Ancient Illusions

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As Michael approached the main doors of Wintersgate, he looked up at its frieze of winged griffins lurking over the entry and found their expressions to be as malevolent as he remembered.

Stedman, his father’s valet, opened the door. “Master Michael, welcome home.”

Michael shook hands with the man who had worked for the family over thirty years. His hair was thinner now, but he was still skinny and dour-looking in an impeccable black suit, white shirt, and black bowtie.

“Good to see you, Stedman.” He realized he had never known the man’s first name. “Is my father home?”

“He is in his laboratory. Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Stedman picked up Michael’s suitcase.

As Michael stepped into the house, his head began to ache. The air felt stale, and he noticed a sour taste in his mouth.

He paused in the foyer. Once, he had believed Wintersgate’s massive entry hall was beautiful with white marble floors, crimson wallpaper, and a white ceiling bordered by gold. But as he looked it over now, he saw that the wallpaper had darkened and turned blotchy with age, the white ceiling had yellowed, and the chandelier no longer sparkled.

To the right was an elegantly curved staircase, and to the left hung a grotesque tapestry of St. George bloodily killing a dragon. The tapestry had given Michael nightmares as a little boy. Near it, double doors led to a large, drafty drawing room.

He crossed the foyer to what his parents called the breakfast room, although they used it for much more than breakfast. Semi-circular, floor-to-ceiling bow windows at the far end provided a magnificent view of the Atlantic. A comfortable sitting area was set up in front of them while the center of the room held the table and chairs where the family ate all but the most formal meals. That is, when there had been a family.

It was the only “downstairs” room that Michael’s mother had decorated, and the only room Michael had ever liked besides his own and his mother’s tower room. The others were too big, dark, stultifying, and intimidating.

As Michael anxiously waited for his father, he stood by the windows looking out at the storm. As he drove onto Wintersgate’s property, it had hit with fury. Now, the rain fell in sheets.

His headache grew worse as he waited over twenty minutes before he heard footsteps behind him.

William Claude Rempart seemed smaller than Michael remembered. His hair was snow white now, and framed his face in a halo-like cloud. But he appeared healthy, even robust, for a man of eighty-eight.

Michael squared his shoulders, standing erect as scowling black eyes took in every detail about him, and seemed to find him wanting.

“This is a surprise,” William Claude’s words were curt, his voice as deep and reverberating as always.

Michael wasn’t sure how to greet his father, opting for a simple, “Hello, father.”

William Claude’s lips tightened. “It’s been a long time.” He walked to an armchair covered in a yellow fabric decorated with bluebirds and sat. Michael remembered that his mother had loved the pattern, calling it a French toile. Seeing the upholstery now faded and worn saddened him, yet another sign of loss and the passing of time.

Michael took a seat facing his father as Stedman brought in a tray with coffee, brandy, and an array of appetizers. He poured their drinks and left the room.

William Claude reached for his brandy. “Archeology has been good to you, I understand. Finding that Spanish galleon some years back and getting a TV show.”

Michael found the whole episode an embarrassment. At the time it happened, he was young, bitter, and wanted to prove to the world that he could be important, that he was worth something. He had taken a ridiculous risk going after a treasure dismissed and mocked by better men than he. It had paid off. Hollywood had decided he had star-quality good looks and had dubbed him a “real-life Indiana Jones.” For a while he even headlined a National Geographic series on archeology.

That attention led to opportunities for fascinating digs and more discoveries. Yet the attention he most sought never came.

Eventually, he stopped hoping for it.

“I’m glad that part of my life is over,” he admitted.

“I should think so. Someone in town gave Stedman a copy of some tawdry magazine. People, I believe it was called.” William Claude sniffed. “Pictures of you with beautiful women. Starlets. I half expected to hear you would star in some outlandish adventure film. Quite beneath you, Michael.”

Michael felt irritation stir. He worked to tamp down his reaction. "I’m here so we can talk."

“Good.” William Claude finished the brandy and put the snifter back on the table. “Have you attempted alchemy yet?”

“You say that as if you expect I will.”

“I do.”

“And I do my best to keep away from the occult.”

“Not successfully, from what I’ve heard.” William Claude’s eyes narrowed. “For example, your strange adventure in China last year, and an ancient, highly valued pearl.”

The words surprised Michael. He had done all he could to keep the episode quiet. “I can’t imagine where you would have heard such a thing.”

“Who knows?” William Claude shrugged, then his lips curved sardonically. “Was it worthwhile, or just another publicity stunt?”

Michael sucked in his breath. Coming here, facing this man, hadn't been easy. “Neither. The stories about the pearl were all false. It’s worth nothing.”

William Claude’s lips pursed. “I assumed the pearl was, in fact, a philosopher’s stone.”

“Only to someone who sees alchemy wherever he looks,” Michael said with a mocking tone.

“And rightly so!” William Claude bristled. “So tell me, what did you do with the pearl?”

“Nothing worth discussing.”

His father smirked. “Afraid I might steal it, are you?”

“Of course not.” Michael stared hard at the man now, at dark eyes similar to his own. "But I’m not here to talk about the pearl. I’m here for answers to my own questions.”

The smirk broadened.

Michael glared. “I want to know what happened sixteen years ago. It’s well beyond time for me to learn the truth."

A low chuckling began deep in William Claude’s throat and erupted into a bark of laughter. "Of course you do. You’re so predictable, Michael."

Michael remembered other times his father had laughed at and mocked him. The memory, the laughter, made the pounding in his head grow worse.

Abruptly, William Claude’s laughter ended, and he coldly eyed his son. "You haven’t gone back to archeology, have you? Not after what happened to Lionel.”

The headache became a migraine, and streaks of color flashed before Michael’s eyes as he thought of his older brother, Lionel, who had been William Claude’s favorite. “I’m not quite back yet,” he murmured, “but archeology is my passion.”

“As alchemy should be.”

“But never was.” Michael’s voice grew hard and determined even as he rubbed his brow. “You know, don’t you, that alchemy is the reason Lionel is dead?”

“If Lionel had used it properly, he would still be alive.” William Claude’s eyes were harsh, but his expression gradually eased. “You shouldn’t mock it, not with your abilities. As much as I hate to admit it, you are one of the fortunate Rempart men blessed by the alchemical world.”

“If so, it’s hardly a blessing.”

“But there, you’re wrong.” William Claude leaned forward in the chair. “I see your head hurts. Let me help.” He pressed his hand across Michael’s forehead.

The hand felt icy, but the pulsating throbs immediately ceased, and the flashes of light hurting his eyes vanished. Despite that, Michael jerked back in his chair. He was shocked; his father never touched him. And he couldn’t ignore the sense that something was wrong, perhaps evil, about it.

William Claude dropped his hand. His lips spread wide and thin in a grin. “You should rest, Michael,” he said as he stood. “Dinner is at eight.”