Aphelion by Andy Frankham-Allen Page A

that Holtzrichter removed himself from Isobel’s home, leaving her looking at the rolled-up parchment still sitting on the table.
    *
    Lyon, France, 1790.
    Frederick looked up from the parchment, at the unwanted knock at his closed door. Things were getting ugly in France, another kind of revolution was underway, of the kind the Three had expressly forbidden their people to get involved in. Only two days ago the Civil Constitution of the Clergy was passed by the Assembly, despite King Louis’ apparent objections. Even now Celeste was visiting the king to try and talk some sense into him. It always surprised Frederick, even after almost fifty-seven years, the way Celeste was able to talk her way into the confidence of those in power. He knew it should not surprise him, after all Celeste was born of noble blood, and she was at home with nobility of every kind. Especially in her own country.
    It frustrated him, too, that Celeste was becoming involved in the revolution sweeping France, when it was she who created the Domain Council to prevent such involvement in worldly affairs. But there was no reasoning with her; France was her pet project, and she had to do her best to keep the forthcoming war she feared from the French borders. If Celeste was to believed there was nothing to be done, France would be at war within a few years. It was now inevitable.
    He rose from the table, glancing one last time at the pile of parchment, and turned to the door. That also frustrated him. He had studied the words on the parchment many times in the last two years, ever since he had claimed them from Lady Isobel, and now knew them word-perfect, but still he wanted to know more. In that time he had scoured all over, visited countless countries to uncover anything that would help him discover the answers he needed. So far all he had found was scraps; notes written in obscure languages that he could not read. Even the best translators found much of the languages difficult to understand. What he had read, though, intrigued him greatly, even if a lot of it was contradictory. Of one thing he was sure, he had to learn more, to find out the truth of where his people had come from. He had never believed the lies spread by the Brotherhood, but he was beginning to suspect that Julius, although undeniably egocentric and deranged, was closer to the truth than Frederick liked.
    “What is it?” he demanded, as he flung the door open. Honoré, the head servant of Celeste’s house, stood there, his face a mask of fear. “Well, speak!”
    “ Pardon, monsieur, un courrier a introduit le present document pour vous, ” Honoré said, and handed Frederick a rolled-up parchment, sealed with a red ribbon. Frederick’s French was shaky at best, even though he’d been with a French woman for over fifty years, but he understood a few words. Someone had brought this document to the house for him. To take him from his studies it had better be of importance.
    “ Merci ,” Frederick said, and turned from Honoré, unrolling the parchment. He stopped in his tracks and read the words written in the finely crafted script twice. He swallowed, span on his feet, and turned back to Honoré, who was already walking away from Frederick’s room. “Honoré, has Celeste returned?”
    Honoré stopped and looked back, with a frown of concentration. “ Pardon, monsieur, je ne comprends pas. ”
    Frederick growled. “That is the problem, neither of us understand the…” He paused. “Wait, I did understand that. Celeste, a retourné ?” he asked, suddenly able to speak and understand fluent French. Celeste always said that eventually he would be able to understand every language he heard, a peculiar trait that their people developed when near the Second Death. Which meant soon it would be time to… Frederick shook his head. No, he did not wish to contemplate what that meant. He knew, that was enough.
    “She has, sir. I believe she is dining at this moment,” Honoré