Aphelion (9 page)

“Right,” Bernard said, approaching the body on the floor. “Time to change again. I expect, like everyone else, you’ll run, full of judgments on my life.” He glanced up. “Just remember, it could have easily been your life,” Bernard said, Robert’s eyes, now alien to him, looking up at the ceiling, piercing his astral self with a twisted glint.

Robert doubted it. In his entire life he had never done anything wrong; his mother had made sure of that. Not even a slight indiscretion. Solid and dependable Robert, that was him. He was no saint, he had moments where he had wanted to do some bad things to others, but he was too weak to do so. Too boring. And boring meant safe, as his mother often reminded him.

Bernard closed Robert’s eyes, and slowly the body slumped into a heap on the dirty floor. Robert waited his time. He could not see Bernard’s astral body, but he could feel it. A sense of movement about him, almost like an invisible breeze. Soon it was gone, which meant Bernard had returned to his own damaged body.

Robert wasted no time. He shot down from the ether and dived back into his own body.

His eyes flickered open. Smiling Robert stood, stretching his arms and legs, his back, his everything. It felt good to be back home. He glanced down at the old body, and this time he did shudder. Bernard was wrong, Robert was not going to run away, full of his judgments. The final judgment on Bernard’s life had been made. It had been painful, but Robert had managed to return to Bernard’s body, forced it awake…

He crouched down next to the old man and rolled him over. The light from the kitchen window glinted off the steel blade of the knife sticking out of the old man’s chest. Robert didn’t know what had been more painful. Moving the old broken body, or ramming the knife into the chest, shoving it in just under the breast bone, piercing the heart beneath. Robert had stayed in the body a bit longer, feeling a strange rush as the old body began to die, and something changed within him. He became aware that boring, although equating safe, meant a wasted life. He had wanted to stay for the entire ride, but as the final breath came he had felt himself being dragged down with it, and so had forced himself back out of the body. Leaving it on the floor, a lifeless corpse, in the exact same position Bernard had left it, knife hidden from sight.

Robert smiled, rising to his feet again. He wondered how long it had taken Bernard to realise that he had returned to a dead body. How long before Bernard’s own life was snuffed out?

As he walked through the hallway Robert realised he didn’t care. Bernard was gone, the hatred with him, and now no one else would be contaminated by his darkness. He opened the door, feeling a sense of self-satisfaction well up inside. For the first time in his life he had done something that wasn’t boring, and in so doing had achieved the perfect murder.

He was right, feeling death approaching had changed him. He would return home, and show his mother how boring his life was now. And never again would it be so.

He stopped, one hand still on the door, looking into the faces of two police officers. The smile still plastered on his face.

“Robert Hoard?” one of the officers asked.

“Um, yeah?”

One officer nodded to another, and out came the handcuffs. “We’re arresting you for the murder of Georgia Webber,” he began.

Robert didn’t hear the rest, he merely felt the officers take a hold of his arm and snap the cuffs on.
Webber
they had said, but Robert was able to put two and two together. That wily old fox Bernard had been busy the last twenty years, preparing a bit at a time. Until now…

There was no doubt in Robert’s mind as to who Georgia Webber was. Twenty years ago she had been a teenager called Georgia Nettles, and she had taken advantage of a once kind man, turned him into the vessel of self-hatred. Robert glanced back. The perfect murder. He closed his eyes.

“Just remember, it could have easily been your life.” Bernard’s final words echoed in Robert’s mind.

And now it was.

Serere, A Prelude

The Garden Saga

Part One: 18th Century

Newington Green, England, 1788.

Isobel Shelley waited, as she promised she would, but it was getting dark and the rain had started to fall. Not that either thing bothered her personally, but it was terribly inconvenient. She lifted her lantern, which she did not really need, of course, but appearances were important, and looked out to the northern carriage way. The Green was quiet, most people safely indoors, sheltered from the cold, but Isobel could not be sure she wasn’t being watched. Newington Green, home to the free-thinkers and dissidents, had history, and the people who tended to gravitate to this place knew better than to take things for granted. Probably one of the many reasons she loved living on the Green.

The sound of hoof beats crunching gravel drifted over to her, and she focused on the approaching shape. A gig pulled by a single horse, two people jostling about in the carriage as the wooden wheels managed to find every ditch and trough in the path. Both figures were dressed in the finest cloth, one looking down, his head bobbling about as if he were asleep, but the second, holding the reins in his hands, was looking firmly ahead, mindful of the mood of the horse. The gig slowed, and stopped right next to Isobel. She smiled, finally able to see the countenance of the young driver.

Young and as radiant as ever, Hareton Wesley smiled down at Isobel, and tipped his bicorn hat. “Miss Shelley, you are still a diamond of the first water, I see. A pleasure indeed.”

Isobel curtsied slightly, with a smile of her own. It had been some time since she had seen anything of Hareton, and was not displeased to see him once more. “Young Master Wesley, an’ you and the gentleman like to follow me?”

The gentleman in question looked up, clearly not asleep. An austere looking man of some fifty years (which certainly meant he was older), he raised an eyebrow at Isobel and edged his lip in the form of a very slight smile, which looked somewhat strange on such a Friday-faced man. Hareton looked at him, no doubt awaiting instruction, and the gentleman nodded. “As Miss Shelley says, so shall it be,” the gentleman said, in an accent that sounded almost German, although it had a cadence that Isobel could not quite place. She was not particularly well travelled, but accents did not usually stump her so. “Do lead on, dear lady.”

“As you wish,” Isobel said and tuned away, lantern still held aloft, and led the way across the Green.

*

Once the door was bolted, and the candles lit, all pretence of formality ceased. Isobel flung herself into Hareton’s arms, and their lips met with great passion. For a full minute they remained like that, any thought of the gentleman momentarily gone. Only the distant sound of movement in the room served to remind them that they were not alone. Eventually a sharp clearing of the throat tore them apart, and Isobel looked over at the gentleman demurely.

“Sorry. Hareton and I…”

“Have a history?” the gentleman asked, his face no longer as severe as it had been out in the rain. Indeed, his features now seemed to be full of warmth. He pulled up a seat and sat at the table, removing his hat and wig, both of which had become sodden in the rain. His hair beneath the wig was silver-grey, pulled back and clubbed with a black ribbon, his upper lip covered in an equally grey moustache, but it was his eyes that pulled Isobel in: deep brown, mortal eyes, containing such compassion. It was rare to meet one of their kind with human eyes. Although they still managed to pass off as normal among the common folk, her eyes were pale, the pigment of the iris slowly fading with the passing of each year. And such was true of most of their people, except those who had yet to experience the Second Death. The gentleman before her was clearly one such person.

Isobel batted her eyelids bashfully like a betty, although she was anything but. However it was an image she had maintained for a long time, fooling the gentry all through the Town, and she saw no reason to reveal her true self to a man she did not know. Even if he had been sent by the Three. “Yes, sir, history we have.”

The man nodded, turned his eyes to Hareton. “See to the horse, we shan’t be here too long, I want them ready to go,” he said sharply.

Hareton bowed. “Of course, Mr Holtzrichter.”

He turned to leave, but was prevented by Isobel’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at her, and she looked at Mr Holtzrichter, steel in her pale eyes. Demure and prim might have been a role she liked to play with mortals around, but no one ordered another under her roof except her.

“You have both travelled far, and I will have neither of you leaving without full stomachs.” For a moment Isobel was certain Mr Holtzrichter was going to stand and strike her, such was the coldness that swept over his face, but it soon passed and he smiled, nodding sharply.

“Quite the chit, are you not?” he said, good humour in his voice.

“When the mood takes me, sir, but don’t ever take it to mean I am bacon-brained,” Isobel returned, careful to keep her own tone light.

“Indeed not.”

Isobel returned his smile, and curtsied, which brought laughter from Holtzrichter’s belly. “Very good, my dear, I like the cut of you.”

“Hareton, be seated,” Isobel said. “I have a broth prepared already. Mr Holtzrichter and I can be alone shortly. To conduct our…business.”

Hareton walked over to the table and sat on one of the hard chairs, but he did not question the source of such business. Isobel felt sure he did not know, but he was not so foolish as to enquire in front of Mr Holtzrichter. Although he would return later. How could he not? He was on the high ropes and he, too, remembered their last encounter as clearly as she. And it was an encounter both wished to repeat.

As she poured the broth into bowls for the two men she had to consider, once again, just why the Three would send a special envoy all the way from France to see her. Certainly she had chosen her side during recent events, and she applauded the reforms the Lady Celeste had put into place over the last six months, but she was one among tens of thousands of their kind in England, and not worthy of such attention. It troubled her. Rumour had spread that Celeste was still removing her enemies, those who had taken sides with the Brotherhood. Could Celeste have been misinformed and now considered Isobel one such enemy?

She smiled at Mr Holtzrichter, who had offered his own smile upon receipt of his broth. Maybe she was looking too far into it, but there was something she didn’t like hidden behind his smile. And his name…it sounded German, and didn’t Celeste have a German consort?

Once the men had finished their broth, Hareton left to tend to the horse. Isobel busied herself with cleaning the bowls, all the while feeling Mr Holtzrichter’s eyes on her back. She stopped for a moment, and asked; “Is your name German?”

Mr Holtzrichter chuckled. “No,” he said, “although a common mistake. It is Prussian. I was born in a little town called Posen in 1722.”

Isobel turned to him. “You are a young one, too, then,” she said with a coy smile. “So you come from the home of the Tree King?”

For a moment Mr Holtzrichter looked confused, then he smiled. “Oh yes, your mad King George,” he said, referring to the tale of the ailing king who had once shook the branch of a tree believing it to be King Frederick William, the incumbent ruler of Prussia.

“Hardly my mad king, Mr Holtzrichter. I have lived a long time, seen this country at war many times over, ruled by many fools. Still,” she added wistfully, “it is my home, although I am very much no longer of Great Britain.” Holtzrichter nodded in acknowledgment of this, and Isobel smiled, thinking that another hundred years of life and he too would not consider himself of any one country. Their people transcended the loyalties of mortal living. He was still young, despite his outward appearance, and he had much to learn. One thing he did know, though, was how to show his host respect. Holtzrichter had not needed to offer up such intimate information; age and birthplace was rarely a secret shared among their people, and Isobel took it as a mark of respect.

“For myself I am, as of this month, one hundred and seventy-nine years, born in London to a modest family. And, as you can see,” she added indicated their surroundings, “little has changed. Although let it be never said of me that I’ll be found punting up the River Trick. Financially or else.”

“Being in debt is never something to be encouraged.” Holtzrichter frowned. “You have lived over a century and thought to make nothing of yourself? If I may make so bold, why?”

“You misunderstand me, sir,” Isobel said and sat at the table. “I choose to be like this, a woman of little means. You cannot live for over a century by attracting attention to yourself. As I said, this country has been at war with one country or another for so long now, an’ I were to be noticed…” She shook her head. “This is why I came to Newington Green. It has a history for attracting the dissidents, the outsiders, those who do not conform to the Church and the Crown. And those who wish to remain invisible.”

Holtzrichter nodded. “I understand. I was born poor, and lived a very modest life, until a visiting French noblewoman noticed me. She changed my life, and now she wishes to change yours.”

Isobel was taken aback, but she had no doubt as to whom he meant. For a long moment Isobel remained as she was. Then she asked, softly, “why me? I keep myself to myself, I…”

“We both know this is not quite true, do we not, Isabella?”

For the second time in as many minutes she did not know what to say. She was certain she had kept her tracks well hidden. Of course she had been dragged into the revolution, but as far as most knew it was with open reluctance. Very few knew the truth, knew what exactly Isabella Frith had done during that violent time, and only a select few knew the true identity of Isabella Frith. It appeared one such person had talked. Isobel let out a sigh of defeat. “I do not seek attention and…”