“Guten Morgen, ma’am,” greeted a German woman. “I am looking for a Miss Jessamine Fairchild? I wrote to her some weeks ago.”
Curious, Pierce got dressed and headed downstairs.
“You must be the one she has been waiting to hear from,” Eilidh guessed, stepping aside. “Please, do come in.”
“I apologize for my unannounced visit,” the visitor said, entering. “But you see—”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Pierce gasped when he reached the bottom stair. “It can’t be.”
The woman looked over at him and her jaw dropped. “Pierce?”
He stood, gaping for a long moment before he found his voice again. “Fr . . . Frederica?”
Chapter Seventeen
It’s Not as Simple as That
The very sight of her turned Pierce into a wet-behind-the ears youth again.
Frederica Katz—his savior and trusted friend. Frederica Katz, the lass who’d risked her life in giving a seventeen-year-old boy sanctuary when General Volker Jäger and his soldiers were hunting for him in Hamburg.
His legs nearly buckled as he walked toward her.
“It is you,” he uttered in disbelief.
She looked just as shocked and stood frozen in place. Neither of them could believe it until they held each other’s hands. Her touch caused that unforgettable tug to stir inside him. The same urge he felt from the very moment she found him hiding inside the theater’s dressing room so many years ago.
He was unable to stop smiling. “You’re actually bloody here.”
“I am. And so are you.”
Frederica was four years older than he, but she was just as ravishing in her thirties as she was in her early twenties. Not a wrinkle etched her charming face, and her silvery eyes shone just as brightly as he remembered. A bonnet covered her head, but he noticed her long hair, braided over her shoulder, still held its radiance.
He was so completely swept away by her presence that he failed to notice someone else stepping inside.
“Pierce,” said Frederica, “let me introduce you to my son, Kolt.”
Pierce shook himself out of the moment and set his sights on the young lad. He looked no older than Clover and had blond hair like his mother but only darker, as well as her light grey eyes. He wore a Baskerville coat left unbuttoned to show off his handsome duds underneath. A black tailcoat and blue vest with paisley designs, black britches, and a button-down, white linen shirt.
Kolt bowed formally to Pierce and said in a thick German accent, “How do you do, sir?”
“Kolt, I want you to meet a very dear friend of mine, Pierce Landcross.”
The youth straightened up with a bewildered expression. “You are the one my mother has come to speak to Miss Fairchild about?”
“I reckon so?” he guessed while looking at Frederica with an arched eyebrow.
She looked back bashfully. “It’s true,” she admitted before turning to Eilidh. “I apologize, madam, for my rudeness. I am Frederica Katz.”
“I gathered,” Eilidh quipped as she shut the door. “I am Eilidh Norwich, wife of Archie Norwich. Allow me to fetch the person you have traveled all this way to see.”
As she left, Frederica turned her focus back on Pierce. “Do you live here?”
“Pardon?” This unlikely event still had him off balance. “No. No, I no longer live in England. My wife and I live far from here.”
“I read about your marriage to the Russian woman, Taisia. I saw the photograph of her. She’s very lovely, Pierce.”
He touched Taisia’s wedding ring, feeling the twinge of longing in his chest.
“Cheers,” he said as Frederica began taking off her coat. “Here, let me take your coat and we’ll sit and have a chat, eh?”
He helped her out of her coat and hung it up as she and Kolt went into the den.
Pierce noticed Frederica’s wedding band when he joined them.
“Who’s the lucky gent who took your hand in marriage?” he asked.
Frederica laughed as she claimed a seat on the couch with her son. “Oskar Brune.”
“Oskar?” Pierce repeated, taking a seat on the armchair across from them. “The stagehand?”
“Ja. We married some months after you left. Shortly afterward, we were blessed with our wonderful son.”
Pierce looked over at him. He sat like the proper gentlemen he had obviously been taught to be. His blushing cheeks, however, revealed his embarrassment, which wasn’t hard to achieve in a teenager.
“Kolt turned sixteen last September,” she announced proudly.
“Mother, please,” the lad bleated.
“And you came here to talk about—?” Pierce began when Frederica interrupted.
“To talk about you and me, and our time together? Ja. I saw the ad in the papers, and so, I sent Miss Fairchild letters in response. There was, after all, a large gap between what happened between you and your brother and when you became a smuggler in France.”
His cheeks flushed as he recalled those private moments shared between him and Frederica down in the basement of the Imperial Theater. None of the novels had described any of his love affairs in detail, yet he still didn’t fancy the idea of having his intimate moments laid out for all to read, even if they were whitewashed to meet Victorian literature standards.
“Erm, how much are you planning to disclose about us?”
She gave him a critical look. “The appropriate amount.”
He sighed with relief. “Splendid, ’cause Jessamine is really—”
“Mrs. Katz?” called Clover from the bottom of the stairs.
Everyone stood.
“Yes?” Frederica responded.
“Hello,” Clover greeted her while approaching. “I’m Clover Norwich—pseudonym name Jessamine Fairchild.”
“A child?” Frederica whispered.
“Don’t mistake her, darling,” Pierce remarked. “She’s a very skilled writer.”
Clover was dressed in a gown that had a few buttons unbuttoned at the collar and her hair was in a sloppy ponytail. Perhaps she had been in a rush to get ready when Eilidh told her about her visitor. Kolt turned pale. Pierce was unsure if he was travel weary or love stricken. Considering Clover’s breathtaking appearance, he reckoned it was instant attraction.
Clover, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice Kolt at all as she walked by him and went straight to Frederica.
Clover was flabbergasted. “I . . . I can’t believe it. Oh, my. It’s Frederica Katz!”
“You know her?” Pierce asked.
“Of course, I do,” Clover answered. “She is only one of the most famous actresses in all of Europe.”
Pierce raised his brows. “Really?”
Frederica charmed the room with her glamorous smile. “It has been a long climb, but, yes, I have finally achieved success and become a modest celebrity.”
“More like a sensation,” Clover put in. “I can’t believe you came here in person. Was it you who wrote to me recently?”
“It was. I’m performing in a play in London next week, so I decided to visit you instead of writing letters.” Frederica looked over at Pierce. “And I’m so very glad I did.”
“Then you must stay, please,” Clover begged. “If you could spare the time, that is. I must go to the bank first, but that should not take more than an hour.”
“You can do that another day, love,” Pierce said. “No worries.”
Pierce could sense that Clover was itching to interview Frederica. And with Frederica there, Pierce really wouldn’t mind an extra day to catch up with her.
“I must go today, for it’s the day before the weekend,” Clover explained. “I won’t be able to retrieve the money for three days after that. Besides, I’d rather have it done and over with.”
“You can use our carriage,” Kolt offered. When everyone eyed him, he suddenly became shy. “That is, if you do not object, my lady.”
“It would take time for the servant to hitch up the horse on o
urs,” Clover admitted. “I thank you, Mr. Katz.”
Kolt clasped his hands behind him and bowed slightly to her. “My pleasure, Miss Norwich.”
Pierce switched his focus to Frederica, who was grinning at the display.
“I shall go freshen up and be on my way,” Clover stated. “Please, make yourselves at home.”
The young girl rushed away and up the stairs. After she was gone, everyone took his or her seats again.
“Why must she dash off to the bank?” Frederica inquired.
“She is giving me my cut of the profits for her book sales. I need it to give to the Sea Warriors so they can repair their ship and get us home.”
“Repair their ship? What happened?”
Pierce really did not care to go into the whole bloody story again. “I’ll tell you later. Are you both hungry? I can see what’s in the kitchen?”
“No, thank you. We had breakfast at the hotel in Reading, where we are staying until our departure for London tomorrow.”
“Where are you living nowadays?”
“I still live in Hamburg. We sailed on my private ferry to Southampton, and that ferry will meet us in London Harbor after my show.”
“A private ferry, eh? You have come up in the world. Where is Oskar, then? Why isn’t he here?”
Frederica’s expression turned grim. “He died when Kolt was eleven years old. It was a hunting accident.”
Pierce’s mouth dropped open. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry to hear that, darling. He was a good sort.”
“Ja,” she agreed, fixing a smile under her sad eyes. “He was—very much so.” Her smile became genuine as she continued. “He confessed to me that he didn’t expect you’d go through with dressing like a woman when you were escaping the theater. When you did, he thought it was the most amusing thing he had ever seen.”
“Did he now?” Pierce grunted. “I can honestly say he had fun with it, that’s for sure.”
Frederica laughed. “I think he did it out of spite.”
Pierce was confused and was about to ask when Archie and Eilidh came downstairs.
“Would you care for something to drink?” Eilidh offered her two guests. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Oh, ja. Coffee would be wonderful.” Frederica slipped off her calf-skin gloves. “Please, allow me to help you.”
After introductions between Archie, Frederica, and Kolt were made, Frederica left with Eilidh for the kitchen while Archie walked Clover outside to the carriage.
“Let me tell our driver he is taking you into town, Fräulein,” Kolt called, dashing after them.
Pierce and Frederica caught up over coffee and tea. While breakfast cooked, Hugh clomped about in Pierce’s boots.
Pierce went upstairs to the water closet to wash up. In the impressive lavatory, complete with interior plumbing, Pierce washed his face at the sink and dried it before opening the door to leave.
He stepped over the threshold and out onto a road.
A gusty fall wind blew over him, snapping him out of his shock. He knew this road. He’d traveled it only the day before. Looking behind, he saw no washroom or the house he’d been standing in, only the road and the woods surrounding it. A gunshot blast was followed by screaming.
“Help!” someone cried.
That voice sounded painfully familiar, and as he ran toward it, his fears were realized.
“Clover!” he shouted, picking up his pace despite the fact that his feet were padded only by socks.
Clover ran for her life. Behind her, the stagecoach driver lay dead. A pair of masked highwaymen on horseback were riding after her.
“Someone, help me!”
A highwayman aimed his pistol at her. By then, Pierce was so close he could clearly see her tears streaming down from her bloodshot eyes. He reached her just before a shot rang out. She arched her back and collapsed onto him, vanishing into dust, as did everything else around him. He stood in the hall with his arms out.
Hugh was standing in front of him, still wearing his boots. “Are you all right?”
Pierce eyed the boy. “I need my boots, lad.”
He gathered his pistol from the guestroom and thundered down the stairs, screaming, “Arch!”
Archie came out of the kitchen as Pierce swung open the front door.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Grab your gun and come with me,” Pierce ordered, rushing out.
Pierce ran to the barn out back where his horse had been stabled and grabbed a set of reins.
“What in God’s name is going on, Landcross?” Archie demanded, stepping in with his rifle.
“Here,” Pierce said, tossing the reins to him. “Your sister is in danger.”
“Wait? How do you know that?”
Pierce quickly slipped the bit into his horse’s mouth and then mounted it. “Trust me, mate. C’mon, get crackin’.”
Pierce rode out of the barn and onto the thoroughfare, riding the horse bareback, which he hadn’t done since his days in Sonora. Soon, Archie was riding alongside him.
In no time, they reached the carriage as the highwaymen rode out from behind the trees.
“Stand and deliver!” one demanded, aiming his gun at the driver.
“Oi!” Pierce shouted, raising his weapon.
He fired off a potshot to scare them. It worked, and the highwaymen fired off a shot of their own before retreating into the woods. Pierce and Archie reached the carriage where the coachman was clutching his chest.
“Are you all right, ol’ boy?” Pierce asked him.
“Aye, fine, fine,” the coachman assured him in between deep breaths. “I thought me days were numbered.”
You have no idea, Pierce thought.
He rode over to the edge of the trees, making sure the highwaymen were gone.
“Clover!” Archie cried out, dismounting beside the carriage.
“Archie!” she yelled, opening the door.
When Pierce decided it was safe, he steered his horse around to the siblings, who were embracing. He sadly realized he shouldn’t have come to them. Now, it seemed, he had put them in danger, as well.
There were no shortcuts on this trip, and he was a fool to believe otherwise.
Chapter Eighteen
When Do We Depart?
Ron Wakefield anxiously waited for the end of the trip. A homebody by nature, he rather disliked leaving his home on the Isles of Scilly. He only ventured out on special occasions, and this was a special occasion, indeed. If this worked as Mother of Craft had promised, they would both become a true force of power.
Nothing like this had been attempted since the extinction, but Ron trusted Mother of Craft based on what he knew about her past life. She had found him years before she was reborn as Freya. It was some time after she had left the Gypsies that she’d initially came to him in the flesh. He was a very young man, then. She explained about the nymph she used to be, and that she had chosen him to help carry out her plan. He’d sensed right away that this could be something.
He reached over to stroke his dog atop his head. He’d lost his other companion, Sunflower, to old age and after Sunflower’s death, he decided to challenge his own abilities. Years prior, Freya and her daughter, Vela, had visited him at his home. Before they left, Freya gave him one of the most powerful spells ever created. The Life-bringing Spell. To be able to create a life from practically nothing was tremendous, to say the least. Deities had done so in the past, creating living characters to make their own written stories true. Ron had spent years with Miss Bates, practicing the spell. It was written in a dead language of the gods, and it needed to be recited perfectly if it was going to work. When Ron succeeded in bringing life to the mutt, Archimedes, he became confident he was ready.
The Life-bringing Spell was required to pull together the greatest force known to ancient mankind—and soon, modern mankind!
Pierce Landcross was the only real obstacle left to kill. That had proven more difficult than Mother of Craft anticipated
, thanks to Landcross’s blasted luck and the protection spell cast over him. Despite disarming the grandmother, Landcross remained alive. If only Miss Bates could kill him indirectly, but the rules of the Priest forbid it, and Ron, himself, was unable to break the protection spell over Landcross.
It mattered not. They had come to a critical junction, for the children would soon meet for the first time.
So long as the boy arrived on time, that is.
At long last, the carriage reached the cottage. Ron got out and sent the driver on his way.
“Hello, Mr. Wakefield,” greeted Vela Bates, who answered the door. “Mother said you would be arriving today.”
Vela had turn eighteen some months ago. She was tall and as shapeless as a matchstick. Her rare violet eyes, so similar to her mother’s, always glittered. It seemed, though, that she was beginning to favor her late father’s features. She wore a black and white dress, and her red hair hung freely down to her waist. The dog yipped, and she petted him.
“Miss Bates,” Ron greeted, taking off his hat and handing it to her.
Although they remained polite to each other, Ron was aware that Vela thought he was as dull as the grey skies outside. Her opinion mattered little to him, however. She was merely a tool delicately bred for a single purpose.
“Mother is in the garden,” she announced, hanging his hat on the coat rack.
“Thank you.”
He cut through the house and went out the rear door, where he found Miss Bates standing at the edge of her garden, looking over the restless silver and white ocean beyond.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wakefield,” she said without turning to him.
He was not in the least surprised that she knew who it was. Enchanters always sensed the presence of others.
“I do hope your travel was comfortable.”
“You know me, Miss Bates. I hate traveling.”
She snorted. “Yes. I am aware of that about you.”
She turned to him. Her complexion looked washed out, and beads of sweat dewed her skin. Mother of Craft appeared as though she had come down with a terrible illness, yet her purple irises had a fire inside them, and her grin spilt her face wickedly.
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