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The Mills of God

Title: The Mills of God

Series: Adventures of Constance Fairchild, 1

Author: Justin R. Smith

ISBN: 978-0-9744354-9-7

Product Code: BK0011

Format: Hardcover

Pages: 288

Release Date: September 2006

Cover Price: $24.95

Our Price: $19.95




Additional Formats Available:

This title is available electronically as Bloodline.







Book Jacket


I was twelve when I realized I was a ghost.”


So says Constance Fairchild, an eccentric poetess who is heiress to a fortune—and a girl who, from an early age, has believed that she had been reincarnated.


Orphaned at the age of 14, when her parents die under suspicious circumstances, she is sent to a boarding school in Switzerland, a country that had haunted her dreams. Here, she makes her first real friends and stumbles on clues to her past life.


When several of her friends die under suspicious circumstances, Constance has reason to believe that her legal guardian may be responsible. What possible motive could her guardian have? Searching desperately for the answer, Constance only uncovers further questions that convince her that she may be part of some grand conspiracy. Who keeps planting listening devices in her dorm room? Why were people following both her and her friends? Why did her dead grandfather require emails from him to contain an electronic signature that was lost when he died?


Spanning two lifetimes, this conspiracy—involving pieces of the puzzle that Constance must strive to unravel through her instinctive knowledge of virtual reality, cryptography, and the Internet—threatens to destroy everyone she knows and loves.


Pursued across Europe and New York, Constance searches for answers and tries to survive. With the help of her friends, she manages to expose the conspirators, turn their tools against them, and by the novel's end, she solves the greatest mystery of all: Her reason for being.



Book Excerpt



“Damn!” he muttered, colliding with the front door. “They could have at least left a light on.” Is Raffles here? he thought. The place looks deserted.

The door opened and a wizened Raffles led him into the darkened house.

“Pardon the mess,” Raffles said when they reached the study. “We’re painting and remodeling.”

Painters’ tarps covered the floor and a burly man in baggy white work clothes stood quietly in a corner.

How can they still be painting a house at night? he wondered. The only light is a desk lamp!

Casting a sidelong glance at the painter, he handed Raffles the packet of material.

“Excellent!” Raffles said. “It does everything you say it will?”


“Are you sure?”

“Of course! It wasn’t that difficult, actually. I’m a bit . . . embarrassed to accept $300,000 for such a tiny job. It’s more than I make in years . . .”

“That’s pocket change for me,” Raffles cut in. “As I explained before, the $300,000 is contingent upon confidentiality. You have maintained strict confidentiality, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely!” he quickly replied, relieved Raffles had not asked whether copies of the report existed: He had stupidly lost the original, forcing him to reprint it after a fruitless search.

“I haven’t told anyone,” he added, “not even my wife. She doesn’t know I’m here.”

“I believe you,” Raffles murmured, removing his hearing aid and nodding to the painter.

The man’s gaze followed Raffles and watched, awestruck, as the painter produced a revolver.

“Is this some sort of joke?”

His sentence ended with a gunshot.



Lenin wrote that Zürich had the finest public library he’d ever seen. That bit of trivia kept running through my mind as I tried not to cry. It was as though focusing on it would bring order to my world—would undo the previous day.

But, no—I shut my eyes and relived it again:

It happened two days after my fourteenth birthday. I’d just come home from school and spotted two strange men in the living room, talking to Nanny.

One man wore a policeman’s uniform and the other a gray suit. The man in the suit made notations in a tiny notebook and sniffled, as if he had a cold.

“That’s the daughter?” he said, glancing at me.

“Yes, that’s Constance Fairchild,” Nanny replied, nodding. “I’ll tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

Nanny shook her head and sobbed. Finally, she clutched me to herself so hard it hurt. When she released me, she said, “They’re both dead, my dear!”

“Who’s dead?” I asked, although I had a sickening feeling I knew whom she meant. “What are you talking about?”

“Why, your parents. There was a terrible accident on the Van Wyck expressway.”

“On route to Kennedy Airport,” the man in the gray suit added without looking up from his notebook. “You sure she wouldn’t know why her parents were leaving the country?”

“They never told her anything, Mr. Richards,” Nanny replied. “Last year, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild spent Christmas in Paris without telling anyone except me.”

“They didn’t take her with them?” Detective Richards asked.

“No,” Nanny replied. “On Christmas she had to ask me where they were.”

“And this time they didn’t even tell you?”


“Hm . . . About 10:30,” Detective Richards murmured, flipping through his notebook. “Mrs. Fairchild shows up at the office—something she’d never done before. Mr. Fairchild leaves a meeting, telling them he’ll just be a minute, and then they head for the airport. Any idea why they’d do that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Nanny shrugged. “They never confided in me—or Constance.” 

*   *   *   *   *

“You haven’t touched your dinner,” a flight attendant said. “Was there anything wrong with it?”

“No,” I replied, handing him the tray.

I used the restroom and returned to my seat; grateful I had the row to myself.

The cabin-lights dimmed.  

*   *   *   *   *

After they told me of my parents’ deaths, I ran to my room, refusing to believe what I had heard, but knowing deep down that it was true. Nanny followed, asking whether I wanted a sedative. Although I’d always refused them before, I accepted one. I slipped into a dreamless sleep, not even changing out of my school uniform.

I slept until eight, when Nanny roused me.

“Wake up, honey. It’s time for dinner,” she said. “And there are some very important people for you to meet.”

“Important people?”

“Yes, my dear. Everything will be explained to you.”

In a daze, I staggered into the bathroom and washed my face.  I was still too exhausted and in shock to dress for dinner, so I plodded into the dining room still in my school uniform.

A single place was set, at the head of the table. For me, alone. I’d usually dined with my Nanny or Mother, at least. I ate without a word, without tasting the food. When I finished, I quietly pushed my chair back, stood, and walked into the living room.

Two strangers occupied the couch, talking—a man and a woman. The man was discussing severance pay with Nanny, who looked up at me, awkwardly. The woman stood and introduced herself.

“I’m Joyce Mantell, personal legal adviser to your father,” she said, flashing me a pained smile.

I nodded.

“We must all be strong at times like these,” she continued.

“Did they suffer?”

“Suffer? What are you talking about?”

“My parents. Did they suffer?”

“No! No!” Ms. Mantell said, almost reassuringly. “Death was instantaneous.”

“I’m glad they didn’t suffer.”

“The important thing now is that you don’t suffer. Other children’s lives might be destroyed by a tragedy like this, but you’re a Fairchild. And your grandfather will not allow you to go wanting.”

I said nothing.

“We’ve been discussing your future,” Ms. Mantell continued. “We—I mean, myself, your grandfather, and your Aunt Augusta—feel you should go away to a boarding school. A place where you can meet other girls your age. Your grandfather has spared no expense. Nothing but the best for a Fairchild!”

I just stared at the woman, and she became more nervous.

Coming to her rescue, Nanny hugged me and said, “Constance, dear. They felt it would be best if you had a change of scenery.”

“It’s one of the most exclusive schools in the world,” Ms. Mantell added. “We all want what’s best for you.”

“Call me Connie,” I said to Nanny.

“Okay, Connie. You may call me Sylvia.”

“What a bizarre child!” Ms. Mantell whispered to the man, not quietly enough. “Like a creature from another planet!” 

*   *   *   *   *

I thought of the life I’d lost and the people I’d never see again.

Marge, our cook, was a tall, thin woman with a wonderful laugh. Her delightful way of talking always lifted my spirits.

“Girl, she looked like a smacked ass!” she said once—I’d overheard her talking on the phone. No doubt I looked the same right now. I felt it.

Nanny—Sylvia—was a sweet, middle-aged Irish woman with wire-framed glasses and chestnut hair. She was the last in a long succession of nannies. Years ago, I made the mistake of calling nannies I liked ‘Mom,’ thinking or hoping they were, and Mother fired them. I learned to keep loved ones by keeping my distance.

As a teenager, I no longer needed much supervision. Sylvia was my companion at dinner, though, and during my book-hunts in the city. She called me “Her little professor.”

Father had been an imposing man of few words who wore a suit except at formal events, when he wore a tuxedo. One felt he even wore a suit to bed. I’d been in awe of him.

Mother was beautiful and voluptuous. She’d given up an acting and modeling career to marry Father. I could almost smell her perfume and hear her telling Marge what to cook for dinner. My parents spent a great deal of time planning and attending parties and receptions.

Were they ashamed of me? I wondered. Often, I felt like an unwelcome guest or, at least, a disappointment to them.

Mother had always complained that her pregnancy with me had ruined her social season that year. “The sort of season,” she’d add, “that comes but once in a lifetime.” During their frequent parties and receptions, my parents sent me to the library or asked me to stay in my room.

In their lives, I was as out of place as the picture on my bedroom wall: Hieronymous Bosch’s Hay Wain. It critiqued the peasant-saying, “Life is a wagon of hay, and we run after it grabbing as much as we can get.”

The painting’s central section depicts a mob chasing a hay wagon. Women prostitute themselves for the hay and men kill for it. At that section’s right edge, people mutate into the animals they’d behaved like, and at the right section, they enter the gates of Hell. On the rare occasions she entered my room, Mother called it “That disgusting thing!” I often wondered if she saw herself in the Hell-bound mob.

Mother said it was unnatural for a young girl to spend all her time writing poetry and reading books on philosophy, history, and the sciences. She said there was something terribly wrong with a girl whose favorite book was The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

I was twelve when I realized I was a ghost.

In my quieter moments, vivid impressions or conversations had run through the back of my mind, too fast to capture, like half-forgotten dreams. Or, I’d been haunted by intense but undefined moods or images, and recurring nightmares I barely remembered.

At the age of twelve I read Stevenson’s monograph Twenty Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation—and I knew.

When I confided this to my nanny at the time, Mother sent me to a psychiatrist. I told him what he wanted to hear, once I figured out what that was. Afterwards, I kept my secrets to myself.

Would my parents have learned to love me? I wondered. Would they ever have been proud of me?

It was too late. I would never know.

They were my biological link to the rest of humanity, tenuous though that link had been. They loved me once. They must have—although no written records from that era survived—and I must have loved them. I was crying for the family we could have been, and now would never be. And, perhaps, I was crying for myself. For my former life had ended, and I faced a dark and uncanny future.

I rested my head against the pitch-black window.  

*   *   *   *   *

At some point I must have fallen asleep, because I was startled awake by bright sunlight shining in my eyes. The captain announced we were crossing the Irish coast.

I looked outside.

A low-lying fog clung to the ocean like a translucent white film, and a gray, rocky crag stood in the midst of the water, guarding a mist-shrouded coastline.

I’d never been to Europe. It looked like a ghost-continent. Perhaps it was fitting that I, a ghost, was traveling there.

The captain announced it would be another forty-five minutes to Zürich.

“I gave you some extra muffins,” the flight attendant said, setting up my breakfast tray. I thanked him and devoured the food.

I examined the travel plans Mantell had scribbled on a yellow legal pad. Below them, she’d added, “The Lucerne Academy for Girls is one of the most exclusive schools in the world. So, behave in a manner befitting a Fairchild. And, last but not least, remember to have fun!”

I looked over the passport in my purse. I realized that shipping me off to Switzerland might have been my parents’ idea, and that the others might merely be following through with it. Mother had taken me to a photographer a month ago.

Six months ago she’d asked me where I’d go, if I could go anywhere I wanted in Europe. She’d popped this question out of the blue one evening, at dinner. I’d all but shouted “Switzerland!”—surprising even myself. The subject of travel was dropped and forgotten.

Father had made periodic business trips to Zürich—I’d overheard my parents discussing them. And, for years, I’d been haunted by recurring dreams and nightmares about Switzerland.

Was that why I blurted out ‘Switzerland’?

I turned to a blank sheet of the legal pad and wrote a poem:


My palette is times and places,
Familiar and unfamiliar faces.
Searching unseen futures’ cast,
For a fruitful life’s rich repast.
For moments strung like diamond beads,
On a necklace of pregnant deeds.
Within each bead lies a future curled:
Unseen seed of a seedling world.

As the plane began its final approach, I caught a glimpse of snowcapped mountains and a large body of water. Before long, we were on the ground.



As I walked down the jetway, feelings of unreality assaulted me—as though I’d fallen into a different realm of existence—as if the world were an unsteady movie on a screen less substantial than tissue paper. I staggered on. This strange feeling grew, becoming mind-numbing when I reached the terminal door.

I leaned against the wall, dazed and terrified. Visions assaulted my mind, blotting out my surroundings: Images of myself in front of a large room full of people watching me intently as I stood at a green chalkboard: talking; drawing odd diagrams with yellow chalk; and the letters, “ETH,” in all capitals.

I’m losing my mind! I silently screamed. I calmed down—eventually—recalling similar episodes I’d had over the years, although this was infinitely more vivid.  Like the others, it passed.

I jotted “ETH” on a scrap of paper. I felt these letters were significant.

Then I spotted an elderly woman holding up a handwritten sign bearing my name, so I walked over and introduced myself.

“My name is Frieda and I’m the headmistress of the Lucerne Academy for Girls. It is so nice to meet you, my dear! I would like to offer my sincerest personal condolences on your terrible tragedy. We will become very good chums!” If she thought it odd I was shipped off to a foreign land the day after being orphaned, she betrayed no sign of it.

She spoke with a precise, clipped voice, with a trace of a German accent. She took me by the hand and led me to the baggage claim.

She continued, “Kurt and Johann will pick up your bags, but you must point them out to us. They told us you had a lot of baggage. You really won’t need much in the way of clothing at the Academy, as the girls all wear uniforms.”

I nodded.

Kurt and Johann were young men, probably in their twenties. Good looking, in a rugged way.

Frieda barked something in German and they waited by the baggage turntable. It turned out I had nine large suitcases and a garment bag. Kurt got a hand-truck and they hauled everything to a small dark-green bus waiting at the door.

It was emblazoned with the Academy’s name, which appeared to be in German: Lucerne was spelled ‘Luzern.’ Would the classes be in German? If so, I’d be lost. I was beyond caring. Besides, Mantell or someone else must have considered this point.

I was the only passenger. Frieda said the Academy officially opened two days later, and most of the new students would arrive then. So I’d have time to get settled before classes begun. That suited me fine.

“And we have found you the ideal roommate, too.”

I winced.

“She is one year older than you and very fluent in English and German. She is a true cosmopolitan.” 

*   *   *   *   *

Although the drive to Lucerne took more than an hour, I wasn’t conscious of time. I leaned my head against the window. Outside, a surreal world of soaring mountains and blue lakes sped past me. We careened down a two-lane road that wound a serpentine path along the water’s edge.

The constant turns made me nauseous. We passed odd houses with window-boxes of bright red flowers, and colorful paintings on their walls.

Finally, we rounded a bend and I caught my first glimpse of Lucerne. It was a beautiful city of low buildings on the edge of a lake. Everything in this country appeared to be on the edge of a lake.

We passed through the city into a valley beyond. The Academy was a complex of white stucco buildings with steeply sloped slate roofs, and a small church.

The bus went through an ornate cast iron gate and pulled up in front of one of the buildings. Frieda said something in German to Kurt and Johann, who opened the bus’ cargo bay and carried my bags into the building. Stiff from a long day of traveling, I staggered outside and strolled around the bus.

The Academy complex stood in a mountain’s shadow and it was almost twilight, but I could see the setting sun’s yellow glow reflected off the mountaintops.

As I walked, something became abundantly clear to me: I was not merely in a different country, I was in a different world. A world of overpowering silence.

Even the voices of Frieda and the others vanished in the vastness of this valley. The only sounds I heard were birds, the rippling of a mountain stream running past this building, and the throb of my own heartbeat.

The air was clear and cold, and carried an unmistakable scent of pine. The forest line came to within a hundred yards of the Academy complex, a phalanx of Christmas trees. Tiny trees carpeted the ground, new trees planting themselves.

I gazed up at the mountain peaks, transfixed. I no longer knew who or where I was, nor did I care. Unseen winds forced clouds over the mountains, shredding them like tissues into swirling eddies of mist tumbling down like a ghostly avalanche. Or the breath of God.

“Come along, Constance!” Frieda said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I will show you to your room and you can dress for dinner, Ja?”

I stumbled into the building as if my ability to walk were a newly acquired skill. The room was on the first floor and looked cozy. One of its white walls held a gilt-framed full-length mirror. It had two beds and two massive freestanding cabinets, a bathroom, and a window opposite the entrance. The cabinets looked like oak refrigerators overlaid with delicate carvings of deer, birds, and flowers.

The desk by the window was piled with books, what looked like one of those new Crystal music-players I’d heard of that transmit sound by nerve-induction, several music sticks, and a violin case. My suitcases sat beside one of the beds—I assumed it would be mine. The window faced away from the rest of the Academy, so all I saw from it was the mountain stream and forest.

“This is one of our finest rooms, my dear,” Frieda said. “Most of our dormitory rooms do not have their own toilette and shower.” She opened the door to the bathroom, as if to prove it was there.

“Where are the closets?”

“We use wardrobes,” Frieda said, pointing to the massive oak cabinets.

I nodded, bleary-eyed. For all their elegance, the wardrobes only heightened this place’s strangeness to me.

“I could not find your roommate,” she continued. “Perhaps she is in the library. You’ll meet her soon enough. Of course, once classes start I’ll know where all my girls are all the time.”

“Is it possible for me just to skip dinner? I’m very tired.” I was more than tired.

Frieda took a deep breath and thought for a moment. It was as if I’d made an extraordinary request, one that demanded profound soul-searching on her part.

“That is highly irregular. We normally maintain a very strict schedule. I suppose we could make an exception, just this once. The kitchen will prepare a dish of food for you and leave it on your writing table.”

I thanked her and she left. Truthfully, I’d have preferred they didn’t prepare a plate for me; I wanted to be left alone. Frieda’s remark about following a strict schedule disturbed me. It made the place sound like a prison.

I made a cursory check of my luggage, bag by bag. My God! Mantell hadn’t packed a single one of my books or notebooks! All nine suitcases and the garment bag held nothing but clothes! There were evening gowns, casual wear, sundresses, bathing suits, and a large assortment of coats—much of it clothing I’d never seen before. Had they bought me new clothes? I had no use for most of it.

Perhaps I could donate it to the poor. Did Zürich have poor people? Of course, every place had them. What use would they have for evening gowns, though?

Numb with exhaustion, I found a nightgown, changed, and fell into bed.  

*   *   *   *   *

A distant moan reverberated, and another responded.

What’s that sound? I wondered. Alpenhorns?

I blinked.

“It’s about time, sleepyhead!” a melodious voice chimed.

A girl stood by the desk, inspecting a plate of food. She had blond hair in a long braid and electric blue eyes. She wore a forest-green school uniform with the Lucerne Academy’s name on it.

“Good morning,” I croaked. “Or good whatever-it-is. I’m Constance Fairchild.”

“Smashing! I’ll call you Stanzi then! My name is Monika von Sachsen-Coburg. I’ll be your roomie.” In spite of her German name, she spoke with a British accent.


“For Konstanze, of course! I don’t mean to be nosy, but I couldn’t help noticing you’ve got so many beautiful clothes here! And I even think we’re the same size! Could I borrow some? Just on special occasions, of course.”

“Sure.” I’d never shared clothing with anyone, and it sounded unsanitary, but I decided to be agreeable. I felt wretched. I had a splitting headache and missed my room in New York, and Nanny, and Marge.

“I hope this wasn’t your bed. I would’ve asked you, but the Headmistress couldn’t find you yesterday.”

“Well, I was on a drive with my dad. He’s leaving on a business trip and won’t be back until a week before Christmas. That’s one of the reasons I’m here, you know. Dad is a darling, but so very overprotective! He thinks fifteen is too young for me to be on my own. Can you believe that?”

I shrugged.

“So, what brings you here?” she continued. “The academic program? It’s supposed to be first-class.”

Again, I was at a loss for words. I suppose I could’ve given her a nicely sanitized lie. For instance, that I came here because the place had an excellent reputation.

I blurted out that both of my parents died two days ago. As I began to add that the few relatives I had didn’t want me around, I broke down crying halfway through the sentence. Summoning every ounce of willpower, I tried to stop. It didn’t work. If anything, I cried harder, bawling like a little girl.

This upset Monika, who stammered something I couldn’t understand. She even had tears in her eyes, and exclaimed, “My God Stanzi! That’s about the saddest story I ever heard! My mother died of cancer two years ago. It was horrible! But to lose both parents at the same time. It’s . . . it’s unimaginable!” She hugged me, impulsively.

When I calmed down, I staggered into the bathroom and showered.

“You have a German name,” I said, as I came out and dressed. “Are you German?”

“Yes, although I’ve lived in London the past six years.”

“Does you father have business dealings in London?”

“I’d say! He was the German ambassador to the Court of St. James.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s on a trip to Russia. Trade talks with the Russian president or some such rot.”  

*   *   *   *   *

In the next week, Monika became the first real friend I ever had. Having a friend was a new experience for me. Why did she choose to be my friend? I wasn’t a particularly friendly or charming person. Was it out of pity?

After we turned out the lights at night, Monika would want to talk, sometimes for hours. A great deal of this conversation involved topics like hairstyles and clothes, or boys. Subjects alien to me.

I wasn’t sure how to respond when she expected me to say something. Small talk was never one of my strong points. Her good-natured cheerfulness rode over my silences, and she’d abruptly change the subject.  

*   *   *   *   *

“What do you plan to do with your life?” Monika blurted out one night.


“My career adviser says, by now, we should have a good idea of what our future career will be.”

“I don’t know.” I replied. “Maybe a psychologist or philosopher.”

“Those aren’t very related!”

“I have my reasons for being interested in both fields,” I said.

“Dad would like me to go into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Follow in his footsteps, you know. He can probably pull some strings for me.”

“I’m sure it’s interesting work,” I said. “You’d travel all over the world.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” she sighed.

“What do you want to do?”

“I think I’d like to play the violin.” Then Monika got out of bed, pulled a violin from her wardrobe, and played a Paganini caprice.

When she finished, she said, “That’s what I play when I want to impress people.”

“It worked. I’m very impressed. So why don’t you become a violinist?”

“Dad says it’s very hard to get a job doing this.”

“He’s probably right,” I said. “But I think there are always jobs for people who are really good.”

“Do you play an instrument?” she asked.

“No. I wanted to take piano lessons, but Mother wouldn’t let me.”

“Why?” she asked, incredulous.

“She thought the sound of my practicing would bother her. We even had a Steinway concert grand piano, but it was pure furniture. She never even had it tuned.”

“What a ghastly waste!” Monika shouted, aghast.

“We had a party one evening, a fund raiser for the Julliard School of Music, Ignat Solzhenitsyn was there, and he sat down to play something. The piano was so bad he quit after five minutes.”

“God! That must’ve been positively mortifying!”

“Yes, I suppose Mother was embarrassed,” I said, remembering how for a whole week, Mother barked at anyone unlucky enough to cross her path. Father stayed away for two days—the demands of his job, you know. When Father returned, the matter was dropped, and, like so many others, never discussed again.  

*   *   *   *   *

Monika helped me in my first weeks at the Academy, having done several other stints there over the years. Luckily, the language of instruction was English, although they had courses in German, French, and Russian. We were required to take at least one language.

I took German, since it was the language spoken in this part of Switzerland, I’d have to learn it if I ever wanted to wander outside the Academy grounds. On the advice of her father, Monika signed up for Russian.

The Academy had an interesting and liberal policy regarding the courses one could take. Students could take any courses they wanted as long as they eventually took certain advanced courses in each of the required fields.

Consequently, I signed up for Advanced Calculus. If I passed it, I wouldn’t have to take any other mathematics courses. Monika thought that cocky of me and said I’d regret it. I also signed up for Ancient History, English Literature, and Biology. I also had to take a Gym class. I’d always despised these; I was the clumsiest person I’d ever met.

The first day of classes, Ms. Rienzi, my Ancient History teacher, announced there would be a three-day field trip to Rome. A pleasant surprise! Monika signed up for instruction in the violin, and a music composition course. The teachers were an international group: Ms. Rienzi was Swiss, from the Italian speaking part of Switzerland; Mr. Hoffman, the English teacher, was American; Ms. Lovejoy, the Biology teacher, was British; and Mr. Bentner, the German teacher, was German.

My initial misgivings about Frieda turned out to be justified: the place was, indeed, like a prison. Even calling her ‘Frieda’ was verboten most of the time—it was one of those insincere pleasantries she used in front of parents or when greeting new students. On all other occasions, we were to call her ‘Headmistress.’

Every meal, every class, was planned in excruciating detail. Breakfast began at 7:00 A.M.—and consisted of hard rolls and an egg in a tiny eggcup. The day’s first class was at 9:00 A.M. and classes ran until noon, when there was an hour lunch in the main dining room. After lunch, there was a study period until two, and then classes resumed until five. We were free until 7:30 when dinner was served. Lights had to be out by nine. The teachers always took attendance and unexplained absences could result in expulsion.

The dining hall was easily the most ornate room at the Academy. Darkly stained wood paneling covered the walls and ceiling, with carved spires reminiscent of a Gothic cathedral. Perhaps it had been a church once.

Meals were a religious ceremony, with Frieda as the High Priestess. They began with a prayer and an announcement, which she delivered from a pulpit-like structure suspended 10 feet above the floor. From this perch, she scrutinized us as we stood in front of our place-settings with heads bowed as if her hawk-like gaze could penetrate our skulls and spot the earliest signs of moral decay.

These rituals struck me as surreal, but the European students might have felt differently. I wasn’t used to dining with anyone except Nanny and Mother, and, occasionally, Father. Dinner for him had usually consisted of several martinis.

*   *   *   *   *

After settling into the routine at the Academy, I decided to continue what I’d always called my ‘research.’ I got notebooks and kept a diary of my dreams.

I told myself life would be the same as in New York City. That, of course, was a lie. In truth, I felt like a chess piece brought to life, ripped from my eight-by-eight square world and flung into life’s labyrinth, with its thousand opposite intensities.

I wrote a poem:


In sleep, we shed our garish masks,

Forsaking Day’s unfinished tasks.
Like actors retiring backstage —
The shadowed forge of Time’s next page,
To there reclaim our true estate:
The boundless power to create.
The blind see, the lame walk, the grieving heal,
As Dreams declare all wounds unreal.


My interest in dreams amazed Monika, who said I was the only person she ever met who recorded them. She frequently asked me to interpret hers.

Whenever I got depressed, I took long walks in the forest or the fields surrounding the Academy. It was possible to forget oneself in those fields. One was alone there, a singular soul confronting the universe’s boundless vitality.

Sometimes I saw farmers in the distance repairing a fence or digging a hole. I’d wave to them, and they’d wave back. Sometimes I saw mountain goats in the distance, clinging to the crags, or scaling hillsides, or deer grazing on sequestered Alpine meadows.

Monika showed me a place where I could see the city of Lucerne spread out beneath my feet, perfectly framed by the mountain and lake. One dreary afternoon, I wandered over in a rain slicker and stood there composing another poem in my head.


The gray mountain sentinels keep silent watch

          Over the electric jewel box city below
They peer from behind the sky
          like strangers on a rainy street
The molten lead sky weighs heavily on the valley rim
          Like the lid of Pandora’s box waiting to be opened
The mountains wait in dreaming anticipation
The valley waits like a fertile field
          before a summer storm
Humanity waits in blissful ignorance

What effervescent will waits
to be unleashed on the sleeping world?


Mr. Hoffman, my English teacher, liked it. English was one of my favorite classes. I also loved Ancient History. When I’d read Spengler’s Decline of the West in New York, I hadn’t understood many of the references it contained—I’d lacked the necessary background. Now, I could ask Ms. Rienzi. Ironically, I didn’t have a copy of that book any longer—Mantell had seen to that.

Monika expected to have trouble with several of her subjects, including mathematics. She was intelligent, but had trouble focusing. The only area of her life that she took seriously was playing the violin. I promised to tutor her in philosophy and mathematics, if she’d teach me German.  

*   *   *   *   *

One day, Monika and I were studying during lunch period. I had an exam in my Advanced Calculus class the next morning. Naturally, this class assumed one already had the first semester of calculus. I found the text for that course and read it.

“I can’t believe you understand that stuff!” Monika said, watching me. “You must’ve had it in New York.”

“No. This place has much higher standards than the Falmouth School. We were just doing algebra there.”

“You just can’t learn calculus in one sitting! I don’t believe it!”

“Seeing is believing.”

I did a few exercises and got them right, checking them against the answers in the back of the book. Then I skimmed the rest of the book. It all looked familiar to me now, and I knew I understood it. When I reached the end, I slammed it shut and said, “So much for that!”

“That’s it?” she asked, still skeptical.

“I think so.”

“What’s your secret? Do you have some wickedly clever studying technique? If you do, I wish you’d tell me.”

I hesitated: Could I trust Monika? I didn’t know, but took a chance. She was my only friend. I’d certainly come a long way from wincing at the thought of a roommate.

Slowly and deliberately, I said, “This is going to sound very strange, but I think I lived another life once, as a mathematician.”

“Another life? You mean reincarnation?”

“Yes,” I said.



“What makes you think that?” she asked, squinting at me. “Is there something besides being good at math?”

“Every once in a while, I have vivid flashes of mental impressions or images,” I said. “Or feelings of déjà-vu. They aren’t quite memories, yet they feel like actual events that happened to me. I don’t know how else to describe them.”

“My God, Stanzi—I never suspected you believed in things like that,” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “This is just so mystical! Do you think I could have lived before?”

“The Hindus and the Buddhists believe everyone does,” I replied matter-of-factly.


I nodded.

“Okay—I never told this to anyone here before, but listen,” Monika softly said. “I went to the British Museum with my dad last year. We saw a bust of Nefertiti from ancient Egypt, and her profile is exactly like mine! Her face is even like mine! What are the chances of that happening by . . . by sheer chance?” She raised her head and turned so I could see her profile.

“I don’t know.”

“Not bloody likely, if you ask me! Even dad agreed with me, and he doesn’t believe in this stuff at all.”

Her enthusiasm was irresistible, and I could easily picture her father being incapable of saying no to his daughter. On the other hand, were my reasons for believing in reincarnation any better than hers? Not really. Maybe teenaged girls were predisposed to such beliefs.

“Well, it’s certainly possible.”

She beamed at me.

I told Monika about my experience at the airport, with the letters “ETH.” At first she suggested they stood for ‘eth,’ a letter of the Icelandic alphabet.

“Maybe you were a Viking princess!”

“No. I’m sure they’re three capital letters, like an acronym. I wish I knew how to check it out.”

Monika suggested something I should have thought of: Go to the library and look up “ETH” in the Zürich telephone directory! If it’s a place in Zürich, there might be a listing for it. Apparently, I have a gift for failing to see the obvious. We did that and, sure enough, there was an entry for “ETH.” It said to look at the entry for “Eidgenössische Technische Hochschule.”

When Monika pronounced these German words correctly, a chill went down my spine. They sounded familiar.

“Let’s call the place up and find out what they do!” I said.

“This is smashing!” she exclaimed. “Let me do it, please! My German is better than yours.”

I had to agree.

Monika dialed the number, said something in German, and covered the receiver with her hand, whispering, “I’ve got a receptionist or something.”

I only understood brief snatches of what she said. It sounded as if she were telling them an elaborate story about having to do a report for school on Switzerland’s institutions of higher learning. She was a surprisingly accomplished liar!

The people at the ETH patiently answered all Monika’s questions. It turned out the ETH was a university specializing in Architecture, Engineering, Mathematics, and Science. It also hosted visiting professors from all over the world, who would stay for weeks or months to do their research. They frequently had conferences there, too. The receptionist agreed to send us a brochure on the place and a list of upcoming conferences.

“This is like a detective film,” Monika exclaimed “It’s better—we’re solving mysteries from beyond the grave! Let’s go to the ETH and look around. Maybe you’ll remember something more.”

“It’s more than an hour away by car,” I groaned. “How do we get there?”

“Leave that to me! When we get there, I hope we can get in. They might have heavy security.”

“I don’t think so. It’s a university,” I had a strong feeling, almost a memory, that the place was very casual. “I bet we can just walk in the front door and pretend we belong there.”

“Suppose someone stops us,” Monika said.

“They won’t! We look harmless. That’s one of the advantages of being teenage girls.”

“Right!” Monika agreed, “and if they do, we’ll just say our parents are at a conference there.”

The thought of going to the university and trying to find something that I was certain would be familiar was making my heart pound. I was becoming anxious, and quite excited. Monika still had to make good on her promise to provide transportation, but I had a feeling that her resourcefulness would not let us down. The bell for the first afternoon class rang and we parted company.  

*   *   *   *   *

 After the Ancient History class, Ms. Rienzi pulled me aside and said I was wanted in the headmistress’s office. The headmistress told me my family was sending me $1000 per month for incidental expenses. She had opened an account for me at the Schweizer Landsbank’s Lucerne branch. It would take a week for each check from America to clear, but after that, I could write checks on the account, in Swiss francs or euros. This was an astronomical sum, since I didn’t have any expenses, except for notebooks and, for the first time in my life, tampons.


Book Reviews


Review by: Mary Simmons, Book Pleasures

Combining corporate espionage, intrigue and murder with poetry, art and the enduring strength of the human soul, 'The Mills of God' is a pleasure to read.

Justin Smith's suspenseful tale is woven around the theme of reincarnation and the nature of corruption. Clever, witty and at times shocking, the novel is set in the not-too-distant future and enters the world of the rich and powerful through the eyes of a teenaged girl who remembers her former life as a middle-aged male.

The novel offers a unique perspective into the world of the protagonist, Constance Fairchild, who is the reincarnation of Richard Steele. Smith engages the reader in the life of a girl who has never really lived her life until her parents die and she is transported from her secluded life in New York to a boarding school in Switzerland, where she meets Monika, who becomes her roommate and best friend. Through Monika, she begins to experience life and meet new people who play pivotal roles in the ensuing chapters. For the first time, Constance can free herself and discover both who she is and who she was in her past life as Richard Steele.

But there is more to this story than the theme of reincarnation. Smith draws us into a mysterious plot of deception, money, corruption and murder, which keeps us turning those pages until we come to the awaited climax. Constance is a poet and through her poetry we get a rare glimpse into her inner world. Lyrical and moving, the poetry elaborates on the themes of the novel.

The novel questions the nature of the soul, and in doing so, makes us question our own beliefs. In examining the soul, Smith also explores the meaning of life, coming to the conclusion that every life is part of a "living tapestry, an artwork of indescribable beauty."

Delving into such big questions can be a daunting task and not every writer is up to that task. It can easily become a sermon or a moral commentary on the world, and although there are aspects of this in 'The Mills of God,' Smith never allows it to be overpowering. It is all beautifully interwoven into the story of this young woman who is fighting to survive while still aware that her physical death will not kill her spirit. While urging us to question our own spiritual beliefs, 'The Mills of God' remains an entertaining read full of lyrical language.


Review by: Eva M. Thury,  coauthor of Introduction to Mythology: Contemporary Approaches to Classical and World Myths (Oxford University Press), Assoc. Professor of English, Drexel University

Like the stories of mythology, Justin R. Smith's The Mills of God immerses the reader in the timeless issues of human striving in the face of the implacable forces of the universe. The heroine, Constance Fairchild is an innocent child and a poet, but she is also the reincarnation of Richard Steele, a cutting-edge mathematician who may have died under mysterious circumstances. Her terrifying journey sends her traveling across Europe and takes her into the world of modern art as well as into the realm of computers serving as tools for the most malicious kind of identity theft. You are swept along with Constance as she struggles to escape annihilation through navigating the mysterious labyrinth built by the wiles of big business at its most malevolent. I could not put this book down until I finished it. I can hardly wait for the sequel.


Review by: Araminta Matthews, Front Street Reviews

The Mills of God uses Juxtapose

with the same deft skill as

(Dan) Brown or (Stephen) King


Some of the best mystery novels juxtapose tricky concepts seamlessly with both real life scenarios and great characterization.  Dan Brown's famous book, The Da Vinci Code juxtaposes cryptic messages and fine art with thievery and vanity as readers dissect codes and begin to look at Da Vinci's paintings in a new way.  While primarily a horror novelist, Stephen King has juxtaposed everything from complex viral strains to real estate management in his novels.  The Mills of God does just exactly that with the same deft skill as Brown or King.  Smith's story weaves together new age concepts of dream analysis and reincarnation with the luxuriously described settings of Germany, Switzerland, England, and the United States, as well as with computer programming and mathematical coding.  On top of all of this, the story is flooded with rhythmic, rhyming poetry in the voice of its main character that is both engaging and illuminating all at once.

The story follows a young girl and genius, Constance Fairchild, on the cusp of womanhood.  After being orphaned by her parents, her billionaire grandfather charges a cold and plotting woman to arrange her care.  Constance, called Stanzi and Connie by friends, is shipped off to a school in Switzerland to live out her teen years; but after she settles in, strange things begin to happen.  Her room is tossed and bugged by mysterious villains, she and her roommate find themselves followed almost everywhere they go, and people around her keep dying.

While the story moves at a smooth tempo – for the most part – and most of the characters are believable and engaging, there was much about Constance Fairchild that didn't ring true for a youthful girl – even a genius youthful girl. Her dialogue, her actions, her interpretations, and her relations are definitely not those of a girl her age.  At the same time, her age was rarely a difficulty.  The novel was engaging enough that this blatant discrepancy was rarely given any thought.  In other words, the book was good.   

I would say that I read this book in one sitting, but in fairness, it took me two.  Neglecting my vocational tasks, I opted to settle into my reading chair to plough through The Mills of God, and I was glad that I did.  Smith is a writer skilled at his craft.


Review by: Barbara McDuffie, Breeni Books

An Original Thriller that Moves Between

Two Time Periods Blending Reincarnation and Modern High Tech


Constance Fairchild is the daughter of often absent and always emotionally remote parents. She has spoken with her grandfather, E. Rupert Fairchild III, but has never met him in person. She is also the sole heir to an unbelievably vast fortune he has amassed through sometimes unscrupulous means. Rupert Fairchild has a reputation as a ruthless businessman with a “take no prisoners” attitude.

Two days after her fourteenth birthday, Constance is told that her parents were killed in an automobile accident. Later that same day she is introduced to Joyce Mantell, who was her father’s personal legal advisor. Ms. Mantell informs Connie that her grandfather has decided that she should be sent to an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland and she is hustled onto a plane directly following her parents funeral. Her roommate at the Academy is Monika von Sachsen-Coburg who becomes Connie’s first real friend.

Monika promptly “renames” her new friend Stanzi and introduces her to the world of teenage girls, including shopping malls and boys. But Constance is not an average fourteen year old. She enjoys classical music, studies the great Philosophers and writes poetry. She teaches herself advanced mathematics, cryptography, and computer technology simply by studying basic information on the subjects. Connie believes she is able to learn these skills so easily due to knowledge carried over from a former life. With Monika’s help, she sets out to prove she is a reincarnation of a man named Richard Steele.

Shortly after the death of Connie’s parents, her grandfather also dies and leaves her the family fortune. Joyce Mantell becomes her legal guardian until Constance turns eighteen.

Then several of her friends die under mysterious circumstances and Connie believes Mantell is responsible. She begins to investigate and realizes she will also become one of Mantell’s victims if she is not able to prove her suspicions.

Justin Smith has written a thriller that moves between two time periods and eventually weaves them together. It seemed to move a little slowly through the first half, but this was probably necessary to lay down the groundwork for the intricate storyline. But overall I enjoyed The Mills of God and I give Smith much credit for devising an original idea for a novel. It was interesting to see the ancient concept of reincarnation involved in a modern high-tech plot.


Review by: Daniel Eskridge, Galactium

An Intriguing Read that will keep

the Reader Engaged and Introspective


Constance Fairchild loses her parents when she is 14. With only a few distant relatives surviving, including her enormously wealthy and mysterious grandfather, she is sent to a boarding school in Lucerne. Soon after, she determines that the strange visions that she sees are memories of a previous life. In deed, she even finds hard proof that she was a computer security consultant that died shortly before she was born.

Constance's life at the school is far from normal. Someone is bugging her room, and she's being followed. Soon, to make matters worse, her acquaintances and friends start turning up dead. It's up to her and knowledge remembered from her former life to figure out just what is going on.

Smith writes well for a first time Novelist. The style is straight forward and easy to follow, while the first person point of view makes it easy to sympathize with the protagonist. The pace is a bit slow at first as Constance adjusts to her life at the school in Lucerne, but it picks up in the second half.

One issue I had was that the reincarnation theme really only impacts the plot at the beginning and end. It's kind of forgotten through the majority of the novel where it seems to do little more than to serve as a reason for Constance to philosophize.

I was also a little bit disappointed at the climax when the two main antagonists meet their resolution "off stage", so to speak. Rather than being seen or experienced by the protagonist, their plot outcomes are merely discussed in retrospect.

Mills has suspense to spare and the mystery is not one you're likely to guess to soon. There is also a good helping of poetry sprinkled in to spice things up. The Mills of God is an intriguing read whose suspense, philosophy and speculative aspects will keep the reader engaged and introspective.

Review by: Mistar Fish,

Full of Mysterious Death and

Disappearances that will keep you turning!


The Mills of God is an interesting story because of the setting and the way people behave. The main character, Stanzi is lonely and kept to herself. She is not anti-social or shy, but simply misunderstood.


Stanzi is not the ordinary teenage girl that everyone hangs out with. Perhaps that's not what you would expect a teenager to be, mature and humble. Stanzi lost both of her parents but that really isn't the sad part. Her parents never really treasured her, in fact they neglected her and that made her feel like a ghost. It's heartbreaking to read but yet intriguing because of her mysterious family and life. Stanzi is hurtled into mysterious death surrounding her friends and family. She isolates herself so that she could keep her loved ones safe.


This book is full of mysterious deaths and disappearances and will keep you turning!

Review by: Sam Leonardi,

Once I Started this Book,

I Felt Like I Could not Put it Down!


Great, easy read. I love a hard cover book. No e-readers for me! A very good read. I really enjoyed this author and depth of this book. I thought it was extremely well written and the font and font size were perfect. Once I started this book, I felt like I could not put it down! I needed to know what happened! I really enjoyed this author, Justin R. Smith, and can't wait to read more of Silver Leaf's Books! I recommend this book if you are interested in suspense, action, and technology. I thought that the overall plot of this book was very clear and I was never confused about what was going on.



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