To answer some of your questions I will not be giving the characters their powers in this story. I hope it is not a crisis but I wrote this story with that in mind to let their personalities shine through in a different time period without the tissue regeneration, time traveling, spaghetti creating, etc. That doesn’t mean it’s perfectly safe in 1887. *Evil laughter*

Thank you for your generous feedback. I apologize for the delay but writing fan fiction takes me a great deal of time. But it is always worthwhile to continue updating.

“The Spider and the Fly” was written by Mary Howitt and published in 1829

“Othello” by Shakespeare. (But you already knew that, didn’t you?)

One more small BBC reference listed.

A-A-A

November 3rd, 1887

One of the last rehearsals came around with a bustling of energy and a twinkling of eyes. Mohinder could not believe he was going to be on the stage performing for hundreds of people under the blazing lights and scrutinizing eyes of the ton! Lords and ladies, ambassadors from various countries, wealthy businessmen and famous artists had all journeyed to London for the Golden Jubilee and were taking advantage of their Shakespearean play.

“I think it will be very charming,” complimented the seamstress. She had been going over his costume and was making Mohinder pose in the 3-way mirror. She added another pin into the hem and nodded with approval before she began wrapping up the massive folds of velvet and silk that lay at his feet. “You will have a turban to go with it and Turkish sandals for the touching effect.”

“Just make certain we’re not using any of those lead-based cosmetics,” Mohinder reminded her.

“Yes yes, you’ve told us a hundred times about their poisonous effects on the brain,” drawled Claude Raines. He was smoothing out a large heavy black mustache that was in design for Iago and leaned into the mirror for a better look. “With your face on the stage lad, the ladies won’t give a damn if you’re spouting Shakespeare or Sullivan.”

Mohinder merely chuckled and shook his head. “Will you be joining us for dinner this evening, Claude?”

“Me? Hell, no! My sister’ll be having chops on the table tonight and she won’t let me push off another minute.” Claude ripped off the fake mustache and shrugged into his tan mackintosh.

“Don’t forget your frock coat, Mr. Raines,” chided the seamstress. “You said it needed some new stitching. I’ll have to do it tonight or I’ll be backed up until opening night.”

“Spare your sewing for next time, love,” smiled Claude. “Adieu, adieu. Parting is such sweet sorrow.” He strode out the door with his hands in his pockets and a cheery whistle.

The seamstress smiled and shook her head. “That man won’t sit still for a matter of two minutes! Still, Claude’s a good man.” She finished packing up her sewing kit and left Mohinder to change back into his street clothes.

A thin stream of lights slanting through the late afternoon windows caused something small and round to wink a blue-ish color, catching Mohinder’s attention. He bent over and picked it up.

It was a button. It must’ve fallen off Claude’s coat before he left the theater. Mohinder turned it over with his fingers and studied it carefully.

The button was made of sterling silver and stamped with an intricate diamond-patterned border. In the center were the engraved initials I.S.S.

Quickly fumbling in his pockets, Mohinder pulled out a bit of charcoal and a scrap of paper. He quickly made a rubbing of the button before pocketing it inside his waistcoat.

The rest of the cast wanted to celebrate the dress rehearsal with an evening to dinner but Mohinder declined, explaining that he needed to catch up on extra sleep. After escorting Seniorita Herrera to her hotel, he returned to his quarters in Belmount Park.

“I.S.S….Indian Spice Seclusion?” he mumbled to himself as he flipped through the pages of one of his many books. The professor reclined back in his favorite chair and began to read the paragraph. There had been some conflicts within the British Empire about a smuggling trade in the Far East some ten years ago and sabotage only meant higher protection taxes on a valuable spice trade.

However, he could not make a connection between the business news and the recent local killings. Sylar was still in London--that was clear enough. He couldn’t be far off operating a smuggling racket…unless someone else was assisting him.

Mohinder locked his fingers together and began to think hard.

What did I.S.S. really stand for? Illegal Suffrage in Society? Internal Sanitation Staff?

There were only a handful of organizations in London with those bizarre letters and none of them seemed to match up.

A rap on the door reminded Mohinder that the housekeeper was at ease. She opened the door, still clad in a night shawl and holding a candle in one hand. “Shall I prepare the fires, sir?” she offered.

“No thank you, Gwendolyn. I’ll be turning in for the night.” Mohinder thanked her and set his books aside. He gave a deep yawn and stretched his hands over his head, relieved at the moments of silence and tranquility to be alone at the end of a hard busy day. The young man poured out some water from the basin and used his cupped hands to splash it onto his face.

After washing his face and neck, Mohinder undressed and crawled into bed. The thoughts came thick and fast as night slowly descended upon London and caused his eyelids to droop. He wondered what preparations Peter was taking on for the upcoming Golden Jubilee or if he had any more clues to the Sylar case.

Within minutes, the roaring flames in the fireplace had hushed down into crackling red embers while the professor had fallen into a deep dreamless sleep.

A-A-A

November 5th, 1887

Peter was on his way to visit Mr. Kent at Cambridge University when he heard footsteps approaching him in Convent Garden. Remembering Nathan’s warning, he quickly slid a hand to the pistol concealed under his coat. His finger curled around the trigger, ready in case of a sudden….

“Ms. Petrelli?” Soft reddish curls peeped out from under a lace-lined bonnet when Ruth Aurbach lightly touched him on the shoulder to get his attention.

Relief flooded Peter’s face at the harmless newcomer and he accepted her hand.

“Forgive me for acting so rash,” Ruth said in a hushed whisper. She quickly slipped her arm around Peter’s elbow and began to walk quickly. “But I think I may need your protection as an escort.”

“From who?” Peter asked.

“Why, Ms. Bakerton! What a pleasure to see you again,” drawled a deep smooth voice from behind them. Peter almost had to look up to see the tall imposing young man who had walked up quickly to the two of them.

The newcomer’s face was long and angled sharply at the chin with hard planes marking his cheekbones and jaw line. He was smooth-shaven with skin as pale and smooth as chiseled marble. A fringe of dark hair and thick black slashing brows lent him a commanding presence.

Peter realized he looked every inch the polished gentleman, just the sort of person expected at society’s finest occasions. He was elegantly dressed in a fine pearl-gray wool coat with matching trousers tailored to his long thin legs. He carried a silver-topped cane of ebony wood in one hand while the other held a glittering chain attached to a large heavy-looking gold watch.

The man did not tip his hat to them but merely touched the brim with a gloved fingertip gracefully. “I have missed you sorely at the Duchess’ house Ms. Bakerton,” he smiled with a curl of his pale pink lips. “Have you been hiding in the nursery all this time?”

Ruth’s mouth pursed up cautiously. “I have been busy with tutoring the children, sir.” She motioned to Peter. “Dr. Petrelli, this is Lord Gray of Auric. You know the Petrellis of the United States, do you not?”

“Certainly. Your family is almost legend.” Lord Gray extended his hand to Peter and the young man found himself caught in a firm but almost too-tight grip. “At last, the Americans have landed. But I must say…” his eyes skimmed up and down Peter. “You look nothing like your photograph in the papers, Mr. Petrelli.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Peter remarked.

Lord Gray gave a throaty chuckle. “No doubt.” He pointed down the road with his walking stick. “I was just on my way to call on the Duchess. If you are tutoring there then permit me to escort you, Ms. Bakerton.”

Peter stole a glance at Ruth who’s face had blanched and she bit her lips in uncertainty. She did not seem pleased at the notion of being alone with Lord Gray. He quickly read between the lines and came up with a solution.

“Thank you for your concern Lord Gray but Ms. Bakerton was feeling indisposed and I was about to bring her to our hotel. I’ve sent for Dr. Suresh to come examine her.”

“The Indian teacher? I thought he was rather busy preparing for Othello,” Lord Gray tutted aloud.

“Dress rehearsals don’t start until mid-afternoon and its ten o’clock in the morning,” Ruth explained hastily. “Besides, we come to rely on the doctor’s medical advice whenever necessary. Peter, I am ready when you are. Good day, Lord Gray.”

“Good day, Ms. Bakerton. Good day, Mr. Petrelli.” Despite the young lady’s abrupt departure, Lord Gray continued his queer little smile even after Peter had hailed a cab for himself and Ruth.

“Thank you most kindly,” she muttered when they were safe inside the carriage. The horses’ hooves clip-clopped loudly down the street. The young woman untied her bonnet strings and began to breathe deeply.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Peter asked with concern. “You seemed uneasy in Lord Gray’s presence.”

“I don’t like that man,” Ruth confessed aloud. She fanned herself with her bonnet.

“He’s very polite in public, though. Claims to have just inherited his father’s fortune some two years ago in estates. But the attention you’ve been getting in society is nothing compared to Lord Gray. The duchess has him over at her monthly balls and the house is crammed with visitors. You should see how the ladies flutter around him like moths to a candle! Every unmarried girl in town is keen on capturing his attention.”

“And yet he hasn’t picked a bride in two years?” Peter mused. “Very interesting. I’d expect him to settle down if he’s inherited a fortune.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Ruth insisted. “Lord Gray just hovers around town like a man keen on buying stock..but he doesn’t buy anything. He always seems to be looking and prodding around. And sometimes when the duchess holds a private reception and I stay up to see the guests, I see him there among all of them.”

Her voice dropped an octave. “Peter…his manners are perfect when he comes to call….but there is something cold in his eyes. I cannot put my finger on it…but the man seems to be more powerful than what he claims to be.”

“Have you told the duchess about your suspicions?”

Ruth sighed wearily. “He’s got a silvery tongue and duchess is completely won over by him. I don’t think I could alter her judgment or raise my tongue against her anyhow. I’m only too grateful to be employed by such a generous lady….even if I am behaving cowardly.”

Peter took Ruth’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Don’t trouble yourself, Ruth. I’ll make certain you’re escorted to and fro whenever you need it. And if you’re going to be attention the theater with us this week--”

He was cut off when the carriage pulled up in front of the Wandering Rocks pub. Peter was delighted to see Mohinder standing by the door way alongside Hiro Nakamura. Caitlin brought out some coffee and hot chocolate for the four young people to enjoy. They sat by the window to sip hot drinks and exchange words.

“What a coincidence to see you both here,” Mohinder said brightly. “I was just about to ask your mother if you had gone back to the Cambridge library. I’ve arranged for Mr. Kent and Agnes to have a private box reserved right next to the Petrellis and Hiro. But never mind that. I have something to show you.”

He withdrew the button from his pocket and showed it to Peter, who in turn handed it to Ruth and Hiro. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“I have seen this marking before,” Hiro replied slowly. “My father had a gold stamp on his desk but I was never permitted to ask about it. It was locked up right after he passed away and I never knew what it meant."

“Peculiar,” Ruth murmured. “I think I saw Detective Parkman wearing one of these buttons when he interviewed me last week.”

“And this one was from Claude Raines,” Mohinder added. “Don’t you think there is some connection between all of them?”

Peter’s dark eyes were lost in thought for a moment before brightening up with animation. “I’ve seen this before as well,” he piped up. “On my mother’s watch chain!”

“Does she know what I.S.S. means?” Ruth asked.

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Well, she said it stood for the Indiana Social Society. Mother donated a lot of her inheritance money to build churches and shops in the Midwest. She says they gave her this button as a present.”

“The fact stands up for Mrs. Petrelli,” Hiro replied. “But not for the entire mystery. What would an American charity group, a London actor, a policeman, and my father have in common?”

“And does it have anything to do with the Sylar murders?” asked Peter.

“I think so,” Mohinder answered. “I found several more watch shops in town without clues although one had been shut up five years ago. It was owned by Mr. Martin Gray who died of consumption some time ago.”

There was silence between the four of them for a moment.

“Gray?” Peter repeated. “As in Lord Gray? Do you know him, Mohinder?”

“I have heard of Lord Gray but I don’t know him personally,” the professor confessed. “Although it could just be a coincidence. Gray is a common name around here.”

“And Lord Gray said once that his father’s name was Samson, not Martin,” Ruth pointed out.

“Are there no records? Any evidence to prove otherwise?” questioned Hiro.

“The Cambridge library should have the answers. There’s plenty of information on lineage of lords and their origins,” Mohinder said. He examined his watch and shook his head. “I would be glad to come along but I am due for our final dress rehearsal in the West End.”

“Then let us investigate on your behalf,” offered Hiro. “And we may share the evidence gathered later on.”

“We’d better hurry up before it rains,” Peter added. He hustled outside along with Ruth while Mohinder extended his umbrella and set off on foot for the theater. Just in the nick of time, there was a rumbling sound from the sky and the pattering sound of raindrops covered London in a storm. Everyone bustled off into the silvery sheets of rain.

A-A-A

The enormous house of white marble jutted against the gray sky of London. Within moments it had begun to pour while pedestrians huddled under umbrellas and coats. But the white house remained cold and proud, only daring to bring in those who could venture in the harsh weather.

Baron Daniel Linderman was smoking a cigar in his study when his footman announced a visitor. He blew a stream of smoke into the air as Lord Gabriel Gray was permitted into the room. Gray removed his hat at last and quickly flattened his black hair over his forehead. Had anyone looked closer they might have seen a slight v-shaped mark marring his flawless brow (the result of a head-on collision with a book's spine). But the dark hair concealed it for the most part.

He stretched his hands out towards the roaring fireplace to warm them.

“Scotch or whiskey, Gabriel?”

“Thank you, no.” Gabriel removed a silver case from his breast-pocket and took out a thin white cigarette. His slender lips captured it in the mouth and he began to smoke.

“Don’t get sloppy, young man,” the baron chided him as he stroked his short white beard.

“I wont, I won’t,” Lord Gray muttered. He exhaled from the cigarette and steam seeped through his nostrils like a dragon. “But what on earth are the Petrellis doing in London? They’ll bumble everything up.”

“There’s no need to worry. Let me handle the Petrellis. You’ve been keeping up your part of the bargain well enough in the last few weeks anyhow,” Linderman replied. “But if you’re getting cold feet then I’d advise you to pull out.”

“What? With the upcoming Othello play?” Lord Gray’s small smirk suddenly pulled back into a large wolfish grin of sharp white teeth. “It makes my mouth water just thinking about my next target.”

“Supposing THEY got to him first,” Linderman cautioned Lord Gray.

“They haven’t. Claude hasn’t opened his lips to anyone else so I’ll be able to nip this in the bud,” the young man assured him.

“All right. Just remember your intentions and you will be fine,” Baron Linderman smiled. “I presume you continue to go to St. Martin’s Church every week…hmm?’

“Of course,” Gabriel smiled.

“Good. The Lord sees you in loyalty and will repay you for your hard effort.”

A-A-A

Later that day:

“Oh Peter,” Angela sighed as she sank back into the plush armchair. “Don’t get me started on riddles right now. I’ve had an enjoyable day visiting the Crystal Palace and I’m not going to waste it with futile questions.”

“But that button,” he insisted as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Other people have ones just like it. What does it really mean? And don’t say it’s the Indiana Social Society.”

Unlike her edgy son, Angela kept a calm—if not bored—expression as she poured herself some coffee. “The English language is a popular and common enigma, Peter. Surely there are hundreds, if not thousands, of clubs with a similar name. Pure coincidence, that’s all.” She brought the cup to her lips and sipped it thoughtfully.

“But, but…” Peter sputtered.

“Now not another word,” Angela cut him off firmly. She set aside the coffee and motioned for Peter to come sit with her. “I’ve got a lovely surprise for you. All the students of Walker’s Academy will be attending Othello on Friday night and a particular young lady will be sharing our private box.”

“Claire?” Peter’s eyes lit up. But then he looked concerned. “Do you think it’s safe to let her out of the school with all these killings going on?”

“In case you haven’t noticed Peter, Mr. Bennett keeps a strict eye on his daughter. And I do not think anyone will be foolish enough to attempt a crime in a crowded theater.”

Angela glanced at the clock. “It’s almost noon! The duchess will be meeting us in Bedford Square soon. I promised her that we’d have you and Nathan suited up in new opera clothes.”

She rose and began pulling on her gloves. “But my god, did we have to go out in this awful weather? I’ll send for the carriage at once.”

A-A-A

Across town:

Dressed in matching blue cloaks and bonnets, the girls of Walkers Academy shuffled into St. Martin’s Church. Claire thought it was a plot to make them fall asleep and suffer punishment under Agatha Grimshaw’s strict eye but she held her tongue. Agnes took a seat next to Claire in the pew and promised to pinch her awake in case she dozed off. They had spent half the night in such giggles and whispers that it was fortunate Mrs. Grimshaw hadn’t overheard their chattering tongues.

Despite the pounding rain against the church walls, they could still look up and see the slanting glows of color from the stained-glass windows. The walls glowed a soft amber color against the light from hundreds of white wax candles. Claire heard the sound of an organ playing so strong and beautiful that it sent shivers of awe down her spine.

“Would you like to design something like that?” Claire whispered out of the corner of her mouth. She pointed to the stained-glass windows.

“My hands itch just to think about it,” Agnes murmured. “I’ll do it one day, mark my word. After I refurnish the Sistine Chapel.”

“They’re very pretty,” Claire added.

“Not as pretty as Michelangelo’s David,” Agnes whispered back.

The comment brought back Claire’s memory about the famous nude statue… and how violently startled Mrs. Grimshaw was when she saw the photograph in their textbooks.

The thought caused Claire and Agnes to giggle. They tried covering their mouths with their gloved hands but it only made them shake and shiver harder.

“AHEM!!”

The steely eye of Mrs. Grimshaw caused the girls to stop snickering at once. But Claire could still see Agnes grinning behind her fingertips.

Mrs. Grimshaw waved a hand to the girls and clapped for silence.

“Sister Elle will see you now,” she announced. A side door opened up and the nuns came out. One of them approached the students with clasped hands and bright blue eyes.

Claire thought the nun had an astoundingly pretty face with a wide smile and upturned nose. But her smile was too tight, too controlled. As if she was trying to contain another personality within her despite the demure attire of the church. Little pearly white teeth sparkled in her mouth when she parted her lips and thanked the students for attending their services. She delivered a brief sermon in a honeyed voice and kissed her fingertips, thanking these young innocent women for their time and prayers.

“Young virgins, my foot. We’ll all be wedded and bedded before twenty,” Agnes muttered under her breath. Not hearing the comment, Mrs. Grimshaw shuffled the girls into two lines and prepared them to leave.

As Claire followed everyone else out of the church, she saw a man in fine gray clothes slip inside from a side door. Sister Elle was tending the candles but stopped when she saw the man. The nun’s face remained passive but Claire saw her eyes flare up with interest and her fingers knit themselves together. It must’ve been the candlelight but whatever this man was to Sister Elle, her azure eyes sparkled with blue electricity.

A-A-A

One hour later in a private room:

Elle quickly ushered them into the inn bedroom and locked the door behind them. The rain continued to thunder outside but within the small warm room of the inn, a fresh fire flickered in the grate. It was a quaint snug moment of golden bliss within the weary storm and Elle wasn't going to let it pass unnoticed.

Gabriel laid aside his hat and walking stick on the table while Elle removed the heavy cloak from around his shoulders. She buried her face in the folds and inhaled the fragrant scent of musk and amber oil. "Beautiful," she murmured, nuzzling the rich fabric with her nose.

“You're beautiful,” Gabriel declared. He cupped her face in his large pale hands and kissed Elle on the mouth. "And you look ravishing in that frock."

Free of her nun's masquerade, Elle’s blonde hair tumbled long and straight down her back. Gabriel ran a hand through the folds of gold which looked so pretty in contrast to the simple but tight-fitted lavender dress she wore. He drew a lock of hair across her shoulder and kissed her on the forehead. “You must get tired of waiting for orders inside there.”

“I stay busy,” Elle answered with a slight grin. “And it’s worth it to stay up all night waiting for you.”

He leaned his face against hers until their foreheads were touching and blew gently. Gabriel’s warm breath flowed over Elle’s skin. She felt hot and dizzy, eager to please him. She wanted to mold herself against his body and surrender to the wave of emotions surging under her skin. But when his lips came to hers much harder, she suddenly broke away.

“Not tonight,” she muttered. Elle lightly pushed his hands away from her face.

“Why not?” he growled impatiently. “I’ll be busy later this week.”

“Sister Andrea’s been watching me. I have to wash the sheets before anyone finds out.” Elle sighed and dropped her hands aside. “I’m sorry Gabriel but this is all the time we have together.”

She turned to go but Gabriel seized her by the wrist and pulled her back to his side for one last embrace. With an arm curled around her waist and gazing into his deep brown eyes, Elle knew it would all be worth it. She moaned and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Please, please Gabriel. I want to but—but we’re short on time.”

He gave a throaty chuckle. “All right, all right.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Just remember comes the day after the Golden Jubilee and you and I will be already on a train to Vienna. Satin and taffeta, Elle. Think about it. All the champagne you can drink and cords of pearls…”

“And you,” Elle smirked.

A-A-A

November 10th, 1887

“Special delivery for you sir,” chirped the errand boy. Mohinder looked up from the mirror where he had been tying his cravat.

“From who?” the professor asked cuirously. He couldn’t imagine who would be trying to contact him right now before heading to the theater.

The errand boy merely handed him a small thick packet. "Didn't say, sir," he replied with a shrug of the shoulders. The boy tipped his hat and skidded off before Mohinder could give him a coin.

“And take upon the mystery of things, “ he quoted aloud with a shake of his head. Mohinder opened up the packet and something small tipped out, falling into his open palm.

A silver button.

It was identical to the one from Claude’s jacket. There was nothing else inside the packet except for a bit of paper and scrawled handwriting.

Forgive me for not contacting you sooner but my alliances have requested absolute secrecy. We could not be certain of your loyalty until now, Dr. Suresh. Now we ask for your help during this time of crisis.

This button is a talisman that will aid you in your time of need. You will be contacted shortly after tonight’s performance so keep it on you at all time as proof of your oath to secrecy. Burn this letter at once and tell NO ONE of its message.

Mohinder could not recognize the handwriting. There was no postscript, no stamp, not even a watermark to trace the origins. He could feel his mind racing while his pulse quickened. His first thought was to contact Peter and Hiro…but that would be considered a breach of the oath. It said to tell no one else.

What about Officer Parkman? He had a similar button to this one and he could track down the writer of the letter.

It could have been a trap laid by Sylar as well….

The chiming of the clock struck half past two. Mohinder realized he would be late for the play if he tarried any longer. He weighed the options in his head. Proof was necessary but if he was but ten minutes late to the stage tonight, it would arouse suspicions. He couldn’t risk a moment of tardiness with a sold-out theater that evening. Reluctantly, he pushed all questions aside in his head. This mystery would have to wait.

The professor read the note twice until it was memorized. Then he tore it up and tossed the pieces into the fire.

Mohinder watched the white shreds curl and burn into black smudges. When he deemed the evidence destroyed beyond recognition he pocketed the button and quickly hurried off to the theater.

A-A-A

Same day at Cambridge University:

Peter Petrelli and Hiro Nakamura had spent two hours sifting through piles of social papers that Mr. Kent had brought them. Agnes Kent was also there, having made herself comfortable near the corner fireplace. She had been blissfully absorbed in a book on Switzerland but her eye kept wandering back to the two young men.

“Is it wrong to question a man’s lineage?” Hiro asked Peter.

“I think not. I have friends whose fathers served in the Confederate army but it doesn’t make them my enemies,” Peter pointed out. “Our differences are what balance us out. North and South, East and West.”

“Sun and moon, sky and earth,” Hiro added.

“One of us, one of them,” Peter finished.

He turned over two more heavy pages in the book. “AHA!” he shouted. “Now we’re getting somewhere. It says here that Lord Gray purchased the title and documents to own an individual estate for 800 pounds. Curiously, there’s not a single mention of Samson Gray anywhere.”

“So he’s not of royal blood,” Hiro mused aloud. “He bought his rank instead of inheriting it. He must want to be part of the upper class very badly.”

Agnes’ ears perked up with interest.

“What about Gray the watchmaker? Another dead end?” Peter asked.

“Martin Gray?” Agnes piped up. “I heard he died years ago and his wife went mad. They had to shut her up in an asylum. Must’ve had to give the child up for adoption.”

“I wonder if Samson Gray gave his child up to Martin Gray and his wife—and then disappeared altogether off the face of the earth,” Hiro suggested.

Peter began to massage his temples with his fingertips. “This mystery is giving me a headache. Killings, silver buttons, clock pieces, stalking gentlemen….I can’t think anymore.”

“Let it rest, my friend. We have a busy evening ahead of us,” Hiro reminded him.

“Jesus Christ!” Peter suddenly blurted out. He looked at the clock. “I almost forgot about tonight. Mother’s going to nail me to my chair if I’m not there in an hour!” He suddenly snatched his coat, threw it around his shoulders, and began dashing down the corridors. “Aren’t you coming, Hiro? We’ve got a play to catch.”

Agnes giggled softly when she saw the ends of Peter’s coat flapping behind him like two black raven wings. “I’ll see you tonight,” she sang out.

“I believe the word best used is ‘Godspeed’,” Hiro smiled as he followed Peter out the door.

A-A-A

That evening:

The air inside the theater was cool and pleasant. Claire felt a tingle of delight from her head down to her toes. Crystal chanticleers glittered above their heads while fine velvet carpets lay under their feet. The walls reflected candlelight in the hundreds of sparkling mirrors. Diamonds glittered magnificently, skirts swished, and laughter flitted from room t room. Angela Petrelli had introduced her to several distinguished guests who admired the “dear sweet girl” while she curtsied modestly.

“You look pretty in pink,” Agnes complimented Claire.

“Thank you, but all these petticoats are going to be hot later on,” Claire said. She opened up a white lace fan and fluttered it against her face.

“Don’t worry. They’ll dim the lights and there should be an intermission,” Agnes assured her. She looked very mature in her black satin frock but Claire was impressed with the thick fringed shawl of golden silk draped around Agnes' shoulders. She reached out and touched the fine sheen with a fingertip.

“That’s very pretty,” Claire complimented her. “Where did you get it?”

“Can you believe it? I asked Hiro Nakamura to pose for me this afternoon and he sat silent as a statute for nearly two hours!” Agnes exclaimed. “He liked the drawing so much that he gave the shawl to me as a present. He said it was a fair exchange for a budding artist. And oooooh….there’s Dr. Petrelli and the Duchess.”

Claire and Agnes turned around to see Peter at the top of the staircase. The young man had managed to slick back his jet-black hair so it lay flat against his head and for once he had remembered to shave. His new opera coat had been cut and tailored to his frame perfectly. He looked confident and charming as he descended down the stairs arm in arm with the duchess.

“Such a pity that Lord Gray couldn’t be with us tonight,” the Duchess was saying to Peter. “He said he was called away with business in the north. And why did Ruth not join us tonight? I thought you offered her a ticket, Dr. Petrelli.”

“I believe it is customary on Friday nights for her family to stay home and attend their Sabbath,” Peter suggested delicately. “Ruth meant no offense.”

“Indeed, I almost forgot.” The duchess nodded her head and the large fluffy ostrich feather in her hair wagged up and down, almost tickling Peter’s nose. “But we must hurry. The performance will start in ten minutes time.”

A-A-A

“Place, places everyone!” the director snapped. He rushed through the members backstage, clapping his hands and ushering everyone to their spots. “Senorita Herrera, do you have everything you need?”

“Necesito otra aguja, por favor,” she whispered. Mohinder quickly handed her a pin. “Gracias,” she smiled, fastening a gauzy yellow veil to her turban.

“Hold still,” the seamstress chided Mohinder. She flitted around him to make certain his costume was hemmed properly. He turned to a small mirror that hung on a peg on the wall and began to draw around his eyes with a coal pencil while she fastened a silvery turban to his head and added a glass red stone in the center for dramatic effect.

Looking into the mirror’s reflection, Mohinder caught Claude rushing by. He broke from his position and tried to approach Claude.

“Not now, not now,” Claude waved him off. “Director wants to rake me over the coals one more time before the music starts.”

“It’s about your button,” Mohinder blurted out. Claude froze in his tracks and whirled on the professor. His gray eyes had become hard and piercing as he scanned the young man’s face for the slightest bit of suspicion. “What about it?” he replied in a low tight voice.

Mohinder merely extended his palm with the said button laying on it. A tense moment passed between them.

Suddenly, Claude’s face relaxed and he picked it up. “Thanks, mate.” He tossed the button up and down playfully as it were a pebble and walked off. “Now get moving!”

Mohinder sighed. Another dead end.

He was ready to take his place when Seniorita Herrera approached him with a book. “¿Es este tu libro?” she questioned him. “I thought you left all your work at home.”

“I did,” he insisted. But he saw it was a French grammar book with the initials R. A. on the back. A piece of paper was sticking out from the bottom flap. Mohinder took it out and opened it up.

This handwriting was different than the message from before. The letters were smoother and longer; it was the hand of a lady.

I believe I am in danger and need your help. Please come meet me alone after tonight’s performance at the Blue Lark Nest.

Sincerely,

Ruth Bakerton

“Seniorita, who gave you this---“ he began to say.

“Professor Suresh, we need you NOW!” barked the director. He snapped his fingertips impatiently.

A swell of music from the orchestra shattered Mohinder’s whirling thoughts. He was ushered to his position offstage along with several others posing as guards. Although he wouldn’t be stepping out onto the stage right away the director forbade Mohinder to move, talk, or even blink.

Forcing himself to remember the lines, Mohinder straightened up and starred at the thick velvet curtain. Nothing else mattered now. The play was the thing.

He could hear the murmur of the audience from behind the curtain. And suddenly, it swiftly parted revealing hundreds of full seats and eyes staring at Claude, who played Iago, and a roly-poly man as Roderigo. Mohinder could recognize many of the famous faces in the audience: the Duchess, General Kentwood, Baron Linderman, even Captain Jack Harkness had traveled from Cardiff with his Welsh colleagues to watch the play.

The hot lights from the stage bathed his face and heated every inch of his body but he refused to let fear cloud his thoughts.

From the private box high above the stage, Peter was watching with a pair of brass binoculars.

“Claire, take a look,” he insisted. He handed the binoculars to Claire so she could see the actors better.

Claude Raines was masked in his thick false beard and mustache. He strode across the stage in a flaming red tunic with a sword clanking at his side. Rodergio, swaddled in a velvet uniform, marched up to the audience and began to speak.

“Tush! Never tell me, I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse
As if the strings were thine, thou shouldst know of this.”

Claude thrust his chin up and declared:

“'Sblood, but you will not hear me!
If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me.”

The play swept on smoothly until it was time for Iago and Othello to face each other on stage. Mohinder stepped out into the blazing light of the stage to look at Claude. All eyes were fixated on the Cambridge professor.

Claire and Agnes were entranced by the dignified young man dressed in royal blue robes and silver turban. His ebony eyes had been lined with thick black kohl and his brow and cheeks dusted with a harmless gold substance, offsetting his exotic features perfectly. He looked every inch the magical prince as he swept across the stage, his robes flowing gracefully.

Mohinder cleared his throat and spoke in a loud clear voice. “My demerits may speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune as this that I have reached. For know, Iago..”

He closed his eyes and dramatically laid a hand across his chest.

“But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine
For the sea's worth.”

The play continued on smoothly. Iago snaked from person to person sowing seeds of hatred while he pronounced his jealousy to the audience. A struggling fight broke out and when Iago finally killed Rodrigo with a slashing stab of the sword, the audience gasped in alarm. Claire thought Rodrigo cried so loudly that she almost forgot it was merely a play and seized Peter’s hand in alarm.

He noticed the gesture from Claire and grinned. Peter was enjoying himself immensely. The actors were so animated and professional in their work while Mohinder commanded the stage during his scenes. His eyes flashed, his teeth clenched, and he spoke with passion and fire in his words. It was hard to imagine him as the same bookish teacher from before.

Senorita Herrera made an exquisitely lovely Desdemona in her golden turban and yellow dress. She sat upon a pile of cushions with a white lily in her hands and blew a kiss to the audience before saying, “Good night, good night. Heaven me such uses send. Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend.”

“Now comes the scene where the raging Othello suspects his wife of disloyalty,” Angela whispered to Claire.

Mohinder had shed his turban and sandals for the last act. Now barefoot and with tangled black hair falling into his eyes, he stalked across the stage impatiently like a madman.

“Will you come to bed my lord?” cooed Desdemona.

“Have you prayed tonight?” shot Othello.

She raised an eyebrow innocently at him. “Ay, my lord.”

He gave a sneer and looked out at the audience. “If you bethink yourself of any crime unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace….Solicit for it straight.”

Desdemona rose with fear in her shining eyes. “Alas my lord, what do you mean by that?”

Othello grunted and waved a hand. “Well, do it and be brief. I will walk by…”

He stopped pacing and snatched a dagger from the table. He twirled it in his long fingers as if contemplating what to do. Everyone held their breath waiting for his reaction.

“I would not kill thy unprepared spirit.” He set the dagger aside carefully.

“No, heaven forbid!” Othello pointed a finger at Desdemona. “ I would not kill thy soul.”

The play ended in a dramatic flourish when Othello murdered his innocent wife and upon realizing his error, stabbed the treacherous Iago. Claude sounded as if he was trying hard not to laugh but he feigned a moan of pain when Mohinder poked him with the dagger.

Then Othello opened up his tunic revealing a smooth brown chest for everyone to see. He raised the dagger high above his head and declared in a mournful cry:

“Set you down this
And say besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him thus!”

Othello stabbed himself in the chest and let out a piercing cry that rang out across the theater. His knees buckled under him and he sank to the floor, giving one last torn look of agony out to the audience. With a final breath, he stretched out onto the wooden planks and died.

It was too much for Claire. She took Peter’s handkerchief and blew loudly into it. Not even a glare from Angela Petrelli’s prodding eyes could keep the tears from streaming down her face.

Agnes Kent was also blubbering in her seat and wiping her red eyes. “Soooooo sad,” she sobbed, accepting her father’s arm and crying into his chest. “P-p-poor Desdemona and Othello.”

Mr. Kent just looked at Peter who was doing his best not to start laughing in front of his niece.

A-A-A

The curtain hadn’t even finished closing all the way when the audience was already applauding madly. It sounded like a roar of thunder and crashing ocean waves until the actors came out on stage and bowed time and time again until they were dizzy with the effect.

As soon as the crowds had thinned out Peter found Mohinder backstage and pumped his hand up and down excitedly. “You were fantastic, Mohinder! I’ve never seen anything like it. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, just a bit parched,” Mohinder said. His tunic was stuck to his back with sweat and his brow glittered with perspiration. He gratefully accepted an extra handkerchief to mop up his face and a glass of cool water.

“Splendid! Splendid!” chirped the duchess. She clapped her gloved hands together and Mohinder permitted a kiss on the cheek from her. “You were magnificent tonight, Dr. Suresh.”

“By Jove, he’s outdone himself!” added General Kentwood. “Not a dry eye in the audience. Why didn’t you tell us you had experience in the arts?”

“I don’t,” Mohinder stammered modestly. “I suppose it just came naturally.”

“I have seen many plays in my life and not one Othello as compelling as your Moor prince,” the general complimented him.

"Nor I," smiled Captain Harkness. He thanked Mohinder for an entertaining evening and handed a basket of flowers to Senorita Herrera before kissed her hand. Informing General Kentwood that he was due back in Cardiff immediately, the captain departed at once.

“We loved it, every moment,” Agnes gushed.

“Thank you,” he smiled shyly.

But the best compliment of all was from Mrs. Walker. She took both of his hands into hers and bowed her head to Mohinder. “We’ve found many generous patrons for the boy’s school tonight, Mohinder,” she whispered into his ear. “Thank you a hundred times over for your kindness.”

Claire noticed Jacqueline in the background standing arm-in-arm with a tall imposing man who could only be her father, Captain Fleet. Claire forced herself to give Jacqueline a tight polite smile but was surprised to notice Jacqueline's eyes were red and puffy. Had she been crying too?

Captain Fleet already had walked right up to Mohinder and extended a hand. “Mrs. Walker has informed me about your hard efforts in tonight’s production, Dr. Suresh. I seemed to have….misjudged your character. I hope you will forgive a man for his errors.”

A benevolent smile spread across Mohinder’s tired but grateful face as he shook Captain Fleet’s hand. “Your apology is unnecessary Captain but it is much appreciated.” He glanced at Jacqueline. “I hope you and your daughter enjoyed yourselves.”

“Immensely,” Jacqueline blurted out with uncontrolled emotion. She kept wiping her eyes. “But please perform a comedy next time, D-Dr. Suresh. Your tragedies are doing too much to my nerves!”

“Crybaby,” Agnes muttered under her breath. (At least she and Claire had stopped bawling ten minutes ago!) Claire and Peter exchanged triumphant winks at each other. It had indeed been an evening of success. Nathan had extended his congratulations to the cast and thanked his brother for not causing a spectacle. The Japanese ambassador had been thoroughly entertained and bid everyone adieu for the night.

A-A-A

Everyone was so busy that Claude had managed to slip out of the side stage door and hurry down the dark foggy streets of London. He jogged up to Noah Bennett who was leaning against a lamppost and reading a newspaper.

“How did you escape detection?” Claude asked him. “I thought your daughter would want to see you here tonight.”

“Government business,” Noah informed him. “But I heard the applause from out here. It must’ve been a full house.”

“It was. Our Indian friend made quite an impression upon even the prickliest of pricks,” Claude remarked. He took out a silver flask and gulped down a mouthful of brandy before offering it to Noah. The American gratefully accepted a quick burning drink.

“Speaking of Mohinder…did he get the message?” Noah asked in a low voice.

Claude nodded sharply. “He did. And he responded right before the show. I think he’s ready to join us.”

“Good, good. Then I’ll send a message around for Peter Petrelli tomorrow.”

Claude raised an eyebrow. “Do you think it’s wise to ask Dr. Petrelli too? Peter can be a bit, well, emotional at times. I heard he had a difficult time recovering from his father’s death.”

“The same goes for Mohinder Suresh,” Noah pointed out. “Those boys are like two peas in a pod.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Claude chuckled. He took another swig from the flask. “They don’t look like long-lost twins to me.”

“You know what I mean. Their hearts are in the right place even if their heads are on backwards.”

“Or up their asses,” Claude laughed heartily.

A-A-A

“A toast! A toast!” the director called out. He uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured out glasses for everyone. Angela Bennett permitted Claire and Agnes to have one small taste in honor of the occasion. The bubbles tickled their noses when they sipped the frothy wine while Mohinder politely declined, his health permitting a small jug of raspberry cordial to be produced.

Peter also preferred a glass of the sweet ruby-red cordial and felt compelled to give the toasts this time. “To the Queen of England on behalf of the Golden Jubilee,” he announced. “And to the cast of Othello on their outstanding performance tonight.” Everyone cheered and clinked their glasses together.

Somewhere above the private boxes, Sylar slunk to and fro restlessly. When were those impudent twits going to leave? He was impatient to get moving. The killer watched them continue to chat and laugh among themselves while they sipped champagne and exchanged jokes.

Sylar began to murmur a poem to himself:

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly,
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to show when you are there."

“Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can never come down again."

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you 're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

“The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.”

A cruel smile of desire spread across his face while Sylar eyed his next target.

END OF PART THREE