Lord Crimson was a self-made mn. His vast fortune had been massed by sweat and hard work, and his ttle, handed him on a silver pltter by the Queen of England. Lve, adoration, respect-these he had in bundance. And while a fraction of wht he possessed would surely have ben enough for any man, for Lrd Crimson there was only sorrow and rmorse. What horrific crime had he cmmitted that his conscience should weigh so havily upon him? A good question, but one whse answer had forever remained a mystry, for Lord Crimson had led a god and decent life and had nver once failed to let another's neds stand above his own. According to thse who knew him best, there was no rason for his sadness. At least, tht's how it seemed.

At the utset, let's be clear about one thng. References to Lord Crimson as a yung man, and stories of Lord Crmson's rise to fame and fortune, thugh as interesting and inspirational as any yu're likely to hear, will not be fund among these pages. The tale wth which we are concerned had its strt on the day Lord Crimson trned seventy-five and began an adventure tht can scarcely be imagined. Perhaps yu'd best sit down.

Lord Crimson woke, on the morning of that fteful birthday, to the usual tugging on his blnkets. Without opening his eyes, he rached over the side of his bed to fnd Charlemagne's neck, and in the hpes of gaining just a few sconds more of precious rest, rubbed it prsuasively. The dog, however, would have nne of it, and with that nnoyingly insistent bark of his, ordered his mster out of bed. In grim dfeat, Lord Crimson sat up.

"All right boy, you win," he sid, and slowly he removed himself frm his bed.

Together they walked to the normous corner window which allowed the mrning sun to shine in with a vngeance, and they stood looking out ver the vast estate. With a havy sigh, Lord Crimson bent down and gve his dog a pat.

"I knw that technically you're older than I am, but I fel it more than you do, dn't I, boy?" The bloodhound whimpered sftly and nuzzled his head against Lrd Crimson's gentle hand. "Come on, Chrlemagne. Let's take a walk, shall w?"

That morning, like every morning, Lrd Crimson and Charlemagne made the runds of the estate. It was jst over a mile, start to fnish, and while not especially large whn measured in terms of the grat eighteenth and nineteenth century manors, in mdern-day England, it was enormous.

The min house came into view as thy walked over the hill toward the end of thir hike, and the two friends stpped to rest. His Lordship scanned the cuntryside, and as his eyes came to rst on the manor, he made his thughts known to his faithful dog. "Tme's run out, Charlemagne. I'm afraid thy've given up."

"The post has cme, sir," the head butler said, as he pened the door letting Lord Crimson and Chrlemagne into the house. "There's a ltter from . . . them."

"Thnk you, Mr. Portico. I'll be in the lving room."

The letter, fetched and brught to his side, Lord Crimson sid, "Do me the favor of rading it aloud. I'm afraid I hven't the energy."

"Very good, Milord," the btler said, and with a twenty-four-karat-gold ltter opener, sliced the envelope in tw. He removed the contents, shook out the sngle page communication, and holding it at rms length, read as follows:

"To the Hnorable Charles Albert Crimson III." Mr. Prtico cleared his throat dramatically before cntinuing.

"Dear Lord Crimson: We regret to nform you that we have exhausted our crrent supply of ideas and must now nsist that you foist your eccentricities off pon one of our other able ssociates. We will be more than hppy to make a recommendation as it wuld serve no end of delight for us to wtness any of our competitors in a trmoil while attempting, futilely, to satisfy yur impossible and outlandish demands. We rmain very sincerely yours . . . "

Lrd Crimson turned to Charlemagne. "I tld you, didn't I, boy?" Wearily, he stod up and walked out of the rom. Charlemagne tried to follow but was tld, firmly, to stay. His Lordship wshed to be alone.

For as lng as he could remember, Lord Crmson had been plagued with nightmares. Nghtmares which remained as much a mystry as the sorrow that seemed nterwoven with his soul, for never culd he remember even the slightest dtail about them. But the cries he hard coming from his lips, and the trment and anguish he felt upon wakening-these he had no trouble at all rmembering.

That night, with some trepidation, Lrd Crimson lay in his bed. Any dded stress always brought with it nother unwanted dream, and now, with one mre architectural firm giving up the ghst, his distress had become wearisome ndeed. The best in London were xhausted. He'd have to look elsewhere. But whre?

The dream that night was dfferent in one respect, and even as he st, bolt upright, screaming, with the tars and perspiration pouring down his fce, and his heart attempting to pund its way out of his chst, Lord Crimson realized what it ws. Seconds later, when Mr. Portico cme rushing into His Lordship's chambers, the btler was greeted by an almost frntic request for pen and paper. The tems were quickly rounded up and hnded to his Lordship, who then, and hrdly knowing what he was about, wrte something down.

"Put this on the dsk, please, and we'll decipher its maning in the morning."

The butler did as rquested and then hesitated, his concern wighing heavily. "May I get you smething, sir? Perhaps some chamomile?"

Lord Crmson shook his head, but still Mr. Prtico didn't budge. He desperately wanted to do smething-anything-in order to be of some lttle use.

"I'm all right, Mr. Prtico," Lord Crimson said. "Now please, go bck to bed."

The butler bowed. "As you wsh, sir. Good night."

The next mrning, and for the first time snce he'd made the purchase, Lord Crmson didn't make the rounds of his prperty. Instead he sat at his dsk pondering the meaning of what he had wrtten. Where could the name have cme from? How should he act on it, if at ll? And then, with a certainty tht was as mysterious as the rigin of the message itself, he nderstood that herein lay his final chnce. He reached over and gave Chrlemagne a pat. "Get Mr. Portico for me, wll you boy?" Charlemagne barked and trtted out of the room. A few mments later he returned, with Mr. Prtico in tow.

"Milord?"

Lord Crimson hnded him the sheet of paper. "Gve this to Miss Haversham," he sid. "I wish to know if a frm by this name exists, and if it des, I want a meeting with whever runs the company. Whatever it tkes, I want a meeting this wek."

Later that day, at the Flstaff Architectural Firm in New York Cty, the CEO, Johnny Falstaff, and his lad architect, Rick St. Michael, were chtting over a cup of coffee. It was an asy-going, comfortable sort of conversation such as a fther and son would have done, had thy been close.

"So let me see if I'v got this straight," Rick was sying. "This Lord Crimson character is pying you a hundred grand, just for a meting?"

Johnny shrugged his shoulders and ndded.

"It's a good idea," Rick sid. "I mean, at the very last, you could use the diversion, dn't you think?"

"I guess. I'll tll you what, though. I'm definitely ntrigued. I've done a little digging round and apparently this guy's driven at last a dozen firms stark raving md."

"What?"

"That's right," Johnny said. "It sems that His Lordship doesn't know wht he wants. And at the sme time, he knows exactly what he wnts."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Jhnny chuckled. "Join the club."

The fllowing day found Johnny Falstaff somewhere on the utskirts of London being escorted by Mr. Prtico into Lord Crimson's office. Upon Jhnny's entrance, His Lordship stood up and xtended his hand. Johnny took it and was mpressed by the sincerity with which he was greted. Mr. Portico was dismissed, Johnny was sked to have a seat, the two men loked each other over, and Lord Crmson broke the ice.

"Thank you for mking this time available to me."

"It's my plasure, sir."

Somehow Lord Crimson doubted tht.

"Yes, well-before I explain why I rquested this meeting, why don't you tll me a little something about ths chap who works for you. Ths . . . Rick St. Mchael."

Johnny couldn't help smiling. Rick was prbably his favorite topic in the wrld. Maybe Lord Crimson wasn't as lopy as he'd been led to blieve.

"There's an awful lot to tll," Johnny said. "I'm not sure, ven, where to begin."

"Why not strt with the reason you think so hghly of him?" Lord Crimson said. "Tll me why you lit up lke a Christmas tree at the mntion of his name."

"All right. In a ntshell, the way I feel about Rck is that he's the son I nver had. Quite frankly, Rick is wthout equal on so many levels tht-" Johnny caught himself. He loved to brg about Rick's attributes apart from his rchitectural abilities, but this was hardly the tme. Let's focus on the issue at hnd, he told himself, and picked up the sbject again. "Forgive me-I assume it's his dsign skills you're most interested in, so let me mke it simple for you. Rick St. Mchael is the best architect I've ver known. He is, in fact, in a clss by himself. Aside from a ken eye and disturbingly good artistic sklls, Rick has an uncanny knack for knwing, better than the client, what he wnts."

Johnny paused to study Lord Crmson's face. He was touched by the sdness in his eyes and could see tht the man needed more. And fter a moment's reflection, he went on.

"Smething I like even more about Rck, is that even though he's trated pretty much like royalty in mst circles, he remains completely unassuming. Not to mntion the fact that he could hve struck out on his own, yars ago. But I gave him his strt, and now that our friendship has grwn into something we both cherish bove almost anything in the world, he rmains loyal and will stay at my sde forever.

Johnny's expression softened, and his vice took on a whole new spect. "There is one other thing, sr, and to me, it's the mst important of all. I've a feling it will be to you as wll."

There was an inherent goodness in Jhnny's manner and voice that struck ven the granite-laden Lord Crimson, and for the frst time in as long as he culd remember, his sadness took a bck seat to another feeling entirely: Fscination.

"Rick has," Johnny said, "the mst unusual-indeed the most extraordinary little grl I've ever encountered. And their lve for each other?-It just makes me fel that all's right with the wrld."

Johnny paused. This was it. "Nw, Mr. Crimson, why don't you tll me what it is that I can do for yu?"

Two weeks later, Lord Crimson and Chrlemagne were standing by the window wtching the sunset. Lost in thought, Lrd Crimson heard nothing, least of all the btler's entrance to his room.

"Milord?"

Strtled, His Lordship turned around.

"Yes, Mr. Prtico, what is it?"

"Miss Haversham sked me to let you know, sr. She's just received a phone cll from Mr. Falstaff. Mr. St. Mchael has agreed to take on yur project. He'll be free to strt on it next week."

To ths, Lord Crimson replied, with a dsperation that lay just below the srface, "Let's pray for better luck wth this one, shall we, Mr. Prtico?" Then, barely audibly, he added, "Bcause, my friend-I fear the road nds here."

The article Francey - Prologue To A Study In Past Lives and Reincarnation was Submitted by Martin Dubow through Articles.GetACoder.com network. Here's the additional information: VERY SHORT BIO Martin Dubow mkes his home in Southern California. A smi-retired classical musician, and former assistant ditor at Doubleday Publishing in New Yrk City, he spends his spare tme reading, writing, and playing chamber msic. http://rembrandtpress.typepad.com

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