The Black Moonstone: A Novel

By K L Rinne

A murdered 18th Century prince, a powerful stone, a mysterious cloaked figure and a young violinist attending a music festival in beautiful Bavaria, are all connected
Gisle Adler returns to Schwanberg, the place of her birth, seeking only to discover something of the mother who died giving birth to her, and to play her violin. But sinister forces are gathering around her, and certain people are not who they seem to be
An overheard conversation, alerting her to the danger she is in, and an impossible encounter in the fairytale castle of Schwanberg, confirm that she must uncover her heritage to understand exactly what threatens her.
Gisle attempts to get to the truth with the help of the good friends she has made, but when she is abducted back in time to the 18th Century, all seems to be lost. It is there that she comes face to face with an incomprehensible evil
Will she be able to escape her shocking heritage, return from the past and can a doomed love ever survive?
This meticulously researched fantasy novel segues between the 21st and the 18th Centuries. Surprising twists and turns keep the reader enthralled. A hybrid of fantasy, historical and thriller genres, the Black Moonstone is an engaging and deliciously escapist read that lingers long after the final page has revealed a shocking conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524633417

K L Rinne

K L Rinne hails from Johannesburg, South Africa, where she lives with her husband and two children. She is half German by birth, and enjoys strong ties with Germany and Bavaria in particular. A medical doctor by profession, this is her first novel.

Book preview

THE BLACK

MOONSTONE

A NOVEL

by

K L Rinne

66686.png

AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2016 K L Rinne. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/15/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3342-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3343-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-3341-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Part 1

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Part 2

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Part Three

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty- One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty- Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Proofreading by Terry Bouwer

Additional editing by Sarah Hudleston

Cover Design by Gerald Bedeker

For Riley

PROLOGUE I

It seemed folly to commit such a treasonous murder under this cloudless sky and full moon, thought the Watcher. Concealed amongst dark forest foliage, and robed in a hooded cloak that took on the shade of deepest midnight, the presence remained unobserved by the most brazen offender. It was a frigid night, and the air temperature approached that of the body of water that lay encircled by tall, heavily-needled pines. The gentle beauty of the lake during the day was belied by the sinister and brutal scene that was being enacted.

Throughout the perpetration of the heinous crime, the Watcher stood statue-like, save for the subtle motion of his lips. He was not praying although one may have been forgiven for thinking that, as arms were outstretched toward the scene of infamy in an almost pleading gesture. Behind the hood, had it been possible to make out a face, one may have seen only blue-veined whites of eyes, as they rolled back, trance-like. The whispered voice, audible to the figure alone, was chanting an incantation in an ancient, long-forgotten tongue.

The strange utterances done, the Watcher remained unnaturally still, as if unable to move rather than unwilling to. Eventually, the figure did move. The murderer had slipped away, his nefarious deed complete. The Watcher slowly neared the water’s edge where he paused. He stared unblinking at the almost ripple-free lake, taking in the motionless body that floated face-down, shrouded in a fine, web-like mist.

Finally, the silence of the moonlit night was broken by the almost guttural hiss of the robed one’s voice.

"Fear not, oh Prince. You shall one day awaken to realise vengeance. Sleep well…the reckoning comes."

With that, the Watcher turned away from the inky depths and disappeared into the forest, silent as a spirit borne away on the barest breath of wind.

PROLOGUE II

MEMPHIS - ANCIENT EGYPT

Circa 2570 BC

As a slave in the royal household and personally serving the pharaoh, Assim was a man of some influence both within the palace and outside of it. He had access to the most private recesses of the pharaoh himself and indeed, had seen him stripped of his impressive royal headdress, wig, clothing and jewels, as well as the black kohl which ringed his eyes. He had seen him stripped of his god persona. He had seen the man. He had never breathed a word of things he had witnessed in the privacy of the monarch’s chambers, for he wished to keep his tongue and his eyes in his head. In addition, he was proud of his work ethic, serving the most powerful man in the ancient world.

It was all about to change. He had seen the box before, but had never seen it open. He had not felt curious about the contents. Curiosity like that did not feature in a good slave’s makeup.

There was a full moon and the lavish personal chambers of the pharaoh were quiet. Every time the moon became whole, the same procedure followed. No servants, slaves, wives, or concubines were allowed into his chambers. Not even his beautiful queen, his many children or the high priests. In fact, not even Assim, but here he found himself on one particular night of a full moon. There were heavily armed guards stationed at the ornate entrance, ready to dispatch anyone who attempted to cross the threshold into the afterlife.

How then did Assim come to be there? He was doing the queen’s bidding because she had commanded him and he could not refuse her. Firstly, her beauty enslaved all men. Secondly, she had threatened to accuse him of touching her, an inexcusable blasphemy punishable by death and followed by desecration and damnation of what remained. The queen wished to know what her husband got up to, all alone, on a full moon night. A secret passage, of which Assim had no prior knowledge, connected the royal chambers. She had sent him down the narrow, dusty corridor to spy on the king. Her instructions were clear: observe unseen, return and inform. Assim sensed that he was doomed in any event. Even though he had always been completely discreet, the queen might well feel that he needed to be permanently silenced after he reported back to her.

The private chambers of the pharaoh were well lit by the bright light from the moon. Assim could hear a low humming sound and slowly crept towards it, hugging the shadows. His heart pounded in his chest and tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He stopped a moment to collect himself and the humming ceased. He heard the pharaoh’s voice, but could not understand his words. Assim knew and understood most of the languages of the day, including the vernacular of the surrounding regions. But what he listened to then was not familiar in any way. It was as if another being possessed the king and was using his voice. Assim shrank further into the shadows, fearing that a terrible and cursed magic was at work.

He detected a faint glow emanating from deeper within the chamber which had nothing to do with the light of the moon, or the firelight for that matter. It was a cold light that seemed to permeate his flesh and bones, chilling him and filling him with an unnamed dread. Eventually, he managed to calm his nerves enough to inch closer to where the pharaoh performed a ritual.

He was kneeling before a stone altar. On it stood an open box. It was the ebony box with ivory inlays which Assim had seen before but had never dared to touch. It formed part of the pharaoh’s most sacred possessions and nobody was allowed to lay a hand on these, not even the queen. The glow came from within the open box which appeared to contain what looked like a large stone. The source of the bluish light was the stone itself, but strangely enough it did not cast off any light at all and was so deeply black that it seemed to suck in the light that surrounded it.

The pharaoh’s talking now changed to chanting and became increasingly frenzied. He was swaying back and forth and did not appear to be in control of his body. He reached out his hands, placing them on the stone. Suddenly there was a blinding flash and the light arced into the body of the king, sending him sprawling across the floor where he lay motionless. Assim resisted the urge to run to his master, convinced as he was that whatever terrible magic he had just witnessed had finished the monarch. He stood very quietly, hardly daring to breathe. The strange blue light had vanished and only moonlight illuminated the chamber once again.

Assim crept forward almost against his will to where the pharaoh lay, and gazed on him with fearful uncertainty. It was forbidden for a slave to look down on the pharaoh and Assim fought his natural urge to prostrate himself before his master. The king lay unconscious but alive, his chest moving with a breath which sighed staccato-like through his barely-parted lips. Satisfied that his master was not dead or mortally wounded, he turned his attention to the altar and the box which contained the powerful black stone. He drew his breath in sharply as the stone was now milky white. It did not look like a vessel of dark magic. Appearances can often be deceptive, he thought to himself, and started to move away from it when something stopped him. Against his better judgement, he reached his hand out toward it. It felt, almost unbelievably, as if the stone was willing him to touch it. The feeling was so overpoweringly compelling and insistent that he could do nothing but obey, and his fingers closed over the cold smooth surface.

Assim had been born into slavery. It was all he knew, and while he had an innate respect for his master, his soul was his own. He had his own gods and his own beliefs, however, his enslavement to the stone was irrevocable. His body, mind and soul were instantaneously possessed the moment his fingers touched it.

He knew that betrayal was now inevitable. Assim would steal from the king who believed himself divine. He would take the stone and he would run. Run from the pharaoh, the palace and Egypt. He was not sure why, but he would obey without question. Assim realised that the pharaoh would exact a terrible revenge on his people and would hound him to the ends of the earth to recover the mighty talisman. He also knew that the pharaoh’s days as most powerful ruler were numbered.

It was without regret or emotion that Assim left the magnificent palace of the pharaoh of Egypt, a smooth, white, fist-sized stone tucked into a leather pouch and hidden within the folds of a stolen cloak. The only witness was a perfectly round, flawless moon shining its pure white light over the desert sands…

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Legend has it, that a certain once powerful pharaoh of Egypt fuelled his own downfall by squandering his energy and sanity in hunting down an errant slave who had stolen a jewel of great value from him, across Egypt and beyond. The story goes that after some years, this slave was finally cornered in a series of tunnels in large unchartered caves in the hills of Syria. Before the soldiers could reach him, however, they saw him leap into a crevasse, a seemingly bottomless pit, never to be seen again. The jewel too was lost. To Osiris, the lord of the underworld, it was speculated. There were rumours of the jewel having extraordinary powers, and this appeared to be confirmed when Osiris claimed the pharaoh to his domain not long thereafter.

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

Circa 2009 AD

Ferdinand Schattendorf felt an involuntary shiver run through his body as he entered his eight hundred year old ancestral home, Schwarzfelsen. Gothic in design, it was a large, dark structure with ominous, looming spires that rose up from the ground, as if born in the depths of hell. Situated in a remote, elevated position and surrounded by the majestic Alps, it was encircled by wild-growing natural flora and rock. The unstructured garden, which was thickly overgrown by design and not neglect, seemed to wholly complement the scene, but nature’s beauty was partially offset by a lingering, indefinable darkness, pervading the very stones that formed the vast building, and it warned of something sinister. That impression kept him clear of the place most of the time. There were however, certain situations, the present one included, that he could simply not avoid.

Like it or not, this was the family he had been born into, even though it would better described as a dynasty, subject to centuries-old and epic degrees of dysfunction. He wondered if he would ever escape his heritage.

He waited in the sitting room, its vaulted ceiling dwarfing him. Even so, it felt claustrophobic as heavy velvet drapes, coloured a rusty hue that reminded him of dried blood, kept most of the natural light out and accentuated the morose mood of the place. The dark wood panelling and heavy furniture added to the gloom. He dared not sit down. He waited about twenty minutes before the tall, thin and hollow-cheeked butler announced the matriarch. The conversation followed in German.

"You have come," said the bent figure as she shuffled into the room. She appeared ancient, with an almost mosaic-like pattern of permanent lines furrowing her brow and cheeks. Her eyes, which were small and sat deep in their sockets, resembled gleaming balls of obsidian with fire burning in their hard depths. Not a hint of docility was evident in her entire being, despite her physical frailty. She walked with a cane. It was made from ebony, with an intricately carved snarling wolf’s head as a handle. It featured blood red rubies for eyes and the base was covered in gold. The gnarled fingers which clutched this monstrosity wore many hand crafted jewelled rings that were garish despite obviously being very expensive.

"Yes grandmother, I have come," he said.

"You remain a disappointment."

"Grandmother, I’m sorry but…" he began.

"Don’t apologise! she spat, bloodless lips pulling back, revealing yellowing teeth and grotesquely mimicking the carved cane handle. You have not produced the Heir!" A look of guilt, but not regret, flittered briefly across his features and she failed to recognise it, owing to her preoccupation with her tirade.

"I have produced three," he protested, revisiting familiar ground.

"No, she emphasised. You have not. That simpering moron you married…"

He interrupted, "You approved of her at the time."

She ignored him. "Married for love! What a ridiculous, short-sighted, infantile notion! she raged. I should never have allowed it."

He refrained from reminding her that it was in fact her encouragement that had led him to that marriage and love had very little to do with it. It had not lasted, especially after his sons had been found wanting by his grandmother.

"Grandmother, you summoned me," he stated flatly.

"Yes. We need to discuss something, you and I. It is time that you knew certain things. We need to discuss and plan, because there is a danger. And an opportunity".

"Sit! she ordered him. There is a very good chance I may have been misinformed," she began with a humourless cackle and a look that seemed to cut right through to the very essence of his soul.

Two hours later he emerged from the mansion, a feeling of dread in his stomach and incredulous disbelief in his heart. This could not possibly be true! What kind of monsters did his family breed? Is this why his father had…? He could not bear to think about it. He had not realised the scope of the evil entwined in his heritage. He felt immeasurably grateful that neither of his sons had turned out to be the Heir, as that meant that they were safe and removed from all of this. They would remain so as long as he toed the line and did his grandmother’s bidding. His naively youthful hope to orchestrate the end of the line of Heirs and thus also the curse on the Schattendorf name appeared not to have worked, and she suspected as much, he was sure. What would follow would forever be on his conscience and would make him a monster too, he supposed. Saving his sons was however paramount. It appeared that the line, and indeed the curse, would not end with him.

"Forgive me," he whispered to the clouds that drifted unconcernedly across the craggy peaked horizon. "I pray I shall one day be forgiven my sins."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A few months later…

I must be a complete idiot, the man thought angrily, filled with self-disgust. Why had he trusted him? Why had he taken the call, and why had he ever agreed to meet? Could it be that somewhere deep down he was still bound by that supposedly unbreakable bond? The one stronger than even blood? He almost laughed. Oh the irony! So similar and yet no common ground. Values as divergent as the north pole is from the south.

He should have known better, should have been alert. He should have had more sense in his brilliant brain than he had shown. Genius? Indeed! Most of his life had been spent on his guard, waiting for them to make good on their threats.

This scenario he had not anticipated, and now he found himself prisoner in the place he should call home, the place that for him was a symbol of everything wrong with civilization, with people in general and with his family in particular. Cruelty and bitterness surrounded him, wearing the mask of luxury, expense and comfort. But the door was barred – his freedom curtailed to the chambers in which he stood.

An imitation of his beloved mocked him, but he refused to be tempted.

A thought struck him suddenly, almost bringing him to his knees. Did this mean that the one true and meaningful part of his life, that which was sacred to him, was also the progeny of this horror? Was his phenomenal gift the result of a dreadful bargain struck centuries ago?

It was always something he had emphatically denied. But now, faced with the unforgiving and blatant proof of it, he could no longer believe his lie. He realised that payment in full was now due, would be collected, and part of him wished he had never been born.

CHAPTER TWO

2011 AD

As the large South African Airways airbus touched down on the rather water-logged runway, Gisèle awoke from a familiar dream - her quasi-nightmare. In it, she ran barefoot and clad only in pyjamas, through a dense, shadowed forest, but never reached the unknown she pursued with such unyielding urgency. A violent storm chased not far behind. The sounds of the near gale-force wind whipping the tree branches and her hair into a frenzy, were enough to classify it as a nightmare. It did not scare her, but she did find it unsettling, seeing as it had become a recurring phenomenon during her sleeping hours over the past six months.

So this is Munich Airport, she murmured to herself, feeling more than a little apprehensive. Get a grip! she told herself sternly as she collected her instrument from the cabin attendant, checked it and gave a satisfied nod.

Disembarkation, passport control, baggage collection and customs all passed without incident and with iPod earphones placed firmly in her ears, the strains of Joseph Haydn’s Fourth Violin Concerto in G Major kept her satisfactorily distracted. Gisèle could barely believe that she had been born in Germany. It felt less like a homecoming and more like a different planet. This airport had a sterile feel to it, was devoid of colour and very quiet. A complete antithesis of the one she had left the evening before.

I could be anywhere in the world, she mused.

That assertion was proved false when the door to the arrivals hall opened. Blue and white Bavarian flags abounded. Giant pretzels and promises of large tankards of draught beer assailed her senses. She looked around the hall for the person she was to meet. A small crowd had gathered for her flight, and it was not easy to read the multitude of placards being held aloft. Eventually, and with great relief, she spied the one she was looking for.

International Youth Classical Music Festival, it proclaimed.

Thank goodness, she thought, feeling genuinely relieved. As it was her first real solo international flight, she felt an underlying unease that she would arrive and there would be no one to meet her. She approached the stern-faced, middle-aged woman, whose uninspired brown skirt and matching jacket had a military look about it, with a little trepidation.

"Grüss Gott!’’ Gisèle said in a bright cheerful voice. The woman, who had a rather square and heavy-jawed face, gave a hint of a smile, which then disappeared almost immediately, leaving Gisèle wondering if she had imagined it. Not the friendliest, she thought, disappointed.

‘‘Grüss Gott,’’ the woman replied. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’’ Gisèle nodded without enthusiasm.

A voice behind her said, "I’m afraid I don’t speak any German at all…besides Guten Tag.’’ Gisèle spun around. Behind her stood a girl roughly her age, pushing a trolley laden with two suitcases, various pieces of hand luggage and an enormous cello case balancing rather precariously on top of it all. The newcomer, who had obviously been on the same flight, was exquisite. She had large almond-shaped eyes, flawless skin coloured a strong café-au-lait and glossy dark curls that tumbled down her back. Gisèle suspected that her dazed expression was echoed by the chaperone, and on turning back to the placard-holding woman, was proved right. The woman gathered herself.

Of course,’’ she said in a thick German accent. Velcome to München. You must be Theresa Erasmus. She formally shook hands with the newcomer, und you, she turned to Gisèle with outstretched hand, must be Gisèle Adler."

Please call me Tessa, said Theresa, everyone does, and I do prefer it. The woman stared at her in mild confusion, as if this was a highly irregular occurrence.

Tessa and Gisèle greeted each other with a handshake, which made them both smile. Both girls relaxed palpably, now that there was some familiarity in a strange place.

"I am Frau Schmidt and I am responsible for you during your short stay in München und vill accompany you on your trip to Schwanberg. She paused as if to ponder her next words. Ve vill of course be joinink ze uzzers who arrived already yesterday. You two are ze last coming srew München. Do you haf everysink?"

They both nodded. Frau Schmidt led them through the terminal to the exit, which opened out onto a large paved square, flanked by shops and restaurants and covered by what looked like a series of massive white sails. It provided a partial roof, but did not completely protect from the now heavy rain. They crossed the square at a brisk pace and entered the building at the far side, following the signs to the platform, where they climbed aboard the S-Bahn - the train that would take them to the centre of Munich.

I can’t believe how green everything is! exclaimed Tessa. After the brown grass of Johannesburg, this is just gorgeous.

Frau Schmidt sniffed, nodding and Gisèle said, Cape Town is green but has been miserably wet. Our winter rain started early and I must say that I’ve been missing the sun!

Ah yes, sighed Tessa, at least here they get snow in winter! She stared dreamily out of the train window at the emerald meadows rushing past. The rain had abated and the morning sun dazzled the visitors through the misted windows of the train.

Gisèle broke her reverie, I thought we were pretty close to the Alps, but it looks quite flat out there. Frau Schmidt looked at her with something approaching irritation.

My dear child, she said pointedly, and Gisèle glared at her in annoyance, "ve are indeed very close to ze Alps, as you vill see tomorrow. Tessa rolled her eyes in sympathy saying, Yes, I guess we will," and turned her attention back to the view outside the suddenly frosty compartment.

A few minutes later Frau Schmidt was business-like once again. "Zer are sree conference venues in ze hotel ver you vill be staying tonight. Zey have fairly good acoustics und haf been prepared as practice rooms. Each guest room has a copy of ze practice schedule, so please be consulting it as soon as you are booked in. She paused, Zis afternoon zer vill be a short sightseeing trip around München, led by myself, for zose who are interested."

Not, thought Gisèle decisively. How many are here for the festival? she asked.

Frau Schmidt pondered her question for a few moments. "One hundred und fifty haf been invited for ze judged events and most are here in München, booked in at five different hotels. Ze majority arrived yesterday on flights. Zer are sirty of you staying at Hotel Wagner. Altogezer zo, zer vill be roughly almost two sousand musicians taking part."

Cool, said Tessa, I cannot tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this. I’ve been counting down the days for the past six months. I just hope that time starts slowing down now. The next six weeks need to drag. She turned to Gisèle looking for an encore to her sentiments.

Gisèle stammered and tried her best to evoke the enthusiasm that was expected of her, but it fell a little flat. Uh ... yes, I really am excited too. Ever since I found out I was coming, I’ve had trouble sleeping. Now that was the truth and she had no idea why she’d blurted it out, but the full implication of her meaning was not lost on Tessa, or Frau Schmidt for that matter.

The remainder of the trip passed with little more said. Gisèle leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, feeling a weariness that transcended plain physical tiredness. And the beginnings of a headache. She hoped she’d remembered the paracetamol.

She was almost asleep when Frau Schmidt gently shook her, "Gisèle, vake up. Zis is our stop. Our hotel is not far und you vill soon be able to catch up on your sleep." The train had halted at Marienplatz station and Gisèle and Tessa followed Frau Schmidt from the carriage, attempting to carry all the luggage, instrument cases included, between the two of them. Frau Schmidt finally realised that the two girls were struggling and offered to take the cello. Thereafter, a short taxi trip deposited them in front of their hotel.

Hotel Wagner was an apt name for classical musicians, thought Gisèle, as they entered the foyer. It was a modern hotel with minimalist decor, bright lighting and very little to warrant its name. Abstract art filled the walls and none of it resembled Richard Wagner or his operas. Both Gisèle and Tessa looked confused, and Frau Schmidt explained that the family who owned the hotel were Wagner and it had nothing to do with the composer.

After signing in, the girls took the elevator to the fourth floor. They were to be roommates. At least I’m not sharing a room with a total stranger, said Tessa, clearly relieved. The room was spacious and simply furnished with two single beds, a dressing table and a couple of chairs. The adjoining bathroom had a double basin, toilet and enormous shower, with shiny black and white mosaic tiles chequered over the floor and walls. Gisèle whistled. This shower could be a practice venue or a party venue, depending on your preference.

Tessa giggled, "I’ll let you know once the festival talent has been sussed out! Are you going to do the sight-seeing trip this afternoon, because I would love to? Even if it is with Frau, it- hurts-my-face-to-smile, Schmidt."

Tessa, I am absolutely exhausted. I don’t know how you managed to sleep on the plane, but I didn’t. I am going to have a solo in the shower, climb into that bed and sleep ‘til I wake up!

I feel a bit guilty, but must confess that I slept very well in Business Class. Don’t look at me like that Gisèle! I have very good sponsorship for this festival, and wasn’t going to turn them down when they offered me a Business Class ticket.

Of course not, said Gisèle. I am just completely jealous, that’s all. No wonder I didn’t spot you on the flight. You were lording it up front with the gentry.

Exactly! laughed Tessa. Now, I am going to have a very quick shower and get out of your hair. While you catch up on your beauty sleep, I will see the sights of Munich and make us some new friends. I’ll be back in time to wake you for your practice session, which I see is at five thirty, just before mine at six. Then dinner is at seven. So please, don’t worry about setting an alarm.

Gisèle was in the shower when she heard Tessa call out a goodbye and leave the room. She rinsed the conditioner from her hair, switched off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a large, white, fluffy towel around her and another around her hair. She stood in front of the misted up mirror, which she rubbed down with the hand towel and stared at her reflection. She looked drawn and decidedly unwell, she thought. The artificial lighting in the bathroom was particularly unflattering, giving her a sallow look. Large blue eyes stared back at her, but they appeared dull and were ringed by dark circles. The rest of her face looked small and pinched and pale. Usually fairly satisfied with her looks, Gisèle sighed and realised it was mostly just exhaustion in her reflection, and a good sleep would make her look and feel a whole lot better.

Her eyes fell to her left shoulder and she gently ran her fingers over the blemish that stained her skin. This may very well be the reason that I am here, she mused to herself. Her birthmark had fascinated her for as long as she could remember. It was shaped precisely like a little violin and was probably her main motivation as a small child, for wanting to learn to play that instrument. The violin had become and remained her one obsession in life. An extension of herself, she felt that she had been born branded and had no choice in becoming a slave to its music. It was something precious and private though and she never let anyone see it. Luckily, a brassiere strap hid most of it, not that a brassiere was much of a necessity in her life.

Usually, having a bit of meat on your bones is a pre-requisite for developing anything in the chest department, her aunt had admonished her on one occasion. Gisèle closed her eyes and could visualise her dungaree-wearing, grey-blonde, slightly dishevelled-looking sculptor aunt, blue eyes sparkling mirthfully at her while delivering her lecture. Her ample hips had leaned against her work bench and her arms were folded over her even more ample bosom, making her point graphically.

Gisèle smiled at the memory. Tante Sabine, her guardian, was well aware that genetics were responsible for her form and lack of certain assets. She sighed and went into the bedroom. Putting on fresh underwear and a T-shirt, she towel dried her hair, blow-dried it a little and then gave up. She drew the heavy burnt orange curtains shut and climbed under the crisp, white duvet. Sleep came almost immediately and for the first time in weeks, it was completely devoid of dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

Wake up sleepyhead, Tessa said softly into Gisèle’s ear. She opened her eyes, disoriented, and it took a few seconds for her to register where she was.

Ah….Tessa, um….wow, I had a really good sleep. What time is it? she asked, yawning noisily while stretching her limbs across the bed.

That I can see. The time is a quarter to five. You’ve been asleep for almost six hours!

And I needed it, trust me. Gisèle yawned again and sat up, swinging her feet down onto the floor. She got up slowly, I feel so much better for that. Now tell me about your day. I want to hear everything!

"Where shall I begin? The sight-seeing trip was very interesting, although quite rushed. It wasn’t just the musicians staying here that went along, but most of those who have come through Munich. We went to Marienplatz, to the Frauenkirche and the Museum of Science and Technology. It was fascinating, but the other musicians are the real fascination! It’s a lot like the United Nations. People from all over the world are here for this festival. Some seem quite eccentric despite their ages, and I even spied a diva or two in the making. Most are fairly friendly though and seemed intrigued by us coming from South Africa."

I’m Namibian, said Gisèle.

Namibian? asked Tessa confusedly. I thought you were a Capetonian. You spoke about the Cape weather on the train.

I know, I should have said. I’m at school in Cape Town, at boarding school. I’ve lived the rest of my life in Swakopmund.

"I see. There are loads of other Africans here, in fact, every continent is pretty well represented. Dear old Frau Schmidt is a statistician’s dream! Oh, I almost forgot to ask you this, but are you eighteen yet?"

Excuse me? asked Gisèle, slightly confused.

"The eighteen to twenty-one year olds have no curfew, and are pretty much without chaperones for the duration of the festival. Although she did ask that they respect the rules and regulations that apply to everyone else, Frau Schmidt also says she has copies of everyone’s passports and that if anyone is caught partaking in underage drinking, or using banned substances - her words not mine - they will be sent home in disgrace on the next available flight."

No, I’m still seventeen. You? asked Gisèle, not really bothered.

Yup, me too, said Tessa. I guess it will be you, me and the TV.

Not the end of the world, laughed Gisèle. I’d better get dressed, seeing as it’s almost my practice time.

The rooms are on the first floor, near the dining room. The lists are on the doors, so just look for your name there.

Gisèle, who had not bothered with unpacking, rummaged around in her suitcase for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She pulled out a black tee with a picture of a violin that was embellished with silver glitter and smiled wryly at Tessa. Pretty lame, huh?

I love it! Wish I had one of those with a cello on it!

Giséle went into the bathroom to change. She gasped in dismay when she saw her hair in the mirror. Serves me right for going to bed with wet hair, she groaned at her reflection. Her usually fairly tamed honey coloured tresses were a riot of curls and ringlets, giving her a distinctively Bohemian look. She fought hard to gain control, eventually tying it up in a messy bun.

Right, I’m ready, Gisèle said to Tessa, exiting the bathroom and grabbing a pair of black trainers, which she put on. Will our instruments be at the practice rooms?

"No, your Strad will be at reception. You have to sign it out."

I wish! said Gisèle, of Tessa’s reference to the world famous and prohibitively expensive instruments, made by Antonio Stradivari in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

As do I! Have fun and I’ll see you here again before dinner.

Gisèle collected her violin from reception and made her way to the conference-turned-music-room. As she studied the list, the door in front of her opened suddenly, and the young man exiting the room almost collided with her.

Oh, I’m terribly sorry, said a deep voice in a cultured British accent, I almost knocked you flying. Gisèle stared at him, mesmerised. He was tall, with a slim build and had sandy blonde hair, which was cut short at the back and sides, but remained unruly on top. Warm hazel eyes and a slightly crooked grin made for a very attractive guy in a public school sort of way. Recovering slightly, she said, Not your fault. I practically had my nose up against the door, looking for my name on the list.

Could I help you with that? he asked. She looked at him stupidly. Your name? he prompted gently, smiling.

Oh…of course. I’m Gisèle Adler.

A pleasure. He offered his hand and she shook it, blushing slightly. I’m Johnny, by the way. Johnny Stratford. He turned to the door, Now let’s have a look. Ah yes, here it is. Gisèle Adler, you are scheduled for practice now, in this room. He turned to her once more. Also a violinist I see! he held up his violin case, You must be Tessa’s roommate. Gisèle nodded. Enjoy! I’ll see you later at dinner. With that, Johnny turned on his heel and walked off down the passage. Gisèle stared at his retreating back. She must have come across like a tongue-tied teenager. You are a teenager, she muttered crossly to herself.

Having had little to no real experience with the opposite sex, especially attractive members of that sex, Gisèle felt a little foolish, but she quickly banished the thoughts from her head. She was here to play her passion, her violin, and that was all that mattered.

Gisèle entered the room, closing the door behind her. She took her beloved Sandner from its case, inspected it with a practised eye and loving hand and tuned it. She tightened her bow, gave it a good rub of rosin and assumed the playing position, bow poised. Gisèle took a deep breath and let the magic begin. There was always magic, every time she played. From practising scales and arpeggios to playing the masters, she felt herself be at one with the violin, allowing herself to be transported into the realm where music reigned supreme. The world and all of its problems faded away, and what followed was a half hour of absolute bliss.

Too soon, as with all good things, her practice time was over. With the reluctance of one leaving a lover, she packed up her things and took her violin back down to the reception. Back in her hotel room, she thought of her gaurdian. She had texted her earlier, to let her know that she had arrived, but had sent nothing since. Feeling a bit guilty, she took her mobile out of her slouchy shoulder bag, and sent another text that she was in Munich and was fine. She did not expect a response as her aunt thought mobile phones a necessary evil and would only use hers in case of a dire emergency. But she knew that Sabine would wait to read her texts.

Eventually Tessa returned to the room. How did it go? asked Gisèle.

Well and yours?

Also well. I met someone at the practice room. Gisèle announced. Johnny Stratford.

Ah Johnny! Eye-candy that one, said Tessa.

Yes, I did notice, remarked Gisèle. He seems very friendly.

He is a really nice guy, totally charming. Johnny is not his real name by the way. I heard he comes from a very wealthy family. His father is apparently a lord or something. His real name is James Henry Johnson Stratford-Higgins.

Quite a mouthful, said Gisèle. Tell me more.

Well, said Tessa frowning, don’t know much more than that, excepting that he is also a violinist, but I’m sure you did notice that yourself. Or were you staring, hypnotised, into his gorgeous eyes?

Gisèle laughed, Speak for yourself!

Okay, okay, guilty as charged. I also met a girl who looks like she’d love to get her manicured claws into our young lord. She’s nowhere near as nice as we are, by the way.

Oh come on, you can’t be serious?

"I am being serious! She is a diva, for sure. This girl is probably out of all our leagues. And she’s French. I’ve nicknamed her Chanel, because I’m sure that that is what she was wearing. To go sightseeing! Her name is Claudine Beaumont and sorry for you, she’s also a violinist. She’s clearly decided that Johnny is hers for the taking. I was getting some rather unfriendly looks from her."

Tessa, said Gisèle, you should understand that most women would see you as a threat. Have you looked in the mirror lately?

Gisèle, you’re very kind, but I think the waif look is in at the moment, which I am not. Tessa was right about that. Not waif-like at all, she had curves and they were all in the right places. Besides being beautiful, she was sexy to boot. Gisèle knew for sure that her look would trump any waif when it came to the male species and she said so.

Thank you. But G, you are going to have to forgive me for what I am about to tell you. You see, I thought I would stir a little. Tessa looked a little sheepish and Gisèle looked a little worried. What did you say?

They asked about you - well to be specific, our Lord Johnny asked. So I told them that you look more like a ballerina than a musician. That your sylph-like figure, and elfin features – I got a bit carried away actually – screamed La Sylphide or Swan Lake, rather than the string section in the orchestra pit. Gisèle became very still, her mouth tightened and surprisingly, tears filled her eyes. Tessa looked at her with concern, Gisèle, have I offended you in any way? If so, I am sorry. I only said it to get under her skin, which I did, and it is true, because you do…

No, she was not offended. Tessa had casually tilled the soil in the private garden of her buried grief and pain. But there was no way she could have known that. Gisèle, who was a bit surprised by the strength of her response, wanted to make light of it and prevent Tessa from thinking that she might be an emotionally unstable person. She didn’t want to have to share her whole rather tragic history with her either, and so decided to give her the bare bones account.

"Tessa no, please forgive me. It’s just that you caught me off guard. You see, my mother, who died many years ago, was a ballerina. Apparently, besides being a little taller, I’m built exactly like her. I take what you said as a compliment. Well, except for the elf part. Where did you pull that gem from?"

I told you I got carried away! But seriously G, I’m sorry for raking up painful memories. Now, I think it’s time to go down for dinner. You’ll meet the others who are all really friendly. Well, except for you-know-who. She winked at Gisèle, who could only shake her head.

They went down to the first floor together, arm in arm. You know Tessa, I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I must say that I’m very happy that I have.

Tessa gave her arm a squeeze. She realised on a level that this was not something that Gisèle would say lightly. She guessed correctly that the girl next to her did not forge friendships easily. She sensed her emotional unavailability, and liking Gisèle instinctively, was offering her friendship freely. Tessa was an immensely self-confident, assured person. She came from an impossibly happy home, had four beloved siblings and parents who adored each other and their children. It was in her nature to nurture.

They entered the dining room together. The cheerful-looking room was a hive of activity. Most of the other musicians were there already, standing and sitting at various tables, chatting amicably with one another. The occasional guffaw rang out and the whole scene appeared rather festive. Waiting staff moved around the room, expertly negotiating the groups and taking orders. Gisèle immediately spotted Johnny, who saw them and waved. She noticed the impeccably-styled brunette seated on his right and tried not to stare.

Tessa! Gisèle! Come and join us, said Johnny with a broad grin. They moved over to his table. There were seats opposite him that were vacant and they sat down. So how are the ladies from the Southern-most part of Africa doing? he asked.

Excellent, thank you, laughed Tessa. Gisèle said nothing, feeling the eyes of Claudine boring into her. It made her feel incredibly uncomfortable and she had a sudden, intense urge to flee.

"Allow me to make introductions. Everyone, this is our violin-playing ballerina Gisèle. Well named, I say. Gisèle, meet Claudine from Paris. She attends the Ecole Normale De Musique."

Gisèle finally looked at Claudine who lifted a perfectly arched brow and murmured "Enchanté." The French girl gave her a bored appraisal that was designed to fall just short of being offensive. Gisèle could not help herself in comparing her complete lack of sophistication and class to this designer-clad girl. Claudine wore skinny jeans, tucked into knee-high black boots. A silk scarf was casually tied around her neck, gently skimming the base of her shiny straight, blunt cut bob. And yes, she was wearing a Chanel T-shirt in white with the logo in black. While not, strictly speaking, a beautiful girl like Tessa, this girl had something. There was an indefinable quality about her which made her appearance arresting. The elusive it quality, and Claudine was well-aware that she possessed it.

Gisèle smiled at her and said hello. She was not about to give an impression of being intimidated.

This is Pascal, Johnny continued. Also from Paris. He is a saxophonist and has an album to his name. Gisèle greeted him. Pascal’s English was almost non-existent, so their communication began and ended with the greeting.

And there is my friend Red! laughed Johnny as loud laughter erupted behind them, making them turn around in surprise.

Hey Johnny! My Lord Stratford! a very Irish accent said. The owner of the voice was standing behind them in the midst of a jovial sounding group. It was quite clear that he was the source of most of the laughter. He was as tall as, but probably a bit broader than Johnny, had russet-brown hair, was tanned with a generous sprinkling of freckles and had the greenest eyes that Gisèle had ever seen. He sauntered over to their table with a self -assured air, gave them all the once-over until his gaze fell on Tessa. There it stayed. He looked poised to say something, but suddenly appeared at a loss. Johnny, who obviously never missed a thing, assumed correctly that his friend was dumbstruck by the loveliness that was Tessa.

Well well. Seems my friend from the Emerald Isle has finally been rendered speechless. Tessa, may I present the one and only Evan Maguire, who had better close his mouth before his tongue falls out.

Tessa appeared nonplussed by this and after taking a little time to recover, smiled at him and murmured, Pleased to meet you, Evan. She put out her hand for him to shake and he took it in his, but brushed it with his lips rather than shake it. He said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, Tessa, the pleasure is all mine. Tessa managed to recover her hand and when she turned back to the fascinated Gisèle, she was blushing somewhat.

Gisèle whispered to Tessa, Wow! You have a fan before you’ve even played a note. And he certainly is quite hot…. Tessa recovered herself and gave Gisèle a dig in the ribs with her elbow. Evan dropped his