Mortal Love Read Free Page A

recess.
    â€œBumstick!” The poet flailed at the air, cursing and laughing. “Phossy’s made a fool of me! Come back, dear—”
    He was reaching for his brandy flask when he heard a rustling in the darkness.
    â€œI know the way,” said a soft voice.
    The poet looked up. In the middle of the passage stood a man holding a lantern. “Swinburne,” the man said. “I am Jacobus Candell. We have met before, do you recall? Three years ago, an afternoon at my patron, Dr. Langley’s. You spoke of swimming in the sea at Padwithiel and nearly drowning.”
    Swinburne grinned in delight. “Yes, of course! And you are acquainted with Burton—surely he has arranged this! He—”
    â€œNo. She has arranged it.”
    The man smiled. His overcoat was dirty and opened to reveal an artist’s smock beneath, smeared with flecks of eggshell, strings of dried paint, leaf mold. “I know the way. I will be your guide. I have come a great distance to find you.”
    Swinburne took a sip of brandy. “Then I am indebted to you, sir. I had understood that you were with your patron, Langley. That you were in Egypt. The Tombs of Sestris…”
    The painter stepped toward him. The lantern’s glow touched his face: a round, pleasant face, bearded and with wide, pale-blue eyes above a rosy mouth. He was not more than thirty-three or -four, roughly the same age as Swinburne.
    â€œI have just arrived!” Candell gave a small gasping laugh and began to talk excitedly, as though picking up a conversation they had left off an hour ago. “I have come to show you! The tombs were nothing, Egypt is nothing—you will see as I did, the world is beneath us! A tunnel. A—”
    He gestured at the passage, mouth working as though he could not recall a word or name. “Her aperture. The mound.”
    Swinburne giggled. Candell smiled slowly, a smile of great sweetness, then gently touched the poet’s arm. “Such things as I saw.… We spent another week in Alexandria, because Langley wanted to be certain that I had enough time to record his travels properly. There the light is so rich that beggars promise to sell you a quantity of sun for a single mejidy! I paid them, and see, see…”
    He held out a filthy hand. “It dazzles you,” the painter whispered, fingers spreading as though he freed a captive sparrow. “But you must accustom your eyes to brilliance, else you will go blind at what we are to see.”
    Swinburne let his head fall back so that he could stare into the vaulted darkness overhead. “I see nothing.”
    â€œYou will!” insisted Candell. “Wonder. Worship.”
    He began to walk away from Swinburne, deeper into the tunnel. “Oh, wonderful. Such brilliance. You will see, we will all see.”
    â€œHe knows the way!” the poet exclaimed. He began to run after the painter. “Wait, wait—”
    Candell grinned broadly. “Green!” he shouted, his hands outstretched before him as he ran. “Green!”
    Swinburne struggled to catch up with him. They were deep beneath the city now. Around them, half seen, were ruins of Londinium. A temple, a brothel, huge polished stones. “He will show us marvels,” Swinburne whispered, squeezing his hands together in anticipation.
    â€œVerdetta, vetiver, woodbine,” said Candell, and groaned. “I will see,” he said and, snatching at the air, crushed something between his fingers.
    Before them the passage narrowed, ending in an earthen wall. Candell’s lantern bobbed as he stooped, then crawled through an opening.
    â€œOh, glorious lumen. I see light,” said Swinburne, hastening after him. “A crack, a crack!”
    He wriggled through the gap, and stood.
    They were in a large room or cavern with a rough convex ceiling, composed of stone and mortar. Threads of vegetation protruded from between the stones overhead;