The Queen Alone (Chronicles of the Tempus Series #3)

by K. A. S. Quinn

Overview

Katie Berger-Jones-Burg is a lonely New York teenager. It's Christmas, and with her pop-star mother away on a whirlwind tour, all is not well with Katie. She is having visions. She remembers...

Katie is needed in another time. In 1860 it's Christmas too. Princess Alice is helping her father Prince Albert with his endless stream of work while the rest of the family - including Queen Victoria - are enjoying the wonderful snow. But the merry royal family are under a shadow. There is a plot - both political and supernatural - to bring down the Queen.

A Britain without its Queen is weak, and where Britain stumbles, the rest of the world falls...

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781782394549
Publisher:	Atlantic Books
Publication date:	04/01/2015
Series:	Chronicles of the Tempus Series , #3
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	240
File size:	911 KB
Age Range:	9 - 12 Years

About the Author

K. A. S. Quinn was born and raised in California and studied History and English at Vassar College. For ten years she was the publisher of the Spectator. She has written for The Times, the Telegraph, the Independent and the Wall Street Journal, as well as appearing on Any Questions, A Good Read, Famous Lives and Broadcasting House for the BBC. She lives in London and has two small boys. She still reads children's books in bed, after lights out, with a torch.
K. A. S. Quinn was born and raised in California and studied History and English at Vassar College. For ten years she was the publisher of the Spectator. She has written for The Times, Telegraph, Independent and Wall Street Journal, as well as appearing on Any Questions, A Good Read, Famous Lives and Broadcasting House for the BBC. She is married to Stephen Quinn, the publishing director of Vogue. They live in London and have two small boys. She still reads children's books in bed, after lights out, with a torch.

Read an Excerpt

The Queen Alone

Chronicles of the Tempus

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By K. A. S. Quinn

Atlantic Books Ltd

Copyright © 2014 Kimberly Quinn
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84887-056-7

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CHAPTER 1

The Core of Darkness: Lord Belzen

'Drip ... drop ... droplet.' How could a place be so wet and yet so icy cold? The dark seemed limitless. There were no boundaries, there was no time; for in the dwelling of the Malum time did not exist. And there was certainly no Christmas. What did the birth of a baby matter in a place like this? As for snow, there was wet and ice enough to freeze the heart, but nothing as downy and dancing as snow. This was a place without fancy or merriment, a place only for brute force and aggression: those were what the Malum needed to exist.

Gathered in the core of darkness were Lord Belzen and his followers. Some were human, or had been. Some were shaped like people, but never would be human. Lord Belzen took a surprising form. He appeared to be an elegant aristocrat, wrapped in the finery of the upper classes, really very handsome. Yet there was something about him – the strange wavering sway of his slender body, the oddly blunted nose starting high in his forehead. His close-set glittering eyes were hypnotic; his slightly lisping voice could hold one captive. He bore a strong resemblance to the snakes that lolled and lapped about his polished boots. Lord Belzen was dangerous to know.

'What stands in our way?' he asked those around him; and, as usual, answered his own question. 'It is Britain, a peaceful Britain.' Lord Belzen hissed the word 'peaceful' as if it were repulsive to him. 'And why must we suffer through peace? Again, the problem is Britain. A strong and unified nation which has become rich, with an expanding Empire abroad. All this strength, all this stability – it cannot halt the Malum, but it is slowing us down.'

Around him, a muted response stirred the chill air, hoarse muttered words mixed with yips and grunts and, underneath it all, a terrible hissing. It was the soundtrack to a nightmare.

Lord Belzen's head jerked upwards, as if it had a life of its own, separate from his neck and torso. 'And what is the key to this wonderful, growing, peaceful Britain? It is Prince Albert, the Prince Consort.' He spat the words with venom. 'A ridiculous man, with a ludicrous title. He thinks that with his pure white soul, his moral strength, his knowledge and his ceaseless toil, he can rule Britain wisely and bring his knowledge and influence to other nations. He can do much good in his world, but he has not considered that there are other worlds.'

The noise around him grew, an unnerving flapping and hissing and smacking of lips. Lord Belzen's eyes glittered wetly.

'The Prince is weakened already. All that goodness takes its toll.' He was met with an appreciative laugh. 'It will be easy to kill him off. We will be able to extinguish him and his good influence on the Queen. Then she is vulnerable. There is someone in her service, vain and weak, who is much in my debt. He can destabilize the Queen, subdue her. With such a fragile, insecure Queen, the Empire they are building will collapse into chaos. The effects will echo through the world. We will be able to lure Britain into war.'

With the word 'war', a jolt of power throbbed through the core of darkness. The fiends around him gasped with joy and the snakes writhed in ecstasy.

With a sweep of his long undulating arms, Lord Belzen sent a globe spinning above them. It whirled and leapt, lit from within – a replica of the earth, joining in the dance of death. It stopped at the Western Hemisphere, where an ugly red light pulsed through the United States of America. Belzen reached up and, taking the globe, traced the Americas with his long, webbed fingers. They left a glistening trail of wet behind. 'There it is,' he murmured, 'The United States of America, spiralling down, down, down, into a civil war. Britain will enter this war, France and Russia will follow. We will set the entire world on fire with this war.'

The cries became louder, as they realized what this meant. 'It will be most potent!' one of them hissed.

'Yes,' Belzen responded, 'the creation of brute force, the animal fierceness we need to survive. Our source of energy. We cannot be stopped. We will create unceasing war in this world. The Malum will harvest the ugly power of man, unchained from humanity.'

Lord Belzen had such authority; it was difficult to interrupt him. And most of his disciples made a point of agreeing. But one voice did speak out above the howls and jeers, the hissing in the chill darkness. 'We can be stopped,' it said. 'She knows everything. She has thwarted us before. She and the Tempus Fugit, they are always a threat. And beyond that, there are her friends. They are beginning to understand. Just one or two, but that is dangerous enough. The Prince we so despise, he has his doubts. And then there is Bernardo DuQuelle, Lucia, Flo —'

Lord Belzen drew his breath in, dropping his attractive mask. His nostrils lengthened strangely, long dark slits cut into his face. The questioning voice was cut short and replaced by a sharp shriek of pain, as something whipped through the darkness and slashed at the speaker.

'You are ridiculous,' Belzen's elegant voice became high and angry. 'DuQuelle?' he hissed. 'A puppet. Lucia? She is blinded, paralysed by her beliefs. Both are ineffectual. The Verus and all their goodness, their futile attempts to make this world a place of peace – all for what? So that they can use words, take communication from this weak, silly world. We will wipe out the Verus with one swipe.' There was another strange slap and yelp and the questioner was felled.

'Are you such a coward, that she would scare you?' Lord Belzen scoffed. 'We will use her for our own advantage. It is easy enough to lure her here – under the pretence that her friends are calling. We know the words that will bring her. I will plant the seeds within her mind: doubt, jealousy and loneliness. She will come and we will make her ours.'

No one dared speak, but Belzen could feel the questions in the chill air. 'She is no longer a child,' he continued, 'but she is still the child who can bring war or peace. We will make certain it is WAR she brings. She lives in America, the focus of war; if not in the same time, at least in the same place. America is the heart of her temporal life. We shall use this, and her, to lure Britain into her nation's war. She will turn against her friends. When they ask for her help, she will refuse. This girl will weaken the Prince and help us destroy the Royal Family. Their heroine? Their saviour? Hardly. She will bring the war that ends the world.'

Whomever or whatever surrounded him in the dark liked what they were hearing, and voiced their approval in shrill cries and foul language.

For a moment Lord Belzen allowed himself to sway and hiss along with them. 'This is only the beginning,' he exhorted. 'We must set the stage in the household of the Queen.' He tossed the globe lightly into the air. Again it spun and flashed. Its walls transformed into clear glass.

Inside the globe, the entire world resolved into a single scene. It was a family, playing in the falling snow. A small plump woman smiled upon them and nodded her fur-trimmed bonnet, while her husband tossed their youngest daughter into the air. The small girl shrieked with joy and her red hood went flying. An older girl, with shining brown hair, caught snowflakes in her hand and brought them to her sickly brother in his bath chair. 'See,' she said, 'no two snowflakes are alike.'

'I know that,' the boy replied with the pettish irritation of the invalid. But still, he looked at the flakes with interest and squeezed the girl's hand. A young man shouted with laughter, and as he ran from flying snowballs, collided with a large grinning snowman.

Lord Belzen watched them all at play, within his circling glass globe, and then he reached out a webbed finger to give the globe a poke. The snow fell more heavily. The earth trembled, ever so slightly, beneath the feet of the playful family. 'How happy they are,' he hissed softly. 'This year they are so happy. The Queen, how the Queen loves her Prince.'

Lord Belzen's hissing voice transformed to the womanly tones of the Queen. 'My precious Albert, he has made the Christmas season perfect,' he cooed. 'It is true Christmas and the dear, sweet children are beside themselves with the joy of the snow. Albert joins them with great spirit. Such a merry, joyful time, all due to my beloved Albert.' Belzen's mimicry had a cutting edge. 'Albert! Oh, my dear Albert! You are everything to me!'

Around Belzen there was cruel laughter as he poked again, harder, at the floating snow globe. 'Soon, little Queen, your everything will become nothing. This year there is Christmas cheer, but next year – grief. Your heart will be in darkness. The Malum shall prevail. Katie ... Katie ... the time has come to play your part ... we are calling you.'

Raising his arm, Lord Belzen gave the globe a clout with the palm of his hand, leaving a wet mark. The snow globe shuddered. It was not just the little white flakes, but the people within that began to revolve. The Queen, Prince Albert and Princess Alice floated and swirled in chaos ... and the dancing white flakes turned to black.

CHAPTER 2

New York City, 21 December: Here and Now

'Hooonnnnkkkk!' Was every taxi driver in New York City leaning on his horn? Katie Berger-Jones-Burg turned her head towards the terrace. The snow swirled outside the windows of Apartment 11C, looking almost black, as an early night set in. December 21st, the shortest day of the year. A day of panic. School had ended and time was running out – fast. Christmas was coming, at avalanche speed, and New Yorkers were bracing themselves. Trees needed to be decorated, lights hung in the windows, family feasts planned. Ahead lay the long car trips to Ohio or Virginia or Connecticut (even Long Island seemed an endless trip with the kids in the backseat, squabbling.) And of course there was the shopping, shopping, shopping, for nobody shops like a New Yorker.

They were crushed together on the sidewalks, scouring the stores for something, anything, to buy. It was a battlefield out there. The streets were wet and icy and crunched with salt and grit. The sidewalks became trenches, with huge mounds of dirt and snow on either side. Postal delivery vans were double-and triple-parked. Taxis honked, buses moved at a snail's pace and the subway was a tangle of wet, exhausted, irritated passengers. It was a good day to stay inside. But Katie Berger-Jones-Burg would rather have been outside, with the crowds, with anyone. School was out, her mother Mimi was gone and she was the only New Yorker in the world with nothing to do.

She lay flat on her back on the big cream sofa. The window was boring, so she turned her eyes to the Christmas tree. Well, not really a Christmas tree. Her mother Mimi had given strict instructions; it was to be referred to, at all times, as the Tree of Peace. It was flocked in some kind of white spray-on junk. Miniature Menorahs, little Buddhas, and the Islamic star and crescent hung from the branches. Ribbon garlands carried Mimi's favourite slogans: Give Peace a Chance! Just Say No! Live the Life You Imagined! And largest of all, the name of Mimi's new fragrance: FOREVER YOUNG!

That morning, the tree had been photographed for a press release 'Happy Holidays from pop's eternal role model: Mimi rocks with her multi-cultural Tree of Peace.'

'The Tree of Peace, my foot,' Katie said to herself. The house was anything but peaceful. George, the doorman, buzzed up every five minutes with more and more packages. There were endless gifts ... for Mimi. Bribes from fashion companies who wanted her to wear their size-zero creations, stacks of designer handbags, swathes of sandals with eight-inch heels that looked like instruments of torture – and barrels full of scented candles; it seemed this was the year that everyone introduced a scented candle.

Mimi greeted each gift with childlike enthusiasm. She loved stuff. An entire room in Apartment 11C was dedicated to Mimi's clothes. A light- and temperature-controlled room. The handbags each had their own velvet-lined case, labelled with their names: The Sofia – Louis Vuitton, The Jackie – Gucci, The Granville – Dior, The Anya, The Kelly, the Birkin gold ... the Birkin turquoise, the Birkin rose ... Their housekeeper Dolores said Mimi's handbags lived a better life than most of the world's population.

Among the millions of Mimi gifts was the odd package for Katie. She knew already what would be inside. Technology. Endless techi-things. The latest, most talked about stuff on the market. Mimi hired someone to 'handle her technology' – 'the nails darling, one must be very careful of the manicure ...' – but viewed Katie as the pioneer girl of the IT age.

'This is your future,' Mimi would lecture. 'Life is so much easier with these ... these ... miracles of science! You don't have to read, you don't have to write, you don't have to look things up or figure out where you are going. You'll never have to decide on a restaurant, a shop, a friend. These wonderful things can do all this for you.' Katie sometimes worried whether there was any thinking or personal choice in this wonderful new world of Mimi's.

Katie rolled off the sofa, and began to rummage under the Tree of Peace. Maybe her father had sent her something she might like, or her stepfather, or her other stepfather ... When your name is Katie Berger-Jones-Burg, there are a lot of fathers who might send you a sensible gift, maybe even a book ... She pushed aside several glittering packages, stopping to snort at one in a clear acrylic case. It was a silver and crystal evening bag shaped like a microphone. 'To Mimi: The Voice of Our Time' the card read.

Dolores pushed open the door from the kitchen and, bustling through the room, began to pick up the litter of diet cola cans and crummy plates. She stopped briefly to stare at the package Katie held. 'Those handbags!' she snorted. 'Mimi's always going on about the poor. What's that song she sings? "Feed the World"? Well, she could feed a village in Africa for a year out of the price of one of those handbags!'

'"Feed the World" was a hit,' Katie weakly defended her mother. 'And she doesn't buy the handbags. They just give them to her.'

'Giving,' Dolores harrumphed as she restacked the gifts under the tree. 'There's no such thing as giving in that world of Mimi's. They get their money's worth out of her.'

'Mimi might give one of those handbags to you,' Katie commented slyly. She'd seen Dolores dusting Mimi's handbags with a sneaking look of admiration. Dolores was female, after all.

'I don't need no $10,000 handbag, I've got a perfectly serviceable black one for church already,' Dolores said. 'And I don't want any more of Mimi's cast-offs. Give me a handbag. I know Mimi's idea of giving me a gift. She just switches cards on a couple of those packages. You remember last year? She gave me a mink jacket. A MINK JACKET. In size zero. With the lining personalized. Mimi it says, all embroidered in pink. She doesn't buy gifts for people. She doesn't pick them out. She doesn't even hire one of those people of hers to buy 'em.' Dolores did her Christmas shopping at Target. She lined up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning to get into the store before the crowds descended.

Katie flopped back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Even with the traffic and the bustle she could hear Dolores muttering ... 'mink, size zero, Mimi, really,' as she swept back into the kitchen to tackle the ironing. Despite this, Katie felt that tiny bit more secure. Dolores might grumble, but she was the closest thing Katie had to a caring parent. She knew Dolores wasn't going anywhere; there was no new 'final tour' with a pop band, no cheesy fragrance to launch. Dolores had been looking after Katie ... and Mimi ... for years. And though Katie might grow up (there was little hope for Mimi) Dolores had no intention of stopping – or holding her tongue.

Had there ever been a Mr Dolores? Not that Katie could remember. There was a son, Tyrell, and a daughter, Sonia. Katie often heard stories about them as she hung out in the kitchen. Tyrell spent time with his friends, was wild about computer games and basketball, pretty much a glorious human boy. He was about to go to college and study sports physiotherapy.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Queen Alone by K. A. S. Quinn. Copyright © 2014 Kimberly Quinn. Excerpted by permission of Atlantic Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Prologue: Windsor Castle: 21 December 1860,
Chapter One: The Core of Darkness: Lord Belzen,
Chapter Two: New York City, 21 December: Here and Now,
Chapter Three: The Doctor's Office,
Chapter Four: The Snow Globe,
Chapter Five: Alice and James, 1861,
Chapter Six: The War in America,
Chapter Seven: South Street,
Chapter Eight: The Ball at Windsor Castle,
Chapter Nine: The Surprise Guests,
Chapter Ten: Life or Death,
Chapter Eleven: The Real Sir Brendan,
Chapter Twelve: Snow Hill,
Chapter Thirteen: The Call of Duty,
Chapter Fourteen: On the Battlements,
Chapter Fifteen: The Brink of War,
Chapter Sixteen: Yankee Doodle,
Chapter Seventeen: Into the Light,
Chapter Eighteen: Exeter Hall,
Chapter Nineteen: Hiding the Queen,
Chapter Twenty: The Asylum,
Chapter Twenty-One: The Secluded Villa,
Chapter Twenty-Two: Miss Nightingale,
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Truth,
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Travellers,
Chapter Twenty-Five: Learning to Fly,
Epilogue: Another Christmas,