The Seal and the Stonemason - Chapter 1

Cheshire, historically, has been unremarkable as a county. Sitting in the armpit of north west England and Wales, she's bordered by five cousin counties and an estuarial ribbon known as the "Dee", which flows into Liverpool bay. It rains in the winter, and it rains in the summer. That's England, but it's especially true in Cheshire. Woe be the visitor expecting smiles and sunshine, though the trees grow tall, and the greens of the pastures stop only when they reach the rolling tides of the sea.

If one takes the noon train from London on the Birkenhead railway, they should find themselves in the Daresbury parish before afternoon teatime. Thatched houses slowly sink into the fallow taint of the surrounding small hills. It's the sort of place where any direction will lead to hedge lined hollows with narrow roads of gravel and pea shingle. Some distance down Owen's walk, one such path, a small curve in the street obscures the stained brick walls and wattled fence that Charles Lory and his cat call home.

Charles made his way cutting great blocks of mineral pulled from the Styal Estate quarry. Bricks of limestone came every Tuesday, hauled on great timber sleds driven by teams of horses shoed and sired by the estate studdery. He split material for anything from headstones to hearths, shipping out finished work as far as the south of Wales, and keeping the best of the leftovers for his own practices and projects.

His cat Duchess kept him company as he worked, and dispatched uninvited guests that occasionally moused into the larder. The house felt empty otherwise, since Charles almost exclusively worked alone, and had never taken a keen interest in courting a partner, romantic or otherwise.

April mornings in Daresbury are unremarkable, with the grey skies of dawn often taking the whole day away. This particular morning had begun with two cups of Sanderson's breakfast blend, plenty of milk and sugar, alongside a biscuit spread with last harvest's marmalade. The sky had slowly warmed, lightening the ink of night to a uniform slate, broken by the occasional wisps of texture from the Irish sea squalls.

Charles set to work collecting and sorting the various pitching chisels in his toolset. Taking care to keep them out of the piled mess of scraps and seconds that cluttered the surfaces of his workshop, he had just set the last one down before something caught his eye. Underneath the large drawing bench, was a small black stone that appeared in contrast to the milky white calcifications of lime.

Stooping down to pick it up, he noticed that it was not rough hewn like the other stone trimmings. Rather, it was a small, flat triangle made from a stone of a deep sable. One of the broad sides was completely smooth, but the other side had some sort of texture that set into the surface. In the glow of the candle sitting on his workbench, Charles saw that the stone bore a delicate inscription:

Listen and you will feel

Touch and you will see

Look and you will hear

He did not have a moment to ponder the writing. Just as he finished reading the final words, a soft knocking from the front of his shop pulled him away from any thoughts of origin or meaning.

The even light of grey dawn greeted the room, as door slowly opened and a figure stepped inside. Through a mess of chestnut hair, Charles could just make out a look of concern landing on the olive skin of a woman he had never seen before.

"When in the world am I?"