With every care, Hazel donned a hat and covered herself in a coat. She slipped a penknife up one sleeve, and placed a boot on each foot. A box was placed in a pouch and slung around her waist. She crept down the stairs (skipping the boards which creaked) and unfastened the bolts of the front door painstakingly slow. Hazel noticed, once the door was closed, London, despite the chill, was starting to brace itself for revelries. The Night Watch with dour capes and black hats stomped in the lantern-lit streets. As Hazel slinked along keeping to as much shadow as she could, she noticed the Watch were avoiding the more notorious alleys on purpose. With a thrill inside her, Hazel ran the last few metres to The White Rose. It was a crooked building with crooked patronage. It was the only pub (so it boasted) in London where everyone became as equals once inside, high or low, foreign or local. It treated everyone with the same sullen indifference. At first Hazel hated sneaking from home to go to the Rose. In time, her curiosity had outstripped what cowardice she felt. She enjoyed a relationship with one gentleman who had treated her with respect from the first evening they met. Pipe smoke vented into the night air as she swung the entrance open with both hands. Hazel braced herself for the quiet that would always fall as all eyes shifted to see who was entering. As the din returned, she spied him seated in a nook away from others. The man looked up; a red glow in his eyes burning themselves into her.
‘Hello Hazel,’ he croaked as he pulled a pipe away from his mouth.
She spun both ways to observe the rest of the tavern before greeting Percy with a curtsey. He in turn, raised his smoothed eyebrows and slicked his greying hair back. A man of this importance wouldn’t meet alone. She looked over his shoulder; his escorts observed her. She sat, expectant, and removed her hat. Hazel always enjoyed her talks with the old man, but preferred a polite distance. She noticed his pipe return to his blackened lips. The skin on his tobacco stained fingers seemed to crackle as he moved them.
‘Hazel my dear, how are you? How have you been?’
‘In good health,’ said Hazel.
‘Excellent, better than mine, I hope. Let me see the cards–I need your gifts in these troublesome times.’
‘Of course.’
She removed the box from her pouch and set it down on the rickety table. From the box she shuffled a pack of illustrated cards. She looked up while doing so. Percy was focussed on the tarot, as per usual. His old eyes darted as she flipped them between one another and dealt seven in a horseshoe. She turned the first.
‘The Tower,’ she said. ‘It signifies upheaval. A bad omen to start with. Something went awry in the past - an event beyond your control.’ Hazel raised an eyebrow.
Their deal, since Mr Percy had found her drinking alone and asked what she could do for him (in jest), was money in exchange for a reading. Hazel realised not before long that her readings must have been coming true for the old man, as he kept returning to meet her, the same time, the same night, each and every week. She would turn over cards until he nodded satisfied and left her a note. Tonight, felt different. Hazel revealed the second.
‘The Fool reversed. The wanderer. A time of risk–taking and recklessness, unwilling to accept the unexpected. This is your present situation–the status quo.'
Percy grunted. He pulled on his knuckles and stared at Hazel for the next card. If she were the old man's friend, she would judge him to be on the brink of an episode.
‘The Empress, the hidden influence in your life–unusual it would appear for you. It's also reversed, which means ill: a lack of stability or harmony with others–doubt.'
'There's certainly doubt in my enterprise,’ he relied, pipe extinguished.
‘The next is the Hanged Man. An immediate challenge in your life, it can mean good, transformation and change. Sacrifice for something of greater value.’
'The cards are saying I should stay my course?'
Hazel ignored the question with a motion. She continued, and flipped over the fifth card. ‘The Priestess–it represents the environment around you, duality, divinity, duty.'
Percy removed the ashes in his pipe and stood. ‘This has been more than enough. Fate takes too much of me, and gives too little,' he placed a banknote onto the table, to which Hazel quickly hid.
Her heart sank as Turner bid her good evening and left. She sat alone, her reading unfinished. If Mr Percy was not interested it was serious indeed. She decided to reveal the last two cards to herself. Next was The Star, his guidance, the best path: balance, serenity, and fulfilment. She hesitated before revealing the last card. Her fingers shook as she held it. It was his future, the cornerstone; an aggregate for all others. It was the card that showed what will be.
It was The Serpent.
The Serpent
The next day, after a fitful night’s rest, Alex took a moment to gather his thoughts in the half–light of the morning. The conversation with Cyrus from the night previous disturbed him. Cyrus told him of Isolde and her machinations against Turner and his syndicate, the very Tower he had grew up in. Alex did not show how foolish he had felt inside, when the revelation that some Lord had controlled his life. In theory, Isolde’s crusade was the more noble endeavour. A place where the people profited from reformed rogues and villains, to build a future for London, rather than shackled to one man’s vision. But both sounded mad. They were flawed visions driven by power and money. Nothing more. Cyrus had retired from his duty to Isolde, to spend the rest of his life indebted with wife and home and surrogate daughters; his model family. Cyrus told him: She’s not the Devil you know. Try her house, her ideas and philosophy. It may not appeal to every man, but her deals are honest. Your wishes granted in full, with a price.
With a price. Alex struggled downstairs in his friend’s black suit; careful not to spoil the sanctity of the house. He ran out into the street and flagged down a carriage; his journey to Lamb’s Wharf awkward and slow. There were waifs and beggars on the streets, each with a solemn indifference about them. The walls were clean of vandalism; the Day Watch tired and disinterested. He thanked the driver as he disembarked with a tip. Ahead stood a church with yellow buttresses and shining gravestones. The doorman lifted one arm in warning.
‘Domine dirige nos,’ said Alex.
The doorman smiled and nodded. Alex entered through the doors and paced along its salt–and–pepper floors. He viewed its devils and heroes frozen as busts and murals, as his shoes clicked along the dark corridors. His shirt, folded, pressed and scented by Victoria, itched in places he’d never thought could be. He fantasised of his mother telling stories about how his family descended from nobility; to have something to his name, to be more comfortable and secure in affluence. If it meant throwing the whole of London into chaos just to satisfy personal greed, Alex could make do without affluence and comfort. The hall split into one auditorium which oozed expense. Several parts of the room were under development. Architects and plasterers hurried around with diagrams and clipped conversations. In the centre, sat on a gilt chair, Isolde crossed her arms. She gave him the slightest of smiles.
'Isolde.'
'I was expecting surprise Alex. Even distrust.'
'Why, because you worked with Lord Turner? Do you remember the last time we met? You were signing me over to Lady Saville. Years have passed since.'
'Yes. I see a change in you. You've lost that innocence. What do you think?’
Alex cocked his head. Isolde cast one hand at the partially finished room. Alex studied the work. It was replete with modern furniture. Panelled walls fitted with exotic wood, antique chairs with stuffed leather seats. It dawned on him where the money had come from.
'Has the penny dropped? Lord Turner's Tower was an abomination, a tumour in this city which gave him a monopoly—so I took it from him. It was he who attacked Lady Saville and her children on that ship, did you know that?’
Alex shook his head. 'For what gain?'
'To keep the island and gold a secret-and he nearly succeeded if it wasn't for your efforts, and Cyrus
of course. If he had succeeded? Well, perhaps this conversation would never have happened.'
'Is Sarah Saville dead?'
Isolde shook her head. She propped one leg on top of her other and untangled her hair. It still flowed like frothed milk from the first time Alex had met her. He judged her laughter lines were the only imprint the years had caused on her face.
'So, this is all progress? This is better than that Tower? Another den of thieves?'
'It’s the only way to prevent men like Turner from gaining traction.'
'And you are what? The queen of such?'
'A facilitator, a mother, not a ruler or tyrant-I don't serve myself.'
'That throne you’re sitting on says otherwise.’
Isolde paced towards him and took his hands into her own. Alex blushed.
'Join me,’ she said.
They walked past grand doors where an entrance in the wall turned into a spiral stair. Ahead, cut into the thick stone was a stair almost hidden from view. Under a stone portal Alex found himself in an austere office. A desk, two chairs and a fireplace tried their best to fill the space. Isolde sat; her arms still crossed. Alex eased himself into his chair.
'Cyrus. He isn't a godly man, is he?' she asked.
'From when I knew him, no.'
'Superstitious?'
'No. Not from what I saw in his house.'
'My house in deed, his wife, Victoria, in my employ. Tell me, do you believe?' she pointed to the ceiling.
'I'm uncertain, to speak the truth.'
‘I imagine it was that girl, Elena, that gave you that uncertainty. She has set your mind free without knowing it.’
Alex took to removing the fatigue from his face. His hand passed over his burn; the scabs sharp and sensitive. His thoughts drifted from the fireplace and to Elena. He missed her enough. From the hardship life had handed him, his time with her was balance, a joy he had not experienced before. Her capture still played in his mind, over and over, looped in eternal scrutiny. She was carried up into the sky, as sure as he could ride a horse or hoodwink a mark. It was the speed of it that had injured his faith in nature and science. The impossible was conceived before him. An awkward dissonance grew from that knowledge, which reminded him of ghosts and spirits, of Heaven and Hell, and he could do nothing with it.
'She has changed some thoughts of late,' he lied.
'Let me tell you a tale—my interpretation of events. The truth, even if you won’t accept it.'
Alex shrugged. 'Tell me then. The truth of it all.'
Isolde cleared her throat before starting; her eyes met his.
'There’s much about the world that hides itself from the business of men, and women. Long ago Gods created all that we see, well back in antiquity, before the days of written language. These Gods had wives and offspring, and they all lived in the clouds, content to be.'
'The Church would say this is heresy.'
'Yes, I’m speaking of polytheism. Do you know of the Houses?'
'Heraldic?'
'No, no. These Houses are not of this earth.'
'You're being literal?'
'Factual. You've heard of astrology?'
Alex coughed. 'Heard of it, yes.'
'There are twelve Houses in the discipline of Astrology. Each governs an aspect of our lives. The First House, the House of Self, is governed by Mars.'
'Which is?'
'A Roman god. He is the god of war and peace, of blood, summer, and harvest. But the names and origins don’t matter. What matters is that each House corresponds to a planet.'
'This sounds like nonsense.'
'It's relevant.'
'And where do we all fit into this grand scheme?'
'We had it all wrong. Turner had it all wrong. Lady Saville, as a child, took part in an expedition to an island, one that you know well.'
'She mentioned it, yes.'
'I assumed that was the only time she had been. But she was there years previous, with her father, mother and sister. Her father, William Saville, was a loudmouth. He enjoyed the attention of a crowd, the stories of far-flung places, and the prestige it brought. That's why he was there. Rumours tell of his wife, Eleanor, had a book. A Roman diary that showed a colony that had never left, a cult that worshipped Mars and never went back to Rome, Mars Romulus. The mad idea to find this hidden island tormented William until he finally figured where and how. And do you know of what he said when he came back to London?'
'No.'
'Nothing. The man was as quiet as mouse; until he died of old age, where he became even quieter.'
'A sad end.'
'An ironic end. William Saville's silence was the loudest he had ever been. A man who had changed so dramatically like that, tells me more than if he was here telling the story himself. A man that quiet kept secrets to his grave.'
Alex nodded. 'And there's more to this?'
'Much more. What do you think of my story far?' she teased.
'Would it matter to you?'
'Oh, it would mean something to me Alex. A fresh perspective on this grand conspiracy.'
'It sounds ridiculous. All of it. A fairy–tale concocted for some ulterior motive to further your position.'
'And this is why you are here. Cyrus was right, a cynical mind never changes. Indulge me.'
'There's truth in-between the fantasy. Every story must be based on truth. It must have some starting point. We can say that Sarah was a child at some point, and that her family exists. I was hired by her sister Sophia; I know of Elena and Hazel also. But what was on the island? What changed so many things?’
'That cult protected a statue of gold; it was their idol. But they also kept a boon hidden. Perhaps the reason Sarah went back to the island.'
'A boon?' asked Alex.
'I don't know of what, the book was vague. I had hoped you would have remembered something significant from that voyage.'
'I recall she was sick and became pregnant thereafter.'
'Well what was it? What did she touch? Eat? A rough tumble in bed with one of the sailors?'
'When she turned for worse, we picked her up, myself and Cyrus, and brought her back to the ship. It was like a fever. She rambled and muttered about a flower. She spent a day in bed while I watched.'
With puffed cheeks Isolde caught herself before speaking. Alex sat with a sentence of his own half-formed in his mouth. Isolde had caught a memory that almost came to her, and when it failed, she rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. With a wagging finger she placed a heavy book onto the desk, adamant on finding a particular page.
'Here,’ Isolde held the book up. It showed a drawing of a peony.
'I never saw this flower she mentioned.'
'It’s part of a myth, a creation myth.'
'Mars?'
'The very same. Flora, a goddess of fecundity and youth, used a petal on Juno. Who gave birth to Mars himself.'
'I was there. Sarah had twin daughters—both different and alike.'
Isolde lifted her wrists in agreement. 'Would you say it's a coincidence?’
'I-I’m not sure. I’m not sure about many things at this moment.'
'And can you fault me for wanting to know? To be curious, to seek the truth?’
'I cannot. I would have done the same. So, tell me, what plans do you have of me?'
'None as such. You will be well compensated however.'
Alex bit his tongue. 'For what?'
'To bring Elena and her sister to me safe and sound.'
The Moon
— The Storm Coast —
The air tasted foul. Drops of lead ran down her face and pooled into her lips. She opened her matted eyes and found herself kneeling before a statue of a pregnant woman with a body of alabaster. It turned its hideous focus on her with the rumble of grating stone. Rivulets of iron cascaded out of the statue’s mouth and splashed below into a grate. Elena screamed, the sound echoed and reverberated. Ruby fire ensorcelled her; the fire seared the air which smoked and stung her e
yes. A dark congregation of hooded men seated on onyx pews, swivelled with blank looks to study her.
'Welcome home,' a voice ran through her.
Elena stirred from sleep into darkness. She lay on her side while her arms cradled her head, her eyes searching for light. She felt blank at first, but the dread from yesterday soon built again. Her legs rocked with fear. Elena wrapped her arms tight around herself; she dug her fingernails deep into her skin. She had never felt so much despair before. The dirt beneath scattered around her cell as she thrashed her legs and pounded her fists on the walls. She heard footsteps above her oubliette; they sounded slow and deliberate. Elena wiped the grime off her arms and looked. She could see the silhouette of a man, the sky behind him too bright to make distinctions. He looked down impassive and waved to someone beyond her sight, before moving on, maintaining the same ponderous march. She worked hard to untangle her lank hair and smoothed it out as best she could. The dreams and visions had gone for the moment, her mind felt clear enough to think. There must be reason behind all this. The floor was sand, the thin walls were a rank iron, rusted and black as tar. One wall held a mirror, grime speckled around the edges. Her travelling clothes were gone, replaced with winter clothes. Her brow creased. She wished Alex was here now, another mind to make sense of it. As she calmed and started to drift into a slumber the mirror glowed. It was enough to prevent her from falling asleep. Elena stood and stared at the refracting light. As she walked closer a face emerged from the surface: it rippled as if she was looking at a reflection in water.
'There you are,' said the apparition, its voice smooth.
Panic squeezed Elena's heart. The woman in the mirror was terrible and beautiful at the same instance. Long gold hair framed two eyes which searched like a hawk. Her lips stained red; they splintered whenever they moved.
'Why am I here!?' cried Elena.
'At my behest.'
'What are you?'
'Is a mother not allowed to see her daughter?'
'Go away monster!'
'Why are you frightened child? Don't you know me?'
The First House Page 13