Excerpt from Chapter Four
Silver Street had never been so far away. The fog thickened; moisture beaded on his face and dampened his jerkin. It helped to deaden the sound of his footsteps, but it made him breathe heavier than he already was from nervousness and his swift pace.
He was insane. He shook his head as he turned onto St. Anne’s Lane. He was going to an illegal meeting, held by complete strangers, and …
He stopped at the next corner and looked right, down Foster Lane—as far as he could look in the fog. He was going to define truth. With a long, shaky breath he turned left and headed up Noble Street, his conversation with James playing through his mind.
James asked if he was accusing his father of lying, and he said no. But by doing this, he was. He was doubting him, anyway. That hurt. He bit his teeth together—hard. No. He was just going because he could not stop that—that Voice. His hands clenched at the thought of the first day he had felt the Voice—that golden June day and its execution. Nothing had been the same since then. But it would go back. He slipped right, onto Silver Street. After this—this clandestine gathering, everything would go back to normal. It had to.
Excerpt from Chapter Five
Laurence sank onto his bed. His eyes strayed from the window to the pile of books on his desk. Beneath them lay a paper—the paper. His eyes narrowed. He had hidden it after a few days. But he could not forget that foggy night two months before.
Something had to change soon. He put his chin on his hands with a sigh. Could he really give up the traditions and beliefs that had been his family’s for generations?
Footsteps sounded on the staircase—only half as many as there were steps. Before Laurence could get to his feet to go see what was wrong, his door flew open and he found himself flat on his back, his shoulders held down by two thin, sinewy hands. He blinked a few times. “Uncle Valentine?”
“Laurence, my lad!” The man let go, pulled the desk chair closer to the bed, and sat down. “What kind of a welcome is that?”
Laurence sat up, too surprised to answer. Uncle Valentine was his mother’s youngest brother, a man in his early forties with dark hair, light brown eyes, and a thin, fair face much like Laurence’s own—except for his long moustache. He was an actor, and though a man who held much to his Catholic upbringing, someone Mr. Weston frowned upon and did not allow in his home. Laurence realised there was just as much surprise on his uncle’s face as his own. “Is—is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Uncle Valentine stroked his moustache and shook his head. “No, not that I know of. Is there?”
“I was asking you.” Laurence raised one eyebrow. “Does Father know you’re here?”
“No,” Uncle Valentine replied coolly.
“Does Mother?”
“Again, no.” A smile curved the edges of his long, thin mouth. “You wonder how I got in here? That was easy. Why bother knocking?”
Laurence’s hands, which had been clasping each other, fell into his lap. “The latch wasn’t done up?”
“Does your back door have a latch?”
“Our … back door?” Laurence’s jaw dropped halfway, and he shook his head. “What …?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, lad. What matters is that I came to see you.” Uncle Valentine leaned against one of the bedposts, twirling the hair that hung over his forehead with one finger.
“I—I really appreciate that, Uncle Valentine, but you’re going to get in trouble.”
“Me … trouble?” Uncle Valentine laughed. “Why, I’ve come to realise that me and trouble get along quite nicely. In the theatre—”
Laurence gave a little cough. “What are you going to do if Father comes up here?”
Half of Uncle Valentine’s mouth turned down, and he leaned toward the floor. “There’s room under your bed,” he assured, settling back again, but almost immediately he jumped to his feet. “Laurence, you really should come to the playhouse some time. Why, you’d make a fantastic actor if you tried.”
Laurence’s eyes widened. “Me? An—oh, no. Never.”
“Your father’s a bit harsh on us, I’ll admit, but you can make your own life. Hugh did.” He had been peering out the window, but at the thick silence following his words, Uncle Valentine looked at his nephew. “Are you troubled, lad?”
“Do—do you know anything about Hugh … after he left here, I mean?” Laurence’s breath caught in his throat while he waited for the answer …
… Laurence could not stop a gasp. “You …” His voice came out a hoarse whisper. “Ten years. And you never told me.”
Uncle Valentine stood still, his arms crossed and his eyebrows puckered a little. “Now I have,” he said simply. “That is what I came here for.”
“But why now?”
“Why now?” Uncle Valentine started pacing again. “Why now, indeed. Because I felt the time was right.”