1 Chapter 1

In a quiet room the glow of the surrounding circle of candles gave off a dim warm light.

He sat cross-legged in silence on the floor in front of the silver bowl of water in the center of the circle, palms open, relaxed, hands on his knees. The surface of the water was still. Very carefully, he reached out a hand and picked up the small bottle on the floor next to him. Equally carefully, he tilted it slowly until a single drop fell into the center of the bowl.

It was oily and it spread out quickly over the surface, shimmering darkly. It smelled of cedar and cypress and pine, green depths and rich earthy expectations, still and dark as the forest from which it had come.

He replaced the lid on the bottle and put it back on the floor.

Steadily, he drew in a breath. It was make or break time now. He either gave up and never came back to this, or he pursued the path he’d been following for the last fortnight.

With resolve, he lifted his hands and placed them on the bowl, cupping it. He began, very, very cautiously, to open up his Othersense, breathing in the scent of the oil, aware of the light of the candles falling on his skin in an almost tactile way and letting his focus narrow down to the center of the ring of flame, dismissing everything else as superfluous.

He closed his eyes and pictured Mira, the sense of her. Dark, strong, beautiful. Headstrong. Driven. Self-centered. Mercurial. Stubborn.

There. A twist and a push and there it was. A flash, like the edge of a coat or dress disappearing around a corner. A red dress. He rushed after it with his Othersense, grasping, afraid he’d lose it because it was so faint. As he did so he let go of the bowl—it was only a tool to focus anyway—and reached out with hands, as if that would help.

It was faint, faint, faint, and fading. He took a huge breath in, breathed out, and pushed, grabbed for it, caught the trailing edge in his outstretched hand and closed his fingers, both mentally and in reality.

There was a loud bang and shock of cold as the temperature in the room dropped suddenly. All the candles went out at once. He still had his eyes shut but the glow of light on his eyelids was replaced with darkness. He gasped and started coughing as cold, wet air hit his lungs. 1:Coming Home, 1918

The empty police office smelled the same. Dusty formality, sweat, exhaustion, and boredom. The sun came in through the high arched windows and turned the dust motes in the air to clouds of golden haze. The dark wooden desks shone and the chairs were in the same positions they had been in four years ago. Even the paperwork piled on the surfaces looked like it hadn’t shifted an inch.

Alec stood for a moment in the open doorway and took it all in, re-acclimatizing. He still felt odd in his civvies, even more so now he was back at work. For four years, ‘work’ had equaled a uniform, webbing, puttees, a Webley revolver on his hip, and a red cap. Now he was in one of his pre-war suits, slightly too small across the shoulders, and an overcoat that smelled of mothballs. He took it off and hung it, with his hat, on the tall umbrella stand by the door.

“Can I help you?” A pleasant, light voice came from behind him as he turned back. A chap leaned in the open doorway on the right of the room, cup and saucer of tea balanced in one hand. He was wearing an immaculately-cut pinstripe suit. Alec immediately felt shabby. He stepped forward, regardless, holding out his hand.

“Good morning. I’m Alastair Carter. The new inspector.”

The other man smiled and moved to put his tea down and clasp Alec’s hand with a warm, firm grip. “Ah, yes, the Super said you’d be starting today. Will Grant. I’m your sergeant. Very pleased to meet you.” He picked his cup up again. “Come and get a cup of tea and I’ll show you around. We’re rather short-staffed, I’m afraid. There’s just me, Laurence, and Percy. Desperately glad you’ve arrived. We’ve been puttering along, but there’s plenty to get stuck into.”

He busied himself pouring tea from a pot on the desk in the small office he’d emerged from. “I’ve been in here, but I’ll clear out into the main office. It’s the Inspector’s cubbyhole, actually. You were stationed here before?”

“Yes, for a few months. It’s not changed much.” He looked around. Vesper had been the inspector in ‘14. The old man had retired a few months ago, well past the age he should have been pensioned off. During all his time in France Alec had known he’d come back, but he hadn’t thought he’d come straight in again as an inspector. They were desperately undermanned though, Wolsey had said yesterday when he’d gone down to Scotland Yard to see him.