THE PASSAGE OF YEARS had clouded his memory so much that Richard Kirk could not entirely recall when he had first sensed things that others could not. Simple truths, powerful emotions, the locations of objects lost and precious— he was attuned to all of these things. Sometimes it wearied him, and in those times, he always came to this place by the river.
Something about the place allowed him to forget his troubles, and to simply be at ease in a way he could not manage anywhere else. He thought it might have to do with the gentle rush and burble of the stream, the sound acting as some kind of buffer. It had also occurred to him that the running water might have some magical properties that helped to shield him from the influence of his strange sensitivity.
Whatever the reason, his supposed gift was dulled by proximity to the river, sometimes silenced entirely, and that suited him just fine. He felt saddled by his gift, and often wished he were free of it, regardless of the consequences.
This evening was an exception.
Tonight, he held his gift close as his only hope of ever again seeing his sister alive. And yet something was wrong. Often when he was visited by the intuitions of his gift, they came unbidden. But he had called upon them consciously more than once in the past. Thus, by clutching his sister’s most precious belongings in his hands and focusing intently upon her, he ought to be able to touch her with his gift, to get an image in his head of her location, even feel whatever she was feeling at the time. And beyond his gift, he and Sally had always shared an emotional rapport.
Yet he had stood in her bedroom for hours, lain upon her bed, clutched to his chest the ragged doll that had been her companion and confidant from the cradle, and still Richard could not locate her. He could feel her— that much was true. And simply knowing that she was still alive gave him some comfort. But what he felt
Fear. Pure terror.
And he could not discern his sister’s whereabouts. Just a glimpse through her eyes had shown him a clearing in the forest, surrounded by thick trees. But nothing more. When he reached out to touch her, instead of images he was overwhelmed by emotion. He felt her terror, and was filled with the certainty that something hideous would soon befall her.
If only he could see where she was
“Hello, over there!”
Richard blinked, his ruminations interrupted by a low, feminine voice. He turned to find a tall, slender woman with honey-blond hair standing on the far side of the small footbridge that arched over the Camel River.
She wore a light blue dress that cinched tightly around her waist before flaring out into a wide skirt that just skimmed the ground. A thin periwinkle shawl draped comfortably over her shoulders. She offered a sweet, almost ironic smile as she crossed the footbridge.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” the woman said.
She had a lovely smile, her lips a natural ruby red. He could not discern the precise color of her large eyes in the semidarkness, but there was something warm and inviting in the way she looked at him. He felt immediately comfortable in her presence, quite unusual in his experience.
“Not at all,” Richard said. “Only I was lost in thought a bit, and didn’t notice you until you spoke.”
The woman— more of a girl, really— hesitated a moment and reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Now that she’d broken his reverie she seemed unsure what she wanted to say, and skittish enough that she might just run off and leave him there watching curiously after her.
Richard was pleased when she laughed softly at her own hesitation and forged on.
“I’ve taken a room at the Mason’s Arms and I’ve a view of the river. I saw you here and, forgive me, but you looked so forlorn that I felt I must come down and say hello to you,” she said. “Of course, it all seemed perfectly reasonable right up until the moment I actually put the plan into action. And now you must think me a fool, and horribly inappropriate.”
Richard smiled, a bit dreamily. “Nothing of the sort.” It wasn’t often that beautiful London girls— for could this elegant creature be from anywhere else?— approached him as a salve for his loneliness.
“My name is Tamara. Tamara Swift,” she continued. “I’m on holiday, and shall be in Camelford for perhaps a week. The Cornish air is reputed to be wonderful for the spirit.”
He arched an eyebrow at this curious claim. “Not that I’ve noticed.” Then he inclined his head in a courteous little bow. “Richard Kirk, miss, at your service. I live here. In town, that is.”
The stupidity of his words made him blush, and for a moment, he felt like throwing himself into the river.
What a fool I am, he thought miserably. He was so caught in his own thoughts that it took the small voice in the back of his head a few moments to break through:
She’s not being truthful.
The words echoed in his head, confusing him. She had said little, only that she was traveling. What could she have lied about, in so short a time? And yet the intuition was powerful. Camelford was too small a place to attract many tourists. Those who visited the town and stayed at the Mason’s Arms were mainly passing through.
Suspicion crowded his mind, and he wondered if this newcomer might have something to do with Sally’s disappearance. Almost immediately, he put the foolish thought from his head. His connection with his sister might be dimmed at the moment, but of one thing he was entirely certain: she had not been spirited away from Camelford by any ordinary man— or woman, for that matter.
“Are you not well?” Tamara asked, studying him closely.
“I I’m fine, miss,” he stammered, his heart thumping so loudly in his chest that he was sure she must have heard it.
All of his life Richard had been different. His gift had kept him apart from the other children in the town. Only his sister, Sally, had been unafraid of him. The other children weren’t cruel, really. They didn’t tease or assault him. They merely avoided him. And somehow, that was worse.
Now he felt his lack of social experience throwing up a barrier between himself and this woman. He thought perhaps if she had been unattractive he might have found the whole thing a bit easier, but her beauty dried up his mouth, and turned him into a stammering fool.
“You don’t seem fine,” she said, reaching for his hand. He pulled his arm away, terrified to touch her. Even though he was near the river, he knew there was something about this woman that made him think anything was possible.
“I’m sorry,” she began, and she looked upset. “I didn’t mean ”
He shook his head, stopping her. “I just— I don’t like to be touched,” he murmured.
She nodded, mulling over his words. “Yes, I can understand how it might be a bit intrusive.”
Richard sensed her sincerity, and it surprised him. Could she also have an intuitive gift? Did she know or somehow sense why he often avoided the touch of others?
“There are things in my life that are a bit awkward to explain, too, Richard,” she said.
Her words set Richard’s mind at ease. At the same time, he wondered what it was that this beautiful young woman could be keeping secret from the rest of the world.
They had made a connection. Richard felt that she had somehow shared a part of herself, and that he owed her some sort of explanation, some piece of him in return.
“It’s my sister. She was ”
Tamara studied him, and he both relished and squirmed beneath her attentions. “What’s happened to her?”
“You’re only visiting, but you might already have heard that tragedy’s befallen Camelford in recent days.”
She shook her head. “No, I hadn’t. Should I be afraid?”
Richard paused and studied her. This beautiful London girl did not seem afraid: not at all.
“Afraid? I’m not sure about that. But careful, yes. You should certainly be careful. Yesterday, a young girl was found dead right in the middle of Market Square, her body shattered almost as though she’d fallen from the sky.”
He took a deep breath before continuing.
“Two other girls are missing, Holly Newcomb and my sister, Sally.”
Tamara covered her mouth, brows knitted in horror and sympathy. “I’m so sorry. You must be frantic.”
Richard nodded, then gestured toward the water. “I find the river quiets the feeling ”
“The feeling?”
“Yes, that something terrible is going to happen to her. Very soon.” He let the words hang in the air.
On the longest day of the year
He flinched as the words came unbidden into his mind.
“Richard?” Tamara said, her eyes full of worry now.
“On the longest day of the year, they will die All of them.”
She took a step toward him, but Richard shook his head. He didn’t want her pity, and that was all he could see in her eyes. Perhaps he had imagined this strange and sudden empathy between them.
“Richard, please. You must tell me what you mean by that. I don’t understand.”
Tamara reached out for his hand. To touch him.
“No!”
He shoved her away, sent her stumbling backward, and as she recovered he turned and hurried off, back toward town. Only once did he glance back to see her watching after him anxiously.
Fool, to think a London girl might see something in you, he thought. All you’ll ever win from her is her pity.
TAMARA HAD SEEN RICHARD from the window, staring at the river, and there had been something about his forlorn presence that drew her downstairs. Camelford had not been especially welcoming thus far. Certainly the townspeople had been friendly enough, but the whole village seemed steeped in the wariness she’d seen in the faces of those men on the street when they had first arrived.
Common sense had indicated a connection to the troubles at Stronghold, but she had wanted more information. The problem had been how to go about broaching the subject with the innkeeper or some other guest at the Mason’s Arms.
She had just decided that her investigation would have to wait until morning when she saw the young man at the edge of the river. He seemed burdened by worry the same way so many in Camelford were, yet his solitary melancholy had drawn her to him. A lonely young man, even one who sought out a quiet place, might well be compelled to speak his heavy thoughts by the presence of a sympathetic ear especially if that ear belonged to a pretty girl.
Tamara wished she could have been surprised by what she learned from Richard Kirk, but the dour spirit of the town had made her suspect the truth even before he had spoken.
It seemed obvious that the disappearance of young girls from Camelford must be related to the fairy girls whose vanishing had drawn her here. It was possible, of course, that there was no connection, but logic dictated otherwise. The idea that Mellyn, the fairy girl whose corpse had been found in the upper branches of a tree, had been dropped from the sky had not occurred to her. But now Richard’s mention of the girl found dead and broken in Market Square made it seem so clear.
Whatever was taking these girls, fairy and human alike, was flying off with them somehow.
On the longest day of the year, they will die All of them.
That was what he had said.
The longest day of the year would be the summer solstice, and that was only a week away.
A week to find out what in heaven’s name is going on around here.
On the riverbank, she stood and stared at the place where Richard Kirk had been only moments before. Under normal circumstances it would have been only logical to suspect that he was involved with the murders and abductions, but he was only a man. The tiniest fairy could overpower a man with glamour or, if necessary, brutality, or escape him easily if she wished.
Richard did not seem to be an ordinary man. In her mind’s eye there was an indelible image of his face with those sad blue eyes and an expression of true misery. He was haunted. She’d sensed something in him, seen it in his eyes, and his words had hinted as well at his possession of an intuitive gift. Such things could be natural, a part of the human psyche that no one quite understood yet, or they could be magical. Tamara wondered which was the source of Richard’s gift.
Regardless, though he might not be ordinary, the gift of intuition was an intangible thing. He could not have stolen those fairy girls, or murdered Mellyn, and certainly he could not fly.
No, Richard Kirk was precisely what he appeared to be: a brother heartbroken by his sister’s disappearance.
She wished that she could ease his troubles, but knew the best she could manage was to help the man find his sister. And I have only a week in which to accomplish the task.
There came a loud shout from across the river, and she spun to see two hooded men rushing from the inn and disappearing into the woods. A moment later the innkeeper burst out in pursuit, his face livid as he shouted after them.
Let that be a reminder to pay our bill in a timely fashion, Tamara thought lightly as she crossed back over the footbridge.
But even as she reached the other side of the river she saw Farris come out the door behind the innkeeper. Something about his stance stopped Tamara in her tracks. She changed course, making straight for the front of the inn.
“Farris?” she called out. “Is everything all right?”
He turned at the sound of her voice, and gave her a curt nod. The innkeeper paid her no mind, his attentions still fixed on the two men who had fled out into the night, as though at any moment they might reappear.
“A bit of trouble with some ruffians, Miss Swift,” Farris replied, formal yet firm. “Nothing to concern yourself about.”
Such were his words, but his expression conveyed a different message. There was a tale to be told, but he could not discuss it in front of the innkeeper, which meant that Tamara had to orchestrate an opportunity for them to have that conversation.
“All right, then. Have you checked on the horses?”
“Haven’t had the opportunity yet, miss. I’ll see to it right away.”
“I suggest you do,” Tamara said, allowing a bit of Bodicea’s imperiousness to creep into her voice. Sometimes she enjoyed playing the role. Her voice was gruff enough that the innkeeper gave Farris a look of fraternal solidarity.
Farris gave her a nod and started around the building toward the stables. Tamara nodded stiffly to the innkeeper, who gave an obsequious little bow before opening the door for her. She gave him another nod of dismissal, and went inside.
Tamara knew the protocol one adhered to when one was wealthy, and could play the part of a haughty rich girl as well as any actress in London. Sometimes she found that it was easier to give people what they expected than to try and change their perception of her.
Not wanting to keep Farris waiting, she skirted the mostly male crowd in the tavern and went up the main stairs to the second floor. Making sure that no one saw her, she descended the rear steps— the servants’ stairs— that led to the kitchen and the back rooms of the inn. Out a side door, she went quickly to the stables.
Inside, she found Farris standing by the Swifts’ carriage. In the light of a lamp that hung by the door she noticed for the first time that his right eye was swollen and a bruise was forming.
“Your eye, Farris! What in the world happened to you?”
He shook his head.
“I have no idea, Miss Tamara. I was mindin’ my own business, having a pint overheard a couple of old fellows talk about local girls gone missing, I’m afraid. So it appears— ”
“Yes,” Tamara said quickly. “I’ve learned a bit about it myself. The trouble’s in the village as well as the forest. But you’ve still not told me what happened to you.”
He smiled, and winced as the expression hurt his bruised face.
“Getting to that, miss. Anyway, these two blokes come in and set down beside me. I didn’t like the look of ’em, and I felt sure they were paying a bit too close attention to me. At first I paid ’em no mind, as I was in the midst of overhearing a conversation about missing girls hereabouts that I thought would be of interest to you. But their eyes on me it was unsettling, Miss Tamara. I asked them what they were thinking, if they wanted some trouble, like. Then it all went a bit mad, the fighting and such.”
Tamara took out her handkerchief, and handed it to Farris, who dabbed at his bruised eye and glanced at the cloth for any sign of blood. Luckily, it was only swollen, not cut.
“Go on then,” Tamara said.
Farris leaned against the wall, a bit unsteady on his feet.
“If it weren’t for my fellow patrons, they’d have done some real damage, I’d say,” Farris said. “But none of that’s so important, really. See, their faces were hidden, like. Hooded. But just as they ran off, I caught a glimpse of one.
“They weren’t men. Not as such. Sure they moved like men, and had the the shape of men. But that face was nothing but dirt and stone. And, well, you’ll forgive me, miss, but when that sort of thing happens I can’t help thinking their interest in me was more of an interest in you, if you take my meaning.”
Stunned as she was by this news, Tamara couldn’t help smiling.
“I’m sure I do, Farris.” Then her smile faded. “I’ve not run across them before, but from my research in Grandfather’s library, it certainly sounds as though you ran afoul of a pair of homunculi.”
Spurred by his mystified expression, she explained.
“They’re just as you describe. Creatures made of earth, often stone and clay. Sometimes they’re invested with human spirits, but mostly they’re simply constructs that do the bidding of their creator. Dark sorcery, indeed.”
“What do you suppose they wanted, miss?” Farris asked. “If they were sent after you and yours, who sent them, do you think?”
“I’ve no idea,” Tamara replied. “But I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”
BODICEA MOVED THROUGH THE ETHER, gliding effortlessly through the shadows of the spirit world. She well remembered the pain and pleasure of being a flesh and blood woman, and whenever she manifested her ghost in the tangible world it was both wonderful and terrible to know that she was no longer a part of it.
Even so, she disliked traveling the ether, moving through the spiritual realm among the lost souls and haunting spirits who lingered just beyond the veil of life on the earthly plane. The sadness and anger and regret there nearly overwhelmed her. Still, it was the quickest way for the dead to travel, merging with the ocean of souls and then slipping out of it into a new location.
Now she emerged from the ghostly realm into the thick of a dark forest. A light mist was moving low across the ground, caressing the trunks of trees. Night birds called and things shifted in the leaves above. Tamara had asked her to contact the phantoms that haunted the town and the wood, but Bodicea had found very few ghosts lingering around Camelford. Those who remained were withered, frayed specters with little surviving consciousness. They could tell her nothing.
This was a mystery unto itself.
A town like Camelford ought to have its share of wandering shades and lost souls, even mischievous spirits. So where had they gone? Had something driven them off? The thought intrigued her.
Here in the wood it seemed no different than in the town. There were only the sounds of a living forest, wind rustling through trees, animals skittering about foraging for food, the gurgle of a nearby stream.
Bodicea sighed, uncertain where to continue her search. There was little else she could do but lie in wait, listening to the night and the forest, and hope for some sign of ghostly manifestation.
She didn’t have to wait long. Time passed for the dead with a fluidity that caused it to blur. Ghosts could focus and experience it in much the same way as the living, but otherwise time was relative, compressing or expanding at random.
Nearly an hour passed, but to Bodicea it seemed only a few moments before she heard the faint sound of distant hoofbeats. The spectral queen allowed her spiritual essence to fade so that she was nearly invisible to all but other ghosts. Even then, she hid herself amid the trees and kept her spear close as she spied between the trunks, awaiting the approaching riders.
Three men on horseback rode past, and for a moment she thought they were from the living, so grand were they. But the illusion passed and she saw that they were merely shades. A short way past her hiding place they slowed their mounts, hands tight upon the reins, and paused in a clearing, their bodies translucent in the moonlight.
She moved nearer for a better view, and saw that the phantom knights were wearing tunics over their armor and chain mail. They each carried a spectral shield engraved with a cross. Bodicea did not immediately recognize the coat of arms, but something about it seemed familiar.
The three knights sat astride their ghostly horses and conferred in hushed tones, unaware of her presence. Bodicea inched forward, spear clutched tightly at her side, straining to hear their conversation.
She could not make out more than a few words among their whispers, but it was clear they were troubled, and perhaps even a bit fearful.
A loud thrashing sound arose in the distance, and the ghostly knights started, then turned as one to stare in that direction. They spurred their spectral mounts and rode off deeper into the woods, presumably to discover the source of that strange sound.
Bodicea eased her grip upon her spear, relaxing out of her attack stance. She was sure that she had seen that coat of arms somewhere before.
But where?
John Haversham strode along the dirty cobblestones of Fleet Street and stopped in front of the Cherrywood Tavern, gazing up at the elegant façade of the building. It wasn’t the sort of place he preferred. John had a predilection for houses of ill repute and other establishments where trouble was easily found. This afternoon, however, he navigated the streets of London on business not his own.
He pushed through the heavy oak doors and stopped, surveying the tavern’s main room from the doorway. The walls and floor were hewn from a polished brown oak quite pleasing to the eye. Behind a long bar, a small man with distinctive gray muttonchops tended to his customers, pouring whiskey and pints of lager with confidence. Behind the bar, a broad, spotted mirror reflected back the whole of the room.
The polished tabletops caught the sunlight that streamed in through the warped glass of the many-paned windows. To his right a door hung open. Beyond it was a small passageway that led to a second seating room where a staircase led upward. John suspected he would find his quarry there, lunching in one of the private dining rooms.
Turning back to the bar, John looked longingly at the pints already nestled in the hands of patrons unashamed to take a drink at midday. He would’ve enjoyed a drink himself, no matter the hour.
When he’d climbed to the second story, John noted the same rich, molasses-colored oak that he’d seen downstairs. If it was possible, the tables here were even more polished. The floor had been scrubbed with a deft hand, giving the space a clean feeling that John found rare in any culinary establishment.
Leave it to William Swift to find the cleanest alehouse in all of London.
Now he walked the length of the hall, peering into small, private dining rooms on either side. Within their confines, several highborn gentlemen grazed over roast rack of lamb, thick meaty steaks, plates of roast potatoes and root vegetables. The air was redolent with rich aromas, and he found that he was so busy admiring the victuals that he paid scant attention to the men who were consuming them.
Until the room where he found William Swift happily gnawing on a leg of lamb.
John leaned against the door frame. “Hello, Willy boy.”
William looked up, a smear of grease staining his chin, and glared. Swallowing, William used his napkin to wipe the grease away, then said, “What do you want, Haversham?”
“I’ve come to speak to you about your recent houseguest,” John replied, sliding out a chair and plopping himself down, much to William’s clear annoyance.
“I’m referring to Serena, of course. Though it would have been in your best interest to release the creature to my custody, your sister refused to even acknowledge the sprite’s presence at Ludlow House.”
William studied him. Haversham wouldn’t have credited him with the ability to keep his expression so entirely neutral. Perhaps William Swift was learning more than magic, now that he was one of the Protectors of Albion, and a member of the Algernon Club.
“Tamara has gone to Cornwall,” William said. “I can’t see that she has anything to do with whatever business you have with a sprite in London— ”
“You’re far too proper a gentleman to engage in such bald lies, William. I know the sprite came to you— the Council of Stronghold has made us aware that she flew to London. Where else would she go? She trusts you and Tamara implicitly.
“Now, why not stick with the truth. Deception doesn’t suit you.”
William’s face turned a bright shade of pink, but he swallowed whatever insult he was set to hurl at John as a waiter appeared in the doorway, carrying a dish of sumptuous trifle. He nodded as he pushed the plate with the remnants of his lamb to the side. The waiter set the dessert before him and gathered up the dirty dishes before departing.
Haversham’s stomach growled. He really shouldn’t have neglected breakfast today. His man, Colin, always had a pot of steaming coffee and a plate of meat and eggs with toast waiting for him in the morning. The aroma, both rich and acidic at the same time, enveloped the apartments on Brook Street, mingling in a very pleasant way.
But he had awoken late this morning and had been forced to forgo breakfast in order to arrive at the Algernon Club on time for his meeting with Lord Blackheath. The rest of the morning had run much the same way, always fifteen minutes or so behind schedule, making it impossible for him to catch up.
He watched with envy as William dug heartily into his trifle.
“I am trying to enjoy my lunch, Haversham,” William said, a bit of pudding smudged across his chin. “Would you mind disappearing, as I have nothing whatsoever to say to you?”
“This is Algernon Club business, Willy boy— ”
“Stop calling me that!” William said, glowering.
“All I ask is a bit of cooperation.”
William glared at him, and put down his spoon. “What do you want, then?”
“A bit of your trifle for starters ” he began. William sputtered and John waved his protestations away. “Only joking, Swifty. Don’t look so glum.”
He stifled a laugh as he watched William’s face color even more deeply.