The Monstrous Burden of Professor Darkwood

By John Robert Mills

As Armancras thrives at the height of its steam-age, its citizens go about their daily lives with little memory of the city's bloody past. They would rather marvel at Kempis Pennington's robot, or travel in the fancy new auto-carriages. A bureaucracy bent on establishing a new secular republic calls the shots, but there is still a deep refusal to let go of the old devoutist ways. While complacency builds, a strange visitor with telepathic abilities is putting his plans into motion. 

When Professor Solan Darkwood, an expert in mythology is jilted by her fiance, she finds friendship in the company of archaeologist Edward Blackburn. He leads her beneath the city and shares his newest discovery: a colossal crypt full of preserved Fomorians, ancient horned giants thought to be mythical until now. 

But when she is tricked into awakening the dreadful giants and unleashing them on Armancras, the game is afoot and she finds that she is the only thing that can subdue the vicious horde. As she leads the monsters away from the city, invasion awaits... 

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Robert Mills
• Release date: Feb 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524287016

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Professor Darkwood tested her undergraduates’ patience as she summoned her courage from a secret spot behind the curtains, as if deep in prayer. The ritual was more or less the same before every lecture; she sat backstage rehearsing her notes as she did on her first day on the job. With a deep sense of dread, she recalled the conversation between two students that she’d overheard at the enrolment office the previous day. She had been perusing the shelves looking for the details of an undergraduate when she heard her name coming up in the conversation.

‘And you wish to leave Professor Darkwood’s class?’

‘Yes . . . will this take much longer?’ the student asked the enrolment officer. Solan peeked around the cabinet and saw the annoyed look on the registrar’s face, but she couldn’t quite see the young man from her position.

‘Well we are not in the custom of letting students change disciplines once the course instruction has started Mr Batterley.’ Solan rolled her eyes upon hearing the name.

Another young man—tall, with perfectly coiffed brown hair—stood at the counter swinging his pocket-watch around his fingers. Solan moved back behind a bookshelf and listened.

‘Is this really that important Samuel?’

‘I won’t be taught by some mousy little spinster who can’t command her basic faculties.’

Through a gap in the bookshelf she saw an older lady come to the counter and put down another set of documents. The older woman threw the student a poisonous look.

‘I hear Professor Darkwood is one of the foremost scholars in her area,’ said the young man’s friend.

‘Daniel . . . really. I know we have to take at least one of the liberal arts courses to fill up the numbers, but mythology?’

‘It’s interesting. Well . . . I found the first lecture interesting.’

‘Oh yes, once she was finished getting her nerves together.’

The other young man at the bench laughed and shook his head.

‘She’s just got the jitters. She’s only young you know.’

‘The stupid bloody shrew failed me! Obviously the dolt doesn’t know who my father is.’ The enrolment officer returned to the counter.

‘Young man. If you persist in using disparaging language, I shall . . .’

‘Yes, yes . . . very well. Get on with your job.’

Solan continued looking through the bookcase and saw the registrar turn red with anger. Batterley’s friend shook his head.

‘Why should she know who your father is? And since when does a piece of work get marked on the basis of your uniquely privileged bloodline.’

‘Do you know they say she vomits before lectures?’

‘Poor thing. But once she gets talking she seems to know what she’s doing.’

The registrar walked into another room with a bundle of papers.

‘Don’t be such a bloody softy Daniel. You know . . .’ Solan could now see Batterley as he leaned towards his friend. He looked around to check that nobody could hear. ‘Well . . . some of the lads were saying that if enough of us withdraw from the course that she will be forced to go knocking on other doors and we would probably get placed in politics.’

‘Politics eh?’

‘That’s right old chum. Have a think about it, eh? Besides, she’s liable to be given the arse by the old guard if they think she’s too much trouble.’ She opened her eyes, the memory still ringing in her head and stood up.

With quiet steps, she pulled back the curtains and walked across the dark wooden rostrum, tripping on the hem of her cumbersome frilly dress. The blunder was met with ill-contained chuckles. She poised herself in front of the students and faced a small sea of familiar faces. The entire front row itself was made up of daddy’s boys, know-it-alls and uninterested dandies who had enrolled because of the dearth of available subjects. Twenty different expressions of smug: she felt a deep desire to slap each face hard. A panic arose in her chest.

‘Excuse me. I shan’t be a moment. I just forgot something,’ she said and clawed her way back behind the curtains. Her cheeks burned and a smattering of pin pricks danced across her forehead.

‘Gods . . . help me,’ she whispered to herself, straining to conjure the thought that might defend her from the critical gaze of her students. She became blinded by a fog in her mind. The fog cleared and revealed the wall she had built over a lifetime of meekness. Nearly catatonic, she stared into the imaginary wall but could find no minute gap through which to breathe. Then, as if a smothering ogre hand had removed itself from her mouth, the thought came to her and she inhaled deeply through her nose.

‘Get a bloody grip of yourself woman,’ she whispered, then took her time returning to the lectern. Solan fumbled for her notes in the messy pile in front of her. ‘Oh you must be joking,’ she mumbled and continued rummaging through the pile while a murmur of impatience swept the room.

‘Perhaps I could help you find your notes Miss Darkwood!’ A young well-dressed man in the front row gave a glib smile to the seats behind. Solan saw it was Reginald Smathers, rumoured by the press to be heir to a tidy banking inheritance—provided he completes his education.

‘I think not Mr Smathers, given that you could not find your last essay, or the dean’s office when asked to re-sit it. And by the way, this is a university. Your father need not ask for academic extensions on your behalf. You can do that yourself.’

The crowd sniggered. Solan found her paper and a second wind. ‘And that’s professor to you.’ The young man sank back into his seat, a flush of red filling his pale face. Another round of sniggering ensued. She turned around and looked at a picture of a sinewy grey creature, which was to be the focal point of her lecture.

‘Perhaps one of the most feared of all Morobrethian beasts was the Kesbith. This Kethleginian creature was the creation of Morobrethian adults intent on vilifying the enemy in the minds of children. These children believed that a Kesbith was more than a foot soldier; it was a monster. It was easy to maintain the spirit of distrust and provide fodder for the armies of the Morobrethian warrior classes, if the young could see the average Kethleginian as a demon. The truth was that the enemy was often just as vicious as we could imagine any demon to be, and young and old alike had good reason to be scared. Atrocities—murder, rape, infanticide, fratricide—were par for the course in Ketliginian culture. But the Kesbith was no more real than the Morobrethian gods who oversaw the seasons and punished the masses with pestilence and plague.’

Solan could see an uneasiness sweep across the room. It was obvious that the new secular laws were still being broken in.

‘You could go to hell for saying that!’ called a voice from the back rows.

‘And you could go to prison for saying that,’ replied Solan with a wide smile. Once more a round of chuckling took the room. Solan could see her fiancé Robert Collings sitting in one of the middle rows, tapping an inaudible rhythm on the top-hat in his lap. No doubt he was annoyed by her small episode of cockiness. She was able to give a tiny smile, hoping that none of her students noticed.

‘This much is almost certain: the mythological creatures of this period originated in the propaganda of the time. And we know this through the parchments of the Second Enlightenment.’

Solan showed the next picture. It was a huge sinewy creature with an almost goat-like face, grey in colour, with enormous horns protruding from its head. The positioning of fully grown trees which came up to the creature’s waist gave the impression that the beast was a giant of some kind.

‘This,’ continued Solan, ‘is a Fomorian. It is the only mythological creature whose roots are unlikely to be found in the propaganda of the Morobrethians.’

As she spoke, she noticed a man coming in late to the lecture. He had on a top hat, spectacles, a black coat, stark purple waistcoat and black trousers. He looked as well-dressed as any city gent, but there was something about his countenance that didn’t seem quite right, something she couldn’t pinpoint at first. A few seconds later it came to her. She realised the man appeared to be wearing make-up, not as a lady might, more like an actor in a theatrical production. She looked back at her notes.

‘Which leads us to the inevitable question, where do the Fomorians come from? Are they a representation of our inner fear, an allegory for military strength we deeply desired or did a creature like this, really exist?’

Some students laughed. Solan shrugged and lifted her hands with a smile. Again she was caught off guard by the odd man who now stared at her with a half smile that appeared to suggest he was interested not so much in the words she said, as in the person saying them. Once more she fought the distraction and continued.

‘Whatever the case, something caused ancient historians to refer to this beast as if it actually existed. Indeed, it is never discussed as a myth. It is disconnected from all the fables and stories. And yet there are almost no paleontological records of its existence in prehistoric eras. However, there are some that posit that they have indeed been with us for centuries. One discovery was made in Brex Tor Ontem about seventy years ago. It was an eight foot femur belonging to a bipedal upright species, possibly a kind of primate.’

The students laughed again. Solan then clicked the slide controller in her hand and showed them another picture, a photograph of two men standing beside a giant eight foot high thighbone. The photograph brought silence and a sense of respect that might have just been lost.

‘The dating of the bone does not correspond with prehistoric dates. Furthermore, there is no way it could have come from a large prehistoric quadruped. It can’t be from a giant bird. It seems to be, for all intents and purposes, a large humanoid thighbone. Or in the very least it came from something that looked very human from the waist down.’ A curious hum of underhanded discussion filled the theatre. One student spoke up.

‘Where is it displayed?’

‘Yes, where can we see it?’ another student called out.

Solan laughed and replied, ‘You’re not allowed to see it young man.’

Again, a tide of noisy whispers swamped the lecture theatre. She noticed that the strange looking man in the upper-left hand corner of the audience took notes as the students reacted to her words. Solan waited for the chatter to subside.

‘I have seen it.’ She paused and looked at the room of transfixed students. ‘I worked as an archivist at the national museum. But it has been off limits to the public since its discovery. Can anyone tell me why?’

A young man at the front raised his hand. Solan gestured to him.

‘Because the discovery went against religious doctrine?’

‘Exactly! In fifty years, our society has shaken of the last constraints of religious domination from its midst, but many of the sacrilege laws put in place during the last five hundred years are still in effect. Anyhow, I can tell you this. I have seen this artefact and it is most definitely not prehistoric. It looked as fresh and new three years ago as it would have when the meat festered off its bones. Well that’s an exaggeration . . . but it can’t be more than two-thousand years old.’ Another lengthy silence followed her words.

Solan usually associated long pauses with a sense of inherent dread, perhaps the moment before a revelation of unrequited love, or that she was the holder of an unpopular opinion. But at this moment she held all the cards. And she might have revelled in it too, were she not still being studied by the peculiar man up the back.

***

The rest of the lecture got off track, but it brought some levity as she discussed manufactured fairy pictures and gave a scientific explanation for will o’ the wisps. The assembly of students were listening, indeed they appeared to be enjoying her discussion when she looked at her pocket-watch and realised time was up.

‘And I’m afraid that’s it. Sorry for the digression. Please make sure the upcoming chapter is read before your next tutorials! Thank you.’

She noticed the strange looking man standing up and staring right at her. He maintained his gaze for some time.

‘What on Earthe?’ she said under her breath, then he left with the throng of students.

Unnerved as she was, she was drawn at once into the business of greeting Robert. He came down the steps with swaggering strides, all the way to the dais. A couple of students interceded: a young gangly dark-haired man followed by a pretty, humbly-dressed young woman. The latter—it was clear to see—was not a recipient of nepotism. Judging by the low cost shawl and bland colours, this one had worked her way through her education. Her look of apprehension on her fair porcelain face drew Solan straight to her. Robert struggled to disguise a peeved look. The young woman stepped forward.

‘Professor Darkwood, I have a funeral to attend next week. Would it be possible to give you my work a little later?’

‘Of course my dear! Solan’s face saddened somewhat and she reached out to grab the student’s hand. ‘Do you mind if I ask who passed on?’

‘My father,’ replied the young woman. Solan tightened the grip on her hand.

‘Hand it in in a fortnight and see me if you need more time.’

‘Thank you Professor Darkwood. That’s ever so kind.’ The young man stepped forward, bowler hat in hands. ‘Miss . . . I mean Professor Darkwood, is there any possibility of us seeing the femur?’ he asked, quite embarrassed at his own more trivial request.

‘I’m sorry Charles, but I think it would be highly unlikely. But I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks Professor.’ The young man smiled and walked away. The students made their way up the steps of the lecture theatre. Robert moved towards her and once they had gone, he embraced her with a tender but brief kiss on the lips.

‘You’re such a bloody softie. I would never be half as lenient as you are with these neophytes.’

She distanced herself from his embrace with a gentle push and a knowing smile. His face showed that he understood his immediate mistake.

‘Well, perhaps that’s the difference between you and me. I know to catch flies with honey and not vinegar,’ she said gathering her notes from the lectern.

‘You took a while to find your feet today.’

She laughed under her breath. ‘That’s the ticket. The good old Robert encouragement . . . works every time.’ She looked up at him with a blank face. ‘Do you actually want me to do well?’

‘I . . . I’m . . . forget I said anything.’

Solan packed her books in a basket and they started walking up the stairs to the entrance of the lecture hall.

‘Did you see that odd looking fellow up the back?’

Robert looked at his pocket watch as she spoke. ‘No. Who was he?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Solan, ‘but he was staring at me in the most disturbing fashion. There was something very amiss with him. I feel like I have seen him before, but where? For the life of me I don’t know.’

‘Well, I don’t know who he is, but he’s going to have to find his own lovely prof.’ Solan gave an amused smile. The lecture theatre door closed shut with a click. Robert held Solan closer and gave her a tender kiss on the lips, then reared away from her.

‘I’m meeting my old pal Edward Blackburn at the Duke’s Arms at five tonight. Would you come and meet him?’ asked Robert.

‘Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like my kind of place. Not for a . . . well not for someone like me. It’s alright for you; you haven’t been smote with irreversible shyness. I’ll have nothing to talk about.’

‘Oh come on! You’ll love him. We studied economics together, before he copped out and changed to archaeology.’ Robert finished making his way up the steps.

‘Oh . . . alright,’ Solan conceded. ‘Archaeology you say? Maybe we will have something in common.’

‘Don’t get any ideas!’ He stood at the door looking down at her while she lugged her basket of books up the stairs. ‘You’re lucky to have me . . . remember that. Oh . . . and I might be a bit late!’ he called out as the door began to shut behind him.

‘I love you!’ he yelled from the corridor. She knew it had to have been empty.

‘Well that’s just great!’ she yelled. She got to the top of the stairs and called back to him.

‘I love you too!’

She stood there in silence as the lecture theatre door click shut.

‘I think,’ she whispered.

***

The foyer of The Pendleton Hotel was very busy. The staff struggled to deliver the niceties demanded by the hotel’s high standards of customer service. An afternoon influx of bowler-hatted businessmen whose bookings were mishandled, had presented a new set of problems. Desk staff presented buoyant enough expressions to placate patrons, but not smiles warm enough to welcome them with complete sincerity. Thomas Mantle entered the foyer amidst a group of businessmen who spoke another language. They glared at his made-up face with questioning eyes, while he tried to act as if he was with them. He stood beside them in the queue for reception. The concierge had his hands full with a stocky middle-aged man insisting that he had been given the wrong room.

‘Number ninety-seven! That is the number I requested when I telegraphed!’ the man barked with thick drips of sweat on his brow. The concierge looked again at the pad. He browsed over the ruled paper with his forefinger.

‘The room is vacant. I can see the key on the hook!’ insisted the man.

‘Sir, I assure you. It’s reserved under another name,’ the concierge replied.

The irate man grabbed the guest log and swung it around to verify the claim. Indeed, it was under another name: J.W. Gareth. At the same time, Mantle sidled up behind the irate customer. He scanned the opulent lobby in the way newcomers do when arriving in a new city. He observed a large sign that was placed behind a glass covering. It was positioned beside the mailbox pigeonholes for clientele. It read:

The Pendleton Hotel, Armancras adheres to all state strictures and thereby is adamant in its upkeep of secular state values. Therefore let it be understood by all patrons that this hotel:

Asserts that religious texts are not kept in rooms for public use.

Does not permit any religious persecution of any kind, but similarly, tolerates no discriminatory behaviour of patrons of secular background by those of religious conviction.

Will not admonish secular patrons on the basis of noisy coupling unless said coupling is of quite unreasonable volume.

Will allow those of religious persuasion to pray and convene in rooms provided their worship is private and does not seek further membership to its collective on hotel premises.

In accordance with Armancras municipal ordinances written year of the republic:

1862, Section D, Chapter 12, By-law 78.

The concierge addressed the irate man.

‘Please sir. We are getting the manager. If you could kindly wait over here, he will talk to you soon.’

The annoyed man rolled his eyes and complied with a huff of indignation. Mantle came forward to the desk. The concierge, taking a moment to absorb the peculiarity of his appearance, asked him his name.

‘Mantle, Mr Thomas Mantle. I’d like to book a room please,’ he said in a sombre but polite tone.

‘I’m sorry sir but it would seem all the rooms are now taken.’ The concierge looked up and removed his glasses. Thomas Mantle just stared at him.

‘I said I believe we are fully booked sir,’ he restated.

‘I have travelled halfway across the continent over the last two days. Please could you see if anything is available?’

Mantle tilted his head a little and looked into the eyes of the concierge, who appeared trapped in the customer’s gaze. The irate customer was pre-occupied, browsing through a brochure. Mantle smiled at the man, who returned as genial an expression as he could muster. The concierge looked at the columns of hooked pigeon-holes behind the counter. His hand came to the box numbered ninety-seven.

‘Ninety-seven seems to be free,’ he announced with a polite smile. The irate man saw this and approached the counter.

‘Thank you. I am so appreciative,’ said Mantle. He then turned to walk away.

‘What is the meaning of this? Why did you give him the key?’ The irate man stared at the concierge and began an indignant march towards Mantle who was about to board the elevator. He approached him from behind and gave him a firm tap on the shoulder. Mantle turned to meet him.

‘Yes?’

The irate man stepped back and looked to the ground as if ashamed or apologetic.

‘Ah . . . nothing. Um, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ He walked backwards for a few steps, turned around and left the foyer.

Mantle caught the elevator with the bellboy who took him all the way to his room. The young man gave a polite smile as he put down his cases and turned the key. They entered a spacious apartment with handsome furnishings. Its walls were covered in soft beige wallpaper with a subtle paisley design of embossed felt. The ceiling was an assortment of ornate 17th century Armancrasian plasterwork. The rest of the apartment was framed with dark brown architraves which looked like works of art in themselves. Beautiful mahogany furniture was positioned around the room with careful consideration of space, while an expensive looking brass bed extended from the wall furthest to their right. The bellboy took Mantle’s cases into the main suite, pointed out the amenities and then stood to the side awaiting a tip.

‘Is there anything else sir?’ the bellboy asked. Mantle began to rummage through his case.

‘No, there is nothing else.’ He raised his eyebrow, then gleaned that the young man was awaiting a tip. ‘Oh, I see.’

He handed the bellboy a shilling. The fellow looked down at the coin, clearly unimpressed. Mantle repeated himself: ‘I said there is nothing else.’

He threw an irritated look at the youngster. Then, in much the same manner as the man in the lobby, the bellboy looked down with remorse and left the room, closing the door behind him. Mantle continued to poke around through his belongings and pulled out a toiletry bag. He went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, removed his pocket-watch and then a wig from his head. He laid them both on the bathroom shelf and grabbed a tin pot from his toiletry bag. On the tin it read: ‘Encore - Make-up remover for theatre and opera performers.’ Dipping a wet face-towel into the pot, he proceeded to wipe his forehead. As the make-up came off, it revealed a vivid shade of blue. He applied again and revealed more stark blue skin, except it was see-through like a jellyfish. Before long, he could view his real face, through which sinew, skull and pumping veins could be clearly seen. He turned away from the mirror to get a towel. When he turned around, a maid was standing at the bathroom door holding a stack of linen. She inhaled to scream, but that was all she could do. Thomas Mantle stood up very straight as if to summon some dormant reserves of strength. The maid struggled for breath as if she was being asphyxiated, yet Mantle didn’t touch her.

‘We shan’t mention this to anyone . . . agreed?’ he said.

The maid’s eyes were brimming with fear and confusion, but she was able to muster enough focus to nod her head in approval. He lowered his hand and she breathed in an enormous lungful of air and then ran out of the room, her fear only just contained in a terrified moan.

CHAPTER 2

Solan sat in the back of the Hansom cab and peeked over the side of the Salidastian Bridge, down into the dense metropolis of Armancras. Although the bridge itself stood only one hundred feet high, from her viewpoint, it made the city look bottomless. She angled her neck upwards to admire the weave of wrought iron bridges which tethered the tall, elegant buildings together. Beyond the canopy of the city she could just make out a promise of purple sky as the carriage came to a halt.

Solan stepped down from the Hansom cab and adjusted her bustle and sleeves in a flustered display. She saw the Duke’s Arms public house over the road, its crest emblazoned on a metal banner hanging over the pub’s entrance. It bore a shield: a griffin and a unicorn, and this was set against a deep crimson background. She lifted the hem of her dress away from the ground and crossed the cobblestones, careful to let the carriages and horses pass. The stench of the environment was hard work and she dodged the flattened patches of horse shit and the long puddles of piss with barely disguised panic. Holding her breath to adjust to the acrid smell, she offered a smile to some men tending to their steeds and they smiled back with amusement. She then whispered thanks to a middle-aged gent who opened the door for her as she walked in.

Solan was at once overcome by the immediate attention she drew, but there were no disparaging looks or a feeling that she ought to be somewhere else. She felt very welcome. Smiles came from all corners of the room, but she still felt an encroaching sense of panic and sought the ladies lavatories. Mustering as much politeness as she could, she harried some patrons in a push to find the toilet.

‘Excuse me . . . please. Excuse me.’

‘What’s yer ‘urry love?’ uttered one voice. ‘Someone’s needin’ to strain the taters.’ The attention made things worse and her heart started speeding up. She rushed into the ladies toilets and found herself a cubicle where she dabbed the sweat off her brow and rattled off her ritual self-affirmations.

‘They’re just people. Get it through your head woman. They’re just people,’ she whispered. She tried to picture each person in the bar languishing in a lonely place. Then she tried to imagine each at their lowest point, where insecurity waited like a wolf at the door. She couldn’t paint the picture, but she was able to calm herself slowly, breath by breath. After several minutes she found the courage to go back out.

Raising her head she looked around and had to remind herself that there would be no maître d’ to take her to her seat. She tried to remain positive and revel in the atmosphere of the noisy, joyful barroom. The Trade-Union and Port-Worker’s Guild paraphernalia on the walls reminded her that this was not her usual habitat. Yet she was excited by the idea of a place where airs and graces gave way to music, stories and joy. If she could just get a drink, the spectre of panic might be caged for the night. Not knowing what Edward looked like, her actions felt useless, but she wore a brave smile and continued looking around.

She noticed an ale being poured into a tall glass and tried not to stare at it. In keeping with social mores, the expectation would be to order nothing other than a glass of champagne. That would have to wait, as it was considered improper for a lady to order her own drink, unaccompanied by a gentleman at that. But, she wouldn’t have to wait too long as she saw a tall dark gentleman fitting Robert’s description of Edward, standing at the end of the bar. He was signalling for her to come over. She meandered through the crowd and met him about halfway down the bar.

‘Edward Blackburn?’ She extended her hand.

‘Professor Darkwood. It’s an honour to meet you.’

He shook her gloved hand. With a polite smile she followed his lead to a gap at the bar. Solan observed Edward as they walked and saw that he presented a handsome figure, and with that, two separate voices sounded in her mind. One announced the rules of what a lady must think and feel around male beauty; the other—primal and hungry—was stifled at once. The secular laws allowed carnal thoughts as long as they remained fairly private, but Solan still had trouble letting go of the old ways of thinking. If she had to wait with him, she would need to be able to look him in the eyes. They stood waiting for the barman, awkward and lost for words. She also noticed that he too had a bit of trouble maintaining eye-contact and figured that he was either attracted to her or shy. For the sake of comfort, she chose to believe the latter.

‘What will you have?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’ll have a ...’ She looked at the shelves and perused the various aperitifs available for ladies.

‘Provided we can sneak to one of the booths over there, I’ll have a pint of ale please.’

She grinned at the relative impropriety of the request. Edward raised his eyebrows.

‘Bully for you!’

They both smiled and Edward ordered their drinks and carried them both through the crowd. They made their way to the divided wooden booths and sat down. They raised their glasses in a subtle, simultaneous salute.

‘So you’re the intrepid Edward Blackburn?’

Solan took a sip of beer and felt her apprehension melt.

‘Intrepid, what? That’s not fair.’

Solan paid no heed to his surprised expression.

‘Oh really don’t be so unassuming. Robert said that you found the amulet of Darius III.’

‘Robert has been making a big deal about nothing. Darius III was not that significant,’ Edward looked like he was considering divulging some big secret. ‘Besides, I just did the guesswork and found the location. I knew it would be where it was from reading books.’ He noticed Solan taking another generous sip.

‘I see the lady is quite thirsty,’ he said with a grin. His words caused her to blush.

‘You see correctly.’

Cheeky bastard, she thought. Solan opened her mouth to respond to his comment but stopped herself, then continued. ‘Darius III, not a big deal! He brought the Age of Savagery to a close. I think you’re underselling yourself.’ She slapped him on the wrist in mock reproach. Edward smiled and shook his head.

‘Well, I think it’s a big deal,’ she added. She raised her glass to him with a smile which he returned. They tapped their glasses together. She felt her face heating up and soon became too self-aware, covering her face with her hands.

‘You’re doing really well,’ said Edward.

Solan’s eyes widened. ‘Why would you say that?’ Edward recognised his error straight away.

‘No . . . I just . . . I . . . um.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Robert told you, about my panic attacks, didn’t he?’

Edward bit his lip.

‘He had no right.’ Solan got up to leave. Edward gestured for her to stay.

‘He just wanted to . . . give me a heads up, should . . .’

‘Should I become a nervous wreck?’

‘Yes.’

She took her seat again, casting a wary eye at Edward who appeared to reflect for a moment.

‘If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel . . . somewhat.’

He had her attention.

‘I struggle from time to time when speaking in front of my peers. I’d rather sweep chimneys with my toothbrush than talk to a room full of colleagues. It’s completely understandable . . . your issue. In fact, you know what I do to overcome it? I have a friend who works at the zoo. He lets me go into the monkey house after closing time and I practice my speeches there.’

Solan chuckled.

‘Because there’s something very human about them, isn’t there? And they’re not at all receptive. They scream and object. They throw fruit and sometimes faeces. They have no interest in archaeology.’

Solan laughed until ale came out of her nose.

‘And you know what? When I talk in front of the monkeys at work, it’s never as bad.’

Solan’s felt a sense of calm come over her. His words were like a panacea and she felt her face cool down. Her mind compared this to Robert’s stock standard responses: pull yourself together, go for a brisk walk, and don’t think so much. She raised her glass and sipped from it again.

‘Truth is, if I didn’t have this,’ she pointed to her glass, ‘we wouldn’t be talking.’

‘Fair enough.’

No judgment, no scorn, just acceptance, she thought. It was so tempting to allow the idea that he might be the one. He seemed so suitable. She stopped herself mid-thought and became aware that she had been looking at him for too long. Am