He was the last person I expected to see here

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He was the last person I expected to see here. Standing in the doorway of my parent’s home; my sister holding his hand and trying to drag him inside to meet us all. I recognised him first. He was just trying to remember all the names and look at people face’s while she introduced him, so he hadn’t even seen me... not yet.

My mind was racing. Did I say that I knew him? Did I wait to see what he did?

“And this is Jake,” she gushed to Mum. I knew she was really keen on this guy. It just hadn’t occurred to me that her Jake was my Jake... or used to be.

“Oh, we've heard so much about you,” Mum gushed back.

Oh, crap. I held my tongue.

Our eyes met and he froze; mouth gaping. Dad noticed. I knew he did. And Dad glanced at me and I was smiling but it was too bright; too fake. I shook Jake’s hand. And then he was dragged on to meet aunts and uncles. I stepped back and hurried off to the bathroom.

After washing my face and giving myself a stern - but silent- talking to, I opened the door and ran straight into my father.

“What?” I asked.

“Talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Cat?” He always called me Cat; others called me Catherine, Cathy... anything, but Dad called me Cat. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.

I could never lie to my father but I wasn’t sure that I could admit to knowing Jake in the biblical sense. “Yes.”

He pointed out the front door. Everyone else was in the back yard. “Two minutes.”

I sighed.

When he came out with two bottles of beer in his hand, it was longer than two minutes and I was sitting with my knees up and my arms wrapped around them. He passed me a bottle.

“They’ll be looking for you,” I accused.

“Nope.” He sat next to me, shoulders bumping, and said, “Now talk.”

“I know him... we kind of... ah... crap.” I drank a large mouthful.

“Did you go out with him?”

“We didn’t so much go out as stay in.”

A nod. “And Amber doesn't know that?”

“No. I didn’t even tell him I had a sister, so he wouldn’t have realised we are related.”

“Common family name, Murray.”

“Yes.” Another sip. “And we didn’t talk... much.”

Silence for a minute.

“Why did it end?” he asked. “Did you break it off?”

“No, he did. He got a girlfriend.”

“You weren’t girlfriend material?”

I had always wondered about that. It had hurt. “Guess not. I also guess that was Amber. The timing fits.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything, Dad. It isn’t your problem.”

“He doesn’t look comfortable out the back.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“You can’t avoid him.”

“I know. But if I get in my car and drive back to college, Amber will be upset.”

“You thinking about it?”

“No,” I lied.

“Liar.”

I wanted to tell my father that this guy had been special to me. That I loved him. That the way we fitted together was perfect, or at least I had thought so. I didn’t come home as often as Amber did, so my parents didn’t see me mourn the breakup. But I mourned... big time. I just couldn’t show it because I had hidden him from everyone. I could not publicly mourn a man no one had even known about. “I have to talk to him.”

“Yes. Work it out with him.” He finished his beer. “He’s special to Amber.”

“I got that idea.” She’d brought him home to meet the family; that was a first, so he was definitely serious.

Dad gripped my shoulder. “Don’t stay out here all night.” And then he left me alone with my thoughts.

When the door opened again, I thought it was Dad back with another beer. I just held my hand up for it without looking at him. He opened it first and that made me look. I stood in a hurry. Ready to run.

“I didn’t know,” Jake said.

“No.”

“Are you okay?” He actually looked concerned.

“Yes.”

“Have you been okay?”

I’d survived. He looked great. “What do you care?”

“Don’t do this, Cat.”

Oh, yeah. There was one other person who called me Cat.

He looked as if he wanted to touch me. He stared at his hand reaching out for me and then put it in his pocket. I folded my arms. Tried not to crush the beer bottle in my hand.

“I can’t go,” he said. "We just got here.”

“What? She hasn’t introduced you to everyone yet?” I hated how bitter my voice sounded.

“Not like you,” he snarked back. “I bet you didn’t tell anyone about us.”

Ouch. “I thought that was what you wanted.” I heard my voice shudder.

“I wanted you.”

“You had me. Wasn’t that enough?”

He wiped his hand over his face. He didn’t give me an answer.

“Wasn’t I girlfriend material?” I made a gesture with the bottle. “Don’t answer that. I already know.”

“You’re upset.”

I snorted.

“We can’t tell her,” he suggested.

I wanted to accuse him of cowardice, but  I didn’t have the first clue how to explain it to her either. We’d be cowards together. Not lovers.

“I know,” I sighed. “We’ll break her heart.” I wanted to add ‘too’ but I didn’t.

He heard it anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it.”

He took a step towards me. My back was against the verandah post but I didn’t try to sidestep him. He touched the top of my shoulders and then he leaned down and pressed his lips to my forehead. And I didn’t stop him. I put one hand up and pressed the palm against his stomach. It wasn’t a push, it was a caress. “I miss you,” he confessed in a tiny whisper as if he could barely admit it out loud.

We took a breath. Close. Close enough to smell him.

“With her... I... c-can’t breathe,” he confessed.

I closed my eyes. “Don’t tell me that, Jake.” She was my sister. I knew how she smothered things. Drowned them in love when I let them be free. Maybe too free. We were sisters but we weren’t alike.

“Sorry.” A pause. “ I should go find her.”

“Yeah.” I closed my eyes again so I didn’t have to see him leave.

When I opened them I saw movement on the drive. Amber stepped into the light. She must have walked up the side of the house through the carport and we hadn’t heard her. She held the car keys in her hand so hard her fingers were white. I don’t know what she had heard and I wasn’t game to ask.

We stared at each other and then she turned and walked back up the carport.

I went to pack my bag.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

The bloody forest

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

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Picture Source: spex84.deviantart.com

“They call it the bloody forest,” he announced ponderously.

“But that’s just a name… right?” She peered into the edge of the forest and saw the red liquid that seemed to run down the centre of the path.

He lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s not… actually blood?” she asked.

“Does it look like blood?”

“Y-yes.” She still looked nervous.

Silence.

“But it can’t be,” she argued.

“One story is that there was a battle here. A huge one with thousands of fighters. So many that their spilled blood still pours out of the ground.”

She gave him a sceptical look. “Trees,” she argued. “Big trees.”

“It must have been a very long time ago for the trees to grow this big.”

“That’s what I just said.”

He grinned at her. “Right.”

They still hadn’t entered the forest.

“Do we have to go through it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We could go around... but it would take days longer.”

Her feet shuffled in her agitation. “Have you done it before? Walked through the forest?”

“Now she asks.”

“Pfft.”

With a second glance at him, she took a decisive step into the forest.

He noticed that she stayed out of the liquid.

He followed her in.

“Don’t step in the blood,” he warned.

She smacked him on the upper arm. “Stop teasing.” But as she stepped back, she stood in the liquid. “Oh... now I’ve got it on my shoes.”

“Ooh... that doesn’t wash out.”

“Her face twisted in distaste. “What is it? Really?”

“Iron. But it still doesn’t wash out.”

“I hate you.”

He chuckled. “I know. You told me last week.”

She trudged on in silence. He gave her a gentle push, or pointed where they needed to go. Mostly there was no choice; just one path - winding through the trees and little used by the look of it.

“No one lives in here?”

“No.”

“Too dark?”

“Yes.”

Her nerves were making her chatty.

“But it is a forest.”

“And?”

“Something must live in here.”

“True.”

He got a look for that.

“Nothing too large,” he added.

“No rodents of unusual size?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Uh, huh.”

Silence for some time as they walked and her breathing started to get laboured.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked her.

“No.” A pause. “It unnerves me,” she added.

He frowned at her. “We can stop for a few minutes.”

“No.” Another pause. “Thank you, but I just want to get out of here.”

Handing her the water canteen without comment, they stopped - standing in place while she got her breath back.

He waited until she started to walk again before following her.

Some time later, her breathing was strained and he was watching her so closely that he didn’t see when the figure leapt out of the undergrowth and grabbed him.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

You can’t just throw people away when you’re done with them

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“You can’t just throw people away when you’re finished with them,” she shouted at him, grabbing at his arm.

He looked down at her and his face radiated sympathy as he shook his head. “He’s always like that.”

“Where is he?” she demanded.

He just shook his head again.

“You don’t know or you wouldn’t tell me if you did?”

“Both.” He gave her a look. “He’s my best friend.”

“He’s a dick.”

“I know... but only to women.”

“Oh... so that makes it better?”

“Come on, girl. Are you seriously telling me you thought it meant more?”

She made a frustrated gesture, dragging her hand away from him.

“You’re young,” he said, “You’ll get over it.”

Get over it? The man had lit a passion within her that she had not known existed. Imagining that with anyone else was just not possible right now.

“I don’t want your sympathy,” she shouted at him. “I want to know where he is.”

“Don’t you get it? He’s at home with his wife and kids.” His voice was low and quiet.

Her heart hurt as if it had been speared. She clutched at her chest.

His eyes looked sorry.

“Kids?” she gasped.

“Go home... get drunk. Whatever you need to do.”

“I-I m-meant nothing?” She didn’t know why she was asking him.

He sighed. “I can’t answer that.”

Her head dropped. “No.”

He patted the top of her shoulder. “Go home. Go on.”

It was good advice but she looked towards the bar he had just come out of.

“Don’t go in there,” he said as if he read her mind.

“Rebound.”

“Yeah. You need some time to yourself.”

Maybe she did, but it annoyed her that he knew what advice to give. How many times had he done it before?

“Sure,” she snapped at him, before walking away.

“Do you need a lift?” he called after her, but she didn’t answer.

She needed the long walk home and the time to think.

And the privacy to cry.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

Shirman

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She always took the short cut through the cemetery. No matter how many times her mother told her it was dangerous. She ignored a lot of advice that her mother gave her. She went on constantly about finding her body dumped in a ditch. Why was it always ditches?

She was smoking, too as she was walking along. Her school backpack slung over one shoulder. Her mother was a worrisome old fart who just didn’t understand what it was like to be young.

She constantly nagged her about not contacting her. As if she had time to call or text her mother? She was busy calling and texting her friends. Or snap chatting them. Her mother just cramped her style.

Silly old bitch.

And then she saw the man.

It startled her. For a second she felt afraid.

He was tall with close cropped hair and a trimmed beard. Buttoning his coat as if he had just stepped outside his front door. The problem was that he was in a graveyard. There were no houses here.

The front door that he had just stepped out of was a tree. A large tree that she had noticed a dozen times before. She had always thought that it was very healthy for a tree that grew in a graveyard, or maybe it got lots of fertilizer? Worms... they were good for the earth weren’t they? There had to be lots of worms in a graveyard.

He looked around and she ducked behind a gravestone. All her mother’s warnings flashed through her head.

She knew somehow that this man was dangerous.

Straining her ears to listen for a sound, she realised that she still had her cigarette and that the upward streaming smoke gave her away. Butting it out quickly in the grass she froze to listen again.

Footsteps. Careful and measured approached her hiding place.

Could she run? Not with the bag over her shoulder. It was too heavy and it would take precious seconds to dump. She could not do it now without making a noise.

Silence.

Her phone made a text received noise; a speech sample from her favorite anime. It was a moan. She could not shut it up quickly enough.

~~~~~~

Her phone, bag and the stubbed out cigarette were found the next morning.

It took her mother too long to report her missing, but the police did not blame her. Her daughter had a habit of worrying her mother.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

The fabric was thick and heavy, impossible to see through

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AN: I was reading Georgette Heyer and, in The Black Moth, the blackguard kidnaps a woman he wants to marry without asking her first -and she didn’t even know his real name.

circa 1750

~~~~~~

The fabric was thick and heavy, impossible to see through. It had been flung over her head and she had been manhandled into a carriage. It rocked and bumped as it travelled; at one stage throwing her into the door. She let out a whimper of pain.

"Please," she begged him. "Can I see?" She knew he was there; she had heard him climb in and she could smell his cologne.

He didn't answer but the hood was pulled from her head.

She took a gulp of air; blinking quickly and trying not to cry.

He watched her; her kidnapper.

As she suspected, it was the man she had seen at Bath on a walk around the pump room. Visiting with her aunt she had noticed him noticing her. Even now, he was beautifully dressed, boots to the thigh, white silk breeches, and a brightly colored vest. Also, for once, he was not wearing a coiffured wig. The cloak around his shoulders was a deep dark blue. He outshone all of it with his black hair and flashing blue eyes. He was a very handsome man.

The carriage rolled on for a mile or so before she could ask, "What do you want?"

"You aren't going to ask who I am?" His voice was low and throaty.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I know who you are." She had asked after the bathhouse meeting. Or more strictly, it should be called a sighting. They were not even introduced.

He tilted his head. "You do?"

"You are the Marquess of Vidal.” Heir to the Duke of Avon.

He smiled and inclined his head in a half nod at her. "Indeed."

Another mile or so passed.

"Why?" she asked.

"I need a wife."

"A... w-wife?" That was not what she thought this was about.

"Yes."

She tried to think about it. He was one of the most eligible bachelors in the land. Even given his infamous reputation for womanising and duelling, why did he need to kidnap a wife? Her mouth clicked with thirst and nerves. "Do you..." She swallowed heavily. "Do you have any water?"

"No, only brandy."

She shook her head. It took her another mile to work up the courage to ask, “Can we stop at an inn?”

He knocked on the roof of the cabin with his cane.

With creaks and the stamping of horses the carriage started to slow. He didn’t tell her to stay but he removed his cloak and then half climbed out the door and spoke to the men sitting up on the seat. A shouted command and the carriage jerked into faster movement again. She tried very hard not to admire his rear but it was at her eye level and it was a very nicely shaped rear.

He threw himself back into the seat opposite. “We will stop at the next inn.”

“And then?” she pressed.

“We continue on to my estate.”

“I see.”

He was as good as his word; they stopped at a small inn where she was given refreshment and allowed to walk for a little before being ushered back into the carriage. No bag over her head this time.

She felt overwhelmed. This was hopeless. She was a young girl and he was a marquess. She had no hope of gainsaying him. She just wanted to know why her and why the rush?

~~~~~

At his estate, she was welcomed as if she was already the lady of the manor.

“Are you tired? Do you wish to retire?” he asked.

She startled at the thought of where she would be retiring.

“You would, of course, have your own rooms and a female attendant,” he added.

Of course she would. To make sure she did not leave. But also, it suggested that he had his own apartments and would not be forcing himself upon her.

She was confused and in her tiredness just told him her thoughts.

“I do wish to marry you,” he said.

“So... just ask,” she wailed.

He looked astonished. “Ask?”

“You just took,” she said.

He blinked at her; his mouth open. It had clearly not occurred to him to ask her. “I am not used to asking for what I want,” he confessed.

“And don’t bother now,” she hissed at him. “I don’t marry people who force me into things,” she continued before she turned on her heel and darted up the stairs. The maid showed her to her room.

She had trouble sleeping. She lay in the centre of the enormous bed sure that rest would elude her and still dressed in her undergarments. Habit had made her remove her dress and hang it over a door. There were clothes provided for her but she didn’t want to wear them.

~~~~~~

A knock woke her in the morning and when, after a decent pause, the door opened it hit the chair she had dragged over and put against it. There was a feminine squeak of indignation. Clearly not the Marquess.

“Oh... sorry.” She leapt out of the bed and ran to shift the chair.

The young maid who peeked through the door didn’t look much older than her. “I have to help you dress for breakfast.” She sounded very nervous. “His lordship said,” she added.

Breakfast? It was a new fad. “What’s your name?”

“Millie, your ladyship.”

“Mine is Adelaide and I am not a lady.”

“But you must be,” she argued as she helped her dress. “If his lordship is to marry you.”

“Why does he need to marry so quickly, Millie. Do you know?”

The girl gave her an odd look before leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s his uncle,” she said. “I hear tell that he gave him an... what do you call it?”

“Ultimatum?”

“Threat...yeah.” Millie quickly buttoned up the dress that had taken her too long, and much gymnastics to get out of by herself the night before. “Before his birthday,” she added.

“Whose?”

“His lordship’s.”

He must be turning thirty. She could not imagine he had managed to fit in everything he was reputed to have done in less time.

“I cannot do much with your hair, milady.”

“Don’t worry about it.” If he kidnapped her, he could not expect her to be at her best.

~~~~~~

She stood, arms folded and point blank refused to sit or eat or take anything he offered her until he explained.

“Please sit, Adelaide, and I will explain.”

Ah, so he knew her name at least. A mute head shake.

He sighed and made a motion ordering the staff from the room. She was wondering if he thought that he had made a mistake. Would he return her undamaged if she proved too feisty?

“I admire your spirit. It is admirable under the circumstances.”

Oh dear. That was not the result she had been hoping to achieve. “Why?” she demanded.

“I will explain after the wedding.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” She took a deep breath. “Now.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She stood, holding that breath. Her lips pursed in what she hoped looked like determination. She prayed that her stomach would not growl; she was fiercely hungry and the breakfast smelt good.

“My uncle, the Duke, demands an heir.”

Silence.

He continued, “He has no progeny of his own and not for want of trying. He wants proof that I am not so afflicted. The entire line rests on my shoulders.”

She frowned. In all his womanising he had not produced a by-blow?

“And you,” he added, “look fertile to me.”

She blinked. Fertile? She was unfashionably robust as her mother had often told her. She did not know what to say to his statement.

“And I saw how you looked at me.” He grinned at her.

“I did no such thing,” she argued. It would have been the height of rudeness to do so, even if she had.

“Yes, you did.” He laughed. “Confess it, Adelaide, you find me attractive.”

Her mouth hung open as she tried to think of a rejoinder but then her treacherous stomach growled.

He stood and held his hand out to her. “Please sit and eat, I do not want you to fade away.”

In the absence of servants, he piled her plate high with food and offered her tea and hot chocolate. Thus fortified, she attempted to negotiate. He needed her. And from his odd statement, he might even want her. He was not to know that he was the first man who had ever thought her ample virtues were attractive. Adelaide was not a fool, love matches were rare and he was the heir to a Duke. The marriage, even if she was forced into it and it was never consummated, would be valid and divorce was not easily obtained. She might be stuck with him, but he, also, with her. As the wife of the only heir she would be the Lady Avon and her son, if she had one, would be an Earl. His uncle could live for many years, but when he died, she would be Duchess.

She could help her family and if she was very honest, she did find him attractive. She just didn't appreciate his manners. But really, she got the best half of this deal.

She studied him as she ate and again, he knew she was watching him.

When she had eaten her fill she said, “You are very sure of yourself milord.”

“Nathaniel.”

“Pardon?”

“My name. You should know it if we are to wed.”

“If?”

“When,” he corrected. He refilled her chocolate. “Have you changed your mind?”

“If,” she emphasised, “we were to wed... with this unseemly haste, my mother would require a later function.”

He nodded.

“Our private apartments would be-” she stopped, not sure how to proceed.

“-separate,” he finished, “As per the current fashion. Unless you preferred otherwise.”

She blushed. “No...” She fiddled with her napkin.

“Anything else?” He gazed at her expectantly. Those blue eyes twinkled.

“I confess that I am at a loss.” She probably should not have said that.

“Your father?” he asked.

“Died some years ago and I fear there is no dowry.” The lack of a dowry made her an even less attractive option for a wife.

“I know.”

Had he enquired about her as a prospect? Her mother hadn’t said anything.

Silence.

“Adelaide?”

“Milord.”

He frowned.

“Nathaniel,” she corrected herself.

“I apologise for seizing you.” He looked very contrite.

“You do?”

“I promise to never touch you again without your permission.”

“I see.”

“May I hold your hand?”

He learned fast.

She nodded.

He knelt on the floor next to her and reached for her hand. “But I cannot let you go.”

She suspected that.

“I would prefer you to be my wife than a concubine.” Clearly either way, he was not returning her. Her reputation would be destroyed, even if they didn’t do anything. Unless he could return her without incident, but she feared her aunt may have already raised the alarm. And as she had previously calculated, this deal was a good one for her and a lot of wealth was at stake for him.

He waited for her answer.

She nodded quickly and he beamed at her.

“What if...?” she asked. “What if there is no child?”

“I don’t think that will be an issue. Do you?”

~~~~~

They never did settle into separate apartments and her dress had to be adjusted for the formal ceremony. Nobody cared to count the weeks from her official wedding day to her confinement and people said that babies often came early. Even ones as large and healthy as their son.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

Where did you get that bruise?

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“Where did you get that bruise?” he demanded as he grabbed her arm; almost bruising her himself.

She snatched her arm away from him. “What’s it matter to you?”

“Where?” he demanded.

“I ran into a door,” she said flippantly.

He gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t think so.” He turned her arm over. “Did he do this?”

She sighed.

No answer was as good as an answer.

“I’ll kill him,” he grunted out.

“No... you won’t.” For a second, she wished to touch his face. Her voice softened, “He’s my father.”

“I don’t care who he is. He cannot treat you like this.”

If he did something stupid, they would all be in trouble. She needed to explain to him. “Better me than my little sisters.”

His face fell. “Oh, Jesus... no.”

“Do you see now?” she asked quietly. “I am all that stands between him and them.”

“I want to help.”

“I know... but... I can’t see a way out of it right now.”

He hugged her and she let herself hug him back. “I’ll wait,” he promised. “I’ll wait and I’ll be there and I’ll help when you think of a plan.”

She smiled weakly at him. “Sure.”

“Plans are what you are good at,” he said.

Studying his eyes, she asked, “Will you really wait? For me?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind the package deal? Me and my sisters.”

“Of course not.”

A quick nod. If she knew that, then she could last. She could take the punishment until she saw a way out for them all. And then she’d take her sisters with her and no-one would ever hurt any of them ever again.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

And these things just come naturally to you?

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“And these things just come naturally to you?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

She didn’t answer him.

“Do they?” he demanded.

“Yes... they do.” Her voice was so quiet only those closest to her could hear it.

“What’s that?” he asked. “Mouse?” he added with a pointed glance at the people hanging on his every word. A few obligingly snickered.

She shrunk down a little more; trying to look small and defenceless.

“Fortune telling?” He laughed.

Learning quickly, more of the crowd chuckled this time.

“So you can see my future?”

“And your past,” she added.

“Oh, ho?” He waved a hand and the crowd laughed derisively.

Her jaw gritted. He was really annoying her.

“So what?” he asked. “You read my tea leaves? Look at my palm?”

“No.” She paused. “I need your blood.”

“Ooooh.” He held his hands in front of her face and waggled his fingers. “Blood.”

Small as she was, she didn’t blink. She had moved from annoyance to active dislike. “Just a small drop,” she said with a head tilt. The implication was there even if she didn’t say it.

And he knew it. He leaned in and hissed in her ear, “I am not frightened of you or your fortune telling.”

She didn’t answer; just drew a small shallow bowl from inside her cloak.

He eyed it off. “Don’t tell me you are going to drink it?”

“I need wine,” she said. “White wine.”

With a gesture from him, servants moved to obey.

“A small table? If you please?” she added. Her fear was gone. This was what she did. As he had said, it was her nature. And she knew that he wanted to hear his fortune. He was curious, and that meant she wasn’t dead... yet.

“Why blood?” he asked. The question was quiet; just for her.

A servant passed her a glass carafe. She poured, and then placed the bowl in the dead centre of the table. It was a perfect height for her to lean over dramatically.

He was still waiting for her reply.

Her mind was racing; trying to piece together every little piece of gossip she had heard in the time that she had been travelling his kingdom. Another part of her was trying to compose something that sounded suitably poetic and a third part was praying. Her gift was erratic but tonight she was praying that it actually worked. Perhaps she could dwell in the poetic past and hope that she caught a glimpse into the future.

“It has to have a cost to you,” she finally answered him. “Gold means too little.”

“So you have heard of my wealth?” he preened.

She wanted to remind him that he had clearly heard of her and dragged her to him by force of arms... but she didn’t. Palming a blade from inside another pocket, she said, “Blood.”

He frowned at her. She was supposed to have been searched for weapons. “And allow you to stick me with your blade? I don’t think so.”

She shrugged. “As you wish.”

“Does it matter where the blood comes from?”

“No.” All blood passed through the heart and the brain, allowing her - if the gift worked - to know what he thought and what he felt.

He had to use his own dagger; the point held to the tip of his finger. The drop fell with an audible plink.

“Three drops,” she said.

He obeyed.

She didn’t really need three drops; she just wanted to see him bleed. Perhaps she should have asked for ten? But she had him now. He was nervous. Obviously he had something to be nervous about.

She saw that he resisted the temptation to lick his finger like a child; he wiped it on his sleeve.

She leaned down over the bowl. Her head above it and her hands gripped on the table edge. Closing her eyes, she prayed. “This may take a moment,” she said, stalling for time.

He threw himself into a chair and feigned nonchalance.

She took as long as she could before she spoke; now her voice rang out.

“First and only child of the father, but not of the mother-”

“Everyone knows my mother was married to his brother first.”

She silenced him with a look. “Born hungry, a death already to your name.”

His leg jigged nervously.

“Your twin dead. One for above, one for below. The evidence-” She scrabbled in her head for death ritual information. “-burnt to ash. Your mother broken and now barren. A womb of tears, poisoned and slowly killing her. Your father lost in mourning.”

He stared at her.

“Your step brother died. Fell from the battlements they said.”

“She had me,” he whispered. “I should have been enough.”

She threw her arms out wide; today the gift was working she could feel it. It remained to be seen if that was a good thing.

The room was deathly silent.

“You grew,” she said. “Almost unmatched in physical strength and grace. Told you were a good boy and great man until you believed it yourself. But you are not a good king.”

Someone gasped behind her.

“Your kingdom ails. The root crop is rotten in the ground. The wheat blackens and falls before it can be harvested. The fruit on the trees is stunted and does not ripen.” She pointed at him. “You do not see it!”

He rose to his feet; his face white.

“You eat! You feast while your people starve.” She knew she had minutes left. “You are the bad king who will fight off all revolutions. You will rule on in chaos and fear. But the child of the queen-”

“A child?” he interrupted; he sounded almost hopeful.

“-will be your death,” she finished.

“Shut up!” he shouted at her.

“And it is NOT your child!”

“SHUT UP!” he screamed it at her now. Grabbing the top of her arms with his hands and shaking her.

“You beat her for it but she does... not... love... you.” She spat it in his face.

He released one hand. She knew what was coming. He hauled back and slapped her. It hurt but he only held her with one hand now. She twisted out of his grip, scooped the bowl off the table and threw the contents in his eyes. He pushed her away from him.

Another hand locked around her arm. She would have bruises for days if she survived this. She was yanked backwards. She caught a glimpse of the horrified face of the king before it seemed as if the wall opened up and swallowed them.

She tried to speak but a hand was slapped over her face. They were inside the wall. The noise of the crowd in the audience chamber was muted.

The man held a finger to his lips. She blinked slowly to indicate she understood.

The passage was narrow and cramped; the air stale and musty. They hurried along for some distance until he spoke, “If he kills her, you die, too.”

The queen? “He won’t. I saw the future.”

A snort.

“It’s your child,” she guessed.

“My son,” he said proudly.

“I didn’t say it was a son,” she commented as she checked her bowl was unbroken.

He gave her a look. “Huh.” He nodded. “If she is anything like her mother I wouldn’t be surprised what she will do.”

“Oh, she’ll be amazing.”

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

The worst thing about the funeral is that her socks are wet

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/98760120497/the-worst-thing-about-the-funeral-is-that-her-socks-are

The worst thing about the funeral is that her socks are wet. It is such a cliché that it always rains at a funeral but it is and she is, so both those things seem true. She isn’t mourning and her wet socks make her sad but not enough to cry.

People are crying; some silently and some dramatically clutching white lace-trimmed handkerchiefs that look so pristine they must save them for funerals.

She had listened to the eulogies and wondered that a person could live his whole life in self-contained compartments as the deceased must have done. Then she had followed the hearse and the coffin to the interment. She needed to see it.

She is fairly certain that none of these people knew the dead man; not even his closest family. At least they didn’t really know him. They came from one room in his life, she came from another. She was the interloper; the outsider. She did not belong here and if he was alive, he would have had her removed. Or shot.

She knew him; knew him too well and she was here to make sure that he went into the ground. She wasn’t crying and no amount of drama from other people would encourage her to shed a single tear.

Her whole family was dead, and it was on the orders of this man.

It made her rage inside that he got to die peacefully in his bed when she had hoped to kill him herself. But the opportunity had never arisen; the exact right set of circumstances that would have resulted in his death. She was driven by revenge but she was not stupid or suicidal. As the last of her family, a lot was riding on her slim shoulders.

The ceremony finished and people started to walk back to their cars.

She noted the exact position of the grave. Maybe she should return tonight and salt and burn him just to make sure he didn’t come back? The thought made her want to laugh. One of his men was watching her as she moved through the people to get closer to the hole.

She crouched down next to the grave, made the mano cornuta horn symbol with her fingers pointing down towards the ground and she whispered, “I’ll see you in Hell.” And then she spat into it before rising and walking away.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014

reading list

The Beekeeper's Apprentice by Laurie R. King

A strange thing happened when I was reading this book. Goodreads sends status updates to my Twitter account, so when I told the site I was 68 pages into this book, it sent out a tweet to say that. The tweet was seen by the author of the book who sent me a message to ask if this was the first of her books that I had read.

The twitter account is set up as a Mary Russell account - the main character in the books. I didn’t initially notice this. I think she was mid-change to this set-up because I remember the photo as that of an older lady. I could be thinking of her Goodreads page: I honestly don’t remember.

I replied and said something about how it had been recommended to me by a friend who didn’t read fanfiction. I would have been interested in a discussion about how the heck she got this story line past the Conan Doyle estate as I thought they were terriers at protecting their Holmes.

I got the idea when she replied that she was not a fictional character and then I continued with what I hope sounded like a Holmsean line that it was mere logic; she was fifteen in the books in 1915, therefore she had to be 114 years old in 2014 and was probably dead. She replied with a plural ‘we’ that neither of them were dead.

Now, it is the ‘we’ that stops me. Holmes is already an old man in her books. If Mary is 114, Holmes must be over 160!

I am literally 68 pages into the first book of a thirteen book series and she has just let out a huge spoiler. Both Mary and Holmes are alive.

Maybe I should assume that, given there are thirteen books in the series? Or maybe not. Maybe Holmes dies in book one and Mary goes on to have a great career as an observant detective? And she is the detective in the rest of the series.

But whatever the reason, it stopped me in my tracks.

And I can’t read any more of the story.

Through the curling flames

Through the curling flames rising from the ship, he caught sight of a familiar dark head of hair and a broad, confident grin.

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/94485365786/through-the-curling-flames-rising-from-the-ship-he

~~~~~~

Through the curling flames rising from the ship, he caught sight of a familiar dark head of hair and a broad, confident grin. “Oh, no. Tell me that is not who I think it is,” he pleaded with his first mate.

“How did he get over there?” the mate asked.

“How did he get out of the brig?”

“No idea, but that is definitely your brother, Captain.”

“JAMES! Get your ass back here,” he ordered at a level of a bull-roaring shout.

“In a minute... I just need to find someone -” He looked around, ran down the burning deck and grabbed a dishevelled crewman who tried to fight him off. “- and here he is!” He tossed the slight but struggling crewman over his shoulder, grabbed a rope, walked down a fallen mast and jumped down onto the deck of their ship.

“Disengage!” the captain ordered.

Grappling hooks and ropes were disengaged and the ships pushed apart before the fire could spread to their vessel.

The crewman, when dropped to their feet, turned out to be a woman. She turned and tried to punch her rescuer in the head. He fought her off and pinioned her arms behind her back. “May I introduce you to my wife.”

“A loving relationship,” said the first mate dryly.

“Wife?” the captain checked.

“She was drunk, but lucky I remembered the ceremony!”

She spat at him.

“Right. So the alleged treasure that the Mariana carried is-,” the captain waved a hand at her, “-her?”

“You always were the smart one, brother.”

“Uh, huh.” He gave her a more intense look and then he snatched the hat from her head so he could see her face more clearly. “Are you kidding me?”

“Isn't she beautiful?” James asked no-one in particular.

The she in question still looked very angry but the first mate suddenly recognised her as well and started to laugh.

“How dare you!” she snarled at him.

“Oh, I do apologise... your highness.”

The captain rolled his eyes. “The missing princess,” he sighed. “I should have known you would have something to do with this.”

“Hey!” his brother protested, “I didn't kidnap her, she ran away. I just found her and ...” He grinned rascally.

“Oh, good god. Please tell me we do not have to explain to the King that you consummated the marriage.”

He elbowed his brother in the side. “Of course I did... not that she was... you know-”

“Hey,” she interrupted, “That was the horse riding.”

“Sure it was, darling.”

She tried to hit him again but he easily ducked her blows.

“Your highness, you may have my quarters,” the captain offered.

She straightened her shoulders, tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to look like royalty. “Thank you, captain. I will take you up on your kind offer.” She ignored her alleged husband.

The captain gestured at the mate. “Please escort her, Jones.” He lowered his voice and pressed a key into his hand. “And lock her in.”

“Yes, Captain.”

James grinned at him and folded his arms. “Not going to lock me in there with her?” he said, after she had gone below decks.

“Definitely not.” He gave him a second look. “And don’t think I will lock you in the brig again, either. No idea how you got out in the first place.”

He laughed. “Just as well. You wouldn't want to be accused of injuring the princess.”

He shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about it. I suppose it is good that you knew where she was.”

Another grin.

“Oh... I see. She was exactly where you left her.”

“Smart...”

He clapped his brother on the back. “One day, you will be the death of me.”

“But not today. Today I earn you the thanks of a grateful monarch.”

They both laughed as they headed for the helm.

~~~~

© AM Gray 2014