The Odin Inheritance (The Pessarine Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  I looked at the skeleton on the right. Wisps of long red hair clung to the skull, and I had the distinct impression I saw the remains of a woman. I wondered if she was the wife or daughter of the warrior on the left. She had a delicate gold ring mixed within the white bones of her left hand, and a necklace of gold chain framed her neck. From the chain a gold pendant, shaped like some sort of bird, rested on her exposed breastbone. Around the edges of the tomb other grave goods sat: metal and ceramic pots, weapons, and the metal fastenings for wooden items, the wood long ago rotted away. I could see how it would take a fortnight to document all of the artifacts.

  “I sketched both the tomb and its artifacts as we found them in it, and then the artifacts separately, filling three or four books with drawings and notes.” Aunt Miranda chuckled. “Father sat beside me, eyes wide with excitement, speculating on the origins, uses, and reasons for each artifact.”

  It became dusk. I saw the two of them in one of the tents, seated on stools with a flickering lantern illuminating their work. I saw a much younger version of Aunt Miranda, her hair a beautiful chestnut brown, her body young and healthy. She wore dirty, old-fashioned clothing I’d only seen in old prints. She sat next to a bearded older man who held one of the pots from the tomb. His eyes flashed in the lamplight and he spoke with great animation.

  “Most of the artifacts Father sent to the British Museum. A few of them he kept for himself, and some of them he gave to me.”

  With a jolt, I found myself back in my chair in the hotel room. Aunt Miranda took another small sip of rum and indicated I should do the same. I did so and set the glass back down, amazed by what I’d just experienced.

  “That’s what Max and the others described,” I said, amazed. “I was on the island—I saw the tomb.”

  “I’ve always found it fascinating how a tale, well told, can transport people to a different place and time,” Aunt Miranda said simply. “It isn’t magic, Ariana, it’s the power of language and imagination. You seem to be developing the skills to tell stories like I’ve just done.”

  “Yes, but—“

  “Didn’t you tell me once that when you aim at something your mind alters somehow?”

  “I did,” I said, thinking about that.

  “Perhaps the telling of stories is merely a new aspect of that... I don’t know... alteration? It seems a more reasonable explanation than magic, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it could be,” I said uncertainly. “That’s a more logical one, at least.”

  “Quite,” my aunt responded.

  A question occurred to me. “You said your father sent some of the artifacts from the tomb to the British Museum, that he kept some, and some he gave to you. What did he give to you?”

  Aunt Miranda held up her two hands, palms facing me. One delicate gold ring sat on the ring finger of her right hand while the other – bigger and obviously meant for a man’s finger – sat on the middle finger of her left hand. I’d seen them countless times before, of course, but I’d not made the connection to the tomb excavation until now.

  “He gave you the gold rings from the skeletons?”

  “As well as the necklace and the armband. I have all of the artifacts on my person at all times.”

  I grimaced. “That seems a bit morbid,” I remarked.

  “There are those who would love to get their barmy hands on these bits of gold,” she told me. “That tomb held a priest and priestess of one of the Norse gods, and there are some who believe these items,” she waggled her fingers at me, “have great power. Father knew that and gave the gold to me, since a woman wearing gold rings is less remarked upon than a man doing so.”

  “Mellie said that about Loki on our way to church today,” I said. “She says there are those who believe the Norse gods still hold sway here on Earth. Do the artifacts you wear possess some sort of power?” I asked, then frowned at myself. That was a foolish question, I mused. Gold artifacts from an ancient tomb holding some sort of mystical power? There was no basis in logic and science for such an idea. I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry... I...“

  “That’s a tale for another time, my dear,” my aunt said, winking mischieviously and standing up. “I’m afraid I’ll have to play the part of Scheherazade and put you off until another time. It’s late, and I’d like some sleep. I dare say you could use some as well.”

  I stood up. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

  “You will,” she agreed, then came around the table to embrace me. Her hug was comforting and soothing, not brimming over with crushing enthusiasm as Max’s tended to be. “I hope what I’ve told you helps you feel less confused,” she said as she let me go.

  “It’s given me a lot to think about,” I admitted. Her story helped explain the happenings in Penzance, but not Laufeson’s abduction attempt. My aunt’s excavation of the priest and priestess’s tomb seemed to indicate there was some sort of familial Norse connection though I didn’t know what to make of that just yet. Laufeson making the connection between me and my aunt’s antique Norse jewelry seemed far too unlikely to be possible.

  I made my way to the door. “Goodnight,” I said, and headed to my hotel room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I found an assignment from Dr. Maitland waiting for me on the bed in my hotel room when I returned. After catching a few hours of thankfully dreamless sleep, I woke up in the very early morning to work on what he’d sent. I had much of it done by the time June arrived at eight in the morning, bringing breakfast and a message from my aunt. She had a full day of errands ahead, the brief note said, and I should be ready by nine to accompany her on said errands.

  I reported, as ordered, to Aunt Miranda at nine o’clock dressed in a new tan day dress. Aunt Miranda had chosen to forego her usual blue dresses and wore a green ensemble, complete with fascinator and reticule.

  “Excellent,” she said, stepping out into the hallway to join me. “Aylmer is waiting for us downstairs. Let us away, and toot sweet!”

  We spent much of the morning after that visiting various shops. I looked around while Aunt Miranda conducted her business, which ran the gamut from purchasing new gowns for her maids to inquiring about having phosphorite lamps installed at Brentwood Close.

  “I do prefer candle and lamp light,” she confided, “but I’m not getting any younger. Phosphorite is less likely to set the house ablaze if I stumble in my eventual feebleness and drop a lamp. Candles are not so forgiving, and I’d hate to lose the old place.”

  We stopped for lunch at a pub, and Aunt Miranda insisted Aylmer join us—which, after a certain amount of disagreement, he did. Our postprandial activities included picking out no fewer than three hats for Mary, since my aunt declared Aylmer’s taste in hats to be appalling.

  “No woman wants to wear a chapeau that looks like it came from a barnyard or was constructed of obscure cooking utensils,” she’d said, astonished by one of Aylmer’s first hat choices. It had been a green thing with no fewer than three artificial birds attached at odd angles, with something that looked like a mini-cheese grater gracing the middle of the monstrosity. The sales clerk had called it ‘avant garde.'

  “Ye Gods. More like ‘be on your guard’,” my aunt had responded with some asperity, and we’d left the shop.

  Luckily, Aylmer appreciated my aunt’s assistance, and he beamed as he carried the three awkward hat boxes, knowing Mary would like the hats very much.

  Then Aunt Miranda ordered Aylmer to take us to the Dean of Mathematics and Sciences at Cambridge, providing him with the address of the dean’s private residence. The cab lurched into motion. She looked at me.

  “His name is Dr. Fieldstone, is it not?”

  I blanched. “It is, but—“

  “I thought so. I’d like to have a word with the fellow, and now’s as good a time as any.”

  “A word?”

  “Indeed. Odd German persons attacking my niece in a library? Not on my watch, or I dare say
, on his. No, sir.”

  “But—“

  “If he’s already aware of Saturday’s altercation, all the better. If not, it will be my great pleasure to inform him of the matter.”

  I swallowed, thinking quickly. I wasn’t sure if my aunt’s intent to have a word with the head of the department in which I pursued a degree would help or hurt my reputation. Dr. Oberlin’s dislike of me was well-known, but I didn’t know Dr. Fieldstone very well. I didn’t know what he’d make of my formidable aunt.

  “It’s the middle of the day on a Monday,” I offered. “He may not be home.” I sort of hoped he wasn’t.

  “Nonsense,” my aunt said, her tone business-like. “He’ll be there, and he’ll see me without an appointment.”

  I slumped in the seat as much as my corset would allow and looked out the window at the street and buildings rolling by, feeling nervous and a little doomed.

  I felt a hand on my knee. “Trust me, my dear,” Aunt Miranda soothed. “I’ll do nothing to jeopardize your standing and hard work here, and I’ll do nothing to encourage the man to dislike you, though I don’t know why on earth he’d not like you.”

  I nodded, the feeling of doom increasing.

  “I want to speak to him for my own piece of mind and to be sure he’s aware how little I appreciate my grand niece being accosted.” She leaned back. “This is what ancient great aunts do, you know, and far better it come from me than from your mother, I think.”

  I shuddered a little. That was true enough.

  “Everything will be fine. You may wait in the carriage with Aylmer while I speak to the man if you’d like.”

  “If I may, I think I’d prefer that.”

  She put up a hand indicating I could please myself. “As you wish.”

  Aunt Miranda’s meeting with Dr. Fieldstone was mercifully brief. When she returned to the carriage, she ordered Aylmer to take us back to the hotel, then turned her considerable attention on me. The cab began to move and sway as Pip headed out under Aylmer’s gentle hand.

  “You will be assured to know that the good dean has been made aware of what the lout did to you, and he was in complete agreement with me that a punishment was required. In large part due to your Mr. Avery’s description of the event and Dr. Maitland speaking very eloquently on your behalf, he barred Augustus Laufeson from all Cambridge libraries for a month.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “A month? Good heavens. There’s no way he’ll be able to do any work assigned by Dr. Oberlin if he’s barred for a month.” Such a punishment, while justified, would do nothing to improve my standing with Dr. Oberlin, unfortunately, but there was nothing I could do about that. I resolved to thank Mr. Avery and Dr. Maitland at my first opportunity.

  “In addition, the dean ordered the man to give you, all other female students and Towson House a wide berth lest he be kicked out permanently.” Aunt Miranda sniffed. “It is hoped this month-long hiatus will encourage the man to betake himself back to Germany permanently.”

  “I think that would be outstanding,” I agreed.

  “Now,” my aunt said, removing her gloves, “we shall return to our rooms, have dinner in the dining room, and I’ll have Aylmer take you back to Towson House so you may sleep in your own bed tonight. I’ll have Sanderson deliver the rest of your new clothes to the residence tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds lovely, Aunt Miranda,” I said, “and thank you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I made my way to the Icarus Club Tuesday evening, after a two-hour afternoon session with Dr. Maitland. It had been a long day. Towson sat a couple miles from Cambridge, so after I’d spent the morning studying, Cora and I’d ridden our bicycles to my usual math class, which I followed with my meeting with Maitland in the same building. Then, meeting Mellie, I rode with her another two miles out of Cambridge in the direction opposite Towson to get to the Icarus Club. Mellie kept up her usual banter as we rode.

  The smell of spring blossoms hung in the air, and I smiled at the heartening sight of budding trees and new flowers pushing up through the soil. We passed the familiar fen lands, farms, and recent roadwork set up beside an old cemetery. We curved around the abandoned wheelbarrows side-by-side, full of cobbles, mislaid shovels, and piles of dirt, with me noting how much progress the workers made on the road since I’d last passed by the site. By the time we arrived at the Club entrance, it was nearly dusk.

  Upstream of Cambridge, the Squadron had lovingly re-purposed an old flour-mill on the Cam to serve as their club. The exterior walls of the three-story building consisted of rectangular grey stones, which remained exposed on the inside of the building. The Mill’s grinding wheel, with the bar counter on top of it, sat in the corner opposite the door, along with much of its hardware as the bar’s backdrop. The waterwheel still spun merrily on the side of the mill as the Cam River flowed by though the wheel’s power fulfilled a different purpose other than turning wheat into flour. Now, it kept the Club warm in winter and cool in summer.

  Everyone in the Squadron contributed time, materials, or money to the endeavor, since we all used the building as a gathering place. Max had headed up the renovation scheme due to his experience as a mason and a carpenter while apprenticed to his father. He and a handful of volunteers had removed the intervening floors between the basement and ceiling, putting in balconies that jutted out from the stone walls at different levels. He’d constructed them to look like carriages, old-fashioned air balloon gondolas, and the decks of ships of various kinds, leaving the blue wide-planked floor free for dancing on Thursdays and daily acquisition of beverages at the grindstone bar.

  A sculpture of the Squadron’s emblem - Icarus bewinged with a sun d’Or sinister in a field azure – hung from the center of the tall ceiling, capturing Icarus in the midst of his delight at flight, before he went too high and plunged to his death. It spun slowly, allowing Icarus’s upturned eyes to scan the entire ceiling of the Club by way of gyroscopes and a gear system of my devising, hidden in the beams and unseen below.

  Many small globe lamps provided light in the ample, airy space, and Squadron members and their guests lounged in the balconies at their leisure, stood by the grindstone bar ordering drinks, or took a tour around the room. Comfortably and elegantly ramshackle, it reflected the rough and tumble life many airship crewmembers lived. I loved it.

  Once I arrived, I thanked Mellie for the escort. She turned to head back to Towson while I climbed the short staircase of the usual nook the Bosch crew inhabited, which was done up like a pirate ship complete with Jolly Roger. A worn wooden table with seven chairs sat in the middle of the space, covered by plans, drawings, and nearly empty glasses of various sizes. I dropped my bookbag in the corner with a satisfying thump and inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of pipe and cigarette smoke, leather, metal, iron and grease, feeling the tension in my shoulders and neck abate. I took a moment to check that my red wavy hair remained coiled firmly to my head. I dusted off my dark green bicycle trousers, linen shirt and jacket. Satisfied that I was presentable, I sat down with my crewmembers, who welcomed me warmly.

  It took no time at all to catch up on what my friends had been up to over the course of the previous few days. Griff told me all about more improvements to the Rover, which seemed to include padded seats from a demolished theatre though he’d need a couple more days with it to get it fully operational. He’d left it at the shed. Lizzie regaled me with her adventures replacing the twisted strut on the Bosch. Needle, a taciturn fellow whose fingers were always ink-stained, grunted and nodded at the appropriate moments in the stories, while Max laughed. Max then related how he had regaled everyone in the Icarus Squadron with tales of my phenomenal success in Penzance. I tried to avoid saying much on that issue and mostly succeeded by nodding and shrugging. I, in turn, told them about my exploits with my aunt and confirmed that the safety equipment she’d promised to contribute was on its way.

  While the others argued about where we should take the Bosch next
, an attractive blond-haired man sidled up beside me. He stood over six feet tall. Muscular and well built, but not overly so, he wore a grey suit with a white shirt and black tie though he didn’t look very comfortable in them. His blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and mischief within a tanned, handsome face.

  “Hello,” he said to me, his smile bright and warm as he sat down to my right. “I hear tell you’re the red-haired young lady who throws darts so well.”

  I blinked in surprise to find the stranger’s accent indicating an American origin. I opened my mouth to answer, but Max intervened in his usual boisterous style.

  “Andrew!” he bellowed and reached over to clasp the man’s hand in a firm handshake. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “As am I,” murmured Lizzie, taking in the handsome fellow in a long, interested look. She was a classic English beauty with blonde hair, blue eyes, and cream-colored skin who never lacked interested suitors. Even clad in her work dress, a navy blue garment that was well cut but otherwise unremarkable, she was a vision. I wasn’t sure if she had a beau at the moment, but I knew she only teased the newcomer. I stifled a smile and she rolled her eyes at me, mimicking a swoon.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” the American said, not noticing Lizzie’s theatrics. He inclined his head at me slightly in apology. “It took longer to walk here than I’d thought.”

  “Ladies and gents,” Max said, making an expansive gesture that included all of us, “allow me to introduce Mr. Andrew Michaelson, late of Southern Texas by way of Cambridge, Massachusetts. He comes to us with high marks from the Harvard Aeronauts, and seeks enlightenment from our merry band in addition to a graduate degree in something meaningful,” Max faltered, “though for the life of me I can’t remember what subject he specializes in.”