ALL MY YESTERDAYS

By Dennis C. Callin

And by Anna-Karin Uhlén

Fanfiction: Beauty and the Beast (Paramount 1987)

Disclaimer: The following story is for entertainment purposes only, and not intended to infringe on the copyrights connected with the television program series Beauty and the Beast. The story is fictional, and not intended to portray any person, living or dead, any place, or technically, any event as true. My thanks go to Paramount Studios and CBS for airing B&B for three seasons, and providing a beautiful story based on the fairy tale brought into modern times.

Chapter One

One year after the death of Father…

“Welcome to La Guardia International Airport,” the greeting began, waking up a young man who had been asleep against the window. The transatlantic flight had been peaceful enough, but longer than he had expected. Despite waking up briefly to ensure his seat belt was fastened and that his seat was upright, the moment the plane touched down and braked enough to become a very large and awkward vehicle, he went right back to sleep. Besides … he was sitting in the rear of the plane, and would be one of the last to get up into the aisle and then get off. Stirring, he saw that the passenger traffic jam had reached the seats just in front of him by about three rows, so he reached under his seat and pulled out his flight bag.

“Thank you for flying Air France,” the flight attendant said as he reached the front of the plane. He cast a slight air of disdain at the First Class cabin before nodding to her. Barely having the money for the airfare, he thought very dimly of people who could afford seats that were practically five to six times what he paid for. Even the thought of that much money was sinful to him.

Since his flight came from Paris, he had to go through Customs. The only thing he truly needed to declare was a bottle of wine destined to be a gift. Nevertheless, he still received a little more scrutiny than most of the passengers.

“Janosch Dominik…” the Customs agent said slowly, and then cast a suspicious eye over the U.S. passport that the young man placed on the table with the Customs form. “Where’s that from?”

“The Bronx,” Janosch replied with a slight emphasis on a New York accent. “My great grandfather emigrated from Hungary after the end of World War I. My grandfather, my father and my two brothers and I were born here.”

That remark earned him a sour look, but his passport was passed back to him, and his form signed, stamped and accepted.

After retrieving his suitcase, he flagged a cab and had it take him to the nearest subway station. From there, he rode the Number 7 train over to Manhattan and Times Square before switching over to the Number 1 train. Except for the suitcase and his flight bag, he was like any other passenger riding the subway. He got off at West 72nd Street and walked toward Central Park. He never made it to the Park itself, but rather entered the Dakota. Going to the elevator banks, he selected the basement, and let the car take him below. One door was double locked, but he produced a key that would unlock them. Now in one of the old rooms of the Dakota, he tripped a hidden switch that made a heavy bookcase release from the wall. Inside, he had to descend a ladder down twenty feet. Hooking his suitcase to a grapple that was connected to a rope, he lowered the precious cargo contained inside down to the ground below. Then, with that waiting for him, he descended the ladder and disappeared into the tunnels that ran beneath the surface. Fortunately for him, Janosch knew them like the back of his hand.

Some of the tunnels that underlay the Dakota and parts of the city were old maintenance shafts for the subway system. Some of them were from the Prohibition era and some were even said to be from the Civil War. A few of them did not exist on any map the city ever made. Janosch made his way through the labyrinth to a special tunnel that had a rusted gate running across it. A tall athletic form in a voluminous cloak waited for him as he expected.

“About time you returned,” the sandy whisper said in a friendly tone. “We were beginning to wonder if you decided to stay there after all.”

“What? And miss the Festival of Lights?” Janosch waited until the cloaked figure reached up and pushed something hidden in the wall next to the gate. The gate, which appeared to be securely locked by a stained lock and chain, pivoted back away from the wall by the “hinged” side. “My grandfather would never forgive me.”

“We will be interested in whatever you have discovered,” the tall figure said. Janosch crossed the gate’s threshold and embraced him. After a couple of solid thumps on each other’s back, Janosch stepped back.

“Vincent … some of what I discovered is rather .…”

The gate shut with a minute clang of metal before the figure drew his hood back to reveal a lion-like face surrounded by a mane of copper hair. Steel-blue eyes regarded him quickly, and then he easily picked up the suitcase.

“Your news, troublesome or not, can wait, Jan. You have come a long way, and you must be tired and hungry. Catherine should be waiting with supper.”

“She’s here?”

“Of course,” Vincent replied with a slight smile. “Where else would my wife be?”

“Wife? I can see I’m not up to current news yet… I’m sorry about Father.”

Vincent sadly nodded. “Yes … Come. Let’s help you recover from your flight.”

The two weaved their way through a series of tunnels that were somewhat designed to confuse and dishearten strangers from going too deep Below. A tapping sound emanated from the pipes just above their heads as they traveled, meaning that a lookout had spotted them in passing and had notified the ones on guard duty of their approach. Vincent steered them toward the cavern that had been transformed into a dormitory. A few of the bunks were empty and each had a comforter folded on the foot. Janosch chose one that was near the rear corner, and Vincent placed the suitcase on the bed.

“I’ll let you unpack and get comfortable. Dinner will be ready as soon as you can join us. You remember where the dining room is?”

“If not, I can get a couple of the cave rats to help me find it,” Janosch said with a grin. The term “cave rat” meant a youngster. When Vincent seemed to hesitate, Janosch let his head drop. “Thanks for meeting me, Vincent. Seeing you helps me know that I’m really home again.”

“It was the least I could do.”

Left to his suitcase, Janosch opened the sturdy bag and began sorting various items out on the bed. Clothes needing to be washed went on the rug beside his bed while those not worn were stacked near his pillow. A portfolio lay under everything, forming a backing or floor to the case. A wine box sat against the section that would be protected. Taking this out, he examined the box and the label. He was not sure Vincent would like it, but he knew Catherine would. A French white wine from Anjou vineyards, vintage 1949. He felt his lips twist with irony.

Setting the bottle aside, he put the portfolio on the bed, and then sorted his things into the cubbyholes at the headboard and into the trunk that sat at the foot. The suitcase was now closed and slid under the bed. Then he unlaced the portfolio and examined the contents in the compartments. Papers, diagrams, written notes, and a few worn books now sat in neat stacks on the bed. Taking one of the books, he opened it carefully and stared down at the first page. The script was from a very heavy hand, but the German was very legible.

The date on the corner of the first written page indicated that the book was a journal. Being in European style, he read the date as the first of June 1944. From his studies, this date was very ominous.

“Five more days, and this man will know his world is caving in on him,” Janosch said softly, and closed the journal.

He made sure that all the stacks were in the proper order, and then replaced them into the portfolio. Tying the portfolio shut and securing it, he placed it on the bed. A young boy came in carrying a stack of clothes, while another boy came in with a pair of boots. He thanked them and proceeded to change into a set that was common to those who lived Below. Because the ambient temperature was in the low 60s to upper 50s, tunnel dwellers tended to dress in thick garments that sometimes looked pieced together from remnants. In actuality, he realized, most of the clothes one wore Below were just that. Flannels, corduroy, and quilted patches made some very interesting appearing outfits.

Now outfitted as befitted a young man of New York City’s subterranean society, Janosch picked up his portfolio and left the dormitory.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Dining Hall resembled a cafeteria, even if the tables and chairs were somewhat mismatched and the walls were chiseled out of the hard bedrock that sat under the city Above. The table settings were also a collection of various pieces collected from forgotten places. If anyone managed to find their flatware matched, they were usually secretly pleased or felt honored. There was a formal setting that Mary, Father’s assistant, brought out for special occasions, but tonight was only a casual one. Janosch came in to find only Vincent, Catherine and Mary sitting at the head table where Father always sat. A fourth place seemed to be reserved for him. The sturdy dining table had a three-tiered candelabrum as its centerpiece, and it was ablaze with candles. Several oil lamps burned about the Hall to give some light to the room.

As Janosch sat down, he secretly thanked Vincent for choosing this particular table. Once they completed the meal and the dishes were taken away, the items in his portfolio could be spread out over its surface. He smiled at Catherine. The attractive dark blond woman wore clothes similar to most people who lived Below. The exception that she enjoyed was a silk blouse that had a ruffle at the throat. Peeking through the folds of the ruffle, he spotted the quartz crystal that Vincent had found and made for her.

“So.” Catherine spoke first as he placed his portfolio against the legs of his chair. “Your studies abroad bore some fruit ….”

Janosch smiled at the hanging comment. “Quite a bit. Some of what I discovered was rather illuminating.”

She smiled at his imitation of her tactic, but then the smile faded. “Some of it wasn’t, I take it.”

Janosch nodded as he uncovered his dinner. Sliced beef, drizzled generously with a thick gravy, mashed potatoes with more gravy, a mixed vegetable portion that he could pick at, and a freshly baked roll awaited him. “Let me just say the proportions were not very favorable.”

Vincent interrupted. “Perhaps we should save our discussion on Jan’s findings until after we have eaten.”

“I’d say that is a good idea,” Mary added, and then uncovered her plate. “I would not wish for this to get cold.”

“Hot, warm or even cold would be fine, Aunt Mary,” Janosch chuckled as he picked up a steak knife and a three-tined fork to slice up his meat. “I’m sure it will all still taste just as wonderful.”

“I see staying in hostels didn’t spoil you,” she chuckled.

“No, it made me appreciate what I got here more. When you stay in economic places, the fare is very basic. Besides, no one can match your cooking.”

“Flatterer,” Mary replied, wincing with embarrassment.

The conversation turned to small talk, mostly aimed at some of the places he had seen, the people he met and talked to along the way and such. Eyes danced merrily around the table as he recounted some of the funnier sides of the adventure. One time, he left his room to go take a shower and came back to find his door was locked; he had forgotten his key, and all he had was a bathrobe and a towel. But then, he also darkened when he tried to explain the problems he had trying to gain entry to Hungary, which was still undergoing some political difficulties. Any information he sought in the Balkans was no longer worth the risk in the turmoil of what was once Yugoslavia. Fortunately, much of his research would come from Romania.

Toward the dessert course, a devil’s food chocolate cake with fudge frosting, his foot brushed the box and it fell over. Luckily, the bottle was securely packed inside, and Janosch picked it up.

“I almost forgot… I picked this up coming back before I left France. It’s a white wine, so we can save it for later, if you wish.”

“May I see it?” Catherine asked. He passed over the bottle and she examined it. “Anjou ’49 White… My father could tell what the vintage was like.”

“I was told it was exceptional.”

“I noticed you came back with an exceptional amount of material,” Mary commented as she cleared the dessert plates.

“If I could’ve had more access to certain materials, I would have gotten more. Thanks to some bureaucrats in Romania and Austria, I was able to do some work on some of the notes that Father kept.”

“You found something?” Vincent asked.

“Have you ever heard Father mention the surname ‘Mstislav’?”

Janosch watched as Vincent’s brow beetled in puzzlement. “Not that I can recall.”

“The name is Slavic. I learned that the name is a combination. The first part, mshcha, means ‘vengeance,’ and the second part, slav, means ‘glory’.”

“That sounds evil,” Mary said, pulling the candelabra to one corner so Janosch could start putting some of the papers up on the table’s surface.

He chuckled as he selected a small stack of notes. “Considering where I found the reference, that’s not surprising. Probably the most mystical place in Europe.”

“Where?” Catherine asked.

Janosch smiled. “The Carpathians. Have you ever read Bram Stoker?”

“Yes,” Vincent said breathily. “A helper found one of his second edition hardbound books in an estate sale, and he gave it to Father along with several other books. He read it to the older children during one Halloween. Jan? What does this have to do with this name?”

“One of the things that Bram Stoker wrote was that every known superstition in the world has a place in the horseshoe of the Carpathian mountains. Today, this area encompasses what is now known as Slovakia, Romania, and Hungary. However, part of what we call Romania was once called Transylvania.”

Catherine shuddered involuntarily. “Dracula?”

“Actually, I’m thinking more of his actual persona. Namely, Vlad the Impaler,” Janosch said, taking out a page and showing her a drawing of a man. “This ruler was a nasty piece of work, to say the least. In the fifteenth century, he was a ruler of Wallachia, which was located on Transylvania’s southern border. As a means to gain and maintain control of his reign, the Prince would often impale his rivals, enemies, and anyone he thought was in collusion with them. Thousands were thought to have died horribly under his orders. Small wonder that Stoker wrote his novel and set his villain as Vlad Dracul.”

Janosch slid a few of the historical pictures and notes out of the way until he came to a set of typewritten notes. These he placed on the table in front of him. “Between that time and the onset of World War I, the Balkans were always in fluctuation. Small principalities, kingdoms, and sultanates came into being and faded into the shadows within years. The poor usually were never aware of all the changes. They paid taxes to whoever looked to be in authority. However, not all of these princes were viewed in the same manner as Vlad. I happened upon an obscure notation of a Balkan prince by this name, Mstislav, who was mentioned during the sixteenth century. This prince ruled with an iron hand, demanding justice, especially when his daughter was kidnapped by bandits.”

Another drawing was slid out of the stack. This time, Vincent leaned in closer, and Janosch nodded. “Mstislav was never depicted in any painting or sculpture under pain of death. It is rumored that a family member made this drawing before the Turks overran his princedom. He did manage to escape the encirclement and for literally decades, the drawing was thought to portray this Transylvanian prince as a devil worshiper.”

Catherine looked at the drawing. “By making him appear like a lion?”

“You will note that he is rending people with cat-like claws. However, I was able to find out something by tracing down a possible link with this family.”

“Family?” Mary asked.

“Royalty, even for a short time, gets noticed,” Janosch said with a shrug. “Through archives, I managed to find a descendant living in Vienna. She was about ninety, but her mind was still sharp, and she still managed to get around. Slow but sure, she told me. She indicated that this drawing was not meant to be a depiction of devilry.”

“What is it then?” Catherine asked, still looking at the drawing. The central figure seemed to be that of a man, pictured as a lion in human clothing of the period, killing a small body of men while a woman lay bound on the ground nearby.

“As far as her family had been told by a secret kept generation to generation, this was the act of Prince Mstislav finding the robbers who kidnapped his friend’s daughter,” Janosch said, and noted that Catherine and Vincent exchanged a wondering glance.

“How do they believe that?” Vincent asked.

“The authenticity can be seen by examining the original drawing with a magnifying glass,” Janosch said carefully. “When I asked, I was told that the original was probably being kept by relatives still living in what is now part of Romania. However, my contact was able to tell me that the daughter had a very unique and certainly ancient necklace that stayed with the family. When the drawing had been rendered, the necklace was seen hanging from the last robber’s hand just before the Prince ripped his throat out. I asked what the necklace looked like, and she described it as a heavy gold chain with three settings. The flanking two settings had gold depictions of a sitting cat looking toward the center setting. That one had a very unique stone that would sit at the base of the wearer’s throat.”

He pulled out a drawing that he had made of what sounded like the necklace’s central setting. “The central stone was crafted from tiger’s eye, and this individual stone seemed to have an impurity or some intrusion from a darker stone in its center. As a result, the stone was said to look like a cat’s eye with the iris drawn in to a slit. From this description, I would say that the necklace may have been of Egyptian or even Hittite origin, but I am not certain.”

“I take it she did not have the necklace or know where it was?” Catherine asked.

Janosch shook his head. “She believed that her brother might have had the necklace just before the Anschluss by Germany. They escaped into Switzerland and were later rumored to have been in France when the German blitzkrieg swallowed most of the country. She hasn’t heard from her brother since then.”

“About this necklace,” Vincent said, tapping the drawing with his clawed index finger, “has it been seen since then?”

“If it has, I’m not aware of it,” Janosch replied. “Why?”

“There is just something familiar about it,” Vincent mused. “Perhaps I will remember it in the morning when we can continue this discussion. I can only imagine that you must be tired and need to sleep.”

“It is late for me, I’ll admit,” Janosch said, stifling a yawn. “It must be around two in the morning for me. You know me, Vincent. Get me started on some weird point in history and I go crazy and forget all track of actual time. If you like, I can leave you the pages that we have already discussed.”

“What about the books?” Catherine asked, pointing at the journals.

A sad expression crossed Janosch’s face. “Right now, you don’t wish to read those. When I do tell you what’s in them, you’ll understand. Even the tales about the Carpathians are bad enough to cause nightmares. I remember I had them for all the time I was in Austria.”

“Only in Austria?”

“Yes.” Janosch paused in putting the journals back in the portfolio. “Now that you mention it, I thought something was strange about that, and then I must’ve shunted that thought aside, and I never came back to it.”

“Why strange?” Mary asked.

“Well, the story about Prince Mstislav was set inside the Carpathians between the borders of Transylvania and Wallachia. Up until the end of World War I, that territory had been part of the Austria-Hungary Empire. The empire was split up into a series of countries after the conclusion of that war, and many districts went more or less back to ethnic and geological borders. Austria became about a tenth of its former empire, but Vienna. That city retains a lot of what its former state was. And when I followed the Mstislav family’s exodus… ”

“His family survived?”

“Of course,” he said, glancing at Vincent. “And really, Mary, that tale is for another time. What Vincent said is really catching up to me now. Maybe during high tea tomorrow.”

“High tea?”

Janosch grinned. “Sorry … dinner. Good night everyone.”

When the young teacher packed up his portfolio and went back toward the dormitory, Vincent pulled the papers that were left and studied the drawing and the sketch of the necklace. Leaning on his shoulder and arm, Catherine also studied the drawings.

“You seem to know something about this,” she said quietly.

Pointing at the drawing of the gruesome scene, Vincent’s voice became slightly husky. “Does this not seem familiar to all the times I have saved your life?”

“I was talking about the necklace, but I’ll admit the Prince saving his daughter does feel like those times.”

“I am sure I have seen something about that necklace as well …”

~~~~~~~~~~

Because the bed had to support his heavy frame, Vincent’s bed was definitely large enough to accommodate both Catherine and him. An addition to the room placed a crib at the foot of their bed and young Jacob lay asleep as they slipped in under the covers. The temperatures never really changed in the tunnels because they were subterranean, but the air was definitely cool most of the time. February was the coldest time and late August was the warmest. Catherine had made sure their son was tucked in and under his comforter before she came to bed dressed in a flannel nightgown. The first time she spent the night Below, she had laughed at coming to bed dressed that way.

“What do you find comical?” Vincent had asked her that night.

“This,” she had replied, indicating the nightgown. “The way I feel, I should be nude, and not looking like my grandmother.”

Thinking back to that night, Catherine declined to blush. As she pressed in against Vincent, and ran her hand over the flat plain of his stomach and up onto the powerful chest, she once more reveled in her fingers slipping through his coppery “fur.” When the advice that many had given her finally sunk in, she accepted the fact that even though they could not be together Above, and she could not stay Below, they would make time to be together one way or another. The excuse seemed to be that she would tell her boss, Joe Maxwell, that she had to get away from EVERYTHING, and to expect her back after a certain time or when she contacted him. At first, he had not taken such an ultimatum very well, but he caved in at the last. Once she accepted that she could love him, she wanted to be with him. After Vincent’s mental breakdown, her love had finally brought him back.

She smiled as she looked down toward the foot of the bed. Her love had made it possible for the barriers to finally break down, and to allow his love to surface once more. Like the physical healing he had given her when they first met, she had given him emotional healing. Thus, ten months after that terrible time, young Jacob came into the world. Father had been relieved that she carried a healthy “normal” boy, and had delivered without the nightmarish scenario that Paracelsus had claimed would come true.

When she looked up into his face, she saw his eyes were still open and staring up at the rocky ceiling. “I know that look.”

His odd feline mouth curled slightly into a smile. “Even you will have to admit that Jan gave us a lot to ponder, Catherine.”

“And it will wait until morning.”

His body temperature was another wonder to her. Even though he wore the thick clothes of Below, his metabolism was such that it gave him a higher core temperature. The result was like having a personal heater in bed with her. She giggled as the thought struck that this unit came with some surprising attachments. Vincent, however, did not inquire as to the reasons for her mirth.

As her breathing indicated that she had fallen asleep, Vincent continued to stare up at the ceiling. The image of that man on a warhorse, catching a robber and about to tear his throat out appeared to linger on the uneven surface above him like a tapestry. The necklace, seemingly just taken from the young woman lying on the ground not far away, seemed to be staring back at him as if he were an object it contemplated. The nobleman …. His cloak had blown away, exposing a face made hideous because of his rage, and the leonid features. Another person who looked the same way he did? Nearly four hundred years ago? Could this be?

Thoughts always weighed heavily on Vincent’s mind. He had to constantly war with a beast that lay just under the surface, and the weapons he had were friendships, his love for Catherine, books, and the music he traveled under Central Park to hear during the summer. He sometime wondered if a curious or adventurous stagehand ever discovered that one corner of the orchestra level connected to tunnels just under the Lincoln Center or the basements of Carnegie Hall. Someone once explained to him that the veneer of civilization was just thinner for him than it was for the people who populated the Above. Vincent nodded wearily. He remembered too many damned times when that cloak of civility was ripped away to reveal the animal part of him that seemed so apparent to the eye. But then, ever since that attack on his mind, he remembered one other facet of that advice someone gave him .…

That humankind’s veneer of civilization is only skin deep as well.

Like the picture that floated above him, “man” was often worse than he was. That story of Vlad the Impaler, and his characterization as Dracula the Vampire, showed an evil far more terrible than any of his actions could be. Vincent knew he had taken life, and had done so violently. He knew it, and he also knew that if events required that action, he would do that again. To willingly take life, for no reason other than politics or personal revenge, was odious to think about. No matter why Vincent did what he did, he never killed without a just cause. Catherine had explained to him several times that his actions were justifiable, but he had despaired anyway. But now? He understood it. His inner battle was still there, but always reined in check until the environment called for his release. He was often the first line of defense for the people who lived Below, and he knew they relied on him for protection.

He was a warrior … just like that man in the tapestry that faded into the darkness above him… Mstislav… the Warrior-Prince… Vengeance and Glory… perhaps vengeance IN glory…           Or even Glory in Vengeance.

His eyes closed…

And he began to dream.…

~~~~~~~~~~

As a teacher in a small university, Artúr enjoyed a life that kept him out of the fields and out of any palace that seemed to spring up overnight. Now nudging sixty, he was very close to resigning from his post and either continuing as a professor emeritus or retiring altogether. His wife, Franciska, would enjoy his company a little more now that his grandchildren were nearing their teens. He was just about to put his books aside and regard some of the written notes of his students when a knock at his door brought his head up.

Petri, his grandson, stood just inside the threshold with his hat in hand. Although still relatively young, the young man resembled his father… a father dead ten years ago in one of the constant wars that tore the countryside apart or were waged against the encroaching Turks.

“What is it, Petri?”

“This came for you at the house,” the young man said, pulling a folded piece of paper with a wax seal on its back from his satchel. “Grandmama thought it was important and so she sent me with it rather than our housemaid.”

Artúr took the letter and saw that it was indeed written to him, and in a somewhat familiar hand. Turning the letter over, he studied the wax seal. The coat of arms did not mean anything, but its presence in wax meant that someone was somewhat important. Breaking the seal, he opened the letter and read its contents. The signature did not register with him as anyone he ever knew, but a prince had summoned him … to dinner, of all things!

Putting it down, he stood to get his overcoat. “Petri, run home quickly and tell your Grandmama to dress in her finest, for you and your sister to do the same, and have Gavril ready our coach. No questions now. Hurry!”

As the boy bowed quickly and left, a dozen things ran through Artúr’s mind. Had he done anything to warrant a summons of this nature? Who was this Prince Mstislav? How did he know a lowly university scholar? And to dine with him? Flustered, the professor had put on his coat inside out, and then put it on correctly. Still somewhat concerned with the summons, he came out of the Lecture Hall and started down one street to realize he had gone the wrong way. Doubling back, he passed the Hall and proceeded at a speedy walk to his house. The housemaid met him at the door and quickly took his overcoat and satchel. He ascended the stairs to his room, and his manservant was ready with the necessary set of clothing. Stripping off what he needed to remove, he freshened up and accepted clean undergarments. His formal outfit went on, and his manservant brushed him off and gave him his proper hat.

His wife, Franciska, had on her blue velvet formal dress over a red under-gown, and she curtseyed briefly before smiling nervously. “My husband! For an instant, I thought Petri was playing an elaborate prank on me, but he seemed too excited to be anything but truthful. Are we really being summoned to dine with a prince?”

“Yes, we are … unless we are the fools of a terrible joke.”

“Master?” his manservant said nervously.

“What is it?”

“There is a coach in the courtyard awaiting you, sir.”

“A coach? Not ours?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you, Gavril. Where are the children?”

“Coming, Grandpapa!” came a young woman’s voice. Raisa was nearing her sixteenth birthday, and was already considered a young maid. Dressed similar to her grandmother, she wore blue over white. “Petri! Hurry! The Prince sent a coach for us!”

Coming out into the courtyard, the family of four found a dark blue wagon gilded in silver and gold. A footman got off the rear of the coach and opened the door. A driver, sitting up above, tipped his hat as he held the reins to a team of four bay horses.

“My word,” Artúr breathed, and then he nudged his wife as the two grandchildren went by, Petri in a boy’s enthusiasm and Raisa in a young woman’s expectations. Franciska took his arm, and he proudly escorted her to the coach.

Minutes later, the coach was under way and several neighbors either had come to the street or leaned out of upper stories to see them heading out of the city. Riding in a coach was preferred greatly, but even padding did not protect them from the road. The latest rainstorm often turned the smoothest road into a morass, and often caused a coach to swerve or bounce without any mercy to its occupants. Fortunately, the driver always kept one wheel on the side of the road where the ground was a bit firmer.

About a mile up the road, a thunder of rocks, mud and sapling trees roared down a high hillside and scattered its load across the road between a steep slope and a brush-filled creek bed. Standing a safe distance away, three mounted men awaited the outcome of the barrier to complete its purpose and thoroughly block passage on the road.

“That should do nicely,” the leader of the three men said as the last of the rocks clattered into place on the pile. “Everyone get into position!”

“You sure this is it?” the second man said, pulling up a piece of cloth to cover his face.

The three looked through the trees at a bend in the road and saw the coach coming at them. The leader nodded. This coach spoke of money.

“My sister got it from the driver himself,” he laughed coldly. “He’s a very … very lonely man, and my sister is sooooooo understanding.”

The other two men snorted laughter about the remark and then eased into position behind cover. The wagon was almost to them, and they could hear the driver cajoling the team to exert themselves a bit in a particularly muddy section of the road. The last thing he wanted to do was get off his seat and manhandle a coach wheel out of the mud. As they came around the last bend, the driver suddenly saw the slide blocking the road. Pulling back on the reins, the driver stomped on the brake lever to the front wheels. The team slipped and skidded in the mud as the coach threatened to tip over.

Inside the coach, the four passengers attempted to hold their place the best they could. Being in the seats facing forward, the elderly man and the teenage boy were thrown forward and were entangled in the women’s skirts. Embarrassed, Petri managed to push his sister’s petticoats aside, and he stuck his head out the window.

“Driver! What is going on?”

“Landslide, sir! The roadway is blocked, and we’ll have to clear it before we can continue. Stay put, sir, and the footman and I will see what we are facing.”

The driver managed to reach the ground when there was a metallic “twang” followed by a sickening thud. Reaching toward his throat, the driver gurgled as he tried to dislodge a quarrel in his throat. Another quarrel quickly embedded its deadly head into his chest and the driver fell. One last bolt flew and the footman tumbled into the mud behind the coach.

Inside the coach, the four passengers were stunned as three riders, their faces covered, came toward them. Each had a crossbow as well as a sword.

“Good afternoon,” the one on a dark speckled bay horse said almost casually. “Step out of the coach or we will shoot you.”

Artúr felt his gray eyes narrow as he examined the weapons in the man’s hands. The crossbow was an accurate weapon at this range. Holding his hands in sight, he opened the door.

“Grandpapa…” Petri started to say, but Artúr put a finger to his lips.

He faced the men as his wife stood slightly behind him and Petri came to his other side.

The leader of the men smiled behind his mask. Each passenger wore good clothes – not too expensive, but showing enough wealth to make this worthwhile. The portly old man had his arms protectively around an old woman – his wife, maybe?

“There were four of you,” the leader said, and then smirked under his mask. The old man seemed angered now.

“Raisa? Come out and stand by me.”

The young woman who came out was a sheer delight to look at. Green eyes did not look down demurely or in fright, but locked with his, almost defiantly. Dark cascades of curled locks swept around and back from a heart-shaped face. The court dress showed the promise of her figure, and accented her youth.

“Well, well. Isn’t this a pleasant sight?”

~~~~~~~~~~

 The mounted guard arrived hours too late to prevent the tragedy. As members of the guard cleared the road, the officers discovered a survivor. The teenager was barely fifteen, not even old enough to feel the warmth of a woman. As it was, he was barely even capable of feeling the cloak that the Captain put around his shoulders. His eyes stayed away from the two blankets that covered the bodies.

“You have to find Raisa. Please. She … she .…”

“Relax, young sir,” a gray-bearded, solidly built officer replied. “We’re doing all we can. Our Lord will find her and not let her perish. You have been badly wounded, so please stay as still as you can.”

Petri barely felt the wound that had somehow pierced his upper chest and went through his shoulder, missing important blood vessels that would have otherwise killed him.

Suddenly, a guard looked up, and then came running to where the officer now stood. “Sir! The young master is on his way!”

“May the Great One have mercy on the men who did this,” the Captain said quietly. “They will not survive this night…”

As the Captain made his way to where the troopers were clearing the road, the Captain saw what he feared he would see. Thundering down the road on one of the largest horses he had ever seen, a large rider, heavily cloaked and hooded, guided his mount with hands and knees. The black tack on the dark stallion was laced in spots by fine silver and capped the bit and bridle. The thick heavy cloak and hood hid the rider’s features, but his size matched the war mount, and that meant he was a huge man. The Captain saluted as the rider came to a reluctant stop at the barrier. With a smooth dismount, the rider now towered over the Guards’ Captain as he dropped the reins. Although now free, the stallion stood his ground. At the coach, the four mares that had pulled the coach whinnied in recognition of the herd master.

“You were right, mien Herr,” the Captain said, gesturing toward the coach and the covered bodies. “The guests had been ambushed and robbed of all their money and finery. The Elder appears to have been killed, and his wife slain. The grandson received a wound, feigned death, and he awaits treatment.”

“What about the granddaughter?” A heavy grainy voice issued from the hood.

“We have not found her,” the Captain replied. “I fear she has been lost.”

The hood turned slowly, a dim pair of eyes shimmering in the failing light. “Nothing is Lost until the body is buried.”

“Mien Herr .…”

Dark gloves creaked as the hands inside them clenched into hard white-knuckled fists. “See to the boy, and take him to castle. Tell my Father that I will be … late .… If she is still alive, I will find her. Tell the maids to set up the Rose Room for her arrival.”

“Y-yes, Milord.”

The roan stallion whickered and then snorted as the young Master remounted. The huge hand came down and stroked the thick muscled neck. “Relax, Hawk,” the rider said as he patted the stallion. “We’ll find her.”

The stallion raised his head and huffed in the direction of the mares. The hood turned in that direction and nodded. To many, the stallion was an unusually intelligent horse, and his obvious concern touched his rider deeply.

“Captain? See that the coach is returned to the castle, and that the mares are set loose for a week or so. I will return Hawk to them soon enough.”

“Do you require anyone to go with you, mien Herr?”

“No,” came a low growling reply.

Any other man would have roughly turned his mount by heels and rein. The rider, however, was one with the roan stallion. A light touch on the rein and stirrups, the way his weight shifted and the way his knees touched, that was all the stallion needed to know. Although the shadows were already hiding many things, the rider and horse plunged into the darkness without concern. After a few heartbeats, even the thunder of the horse’s movement into the forest faded.

Crossing back to the grandson, the Captain knelt and made sure the boy was still with them. “We are going to take you to the castle so that our doctor can see to your wound, young sir. We shall be leaving soon.”

“Sir, my grandparents .…”

“We shall care for them, young sir.”

“One more .… How could a prince know my grandfather?”

The graybeard Captain smiled weakly. “The Prince attended your grandfather’s classes when he was younger. This dinner was to thank him for his services. Had we known about this, we would have escorted the coach. No matter now. I can promise you this. The Prince will return your sister to you.”

“How?”

The Captain’s haunted look into the forest stopped him. “Just believe me when I tell you that the gravedigger had better find his shovel and notify the priest. Those highwaymen who have your sister are already dead, and just do not know it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Vincent came awake with a start, and his first concern was that he had awakened Catherine. His apprehension, however, was unfounded, as she continued to sleep, so he slipped from the bed and quickly put on a heavy cloak. As he did, he sniffed carefully at the air. The sun had not yet risen because the scents still smelled of night. Going over to his desk, he quickly pulled out his journal and a fountain pen. Although the pen was a nuisance to refill constantly, he preferred it in the same manner as his dress. He composed himself, and poised the pen’s nub over the page.

When he began to write, the pen seemed to be a magic wand that caused invisible writing to appear. His handwriting, especially the script he used in his journal, was almost a classic style. Father had taught him his letters, and his penmanship came from laborious mastery of the lines and curves (with a little bit of flourish as well). In his youth, he hated the lessons. They were boring and infringed on his playtime. However, as he began to mature and Father’s love meant more to him, he kept at his lessons, and a beautiful masculine script flow was the result.

He was well into his fifth page by the time a hand came down to gently rest on his shoulder. The swell of a breast pressed against his shoulder blade almost mischievously, as if she were looking to distract him from his task.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Catherine asked as she looked down at the writing.

“No.  Apparently Jan’s warning about the story affecting us was true. I dreamt of the details of his story … the Prince … I dreamt that he was me.”

“And his wife?”

Vincent turned slightly to catch Catherine’s smile. That look meant she was enjoying a little fun at his expense. “A beautiful woman. I must have seen her somewhere .…”

“You better have just slipped out of her bed,” she said, slapping his arm.

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“And you just had to capture the moment, I take it?”

 “Yes.” His pen paused, and then he nodded as he reread the last sentence. “That is the last of it. The Prince came to the roadblock, ascertained the situation, and acted upon the need. Catherine? The woman that was taken was not the Prince’s daughter. I believe she was his fiancée – the one he loved.”

She smiled sadly. “Are you sure this isn’t you imposing a romantic’s touch to the story?”

“Would I do that?”

“Vincent.” Catherine eased herself into his lap and they carefully kissed. Their first one had been very experimental because of the difference of his lip structure. However, once performed, they continued to try until a certain conjunction worked, and then their inhibitions fell away. Still, each kiss seemed to be another experiment – a different way to express love.

Since he had capped the pen, he got out of the chair with Catherine in his arms. Soon back in bed, there was a little bit of play before they made love. Even this was an experiment that seemed to ask for a return – to see if they left something out of the touches, or something that could be added. Regardless, once they found the pleasure of joining their bodies, the intensity was always there.

Once more content in each other’s arms, sleep stole easily into their room, and took them once more …

~~~~~~~~~~

The forest lay thick off the road, but that only meant that someone could not see ahead too well. In the increasing darkness, one did not really wish to travel off the roads. The highwayman held his prize close to him, and her body definitely aroused him. Fortunately for him, the path they traveled was well used by game, and his mount followed it without too much advice from his rider. The choice with this one was going to be easy.

Finally, after about an hour’s ride into the forest, they came to a rough woodsman’s cabin. The brigands had claimed the cabin, and its builder and inhabitant now lay unresisting under the sod not far from the outbuilding. Stopping at the stable, the leader was hesitant to lower his prize down into the hands of one of his gang, but then, they had something to say in the division of the spoils. This girl had potential either way.

“What’re we going to do with her?” the second brigand asked with a leer.

“Decide whether to ransom her or enjoy her, what else?” the third one said. “Either way, the riches are very great.”

“Bah,” the second said, his hand straying a bit and enjoying a promising touch. “We’d never see the ransom. Besides, you killed her father or whatever the old goat was.”

“They were going to see the Prince,” the leader said, getting off his horse and taking back the girl. “That was his carriage we stopped, so these people meant something. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was going to meet him … maybe even arrange a marriage?”

“I hope not,” the second said, remembering the touch he had taken. “That would take the best fun away.”

“Who is this Prince anyway? I don’t remember anyone claiming the old castle,” the third one said.

“He could be anyone,” the leader said, going to the back door to the cabin. “A warlord or someone with more men than we do. They move in, put up some sort of flag and claim to be a prince of whoever built the place. However, I wonder about this one.”

As the three piled into the cabin, the leader took the girl over to the cot that served as a bed and laid her out on the rough wool blanket. The second man came over and looked down.

“What happened to her?”

“She tried to scratch me so I backhanded her. She’s been out ever since. The thing we want to do right now is figure out what we want with her. I can tell what we all would like to do, but that would damage anything that the Prince would want.”

“He doesn’t have to know,” the third brigand said.

“I don’t know about you but if we did anything to her, people would notice,” the leader said meaningfully. “And the moment she gets protection or thinks that she’s safe, she’ll tell them what happened.”

“She’d stay quiet about it,” the second man said.

“Why?”

“Look at her. She’s upper-class or close to it. Virginity is a high draw to girls like her, if she really wants a good marriage. You think this Prince would want her if he knew she wasn’t ‘pure’ anymore? She’d keep it secret until her wedding night.”

“You want to test that out? You screw the fiancée of a Prince, and he’ll have whatever army he has rip this country apart looking for you. Your hide would be worth more in someone’s hands rather than on your body.”

Just then, the girl sneezed. When the three men turned to face her, she made a dash toward the door. Being unused to the treatment she had been given, she stumbled, and fell within inches of freedom. The leader reached down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her up to her feet.

“Playing dead, are we? Not nice at all.”

She gasped as she was shoved toward the bed, and she landed heavily on it. “What are you going to do with me?”

“That depends on how much you’re worth,” the leader said. “You were going to see this new Prince, weren’t you?”

“Yes. He invited my grandfather to his castle. We are not sure why.”

“Nothing to do with you?” the second man said, coming up to stand next to the bed.

“I… I do not understand …”

“Marriage proposal?” the third said, staying near the door after putting a bar across it.

“As I said, we do not know why. My grandfather received a letter requesting our presence for dinner, and we had a coach sent for us. Since I have not been violated other than some rough treatment, my grandfather would pay for my release unharmed.”

“What about if we harm you just a little?” the second brigand said, reaching out and playing with one of her ringlets.

“Then he would hire men to hunt you down and kill you.”

“I think your grandpapa would have some trouble doing that right now,” the leader said, “but I understand. You shall not be harmed. What is that necklace you are wearing? Hand it over to me!”

“This is a family heirloom given to me by my mother before she died.”

“We’ll use it to get what we need, then.”

“Please, no! Send the Prince my cap and this letter. He will believe that you are holding me and that I will be released to him after he pays the ransom.”

The leader nodded unpleasantly. “I thought you said the Prince didn’t know your family.”

“He does not, but he went to great lengths to bring us to him. If he sees a lady’s cap and his invitation, he will understand you hold us hostage.”

The leader held out his hand, and Raisa took off her cap and set the letter inside it. Accepting it, he then held out the other hand.

“I want that necklace … now.”

Although her eyes still showed defiance, her hands still unclasped the necklace and placed it in his outstretched palm. He nodded again.

“If nothing else, this will mean a little bit more if he doesn’t understand your missive. Gabby? Since you are the newest, you take this to the castle. If you do not return, we do what we like to the girl, and he loses.”

“What about me?” Gabby asked.

“You return, and you split the money with us. Let’s see if this Prince really wants her. Tell him that we want a trunk that would fit her filled with gold and silver, and he is to deliver it to where we ambushed the carriage. He is to withdraw, and we will come out only if it’s safe. If we have what we want, we will put the girl in the trunk and they can come and get her the next morning. Got it?”

“Sure…”

“Get going then.”

“What?” the third brigand replied incredulously. “It’s dark outside!”

“Moon’s coming up,” the second brigand said. “You should have a fairly full moon to help you along the main roads. That way, you have a little better chance of getting there and back without being followed.”

“Very well. Next time .…”

“Yeah.”

The third brigand unbarred the door, and went out.

There was an angry roar, and the man’s body, minus a goodly part of his throat, was flung back into the cabin shortly afterward. Both men drew their swords as a shape literally filled the doorway. The figure stood on two legs, but that was about all they could tell. A voluminous heavy cloak and hood hid the man’s features. Seeing the size of the man, the leader immediately grabbed the girl and put his sword to her throat.

“One move more and she dies!”

“Let one drop of her precious blood fall,” the man’s gravel-laced voice literally growled, “and your death will be an agony that can be prolonged for days.”

“I am in earnest!”

“As am I,” the stranger growled back. “You two are already dead. Your action within the next few heartbeats will determine whether your death is quick and clean … or not.”

“You’re only one man,” the second brigand said, his point covering the huge stranger.

“And unless your friend releases the girl, he cannot help you. Therefore, YOU are only one man.”

“Move away from the door,” the lead brigand shouted, “or I will kill her.”

“Your death is judged by how I receive the girl,” the dark stranger growled low. “Release her and I will forget that you killed her guardians.”

Then, with deliberate slowness, the huge stranger began approaching the second brigand. The man’s eyes widened at the prospect that this man was unarmed and yet was closing on him. Panicking, he lunged forward, hoping to run the stranger through. The sword rang as the man’s arm rose to block the stroke. At that moment, the man’s free hand reached out and closed around the brigand’s throat. The brigand gasped and gurgled as the stranger actually lifted him off his feet by a good four inches.

“Look out!”

The leader threw the girl onto the bed and thrust his sword forward under the raised arm of the stranger. Again, the sword clanged as the point encountered metal. As the sword caromed off the breastplate and just missed his compatriot, the point ripped the cloak open. There was a distinct roar as the second brigand, his neck broken, was thrown against the wall, and the stranger turned on the last one. The attack did one thing …

It exposed the man under the cloak …

And it was NOT an improvement.

The lead brigand’s eyes opened wide in shock. The cloak was open now, showing the heavy field plates of a nobleman’s armor. The ripping of the cloak had also pulled back the hood, and a nightmare stared back at him. The thick hair around the man’s face was red as copper, and was shaped very much like a mane. His eyes were a sky-blue and as ice-cold as a frozen lake. Where his nose should have been, a flattened bridge ended with a triangular ridge where his nostrils emerged. His mouth was wide, and his lips were pulled back to reveal a set of fangs among large teeth. The man was a demon shaped like a lion.

The leader of the crime never had a chance. The first swipe of claws shredded the brigand’s face, ripping through flesh and muscles, and even scoring the bones of the skull. The next swipe nearly decapitated him by slicing through both of the carotid arteries, both jugular veins, and the trachea. Only the spinal column at the back of the neck kept his head on his body. The third set of wounds made a mess of his ribcage while the last blow ripped his belly open. Since the four blows occurred in the matter of two heartbeats, the brigand probably was alive until the accumulated damage proved too much for the human body to take. As his intestines uncoiled in an unsightly pile around the man’s knees, the brigand slowly collapsed to the floor.

With the three men dead, and knowing that this was all that had attacked the carriage, he snorted out the smell of blood and offal and turned to the girl. Having seen what the stranger did to the one brigand, she had her face buried in her hands, facing the wall.

“Have you been harmed?” he asked heavily, his voice grainy and hoarse.

For the longest time, she continued to face the wall, her shoulders shuddering.

“I will not hurt you,” he said again. “Please, my Lady. I would ask you to wait outside while I see to these animals.”

“What … what are you?” she stammered.

“A man. My name is Mstislav, and I am the son of the Prince.”

“You … you do not look like a man.”

“My father calls me one and the men who follow me are loyal to me. Please, my Lady. This is no place for you.”

She sniffed and nodded, her face still to the wall. Shaking visibly, she got to her feet, and nearly collapsed. Half expecting him to catch her, she was surprised when she ended up on the floor sitting on her hip. Looking quickly to him, she instantly understood why. His hands were coated in blood and gore, and he seemed extremely reluctant to touch her. Her face went deathly pale at the sight and going past the body of the third brigand, she staggered from the cabin and vomited outside.

Minutes later, he set a crude wooden bucket of cold water by her knees, and a towel-like rug landed on her lap. The man was once more cloaked and hooded – a threatening shadow in the cold cast of moonlight. Seeing light, she realized that he had set fire to the cabin.

“I should have made an example of them,” he said in that gruff voice. “Their bodies should have graced the roadside where they attacked you.”

“And sicken those who pass by that lonely place?”

As she washed her hands and face, she realized that he was caring for a large horse. He bowed to her. “What would you have had me do with them?”

“What you are doing is enough,” she said, looking at the flames now appearing in the open doorway. “If you wish to do something of worth, you could place a chapel there to honor my grandfather and grandmother. What of my brother?”

“He was wounded and left for dead, but I am in hopes he will survive. I had him conveyed to my father’s castle. I believe this is yours.”

Something glimmered in the air in front of her face. He had freed the necklace from the other things that were taken, and it now hung before her. “Yes. It was given to my grandmother, and later given to my mother. Because my mother is dead, Grandmother gave it to me just this morning. It is old … and how it came to us is lost in time.”

“Ah…” he said as she allowed him to replace the necklace around her throat. “I will have done what you suggest, my Lady. A chapel will be built there as you have wished. Come with me, please. I have found their horses, and I believe you can ride one of them if you do not mind sitting sidesaddle in a standard one. You may have a reunion at my father’s castle.”

“I do not understand you, sir.”

“If I may be so bold, Lady Raisa, you are very outspoken for a woman. I find that very refreshing. What do you not understand?”

“How you can be so fierce and bloodthirsty one moment, and so genteel the next?”

The hood nodded. “I have often asked that myself, my Lady.”

“And?”

“The answer still eludes me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Once more, Vincent awoke with a start. The last sentence seemed to echo down the hallways of his mind as the dream faded and became a waking memory that he would write in his journal later. A gentle hand pressed down on his shoulder, meaning that Catherine had also awakened. Indeed, her look of concern was evident in the dimness of their sleep candle – a large beeswax candle that was lit at “night.”

“You dreamed again,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he replied in his grainy whisper. “At best, this man … this Mstislav … is a kindred soul. Someone like me and afflicted to be burdened with my shape.”

“An ancestor?”

Vincent stopped, his clawed hand combing through the wild copper tresses of his mane. Trust Catherine to have a possible answer to a terrible question. “It is… possible…”

This time, both arose out of bed and donned cloaks against the morning chill. Vincent sat down in his chair and pulled out the journal, an inkwell, and his pen. The recounting of this dream was quick, but the penmanship did not suffer from his hand as he transferred the thoughts still vibrant in his mind to the pages of his journal. Catherine stood beside him, reading the words as fast as his hand wrote them down.

Blotting the page, Vincent stared at the journal as if it were something he had never seen before. “Could what Jan have said awakened thoughts in my mind, or could this have been brought to me from … my family line?”

“Ingrained memories?”

He nodded. “Father said that it is possible that we actually store memories from our ancestors – that they are patterned in the very cells that create what we become.”

“In other words, we’re not a clean slate when we are born,” Catherine replied, her head canting to one side in thought. “This type of memory cannot be accessed in the same manner as long- and short-term memories. Something has to be experienced before such a memory can be brought out. When Jan showed you this drawing, it caused you to dream and release this part of your family’s history. Is that what you are thinking here?”

“You must admit it is plausible.” Vincent nodded again.

“But then, it could be merely an overly active imagination. Tell me… did the granddaughter of the professor look like me?”

Blue eyes glanced in her direction before going back to the journal. “No. This young woman had dark hair … auburn in color. Her face was a different shape. She was not you, Catherine.”

“But the son of that Prince …” she mused, her hand stroking his shoulders. “The description does sound like you. If Father had not said you were found as a baby at St. Vincent’s, I would wonder if you were immortal.”

“And endure centuries of being what I am?”

“Vincent … how far have you come in this lifetime alone?” Catherine said, coming around to face him. “You’re with me now, and that problem would have been solved long before now if you had been alive all that time.”

“Remember your initial reaction to seeing me?” he replied quietly. “If I were immortal, I would have to find a woman with the same immortality, or that reaction would occur with each new relationship. However, since I am not immortal, this conversation is mere conjecture.”

Her voice was sober and gentle. “If we have ingrained memories, then we all have a sense of immortality, Vincent.”

He nodded and smiled as he patted her hand. “Perhaps. This makes me wonder if I wish to know what else Jan has to tell us, though.”

“That was the purpose of his travels, after all. You wanted to know …”

“And now I wonder about the price, Catherine.”

“ ‘In much knowledge there is also much grief’,” she said. “I read that quote recently in a magazine. The source was recognized as coming from Queen Marie of Romania.”

“There is a certain irony in your mentioning this,” he replied thoughtfully, “considering what we have been speaking about.”

“Yes,” she agreed somberly. “It does make you wonder what else Jan found. Do you think it will affect you like this?”

“That depends. I wonder …”

“What, Vincent?”

“There are still some unanswered questions about Mstislav. For example, why did he suddenly show up in that region and then flee again? Who is pursuing him?”

“These papers do not mention this?”

“I am not sure. We shall ask Jan when we see him after breakfast.” His head came up, and he sniffed. “Which will be soon, if I can judge the air. Come. Let us get properly dressed and we can see what Mary has gathered for us.”

His eyes once more went to the drawing, and he picked it up. “That young woman drew this. Of that, I am quite certain.”

Nodding, he placed the drawing back on the stack, and then went to the closet where his characteristic doublet was hanging. Silently, they dressed, and then he picked up the pages and placed them into a satchel he now wore over his shoulder.  Soon after, they left the room for the dining hall.

~~~~~ End Chapter One ~~~~~

Chapter Two