Queen Me

Prologue

*

"Blemishes are hidden by night and every fault forgiven, for darkness makes any woman fair."

*

The auspicious Charles Kingsley was a keenly intuitive and imaginative man; similar to a magician, he could seemingly pull unique ideas out of his hat at whim. Because of this, one could easily count on Charles to approach and solve problems from an atypical perspective. Although his fellow entrepreneurs and coworkers held him in the highest esteem, they agreed amongst themselves that many of his contrivances were both outlandish and absurd. Little did they know that it was because of Charles's deeply-rooted beliefs in change and innovation that he and his company had become so successful.

Many of his acquaintances saw him as a shy, introverted sort of man; he was often found quietly brooding in his office, glazed eyes staring out the window as his mind drifted to faraway places. But, although his mind was always meandering elsewhere, his guard remained unwaveringly astute, so he was never taken by surprise when a coworker came messily stumbling into his office.

Indeed, he was a very peculiar specimen of a man; a man who kept to himself, but never hesitated to share his thoughts or ideas.

Nevertheless, as a father, Charles's many accomplishments could not be estimated in any currency. His wife and daughters took place as the unwavering epicenter of his busy life, and the compassion he showed them knew limitless boundaries. He showered them with every ounce of affection he could muster, and he never went a day without expressing how much they meant to him. He worked tirelessly to make a living for his family, so that they would have the best of things. Maintaining a thriving company afforded them a comfortable, upper middle class life, free of labor and financial worry; he was very grateful to be so fortunate in life and always counted his blessings.

Charles had many acquaintances, as any businessman does, but of them all, he considered only two as confidantes: Lord Ascot and Helen, his wife. However, their knowledge of Charles's hazy past was virtually nil. Out of courtesy and, because he'd pleaded them not to, they never attempted to pry, no matter how strong the urge was to do so. Helen and Lord Ascot presumed that the past haunted him. They both yearned to hear the stories of his past, but they never received the opportunity. His untold past shadowed his footsteps until the day of his mysterious and untimely death.

Yes. In life, Charles Kingsley was many things: a pioneer of business, an avant-garde intellect, a dreamer, and a loving father and husband – but above all, he was a man of many secrets.

*

"In the dream, I'm falling… falling down a dark hole."

"Goodnight, Love."

Charles gently pressed his lips against his eight-year-old daughter's forehead, combing some of the rogue strands of blonde hair from her face. His face remained a perfectly cultivated mask of stoicism but, deep in the hollow of his chest, his heart was fluttering wildly, like the wings of a caged bird. Each rhythmic beat seemed to resound loudly in his ears as he protectively hovered above his daughter's now-relaxed form. It wouldn't be long before her eyelashes drifted close.

He lingered for a couple precarious moments, counting the traits Alice had received from him, versus her mother. Alice was a perfect amalgamation of the two of them; she'd been born with his cocoa-colored eyes and willowy limbs, yet she'd retained her mother's fair complexion and delicate facial structure. Her hair was a couple shades darker than Helen's own flaxen locks; but he'd supposed that, if her hair was as light as his wife's, Alice would be so cadaverously pale that she'd look like she was either anemic or standing at death's door.

It was during these quiet moments of examination that, without further adieu, Alice's face finally took on a look of repose as sleep ensconced her once more.

"There's… a dodo bird, a rabbit in a waist coat, a talking caterpillar, and a smiling cat."

Margret, Alice's precocious, materialistic older sister, had never talked of such unsettling things, for she was far too preoccupied with dolls and dresses and attending social gatherings with Helen. Not that he had ever expected her to speak of such things; no. After all, Margret was only Helen's daughter by blood and his by means of adoption papers – so there was no need for him to fret over her. They shared no blood attachment – but that did not mean that he loved her any less.

When they met, Helen was going through the painful throes of lost love. Her previous husband fell ill and passed away; she was left alone to support herself and her two-year-old daughter, Margret. The situation was a lamentable one, but Charles could see past it. The two of them fell in love, married, and he happily signed the adoption papers, taking Margret under his wing as one of his own. Two years following this, Helen gave birth to Alice.

Alice had been bequeathed with his genes; her chocolate-colored eyes and sinewy, too-thin body brazenly displayed this. Not only did she mirror him in appearance, but in mind is well. She was an obstinate, headstrong girl that strongly disliked being forced to adhere to proper etiquette; she also thought of bizarre, unconventional things that only he himself would think of. For the longest time, their similarities worried him immensely. After eight quiet years, he had begun to think he was just being overly cautious; that his needless worrying was just him wasting valuable time. He had been prepared to put the matter of his past under the table for good.

But then… then Alice mentioned her dream.

'Surely it's just a coincidence,' his conscience annotated in an oddly rational fashion. At this, his gut seemed to scream in protest, as if saying, 'That's a lie, and you bloody well know it!'

Charles wrung his wrists as he quietly stood up, doing his best not to jostle his sleeping daughter. His pulse was positively racing.

'I must finish this meeting,' he thought to himself as he discreetly made his way out of his daughter's bedroom, closing the creaking door as delicately as possible. The walk down the hall was a blur; he'd been too absorbed in thought to take notice of his trekking. Soon enough he found himself back in his office, amongst anxious-looking coworkers and, hopefully, future business partners.

"Charles, you look as though you've seen a ghost!" Lord Ascot, the future business partner in question, exclaimed worriedly, taking his charlatan pipe from his mouth. "Are you quite alright?"

Charles wearily rubbed at his neck, attempting to crack a smile. It appeared pained. A ghost, did Ascot say? Not in a literal sense, per se; ghosts, to him, tended to serve more of a metaphorical purpose.

"I'm fine… thank you. Now that that's settled, shall we get back to our previous discussion?"

The other suited men, some in their seats and some standing with their canes diligently at their sides, began to fidget with discontent. A couple of them nervously rubbed their palms against their slacks and others folded their hands and refolded them, locking and re-locking their fingers together fiendishly.

"Do you think… I've gone around the bend?"

The dark haired man shook his head to expel the thought. He had more pressing matters to deal with. Charles squinted up at Lord Ascot, who was worrying his mustache between his thumb and forefinger; it was a nervous tick of sorts. He and Charles had been friends for years; when they had first forged their alliance, they both yearned to nurture their businesses and help them grow. Between them lay years of shared sacrifice, successes, and more importantly, failures. Those years of allotted time had taught Charles to adequately decipher his friend's state of mind. The mustache-petting was usually a sign of indecision or contemplation.

"Charles," Ascot finally cleared his throat, "I can understand how engaging in a trading agreement with the East could significantly boost our revenue, but don't you think that trading with a country you know so little of is a dangerous gamble?" The insipid group of men began to mumble and nod their heads in agreement.

The sides of the younger businessman's mouth twitched into a true smile.

"Of course it is a dangerous gamble; that is what we do day by day. That is the business we are in, is it not? We invest our money and time in hopes that we will reap some sort of benefit; sometimes, we must do it at great risk. But do not assume, my dear friend, that I have not done my own fair share of homework on this affair! I'm not so naive as to whimsically frolic into unknown territory without having my bearings about me," he elaborated, pacing the room and making eye contact each big-nosed gentleman as he walked. His enthusiastic tone seemed to have caught their attention.

"Need I remind you all of how incredibly dense the population is? Yes – it would be an expensive, laborious and quite possibly dangerous trip, but the shores of those countries offer hundreds of thousands of potential customers. Admittedly, our first attempt may very well not be stellar, but it would be a magnificent learning experience for the future, wouldn't you agree?" Charles's gaze landed on Lord Ascot once more; his eyes were sharp, tawny, and glittering with determination. "Ascot… as with everything that we do, there is a certain amount of gambling to be had. But can you think – no, can you imagine - if we won the jackpot?"

*several months later*

Trembling hands scoured the desktop with urgent force. A coffee mug skirted over the edge of the mahogany surface, only to shatter on the floor; the cold coffee residing within pooled onto the wood-paneling, seeping between the cracks. Next came the lamp – it was swept over the edge, just like the poor mug preceding it - and it, too, was followed by an even louder crash.

He was rifling through papers, throwing them all over the floor in a craze. The air in his lungs was like fire; it hurt to breath. Bleeding, paper-cut fingers grasped at the desk drawers, yanking them open with rapacious force. Charles dumped them upside down individually, emptying their contents on the floor, and began crazily sorting through them. Bathed in the heady orange light of the nearby fire, he looked like a wild man who had swung around the bend not once, but numerous times.

Perhaps he had.

'Where is it, where is it, where is it?!' Frenzied, the man grabbed and tore through more papers.

"Papa… I could have sworn it was real! You should have seen the Queen. She was positively awful! She wanted to cut off everyone's head!"

Next came the bookshelves – Charles tore at the books with even more fervor than previously, grabbing them by their spines, not even bothering to scour the covers before catapulting them to the other side of the room. He didn't know how many books he had thrown, but he'd thrown enough to make his arms ache before finding the object he so desired.

In the very back of where the books had been collecting dust, right in the nook between the wall and the shelf, was a small vellum scroll, neatly bound with a piece of scarlet chiffon ribbon. Who ever had been tasked to hide it, he loathed to admit, had done so expertly. He snatched it swiftly and made his way back to his thoroughly-ransacked desk (though it scarcely looked like it could be classified as a desk now.) Breathing still labored, he thanked himself for having not ravenously hurled his inkwell and quill at the furthermost wall. With quaking hands, he rearranged his desk fastidiously, moving his inkwell to the upper right corner of the desk.

What else – what else…

The mirror! Of course! He would have to find a protective covering of some sort for it. Perhaps some bed linens would serve as a good alternative?

He nodded in acquiescence to the thought; spinning on his heel, the chestnut-haired businessman marched towards the faux antique armoire where, inside of its masterfully-carved cherry wood doors, hung a body-length mirror with a flower-emblazoned silver frame. It was a large thing so, with no small amount of effort, he struggled to pry the mirror from it's perch inside of the wardrobe and hoisted the heavy object down to the ground, letting it lean against the wall. Following this, he speedily went to the washroom and opened every cupboard in search of bed sheets. Because the maids were the only ones who knew what went where in this room, it would only be appropriate that the cupboard storing the sheets would be the very last one to be opened.

He pulled out the folded linen resting at the very top, haphazardly snapping the cupboard door shut but leaving the rest of them gaping open. He then hustled back to his chaos-ridden study, closing the double doors behind him.

The archaic mirror, with its warped, rust-stained glass, was far from an ordinary heirloom. It was a gateway of sorts; a looking glass into another world. But unlike many gateways, the door swung both ways. Things could come in… and things could get out.

Carefully, he draped the milky white sheets over the mirror, smoothing out wrinkles and knotting the edges together in the back. He draped another sheet over it, this time fastening the knots together tightly in the front so that the mirror was completely obscured.

Covertly, he glanced back at his writing desk, where the scroll was perched. In the firelight, it seemed to maintain an otherworldly glow. Charles moved to his chair, which had been knocked over during his impassioned searching, and pulled it upright before sitting himself down upon it. He snatched some parchment from off of the floor, sat the papers before him, and organized them into two piles. A look of defeat settled upon his worry-wrought face.

'It must be done.'

Dipping his quill in the nearby inkwell, Charles began his first document, gingerly bringing the tip of his pen to the paper and writing each letter in elegant cursive. It was titled:

To My family:

My Last Will and Testament

The second document, however, was vastly more important. It was addressed to Alice, and to Alice alone.

*

Lord Ascot was sleeping when someone began to wrap loudly at his door. The knocking invaded his dreams, causing him to stir and sit up in his bed. A look of annoyance crested upon his features as he blindly reached for his bedside lamp, wincing as the light came to life, irritating his sleepy eyes. Slinging his legs over the side of his bed, he slid his feet into his slippers and padded out of his bedroom, looking petulant. His servants had gone home for night, so he would have to send the thrice-damned door-knocker away himself.

'Such is my luck,' he thought sourly.

Down the stairs and to the front door he went, unlocking and swinging it open with exaggerated haste. His mouth was open and fully prepared to give whoever-it-was a good verbal lashing. No words came out when, lo and behold, the interrupter of his sleep was revealed to be none other than Charles Kingsley, who looked disheveled and distraught. He hadn't seen his friend in months, not since he'd declined his business offer.

"Good Lord, Charles, do you have any idea of what time it is?" Ascot rubbed at his eyes, blinking first at his friend and then at the enormous, oval-shaped object he was holding. "What in Heaven's name-"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Ascot, but please try to restrain yourself from asking questions that I myself do not know the answer to. I am aware of the time but, forgive me if I sound impertinent, I do not have much of it to spare," Charles interrupted hastily. The older man's eyebrows rose skeptically as the other reached his hand into his overcoat, pulling out an envelope. Its lip was secured with a wax seal that was embellished with an ornate 'K'.

"Charles-"

The man held up his envelope-bearing hand, silencing him.

"Ascot, I know that we haven't spoken for quite some time, but you have been my most trusted friend for many years," he said gravely, "and there are things occurring that are beyond my control. It is for this reason that I am entrusting this envelope and object to you, in hopes that you will keep them safe. I have a safety deposit box at the bank in my name – this envelope must be taken there for I am afraid that I cannot do it myself. I do not have the time. Similarly, I have reserved an in-room safe in the same bank. This," he gestured to the drape-covered object, "must be taken there immediately. I implore that you do not open it."

"Whatever for? Are you in some kind of trouble? If so, you know that I can help-"

"There's nothing you can do to help me, old friend, except to take these items I am giving you and keep them safe," the younger man refuted urgently. "They are for Alice. She must receive them on her twenty-second birthday – no later and no sooner. It is detrimental that you do not speak to her or anyone else about this."

"Not even Mrs. Kingsley?"

"No! Only Alice," Charles interjected. "You must take them to the bank tomorrow, immediately."

Ascot hesitatingly took the envelope that the other man was ushering towards him; Charles's hand darted back to his pocket, groping for an even smaller, thicker envelope.

"In this envelope, you will find the keys for the safety deposit box and the in-room safe, as well as any additional documents you may need to access them," those brown, pleading eyes looked up at him with desperation.

It was this soulful gaze that made Ascot realize that his friend was not off of his rocker. What Charles was saying was of vital importance, and he was putting every once of his faith, whatever amount he had left of it, in him. To say 'no' would be an unforgivable travesty.

Having conceded to his friend's will, Ascot took the second envelope with icy fingers and gave a nod of affirmation. Charles seemed to slump with relief.

"You have my eternal gratitude, Ascot."

The pajama-clad man gave a weak smile. For a moment, they stood in mutual silence as the mustached man fished for something to say.

"Before I do this, you must tell me, Charles… will I be seeing you again?"

*

It was just past midnight and the sky was a heavy pall of darkness; the stars were scarce, shrouded by low-lying clouds. Oak Street was glistening with moisture from the cloak of silvery fog; the air was crisp and wet. Weather in London scarcely varied, it seemed. The gloominess was tangible, and it was only exacerbated by the eeriness of the silence and the sallow light emitted by the lamp posts lining the sidewalk. To lone figures stood in the darkness, unable to say a word.

That night, standing at his dearest friend's doorstep, Charles Kingsley offered Ascot no answer, because the grief reflected in his eyes said it all.

*

Author's Note

So. Let me tell you this now: this is going to be dark. How dark? Well, although I know where I want this story to go, I can't exactly give you a definition of that. I just wanted to give you all a heads up, so make sure you fasten your seat belts during later chapters.

Thank you for reading - please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts.