by Casey Lane
In that instant, the reality of war sunk into my brain. People you cared about faced horrific fates; they suffered and died while you were helpless to intervene. To think I once wanted the Great War to continue so I could have a uniform and a rifle. I cast aside the shallow dreams of a boy and stepped forward as a man. I would do anything for this to end and for Sophie to be safe.
I put the lantern on the ground and focused my mind on immediate concerns. How to get her out? They still showed no interest in my presence, but they fixated on her. I had both sword and rifle, but they didn't seem the right tools for this job. Instead, I looked for another way to tackle the mob. I grabbed the closet barrel, pulled the plug from the top and then I kicked it over. A dark liquid washed over the ground and crept toward the vermin.
The scent of brandy and dirt wafted up. This was something I could work with; the seep of liquor around their feet allowed a plan to ferment in my mind. I moved around the edge of the cave, uncorking and tipping over barrels as I went. Next I grabbed a coil of rope and approached. I needed to trap the creatures, and sewing was all I knew.
Basket stitch.
In and out between undead bodies, I wove the rope. The vermin gurgled as I touched them, but none reached out to scratch me. Did they think a mere tailor unworthy of joining their ranks? If anything, they shuffled away from me. As I worked, I tried to figure out why my presence repelled them, when I should have numbered myself among them. Death rejected me, and now it likewise seemed the Turned found me unappetising. The spark of an idea lit up in my mind. Small pox was being eradicated from the countryside in counties where people used the new vaccinations. Could I move among the vermin because I survived the original pandemic, and that bout of sickness acted as a sort of vaccine?
I needed to puzzle out the larger meaning, but first I needed to rescue Sophie. I passed before the front of the group and rocked back on my heels. They had laid her before a heaving mass of rotting flesh. It reminded me of when I once happened upon a dead bull, its massive carcass being eaten by maggots and foxes. But this lump heaved as though it struggled to breathe. The other Turned faced it, and lifted Sophie as an offering, as though it were a grotesque idol.
"Sophie," I called. "You need to wake up."
I still had rope to play out. Around I went again, weaving a second row that reinforced the first. When you darn a hole in a sock, the stitch is layered, each thread going either over or under the weft of the fabric. The creatures ignored me because they focused so completely on the lump of bloated flesh that held some eerie sway over them. Where I could, I slipped the rope between exposed leg bones, making sure they couldn't step over the obstacle.
My next time around, Sophie stirred and moaned. The mass before the vermin seemed to have tiny arms that waved and reached for the young woman. They had presented Sophie as an offering to it, and it was trying to grab her. But why?
"Sophie, we need to leave." I ran out of rope. Bending down I shook her shoulder.
Blue eyes fluttered open and then widened.
"Look at me, Sophie," I said.
"Where am I?" She tried to turn her head but I laid a palm on her face and turned her gaze to me.
The lump behind me moaned and waved at the prone woman.
"Look at me, not at them. We need to get out of here."
A wail rose around us. The creatures edged closer, but some tumbled as the rope held them together. The nightmare behind us emitted a demanding cry, its monstrous sides quivering. Black veins ran over its mass. It was one of them, but different. It held some power over them as they worshipped its grotesque form as though it were a deity or queen.
I helped Sophie to her feet. Arms reached for her, but the rope held them back like the velvet ones to keep people from getting too close to paintings at an exhibition.
"Come on!" We skirted the edge of the group, but they moved as one, trying to pluck her back. Perhaps to throw her upon the horror. But with their bodies stitched together, they couldn't lumber far enough to touch us.
As we ran for the tunnel, a small keg caught my attention. I picked it up and offered a silent prayer before cracking it open. A distinctive sharp smell hit my nostrils. I thrust the lantern into Sophie's hand. "Hold onto this, we're going to need it."
She shook her head, still confused as to her whereabouts, but I had no time to explain. I upended the keg, checked the contents dribbled out, and then grabbed Sophie's hand.
"Stay close to me." We ran down the tunnel, a thick black trail from the keg dragging behind us. The moan turned to sharp cries, and I hoped the rope held for a little longer. The keg under my arm grew lighter until the contents were emptied.
I muttered a prayer, and then I took the lantern from Sophie and tossed it to the ground. The glass shattered and the kerosene spilled on the ground.
"Please work," I muttered. The flame flared and stuttered from the wick's new prone position. Would it go out? A spark burst upward, then it raced along the tunnel, following the trail of gunpowder.
"Run!" I yelled and took off, dragging Sophie behind me.
How much time did we have? Would the alcohol ignite? I had no way of knowing. The barrels of alcohol and gun powder could have sat for ten years or fifty. When did smugglers last walk this way, hoping to avoid government officials?
The tang of salt grew stronger as we approached the entrance and the beach. We didn't quite make the open space before the sound wave swept us off our feet. I wrapped my arms around Sophie and pulled her to me as we flew through the air and were then flung to the ground. Hot wind raced over us from the explosion deep in the ground.
Only when silence fell did I stand and help Sophie to her feet. I brushed the sand and dirt from her dress as I listened. Nothing came from the tunnel, not a peep or whimper.
Sophie threw her arms around my neck and pressed her body into mine.
"You saved me," she whispered. Then she kissed me.
Never had gratitude tasted so sweet. Her lips slid over mine, and as I licked the seam of her lips, she admitted my tongue. We had our slow waltz, dancing to silent music as we explored each other's mouths. A soft moan swept through her body as I took the lead.
Sophie Abrahams most definitely knew I existed now.
About the Author
Books and writing have always been an enormous part of my life. I survived school by hiding out in the library, with several thousand fictional characters for company. At university, I overcame the boredom of studying accountancy by squeezing in Egyptology papers and learning to read hieroglyphics.
Today, I write fantasy historical novels with heart. I live in rural New Zealand surrounded by a weird and wonderful menagerie of animals.
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SERENITY HOUSE SERIES
Fairy-tale inspired stories set in Edwardian England, with a slight undead problem.
The flu pandemic of 1918 took millions of souls within a few short weeks.
Except it wasn't flu.
And death gave them back.
1: Ella, the Slayer
2: Henry, the Gaoler
3: Alice, the Player
4: Rory, the Sleeper
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The Pastry Chef’s Apprentice
A Cinderella Tale
By Melanie Cellier
Northhelm is a lovely kingdom. I jerked the scrubbing brush back and forth across the long table.
You’ll be happy here. A spray of suds flew into the air and landed on my arm.
They’re a careful, methodical people. Who better to teach pastry making? The brush leapt from my hands and clattered to the floor. I leaned both arms against the table and sighed.
I knew I wasn’t being fair to Northhelm but I wasn’t in the mood for fair. I wasn’t being fair to my younger self either. I had been happy in Northhelm, once. And they were excel
lent at making pastries.
“Bad day?” asked a sympathetic voice.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to let all the frustration drain away before turning to face my best friend.
“No worse than usual.” I shrugged.
He hoisted himself up onto the freshly scrubbed table and bit into an apple he’d no doubt stolen from the pantry.
“I find that hard to believe.” He paused for another bite. “You usually have a smile on your face. And that despite the fact that you’re here at dawn with the first of them and always the last to leave. How many times have I found you here, all alone, doing some menial chore or other?”
He gave me a mock glare as if daring me to disagree. I said nothing.
“And so, I’m forced to conclude that something worse than usual has occurred. Come on Hanna, tell me.” He patted the table beside him and produced a second apple from his jacket.
I looked around guiltily but no one was in sight. The palace kitchens were dark and quiet; the other staff already resting before our usual early start.
I settled onto the table next to him and accepted the apple.
“You know, one day the head cook is going to catch you stealing these and then you’ll be in trouble.”
Stefan grinned at me. “You know the cook has a soft spot for me. It’s because I’m such a charming fellow.”
“It’s because you flatter her so tremendously,” I scoffed.
“Well, yes, that too.” His laugh rang through the silent kitchens and I felt the last of my earlier tension slip away.
Stefan always had this effect on me. It was one of the reasons I liked him so much. He wasn’t the only palace footman who tried to steal kitchen treats, he was just the most successful at it. And he was the only one to regularly keep me company while I worked alone at the end of the day.
We munched in companionable silence for a couple of minutes while I thought about how different my years in Northhelm would have been without him.
“It’s Brianna, isn’t it?”
His sudden question made me start.
I grimaced and reluctantly nodded my head. I didn’t usually complain about work to him. I didn’t see how it would help anything and I knew that it made him feel helpless.
“That girl…” His vicious tone startled me and I gave him a questioning look.
“I know you’re too nice to complain about her but she makes me so angry I want to punch something!”
I couldn’t help laughing at him. He’d run a hand through his thick hair and now dark locks were sticking up in all directions. It made his angry expression comical.
He caught sight of himself in a shiny pot hanging beside one of the stoves and made a face.
“I wish you’d let me help you,” he said, vainly attempting to pat his hair back into place.
I was shaking my head before he’d even finished. “Of course I’m not going to let you get involved! Brianna may only be the daughter of a baronet but she’s still one of the upper class. You know perfectly well that people like us can’t afford to anger people like her.”
He shot me a sideways look that I couldn’t read, opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again.
“I’m pretty sure you anger her just by existing,” he grumbled after a moment of silence.
I wanted to deny it. My natural instinct was always to assume the best in people, but sadly his words rang true. I’d never done anything to antagonize Brianna and yet she hated me anyway.
The worst of it was that the other apprentices followed her lead. In Northhelm, the crown valued practicality and all younger children, even the nobility, were expected to learn some sort of useful occupation. Even so, it had been a long time since someone as high ranking as a baronet’s daughter had taken an apprenticeship in the royal kitchens.
She’d only done it because two years ago Master Girard had accepted the position of Royal Pastry Chef. He was the most famous pastry chef in the Four Kingdoms and his prestige made the role more palatable. Plus, she wanted to impress her friends with her fantastic creations.
“Let me guess,” said Stefan, “you were the one to bake that incredible dessert that the king and queen just complimented. The one that Brianna was happily taking credit for.”
“Wait, what?” My head shot up. “They served that? And the king and queen liked it?” A happy smile spread across my face and I bounced slightly on the tabletop.
Stefan shook his head. “Of course. You’re not upset that she took credit. I should have known.”
“I’m just so pleased they enjoyed it!”
“When have you ever baked anything that wasn’t delicious?” Stefan patted his lean stomach. “I’m always being teased about the extra weight I’ve put on from sampling your desserts.”
I rolled my eyes at him. Stefan was tall and muscled and didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. And that was despite the prodigious quantities of food he consumed.
“Master Girard said it wasn’t any good. He said he wasn’t going to be able to use it. I’ve never seen Brianna look so pleased about anything. That’s why I was upset earlier.”
“What?” The word exploded out of Stefan and I immediately regretted sharing the story. “That man is almost as bad as Brianna. I don’t care how talented he is, he’s an unfeeling monster if he can’t see your value.”
I shrugged. “You’re forgetting that I came here as a refugee from Rangmere.”
It was easy to keep my voice light. I’d had two years under Master Girard to adjust to my disappointment.
“And, even worse, you’re a commoner!” Stefan tried unsuccessfully to inject a lighter note into his tone.
“Exactly.”
“I still don’t understand why you stay.” Stefan sounded mutinous because in reality he knew the answer well enough.
“Yes, you do. I’ve dedicated five years of my life to this apprenticeship and I have less than a year to go. I’m not leaving here without my journeyman qualification, whatever I have to put up with in the meantime. This is what I’ve always wanted to do. Plus, if I left now, it would break my parents’ hearts.”
“You still haven’t told them, have you?”
I shook my head and tried not to look guilty. “I can’t bring myself to do it. They would be so upset.”
When I had been forced to flee Rangmere, my parents had followed and built a life for themselves in Northhelm. They had given up everything for me, even leaving my older brother, Hans, behind and they were so proud of me when I was given the pastry chef apprenticeship. At the moment they were on their way back to Rangmere, their first visit to my brother since they left all those years ago, but I usually spent my free half day in the city with them. They loved to hear stories from the palace kitchens and I knew they boasted about me to all their friends.
In the first three years of my training, it had been easy to think of positive things to say. The old pastry chef had been like a second father to me. He hadn’t cared where I’d come from; he’d just seen that I loved baking as much as he did. He took me under his wing, fought to get me the apprenticeship and taught me everything he knew. His death had been more devastating than any of my previous misfortunes.
A single tear dropped from my bowed head onto my wrist.
“Hey.” Stefan lifted my head with a gentle finger under my chin. “You’re thinking about Master Harman again, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” I whispered, taking a deep breath to compose myself.
“Don’t be.” He reached out and pulled me into his side. “I hate how much your life has changed just as much as you do.”
“It wasn’t so bad before Brianna came,” I said. “Master Girard didn’t like me much but he still let me bake. Now I spend most of my time cleaning and fetching.”
“Someone should remind him he has three apprentices, not Brianna, John and a scullery maid.” Stefan sounded ferocious and I felt guilty again for complaining and dragging him into it.
He saw my expression and tightened his arm around me. “You’re too nice for your own good. You should stop worrying about making me feel bad and remember that everyone else in the kitchens loves you. They haven’t forgotten that you’re always willing to go out of your way to help them. In fact, I snuck in here earlier to poach a bun and heard Girard telling one of the actual scullery maids to stay back and scrub this bench.” He raised both eyebrows at me.
I ducked my head, embarrassed to have been caught.
“The poor girl is sick and shouldn’t have been working at all. The cook would have sent her straight back to bed but Master Girard claimed he couldn’t do without her assistance.” I made a face. “That man is so self-absorbed, I don’t think he sees anything beyond his own nose.”
“Bravo!” Stefan gave me an extra congratulatory squeeze. “It’s a relief not to hear you making excuses for the man.”
I rolled my eyes.
“And don’t worry about Brianna, she’s just jealous. She can’t stand the fact that even though you’re a commoner and a Rangmeran, you’re still nicer, more talented, and prettier than she is!”
I couldn’t prevent a small blush at his outburst. I hung my head, hoping to hide it in the gloom.
Stefan had never done or said anything to suggest he wanted to be more than friends. But sometimes, when I was alone in the kitchen, I let myself dream of a different sort of future with him.
Abruptly he released me, ran his hands through his hair again and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Hanna. You deserve better than this.”
“Well, it’s not all bad,” I said with a smile. “At least I have you to keep me company.”
“Yes,” he said, an unexpected frown on his face. “For now.”
