The House Of Smoke by Sam Christer Read Free Book Online Page A

cutlery. ‘We always breakfast in the orangery,’ he explained as we took our seats. ‘I consider it quite the most important room in this house. Can you guess why?’
    ‘Because it has food and servants in it?’
    ‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘It is because things
grow
in here. When they come in, they are tiny and ugly. Little seeds and roots. We nurture them with our knowledge and skill. Raise them to their full potential.’
    The waiter placed a heaped plate in front of me. My hand went again for the bread. Moriarty allowed me several mouthfuls before he added, ‘I have a good friend, a Bostonian, who says fish, meat and drink to us are like sunlight, water and good soil to plants. Basic nourishment.’ He leaned across the table. ‘You are unique, Simeon. A highly prized specimen of youth. You are what my American friends describe as “the real deal”. Rest assured, I will grow you to your fullest potential.’
    His words sparked defiance in me and amid a splutter of food I told him, ‘I’m not a bleeding plant, mister.’
    His eyes turned to granite and he slapped my face.
    Noise in the room behind us evaporated.
    Moriarty stared challengingly at me.
    Instinctively, I stood in anger, my chair making an abominable raking sound on the marble tiles before it fell over with a clatter.
    ‘Sit back down,’ he demanded.
    My hands balled into fists. Violence boiled inside me.
    ‘You look foolish, Simeon. Pick up your chair and be seated, before someone mistakes you for a serious threat and shoots you.’
    My eyes darted across the room. ‘I see no weapons.’
    ‘That doesn’t mean there are none. Now
sit
and finish your food!’
    Reluctantly, I picked up the fallen chair and returned to the table.
    ‘Carry on!’ Moriarty shouted to the room.
    His guests resumed their chatter and I resumed my assault on the laden plate.
    ‘We will pretend that little incident never happened.’ His eyes bored into mine and asked more questions than any words could.
    He toyed with his beard while he watched me devour the food and I wondered what thoughts came and went behind his cold, unnerving eyes.
    I ate greedily with my fingers not the dainty knife and fork, for fear that any moment the food might be withdrawn. By the time my plate was empty I had so much in my mouth it took me an eternity to chew and swallow it.
    Moriarty watched, with what appeared to be a mixture of amazement and disgust.
    ‘You are fed, so let us leave things there, for today,’ he announced. ‘Go to your room. Rest. Think of what has been said. Contemplate the new you that has the opportunity to rise from within your old life.’
    I rose, still chewing strings of meat caught between my teeth, and nodded politely.
    Judgemental heads turned as I walked out of the orangery. This was no place for me. That Elizabeth woman was achingly beautiful but I vowed once I had my strength back, I would flee this dreadful place faster than a fox spotting a farmer with a gun.
    Back in the room where I had regained consciousness, the bed had been remade in my absence, and the chamber pot, bowl, jug and soap all renewed.
    A book had been left on a table. I supposed it to be some American nonsense that Moriarty wished me to ingest. A plain card on the top of the volume bore a handwritten note, which thanks to some basic schooling I was able to read.
    Simeon,
    Read what you can, when you can. A day without reading is a day of decay. Yours
    Elizabeth.
    I turned the card, desperate for more words from her, but there were none, only the title of the book:
Queen Mab: A Philosophical Poem
, by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
    One look inside filled me with despair. I was used to rhymes and simple stories. Bible passages and prayers. Nothing like this. Clumps of long, intense words knotted my brain. Words and phrases I had never heard of hit me like intellectual slaps –
tainted sepulchre – roseate morning – celestial coursers.
    I threw the book on the bed.
    Maybe I would get round