by Emma Coal
“Oh, Louise!”
Louise accepted the hug but when Grace broke it, younger sister regarded older sister with discomfiture.
“What’s wrong?” asked Grace.
Louise frowned at her. “My dear sister, you’ve never hugged me like that. Not once that I can remember.”
“Yes I have, when you were young. I remember the last time. I was twelve which must have made you nine. It stuck in my mind because it was just before mother departed…,” Grace finished weakly, realizing the problem.
“Do you remember mother at all or how we were when we were little?”
Louise shook her head. “I remember some things about mother, her hair, her manner at the table, but almost nothing else. I don’t even know how she died.”
“Well, no one knows that,” said Grace.
“What?” asked Louise. She regarded her sister intently.
“Um, no one knew the disease that overcame her,” said Grace, smiling uncomfortably.
“Is it hereditary?”
“What?” Grace felt her throat tighten.
“Is it something that goes from mother to daughter? I only ask because there’s something different about you. I mean no insult but do you have it. Does Elsbeth? You two are so similar.”
Grace burst out with a deep throaty laugh. She shook her head at her startled sister.
“Don’t worry. Elsbeth doesn’t have it. You think we’re alike but really we’ve got nothing in common.”
“But you have it,” said Louise with grim certainty.
Grace’s laugh died out. “That remains to be seen. If I do than there’s nothing to be done about it until the ‘condition’ runs its course.”
Louise smiled and reached out to touch her sister’s hand. Grace didn’t withdraw, for once allowing the connection which had been started by the hug to build upon itself.
“When the time comes we’ll do what we can. We may have just lost a father, we wouldn’t want to lose a sister too, regardless of what the brat says.” She smiled at Grace’s surprised eye brow raise in reaction to the word brat.
With those words and another reassuring smile Louise stood, went over to pet the goat and left the enclosure.
Chapter Seven: Silver
When Grace returned to the kitchen it was empty. She continued through the house to her room at the end of the hall. It was spare, with only a wash stand, a chest of drawers with a few books and a small wardrobe which served to contain her small cache of belongings. Even before they’d moved she’d been more into doing things than having them.
Her bed was neatly covered with a small coverlet covered with crocheted cabbage roses for if it got cold at night. It had been made by her mother. She stroked the roses, enjoying the texture and then retrieved a ruck sack from the depths of her wardrobe. She filled it with the things she thought she’d need, a sewing kit, a small journal and fountain pen and various odds and ends as well as a spare shift and dress.
As Grace was heading off through the yard, she heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Cook hurry towards her with a cloth bag in her grip.
“I was just about to encourage you to go out and you were already doing it! I suppose I should have thought of that way you have of doing everything before it’s needed or asked for by a person,” said Cook with consternation.
Grace smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m beginning to see how vexing I can be.”
Cook’s mouth dropped open. A few seconds passed and she brushed a hair out of her face, regaining her composure.
“Well, I’ll be. You’re getting better already.”
Grace responded with a level stare. “What did you have for me?”
Cook pressed the item into the palm of her hand. Grace felt something cool and hard through the thick velvet of the little green bag. It had some sort of handle and a broader head of some sort. She untied the string and opened the bag, pulling out a small mirror. It was perfectly round and a tooled silver handle with bulbus blooms at the base and along the shaft, the center seeming to run through them. The glass of the mirror was perhaps as long as a large egg though quite a bit more round.
Grace turned it over in her hand. “It’s quite lovely but why do I need a mirror?”
“It’s no ordinary mirror, it’ll show you your father and help you find him.”
Grace examined the pretty little thing. She hefted the weight. Silver, even a relatively small amount, had a satisfying denseness. She peered into the looking glass and saw only her tawny eyebrows and her pale blue eyes staring back at her.
“It looks like silver,” she said matter-of-factly, “assuming it does work, how do I use it?”
Cook frowned. “I had you pegged as knowing your way around enchanted tools. You’re not a witch?”
Grace shook her head. “I’m something entirely different.”
Cook shrugged. “No wonder I didn’t feel drawn to exchange notes with you. Well then, when you want to see your father, take the mirror and hold it with both hands, one behind the glass and one on the handle. Stare into the glass and let your gaze go hazy. Think of your father, perchance even say, ‘show me my father,’ and it should work.”
Grace held the looking glass as instructed and let her eyes blur. She began to say the words but her tongue failed only a long drawn out hiss of shock came out. There was her father, plain as day. He sat in a chair lit warmly by a fire and seemed fine! Grace stared at Cook in amazement.
“It works, it works! You have to tell my sisters my father is fine, unhurt even! I have to go find him!”
As she turned away, Cook shoved a basket into her other hand.
“What’s this?”
“Food, you’ll need some if you’re gone long.”
Grace nodded her thanks and then turned to go again. Doubt began to cloud her judgement and then she turned back the way she had come.
“Where are you going?” asked Cook.
“I’ve got to look at Alabaster.”
“He’s been brushed. Your sister said she did it yesterday.”
“Hah, if Elsbeth did it than she didn’t do a very thorough job. I’ll find some hint that may lead me to our father.”
Grace started her search with her father’s saddle bags which had been carelessly thrown to one side of Alabaster’s box. There was nothing much, only the usual bits and bobs one would take on a trip, though Grace did pause over a small painting of her mother in a oval gilt frame. She put everything back and then turned to regard the horse. Alabaster peered back at her with one eye, the white only just beginning to show.
Grace stepped forward to the box and put her arms on the top of the half door. Alabaster stepped back and tilted his head as he blew air from his snout and whickered quietly.
This wasn’t going to work, she knew she stared too much and it made the already distrustful equine nervous. Grace looked off to the side and casually reached down into the bag Cook had given her, ignoring Alabaster’s increasing nerves at not being able to see her hands anymore. Her hand brushed against a familiar shape and she carefully pulled out a treasure, at least she hoped Alabaster would see it that way.
Keeping her eyes low, Grace presented the pear to the horse. It was beautiful with a brilliant red blush and just a hint of green. She almost felt bad sacrificing it. Pears were on of the fruits she occasionally enjoyed. She hoped the horse recognized the value of her offering.
To her surprise, she felt damp warmth on her hand. Whiskers brushed against her palm, the weight of the fruit disappearing. She looked up and was startled to find one large brown eye focused on her from less than a foot away. Taking care not to move too quickly or abruptly, Grace undid the latch.
“Come on Alabaster, I just want to look at you. Come on, please?” Her voice got higher with her desperation.
Alabaster slowly stepped out, keeping his eye on Grace. He snorted and stomped with a significant look. Grace reached into her bag and grabbed another piece of fruit. She held out the apple and in exchange Alabas
ter let her walk past his head. For safety she stopped at his stomach and went back the way she had come to get to the other side. Grace did not want to get kicked and the truce she had with the horse was clearly fragile.
She stepped back, frustrated and peered at Alabaster from the front. There it was. She didn’t want to get closer but she was certain there was moss on Alabaster’s front hoof. That was enough. Grace lured Alabaster back into his stall with her last apple and secured the door, leaving with a nod to the strangely cooperative creature. Perhaps he understood the severity of the situation. Perhaps she had overestimated how much the horses disliked her. She thought that perhaps she should know better than to assume a lack of intelligence from members of the animal kingdom.
Chapter Eight: Orange
Within the house, someone moved about, examining things and opening doors to peer into rooms which, until recently were dark and utterly unused. The house enjoyed it enormously.
The older man had begun to explore as soon as he woke, startling the house which was unused to being explored or even acknowledged. It hurried to pave the way, smoothing runners and trying to be properly accommodating. It even made preparations for the needs of its new guest. It had been a while but the house remembered what inhabitants within its boundaries were bound to want.
Johan couldn’t remember what had happened, where he was or how he had gotten there. He was, however, quite interested in the place where he found himself and surprised that it appeared to be abandoned. The dusty antiques that lurked in every room were otherwise in pristine condition. Perhaps the house was not abandoned and its owners spent their spring somewhere else.
Johan wistfully thought about taking a few small things anyway. They’d never be missed and he did have three daughters to provide with dowry. Well, he admitted reluctantly, perhaps only two. He had fears for either his youngest or his eldest. Then again, his middle might be loath to leave them as well. Well, all the more reason to improve his fortune if he had to take care of his entire brood for the foreseeable future.
Johan smelled something cooking and, heedless of the potential hazards of meeting the inhabitants of the house, hurried towards it. He was an old man and needed a full stomach to keep his health up. He opened the door behind which the intoxicating scent was emanating and was pleased to find himself in front of a roaring fire. As with the rest of the house, there was no one around. Even stranger, Johan found a small table and chair beside the lit kitchen hearth. It was laid out with scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and jam all on a gilt china plate.
“Many thanks,” said Johan to no one in particular and then fell upon the meal undeterred the lack of silverware, devouring it in a matter of minutes with the aid of the toast as both makeshift spoon and edible. Afterwards he leaned back in the spindly little chair and fell asleep, gently snoring.
Another log rolled into the fire and the chair, loaded down with the sleeping fellow, scooted a little further from the hearth so that his splayed leg was no longer almost against the fire screen.
Outside, near enough on the grounds to be heard, the master vocalized, his ululation chilling and throaty.
The house continued tidying, heedless of the noise. It would keep the ballroom drafty and dark and utterly untouched but the rest of itself would be refined for the appreciation of their new tenant. Perhaps there would be more and soon there would be noise and many footsteps up and down the stairs and round and round the halls. The house could only hope.
When Johan woke again he was in a room, a bedchamber. He looked around in consternation. The room was clean and there was a fire in the grate. There was a bed and a small writing desk. He stood from the chair with some difficulty and went over to the bed, patting the linens curiously. They were crisp and clean, laying smooth on the bed. Though the cloth was parchment colored it seemed fresh and new and not a remnant of some previous habitation.
Johan looked around the room and gripped his waist coat at the chest, feeling his heart beat begin to quicken.
“Is anyone there?” he called out unsteadily, his voice beginning to crack.
Was something eldritch fattening him up? He looked to the bed. No, nothing would fatten up someone and give them a place to sleep. He shook his head then yawned and took off his clothes which he hung neatly folded from the chair, slipping gratefully between the sheets. Whoever it was certainly knew how to treat an old man. Hot foot, cool sheets and peace and quiet. It would do no good for him to worry and he was still quite tired.
The warm moist scent of sponge filled the kitchen and crept down the hallway. The halls breathed, drawing the smell further until it slipped through the crack in the door. Once the delicious aroma tickled the middle-aged man on the sweet spot between his large twitching nose and his magnificent lip whiskers, he stirred.
Johan’s senses finally snapped into focus halfway through the Victoria sponge. He looked down at his plate and felt a cozy warmth fill his chest. This place was heaven. He did wonder where his benefactor had gotten the strawberries. It was a little early in the season for them and they seemed unusually large.
The house felt claws upon the balcony and the groan of the wood as a creature crawled inside. It didn’t give it much thought; there was far more of interest with the new tenant. Tomorrow the house would start lighting more rooms and allow the man to find the most interesting things. It looked forward to seeing him gasp in delight. The master would stay put and the doors to his chamber, if it could be so called, were securely stuck. The two inhabitants wouldn’t meet unless the master chose to venture forth and he never did, not ever, not anymore.
Chapter Nine: Smaragdine
The day was well on its way out when Grace reached the cliffside. She often felt more comfortable beside the water, but it was so strange that her father had come anywhere near the place. His journey should have taken him to the coast, yes, but in the opposite direction. No one chose to travel along the cliffs in any case. It wasn’t safe.
She found the section of rock along the cliff which had eroded enough to let someone with sure footing and an interest in privacy climb down to the little cove. Grace descended quickly, sidestepping loose rock, moss and tangled vines and jumping the last few feet to the rocky shore. Here seemed a good place to spend the night, among the rocks and possibly in one of the higher caverns. No one would find her and she could feel the breeze off the water and taste the salt in the air, something she quite enjoyed.
The waves came and went with each layer of water sliding onto and then into the rest, sheets of olive and smaragdine evocative of seaweed, as the sun, then quite low in the sky, shone through them.
Murmuring and then strange, protracted shouts rang out which broke the trance Grace had fallen into as she’d gazed at the water. She turned from her position sitting on one of the higher black rocks to see two men run a boat onto the shore as the last dregs of light, which crawled along the water, began to slip away. She moved to be out of their sight but it was too late.
One of them waved and called out in her direction, though whatever he said she couldn’t catch it. It was a wonder they could see her at all. Perhaps it was her light hair or that a figure would stand out on the beach. The cops was fairly small and filled with little more than black rocks, dark pebbles and the greenery which climbed the cliffs.
‘Oy, who are you?”
Grace watched warily as one of the fishermen got within shouting distance which he did.
“Hello, How’d you get ere?”
She remained perched on the rocks and pointed to the point where the cliffs became scalable, her eyes never leaving him.
The man looked doubtfully at where she pointed and then held out a hand towards her. It was a gesture more than anything since she was several feet above him and couldn’t have touched his hand if she tried.
“Ere, why don’t you come down and have a talk with us?”
Grace shook her head.
“Damn and blast!”
She hurriedly turned to
see the other fisherman trying to come up the rocks from the side. He’d slipped and fallen, scraping his arm.
She looked from one man to the other, apprehensive. Their rough physiques and manner did nothing to calm her.
“Come on, you have nowhere to go,” said the first persuasively.
“We won’t be going nowhere,’ the other said. He groaned as he got to his feet and began trying to climb up again. The other fisherman tried on his side. He was making some progress as he was slimmer than the other and despite the fact that the sea and son had weathered their faces to the same degree, clearly at least a little younger.
Grace watched with widening eyes. She began to vocalize under her breath. Whatever was happening she didn’t like it. She stood her ground and, reluctant to leave a perch that was, for the moment at least, safe, glared.
The rumbling in her throat intensified and without really being conscious of it, she opened her mouth and began to growl.
The fisherman at the front stopped to stare and, when his eyes met hers, she felt her lips draw back. Her teeth were quite good, very bright and robust. Sharp.
Grace yowled passionately, keeping her eyes on the man. The sound echoed back and forth and distorted on the cliffs, resonating in the caverns on the other side of the cops and mutating into a whole range of hisses and ululations. Grace kept going, calling back to her own noises, all the while watching the men from her crouch upon the rock pile.
The second fisherman fell and the first jumped from his perch.
“Wha-,” said the older man.
The younger man hurried over him, brushed him off and pulled him roughly up by his shirt collar.
“It’s a fey. We vexed a fey, a nixie or a selkie or some spirit of a shipwrecked maiden,” he said, eyes wide with fear.
The two men regarded Grace in terror then rushed off to their boat. Despite that the sun had fully set they launched the little skiff, pausing only to heave something onto the beach.
