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Authors: Victoria Hanlen
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run into a problem.”
He sank down into the chair next to the bed and placed his hand on Cory’s arm. A slow pulse beat beneath, proof life still existed inside, but could he hear him? Could he understand?
“And the irony is,” Damen continued, “you were far better at gaining a woman’s
assistance
than me. I could use some pointers if you’d stop being such a laze-about.”
The cuts and swelling across his brother’s face had blossomed into a kaleidoscope of color. Sometimes he jerked a finger or a foot, but he’d still not opened his eyes. The doctor told him, with each day that passed, he was less likely to awake, but Damen refused to give up. Somehow he had to reach him and pull him back from the abyss.
“Your mistress said you were looking for Strathford’s plans before you were attacked. Now Lady Strathford needs to find them and prove she didn’t kill her husband. But she has refused my help. She fears the gossips will call us lovers. Imagine that.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know you could have easily talked her round.”
Damen leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin in one palm. Now more than ever, he believed finding the plans would lead to his brother’s attackers and probably Lord Strathford’s killer. How could he persuade Lady Strathford to work with him and let him search her mansion? He leaned back, barely seeing the intricate plasterwork marching across the ceiling. “What did you find, Cory, that made someone want to kill you?”
His brother’s slow, almost imperceptible breathing was the only answer.
Damen stood, walked around the end of the bed, and barked his shin on Cory’s sea chest. “Blast! What’s that doing here?” As he rubbed his leg, he noticed the trunk’s open latch and lifted the lid. Inside lay Cory’s navigating equipment, a bundle of letters, several books, two old newspapers written in a foreign language… and a worn, leather-bound journal.
He opened it and read the first entries dated five years before, right after Damen had seen Cory off in Liverpool. His brother’s pencil scrawl recorded the weather, the ship’s speed, other incidentals, and a few surprisingly good likenesses of porpoises.
He thumbed through more dry discourse, and turned the journal on its side to admire landscapes Cory had drawn of ports he’d visited, notes about the geography, maps and charts and a few portraits of the inhabitants. He flipped to the back pages. There he found the date, two weeks before, where Cory had recorded his arrival in London. An entry three days later said:
Grancliffe party. Saw Dante’s acolyte!!
“Two exclamation points,” Damen mumbled.
He turned to the last entry, the day Cory had been attacked. He read the words aloud. “‘Half ten. Meet Dante’s acolyte. Strathford coda.’ What does that mean?” He read it several more times.
Dante.
Who was Dante?
Could it refer to
Dante’s Inferno
? Or the devil? Perhaps hell or fire? What about acolyte – a follower or assistant? And what did ‘coda’ mean? Maybe a dance, or a concluding event of some sort? If he interpreted the words correctly, it appeared his brother knew the ‘acolyte’ of the ‘inferno’ that was ‘Strathford’s end.’
He searched more of the journal for clues to the mystery. On a page dated three years earlier he found another entry:
Bird will sing.
At two years earlier, an entry said:
Strathford coda.
He could only guess at what these pencil scratches meant while his mind spun with darker questions. Damen reached up and rubbed the taut muscle in his neck. Cory was supposed to have been on a merchant ship during that time. Yet his journal made it appear he’d slipped back into England without contacting him or their father.
A cold chill skittered across his shoulders. It appeared his brother was somehow connected to Strathford. And most disturbing of all, it made him wonder if Cory might have been involved with the laboratory
He sank down into the chair next to the bed and placed his hand on Cory’s arm. A slow pulse beat beneath, proof life still existed inside, but could he hear him? Could he understand?
“And the irony is,” Damen continued, “you were far better at gaining a woman’s
assistance
than me. I could use some pointers if you’d stop being such a laze-about.”
The cuts and swelling across his brother’s face had blossomed into a kaleidoscope of color. Sometimes he jerked a finger or a foot, but he’d still not opened his eyes. The doctor told him, with each day that passed, he was less likely to awake, but Damen refused to give up. Somehow he had to reach him and pull him back from the abyss.
“Your mistress said you were looking for Strathford’s plans before you were attacked. Now Lady Strathford needs to find them and prove she didn’t kill her husband. But she has refused my help. She fears the gossips will call us lovers. Imagine that.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know you could have easily talked her round.”
Damen leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin in one palm. Now more than ever, he believed finding the plans would lead to his brother’s attackers and probably Lord Strathford’s killer. How could he persuade Lady Strathford to work with him and let him search her mansion? He leaned back, barely seeing the intricate plasterwork marching across the ceiling. “What did you find, Cory, that made someone want to kill you?”
His brother’s slow, almost imperceptible breathing was the only answer.
Damen stood, walked around the end of the bed, and barked his shin on Cory’s sea chest. “Blast! What’s that doing here?” As he rubbed his leg, he noticed the trunk’s open latch and lifted the lid. Inside lay Cory’s navigating equipment, a bundle of letters, several books, two old newspapers written in a foreign language… and a worn, leather-bound journal.
He opened it and read the first entries dated five years before, right after Damen had seen Cory off in Liverpool. His brother’s pencil scrawl recorded the weather, the ship’s speed, other incidentals, and a few surprisingly good likenesses of porpoises.
He thumbed through more dry discourse, and turned the journal on its side to admire landscapes Cory had drawn of ports he’d visited, notes about the geography, maps and charts and a few portraits of the inhabitants. He flipped to the back pages. There he found the date, two weeks before, where Cory had recorded his arrival in London. An entry three days later said:
Grancliffe party. Saw Dante’s acolyte!!
“Two exclamation points,” Damen mumbled.
He turned to the last entry, the day Cory had been attacked. He read the words aloud. “‘Half ten. Meet Dante’s acolyte. Strathford coda.’ What does that mean?” He read it several more times.
Dante.
Who was Dante?
Could it refer to
Dante’s Inferno
? Or the devil? Perhaps hell or fire? What about acolyte – a follower or assistant? And what did ‘coda’ mean? Maybe a dance, or a concluding event of some sort? If he interpreted the words correctly, it appeared his brother knew the ‘acolyte’ of the ‘inferno’ that was ‘Strathford’s end.’
He searched more of the journal for clues to the mystery. On a page dated three years earlier he found another entry:
Bird will sing.
At two years earlier, an entry said:
Strathford coda.
He could only guess at what these pencil scratches meant while his mind spun with darker questions. Damen reached up and rubbed the taut muscle in his neck. Cory was supposed to have been on a merchant ship during that time. Yet his journal made it appear he’d slipped back into England without contacting him or their father.
A cold chill skittered across his shoulders. It appeared his brother was somehow connected to Strathford. And most disturbing of all, it made him wonder if Cory might have been involved with the laboratory
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