Hello, boy. The answers to all your questions lie within. Unveil me and behold the Face of Destiny!
Charles paused, praying the voice was his imagination.
Come find me, boy.
Warning bells clanged inside his mind, and Charles longed for the safety of his father’s arms. He started to leave, but as he turned to go, the thick velvet draping slid away, as though a ghostly hand removed it. The cloth pooled on the wooden planks near his feet.
The mirror was unlike any the boy had ever seen. Rather than silver, the black surface was formed of polished obsidian, and its beveled edges etched with shapes that had the regularity of language. Charles reached out to touch the forbidding glass, intending to trace the unfamiliar words, but to his utter shock, his hand passed into it, as through an open window—or doorway.
The glass rippled, and the boy’s reflection disappeared, replaced by crimson eyes set into a dazzling face.
“Hello, boy,” an enormous Dragon whispered out of swirling grey mists. “Let’s play.”
Chapter One
Twenty-seven years, eleven months and seventeen days after five-year-old Charles Sinclair faced an ageless beast in a dusty attic, the mirror Dragon took its first step towards emerging into the world of men.
It began on the twenty-seventh day of May in the year of our Lord 1888, when a mysterious group called the Blackstone Exploration Society despatched a London solicitor to Goussainville, a sleepy village on the outskirts of Paris. The lawyer’s name was Albus Lucius Flint, and his purpose was to speak with the Duchess of Branham at Château Rothesay, where she resided with her maiden aunt, Victoria Stuart. When he arrived at the picturesque village, Flint hired a coach for the five-mile journey, but discovered the duchess wasn’t home. Leaving his calling card, the confident solicitor assumed the peeress would contact him that very same day, but two days passed before a letter finally arrived. In it, the duchess requested further information regarding the nature of Flint’s business. Six additional notes passed twixt the château and La Maison Val-d’Oise’s room number 3 before the determined lawyer finally obtained an audience with the elusive peeress.
It was on the first of June when she received him. On that bright spring morning, the graceful young woman wore a dress of embroidered yellow taffeta overlaid in dotted silk, which rustled as she walked. Ringlets of raven hair followed the curve of her small back. She’d tucked the waist-length curls behind each ear to reveal drop earrings made of silver and pearl, which swung from her perfect lobes like a pair of delicate pendulums. She had large, almond-shaped eyes with deep chocolate irises flecked with hints of gold near the pupil rim; each watchful eye framed in thick black lashes. The heart-shaped face had the rosy glow of health, as though she’d only just returned from a brisk morning’s ride. Though only twenty, the lady had the poise and self-confidence of any queen. Her perfect figure would inspire Michelangelo, and the classic beauty cause any ordinary man to fall in love.
But Albus Flint was hardly an ordinary man.
A tall footman, dressed in black tails and a gold waistcoat, left a chased silver tray, laden with tea, coffee, cups, and all the needed inclusions. The china pattern featured elements the perceptive lawyer recognised at once: a red border overpainted by a trio of golden lions alternating with three fleur-de-lis; heraldry from an old Plantagenet crest. In the centre of the plates and on the sides of each cup, he noticed the Scottish thistle surmounted by two crowns. Without speaking a word, Elizabeth Stuart proclaimed her royal bloodlines.
The footman stepped backward to blend in with the surroundings. Several minutes passed in silence. Protocol demanded the duchess speak first, and Flint wisely waited for this most royal of ladies to begin the conversation.
The duchess read through their correspondence, turning through the pages slowly, taking her time as if measuring his manners. “I pray you’ll appreciate my caution, Mr. Flint,” she said at last. “Will you have tea or coffee?”
“Whatever you’re having, my lady.”
“Darjeeling,” she replied. “I’ll pour, Walker. You may go, but remind Lady Victoria that we must leave for Paris no later than eleven o’clock.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” replied the footman, closing the drawing room doors.
The duchess poured two cups of tea. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you. And I prefer it black.”
She handed him the cup, adding two cubes of sugar and a splash of milk to her own. “I’m rather perplexed as to why you would wish to speak to me, Mr. Flint, despite our correspondence. Lawyers seldom bring good news, and they generally call on my solicitor, not me.”
The pale stranger managed an understanding smile. “I bring no news at all, my lady, but only a simple request. I represent a group of scientifically minded gentlemen; an internationally funded collective called the Blackstone Exploration Society. You may have heard of it?”
“No,” she told him. “Is it a men’s club of some sort?”
“Not solely, no. Indeed, some of our most prominent members are women. We place no restrictions on how far a talented man or woman might climb within our society. Knowledge serves as the rungs on that egalitarian ladder, but philanthropy and good works are the rails.”
“I applaud philanthropy, Mr. Flint. But what have I to do with your society? I’ve no desire to join. Do you seek donations?”
He grinned, ever so slightly, as though mildly embarrassed. “No, my lady. Not at all. My clients seek only your permission to explore several ruined buildings on your Kent estate’s grounds. In particular, Lion Hall. We understand you plan to raze it next year. Is that so?”
“Lion Hall is in decline, Mr. Flint. Long past repair or any use,” she told him firmly. “Cake?”
He declined the offer, stirring an odd-smelling packet of powder into his teacup. “My constitution doesn’t do well with sweets, Your Grace. An old man’s digestion, you know. I hope you don’t mind if I add medicine to my tea? Hot liquid helps to unlock the leaf’s potency.”
“Not at all,” she answered. “Are you unwell? There’s a fine doctor in Goussainville. I could send for him.”
“No, no, dear lady. Thank you, though. As to my business, we wish to survey the ruins, for that castle helped secure the estuary during King Richard and John’s reigns. Lion Hall represents England, Your Grace.”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Flint. King Richard ordered the building of the castle, but it was the Marquess of Anjou who underwrote the cost, and he who held it during many great battles. It may bear the king’s French appellation, Leon, but that castle is Anjou; and therefore, it is my heritage, not England’s. Those precarious ruins pose a danger to our farmers and shepherds, and I intend to pull it down and reuse the stones for fencing.”
“That would be a terrible mistake,” the lawyer said boldly. His fierce black eyes blinked as he rhythmically stirred the tea. Flint was cadaverously lean and spidery in form, with a lined face of alabaster paleness. Despite the peculiar appearance, the lawyer had a way about him that mesmerised anyone in his presence, and he now set all his powers of enthrallment upon the soft-eyed duchess.
“Though the castle is Anjou,” he continued, “it is still part of English history. I doubt you’d wish to deprive future generations of so great a monument, my lady. The symbols upon these cups and plates reveal the powerful sinews of your family. Would you hide them by tearing down other symbols of your family’s rights? You must allow us to dig inside the hall, Duchess. You will allow us. Is that not so? I’m sure you agree with me. Don’t you?”
Each measured word emerged from his thin lips as if floating on clouds of sweetly scented mist. He moved forward onto the edge of the chair, so the altered tea’s fragrance could enter her delicate nostrils. He watched eagerly for the telling dilation of her pupils; the slackening of facial muscles, slight drop of the lower lip. The overall willingness to listen and obey.
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But he saw none of these things.
Despite all efforts, Flint’s hypnotic mannerisms, salvia-laced tea, and smooth, modulated voice failed utterly to persuade his prey of anything. Instead, the performance evoked the opposite effect in the determined duchess, who responded in anger.
“Do not dare to tell me what I may or may not do with my own property, Mr. Flint!” she told him plainly, her voice as commanding as any sovereign’s. “If you think me a soft target, then you’ve misjudged me, sir. I say again, England does not own that castle. I do!”
His skeletal hand paused on the silver teaspoon. Flint cleared his long throat. He hadn’t expected a twenty-year-old woman to be so formidable an opponent. He’d need to employ a different tack with the lady.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. Though I’ve never had the honour to meet you until now, your reputation as a woman of high intelligence and business acumen is without equal. The Blackstone Society would never try to coerce you into improper partnerships or deprive you of your familial rights. As you say, Lion Hall is your property, and you may dispose of it as you wish. My clients wish only the opportunity to assess this historic building prior to any planned destruction. The Blackstone Society is a scientific institution that pursues knowledge; be it chemistry, physics, history, or architecture. We sincerely desire to learn more of twelfth-century construction and the activities of one of England’s greatest kings. And, if possible, we should like to preserve that knowledge for future generations.”
Her face softened, but only a very little. “Mr. Flint, you proceed from a misunderstanding. If your goal is to discover and preserve artifacts relative to King Richard’s reign, then you’d best look for them in France. Despite being England’s king, my ancestor seldom visited there, and he never resided at Lion Hall.”
Flint’s mouth slowly crept into a crooked little smile. Perhaps, his tea had worked after all. “Ancestor, my lady? You refer to the king as your ancestor? You are a Plantagenet, then?”
Beth felt a chill run along her scalp. What a foolish slip! As a descendent of Henry V’s twin sons, she could indeed call Richard her ancestor, but only members of the inner circle were permitted to share the secret. One might use elements from Plantagenet heraldry here and there, but to declare it, verbally, was simply unthinkable!
“Yes, he was my ancestor,” she answered boldly, deciding to approach the mistake from a position of strength. “As you know, one of my many titles is Marchioness of Anjou. Guillaume Capet, the first marquess, was Richard’s cousin and dearest friend.”
“Ah, yes, I’d quite forgotten, my lady. Your ancestry is rich with the blood of French and English princes, is it not? The paintings in this marvellous drawing room speak of that long, important history; as does Lion Hall, I’m sure. That rich bloodline must be preserved, my lady. Historically, speaking, of course. I wonder, are you aware that the Plantagenets and their influential cousins, the House of Anjou, are rumoured to descend from a suspicious liaison?”
“Why would you call it suspicious, Mr. Flint? The phrase hints at impropriety,” she answered, refusing to be intimidated.
“I mean no insult, my lady. Forgive me for even mentioning it. I’d assumed you knew of the water faery Melusine—the so-called ‘Lady of the Lake’. Some claim she could transform into all manner of shapes: mermaid, sprite, serpent, even dragon!” he added with a peculiar little laugh. “There are those who speak of a union twixt her and one of your Angevin ancestors. Why, King Richard himself told such tales. He believed he descended from Melusine through the Angevin blood. As Marchioness of Anjou, you would also descend from this supernatural creature, would you not?” He grinned triumphantly, stirring the disgusting mixture in his cup.
“I thought only children believed in fables, Mr. Flint,” she dared say.
His smile vanished. “As a member of the Blackstone Society, I seek scientific explanations—not mythical ones. Still, it is quite an interesting tale, don’t you think?”
Beth’s iron will began to wane. She felt weary suddenly, and longed to take a walk or ride through the woods to escape the spidery solicitor and his odd stories of faeries. In truth, the duchess had for many weeks been somewhat distracted by a troubling relationship with a Romanian prince named Rasarit Grigor. The handsome suitor had promised to meet her in Paris that afternoon, and the thought both terrified and excited her. She wished her Cousin Paul were in town to go with her, but the earl was presently on assignment elsewhere.
“It seems as though your society knows more about the Angevin side of my ancestry than I, Mr. Flint. However, I must take time to consider your request before giving an answer. Walker will see you out.”
Having failed in his first attempt, Flint bowed graciously and returned to England, rebuffed but content that he had managed to unsettle the duchess and ‘set the hook’ in her soul.
A flurry of written pleas followed that initial visit, containing page after page of persuasive prose; phrases couched in labyrinthine legalese that allowed enough loopholes to accommodate any future need for adjustment. For many weeks, reams of monogrammed stationery sailed across the channel twixt England and France; until at last, on the fourteenth of July, the duchess relented. Flint learnt the reason for this sudden change of mind through a Parisian colleague. Despite the London solicitor’s fervent pleas and entreaties, it was a young man named Seth Holloway who’d persuaded Elizabeth to sign the contract.
The duchess had written to her longtime friend, asking Dr. Holloway’s professional opinion on the Blackstone solicitation. With degrees in archaeology and ancient languages, plus a lifetime’s experience in the field, Elizabeth valued Seth’s advice. Rather than replying in a letter, Holloway immediately left Cambridge for Paris, spending a fortnight at Victoria’s château, where he conferred with the duchess and her cousin Lord Aubrey (who’d come to look into the ‘Prince Rasha’ business). Both men agreed that a survey would be beneficial.
Ever the wise businesswoman, Elizabeth hired a team of expert solicitors to negotiate the contract. The final, very specific language stipulated the team restrict their activities to Lion Hall only, with surveys and mapping permitted, but absolutely no digging. The agreement also made it clear that all Blackstone activities must end after six weeks. If the Society discovered items of importance in the castle ruins, then all must remain in situ until the duchess approved further action.
Comprising the survey team were six paid interns, drawn from the Oxbridge elite: three from Oxford, three from Cambridge. These were overseen by a no-nonsense, retired army officer, one Colonel Sir Alfred Collinwood, a leading member of the Society and renowned antiquarian in his own right. The student contingency included a somewhat self-possessed third-year Cambridge student named Lionel Archibald Wentworth, whose anaemic attempt at scholarship maintained an inverse relationship to his pursuit of nightly entertainments. That is, the higher Wentworth’s consumption of ale, the lower his marks at college. By year’s end, however, young Wentworth would learn a lesson that would alter him forever: The wages of a libertine lifestyle are worse than death. Far worse than man’s mind could fathom.
Chapter Two
The road to Lionel Wentworth’s eternal enlightenment commenced when his flustered father threatened to remove his idle son from Trinity’s halls in favour of apprenticeship as an underpaid lawyer’s clerk. Fearfully, young Wentworth prayed for a solution to this sticky, self-made dilemma. Not that Wentworth prayed to a capital ‘g’ God as any Christian might. Instead, the desperate rake offered petitions to whatever small-g ‘god’ might listen. Bacchus would do, he reasoned, as he spent so much time in the wine god’s raucous company. The Green Man or Herne would also serve well, or even Merlin, assuming such a magician ever existed. It mattered not a whit to Wentworth, so long as the deity’s answer proved favourable to his petition.
The reply to this imprecisely directed appeal arrived one Saturday evening in September, whe
n his friend, Kip Wilson, noticed a curious flyer pasted next to the door of The Eagle Public House:
WANTED –
The Blackstone Society seeks men of good health and sound mind, willing to participate in a six-week, scientific survey. Archaeological experience welcome, but not necessary. Successful applicants will receive three hundred pounds compensation and housing allowance. Locations include, but are not limited to: England, France, Ireland, Spain, and Scotland.
– Apply at Greene and Settle, Grantchester.
The enticing handbill bore a curious border of standing crows, whose crimson eyes seemed brushed with blobs of actual blood. Despite the peculiar decoration, the message of the solicitation struck Lionel as an answer to prayer, providing a firm sense of financial rescue. In exchange for six weeks of modest labour, he’d get three hundred pounds. The Society further sweetened the deal with the mention of sunny Spain and alluring France, where a man might lose himself in ribald debauchery.
Surely, Bacchus himself had answered the prayer! he reasoned.
After hastily writing to his father and receiving permission to apply, Wentworth called at the law firm listed on the handbill and spoke with a very odd solicitor named Aloysius Vermis. The man was round as a dumpling and wore a tight wool suit that caused his pale flesh to puff over the starched collar and cuffs as though trying to escape. Vermis provided the student the necessary paperwork and instructions along with an indiscernible warning that “life’s turns can lead to joyful discovery or woeful regret; one never knows which it might be.” In typical fashion, the frivolous student jokingly replied that Blackstone Society’s new venture was certainly the former; indeed, an answer to prayer, to which the dough-faced Vermis replied in a very odd way: “Do be careful what favours you ask of a god, Mr. Wentworth. You might actually get them.”
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