Aphelion Page 8

For a short while Isobel left her guest alone, as she visited her private chambers, where she slept and kept herself hidden from the world. She returned shortly, holding in her hands several sheets of parchment. She placed them before Holtzrichter, who watched her with great interest.

  He spread the parchment out before him. “And what are these?”

  “A few years ago I was visited by one of our people, Mr Holtzrichter, a coxcomb named Edward Lomax.” Isobel shuddered with the memory. “Something ailed him, sir, ghosts and voices, one too many maggots in the brain. But still he talked with great intelligence. No less queer in the attic as King George he may have been, but Edward Lomax was a man of learning. And he brought with him the Book of Origin.”

  Holtzrichter looked up, his dark eyes full of suspicion. Only the youngest of their people did not know of the Book, and it was clear that Holtzrichter was not among them. Somewhere in the world there lived a being called the Ancient, the oldest of their kind, and it was said that he was there at the beginning, in Egypt. The Book was his, notes of dreams and visions, tales of their combined history, everything from how their people came to be to prophecies of the future. The Book, it was said, was lost to the Ancient centuries ago, and he scoured the world looking for it. The look of disbelief in Holtzrichter’s eyes no doubt matched hers four years ago when Edward Lomax had presented her with the Book.

  She nodded. “He was cast out of the Green when he was found strangling a boy of only ten years, but he took the Book with him. However, in his haste, he left these behind.” Isobel pointed at the parchment. “These pages, translated by Edward, tell of a prophecy about a man called Seker…”

  “Seker?” Holtzrichter looked down at the pages. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and removed a quizzing glass. He picked up a piece of parchment and brought the quizzing glass close to it, not that he would need such a thing. Their kind had perfect vision.

  “Yes, believed to guard the gates of the underworld in Egypt mythology. These pages tell us that he will, apparently, return in the second millennium.” Isobel resumed her seat and found the relevant passage. “And Seker shall return in fire, to bring the children back home to her.”

  Holtzrichter did not look up, but continued reading. “Do you mean that Julius was right?”

  “I think he has diluted the truth. I do not fully understand what Julius teaches, but I do know that what he claimed is a lie. According to the Book we are at over two hundred years away from Seker’s arrival.”

  Holtzrichter did not comment for a while, instead he read.

  “This is why I followed Celeste,” Isobel continued. “The Brotherhood sought to descend our people into chaos, and that is not the goal of Seker. We are not animals, despite our collective past, and we must prove that.”

  Holtzrichter did not respond, instead his attention flickered from one piece of parchment to another. For a short while Isobel watched him, but it soon became obvious that he was no longer aware of her, so she took her leave of him and slipped out to see Hareton.

  *

  As she stepped out of the house, back into the rain, Isobel did up her pelisse, casting a look back at Mr Holtzrichter who still had his head in the pages. She closed the door and made her way to the stables, where she found Hareton readying the horse and gig for the long journey ahead of them. He looked up as soon as she entered, a smile stretching across his countenance. When she had last seen Hareton Wesley he had been only seventeen years, no longer a boy but not quite a man. Although, Isobel recalled with a flush, he had soon found his way around her body like a man used to a bit o’ muslin. Now he was twenty-three, a young man, and she had to confess he had filled out quite well.

  “Do you find me amiable?” he asked, enjoying the attention of her eyes.

  “Very.” Isobel bolted the stable door and crossed over to him. “You have become quite a man, Hareton,” she said, running a delicate hand across his firm jaw.

  He held up a hand to stop her. “What of Mr Holtzrichter?”

  “He is else occupied, besides which I do not care a groat. Can he stop two people in the high ropes?” At this Hareton lowered his hand, and Isobel continued to stroke his jaw. “I have heard word of your exploits these last six years, playing messenger to my people. And now to deliver the Lady Celeste’s very own envoy?”

  Hareton placed his hand over hers and brought it to his lips. “Does this mean I have proven my loyalty?” he asked, kissing the tips of her fingers.

  “It would appear so.”

  “Then you will grant me my desire?”

  “And what is it the young master desires?” Isobel asked, in her best meek voice, the tone of a doxy looking to please her master.

  “To be with you forever,” he answered, gently pulling her towards him. As their bodies touched, he stepped backwards until he was resting against a wooden beam. “In six years my desire has not wilted. Everything I have done has been for this moment.”

  Isobel did not trust herself to speak. Six years ago, when the young Hareton had first come to Newington Green she had found herself compelled by his beauty, but she could not give herself over to him, not in the way he wanted. A physical paring was one thing, but to give her heart to a mortal…it was bound to end in tears of blood. But that did not stop Hareton, even when he learned what she was. So she had sent him away; if he could prove his loyalty to her and her kind then she promised she would take him. That was six years ago, when her world was governed by rules. Now the Three were leading her people into a unified future of civilisation, and it was not for her to bring one into their ranks of her own accord.

  But while he was here…

  She pressed her body against Hareton’s, feeling him harden beneath his breeches. “Take me now, Hareton!” she whispered in his ear.

  As Hareton’s hands undid the buttons that fastened her pelisse, Isobel lifted her face to the stable ceiling, allowing Hareton’s tongue to play on her throat. His hands found their way inside her gown and reached to unlace the stays beneath, but his fingers barely found the lace when a banging came at the stable door. For a moment they looked at each other, Isobel’s eyes daring Hareton to continue, but despite the desire burning in him Hareton removed his hands from Isobel’s clothing and gently pushed her away. Still a man of his age, Isobel realised with disdain, a man of scruple. She fastened her pelisse and watched him unbolt the door. If she truly took him, eventually, like every one of her people, he would soon realise he was no longer bound by the rules of the land.

  Mr Holtzrichter stood outside the barn, the rain rinsing the powder from his hair down his face. He glanced at Hareton, who looked to the ground, his face flustered, and then at Isobel who merely smiled at him. “I see,” he said with a curt nod. “Miss Shelley, a moment of your time if you please.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, falling back into her public role, and stepped out of the stable. As she passed him she noticed Holtzrichter give Hareton a lopsided grin of apology.

  “Do peg the pardon of a gentleman for taking one so young off the high ropes.”

  The younger man clearly did not know how to respond. So he stepped back further into the stable, and turned back to the horse.

  *

  “It is good you have someone,” Holtzrichter said as he closed the door behind him. Isobel stopped by the table, waiting for him to elaborate. “Later,” Holtzrichter said, with a wave of a hand. “We shall return to that in a moment, but first these.” He indicated the parchment. “I would like to take them to Lyon and study them further, if you have no further need of them?”

  Isobel shrugged. She recognised that glint in Holtzrichter’s eyes, and was reminded for a moment of the vacant look in Edward Lomax’s own eyes. Obsession. She did not know why the parchment interested Holtzrichter so, nor did she really care. “If you so wish. Now, may we return to the reason for your visit?”

  “Of course, dear lady,” Holtzrichter said, tucking the parchment into one of his Hessian boots. “As you know our
people have lived in disarray, with no rules or…”

  “I do know, so if you would care to…”

  “Of course.” Holtzrichter smiled, and it was one born of both surprise and respect. “Celeste fears that war is coming soon to the human world, a war at the heart of which France will reside. Over the centuries our people have spent too much time involving themselves in such things, and if we’re to move ahead into civilisation, then we cannot allow such distractions any more. It was such involvement that allowed the Brotherhood to get the foothold they did.”

  “How does the Lady Celeste propose to stop this from happening again? It is human nature to involve themselves in things that do not concern them. A trait our people have yet to grow out of.”

  “Agreed, which is why they need strong leadership. People who will show them. Eventually we shall become one with this world again, walk side by side with humans, unseen and unsuspected for what we are. But it will take time and effort, and strong leaders. The Three are creating the domains, sections of the world lead by a council of Lords and Ladies, with clear directives. Celeste would like you to become Lady Isobel, of the Great Britain Domain.”

  Isobel just stared at Holtzrichter. “Me? I have told you, I like to remain…”

  “Unnoticed. Yes, but you also told me why you opposed the Brotherhood, that you believe in the ideals that the Three represent. If our people are to emerge from the shackles of myth and legend then we need people like you to show them how.” Holtzrichter regarded her, and pulled a small piece of rolled-up parchment from his jacket. He placed it on the table. “An invitation to attend the first meeting of the Domain Council. If you choose to accept this position, then the Three look forward to your attendance.”

  Holtzrichter stepped towards Isobel and took her hand, which he kissed gently. “Now I take my leave of you, My Lady, and I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to leave, then looked back. “One further thing. If you choose to accept this new position, then you will need someone who can support you…in all ways. I believe Mr Wesley would be parti for you, and I do not see the Three opposing such a thing. In fact they would encourage it.”

  With that Holtzrichter removed himself from Isobel’s home, leaving her looking at the rolled-up parchment still sitting on the table.

  *

  Lyon, France, 1790.

  Frederick looked up from the parchment, at the unwanted knock at his closed door. Things were getting ugly in France, another kind of revolution was underway, of the kind the Three had expressly forbidden their people to get involved in. Only two days ago the Civil Constitution of the Clergy was passed by the Assembly, despite King Louis’ apparent objections. Even now Celeste was visiting the king to try and talk some sense into him. It always surprised Frederick, even after almost fifty-seven years, the way Celeste was able to talk her way into the confidence of those in power. He knew it should not surprise him, after all Celeste was born of noble blood, and she was at home with nobility of every kind. Especially in her own country.

  It frustrated him, too, that Celeste was becoming involved in the revolution sweeping France, when it was she who created the Domain Council to prevent such involvement in worldly affairs. But there was no reasoning with her; France was her pet project, and she had to do her best to keep the forthcoming war she feared from the French borders. If Celeste was to believed there was nothing to be done, France would be at war within a few years. It was now inevitable.

  He rose from the table, glancing one last time at the pile of parchment, and turned to the door. That also frustrated him. He had studied the words on the parchment many times in the last two years, ever since he had claimed them from Lady Isobel, and now knew them word-perfect, but still he wanted to know more. In that time he had scoured all over, visited countless countries to uncover anything that would help him discover the answers he needed. So far all he had found was scraps; notes written in obscure languages that he could not read. Even the best translators found much of the languages difficult to understand. What he had read, though, intrigued him greatly, even if a lot of it was contradictory. Of one thing he was sure, he had to learn more, to find out the truth of where his people had come from. He had never believed the lies spread by the Brotherhood, but he was beginning to suspect that Julius, although undeniably egocentric and deranged, was closer to the truth than Frederick liked.

  “What is it?” he demanded, as he flung the door open. Honoré, the head servant of Celeste’s house, stood there, his face a mask of fear. “Well, speak!”

  “Pardon, monsieur, un courrier a introduit le present document pour vous,” Honoré said, and handed Frederick a rolled-up parchment, sealed with a red ribbon. Frederick’s French was shaky at best, even though he’d been with a French woman for over fifty years, but he understood a few words. Someone had brought this document to the house for him. To take him from his studies it had better be of importance.

  “Merci,” Frederick said, and turned from Honoré, unrolling the parchment. He stopped in his tracks and read the words written in the finely crafted script twice. He swallowed, span on his feet, and turned back to Honoré, who was already walking away from Frederick’s room. “Honoré, has Celeste returned?”

  Honoré stopped and looked back, with a frown of concentration. “Pardon, monsieur, je ne comprends pas.”

  Frederick growled. “That is the problem, neither of us understand the…” He paused. “Wait, I did understand that. Celeste, a retourné?” he asked, suddenly able to speak and understand fluent French. Celeste always said that eventually he would be able to understand every language he heard, a peculiar trait that their people developed when near the Second Death. Which meant soon it would be time to… Frederick shook his head. No, he did not wish to contemplate what that meant. He knew, that was enough.

  “She has, sir. I believe she is dining at this moment,” Honoré said.

  “Thank you.”

  Forgetting to close the door, Frederick swept past Honoré and made his way through the house to the dining room. There he found her sitting at the head of the table, resplendent in the finest silks, her dark red hair contrasting with the lighter shades of her dress. She looked up from her food, raised an eyebrow at Frederick’s haste, and offered him an empty wine glass.

  “Mes toujours, a pleasure as ever. What brings you here in such a hurry?”

  Frederick sat himself at the table and took the glass, allowing Celeste to pour the red liquid out of the crystal decanter. He returned her smile, and sipped before beginning. “I have received a missive, an invitation from the Ancient himself.” Still hardly able to believe his eyes, Frederick handed the parchment over.

  Celeste quietly read the script. Once finished she carefully placed it on the table and raised her pale eyes to look at Frederick. “Moldavia. A long journey, Frederick, and a treacherous one. But such a summons cannot be ignored.” She smiled and reached a hand out to him, which he took and held in his. “Perhaps you shall now have answers to these questions?”

  “It would seem most probable. And, of course I shall go, how can I not? There have been reports of the Ancient for many years, but none have been substantiated in decades. Just rumour. And now Wamukota wishes to see…me? Why me? Why now?”

  “You question too much, mes toujours, I have always said so. You always want to know things with certainty, to be sure and have no doubt. Such yearnings lead to a closed mind.”

  Frederick shook his head. “No, questions should be asked. Always.”

  “Perhaps, but some answers are best left unknown.”

  “Like the Second Death?” Frederick said softly, disturbed by the quake in his voice. “It is coming soon, Celeste, I know it. I understood Honoré with perfect clarity.”

  Celeste took this news with grace. She knew Honoré spoke only French, and she knew how difficult Frederick found learning their native tongue. She smiled sadly, and placed a hand on his face. “I will miss seeing these eyes, but you know what must be done.”
<
br />   For a moment neither spoke another word.

  Frederick swallowed. “We shall see,” he said, and bent down to kiss Celeste. She returned the kiss with passion. “I shall return as soon as I am able. With answers,” he added.

  Celeste raised her glass. “To answers, may they be all you wish. And when you return, may you be as young and vibrant as when we met.”

  Frederick bowed, then turned to leave. It was, as Celeste said, a long and treacherous journey ahead, through countries at war. Always, it seemed, humans were fighting over something. He shook his head. It did not matter. He would make it to Moldavia and meet with the Ancient, the oldest of their kind. And he would find a way to escape the Second Death…somehow.

  * * *

  Part Two: 21st Century

  Newington Green, England, 2002.

  “I don’t know, Jake,” Willem said into his phone, as he stepped out of the cafe. He found a free table and sat down, placing the carrier bag on his lap and cracking open the can of Pepsi. It was a hot day and he was parched. Downing a can of drink while resting his legs sounded like a good plan. “You say that but there’s something about Cruise, you know?”

  “Like what? He’s an okay actor, I guess,” returned Jake, the slight Californian lilt of his accent still there, despite twenty years of living in London, “but he picks such crap movies, guy.”

  “You said you rated Minority Report,” Willem pointed out, lifting the box out of the carrier bag. An old man, on a course for the cafe, stumbled over a loose paving-stone and almost knocked the box out of Willem’s arm.

  “So sorry,” the old man said, as Willem fought to steady him with his free hand.

  “It’s okay, man,” Willem returned. The man gathered himself together, and for a moment he remained standing there, looking at Willem through his dark shades. Willem stared back, feeling his blood go oddly cold. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” the old man mumbled, “sorry, yes, I’m fine now. Just for a moment there you reminded me of…someone else.” He shook his head. “Excuse me.”