A Dance in Blood Velvet by Freda Warrington

despair. Words from a distant golden hero, lifting him out of the filth and blood - for a brief time, at least.
    Other soldiers broke down and went mad. Benedict’s experience precipitated a revelation.
    One night, sheltering behind mud-sodden sandbags under the hellish thunder of bombardment, Benedict saw an amorphous light on the lip of the trench. Crazed logic insisted that this was Lancelyn, come to guide him... where? Paradise? That meant death. He wept, but a voice in the cloud of light commanded him to stop and look. Disregarding bullets and shells, Ben saw that the mudscape of no-man’s-land was actually a broad black river. He felt compelled to cross it... even knowing that to do so would be suicide.
    The sky lit up with a shell-burst and stayed alight. The heavens shone like beaten gold. Clouds became mountains, castles, forests in the sky. Elongated figures moved up there, as dark as demons yet stately, like seraphim trailing wings of fire... neither angels nor demons, but something other...
    Benedict knew that he was looking into the spirit-realm. Leave Earth behind and enter, Lancelyn seemed to say. Cross the river, it’s the only way!
    What could be worse than the hell he was enduring? Ben began to climb a ladder out of the trench. The vision ended as a bullet ripped into his chest and flung him back into the mud.
    He was sent home, recovering from a wound that, the doctors said, should have killed him. A miracle; he was alive for a reason! While in hospital, he received another letter from Lancelyn.
My dearest Ben,
    You’re out of it! The moment the War ends, I am renting a villa in Italy for the summer with some friends. Do join us.
    Ben was thrilled. His heroic brother was real and they were going to meet at last! But then he thought, What will Mother and Father say?
    He believed in honesty. When he broke the news to his mother, however, her reaction was extreme. If he went, she yelled, he need never bother coming back! He would be as dead to them as Lancelyn.
    She forced the choice on him; Ben, knowing almost nothing about his brother, chose the new and unknown.
    Thus he found himself on a tiered hill above the Mediterranean, sunlight glowing through cypress groves. As he reached a headland above the bay and breathed the warm fragrant air, he felt a glimmer of hope that life was worth living after all.
    The sea was indigo, the sky deepest burning blue. Dust and heat and bare white rocks were softened by olive and orange groves spilling down the slopes. Ben saw the sugar-white walls of a villa with greenery spilling wildly over the boundaries. He climbed the hillside for a better view, until he could see over a wall and straight down into the grounds.
    The sight made him gasp.
    There were people in the garden, some stretched out on the grass, others playing tennis. Four women and seven men - all stark naked.
    He’d heard of such goings-on among the “artistic” set; the puritanical father in him pounced, and his first reaction was disgust. Then he edged forward to take a longer look. He began to smile. Good God, what a sight!
    A cough nearby made Benedict jump guiltily. Looking up, he saw a girl sitting on a rock above him, sketching. His first thought was that he must steer her away before she saw this decadent display.
    She was pretty, with long dark hair flowing from beneath a huge sunhat, a loose white dress flattering her slim figure.
    “Good morning!” he called out cheerfully. “Do you speak English?”
    “I do my best,” she said; her accent was educated British, with a trace of Norfolk. “Good morning. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
    As he reached her, she smiled and put her sketchpad aside.
    “May I see?” he said.
    “If you like. It’s not very good.”
    As he looked at the blur of brilliant colours on the page, he was aware of her gaze travelling over him. Although his parents had taught him that conceit was a sin, he’d often been called handsome; six feet four, with a strong