement. Paget baked breads and cooked breakfast and luncheon, whilst Anderson prepared supper and made desserts.

  The mansion’s strict housekeeper, Ethel Partridge, had just concluded a long meeting with the newest maids regarding a disciplinary action over immodest communication betwixt the male and female sides of the servants’ floor. As the rather sheepish young ladies filed out of the staff dining hall, Anderson clapped her fleshy hands to command their attention.

  “Look here, girls!” the Scotswoman called. “Do stop and give me your attention for a wee moment before ya return to your tasks. There’s been no formal announcement, but I’m sure most if not all o’ you have heard by now that his lordship awoke yesterday from his twilight sleep.”

  While nearly everyone in the household had heard the wonderful news, two people had not, a new girl named Twila Donovan, who’d been hired as a replacement for the late Gertrude Trumper, and Mrs. Linda Williams, a twenty-four-year-old widow, brought from Branham to supervise the ladies of the master apartment.

  The good news caused the unlined faces of both young women to break into wide smiles. Williams raised her hand. “Might I ask a question, Mrs. Anderson?”

  “O’ course, ye may, dearie. It’s Mrs. Williams, am I right?”

  “Yes, Missus. I was wonderin’ if we’re still to keep the same hours with regards to cleanin’ the master chambers? When his lordship was still asleep and always accompanied by a caregiver, we never had ta worry ‘bout walkin’ in and causin’ a disturbance. In fact, Mrs. Alcorn performed most of our duties whilst teachin’ Bessie and Louisa proper nursing care. Will his lordship remain a patient for a time, or is he now recovered?”

  Anderson, a former battlefield nurse in the Crimea, had spent many an hour’s turn at the marquess’s bedside. The buxom woman answered with conviction. “My dear, it’s premature to think that his lordship has returned to health. He has not. If he’d listen to his doctor, Lord Haimsbury would be abed yet, but he’s a man with a singular purpose to find the duchess, and we cannot begrudge him such a noble quest, now can we?”

  The girl agreed, as did all, but she failed to hear a decisive answer in the cook’s reply. “And does his lordship’s malady mean he might relapse and return to a long sleep? Forgive my askin’, Mrs. Anderson, for I’ve had no nursin’ experience to draw upon, and I worry that we might disturb his lordship during the course of our duties.”

  “I see what you mean, Mrs. Williams. You’re in charge of how many maids?”

  “Six, ma’am.”

  “Is Alicia Mallory about?” Anderson asked.

  The duchess’s lady’s maid had attended the meeting, even though she no longer slept on the servants’ floor, but had taken residence in a small bedchamber near the master apartment. She raised her hand. “I’m here, Mrs. Anderson.”

  “Miss Mallory, you’ve supervised chamber maids at Queen Anne and at Branham, and you know the marquess as well as most. What answer would you offer to Mrs. Williams?”

  The shy young woman stepped forward, clearing her throat before replying. “Well, I do not yet know his lordship all that well, but in the two months since I first had the honour to meet him, he’s struck me as singularly focused. I imagine he and Lord Aubrey will keep long hours, rising early and working late, until my lady is found.”

  Many of the young ladies nodded at this, and several whispered to one another about the ‘handsome earl’. Alicia waited until the clamour died down before continuing. “Yes, the earl is indeed handsome,” she told the younger maids, “but he is also quite gallant and very kind. I spoke with Lord Haimsbury this morning, and I can report that he does not intend to return to bed outside of normal sleeping hours; though, if I may say so, I wish he would. He looks very tired to my eyes, but then, it’s none of my business. But no matter what his lordship chooses, it is our duty to make his life as comfortable as possible, and we must pray that he and Lord Aubrey are successful in bringing my lady home!”

  “Well said, Miss Mallory,” Partridge agreed. “You are a credit to the household, and you speak for all of us.”

  Anderson nodded. “She certainly does. Mrs. Williams, I think the answer is this: Tell your girls, and I hope all are present at the moment, that as our business is to make his lordship comfortable in his own home, then we must all make a practise of knocking upon all the master apartment doors from this day forward. When the duchess is found, and she will be found, our lord and lady will commence their wedded lives together. I’m sure that if any of you ladies had only just married, you’d appreciate a bit of privacy. Am I right?”

  A few of the older girls giggled at this, but the six chars, all under ten years of age, appeared perplexed. “What does that mean, Missus?” asked eight-year-old Sarah Blundt.

  “I’ll explain it later,” Williams told the girl.

  Anderson and Partridge exchanged amused glances just as Esther Alcorn entered the kitchens alongside Mary Wilsham. Alcorn wore a modest day dress of midnight blue but no apron, and her greying hair was braided and wound about her head.

  “Did I miss a meeting?” she asked Partridge.

  Wilsham appeared somewhat uncomfortable. “I reckon we’re interruptin’. Mayhap we should go, Mrs. Alcorn.”

  “Not at all!” Partridge insisted. “You’re just in time. How is Lord Haimsbury, Mrs. Alcorn?”

  “Better, but stubborn as ever,” Esther replied with a wink. “I wonder, as most of the ladies are down here already, might w
e gather and pray for his lordship and also ask the Lord to bring our little duchess home?”

  Katy Paget had said little, for she’d been supervising a team of four kitchen maids and two sculleries. “I think that’s a grand idea, Mrs. Alcorn,” the buxom cook said, wiping her brow with a bare hand. “But before we start, do we know how many will be comin’ to this meetin’ the duke has arranged? I was told no more than twelve, but I keep hearing that number may treble, now that the marquess is awake.”

  “No one seems to know the exact time or number, Mrs. Paget,” Alcorn replied. “Mr. Baxter can give you a full accounting once his footmen return from making their calls, but whenever the circle members met at Branham, we’d sometimes have thirty or more. Mostly men, and all with great appetites. Generally, though, they prefer food that might be eaten quickly. They mainly come together for prayer and making plans, though the food’s always appreciated. Men think better when their stomachs do not grumble. Especially, Scottish men.”

  Paget, a sunny-spirited woman of fifty-three, laughed merrily, her green eyes practically disappearing behind palpebral arcs of freckled flesh. “Aye, tis true. I’ve seen the duke tuck into a meal with the relish of an ant come upon a basket o’ bread and jam! We’ll make certain there’s plenty. We’ve three roasts goin’ next door, and pies bakin’ as well. The dough for tomorrow mornin’s loaves is finished and risin’ in the larder. All’s well. How did his lordship seem ta you, if I might ask? Will he be able ta eat with the others, or should I keep a pot o’ broth goin’?” she asked as she demonstrated how to knead dough to a former char, now learning kitchen skills. “Not too quick now, Sadie. Easy does it.”

  Alcorn smiled at the pretty picture of the girl’s hands in the soft dough. “Lord Haimsbury likes his toast sliced thick, Sadie. And I’m pleased to say that he looks much better today. I’d not want him out of bed if he were my patient, but he’s always struck me as a man of fierce energy and drive. It’ll be a chore ta keep him resting, that’s for sure. Mary,” she said to Wilsham, “let’s find chairs and begin praying, shall we?”