Telegrams from a Medieval War

Dragon bite festers STOP Must eat cow liver STOP Tastes terrible STOP Be home soon STOP


Langley got impaled on his own lance STOP Held funeral STOP I get his armor STOP Tad got his horse STOP Lucky Tad STOP


Dragon set camp on fire STOP We killed dragon STOP Dragon steaks cooked on Dragon flame tastes good STOP All men sick with stomach ache STOP


Tell Mom not to worry STOP I only lost one leg STOP Richard lost both STOP I hate camels STOP

Friday Freewrite

I walked a long way yesterday.  Walked right out of my head and into the black beyond.  Have you ever been there?  Not to my black beyond, I mean, but to yours?  Well they might be the same one I'm really not sure.  No one ever talks about it.  Most people probably don't know it's there.

But it is.  It's the reason we're scared of the dark.  Scared of what follows behind.  Scared of what comes after.

Because we already know: we carry it around with us in our heads all the time.  In the back, in a small unseen corner that never gets dusted there is a door.  Mine's large and wooden with big iron straps on it and a large iron ring for a handle.  It's a very heavy door and it's only meant to be opened once.  You know when.

But this is me we're talking about and I've always been too curious by half about what goes on in my brain.  So there I was poking around where I shouldn't be and I found this door in front of me.  How very odd.  Right at the limit of my brain, right at the curving wall of my consciousness I find a door to...what?  How could there be a door at the edge of me?  Where would it go?

Surprisingly it wasn't hard to open.  I just had to really want to go through it--but then, most people probably don't ever want to run out on themselves so their door stays shut tight and unnoticed in their undusted corner.

I think it's been calling to me lately.  I used to shout at it--or it would shout at me, I was never sure--'what are you?'  What are you?

Recently it's been a bit different.  Something's been calling back 'Come here.'  Come here.

Yes.  I'm coming.

Through the daily worries and joys I'm coming.  Past the shoulds and the should-nots I'm coming.  Past the buried emotions and the rock bottom instincts I'm coming.

Come Here.

I'm at the door.  I'm coming.

Come Here.

I'm here.

Here.

Oh God it's so dark it's so empty there's light above me and I think it was the door I came through but it's such a small patch of not-dark now and I think I'm falling further and further away and am I breathing I can't tell anymore if I'm breathing maybe I don't need to breathe anymore I've fallen right out of my body is my body breathing is it all right how will I ever get back how will I ever get out of this black beyond the black the black oh God it's so empty and I'm so small I'm getting smaller I don't know how I know but I'm getting smaller the black is taking everything away and soon I won't be able to go back there'll be nothing left of me

That's it.  That's what the black beyond is.  It's nothing.  Forever.  And you wonder why we all dream of falling and falling and never hitting the ground until BAM!  We jerk awake in our beds and tell ourselves it was just a dream, just a nightmare.  It wasn't real.  It couldn't be real.

We don't know that what we're really experiencing is time in reverse: a memory of what is to come.  The black beyond is stalking us in our heads and we don't even know it's there.

Don't go there.  Don't find your door whatever it looks like.  Don't wish to see what's on the other side.  There's a price if you want to come back.  A price to pay that you might not want to.  Because the price to pay to come back is to come back and live forever with the knowledge of what's inside waiting.  There's too much truth living in you now for all the lies and fakery to fit.  There's no place you fit anymore.  But there will always be the door.  Always the black beyond.  And when you finally dissolve into it maybe it won't be black anymore.  Maybe it won't be empty.  Maybe.

Not a lie

Here, have some cake.
-What?
Cake.  You're in shock, you need some sugar.
-(takes bite) I hate cake.
Good, you're feeling better enough to remember that you hate cake.  Have another bite.
-(takes bite)  Wha--What's going on here?  What happened?  I demand--
Ah, good.  You're feeling better enough to make hysterical demands.  You've probably had enough cake.

Remove

Awakened sunlight streaming roses into cheeks pale with sleep.
A heavy head holds down a pillow.
Inhaled by darkness, golden breath frees dust motes to dance--
Dance.

Curl your arm around your head and dream no more of opened eyes and clothing spread upon a chair where mingled shadows urge duality--sleep/wake.  Sleep Wake.

Have you got HIADSD?

Oh no.  Oh no no no.  This is bad.  This is very very bad.  You--you just touched my skin.  I'm sorry.  I'm so very very sorry.  But you're going to die now. 

What?  No, no--you don't understand.  That wasn't a threat.  Please listen to me!  You've been infected with a Horribly Infectious And Deadly Skin Disease. 

No!  This isn't some sort of joke!  You're going to die!  And unless you're all alone in this world I suggest you get on your cell phone and call the people you love and tell them that you've only got a few hours to live. 

That's what I said: a few hours. 

No, no you can't!  Weren't you listening?  I said it was a Horribly Infectious and Deadly Skin Disease!  If you go see your family you'll probably infect them too.  One touch, that's all it takes.  And in a few hours you'll rapidly develop bloody boils and explosive pustules full of pus--and then you'll die. 

Why aren't I dead yet?  I'm immune.  I'm just the carrier. 

Hold on now, there's no need for that sort of language.  Why should I be the one wearing gloves?  How was I supposed to know you were going to reach for the last bottle of chocolate syrup at the same time as me?

By the way, now that you've got HIADSD and are about to die, do you really need that?  'Cause I was just at a party and we ran out of chocolate syrup, and we could really use--

Oh, thanks, thanks very much!  Have a nice day!

Monday Musing: Review

So it's been a while since our regularly scheduled Monday Musing.  I hope you haven't minded that Tabitha was taking up all the space. 

On that remark, any thoughts?  I know I've got to start my second round of edits to tighten it up some more, but after that I'll be starting to seriously consider sending it out into the publishing world.  I know I have several options.

1.  Typical: get an agent and have them shop the book around.
     -Pros: the agent does all the marketing and things I hate to do and am really bad at.  They get a real publisher to look at my book and possibly publish it.
     -Cons: I have to pay the agent and the publisher a large amount of whatever I make off my book.  So unless I sell thousands of copies, I make next to nothing.

2.  I publish online all by myself.
     -Pros: I don't have to spend very much to get it out into the world, and other people can buy it for cheap, which will lead to more people buying it.
     -Cons: I have to do all the marketing myself.   Brrgh. 

3.  I try to shop the book around to real publishers all by myself.
    -Pros: not paying for an agent.
    -Cons: real publishers don't read unsolicited manuscripts, and if a publisher picks me up (somehow) then I have to pay for an agent anyway.

So far option number 2 (do it all myself) is the likeliest one I'll pick.  Because even though it might not work all that well, I won't lose any money by trying. 

But if I were to try option 3 (look for a publisher myself) I'd likely send Tabitha overseas.  I've got a hunch it might do slightly better over there, at least at first.  Of course I could be horribly wrong.  That's always possible.

It's just all so incredibly frustrating!  I know it's a stereotype that artists are horrible at business and selling their art etc, but I seem to be falling straight into that--do not pass go, do not collect $200.  (ooh, $200.  Please?)

My sister gave me some wonderful advice about how to connect with other people online and really get into the blogging community so that I can self-promote.  My sister is amazingly smart and good at that sort of thing. 

I, on the other hand, wiggle and squirm and make faces and pout horribly whenever I'm told I have to interact with other living beings--ones I don't know, that is.  Somehow it feels so much worse to bother someone I don't know at all, as opposed to bothering my friends and family relentlessly.  (how many of you have actually finished reading my book?  Hmm?? :)  ) 

I feel like as soon as I say anything to promote myself, I'll sound like an arrogant self-obsessed moron. 

I hate arrogant self-obsessed morons.  I don't wanna be an arrogant self-obsessed moron!

'pout.'

Instead I now just sound like a whiny self-obsessed moron.  Grr.

But when I think about shoving myself into other people's blogs just in the hope that someone will notice me and read my stuff, I get all panicky and I find myself breathing really fast and the only thing I can think to do is crank some music and play another 50 rounds of spider solitaire.

It's not the rejection I'm afraid of: I've been ready for my writing to be rejected since I was 12.  (lots of people with bad taste out there, donchaknow.  :)  )  I'm okay with that part.  You don't like what I write?  Okay.  Your opinion. 

The thing I'm really afraid of is ruining someone else's day.  No, really. 

The smallest of actions can have the largest of impacts, and I'm afraid that my self-aggrandizing actions could have a seriously negative effect on someone, which leads to their having a bad morning, which leads to a bad day where they yell at their co-workers who all have a bad day who all go home and kick their dogs and are mean to their spouses and kids--etc etc etc, the cycle keeps going on.  And it's all my fault.

Wow, I just reread that and I came to the conclusion that not only am I an arrogant self-obsessed moron, I'm giving myself way too much credit.  I mean, it is possible that one of my actions could adversely effect someone which leads to a negative chain of events---but!  That also precludes the idea that no one out there is able to shrug off a bad day and control their own emotional state of mind. 

Oh, wait, I live in a very insecure society where no one is taught how to do things like that...drat it, I was feeling better for a moment--

No!  I will not give in!  As much as I might have the potential to ruin someone's life, I cannot take sole responsibility for it!  It is not my fault if they have a bad day, and their actions are a result of their behavior: not mine. 

Don't give yourself too much credit.  Don't give yourself too much credit.  The world is a wide and wondrous place.  Don't give yourself too much credit.  Don't give yourself too much credit.

This shall become my new mantra whenever I'm panicking about ruining people's lives because I made a slightly self-promoting comment somewhere.  Maybe it'll work.  :)

Thanks for listening.  I'm sorry it was such a mess, but I really needed to work through that.

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 3

Click Here if you missed chapter 2

Chapter 3

The Locals Call it Desperation Manor

(Because to want to stay there, you must be desperate)

            Tabitha looked up at her Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler, the man sneering down at her—for that was his main expression, although his face had been known to exhibit anger, shock, and on one memorable occurrence, a smile (but that was only when Hilsida fell into the pigpen after her cup of afternoon tea).  Even when he was asleep he sneered, as if his dreams were really nothing remarkable and he’d seen it all before.  He jerked his head to the side and walked into the gloom of the front hall, either expecting Tabitha to follow him, or not caring what she did.  She followed, Wulafric trotting at her heels, up carpeted stairs and down carpeted halls, though all the carpeting could have stood some washing and beating, and possibly could have stood some new carpeting, as it appeared as if a horde of angry barbarians with dirty feet had stormed down the halls and then stormed right back, doing this several times with possible intervals to dip their feet in a mud hole.  They passed rooms with doors that sagged open, looking like the aforementioned barbarians had opened them with a battering ram, while other rooms seemed to be locked tight and undisturbed.

 The Butler finally stopped in front of an intact door at the back corner of the Manor house.  He dug around in his pocket for a key which, when found, creakingly protested being used for its original purpose.  But the door opened onto a room that was sparsely appointed and a little worn, but not as bad as some of the rooms Tabitha had glanced into on the way down the hall.  All the furniture was intact (instead of in various sized pieces like a giant’s toothpicks), the rugs and wall hangings were old (but not shredded as if by giant rats) and the windows were small (but not broken, for Tabitha had heard the wind whistling around shattered edges from every direction in the house).  All in all it was not a bad room.  The puppy immediately tried to jump onto the bed and missed, only jumping as high as the bed skirt.  Tabitha crossed to him and picked him up to put him on the bed.  He yipped to himself in excitement. 

An awful noise caused Tabitha to turn around: Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler was clearing his throat in his imitation of the normally polite gesture.  But where the Bushfield’s Butler had a quiet rumble of a polite cough, Great Aunt Hilsida’s Butler sounded like he was hacking an avalanche, which was against rule number 86 of the Butler’s Guide to Butlery which stated ‘If you really must interrupt your Master or his guests, do so in a way that is loud enough to be heard, but not quite soft enough to be ignored.’  Although it must be said that perhaps Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler was not breaking the rule—he was just overused to Great-Aunt Hilsida.  The Butler motioned again for Tabitha to follow him.  She left her satchel on the bed next to the puppy but when she would have picked him up, there was another horrendous throat clearing behind her combined with a shaking of the Butler’s head.  Tabitha’s eyes narrowed.  She had only just gotten her pet, and she had no desire to leave him behind.  She continued her motion to pick Wulafric up, but the Butler surprised her by grabbing her arm and yanking her away from the bed and out the door, closing it before she could gather her wits to object.  Once out in the hall, he swung her around to face him, gripped her shoulders hard and leaned down close.  “You feed him, clean up after him, and we don’t tell her you have him, all right?”

Tabitha forced a “Wh-what?” through her mouth.

“She doesn’t like dogs,” was the reply that was tossed over the Butler’s shoulder as he sway-stepped at a remarkable speed down the hall.  Tabitha clenched her fists.  Fine.  All the more reason to make Great-Aunt Hilsida want to send her back as soon as possible.

Great-Aunt Hilsida was sitting in the second best parlor in a grey dress with burgundy trim that fanned out from her chair like a bloodstained shroud. (Actually, it really was the best parlor at the moment, and had been for quite some time since Great-Aunt Hilsida had mistaken an armchair for Napoleon Bonaparte and the other furniture for his secret police, and then proceeded to hack away at everything using an old sword that had been displayed over the mantel of the fireplace.  Even the walls had not escaped hacking, but then, Great-Aunt Hilsida’s afternoon tea had been particularly strong that day)  Her eyes were surrounded by sagging wrinkled flesh, while her mouth was as puckered and tight as a raisin stuffed inside a lemon.  She gripped a sturdy cane that was almost completely encased in metal, (it would be wise to remark that the metal was extremely dented) and she raised it to point at Tabitha.

“Your mother wants me to make sure you learn your lessons.  She has asked me to keep a close eye on you, and she has said that I may do anything I please if you should disobey me.  Are you thinking of disobeying me girl?”  Great-Aunt Hilsida leaned forward, settling her cane with a decided thump on the floor (the ground was pockmarked from many such thumps), “Because I know your mother is as softhearted and as softheaded as they come, but she knows I am not, oh, she knows I am not.  And I can form you into a Lady as she knows she cannot.  How does that make you feel, girl?  Are you angry now that I’ve insulted your mother, the inestimably weak Lady Bushfield?”  Tabitha stayed silent.  She wasn’t insulted, because everything Great-Aunt Hilsida said was correct.  In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to her to be insulted until Great-Aunt Hilsida said so, and even then, it didn’t seem to matter. 

Disappointed at the lack of response, Great-Aunt Hilsida leaned back in her chair.  “Yes, your mother is the silliest woman to be born in our family in three generations,” (not quite correct, as there is some room for argument about Neridell the Novice, a woman who was nearly famous for the amount of time she almost became a nun.  By the time of her death, the total was up to 35, a number only eclipsed by Beatrice of Bothon, who became a novice 58 times, but actually did make it to being a nun), “and I believe you take after her, yes indeed you do, I can see it on your face, her face—“ Great-Aunt Hilsida’s voice was rising, “and I will not have you defying me!  Do you hear me?  You will not defy me!  You will not—“ at this point she coughed scratchily and had to reach for a cup of cold tea on a table at her elbow.  She downed what was left of it and subsided into sullen murmurs and a dark glare at Tabitha who decided that it was a good thing she wasn’t planning to stay here.  The rumors had always said being near to Great-Aunt Hilsida might not be good for your health, and they appeared to be right.  (although one must wonder about how Great-Aunt Hilsida has managed to live so long being near to herself, but that is one of the great mysteries of life).  Great-Aunt Hilsida jerked her head toward the Butler who hadn’t left the room and the man cleared his throat loudly and turned to lead Tabitha back to her room.  But before she made it more than two steps, Great-Aunt Hilsida spoke again out of the depths of deepening darkness by the fireside, her voice sounding like the passage of a running man who shouts; the sound is loud at first, then trails off quickly.

“Girl, I understand your name is Lori.  Are you properly honored to carry it?  My own mother was named Lori, and I have seen no one to match her.  No one…”

That just about did it for Tabitha.  She had been willing to say nothing up until now, but on the subject of her name she could not remain silent. 

Tabitha turned back to her.  “I have always disliked the name of Lori, Great-Aunt Hilsida, no matter who carried it before I did.  I much prefer the weight of Tabitha.”

Great-Aunt Hilsida swelled (rather like a frog, actually, but the sound that came out of her throat was much less attractive than a bullfrog’s croak).  Her eyes flamed red in the reflected glare of the fire, her hands clenched at her cane and when she spoke, her voice cracked and boomed as if a wayward thundershower had found its way indoors. 

“You will be grateful for your name or I will make you so!  You wretch!  You festering pest of a worm!  You miserable maggot’s droppings!  You simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter!  That is your name now, girl!  Hear me?  That is your name now!”

It was perhaps an unfortunate time for Tabitha’s mind to wander, but she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually be named ‘you simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter.’  It would take quite a bit of time to say, and Tabitha had a hunch that it would never catch on with parents.  Who would want to take the time to say ‘You simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter, come here,’ when all they really wanted to say was, ‘Rachel, come here,’ or, ‘Jack dearest, don’t pick your nose,’ or, ‘Earnest, it’s time to go to sleep.’  No parent wanted their child’s name to be longer than the orders they gave them.  The orders might get ignored (more than usual, anyway). 

What was so unfortunate about the timing of Tabitha’s mental abstraction was that she missed what her Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler was doing, which was this: as soon as Great-Aunt Hilsida started swelling and shouting, he bowed (quite commendably) and abruptly turned and ran down the hallway as if he expected the house to come crashing down around his ears.  If Tabitha had noticed this, she might also have left, but she was too busy being distracted by the thought of actually being named ‘you simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter.’

Great-Aunt Hilsida arose.  Mountains have fallen down and oceans dried up with less force than the sight of Great-Aunt Hilsida standing up in a rage.  Despite what anyone who did not know her well might think, and despite all the appearances to the contrary, when Great-Aunt Hilsida moved, she moved like lightning, and what she moved toward now was Tabitha.

Tabitha, who had recovered from her distraction just in time to jump back from Great-Aunt Hilsida’s snarling lunge and race down the hallway after the fleeing Butler, Great-Aunt Hilsida close behind, her hand almost snagging the ribbons of Tabitha’s gown.  They ran down the dark hallway (for the sun had finally set), up the dark stairs, down the long corridor that led to Tabitha’s room and just before Great-Aunt Hilsida managed to insert an arm or a foot through the doorway, Tabitha shut it as fast as she could and locked it. 

The door shuddered on its hinges.  Tabitha shuddered in her shoes.  The door banged again, reminding Tabitha of half the rooms on the corridor with their doors shattered and rooms destroyed.  She had wondered what could have caused such destruction (ravening hordes of barbarians aside) and now that she knew, she could scarcely believe it.  Great-Aunt Hilsida, that old woman, was as strong as any two young men you could find, and as fast.  The door juddered and the lock clattered.  Tabitha supposed she should be grateful she had made it into her room, but the condition of the other rooms left her little hope that given time, Great-Aunt Hilsida wouldn’t get in.  She ran to her two small windows.  She was at least 10 feet off the ground.  Whirling around, she realized she had not seen her puppy since she came in.  Desperation made her search everywhere, but she found him at last under the bed, growling fiercely but tucked miserably into the farthest tightest corner he could find. 

“Wulafric, Wulafric,” Tabitha whispered as she crawled under the bed with him.  He licked her face and cuddled up against her, still facing the door and still growling softly.  Tabitha, overwrought and desperately unhappy, began to cry.  She had never imagined that it would be like this, that Great-Aunt Hilsida would in fact be a monster, an ogre as terrible as could be imagined, even by someone who hated faerie tales with ogres in them.  She had imagined an awful old lady, set in her ways and disagreeable, not this fiend in an old woman’s body.  No wonder there seemed to be no servants, that the Butler was no true Butler and everyone spoke of Great-Aunt Hilsida with a shudder.  No wonder.

And as Tabitha cried herself to sleep, Wulafric kept tiny guard over her, and although she never noticed when the door stopped its shaking and Great-Aunt Hilsida left to find other easier prey, Wulafric noticed, and sighed in relief.  For although he might one day be a large and fearsome protector, right now he was still a puppy, and even puppies who will grow up to be large and fearsome protectors can be afraid.

Chapter 4

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 2

Click Here for the first chapter

Chapter 2

Tabitha Travels to Aunt Hilsida’s and Gets a Dog

            On the day Tabitha was to depart, all the servants were running this way and that and hither and yon while her mother fluttered over every detail.  Which took some doing, as all the details had been seen to by Lord Bushfield, and Tabitha only had two medium sized trunks and a small satchel.  The main reason all the servants were running around looking busy is that they didn’t wish to catch Lady Bushfield’s eye and be treated to a tear-filled entreaty that they go look after Tabitha’s bags to make sure they were placed on the carriage correctly, or to make sure the Cook had packed a good meal in the carriage, or to see that Tabitha was where Lady Bushfield had last seen her (in the second best parlor, out of the way of the frantic furor).  Lord Bushfield was in his study (the door securely locked) and other than arranging matters, had evinced no interest in what was about to happen to Tabitha. 

But by some happy chance—or even happier plan—Tabitha was not to go alone on her journey.  A footman was being sent to help the coachman with the horses (you couldn’t really count the coachman or the footman as company—you might as well call the horses company), but Arthur the Tutor had volunteered his services to see Tabitha safely to Aunt Hilsida’s house.  He had noticed that Tabitha hadn’t been herself since she heard the news that she was to leave, and he had taken to falling asleep during lessons even more regularly than he normally did so that he would not have to take her to task for not paying attention.  Tabitha hadn’t noticed, but then, he hadn’t wanted her to.  Sometimes there is nothing worse than overt sympathy when the person who is sympathetic either will not or cannot do anything about the circumstances.  It makes the person to whom awful things are happening want to cry aloud, ‘Go away!  What use is your sympathy to me if it will not change what is happening?’ But if that person has even a nodding acquaintance with politeness they will be unable to say such things, even though they might desperately want to, and that makes it all the worse.

            So when Tabitha entered the carriage after enduring the blubbering goodbye from her mother (and the individual goodbyes from all the servants who took time to enter the second best parlor and give Tabitha some good luck charm or sweet pasty—she had five cinnamon rolls and two honey cakes sharing sticky residence in her satchel) she was extremely surprised to see Arthur the Tutor perched on one of the seats, his kindly eyes twinkling green at her. 

            “Good morning.  I am to share your journey, little one.” he said to her in German as was his custom before lunch time (afternoons were for French).  The normality of this daily routine steadied her.  She had not been told he was coming with her, and even through her solemn face he could see that she was happy to see him.  He helped her up onto the seat opposite him and the door was shut behind her as the carriage rolled forward and away from the only home she had ever known.  Arthur the Tutor thought that this was a splendid time for a nap as he spied a tear trying to form in Tabitha’s eye, so he settled back and started snoring softly to give her some privacy. 

            Now, it should not be assumed that Tabitha had not even considered running away.  She had considered it, quite thoroughly as she did most things in life (except chasing butterflies, as she didn’t really want to catch them she just like their colors in motion—and eating turnips, possibly the only vegetable she disliked).  She had considered running away, and since Tabitha was not an average girl of her age and station, she knew quite a lot more about what life on the streets would be like than even some adults much older than her.  She listened to the servants talk about how much they got paid and how much things cost, and it was a pretty tight fit—and that was if you were a servant in a decent household.  Due to all the gothic novels she had read, Tabitha also knew about things decent girls her age were not supposed to know about—even if it had been terribly hard to find out definitions to some of those words that made sense, the stable-boy coming in very handy as a resource—and after weighing the risks of wandering around the streets with little to no money and no job to get any more, unless she became a thief (and she would have to become a good one, for the punishments for thieves were harsh—but that was only if you were caught), but all the calculations she could do told her that she would be dead within a month.  Give or take a few days.  And as unpalatable as the thought of staying with Aunt Hilsida was, it was almost certain that she would be alive much longer than a month. 

Tabitha had no wish to die, and in the face of certain death, she was willing to choose the lesser of two evils.

            As she reminded herself of this sad decision, she sniffed her tears back up into her eyes and resolved that she would make Aunt Hilsida let her return to her home.  Had she not gotten rid of three dancing masters, one particularly stubborn painting master, and one sewing mistress?  She could certainly get rid of Aunt Hilsida. 

            And as much as we must admire Tabitha for such heartiness in the face of doom, if she knew what Aunt Hilsida had done to get rid of people she found unpleasant, Tabitha would have immediately hopped out of the carriage and lost herself in the crowds of the city.  But since her outlook on life was bursting with so much determined optimism that it caused three weary daffodils on a nearby window sill to perk up and bloom again (not to mention the five pairs of socks that became brilliantly white again, although one pair was on a very confused person’s feet at the time) she stayed in the carriage and started imagining ways to discomfit her Great-Aunt Hilsida.  (one of those ways was to always call her Great-Aunt Hilsida instead of just Aunt Hilsida.  In Tabitha’s experience, very few people liked being reminded just how old they were, although she thought it nonsensical that her exact age be a topic of great discussion by her Mother, but her Mother’s age was a closely guarded mystery).

            The first part of the journey was not particularly remarked upon by either of the two passengers in the carriage; Arthur the Tutor, because he spent most of his time sleeping (and he had seen it all before, really, as country-sides tended to look much the same) and Tabitha because her mind was much more intensely engaged in thoughts of the future. 

            As the sky began to grow dark the carriage pulled into a traveler’s inn where they would stay for the night.  Arthur the Tutor arranged for rooms with a connecting door so that he may be able to keep an eye on Tabitha and make sure no harm would come to her (inns being the sort of places where unsavory things did occasionally happen although if you asked the innkeeper he would solemnly swear that nothing of the sort ever happened here, while behind his back the customers were stealing his cutlery).  They enjoyed a pleasant meal in the common room, Tabitha being reluctant to eat in her room as she had realized that even though her destination was frankly nightmarish, the journey itself had some unexpected perks.  The chance to listen to and see the normal people of the world going about their normal lives was fascinating to her, and since Arthur the Tutor recognized her desire to see and understand, and had felt the same sort of thing when he had been young (yes, he had been young once) he allowed her to stay.  At least, until the hour had turned late enough that more ale was being consumed than food and he decided that exposing Tabitha to an inn taproom in its full glory was perhaps an experience that it would be best for when she was a little older than nearly thirteen.  Tabitha might have objected (a very interesting song had started up with a chorus of ‘bring me a mallet’ accompanied by drinking at the end of every verse, and there appeared to be many verses, all of them seemingly the dialogue between two men arguing about whether one of them would surrender his daughter to the other) but she was unexpectedly tired by the high emotions of the day and the uncomfortable nature of the carriage ride.  For no carriage, despite all the padding and even the modern spring system to absorb the shocks and bumps of even the best of roads, was a pleasant place to spend more than a few hours, and today they had traveled at least eight on what were certainly not the best roads.

            They rose from their table, Arthur the Tutor laying a steadying hand on Tabitha’s back as they navigated the increasingly loud and hectic taproom and up the stairs to their rooms.  And since Tabitha had never made much use of her maid at home except for cleaning up messes, she did not miss having any help getting out of her clothes and into a nightgown whereupon she blew out the lamp and fell fast asleep to the faint echo of all twenty-five verses of ‘bring me a mallet.’

            The next day dawned dim and grey, one of those high grey days where you know it won’t rain (at least you mostly expect it won’t) but you know at the same time that the sun would not be making an appearance at any point.  Tabitha was awake well before Arthur the Tutor’s knock on their connecting doors, and she opened it to find him with his fist raised, ready to knock again.  He smiled at her and lowered his hand.

            “Good morning, Tabitha.  Did you sleep well?”

            “I believe so, yes, but I regret that I did not stay awake long enough to hear the end of that song last night.  It was ever so interesting.”

            “Why—yes, yes, a very interesting song.”  Arthur the Tutor coughed into his fist.  “I am afraid that this morning will be much less lively downstairs, should you choose not to breakfast in your room—but the choice is yours, Tabitha.”

            Tabitha tilted her head, considering for a moment the options.  “I believe I would like to eat downstairs again, even if there is no singing.”

“Shall I send one of the maids to pack your things?”

“No, they are already packed.” (although packing was a new concept for Tabitha, she had done it rather well, making sure everything that had been taken out was put back in so it wouldn’t be forgotten, but as she had never learned to fold clothes or put her things away neatly, the trunk was a bit of a jumble inside)

“Very good, I’ll send for one the inn’s servants to carry them down to the carriage.”  He smiled at her and they went down to breakfast.

            Breakfast was as pleasant as dinner had been, although much quieter: there being fewer patrons in the inn’s common room and the ones who were there were much less rowdy and much more interested in their morning tea.  Slightly disappointed—although she had been warned—Tabitha sopped up the last of her eggs with a small piece of toast. 

            “Will we reach my Great-Aunt Hilsida’s house today?”

            “I believe so, barring any disastrous delays.”

            Tabitha nodded and pretended interest in her now empty plate.  One smear of egg almost resembled the moustache of the innkeeper, and if you tilted your head just the other way, you almost saw an upside down image of the King’s beard.  (the King’s beard was very distinctive and completely unique, as he forbade any one to imitate it or else he would have them sent to the Raster islands.  At first, the Raster islands had only been populated by scrubby trees and very large possums, but eventually it was full of all sorts of fashionable dissenters—and one poor ignorant man from Russia who didn’t know about the rule—who were always impeccably dressed.  Except the man from Russia.  It was so embarrassing.).

            Arthur the Tutor was looking at Tabitha with concern on his features.  “Tabitha—“

            “Time to be going then?”  She interrupted.

            “Yes—yes. Time to be going.  I’ll tell the innkeeper to bring up our carriage.”  He left, fortunately not saying something undoubtedly sympathetic that Tabitha had no desire to hear.  Even from her favorite teacher.

            Tabitha waited restlessly for Arthur the Tutor to come back and tell her the carriage was ready, but after ten minutes that felt like ten hours she stood up and walked outside to discover what was going on. 

The outside of the inn was much busier than the inside and Tabitha could see Arthur the Tutor arguing with a lady holding a chicken by its feet.  Or rather—the lady was shouting at Arthur the Tutor: Arthur the Tutor appeared to be trying to placate her and failing miserably.  He also failed to see Tabitha emerge from the inn, or else he would have surely told her to go back inside to wait for him.  But he did not, so Tabitha started wandering around the outside of the inn, taking care not to get too far as she didn’t wish to cause any serious worry if she should be missed. 

            Despite the fact that this was only a small village, there seemed an almost inordinate amount of bustle and to-and-fro-ing: two rough carters pushed past Tabitha, “Out o’th’way,” while a dispatch rider rocketed out of the stableyard shouting for everyone to “Clear a path for official business!”  Two young girls stared at Tabitha and then giggled, leaning their heads closer to whisper as they walked away.  The only people that seemed to be standing still in all this mess were the unfortunate Arthur the Tutor and his angry companion.

            Meandering closer to the stables Tabitha kept an eye out for feisty horses and careless riders, but she was unimpeded in her path and soon reached the stables to find the horses not yet hitched to the carriage.  There seemed to be no one around.

            “Hello?  I require assistance.”  Tabitha’s determined voice received no answer.  “Hello?”  There—wait a moment, what was that?  She cocked her head.  There it was again, a small shrill yelp coming from the back of the stable.  Head held high, Tabitha marched forward, surely a most intimidating sight to all lazy stable hands.  Not bothering with subtlety, Tabitha walked directly to the source of the noise and when she rounded the end of the second to last stall, an appalling sight met her eyes.

            A man, large and strong from the execution of his profession and the hearty meals of the inn, held a puppy dangling in one hand that lowered inexorably toward a bucket of water in which floated several other shapes that Tabitha dared not look too closely on.

            “Stop what you are doing this very instant!”

            The man whose expression had been wholly absorbed in his sickening task now looked up with a squint in his eye as he surveyed Tabitha and clearly thought very little of her.  (An unwise assessment, to be sure, but he had never been a clever man before and he had certainly never met Tabitha before: after this day, he couldn’t say the latter, and even the former improved in a small way.) 

            “What yer want?” 

The puppy, clutched in his large fist, struggled vainly to try and bite him.

            “Release that dog immediately and cease this vile business, or I shall have you dismissed from this inn.”

            A coarse caw of a laugh left his mouth.  “That be so?  Well, my ‘pologies, majesty—but y’can soak your head in m’bucket along with the rest of the strays—“ his hand started to lower again, the tail of the puppy just brushing the water.

            (It would be good, perhaps, to pause here to relate to readers unfamiliar with the practices of the time, of the treatment of stray animals.  Puppies and kittens were routinely drowned and other cruelties to animals were exceedingly routine.  Animals were made to serve man; if man wanted one dead, how could there be any objections?  Fortunately this barbaric practice is no longer common, but we would do well not to condemn the past for its darkness, while our own present is far from bright.)

            “Stop, I said!”  And Tabitha, a full two feet shorter than the man, advanced within his reach and, taking careful aim, kicked with all her strength at a point on his body well-bred girls shouldn’t be aware of.  (Tabitha had once seen a man on the street kneed in that portion of his anatomy, and it had taken him a full five minutes to recover: she had timed it, fully interested in the spectacle of a grown man lying curled up on the ground apparently crying.  She had filed that moment away in the portion of her mind marked ‘for future use in times of need.’)  The man in the stable did not fall over immediately and Tabitha wondered if she had performed the act correctly, but a glance at his blank features and immobile limbs informed her of her success.  Disliking having to stare up at him, Tabitha gave his midsection a firm push and he toppled over, landing on an uncomfortable assortment of tools.  Tabitha was unsympathetic.

            “You are a brute, and if brute force is the only language you understand, then that is what I must use to get my point across.  You miserable maggot born of human excrement.  You wallow in destruction and death and pain because your mind just barely comprehends how very small it is, and how very wide the world is, and you lavish cruelty on it out of spite.  But hear this: I am the daughter of Lord and Lady Bushfield.  At my word I can have you dismissed from this inn.  With another I can have you arrested for any such thing as I desire.  If I so choose I can make your remaining years on this earth so hellish that you would beg for someone to drown you as you drowned those dogs.” The man stirred.  For good measure Tabitha kicked him again with the same precision she displayed before.  He yelped and attempted to curl himself into a ball but the puppy—which he had dropped in his extremity—rushed to his face and tried to bite his nose with teeth barely able to dimple the skin, growling fiercely.  This made Tabitha smile, then she turned serious eyes on the man himself.

            “If you ever even think of drowning a dog again I will have you hanged.  Never doubt it.”  She left the stall, the puppy following close behind her.

            Arthur the Tutor found her as she exited the stable, a frantic look on his face.

            “Tabitha!  Thank God you’re safe—why on earth didn’t you wait for me inside?  I was looking everywhere—“  He finally noticed the small grey puppy staring intently up at him from Tabitha’s ankle.  “What’s that?” (Arthur the Tutor must be forgiven for this rather unnecessary question as he had been very worried about Tabitha and when people are worried or recovering from a serious worry, they tend to need obvious things explained to them as a way of rejoining the rest of the world)

            Tabitha liked Arthur the Tutor very much, so she did not greet the question with as much sarcasm as she would likely have mustered had he been someone else.  She merely contented herself with:

            “He’s my dog.” And then, “You should tell the innkeeper that his stablehand hasn’t hitched the horses to the carriage yet.  Lazing around somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder.”  And Arthur the Tutor, seized by this fresh misfortune, rushed off as quickly as his aged body would permit, forgetting even to command Tabitha to follow him.  Such a command would have remained unheeded, as she had decided to give the dog a proper bath in the horse trough outside the stable.  The water wasn’t very deep, certainly not high enough to give the puppy any trouble, and Tabitha rinsed his fur with more care and gentleness than she had ever displayed towards any other living creature. 

When she was done, she placed the puppy on an upturned bucket to examine it.  She cocked her head in concentration.  The puppy, tired from its ordeal and much happier now that it was rescued, sat down and cocked his head at the girl.  She giggled.  The puppy’s tail wagged and he stood up to plant his paws on her chest and try to lick her face.  Due to his small stature he miscalculated and fell over, but never fear, Tabitha caught him and while in her arms he succeeded in his goal of licking her face.  She giggled again and put him back down on the bucket.  He was so small—he couldn’t have been much older than four weeks old, but Tabitha surmised that from the size of his paws he would grow very rapidly. 

Now that this important task was accomplished, it seemed best to head back inside the inn: the kitchens were there, and she had a notion that her newly acquired pet might be hungry. 

He was—and he managed to gulp down a large portion of meat scraps in the short time before Tabitha was told the carriage was ready.  Picking the dog up gently, Tabitha allowed herself to be rushed into the carriage and on her way, no one remarking on the oddity of her arriving without a dog, and yet leaving with one, although Arthur the Tutor had a very bemused look on his face. It hadn’t occurred to him that Tabitha had never had a pet before.  (Lady Bushfield was allergic to dogs, couldn’t stand the sound of birds chirping inside, and although she liked cats, for some reason they would never stay in the house more than a few hours before escaping)  Although it was likely her Great-Aunt Hilsida might object to a pet dog, it was obvious to Arthur the Tutor that Tabitha was going to seize the opportunity that had dropped into her lap, so to speak, to have a pet.  Tabitha looked at him, her gaze direct and clearly stating that if he didn’t understand what she meant to do (keep the dog), he was much less intelligent than she had thought all these years.  Uncannily, the dog turned toward him and gave him the same expression.  Arthur the Tutor gave in to the inevitable and consoled himself with the thought that the dog would be company for Tabitha while she was so far away from home.

            The thought of what to name the dog occupied her mind for many of the hours it took to reach Great-Aunt Hilsida’s house.  Tabitha wasn’t the sort of girl to name her dog ‘Spot,’ or ‘Darling,’ or—heaven’s forbid—‘Fluffles.’ (her mother had had a long haired white cat once that she named Fluffles.  In the two hours the cat was in the house, it scratched two of the maids, all of the footmen, and bit the Butler.  Tabitha thought that this was the perfect example of names forming the disposition of the individual, for not even the most well-tempered of animals could survive the bestowing of the name ‘Fluffles.’  Tabitha was actually right in assuming this.  Before being named Fluffles, the cat had been pleasant, if a bit disposed towards hissing, and after it left the house it was adopted by a bookkeeper and his wife and was renamed Tansy, whereupon it proceeded to have the most unremarkable and well-loved life).  So since Tabitha was not the sort to give a name lightly, especially if it had the chance to change the dog’s natural personality, she thought long and hard about what the dog’s name might already be, the name he might be carrying around in his own head.  It was only when Arthur the Tutor remarked in a bemused voice that the puppy looked like a wolf-hound breed that Tabitha heard the sound of the word she was looking for.  And with a various bit of pummeling at it she arrived at what she thought the dog’s name might be: Wulafric.  The first time she whispered it aloud the puppy looked at her and wagged his tail, and she took that as a good sign (although the puppy had been doing little else for the whole carriage ride).

After the important event of the bestowing of Wulafric’s name, the day passed much as the first had, except that Tabitha occasionally asked questions about the land they passed through: why did it look like that, why did so many people seem to raise sheep, and why had people always said that the north was so grim and horrible looking?  Tabitha quite like the stark nature of the moors and the huge boulders that lay here and there like a giant’s scattered jacks set.  The roads continued to worsen the further north they went, the jostling of the carriage sometimes becoming quite extreme.  Tabitha and Wulafric looked upon them as a sort of game, to see who could bounce higher.  Arthur the Tutor satisfied himself with gritting his teeth and wishing he was a younger man again with bones that didn’t ache. 

It was after one of the worst of these jouncing bounds that the carriage passed the gates of Great-Aunt Hilsida’s estate.  The puppy whined and curled up in a tight little ball in Tabitha’s lap.  She shivered.  It was as if all the fun that the day had contained drained out of the carriage.  The carriage felt colder, the light dimmer than it had been all day, though it lacked three hours to sunset.  Arthur the Tutor sat up straighter and looked out the window.  He also shivered.  The moors were not his favorite scenery.  He was a man from the south, used to well-tended fertile rolling green fields, not the open harsh unfarmed lands of the north. 

He looked over at Tabitha.  She was oblivious to what lay outside, all her attention on softly stroking her puppy.  Arthur the Tutor smiled.  Although the puppy had unsettled him at first, he was glad it would be staying with her, for he himself was to return with the carriage, possibly that very night. (Arthur the Tutor had overheard the coachman talking with the footman, and apparently he had seen Aunt Hilsida before and had no desire to stay one night at her house.  There was a village they could reach before dark, and whether or not the ‘gent’ would come with them, they were going there right after they dropped the girl off, such a pity she was staying there, but that was no reason to stay themselves).  Even though Arthur the Tutor was reluctant to believe in rumors, he had the smallest of hunches that the coachman might have the right of it.  And a large part of him withered in shame that he was leaving this girl here to suffer the fate he was not even willing to share for one night, but necessity is a funny thing.  When one must, one does.  When one mustn’t, one often doesn’t.

            Aunt Hilsida’s house was dark and grey, with strange turrets and overhangs and pointed arches that gathered shadows like a child does pretty stones.  It was the sort of house that ought to be continually lit by lightning flashes, but although the day was cloudy, no rain was forthcoming, and certainly no lightning.  Which was a pity because it might have warned Tabitha just that bit more about what life was to be like inside.  How unfair that life refuses to warn us with obvious signs and markers such as: ‘turn back now or you’ll regret it,’ or, ‘watch out for that ditch,’ or, ‘you should have left last Tuesday,’ or, ‘don’t eat the pudding.’  (the last one would have been strangely popular if it were possible)

            The carriage stopped, the cessation of movement causing Tabitha to look up.  One quick glance out the window showed her that they had arrived.  Gathering up her new puppy, Tabitha exited the carriage with the grace of a grand Duchess on stilts (that is to say, with great care).  Arthur the Tutor also exited, but with admittedly less style (two days was a long time to spend in a carriage when you were his age).  There were no stable boys waiting to even attempt to take the horses, no footmen to take the luggage, no Butler to direct them, and most noticeable of all, no Great Aunt Hilsida.  Arthur the Tutor was bemused.  He had been expecting more of a welcome for Tabitha, after all, her Aunt knew she was coming.  Where was everyone?  He went to the front door and knocked as loudly as he could (on the scale of hard knocks it only rated a four, one being ‘how pitiful you even considered that to be a hard knock,’ and ten being ‘oh, sorry about the door, it really looks much better with that crack in it, really.’)  As if from a long ways off Arthur the Tutor heard slow footsteps gradually growing louder.  (and it really was a long way off, through the entrance hall, past the best parlor, past the second best parlor, past the library that hadn’t been seen in five years since no one had opened the door, past the study that also hadn’t been seen in five years, around the corner and down a small flight of stairs to a room just off the kitchen.  That’s where the footsteps started)

            The footsteps reached the front door and the door itself swung wide enough that Arthur the Tutor had to jump back or be swatted by the door like it was a fly-swatter and he the fly.  The door opened to reveal one of the most disagreeable men Arthur the Tutor had ever seen.  The man’s body was stooped at the shoulders for no particular reason except that he hated standing straight.  His head was permanently cocked at a quizzical angle because he believed it would save time.  The hair on his head was unkempt and greasy and calling the hair on his chin a beard would have been a most generous appellation and most likely insulting to the species.  Arthur the Tutor suspected the man hadn’t washed in weeks, if not months, and based on the way the man’s nose was screwed up and his mouth twisted, he didn’t much care for anyone’s opinion on anything.  Although Arthur the Tutor hated to assume such a thing, it was his best guess that this man was the Butler to the house.  He was right.  (although the pleasure he took in being right was even less than when he had told his best friend the lady he wanted to marry shaved her beard every morning—his friend had refused to believe him and married her anyway, only to discover that Arthur was right—and even less than when he predicted a business would fail—it did, but his family’s whole fortune was wrapped up in it, and that was the reason Arthur became a tutor, because he had to support himself somehow after that debacle.  Arthur had been right about many things in his life, but he had started to wonder if being wrong might be more fun)

            In any case, the Butler looked around at the small party of people on the doorstep, grunted to himself, and sway-stepped forward.  (some people will say that it is impossible to ‘sway-step,’ that there is no such thing, but they would be wrong.  A sway-step is undertaken thusly: every step is accompanied by a rocking forward and back, whereupon the first step rocks the walker forward and the sway backward gathers up the next step and propels it on the sway forward.  It is a most interesting form of locomotion and has been known to make viewers feel slightly sea-sick, along with the walker himself, although Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler thought the swaying motion felt quite comfortable)  He picked up one of the trunks the Bushfield’s footman had unloaded and he carried it into the gloom of the house without saying a word.  Arthur the Tutor quickly motioned for the footman to follow with the other trunk—with great reluctance, the footman did. 

            Arthur the Tutor turned back to Tabitha who was calmly surveying the outside of the house as if it didn’t appear to be the sort of house where mad Barons brought kidnapped daughters of the aristocracy. 

            “My dear child,” Arthur the Tutor said in English, surprising Tabitha, “I don’t know where your Aunt is or why this house appears to be deserted except for that surly Butler, and I heartily wish your parents had not sent you here, but I have no choice in the matter, and I feel that this may be the last time we speak, so I wish to give you a little advice.  You have a wonderful mind, Tabitha, even if you are disinclined to be forgiving of other’s mistakes or beliefs.  I only hope that it won’t get you into more trouble than it can get you out of.  And if you should ever need me, or even just want to talk, do write to me.” (Tabitha knew Arthur the Tutor’s address, as she had known all the addresses of her infrequent teachers, for you never knew when an address might come in handy)  “And finally, take care, Tabitha.  I am not superstitious, but this house seems to be the worst sort of place.  Take care, and be happy, if you can.”  Tabitha nodded up at Arthur the Tutor, and the puppy yipped at his post by her ankle.  Arthur the Tutor smiled at them both and the return of the footman from the depths of the house put an end to their goodbyes.  Arthur reentered the carriage, passing out to Tabitha her satchel, then the coachman cracked the whip over the horses and the carriage was gone down the drive.


Chapter 3

Once Upon a Time: The Moonmaiden and the Jeweler's Apprentice, part 2

Part 1 (In case you missed reading it.  Or would like a refresher.)

Confused and amazed beyond bounds by this strange day, the apprentice trekked back to the forest to see if he could find any trickle of a stream that would provide he and his master with something to drink.  He searched high and he searched low, but everywhere the apprentice jeweler looked he could find no trace of water.  All the usual streams and pools had dried up long ago as the land withered for lack of rain. 

The apprentice searched until nearly dusk, but he found nothing to drink.  His footsteps as he walked back to the village were slow and unsteady, and his tongue felt thick and coarse in his mouth.  The bag of pearls weighed heavy in his pocket and for a moment the apprentice considered selling one or two of them for a drink of water, but he knew it would be in vain: no one else had any water to spare—even for a princely sum. 

By the time the apprentice returned to his master’s house he was staggering with thirst and his head was hot and feverish.  All he wanted was a glass of cool water—nay, a sip of cool water would do.  A sliver of liquid to soften the desert in his throat.  The apprentice realized that if he did not die from thirst soon, he would surely go mad from it first. 

Having no hope in his heart the apprentice prepared for bed, saying his prayers as best he could.  And whether from whim or a strange fever-induced desire, the apprentice took a few of the pearls from the velvet bag and laid them on the table next to his bed.  Their brilliance lit up his eyes and smoothed down the path to sleep, and sleep he did. 

Time passed and the moon rose high over the village.  The moonlight shone through his open window and bathed the pearls in glory, making each appear to be a moon entire and capable of lighting the earth themselves. 

Their light was so great the apprentice awoke, sure that dawn had already arisen.  But what he saw was not the warm rosy light of dawn.

The whole of his room was filled with pure white light that somehow shimmered with indescribable colors the like of which the apprentice had only ever seen in his dreams.  Most of the light seemed to be coming from the pearls, but as he turned his head to look around the apprentice suddenly realized that someone was sitting at the foot of his bed.

It was a beautiful girl, dark haired with skin as pale as the moon.  She seemed to glow with the same internal fire as the pearls and the apprentice could not think of a word to say.  In fact, he had the niggling suspicion that thirst had indeed driven him mad and that this was no more than a fever-dream.  But the girl spoke to him.

‘What are you doing with my father’s pearls?’

The apprentice blinked in confusion.  ‘Your father?’ he croaked.

‘Those are my father’s pearls.  How did you get them?’

‘This afternoon.  I—he gave them—he—‘ and the apprentice started coughing and could not stop and grew so lightheaded that he fainted.

When he came to the girl was sitting right next to him, bathing his forehead with a cool cloth.  ‘Drink,’ she said, holding a cup to his lips. The apprentice did as he was told and nearly fainted again—this time from ecstasy—as cool clean water passed his lips and slid its way down his throat. 

‘How, where—‘

‘I drew it from the well—you had no water in the house.’

‘The well is dry.’  The apprentice objected.

‘I needed water.’  And the girl smiled at him.  Amazed and dazzled the apprentice continued drinking the water, unwilling to let even a drop of it go to waste.  When he had finished the girl helped him sit up all the way.

‘Where did you come from?’ the apprentice could not help but ask.

‘From my father’s house,’ was her reply.

‘But how did you know I had his pearls?’

‘I could see their light and I followed it.’  She looked out the window and then back at the apprentice.  ‘I can’t stay much longer.  Tomorrow night, you must put out the pearls exactly as you did this night, and I will find you again.’

The apprentice nodded and at that moment the moonlight left the room and all was dim as normal night.  Blinking hard to clear his eyes, the apprentice could no longer see the strange girl and he wondered if he had been dreaming. 

But to one side of his bed remained a damp cloth and a pitcher of water.

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 1

I apologize that it has taken me this long to post today.  For some reason I realized this morning that I really wanted to post the first chapter of my book today--the only problem was that I had promised myself that I wouldn't reveal it until I had finished my second draft, and I was nowhere near finished.  But I have finished!  I have!  Now all that remains to do is get some brutal criticism of it so I can painfully drag myself into the third and hopefully final draft. 

I plan on posting a chapter or two a week, and if you think of anything--and I mean anything--I beg you to post it in the comments.  You hate a sentence?  Copy and paste it into the comments so I can fix it.  Something is unclear?  Tell me so I can fix it.  You like something?  Please tell me so I don't feel completely like a hack writer who is imposing on her friends.

And I have one other request, and it is a very very odd one.  I mean it, it's really really odd.  So odd I'm not sure whether or not you'll understand, but if you do, bless you for being as odd as me, and please tell me whether or not it tastes like pie.

Thank you. 

Chapter 1

Tabitha Gets Rid of All of Her Teachers, Except One

             It took her several years to realize what was wrong. 

It wasn’t anything so easy to recognize as being hungry or thirsty—those were niggling bits of wrongness that were easily righted.  Nor was it wrong like when she learned to walk, wobbling back and forth in an attempt to defy gravity (she had just learned of gravity, you see, and she thought it marvelous to have a name to put to the reason she kept tumbling over).  It felt wrong, she realized, in the way shoes could feel too tight as they pinched her toes. 

It was exactly this sort of wrongness, she determined, and now that she knew what was wrong, she could fix it.

So at the age of four she decided to change her real name—which was Lori Pleasant Bushfield—to the much more fitting Tabitha Anne King. 

But although it was only now at the age of four that she finally felt right inside her own skin, her parents didn’t seem to understand the reason behind her name change and kept calling her Lori.  Not that her father ever actually called her by name, but Tabitha was sure he still thought of her as Lori.  Her mother on the other hand kept calling her Lori because she was unable to imagine why anyone would dislike such a pretty name.  For was it not nice to have the middle name of Pleasant?  And was it not also nice to have a family name that stretched back, oh, seven generations now?  For the land had been well-domesticated to the point that there were very few bushes and many more fields than there had been in Great Great Great Great Grandfather’s time.  The poor man had had to farm the land himself, for heaven’s sake.  Thank goodness for progress that allowed for the Bushfields to enjoy the fruits of labor without ever having to have done the latter themselves.

            It should come as no surprise that Tabitha and her mother found very few things to agree with.  To give a few examples:

            When she was ten her mother told her that she was to start taking dance lessons.  An appropriate dancing master was found and showed up at their house promptly on Wednesday the 16^th, 9:00 in the morning.  Tabitha was shown into the second best parlor which had been cleared down to the wood floor for the dance lessons. 

The Master gave her a florid bow (imagine a windmill wearing a short fashionable cape bending at its middle while brandishing said cape in many small circles).  “Ah, what have we here?  You are charming, so very charming!  I am Monsieur Luc Le Fondant, and I will lead you through the delightful discovery of the wonders of graceful movement.  Ma petite cherie, you were made for the ballroom!  It will be my extreme honor to teach you how to curtsey grandly, dance like an angel, and float over the dance floor as if magic had given you grace!

            Tabitha did not want to be an angel, nor did she appreciate the mention of magic.  It had been a great disappointment to her that magic did not exist, as her mother had carefully explained when she was three and wanted to know where the faeries lived.  She had been so disillusioned by the topic that any mention of the word ‘magic’ was to earn her immediate disapproval. 

And besides, his French accent was horribly fake. 

Poor Dancing Master.  He left the Bushfield’s home at exactly 9:25 in the morning on Wednesday the 16^th with a broken ankle. 

The next dancing master suffered the same fate, only quicker.  The third dancing master was only in the house for five minutes before Tabitha broke both his legs.  She was very apologetic: she had only meant to trip him and sprain his ankle, but her sense of timing was off (possibly due to the lack of dancing lessons) and the poor man fell down the stairs. 

            The household was appropriately horrified at all the accidents, but soon discovered that word had got about and there were no dancing masters available when the Bushfields came to call.

            It took the Bushfields (namely the mother) a full year to recover from the debacle of the dancing masters.  But one bright morning in the spring Vera Radiance Bushfield declared to her husband Thomas Prudence Bushfield,

            “We must do something with our daughter.  She has run the maids quite ragged and I fear she is taking far too much interest in her school lessons.  Have you not noticed, dear, that lately she has been carrying around a book wherever she goes?” Vera Radiance Bushfield was scandalized at the mere thought.

            Her husband merely folded back another leaf of his morning paper and mumbled something indistinct.  Lady Bushfield smiled in pleasant agreement.

            “Very well, dear.  I will send for a Painting Master.  Our little Lori will never be accomplished if she cannot paint prettily.”  Tabitha’s mother chose to ignore the fact that her daughter would never be accomplished if she could not dance.

            The Painting Master went the way of the Dancing Masters and for much of the same reasons, although it took a bit more time to arrange.  He had never had such a young pupil before, and unsure of how to cultivate interest in his subject, he suggested that she learn to paint faeries, thinking that all young girls adored faeries.  He was greatly surprised a few minutes later when somehow, through a strange set of circumstances involving a duck flying near the window and Tabitha’s seemingly accidental but uncanny aim, the Painting Master found himself choking on a paintbrush that had flown halfway down his throat, and it was only through the timely intervention of a passing footman that he did not die; his shock was so great that it did not even occur to him to take the paintbrush out of his own throat.

            The Bushfields willingly let him retire early that day, Lady Bushfield all aflutter at the near-miss of tragedy.

            When the Painting Master returned two days later, he unwisely sought to continue the first lesson on painting faeries.  They made it halfway through the hour lesson before the Painting Master himself accidentally spilled his water bucket and Tabitha, in a paroxysm of startlement, dropped her paintbrush (fully loaded with apple green) right behind his shoe.  Unthinkingly taking a step backwards, the Painting Master slipped, one leg going straight into the air and pushing down the rest of him at such a speed the Master hit his head and saw stars (There might be some questions on whether he saw faeries playing catch and tag with the stars, but it does no good to speculate).  Tabitha immediately screamed and brought the entire household—three maids, three undermaids, the Housekeeper, the cook and her three helpers, the Butler, the three footmen, and Tabitha’s parents—running to see what had caused such a terrible shriek.  The Painting Master was gently picked up and deposited on a nearby divan, his paint-covered shoe leaving such a green smear that Lady Bushfield had hysterics and had to be given smelling salts. 

Once it was discovered that the Painting Master was all right if slightly injured, he was sent home with one of the footmen as he was barely able to stand up without falling over, and he seemed to be in some confusion as he kept calling everyone ‘Matilda.’

This time it took the Painting Master four days to return, but the poor fellow was really in for it today.  Wheels of all sorts and sizes had been turning in Tabitha’s head since the Painting Master had hit his head (accidentally, of course) and she had decided on a plan of action that would have made any General in the Queen’s army throw up his hands in delight.  The day went like this:

The Painting Master arrived exactly at 9 o’clock, although his eyes still seemed to be having trouble focusing.  He and Tabitha entered the second best parlor (having been converted from a dancing room to a painting room) at 9:02.  At 9:15, exactly thirteen minutes later, The Painting Master ran out of the room screaming and holding his head as if he feared it would explode.  The Butler attempted to delay him at the front door, but only succeeded in catching him for a moment, during which the poor man babbled;

“Hoist the frogs any higher and we’ll all be done for!  No!  My Aunt Dimity never eats petunias—“ and then he pushed past the stunned Butler and sprinted down the street as if all the demons in hell were after him.  (He ran so fast, in fact, that he even outraced the Melitapol’s new steam-powered mechanical carriage, much to the affront of Mr. Melitapol who had been assured of the latest model’s speed)

When the Housekeeper sent a maid to check on Tabitha, the young maid found the girl carefully cleaning all the brushes and tidying up the painting kit that the Painting Master had brought on his first day.  She looked up at the maid while continuing to pack the kit.

“Please have one of the footmen send this to the Painting Master’s residence, as I do believe he will not be coming back for it.”

The maid flustered.  “I’m sorry miss, I don’t know where to instruct the footman to send it to.”

Tabitha’s eyes widened minutely with well-bred surprise.  “The Painting Master lives on St. Jaque’s street in Upperdome.  A rather dingy inn called the Third Piglet.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey as Tabitha calmly left the room. 

 (If you are at all interested in what happened to the Painting Master, as soon as he was able to order a carriage he fled the city to go to his sister’s house in the country.  He was much happier in the country painting landscapes and he did very well for himself teaching the youngsters of the neighborhood to paint everything but faeries.  And on one day when a lisping girl of seven asked him to paint her a faerie, he broke out into a sweat and started muttering indistinctly about frogs and had to go have a lie down before he felt better)

When her parents (mostly just her mother, her father being more interested in his glass of port) questioned her at dinner regarding what had happened to make the former Painting Master leave the house in such a state, Tabitha would not say what had happened during those thirteen minutes.  In fact, she never in her whole life breathed a word of what happened except to one person, and that was many years later. 

“Lori, the Painting Master left here in such a state, today.  Do you know what might have provoked such an excessive response?”

“I’m sure I could not say, Mother.”

“Oh come, my little Lori, I’m sure you must know something?”

“Knowledge, Mother, is a precarious thing to admit to.”

“What utter nonsense you speak.”

“But Mother, you said that to me last week—“

“Nonsense!” Lady Bushfield snapped, quite positive that she had never said such a thing in her life.  (at the time of last week however, she had found it a useful thing to say when her precocious daughter had corrected her in front of two society friends on the topic of the Royal Succession.  Lady Bushfield had angrily blurted out that phrase at her daughter, and her two society friends had nodded sagely).

Tabitha inwardly smirked.

Her mother tried another tack.  “Lori, you really cannot persist in claiming no idea of what happened at today’s painting lesson.  If you do not tell me at once, I shall banish you to your room for the next week!  And you shall not be allowed out even for tea!”

This attempt only made Tabitha want to giggle, the possible punishment of being banished to her room would be much better than the ‘treat’ of dancing or painting lessons: all her books were there, and Tabitha could never be lonely or bored when she had a book in her hands.  Tabitha mastered the impulse to laugh in her Mother’s face, however, as she much desired to see how long it would take her Mother to have hysterics on the subject.

“Even for tea, Mother?  How dreadful.”

“Yes!  Yes it is.  But it need not be like that, Lori.”  Lady Bushfield wheedled.  “I’m sure that Cook has several extra jam tarts that I could send for, and I could make sure to have Housekeeper send a girl for some chocolate tomorrow.  Would you like that?”

“Very much, Mother.”

“Well then!  Just tell me what happened that made the Painting Master run out of here in such a state.”   Lady Bushfield waited in a semblance of patience.

Tabitha seemed to consider this wonderful offer (she had years ago threatened the maids into bringing up extra sweets from the kitchen, and if she wanted chocolate, she only had to raid her mother’s supply).  She tilted her head, kicked her heels, and even went so far as to lay a finger on her lips.  But after a long moment she looked at Lady Bushfield and said in a bewildered tone, “But nothing happened.”

“But—you—he—“

This was too much for Lady Bushfield.  She collapsed exhausted on a couch, weary beyond all bounds by the exertion of being a parent.  Tabitha gave her mother a cup of tea and then went back to her room to read a particularly thrilling gothic novel where the heroine had just been trapped by the horrifying Baron de Ballas, a notorious lecher.  (Tabitha had been unsure of the meaning of the word ‘lecher’ but she believed it had something to do with lichen, as one of the Natural History books in her Father’s library had mentioned a name that sounded extremely similar)  She had been able to read much of the book after the abortive painting lesson, and she was eager to see what would happen next.  Would the heroine remain trapped by the Baron?  Would she escape using her own wits and daring? (although Tabitha thought that highly unlikely as the heroine seemed to have trouble thinking of anything more complicated than two syllable words)  Or would her childhood sweetheart hear of her terrible situation and come to rescue her?  Tabitha was very eager to find out.  For although her parents had managed to squash any belief in magic, Tabitha was a highly imaginative child who still firmly believed in adventures and highly improbable situations.  How could she not, since they seemed intent on happening to her?

It was another year until her mother felt up to the task of finding a new instructor for her rapidly aging daughter.  Why, she was twelve now, and if she did not start learning the proper skills, she would never be accomplished!  Lady Bushfield was finding it harder to ignore the impossibility of her daughter ever being seen as accomplished if she could not dance and paint prettily, but she managed it just the same with a willful belief that would have done Attila the Hun proud.  Although Attila had never had to contend with Tabitha.

Lady Bushfield decided that Tabitha should learn embroidery, for if a girl could at least sew a rosebud on a handkerchief then it might be seen that she has some useful skills to bring to a marriage, and Lady Bushfield was determined that Tabitha should marry well, as she was determined about few other things (namely stopping her husband’s deplorable habit of scratching his nose in public).

To that end, a Sewing Mistress was hired, although it had been rather difficult to find one who was willing, as rumors had been flying around the city about just why the Dancing Masters and the Painting Master had had to leave so suddenly.  The rumors ranged from Tabitha being quite mad and gnawing on the furniture, to a poltergeist inhabiting the house, to a secret society of pygmies living in the basement who crept around the house doing mischief.  Had Tabitha ever heard this last rumor, she would have immediately mounted an expedition to the wine cellars just in case there were pygmies living there.  It is perhaps a good thing that she never heard the rumor as the chaos she would have caused in her search might have thrown Housekeeper into early retirement.

On the first and only day of lessons, the Sewing Mistress entered the Bushfield’s house in a medley of sounds.  Her heavy legs and large feet formed a counter-beat with the various bell-tones of swinging charms and metal trinkets draped all over her body—it can be assumed, although not verified, that the Sewing Mistress had heard the rumor about the poltergeist and was attempting to ward it off.

“Lori Bushfield?  Lori?  Where is my student?”  Her voice was loud, shrill, and nasally, and it made the Butler—well-bred and well-trained as the best Butlers always are—fight mightily to hold back a wince.  For Butlers must never show any emotion no matter the provocation (rule three in the Butler’s Guide to Butlery, coming in after ‘never correct your Master even when he is wrong’—rule number two, and ‘all Master’s are idiots’—rule number one.  But if the authors of this esteemed book had been around to hear the Sewing Mistress’ voice, I am sure they would have been willing to make an exception for it). 

“Here, Sewing Mistress.”  Tabitha appeared by the Sewing Mistress’ side, her eyes opened wide with innocence, although anyone who knew her well could see the calculation sliding behind her pupils and doing a small jig in the corners of her brain.  (Tabitha was partial to the Highland Fling).  Alas, the Sewing Mistress did not know Tabitha well at all, and she would never be given the opportunity to. 

“At last!  I thought I would have to wait all day.  I believe in promptness, child, promptness!  You can never expect to master the discipline of sewing if you do not have a care for promptness!” 

Ignoring the fact that this last statement made no sense, Tabitha politely led the Sewing Mistress to the second-best parlor which had been restored to its former state as a parlor.  The Sewing Mistress peered around the door cautiously before she entered. 

“Ah, this is a most agreeable room.  Your Mother is to be commended.”  Tabitha made no reply, and the Sewing Mistress gave her a saccharine smile.  “But what are such things to you?  Such a small young thing has no cares at all for matters of adult importance.  Sit there.”  She pointed Tabitha to the paisley divan, while she sat on a blue striped couch.  She gave a small wriggle to settle herself, pleased at the well-cushioned nature of the couch. 

Being talked down to was Tabitha’s second least favorite thing in the world (after faeries and magic) and she was resolved that this would be the last day she ever saw the Sewing Mistress.

Now, ever since Tabitha had heard she was to take sewing lessons, she started practicing several methods for getting rid of troublesome teachers, just so she could have some options for when the day arrived.  Seeing how nervous the Mistress was, and how draped with charms that made a horrible clatter whenever she moved, Tabitha decided on her second plan.  (The other fourteen were highly fascinating, but there isn’t time to list them all here.  It can be said though that each one was an individual work of art and that Tabitha was ready to execute each flawlessly.  It should be noted that one of the few things she had ever heard her father say was while he was in a business meeting in his library and since the door had been left ajar she could hear every word.  He said, ‘Good planning is the only guarantee of success.’  Tabitha had thought this uncommonly good advice, and had made it a personal motto).

Plan number two involved a complicated system of strings and miniature bellows that were stuffed with needles (Tabitha had raided Lady Bushfield’s collection which might have caused some confusion later on except that the last time Lady Bushfield had touched her sewing basket had been five years ago when a disagreeable old friend had come to visit).  Tabitha waited until the Sewing Mistress’ eyes were no longer following her every move with a needle (Tabitha was actually quite competent despite never having sewn before.  Since the Sewing Mistress’ only experience with children as young as Tabitha was that they were lazy and inclined to stupidity, she was secretly pleased that Tabitha was proving so easy to teach) and then she slowly slipped one shoe off and began to conduct an orchestra of stringed instruments under her divan.  She pulled on one string, releasing a suspended weight to drop on top of one of the small bellows where it puffed out needles into the Sewing Mistress’s neck.  One or two stuck. 

“Ouch!”

The Sewing Mistress jerked into the air—the motion shaking the needles loose—and grabbed at the back of her neck to find nothing there.  Tabitha looked up from her industrious sewing to give the Sewing Mistress a look of concern. 

“There was—did you see? I know there was something…” she trailed off, unable to explain her actions.  She abruptly sat back down on the couch, rubbing the back of her neck and staring around as if she could spot what did it. 

Alas, the bellows had been concealed behind a tall vase of flowers and she didn’t see it.

Tabitha used her toes to pull on another string, this time sending the pointy missiles into the Sewing Mistress’ legs. 

“Eeek!”

This bellows was under the couch, but when she again looked for what had jabbed her, another string pull elevated it so that she could not find it.  By this time Tabitha had elevated her expression to a commentary on the dubious nature of the Sewing Mistress’ sanity.  The Sewing Mistress was now hunting the room for the evil horde of flies that was tormenting her, the poltergeist that her charms were apparently not protecting her from, or the evil pygmies that were stabbing her with their tiny spears (for she had heard that rumor as well, but had dismissed it as rubbish.) 

It is hard to say poor Sewing Mistress, for she was not the most pleasant of ladies and even her own mother found her company difficult to handle (that voice!) but what Tabitha did next is enough to inspire pity for the worst of society.  While the Sewing Mistress had her back to Tabitha, Tabitha simultaneously pulled on two strings with her toes and used her hands to puff a small bellows she had stuffed between the divan’s cushions, aiming the needles directly at the Sewing Mistress,’ ahem, posterior. 

“OOOHHH!!!”

Attacked from three sides at once the woman let out her loudest yelp yet and waving her hands in front of her face as if shooing off invisible insects (or poltergeists or pygmies) she scuttled from the room.  Racketing down the stairs she approached the Butler as some speed.

“I cannot stay in this house another moment!  It would be heartless treason to keep me here!  I don’t know how any of you stand it, I really don’t, because I am leaving right now, and none of you will stop me!”  Her voice was so shrill you almost couldn’t hear it.  Some of the nearby window glass started humming.  (it is a fact that none of the servants even attempted to stop her, not so much as moving a foot or putting out an arm)

“There is something terribly wrong with this house, with that child, and you could not get me to stay for all the money of China!  And I shall tell every other instructor that I know to steer clear of the Bushfields, for you are a menace, and deserve to be shunned by all polite society!” 

The Butler promptly opened the door for her and shut it with a satisfaction he knew to be terribly improper but he just couldn’t help.  And although her mother was at a loss for why the Dancing Master and the Painting Master and now the Sewing Mistress had all left, the servants had a much better handle on the matter and knew that it had to do with Tabitha, although they weren’t always sure how.  But in this case, the servants were entirely grateful to Tabitha for saving them all from the horrors of the Sewing Mistress’ voice.  Although they never spoke of it, they all conspired to help Tabitha find time and space to read undisturbed, even going on special errands to obscure bookshops for her (for while she was reading, Tabitha was the quietest and easiest of responsibilities).  And even the Butler—in secret, however—left a copy of The Butler’s Guide to Butlery for the girl to find.  She found it greatly amusing and it became one of her favorite books to read when her Mother was being unreasonable (which was often).

Now, it has been mentioned that Lady Bushfield believed that her daughter was taking far too much interest in her studies, and that was completely correct.  In fact, Tabitha’s tutor (although heretofore unmentioned) was the only teacher she had not driven away, and in fact enjoyed—although she much preferred reading whatever she chose.  Part of the reason for that had to do with the Tutor’s wonderful habit of falling asleep in the middle of lessons (for he was an old man) and his similarly wonderful habit of always answering Tabitha’s questions when he was awake. 

As an interesting note, by the age of  twelve and a half Tabitha was nearly fluent in both French and German, the only ‘accomplishment’ she had to her name, although she was only fluent in both languages because the most interesting books were sometimes not in English and Tabitha was not the type of girl to—number one, miss out entirely on what she wanted to read—or number two, have someone read and translate a book for her—then she would be at their mercy of whatever they chose to tell her, editing out the best parts. 

The Tutor’s name was Arthur Valiant Stone, and he said to her at their first lesson (with a twinkle in his faded green eyes):

 “I do believe that my parents were overzealous in their naming of me, hoping I would grow up to embody the strength and history of such a name; but if given a choice, I would have much preferred to be named Earnest.”  This had endeared him to the little girl in no small measure since Tabitha herself held a great disliking for her given name of Lori, and she decided that Arthur and she would get along famously.  And so Arthur the Tutor was the only teacher that managed to stay around Tabitha longer than a week. 

It was also the fault of Arthur the Tutor that Tabitha was rarely to be seen without a book in hand.  He had never bothered with dull child-like tales while teaching Tabitha to read, for he saw very quickly that she was an extremely bright child who would only be bored by the mundane adventures of Jack the dog and Steward the monkey.  So instead he read to her from Marco Polo’s tales from the Orient and other such real life adventurers.  Needless to say Tabitha was greatly interested in learning to read so that she may see first-hand these wonderful tales. 

Arthur the Tutor was also a bit luckier than any of the other Masters, as he very soon upon his entering the household overheard a conversation between two maids about Tabitha’s extreme dislike of all things magical.  So although he knew she might have otherwise enjoyed the dark tales of the Brothers Grimm as they were intended to be read, he knew she would not tolerate them.  So Arthur the Tutor was saved from an unpleasant fate. 

And since she loved reading stories of Foreign places, Tabitha learned to be interested in strange botany and fauna that populated everywhere else but here.  She could be found perusing Encyclopedias even at the age of six, her small body nearly dwarfed by the large pages of the books, her bright eyes darting back and forth like a hawk after a mouse. 

So Tabitha learned to love reading.

But this was not to Lady Bushfield’s liking.

Although each time before it had taken a year for Lady Bushfield to recover from the disruptive loss of yet another instructor, this time she managed it in record time: three months.  (although the strain of doing so exhausted her to the point that she could barely get out of bed in the mornings, which hardly discomfited Lord Bushfield as it left him to read his morning paper in peace and quiet).  It was the despair that her daughter would never be accomplished that drove Lady Bushfield to the drastic awareness that something must be done, and done soon, or else her Lori would not have even one skill to her name (for even if Lady Bushfield was aware that Tabitha read and spoke both French and German, she did not consider those useful skills, hardly accomplishments at all, really.  The French and the Germans spoke French and German all the time.  What was the difficulty in that?)

To that end she decided to send Tabitha away to live with her Aunt Hilsida in the country (Lady Bushfield’s Aunt, and Tabitha’s Great-Aunt) where perhaps if she was away from all her familiar books and places and under the harridan eye of Aunt Hilsida—Lady Bushfield shuddered, memories of her own stay at the house as a child reaching up to run cold fingers down her spine—would teach her the proper lessons as her doting parents could not.  No one could ever accuse Aunt Hilsida of being doting.  You couldn’t even accuse her of being caring, and that was a near cousin to the emotion, let alone even being interested, which was such a far off relation you never even sent them cards at Christmas time. 

Aunt Hilsida’s would be the perfect place for Tabitha to grow up and become a proper lady.

It might have surprised Lady Bushfield to know that Tabitha did not object to growing up.  It was one of those things that happen to everyone, after all, and adults had much more control over their lives than children, so Tabitha thought being grown-up would be quite nice.  But being a proper lady—that she did object to.  If being Grown Up gave you more control, being a proper lady was like being tall enough to reach the top shelf of a cabinet but never doing so because you were only supposed to sit in short chairs.  Just ridiculous.

So when Tabitha heard that she was being sent to Aunt Hilsida to learn how to be a proper lady, she did not like the idea.  She had never met Aunt Hilsida, but she had never heard the name spoken without a queer sort of shudder that glazed over the eyes of the speaker and the listeners—if they too knew Aunt Hilsida—and really, even the name Aunt Hilsida was a warning in and of itself.  It was as if Aunt Hilsida’s parents had known at the moment of her birth what sort of person she would turn out to be, and had given her the name of Hilsida as a warning to everyone she would meet in her life. 

It might have occurred to Tabitha to be sorry for someone who even at birth inspired a sort of terror that causes parents to give them a horrible name, perhaps they wouldn’t have been awful at all if they had been give a name like Bluebell or Rachel.  It might indeed have occurred to Tabitha to feel sorry for Aunt Hilsida—if only she weren’t being sentenced to live with her for an unstated period of time.  It’s a lot easier to feel pity for a horrible relative when they’re far away, and you may even love them in a strange familial fashion, but that doesn’t mean you want to spend time with them, for heaven’s sake, up to and including vacations where they manage to ruin the fun for everyone else just by being who they are.  Aunt Hilsida, if the rumors were to be believed, was enough to spoil a score of people’s vacations, even if they weren’t related to her.  And even if they weren’t in the same area as Aunt Hilsida on vacation, they would still feel the effects of it like an earthquake from far away rattling the cups in your cupboard and shaking your lamps and maybe even causing a very nice vase to fall over and shatter.  Aunt Hilsida on vacation was enough to discomfit small armies and large generals, or so the rumors would say.

Whatever the difference between fact and fiction, it seemed that Tabitha would very shortly find out.

She protested, of course.  You didn’t read as many books as Tabitha had without acquiring a very large vocabulary for someone who hadn’t even turned thirteen.

“Mother, I protest this intolerable indignity and I refuse to acquiesce to your ill-conceived scheme of sending me half-way around our country just so your blithering society friends will stop gossiping about how I cannot even dance the gavotte or paint a table or sew initials on a handkerchief in order that they may tell their blithering sons that I am a good match to have their blithering children with—“

And so on.  (Tabitha had recently encountered the word blithering and was quite taken with it, enough so that she was willing to reuse it several times in an argument, despite her belief that to do so was a sign of a lack of intelligence and creative vocabulary.  But the word blithering was just so descriptive!)

 But her vocabulary was so large, in fact—leaving aside the word blithering—that her arguments went completely over her mother’s head until Lady Bushfield had hysterics.  And even as impassioned as the normally calm girl had become about this subject, she was no match for her mother in hysterics.  In fact, her mother continued to have hysterics until Tabitha was forced to give up the plan of convincing her mother of anything.  Lady Bushfield may not have one of the best minds in the country, or be able to make decisions harder than the options of clothing (and she still caused her dress-maker havoc by always wanting to change the color of this, and take the trim off, but oh, it looked so good on so could you please put it back?) but one thing she could do was have hysterics loud enough and long enough to end any argument.  Tabitha beat a strategic retreat, hoping to find a different field to engage a different opposing force.

But the only other person she could think of who could possibly stop this tragedy from occurring, was her father. 

Tabitha had never spoken to her father.  Nor had her father ever spoken to her.  Now, this might seem strange to most people, but really it was a quite common state of affairs.  Tabitha almost never saw her father except at meal times, and then but rarely for he was often at his club or at a dinner-party etc.  And when her father was dining in, Lady Bushfield was always there to fill the silence, for Tabitha was never allowed to speak during a meal for she was a child and couldn’t possibly have anything important to add to any conversation.  It wasn’t that her father didn’t care for her in his own absent minded way, but she was a girl, after all, and a young one at that, and he was busy with his own busyness that left no time for young girls, even if they were his daughter.  Maybe he’d talk to her when she was older and was looking for a young man to settle down with, just to make sure she was all right.

Even though Tabitha was vaguely aware of all of this, she decided anyway that she must talk to her father.  Something had to be done, and if she could not do it, maybe he could.

It took three days for Tabitha to find her father.  Lord Bushfield as it has been said was a busy man, and on occasion he seemed to completely disappear.  This was one of those times.  If the servants said he was in the library, as soon as Tabitha got there he was gone to his club.  If he was expected back for dinner, he would most certainly be too late for Tabitha to even see him, let alone talk to him away from Lady Bushfield (who was still having hysterics whenever Tabitha opened her mouth).  And if she saw him striding down the hall to his study, he would invariably lock it as soon as he shut it behind him.  Tabitha might have been given cause to wonder if he was deliberately avoiding her, but to her mind it seemed as if he was more intent on avoiding everyone, including the servants and especially his wife.  Tabitha was more of a by-product of avoidance than the cause, really. 

And even though her mind was nearly completely consumed by her own extremely large trouble, there was one small (very small) corner left to wonder if her father was all right, and if there wasn’t some larger trouble than hers (however unlikely) at work.  That small bit of worry tried to assert itself every so often, but truth be told it failed miserably to even distract Tabitha from her goal of speaking to her father and convincing him not to send her away.  She was very determined, as determined as any Bushfield ever was about anything, even Great Great Great Great Grandfather Bushfield who was utterly convinced that if he just cleared his bushy land the fields would make him famous and rich.  Of course his whole family thought him crazy, but that seems to be the lot of most truly determined people.  Everyone else can barely stand to look at them because true determination is not very comfortable to live with, kind of like sitting on what looks to be a comfy sofa only to find it has been upholstered in the most appallingly scratchy fabric.  It just doesn’t work.

But since Tabitha was well and truly determined, on the night of the third day after she set out on her goal of talking to her father, she did.

Lord Bushfield, in a most proper hurry while getting back from his club, forgot to lock his study door behind him, and in fact left it ajar just the tiniest bit.  Tabitha was supposed to be changing into her nightgown when she heard the front door open, so she quickly put her overdress back on and pattered barefooted to the stairs where she watched her father enter and go to his study, but not lock it.

Now was her chance.  She’d rehearsed what she would say to her father, and in fact had spent no few hours in front of the mirror practicing appropriate expressions of pleading despair and absolute innocence.  Sadly Tabitha was good at neither expression, as pleading despair was something only women like her mother were ever good at mastering, and absolute innocence on Tabitha’s face only looked like she had a stomach ache.  The only expression she was much good at was a sort of calm innocence that she had mastered at only two months old when she threw her silver rattle at her mother to stop her from making a series of appalling noises that sounded like ‘goo-goo-gee, a-woo-woo-woo’ etc.  Her aim was quite good and the rattle hit her mother right between the eyes.  Lady Bushfield was so shocked she stopped blabbering and at that moment she saw the expression that was to fill her life: a calm innocent smile that was so mild you hardly saw it.  Unfortunately, the expression had no use in the upcoming discussion, as calm innocence is only truly useful when trying to convince someone else that of course you didn’t eat the last jam tart, or break that ugly vase Great-Grandmama always loved.

Tabitha pattered down the stairs, grabbing the banister at the bottom to swing her around to face the door to her father’s study.  Taking a deep breath she walked up to the door and knocked firmly.

“Yes, what is it?” came the reply from inside.

His first words to me, Tabitha thought.  It seemed somehow appropriate that the first words he spoke to her were by accident.  Tabitha pushed the door open wide enough for her to slip through.  There was a fire crackling in the fireplace and the orange light silhouetted her father so that she couldn’t see him clearly.  He was bending over his desk and sorting through papers as he said, “Well?” and looked up.  Even at a distance and in dim light Tabitha could see the nonplussed expression on his face. 

“Hello Father,” she said.

“Hello Lori,” he replied.  There was a flustered pause.  Neither could seem to say anything to the purpose, Lord Bushfield because he was in a situation he never expected, and Tabitha because even though she had practiced what she wanted to say, it all flew out of her head when she was confronted with the reality of her father.  He seemed somehow bigger, in the dim firelight, bigger and more solid, as if his plain nature was always overwhelmed by the flighty filminess of his wife when they were together, but here—here he was wholly himself.

Tabitha swallowed.  “Father—“ her voice faltered.  She tried again.  “Father, Mother is planning on sending me away.” That was much better, much stronger.  Her Father said nothing.  “Sending me away to stay with Aunt Hilsida.”  Her father visibly shuddered.  Aunt Hilsida might have been his wife’s relation, but he had met her once or twice at family gatherings, so the mention of her name made him shudder at the memory of it.  Tabitha felt heartened by this, as perhaps it meant he would have some sympathy for her fate.  But still he said nothing.

“Father, I do not wish to go.  In fact, I would far rather be apprenticed to a chimney sweep than go live with Aunt Hilsida.  I am sure I would live longer.”  (due to the charcoal dust that they inhaled, chimney sweeps were not known for their longevity.  Tabitha might have been slightly exaggerating, but only about living longer.  She really would rather work as a chimney sweep).  In the face of her father’s silence Tabitha soldiered on.  “Mother only wants to send me there because there are no dancing masters or painting masters or sewing mistresses that will teach me here, and she wants me to be accomplished.  I don’t care about being accomplished, and in any case, I can speak and read both French and German fluently.  Although Mother doesn’t think of that as much of an accomplishment, since the French and Germans do it all the time.” Tabitha realized she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop.  “All accomplishments are for is catching husbands and if dancing and painting and embroidering are all that husbands want, I don’t want one.  I’d much rather have one who appreciates French and German.  And perhaps Latin.  I’d really like to learn Latin.  But can’t you see Father?  Living with Aunt Hilsida will be the most awful thing I can even imagine.  Could you imagine anything worse than living with Aunt Hilsida?  Please Father, please.  Don’t send me to live with her.  Please!”  Tabitha’s voice had been steadily rising until on the last word she was particularly emphatic enough that her face did indeed take on an expression of pleading despair. 

Her father looked at her for a long moment, his moustache casting strange shadows on his face, before saying:

“No.” 

He then turned away and appeared to forget her presence in his study.

In a shocked daze, Tabitha left her father’s presence.  She was back in her room before she realized what had just happened, what her father had just said.

No.

The solidity of the word weighed down on her as if it were as heavy as her father himself. 

No.

He had not said anything else to the purpose.  There would be no reprieve.  She would be sent to live with Aunt Hilsida.  There were no longer any other options. 

And Tabitha, who had never hated anyone in her life, began to hate her father. 

It was quite strange, really.  She had never hated her mother, even through the long weary years of her blather and her empty-headed attempts to make her a lady, even though she had been the one to first think of sending Tabitha away to Aunt Hilsida.  Tabitha couldn’t hate her mother, because that’s just who her mother was.  But her father—

Tabitha hadn’t even realized how much she expected from her father until he had completely disappointed her.  And so she hated him for what she had wanted him to be, and what he had actually turned out to be.

She made a promise then, that she would never ever again speak to her father.  It shouldn’t be that hard, really, since she had gone nearly thirteen years of her life without doing it so far.  She vowed it to herself and used a pin to prick her finger so that she could let one drop of blood fall on her candle flame.

It is sometimes the greatest pity of all that fate listens to our requests.

Chapter 2