I’ll ask to have you appointed as my assistant, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Eric looked at me hopefully.
“You quit drinking and keep your mouth shut tight.”
“Agreed,” my friend replied without hesitation.
“What else does Sabrina know besides the fact that we’re hiding ‘something ’?”
A stifling silence filled the room.
“Nothing,” Eric said uncertainly.
“Well, I hope we’ll find out soon. The sooner, the better.”
There was a soft knock on the door.
“What!” Eric croaked.
“Are you two coming for lunch or not?” Sabrina asked, entering the room.
“Eavesdropping is very, very, very naughty, miss,” Eric said slowly and cautiously.
“Coming home drunk in the wee hours isn’t very nice either! And I wasn’t eavesdropping. I don’t have that habit. Go eat,” Sabrina turned around haughtily and slammed the door shut, causing Eric to clutch his head.
Chapter 6
The 'Guardian' Order
Mr. Wallis sat in a large leather armchair behind a huge antique Victorian era writing desk propping his chin with his hands. His stern, wise gaze was fixed on the window. The Chief Guardian of the Guardian Order, always cheerful and lively, was in a terrible mood today. In his right hand, he tightly gripped a letter that had been delivered at four in the morning and labeled “URGENT.” The information it contained prompted him to immediately convene an emergency meeting of some members of the Order.
Mr. Wallis shifted his gaze to the gray London sky and sighed heavily.
“Well, it seems storms are inevitable,” he muttered heavily, setting the letter aside.
He looked at the numerous photographs in gilded frames on the desk, pausing to study each one of them. Two nine-year-old boys, a dark-haired girl with cornflower-blue eyes, Mr. Wallis himself, and his best friend – Alex Venters. How long ago was that? The Venters family had been living in London then. Mr. Wallis ran his finger over the figure of the little girl standing next to her grandfather in the photograph. Her eyes were not those of a typical child; more serious. He remembered how she had laughed and rejoiced when Mr. Wallis had pushed her on the swings. And yet, he had once been vehemently against his best friend adopting her.
“You’ve lost your mind completely!” he yelled at Alex. “She’s a witch!”
“Oh, come on, how can she be a witch? Look at her!” Alex replied gently, pointing to the infant sleeping peacefully in his arms.
“I’m telling you, you’ve lost your mind! She’ll grow up to be just like them! Or even worse!”
“No, she won’t! Not all of them were bad. Her mother is proof of that,” Alex said stubbornly.
“Think about your own family!”
“We’ve already discussed this. My daughter and son-in-law fully support me.”
At that time, Mr. Wallis could do nothing. Alex remained utterly deaf to all pleas to return the child to her real family.
Yet, in time, Mr. Wallis himself came to love the girl. Sabrina grew up into a beautiful, independent woman. But was she a witch? Most likely – yes. Knowing Sabrina’s family history, Mr. Wallis would have sworn on the Bible in court that the girl was a witch. However, was she evil? No. And on that point, too, Mr.
Wallis was willing to stake his own life. He was absolutely certain that sooner or later her abilities would manifest themselves. But how? That remained to be seen.
For so many years, no one from her real family had even inquired about the child’s fate. When the infant disappeared, no one even reported it to the police. All that was known was that Marie De Manshand, following the tragic death of her daughter, had gone to France to recover, and to restore the family nest – a vast, ancient castle in the Île-de-France province. And now, twenty-three years later, she was returning. And she had a weighty reason for doing so. She wanted to find her only heiress. Her granddaughter Sabrina. Specifically, she had sent a letter to him, Wallis, as a token of gratitude for the fact that the Order had not left the poor child on the street and ad given her a home. For Marie was so devastated by her daughter’s death that she would not have been able to give Sabrina the love and attention she needed. The letter also specified that if Sabrina did not return to Paris immediately, Marie would either come over herself or send someone from her entourage.
After scanning the pointed handwriting on the letter once again, Mr. Wallis sighed bitterly and buzzed for his secretary.
“Dana, please bring me a cup of white tea and connect me with Elliot Cornell.
Also, invite Mr. Murphy to join us. And as soon as possible, please,” he said to an attractive-looking young woman who had entered the office.
“Of course, sir,” Dana replied and left.
Wallis approached the window, leaning on the weathered sill, and stared into the bottomless darkness of the Thames. After standing like that for several minutes, he smiled sadly and shook his head.
“What will be, will be,” he concluded and returned to his desk.
Chapter 7
Either I'll completely lose my mind, or…?
The disgusting “Dzzziiinnnnnnn” cut through the silence of yet another gloomy day. I sat up in bed slowly, staring blankly at the alarm clock. Six-thirty in the morning. I reluctantly pried open my left eye and glanced at Gigantor, lazily sprawled out on the neighboring pillow. The cat seemed determined to rip me in half with its crazy look. I sighed, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and looked out the window. Nothing that could inspire even a drop of optimism. Rain, dampness, and endless, bottomless puddles…
“At least one thing to be happy about, it’s Friday,” I thought to myself and, mustering all my strength, got out of bed and shuffled to the shower.
It has been a week since my conversation with Eric, who could now be dubbed as a near saintly teetotaler. The guy was doing his utmost not to let me down. He constantly called, telling me about what was happening in his sister’s life outside the university walls. Now she suddenly felt unwell, now she behaved like a total bitch (‘what’s new and unusual about that?’ I would think then), now she burst into tears for no reason. And she also had a new admirer… Nothing strange about that either, there was always a bunch of admirers circling around Sabrina.
“And she’s not sleeping well,” Eric would say.
“And she doesn’t handle stress well?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s not good. Then there’s nothing interesting.”
I stepped out of the shower, nibbled on burnt toast and coffee, quickly got dressed: black jeans, a white sleeveless t-shirt with “The Wretched” printed on it (which was an accurate description for my
