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triggered by Michael’s nightmare, but no trace of Michael intruded here.
    Suddenly, he seemed to be hovering outside a dark semicircle of men in cowled black robes—though he sensed instinctively that these were no benign monks or even white magicians. Beyond an oddly shifting shimmer of not-quite-light, he could barely make out high ceilings, and red, black, and white banners, the folds stirring in unfelt breezes by the light of torches set along the walls. Fat black candles guttered to either side of where he seemed to be.
    All at once, a black-robed figure pushed between the others to peer in his direction, the scarred face masked across the eyes. A hand emerged from a voluminous sleeve, pointing a double-edged blade directly at him.
    Graham snapped back into his body with a speed that left him queasy and weak-kneed. Clutching at the bridge support to keep from collapsing into the mud, he still caught a backlash that left him gasping. For what seemed like several lifetimes, he could only concentrate on breathing, on slowing his pounding heart, on keeping his mind wiped clean of any telltale ripple that might identify him to the entity that still searched, very near on the Second Road—though physically he knew it was miles away.
    Eventually, he became aware that he had shaken off whatever had threatened him and began to breathe a little easier. Other than having reassured himself that Michael himself was still alive, he had no idea just what he had touched. By the time he stood away from the bridge and began making his careful way back to Denton, only memory and the vague throbbing behind his eyes reminded him that something had, indeed, happened. He did not want to think about what it was. Something very horrifying.
    And far across the Channel, in a chamber dug deep beneath a castle in the Rhineland, a masked man in cowled robes eased back into the midst of his colleagues and scanned the torch-lit stillness yet again, his gaze narrowing as he searched each taut, apprehensive face turned to his.
    â€œZeigen Sie mir die Gesichten!” he ordered, though he hardly raised his voice above a whisper.
    Instantly, the others removed their masks, standing stonily while he scanned each face anew.
    â€œWas war das?” he murmured then. “Hatte jemand etwas neben dem Kreis gesehen?”
    No one spoke. No one moved. After another moment’s further reflection and more suspicious scrutiny of the men around him, the man in the mask nodded slowly and then gestured with a curt wave of his blade for the others to replace their masks.
    A few moments he allowed for everyone to settle again, to gravitate a little closer. Only then did he return his attention to the center of the circle.
    Nordic runes flashed in the candlelight as he laid his blade against the upturned throat of a man tied naked and spread-eagled across a rough black altar stone.

C HAPTER 3
    Constable’s Tower, Dover Castle, 0530 hours, 29 May 1940
    Graham gave his name to an orderly on duty downstairs, with instructions to forward any calls, then left his mac and sidearm with Denton and headed up to the royal quarters. Wells, the perpetually intense young naval lieutenant who served as William’s secretary and aide, met him at the door. The man sitting with the grey dawn at his back turned and rose as Graham and Wells entered the room, his face a blur against the rain-smeared windowpanes.
    â€œSir,” Wells said, “Colonel Sir John Graham is here.”
    â€œWhy, Gray, what a welcome surprise,” said the familiar voice. “Good morning.”
    â€œGood morning, sir.”
    Graham paused to incline his head with proper formality before continuing on toward the light, for Wells was still in earshot. But as soon as the door closed behind him, Graham was met by the always-unexpected warmth of the royal handshake and the bright Windsor smile.
    â€œGood gracious, you look like you could use a cup of tea,” his host