‘We stick to our own, nobody else gets taught it apart from a select few.’
Her robes had bobbled with heated washes. ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.
She tipped her chin upward. ‘Two years, four months and nine days.’
Jeremiah couldn’t decide if the chin arose from a sense of pride in her endurance or that she remembered the exact figure.
‘I bet you know how long you’ve been here,’ she said.
She was right, he did. ‘One month and three days.’
‘Have days started to mix together?’
‘Yes, they have.’
She eyed the papers drying by the slit. ‘Not had a chance to write yet?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m struggling to decide who I should send my thoughts to.’
‘How about, yourself? Keeps the mind fresh.’
‘How can I write a letter to myself?’
‘It’s easy,’ she said, getting up from the bed to animate the gestures. ‘Pick a random name that you know will reach you, choose a home address where the letters won’t get burnt.’
‘I’m not so sure I have such an address,’ he said, enthralled by her graceful hand movements.
‘I’m guessing a Prince has servants?’
‘Of course we do.’
‘Why not pen one of them with the instructions that these letters be left in your stead until you return? I guess it would be considered treason in the Britannia to deny a Prince?’
She was right, it was. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Good, pick a servant and send them the details in your letter. Don’t worry, the clerics only break the seals of every second letter, and only read as far as the first page and a half. Include lines upon lines of scripture and what it can mean for your servant, offer advice, then give them instructions. Stay true to this pattern, and you’ll never get found out.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, puzzled, ‘why would I want to send letters to myself?’
She shuffled closer. ‘We’re all doing it.’
‘Doing what? Writing to yourselves?’
‘No. Well, yes but, look, just because you’re a Prince, do you think you were specially selected?’
Jeremiah gasped, tried to hide it. How’d she find out about his mission? How did she know about the Brotherhood?
‘We’re all doing it. How do you think it will ever get transcribed with one hand alone?’
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Before you start, you need to know which book of the Vulgate you’re to interpret.’
This was fantastic, had the Brotherhood managed to reach these children? ‘How many of them are re-writing it?’
‘All of us.’
‘What? That’s impossible.’
‘These Clerics think they know the word of God. They pay little attention to the innocent of babes, don’t they?’
‘Yes, I suppose they do.’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Every child in the Order had their part of the Bible to interpret into common. He remembered how he was reached, days after the accident the family who found him buried under the Nightingale tracks, had no idea who he was. When they found out, they showed him the real pains of the world before taking him back to the palace. ‘We are all in this together then?’
‘Yes, but don’t worry.’ She placed her hand on his knee; it was the first human contact that wasn’t attached to the cracking of leather he’d felt since his brother kissed him goodbye. ‘You’ll get used to the routines. I can teach you.’
‘Thank you. Which book am I to write?’
‘Kings I and II, of course. You have three years to do it.’ She got up and pointed at his face. ‘May I ask, those scars, do you feel they were worth it?’
He touched them, feeling pressure but little else. ‘I don’t know, I guess time will tell.’
‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘That children will be the ones to change the world?’
CHAPTER 27
Another dark hallway. The large door had seen several doctors rush in and out of the room, all carrying clipboards, spinning identical answers. Sat on the opposite side of the room, a young woman had her set of pad and paper. She looked official to Baxter, as though she’d come with a mind full of questions. He couldn’t believe what had happened. He fought back the tears, remembering his uncle and his father’s words, ‘Be a man, Baxter.’
A doctor came from around the doorway. He looked at the girl and then at him. ‘You may come in now, Mr Nightingale.’ As Baxter stood, the girl, alerted to the name, sprang up.
“Mr Nightingale, Nicholas Nightingale? I’m Abigail Falcon of–’
‘That’s not me, I’m Baxter Nightingale.’
He carried on to the room, ignoring her hand waving around in the air trying to stop him from going in. As he barged past her, two doctors stepped in and pulled her away. There at the far end, after a set of rugs and a polished wooden floor, was a hospital bed. The drip bag was set up next to it with a nurse hunched over the patient, adjusting the bedding. ‘He’s sleeping now,’ she said. ‘He’ll make a full recovery.’
‘Can you leave us in private, please?’
The nurse lowered her head to his request and tapped her heels across the floor to the door and closed it behind her.
‘How could I have been so foolish?’ Baxter said, with the guilt weighing down his insides.
The body in the bed twitched. ‘This isn’t your fault. Baxter’s tears left their hold and ran down his face. He quickly wiped them away. ‘I should have saved you.’ Baxter coughed up the tears.
‘You did save me, son, you did.’ The man rolled over to face Baxter. ‘You killed my assassin?’
‘Yes,’ Baxter replied.
Lucian closed his eyes and continued to smile.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert discovered the joy of writing while on exercise with the British Army in 2001 where he wrote a collection of short stories featuring his superiors in extremely harrowing situations.
After discharging from a short stint in the Army Air Corps, Robert moved to London in 2005 and has written blogs for the Huffington Post together with his own book reviews on his website
www.pulpedmachina.com
He currently lives in North London and can be found in either the Hawley Arms, The Lamb, The Stag or the Maid of Muswell, always reading and always writing.
Further books from the Reckoning Turbines series are coming soon. Please join the official mailing list below for updates.
www.thereckoningturbines.com/blog/
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