Page 3 of A Gathering Storm

Back when Nick used to be friends with the village boys, they’d dare each other to stand at the edge, as close as they could get without falling in. They’d sway there, buffeted by the high coastal winds, waiting for the great rushes of seawater that would explode up through the rocky crevice at high tide, like spurts from a whale’s blowhole, soaking them, sending them running away, shrieking with laughter.

He’d seen the new house—this Varhak Manor—being built when he was out walking, and had wondered who it was for. It was a strange place to build somewhere to live. Not that the house was particularly near the Hole itself. But still.

“I’ve seen the house,” Nick said. “It’s a handsome place.”

Godfrey made a face. “You think so? I think it’s quite ugly. But I suppose that’s the modern style.” He sniffed.

“It’s not as beautiful as Roscarrock House,” Nick agreed, shrugging, and that much was true. Roscarrock House was supremely elegant with its mullioned windows and long gallery, its weathered walls dressed in robes of ivy. The scientist’s house was very different, square and strong, the edges of its brand-new sandstone bricks immaculate and sharp. Nick had been surprised to find that he liked the brutal, modern look of it, but he did.

“What’s more,” Godfrey continued, his tone displeased, “I don’t know anyone who’s even met this Sir Edward yet. Apparently he arrived in Porthkennack a fortnight ago and hasn’t so much as paid a call on anyone. Hasn’t even been seen in the village yet.”

That would bother Godfrey. As far as he was concerned, the Roscarrocks were the most important family in the county, and he would certainly regard this Sir Edward’s neglect of him as an insult.

Not to mention being wildly jealous of his title, Nick thought, suppressing a grin.

“Why d’you ask if I’d seen him if you know no one else has?” he asked, puzzled.

“I thought you might have caught a glimpse on one of your wanderings,” Godfrey said carelessly. He cast Nick a sly glance. “Always up on those cliff tops, aren’t you? Just like your mother. Must be her Gypsy blood coming through.”

Nick smiled thinly. He knew Godfrey meant that as an insult, but Nick refused to take it as one. Even as a very young child, he had known he was different. His skin was darker than most people’s round here, whether in summer or winter, and his hair wasn’t merely black, it was so black it shone with a bluish lustre in the sun, like the plumage on a crow. The only sign of hisgadjoside, his father, was his eyes. These were a distinctive and very light silver grey, bright against his tawny skin. They marked him as an outcast on both sides. Not Roma. Not Cornishman. Not . . . anything.

His mother hadn’t ever belonged in Porthkennack, but she’d had no choice but to stay. Her own father had refused to allow her to return to her people after she’d run off with the Englishgadjo. Not that it changed how she thought of herself—or Nick.

“We are Roma,”she would tell him, fiercely.“You should leave here and join the family when I am gone. When they see how you are with thegrai, they will know you are Roma through and through, and let you travel with them.”

He’d hated when she talked like that, about dying. She’d been too young to talk like that. But she had died young after all, and now he wondered if somehow she had always known that was her fate. If the stories she spun about her fortune-telling had some kernel of truth in them, even though she’d told Nick they were just foolish nonsense she made up for thegadjikanevillagers, to make a little money.

“Our secret.”

Nick had never met his mother’s people—he didn’t know if he wanted to—but they came back to Cornwall every second year, and he knew they would be in Penzance this summer. Lately he’d found himself thinking about going to see them, to meet Ma’s father and give him the news of his daughter’s death. Nick wondered if he would care. Ma had always spoken of her father with loyal affection, yet he was the one who had cast her out and refused to allow her to return to her people when Nick’s father abandoned her, forcing her to find another way to survive.

He wondered too if he would feel a connection to the old man. To any of them. If he would be tempted to travel with them if they asked him to. To leave Porthkennack behind and take up a life on the road. That was what Ma had wanted. That was her dream for him.

Nick pushed himself back from the fence.

“I should be getting on,” he said. “I’ve to see Jessop about that damaged wall.”

Godfrey nodded, distant now. “Join me for supper in the library,” he said. “Six o’clock. You can give me a proper report then.”

Nick nodded, then turned on his heel and strode away, Snow lumbering and wheezing in his wake.

FromThe Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I

My brother George—my identical twin—preceded me into the world by six minutes. As boys we were as one, so much so that even our parents could not tell us apart. Our thoughts were as one too, and often we would speak the exact same words spontaneously. This changed forever, however, shortly after my eleventh birthday.

Father had taken George, being the eldest son and heir to the title, to town with him, and while they were away, my sister Honoria and I both fell ill with the disease now called diphtheria and in those days called the morbid sore throat.

My poor sister had the misfortune of falling ill first. As is well-known, victims of this cruel disease grow a putrid, grey, membranous substance in the throat that coats the tonsils and larynx. Within a week of taking to her bed, my sister could barely breathe and seemed like to suffocate. In desperation, and despite the warnings of our nurse, Mother called in a surgeon to try to cut some of the stuff away and ease the passage of air to her lungs. By all accounts, it was bloody work—certainly, I could hear Honoria’s screams from the other end of the house. Unable to withstand the shock of the ordeal, she died a few days later.

I was spared this treatment but had to withstand endless days of struggling to breathe, dragging the tiniest threads of air through my clogged throat. I grew convinced my fate was to die from asphyxiation—something I cherish an utter dread of even now. At last, however, the membrane came loose and I could breathe again. The relief this brought was sadly short-lived as I was then afflicted by a weakening of the heart and paralysis, first of the face and then of the limbs. For weeks I could do nothing but lie and be tended to, like a newborn. Many times my parents were told they must expect my death. That this did not come to pass was, I feel quite sure, due to my mother’s tireless care for me, and her determination that I would live.

Slowly, I recovered, but I was left with two permanent reminders of the disease. The first was a harsh, unbeautiful voice, my larynx having been permanently damaged. Even today, I cringe to hear my speaking voice and my laughter, which sounds like the barking of a dog. The second was the change in my similarity to my twin. While my body had been doing everything it could to resist death, George’s had continued to grow. I never quite caught up to him. By the time we were one-and-twenty, he was five foot ten inches with broad shoulders and strong arms, while I was three inches shorter and far slighter.

4th April 1853

Messrs Godritch & Godolphin, Solicitors, Porthkennack

“Now, tell me,” Mr. Godolphin said, settling back in his chair, “how may I help you, Sir Edward?”