The Torque

By Lon Varnadore

When Nicodemus Wrenfield thought he’d lose his wife to illness, he turned from his position as head surgeon of the Royal Academy, and delve into the Dark Arts to save her.

When Richard Wrenfield almost lost his arm to morphine addiction, he knew he had to turn from the medical field, and the one connection he had with his father, to pursue other interests.

Will they compromise? Will they be able to find the Maester’s Ring and understand its secrets? Or will it be too late, not only for Alia Wrenfield, but for all of Hwitloc?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lon Varnadore
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005140533

Lon Varnadore

I have been a fan of sci-fi and fantasy for years. Hard at work at the next book.

Book preview

Enter Desana

Nicodemus Wrenfield Ph. D. straightened his cravat, using the mirror for help. The ætherlamps were set at half strength. With the advanced evening hour, Nicodemus knew even without drawing the heavy curtains that the sun was well down.

A knock came to the door. Without waiting for an answer, his valet Perkins entered.

Yes, Perkins?

You wished for me to remind you that tonight is a full moon, sir.

Nicodemus nodded, straining to not reprimand him. Thank you, Perkins.

Finishing the last tuck of the dark blue silk, he admired himself in the mirror and smiled. The smile of white peeked out from under a well-groomed dark moustache and two-day growth beard. He rubbed at the growth.

You strike a fine form, sir. Do you require a shave? Perkins asked from the door.

No. Perhaps after a nap. I have to see to my work tonight. And see to my benefactor, he added in his head.

Taking a cigar from his coat pocket, he relit it with the nighttime candle beside the bedroom mirror.

Sir, I should—

Nicodemus silenced Perkins with a glare while taking a deep draw, allowing the smoke to roll down his throat before exhaling the remnants. That won’t be necessary, Nicodemus said. Taking four more puffs of the cigar, he then flicked out the cherry. Once extinguished, he slipped it back in the concealed cigar holder of his dark burgundy suit jacket.

Turning, Nicodemus gave his valet a once over. Has the rotten child returned yet?

No sir, Master Richard hasn’t—

Anger flared in his chest. He crushed it as he had the cigar cherry. Breathe, he told himself, breathe. Taking a calming breath, he looked at Perkins, sizing him up. Perkins, we have spoken of this before. While in my presence, you’ll refer to him as ‘the child.’ I would hate to let you go for such an infraction after all these years of service.

Perkins gave his master a stoic nod. I am sorry, sir. The child hasn’t returned yet, and I haven’t the foggiest notion if he ever shall.

Did he finally take enough morphine to end his pathetic life? Nicodemus asked while moving past Perkins at a brisk pace down the hallway to the flight of stairs that led down to the first floor of the brownstone. He didn’t even spare a glance toward the other stairs leading to the child’s bedchamber. He stopped at the stairs to allow Perkins to catch up in a few long limbed steps.

Sir, he has not. He is doing well in his studies, from what I gather. He even asked for permission to see his mother and—

You told him no, correct? Nicodemus glared at the valet, hands curled into fists tight enough that Nicodemus felt the cracking of his knuckles and his nails biting into his palms.

Perkins jerked back a moment. Yes sir, of course I did. Perkins’s eyes didn’t come up past Nicodemus’s chin.

Nicodemus was about to launch into a castigation of his valet when a series of wet hacking coughs echoed from the chamber at the far end of the hall. He turned at the sound, looking at the door of his wife’s sickroom. His fingers tapped on the top of the banister. Good. Have you administered her evening medicine?

No sir. You’re the one who knows the dosage and—

I prescribed it to her, so of course I know.

I only meant, sir, that I waited for you to create the pills for tonight.

Nicodemus pondered a moment. I have my appointment tonight in the laboratory. I will mix her prescription there after the appointment is over. She will survive, Nicodemus thought. My Benefactor will not tolerate a delay.

What appointment, sir? I know of no—

I made it myself. Think no more upon it.

Yes, sir, Perkins said with another stoic nod.

Alia is alive only because of my benefactor, Nicodemus thought. I must hurry. He glanced back at Perkins. Were those the first sounds she’s made?

She hasn’t made a sound, except for those wet coughs there. She has been asleep, to my knowledge. A small series of wet hacking coughs punctuated Perkins’s words.

For a moment, Nicodemus’s body shifted toward the darkened doorway. Stopping himself, he continued down the stairs.

Sir, do you require dinner? Perkins asked, following his master down the stairs.

No. Is it dinnertime? he asked, not looking back as he moved a little faster down the stairs.

Yes sir. Old Tom’s struck seven, not ten minutes ago.

Nicodemus worked his lips in and out when he reached the bottom of the steps. Have Rosa prepare a plate for me. I shall be in my laboratory, he said while stepping onto the green runner of the first floor.

Yes, sir, Perkins said, continuing after him.

As he was about to move to the basement, Nico spotted something on the sideboard table beside the umbrella stand. Reaching out to grab it, he caught sight of the wax sigil pressed into the dark green wax in the light of the ætherlamps. His hand holding the letter trembled as he recognized the sigil, a stylized W. That damned old fool! Nicodemus crushed the thick bond paper in his hand into a ball.

Perkins, what have I told you about missives from that dotard? Nicodemus almost whispered.

Sir, Master . . . the child put it on the sideboard two days ago. He wishes to see his . . . Perkins let the sentence hang in place under Nicodemus’s baleful gaze.

I see. Pocketing the crushed envelope, Nicodemus turned toward the kitchen.

He followed the short hallway toward the basement near the kitchen, yet stopped at a spot in the hall. The pale wallpaper and wainscoting darkened around the edges of the basement door. Perkins, have Rosa clean the basement doorframe. It is filthy.

She has, sir. Twice this morning. It doesn’t want to come off, whatever it is.

Nico shook his head. She should try more elbow grease and fewer powders and tinctures of some alchemist, he said, noting