The Year of Fallen Stars: Victorian Time Travel Romantic Suspense (The Stars of Time Trilogy Book 1)

Prologue

April 6th, 1865

Asheford Hall, Cornwall, England

Settled in the bay window of the library, Henry Asheford was reading a book in the faint strands of moonlight. It was well past his bedtime. He considered taking the book to bed, but the lure of the library was too appealing. He liked the silence and darkness. The smell of dust. Most of all, he adored the idea of being surrounded by portals to new and undiscovered worlds.

He was reading a science-fiction novel called The Last Man.

His grandfather had gifted it to him and said not to tell his father, for it spoke about the future. More specifically, it described a world ravaged by a mysterious illness in the twenty-first century. To his thirteen-year-old mind, the concept of contagion was a startling revelation. It was also a little frightening. But he continued to read it all the same, for he was too fascinated with the idea of how the world would be in a century he would never see.

Just as he turned the page, a loud bang sounded above him, followed by a baby’s shriek.

His head swivelled upward. His newborn sister. His mother had given birth yesterday evening, and he had yet to hear a word about her well-being.

Sudden, hasty footsteps hurried down the hallway.

A servant’s heels? Who would run at this hour?

Heart racing, Henry slammed his book shut and propped it beneath his arm. He hurried to the door and stuck his head through the gap to peer down the hall.

In the darkness, the walnut floorboards were a river of grey. The crimson carpet running down the centre was a long strip of pure black, and he half-imagined it to be a portal into oblivion.

Hushed whispers upstairs caught his attention again. With every passing second, they grew more frantic. In between the voices, his sister’s cries continued with increasing urgency.

His stomach churned. Was she sick? He thought of the contagion in the book and how quickly the plague had spread across the world. That is science fiction. Surely, his new sister was healthy and in good hands, but he knew little about babies. He supposed they cried often, but this cry was fraught with panic, urging him to run to her.

He left the library and made his way toward the staircase. As he did, he avoided the carpet to oblivion by jumping over it; the last thing he wanted was to topple into darkness. Just as he reached the bottom of the staircase, there was another cry.

A perplexing whimper of agony.

Was that his mother? Its tone seemed too low to be his mother’s soothing voice. She was a great singer. When he was younger, she would sing him to sleep as she tucked him into bed, ending with a gentle poke to his nose and a hushed goodnight, my darling boy. Even now, at his age, she still made a point of singing him awake every morning, and despite being old enough to not warrant such child-like affections, he could not help but love it.

Another shout came, frighteningly loud and angry, pulling him out of his thoughts.

That voice most certainly belonged to his father.

Henry took the stairs two at a time toward the commotion. The sound brought him to his parents’ bedchamber, and as he drew near, the sensation that something was not right crawled like a thousand ants beneath his skin.

“Give it here, Edwin,” his grandfather said.

“Bite your blasted tongue! She is my wife and I have a say in how this is done.”

“And she is my daughter. My one and only daughter … give me the device. I beg you, Edwin, I beg you. What you are doing is sinful.”

“No—”

There was a scuffle of heavy boots. His father let out an angry cry. Something shattered against the wall, prompting his sister to shriek in panic.

Henry moved quietly in the shadows of the hallway and halted at the bedchamber’s door. His insides squirmed in discomfort as he peeked through the gap.

The chamber was steeped in the soft, orange light of the fireplace. Adjacent to the gap in the doorframe was his father, who stood huddled in his nightgown in the corner. He held a poker in his trembling hands. It pointed directly at his grandfather’s chest. Known for his calm manner, Henry’s father always appeared well-kempt, but on this night, he was dishevelled and chaotic. With ghostly white skin, a frantic mane of dark curls and red marking the whites of his eyes, his face had transformed into an ugly grimace of torment like one of those stone gargoyles perched atop a gothic cathedral.

Henry shuddered.

“I swear by all that is holy, Albert, I will not hesitate to stick you,” Edwin said.

“Christ,” Albert muttered.

“Leave us be!”

“Son … I beg you, do not cause further trouble for your family. You must think of your children.”

“My children? Quite frankly, I do not care for my children—”

The book beneath Henry’s arm fell with a thud.

Albert’s head turned to the bedchamber door. His hazel eyes softened, a frown marking his aging face. In a few quick steps, he swung open the door and looked down at Henry.

“My dear boy, you must go to your room at once,” Albert said gently.

“Where is Mother?” Henry asked.

Albert’s tired eyes fell to the floor and he rested a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

Severe confusion swept into Henry’s belly. He did not know whether to look at the warmth of his grandfather’s eyes, the madness of his father or the unmoving lump under the crisp, white sheets of his parent’s bed.

“Where is she?” Henry said. “Where is Mother?”

“She is dead!” Edwin shouted.

Henry’s breath caught in his throat.

Edwin threw the poker to the ground. The metal ringing echoed in Henry’s ears.

“She is dead,” Edwin repeated. “And neither of you can take her away from me!”

Albert turned to face Edwin. “I beg you to hold onto your sense of civility.” An unusual heat marked his tone. “This is your son, for Christ’s sake!”

Henry’s heart hammered against his ribs. Mother was dead? He did not understand … could not understand. His throat thickened as if he had a toffee lodged in his windpipe.

“My sweet Rosie … my sweet Rosie is dead.” Edwin fell to his knees, his face in his palms. “What have I done to deserve this?”

Back and forth Edwin swayed, rambling on like a mad man. His father’s cries of agony mixed in with his newborn sister’s shrieks and the rush of blood in Henry’s ears was like an orchestra of misery.

Frozen, Henry was unable to drag his fixated gaze away from his crying father.

There was a gentle tug on Henry’s shoulders.

“Henry, look at me, look into my eyes,” Albert said, holding a bundled object in his arms. “I must ask that you take your sister away. Keep her somewhere safe, perhaps go to Mrs. Byron. She will teach you how to care for her.”

Henry forced down a sick feeling. “Where will you go?”

“I must look after your father.”

“Has he gone mad?”

“Mad with grief,” Albert said. “Take your sister now.”

The bundle was placed in his arms. He peered down at his sister’s tiny pink face. Large tears fell down her cheeks. She gave out another frightful, high-pitched scream before halting to draw in a shaking breath. She felt like a tiny doll, but warm, heavy and full of life. And fragile. Oh, so tiny and fragile.

His lungs burned, and he realized he had not taken a breath since he held her. He was too afraid to harm her in some way. “I cannot … I cannot care for a newborn,” Henry breathed.

“You can and you will,” Albert was quick to say. “You are a man now, and she is relying on you to care for her.”

“Bu-but, where will you go? Where will Father go?”

As Henry looked up, he snuck a glance at his father who was still wailing upon the ground, completely ignorant of their conversation. Tears pricked Henry’s eyes. Mother is dead and Father has gone mad.

A hand was placed against his cheek, urging him to meet Albert’s gaze again.

“I will be here. I will always be here for you, Rhys and Charlotte,” Albert said.

“Charlotte?”

“Your sister’s name.”

Henry eyed the baby in his arms. Charlotte, his sister. They had a sister.

His father’s nonsensical ramblings gathered strength. “The stars will reunite us once more … the stars hold the answers. If I must travel through time for all eternity, I shall. I shall … come for you, Rosie, I shall.”

“What does Father speak of?” Henry asked.

“Let us not dwell on that. Go, take Charlotte away, quickly now.”

Urged by his grandfather’s hands to step back, Henry did. But as he made to turn, a slight quiver tickled the nape of his neck. The next moment, the ground vibrated, and a rapid surge of heat swept down his spine. A wall of cool wind followed, extinguishing the fire in one audible puff.

Henry glanced around his parents’ darkened bedchamber.

His father had vanished.

For a beat, Henry stopped breathing again. Where had he gone? Strong hands found their way to Henry’s face and he looked into his grandfather’s comforting eyes.

“Where did Father go?” Henry said.

His grandfather’s brows pulled together. “My darling boy, I suppose the time has come to explain it all to you,” he said, patting Henry’s cheek. His frown lines deepened. “I will soon, I promise. Until then, take Charlotte to safety. Go, now, and remember that you are brave.”

Henry’s mouth went dry. He could not understand what had happened, but he nodded all the same. With a tight hold on Charlotte, he hurried from the bedchamber and through the halls of his shattered home.

The dreadful ache that welled from his chest overwhelmed him. It was as if his world had fallen from beneath his feet. He no longer cared for the black carpet to oblivion, or the book of the future. If he were brave like his grandfather claimed, he would not fall prey to his fears. But he was not strong. He was never the strong one – that was his older brother, Rhys. Hours ago, he had been a boy with fantastical dreams for a life of adventure in an undiscovered world. Now, he was a boy whom tragedy had befallen – a tragedy befitting a character from a gothic tale, and he was frightfully unprepared to live with the consequences.