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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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possible. And you will admit that whoever her Count was, he was something of an original.”
“If you look into it, you’ll find he was just another charlatan,” Lord Graveston said with confidence. “Generous, it seems, but nonetheless, a charlatan.”
“Why do you believe that?” the sixth guest asked him. There was no challenge in the question, just a certain curiosity.
“It’s obvious,” Lord Graveston said, rising. “Well, if that’s all you’re giving us, Whittenfield, I’ll take myself off to bed. Excellent port and brandy.” He made his way through the room and out the door.
Peter Hamworthy groaned as he got to his feet. “The hour is very late and I like to rise early. I had no idea how long this would be. It’s what comes of telling stories about females.” As he went to the door he made a point not to look in the direction of the Spider Glass.
“I’m for the billiard room, if anyone cares to join me,” Dominick said, staring at Everard. “You may come and do your best to… beat me, if you like.”
Everard was suddenly nervous. “I… in a moment, Dominick.” He turned toward his host. “I thought it was a good tale. I don’t understand about the mirror, but…” On that inconclusive note he left the room in Dominick’s wake.
“Whittenfield, that was the damnedest farrago you spun us,” Twilford admonished him. “Why did you begin it?”
“You asked about the glass, that’s all.” Whittenfield had got to his feet and stood, a little unsteadily, beside his Queen Anne chair.
“Then I was an ass to do so.” He turned on his heel and stalked majestically from the room.
The sixth guest turned his dark, ironic eyes on Whittenfield. “I found your story most… salutary. I had no idea…” He got up and went toward the old mirror as if compelled to do so. He touched the glass with his small, beautiful hand, smiling faintly.
Glistening in the mirror, the spider hung in its jeweled web. The body was red as rubies or fresh blood. The delicate legs were garnet at the joints and tourmaline elsewhere. It was delicate as a dancer, and though the mirror had faded over the years, the Count could still take pride in his work. Beyond the image of the spider the muted lamps of the Oak Parlor shone like amber in the glass.
For, of course, le Comte de Saint-Germain had no reflection at all.
----
Text of two letters from le Comte de Saint-Germain to Charles Whittenfield, written 25 years apart.
Mindre Län
Nr. Südertalje
Svensk
9 January, 1911
The Honorable Charles K. O. E. Whittenfield
Ninth Earl of Copsehowe
Briarcopse
Nr. Evesham
England
Charles;
Has it really been ten years since we last saw each other? How swiftly the time goes. I have fond memories of Briarcopse and hope that one day I might return there. However,
I fear that it will not be possible for some time yet. My stay in Sweden is necessarily short, brought about by the need to expand some of my ventures in Russia. Conditions in that country are unstable enough that it would be most prudent for me to return there as soon as I can arrange transportation. It is not only my financial interests that concern me, but the welfare of those in my employ.
I admit that I share your worries for Europe. Too many diplomatic schemes have become deadlocked. You mention your son, and fear that he may have to fight, should there be a war. The boy, as I calculate, is only twelve. How young that seems to me. Surely no country fights wars with children, not in these times.
Since you asked for my recommendation, I will give it. Doubtless the Germans are more advanced in chemical and electrical research, but that would be of little benefit to you if war breaks out. If you are interested in foreign investment, then I would consider America. Their commerce is expanding and while they do not have the quality of research establishments to be found in Europe and England, their current policies would favor
“If you look into it, you’ll find he was just another charlatan,” Lord Graveston said with confidence. “Generous, it seems, but nonetheless, a charlatan.”
“Why do you believe that?” the sixth guest asked him. There was no challenge in the question, just a certain curiosity.
“It’s obvious,” Lord Graveston said, rising. “Well, if that’s all you’re giving us, Whittenfield, I’ll take myself off to bed. Excellent port and brandy.” He made his way through the room and out the door.
Peter Hamworthy groaned as he got to his feet. “The hour is very late and I like to rise early. I had no idea how long this would be. It’s what comes of telling stories about females.” As he went to the door he made a point not to look in the direction of the Spider Glass.
“I’m for the billiard room, if anyone cares to join me,” Dominick said, staring at Everard. “You may come and do your best to… beat me, if you like.”
Everard was suddenly nervous. “I… in a moment, Dominick.” He turned toward his host. “I thought it was a good tale. I don’t understand about the mirror, but…” On that inconclusive note he left the room in Dominick’s wake.
“Whittenfield, that was the damnedest farrago you spun us,” Twilford admonished him. “Why did you begin it?”
“You asked about the glass, that’s all.” Whittenfield had got to his feet and stood, a little unsteadily, beside his Queen Anne chair.
“Then I was an ass to do so.” He turned on his heel and stalked majestically from the room.
The sixth guest turned his dark, ironic eyes on Whittenfield. “I found your story most… salutary. I had no idea…” He got up and went toward the old mirror as if compelled to do so. He touched the glass with his small, beautiful hand, smiling faintly.
Glistening in the mirror, the spider hung in its jeweled web. The body was red as rubies or fresh blood. The delicate legs were garnet at the joints and tourmaline elsewhere. It was delicate as a dancer, and though the mirror had faded over the years, the Count could still take pride in his work. Beyond the image of the spider the muted lamps of the Oak Parlor shone like amber in the glass.
For, of course, le Comte de Saint-Germain had no reflection at all.
----
Text of two letters from le Comte de Saint-Germain to Charles Whittenfield, written 25 years apart.
Mindre Län
Nr. Südertalje
Svensk
9 January, 1911
The Honorable Charles K. O. E. Whittenfield
Ninth Earl of Copsehowe
Briarcopse
Nr. Evesham
England
Charles;
Has it really been ten years since we last saw each other? How swiftly the time goes. I have fond memories of Briarcopse and hope that one day I might return there. However,
I fear that it will not be possible for some time yet. My stay in Sweden is necessarily short, brought about by the need to expand some of my ventures in Russia. Conditions in that country are unstable enough that it would be most prudent for me to return there as soon as I can arrange transportation. It is not only my financial interests that concern me, but the welfare of those in my employ.
I admit that I share your worries for Europe. Too many diplomatic schemes have become deadlocked. You mention your son, and fear that he may have to fight, should there be a war. The boy, as I calculate, is only twelve. How young that seems to me. Surely no country fights wars with children, not in these times.
Since you asked for my recommendation, I will give it. Doubtless the Germans are more advanced in chemical and electrical research, but that would be of little benefit to you if war breaks out. If you are interested in foreign investment, then I would consider America. Their commerce is expanding and while they do not have the quality of research establishments to be found in Europe and England, their current policies would favor
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