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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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investments of the sort you have in mind. A Canadian company could negotiate for you, if you believe there still exists prejudice toward the British.
Let me thank you again for the hospitality you have so graciously extended to me. Perhaps another time, when the world is more settled.
Saint-Germain
his seal, the eclipse
Avenida de las Lagrimas
Cádiz, España
12 July, 1936
The Honorable Charles K. O. E. Whittenfield
Ninth Earl of Copsehowe
St. Amelia’s Hospital
London, England
My dear Charles:
Your grandson told me of your illness last week, and I am truly sorry to learn of it. While it is true that you have had a long life, I fully understand your sense of brevity. Ancient though
I am, I share your feeling.
Unfortunately, I cannot share the enthusiasm of your Mister Shaw. Your grandson said that he is confident that the changes in Germany are all to the good, but it does not seem that way to me. There are deep, abiding wounds left from the Great War, and a generation is not enough to heal them. Some,
I fear, will never heal. No one touched by that war can forget it, or the abuses that followed. Let those blind idealists say what they will, the power of the NSDAP will exact vengeance for the Versailles Treaty. I know. I have seen for myself what they can do.
Enough of that. A man attempting to recuperate from a stroke does not need to be reminded of such grim matters. Let me only say that I am more distressed than you know that I did not visit you before now. I had planned to come some years ago, but events did not permit me to leave the Continent.
Nor will they for a while. My manservant, Roger, is a native of Cádiz and for that reason, I will remain here for a little longer. Then
I plan to stay for a time with an old friend in the south of France.
Let me hear from you. It is shameful, the way I have neglected my old friends. Perhaps, though it is late, I may remedy this in part now, by sending you my sincerest wishes for your speedy recovery and the assurance of my gratitude for your continuing goodwill, little though I have done to deserve it.
Saint-Germain
his seal, the eclipse
RENEWAL
« ^ »
W ITH bloodied hands, James pulled the ornate iron gates open and staggered onto the long drive that led to the château. Although he was dazed, he made sure the gates were properly shut before starting up the tree-lined road. How long ago he had made his first journey here, and how it drew him now. He stared ahead, willing the ancient building to appear out of the night as he kept up his dogged progress toward the one place that might provide him the shelter he so desperately needed.
When at last the stone walls came into view, James was puzzled to hear the sound of a violin, played expertly but fragmentally, as if the music were wholly personal. James stopped and listened, his cognac-colored eyes warming for the first time in three days. Until that moment, the only sound he had remembered was the grind and pound of guns. His bleary thoughts sharpened minimally and he reached up to push his hair from his brow. Vaguely he wondered who was playing, and why, for Montalia had an oddly deserted look to it: the grounds were overgrown and only two of the windows showed lights. This was more than war-time precaution, James realized, and shambled toward the side door he had used so many times in the past, the first twinges of real fear giving him a chill that the weather had not been able to exert.
The stables smelled more of motor oil than horses, but James recognized the shape of the building, and limped into its shadow with relief. Two lights, he realized, might mean nothing more than most of the servants had retired for the night, or that shortages of fuel and other supplies forced the household to stringent economies. He leaned against the wall of the stable and gathered his courage to try the door. At least, he told himself, it did not appear that the château was full
Let me thank you again for the hospitality you have so graciously extended to me. Perhaps another time, when the world is more settled.
Saint-Germain
his seal, the eclipse
Avenida de las Lagrimas
Cádiz, España
12 July, 1936
The Honorable Charles K. O. E. Whittenfield
Ninth Earl of Copsehowe
St. Amelia’s Hospital
London, England
My dear Charles:
Your grandson told me of your illness last week, and I am truly sorry to learn of it. While it is true that you have had a long life, I fully understand your sense of brevity. Ancient though
I am, I share your feeling.
Unfortunately, I cannot share the enthusiasm of your Mister Shaw. Your grandson said that he is confident that the changes in Germany are all to the good, but it does not seem that way to me. There are deep, abiding wounds left from the Great War, and a generation is not enough to heal them. Some,
I fear, will never heal. No one touched by that war can forget it, or the abuses that followed. Let those blind idealists say what they will, the power of the NSDAP will exact vengeance for the Versailles Treaty. I know. I have seen for myself what they can do.
Enough of that. A man attempting to recuperate from a stroke does not need to be reminded of such grim matters. Let me only say that I am more distressed than you know that I did not visit you before now. I had planned to come some years ago, but events did not permit me to leave the Continent.
Nor will they for a while. My manservant, Roger, is a native of Cádiz and for that reason, I will remain here for a little longer. Then
I plan to stay for a time with an old friend in the south of France.
Let me hear from you. It is shameful, the way I have neglected my old friends. Perhaps, though it is late, I may remedy this in part now, by sending you my sincerest wishes for your speedy recovery and the assurance of my gratitude for your continuing goodwill, little though I have done to deserve it.
Saint-Germain
his seal, the eclipse
RENEWAL
« ^ »
W ITH bloodied hands, James pulled the ornate iron gates open and staggered onto the long drive that led to the château. Although he was dazed, he made sure the gates were properly shut before starting up the tree-lined road. How long ago he had made his first journey here, and how it drew him now. He stared ahead, willing the ancient building to appear out of the night as he kept up his dogged progress toward the one place that might provide him the shelter he so desperately needed.
When at last the stone walls came into view, James was puzzled to hear the sound of a violin, played expertly but fragmentally, as if the music were wholly personal. James stopped and listened, his cognac-colored eyes warming for the first time in three days. Until that moment, the only sound he had remembered was the grind and pound of guns. His bleary thoughts sharpened minimally and he reached up to push his hair from his brow. Vaguely he wondered who was playing, and why, for Montalia had an oddly deserted look to it: the grounds were overgrown and only two of the windows showed lights. This was more than war-time precaution, James realized, and shambled toward the side door he had used so many times in the past, the first twinges of real fear giving him a chill that the weather had not been able to exert.
The stables smelled more of motor oil than horses, but James recognized the shape of the building, and limped into its shadow with relief. Two lights, he realized, might mean nothing more than most of the servants had retired for the night, or that shortages of fuel and other supplies forced the household to stringent economies. He leaned against the wall of the stable and gathered his courage to try the door. At least, he told himself, it did not appear that the château was full
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