Darkness In The Flames Read Free

shall I?” With the ease of a long and comfortable association, the butler respectfully passed his employer his hat. He had been with Sidney Chesswell, man and boy. He, of all people, knew of Sidney’s need to “breathe”.
    And breathe he did. Heedless of the wind that had picked up considerably, Sir Sidney strode down the narrow path to the Chyne and the stairs that would take him to the beach. His pace was that of a man half his age, and in truth his appearance gave the lie to the records in the local church. Yes, he had been born close to three score years before, in this very parish. Only his white hair would attest to those years, however. The rest of him was in very good shape indeed.
    Except for his heart. That had been irreparably broken the day Josephine left him.
    The memories flooded back at Jacob’s words, swamping his thoughts with remembered images. Josephine laughing, Josephine riding with long black hair flying free in the wind, Josephine naked on their bed—and Josephine crying.
    She’d laughed less and cried more as their life together continued, until finally she’d left, taking Sidney’s heart with her. Mercurial, highly-strung and nervous, her moods changed as rapidly as the skies over St. Chesswell’s Chyne, and it wasn’t long before Sidney knew their marriage was doomed.
    He couldn’t love her enough. Or perhaps he loved her too much. Either way, he couldn’t hold her. One morning—one bitterly cold November morning—he’d awoken to a sense of unease, of knowing something was wrong.
    It was. Josephine had gone.
    He’d never loved another woman since then. And he’d never seen Josephine again.
    Absently, Sidney avoided the rippling waves at the water’s edge as he strode along the beach. The wind was stronger now, forcing him to stop and settle his hat more firmly. His coat flapped freely, lifting like the sails of some landlocked vessel anxious to set sail.
    Casting his memories aside with an oath, he walked on, turning his thoughts to his latest find—a unique and ancient copy of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. This parchment, alleged to be a copy of the original papyrus, had cost him a small fortune, and Sidney was convinced it would be worth the expense.
    His knowledge of the occult would be increased tenfold and perhaps his powers might be enhanced. He could even hope that one of his spells would be successful, even though he hadn’t quite managed to get an incantation working yet. He would persevere. Chesswells always did.
    Of course, not many Chesswells had devoted their studies to the unearthly, the unreal and the supernatural, even though legends of the same circulated around St. Chesswell’s Chyne like a flock of seagulls over a school of fish.
    The “Curse” was only one of the many tales that time embellished into myths. Sidney refused to believe that red-haired women brought terrible changes to the place. It was far more likely that a bad love affair had started that particular tale.
    Sir Sidney Chesswell disdained the title warlock or wizard . He regarded himself as a scientist exploring the unseen world he was convinced existed allaround him. He’d read the scholarly treatises on the world of spirits, absorbed as much knowledge as he could find on the power of the human mind, and had attempted to meld these with the readily available folklore to create his own form of magic.
    He knew of the light and dark sides to forces beyond his comprehension, and he believed strongly that both God and the Devil existed. There was no avenue of pursuit closed to him, because he was a man with an open mind.
    And, indeed, an open door. But few availed themselves of it, and he relished his solitude and his studies, letting the world pass by his isolated portion of it. He needed few servants since he entertained so little, and even then only old friends who would not expect luxury. St. Chesswell was off the beaten track, and the Chyne scarring the coastline was barely accessible to