The Fate of Pryde, the second in TheTrilogy of Remembrance.

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                                                                 LONDON

 CHAPTER 1

I looked up from my desk to see a stately Rolls-Royce Phantom—in a rich, royal blue—glide to a stop in front of my gallery in Kensington. I rose quickly in hopes that a potential client might emerge from such a beautiful work of art. When the car door opened, a liveried driver stepped out. After checking the address, he knocked. Seeing me through the glass, he waved in a friendly fashion. I opened the door.

            “Sir? Are you Mr. James Helmsworth?”

            I nodded my agreement. “A letter for Alexander Wainwright. I believe your gallery represents him?”

            I smiled and took the envelope. “We most certainly do.”

            Tipping his hat, the driver got behind the wheel of that exquisite automobile and drove off.

            An unfamiliar, but elegant hand had addressed the milk-colored envelope to my attention. For a moment, I ran my finger along its edge—the very best vellum, indeed. Carefully, I slit it open and extracted the letter. I nearly gasped. The grace and energy of the crest on the letterhead sprang forth from the page.

It bore a strange but striking gold and green design, depicting a coiled and feathered snake devouring its tail. Oddly, I immediately envisioned eternal, ancient desert lands, perhaps existing only in dreams.

My hand trembled as I read. The letter was written in the same stylish script as the envelope and was signed, Jonathan Pryde. I had to find Alexander immediately. My heart pounding in my chest, I pocketed the letter, locked up my gallery and rushed out to hail a cab.

As I waited at the curb, a cold spring rain slashed down upon London. I turned up my collar but still, the drops dripped down my neck. At last, a cab pulled over. When I settled into the seat, I caught the grin on my face in the mirror.

For over twenty years, I have had the honor of representing Alexander Wainwright, Britain’s finest landscape artist. Last year, when Alex created an entirely new school of art, I became the faithful chronicler of his life and artistic career. 

Now, sitting in the back of the cab, I was gripped by an intense sensation. Some might call it a premonition—that I was about to witness another upheaval in his artistic vision.

The driver twisted around and asked, “Where we going, mate?”

Lost in thought, I had not realized we still sat at the curb. I leaned forward and said to him,  “Embankment, please. Number two seventy two.”

Then we were off—poking through the Kensington streets, dismal in the rain and traffic. I watched the stately, white-columned facades of the shops and residences parade past at funereal speed. After five minutes, I leaned forward and urged the driver to hurry. He shrugged nonchalantly and sped up for a block or two as best he could. After all, that letter in my pocket bore great news for Alexander.

When the cab swerved over to the curb at the Embankment, I broke from my reverie, paid the driver and got out. Traffic roared past. After dodging several bicycles, I stood safely on Alex’s front step and rang the bell. Alex answered immediately.

            “Yes?”

            “Alex, it’s Jamie. I’ve got a letter to show you.”

            There was a long pause. “Letter? I’m not expecting anything.”

            “Listen, Alex. Something’s been delivered to me. You need to see it—about potential work.” There was another long pause as the rain continued to drip down my collar. “Damn it, Alex! I’m getting soaked out here.”

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