So that is my secret. I intend that no one, other than my son, will ever learn the truth, but my sense of duty has impelled me to record these events."

 Ensconced in his rooms at Oxford University, Professor Peter Cornelius Rogan Blackwell placed his Lamy 2000 fountain pen on the blotter pad as he read aloud the final paragraph he had just written. It had taken him over a year to transcribe the handwritten notes he'd discovered in the binding of an old family Bible. Despite over twenty-five years of delving into ancient texts in his research of myths and magical folklore, the script was unknown to Peter, and he doubted anyone else – other than the author – had seen this particular sheaf of papers. It had been hidden perfectly in the Bible. The papers could have been placed between pages rather than sewn into the binding and remained guarded from prying eyes. For generations of the Blackwell family, Christian practice had been a nominal occurrence. The Bible was the last book any member would have considered lifting from the bookcase.

 The only reason that Peter had tugged it from its snug home between Milton's Areopagitica and A Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain, Daniel Defoe's observations of early eighteenth century Britain, was to check if any family dates had been inscribed within it.

 The previous year he had been cajoled into attending an afternoon seminar on DNA revelations in genealogical research by one of his undergraduates. Simon Fowler was a bright young man whose enthusiasm for searching out ambiguous connections was only matched by Peter's. The talk reminded Peter of an unfinished genealogy chart, so the next time he'd visited Cawthorne Hall – his family home – he had looked for additional information.

 There had been minimal data recorded in the Bible; his twice-time's great-grandparents' birthdates, marriage, and the births of their two children was there. The death of one of these children, Lily Rose Blackwell, aged two, was noted also. Her brother Cornelius Rogan born a year later was the final entry. He was Peter's great-grandfather and the one who had so generously contributed to his name.

 When leafing through the ancient book it had occurred to Peter that he must be the first to handle it since great-great-grandfather, Rogan Blackwell – presumably – had entered the birth of young Cornelius Rogan. His supposition fitted with genealogical evidence Peter had already gathered. Rogan had preceded his wife Rosanna to the grave by some thirty years, when his son was only ten. Rosanna had lived to see Cornelius married, and with two children. One of them, Peter's grandfather, was given the sensible name of William John.

 "God knows why Mother decided to resurrect old family names for my sake," Peter had often lamented. Though, since becoming a respected – and published – Professor of Mythology at Oxford, the more unusual appellations came in handy.

 While inspecting the old Bible's condition Peter had noticed a bulge in its back cover. Finely hand-stitched, the leather and silk bindings appeared tampered with. Only someone with Peter's observational skills would have noticed the difference in weight and shade of the thread holding the cover and lining together.

 Having no compunction about possible desecration of a holy relic, or damage to an ancient tome – he could argue it was his – Peter used a pair of silver nail scissors to snip the tiny threads.

 The unusual script had been written on blank pages taken from the Bible, and was in the same hand as that which had recorded the family dates within the book – great-great-grandfather Rogan Blackwell. The man had left further proof in his signature, address, and the date – written fully in both English and the strange script. These became a key to decipher the notes, like a mini Rosetta Stone.

 Peter had always been good at puzzles, solving mysteries, finding anomalies, and making random connections link together. That ability – and an interest in the fantastical – had propelled him into his chosen career and early professorship at Oxford University. Myths, magical folklore and arcane knowledge might seem to be an odd choice for a middle-aged bachelor, but there was another, more secret reason for following this avenue of research. The discovery of twice times great grandfather's notes confirmed, or perhaps added to, Peter's suspicions about his family.

 Now Peter closed the notebook and placed it beside the fountain pen. He leaned back into the padded depths of his Victorian swivel office chair and steepled soft fingers across his pudgy  chest.

 "All is not as it seems," he murmured to no one in particular.

 The only creature within hearing distance was Elf, his somewhat mangy looking and definitely ancient tabby. The cat's ears twitched, but not hearing the magical word 'dinner', Elf feigned sleep – a skill she was gifted at.

 Peter tapped a stubby finger on the book's moleskin cover – myrtle green – chosen for the trees' symbolism of energy, good luck, and connection to Aphrodite. Despite his dedication to the tree and an almost childish hopefulness, romance had not yet featured in his life. For some while Peter had speculated if he was gay, and didn't know it. The possibility that women sensed this about him was perhaps a detrimental factor in his chances of love. He had wondered for a while, and then came to the gloomy conclusion that women were simply not looking for a short, slightly dumpy, balding man in his mid-forties who read fairy stories.

 He never got past that first offer of tea – always the best – imported from the country previously known as Ceylon. In the past, a few curious, perhaps kindly, young women had taken up his offer, but later were unavailable for a follow-up chat over scones with fresh cream and Mother's famous strawberry jam.

 Kitty MacNulty, in particular, had broken his heart. He was over that now, but occasionally images of her flitting across The Tom Quad in her perfect apricot organza frock haunted his dreams. That was years ago, and apart from a brief, unsatisfactory, foray into the mysteries of a gay night club, for research purposes – just in case – Peter had become resigned to bachelorhood.

 If he had a soul-mate, he had given up expecting to find her in the cloisters of Oxford. But now, after completing the translation of his long-dead ancestor's notes, he wondered if perhaps his soul-mate was out there in the beautiful universe. It had abruptly become smaller.

 Could Rogan Blackwell have written the truth? Was all that he and everyone else on Earth believed, false? That led to another thought. Maybe great-great-grandfather was not the only one. If he could arrive here incognito then it was possible that others had made a similar journey.

 "Research," Peter said to the reproduction Constable hanging above the cold fireplace. It was what he did best. "But tea first." Peter – like many Englishmen before him – believed a decent cup of tea was the quintessential solution to any problem. "This calls for Darjeeling." Peter occasionally wondered if his habit of chatting to himself was something he should be concerned about. The cat helped. Its presence meant he could pretend he was talking to her.

 As if following his thoughts, Elf stretched and rose in one languid motion when Peter pushed his maroon-padded chair away from the battered roll-top desk that he'd inherited from his father. Grandfather too. The cat's forehead knocked against his shin even before he reached the dinky kitchenette.

 "Dinner? What do you fancy?" After reading aloud the labels of several cans of gourmet cat food, he and the cat came to agreement.

 Leaving her to venison pâté, Peter made tea in his gilt-patterned Samuel Alcock teapot – another inheritance. The wheels of the tea-trolley rolled smoothly over polished wood and carpet runners then bumped lightly against the oak desk, before assuming its regular position at the right of Peter's chair.

 Once a fresh sheaf of papers, the myrtle-green notebook, and his gold-nibbed pen were arranged to his satisfaction on the blotter pad, Peter turned to the tea-trolley. The teapot spun three times on its hot pad, slowly, and without Peter's fingers touching it.

 This was one of the little tricks he'd discovered he could do when just a child. Father had not been surprised, but Mother was not to be told.

"It’s the Blackwell curse," Father had said with a firm tone. "Best to forget it."

 But that didn’t suit the young Peter. Forgetting was not an option. The ability to make things move – without touching them – had delighted the boy, but he was careful to keep it a secret. Father had been more than definite about that.

 After Father's funeral, Mother had taken Peter aside. "I know all about it," she said. "John believed it was best you not learn to use those tricks. But I hope you've been practising."

 Peter had been taken aback, but delighted he had someone to share his secret with. Now she was gone too, so there was only Elf. Unfortunately, the cat only showed interest when Peter impelled a dish of cat food to float down from the bench. It saved his back too.

 Peter breathed in the subtle fragrance of Darjeeling from over the gold rim of his tea cup and wondered where to start. This was his favourite moment in research – the beginning – the wondering – the considering. Which method, which process to follow? Clearly there would be some empirical research. His own experiences and abilities had a bearing on the information garnered from Rogan's notes. What was his hypothesis? 'We are not alone,' sounded trite.

 That set his thoughts flying in another direction. Which ancient legends and stories made reference to beings from other worlds? This was his area of expertise. It was almost as though it had been anticipated he would carry out this work. It would be quite a different sort of literature review he mused, and reached for a slice of shortbread. His fingers curled around the biscuit when it nudged against his palm – several inches above the china plate. Rogan's notes had given him proof that he had a gift, not a curse; a family inheritance from great-great-grandfather who had arrived on this planet in 1835. It was a shame that the man came across as a complete cad and bounder. And if Peter was correct in his deciphering of Rogan's story, the man was also a murderer.