From Chapter One

Strains of "Happy Birthday to You," the tart aftertaste from one too many champagne toasts, joyful basking in the adulation of one's loved ones; these were all the ingredients for the perfect birthday celebration.

Unfortunately for Ciara Sullivan, the twenty-sixth anniversary of her birth found her three hundred feet below the surface of the earth, shivering from the March cold, hideously underdressed for warmth, and overdressed for practicality.

In her vivid imagination, she had not been surrounded by black anthracite walls dripping with melted snow, but by strolling violinists. The only thing dripping in her birthday fantasy would be the wax from a multitude of tapered candles. Unfortunately, the biggest drip turned out to be her boyfriend of five years, Joe Dugan.

Ex-boyfriend, she reminded herself, Neanderthal extraordinaire. The only time Joe thought to use candles was when the power went out.

Her teeth chattered because of him. She was suffering from the onset of claustrophobia because of him. She was burying herself in work because of him.

If there was a blessing in kicking him to the curb, it had been a lesson in priorities. Leaving him had forced her into putting her work first. Playwriting would at last be taken off the backburner, where it had been hidden by Joe's stockpots full of dirty laundry, escorts to the airport, and midnight calls for sex.

The trip to the historic coal mines of Northeastern Pennsylvania had been in the to-do column of her day planner for weeks. Her liberation from Joe had bumped it to the top of the list. What better way to forget a bad relationship than to be submerged in tons of anthracite rock and research?

"Keeping up with us?" the tour leader asked.

"No problem," Ciara responded, quickening her step.

Wandering thoughts had her falling behind the group. And what a group they were, too. A teenage couple, AWOL from science lab no doubt, obviously thought that a trip to the coal mines would provide a better make-out location than the backseat of his dad's Toyota. Also joining the spellbinding tour, were two elderly gents who seemed to have nothing better to do with their Thursday afternoon. They clung to yellow senior discount coupons that promised 20% off at the mine's gift shop.

Ciara, and Fitz, their burly, carrot-topped tour guide, rounded out the small expedition. If Fitz were a character in one of Ciara's productions, he would play the role of the fifty-something dad whose company forced him into early retirement. Nothing better to do, he'd signed on with Birnam Mine to offer no-frills tours of the underbelly of Eaglesmere.

"Over here," Fitz gestured to what looked like barnyard stalls, "you can see where the mules were held. While a lucky few went home with their drivers at night, most of the animals never saw the light of day."

"Oh, that's so sad," the teenage girl squeaked.

Ciara imagined the scene one hundred and twenty-five years ago if PETA had been in existence. Hordes of do-gooders outside the entrance to the mine, holding placards with slogans like: DONKEYS NEED SUNLIGHT TOO and KISS MY ASS.

Amused by her own musings, Ciara giggled. Her five companions all turned to see what had struck her funny. "Sorry." She covered her grin with her gloved hand and tried to sober.

A cerebral question would wipe the egg off her face. "Public record indicates this vein was closed in 1876 after the death of Jacob Blackwell, the owner's son. Can you tell me how Mr. Blackwell's death impacted the closing of this portion of the mine?"

If her giggles had surprised them, her question had dumbfounded the lot. Blank stares and open mouths were her only response. Until, at long last, Fitz cleared his throat and stepped one foot closer to her. He leaned in and said sotto voce, "I think perhaps its better to discuss that away from the young people."

Ciara simply nodded in response, agreeing to hold her questions for a time when the children were out of earshot. Fitz moved ahead with his tour. Was he afraid that they would have nightmares about the ghost of Jacob Blackwell running around in the mines? They were practically adults, for goodness sake.

Practically. Ciara watched with a strange combination of disgust and jealousy as the young-man-in-question nipped provocatively at the young-girl-in-question's exposed neck. "Get a room," she mumbled to herself.

Normally, public displays of affection didn't offend her. In this instance, however, she found it increasingly difficult not to walk over to the couple and shake them hard. Remember this moment, she warned them silently, it's fleeting. Romance has a shelf life of approximately one year, oftentimes less.

A shrill sound echoed through the cavernous tunnels. Everyone, including Fitz, searched the area around them for signs of the disturbance.

"Is it some kind of alarm?" one of the elderly men asked.

Fitz shook his head. The entire party scanned the tunnel for the noisy culprit. Finally, their eyes came to rest, once again, on Ciara. It took several moments before she realized the sound was emanating from her person.

"Oh my gosh." She had bundled herself so completely, her leather jacket zipped to her chin, and the chenille scarf wrapped tightly beneath, that it took several moments to locate her cell phone deep within the less-than-thermal layers. "Sorry," she said sheepishly.

She turned her back to the group for privacy and hit the "Send" button. "Hello?"

"Cee, it's me."

The urge to hang up immediately overwhelmed her, but she refrained. "What do you want, Joe?"

"This is ridiculous. Come home where you belong."

"Why? You need someone to run to the cleaner's for you? Or maybe the dishes are starting to pile up in the sink. You know there's a wonderful invention, paper plates, check it out."

"Be serious," he said. "You can't just throw away two years. We've got commitments to consider."

"Commitments?" She was surprised he actually knew the word.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Eaglesmere."

"What the hell are you doing up there?"

"Research on the Astor Place story," she reminded him. "The script I've been working on for the past two months, the one that I've been paid to write. My first commissioned play."

"Right," he answered vaguely. "Something about Shakespeare and a riot. It's too bad. I was hoping you'd come back and we could spend some time together this weekend. It's your birthday, after all."

She couldn't believe the level of this man's density. "It's over, Joe-history. Besides, isn't this a hunting weekend?"

Corporate hunters. Golfing she could understand, but this Fortune 500 executive and his brother were constantly sitting in trees somewhere waiting to shoot poor defenseless beasts. It was another of Joe's traits that she was finding harder to swallow.

"Yeah, George is here."

She shook her head, fed-up with his half-baked attempts. "And when exactly were you going to spend time with me?"

"You could spot for us."

Click. She hung up, taming her temper before she threw her pricey flip phone against the coal walls. He had expected her to spot deer on her birthday.

She growled in frustration and turned around. The entire tour group was still staring at her. They had heard every word. Had it not been thirty degrees Fahrenheit she would have blushed.

"Sorry," she said, yet again. "Please, go on."

The group turned, without a word and Fitz continued his narrative. She followed a few steps behind, no longer interested in the details of mining life.

How dare he? The man was a cretin, completely insensitive to anyone's feelings but his own. He wanted her back because they had dinner parties to attend. He wanted her back because she could lug a cooler full of beer on a hunting expedition. She clenched her fists at her sides, angry for how long she had allowed herself to be used that way.

Men always seemed to find her vulnerabilities. Trent, her college boyfriend, had latched onto her when she was still mourning the loss of her mother. Joe found her when she was mourning the loss of Trent. This time would be different. This time, she wasn't mourning anyone.

Ciara cringed as her phone rang out again. The group halted in their tracks and Fitz turned around to reprimand her silently.

"Who knew you could get reception this deep," she joked weakly. "Why don't you guys just go on ahead? I'll catch up. How hard could it be?"

Without a fight, Fitz spun around and continued walking.

"I am not going hunting with you. I'm not going anywhere with you. Can't you get the hint? It's over."

"Over?" Her best friend and producer, Tina, whined. "If I throw out all my rifles and orange jumpsuits will you promise to come back and write a fabulous play for me?"

"Very funny," Ciara said. "Sorry, I thought you were Joe."

"Oh no," Tina sighed with high drama. "Sounds like trouble in Dugan World."

"No trouble, not anymore. After twenty-six years of riding in the backseat, I'm finally behind the wheel." Then taking a deep breath, she asked, "What are you up to this weekend? I'm going to Dunsinane tomorrow, doing some research on Maeve Blackwell."

"Refresh my memory."

"The understudy, the one who was shot in the riot. The only member of the acting company to die that night."

"Ah, the hook! Yes, she'll make a great heroine. Maybe we can get Meryl Streep for the Broadway opening."

Tina was always thinking big. Ciara, on the other hand, would be happy just to get the play opened in Philadelphia.

"Why don't you drive up and join me? Eaglemere's just an hour or so from Philly."

Ciara could feel her hesitation. Tina was not comfortable in rural surroundings. "I won't have to milk any cows or chop any wood or anything, will I?"

"Tina, it's Dunsinane Mansion, not Little House on the Prairie."

Tina hesitated for a moment. "Shall I bring a box of Kleenex along? Put extra padding in my shoulder for any required leaning?"

Ciara shrieked with joy. "I knew you'd come. Are you sure you can handle my tale of woe?"

"I haven't heard a good tale of woe since…" Tina paused for comedic affect worthy of a Tony nomination, "well, since the last time you called."

"Don't be such a smart ass," Ciara jokingly scolded her. "Meet me at the house at one o'clock. It's impossible to miss."

Tina reluctantly agreed. "I still can't believe I'm doing this. Do you know how long it's been since I've been out of the city?"

"You won't regret it. Besides, you can get a firsthand look at just how fabulous this play is going to be."

"I hired you, didn't I?"

"You hired me because I was your best friend."

"I hired you because you're a great playwright," Tina insisted. "Now hang up and let me go pack."

"Yes, ma'am."

The weekend was improving. Joe was out of her life and Tina was joining her on the research expedition. It wasn't worth writing about, but she had enough drama in her life lately. Her work, her best friend and most importantly, no men, were exactly what she needed now.

All that and a compass.

Looking ahead, she realized that the tour had gotten much farther than she had anticipated. She had some serious catching up to do.

Though there was nothing frightening about the place, not really, Ciara was fairly certain the goosebumps forming beneath her layers of clothing had nothing to do with the cold. The idea of being alone hundreds of feet below the surface, in a small mine shaft, well, it was the stuff of horror movies. She'd never liked horror movies.

Her feet moved quickly, but she refused to run. She'd already lost complete respect for the motley group. Shaken and out of breath was not how she wanted to present herself.

When Ciara came to a fork in the tunnel, she wasn't exactly surprised. It was par for the course she was on today. "Fitz?" she called, her voice strong, but not overly so.

There was a sound, something off in the distance, but she couldn't be sure it was a reply. However, given the uncertainty of the road ahead, she decided it was best to follow the direction of the noise.

She clutched at her mother's cameo locket, as she always did when she was uneasy. It was her security blanket, her favorite teddy bear, and her good luck charm, all rolled into one. Rubbing her fingers along the sculpted lines of the woman's profile had a calming affect on her. The locket had survived many generations. There was comfort in that.

Moving cautiously forward, she was stunned by the sudden change in atmosphere. The air, which had been chilly, had turned bitter. It was a bone chilling icy cold, the kind that left you constantly feeling as if you were standing in a puddle of water on a January morning in Alaska, with holes in your socks.

It had grown dark. No, dark wasn't close to appropriate. The light had faded little by little, until at last, Ciara could no longer see her own hand as she held it up to her face. Arms outstretched, she set forth on a quest for any signs of stability and light.

Her hands guided her along the craggy surface of the tunnel wall, until at last she turned a corner, and there in the distance was the faintest glow of light. Resolved to get out of this without a fuss, she took a step forward. Pain seared at her scalp, as she felt her hair being pulled from its roots. Grasping backward, she felt the taunt strands and realized an old brace beam had snagged them. Too anxious to be gentle, she pulled the stray hairs as hard as she could, taking a good many of the chestnut curls in her gloved hand as she rushed toward the light.

She followed the dim beacon, her heart pounding with equal amounts of trepidation and hope. Hope that salvation was just around the bend. Friend or foe, it didn't much matter. It wasn't dark there.

As she approached, she heard a series of male voices, a building crescendo of aggressive murmuring. It was funny how, in the dark, her hearing seemed enhanced. Normally, she would have never noticed the hostile tone from beyond the light, but surrounded in darkness, it was eerily apparent. She guessed it was true, about how the other senses become stronger when one is eliminated.

One thing was certain; the voices didn't belong to the rest of her tour group. She held back, waiting to see if the danger would pass. The voices became even more agitated. There was one, no, two men, who were belligerent in their tone. Demanding. Then came another, a gentleman who seemed to be trying to mediate. The voice of reason. His tone was soothing, and it comforted Ciara to believe that there was compassion behind it.

A sound like booming thunder emanated throughout the cavernous passage, followed quickly by an escalating rumble. In seconds the world seem to disintegrate. The timbers that held the earth above her head snapped and buckled. Rocks and boulders plummeted to the ground around her.

Dodging the rubble, Ciara ran toward the light, knowing it was her only chance of survival. The shouts of men were barely audible above the echo of falling stone. "Wait!" Ciara shouted. "I'm here!"

Her pleas went unheard. She prayed that somehow, someone would be waiting on the other side to help her. But when she reached the source of the light her heart stood still. There on the floor lay a well-dressed man, a pool of dark liquid spread out beneath him like an ebony cape.

No, not black at all. It was red, blood red. A hole in the lapel of his woolen coat made it clear to her that he had been shot directly through the heart. She knew, without a doubt, that this had been the soft-spoken man.

She shivered as a chill passed through her entire being, as if someone just walked over her grave. At least that's what her Grandmother Sullivan would have said. Her chest tightened as she stared down at the stranger, a halo of light coming from a nearby gas lamp lighting his peaceful face. Her heart literally felt as if it were breaking in two. An incredible sense of loss welled up inside her at the very sight of him.

He had a kind, but lonely look about him. His features chiseled and well proportioned. Dust and pebbles rained down from the ceiling, littering his perfectly combed jet-black hair. Instinctively, she bent down and brushed away the debris, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. So cool. Her vision blurred as tears formed in her eyes.

It took a large chunk of rock falling squarely on her shoulder to shake Ciara from her grief. The ceiling! Looking up, through her misery, she remembered that the walls were tumbling in around her. If she was going to get out of here alive, the time was now. Giving one last glance to the man at her feet, she sadly acknowledged that he was beyond saving. Escape would be hers alone. She turned toward the route the gunmen had taken, but was suddenly thrown to the ground as a volley of boulders came crashing down directly in front of her. The passageway was completely blocked.

"Miss?" A voice broke through her terror. "Miss, are you all right? How in the world did you end up back here?"

"I…I…did you see the men who ran out of here?" she asked, staring up at Fitz.

"Only men I saw were those fellas on the tour. They're all outside now." He offered her a hand up. "I got 'em all out and then came back to find you."

"The wall…it caved in," she said.

"It sure did." Fitz assessed the rubble. "That's the vein you were asking about earlier. Closed it down in 1876, right after the accident."

Ciara's head began to clear. "You mean that vein has been closed up for one hundred and twenty-five years?"

"Sure enough." He began guiding her toward the exit. "But looks like we're going to be opening it up this summer. I've got a crew working on it from the other side, getting it ready. Maybe those are the men you heard. Hard to say from this angle. That's the Number Seven line, the actual entrance is about a mile down the road."

Fitz helped her inside the industrial yellow coal car that led up to the surface.

"But there was a man in there," she insisted, as he gently pushed her to a sitting position for the ride.

Her guide sat down and rang the bell that signaled the motor house that they were ready to ascend. He inspected her, as if he were trying to tell if she was genuine. "You've seen Mr. B., sounds like."

Seen Mr. B.? Was he inferring that she had seen a ghost? Whatever she saw down there, it wasn't a ghost. It was real. It was a man, a dead man, and not some spirit from beyond.

"If you want to know about the Blackwells, you should talk to my wife. Her great-granddad was the doctor that brought the young ones into the world. He also tended to Mrs. B. just before she died."

Mention of her heroine shook Ciara from whatever confusion was clouding her brain. "You're wife's ancestor was with Maeve Blackwell when she died?"

"He sure was," Fitz said with pride, "though there was nothing he could do for her. She was as good as dead when she got off that New York train."

"Do you think she'd talk with me?" Ciara asked as they reached the loading deck.

"Sure." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ragged business card. "She runs the coffee shop down on Fourth Street. Just tell her I spoke to you."

Ciara thanked him and stepped out of the car. As she walked briskly to her waiting Beetle, he called out after her. "Don't forget to have a piece of cake while you're visiting, she's a dynamite cook."

She waved back at him as she bolted for her car. The March air blew through her jeans like she was wearing a grass skirt. A cup of coffee was most definitely in order.