If I were the chatty type, I could share with you a great many stories. I was beautiful in my youth, rare and prized. There wasn’t a soul that did not desire to hold me. At first, it was thrilling. I held a power over others that few possessed. I could make a law-abiding man guilty, capable of committing the worst offense.
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Most high school principals looked forward to graduation night, but not Edwin. It was the one night of the year that he couldn’t ignore his psychic ability—he dared not call it a gift.
As he handed diplomas to the graduates, he would see flashes of their future, snapshots of what was to come.
Ever since the big bad wolf blew down my house of sticks, I’ve lived in my brother Bob’s brick bungalow. I operate my detective business, solving Fairyland’s strange and varied crimes, out of an office in the back wing.
Like many such operations, Frank’s Detective Agency has had its ups and downs.
I knew the dangers of stopping for a stranded traveler, so I often passed them without a thought, praying for someone else to help. I had lived in Michigan all my life and experienced April snow squalls that formed from nowhere. Such is the way with the Mitten State in spring.
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I was only seven when Aunt Toni tried to find her own fountain of youth, so some of the technical details are a little fuzzy. For instance, I can’t remember the name of the anti-aging cream Helena Rubenstein made, but I know that this once-great cosmetics company sold it for big bucks since it was reputed to restore your skin to that of a newborn babe.
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My first case wasn’t about crime at all. It was about love. I mean, technically, a crime had been committed, but… well, maybe I’d better just tell it.
I was sixteen in 1985 and lived three houses down from sweet old Miss Evans, who dressed up every Friday night, even if she was only going as far as her front porch.
I flashed my badge at the officer standing guard and ducked under the yellow tape.
“I’m glad you’re here, Inspector Belden.” Officer Fuzzbee’s nose twitched as he hopped over and mopped his brow with a crinkled handkerchief. “I haven’t seen such a gruesome scene since the Heartsville V-day slaughter. Not a pretty sight, I can assure you.”
I remember how the rain poured when we boarded our flight from Virginia two weeks ago. A typical, gloomy, East Coast April day. Penny and I both have seasonal depression, so when the opportunity arose to take a ten-years-overdue honeymoon to sunny Djerba Island for two weeks, we didn’t hesitate.
I wish we had.
In Vermont, we call the spring thaw Mud Season, a time of year that gives new meaning to the word battleground, for it’s necessary to battle the ground simply to walk. Either you struggle while the muck sucks at your shoes and even skirts if they aren’t hitched up a bit, or you tumble when it’s too slick, which causes the unwary much irritation.
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Cherry blossoms drifted like snowflakes over the princess, reminding Sendai of that fateful night. He shook a petal off his helmet. An imperial guard on duty shouldn’t let his thoughts wander. Total vigilance, not sweet distraction.
The prince, on the bough above them, shook down more blossoms. Seventeen winters may have brought the princess an entrancing grace, but her twin still acted the child.
There are echoes in the valley, and they speak my name.
Emereth. Emereth.
Desperate and muffled like a man with his face in a pillow, using his last breath—for me. It is carried on a low, whistling wind that aches through tall cliffs on either side of this place. It rustles through wildflowers, collecting pollen and doubts.
Just a spoiled rich girl! Not a serious archeologist! Was that all they thought of me? If they prohibited my inclusion on this expedition, then I would find it first! They couldn’t ignore my experience and commitment if I stood before them holding the relic!
The university library contained what I needed.
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