Harold led the group deeper into Manor. They retraced their path, back to the foyer, where Harold led them through an archway behind the grand stair case towards the center of the manor. The aromas of cooking food stirred the air, adding to the ambiance. The collection of fine art wasn't limited to the foyer; paintings and sculptures were tastefully placed throughout the manor.

The short passage ended in a large dining hall dominated by a table that could easily seat a quarter of Parliament.  A brass and crystal chandelier provided lighting, and the light glinted off the silver place settings, vases and candle holders that decorated the table's length. The oiled oak of the table and matching chairs fairly glowed in the soft light of the chandelier. the entire room spoke of elegance, money, and power and seemed to swallow the small group.

The rear wall held a set of French doors, Harold headed towards them like an arrow, not even glancing at the surroundings as he passed.  He stopped at the double doors, pulled them open and bowed them into the room beyond.

The small party crossed onto an enclosed terrace. The terrace was enclosed in glass, giving a spectacular view of the rear grounds and the night sky. In the center of the terrace was a round table perfectly sized for the seven of them. A worked silver centerpiece held several candles providing enough light to eat by without masking the light of the night sky or the view of the lighted grounds. The cool evening air was filled with the scent of flowers and herbs, Rose and Lavendar, Sage and Rosemary, all in all a much more private and friendlier atmosphere than the Dining hall.

Upon entering the terrace Liz had gone to the glass wall and looked out. She wondered where the breeze was coming from and how they could smell the flowers and herbs through the glass as her eyes took in every detail of the land. How she would love to walk the grounds and explore the beauty that could only be discovered up close. She noticed that the ceiling of terrace was about 3 feet higher than the top of the windows, what she had taken for shadowed walls turned out to be a screened off section on top of each pane, allowing the night air to enter the enclosed space. A large fan near the center of the room, turned lazily, circulating the naturally scented air throughout the terrace.

"Please be seated," Duvalle said with a warm smile on his face, "and Harold will have the staff bring your drinks."

There were no name placards at the place settings or other indication of a planned seating arrangement, so Miles assumed it was left to them to select places. He selected a chair well positioned for the view and pulled it back from the table, offering it to Liz before seating himself.

Liz thanked Miles and took the proffered seat. Her mind was whirling from what Duvalle had so far revealed and she was half hoping to find out what else he had planned for the evening and half afraid at the same time.

"Gentlemen, I suggest we enjoy dinner," Miles said lightly as he took a seat next to Liz. His seat didn't offer quite as panoramic a view, but neither was the door directly behind him. "I'm guessing that none of you have any more idea why we're here than do I? Any guesses I might have made don't hold up in the context of our ensemble, so I must admit to being entirely in the dark. Nonetheless," Miles paused for a moment admiring the fine silver and crystal, "I suspect that dinner at least will be remarkable."

"Indeed, Mr. Aldred, indeed." Duvalle said enigmatically. A slight chuckle seemed to hang on the edge of his voice and his eyes twinkled. He waited patiently for the rest of his guests to seat themselves before he did the same.

Marco had moved silently amidst the other guests, straining his ears to catch the observations and comments.  He seemed to be feeling more and more like the tourist he probably was.  Their voices were all very self-assured and a number of them had the tone of the very rich and educated.  Marco's English was quite good but he didn't want to embarrass himself.  His reticence hadn't been picked up by the others yet, and he hoped they could make it through the meal without too much scrutiny.

It was strange, Marco knew; when he was in the car he was much more relaxed - perhaps because of the male company or the fact that they were all sharing a glorified cab.

But in the mansion, in Duvalle's mansion, everything seemed to become real.  This wasn't just a social call.  All these other people were connected some how to Duvalle and either they wanted something from the man, or Duvalle wanted something from them.

Marco's eyes flittered to their host and he found himself confused again.  This man was nothing like the Duvalle he had encountered years ago in Italy.

He took a seat, the closest one he could find, and quickly sat down, examining the table set-up.

Malachi made sure he sat down after Liz was seated, and he took his seat to the right of Marco.  The promise of a cold glass of water and good food had him salivating already.  The faintest smell of the promised delights hinting in the air.  He took the napkin at the table and opened it refolded it across his lap and clasped his hands together on the table in front of him waiting for everyone to be seated.

Jack was somewhat relieved when they passed beyond the stately dining room and into the more intimate veranda. He took a moment to look out at the scene beyond, still somewhat discomforted by the opulence of Duvalle's estate. If this had been a job offer, he thought, he doubted he'd have any concerns about the salary.

Turning back to the table, he noted that most of the others had already taken their seats. Jack chose the empty chair next to Malachi, pulled it out roughly, and eased himself into it. He looked across at Miles.

"No, like you I've no idea why I'm here either", he said, addressing Miles' comment, "but I'm hoping the meal will live up to the surroundings".

With a gloved hand, he picked up a silver knife in front of him and nonchalantly glanced along it's edge, as if he always checked blades for their sharpness.

"Still", he added quietly, "I'd probably enjoy it more if I knew what this was all about".

The cocky, not-fazed-by-anything act he'd put on since stepping out of the pub was beginning to slip.  John took one of the remaining empty seats and promptly forgot the names of those he was sat next to.  In front of him, an array of cutlery confused and bewildered him.  He remembered something about starting from the outside and working in.  Several glasses added to the confusion and he found himself almost humming the Scarecrow's song from Wizard of Oz.  If I only had a brain.  Hah.  If you had a brain, you might be dangerous.  It's running on wits that's got you this far, Johnnny boy.  Why change the habit of a lifetime?

He was still trying to work out where he'd seen their host before.  He'd seen him recently, he'd seen him often enough to recognize him on sight.  Must be something to do with the Science Museum.  Yeah, that's it.  He's a regular there.  Must be.

John looked left and right then spoke, more for his own benefit.

"None of us know any of the others, right?  I mean," he turned left again, "I don't know you.  John Constantine, by the way.  Pleased to meet you.  Are we all heirs to some mad aunt's fortune?  Is this the set-up for some kind of race?  Treasure hunt?  This is as bad as trying to figure out what's going on in Lost.  We just don't have enough data."

"Miles - pleased to make your acquaintance." Miles offered a handshake. He remembered everyone's name from Duvalle's earlier introduction, but it was understandable that one might not, given the oddness of the situation. "I rather doubt I have any long-lost aunts leaving me their legacy, I'm afraid. I own a little bookshop over on Mortlake High St. I have no more idea than the rest of you why we're here, I'm afraid." The reference to 'Lost' was in fact lost on Miles.

"Miles.  Right.  Of course.  What sort of books?"

"Rare and collectible ones for the most part, though I have a few shelves of other things as well. I'm rather fond of John Le Carre, and I have a complete set of his works even though they're generally quite easy to find."

One of Duvalle's waitstaff appeared from out of nowhere, politely soliciting drink orders.

"Cognac, please," requested Miles. He decided not to be more specific---he was beginning to appreciate the level of hospitality offered here, and he guessed that leaving the selection to the staff would be wise.

"I'll take a shot of Becherovka, if you have some.  And a large glass of water, please" .  The beer John had been drinking earlier had started to wear off and his head was starting to clear.  Better to keep it that way.  Beer tomorrow, he promised himself.  Beer tomorrow.

"Water only for myself," Malachi said with a smile.  He might consider wine after the dinner but only a glass if he felt so indulged.  The evening was playing out to be a great mystery so far and he eagerly awaited more.

Jack waved across the waiter. "Mine's some more of that whiskey. I think it was Bushmill's?" To be honest, Jack wasn't fussy; one whiskey was as good as another to him.

"Just a glass of water for me, please." Liz smiled at the man. She was still unsettled from Duvalle's revelations and her present company confused her. It was possible these others had experienced something similar to herself, in which case they all had more in common than one might think looking at them. But if that were the case it didn't make sense for Duvalle to be so secretive about it. Unless he didn't think they would believe it. He had no worries there on her part, after what she had experienced she would believe just about anything.

After everyone had placed their requests for beverage, Duvalle spoke. "Mr. Constantine, John, I'll be delving into more detail after dinner, but the short answer is that I am acquainted with none of you directly, except Mr. Conti, Marco, whom I had the pleasure of meeting when he was a small lad. His Grandmother was a good friend of mine, and I knew your Grandparents as well, John." 

Marco looked at John and then at Duvalle, wondering what Duvalle had done to John's grandparents.  He couldn't stop the image of his nonna's funeral flashing through his mind.  There wasn't much there, but glimpses of the man's face (so different to the one here tonight) and the sensation that Duvalle had somehow ... violated his grandmother's rest.

Thoughts raced through John's mind, desparately trying to put the jigsaw together here.  He felt like he'd just been handed a corner, maybe a few pieces of edge that joined together.  Grandparents.  Grandparents.  Not just grandfather.  Grandfather!  Photograph.  Duvalle.  Something still did not make sense.  But he felt closer than he had earlier.  Let them rattle around, he thought, see what else they bump in to.

Duvalle chuckled softly, returning to John's earlier comment. "While amusing, I can guarantee you this is not some setup for a race, or any kind of 'reality' show. I have brought you together for reasons I will disclose shortly. Suffice it to say that your being here is not random, and your presence and participation is of the utmost importance, but you are under no obligation to proceed once I have fully explained." 

Duvalle raised an age spotted hand, to forestall any questions. "Please, let us enjoy our meal and each other's company, the heart of the matter will soon be forthcoming, and I'll be happy to answer all of your questions at that time. Allow an old man his eccentricities, please."

Marco couldn't stop himself.  He had felt his fingers tighten at the edge of the table as Duvalle spoke.

"Signor Duvalle, sir, perhaps you are mistaken about the time we nearly met.  It was not more than three years ago."  He tried to smile, but he didn't seem to be able to control his face.  It wanted to betray him, to do something more (or less) than speak in a civil tongue.  "At my nonna's funeral.  Do you not remember?"

The mystery grew deeper in Malachi's mind and he ceased trying to remember where he might have seen Duvalle in passing and instead focused on new relationships.  A man does not invite such a diverse group of people together if not for unique or diverse reasons.  He kept his tongue held however as Marco obviously struggles with the revelation before him.  Someone that knew family from long ago was either a treasure or source of uncomfortable knowledge.

Duvalle's brow furrowed slightly in confusion at Marco's question. The young man's body language and expression indicated something was bothering him, and it revolved around his grandmother's funeral. Duvalle took a moment, carefully considering his memories and his words.

"I am quite certain, my friend. As much as I might have wished to attend and give succor to your family during your time of grief, I'm afraid certain matters had required my attention. The day of your Nonna's funeral I was in France, attending to business regarding the Foundation's preservation efforts at Notre Dame Cathedral. I regret that I was unable to attend. Why do you ask?"

Marco felt a pounding in his head.  His fists were already clenched but he could sense his whole body seizing up.  Duvalle was telling the truth.  Marco had known since first arriving that evening that Duvalle was not the man he had seen years before.  It confused him, threw him out of any sense of preparation he may have willed himself into.

He stood up, feeling the sweats coming.

"I-I am sorry," he said.  "But could you please direct me to the ... ah ... restroom?"

Duvalle stood up, his expression full of concern. "Of course. It's back the way we came. Go through the foyer, past the drawing room, it'll be the 3rd door on the left." A discreet gesture and Harold appeared magically. " If Sir would follow me." He said dryly in his arrogant monotone. 

"Curiouser and curiouser", Jack mumbled, and he watched with mild interest as Marco got up. Miles took all this in without comment, but noticed the details. After years spent training himself to notice little things and to memorize details at a glance it was now automatic. For the time being he was content to listen and learn about his companions, and to enjoy the extraordinary brandy Duvalle had served (his initial suspicion had been correct; he couldn't have named this brandy, but it was better than anything might have requested), but it was clear that not everything was as it seemed.

Marco was thankful but couldn't bring himself to look back at Duvalle.  He walked out of the dining room, almost rushing out, and then manuevered himself to the toilet.  As the door closed behind him he slipped to the floor and rested his head in his hands, slowly recalling a song his nonna had sung to him: Ambarabai cicci cocco... a nonsense rhyme but one which quickly pushed all else out of his mind.  Marco concentrated on his breathing.  He knew he didn't have much time.  He had to return to the table.  He had to regain his composure.

The events thus far did not deter Malachi however from loving his Lord or choosing to neglect his duty.  As the first food was brought he quickly spoke up, "If it would not bother anyone, I would like to say a blessing before we eat."

John smiled.  That had always been his grandfather's opening to a meal, almost word-for-word.  Didn't matter where they were, what company they were in.  He would say grace - whether people objected or not.  He turned his smile toward the priest.

"Please.  It's been a while."

"Yes, it has." Liz added. "Please do, Father."

Jack nodded his acquiescence, though looked a little uncomfortable. "If you wish..." he muttered, though he knew he was already blessed whilst damned at the same time.

Duvalle bowed his head, gesturing his approval.

Malachi bowed his head and spoke from the heart, "Heavenly Father, Thank you for bringing us all together this evening, thank you for our host, the food that is to nourish us, and for good company and new friends.  We ask, Father, that you bless us and watch over us as we eat and enjoy the blessings of fellowship."

"Short and sweet, Malachi, lest the company think this is a sermon instead of a blessing," he thought to himself.

"And allow each of us to be a blessing to those around us.  If the name of our savior Jesus Christ, I pray, Amen," he pauses for a moment and brings his large hands together.  "Now as the hungry young men of my church would say, 'Let's Eat!'"

Jack, his eyes closed, murmured something in response. He seemed a little uncomfortable. However, upon hearing Malachi's last two words, he brightened up from a deep grimace to a slight frown.

"Yeah. So, what's first on the menu?" he asked.

Marco slinked back into the room and was relieved that talk had turned to food.  He still felt uncertain about the night, especially since the Duvalle he saw at the table was nothing like the one he had thought he had met earlier.  That kind of subterfuge, even if it was only in his mind, was sure to mean something bad was going to happen.  He sat back down and gave a shy smile to the others around him, but didn't say anything, preferring the more jovial members to carry the conversation for now.  He cast a glance at Duvalle and looked embarrassed.

Duvalle gave a reassuring smile in response, keeping his concern from showing. Something had upset the lad, something directly linked to him, and that bothered Duvalle. This business about the funeral would have to be solved. But first, he needed to explain why they were here. He could sense the nerves, frustration and confusion.  He could only hope that boded well for his plans.

The first course arrived interrupting his thoughts.

In a sudden bustle of activity, a waiter entered through the door from the kitchens carrying a number of white china bowls. The contents of the unadorned crockery steamed as the waiter first served a bowl to Liz and then to the other guests in a clockwise fashion.

Even before Jack received the first course, he could guess from the exquisite aroma what was within the bowls. His stomach rumbled as he licked his smiling lips. Eventually, a bowl of steaming greenish soup was deposited in front of him.

Jack rubbed his gloved hands together and quickly picked up a silver spoon. "Hmmm, pea soup", he smiled, licking his lips. "And it smells just as good as me mum used to make". He sank the spoon into the thick liquid and took a big slurp, eager to quench his hunger.

Finishing the last dregs of the soup with a piece of rustic bread, Jack looked up at Duvalle. After swallowing the bread, he remarked, "That, sir, was delicious. Compliments to the chef. Y'know, pea soup is one of my favourites and that was the best tastin' version I've had in a very long time". Miles nodded in agreement. Interestingly, the portions were not all the same size, though Miles' was just right for him if several courses were to follow. He had an instinct that somehow the serving sizes were tailored to the appetites of the guests, though he couldn't begin to explain how such a thing might be possible.

In fact, thought Jack, he’d been a lad when he’d last tasted soup as good as that. Surprisingly, it actually had the same flavour and consistency as his long departed mother’s. If the rest of the meal was as good as the first course, he was in for a real treat.

Malachi had thoroughly enjoyed the Pea Soup and tried desperately not to slurp though it happened once or twice.  He smiled apologetically and at least three times held back his beard to avoid a potentially worse faux pas.  He had thought nothing about the first course, but the second course meal had raised his curiousity as if to whether or not some game was being played here. 

Wheeled out and lined up around each of the guests the silver lids were lifted and sizzling beneath those lids where strips of bacon with raw shrimp vibrating with the collection of heat and liquid.  The waiters swirled the shrimp around through the oil keeping it moving and flipping the bacon occasionally.  When the bacon just started to become unyielding the waiters squirted some dark liquid carefully onto the mix.  The shrimp darkened and was promptly rolled up into the bacon and stabbed with small silver spears emblazoned with an indecipherable insignia.  For each plate four were made and they were arranged with expert precision and decorated with the finely minced leaves of parsley and mint. 

The delicious odour and the visual preparation took him back to his many nights watching hibachi chefs begining the meal with a show and fat little shrimp.  It was always his favorite but a little known fact, yet here they were.  He hoped that others would get the same thrill as him with both the show and the flavor.  When the waiters had removed themsleves and the steaming serving tables from their presence he carefully used his fork to stab the shrimp and remove one of the little silver spears.  He examined it while he dropped the appetizing morsel into his mouth.  Spot on flavor, he suspected lemon in that dark liquid that enhanced the other flavors.  He suspected more about the host than just one or two hidden elements however.

Removing one of the silver spears from the wrapped shrimps, Jack studied it intently for a moment before tucking in. The shrimps were fine but Jack neither highly enjoyed nor hated them. He preferred more standard fare such as the pea soup. Obviously the first course being one of his favourite meals was a very lucky coincidence and nothing more, he thought.

"Very nice" remarked Jack in politeness, whilst munching on a second shrimp.

Interesting how conversation stops when food arrives, thought John.  He'd enjoyed the pea soup, caught the twitch on the bearded gent's face - name escapes me.  Never was good with names - when the prawny things were rather flamboyantly prepared and was about to make a comment when the empty plates were whisked away and replaced with a bowl of his grandfather's salad. 

Now the recipe had been famous in his house, Dedoolya had tweaked, twisted, bent and broken the 'traditional' Russian salad, if such a thing had ever existed in the first place, and turned it into a thing of beauty.  You could eat it seven days a week, three meals a day and never get sick of it.  Ham, cheese, anchovies, stuff he couldn't even name, all wound round a bed of mixed leaves.  He could taste the pepper-shot of the rocket in there!  He could taste his grandfather's salad dressing, something he'd tried a few times to emulate with little success.  Note to self.  Get recipe from chef!

Seeing that the third course was salad, Jack sighed inwardly. He had never become accustomed to this idea of eating "rabbit food" for pleasure. Poking at the jungle on his plate, Jack was surprised to see the variety of foodstuffs within the foliage. He spiked some of the ham and cheese and ate that, tried some of the lettuce, and enjoyed the dressing that was liberally drizzled over the flora. Still, despite his dislike of the offering in general, he'd been surprised to see he had somehow eaten nearly all of the plate's contents. Checking the rest of his companions, he'd noticed, that each had a slightly different serving dish for their salad, with John's being the largest and his being the smallest.

Jack looked across and saw that John had finished his with relish. Given the man's trim athletic figure, Jack wasn't surprised to see that he was a salad-lover.

"How many courses did you say we'd be enjoying tonight?" Jack asked their host. He wanted to ensure he left room for pudding.

Duvalle smiled up as he wiped his mouth, neatly dabbing away a spot of Russian dressing from his chin. "I'm not exactly sure. I believe Chef has planned six or seven courses. I could ask." His eyebrows drew together in a look of concern. "Is everything to your satisfaction?"

Jack was quick to answer. "Oh... yes, yes. It's a splendid meal. The soup... well, that was bloomin' marvellous".

"Though, one thing I noticed", Jack added almost as an afterthought, "was that the portions seem inconsistent. We all seem to have different amounts. Now, I don't attend many formal dinners but it strikes me as bein' unusual?".

As he spoke the now-empty plates from the salad course were efficiently swept away by the waiting staff in preparation for the next course.

Duvalle chuckled lightly. "Chef has an uncanny knack for judging portion control. He tailors each serving to the guest its meant for. Was there something wrong with yours? Would you like more?"

?

The fourth course to appear was an unusual potato dish, thinly sliced potatoes---baked, it seemed---with coarsely chopped onion, kalamata olives, tomato, and a blend of spices difficult to identify but with curry overtones. There was also clearly a liqueur of some kind, herbal and unusual but impossible to place.

As the group sampled the unusual but flavorful dish, some noticed that Miles had not immediately begun, and his normal calm and reserve seemed shaken. He studied the dish for a few moments, took in the aromas, and finally sampled a few bites.

"I think," he said finally, addressing Duvalle directly, "that some explanation is needed here." He looked around at the other guests before returning his gaze to their host.

"First, before you ask whether something is wrong with my dish---no, nothing is wrong, it is perfect. And therein lies the problem. By all that I understand, it is frankly impossible for you to have arranged to serve this here tonight, and yet here it is. And it's right." He paused, and noticed some confused expressions among the other guests. He turned to the rest of the table. "This potato dish is something my father made from time to time during my childhood, through my early twenties. I grew up with it. You notice the herbal undertones, something like Chartreuse but mellower? That's a liqueur he made himself, and used in the recipe, but to my knowledge (and I'm quite certain) he never shared the recipe for that liqueur with anyone. It was something he guarded jealously, and after he died---over thirty years ago---it should have become impossible to recreate this dish.

"And yet, here it is." He studied DuValle intently. "How did you do it?"

Duvalle nearly choked as tried to swallow. He should have suspected Miles to be the first to notice the peculiarities of the evening. He coughed slightly into his napkin trying to hide his amusement. He was only partially successful, his face remained composed, but his eyes glinted merrily.

"Its just a bit of culinary magic." Duvalle answered, his voice deadpan. "Just a little taste of 'home' so to speak. I had chef research and prepare a dish for each of you, something to bring you comfort, and balance out the anxiety caused by the unusual circumstances of our gathering. We still have a couple of courses to go, but I promise I'll explain more fully once dinner is finished. With your permission, of course." 

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