Excerpt 1

Gabriel crouched on bended knee, hunched against cold stone above an ancient alley fetid with the smell of piss and vomit and cooked sausage. A door slammed in the distance, and the sound of cursing, a man’s, and then a woman’s, was followed by slaps, screams, and then silence. Far away, the sound of a guitar drifted to him, melancholy in the cold night air. There were sounds from the building behind him, closer, but muffled through stone and mortar and thick brick walls. He tilted his head back and took a long sweet swallow from the decanter beside him, as he gazed unfocussed into the distant heavens.

Once, years ago, before all sense of wonder had been beaten out of him, he’d climbed up here on a crisp, late August night, and stumbled into an enchanted fairyland.  Magical lights had danced overhead, streaming across the sky leaving arching trails of color and fire in their wake.  He had made wishes upon them, one after the other, and dreamed for a short time that they might come true.  Stupid child!  

This night’s sky was black, cold and uncaring; relieved only by the glittering shards of harsh and distant suns so far from his reach they offered no warmth, no illumination, and no comfort.  Desperate to escape the nightmares that chased him through his sleep, he caressed the blade held tight between his fingers, wincing as cold steel slid delicately through tender flesh.  There was a little frisson of pain, almost pleasure, as crimson life oozed in a delicate band, slowly encircling his wrist.  Again and again, steel kissed flesh.  Not too deep.  Not yet.  Not now.  Dead inside, lifeless and empty, the crimson bracelets offered a needed proof that for now at least, he was still of this world.

Excerpt 2

The balcony was wide and solid and ran the length of her room. It seemed to float out over the ocean like the prow of a ship, and he imagined he could feel the swell and pitch of the waves beneath them. An ancient oak loomed in the darkness on the northern edge to his left, its branches shading the second floor and towering above the roof. The balustrade was fitted at regular intervals with oil lamps in the shape of wide-mouthed brass bowls. Some of them were lit now, providing a soft, unobtrusive glow. There were shrubs, herbs, and exotic potted plants along the wall and in the corners, mingling with the breeze in a heady aroma, reminiscent of her scent. Stone benches fitted with padded cushions lined the seaward edge here and there, and what appeared to be a swing sat almost dead center.

Wordlessly, Sarah stepped forward and took the tray from his unresisting grasp, setting it on a low stone table next to the swing as he continued to marvel at the magical little world he’d stepped into. Turning his face up to the heavens, his skin pricked with superstitious awe. The vaulted ceiling above him sparkled and glittered, pulsing with an ancient beauty, stirring something deep and atavistic within. The enchanted little space from where he watched wasn’t dwarfed or diminished by the night’s majesty, but somehow enhanced, fragile, warm, human, and all the more precious because of it. The overall effect was one of floating, as if they were part of the night, sailing amongst the stars.

He turned to look at her, his eyes filled with wonder, and then moved to examine an instrument set out on a jutting platform.  It looked like the muzzle of a small cannon set on a tripod.  Reaching a hand out tentatively, he looked back at her.  She smiled and nodded, and reverently, he felt the barrel, trailing his hands along its length, examining the focusing mechanism, tubes, mirrors, and mounting.  “Is it real?  Does it work?”

His eyes gleamed with boyish excitement, and her heart skipped a beat.  “Yes, it works.  Have you ever used one before?”

“No, I’ve read about them, though.”

“Here then, let me show you.  Let’s start with the moon.”  Careful not to touch him, Sarah showed him how to focus and align the instrument with the thin sliver of the moon.  Standing by his shoulder, she explained that this was a twenty-four-inch reflecting telescope, made by Mr. James Short, of Scotland.  She was about to regale him with the advantages and disadvantages of reflecting versus refracting telescopes when she realized that he was far too engrossed in what he was doing to pay her any attention.

She contented herself with watching him.  It was the first time she’d seen him completely stripped of mask or artifice.  Boyish and eager in his enthusiasm, enraptured with the wonders revealed through the lens, she saw past all the walls that hurt and cruelty, abandonment and betrayal, had built around him, to the lively, sensitive, spirit within, and realized she was in danger of falling quite hopelessly in love. 

Excerpt 3

Gabriel woke, coughing and retching. A strong grip braced his shoulders, steadying him and holding him still. Jagged shards of pain assailed every movement, every breath, and he struggled to contain a moan of pain, grateful for whatever force it was that restrained him.

“Easy, mon amie,” a cultured voice reproved him, as a tin cup was pressed to his lips.  “You want to keep as still as you can.  You’ve broken some ribs, it seems.  You also need to drink.  It’s a vile witch’s brew, I know, but you’re badly dehydrated and we’re given very little water.  If you hope to survive, you need to take whatever’s offered.”

Gabriel struggled to get his bearings. His head was pounding and an insistent throbbing radiated up and down the length of his left arm, which seemed to be in some sort of splint. It was torture to breath. It was dank, dark, and suffocatingly hot, and the stink of sweat and fear was overwhelming. It took him a moment before he recognized the sounds he was hearing, the slapping of oars as they hit the water, the creaking and moaning of wood, stressed by wind and sea, the muffled thudding of canvas beaten by the wind.

He was on a ship, and he was in the hold. Memory came to him suddenly, in a flood of images. The stricken warship hung up on the reef, the sky, blood red with flame and smoke, the angry sea littered with bodies and debris, and Carlos’ eyes, changing from wild hope to terror and despair as the tumbling cannon swept them both into the sea.

“You were aboard the French ship,” he croaked.

“I was indeed,” the stranger agreed.  “You must have been aboard that little privateer that played about us for a while.  Fell off her then, did you?  Rather clumsy of you, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Gabriel grunted in reply. 

“Please allow me to introduce myself.  I am Jacques Louis David, Chevalier de Valmont, at your service.  I would offer you a bow, but there just isn’t the space, you see, and I’m currently occupied striving heroically to give you a drink.  Do be a good fellow and make an effort to cooperate.”

Gabriel’s lips were cracked and bleeding, his throat raw and sore, and he was in desperate need of water.  He did his best to drink the fetid swill the Frenchman was trying to give him, struggling not to retch as he swallowed it.

“There now.  That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Why are you helping me?”  Gabriel asked dully, exhausted from even these minor exertions.

“You wound me, sir!  We are old friends and traveling companions.  Do you not remember?”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed, then cleared as a thought struck him.  “You were on the spar that struck me.”

“Quite unintentionally, I assure you.”

“I thought there was someone else.”

“Yes, I know.  You kept calling me Sarah.  I was most affronted.”

“You pulled me from the water.  You saved my life.”

“Well, I was bored you see, and I felt somewhat obliged after knocking you unconscious.  You proved to be very poor company though.”

“I’m not sure you did me any favors,” Gabriel said with a sigh that made his ribs grate inside his chest.  Wincing he turned his head and peered through the gloom.  There was a faint light from a grate overhead, and his eyes were adjusting to the dark.  The hold was filthy, filled with huddled forms crowded close together, some of them weeping and moaning.  Chained, naked or in rags, there must have been upwards of fifty of them, leaving little air to breathe.  The heat and stench were overpowering.

“Well, you needn’t thank me then, but there’s a belief in these parts, that if one is so impertinent as to interfere with fate by saving another man’s life, he becomes bound to him, their fates entwined.”

“You must not feel any such obligation, Chevalier.  I assure you that I do not.”