An Eventful Christmas at Trevelver Castle

[Chris in Prague]

[As I'm travelling back home this afternoon, you get a second episode early, today.]

As the six friends eagerly made their way along the castle's crimson-carpeted corridors, the sounds of the festive Great Hall faded behind them. With his intimate knowledge of the Castle's interior, Jeremy guided them confidently through the maze of passages and doors.

"This way", Jeremy announced, directing the group towards a less-frequented side corridor. There's a rather more... interesting route to the conservatory that I think you'll all appreciate", he grinned.

Sylvia walked beside him, smiling broadly, her hand resting lightly on his left arm. The other four followed, exchanging knowing glances. The corridor Jeremy chose was dimly lit, with only the occasional red and gold lantern casting a dim light. Gilt-framed portraits of shadowy, stern-faced Lords seemed to stare down on their progress with silent disapproval.

Suddenly, Amanda let out a small gasp. "Oh! Andy, darling, I seem to have lost an earring. Would you help me look for it?" Her voice was playful, laden with suggestion.

Andy, catching on quickly, nodded. "Of course, my dear. We shouldn't be long", he added to the others, as he and Amanda fell back, disappearing into a conveniently shadowed doorway.

Eli suppressed a smirk. "How clumsy of her", she remarked, her tone making it clear she believed no such thing.

As they continued, Jeremy led them past a series of intriguing doors and passageways. His eyes met Sylvia's, a silent communication passing between them.

"Darling", Sylvia said, her voice low and filled with anticipation, "aren't we near that charming little study of my maternal grandmother's we saw last year? Perhaps we could... refresh our memories? I'm sure that we can find something there... of interest".

Jeremy's smile was quick and knowing. "What an excellent idea, Sylvie. We'll catch up with you shortly", he said to Giles and Eli, as he and Sylvia slipped away down a side passage that only they seemed to know existed.

Now alone, Giles turned to Eli, his usual composure slipping just a fraction. "Well, my dear, it seems we've been abandoned. Whatever shall we do to pass the time until the others rejoin us?"

Eli's laugh was low and throaty. "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something, darling. After all, Jeremy and Sylvia aren't the only ones with secrets in this castle." She pulled him closer, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "I believe there's a rather secluded window seat just around the corner with a wonderful view over the grounds. Shall we see?"

As Giles and Eli disappeared from view, the high-ceilinged corridor fell silent save for the distant sounds of merriment from the party guests and the soft whisper of snowflakes against the tall windows. The Castle seemed to hold its breath, a silent custodian of the secrets unfolding within its walls, its labyrinthine layout providing the perfect backdrop for these clandestine adventures.

[Chris in Prague]

As the three couples dispersed to their chosen hideaways, the grand old Castle settled into conspiratorial silence, broken only by the occasional creak of ancient timber or the distant strains of music and laughter from the Great Hall.

In the secluded study, Jeremy and Sylvia were enveloped by the rich history and warmth of Sylvia's beloved maternal grandmother's former personal sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, their polished mahogany gleaming softly in the firelight. Leather-bound tomes, some centuries old, stood in neat rows, their gilded spines catching the light and hinting at the wealth of knowledge contained within.

The comforting scent of old leather, parchment, and beeswax permeated the air, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender and jasmine – her grandmother's favourite scent. A small fire crackled in the ornate fireplace, its intricate carvings depicting scenes from Atlantean mythology. The dancing flames cast flickering shadows across the room, creating an intimate, magical atmosphere.

Sylvia's gaze lingered on the fireplace carvings, a subtle smile on her lips. She realised that to the uninformed eye, these figures would merely resemble characters from classical mythology or perhaps some obscure ancient culture. Only those privy to the family's secret heritage would recognise the true nature of these scenes—actual events and personages from Atlantean history, cleverly disguised as mythological tableaux.

The carvings showed elegant, tall figures with distinctive features similar to Sylvia's own, engaged in scenes of ritual, governance, and what appeared to be the manipulation of strange energies. To most, they might seem like fanciful depictions of gods and goddesses. But Sylvia knew better. These were her ancestors, their true history hidden in plain sight, their legacy preserved in stone and shadow.

Sylvia mused that this clever concealment was a testament to her family's ingenuity in preserving its heritage while adapting to the world beyond. The fireplace stood as a silent guardian of their secrets, warming the room with its flames while displaying the hidden truths etched into its surface.

Atop the carved marble mantelpiece, an exquisite antique carriage clock ticked softly, marking the passage of time with gentle precision. The clock, a masterpiece of the second half of nineteenth-century French craftsmanship, stood encased in a gilt bronze housing, its delicate filigree work catching the firelight and casting intricate shadows on the white marble beneath.

The clock face, made of pristine white enamel, bore elegant black Roman numerals and a pair of ornate brass hands. Above the dial, a small window revealed the hypnotic swing of the clock's balance wheel, a mesmerising dance of mechanical artistry.

This timepiece, a treasured family heirloom, a honeymoon gift to Sylvia's great-grandmother from a mysterious Parisian clockmaker, was said to possess unique properties beyond mere timekeeping. Its steady, soothing tick seemed to resonate with a deeper rhythm, as if keeping time not only for the present moment but also for the ancient pulse of Atlantis itself.

However, what truly set this clock apart was a secret known only to the women of Sylvia's lineage and those they trusted the most. Despite its outward appearance of a conventional carriage clock, complete with winding mechanisms and keys, these were merely for show. In reality, cleverly shielded from view, the clock's inner workings were powered by some unknown constant power source.

This mysterious energy, believed to be of Atlantean origin, had kept the clock running flawlessly for generations without ever needing to be wound or adjusted. The nature of this power source remained a family mystery, a tantalising hint at the advanced technology of their ancient ancestors.

Sylvia often wondered about the true extent of the clock's capabilities. Was it merely an ingenious piece of Atlantean technology, or did its ceaseless ticking connect it to something greater, perhaps even to the flow of time itself? Whatever its secrets, the clock stood as a constant reminder of her family's extraordinary heritage, quietly marking the passage of time with its enigmatic, eternal pulse.

Sylvia smiled as she recalled how Susan Foreman, the precocious schoolgirl granddaughter of the enigmatic Doctor, had been fascinated by the clock during her first visit to the Castle. Despite her youth, Susan's extraordinary intelligence and unique background had allowed her to examine the timepiece with an insight far beyond her apparent years.

On her next visit, Susan carefully studied the clock using a highly advanced yet very compact scanning device borrowed from her grandfather. Her findings were both reassuring and intriguing: despite its mysterious and constant operation, the clock emitted no harmful radiation.

This discovery had delighted Sylvia and her family. It meant the cherished heirloom posed no danger to those who spent time in its presence. Yet, it also deepened the mystery of its power source, as even Susan had been unable to identify exactly how it functioned.

The teenager's eyes had sparkled with excitement as she hypothesised about possible energy sources unknown to current Earth science. Her insights, hinting at knowledge far beyond her years, had opened up new avenues of thought about Atlantean technology and its potential applications.

Susan, however, had been able to confirm what Sylvia's family had long believed: the Atlanteans were a peaceful race that had achieved a harmonious balance between advanced technology and a simple lifestyle. Susan estimated their scientific knowledge was at least 4,000 years ahead of contemporary technology. Yet, it had been integrated seamlessly into their society without the disruptions often associated with technological progress.

For Sylvia, Susan's examination of the clock added another layer of intrigue to the family legacy surrounding her in this study. It was a poignant reminder that their Atlantean heritage held secrets that even beings as enigmatic as the Doctor found worthy of investigation. With its mysterious eternal energy source, the clock stood as a tangible link to this advanced civilisation, quietly ticking away in a room that bridged past and present.

Sylvia wondered what other Atlantean marvels might be hidden in plain sight, disguised as mundane objects or family heirlooms. The possibilities were as exciting as they were vast, and she felt renewed pride and curiosity about her ancestral lineage.

[Chris in Prague]

A large, antique walnut desk dominated one corner of the study, its surface covered with a deep green leather inlay, now softened and patinated with age. An elegant, Victorian-era reading lamp with a stained-glass shade stood ready to illuminate nighttime studies. Nearby, a pair of well-worn leather armchairs flanked a small matching walnut table, a chess set perpetually mid-game atop it – a testament to her grandmother, Margaret Trevelver's love of strategy.

Near the fireplace, a generously proportioned Chesterfield sofa in rich, burgundy leather invited relaxation, its deep buttoning denoting comfort and elegance. Flanking the sofa were two wing-backed armchairs upholstered in matching leather, offering cosy places for conversation or quiet reading.

Along one wall, a velvet-covered chaise longue in deep emerald green provided a perfect spot for reclining with a good book. Its scrolled ends and carved mahogany feet echoed the room's Victorian remodelling.

When not concealed by the mahogany bookshelves, the walls displayed a carefully curated art collection. Among the elegantly framed pieces were botanical prints. Sylvia was amazed to recognise a beautifully rendered colour print of Silphion, labelled in italic script as silphium—a plant recently rediscovered on Mount Hasan in Anatolia, a smuggled sample of which had helped heal her. Landscapes of the Castle and its lands through the seasons and a striking portrait of Lady Margaret in her youthful beauty complemented the collection. Heavy crimson velvet curtains, drawn against the winter night, added to the room's cosy ambience.

A globe stood near the window, inviting exploration of far-off lands, while a small, locked cedar wood cabinet hinted at more private treasures—rare first editions and personal journals.

The plush Oriental rug underfoot muffled their steps, its intricate patterns telling stories of distant bazaars and ancient trade routes. More than just a study, the room was a store of maternal family history, a repository of knowledge, and a place of comfort – now providing the perfect location for Jeremy and Sylvia's intimacy. With ample seating options, it offered privacy and a welcoming space for entertaining visitors.

"My dear", Jeremy murmured, drawing Sylvia close, "I believe we were about to continue our... research."

Sylvia's laugh was soft and breathy as she wound her arms around his neck. "Indeed. I find myself particularly interested in... hands-on exploration."

Jeremy's eyes sparkled with mischief as he gently unwound Sylvia's arms from his neck, taking her hands in his. "Hands-on exploration, you say? Well then, my dear, allow me to guide you to a more... suitable location for such endeavours."

With a knowing smile, he led her across the room, their footsteps muffled by the plush Oriental rug. They approached the emerald green chaise longue that stood invitingly against one wall, its velvet upholstery gleaming softly in the firelight.

"I believe this particular item of your grandmother's splendid furniture might serve our purposes admirably", Jeremy murmured, his voice low and rich with suggestion. He gestured gallantly, inviting Sylvia to recline on the chaise.

Sylvia's laugh was soft and breathy as she settled onto the chaise, the velvet cool and smooth beneath her. She reached up, her fingers trailing along Jeremy's chest. "Indeed", she purred, her eyes alight with anticipation. "I find myself particularly interested in such... hands-on exploration. Care to join me, darling?"

Jeremy needed no further invitation. He lowered himself onto the chaise beside her, the piece of furniture perfectly accommodating their intertwined forms as they prepared to resume their intimate 'research'.

[Chris in Prague]

A warm, comforting sensation washed over Sylvia as they settled onto the emerald green chaise longue. It was more than just the heat from the fireplace or Jeremy's arms around her – it was a familiar, loving presence that permeated this special place.

The scent hit Sylvia first – her grandmother's signature lavender and jasmine perfume, suddenly stronger than the faint traces that lingered in the study. Then came the breeze, impossibly warm for a winter night, caressing her cheek like a loving hand. Sylvia's breath caught in her throat as she gripped the edge of the day bed.

Her grandmother's presence felt so real that Sylvia half-expected to turn and see her standing there, eyes twinkling with that familiar mix of wisdom and mischief. She could almost hear Lady Margaret's throaty chuckle, a sound that had always filled the room with warmth and joie de vivre.

Sylvia's tension melted away, replaced by a deep sense of connection and understanding. She ran her fingers over the smooth wooden edging of the chaise longue, smiling as she imagined her grandmother's reaction to the imminent unconventional use of her sanctuary. Lady Margaret had always valued love and lived life to the fullest, often ignoring societal norms in the process.

"You'd approve, wouldn't you, Grandmother?" Sylvia whispered to the quiet room. "You'd see this as a celebration of life and love, not a desecration."

The scented breeze swirled around her again, and Sylvia knew she had her answer. A wave of approval and affection washed over her, as tangible as a physical embrace, banishing any last lingering doubts and hesitation. In their place, a surge of confidence took hold, steady and strong.

Sylvia closed her eyes, remembering her grandmother's words from years ago:

"Love, my dear, is the greatest adventure of all", Lady Margaret had said, her brown eyes twinkling. "Never let fear or convention hold you back from experiencing its full wonder."

Sylvia smiled, her heart light, as she focused her thoughts inward. Her grandmother had always encouraged her to live boldly and cherish love and passion in all their forms. Sylvia realised that she was now free to follow that advice.

As Jeremy lay beside Sylvia on the chaise, he was acutely aware of her presence and the charged atmosphere of the study. He felt a complex mix of emotions: deep affection for Sylvia, respect for her legacy, and a hint of uncertainty about their imminent intimacy in such a significant space. Navigating a delicate balance between his desires and the emotional weight the room carried for her made it challenging for Jeremy to fully immerse himself in the present with Sylvia.

In this sanctuary of memories, Jeremy envisioned Lady Margaret at her desk, the room alive with conversations that had shaped Sylvia into the woman he loved. He saw in her the best qualities of her grandmother—strength, vision, and the rare ability to bridge past and future. In this emotionally charged atmosphere, Jeremy's admiration for Sylvia deepened.

This intimate moment, charged with history and potential, solidified Jeremy's commitment. He felt their personal bond intertwine with a greater purpose, ready to face the future while honouring the past. He silently vowed to be more than just Sylvia's partner; he would be her steadfast companion in carrying Lady Margaret's visionary legacy forward.

Sylvia's mind drifted to other fond memories of her grandmother, a presence that had always filled any room she entered. Despite her ancient Atlantean heritage—or perhaps because of it—Lady Margaret had lived firmly in the present, with an eye always on the future.

[Chris in Prague]

"You see, Sylvia", her grandmother had once stated, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, "the Atlanteans understood the importance of harmony. Whether in transport, society, or life, harmony is all."

This philosophy had manifested in Lady Margaret's ardent support for the Transport Act of 1947. Sylvia remembered how her grandmother would pace the study, gesticulating passionately as she explained the vision of an integrated transport system.

"The British Transport Commission", Lady Margaret would say, "it's not just about trains or buses. It's about harmonising all modes of transport, creating a network that serves everyone. Just like the Atlanteans sought balance in all things."

Inspired by her beloved Switzerland, which she had frequently visited in her youth, Margaret had been instrumental in pushing for similar integration in Cornwall. Sylvia recalled accompanying her grandmother to meetings where she deftly outmanoeuvred the road transport lobby, her Atlantean-inherited persuasion skills put to present-day use.

The result had been British Railways' crimson and cream-liveried motorbuses operating from railway stations alongside green Southern National ones, providing an integrated passenger timetable that was a model of efficient convenience. It was, Sylvia realised, a small echo of the harmonious Atlantean way of life her grandmother had often described.

Sylvia's smile widened as she remembered her grandmother's unwavering enthusiasm during such discussions. Lady Margaret had been equally at home expounding on ancient Atlantean knowledge or dissecting the intricacies of modern transport policy. This remarkable blend of ancient wisdom and contemporary vision made her a formidable force in her private and public endeavours.

"Never forget, my dear", Lady Margaret's voice echoed in Sylvia's memory, "that progress is built on the foundations of the past. Our Atlantean heritage gives us the vision to shape the future for the better while seeking to avoid the mistakes of the past."

As she lay there, eyes shut, the familiar scent of old books and lingering perfume enveloped her, a comforting reminder of Lady Margaret's enduring presence.

Sylvia reflected on her grandmother's far-reaching impact, an influence that extended well beyond her own time. She thought of her mother, Lady Penelope, who had taken up the mantle of railway advocacy with the same fervour as her mother. Ably supported by her husband, she had successfully lobbied to preserve branch lines threatened with closure, passionately arguing about their importance to rural communities.

"We are the bridge, my dear", Lady Margaret's voice echoed in her memory, "between the wisdom of the past and the potential of the future."

In that moment, meditating in the heart of her grandmother's sanctuary, Sylvia felt the weight of her heritage not as a burden, but as a source of strength and inspiration. The Trevelver women were more than keepers of ancient secrets; they were architects of the future, ensuring that progress and innovation continued to flourish for the benefit of all. They were all around her, reminders. Reminders to connect with the flowing natural energies within everything that lived. The warm breeze that had caressed her earlier seemed to stir once more.

Opening her eyes, Sylvia's gaze wandered across the room, taking in the eclectic collection that so perfectly encapsulated her grandmother's diverse interests. An ancient tome on Atlantean energy systems sat beside a modern treatise on railway electrification, a visual metaphor for Lady Margaret's unique ability to bridge past and present.

Sitting up on the chaise longue, Sylvia's eyes were drawn to the portrait of her grandmother hanging above the fireplace. Lady Margaret's dark eyes seemed to twinkle with approval, as if to say, "Onward, my dear. Life continues; enjoy it to the fullest."

Her maternal grandmother stood tall and regal at 5'10", her posture impeccable even in her later years. Though lined with the wisdom of age, her face retained a timeless beauty, with high cheekbones and large, dark brown eyes that seemed to hold the depths of ancient wisdom. These eyes, a striking hallmark of their Atlantean queen-priestess ancestry, were both captivating and slightly unsettling in their intensity.

Her skin bore a pale olive hue, another testament to her exotic lineage, contrasting beautifully with her silver hair. This luminous silver, once a rich chestnut brown, she wore swept up in an elegant chignon, often adorned with an heirloom jewelled pin that spoke of both her noble English heritage and her ancient Atlantean roots.

The Dowager Lady Trevelver's hands were slender and graceful, their olive tone accentuated by her choice of rings – her wedding band, a large emerald that had been passed down through generations, and a signet silver ring bearing the family crest.

She favoured richly coloured gowns in jewel tones – deep sapphire blues, emerald greens, and royal purples – which complemented her unique complexion. Around her neck, she invariably wore a double strand of flawless pearls, their creamy luminescence a striking contrast against her olive skin.

The Dowager moved with an almost otherworldly grace, a reminder of her ancestral lineage. Her voice was melodious and clear, with the cultivated accent of the English upper class, but underneath lay hints of an older, more mysterious cadence.

Her scent—a bespoke blend of lavender and jasmine—evoked memories of sunlit walled gardens. Even now, it could transport Sylvia instantly back to childhood memories of warm embraces and whispered secrets of their unique heritage.

[Chris in Prague]

[Advance Warning: I'll be away all next week on holiday, so it is very unlikely that I'll be posting any episodes from Saturday, 13th July, to Saturday, 20th July inclusive.]

[dannyboy]

I suppose even Charles Dickens and Jane Austen had a few days off, occasionally. 
Enjoy your holiday Chris. 

[crewearpley40]

I suppose even Charles Dickens and Jane Austen had a few days off, occasionally. 
Enjoy your holiday Chris. 

Just catching up with the thread.  Have a restful time and we look forward to the next episode

[Chris in Prague]

I suppose even Charles Dickens and Jane Austen had a few days off, occasionally. 
Enjoy your holiday Chris. 

Thanks, David. It's only a week.

[Chris in Prague]

I suppose even Charles Dickens and Jane Austen had a few days off, occasionally. 
Enjoy your holiday Chris. 

Just catching up with the thread.  Have a restful time and we look forward to the next episode

Thanks, Chris.

[dannyboy]

It's only a week.

S'okay. We'll manage. 

[Chris in Prague]

It's only a week.

S'okay. We'll manage. 

Thanks, David.

[Chris in Prague]

With her inward focus, Sylvia could almost feel the silk of her grandmother's dress and smell the subtle perfume that always clung to her. But it was Lady Margaret's eyes that came to mind most vividly—those large, dark brown orbs that could twinkle with humour one moment and flash with the power of ancient priestesses the next. They were eyes that had seen much, loved deeply, and always looked to the future with the wisdom of the past.

"Sylvia, my dear", Lady Margaret's voice echoed in her mind, "our lineage carries a great responsibility."

Sylvia's gaze fell on an old framed photograph of her grandmother. Lady Margaret Trevelver, born in 1892, had lived a life that challenged convention. Despite passing away in 1958 at the relatively early age of 66, her influence on Sylvia, born twenty years before, remained profound.

"Tell me again, Grandmother", young Sylvia had often asked, "about our Atlantean heritage".

Lady Margaret would smile, her eyes twinkling. "We are the guardians of ancient knowledge, my dear. Our ancestors escaped Atlantis's fall, bringing with them secrets that could change the world – for better or worse."

As Sylvia matured, she began to grasp the significance of her family's legacy. Her mother, Lady Penelope, was 43 years old when Lady Margaret passed away. Lady Margaret's clandestine work required utmost secrecy and concentration, shielding Penelope and Sylvia from the perilous world of Cold War intrigue. This understanding enabled Lady Margaret to concentrate on imparting her wisdom and myriad secrets directly to Sylvia, preparing her to carry on the responsibility of safeguarding Atlantean knowledge—a duty that had been diligently upheld through Lady Margaret's numerous covert operations.

"Your mother honours our heritage in different ways", Lady Margaret had explained when Sylvia was fifteen. "But you, my dear, you have the fire in your eyes. You'll carry on my work."

As Sylvia entered her twenties, Lady Margaret began to divulge the details of her clandestine activities. In the aftermath of the Second World War and during the early years of the Cold War, she became a relentless seeker of Atlantean knowledge and artefacts, especially those imperilled behind the swiftly descending Iron Curtain. Her missions led her to Vienna and Prague, where she accessed secret Habsburg archives containing cryptic references to Atlantean technology and history. Navigating the volatile political landscape of post-war Europe, Lady Margaret's guise as a distinguished English aristocrat engaged in humanitarian missions, coupled with her inherited abilities, allowed her to pass unhindered through increasingly stringent border controls and into highly restricted areas.

"Sylvie, picture Vienna, a city steeped in history, where I collaborated with a trusted circle of Austrian aristocrats who had preserved hidden ancient knowledge since the fall of the Habsburg Empire in 1918. Walking through Vienna, one is enveloped by its rich legacy. It's as if the very air breathes the memories of Beethoven, Brahms, Freud, Kafka, and Mozart. The city is a living chronicle, where every street has tales to tell. I felt the presence of covert watchers, much like in Istanbul—another threshold city where clandestine warfare unfolds through discreet brush passes, hidden signal sites, and shadowy alleyways, all orchestrated with secret codenames and whispered passwords."

"Oh my, do tell more, Grandmother."

"Vienna, 1950. Austria and Vienna were still divided into four occupation zones, jointly administered by the United Kingdom, the Soviet Union, the United States, and France, while the historical centre of the city formed an international zone", Lady Margaret recounted, her voice low and intense. "I met with a certain Count, well-known to me from before the war, in a café near the Stephansdom. The city was still recovering from the war, my dear. You could feel the despair in the air. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it had been a dynamic hub of modern thinking, embracing science, art, and progressive politics—more modern than many places today. However, the Nazis ruthlessly destroyed it as a centre of scientific and progressive thought."

Sylvia leaned forward, captivated. "What happened in the café, Grandmother?"

"The Count passed me a set of coordinates hidden in the lining of a book of poetry. These led me to the southern part of the Vienna Woods and a hidden twelfth-century chamber beneath Heiligenkreuz Abbey, the oldest continuously occupied Cistercian monastery in the world. Behind a false wall, I found scrolls detailing Atlantean energy manipulation techniques."

[dannyboy]

He isn't on holiday yet and we are getting repeats!   

[dannyboy]

He isn't on holiday yet and we are getting repeats!   

Belay that comment, the latest episode is, (I think), a re-write.