Augustus's new favourite tea was even worse than the Lapsang Souchong John had endured last time. He managed a couple of polite sips, then let it go cold.
Harry and Evie had returned to America in mid-November, but the latest news, delivered via a video call from Evie the previous night, was that they were thinking of living in Britain. Evie's mother had agreed to let Harry have custody of their daughter, a decision from which he was still reeling. John detected Evie's hand in her mother's change of heart.
Augustus was scouring the bookshelves and muttering to himself.
"I know it's here somewhere. Hardly likely I would throw it away."
He pulled out a book that looked mediaeval, its cover tattered and faded, the pages within yellow and brittle. Pinching either end of the spine between finger and thumb, Augustus shook it until a folded piece of thick paper fell onto the table.
"Got it." Augustus unfolded the paper and slid it in front of John.
John looked at the paper. The handwriting was fine, spidery, and so faded as to be almost illegible. It wasn't written in English. It reminded him of the first time he had seen the language of magic in his sanctum. This piece of paper made as little sense to him now as the first spell had done back then.
"I can't read this," said John. "What is it?"
Augustus smiled at his friend, took a notebook from a drawer, uncapped a fountain pen and wrote a few words. He pushed the notebook to John. The language was the same, as was the handwriting.
"What you told me about our time together in the Blurred Lands came as a shock, John. To live this long, yet have part of my life obscured by darkness has been difficult, especially when I have physical reminders of that forgotten time."
Augustus lifted his withered arm a few inches, which was as much as he could manage. "I remember nothing from when I was injured."
The old magician tapped the paper. "However, this survived our first meeting. It does not mention you by name, and it tells me nothing of our adventure together. It's more of a set of instructions. I carried them with me from that time on, but it was only after I became a Warden, choosing exile to protect your family, that I understood what they meant."
He chuckled, and John caught a brief glimpse of the young noone he had met near the time cage, only weeks ago in his own perception of time. Augustus refolded the paper and tucked it back between the pages of the old book.
"The instructions came about from a discussion we must have had. I obviously considered it important enough to write down. The concept it tries to convey made no sense until I had lived among humans. There is no equivalent in Da Luanish. I believe the human word I was trying to express in my note was 'coincidence'."
John looked at his friend in surprise. "I talked to you about that," he said. "You said the concept was ridiculous, and you asked me for an example. I told you how Sarah and I met. You seemed to think it supported your own belief in fate. I disagreed. I'm sure we would have discussed it more, but circumstances intervened."
Augustus leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. John had seen him do the same frequently. He was gathering his thoughts. An anecdote was forming.
Sure enough, after a minute or two during which his outrageous eyebrows descended almost to his cheeks, then twitched independently of each other, Augustus began.
"Whether this proves my belief or your own, I cannot say, but I will describe the morning when I carried out the acts detailed in the set of instructions left by my younger self. A city, a date, and a time were prescribed. I closed the shop for the day and set out. I had one stop to make along the way..."
Fifty-One
London 10:30am, 3rd July 1990
The small figure limped briskly along Waterloo Road. The pavements were busy, but, despite his diminutive stature, no one ever came close to bumping into him, swerving as if he were a lamppost or a telephone box.
It was sunny and warm, but the determined-looking man wore a three-piece suit and a hat. At the doorway of each building he passed, he paused and studied the number before moving on. Even when he stopped in the middle of the pavement, the crowds parted around him.
The figure stopped outside a glass door. He took a piece of paper from his breast pocket. After examining it and rechecking the number of the building, he stepped up and pressed a buzzer. A second later, he pushed on the door, and it swung inwards.
The tiny man, white hair spilling out from underneath his hat, looked at the lift, made a small sound of disgust, and climbed the stairs instead. His progress was swift, despite the fact that he was favouring one leg.
At the top floor of the building, he put his hand on the door, and sang. It was a short song, and would not have won any awards for its musicality, but that wasn't the point. When he had finished, the tiny man had become a tall woman in a flowery summer dress. The woman pushed open the door. Scanning the open-plan office, she made straight for the large window at the far end. When she reached the desk she was looking for, she placed a shopping bag on the chair, removing a terracotta pot. Holding the cactus in both hands, the woman placed it deliberately on the windowsill. It was only prevented from falling to the street outside by the half-open window it was leaning against.
Rubbing her hands in satisfaction, the woman walked out of the office, down the stairs, and out onto the street. A few minutes later, she smiled at a running man, sweaty and flustered, who was bumping into every third person with a flurry of apologies and waving hands. The woman made a small gesture, and the knot in the man's laces loosened.
"Go and get her, John," said the strange young woman, as she shrank, becoming a tiny, happy, old noone.
Author's note
Supernatural fantasy mythical multi-dimensional magic novels. If that's not an Amazon category yet, I reckon it should be. There are writers who look at the market, before putting fingers to keyboard, and craft a story aimed squarely at a specific niche. Then there's the other kind of writer, who writes a story they would love to read, and—when they finish—ask what the hell is it?
No prizes for guessing which kind I am.
I didn't intend to write this book. Not yet. In fact, I started writing a story that's been floating around my brain for over a year. Started it three times, abandoned it three times. For whatever reason, it wasn't ready. And, during that third attempt, a concept I came up with last year, of a place where two or more worlds overlapped, nagged at me. So I wrote The Blurred Lands instead.
Terry Pratchett said, "the first draft is just you telling yourself the story," and that's never been more true for me than it was with this book. It took twenty thousand words before I knew what was going on in that cottage, and why. I cut thirty thousand words from the first draft, because, for much of the opening of the story, I was writing to find out who these characters were, and what they wanted.
At the pre-editing stage, when it was still too long, I sent it to RR Haywood. I'd read his brilliant new book (better not say what it is, because it's not out yet and the title might change) and we chatted about that, as well as about the writer's life, dog-walking, and the difficulty in getting a decent cup of coffee. RRH emailed my draft back with suggestions, comments, and even a fantastic video (!) which cut through the crap and exposed the heart of the story. His input was invaluable. I would beg him to stop writing and be my editor, but I love his books too much.
While I'm thanking people - Phil Quaintrell was a great brainstorming partner, Mrs S and Phil Owens did sterling copy editing and proofreading work, and my select few early readers gave great feedback. Kid Mindfreak (that's Mr Mindfreak to you) came up with a superb cover. Thanks to all.
And now the dilemma. Do I write more stories set in this world? My world-building mind map for The Blurred Lands got bigger and bigger as I wrote. The Between, the seven realms, the remnants and elementals, the Three... so many stories to be told.
I'm going to ask you the question - especially if you're reading this before December 2019, during the first twelve months of publi
cation.
Should I write more Blurred Lands novels? Or should I tell one of the other stories waiting in the notebooks next? Because I'm still not sure…
A word about reviews. For independent authors, reviews are the only way we can compete with books by big publishers. The more readers who review my books, the more Amazon will promote them, and the more likely it is I'll be able to continue writing them. There you go, a big dollop of emotional blackmail. You're welcome. Please review if you can, I really appreciate it.
Here's how you can get in touch:
You can email me - [email protected]
My website is here (and it's brand spanking new as of November 2018, thanks to the brilliant Bodidog Design) https://www.ianwsainsbury.com/
I'm on twitter @IanWSainsbury
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/IanWSainsbury/
I have a mailing list. I email with book news, any promotions I'm running, and I always email when a new book is imminent. If you enjoy my work, please sign up here: http://bit.ly/signupiws
Mrs S is (rightly) insisting I take Christmas off, but I'll be back to the desk in January. Yes, I now make my living doing something that, if left to my own devices, I would do three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I'm a lucky bastard. I know it.
As always, the most important thank you is to you for reading my stories. Not only that but for spreading the word. I made a deal with my readers early on to keep writing if you kept reading. The deal still stands. Thank you for reading, and I can't wait to get cracking on another story for you.
Ian Sainsbury
Norwich
December 6th, 2018
Also by Ian W. Sainsbury
Children Of The Deterrent (Halfhero 1)
Halfheroes (Halfhero 2)
The Last Of The First (Halfhero 3)
The World Walker (The World Walker 1)
The Unmaking Engine (The World Walker 2)
The Seventeenth Year (The World Walker 3)
The Unnamed Way (The World Walker 4)
The Blurred Lands Page 25
