Introduction

On her return to London, artist and seer Pamela Colman Smith discovers that her nemesis, Aleister Crowley, has returned—and his sights are set on her. Despite Aleister’s efforts to stop Pamela from further developing her tarot deck and accessing its magic, she carries on casting her High Priestess and Empress muses, Golden Dawn society leader Florence Farr and popular theatre star Ellen Terry. But when Ellen is poisoned and nearly killed, Pamela realizes that Aleister won’t stop coming for her—not until her muses are dead.

When Aleister reveals his plot to assassinate Queen Victoria and all female rulers, war breaks out between the Aleister’s Carlists and the Golden Dawn. With so many lives on the line—that of the queen, and those of her friends—Pamela must access her inner magic to face the battle of her life.

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Excerpt

Prologue

April 1945

Spoils of War: East Germany

Everyone knew the end was near. But so much still needed to be done.

He stared at a dozen or so wooden crates. Hands on hips, shoulders stooped, and eyes weary. Body and spirit exhausted. Standing before them, as if paralyzed. Three years in training camp and on the battlefield—that was how much time this senseless war had stolen from his life. But for him, it was a lifetime of horror no one else could fathom who had never experienced it. Those years were about to end, and yet he couldn’t say he felt relieved. Another life was waiting for him. A life of peace his fellow survivors couldn’t wait to get back to. But he wasn’t ready. He needed a sense of closure for the life of war he was leaving. But how? Could anyone rise out of the ashes of hell he had been through?

Had it only been a day or two since his battalion crossed the border into Germany from Belgium? Among the first to breach enemy territory. Also, among the first deployed into the European Theater in 1943, landing in Sicily to fight the Germans.

In only a matter of days, the Allied Forces expected the Nazis to surrender.

He was lucky, he was aware of that, having seen too many dead bodies. After a while, it no longer mattered to him what uniforms they wore. They had all perished in service of a mad monster and his cadre of fiendish lackeys.

This morning, the platoon lieutenant informed him he was to lead his squad into a cave on the Harz Mountain. The battalion commander had been informed of precious objects hidden in the cave by a historic medieval church, and his squad was responsible for securing and guarding it. He had been singled out to inspect the condition of the cave, and to inventory whatever contents were found. Why him, he wondered, but for a mere second. He was not sent to this war to think. He was here to follow orders. The end was near and that was all he cared about.

Arriving at the cave, he posted a couple of his men at the entrance, telling them no one was allowed to enter without his permission.

Inside, he had expected the cave to smell musty and foul. But the air, though it exuded an earthiness he could almost taste, had a lightness to it that made it easy to breathe in. It must help that a cool breeze from the densely forested mountain outside was streaming through the entrance to the cave.

The light in the cave was diffused, not as dark as he had anticipated. After a few minutes, his eyes had adapted enough to see the wooden crates more clearly. He hadn’t needed a flashlight to see that each had a number on top and on the side written in white paint.

Dull and wearisome as his task might prove to be, away from the midst of the action of wrapping up an unfortunate war, he believed safeguarding this bunch of crates was an important and necessary task, if only to show the enemy that, unlike them, Americans were not pillaging marauders. Rumors of Nazi plunder of cultural treasures from the countries they invaded had been circulating ever since his battalion’s deployment in Sicily.

He walked around the crates stacked in five groups. Four had three crates each and one stack had four. Sixteen crates. He needed to know exactly what the cave held. In making a list of objects in the cave, he was ensuring that the contents of crates his squad found when they arrived would be the same when they left.

Each crate held a cardboard box he could see through the wooden slats. What those boxes contained might not be priceless artworks like those the Nazis plundered in the European countries they invaded, especially France. But they were precious to the people to whom they belonged. Why else would they have bothered to hide them in this cave? Left in the church, they would have become spoils of war. Or worse, had Allied bombs hit the church, the contents of these crates would have been lost forever. Shattered to smithereens or burned to dust.

He was sure there could be no paintings in the crates. Those would have been secured singly in their own wooden crates. He estimated the crates to be two feet by two feet at most, inside of which were even smaller boxes.

From history classes, he knew that in wars dating as far back as ancient times, victors harvested with impunity treasures from countries they conquered. Trophies of war to which triumphant Greeks, Romans, other Europeans, Muslims, Christians all felt entitled. In more recent times, Napoleon Bonaparte was notorious for ordering the sacking of Italy, stripping it of all the masterpieces his army could find. His subsequent defeat at Waterloo led to the return of about half of his loot, but the rest remained in France, many of them displayed at the Louvre Museum.

In this current war, France could be said to have gotten its comeuppance as Hitler and his rapacious commanders plundered France’s art treasures. An untold number of those treasures, along with so many more from other European countries Hitler invaded, had been hidden in mine shafts and caves in Germany.

Some American soldiers also made off with a few things. Mere souvenirs, though, from dead and captured enemies or in houses and other buildings where occupants had fled or been captured and thrown into concentration camps. Inevitable spoils of war whose value could never equal the highly prized treasures Napoleon and the Nazis took. To these, the Allied military command turned a blind eye. He himself had pocketed some beautiful silverware and ornaments from a house in what used to be a rich Jewish neighborhood—now desolate and empty—in a small nearby city. The house had been abandoned, and he had no qualms helping himself to a few souvenirs. But he hoped the Jewish family had fled somewhere safe.

It was only mid-morning, and he was already getting restless. It puzzled him, these attacks of restlessness amidst his exhaustion. He had no energy to spare. After a couple of years in the battlefield, his body had grown stronger and nimbler, attuned to constant, unpredictable stress. Lately, as the war wound down, inactivity after long periods of high-adrenaline war maneuvers, tired him out more. And yet, while recovering from exhaustion and resting, his muscles could suddenly clench and burn, ready for action.

He looked around for a rock to sit on. Finding none, he eyed the crates, walked towards a corner stack, and eased his butt down to it. A long breath of relief hissed out of his puckered lips. He loosened his hold on the notepad he had been clutching in his right hand and let it drop on the stack of crates next to him.

Staring blankly at the crate on top, his restless fingers brushed against the wooden slats back and forth. Back and forth. A finger poked through the slats. Then he inserted another.

His index and middle fingers touched the box underneath. After the rough surface of the wood, the cardboard box inside was smooth. Soothing almost. What did it hold? Was there a reason it was on top? Something fragile and breakable?

Could there be something in these boxes he could take as a souvenir? A token trophy for being on the side that won. A gold-lined silver chalice to hold wine during mass maybe? Something the church could easily replace.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had yanked the top wooden cover and ripped off the tape that secured the cardboard box inside the crate. The uncovering was the work of seconds. The notepad had fallen on the floor.

The contents of the box peeked out of the freed flaps. He thought he saw a flicker of light through the flaps. The glitter of gold maybe? The chalice?

His eager hands swiped the flaps to the side. It wasn’t a chalice that emitted the flicker of light, but a rectangular object wrapped in a luminescent orange cloth. What could it possibly be? Trembling hands lifted the object. The cloth, soft and silky, was neatly wrapped around the object. It was heavier than he thought. He lowered the object on an unopened crate and unwrapped it.

He stared. And stared, uncertain what to make of the object. Something gold-plated tarnished by air, time, and use to a murky green. He could detect streaks of an antique gold color breaking through the tarnish.

But that wasn’t all he marveled at: carved figures, possibly also gold-plated, in a rectangular frame in the middle. Red, white, lavender, green, and blue stones of various sizes embedded in bezels around the frame. Precious stones? Pearls, for sure. Amethyst. Maybe rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Or colored glass?

He peeked into the box again. Another rectangular object wrapped in cloth. Not orange but cerulean blue. Slightly smaller. He picked it up. Soft and silky as well. Gently, he laid it on the first object.

The box wasn’t empty yet, and what remained weren’t wrapped in cloth. Inserting his fingers deeper into an edge of the box, he felt what seemed like the spine of books. Two of them. He lifted each one. Bibles, he concluded. No fancy covers. Leather. Fraying on the edges. Scratched up. Quite old, he was sure. He put the bibles back in the box.

He was certain, then, that the objects wrapped in cloth were also bibles. Maybe rare, centuries old bibles. Much more precious than the unwrapped ones. Gently, he peeled the blue cloth off the second object. Cover not as elaborate as that on the first book. Carved figures set in a frame spanning the height of the book. Only six stones on the frame.

He turned the book over on its edges, then on its back. Certainly old, judging from the patina of age on its cover, its somewhat uneven surface, and wrinkling on the pages’ edge. He expected it to stink, but it didn’t. Whatever smell it had was subtle. He rewrapped the book and set it to one side of the first book.

The first book, larger and thicker with its stone-studded cover, was likely older. Even more carefully than the second book, he rewrapped it in its orange cloth.

For a minute or so, he fixed his gaze on the books, sitting as still as he could to fight an impulse, a temptation seizing his whole body. His chest heaved faster, his jaw clenched, his muscles twitched. He curled and uncurled his fists. He took several long, deep breaths. In, out… In, out… In… But he was powerless to resist. The impulse was too strong.

He lifted the first book, aware but not caring that he lost the battle with himself a little too quickly. Would it fit? He guessed 12 by 9 inches. He was tall and lean, but broad shouldered, and his army jacket had grown too big on him. War had taken a toll on his body.

He slipped the book into the left side of his jacket. The added thickness was hardly noticeable. He picked up the second book, slipped it into the right side. Zipped his jacket halfway up. The band at the waist was tight enough to secure the books to his chest.

He pried the wooden cover off another crate and ripped off the tape on the box inside. Again, he stared, incredulous. Another rectangular intricately decorated object. He inserted a hand to take it out of the box, and found he needed both hands.

Laying the object on top of an unopened crate, he saw that it was much thicker than the books. It was not a book. It was a box. A box unlike anything he had ever seen before. On its front, a series of figures were deeply embossed from one end to the other. Like the statues atop the door on the façade of the Paris Notre Dame. He ran his fingers across the figures and realized the box was made of wood. The object was a wooden casket.

Flipping the sculptured latch on the cover, he opened the casket. Inside, an ivory comb glowed in the low light, and several finely chiseled rock crystals set in gold or silver bases emitted rays of color. He picked up one of the rock crystals, brought it close to his face and turned it over and over. Something was inside. He brought it closer to his eyes, peering into it intently. A tiny piece of cloth. The crystal was a tiny container.

He picked up another rock crystal, then another. Bright, luminous colors reflected out of each one. He peeked into a couple more. Fragments of bones or stones in each of them? Reliquaries, he thought—the casket and the crystals. Containers for religious relics. He put the crystals back in the casket.

Anxious to make sure he was alone in the cave, he craned his neck towards the entrance. Silly of him to worry. Of course, he was alone.

The world outside basked under a brighter sun. The chill inside the cave had dissipated. It must be past noon. He hadn’t eaten anything before going into the cave and he was hungry.

He must put the wooden casket back in its box. As he was about to do so, he frowned, his eyes on the ivory comb. What was this object of feminine vanity doing among religious objects? Was it also a relic? It did look at home in the casket, like a queen ruling it over the crystal reliquaries. Could he take the casket with him? For a moment, he vacillated. No, too obvious. For now. He placed the casket back in its box and secured the top flaps. He closed the flaps on the box of bibles as well.

His gaze swept across the crates around him and caught sight of another light object on the ground. He remembered then—the inventory. The task he was ordered to do.

He bent to retrieve the notepad from the floor. A quick inventory wasn’t going to take him a whole afternoon. He only had a few crates to examine and catalog. The inventory could wait. With Nazi surrender so close, it was more urgent for him to secure his souvenirs deep in his combat pack. Send them home by Army mail as soon as he could.

Before he left the cave, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, pushing his knuckles forward. He looked down on his jacket. No sharp edges or corners were showing through. He flexed the muscles on his face and relaxed them. Making sure nothing about him would excite curiosity. As he exited, he instructed the guards not to let anyone in. He would return after lunch to finish his inventory.

Alone in his tent, his mind preoccupied with his recent finds, he chewed the soft chunk of meat from his k-ration longer than was needed to tear it into pieces small enough to swallow. The reliquary casket would be impossible to carry out of the cave without attracting attention. He needed something to hide or camouflage it in. Putting down his can of uneaten k-ration on the ground, he rummaged in his combat bag for a shirt ripped at the shoulder that he had not thrown out.

By two in the afternoon, he returned to the cave, the shirt crunched up into his jacket pocket. Inside the cave, he opened the other crates and listed their contents. When he finished his inventory, he slid the wooden casket and the treasures it held into the opening of the shirt and folded the shirt around the casket. Taking a few objects out of the other boxes, he placed them in the now-empty box that had held the casket.

He found sixteen crates when he first entered the cave and they—the church, most likely—were going to find all sixteen crates. Eventually, church personnel would find some items missing, but that wasn’t going to happen for another few weeks, maybe months. The cave was off-limits to all but those permitted by Allied military command.

That night he waited for his tent mates to go to bed before taking his new souvenirs out of his combat pack. He ran the palm of his hand over the books, still in their silky, protective garb. Sending them across the Atlantic in an army mailbag had become safer. Still, he needed to secure them better. There had to be plastic bags, strings, and paper he could salvage somewhere in the towns around the mountain. They had escaped the bombs that devastated the big cities.

The wooden casket would protect the comb and the crystal reliquaries. He wrapped those in a tattered shirt. The casket needed a bigger package than that for the books to ship home.

Unlike mail he had always addressed to his parents in the past, he decided to send his spoils of war to his sister. She had always been to him a confidant who could keep secrets. He wrote a short letter to enclose in the package that held the books—he’s sending her two packages of war souvenirs precious to him. She must make sure they were stored in a secluded corner of his closet where he could retrieve them on his return. She could examine the contents, but she should rewrap them once she had satisfied her curiosity. He told her to lock the closet and where he hid the key. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

When were the golden manuscripts lost?

Why is Clarissa intent on finding a place to call home?

What is a special characteristic of illuminated manuscripts?

Why do Nathan, Clarissa, and Kurt believe the manuscripts should be returned to the original owners?

Is art valuable? Why do you think so?

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