The Dragon's Eye
Excerpt
Amiens, France
April 2, 1902
The dark, stone house rose into view as my carriage crested the small rise. It was larger than I imagined, more foreboding perhaps on this cloudy night, but nonetheless fitting. The owners had extended me a personal invitation, and I was too intrigued to pass up the opportunity.
The driver stopped beside a high wall, then jumped down next to the small palfrey. I looked around carefully at the large homestead of one of France's most prolific writers and smiled. No, I was not about to forgo such an offer.
The evening sky was dark as pitch, with heavy clouds blotting out what feeble sunlight still remained above. It had been that way most of the afternoon since the London ferry docked at Boulogne. Although it was early spring, I pulled my shawl tighter across my shoulders to stave off the chilly air.
My door opened, and Robert Sherard extended his hand. "Step right this way, Miss Bisland. I notified them your train was delayed. They are expecting you."
I had passed through France over a decade ago under quite different circumstances, but this was my first visit to Amiens. For the first time, I noticed a door set within the stout framework of the wall. Course heavy vines, ancient as the stones, had crept their way from the grey earth, reaching ever upwards. My guide pulled a heavy key from his breast pocket, opened a wrought-iron door set in the wall, and ushered me through.
The exterior of the house was illuminated by a gaslight set on a pole thirty feet away, but a soft glow from the large windows on the first floor told me the occupants were still up, despite the late hour. It was a quarter past eight. I had not eaten since breakfast. My stomach rumbled. I was hopeful they had some food available to me.
Sherard was a tall man of 40, with blond hair and medium build. He had met me at the train station and escorted me to the mysterious rendezvous here. I knew him by reputation only. He was an author of several obscure novels, but I had not become acquainted with any of them. Sherard told me he knew Oscar Wilde and Victor Hugo, both literary giants of the era. His rich British accent hinted at an Oxford education, but I was only guessing on that point.
He knocked once, twice, then waited patiently before the heavy oak door. How many trips had he taken to this estate? How many foreign guests? Once again, I began to question my very reason for being here.
After a few moments, the door creaked slowly open, its ancient hinges protesting loudly. A small face appeared from the shadows within. It was a woman, probably in her mid-70s if I was to wager. She did not speak but simply nodded in my direction. Sherard offered no explanation, but now it was I who needed patience. We followed the woman into the recesses of this dark old house. I looked around again, this time with wonder and awe.
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