Part I: Catalyst


The sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon. Twilight was laying down on Bristol which lived at its own pace. Last scarlet beams were fading in the sky. The thin moon claw was hidden behind thick clouds, but its dim light was breaking through their veil. The evening brought the cold breath of fall. There were no birds or insects and only the occasional splashes of water as belated boats sailed down the Avon.

Beatrix opened the window and jumped onto the wide sill. How she longed to be out there, away from home, away from hustle and bustle surrounding her. To walk barefoot on the grass up the Avon River, climb a tall tree and watch the boatmen's life from there. That take a boat — rent or even steal it — get in and sail far, far away. And never come home again.

Of course, these were just empty dreams that never ever became real, that even shouldn't exist in her mind. Wherever Beatrix goes, she is always being watched. A single step to the left, a sharp step to the right, and she would be trailed and punished — how dare she break the rules, leave the route, go against her father?

There was a knock at the door. Beatrix jumped down on the floor. The door opened and a middle-aged man in a black suit entered the room.

"Miss Corelli, your father ordered to report to the Great Hall."

"Oh, yes, of course. Just a second." Beatrix closed the window, slipped into her shoes, and wandered into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall at Corelli Manor was an enormous room where all kinds of receptions, parties, and dinners were held. Usually, enchanting live music was played here, everything around shone as precious decorations shimmered in the lights of the majestic crystal chandeliers, many beautifully dressed rich guests conversed with each other gracefully, laughed, danced, and just had a great time.

Usually, but not now. Now there were no musicians in the Hall, nor were any decorations or guests. However, it was not empty at all.

The master of the house, Mr. Corelli, stood on the mezzanine floor of the Hall. His faithful friend and adviser, the American William Barkley, was beside him, as well as his beloved son and Beatrix's elder brother Bartolomeo Corelli. Behind the men, in the shadows where the ghostly light hardly penetrated, the master's wife Alicia stood. She still had the beauty of her face and body in her forties, but looked like a tired, battered, and sickly creature, lacking the will. Beatrix went up to the mezzanine and took a place near her mother.

A crowd of people thronged below. There were Mr. Corelli's employees, the staff of Corelli Manor, the bodyguards, and the watchmen — all the people who had been in the mansion that night. They stood in a semicircle and in the middle of the empty space a man was kneeling, sobbing, and lowering his head. He seemed so insignificant like a cosmic dust.

"Well, fine," Beatrix sighed. "Father is going to have another one public execution."

Bruno Corelli's face expressed nothing but total boredom. He treated his friends well but was ruthless to his enemies. Anyone who ventured to betray Mr. Corelli was very soon sure to be dead. And anyone who dared to stand in his way was wiped out of existence. Dura lex, sed lex, as the saying goes.

"Stuart Ashby," said Barkley to the shaking silhouette on the floor, "you're accused of passing information to an outside organisation. Will you deny it?"

As Beatrix remembered, Stuart Ashby was William Barkley's personal assistant. He joined her father's service around five years ago and has been climbing the ladder quite steadily ever since. He had no interest in love or liquor, was quick, courteous and polite, and knew ways of making himself agreeable to everyone. He earned decent money and never complained about anything. It was hard to believe he became a traitor.

It looked like Ashby did not understand what exactly his former boss was asking about. Without raising his head, he whimpered in silence like a beaten dog:

"No, please no… Spare me… I-I didn't know, didn't understand… I…"

Mr. Corelli grimaced. He could not stand people who let humiliate themselves.

"Quit stalling, Bill. I don't want him talking. We've already had enough talk. Whatever that lousy coward tells us now, nothing can save him."

Barkley did not answer, just nodded meekly. He drew a pistol from an inside pocket of his jacket, pointed it at Stuart Ashby and put his finger on the trigger. The men and women surrounding the convict moved back against the walls. Shot. Beatrix could not see where the bullet had hit, but Ashby's moans and sobs stopped. The body hit the ground. A pool of blood spilled over the floor.

Her father held these "public executions" at least once every six months to have people frighten so they would remember who they were dealing with and how powerful that man was. If someone had the courage to raise their heads, they met the same fate. Beatrix saw all such "trials" and almost everyone behaved like poor Stuart Ashby. However, there was one man whose name she no longer remembered but who stuck in her memory. He, too, was a traitor but he was not afraid of her father or the death waiting for him. When Barkley read the charges against him, that man laughed loudly and said he was not the least bit remorseful for what he had done, and the time of Mr. Corelli's end was near.

"And I'm so glad," the man smiled happily, "That I'm the one who made you closer to the downfall."

He stood firmly on his feet and grinned. He took the bullet with open arms and died laughing in the face of death. Oh, Mr. Corelli was so furious.

And it was that man who inspired Beatrix Corelli. Only memory of his execution kept the girl from breaking down as her mother had broken down under father's pressure. Beatrix respected traitors at heart: it took great bravery to go against Bruno Corelli.

Mr. Corelli did not intimidate but taught the only one person — his son, his successor. And Bartolomeo obeyed the father, respected and worshipped him, and approved his every decision. Beatrix was secretly turned off by this servility.

What about the daughter? Mr. Corelli loved her no more than a thing, a valuable instrument: to get himself valuable allies, to make lucrative deals, he was using Beatrix as a bedfellow for rich men. Disgusting, hideous, and vile. But if she rebelled, her life would be over. And she wanted to live.

But was what kind of life worth to live?


Thank you for reading! This is my first translation experience, so I'll be glad if you report me about mistakes. I don't really know English punctuation, have problems with articles and times. But I really tried!

Love u ~