Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “A quest?” Charles asked wearily, searching through his foggy memory. He found himself with significant gaps, but the more he tried to summon up the past, the more his head ached. “I’m not sure why I’m here, to be honest. Assuming this isn’t all a dream, I’m quite certain I did not arrive by magical means. It is a pagan practise, forbidden by God.”

  “Which god?” the birdman challenged the human.

  “Almighty God, of course. The Creator of all.”

  “So he claims!” the other complained, its feathers bristling into spikes. “I know of only one who deserves such a title, and it is not the pretender to whom you refer, Englishman! Clearly, you require instruction, but you are far too stupid to waste my energies upon, Charles Sinclair.”

  The hybrid creature rubbed its hands together, bending low and speaking in a whisper. “However, I like you, human. You are decidedly different from others of your kind. Therefore, I shall bypass the usual rules and recommend a highly respected tutor who’d work well for a man of your capacity for thought, but it will cost you a little. What have you to offer?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Sinclair replied as he searched all his pockets. He still wore the beautiful ensemble Martin Kepelheim had created for the wedding, and nestled within the shallow watch pocket, the marquess discovered a woman’s hairpin. “Why do I have this?” he asked himself. Then, as though whispered into his thoughts, the sweet memory returned. “The pin was in Beth’s hair to secure her coronet. She removed it at the reception.”

  “Re-cep-tion?” the creature echoed, purposefully lingering on each syllable. “What is a re-cep-tion? Tis a nonsensical word. I’m sure you just made it up!”

  Holding the pin up to what little light emerged from the strangely coloured moon, Sinclair smiled as the delightful memory played through his thoughts. “She looked absolutely radiant. More lovely than any bride in history,” he said dreamily. He then turned to the strange creature to explain. “A reception is a sort of party, given in honour of a person or persons. This one followed our wedding, you see. As a duchess, Elizabeth had worn the Branham coronet, but after a while, it grew intolerably heavy for her, poor thing. My wife’s neck is slender and quite delicate. The crown is solid gold and decorated with a great many, large stones.”

  “Stones? What sort of stones?” the birdman prodded. “Are they living or dead?”

  Sinclair blinked as he snapped out of the pleasant reverie. “Living stones? What on earth do you mean? There is no such thing.”

  “Earth? Bah! Your stupidity grows by the second, human!” it cawed. “You left the place you call earth long ago, and of course, there are living stones. They’re all about you, fool! These fixed stones are the ancient travellers who failed to answer the questions correctly. Have you no eyes to see?”

  “Apparently not, and I’m afraid I have no money, if that’s what you want.”

  “No money at all? Then, what is that upon your waistcoat?” the creature asked. “It’s so very shiny.”

  “Do you mean my watch?”

  Charles opened the Sir John Bennett timepiece and pressed the release latch. Within the gold case, the inscribed words glowed in the darkness as though touched by fire: To my Captain, whom I shall ever love. Your Beth.

  Seeing Elizabeth’s engraved promise, the memory of her abduction flooded into his mind with the force of a million regrets, and Sinclair dropped to his knees as though the weight of every rock and tree in this mad world pressed down mercilessly upon his breaking heart.

  “She’s gone! My beautiful Beth, I failed her completely, and she’s gone!” he wailed. All the forgotten moments crystallised with cruel clarity and fused into a mass of pain: the wedding, the reception, the abduction, and the desperate chase into Whitechapel to rescue his wife—only to arrive too late.

  “Trent stole her,” Charles whispered as he twisted the gold ring upon his left hand.

  “Trent?” the bird echoed. “Now, that is a name I know. What did this fellow do to you?”

  “He stole the most precious heart in all the world, for he is a fiend with no heart of his own!” the marquess shouted. “He spent years torturing her; years planning his revenge. I should have seen it. I should have stopped it!”

  “Seen what? Stopped what?” the birdman asked hungrily.

  “I should have stopped him. I should never have allowed Elizabeth to leave my sight. As soon as I looked away, Trent abducted her through a mirror. We rode to her rescue, but his wolf creatures attacked, trying to stop us. And then the house was on fire—Beth was trapped inside it! Dear God in heaven, I think she may be dead!” he cried out in anguish. “No, please, Lord, please! Let this be a nightmare. I beg you! Let me open my eyes and find she’s sleeping beside me and that all is well. That she is safe and unharmed. Please, oh, please!”

  The bereaved husband fell prostrate upon the ground, all strength leaving him, his hands clutching at the sparse tufts of dry, yellow grass that grew amongst the rough stones. He sobbed in agony for a very long time until not one tear remained. At last, he lay motionless, hardly breathing, as though willing himself to die.

  The yellow-eyed birdman crouched beside the inconsolable human, listening to the slowing of his heart, trying to discern the reason behind the very odd behaviour. The gnarled trees bent low, their branches drooping, and even the bones and harsh rocks seemed to grow moist in sympathetic response to the human’s agony.

  The silvery mist thickened, and soon, the entire unearthly realm was cloaked with an impenetrable shroud of deep sadness and endless sorrow.

  Chapter One

  19th November, 9:13 pm, Montmore House Sanitarium

  “Do forgive the interruption, my lord,” said a stylishly liveried butler as he entered the library. “A very well-dressed gentleman with a foreign accent insists upon seeing you without delay. He will not take no for an answer.”

  Dr. Henry MacAlpin glanced up from his book, a densely worded treatise on the cathartic method by Josef Breuer. The physician took the embossed calling card, his dark brows rising.

  “I see. Show Prince Anatole in at once.”

  The handsome alienist straightened his waistcoat. MacAlpin briefly considered putting on the formal coat he’d removed after finishing his evening rounds, but decided against it. The Scotsman had not one whit of trepidation when it came to meeting royalty, for he descended from the bluest of blood, with direct lineages that could be traced back to nearly all the ruling Scottish Houses: Alpin, Dunkeld, Bruce, and Stuart. Despite this remarkable pedigree, the 7th Viscount Salperton smiled respectfully as the tall Russian entered the drawing room.

  Henry possessed unusually keen observational skills and an intuition about people that seldom missed the mark. With a mere glance, he instantly summarised the man before him. First of all, Anatole Romanov stood taller than any other man Henry had ever met. Six-and-a-half feet at least, and his ears had a peculiar shape. MacAlpin had made a study of auricular morphology and developed a theory of inheritance based upon similarities amongst siblings. This man had ears that nearly came to a point, and his almond-shaped eyes emphasised the unusual anatomy. His broad, muscled shoulders and slim waist implied diligence and training. He used both hands equally well, though he favoured his right. His clothing revealed a love of fine fabrics and access to wealth, though he took no thought for flashy trends but dressed to please himself, choosing colours that enhanced and complemented pale skin and raven hair. His eyes were of a peculiarly light shade, and the tight pupils caused the large irises to shimmer all the more. And those eyes were sharp and alert. The serenity in his face and manner exuded a sense of calm. He smiled often and thought deeply. All told, this was a formidable and most unusual man.

  Salperton shook the visitor’s hand. “Welcome to Montmore House, Your Highness. How may I help you?”

  “Thank you for seeing me at so late an hour, Lord Salperton,” Romanov began.
“Forgive my brash intrusion. I hope I do not interrupt.”

  “Not at all. I’ve already seen my resident patients for the evening and was catching up on the latest medical theories. Please, won’t you sit?”

  “Thank you, but there is no time. I came to ask if you might accompany me. It is my understanding that you keep watch on Dr. Alfred Simon’s patients whilst he visits America.”

  “I do. Are you ill, sir?”

  Romanov shook his head, the movement causing a long strand of raven hair to dislodge from the scarlet ribbon that secured it at the back of his head. He tucked the strand behind his ear with such grace that the movement appeared choreographed.

  “I am never ill, Doctor,” the prince explained. “However, a houseguest is. She is dear to me, and I called upon Dr. Simon this past hour only to learn of his trip to New York and that you had promised to act in his stead. My home is not far, a few minutes by coach. I pray that you will accompany me, for my guest’s condition worsens by the hour.”

  “Is your guest injured?”

  “Feverish and unable to awaken,” the prince replied, his tone revealing deep concern. “She was caught in the sudden snowstorm last night, and her attire left her unprepared to ward off so deep a chill.”

  Instantly, Henry made up his mind. “Saunders!” he called to the butler as he stepped into the brightly lit foyer.

  The tall servant emerged from a nearby office with his master’s medical bag in one hand and a brown tweed overcoat in the other.

  “I’ve taken the liberty, sir,” he said offering the coat to Salperton.

  “Still reading my mind, it seems,” the viscount laughed. “Saunders, tell Mrs. Winstead that I may be away for some time. Ask her to keep an eye on our patients for me, particularly Mrs. Crossfield as she’s still somewhat melancholy.”

  “Of course, sir. Will you be travelling with the prince, or shall I ask Goddard to bring your coach to the front?”

  “No need to bother Goddard. I’ll go with His Highness, and I can hire a hansom for the return trip, if need be. Prince, shall we?”

  Taking the red leather bag in his right hand, the viscount followed the enigmatic Russian to a magnificent coach bearing the Romanov coat of arms. He stepped into the plush interior, settling into its leather seat. “I’d never realised a Russian royal lived so close to me,” he said as the midnight black horses began to trot southward.

  “Very few are aware of my presence,” the prince explained. “I’ve many residences throughout London, but the castle is my favourite.”

  “Castle? Surely, you don’t mean Ghaist Castle. Do forgive me, I’m sure it has a far nicer name, but that’s what the Fulham villagers call it. Ghaist Castle.”

  “Ghaist? Does it mean guest?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s an old Scots word meaning ghost. Forgive me, if it insults you, Your Highness. It wasn’t my intent.”

  To Salperton’s relief, Romanov began to laugh, and his light eyes crinkled at the corners. “Ghost, you say? I had no idea my home bore such a curious name! Why is it called this?”

  “My mother grew up in Fulham at Montmore House, which now serves as a refuge and place of healing for those with problems of the heart and mind. When I was a boy, we’d often visit here, and I asked my late grandfather about the castle. He told me to avoid it, for it had a dark reputation. Honestly, I’d no idea anyone even lived there, for it’s always struck me as uninhabited. Fulham’s villagers insist that it disappears from time to time, but surely that is mere fairy tale. Buildings do not vanish any more than people do.”

  “Such a notion is, of course, impossible,” the prince said evenly, but Salperton noticed a hint of sarcasm to his tone. “I believe your father is the Earl of Lasberington. Is that right?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “We met a few times, long ago, when he was attached to the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. Imagine my surprise at discovering his son is a physician who lives so close to me! Sir, this guest of mine is also of your class. An English peeress. Her presence at my home must remain a secret. May I rely upon your discretion?”

  “Yes, of course,” Salperton replied, assuming the woman was the prince’s mistress. “I do nothing that might injure or distress my patient, if I can help it. However, if I believe her in danger of any kind, then I reserve the right to act on her behalf. My patient always comes first, regardless of who hires me.”

  “I should expect nothing less,” Romanov answered. “May I ask something rather unusual?”

  The Scot smiled, his eyes sharp. “More unusual than a Russian prince appearing on my doorstep late at night? What might that be, sir?”

  “It is but a trifle. I should like to touch you, if you’d allow it. Tis, perhaps, a vanity, but I consider myself able to learn about a person through touch. A gift inherited from my creator, you might say.”

  “That’s an odd way to refer to one’s forebears, but if it assists you, then I’ll allow it. Must it be bare skin, or are you able to conduct this ritual through cloth?”

  “I admire your direct nature, Lord Salperton. Or do you prefer that I call you Dr. MacAlpin?”

  “Whatever you wish to call me is fine. I use the medical title with my patients. For to some, my peerage titles are rather offputting.” The Scotsman removed his right glove and extended the hand. “Will this do?”

  “Admirably.” The prince placed two fingers upon the back of Henry’s hand and closed his eyes. Many minutes passed before Romanov spoke again, but when he did, it was a strange series of observations.

  “Your mother’s name was Catherine Marie. She called you ‘little Hal’. She died of consumption when you were six years old. You watched her pass, and she smiled as she crossed over. She told you about an angel who came to take her to God, a beautiful man with golden hair and iridescent skin made of light. When she died, your father entered a state of deep and endless mourning, and you were left to find your own way. Your governess, Miss Vera Abernathy, kept you company for two hours a day, but you spent the remainder alone, wandering the woods and streams near Inverary. Your father is a kind man, but he never quite understood the extreme bond ‘twixt you and your mother. You’re related to the Drummond dukes through her, for your maternal grandfather, the 6th Viscount Salperton, married the current duke’s Aunt Eleanor Stuart. Your father married your mother in his later years. I believe, he is eighty-three presently and seldom travels due to weakness of the limbs.”

  The viscount listened patiently without comment, his warm brown eyes still. Not even a blink betrayed any emotion he might be feeling, though internally, the words regarding his mother’s death struck him deeply. Help me, Henry! Please! Tell me that I’m not alone. You see them, too, don’t you? You see the angels?

  Despite his resolve to remain aloof, Salperton involuntarily shuddered, as though someone had walked across his grave—or hers. Your mother’s insane, Henry. You must keep away from her! She will infect you with her madness!

  “Your mother was not mad,” the prince continued, his eyes boring into Salperton’s. “Despite what your father feared, she was quite sane. He refused to send her to an asylum—out of love, not neglect or shame. This is why you defied him and abandoned a career in politics to pursue medicine, is it not? You feel closer to your mother, when you help those with similar problems. I admire that.”

  Salperton drew back the hand and donned the calfskin glove once again, feigning disinterest. “You could have learnt most of that through any peerage history book.”

  “But not all of it. And none of those books mentions that your dear mother saw angels. One in particular called upon her, and she sketched him many times, did she not? He called himself Shelumiel, peace of God, and his presence calmed your mother as few things in life could. If I told you that Catherine MacAlpin is happier now than she ever thought possible, would it bring you comfort?”

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nbsp; “Forgive me if I appear doubtful, sir, but I could find similar claims from any Cheapside palmist. Speculation and keen observation render almost anyone a prognostic.”

  “I agree, but as you doubt my gift for telling your past, allow me to offer a glimpse into your future. Neither peerage annual nor observation may enlighten me thus. To begin, you have failed in love, but that is about to change. Twice, you have been engaged to be married, and twice you have been abandoned. I daresay that you will fall in love with the woman you are about to meet, but guard your heart, for hers is taken. However, she will bring you joy beyond your wildest imagination. You will become important to her, also, and even save her life—three times. She will play an important role in your life from this night forward, and through her, you will meet your future wife. I would say more, but I cannot foresee everything. My vision is limited by free will, you understand.”

  Henry remained unconvinced. “One might say that all vision is limited by free will, meaning the future is ever in flux. I fear your prognostication skills show no keener insight than most who claim to be mystics,” the doctor said simply as the coach slowed. “It’s true that I’ve been twice affianced, and as you’ve implied, both women failed to keep to their affections. One abandoned her promise to follow a worthless poet to Venice, whilst the other chose marriage to a man she perceived had more riches than I. Neither woman is happy at present, though I wish them well.”

  “As you say, neither is happy, but allow me to escort you to a woman who will forever make you see all others as pale and insignificant. Remember, you have promised to keep her secret. I assure you that doing so is in her best interest—and in that of her husband.”