Gene of Isis

‘My husband is right,’ I said, fearing that Mr Devere would take off on his own and then we’d never find him or Ashlee! ‘Ashlee may have superhuman talent, but she does not have superhuman stamina.’

I do.

I could have sworn I heard the thought resonate from Mr Devere’s mind, but he looked at me and forced a smile.

‘We could all use the rest,’ he said, most unconvincingly. FROM THE TRAVEL JOURNALS OF MRS ASHLEE DEVERE

I had never experienced anything quite so exhausting as the ride to Orleans on horseback. Rumer and I only stopped to eat and answer nature’s call. We slept a little when we lost the moonlight and could no longer see the road. For two women travelling alone at night it was safer to keep moving at good speed, but as I lay down in a field under the stars that night, I did not fear for my person for I knew my knight was keeping watch.

Fearful for her brother and kinsmen, Rumer kept me moving and encouraged me on when I thought I would drop. I felt a little ashamed that one day in the saddle could deplete my energy so badly, or perhaps being on the run was starting to take its toll. I really longed for a big hot tub and somewhere to relax—read a good book perhaps!

As we approached Orleans, I felt Albray join with me, and his strength and vigour aided to uphold my weary form. He spoke to me in my thoughts as we rode, suggesting how we might handle the forthcoming audience, if indeed the duke would agree to see me.

Upon approach to the duke’s estate in Orleans I stopped to tidy myself and gain the right frame of mind. I was a nineteen-year-old girl who held no diplomatic power whatsoever. What had I been thinking when I’d agreed to do this?

Our plan will work, Albray assured me as I mounted my horse to ride the final leg to my quest.

I’m betting my life on it. I hadn’t come all this way to lose faith in my own ability and Albray’s—I was going to do this come hell or high water. ‘Shall we go fetch your brother?’ I asked Rumer, who smiled broadly and took off ahead of me.

She was feisty and fun to travel with. Full of energy and sound logic, Rumer was a year younger than I was and far more worldly. Her hair hung in long masses of dark curls and her large dark brown eyes added to the animation of her confident character. If Cingar was anywhere near as alluring in appearance as his sister, women probably fell in love with more than just his violin playing.

With her big flared skirts, Rumer rode her horse in the male fashion, which I could not hope to do in my frock without baring more than was wise. What I wouldn’t have done for a pair of men’s trousers!

When Gasgon de Guise was informed that an English woman had come to plead for the lives of the imprisoned Italian gypsies, he must have been intrigued to say the least.

I was led into the duke’s room of court and after thanking the duke for his time and consideration I was asked to explain myself.

‘Your grace,’ I began, ‘I have been commissioned by the relatives of your prisoners to ascertain what evidence your lordship has to verify the claim that witchcraft was responsible for your son’s ailments.’

The duke was astonished. ‘Are you a lawyer, Miss Winston?’ he said in a very condescending tone, as if to imply that it was impossible.

‘My area of expertise is not law, your grace, it is witchcraft,’ I informed. ‘It is an academic study. My governess was the Dowager Countess, Lady Charlotte Cavandish. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?’

‘Of course I have heard of her! That name is legendary in France.’ He seemed insulted and yet heartened at one and the same time. ‘The Countess Cavandish would have been able to tell me what was ailing my boy, whereas my surgeons have proven useless. Every day he grows sicker and sicker…damn those gypsies!’

‘Please, your grace, the most unbelievable circumstances have led me to your door during this grave time. Perhaps it was fated that I see your child? I am very knowledgeable in both the black arts and the sciences.’

The duke seemed ready to try anything, and I ascertained from his light-body that he was not an evil man by nature—or at least he did not think of himself as such. ‘If you restore my boy’s health I will release the gypsies. But if he dies,’ he fixed me with steely blue eyes ablaze with fear and hatred just waiting to vent itself on someone, ‘I shall have them all shot and you shall give the order.’

Albray? In my mind I began to panic.

You’re doing fine, there’s nothing to worry about.

That’s easy for you to say, you’re dead already!

De Guise dismissed me and instructed me to follow his steward. ‘The gypsy witch must wait under guard for you. I shall not have her near my son.’

I didn’t feel comfortable about that, considering the duke’s low regard for Rumer’s race. ‘This girl is in my care. Do I have your assurance that she will not be harmed?’ I had no clue whether the word of Gasgon de Guise was worth anything anyway.

‘No harm will come to her,’ the duke assured me, ‘provided you cure my son.’

This deal just gets worse and worse. I decided to retreat quickly before the stakes became any higher.

The chief steward led me to the head maidservant, who we met at the main staircase. The middle-aged woman looked pale and drawn, as did the steward—as had the duke for that matter. I assumed it was just the stress of the little master’s illness that was causing the muddy patches in the head centres of all these people’s light-bodies, for their dis-ease was plain to me.

I asked the maidservant to outline the boy’s symptoms.

‘At first it was just a headache,’ she explained, nursing her own head which was obviously ailing her. ‘His condition degenerated rapidly into spasms of nausea and extreme general prostration. He complains of a burning