you’ve had enough of waiting,’ a cultured voice spoke. The Graf von Reischor entered the drawing room, leaning upon his gold-handled cane. The man’s bald head gleamed, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a gnarled face. ‘Have you finally decided to confront your past?’
‘No. Only the present.’ Michael strode forward, standing directly in front of the Graf. At the sight of the ambassador’s smug expression, his anger sparked. ‘You had no right to interfere with my orders.’
A faint smile tipped at the Graf’s mouth. ‘You enjoyed being shot, did you?’
‘I need to return to my men and finish the campaign. I owe it to them.’
The Graf’s expression grew solemn. ‘Yes, I suppose you must feel an obligation. I apologise for that, but it couldn’t be helped.’ He gestured for Michael to sit, and withdrew a cloth-wrapped parcel.
‘I made some enquiries, after you refused my initial invitation to come and discuss this mysterious resemblance. I learned from your commanding officer that you had an anonymous benefactor who ordered you brought back from Malta.’
Michael’s gaze narrowed, not understanding what the Graf meant. ‘I was sent back because of my gunshot wounds.’
‘Did you never wonder why your return to service was delayed for so long? Or why none of the others were brought back to London?’
He hadn’t, not really. But then, he’d been in and out of consciousness, fighting for his life. He doubted if he’d have been aware of anything, not after nearly losing his leg. ‘I thought other soldiers had returned with me.’
‘None but you.’ The Graf held out the cloth-wrapped package. ‘I find that rather curious, don’t you? It must have cost a great deal, both to locate your whereabouts and to bring you back to London. Someone obviously wanted to keep you alive. But who?’
Michael took the cloth package and unwrapped an oval miniature. He didn’t know what he expected to see in the painting, but it wasn’t an aged version of himself. The resemblance was so strong, he couldn’t find any words to respond.
‘You see?’ The Graf held out his palm, and Michael returned the miniature to him.
Right now, he felt as if the ground had cracked open beneath him, sending him into a darkened chasm of uncertainty. Though he’d successfully ignored the frequent nightmares, now he could no longer be sure.
‘It could be a coincidence.’ But even as he spoke the words, he knew it wasn’t.
The ambassador levelled a piercing stare at him. ‘That, Lieutenant Thorpe, is what we must find out.’ He poured two cups of tea, but Michael refused the hot drink. The ambassador added milk and sugar to his own cup.
‘There is a legend in Lohenberg. One that has persisted for nearly twenty-three years, of a Changeling Prince.’
‘Changeling?’
‘Only a fairy tale, perhaps. You know how rumours spread.’
Michael waited for the Graf to continue. The ambassador rubbed his beard, lost in thought. ‘Some believe the true Prince was stolen away, switched with another child on All Hallows Eve.’
‘Wouldn’t the King or Queen have noticed, if the boy was different?’
‘The King saw the child for himself and proclaimed that Karl was indeed his son. He silenced the rumours.’ The Graf sipped his tea.
‘Do you think the King was telling the truth?’
‘I don’t know. But I want to be sure that the right man is crowned.’ The Graf finished his tea and set down the cup. ‘Forgive me for interfering with your orders, but I saw no other choice.’
Michael preferred to face enemy bullets, rather than unlock a past that might or might not belong to him. He knew, deep down, that he was the very last sort of man capable of leading a country.
‘If I am wrong,’ the Graf offered, ‘you may return to the Army with no further interference from me. I will repay you handsomely for your co-operation, and I will see to it that Lohenberg provides several ships full of supplies and clothing for
‘No. Only the present.’ Michael strode forward, standing directly in front of the Graf. At the sight of the ambassador’s smug expression, his anger sparked. ‘You had no right to interfere with my orders.’
A faint smile tipped at the Graf’s mouth. ‘You enjoyed being shot, did you?’
‘I need to return to my men and finish the campaign. I owe it to them.’
The Graf’s expression grew solemn. ‘Yes, I suppose you must feel an obligation. I apologise for that, but it couldn’t be helped.’ He gestured for Michael to sit, and withdrew a cloth-wrapped parcel.
‘I made some enquiries, after you refused my initial invitation to come and discuss this mysterious resemblance. I learned from your commanding officer that you had an anonymous benefactor who ordered you brought back from Malta.’
Michael’s gaze narrowed, not understanding what the Graf meant. ‘I was sent back because of my gunshot wounds.’
‘Did you never wonder why your return to service was delayed for so long? Or why none of the others were brought back to London?’
He hadn’t, not really. But then, he’d been in and out of consciousness, fighting for his life. He doubted if he’d have been aware of anything, not after nearly losing his leg. ‘I thought other soldiers had returned with me.’
‘None but you.’ The Graf held out the cloth-wrapped package. ‘I find that rather curious, don’t you? It must have cost a great deal, both to locate your whereabouts and to bring you back to London. Someone obviously wanted to keep you alive. But who?’
Michael took the cloth package and unwrapped an oval miniature. He didn’t know what he expected to see in the painting, but it wasn’t an aged version of himself. The resemblance was so strong, he couldn’t find any words to respond.
‘You see?’ The Graf held out his palm, and Michael returned the miniature to him.
Right now, he felt as if the ground had cracked open beneath him, sending him into a darkened chasm of uncertainty. Though he’d successfully ignored the frequent nightmares, now he could no longer be sure.
‘It could be a coincidence.’ But even as he spoke the words, he knew it wasn’t.
The ambassador levelled a piercing stare at him. ‘That, Lieutenant Thorpe, is what we must find out.’ He poured two cups of tea, but Michael refused the hot drink. The ambassador added milk and sugar to his own cup.
‘There is a legend in Lohenberg. One that has persisted for nearly twenty-three years, of a Changeling Prince.’
‘Changeling?’
‘Only a fairy tale, perhaps. You know how rumours spread.’
Michael waited for the Graf to continue. The ambassador rubbed his beard, lost in thought. ‘Some believe the true Prince was stolen away, switched with another child on All Hallows Eve.’
‘Wouldn’t the King or Queen have noticed, if the boy was different?’
‘The King saw the child for himself and proclaimed that Karl was indeed his son. He silenced the rumours.’ The Graf sipped his tea.
‘Do you think the King was telling the truth?’
‘I don’t know. But I want to be sure that the right man is crowned.’ The Graf finished his tea and set down the cup. ‘Forgive me for interfering with your orders, but I saw no other choice.’
Michael preferred to face enemy bullets, rather than unlock a past that might or might not belong to him. He knew, deep down, that he was the very last sort of man capable of leading a country.
‘If I am wrong,’ the Graf offered, ‘you may return to the Army with no further interference from me. I will repay you handsomely for your co-operation, and I will see to it that Lohenberg provides several ships full of supplies and clothing for
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