“Who is it, Lita? Who is it? The fairy Merryweather?” Julianne asked, as enthralled as the woman ten years her senior.
“Yes.” Alita nodded, resuming Merryweather’s voice. “If you should prick your finger and enter into death—”
“Under the evil spell of the wicked witch…” Isabelle completed the sentence.
“My spell will change that death to sleep,” murmured Alita.
“Because the good spell is stronger than the evil spell,” Julianne interjected.
“And if, while you sleep”—Alita pulled the covers up over Isabelle, her voice soft—“true love’s kiss should find you—”
“And it will. It will,” promised Julianne.
“You will awaken from your slumber—”
“And be happy forever more.” Isabelle finished the sentence, drifting off to sleep.
“Lita, is it saying the prick to her finger is the gift?” whispered Julianne.
“Sometimes it is, Julianne.” Alita quietly closed the book.
“Can true love break the spell and awaken one from sleep?” Julianne persisted.
“Definitely.” A slow smile came to Alita’s lips. “Sometimes even if you’re the only one in love.”
Julianne’s expression was perplexed, and she prepared to speak again. Alita put her finger to her lips, motioning to Isabelle. “Let her sleep, sweetheart. She’s a princess when she sleeps.”
Julianne nodded in understanding, whispering, “That is why she loves the book so much.”
As Alita and Julianne were exiting the hospital to return home, Julianne appeared somber. “They’re going to die, aren’t they, Lita?”
Alita nodded.
“It’s too sad, Lita. I don’t want to come back.”
“You don’t have to come back, Julianne. I’ll come by myself.”
“But it makes you sad,” Julianne argued.
“It doesn’t make me sad.” Alita shook her head, feeling her lips tremble. “It makes me happy to take some of their sadness away. They have so little happiness compared to mine. I can spare a little.”
“I guess I can, too, then,” Julianne said softly.
Laughter suddenly burst into their quiet reflections as a carriage of young ladies in the first stare of fashion drove past them. Alita felt a pang of sadness and longing to be one of their number.
“Do you miss your friends, Lita?” Julianne asked.
“Yes,” Alita admitted. “I’m making new friends, truer friends. I’m learning to create my own world rather than entering into everyone else’s.”
“What do you mean, Lita?” Julianne asked, her expression puzzled.
“Without us, Isabelle was in a horrible world. Now she is a princess sometimes. And she truly is a princess, she simply didn’t know it before we painted that world for her.”
“It’s like we paint a picture and people step into the frame.” Julianne covered her mouth with her hands, astonished with the realization.
“I find I paint a better picture than most.” Alita giggled.
“Are you happier now, Lita?”
“I think I was happier then,” she answered truthfully. “But I’m in between paintings now. I have the dream of something…magnificent. I just can’t see it yet.”
“Oh, Lita, you’ll never guess what I heard,” exclaimed Julianne.
“Is it gossip?” Alita admonished.
“Yes!”
“You know I am not fond of gossip,” Alita said with feeling. “Destroying someone else’s life for entertainment and without any first-hand knowledge of its truth.”
“It isn’t that kind of gossip, silly. It’s wonderful news.”
“What, Jules?”
“William Priestly and Charlise Noel are engaged.”
“A charming couple, don’t you think, Julianne?”
“Indeed I do,” exclaimed Julianne with a coquettishly affected expression. “Who could not?”
Alita nodded in agreement. Effortlessly she added in a whisper, “They shall be gloriously happy together.”
“What does it mean to be gloriously?” asked Julianne hopefully.
“It means Charlise shall ground William in a genuine love and spirituality, and William shall adore her and provide her with a sense of gaiety and light-heartedness she never knew.” Alita lowered her eyes wistfully. “As well as providing her with a family of her own.”
“That is glorious in excelsis.” Julianne nodded triumphantly.
“Deo.” Alita smiled.
52
Reunion of the Damned
Damn the luck. As Val entered the room in his full regimentals, his heart sank. Arriving for dinner at the British embassy one minute past the appointed time, he joined Sir Evelyn in his office as planned.
“The ace of spades again,” Val cursed under his breath. How do I manage to draw the winning hand every time?
“That’s him!” Seated across from Sir Evelyn, the elderly gentleman screamed when he saw Val, almost dropping his sherry with his now-shaking hand. “That’s the idiot who accosted me! I want him court-martialed immediately.”
“Captain, it appears you have met Lord Falcon.” Sir Evelyn’s expression was devoid of emotion, and he paused only for an instant. “Lord Falcon, Ravensdale, the Captain of the Princess Royals.”
Val bowed but stood his ground calmly. “Sir, I don’t wish to correct you. But I saved your life today. You were no match for the formidable Egyptian you offended and his friends—I might have thought you would have observed that for yourself. Moreover”—he cleared his throat—“if it’s any concern of yours, I forestalled a bloody massacre of many innocent people.”
“He held a knife to my throat, Cromer!” Lord Falcon jumped out of his chair and began flailing his arms about. He spun round to Sir Evelyn, thumping the bandage on his neck. “A knife.”
“I am most gratified to see you are in good health and fully functioning, Lord Falcon.” Val felt some regret for his own situation, however.
I am going to miss Egypt when they deport me.
Lord Falcon’s face turned red while Sir Evelyn silently scrutinized the situation. The silence had the effect of aggravating Lord Falcon even further, if that were possible. He bellowed, “If you won’t take action, Cromer, I’ll find someone who will.” He stormed out of the room.
“You are most welcome, Lord Falcon. It was a pleasure to ensure your continued existence,” Val muttered under his breath after the door had slammed.
It was an odd twist of fate that he should be the one to be punished for saving the lives of everyone involved.
Not so odd, he supposed.
Sir Evelyn studied the captain, his expression ominous.
I never wanted the position anyway. It is a damned nuisance.
Val hoped Sir Evelyn didn’t ban him from the country and return him to England, which was fully in his power to do. If he were to be unemployed, Val preferred to remain here and translate his discoveries.
England. His heart skipped a beat as he thought of Alita.
Now is not the time, Ravensdale. He forced her picture out of his mind, surprised it should present itself at this inopportune moment.
Will I ever be free of her?
If he couldn’t have her, he did not wish to be tortured daily by her presence. Val returned Sir Evelyn’s hard stare. Today that position is already held by someone else. Let everyone have their turn, Miss Stanton.
Sir Evelyn tapped his pencil on his massive oak desk, everything from his starched three-piece suit to his hair in perfect order. A painful reminder that, despite Sir Evelyn’s lofty position, he was a pencil-pusher at heart and a stickler for the legalities.
I will not submit. If Sir Evelyn chooses to press charges, Val resolved then and there to be a fugitive from the law. Not the course he wished for, but he’d be damned if he’d see out the rest of his days in a foreign jail cell.
There was always a situation which warranted breaking the rules, and he had a sinking feel
ing this was it.
Val’s hand moved closer to the pistol he always kept at his belt. He wouldn’t kill Sir Evelyn, but he might have to immobilize him momentarily.
A definite black mark on his record to shoot the King of Egypt in the arm.
Quickly Val surveyed the room without moving his head and found what he was looking for—a half-open window.
Isn’t it just my lucky day? The window was behind Sir Evelyn. He glanced at his own feet, feigning a humble stance. It wasn’t going to be easy to run in sandals. Possibly he should rethink his preferred footwear.
If he lived.
Sir Evelyn motioned to Val to sit down.
Ignoring the implied command, Val moved slightly closer to the window as he awaited the verdict.
“I think I have pieced the story together pretty well. Is it possible you found no other way to handle the situation, Ravensdale?” he asked pointedly.
“There were many other ways to handle the situation, Sir Evelyn, all less dramatic in nature. However, Lord Falcon did not choose any of the other options available to us.” Val pretended to pace in agitation, allowing him to move closer to the window.
He was not in the mood to waste much time explaining the obvious. Even so, he truly hoped he didn’t have to hurt Sir Evelyn, and the closer he got to the window, the lower the likelihood. “There was only one option left which did not involve bloodshed. I chose that option.”
“Was it that serious?”
“We were circled by natives with weapons resentful of English occupation.” Val frowned. “You be the judge. I, myself, did not feel the stakes high enough to warrant bloodshed on either side.”
“And what stakes were those, Valerius?”
“No gold, no territory, just one stupid peer of the realm who didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”
“You should be sensitive to that malady, Valerius, if I may say so. Please be seated. I require more information,” Sir Evelyn commanded.
“Lord Falcon is no doubt unskilled at weaponry. He is nonetheless ignorant, ill-mannered, and exceptionally skilled at offering insult.” Val waved his arms as he continued his pacing.
“Surely you must have felt a loss of face to have deferred to the Egyptian.” Sir Evelyn frowned, touching his index finger to his chin reflectively.
“That’s no concern of mine, sir.” Val shrugged. “Never occurred to me. Possibly the Egyptian was angrier than the situation warranted, no doubt bringing to the table anger over foreign occupation of his country.” Val ran the scene round in his mind as he considered Sir Evelyn’s question. “Maybe the Egyptian lost a son in the wars. We do not know. Everyone has lost someone.”
“So you sided with the Egyptians?” Sir Evelyn demanded, his tone devoid of all surprise but not without annoyance.
“One hundred percent. And irrelevant, having nothing to do with course of action.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Regardless of my opinion of either party, it was necessary that I address the situation.” Val leaned against the wall next to the window while keeping his feet firmly on the ground and ready to move, his hands at his waist and near his weapons.
Sir Evelyn now had to turn in his chair to look at him.
“If the Egyptian had continued to be unresponsive to our apologies, I would have had to take him in hand,” Val continued. “I would not have killed him. I merely would have disengaged him of his weapons.”
“If he had not killed you,” stated Sir Evelyn evenly.
“That is a risk I had to take,” stated Val matter-of-factly. “I am a soldier for the Crown. My life is secondary to my duty. It is my job to preserve the peace now that Egypt is English-occupied, whether or not I agree with the occupation.”
But I will not die to further a lie. Nor will I be a scapegoat for politicians who generally put their own interests ahead of country.
“We are at peace. And still you risk your life, Ravensdale,” Sir Evelyn stated impatiently. “You could have easily killed the Egyptian, and it would have been ruled as self-defense.”
“And how many lives would have been lost in retaliation?” demanded Val. “As it is, we have no loss of life and one arrogant peer who goes about mostly as he did before, pontificating and attempting to impress his importance on others. He will likely be killed before he leaves Egypt, but hopefully he won’t take any young men with him.”
“You feel a strong bond to your countrymen, it seems.”
“Of course.” Good, there is a ledge. Second floor, no tree to climb down on. “To be British is to be for Britons.”
“And you also feel a strong bond to the Egyptians,” proposed Sir Evelyn, his expression contemplative.
“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Val. “The Egyptians are a great people with a great heritage.”
“I’m sending you back to England,” Sir Evelyn stated conclusively in the tone he used when his decision was final.
“You’re dismissing me?” Val turned abruptly to stare at Sir Evelyn, pushing the window further open with his body.
“No, Ravensdale,” Sir Evelyn replied impatiently.
“You’re pressing charges and sending me to trial,” Val stated coolly, wondering why someone who was generally so direct was having the devil of a time getting to the point. He fingered his pistol. He never acted until all the information was in hand.
“Neither. Your skills are not fully realized here, Ravensdale. I’m recommending you to the Foreign Office. You have the language abilities in addition to all of the other rare qualities which are needed, I now see—a level head and a respect for the indigent population. Not to mention bravery, intelligence, and a willingness to die for your country.”
“Diplomacy?” Val stared at Sir Evelyn in disbelief, moving away from the window in search of a chair. “After the scene that passed in here?”
“Don’t tell me my business, Ravensdale, or I’ll send you to the brig to learn some respect. You’re going to the Foreign Office.” Sir Evelyn nodded his head, thoughtful as he stroked his beard. “Falcon might be angry, but no one died. He will live another day to be angry at some new imagined foe. In diplomatic circles there is rarely a perfect solution, merely a best solution.”
Val stared at Sir Evelyn for a long while, as if he had seen a ghost. Finally he replied, with all the voice he could muster, “Thank you, sir. I will endeavor to be worthy of this honor.”
This is the last straw. He was damn tired of feeling like he was the puppet and Alita Stanton was the puppet master. He had not directed his life for twenty-eight years to come to this.
Val walked to the door in a daze and left, hoping he wouldn’t wake up.
But despite the fog he was in, he no longer doubted his path, and he knew precisely what he would do.
53
Return to the Garden
“And shall you sing for me then, little nightingale, or shall you merely steal my berries?” Alita turned to search her shrubs for movement where the nondescript bird was rummaging. “You might be plain and brown in appearance, but when you sing…”
She watched more of her feathered friends alight on the nearby stone birdbath, two sculpted angels holding a wide-rimmed bowl. Birds grew accustomed to a young lady who came often with a veritable feast of seeds, fruits, and cereals.
It was the first days of spring, the garden soon to be bathed in color. Sitting on the whitewashed stone bench in her garden, an arbor of lilac bushes hanging overhead, Alita was saddened by the lack of anticipation she felt.
Eight months had passed since she returned from Egypt, and it still felt as if a part of her heart would never return from that faraway land.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe in the blend of roses and lilacs shyly entering the air like a young girl at her first dance. The scents revived her, playing a tug of war with her melancholy.
“You brought the babies. Oh, they are so cute. You have the funniest walk of any creature.” Hurriedly she reached into her white
straw basket for poppy, wheat, and barley for the quail. The mother bird’s crown bobbed forward as she moved toward the feast.
Alita reminded herself that the glimpses of joy were coming more frequently. She was deeply grateful, and yet she longed for a greater connection. She was accustomed to understanding others, but she wished for someone who might understand her.
“Shall no one sing for me? Or shall you only eat at my table without thought for my pleasure?”
Possibly the exclusive focus on others was necessary for a time in order to heal.
“And my favorite of all. For you, Jennie, fruitcake and coconut cake.” She reached inside her basket, placing the cake crumbs in her left hand. Not for the first time, the robin ate directly from her hand. She murmured, “I have no doubt you fly with the angels. Your song is so melodic—light, wistful, even…elevating. Shall I hear it?”
Each time she faced her internal captors, she felt the balance of power shifting slightly. As the ripples in the pond flowed, caressing the lily pads, she felt her soul joining with the water, and a moment of tranquility filled her heart.
Amused with their playfulness, she watched the fish swimming in her pond when, with an abrupt suddenness, she turned away from that peaceful endeavor and looked into the eye of the storm.
Captain Ravensdale stood just outside her arbor, completely absorbed in intently observing her, his expression so stark as to almost be a frown.
Alita felt a wave of shock rush over her as her breath caught in her chest. His coal-black hair waving over his ears—still too long, ever in need of a haircut—his ice-blue eyes the color of a rain cloud resting on her. As she stared back at him, the right corner of his mouth slowly rose to form that half smile she had longed to forget.
And she thought she might melt right then and there despite the morning breeze.
Clenching her hands in her lap, cake crumbs scattering everywhere. He had the look of a man who had been dying of thirst and finally found water. She wondered if she deceived herself. Valerius moved slowly toward her as if he had never expected to see her again and was drinking in every instant of the moment.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 39