A familiar voice spoke from the open doorway. It was Romanov’s. “Brona, you may leave us.”
Henry glanced up. “She’s worse. I take it Miss Ross found you?”
“Not really. I heard Elizabeth cry out and left off my errands to return immediately,” the Russian replied mysteriously.
Prince Anatole Romanov wore elegant evening attire, and a black cape lined in red silk crossed his left shoulder. He looked as though he’d just returned from an evening at the theatre.
“I fear she’s developing pneumonia,” Henry told him wearily, “but there is something more. Another malady that defies explanation. Though still unconscious, her hands keep clutching at her abdomen. It’s possible she’s in pain, and this caused her to scream, but I’m confounded as to what’s causing it.”
“Contractions?” Romanov asked as he laid the cape across the back of the curved sofa.
MacAlpin stared at the Russian. “Why would you use that term, sir? Most would call it a pang or pain. Contraction is specific and implies something altogether different.”
“I use the word, because it is correct,” Anatole answered. “Understand that this must not be discussed outside this room. You must promise me, Lord Salperton.”
“Of course, I promise. How many times must I tell you that my patient’s welfare is my only concern? I’ve done everything you asked of me, and still it seems you place little trust in my promises. Are you telling me that she is with child?”
“I am saying precisely that,” Romanov answered flatly.
Henry’s expression darkened into one of accusation. “Then she is your mistress, and this is your child! I’d assumed as much when you called upon me with your strange story. And this explains why you’ll allow no one to reveal her whereabouts! Does her husband know? I rather think he does not.”
Anatole did not smile, but neither did he frown. His face revealed no emotion at all; no hint of his thoughts. “She is not my mistress, Lord Salperton, nor will she ever be. Even if I considered engaging in a physical relationship, which I would not, Elizabeth is deeply in love with her husband. Lord Haimsbury is the father, and he is aware of her condition, as are the inner circle’s core members.”
“Inner circle?”
“Yes,” he answered, his strange eyes filled with worry. He placed a hand on her abdomen, holding it there for a moment. “Someone is trying to cause a miscarriage.”
“Someone? What the devil do you mean by that odd comment?”
“Devil is descriptively accurate,” Romanov answered. “I may be able to counteract their assault,” he continued, his hand moving across her body.
“Do you mind?” Salperton insisted, removing the prince’s hand. “I’d like to assess her condition for myself.”
“Of course,” the other said, walking away from the bed.
The physician pushed gently on her abdomen, his expert hands palpating the area, determining the roundness, position, and elasticity of the uterus. “I’d say twelve weeks, perhaps thirteen. Is that right?”
“Seven, actually,” the elohim declared.
“No, it cannot be seven. The abdomen is too round for that. Twelve is more likely right. Fourteen at the outside.”
“It is forty-nine days precisely,” Romanov declared.
Salperton stared, his dark eyes round. “If you know the precise date she conceived, it implies that you were there, sir, which means you participated. Ergo, you are the father!”
“I am not,” the prince said simply. “However, I do know when she conceived. The eighth of October in Scotland.”
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that?”
“Because I was there.”
“You speak in riddles!”
“No, I speak plain truth.”
Henry wanted to throw something at his host, but he managed to avoid it by clenching his fists. “Even if I believed you, she is clearly more than seven weeks pregnant. Unless...”
The prince waited, allowing the truth to seed itself into the human’s mind. “Yes? You’re nearly there.”
“How can you know?” MacAlpin asked. “Is it even possible?”
“I know because I can sense the life inside her, and it is entirely possible. It is the beautiful spark of the One. His breath arises from the moment of conception. There are two lives growing within her body. Two unborn children that will die, if we do not bring her home. See to her needs first, and then, you and I shall talk,” the Russian replied. “Oh, before I commenced with my other activities tonight, I paid a call to your clinic. Your new resident patient, Mrs. Crossfield, was about to jump out of her second storey window. I convinced her that life is too precious to waste. Your nurse soon settled her into bed.”
“You called at my home and dared speak to one of my patients, without consulting me first?” MacAlpin asked in irritation. This entire business had begun to grate upon the independent thinker. The viscount hadn’t yet decided whether or not Romanov could be trusted.
Is the duchess safe here? Is the Russian lying? Should I remove her to Montmore, or better yet take her home to her husband?
“The marquess mustn’t know Elizabeth’s whereabouts. Not yet,” the Russian said, reading the other man’s thoughts.
A soft step caught their attention. Ross entered quietly, a decanter of brandy in her hand. “The wine, sir. Forgive the delay. I had trouble locating it.”
“Thank you, Ida. Pour some into a glass and then dip one corner of this into the liquid,” the physician ordered, handing her his handkerchief. When he’d taken the brandy-soaked cloth from Ross, the viscount touched it to Elizabeth’s lips, pressing just enough to force a little of the strong wine into her mouth. “That will be all, Miss Ross. Thank you.”
Ida departed, curtsying to Romanov before closing the door. The prince sat upon the soft bed’s edge. “She is all alone and terrified,” he told Salperton. “She grows weaker.”
“She is not alone,” Henry argued. “Why would you say so?”
“Because it’s true. Her screams are caused by hideous demons outside this room. Outside this world.”
“I imagine the duchess is dreaming. Fevers often cause nightmares.”
“Hardly,” Anatole said, kissing her hand. “A tormentor has come, and he breaks her will with lies. She calls for her husband, but the marquess cannot rescue her. However, you can.”
“What do you mean, I can rescue her? Medically?”
“How strong is your faith, Henry? How firm your convictions? Would you risk being pulled into a nightmare beyond all imagining to provide her an escape?”
“Your words make no sense,” he complained.
“Of course, they do. Touch her hand.”
“I’ve done little else!” the Scotsman shouted.
Henry closed his eyes, trying to think through the fog of frustration and fatigue. He’d slept very little since arriving on Monday night, and his usual good temper had worn thin.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but since you brought me to this strange castle, you have continually made wild statements that make no sense whatsoever! This haunted palace is little more than a realm of ghosts, and I begin to wonder if I’ve dreamt it all!”
“We are hardly ghosts, Henry. When the duchess has returned, then I shall be pleased to introduce you to our company, but until then...”
“Returned? Returned how, sir? What the devil do you mean by such a peculiar word? She is unconscious, not on a journey!”
“You know better than that. I told you that she is in need of rescue. Will you offer it or not?”
Since the loss of his mother, Henry had never expected to find another woman who deserved all the beauty that life might offer, but if ever such a woman lived, then surely the Duchess of Branham was she. It made no sense, but he felt as if he knew her. Had always known her, as though
they were connected in a profound way.
“How?”
“By believing in things your eyes cannot see.”
“I don’t understand. Yes, I’ve come to realise that you are no mere mortal, but for all I know, I’m hallucinating all of this from a cot inside my own sanitarium! Perhaps, you are the ghost who inhabits this phantom castle, and the residents here nothing more than your fellow spirits. I may even be dead!”
“You do not believe that,” Romanov said simply. “I am not a ghost. I am an elohim, and my abilities are beyond mortal man’s comprehension.”
“Then, if you are so very powerful, why do you not rescue her yourself? It’s clear to any man with eyes that you love her, sir! If you are able, then bring her home!”
The entity grew quiet, his ice-blue eyes still. “It is not permitted.”
“Hang permission, Romanov! If she’s in danger, as you claim, then use your powers to help!”
“It is not for me to explain my reasons to you, Henry. Don’t you understand? This is why I chose you as her physician. Your blood helps you to see our kind, because it connects you to the spirit realm. It is this which allows her to hear your voice.”
“My voice?”
“Yes, but we must hurry. Though, time does not exist in Sebet Babi, it does exist here. The duchess’s body and mind weaken, and soon the fever will overtake her and cause her to miscarry.”
Henry felt thoroughly inadequate to the task, but he could not allow Elizabeth or her unborn twins to suffer further harm.
“Very well. I believe you. I’ve no choice but to believe you. If she needs rescue, then I’ll do my best to offer it. What must I do?” he asked, his mind made up.
“You must show her the way back.”
He mentally steeled himself. “How?”
“By speaking to her. It will bring you great danger. Are you willing?”
“Of course. I will not leave her there, but first, allow me to prepare. I don’t suppose you have a Bible?”
“I have many. The Geneva, Wycliffe, Tyndale, King James. Also, the Septuagint, if you read Greek; Vulgate, should you prefer Latin. There are numerous, original scrolls in my personal library. Which do you prefer? Shall I send Vasily to fetch one, or all of them?”
Salperton managed half a smile, his right brow arched as he considered the absurdity of the situation. A creature calling himself an elohim had just offered him original scrolls from the Bible to rescue a duchess from a spiritual prison!
“That won’t be necessary, Your Highness. The King James will do nicely.”
Anatole left the room briefly and returned carrying a very large book. It was over five inches thick, and its wooden cover was sheathed in dark leather. Each corner had metal reinforcements that looked like bright gold. Two closures of the same shining metal held the covers shut.
“Is this a reproduction?” Salperton asked as he took the beautiful book into both hands. “I’ve never seen its like. It reminds me of an antique edition in my Uncle Andrew’s collection. My uncle is a rather smug fellow. Thinks he’s smarter than anyone else, and I suspect he collects Bibles as one collects art, seeing them not for their spiritual value, but because they are pretty and might fetch a fine price one day.” He lifted it, whistling. “It’s quite heavy, isn’t it? Twenty pounds or more, I’d say.”
“Thirty and one ounce,” the prince informed his guest.
Henry unsnapped the closures to look inside. “This is incredible! I’ve never seen a copy with water-coloured drawings before. This looks almost like an original, but it cannot be; though, whoever made it knows his art. The paper is rag linen, like my uncle’s 1648 copy, but the print is too clear and bold to be original, and the colours on the binding too bright. The metal looks as though it was added just this morning, and it’s fine gold. Surely the original closures were brass, don’t you think?”
“This edition is one of a kind,” the elohim replied, touching the beautiful book’s spine. “The printer, Robert Barker, handed it to me one week before he delivered the finished volume to King James. I hired a team of reformist monks to add colourised illumination to the woodcuts as well as each chapter’s initial capital.”
Salperton set the thick volume upon the bed. “Like the old Bibles copied by the Catholics. Well, it is magnificent,” Henry said, admiringly. “Wait, did you say that the printer handed it to you, himself? Before he delivered it to the king?”
“I am old, Lord Salperton. Very old. Older than you could possibly imagine. Which passage do you search for?”
“Psalm Twenty-Three. My mother loved that psalm. She had me memorise it as a boy. It’s a trifle embarrassing, but I asked for the Bible because I like to feel the page beneath my fingers whenever trouble comes my way. It’s a strange custom, I know, but the child’s notion still lingers in the man.”
Romanov waved his hand, and the handcrafted pages turned on their own, fanning past, through books of creation, history, prophecy, and poetic beauty. The paginated ballet stopped abruptly when it reached the Twenty-Third Psalm.
“That’s quite a trick,” the viscount said, more to hide his own hammering heart than to make a joke. He placed his palm across the page and shut his eyes. Henry had done this hundreds of times in his life, but to his shock, this time, the page grew warm beneath his skin. He could feel the words move into his bloodstream, becoming part of him, entering his very soul. The sensation straightened his back and strengthened his heart.
“I’m ready,” he told Romanov. “What do I do now?”
“You begin by leaving behind all that you think you know and crossing into the realm of the impossible. The Valley of the Shadow of Death is a real place, Henry, and you are about to enter it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Time unknown - Sebet Babi
Elizabeth awoke to find herself lying upon the hard floor of the cottage. In this nightmare land, she wore only a white silk chemise—the last item of clothing left to her, when Trent had ripped away all else in order to force himself on her. Only now, did Beth notice that the silk undergarment was torn. Raziel’s trance had left her dazed, struggling to recall where she was for a moment. The one clear memory was of Charles Sinclair’s face. Still foggy, she couldn’t remember his departure, but knew he’d been with her previously. To her dismay, she could find him nowhere.
“Captain, where are you? I’m sure you were here. Where is this place?” she asked aloud, struggling to connect half a dozen thoughts into a consistent pattern. The gargoyles’ attack had left her weak and confused. The duchess coughed as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She paused a few seconds to catch her breath, and then used the bedstead to gain her feet. She wore no shoes, and the rough boards against her tender soles helped to tether her to reality.
“I must keep moving,” she said out loud, still speaking to her departed husband. “Charles, I don’t know how, but for the sake of our children, I will find my way back to you, my love.”
It took a series of starts and stops before she reached the main room. The fire had nearly died, and the coals glowed a reddish orange. Hoping to stoke it higher, Beth searched the room for a wood box, but found none.
“Charles, why am I so cold?” she asked her absent husband. She moved to the window. The unnatural birds still kept watch on the refuge, but they’d left the woods and formed a series of circles, beginning at the edge of the gravel yard. Their formations reminded Elizabeth of something she’d seen before, but what? She estimated their numbers to be in the thousands, perhaps ten thousand. Each birdlike creature stood as high as a man, some even taller. Their eyes never blinked, and their colour ranged from dull yellow to crimson red. It seemed to Beth that they communicated, for occasionally one would listen for a moment, its head tilted to the side, and then move to a different place, as though following orders from an unseen commander.
“It’s an army,” she sa
id aloud. “Charles, why would they be forming into ranks unless they mean to attack? I know nothing about military manouevres. Oh, I wish Paul were here! He knows all about these things. Why didn’t I pay closer attention when he used to talk of them?”
A series of whispers floated upon the cold night air, as though the avian soldiers were discussing a report or rumour. Then, the foremost circle of creatures parted in a specific place, followed by the next, and then the one beyond that. This continued within each concentric circle of birdmen. Only then did Elizabeth recognise the pattern.
“It’s the stone maze come to life!” she gasped. “Charles, they’ve formed into the same shapes as the gated maze. There’s something else, though. Something new is happening towards the very back. It’s quite strange to watch. The circles of birds are rotating in alternating directions. I think they’re aligning themselves to form an opening for something. Or someone.”
She glanced up at the unyielding night sky, and only then did the duchess notice that the moon had disappeared. “Where has it gone? The moon! It’s been here the entire time, like some sickly thing, but now it’s vanished, Captain!”
Elizabeth ran to the back of the cottage, nearly stumbling on the torn hem of her chemise. A tiny window on the far side of the bed allowed her to glimpse a different portion of the sky and grounds. Sure enough, the moon was nowhere to be discovered. However, she could see inky shadows flying against the cloudless vault—a legion of birdmen with wings that looked harsh and broad, more bats than ravens. These criss-crossed the airspace over the cottage like a company of hateful spies, growing ever nearer as they spiralled towards the solitary refuge.
“Duchess,” a voice whispered. “Can you hear me?”
Beth heard the voice, but did not trust it. “Leave me alone! Stop trying to trick me!”
“Please, Your Grace, I mean you no harm. I only want to help. Can you find me? I’ve no idea if you can even see me, but follow the sound of my voice.”
What new torture is this? she wondered. “If Raziel has sent you, then you’ll not find me so easily fooled. Go away!”
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