door to a much worse one. She feared the article would be a signal flare to their real enemies.
That morning, as the reporters and editors congratulated each other, she couldn’t escape the idea that they had just made a fatal mistake.
Part II
“The Prince of Sanheim is the cycle of life and death.
That’s a litany I have heard since I can remember. Her name was Fara, and to this day I’m unsure of where or how my father came to hire her as my nanny. Certainly, she didn’t fit the usual requirements for that position.
Some of the other servants said it was witchcraft. For all I know, they might be right.
If anyone else thought it unusual, they kept it to themselves. My father had two things that made him above reproach: money and title. And he knew how to use both.
Not that either of those things ever helped him deal with me—or his wife. On paper, I’m the only son and heir to Sir Richard Crowley. In truth, we bear no relation.
I’m not certain who my real father is. Perhaps Sir Richard knew and had the man killed, or merely paid for his silence and passage elsewhere. Or maybe he never knew himself.
What he did know was that I was a bastard, one who would eventually take everything he held dear. I already owned his name and that was all that really mattered. To disown me would have been to admit fault and invite humiliation. To divorce was unthinkable.
The latter option was unavailable to him anyway. My mother died three days after giving birth to me. My father claimed it was complications from childbirth. Fara says Sir Richard poisoned her.
The facts matter little. If she didn’t die naturally, it would have been only a matter of time before she met some ghastly end. Sir Richard was not a man to cross.
Indeed, I’ve often wondered why the old man didn’t kill me as well. Fara says it’s because he couldn’t bear to watch his name be extinguished, even if his blood line was gone.
I can’t say. I’ve only had two dozen or so conversations with the man and his presence in my life is more akin to a distant, angry god than a father.
Each man is shaped by forces beyond his control, events set in motion before his own birth.
For those who believe in a chaotic universe, my birth was the random result of a young wife’s illicit affair. But for me, I know that every event in Sir Richard’s life, my real father’s existence or my mother’s world, was shaped and guided by the hand of fate.
The circumstances of my birth delivered me to Fara, who in turn showed me what I would become—and what I must do to realize my destiny.
I rose above my allotment in life to become legend: the Prince of Sanheim. But that is only the beginning of my story.”
—Robert Crowley, 1871
Chapter 4
Five months later…
September 12, 2007
Carol Cuthberson looked around the room and grimaced. The place was a disaster and it was going to take at least an hour to make it presentable again. She checked the calendar, hoping that she didn’t have any appointments in the morning. But of course it was in vain. Lately, Madame Zora had been more popular than ever.
She had hoped to make it home in time for C.S.I. Instead, she was going to spend a chunk of her evening cleaning up her kewpie dolls and picking beads out of the carpet. She wished Mary Ann was still here, but she always left promptly at 5 p.m., whether there were clients still there or not.
I should have seen this coming.
Maybe.
She was a psychic, after all, and predicting the future was her stock and trade. But Madame Zora couldn’t see everything and this day had been cloudier than most. Even without psychic powers, she knew she was in trouble when that last customer came in. She hadn’t bothered with the smoke and mirrors she often reserved for first-timers, but instead had presented herself as unpretentiously as possible. As soon as he crossed the threshold of her shop, she felt the waves of fury coming off him. When he walked in
That morning, as the reporters and editors congratulated each other, she couldn’t escape the idea that they had just made a fatal mistake.
Part II
“The Prince of Sanheim is the cycle of life and death.
That’s a litany I have heard since I can remember. Her name was Fara, and to this day I’m unsure of where or how my father came to hire her as my nanny. Certainly, she didn’t fit the usual requirements for that position.
Some of the other servants said it was witchcraft. For all I know, they might be right.
If anyone else thought it unusual, they kept it to themselves. My father had two things that made him above reproach: money and title. And he knew how to use both.
Not that either of those things ever helped him deal with me—or his wife. On paper, I’m the only son and heir to Sir Richard Crowley. In truth, we bear no relation.
I’m not certain who my real father is. Perhaps Sir Richard knew and had the man killed, or merely paid for his silence and passage elsewhere. Or maybe he never knew himself.
What he did know was that I was a bastard, one who would eventually take everything he held dear. I already owned his name and that was all that really mattered. To disown me would have been to admit fault and invite humiliation. To divorce was unthinkable.
The latter option was unavailable to him anyway. My mother died three days after giving birth to me. My father claimed it was complications from childbirth. Fara says Sir Richard poisoned her.
The facts matter little. If she didn’t die naturally, it would have been only a matter of time before she met some ghastly end. Sir Richard was not a man to cross.
Indeed, I’ve often wondered why the old man didn’t kill me as well. Fara says it’s because he couldn’t bear to watch his name be extinguished, even if his blood line was gone.
I can’t say. I’ve only had two dozen or so conversations with the man and his presence in my life is more akin to a distant, angry god than a father.
Each man is shaped by forces beyond his control, events set in motion before his own birth.
For those who believe in a chaotic universe, my birth was the random result of a young wife’s illicit affair. But for me, I know that every event in Sir Richard’s life, my real father’s existence or my mother’s world, was shaped and guided by the hand of fate.
The circumstances of my birth delivered me to Fara, who in turn showed me what I would become—and what I must do to realize my destiny.
I rose above my allotment in life to become legend: the Prince of Sanheim. But that is only the beginning of my story.”
—Robert Crowley, 1871
Chapter 4
Five months later…
September 12, 2007
Carol Cuthberson looked around the room and grimaced. The place was a disaster and it was going to take at least an hour to make it presentable again. She checked the calendar, hoping that she didn’t have any appointments in the morning. But of course it was in vain. Lately, Madame Zora had been more popular than ever.
She had hoped to make it home in time for C.S.I. Instead, she was going to spend a chunk of her evening cleaning up her kewpie dolls and picking beads out of the carpet. She wished Mary Ann was still here, but she always left promptly at 5 p.m., whether there were clients still there or not.
I should have seen this coming.
Maybe.
She was a psychic, after all, and predicting the future was her stock and trade. But Madame Zora couldn’t see everything and this day had been cloudier than most. Even without psychic powers, she knew she was in trouble when that last customer came in. She hadn’t bothered with the smoke and mirrors she often reserved for first-timers, but instead had presented herself as unpretentiously as possible. As soon as he crossed the threshold of her shop, she felt the waves of fury coming off him. When he walked in
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