© 2013 Lujayn Ambers. All rights reserved

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The image for the cover on the right is by Kryseis Retouche.

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Chapter 1. Unearthed

The tip of the fountain pen slid across plain paper, staining it in black. Clara paused to adjust the position of the leather-bound diary, placing it above her raised left thigh. She continued writing, ebony letters bending to the will of the pen.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw a pebble flitting through the air and heading to her tree. Clara closed her diary, her pen falling down, and placed it in front of her to block the stone. It bumped the hard cover of the book and plummeted to the ground. She surveyed the thicket where the stone had come from.

There he is. What was he thinking? I could have fallen off the tree! she thought as she glared at the young man hiding between two clumps of bushes.

Timothy walked out of his hiding spot, clutching at his ribs and shaking with laughter. When he sobered, he said, “You should see your face. You look like a ghost!”

She frowned at him. “What was that for?”

His blue eyes twinkled. “I wanted to surprise you.”

She wanted to pinch his pug nose for startling her. Dropping her diary in the crook of a low branch, Clara jumped down from the tree. Timothy took the diary and gave it to her, an apologetic smile playing at his lips. She lifted her skirt to her shins and knelt down to search for her pen. Yellow streaks of light shimmied through the leaves, dappling the grass below her in shades of gold and brown.

“Right, I’m going to the apothecary. Mother needs medicine,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

She looked at his retreating back until he disappeared behind the gate. He was her best friend. They had spent their childhood days playing by the gardens and chasing rabbits in the fields. When they had reached adulthood, their friendship had evolved. They could not act as themselves unless they were far from prying eyes for he was a footman and the son of their head cook, while she, the daughter of a wealthy merchant.

The wind whistled, stroking stray curls of red hair from her face. She spotted the fountain pen. It had fallen into a hole hidden by the roots of the tree. Clara dipped her hand into the gap but as she pulled out the pen, she touched a rough fabric instead of the soft grains of soil. Curious to know what she had discovered, she pulled out the cloth.

A small pouch caked with mud hung between her thumb and index finger. She opened it and took out an antique necklace. It was beautiful and warm to the touch. A silver chain slid down her hand.

The locket was circular and bigger than a golden coin. Intricate designs were etched on its surface, surrounding four leaf-shaped red crystals lodged at the centre. The crystals formed a flower of ruby gems. At the back of the circular metal, there were strange markings of a foreign language. Clara touched the locket, intrigued by its charm.

I have seen this before. I know it.

When she opened the locket, a flash of light blinded her eyes until she closed them. Then it was gone. She blinked, unsure of what had happened. Shocked, she threw the necklace to the ground and leaned back. Had she seen the light or had it been a figment of her imagination?

Chastising herself for her naivety, she picked it up. Within the locket was a simple watch, the outer rim of its encased metal ornamented with elaborated circles and tribal designs. The hands of time were frozen—never moving, never ticking. She closed the locket and opened it again but this time, no blinding light was released.

I must have imagined it. It couldn’t have been real.

Metal clanged, drawing her attention to the gate. A coachman was guiding the horses into the compound, a carriage scuttling behind him. When the carriage stopped, Richard Allenson, her father, stepped out and walked into the manor.

A twinge of excitement hummed through her heart. Blaming her overactive imagination for the little incident, Clara returned the necklace to its pouch. She would take it and examine it later. For now, she needed to speak with her father.

She picked up her things and went after him. For the past few days, she had been planning to travel to a nearby town for an opera. She wanted to leave alone, without his guards accompanying her. If her father gave her permission, she would have her first adventure. The thought of it thrilled her.

Clara walked into a vestibule and saw him entering the dining hall. By the time she was in the room, he had settled on one of the chairs. A glittering chandelier with multi-colored glass hung from the ceiling, casting a splash of yellow, green, orange, red and blue on the round table below it. She greeted her father and sat down.

 “Ah, the food looks delicious,” he said as he picked up a spoon.

Before her was a variety of afternoon dishes. The delectable aroma wafted to her nose and she licked her mouth. A maid placed a slice of roasted chicken and raw vegetables on her plate but she dragged her gaze away from the table to her father.

Anticipation bubbled inside her and her mind brimmed with scenarios on how best to tell him of the trip. Sighing, she cleared her throat.

“Is something the matter, my dear?” Richard asked.

She fidgeted with a folk. “May I ask you something?”

He nodded and took a sip from his wine. “Yes, of course.”

“There’s an opera in a neighboring town and I would love to attend. I believe it will be a wonderful experience to celebrate my coming of age if I go alone.”

His face scrunched up before he coughed and choked. By the looks of it, a dreary feeling constricted her throat. Face tinged red and eyes watered by tears, her father grabbed his glass of wine and drained it.

“Are you insane? I have told you countless times that I will not allow you to go out unaccompanied by my guards. I cannot bear to lose you, Clara. Not after what happened to your...” he paused, unable to speak of his late wife’s name. “I will not give you permission, young lady.”

“But Father, I am a grown woman! I want to do this on my own or at the very least, I could go with Timothy and Josephine. Just not your men!”

He placed his spoon on his plate and raked a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair.  “I will not allow this. Listen, we’re not having this discussion at lunch.”

Exasperated, she pushed her chair back. She knew her father loved her but sometimes, he was so overprotective of her that she felt smothered. She could take care of herself. She wasn’t a ten year old child. It was true that she was a pampered daughter but for the first time, she wanted a change from the humdrum of her usual life.

“I have lost my appetite. Enjoy your meal. Mother would never have reacted the way you did.”

“Clara…”

She rushed out of the dining room and up the stairs. The walls were bedecked with lavish paintings of her ancestors. A scowl set upon her face and her eyes swept coolly over the rich decoration. None of them had the image of her mother.

At the tender age of six, she had lost her mother to an incurable illness. Overwhelmed with grief, Richard Allenson had taken away every item that reminded him of his late wife. Clara never came into terms with his enigmatic action. She believed that no loved one’s death should be treated as riddance from the world. Their memories ought to be kept alive.

Entering her room, she shut the door, dropped the pouch on her vanity table and slumped on the bed. She could feel her irritation rising up. Her father’s refusal felt like a slap on the cheek. She brought the diary to her chest and squeezed it. It had been a gift from her mother—the only memory left of her.

For years, she had put up with his overprotectiveness. He had given her everything but denied her the one thing she always craved—freedom. He rarely allowed her to go out of the compound and on the rare occasion that he did, she would be accompanied by him and his guards. He had told her he did it to protect her. To keep her safe so that no harm would come to her.

She was tired of it. Tired of being flanked by men who were too dull and obstinate. Tired of being locked up in the manor like a prisoner.

A knock at the door reverberated. Josephine, her nanny, came in with a tray laden with food. After she had placed the tray on her nightstand, the old woman sat beside her. Josephine had raised her like her own daughter and she had come to accept her as family and not just a mere servant.

“He refused to let me go on the trip,” Clara said, fighting to control her emotions.

Josephine patted her knee. “I know, child. Perhaps you could try speaking to him later.”

She knew her father wouldn’t change his mind. Standing up, Clara stared out the window, at the tall hedge that bordered their compound. She didn’t want to stay in the manor for the rest of her life. She wanted to explore the world outside, travel to exotic lands and meet new people.

How long will I live like this? I want something more…

An idea slithered into her thoughts. She faced Josephine and hugged her. Hesitant, the old woman stood stiff. “Are you all right, Clara?”

“I’m fine now,” she replied.

When her nanny left, she dragged a suitcase from under her bed. It took her ten minutes to pack a few clothes, jewelry, money and her diary. She pulled out the bed sheet and took out two more from her closet. Once she had rolled them, she knotted them at the ends until she was left with a long rope. Tying the rope to the handles of her bag, she made sure no one was watching before dropping it out of the window. It would be covered by the flower bed below.

Clara took out the necklace from the pouch and wore it. She wanted to keep it. There was something familiar to it. Its touch seemed to channel warmth into her palms. She gave her room a final glance and left. Since the servants were busy doing their chores, she hoped they wouldn’t notice when she sneaked out. She couldn’t wait until after dusk. Her father’s guards would be watching the gardens.

When she was outside, she collected her bag and untied the rope. Footsteps echoed from behind her. Panic struck her chest. She concealed the suitcase behind a pot plant and pretended to sniff the flowers. A footman walked past her, whistling to himself. When he was out of sight, she breathed a sigh of relief.

There’s no turning back now.

She ran towards the trees. When she was close to the hedge, Clara searched for a way to get over it. She could try cutting the stems but it would take her several hours. She didn’t have a knife either. A short tree stood close to the fence, a tree with two branches that spread out to the other side.

Lifting up her bag, she threw it over the hedge. It hit the top and bounced back with a resounding thud. Alarmed, she glanced at the gardens. If any of the servants heard the noise, her plan would be thwarted. She hefted the suitcase and tried again, this time using all of her strength to make the throw. It brushed over the leaves and tumbled to the other side.

Satisfied, Clara climbed the tree, using gnarls and bark holes to help her ascent. She tested one of the branches that led to the other side of the fence and found it stable. Stepping on it, she used the branch over her head that ran parallel to the one under her feet as a support. Inch by inch, she moved away from the trunk until she was standing right above the shrubbery.

Twigs snapped.

She lost her footing, her leg slipping off. Gripping the upper branch, she regained her balance and gave a sharp exhale of air.

 “What are you doing, Ms. Allenson?”

She froze, her heartbeats speeding up. She had been found. Looking down, she saw Peter’s stern face. He was one of her father’s guards and he had caught her right in the act.

“Get down from there,” Peter warned.

She was so close to the outside. If she gave up now, she would never get another chance. Facing forward, Clara jumped. There was a ripping sound followed by the crunch of leaves. The hem of her dress had been snagged by a stem but she had no time to examine it. She had made it. She was finally outside on her own.

“Stop!”

She didn’t listen. Peter rushed towards the gate while shouting. Taking her bag, Clara steeled her nerves and ran.