Child of Chaos

By Michelle Hamilton

Set in Europe in the early stages of World War II, spirited archaeology student Kate Bowen experiences within two weeks both the thrilling rush of love and the devastating grief of death. The love is Alex Wolfe, a military pilot fighting not only the Germans but also his past. The death is of those who are dear to Kate. But she soon learns the deaths are not an accident but an act of murder related to an incident from her childhood. With the help of smugglers, French Resistance fighters and, unexpectedly, Alex, Kate faces a war-torn country, submarine-infested waters and an unnamed killer to discover the truth.

It’s a story of self-realization, of adventure, strength and, above all, love. It is a story that takes you through Scotland’s moors, London’s back alleys and France’s landmines in a harrowing adventure of one woman’s search for truth.

But, can she face the truth once she discovers it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781312807655

Book preview

Child of Chaos

Child

of

Chaos

~ MICHELLE HAMILTON ~

Dragonfly Media Publishing

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Dragonfly Media Publishing and Tobi McIntyre.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Dragonfly Media Publishing,

www.dragonfly-publishing.com

Illustrations by Jenifer McIntyre First printing: November 2005

Printed in the United States of America ISBN: 978-1-312-80765-5

~ To my sister, Jen ~

Who has supported and encouraged me my whole life.

Thanks for believing in me.

~ Special thanks ~

To my husband, Peter, who gave me the confidence to follow my dream.

And to Jackie Wallace, who edited these words.

~ Prologue ~

CORNWALL, 1926

He knew his time for waiting was almost over. He felt the knowledge flow like electricity through his golden, jeweled form.

For over a millennium he lay buried in the cold Cornish soil. He thought back to that bitter day when the foolish Roman commander, who he had manipulated for a decade, buried him within the doomed fort’s walls. The weak and covetous human had been fearful of the Britons who had finally penetrated the invading guard’s tall wooden fortress and endeavored to protect his treasure. In retribution, the entombed being raged against the soldier and all his men by willing enough confusion among the highly trained Roman soldiers so that the savages slaughtered them.

It was of no matter to him. The Roman had brought him to a new land after he had grown tired of the old one. He had accomplished enough in the Continent, as he had in the desert land for millennia before he was brought to Europe from Egypt by Roman invaders.

When he was buried, the world was on the brink of the Dark Ages. He felt he had done quite well over his existence, creating war and destruction in the Egyptian Dynasties, and then overthrowing the orderly Roman regime, introducing anarchy.

He was, after all, Seth, the Egyptian god of chaos.

But here he was, banished to an island at the edge of the world.

Then the day came when his banishment ended. He felt the weight of the earth ease above him. He sensed Ra shining down upon him, warming his cold body, giving him life again. Almost immediately, the great burning chariot was blocked by a shadow and he felt human hands caress his length once more. A girl, a child, gripped him surely as she freed him from his grave.

Delirious, as life surged through him once again, Seth felt his power grow exponentially with his freedom. He looked down upon his rescuer. The girl, no more than ten human years in age, cradled him in her hands.

Seth decided to bless this child with his favour, overcome with rare goodwill towards this inferior species. As a gift, he would reward her for freeing him. True to his word, he began sowing the seeds of distrust and anger in those around her, finding fertile ground in a special few. Already he could feel the energy that came with confusion.

Unbeknownst to her, he smiled benevolently upon her. These seeds would blossom over time and she would reap the rewards. For what was a better crop than chaos itself?

He laughed gleefully as he was released once again upon the world.

~ Chapter 1 ~

SCOTLAND, 1939

They were going to shipwreck.

Kate felt the knowledge wash over her as violently as the North Sea waves crashing around her 18-foot racing sloop. Before her, the rocks of Scotland’s southeast shore stood like claws, ready to rip her vessel to shreds. A drenching spray arced over her boat, showering down on her. Each slap chilled her flesh and numbed her lips and fingers. She held the tiller more firmly in her grasp, her eyes scanning the little ship for possible improvements. Anything to give them the edge needed to beat the thundering waves. Seeing the jib loosen, Kate gave the sharp command to her crew.

Emily! Pull in the jib sheet! Make it tight! We’ll have to sail her close haul! She had to scream to her frightened sister to be heard above the storm. Kate knew their only chance of escape lay in running right at the storm, riding the waves as close to the wind as possible. If they gained the angle they needed, they would skim past the serrated stones and sail into the cross-shore current that would bring them to safety. They needed every inch of sail they could get.

Emily scrambled along the sleek bow of the little sloop and hooked the threatening jib sheet. Her footing on the slippery wood suddenly  gave  and  she  sprawled  spread-eagle  over  the  bow  like  an offering to the sea gods. She screamed at the same time a wave crashed around her trembling body.

No! Kate screamed, throwing her free hand towards her failing sister but knowing she could not let go of the tiller or else they would both be lost. Fear sliced through Kate with jerking breaths as she watched Emily scramble towards the jib line and finally secure her footing on the safety ropes encircling the bow. Kate let her pent up breath escape her lungs in a whoosh as she saw her younger sister grab hold of the jib line and heave on the rope with all of her seventeen-year- old might. Safe, Kate thought, making sure her sister scrambled back to her seat unhurt before she turned her attention back to the swelling water.

After taking her position, Emily braved a small smile back to her older sister. Kate had tightened the ropes at the bottom of the main sail, emptying the belly of the canvas of as much wind as possible, decreasing their chances of capsizing. Yet she did not lower the sail and let her snapping jib lead them to shore as an inexperienced sailor might do. Only someone who was experienced in these waters would know that to take the direct route to shore meant crashing hopelessly into the snarling rocks. Kate reined in the main sheet, the rope controlling the main sail of her single-mast vessel, forcing the cleat to hold the pressure of the wind. Its power surged down the pale canvas, making their sloop heel almost to capsizing.

Emily held onto the main mast’s stays for dear life. The wind whipped around her trembling form, tearing at her hair and summer clothes. The water’s cold spray soaked her face and stung her eyes. She felt the boat tilt under her. She heard the sails scream and the ropes groan. Fearfully, she peeped over the gunnels of the hull into the frothing water at the slowly exposing center keel. But they did not capsize.

With a tiny, steadying breath, Emily looked again at her older sister. What she saw both frightened and awed her. At that moment Kate looked both savage and stunning. Her wild beauty shone through even the drenching spray and numbing cold. Her face lifted to the storm’s rage as if she were a child of Neptune, daring her mythical father to do them harm. Likewise, her eyes appeared to hold the mysteries guarded by the oceans in their stormy blue depths. But Emily knew that if she looked close enough, Kate’s eyes held shots of gold like the spears of sunlight that forced their way into the dense Marlborough forest in the valley near their home. Kate’s shoulder-length, honey-brown hair, usually curled around her face and neck like a soft, yet wayward cloud, was now streaming behind her in wet ropes. Her body strained over the side of the boat, her feet hooked into the hiking straps on the floor.

To Emily, her sister embodied all that was wild and beautiful, stubborn and forgiving, loving and faithful. She trusted her implicitly, regardless of the apparent disaster that lay ahead. Looking once again into the depths of her sister’s blue-grey eyes, Emily saw they almost glowed with her determination to survive. Not just to survive, but to win. Kate captained the boat and mastered the storm with the sheer ferocity of her spirit. With this firm but unspoken conviction in her sister’s abilities, Emily, too, attempted to brave the storm.

The dark rocks came toward them at a dizzying speed. Suddenly, the wind shifted, almost imperceptibly but enough to push them slightly off course.

Oh, no! Kate whispered in horror through blue-tinged lips. They were not going to make it. The chance had been there when she had made her decision to boldly dash past the sharp rocks, but now she knew that chance had gone from slim to none. A wave of fear and nausea surged over her. She looked to her shivering younger sister. Just as quickly as the shifting wind, a surge of protective instinct claimed Kate as it always did when she thought of Emily, her seemingly fragile and lost sister. Her need to protect Emily is what had kept Kate relatively in line her whole life. Saving her from this storm was no different than every other time of impending disaster, which, she chastised herself silently, was really far too often.

With a resolution and a confidence she wasn’t sure she possessed, Kate turned back to the upcoming rocks. She would not allow this storm to take her and her sister.

With her last reserve of strength, she hauled at the main sail, pulling in the strength of the wind and forcing their vessel to nearly capsize in the torrential storm. She inched her tiller away from her body so the nose of the boat faced almost directly into the wind. Kate felt the boat groan under her and threaten to turn. She could feel its resistance to what she was asking it to do. Yet, she kept the pressure on, with the intuition of a seasoned sailor knowing what her little sloop could do. The possibility of her little trick forcing them to slip into irons as they neared the rocks, effectively stalling, and then being at the mercy of the crashing waves registered in the back of her mind, but she forced away her fear.

The sisters watched in terrified silence as the water frothed and foamed around the stones’ tips, just inches from their hull. Their boat, heeling dangerously in the wind so only the tip of the keel touched the water, made almost no sound as it skimmed past the first rock. Two seconds passed. Four seconds. The sisters felt their tenuous control over their little boat slipping. Seven seconds. Kate’s heart slammed into her throat. Eight seconds. Their trusted vessel was caught by the cross-shore current and swept to safety.

Kate hollered an unladylike whoop of victory while her younger sister almost fainted with the release of tension. Yet again, they had escaped.

They continued to sail through the weakening storm along the shore to the natural harbour near their home. They travelled the rest of the way in silence. As quickly and as silently as the storm had come upon them, it passed as if a wayward Grecian god had stolen some of Zeus’ lightning and was dashing across the sky in an attempt to escape the angered deity. The sun poked its head out of the trailing clouds, lending fleeting glances of what lay ahead.

Finally relaxed enough to let her knotted muscles ease and her racing heartbeat slow, Emily glared at her older sister.

Kathleen Mary Bowan, if you ever do that to me again, I swear this time I’ll tell Mum you skipped out on all those fancy dances to dig in the dirt with Thomas! Emily scolded in her cultured, yet Scottish brogue, not fully disguising the wee twinkle in her blue eyes.

Kate smiled fondly at the vision her sister evoked of their indignant mother, reminding her of their presently shabby appearances and the events that brought them to this disheveled state. She gave a quick thanks to God that she and her sister were safe and tried to shake the feeling of doom that surrounded her.

"I’m sorry, mo chridhe, I had no idea the storm would reach us so quickly." The light brogue was also apparent in Kate’s voice, especially after their tense sail.

Kate was now able to allow some pressure out of the sloop’s canvas as they rode the waves into the embracing harbour. The waters calmed as they passed the harbour’s mouth and Kate tacked the boat starboard to lead them to their little dock.

Emily turned her head, allowing the wind to dry her dripping locks of golden hair. Kate studied her sister’s turned head and was again thankful all had turned out well. She watched as the cool sea breeze dried her sister’s hair until it became a pale golden blond. Kate always thought Emily far fairer than she. Kate was wild and stubborn, with a fiery temper and a passion for all things earthy, whereas Emily was demure and calm, preferring to follow where Kate would lead.

And lead Kate did. As children, she took them on expeditions to discover mythical beasties in Loch Ivereen, to seek water naiads by the natural spring that pooled in the valley down the road, and to explore the moss-covered stones—what was left of those who had once lived. Kate could not be tamed. Their mother despaired of ever getting Kate into a proper dress and white gloves but Kate could not be bothered with matching the proper kid gloves with the proper pumps, or which frilly dress best suited the church luncheon. All that mattered to Kate was that the shoes were sturdy, and the clothing appropriate for digging for lost civilizations.

Yet, their differences in appearance and temperament could not break the ties of loyalty and devotion between the sisters. Through the years, their tight-knit bond included Thomas, neighbour to both and best friend to Kate. Growing up, Kate could usually be found with Thomas, Emily tagging behind, heading out to a stone-strewn field or an ancient kern to see what they could find. Much to Mary McNish Bowan’s disapproval, this usually meant Kate was sporting her father’s dirt- stained lawn shirt and Thomas’ old brown trousers with suspenders attached to strap her in like a poorly wrapped present.

Kate looked down at her usual raiment, her full lips lifting in a half smile. Their mother would be furious looking at them now. Kate’s white blouse was hanging limply on her small shoulders. The top two buttons had been torn off during the storm and her left cuff was ripped from the rough rope of the main sail. She was also missing two buttons from her suspenders, allowing the right shoulder strap to loosen. Her trousers were soaked with seawater and hung from her hips like a used, brown bag, and her sun-kissed hair, always her bane, hung in clumps around her face and shoulders. When she looked up again, Kate found her sister was making the same judgments of her own appearance. Although Emily was attired more like the lady their mother wished her to be, wearing a white frilly blouse and an old gingham skirt, she nonetheless looked like she’d been strained through their mother’s old clothes press. They looked at each other’s haggard appearances and began chuckling, the tension of the last hour seeming to drain from them as they laughed until their eyes teared.

After Kate had gathered enough composure to finally dock their boat, she jumped onto the weathered planks of the dock, tied up their moorings and helped her still-giggling sister onto land. They stood on the old dock, one gripping her sides and the other holding onto her trembling knees. After a while, when the effects of the shock-induced giggles began to wear off, Kate lifted her battered hands to wipe the tears from her eyes and looked towards the paling sun, heading for the rocky horizon.

~  Chapter 2  ~

I suppose we should take the shorter route home, Kate murmured, suggesting that they start the mile trek across the moor. They climbed the steep, rocky slope to the stone fence at the top of the crest. The craggy hills surrounding the shoreline of their harbour were common on the Scottish coastline in the borderlands, rocky and seemingly barren.

Yet, there was so much hidden in those rugged hills. Pockets of blaeberry clung to ancient volcanic rock, hanging perilously above the tossing seas like determined pioneers in an untamed region. Terns hovered over the cliffs in the up swell of the wind, watching the waters below. Knobby pines, having burrowed their tough roots into the rock faces, were now buffeted by the tireless North Sea wind.

But above all, Kate saw the lives of those who had lived here before, lives that time had attempted to erase. Their remnants were hidden in the hills as faint depressions and rock clusters, as if memories had learned to become form over time. She fancied that she was walking the path of an ancestor, imagining her life and her dreams.

This sense of timeless continuity was passed to Kate from her mother, the ability to look at the land and see what could no longer be seen.  Kate’s  mum  had  taught  her  the  tales  and  legends  that  gave Scotland its depth and were woven into the fabric of their culture, like the colours of their tartans.

But Kate did not muse on these philosophies that day. She spent the remaining day lit minutes wrapped in the purity of the moment that follows after a storm: the musky smell of the moors, the slow dilution of the light as twilight descends. She absorbed the tangy taste of salt on her tongue as the brisk ocean wind wrapped around her, caressing her neck and shoulders like a lover, and the calming presence of utter belonging as she walked beside Emily.

The sisters climbed the old stone fence that had seen centuries and descended toward their cottage nestled in the dip formed by the Lammermuir Hills. A lazy stream of smoke rose from the chimney of their little stone house and welcomed them as the day drew quietly to a close. The cottage was protected from the wrath of severe elements, tucked away as it was in the palm of the land.

Emily also felt the stillness of the moment. Looking across the moors towards their little stone cottage, she absorbed the fading colours of the day, feeling the peace of finally having her sister with her again. The world always seemed a little less threatening with Kate there, Emily reflected. She felt the ethereal peace that settles on a person when they silently brush past the cloak of death, as the sisters unknowingly had that afternoon. The joy of the moment tumbled over her inner walls, which had been building since Kate and Thomas had left for school, and washed away some of the darkness hidden in the corners.

Emily looked again at their sodden clothing. A steady smile spread over her cold lips, warming them, and spread out to her fingertips. She breathed deeply for the sheer pleasure of feeling the air enter in and out of her lungs. Out of the inner well of her soul, Emily giggled. A true girlish giggle, reserved for her father’s silly stories or watching the McTavish’s jolly white kitten try to catch a tattered string of yarn.

Kate glanced over at her smiling sister. She had heard Emily’s laughter, and the resulting joy, seep through her like warm honey. The laughter was infectious and Kate couldn’t help but join her usually reserved sister.

Do you suppose we will be in very much trouble, Pixie? asked Kate, still laughing, using her sister’s childhood nickname. Kate enjoyed finally hearing playful giggles coming from her younger sister, who was becoming increasingly serious for her seventeen years. Kate remembered being seventeen. She and Thomas had been children yet, playful and enchanted with the world. It was true there had always been the shadow of Cornwall hanging above them like a hawk, ready to strike, but Kate had been able to escape into the moors and hills with her best friend.

She had not noticed before how Emily’s life had become more restricted since she and Thomas had left for school. There were still some in town who taunted the Bowan girls. Daughter of a thief, they would say. But most had known their mother and their mother’s family for generations and had treated the Bowans with respect. And anyone who knew the family firsthand could find no fault in them. It was the rumors they fought—an invisible, insidious enemy. Kate sometimes thought it was like fighting a sickness, except this was not a sickness of the body, but of the soul.

When they were younger, Kate had been able to fend off the reporters who would come into town looking to expose The Thief of Chaos. They would harass James Bowan’s daughters in an attempt to get to the man himself. Like all rumors, in time another that was more fashionable, more risqué, had replaced this one. But, because the artifact had never been found, there were those who would not forget.

A thread of guilt, constantly wound within Kate, quickly tightened around her heart. Sometimes she felt as if she had abandoned Emily to the words that some people used like swords. Next year, she reminded herself, Emily would be old enough to go away to school, and she and Kate would find a flat they could share in the anonymity of London.

Emily responded to her sister’s teasing question.

No, Katie. She stated in mock-seriousness as they wound down the trail to their home. They will not be very angry. They will be concerned we were in danger. Then Papa will remember some myth or legend our peril will have reminded him of and Mum will look at our tattered clothing and ‘tsk’ in her ‘tsking’ voice. Then they will forget what it was that happened in the first place.

Although both sisters chuckled at this fairly accurate prediction, Kate stopped and gently reached out her rope-chaffed hand, stopping her sister’s movement.

They do love us, you know, Em. Kate spoke the words quietly, searching Emily’s face for her reaction. Kate was unsure how much Emily had to deal with since she left for school five years ago.

Kate was in her last year of completing her masters in archaeology at the University College of London. She returned to Scotland for a week here and there, for winter and summer vacations. The rest of her time was spent in classes learning archaeological theories, or in the field pursuing the theories in practice. This summer, her vacation held little difference from summers past except that when she returned home she saw that the shadow of the cloud that had been following her family had grown since that fateful day in Cornwall, over ten years ago.

But she didn’t want to remember that day.

Between their father’s obsession with vindication, and their mother’s concern with their father, the sisters had somehow been forgotten. The Bowans’ daughters were the most important gift life had ever given them. They loved their daughters with as much visible affection as staunch Scottish society would permit them. Emily did not doubt her parents’ love for them. She doubted only their memories of what life was like before Cornwall.

Oh, Katie, I know this. Emily gently laughed at her older sister’s concern, knowing with wisdom uncommon in someone so young that, yet again, Kate was blaming herself. Kate could not always see past her self-given responsibility toward her sister and understand that the sisters really took care of each other. She saw that now.

You silly goose, of course you do! Kate looped her sister’s arm in hers and walked a little further in the twilight. She let her mind wander to when they were younger and carefree.

Em, do you remember the day in Paola when we had decided to race to the Roman baths? Kate couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of the two girls they had once been darting along the winding, Italian cobbled streets.

I still say I won that race. Emily declared, a glimmer sparkling in her eye.

You’ve never beaten me, my lass, Kate retorted, a quick challenge and pure sibling taunt tossed to her sister.

Emily responded to Kate’s challenge as she would in the old days; she started the countdown.

Ready, set, go!

Before the countdown was finished, Emily sprinted ahead so that Kate heard the word ‘go’ vanish faintly ahead of her. It didn’t take her long to catch up. The sisters bound down the rest of the hill, racing towards the ancient oak door of the stone cottage. Emily gathered her soggy skirts in her hands and ran with her knees poking out from underneath the ruffles, like a bony chicken escaping a fox. Kate had difficulty keeping up with her suddenly carefree sister because the image that Emily created was enough to put Kate into hysterics. Darkness had almost descended on the pair when Emily dashed around the herb garden, hugging the back fence and circling the rose bush until she was merely inches from the door. Kate was at her heels during the entire run. When she saw her sister skirt around the fence, Kate leapt over the stone wall, accidentally crushing her mother’s rosemary in the process, sprinted past the thorny plant and collapsed against the front door of the cottage with a bang. Just at that second, Emily stretched her arm forward and touched the weathered wood.

I won! They both burst out in unison, exhilaration streaming through their veins. Emily collapsed over her sister, panting on the cold flagstones at the threshold. Both sisters were laughing through their hurried breaths. They were so exhausted from the day’s events and so out of breath that they didn’t hear the scurrying behind the door, or see their mother wrench open the wooden barrier and stare down at her giggling daughters.

At least she thought they were her daughters. All that she could make out were knobby elbows, flashes of white teeth behind both pale and golden hair, torn and soggy clothing and dirty, brown boots. The boots were definitively Kathleen’s, Mary Bowan deduced, frowning down at her errant children.

Where on earth have ye been, me lassies? Mary boomed in her highly accented Scottish voice. She, a McNish, was a native to that region, coming from the Elliots who claimed land throughout the southeast shore of St. Abbs. Although her voice promised punishment, her eyes twinkled with a hidden merriment at their childish antics. She, too, remembered when she and her sisters bounded about the countryside like heathens. The glow in her hazel eyes transferred to her lips and finally into her long shadowed soul. Mary burst out laughing with her daughters and held onto the doorframe for support.

They giggled until twilight claimed them. Finally, James Bowan wandered out to see what all the kafuffle was about. Kate wiped the tears from her eyes as she looked up at her father and smiled at his bemused expression. She loved her father dearly, had always felt closest to  him,  so  she  took  pity  on  him  when  he  looked  on  his  wife  and daughters with an owlish expression of confusion. Still smiling, Kate leapt up and helped her sister off of the threshold. Getting a grip on herself, Mary ushered them all into the house and set about to make tea.

How is school going, Papa? Kate asked her father, wandering over to his stooping frame, gently kissing his whiskery cheek.

James briefly patted Kate’s wet back, slightly embarrassed by his daughter’s affection, but mostly by her question.

Yes, well. Kate’s father looked down at his daughter and gave her a saddened smile, endearing him to her even more. I, um, have been asked not to teach for the hedgerow school anymore.

The joy Kate had felt not moments before evaporated. She was astounded and suddenly furious. The fire from a simmering rage welled up within her. Without an enemy to direct her anger toward, Kate threw her arms up at the ceiling and clenched her hands into tightened fists.

How can they do this to you, Papa? Why can’t they leave you alone after all these years?

Her father looked away from her furious eyes, almost frightening in their stormy passion, and glanced at his dear Mary, wringing her hands with worry for him.

Well, now, a few weeks ago… He stammered out the confession.

And why didn’t you tell me? I have been here nearly a week! I could have done something! I could have convinced them to hear reason! Papa, why didn’t you do something? Kate was pacing the floor like a caged animal, ready to shred a hole into the world for its unfairness.

Mary moved closer to her husband and placed a hand on his broad shoulders. He has had to carry so many false accusations these years, she mused sadly but silently, never wanting to hurt him. In the past, his once sturdy body had been filled with the assurances of life and had amazed and strengthened her. But the past few years had taken not only his reputation and two jobs—first as a chair of the archaeology department at the University of Edinburgh, then as a teacher for the local school—but also his pride and self-respect.

But Mary still saw the man she once fell in love with all of those years ago. She saw him as a young and confident Welshman, digging at an early Roman site near the glen. She remembered the way the sun had caught his golden hair, so much like his daughters’, and glinted off of his white teeth as he smiled. He had always been smiling, at some great joke, or with the joy of life.

Now all that drove him was his obsession to discover what had happened thirteen years ago, when he had been accused of stealing the precious Egyptian artifact he and his colleagues had discovered. Mary had always known there was more to what had happened, but he never told her. Even when they had been forced to sell the ancient home, passed down to her by her father, and live in an old tenant’s cottage. But she had believed in him then, as she did now, with a trust that was founded on thirty-three years of marriage. Mary placed her work-worn hand over his stooping shoulders and turned to her daughter.

Kathleen Bowan, you’ll no’ be speakin’ to yer father in such a manner. Her brogue thickened with her disapproval.

That cut Kate’s pacing short. She had never been angry with her father, only with those who had done such a thing to him. She told her parents as much.

"Och, I’m not angry with Papa. I’m furious with why this has happened! Why canna they leave him alone! Those who know him know he has done nothing wrong." Kate’s pacing suddenly ceased and she swiveled to face her parents.

Who decided, Papa? Who told you that you could not work with the children anymore? Her voice had calmed, hiding the raging torrent within her small, shaking shoulders.

Now, Katie, it does not matter. I scarce believe it was what Mr. McFarlane wanted to do. He told me as much. It is only because of the pressure he is receiving from London. And you know they give us a large sum of money every year for new books... His voice trailed off in momentary defeat.

But it was you who secured the money for the school in the first place! And now to give into those who were once your friends is unforgivable! The rage within Kate was too much. She had to leave before she let it go and hurt her parents and her sister with her words. She knew it was not their fault. How could she even imagine it was? She was suffocating under the unfairness of the ways of the world that only those who are too young to understand can feel. The world never promises to be fair.

Kate stormed passed her parents and once again sought the darkness beyond the front door.

Kathleen! Her mother cried after her. Kate could not respond, could not speak past the thump in her throat. She didn’t hear her father respond to his wife’s plea for her daughter to return.

Now, Mary. It is all right. Let her go. She is right, as we all know, but has the passion of youth that spurs her to speak it. Let her find some solace in her beloved moors, for I daresay she will feel caged in here. Mary looked into her husband’s suddenly old face and almost cried for the pain she saw in its depths.

My husband, what have they done to you? She whispered and drew his aging form to her and held him tightly, as if protecting him from those who would do him harm.

Emily quietly slipped into the shadows in the corner of the cottage and sat in the old rocking chair. She felt the joy that was within her that day wither and die like a neglected flower. Only the delicate perfume remained, a bittersweet memory of the glow that had briefly been lit within her. She turned her eyes to the blackened hearth and watched the flames of the heath fire die.

~ Chapter 3 ~

Kate ran until there was no wind left in her lungs and her tired legs refused to carry her further. She hardly knew where she was going until she ended up standing under the oak tree at the edge of what was now their property, but was once in the middle of their lands overlooking both the sea and the old castle. She had always felt a presence there, a deep, quiet calm that was found only in sacred places. The peace of the place and the darkness enshrouded her like the cloaks of the ancient druids who still ruled this land in the ghostly shadows of night.

Kate collapsed against the knobby trunk of the old tree, her forehead and hands leaning against its trunk, hoping to absorb its strength in her trembling fingers.

The rage that swelled in her was almost alive. Her father had always told her she got her stubbornness from her Grandfather McNish and her temper from her Grandfather Bowan. He would tell her tales of the Welshmen hidden in his family tree whose tempers had won battles, and had kept their lands from the English.

He had also told her how that temper could harm, and then told her the story of how he met, and fell in love with, her mother. Even though Mary’s family was nobility, and possessed land, cattle and a castle passed down for generations, his aristocratic family had snubbed her Scottish descent and warned James that he would lose his inheritance if he chose Mary McNish.

But he had chosen love and, he would say as he looked to his wife, he regretted not a day of his life since. And her mother would smile at her husband and tell him with her eyes how much she loved him. But that had been before Cornwall. Quiet tears streamed down Kate’s cheeks as she mourned all that had happened since.

But where’s your rage, Papa? Kate whispered to the darkness. She could not understand why her father would not stand up to those who pushed him down.

But only the soughing wind through the ancient oak answered her.

Slowly, Kate turned and slid down the trunk of the tree, letting it support her back. She rested her head against it and closed her eyes. It had been a long day. It had been a long thirteen years.

The event that had discredited her father had also disrupted her family. She had been there thirteen years earlier at the Roman fort in Cornwall when they discovered the golden statue of Seth, the Egyptian god of chaos. The rubies and sapphires embedded in the twelve-inch idol had gleamed in the sunlight as if they had graced a pedestal in a commanding officer’s quarters, rather than having been hidden beneath the soil for so many centuries.

She held the statue in her hands, the gold warm, as if it had its own inner power. She wanted to feel the ground where the Egyptian artifact had been found to see if it too was warm to the touch.

Her father’s colleagues rushed over and stood around them, their joy at such a discovery sending ripples of excitement