The Order of the Eternal Sun

by Jessica Leake

  “Lucy, what is it?” Rose asks, her voice causing me to startle enough to drop my pencil. “Goodness, you look as pale as your drawing paper.”

  I open my mouth to reassure her, but I can’t ignore the pin-pricks of fear chasing over my skin. It could be merely coincidental that he is here.

  But I know that it is not.

  “I only thought I saw movement across the way, but I’m sure I was mistaken. Shall we find the others?”

  I start walking briskly in the direction I saw them go, and Rose hurries to follow me. The moment I reach my sister’s side, I force myself to relax, smoothing the tension from my face. If I don’t, she’ll know instantly that something has spooked me, and I’d rather she carry on having a nice time.

  He wouldn’t dare attack us when we’re all together, so I’ll just have to spoil everyone’s fun later when I tell them.

  When I’m sure she isn’t looking, I glance over my shoulder once more. The room is quiet, peaceful even. Yet Lord Wallace’s taunting smirk haunts me still. Almost without thinking, I reach into my pelisse and touch the cold blade of the dagger hidden there.

  ALEXANDER arrives in Bath by midafternoon and immediately takes a trolley to Richard’s townhouse. Telling Lucy that his father held property in Bath was a lie, but a necessary one. It gave him at least a semblance of credibility for being in town. Perhaps he would only be seen as an overzealous suitor rather than the hunter he was.

  As he steps out of the trolley and walks toward the easternmost townhome in the circular complex, an awareness enters his mind, ghostly fingers tingling over his scalp. He turns toward the source: to the west, toward the Roman Baths. The sensation ends as quickly as it came—a short burst of prana, then.

  Sweat beads on his brow as he fights the urge to seek Lucy out immediately. The likelihood of Wallace taking her in broad daylight is slim. He is sadistic and cruel, but not foolhardy. No, Wallace will wait until nightfall, when Lucy will be at her weakest. Her sister and brother-in-law are formidable, but they won’t be expecting an attack here in this sleepy spa town full of the elderly and the infirm.

  Alexander shakes himself free of his worry and strides toward the door. After knocking once, the butler—a portly man with gray hair and small eyes—admits him.

  “We’ve been expecting you, my lord. Lord Trawley is waiting for you in his office. Shall I show you the way?”

  Alexander nods once, his mind still otherwise occupied. Every one of his otherworldly senses reaches out, searching for the barest hint of prana.

  “Alexander,” Richard says by way of greeting. His friend hurriedly scrawls something on a piece of paper and stands to clasp hands. “Your journey went well, I take it?”

  “Yes, well enough. I’m surprised you arrived here before me. Did you take an earlier train?”

  Richard nods, and a lock of dark hair falls across his forehead. He slicks it back impatiently. “I arrived yesterday evening. I wanted to have time to send my men out—get the word back on what the Thornewoods have planned.”

  “And?”

  Richard gives Alexander a level look. “Your obvious concern for this woman is disturbing, Alexander. You know this cannot end well.”

  The muscles in Alexander’s jaw tense. He hates to have these words—the very same words of warning his inner mind has told him—said aloud. “What would you have me do, Richard? It’s one thing to seek out prana wielders and the Sylvani. It’s another to let Wallace destroy the ones who may be innocent.”

  Richard appraises him silently for a moment. “You know that’s not all this is about. What would Tyrell think?”

  Alexander knows what Tyrell would say. Tyrell would say it’s best to err on the side of caution, to treat Lucy as though she is Sylvan and not simply a prana wielder. To treat her like the danger she is.

  There are two types of prana users, Alexander, Tyrell had said shortly after the death of Alexander’s mother. Alexander can still see the tall, slim gentleman with jet-black hair sitting beside him on the wooden bench his mother had loved—the one where she could sit and watch Alexander play and see the mountains looming in the distance. There are those, like yourself, who simply have an abundance of it. It’s a beautiful but harmless gift.

  Tyrell had taken a breath and stared at Alexander, his eyes coal-black. But then there are those who aren’t even human like us, whose energy is too powerful to contain. Power-hungry and nearly invincible, these creatures are willing to kill to climb to the top of society. They call themselves the Sylvani.

  He took Alexander’s hand in his. They killed your mother, Alexander. Your beautiful, energy-wielding mother, because she got too close to one of them. She discovered the truth, and she was killed for it. But you can help us. You can help us find them and stop them before they take away someone else’s mother.

  The rage had swelled within Alexander, drowning his grief. Yes, Alexander had promised, but that had been ten years ago.

  Ever since Nadi’s death, Alexander had feared some of Tyrell’s men didn’t make the necessary distinctions between the prana users who were dangerous and those who had a beautiful gift.

  “She may not be a Sylvani,” Alexander says forcefully. “She may only be a prana wielder like myself.”

  “Hm. And how many times have you told yourself that?”

  Too many times to count. Over and over and over during the darkest part of the night. He always came back to the same answer: Lucy couldn’t be dangerous. He couldn’t accept that behind her kind eyes lurked a cold-blooded monster who wouldn’t hesitate to kill. Wallace had been wrong about Nadi, and he was wrong about Lucy, too.

  “I won’t risk another Nadi.” Alexander meets Richard’s pale eyes with a challenging look of his own. “Is that what you would wish upon Lucy Sinclair?”

  Some of the tension leaves Richard. “I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone, but that doesn’t mean you have the right to make decisions for yourself. The protocol has always been to notify Tyrell immediately. He has limitless resources, and going off on your own is not only pointless—it’s foolhardy.”

  Alexander straightens to his full height. “What will you do then?”

  “What I’ve always done, Alexander. I’ll give you my aid in any way I can.”

  “And you won’t notify Tyrell yourself?”

  “Against my better judgment … no.”

  Relief floods through Alexander’s body. “Thank you, Richard.”

  “But you’re running out of time. It won’t be long before someone suspects.”

  “I suppose now is the time I should tell you that Wallace sought me out in London. I have no doubt that he has followed Lucy to Bath.”

  Richard closes his eyes and lets out an exasperated breath. “Blast that man. He has always had a sixth sense for where you will be at any given time. Has he declared himself your nemesis? It seems that he is in constant competition with you, but for what, I cannot tell.”

  “He has loathed me ever since I spoke against him to Tyrell.”

  “Then the plan is simple,” Richard says. “You must get her alone, confirm whether or not she is Sylvani, and then immediately inform Tyrell. Wallace will prove a danger to her until then.”

  And perhaps even after, Alexander thinks to himself, but he dares not say it aloud. It is this irritating doubt which has wormed its way into his mind.

  A knock comes at the door, and the butler enters. “Forgive the interruption, my lord,” he says, “but you wanted me to inform you the moment a note arrived.”

  Richard strides over and takes the small square from his butler’s gloved hand. “Thank you, Sanford.” He opens the note and quickly scans its contents. “Good, good. Lady Sotheby writes to say she has invited the Thornewoods to a ball this evening. Just a moment, Sanford, and I’ll pen a response.”

  “Then of course we must attend,” Alexander says as Richard’s pen scratches across the paper.

  After handing the note to Sanford, Richard turns to his friend. “I kn
ew I was right to take advantage of the Sothebys’ desire to climb the social ladder. An earl and countess in this sleepy town are too exciting to resist. You have no formal suit, I presume?”

  “No, but I can make do with whatever you have. We are nearly the same height.”

  Richard pats his more generous middle. “The same height, perhaps, but you are certainly more fit. I’ll have my valet see what can be done.”

  Alexander nods dismissively, his mind already leaping ahead to other things. “If Wallace has followed her here, then he will almost certainly be there tonight.”

  “Then you’ll have to attach yourself to her side—no hardship for you, I’m sure.”

  Alexander ignores the dig. An invitation to the ball may minimize some of Thornewood’s ire and suspicion, but Alexander knows it will be impossible to avoid angering him at his unexpected presence. Even Lucy may be less than welcoming.

  But surely Thornewood will thank Alexander one day for protecting his sister-in-law from the very real danger of Lord Wallace.

  At least, until he discovers the truth about Alexander.

  FOURTEEN

  ARE you sure you will not go with us?” I ask Rose as Emily puts the finishing touches on my hair. Rose insisted that I get dressed in her room so that she may at least feel a part of the excitement of a ball, and truly, it is the least I can do.

  “Oh no, I would never make it. I can hardly keep my eyes open as it is.”

  I turn to look at her and am dismayed to see she does look wan. “And you’d rather I didn’t stay? Truly, I don’t mind.”

  She laughs. “After Emily went to all that trouble? And what good would watching me sleep do?”

  “Very well,” I say with a defeated sigh. Pulling on my white evening gloves, I go over to her and touch her shoulder. It feels painfully thin under my hand. “Sleep well, then. I swear we’ll have fun in the morning.”

  “I had a lovely time today. You needn’t worry. Have fun with James,” she says with a suggestive lift of her eyebrows.

  I glance back at Emily, who hides a smile. “You heard nothing,” I tell her with mock severity, for of course she knows all about my mixed feelings regarding James. She had been the one to listen to me cry over his rejection so long ago.

  “Mum’s the word,” she says. “Is there anything else you’ll need this evening, my lady?”

  “No, you’ve made sure I’m quite beautifully turned out, Emily, thank you.”

  She smiles and turns to Rose. “Shall I help you change for bed, then, Lady Rose?”

  “Go on, then,” Rose says with a little shooing motion. “I’ll live vicariously through your memories in the morning.”

  I smile and wish her good night before stepping out into the thickly carpeted hallway. Wren waits for me at the end of the hall, dressed in a deep purple beaded gown.

  “How is she?” she asks quietly when I reach her side.

  I think of the bones beneath my hands. “Frail and tired.”

  Wren looks back at Rose’s door, face pensive. Finally she says, “Do you think I should …?”

  For a moment, I think of what she’s offering. Of having her use her arcana to heal Rose of her illness. But in the next instant, I reject the idea. How could I risk losing my sister in place of my friend? “You cannot know how much that means to me, but no. It nearly killed you the last time you tried to heal someone who was dying.”

  Wren’s gaze darts to mine. “You think she’s dying?”

  I can feel the color drain from my face. Just hearing it said aloud is horrifying. I press my lips tightly and shake my head, unwilling to answer. Wren reads this gesture perfectly, though, and pulls me in for a tight embrace. The familiar smell of her hair—like roses—brings me some small comfort.

  “We shouldn’t speak it into being,” I say finally.

  She touches my cheek with one gloved hand and nods, sympathy and understanding in her eyes. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes. It would be better if she didn’t find us out in the hall crying—I’m not the most skilled liar.”

  Wren snorts, the gesture perfectly unladylike, and so very her. “You’re the worst liar. Your every little thought flits across your face. Thank God I didn’t inherit such a trait, or all of London would loathe me.”

  She trails down the stairs, and I follow, grateful she has chased the shadows away—for the moment, at least.

  The ball, as it turns out, is a gross exaggeration. It is barely more than a small gathering, really, with my family making up the bulk of the attendees—only twenty-two of us in all. Many of the gentlemen have already escaped to another room for cards, and there are few unmarried ladies from my brief observation of the room. Furniture has been moved aside for dancing, while footmen wander about offering glasses of champagne. Sir and Lady Sotheby are wonderfully gracious, though, and the musicians they’ve hired for the evening are as skilled as any I’ve yet encountered in London.

  James is dancing with the only other lady remotely close to our age, and Rob joined some of the officers for a card game, so I’ve been keeping Wren and Colin company for the last set.

  “I’m so sorry this is such a small party,” Lady Sotheby says as she joins us.

  “On the contrary,” Colin says, “we prefer it to be small.”

  Lady Sotheby tilts her head, her dangling earrings catching the light from the chandelier. “More intimate that way?”

  “Quieter,” Colin says.

  Wren smiles weakly, but Lady Sotheby only laughs good-naturedly. “I’m afraid I’m of the same mind, Lord Thornewood. It’s why my husband and I spend so much of our time in Bath. But I believe a few more guests will be arriving—I hope it’ll still be quiet enough for you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be. My darling wife is my shield now from the matchmakers, so I can’t complain.”

  “Really, Colin,” Wren says under her breath, but I can tell she’s hiding back a grin.

  “Ah, now you shouldn’t look down on matchmakers. You’ll soon find yourself in such a position,” Lady Sotheby says with a nod in my direction.

  “Lord Thornewood believes I should have at least five Seasons under my belt before choosing a husband,” I say, and Lady Sotheby’s eyes widen until she realizes I’m only joking. At least, I hope I am.

  “I should apologize for being a terrible hostess, then, Miss Sinclair. I had expected an even number of ladies and gentlemen, but there are a few who have yet to arrive. Perhaps I might show you a lovely Monet we have in the library? Your sister says you’re an accomplished artist.”

  “Oh, I would love to see it! Though I fear my sister has grossly exaggerated my talent,” I say with a glance at Wren. She shrugs shamelessly.

  “Can I interest you in a viewing, Lady Katherine?” Lady Sotheby asks.

  “I’m afraid she has promised this next dance to me,” Colin says. “She promised to dance every dance with me for the rest of our lives, and I mean to hold her to it.” He kisses Wren’s gloved hand as she stares intensely into his eyes.

  “Just us then,” I say loudly.

  Lady Sotheby snaps her mouth shut. “Of course. If you’ll follow me?”

  The Sotheby townhouse isn’t overly large, but it is elegantly decorated. A mix of richly toned antique furniture hold carefully displayed bric-a-brac—framed photographs, tall vases with lovely flower arrangements, and porcelain figurines. The library is modest compared to any of Colin’s, or even Papa’s, the bookshelves lined with matching jewel-toned leather tomes. Not a novel in sight, which leads me to believe they aren’t readers at all. A pity, that.

  In a gilded frame hangs the Monet in all its beautifully subdued colors.

  “The Water-Lily Pond,” Lady Sotheby says beside me. “I just loved how peaceful it looked, and even more so that this is Monet’s own pond. He wanted a traditional Japanese style bridge over the water, and he worked tirelessly on all the vegetation.”

  “It’s so tranquil,” I say quietly, thinking suddenly of Alexander an
d our trip to the National Gallery. Before it was ruined by Wallace.

  Lady Sotheby watches me closely. “The colors are rather somber, though, aren’t they?”

  I force a cheerful smile onto my face, suddenly embarrassed that I descended into a gloomy mood. “Not terribly so—there are bright spots of sunshine on the water lilies, just there.”

  She nods when I point them out. “Like dappled sunshine through leaves.”

  We stare at the Monet for a while longer, both quietly contemplating it, when another painting catches my eye on the other side of the library. This one is a very different style from the impressionist Monet: a Baroque painting of a knight astride his charger. The rich colors of the oils give the horse a sleek appearance, and the knight’s armor shines brightly even in the dimly lit room. I start toward it to have a better look, but stop when my arcana surges to life, tingling over my skin.

  That’s when I see the figure pass the doorway, as though he had only just been looking in. He is far bulkier than any of the footman or the elderly butler I’ve seen as of yet. A cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach when I think of who it might be. Perhaps I had been foolish to have left the safety of the townhouse after catching sight of Wallace?

  “I hope you are not wearing such a horrified look because of the painting,” Lady Sotheby says, her tone slightly alarmed. She indicates the horse and knight. “It’s been passed down in Lord Sotheby’s family for many generations, but they say the knight died a rather brutal death. The eyes are far too real for my taste.”

  I force a smile. “Oh no, no. I quite like it, actually. It’s just …” I war with my natural tendency toward honesty and how paranoid I’m likely to sound. “It’s just I thought I saw someone lurking in the doorway, and it spooked me a bit is all. I’m sure it was only a footman.”

  “Heavens,” Lady Sotheby says, glancing toward the doorway in question. “Or perhaps a guest who was lost? My footmen would certainly approach me had they a need.”

  “I’m sure you are right.” I force myself to relax the tension from my shoulders. I must look like a scared cat! “Thank you for showing me this—I didn’t have a chance to see the Monets when last I was at the National Gallery.”