Elsa turned to Bruno at last. “And you, my friend?”
Bruno heaved a sigh. “I had thought myself too old for a career change, but I find all of this youthful enthusiasm infectious, if exhausting.” He flashed Karl a nervous look. “If the fleet will have me back . . .”
Gus waved a dismissive hand. “The regulations you supposedly broke that earned you a discharge aren’t even active anymore. I’m sure they’ll take you on, especially since you’ll only be a crewman.” He glanced around at his friends, who were staring open-mouthed at Bruno.
Bruno was staring open-mouthed at him. “You knew?” he asked, flabbergasted.
“What?” Gus said, shrugging his shoulders. “I hear things.”
“You were in the fleet?” Elsa gasped. “Why didn’t you ever say so?”
Bruno tore his shocked gaze away from Gus with difficulty. “I was discharged, as Gus said, for breaking regulations. In those days, families weren’t permitted aboard fleet ships—we were still fighting the war, and ships of the line were considered front lines. No civilians allowed.” He paused.
“Bruno. Are you blushing?” Elsa asked, stunned.
“I smuggled my wife aboard,” he confessed. “And we got caught.”
“You old dog!” Jaq exclaimed.
Marraine shushed him. “What happened to your wife after you were discharged?” Her face was serious again.
Bruno met her gaze, his face somber again. “She was killed in the war. Just before the Battle of Castle Nebula,” he added, turning to Karl. “I know the death toll on her planet would have been much higher had your father not arrived when he did.” He looked at the lieutenant with something like pleading on his lined face. “Still want me aboard, after hearing all this?”
Karl said nothing, but he pulled the man into a one-armed hug.
Bruno smiled, such a rare occurrence that Elsa found herself mirroring it without conscious thought when he turned to face her. “Then yes,” he told her. “I’ll come with you.”
Elsa kissed him on the cheek, blinking hard. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear.
The music struck up, and dancing couples began to fill the center of the hall.
Karl turned to Elsa. “May I have this dance?”
She smiled and gave him her hand.
Curious to learn more about Elsa and the Cinder crew?
Don’t miss “The Star Bell” to see where the ongoing adventure leads!
Also grab a copy of “The Battle of Castle Nebula” to see where Elsa’s story began.
STEPHANIE RICKER is a writer, editor, and tree-climber. She adores the cold and the snow but lives in North Carolina anyway, where she enjoys archery, hiking, canoeing, and exploring with friends.
Stephanie’s fiction has been published in Bull-Spec, a magazine of speculative fiction, and in four consecutive editions of The Lyricist, Campbell University’s annual literary magazine. She was the editor of the 2009 edition of The Lyricist, which won first place in the American Scholastic Press Association Contest. Stephanie’s non-fiction has been published in an assortment of medical magazines and newsletters, and her senior thesis on Tolkien was published in the 2009 issue of Explorations: The Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity for the State of North Carolina.
You can find out more about Stephanie and her writing on her blog: www.QuoththeGirl.wordpress.com
To my wonderful family for all the many ideas.
1
Leaves swirled on the moonlit streets of Winslow village as Tilly Higgins sped past closed shops, her arms wrapped tightly about herself to keep out the cold autumn wind. The thought of hot cider made her quicken her pace, and she ran up to a crooked little inn, opened the door, and rushed inside.
Apple Tree Inn, the nightly gathering place of all Winslow residents, and in many ways the core of the town’s happiness, always had a warm fire crackling on the hearth and was known for its good cider and company. Low ceilings and the smell of cooked apples made the inn feel like home to anyone who would wish to enter, and clusters of candles glowed softly on each table, lighting up all corners of the room.
“Tilly! We were beginning to think you wouldn’t come tonight.” Bruce, the rotund butcher, spoke around his pipe from his warm seat by the fireplace. His comment was followed by murmurs of agreement throughout the inn.
“Sorry,” Tilly answered as she unwound the scarf from her neck and unbuttoned her coat, revealing an ankle-length maid’s dress. “I had quite a bit of work to finish up.” She walked to the rough wooden counter near the back of the room where Caroline, the owner of Apple Tree, was serving up her famous cider.
“You seem upset, Tilly.” Caroline, who was like a mother to almost every young person in the town, addressed Tilly without even looking at her while pouring fragrant cider into an aged mug.
Tilly didn’t respond. Instead, she sat in a rickety chair and waited for Caroline to hand her the drink. “Thanks.” She sipped it and closed her eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Caroline leaned over the counter, brushing a graying strand of hair away from her eyes.
Tilly set down the mug and fingered a small chip on its rim. “You know about the new family that just moved into Baker Woodlow’s old house across the street?”
“Aye. But none of us have seen hide nor hair of them since they arrived two days ago!” Caroline squinted. “Whatever can this new family have done to make our girl so unhappy?” The inn suddenly became quiet as the other villagers heard mention of the newcomers and listened to what Tilly had to say.
“The mother, Mrs. Carlisle, sent her application in to Lord Hollingberry. She and her daughter will be working at Winslow Manor, and Mrs. Carlisle got the position of head housekeeper.”
Outraged whispers rippled through the room, rising above the growling of logs shifting in the fireplace. Caroline was silent for a moment then patted Tilly’s hand, offering her a comforting look. “I know how hard you’ve been working for Lord Hollingberry. You’ve devoted the past two years of your life to your duties at Winslow Manor! It don’t seem right that he gave this new woman the position and not you. But cheer up, sweet girl. Perhaps they’ll be a nice family to work with. You never know.”
Satisfied, the other inn residents resumed their own conversations. But Caroline’s kind remarks didn’t make Tilly feel any better. She had already sunk into the bowels of self-pity—in her mind she played out a scene of voicing her angry thoughts to Lord Hollingberry. But deep down in her heart she knew she was wrong. She was too young to be a housekeeper; girls of seventeen served as maids. Besides, several of the other girls working at Winslow Manor were far more experienced than she.
But Tilly still felt a bit slighted by her employer. Lord Hollingberry had taken her under his wing two years ago, when her father died, and allowed her to stay in a small room by the kitchen in Winslow Manor. Due to his kindness, Tilly worked long and hard. She was grateful for all he had done for her; and yet, since she had labored so faithfully, she couldn’t help expecting some kind of promotion . . . however unrealistic that may be.
Mrs. Carlisle was now in charge of Winslow Manor—a disgruntling fact, but one Tilly had to accept. This was how normal maids were treated, and Tilly wanted nothing more than to lead a normal life.
Just as she took another sip of cider, someone grabbed her shoulders from behind, and the hot drink sloshed into her lap. Startled, she jumped out of her chair and snatched a rag from the counter.
“Whoops! I didn’t think you’d make a mess on yourself.”
Dabbing at her now cider-spotted maid’s uniform, Tilly glared at the young man responsible for jolting her. “Rodger. I might have known. What are you doing, sneaking about and scaring defenseless girls?” She threw the soiled cloth at her friend and smirked, forgetting her self-pity for a moment.
Rodger grinned and tossed the rag back at her, then leaned against the counter while Caroline poured cider for another villager. “Oh, you know. A boy has
to tease a girl every once in a while or else he ceases to exist.”
“Is that so?” She smiled at Rodger. He was the sort of person everyone liked. If he walked into a room, he undoubtedly knew everyone in it. Rodger was a little on the short side, and a mop of unruly brown hair dangled in his sparkling hazel eyes. But it was his friendly personality that made him completely charming.
“I heard what you said. Everyone did. And we’re all on your side.” He became serious and looked at her the way a little boy would look at a wounded puppy.
“There aren’t sides.” Tilly shook her head but was secretly happy that her friends supported her. “Thank you, though.”
Rodger winked at her. “Anytime.” Then, with a glint in his eye, he abruptly changed subjects. “So, will you be going this year?”
She set her mug down and bit her lip. “Going where?”
“You know where I mean. It’s time you had a bit of fun, and you’ve never been before! I’ll be your escort, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Rodger, I have been before, and I saw something that frightened me very much. I’ve never forgotten it . . . not to mention I don’t care for magic.”
“You’re a big girl now! Why don’t you give it another try?”
“I’ll think about it.” Tilly knew this was the only answer that would satisfy him, at least temporarily. She watched him walk over to the coat rack and slip on his short tweed jacket.
“You want me to walk you home?” he asked, wrapping a blue scarf around his neck.
“No. I’ll be fine.” She smiled at him as he ambled to the door.
“Goodnight, fair maiden!” Rodger bowed dramatically, and someone in the inn clapped. With another flourish he stepped outside.
Tilly decided she was ready to depart as well. The next day she would meet Mrs. Carlisle and her daughter, and she wanted to be well rested for the encounter.
“Goodnight!” she called to everyone in Apple Tree Inn, then buttoned up her coat and headed towards Winslow Manor. The wind felt even colder now that she had been inside the warm inn, and she covered her mouth and nose with her scarf. As she walked home, the heels of her laced-up boots clicking hollowly on the cobbled street, she looked around at the little town she had grown up in.
The village of Winslow was the quaintest place imaginable, and rustling leaves and scents of fall made it more whimsical than ever. Little groups of cottages with pumpkins on their steps were scattered throughout the village, and at the end of the main street, towering above them all with authority, stood Winslow Manor. No gate or wall separated Lord Hollingberry’s great house from its neighbors, and the village folk were proud of its stately position; it provided a sense of security and welcoming warmth.
Tilly sighed again when she thought of meeting Mrs. Carlisle and her daughter. For the past few years of her life she had worked alongside other maids who didn’t get in each other’s way. It was hard work, to be sure, but she and the other maids had developed their own method of cleaning and organizing which the two Carlisle women were sure to uproot. Change was necessary, she reasoned with herself, and the Manor was Lord Hollingberry’s and no one else’s. If he wanted his bed to be made one way or another then he would tell Mrs. Carlisle.
But for all her reasoning, Tilly wasn’t convinced that she and this Mrs. Carlisle would be compatible.
The street’s emptiness caused chills to crawl up her spine, and she suddenly wished she had accepted Rodger’s invitation to accompany her home. A gap between the cottages and Winslow Manor gave her a perfect view of Bromley Meadow—to most people, a place of magic and delight.
To Tilly, a place of fear.
She knew it wasn’t wise to stop and look at the meadow on such an eerie night, but there was something enticing about the silver halo the moon cast over the rolling hills. She peered to her left and gazed at its haunting beauty.
The meadow itself had never seemed terribly extraordinary to Tilly, but extraordinary things did occur amongst its soft grass and swaying dandelions. Rodger was hoping she would go to Bromley Meadow this year, but she didn’t think she had the courage.
An image of blood-red eyes and sharp yellow teeth flashed in her mind.
Tilly rushed around behind the manor and flew to the back door, desperate to get away from the moon’s glow highlighting the meadow.
Calming herself, she stepped over the threshold and into the kitchen to find Mrs. Gregson, the cook, sipping tea quietly at a small table, a plate of freshly baked cookies before her. All of the other servants went home each night, but since Tilly was an orphan and Mrs. Gregson was widowed, Lord Hollingberry insisted that Winslow Manor be their home.
“Hello, Mrs. Gregson. Busy day?” Tilly knew that warm cookies and tea meant Mrs. Gregson wasn’t feeling in the most favorable of moods.
The cook lifted her red face and looked at Tilly, gesturing to the seat across from hers. “Sit down, Tilly. I’ve got somethin’ on my mind that needs to be said.”
Tilly raised her eyebrows and sat as the cook had bidden her, nabbing a cookie and munching on it while waiting for the older woman to speak.
“I don’t like this Carlisle business,” Mrs. Gregson began. “You and I have worked together for two years, and everything has turned out splendidly! I don’t get in your way, you don’t get in mine. We both get to do things how we want to. But now Lord Hollingberry—I’m not sayin’ anything bad ’bout him!—has given this woman the keys to the house and is allowing her to tell us and everyone else what to do. Mrs. Carlisle is a stranger to Winslow. She don’t know the way things work here.” The cook poked an emphatic finger Tilly’s way then sipped her tea again.
“I agree with you, of course.” Tilly tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear. “Lord Hollingberry knows what he’s doing, though, and has his reasons. But don’t think I’m not just as upset as you are, because I am.” She finished off her cookie and rubbed her hands together, dropping crumbs in her lap.
“Go on to bed, Tilly.” The cook heaved a sigh. “Thank you for listening. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tilly told her friend goodnight and slipped from the kitchen. Once safely in her room across the hall, she took out a matchbox and lit a candle by her window, then sat down on her bed and looked around the small space she called home.
An oak wardrobe stood in front of her, and to her right a floor-length mirror leaned against the wall. A vase on a little table sprouted the marigolds and ferns she had picked that morning, and a clump of dried lavender was suspended above her window. It wasn’t a large space, but Tilly loved it. Her room was a safe haven.
She stood again, looked at herself in the mirror, and realized how tired she appeared. Her dark maid’s dress brought out the shadows under her eyes, and she had grown thin in the past few months. Tilly suddenly realized that what she really needed was a holiday from cleaning.
She thought about what Rodger had said. He was right; she did need to enjoy herself and have a bit of fun. Tilly slipped on her nightdress and blew out the candle.
Some minutes later, after she had turned to one side then decided she was more comfortable on the other, a scuttling noise caused her eyes to open wide. Ears alert, Tilly glanced towards the window. A shadow darted just beyond her vision.
She fumbled desperately for the matchbox. Keeping well away from the window, she held the lighted candle towards the glass and squinted, her trembling hand causing wax to spill over.
The wavering light revealed no menacing creature.
Once her heart had calmed, Tilly exhaled slowly, blew out the candle, crawled back in bed, and forced her eyes closed. She told herself there had been nothing outside, nothing peering in at her from the darkness.
Nothing at all.
2
The sun’s early rays slowly woke Tilly. She opened her eyes, feeling rested and happy, only to have that feeling crushed by the sudden remembrance of the invading Mrs. Carlisle and her daughter. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, allo
wing herself a few moments of tranquility before the day’s mad rush began.
“Tilly!”
Mrs. Gregson’s voice bellowed at the door, accompanied by a frantic rattling. “Tilly! You’ve slept too late! The Carlisle women are comin’ up the front steps right now, and everyone else is already lined up to meet ’em!”
“Coming Mrs. Gregson! Thank you!”
Now Tilly understood why she felt so rested. How stupid of her, sleeping in on a day like this! She leapt up from her bed, mentally thanking Mrs. Gregson over and over again. A minute later she was dressed, her hair up under her maid’s cap. Dark, unpinned tendrils fell in her eyes. She scrambled to the back door and rushed around to the front of the Manor, lining up beside Ellen, her fellow maid.
“You’re late,” Ellen whispered the obvious from the corner of her mouth.
Tilly didn’t respond but watched as Mrs. Carlisle climbed to the top of the steps, her daughter following close behind. The woman curtsied to Lord Hollingberry, and the daughter followed suit.
“Well, well. We’re quite happy to have you here, quite happy. I know the girls will be glad to have you as their authority. Glad, yes, they’ll be glad.” Lord Hollingberry was in the habit of repeating himself several times over, and he looked as though he could be blown off the steps of Winslow Manor if a strong enough gust of wind hit him.
The lord was a dear old man who loved his servants and treated them as though they were his own family. Tilly often thought he must have been tall and handsome in his youth, even if he was hunched over and wrinkled now, much like a candle exposed to too much heat. He had big eyes that resembled a pug’s, and, like a pug’s, they watered when he got excited, so he was often dabbing at them with his handkerchief.
Tilly hoped neither he nor Mrs. Carlisle had noticed her absence, although Lord Hollingberry always observed more than people thought.
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