Mystic Passage

Prologue

Prologue

When Augustin finished perusing the first book of my story, reading over my shoulder in silence, I turned around on my stool to regard him, curious about his impression of my tale thus far. He eyed my pile of pages with his arms crossed, his expression appearing dissatisfied. When he saw me looking at him, he shook his head slowly and made a disquieting noise, his bright blue eyes alight with mockery. I frowned at him, knowing that it was time to defend my writings, though I knew not why. “What’s with the vampirical smirk?” I demanded, laying down my pen and folding my own arms in tacit frustration.

He chuckled darkly and shook his head again. “You certainly are not a chronicler, Swanie, and this proves it,” he said, leaning over the desk to tap my stack of papers with an incriminating finger. “Your tale reads like a novel, not like a historical event.”

I snorted at him and countered, “Not too many ‘historical events’ happened in this part of my story.”

“Your discovery of the Torstein,” Augustin rejoined, still smirking. “The unveiling of the gates of time, the harrowing trip through the dark currents. Also, the death of Bertha Lohr, your era’s Lady of Muniche.” He nodded sagaciously, looking satisfied. “Historical events.”

He was right, as usual, but I shrugged at him. “I don’t care. I’m writing this for my son, not for some Teuton historians like some people. If Max wants to read our history, he can c***k open some of your own tomes. But this is my story, and you shouldn’t criticize the way I’m writing it.” I stuck my nose up at him, contorting my expression into one of wounded pride and great abandon.

Augustin looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he tilted his head at me and added, “Your grammatical errors . . . .”

“Oh, give me a break!” I retorted, grasping the pen once more and squirting a black splotch of ink onto his tunic. “My English is far better than yours.”

Augustin muttered a few choice words and dabbed at the ink spot with his fingers. “I cringe to consider how you intend to portray me in Book II,” he said, rubbing his now-black fingertips together, peering at the ink stains.

I almost cringed at that idea as well, but I made a shooing motion at him and turned back to my work. “Get out of here,” I told him shortly. “How am I supposed to write with you breathing down my neck?”

I heard him snicker, and his footsteps receded in the direction of the door. But he paused before exiting the chamber and called to me again. “Swanhilde?”

I did not turn around. “Yes, Augustin?” My tone betrayed a little annoyance.

There was a short silence and then, to my surprise, I heard him say, “So far, your writing is excellent.” An instant later, I heard the door creak open and shut. I glanced back at the door, sensing the heat of Augustin’s fire departing the room with him. Then I spun on my stool to face my work once more, a triumphant smile spreading across my face . . . .

Chapter One: