Note: This is probably not the most realistic depiction of Victorian London but I was interested at the idea of putting the Heroes in a different time and scenario. Heroes is owned by NBC but I’ll offer extra brownie points to whoever finds the BBC reference in the first chapter.

A-A-A

October 9th, 1887

Tom Charing was an excellent footman who worked at the Emerald Conservatory and was well accustomed to these extravagant parties. The Duke of Windsor insisted on giving his monthly ball at the Conservatory although this time the necessary arrangements went above and beyond the call of duty.

No expense had been spared to set out the lavish display of white candles, glistening china, polished silver, and sweet violin music. Tom had been supervising the arrangements for a fortnight and worked from dawn to dusk to ensure his master that the event was going to be absolutely sensational.

Tom surveyed the room from his position near the door.
Where his stockings starched?
His gloves ironed?
He examined his reflection in the mirror.

Yes, he was prepared to announce the honored guests of the evening.

When the black carriage pulled up in front of the enormous house and a dignified man stepped out, Tom straightened his spine and thrust his chin up in preparation to announce the honored guests of the evening.

He cleared his throat and announced in a firm loud voice:

“His Excellency, the leader of the United States of America…President Nathan Petrelli!”

Heads turned and fans stopped fluttering in time to see the striking figure of the president come into the room. Nathan Petrelli was at the peak of perfect health and looking quite handsome in his evening attire which composed of a black jacket and white waistcoat. His blue-black hair was pushed off the brow revealing a fine Roman profile and the firm jawline.

His arm was looped with that of a woman who was a head shorter than him. Angela Petrelli needed no further attention when she was by the side of her illustrious son. Though the years had taken some toll on her face judging by the creases and wrinkles, she was still at the epitome of elegance in a gown of rich black lace. A strand of pearls graced her neck and small diamonds glittered in her ears.

The president and his mother had already crossed the room to greet their host of the evening when a door slammed and scuffling was heard in the background. Everyone waited for the last member of the party. Tom coughed into his fist to clear his throat.

“Mr.…er…Doctor Peter Petrelli!” Tom announced.

The ladies giggled when a tall lanky young man raced into the ballroom and nearly tripped over the rug. Nathan groaned inwardly and rolled his eyes. He was beginning to regret bringing his little brother to England.

Unlike his brother and mother, the young doctor looked awkward and unkempt. His white bow-tie was slightly crooked and a lock of dark hair was falling haphazardly into his face. The women chattered among themselves to see him fumbling with a clasp on his cape that refused to come off his shoulders.

With a soft whisper of suggestion, Tom assisted the doctor in getting his cape off and adjusting his tie back into a neat knot. “Thanks,” Peter mumbled before smoothing out the front of his jacket. He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to flatten it into place. Then he stood and starred around, feeling overwhelmed at the glittering assembly before him.

“Dr. Petrelli!” a man’s voice called out.

A robust man with a shining bald head and gray whiskers strode across the room to Peter. His red velvet jacket was adorned with several impressive metals and ornaments that sparkled n the candlelight. He extended his hand to Peter who accepted it graciously.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am General Kentwood of Her Majesty’s Imperial Troops. We are honored to have you and your illustrious family as guests visiting our country.”

“The honor is mine,” said Peter with a frank eager voice. “And I am honored to have my feet at last on solid ground after tedious days at sea.”

General Kentwood chuckled in amusement. “We should introduce to some of our naval officers. They’ll be glad to help you get your sea legs into shape in no time.”

With a polite bow to his host, Peter began to answer Kentwood’s questions about his work in the New York Hospital and the upcoming celebration of the year. While Peter Petrelli did not have his brother’s charisma or commanding air, General Kentwood was a fair judge of character. He could see Dr. Petrelli was shy at first but once he opened up, Peter could carry a conversation very well. The doctor had a pleasant disposition that suggested he was a man who wanted to change the world for the better through kindness and justice.

“Tell me Dr. Petrelli,” inquired Kentwood. “Is this your first time to London?”

“Yes it is,” Peter answered. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant. “My brother is very keen on reestablishing alliances between American and England for the sake of trade and commerce. He insisted that my mother and I accompany him on his mission.”

“A splendid idea!” chirped a woman in a pink satin gown. Her dress made a soft swishing sound when she crossed the room and curtseyed to them. “Oh, do forgive me Kentwood but you weren’t going to keep this dashing young man all to yourself, were you?”

“Not at all, your Excellency,” nodded the General. “Dr. Petrelli, may I present to you the Duchess of Warwick? Duchess, this is Dr. Petrelli.”

“Ah, Dr. Petrelli of the New York College of Medicine!” The duchess extended an arm to Peter, who accepted it and graciously kissed the white-gloved hand. “I’ve heard you were a man of great brains but the women will be starry eyed when they see how handsome you are!”

A crimson blush rose up in Peter’s ears. “Your compliments are too much for me, Duchess. I am but a humble doctor who enjoys his profession and rests in the shade of his elder brother.”

The Duchess of Warwick was not a woman to be put off easily. She took her arm around Peter’s and began to lead him around the room. Soon he was being flocked by women in pastel-colored dresses and fluttering fans. The constant chatter around him was straining his patience but he did his best to smile and nod. He asked one pretty girl in green silk if she would dance with him. When he took her gloved hand into his own, nearly every eye was cast upon him with admiration and on her with jealousy.

After the dancing everyone sat down to enjoy the lavish banquet that had been spread out in the dinning room. Soon Nathan Petrelli was exchanging words and advice with General Kentwood, who said he would be introducing Nathan to the Prime Minister later on in the week.

When the conversations began to calm down, Angela Petrelli leaned over to Nathan and whispered into his ear. “The duchess intends to take Peter around town for her social outings. Thank goodness your brother won’t be bored in London.”

“Mother, he can’t come to any harm,” Nathan reassured his mother as he began cutting up his roasted chicken with a fork. “I told you that this ‘mission’ would be an excellent opportunity for both countries and Peter has a freshness that would be a welcomed change to the public.”

Angela stopped tasting the white soup. “You’d use your brother to advance your own gains?” she inquired.

“Not my gains, mother. The future of two countries lies at stake.”

Angela’s red lips pulled up into a smile before she dabbed them with a napkin. “I’m exceedingly proud of you, Nathan.”

The Duchess of Warwick had stopped talking to Peter long enough to address Angela. “I have a splendid line up of events for the month that Dr. Petrelli would enjoy seeing. We have concerts, lectures, an upcoming picnic…”

“Perhaps a wedding?” Angela inquired.

The Duchess burst out into a peal of merry laughter. “Bless you, fair lady! How well you can read my mind. Ah, I know many well-breed ladies in society who would be honored to accept the hand of the President’s brother!”

This comment, while the duchess presumed was a compliment, caused Peter to look uncomfortable. Angela noticed it and knew how to diplomatically handle the situation.

“I trust your judgment in such matters, duchess. I hope you know how dear my younger son is to me.” Angela’s profile seemed even more majestic and dignified among the sparkling candles of the table.

She drew her shoulders back proudly and said, “Only a woman of upstanding character and admirable qualities would make my Peter’s life a happy one.”

“Of course, of course,” the duchess replied. She waved a hand that was encrusted with precious gems before chatting with Kentwood again.

“We should have sent Peter to New Orleans. He’ll be eaten alive by the likes of her!” Angela murmured to Nathan.

“Mother--”

Nathan began to chide her but his request was cut off when General Kentwood raised his hand to the party for silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests,” he announced. “May I propose a toast to President Nathan Petrelli, the health of his admirable family, and to the future alliance between Great Britain and the United States of America!”

Everyone raised their glasses in approval and sipped.

No sooner had Nathan drunk his champagne then he quickly refilled his glass and raised it in the air. “Now I must thank the Duke of Windsor for this elegant reception and his hospitality,” said the president in a firm clear voice.

His broad smile was one of confidence and charisma that warmed the hearts of everyone seated around the table and Peter’s heart swelled with pride to hear Nathan’s words.

“Today I feel as if my family and I are but humble travelers who have journeyed across an ocean seeking new endeavors. But tomorrow I hope we may drink together as long time friends. Happy will be the day when I see the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes raised high together in a generation of peace and prosperity. Let us drink to the upcoming celebration of the Golden Jubilee and the health of her Majesty, Queen Victoria of Great Britain!”

“To the Queen!” everyone rang out in chorus.

A-A-A

Just as the Petrellis were about to be escorted to their carriage, a slim gloved hand rested on Peter’s arm.

“Dr. Petrelli,” sang the green-dressed girl in a sing-song voice. “We’re having a private concert at the Calton House Hall in two days. My friends and I would be honored if you would join our little party.”

“I…um…” Peter wasn’t sure what to do but when he saw his brother give a nod from across the room, he turned back to his dancing partner. “I’d be delighted.” He bowed to his dancing partner. “Until Thursday. Good night, Ms. Baker.”

“Good night, Dr. Petrelli.”

Ms. Baker waited until she was back in her throng of friends to start gossiping away. “Isn’t he adorable?” she cooed to them. They all clucked among themselves like eager hens.

“But so shy and a bit awkwardly. Ooooh, imagine having a man like that on your side!” gasped another girl. “Promise you won’t keep him all to yourself, Annabelle.”

A-A-A

October 12th, 1887

Claire Bennett hated Walker’s Finishing School.

Mrs. Walker herself was a highly respected headmistress but most of the girls and teachers were insufferable. Ever since Claire had ridden with her father in the carriage up to the massive brownstone house that sat perched atop a grand estate in the country, she could feel something cold twisting in her ribs.

Many of the girls had taken one look at the “Yankee” newcomer in her brown calico dress and yellow braids and turned their noses up at Claire. Of course, one or two showed a slight interest and gave her a kind word or nod but Claire was too frustrated to return the gestures.

She had tried to be nice but too often the conversations backlashed at her. They teased her for being raised on a farm and milking cows and prodded Claire for her peculiar accent. She swore someone had snuck into her room in the dormitory and invaded her privacy because her cameo brooch was missing. It was the only cherished item that Claire had from her deceased mother and she was sorely vexed to find it missing from her jewelry box.

Not that her new family was neglected in Claire’s mind. On the contrary, she adored her father. Her heart swelled with pride when she heard she would be accompanying Mr. Bennett on his trip to escort the President during the Golden Jubilee celebration. The only compromise was that his adopted daughter must be enrolled in a private academy during the week. At least they would have their Sundays together and he promised to take Claire to the legendary theatres of West End.

As the child of a respectable government agent, Claire knew she had responsibilities to keep up. And so when they were lined up for inspection one day, she did her best to stay neat and focused for the sake of her father.

“Ladies, ladies,” barked Mrs. Grimshaw. "Straight lines at once!" The harsh teacher was a brittle-looking person who reminded Claire of a tall skinny scarecrow. She had sharp cheekbones, a severe dress of black muslin, and gray hair pulled tightly off her face into a bun.

Mrs. Grimshaw snapped her fingers and ordered the girls into two perfect lines. Claire smoothed out the skirt of her white uniform to make sure it was free of wrinkles. She tried to avoid the beady eyes of Mrs. Grimshaw who inspected the girls one by one in search for the slightest bit of dirt beneath the fingernails or the tiniest grass stain on a stocking.

“Gracious!” Mrs. Grimshaw shrieked. Claire nearly jumped out of her shoes. What had she done wrong now?

“Ink spots on your hands!” Mrs. Grimshaw barked. “Agnes Kent, will you never learn to wash your hands properly?”

Claire was silently relieved but somewhat sympathetic for Agnes, who was trying to hide her hands behind her back. Lo and behold, the splotches of purple and black stained her fingertips and palms.

Agnes lowered her chin in a sulking expression. “I can’t help it if they don’t come off when I scrub, Mrs. Grimshaw.”

“Yes you can, young lady! Eight infractions for dirty hands!” Mrs. Grimshaw snapped. “And remember ladies, cleanliness is next to godliness.”

A ripple of snickers rose up instantly from the front of the line. Jacqueline Fleet was the most popular girl in the school and more than just a little cruel to the ones who were of lower class or simple families. She’d snub them at the supper table, tease them in the hallway, and stick her feet out to trip them during inspection.

“Not that she’s the best looking of us all,” Agnes murmured to Claire. “You’re ten times prettier than Jacqueline.”

“No I’m not,” Claire murmured, looking down at the grass. Jacqueline and Claire both had yellow hair but Claire couldn’t see any more resemblances.

“Pshaw! She’s just jealous because you outdid her in geography yesterday,” Agnes muttered.

As soon as Mrs. Grimshaw had dismissed them for the day, the girls ran outside to enjoy the warmth and sunshine. While Jacqueline led her private clique of friends to the banks to discuss her latest frocks that were coming from Paris, Claire decided to catch up on her reading.

From the pocket of her dress, she pulled out her book. It was a gift from her father, a lovely first edition of Little Women bound in red leather and gold lettering on the spine. He had ordered it all the way from a publishing company in New York and given it to Claire on her fifteenth birthday. Claire enjoyed the crisp smell of new paper when she turned the pages and the crackling sound when she stroked the spine.

She found a large smooth boulder flecked with gray stripes and made herself comfortable on it. Claire flipped the book open to the page she had marked with a thin blue ribbon and began to delve into the world of the noble March sisters Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.

“Would you mind if I join you Ms. Bennett?”

Claire glanced up to see Agnes standing over her with a sketchbook hugged tightly to her chest. “I don’t think Jacqueline will try bothering us if we sit together.”

Claire wanted to read alone but she thought better than be rude. And Agnes had a good point; Claire didn’t want Jacqueline getting her hands on her precious book. She scooted over so Agnes could sit down.

Agnes removed a charcoal piece from her art box and began scribbling madly across the pages of her sketchbook. Claire was surprised at how vehement Agnes looked when she drew. Her eyes became beady dots of passion. Her brow was wrinkled and her tongue stuck out slightly as her fingers flew over the pages.

“No wonder Jacqueline says she looks like a weasel" Claire thought to herself. Agnes Kent hadn’t been blessed with as much grace or beauty as the other girls, being bone-thin with stringy black hair and small black eyes.

But she couldn’t resist glancing over Agnes’ shoulder out of curiosity’s sake.

The top of a man’s head was visible and she could see Agnes carefully shading in his eyes with just enough darkness without removing the shine of his eyes. Claire was astonished at how delicately the charcoal touched the paper in tiny quick flickering movements to bring out the details of the man’s face. It was so lifelike that Claire almost expected his lips to part and for him to speak from the paper.

“Who is he?” she blurted aloud. Agnes realized that Claire had been spying on her and quickly snapped the sketchbook shut.

“Just a friend of my father’s,” Agnes said quickly.

“You’re a very good artist,” Claire complimented her. Agnes blushed and placed her hands on the sketchbook.

“It’s very kind of you to say that, Ms. Bennett. I’ve been hoping you’d come and talk to the rest of us but you were so quiet for a while. I thought Yankee girls didn’t like us.”

“No, no it’s not that,” Claire quickly defended herself. “I guess--” she drew out a breath of truth. “I guess I just miss home a bit. It’s so strange being away from the farm.”

Agnes cocked her head to one side and studied the pretty face with wide blue eyes and two braids of fair golden hair. “You’re a brave young lady to come all the way across the ocean with your father, Ms. Bennett. Most girls wouldn’t be able to brave the stormy seas.”

“He’s my father. I can’t live without being with him,” Claire confessed.

“I know the feeling. My Pa and I are very close.” Agnes’ interest flew to the book in Claire’s hands. “Is that any good reading?”

“It’s wonderful,” Claire said happily. “Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. It was published just a few years ago.” She handed it to Agnes who flipped through the pages with interest. “I’ll lend it to you if you like.”

“I’d like that very much, Ms. Bennett,” Agnes smiled kindly at Claire. For the first time in two weeks, Claire felt as if she was starting to get comfortable. But no sooner had the temporary feeling come then it was replaced with a burn of wrath.

“What are you doing, Agnes-rat?” sneered Jacqueline. She had stalked over to the gray stone and snatched Agnes’ sketchbook out of her hands.

“The Indian savage again?” Jacqueline flipped through the pages carelessly. “Good lord, how many times can you draw that horrid barbarian?”

“Suresh is not a savage!” Agnes hissed. She tried to grab her sketchbook back but Jacqueline was higher and held it above her head. “He’s a brilliant teacher that my father knows at the university.”

“Really? Well my father is a lord in Parliament and will have him thrown out of the university,” laughed Jacqueline in a high mocking voice.

The sound of their voices sent other girls running to the rock to hear the quarreling between the most popular girl of the class and a feisty artist. Even Claire was amazed at the burst of fury going on.

“You wouldn’t dare do it. He's one of the most eloquent and clever men to ever walk on God’s earth,” Agnes said proudly.

“You can dress a monkey in a man’s suit but he’s still a monkey.”

“Suresh is kind and gentle with everyone he meets.”

“He’s a talking ape from Chennai with burned skin and eyes of a demon,” Jacqueline lashed back. “A disgrace to the university and to everyone in the country.”

Agnes’ face drain of color while she bit her lips together in fury. “You’re just jealous of anyone who’s smarter or braver than you, Jacqueline. No wonder you’re so arrogant and stuck up. Your father keeps you raised as a selfish pampered spoiled brat who stays locked up in her pretty world of dresses and dreams!”

Agnes thrust a finger out towards the rushing blue river. “There’s a great wide wonderful world out there Jacqueline but you’re too pig-headed to think about anything else other than yourself.”

Jacqueline tossed her head about proudly. “Bah! As if you hadn’t noticed it Agnes-rat, I am the one who rules this school. And someday I’ll be so great that lords and ladies will bow before me.”

“Well I won’t!” Claire heard her voice blurt aloud.

The strange swelling pride and courage that had been building up during the feud burst out of her lips. She realized everyone was starring at her but she couldn’t resist taking a step up to Jacqueline and thrusting her chin into the air.

“I’ve spent weeks at sea facing the crashing waves and the storm. I’ve ridden in carriages over your fields and through your woods--and do you know why?” Claire demanded.

“Because I love my father and will go anywhere with him. And because I am an American. I am strong, brave, and ready to face the future. And most of all, I am glad because I am not Jacqueline Fleet nor will I ever be!!”

A cheer of delight rose up from the other girls. Too long had Jacqueline been strutting her feathers around them like an over-grown peacock. But now this sharp-tongued American girl had stunned her into place with a message that Jacqueline had never heard before in her life.

“I hope your father whips you for this,” Jacqueline replied in a frosty voice.

“My father is ten times more than any lord or duke,” Claire announced. “And I’m proud to call myself a member of the Bennett family.”
She felt a warm swell of pride when she thought about Noah Bennett and how her father had always been by her side since she was a tiny baby.

“Bennett? Oh yes,” Jacqueline’s lips pulled up into a cruel smirk. “No wonder I had heard that name before. He’s a sort of Head General to President Petrelli, isn’t he? I wondered why the President would keep dragging his best officer around the world with him.”

Claire’s fists began to tighten up with rage. “You should watch your tongue, Jacqueline Fleet. I won’t hesitate to box your ears.”

“My my…we’re all full of heat and coals today,” Jacqueline tutted. “Oh well, I suppose it’s only a rumor.”

“What is?” Claire demanded.

Jacqueline lifted an eyebrow up in a light gesture of amusement. “Just things you hear now and then. Something about how you were born out of wedlock and Nathan Petrelli wouldn’t be able to hold his head up with you around. So he passed you to Bennett when you were still in your cradle.”

Claire’s eyes flashed flames of blue fire when she heard this. She charged towards Jacqueline with all of her fury. With arms thrust out, she rammed herself into the bullying girl and sent the two of them crashing into the river. KER-SPLASH!!

Everyone else screamed with shock as water dashed back onto the shore and Claire and Jacqueline resurfaced as two soaking wet figures in stained white dresses.

“M-my petticoats!” Jacqueline screamed. “You’ve ruined my best petticoat! Claire Bennett, you will rue the day you set foot on this ground!!”

Meanwhile, Agnes and two other girls were helping Claire out of the river. A few were cheering and clapping their hands together.

“Are you all right?”Agnes asked Claire.

The girl wiped her wet face with the back of her hand. She flicked a strand of damp yellow hair out of her face and smiled at Agnes. “Never better, Ms. Kent.”

A-A-A

Later that night:

“Good night Thomas!”

“Good night, Alfred!”

The young man tightened his scarf around his neck and began to head home. It was a chilly night and the wind whistled eerily through the streets. While the pubs and taverns were still flickering late into the night, most people had huddled indoors to avoid the cold.

Tom shivered inside of his coat. Hadn’t he just come to King’s Cross Road? He glanced up at the signs and frowned. Either the writings had changed or he had gotten lost on the wrong side of town. He could hear the slurs of drunken people and the crashing sounds of bottles. Someone rasped in the alleyway and began to laugh in a maniac voice.

Feeling more concerned than ever, Tom broke out into a fast walk. He kept glancing from side to side to make certain that he wasn’t being followed. After ten minutes of winding in and out of tiny cramped streets, he paused to rest near a lamppost. Yes, yes, he was going to be fine. He was almost near his brother’s flat in Clerkenwell. While the streets were almost empty at this hour, at least he knew a roaring fire and hot cup of tea awaited him at home.

Bless his dear brother Allen and his wife Rosie! Tom was ever so grateful for their kind hospitality and always made sure his brother received extra wraps of food that he could take back after the luscious banquets. Rosie would take the simplest scraps of meat and turn them into a cooked pie fit for a duke. Tom’s mouth watered when he thought of meat pie and roasted apple cakes.

“Beg ye pardon sir,” said a stranger. Tom almost jumped out of his shoes when he was approached by someone wrapped in a flowing black cape.

“Mind a good man such as yourself give me the time?”

Relief flooded Tom as the simple request. He removed his pocket-watch and examined it. “Yes, sir. It’s half past eleven.”

“Half past? My my…” the stranger seemed to murmur to himself instead of Tom. He rubbed his black-gloved hands together. “That is very good indeed.”

“Good? Why?”

“Because no one will hear you scream.”

Tom saw two eyes glinting the dim light of the lantern and a flashed of white teeth. He opened his mouth to cry but the stranger had pounced on him like a ravenous dog. A cane flew through the air, knocking the light out of the lantern.

Tom and the stranger were thrust into the darkness. Tom let out one faint gurgling cry for help before the steel blade plunged into his stomach and a stream of sticky wet blood flowed onto the cobblestones of London.

The stranger threw back his head and let out a maniac laugh that echoed down the streets like a phantom chanting its triumph to the frosty night and its demons of silence.

A-A-A

October 15th, 1887

Peter Petrelli was a bit frazzled.

He had been thrust into a whirlwind of events prepared by the Duchess of Warwick and Annabelle Baker. After two private concerts, a night at the opera, and countless carriage rides to tea, he was beginning to feel the strains of being too far from home and not having anyone to talk to. Oh yes, the duchess was a lively chatterbox and Ms. Baker had many young friends who were interested in archery and hunting. But Peter wished he had just one person he could confide in and express his emotions without being afraid of upsetting anyone’s delicate manners.

He had contemplated staying at the hotel but knew his brother would be deeply concerned if Peter fell into another depression. The Petrelli family had taken great lengths to hide any scandalous backgrounds and Nathan was swift to make certain that his younger brother was always kept busy, content, and happy. The more Peter was up and about on the town, the easier this visit would be for everyone.

“St. James Park, St. James Park,” Peter mumbled to himself. He had been studying the scrap of paper that Ms. Baker had given him the other day. He was supposed to meet them for a morning walk but had lost his way and was now circling the streets in confusion. Even a helpful nod from a stranger wasn’t doing much for Peter.

After walking past the same bookstore and fish-seller for half an hour, Peter sighed and decided to give up. He put the paper in his pocket and was about to hail a carriage ride back to the hotel when he saw a tavern just down the corner.

The sign above the doorway was painted a bright green hue and said WANDERING ROCKS in shining gold letters. The door opened and a young man and woman came out, arms linked together and talking merrily among themselves. It looked like such a pleasant place that Peter felt complied to go inside and have a look. Tucking his walking stick under his arm, the young doctor pushed the door open.

The bell above the doorway chimed merrily when Peter stepped in. Once his eyes adjusted to the soft glow of the tavern, he could see and hear the cheeriness around him. The brass railing gleamed like gold and the pewter tankers shined like silver. A warm roaring fire glowed in the hearth. Peter hung up his coat and cane near the door and approached the coffee room.

A pretty brunette wiped her hands on an apron and came up to Peter. “’Morning,young master. What can I do for you?” He found himself almost struck with her face and the sweet smile of her rosy lips.

“Ah, erm, just a cup of coffee, please,” he stuttered.

The woman tilted her head to one side permitting a generous wave of auburn hair to fall over her shoulder. Peter nearly blushed in awkwardness.

“You’ve a shy one, sir. Not from around these parts, are ye?” The warm tilt of her Irish accent was a pleasant change after an exhausting week.

“No, I’m a doctor from America. My name is Petrelli.”

“Delighted to meet a Yankee at last!” the young woman beamed. “Me brother Rick and I welcome ye to the Wandering Rocks where no man is a stranger for long.”

“Caitlin!” a voice called from the back of the pub. “Where’s them sausages?”

“Coming,” she called back. And winking an eye at Peter, she gestured for him to sit down near the fire. “Rest your feet, weary stranger. We’ll have you tucking in breakfast in no time.”

Peter drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the room. No sooner had Caitlin vanished then he heard someone speak up.

“You seem a bit lost, my friend.”

The polished voice came from the next table where a young man had put down his paper and was looking Peter with mild interest. If he wasn’t dressed in a morning wool frock with a gray waistcoat and matching trousers, Peter could have sworn the stranger was a prince who had stepped out of Shahrazad’s tales of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

His complexion was a rich brown sheen that spoke of sun-baked lands and lush exotic gardens. His ebony hair had been combed back until it shined like a raven’s wing. While he was clean-shaven and neat as a pin, an aura of mystery and wisdom seemed to surround him. From behind a pair of spectacles, the stranger's eyes glistened like two black diamonds. They were fringed with the longest darkest eyelashes that Peter had ever seen.

While Peter had been starring at him the entire time, the stranger had removed his reading spectacles and laid them on the table.

“Forgive the intrusion but I couldn’t help overhearing your accent. And it’s not every day Rick receives visitors from America.”

He rose and extended a hand to Peter. “Permit me to introduce myself. Professor Mohinder Suresh of Cambridge University.”

Peter accepted the gesture in a firm handshake. “Doctor Petrelli. From New York.”

The professor’s eyes widened in surprise and a great smile broke out on his face. “Dr. Petrelli? What a wonderful surprise! I’ve read your manuscripts and heard all about your impact on the sanitation of hospitals across America. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to meet you.”

“Really?” Peter colored with relief. “I didn’t know my work had an impact so far from home.”

“I’ve been requesting reports from a transfer student of mine who immigrated to Baltimore some years ago. Wasn’t there a David Marcoon in your department?”

“Yes, that’s him. Good old David,” Peter remembered one of his colleagues.

“Please sit down,” the professor gestured to him, pulling up another chair to his private table. Within five minutes Peter was sitting down and exchanging words on science and health and medicine with the professor as if they had been lifelong school mates.

“I heard the British Empire had stretched out towards India,” Peter mentioned as Caitlin returned with a fresh coffee pot. “Did you come here with part of the extended program of the English Educational Committee?”

“I was born in England,” the professor explained as he poured coffee for Peter and himself.

“But my father brought me to India--which was his homeland--when I was five years old and I’ve been there for most of my life. However, it was his dying wish that I return to finish my education. I received a letter of approval from a friend of his, a headmaster at the university, and decided to return for a few years.”

“Suresh’s face is always welcome at the Wandering Rocks,” Caitlin announced. “What can I get you gentlemen? I’ve got fresh eggs and rashers of bacon sizzling on the fire.”

“That sounds delicious,” Peter grinned.

“And for you, Professor?”

“Toast and marmalade please,” said the professor. “And may I say Caitlin that you’re looking lovely as ever today.”

Caitlin laughed merrily. “You’re too kind, professor. Just make sure to bring yer charming friend back here more often, eh?”

And with a whirl of her skirts, she was off.

A-A-A

Peter tucked in his breakfast heartily and with the professor’s offer, he accepted an invitation to tour the Cambridge libraries.

Soon they were in a cab and rushing through the bustling streets of London. While the horses clip-clopped over cobblestones into town, Mohinder (as he requested Peter to call him) was examining the morning headlines.

“Killer Convict Still At Large,” Mohinder read from the Daily Times. He slapped a hand to the paper in frustration. “Damn! I wish they had caught him by now!”

“The same Jack-the-Ripper scenario?” Peter inquired. He glanced over Mohinder’s shoulder and read the article.

"The body of Thomas Charing was found near St. Pancreas yesterday morning. He had been slit in the throat and was found dead with peculiar markings on his skull and arms. Police investigators claim that this was an act of murder committed by the escaped convict who was rumored to have jumped off a ship headed for Australia five months ago and swam back to shore.

"The true identity has not been established although police reports have dubbed the convict as “Prisoner Zero”. He was claimed to have strangled the guards with a rope before making his escape off the prison ship.

"Already nine victims have laid to rest at the hands of the escaped convict who has little information to identify himself. A few rumors have circulated that Prisoner Zero is a clean-shaven man in his early 30’s. He has been said to be six feet tall with black hair and brown eyes. The convict has no particular scars or physical markings to identify himself. Police reports at Scotland Yard are taking extreme caution in examining the scenarios which--"

“Prisoner Zero,” Peter repeated aloud.

"That's what the papers insist he's been called but they're misinformed. The convict known as Sylar has the only match up to these crimes."

"Sylar?" The name made the doctor’s bones shiver uneasily. It sounded like the hissing of a lizard or the rattle of a poisonous snake.

“It’s German for ‘hangman’,” Mohinder informed him. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ve got assignments at Cambridge to keep me busy and yet I feel strongly compelled to keep track of Sylar’s movements. My colleagues say I’m obsessed with catching the man—and supposedly I am.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a bad thing,” Peter defended him. “Especially with my brother’s visit and the queen’s upcoming jubilee, London needs all the ears and eyes she can get.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mohinder said. He removed a small pocketbook from his breast-pocket and handed it for Peter to examine. “I’m hoping to find a link between the man, his methods, and his motive. But perhaps there is nothing—only blind insanity and hallucinations of revenge.”

Peter began to read Mohinder’s notes with great interest. The professor had tried to examine the dead bodies and write out personal reports of details and possibilities of murder. Sylar hadn’t robbed men of their money; they had been found with full wallets still in their pockets. Women weren’t raped, only stabbed to death. Peter had to admit it was a bizzare scenario. If not want of robbery or lust then what did the man accomplish by killing random victims?

“The most important thing is the object left at the scene of the crime,” Mohinder went on. “It’s always a piece of a pocket-watch.”

“A pocket-watch? Why on earth would he do that?” Peter inquired.

“I don’t know. But somehow near or on the body are the lids or inside screws of a watch. I’ve found one of them and kept it on me.”

Mohinder took out his handkerchief and unfolded it for Peter to inside. Inside the neat white square was a single tiny round wheel with grooves carved into the sides.

“Scotland Yard has been combing every watch and clock store in the city and spreading out the country for answers but still...no clues, no hope. And it’s always the same nonsense that goes around and around in circles,” Mohinder frowned.

He traced a circle in the air with his finger. “I keep offering my services to Scotland Yard but it just falls on deaf ears. They say I’m a man who should keep my head in books and out of trouble.”

Peter’s ears pricked up. “What about Torchwood? I’ve heard they handle unusual occurrences like this all the time.”

Mohinder shook his head. “Sylar is too small of a problem for the likes of them. Besides, I’ve seen their headquarters and disapprove strongly of Torchwood’s methods. They tend to keep things away from the public instead of revealing the truth about supernatural phenomena.”

“Oh,” Peter’s face fell. “It was only a suggestion.”

Mohinder saw his face change and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peter. I won’t go out on a limb. The last thing I want is to be removed from Cambridge for fanatic theories or ‘excess heat to the head.’”

“Geniuses can easily be mistaken for fools. Perhaps the world isn’t ready for the likes of us,” Peter grinned. “Do you what I think, Mohinder? You and I should start our own school.”

Mohinder chuckled at the suggestion. “My friend, I would like nothing better than what you have just suggested.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Great! I’ll write to my brother and request some government funding. He’ll be only too glad to have me out of his hair. We could build a college and call it the Academy for um…Extraordinarily Odd Young Men.”

Mohinder raised an eyebrow. “Men? Why not women as well?”

“Why not? I think everyone deserves an education.” Peter clasped his hands together. “I, Doctor Peter Petrelli, hereby establish today October 15th in the year of our Lord 1887, the Petrelli and Suresh Academy for Extraordinarily Eccentric Young Adults.”

Mohinder clapped his hands together. “Bravo, Peter Petrelli. Now tell me this....where on earth do you think we could set up such an extraordinary institution?”

“Why, New York of course!”

A-A-A

In a marbled room high above the sprawling streets of London, massive oak doors were swiftly locked and blinds were drawn shut. The Prime Minister requested that four guards stand at the door and be fully armed before address Nathan,

“Your visit to our country is most welcome President Petrelli but I must warn you that this meeting is one of the uttermost important and secrecy.”

The President nodded and accepted a glass of brandy from the Prime Minister.

“I suspect that there may be some government conspiracy infiltrating the city. Reports of spies have come in suggesting someone is plotting to overthrow the British Empire or assassinate the queen,” the Prime Minister explained in a low hushed voice.

“And just in time for the Golden Jubilee and my overseas visit,” Nathan murmured. He took a sip of brandy before swirling it thoughtfully inside the glass. “No coincidence at all.”

“You see why a single threat from either side of the Atlantic Ocean could throw both countries into a state of panic. Or worse, war.”

Nathan glanced at the Prime Minister. “Do you think my mother’s life is in danger?”

“No, sir. I believe yours may be in danger.”

Nathan’s eyebrows rose up a notch. “I was in the navy, sir. I know how to defend myself.”

“Nevertheless, I hope you will not refuse our escorts and services. You will provided with protection wherever you go,” the Prime Minister assured him.

“I understand and accept your offer,” Nathan nodded. “Although I don’t see why it’s necessary to be so strict with my brother. I know Peter can be a bit naïve at times but he’s not foolish enough to get into serious trouble.”

“I must disagree with you on that topic, Mr. President.” The Prime Minister’s eyes darkened in his direction. “Many people know of the love and loyalty that binds the Petrelli brothers together. Would you deny it?”

“Certainly not. I would lay down my life for Peter,” Nathan insisted.

“And that is what I am afraid of.” The Prime Minister began to pace the floor. “Supposing your brother was abducted by hooligans or enemy agents. Would you compromise the future of an entire country for the safety of one single man, even one so close to your heart?”

A long moment of chilling silence passed between the two men. The Prime Minster watched Nathan’s face alter into one of concern. The President set his glass down on the table with a sharp clink.

“I see your point, Prime Minister. I will make certain that Peter is escorted and guarded wherever he goes. He won’t go out of my sight.”

“I’m afraid he already has,” said the Prime Minister. He held up a piece of paper “I received a letter from the Duchess of Warwick saying he never arrived at St. James Park for their morning walk. And there’s been no sign of him since he left the Wandering Rocks tavern.”

“What?” Nathan snapped to attention. “Where’s this tavern?”

“It’s in a small district near Mayfair.” The Prime Minister reached for his coat and hat. “I suggest we contact the police and head towards the tavern as soon as possible.”

“Godspeed,” added Nathan Petrelli. With a whirl of the heels, they were out the door leaving the room to be swallowed up in darkness.

END OF PART ONE