They lay together for some time; Ephraim knew not how long, and for once he didn’t care. He could spend eternity in this embrace. Yet still one question nagged at him, until he could no longer keep it at bay.
“May I ask you something?” he ventured at last.
Hull furrowed his brow in bemusement but nodded all the same.
“How old are you, really?” Ephraim asked.
Hull shrugged. “Roughly seven centuries.”
“Sevencenturies?!” Ephraim choked.
Hull looked abashed. “Roughly.”
Ephraim didn’t intend to shame the man for his age—throwing stones from glass houses and all that. “You look very well for seven centuries.”
Hull laughed and kissed him for it.
~
Jack in the Green
October 31st, 1845
London, England
Jack Barrowcliffe rather enjoyed Hyde Park by night.
The crisp autumnal evening invigorated him as he strode from Knightsbridge Barracks into the depths of the park toward the statue of Achilles. His fellow Horse Guards had relieved him from his post not a moment too soon, in his opinion. Now he could set out to find good company and good coin in the same bargain.
He took up his usual post against the plinth and settled in to watch the shadowy figures passing by. One, at least, must prove amiable to his advances. The blue coat, white trousers, and gleaming black riding boots of his uniform oft did the trick. Even without them, he knew his chiselled jaw attracted notice, as did the corded muscles his trade had given him. On a typical night he would encounter many strangers interested in what he had to offer. He’d even found a regular partner of late—a fellow who told Jack to call him Hull, paid well, and had a talented tongue besides.
But neither Hull nor anyone else approached him beneath the shadow of Achilles on this eve.
As the minutes drew on into hours and the chill seeped through Jack’s uniform, he thought, at length, he had better go and satisfy himself in the barracks. He pushed off from the plinth and stretched his stiff frame with a final glance ‘round to see if anyone noticed. No one did. Perhaps he might try again on the morrow.
Jack knew the path from Achilles to Knightsbridge by heart. He didn’t need moonlight, starlight, or lamplight to navigate through Hyde Park at night, even with the lingering fog.
Which made matters all the more puzzling when, as he stepped through the trees, he found himself in a part of the park he didn’t recognize.
The trees towered over him moreso than before. Yet he could see further, for the fog had dissipated into a mere mist rolling along the moss beneath his boots, and the moon shone overhead, framed by a ring of the uppermost branches surrounding the clearing. No hint of a path remained underfoot. Instead, stone ruins loomed all around him. Staircases to nothing fell off long before they reached even the lowest tree-limbs. Arches stood half-tumbled in every direction—though the Wellington Arch, Jack noted, didn’t number amongst them. And directly beneath him lay the stone rim of a well, filled in with rot and overlaid with moss.
Nothing appeared dangerous, and all remained very quiet, yet Jack found himself unnerved. Glancing behind him showed no hint of the Hyde Park he remembered. Which left onward as the only way to tread. While he might not have his steed beneath him at this very moment, he remained a Horse Guard. So he threw back his shoulders and marched on.
He did not, however, pass beneath any of the arches. That seemed rather a touch too far. Perhaps it made him a superstitious fellow to think so. He dared any of the other guards to do otherwise in his place. As none were present, noneanswered his challenge, and so he pressed on, down the mossy way between the trees deeper into the wood.
While the trees and fog of the park tended to muffle the eternal noise of the city, Jack had never encountered a silence so complete as this. Only his own footsteps seemed to make any sound as his boot-heels crunched against dried leaves and fallen twigs. He did not flinch at the hooting of an owl. Hyde Park had owls, too, after all.
Then something flickered in the corner of his eye.
Jack whipped his head toward it. At first he couldn’t find it amidst the undergrowth’s gloom. Then it moved again, hopping along a thorned vine, and Jack beheld a little grey songbird with a queer black mask cocking its head at him.
Jack cocked his head back at it.
The bird took flight, vanishing into the shadows.
Only after it had gone did Jack realise how unusual it seemed to see a songbird in the night.
Still, he forced the bizarre notion to the back of his mind and marched on. The woods grew deeper and darker as he went. It had just occurred to him that perhaps he ought to turn back and attempt to retrace his steps to Achilles when the trees opened into a clearing.
