Serere (Prelude to THE GARDEN) by Andy Frankham-Allen

Description:

In 1788 a mysterious man arrives in Newington Green, England, to discuss something of the utmost importance with Isobel Shelley. While there he happens upon the pages of the Book of Origin, and finds himself caught up in a series of events that lead him back to Newington Green 214 years later. There he bumps into a man called Willem Townsend; it is an accidental encounter that will change the lives of both men forever. Things have been set in motion, a prophecy waits to be fulfilled...

"A man can surely do what he wills to do, but cannot determine what he wills."

This ebook-exclusive novella is a prelude to Frankham-Allen's upcoming series The Garden, launching in March 2011 with Seeker. The series will be launched simultaneously in print from Hirst Publishing and in ebook format from Untreed Reads.

Excerpt:

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?