Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “As was I at first,” Sinclair answered. “Imminently perplexed, to be honest, but no longer. She is alive, but ill. Her skin felt hot to the touch, and she thought a doctor stood nearby. She could smell medicines.”

  “Slow down, Charles,” the earl insisted. “You’ve lost me as well.”

  “Then, let me tell you where I’ve been for the past week. It was a strange world, but one connected to all of this. To Redwing, and perhaps to these mirrors Susanna Morgan warned you about. It is an impossible land of talking birds and living stones.”

  “And Beth was there?”

  “Beth and two children who will one day play a very large role in our rescue. My friends, this tale will sound impossible, but I assure you, every word is true.”

  Lorena MacKey read through the message as she sipped Darjeeling tea from a yellow rose cup. “Thank you, Mr. Miles. Am I to send a reply?”

  “The footman didn’t say, but he’s still here, if you wish to send Lord Aubrey an answer. Shall I fetch pen and paper?”

  “Yes, please. Do you know if Dr. Emerson plans to return this afternoon?”

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. The doctor generally spends nights here. I’ll ask the marquess’s footman to enquire.”

  “That isn’t necessary. I can include the question in my note.”

  The butler left, returning a few moments later with a lap desk containing sheets of paper, a bottle of ink, and three pens. As she opened the desk, she felt a strange chill pass through her body. The cream stationery bore the Branham crest upon it, with the words Elizabeth, Duchess of Branham embossed in gold ink. She quickly wrote a note to Aubrey, folded it once, and handed it to Miles.

  “May I keep the lap desk? I’d like to write a letter.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Miles told her, taking the message and leaving the drawing room.

  Once alone, MacKey read through the earl’s note again:

  Lorena – We shan’t be meeting with you today. Charles has awoken, and I prefer to spend the day with him. The circle will gather tomorrow evening instead of tonight, and we’ll send for you then. I pray your shoulder is improved. I am very sorry for injuring you. More sorry than you can ever know.

  – Paul

  MacKey felt a stab of guilt, not only for deceiving the Stuarts, but for Susanna Morgan’s death.

  “More sorry than you can ever know,” she said aloud. “What does he mean by that?”

  The doctor took a deep breath to cleanse her thoughts and lifted the stack of stationery from the box, hoping to find blank sheets. She preferred not to use anything bearing the crest, as it would reveal her whereabouts. To her surprise, she discovered a letter at the bottom, penned by Elizabeth but never posted. It looked as though she’d been interrupted whilst writing, and Lorena wondered why it was never completed.

  I shouldn’t read this, she thought to herself, but her curiosity overruled reason. The letter was addressed to James Stuart and dated the first of October, 1888.

  Dearest Grandfather,

  As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve returned early to London. I suspect that Paul’s spies have already informed you of this, but I wanted to explain my reasons. I beg you to understand, my darling friend, for it is never my intention to keep anything from you. The recent crimes in London’s East End must surely remind you of my mother’s murder. I implore you for permission to explain to Superintendent St. Clair why that murder connects to those done by this Ripper fiend, and how it may also connect to me.

  Last week in France, I received a letter that implied a threat to me. I’ve told no one else about it. There were three attacks on women in the Montmartre area of Paris, and two near Goussainville, which—as you know—is but a stone’s throw from Victoria’s château. Grandfather, I’ve a dreadful fear of all this. I’m sure something quite awful is about to happen. I’ve started suffering from nightmares again, just like in the old days, and Shadows stalk my steps.

  I’ve written to the superintendent and asked him to meet me this week. I’m terrified, Grandpa. Simply terrified, and I want to tell Charles everything. I pray he’ll agree to speak with me, though I’ve no idea if he even remembers the pitiable duchess he once called ‘little one’.

  I hope that he does, for you know my thoughts. My love for him has never waned—not even the slightest, despite his silence all these years. I don’t know if you ever posted my letter to him, but it no longer matters. I am of an age, when I should be allowed to make my own decisions.

  Paul will likely be angry, but it is a risk, I must take. Grandfather, do I dare speak to him about it? Will Paul understand? I love him dearly, but I am convinced that Charles is meant to be my husband, though I cannot explain why.

  Last night, I had the worst dream so far. Wolves and terrifying bird creatures surrounded me, and spi—

  There the letter stopped, and MacKey wondered what it was the duchess had planned to write. Why did she never post it? It looked as though she’d been interrupted whilst writing, and perhaps forgotten about it.

  The physician returned the letter to its former place beneath the stationery and shut the lap desk, deciding not to write. She’d planned to send a letter to Margaret Hansen, but even an unmarked message might lead Redwing to find her, and then cause suspicion to fall on Hansen. She could never allow that. Meg had risked her life to help Lorena, despite what Redwing’s human and inhuman members might do to her, just as they’d done to Susanna Morgan.

  “My lady, there is a caller for you. He asks if you would join him on the portico.”

  She glanced up. “A caller? Is it Lord Aubrey or Dr. Emerson?”

  “Neither, ma’am. The gentleman is well dressed but unknown to me, and he refuses to offer a card. Shall I send him away?”

  “No, I’ll speak with him, but will you keep watch on me through the window?”

  “Of course, ma’am. I can remain with you, if you prefer. In fact, several of us could accompany you.”

  She smiled. “You and the other men here are certainly kind, Mr. Miles. Kinder than I deserve. No, that isn’t necessary. Just keep watch.”

  Lorena left the drawing room, crossed through the broad foyer, and out the main entry. At first, she saw no one upon the broad stones that formed the high porch. Six enormous, marble pillars supported the great, pedimented roof of the portico, which led down a set of wide steps and onto the circular, gravel park. The summer’s willow chairs had been removed to winter storage, but four ragstone benches flanked the entry, and Lorena sat, allowing the warmth of the southern sun to shine upon her face.

  “What did you think of the letter?” a male voice asked.

  She saw no one, but she did recognise the speaker. “Why didn’t you enter the house?”

  Anatole Romanov stepped out of the shadows and took her hand. “It isn’t because I am prevented, but out of respect. I prefer to be invited by the home’s owner.”

  “And I know this because you tell me?” she challenged him as he sat beside her. “You might be one of your brothers in disguise. A false Anatole.”

  He kissed her hand. “Bring me a Bible, and I shall prove it. My brothers dare not touch the holy scriptures, for even the printed pages bring them great pain.”

  “How do I know this? Satan knows the scriptures, and dared to quote them to Christ! No, I no longer trust any of you. If you are Anatole, then why did you force me to work for Trent? Charles may have awoken, but he nearly died, and it would have been my fault! My fault!” she shouted angrily.

  He placed an arm around her shoulders. “Do you remember when your stepfather died? I promised to keep watch on you. Lorena, I have not failed to do so, despite what you believe. Only recently, did I learn that Raziel had taken my form. I do not know how often he has done this, but my brother will answer to our Creator for his crimes.”

  She shrugged, forgetting the injury and wincing at th
e pain the movement caused.

  “Here, allow me,” Anatole said, and he gently placed a hand on the injured joint. “The earl did not intend to harm you. His anger overwhelms his reason at times.” His fingers moved, massaging the area, and the joint and soft tissues grew warm. The pain lessened and then vanished. “There. It should function normally now.”

  MacKey rotated the shoulder and abducted the arm, surprised to find all pain and stiffness gone. “Thank you. Anatole—assuming it is you—tell me why you appear to me now, after a week, and show such kindness?”

  “Because I care for you, Lorena. I know that my methods confuse and frustrate you, but there is always a reason for my actions. Tomorrow evening, Charles Sinclair will come to speak with you. Tell him the following, and you must be precise. Firstly, tell him that the duchess is with me.”

  “With you?” she interrupted. “Where? The circle’s been searching everywhere! Why haven’t you told them? Told Paul?”

  “I will not reveal her location to anyone yet. Her enemies keep watch on this house, and some of their spies can hear thoughts. Tell Charles that I keep her safe from all who would harm her. She is being tended by a trustworthy physician and will return to him soon.”

  “And the rest? What else am I to say?”

  “Tell Sinclair that Redwing is at war. The spirits begin to bicker, and loyalties shift. His success within the stone maze has caused the doors and windows of the Seven Realms to shake, their locks now weaken, and some of the prisoners may soon escape. The human members of Redwing will begin to die, and the killer is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The Stone King works with Raziel to break through the barriers and chains placed upon him in ages past. If he and his minions enter this world, then even my powers may not be enough to stop the slaughter. If Ripper’s deeds caused London’s citizens to fear, then the Stone King will strike terror into the hearts of the entire country. Perhaps, the entire world.”

  She started to ask more, but the prince had vanished.

  Lorena remained on the porch for many minutes, considering the strange encounter. Spies in the house? A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Who? Did he mean someone in Redwing? Someone on the circle? Who amongst these two factions might be a devil in disguise?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday, 7:10 pm – the Empress Hotel

  Sir Clive Urquhart handed his cloak to Meg Hansen and joined the others in the private salon. “Where is everyone this evening? Has Trent’s demise caused our members to quake in fear?” he asked as a scantily clad young woman offered the Redwing member a glass of wine. “Thank you, my dear Diana. As with the goddess after whom you are named, you are a delight to the eyes! Mrs. Hansen chose well when she added you to her stable. Speaking of which, my little spies tell me that a certain nobleman visited this morning, madam. Is this true?”

  Hansen wore a tight gown of pale green satin, trimmed in black lace. The neckline plunged into a deep teardrop, but the whorehouse keeper had added a scarf of delicate black netting for a modicum of decency. A ruffled bustle created the illusion of a small waist, and its striped silk continued to the floor. The skirting concealed a special pocket, where Meg kept an ivory-handled jacknife and a loaded derringer—just in case.

  “If you refer to Lord Aubrey, then yes, he paid a call,” she answered. “It was mere curiosity. Nothing more.”

  Hansen didn’t dare reveal her compliance with the earl—allowing him access to the entire hotel, but she’d had reason for the indulgence. No one in Redwing knew that Lorena MacKey had taken refuge in the hotel on Sunday night, and though Meg had made a pretense to Aubrey of thinking her a Frenchwoman, the truth was far more complicated, which the inner circle would soon learn. Margaret Hansen was more an ally than any of the Stuarts dared to guess.

  “Lord Aubrey asked nothing about Trent?” Alexander Collins asked pointedly. “Nothing about Sunday’s events? Nothing about Sir William?”

  “Not a word,” Hansen lied. “I think the earl feels at home in my sort of establishment. Perhaps, he merely came to shop. He is, after all, an unmarried man with the usual appetites and drives, is he not?”

  “And a right ‘andsome one at that,” Diana Margate observed boldly. “I’d take ‘is lordship as a reg’lar.”

  “I very much doubt that Aubrey came here for pleasure,” Contessa di Specchio noted suspiciously. “Mrs. Hansen, will you leave us? My friends and I have private matters to discuss.”

  “As you wish,” the brothel-keeper answered. “Diana, come with me. Ring should you require anything,” she told the gathering.

  Hansen shut the door, and Di Specchio waited several minutes before speaking again. “I do not trust that woman. There is a gleam to her eye that reveals much about Lord Aubrey’s visit. The earl has a special talent for breaching even the most fortified female portcullis.”

  Urquhart laughed, twirling the hair of his waxed moustache with one hand whilst holding a wine glass in the other. “A delightful picture, Contessa, but you are correct about our Scottish earl. He is no stranger to Paris’s maisons de passe. I happen to know that he spent many months in such places in his younger days, and he keeps a secret regarding one particular liaison. I think we might use that, should he ever draw too close to the truth.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Clive?” asked a younger man, sitting near the window. He had light brown hair which curled at the forehead, a slight moustache (which looked more like a shadow than actual hair), and blue eyes so light in colour that they practically disappeared from his face. “I’d rather thought Aubrey inscrutably dull.”

  “Oh, but that is so very wrong, mon ami!” the builder proclaimed as he replenished the younger man’s glass. “You are new to our membership, Sir Albert, but I would never call Aubrey a dull fellow. Inscrutable, yes, irritating to be sure, but never dull. Ask any man who crosses him, assuming that man is still alive. Aubrey is a formidable opponent.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me, but I simply don’t see it. The man is weak. He fawns all over his Cousin Elizabeth. I believe he’d happily lie down as a rug for her to cross, should she ask it! No, the earl is hardly formidable, Clive. She is his weakness.”

  “You may have a point, Sir Albert,” di Specchio agreed. “Do we know what happened to her? The duchess, I mean. Surely, she did not kill Trent!”

  “The lady might have sliced him with her sharp tongue,” Wendaway observed, still stinging from Elizabeth’s reproof at the wedding reception. “Why are so many men in love with that spoilt and irritating woman?”

  “The duchess is a thorn in your tender flesh, is she not, Sir Albert? Admit it, mon ami. Her infamous beauty has captured even your black heart. You are simply angry that she did not fall for your charms.”

  “Whatever you say, Clive,” the baronet replied, feigning boredom. “How can Aubrey be stopped, if he is so very formidable?”

  The builder returned to his chair and lit a fat cigar. Once satisfied that it drew correctly, he exhaled deeply, his dark eyes rolling back into his head with pleasure. “These are made by Lord Aubrey’s own tobacconist. I can see why he prefers them, which means we can learn from the earl, no? My dear Wendaway, you may be right about his weakness being the duchess, which makes it all the more important that we find her, I think. Serena, my dear, what say your spies inside the world of reflected light?”

  “What is that?” asked Alexander Collins. “Is that the place Lord Raziel calls sen-sen?”

  “Indeed,” di Specchio explained. “Sen-sen is a realm similar to this one. It lies beneath us, as a lake lies beneath and reflects the sky. But there are many other worlds beyond sen-sen. What we call reality is but a fraction of what truly exists.” She lifted her wine to the candle’s light. “This is little better than water! I crave real nourishment. Why does Raziel insist we avoid slaking our thirst? These new rules begin to grate upon me.”

  “He says we must veil ourselves, and
he’s right. Trent drew far too much attention to his activities,” Collins observed. “Sir William is dead, because his methods were avoidably provocative. I warned him that his hybridisation program produced individuals with enormous strength but little capacity for thought, but he refused to believe me. In my opinion, Trent’s own alterations affected his mind adversely. We must improve our methods, if we are to survive.”

  “To do so requires the retrieval of Trent’s body from the police—as soon as possible,” a newcomer said, stepping through the closed door of a coat closet. “Good evening, everyone. Is this actually wine? How very dull.”

  “Lord Saraqael, this is indeed a surprise! Welcome to our gathering,” di Specchio said, rising to accept the handsome elohim’s kiss. “You honour us, my lord.”

  “I spy upon you, Countess,” the unnatural being replied with a wink. “Do you consider that an honour? It seems that I arrive back in London to discover I’ve missed a great deal of fun. I understand that Trent is dead. Slain by Anatole, no less. I imagine that was a delightful little encounter.”

  “Alas, the baronet is gone from our midst,” the builder bemoaned. “I shall miss him. Not because of his leadership, no, of course not! Trent had little capacity for true leadership. I shall miss his companionship. Few of our members throw so lavish a party as Sir William.”

  “Yet he lived on the largesse of others, did he not?” di Specchio noted. “If he threw parties, they were paid for by his friends. Sir William was a user as well as a fool.”

  “His carcass is food for crows in the underworld realms,” the elohim observed. “A fitting end to so loathsome a man. Not even a man. A petty hybrid with aspirations to greatness! Tell me, Contessa, where are Samael and Raziel? Where are my brothers?”

  “Why seek that insolent traitor?” Urquhart seethed at the mention of Samael, known to most as Prince Anatole Romanov. “The Russian does not show his face, because he fears us!”