Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Salperton gasped in irritation. “Forgive me, sir, but if your connexions within the medical community are so vast, why the devil did you come to me in the first place? There are many experts with more experience than I, and some with far grander titles!”

  “But none with so great an interest in the lady’s welfare. Nor in her husband’s.”

  “I insist you explain that!” Salperton shouted. He’d had very little sleep, and his patience had begun to wear thin.

  “Hush, please, my friend. I appreciate your ire, but I prefer to keep the atmosphere of this room less strident. Let us adjourn to the lady’s drawing room, and I shall be pleased to answer any questions you may wish to ask.”

  The weary viscount found himself thoroughly vexed and confounded, but he forced himself to concentrate on his patient’s welfare. After all, the duchess knew nothing of this conversation—she needed him. Henry returned the instruments to the large bag and snapped it shut. “Very well. Lead on, for I have a great many questions.”

  They moved into the adjoining sitting room. Since arriving on Monday night, Salperton had made this room a temporary bedchamber so that he could hear the duchess should she cry out or awaken. The curved damask sofa where he spent fitful nights held a rumpled red and gold quilt and a small embroidered cushion that served as a pillow. Henry sat into the couch’s soft embrace, tempted to fall asleep, but he dared not lose this opportunity to question the Russian. Romanov had a habit of disappearing for hours at a time, and even when present, skillfully evaded all attempts at lengthy conversation.

  This was Henry’s first chance to learn about his host.

  The enigmatic prince took a chair near the fire. “I am yours to command, Lord Salperton. Ask me anything you wish.”

  “Very well. To begin with, why did you call upon me, Your Highness? I insist you explain yourself clearly. Otherwise, I shall leave this house and go straight to the police.”

  Rather than react with anger, the prince seemed amused by the physician’s threat. “As always, Henry, your heart rules your head, despite what you may wish to believe.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” Salperton shot back.

  “Merely, that you are a man of deeply held convictions. I admire that. As to the police, even if you succeeded in reaching the authorities on your own, they would find it difficult, if not impossible, to find this castle. Our household is veiled.”

  “Veiled? What sort of nonsense is that?”

  “You said yourself that my home is known to the villagers as Ghaist Castle. Though I feigned surprise, it was not the first time I’d heard that rather quaint expression. I imagine that this most descriptive name is due to the veil that shrouds the property. I have placed a special type of lock upon all our gates to make it difficult for my enemies to find us.”

  “And what enemies might those be, sir? The British government? The police?”

  Romanov smiled patiently. “Not the police, no, and your government considers me a valued advisor where foreign policy matters are concerned. I refer to a different class of enemies, my friend. Spirits.”

  “Ghosts, you mean.”

  “Hardly. Not in the sense by which most mean that word. I told you that your mother could see angels, Lord Salperton, but you also see them, do you not? Only, you perceive angels that are far different from those who interacted with your dear mother. Your visions are darker. Heavier. Surely, you’ve noticed an absence of these spirits here, within these walls.”

  The viscount found his mouth suddenly dry, and he longed for a glass of water—or better yet, something stronger.

  “There is brandy in the decanter to your right,” the prince said, reading his thoughts. “Or do you prefer whisky? I’ve a cask of Drummond Reserve in the cellar. Shall I have Vasily decant it?”

  “How do you know that I... That I see spirits?” the Scotsman asked, his voice cracking.

  “I know a great deal about you, Henry, and I confess that it did not arise solely from touching you in the coach on Monday night. You ask why I chose you from amongst all the physicians in London. The answer is simple. It is because of your ability to see these troubling spirits. The duchess needs far more than medicine, Dr. MacAlpin. She needs someone on whom she may rely to help her sort through her own terrifying visions.”

  “Are you telling me that she also sees these... These hellish creatures? Is she like my mother?” the young physician asked, his brown eyes wide.

  “She is like you, Henry. The spirits the duchess perceives—the entities that have surrounded and pursued her for the greater part of her life—are not the loyal elohim your mother saw. They are deceitful, entirely fallen, and openly rebellious to God. Elizabeth can see these rebel princes, but also their demonic helpers. Had I told you all this when we first met, would you have come with me?”

  Salperton smiled nervously, swiping at his curly black hair with a lean hand. “Most likely not. Most likely, I’d have deemed you demented at best, a liar at worst. Or a charlatan. Would I have been wrong?”

  Romanov laughed, and Salperton thought he perceived a faint hint of wings behind the prince’s straight back. The Scotsman squinted, certain he’d imagined it.

  “Your eyes do not deceive you, Henry. You already suspect that I am not human, and you are correct.”

  The visitor shot to his feet, angry with himself for allowing this stranger to manipulate him, but also suddenly fearful. The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees, and the candles actually dimmed. The prince was speaking, but simultaneously, other voices from the doctor’s past joined Romanov’s, the layered sounds multiplied in different pitches and whispered in dissonant echoes that repeated inside Henry’s mind—the experience both pleasant and terrifying, all at once.

  “Henry, do you see them? The beautiful angels?” he heard his mother’s voice ask. “Are they real? Tell me they’re real, please! Such lovely wings, they have, Henry! Can you see them? They ask if you can see them... They tell me that you have an important task ahead. A woman will need you. A woman who sees that which is unseen. Can you see them, my darling Hal? Can you? Please, tell me I’m not mad! Please!”

  And along with this came a dissenting and discordant voice, an oily coat upon a grating hiss—one Salperton had heard many times as a boy.

  “Do you think it mere chance that you see spirits, Henry? No, indeed, we come to you because you are unlike other boys. You are very special, Henry. Your blood is unique. And we shall keep you from harm and teach you... All you need do is follow us and do as we ask!”

  These and a thousand other, ancient memories crowded the Scotsman’s mind whilst his ears strained to hear the prince’s spoken words beneath the complex strata. Finally, when on the cusp of screaming in agony, the auditory torture abruptly ceased. Henry wiped at his eyes, his breathing quick, head tilted in an effort to dampen the maddening, aural assault.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered, expecting to find his host in the opposite chair, but the seat was empty.

  Instead, Romanov now stood beside the door to the duchess’s chamber. Salperton had not seen him move from the wingback, much less cross to the other door.

  “Sir?” he asked tensely, wiping his brow. Why is the room so stiflingly hot suddenly? “I didn’t notice you move, but I heard voices. Not only your own, but others.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Russian whispered, his ear to the bedchamber door as if listening. “The voices you heard came from the seven realms. Keep watch on the duchess in my absence, and do not follow me! A shift in power takes place, and I must leave. Vasily will see to your needs. I promise to answer all your questions at a later time.”

  Prince Anatole did not open the door; he passed through it, and Henry MacAlpin, 7th Viscount Salperton was left alone and wondering if he’d lost all his wits and become a madman.

  Chapter Nine

  “There’s the cottage,�
� the girl told Sinclair. “That’s strange, I’ve never seen smoke coming from the chimney before. Sometimes, I see a smiling woman in the window, and she waves to me, but the chimney never has smoke. I wonder why it’s changed now.”

  “Is this the first time I’ve walked here with you, darling?”

  She nodded. “Yes, it is. Perhaps, that’s the reason for the difference.”

  They walked along a fieldstone path that led towards the thatched cottage. It was timber-framed and clad in creek rock. A single shaft of warm yellow light shone down upon its roof, causing the entire building to glow. It had a blue door that bore a pair of entwined carved hearts upon it, and within this carving, he perceived two additional hearts adorned with gold, and these glowed as though lit by fire.

  “This is where I must leave you, Father mine. You always told me that I’d help you to find your way and that the cottage was your destination. That’s why I’ve worked so very hard to find the quickest path through the maze. There are evil birds and spiders all about the house. You can see them at the wood’s edge, but don’t let them worry you. It will be fine, so long as you don’t linger too long. Keep watch on the moon. The woman says it is too late, when the moon begins to change.”

  “Darling, why must you go?” he asked, wishing to know his daughter better. “I’ve so many questions!”

  “I know you do, but you made me promise not to answer them. You said that you mustn’t learn too much about the future, as it might affect my past. That I was to tell you only enough to get you here. I’ve done that.” She put her arms around his neck as he knelt beside her. “I love you so very much, darling Father. You make me very proud. You are the most wonderful father in all the world!”

  “I love you, too, Georgianna,” he whispered. “And I look forward to meeting you again soon, though you’ll be just a baby at the time. But I shall tell you all about this miraculous adventure when you’re old enough. It’s been quite strange, being led by my unborn child. You make me very proud, little one.”

  She began to laugh, deep dimples forming in her smooth cheeks. “You always call Mother that! Though, you sometimes call me that as well. I’ll tell you a secret, Father. I’ve always loved hearing you say it, so please don’t ever stop. Even when I’m grown and married.”

  “I promise,” he said, kissing her small hands, tears glistening in his eyes.

  “Go inside now, Father. I’m starting to wake up, but I’ll tell you all about it, when I see you at breakfast.”

  “You will tell the future me, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I suppose it is the future you, though to me, you’re just my wonderful, remarkable father. I’ll see you again in a few minutes!”

  The girl continued to smile at him even as her body thinned into nothingness. In less than two heartbeats, Georgianna Sinclair had completely disappeared, leaving her somewhat confused father all alone.

  Charles put his hand upon the door’s iron handle, depressing the thumb latch and pushing. The hinges creaked, and he could smell bread baking upon a wood fire. As he entered the cottage’s interior, Sinclair could hear the clatter of pans from another room, and a woman singing softly in a thick, Highland accent:

  The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,

  The trees are blossom’d fair,

  The lake is smiling to the sun,

  And Mary wand’ring there.

  The pow’rs that watched o’er Mary’s birth,

  Did Nature’s charms despoil,

  They stole for her the rose’s blush,

  The sweet lake’s dimpled smile! 2

  “Hello?” he called softly as he inspected the main room. It felt vaguely familiar, and it struck Charles that the furnishings reminded him of another cottage, one he’d just seen in the asaru stone’s visions. The hearth stood nearly as tall as the marquess, and an iron kettle simmered upon the crackling fire, suspended from a long hook. A sizzling pan of Bannock bread cooled upon a nearby stool.

  The singing had stopped, as had the clattering of the pans, and Charles turned to see a plump woman with a wooden ladle in her hand. “I didn’t hear anyone knock,” she said in Scots Gaelic. The marquess simultaneously heard the language and translated it inside his head.

  “You’re Scottish,” he said, also speaking Gaelic, much to his surprise.

  “Aye, that I am,” she replied, laughing merrily. She was round as an apple and dressed in a wool tartan skirt. The homespun blouse had billowing sleeves turned up to the elbows. Charles recognised the tartan’s pattern as an older version of the Stuart hunting design, for he’d seen it in several of the oil paintings at the duke’s London home. The woman’s clothing appeared new but reflected attire worn by Highland peasants from centuries earlier. Sinclair wondered if he’d moved backwards in time.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was told to come in. I should have knocked first.”

  “You were told to come in? By whom, my lord?”

  “By my daughter,” he answered. “She had to leave, however. It’s all rather strange, actually. She’s not yet born, you see, but she proved to be my rescuer. It’s odd how the Lord works.”

  “Aye, our Saviour works his miracles in ways we’d nary expect,” the amiable woman answered, her fleshy cheeks rounding above a wide smile. “I reckon you’ll be stayin’ for supper, then? Just like the other one.”

  “The other one?”

  “The lady, sir. Surely, you know about the lady! I found ‘er on my doorstep not half an hour ago. She’s powerful tired, though. The boy brought her. You probably knew that as well.”

  “No, I’m rather ill-informed regarding this strange land. Forgive me, madam. I wonder if I might sit?” he asked, suddenly overcome by weariness and fearful that he might collapse.

  “Oh, o’ course, sir! Such a poor welcome I’m makin’ for ye, an’ me havin’ waited all this time. Take the rocker by the fire, now. You look nigh ready ta fallin’ down! My manners’ve sure gone rusty! I’ll fetch a cup o’ tea, or would ye be needin’ somethin’ a wee bit stronger?”

  “Just water, if you have it handy,” he said as he sat into the hand-hewn rocking chair. “Where am I?”

  “It’s called Fasgadh Bothan, sir. It means House o’ Refuge, though you surely know that, as you’re a Scotsman. I can tell from the look o’ ye, an’ ye speak a wee bi’ o’ the Gaelic, though wi’ an accent, o’ course. This house is safe from all those foul creatures. The spiders and bird people, I mean. And you’re safe from the Shadows. Evil things they are, sir, but the Lord’s own light keeps this house protected. You say that the wee girl brought you through the maze? Aye! I’ve seen ‘er about now an’ then, but she nary comes in. She must be a bright child, indeed, for the way is quite confusin’ and very dangerous.”

  “She is a brilliant child,” he professed with pride. “Wait, you said that a boy brought this woman you mentioned?”

  “Aye, sir, he did. I’ve seen the lad hereabouts now and again. Tall and quite nice. Black o’ hair an’ long o’ limb. We’ve spoken a few times, through the window or when I’m in the garden, but he nary comes in neither. Said he’s not supposed to. The lady told me ‘bout him. The children never come in, sir. This place is only for you.”

  “For me?”

  “And the lady, o’ course. Here’s your water, sir. It’s clean and clear. I’ll plate up some soup and add a crust o’ bread. It’s made from me own recipe. Heavy on the butter an’ oats, but light on the sweet. I use honey from me own hives. Tis a blessing ta have bees about; they keep the birds away, ya know. God’s own little guardians, I think. Once you’ve eaten, I’ll leave you and the lady ta yourselves.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the cup of water. “What is your name, dear lady?”

  “It’s Hope, sir.” The woman added two ladles of the thick stew to a brown and white crock, topped it with a large piece of oat bread and h
anded it to him. “This’ll soon fortify you, my lord. Now, if there’s naught else, I’ll be goin’. Enjoy yer time, but don’t overstay. The birds’ll try to get in, but they canno’ so long as you don’t remain here too long. Keep watch on the moon. When it changes, you must go. It’s been real nice meeting you at last, sir. The Lord’s blessings be with you.”

  “And with you,” he said as she left through the front door.

  Sinclair set the simple meal on a nearby table and crossed to the window, expecting to see the curious woman upon the path, but saw no one. He did, however, see many dozens of the birdmen standing at the edge of the bordering woods and staring at the house. The creatures appeared to be speaking to one another as though plotting, and Charles found himself wondering just how long before they would attempt to breach the door.

  Then he heard the sound, soft, like a faint sigh, coming from elsewhere within the cottage. Only then, did he notice another door. Praying the birds hadn’t found a weakness and entered, he opened the brightly painted door. It led into a small room, which stood in semi-darkness, lit only by a tiny pinpoint of light from a candle, which burnt upon a washstand beneath a circular window. The narrow bed was formed of willow branches, twisted into a heart shape over the head. The quilt was patchwork, and each colourful scrap held a stitched pair of entwined hearts. Within the overlapping portion of these hearts, two tiny hearts had been embroidered in golden thread. Upon the bed, beneath this beautiful quilt, slept a woman with curling dark hair that spilt across the feather pillows in waves of gleaming sable.

  “Beth!” he cried out, rushing to her side. He sat upon the bed, taking her pale hand into his. It felt quite warm to the touch. He put his palm against her forehead, noting that it, too, seemed overly warm.

  Charles found a towel in the kitchen and poured cool water into it, wrung it out, and then returned to place it upon his wife’s feverish brow.

  “There now,” he whispered. “Can you hear me, darling?”

  She didn’t move, but her breathing seemed regular and deep.