New Story
When I was at college, I wrote a set of short stories all set on the same island, called Tobermoerai (pronounced like the womble). They weren't bad, but it always annoyed me that they never focused on what I thought was the most interesting part of the setting - the idea of a magical society going through an industrial revolution. So I've been playing with the setting and characters and this is the start.
It was quiet in the graveyard; no one else was present. This morning was bright, one of those calm, clear autumn days, and the golden sunshine gleamed on the white marble stone. It was a plain headstone, with the simple legend SHANA WHITLAW carved into its surface. There was nothing else: no ‘Rest in Peace’ or ‘Beloved Daughter’, not even a date; just her name, in sharp capitals, almost as an after-thought.
Milo knelt and laid a bouquet of pink and white flowers down on the soft, neatly cut grass of the grave. At least it was well tended: there were no favourites among the dead here, no matter what their sins might have been.
"birthday, Shana,” he murmured quietly to the empty air. In a nearby tree a magpie called back as if chiding him for disturbing the peace of the morning.
The church clock struck the hour and he was reminded, as he always was when he came here, of her funeral. He could remember none of what had been said, but then very little had been said and none of it with any feeling. The terse sounding voice of the priest as he ran through the motions stayed with Milo still, however. No one else spoke at the ceremony; there had been no readings, as there had when his mother had died. There hadn’t even been any flowers. Those who had come to the service left quickly after the uncomfortable service and it was clear that they would not have stayed for a wake, even if there had been one.
For the daughter of an important local family this should have been unheard of; but Shana’s sins were two-fold. Firstly, and most importantly to the church she was a suicide. To throw away the gift of life was unforgivable, and thus she had gained this spot at the edge of the graveyard and the almost bare headstone. Secondly, she had failed to become a sorceress. To be chosen for the academy, to wear the black robes was an honour for any woman, and Shana had left home five years ago with her father’s hopes and praise. She had returned three years later in a coffin.
The black-edged letter that had preceded her body had explained that Shana had been failing at her studies and had taken a coward’s way out. We were mistaken to have selected her, it finished coldly.
A polite throat-clearing broken Milo from his thoughts and he straightened at the sound of familiar footsteps coming down the gravel path towards him.
"You found me, then.”
"It wasn’t hard to guess where you’d be today,” the other replied. “You should have waited for me,” he added, slightly reproachfully. “She was my sister too. Not by blood, maybe, but by everything else.”
Not by blood. Milo looked at his adopted brother. It was true that no one would ever mistake them for sublings: Tobin Whitlaw was tall and slender, with dark hair and darker eyes. Milo was shorter, stockier, with sandy hair that tended to resist any attempt to tame it. At the same time, no one who knew them would deny the bond between the pair. Tobin was a foundling, left on the steps on the church as a baby and adopted into the family almost fifteen years ago. Neither could remember a time when the other was not around.
“Sorry. I guess I just wanted some time alone with my thoughts.”
Tobin laid his own flowers down. “It doesn't feel like a year has passed since we did this last.”
“It doesn't feel like two years since she died. I can still remember that letter arriving as if it were yesterday. How angry Father was. You know, I don't think he's even said her name once since the funeral. I think he's more worried about the political fall out than he is about losing his daughter.”
Tobin shook his head. “I think you're being unfair. He grieves for her, but in his own way. Just because people do things differently, doesn't make it wrong.”
Milo sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. Sometimes he found Tobin's unfailing diplomacy to be infuriating. Sometimes, he felt, it was good to just lash out, and be right in spirit, even if the words said were wrong. Sometimes he just didn't care to be present with the other side of the story.
"Do you think it really is that hard to be a sorceress?” he asked, changing the subject.
"I don't know. I don't think either of us will ever know much about it, being men. But I guess it can't be easy, or there wouldn't be any need for academies and study and so forth. I’m more curious about whether it's a good idea.”
"What do you mean?”
"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like if there were no sorceresses, no magic? If we'd had to figure things out for ourselves?”
"I can't say I have. Do you really worry about such things?”
They started to walk back past the rows of neat graves to the wrought iron gates, set in crumbling grey stone walls, now held up mainly by climbing ivy and force of habit. The road by the church carried on to the right further into town, but the two young men turned left towards the fields and home.
"I wouldn't say it worried me,” Tobin was saying, “but it is interesting, don't you think? I mean, what if there was no sorceress to pass messages around, and the fastest information could travel was the speed of a good horse? Would we be inclined to try and travel faster? Maybe there would be more train-lines already.”
They crossed over a stile and walked down a path beside a field. The harvest had already been taken in, and now the ground was covered in stubble, waiting to be ploughed back into the earth. Overhead, the clouds were gathering and a stiff breeze was stirring. The previously warm air chilled quickly as the sun was covered over. It would not be long before the weather turned completely and winter began to set in.
"Maybe so, but I know one thing: the sorceresses have kept this country safe. Tobermoerai hasn't been successfully invaded in over a thousand years. No one has even tried for hundreds. I don't know about you, but I'll take a lack of trains over being murdered in my bed by marauding invaders any day!”
Tobin had no retort to this argument, so they walked on in companionable silence for the last mile or so. The house was visible now, rising up from behind a line of poplar trees. It was a functional stone building, large without being ostentatious. The main building had not changed much in its history; the west wing had been built by Milo's grandfather, and the front entranceway had been updated at around the same time, but other than that it remained much as had always done. The new wing had not seen much use, especially in recent years, and now seemed little more than a large and dusty monument to the overstated ambitions of the man.
There was no smoke rising from the gate house; Mrs Hale and her husband were both working at the house. They, together with the groundskeeper and two interchangeable twin maids named Molly and Amanda were the only staff employed at the house currently. With only three people living there and no guests in the last few years, there was no need for any more.
As they reached the stone steps leading up to the front door Tobin stopped.
"Where are you going?”
"I thought I’d ride over to the city. The library wrote to say they’d managed to find a copy of the book I was looking for.”
Milo looked up at the sky. “Are you sure? It looks like it’s going to rain.”
Tobin shrugged. “It’ll be fine: it’s less than an hour each way. I’ve been waiting for this book for a while now.”
“It’s your skin, but you wouldn’t catch me risking a soaking for a book.”
They parted and Milo headed inside and up the wide staircase to his room. Laid out on the desk beneath the tall window were several study books and some loose sheets of paper. He sat down, picked one of the books up at random and began to read. He was determined to best his brother in the next test, at least in one subject. Milo took up his pen and began to make notes in a blocky, clumsy hand. Soon, found himself engrossed in his work, and so was surprised when Mrs Hale knocked at the door a couple of hours later.
"Lunch is served, sir,” she announced primly.
Milo was pleased with his progress, and resolved not to lose his studious mood. “Thank you, Mrs Hale, I'll take it in here.”
“Your father specifically requested your presence in the dinning room,” she replied.
Milo sighed. He had been hoping to avoid his father as much as possible over the next few days. William Witlaw had never been a particularly jovial or conversational man at the best of times. Following the death of his wife and then his daughter he had become even more introverted, spending most of his time in his study. Around the anniversary of either tragedy he became sullen and ill-humoured and Milo had learned from painful experience that it was better to stay out of his way altogether.
"I'll be down in a moment,” he told the housekeeper glumly. “By the way, do you know if Tobin is back yet?”
"I don't believe so, sir.”
Great, Milo thought bitterly. Not only do I have to face lunch with Father, but I have to do it alone. Tobin probably decided he couldn't wait to start reading that damn book.
Looking out the window as he walked down the stairs he spotted it had started raining and took a small measure of satisfaction in knowing his brother was going to get a soaking for his crimes. Reluctantly he pushed open the dinning room door and stepped inside. His father was already sat at the head of the table, eating soup. He did not look up as Milo made his way to sit down, but after a moment cleared his throat slightly.
"Milo, I have received a letter...” he stopped. “Where is your brother?”
"He went over to the library at Glosmouth. I guess he's not back yet.”
"I see. Never mind then.”
Nothing more was said after that. Milo hurried to finish his food, anxious to leave the oppressive silence that was punctuated only by the irregular chink, chink of silverware on china. He stole a look at his father, who was sitting, slightly hunched, a deep frown furrowing his brow. There was a piece of paper on the table beside his soup dish and Milo assumed this was the letter his father had mentioned. His curiosity was piqued, but not enough to risk trying a conversation. Finally the soup dish was empty and Milo was dismissed from the table by a wave of his father's hand. Gratefully he headed back upstairs and sat down again to his studies.
Milo woke suddenly. After a moment of confusion he realised he had fallen asleep on his book and been awoken by a brilliant flash of lightning. The thunderclap rumbled a few seconds later, deep and faintly menacing. Outside, the sky was nearly black, even though it was still mid afternoon. Swollen raindrops dashed themselves against the windowpanes.
Milo stood and stretched. There was a strange tension in the air that he felt had nothing to do with the storm. Confused at this mysterious apprehension that had developed from nowhere he walked towards the door. He could hear footsteps approaching rapidly down the hall. He opened his bedroom door and stepped out, almost knocking over one of interchangeable maids. She jumped with a squeak, almost dropping the bundle of sheets she was carrying.
"Sorry.”
"Oh, you gave me a scare there sir!” she said, collecting herself and her bundle.
"What's going on?”
Her eyes widened. “You don't know? Oh, there's been a terrible accident sir.”
Milo noticed for the first time that the sheets she was carrying were stained with blood. He looked down the hallway the way she had come and noticed the door to Tobin's room was open.
“What happened?”
"horse was spooked by the lightening, rearing up and kicking. It kicked poor Master Tobin pretty hard.” She reached out and touched his wrist gently. “The doctor's there now, I'm sure everything will be fine.” That said, she hurried away.
Milo reached the bedroom just as the doctor was coming out.
"What's happening? How is he?”
The doctor, a small balding man with a hawkish nose and deep-set watery eyes that looked out over his pince-nez spectacles, shook his head. “I should wait for your father.”
“No, tell me now. I have a right to know.”
"Mind your manners, Milo,” his father retorted, coming up behind him. Turning to the doctor, he added, “You might as well tell us both; he'll have to find out sooner or later. The news is not good then?”
"I'm truly sorry, but repairing that sort of damage is beyond me; beyond any physician. If it's any consolation, he won't suffer at all before the end.”
Milo felt as if the floor had shifted under him suddenly. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself.
"Is there truly nothing that can be done?”
"Not by medicine, I'm afraid. Maybe a sorceress could do something? I have no idea really what they are capable of doing to a person.”
Milo nodded. “It's worth a try at least.”
"No.”
Milo turned to his father. “What do you mean, no? You heard him; a sorceress is the only chance Tobin might have.”
"No. No sorceresses. I will not allow them in the house after what they have done to our family.”
"What exactly did they do? Shana killed herself, remember?”
The sound of the slap echoed down the hall. Milo saw the doctor flinch and turn away. William Whitlaw lowered his hand, and took a deep breath. When he spoke a moment later it was in a quiet voice that trembled slightly.
"Thank you for your time doctor. I trust you can see yourself out. Milo, don’t make things any harder than they already are. I’ve said my final word - no black bitch shall step foot in here and that is the end of the matter.” That said, he turned and walked away before Milo could add anything in reply.
The doctor gave him a stiff bow. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said quietly and shuffled off, leaving Milo alone.
He took a deep breath and then stepped back into his brother’s room. While Death was no stranger in Milo’s life, he was not used to it being so close: so tangible. When his mother had taken ill the children had been kept away and of course Shana had died many miles away. The doctor had dressed Tobin’s wounds, and other than the bandages round his head he looked quite normal. The room, too, was the same as it always was: books stacked in precarious piles; scattered notes; the sketches of airships on the wall. If he did not know better it would seem like any other day. But he did know and it wasn't just another day. Today, his family had been further deminished. Soon there would be another neat grave in the church-yard and every year onwards would see another bunch of flowers left to fade on the grass .
Milo had made his decision when the door was opened again by Mrs Hale. The housekeeper's eyes were red from tears; she clearly knew the truth of the situation. Milo suspected the staff had heard it from the doctor, rather than from his father.
"I'm sorry to intrude, I didn't realise you were in here. I'll leave you alone.”
He shook his head. “No, please stay Mrs Hale.”
She dabbed at her tears with a large handkerchief. “Hasn't this family suffered enough tragedy?” she murmured.
“There's not going to be another tragedy,” Milo replied firmly. “No more graves, no more flowers, no more death. Not for a long time. I'm going to go and fetch the sorceress.”
"I heard what your father said. He won't allow it.”
"He won't allow a sorceress in the house,” Milo pointed out. “He said nothing about the gatehouse, right?”
She looked at him as the implication of his words sunk in. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”
“I'm not going to lose another member of my family, not without a fight. Please, Mrs Hale. I'm not asking you to go against my father's orders, but I do need your help.”
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “You're right. You get yourself down to town. I'll see your brother is moved to the gatehouse.”
Milo dashed along along the hall and then down the wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He was outside and in the rain before he realised he not wearing a coat and was still in his house shoes. Caught for a moment between the impetus of his task and the very strong desire to at least put on sensible footwear he almost did not hear the doctor calling his name. The pony trap pulled up along side him and the doctor held out his hand.
"Going into town, young man?” he asked as Milo climbed up beside him.
"Yes please.”
"I thought you might. Managed to talk your father round, did you?”
"No, not yet.”
"Ah, I see. Well, better get a move on then.” He cracked the whip and the little grey pony set of a brisk trot down the gravel driveway.
The rain was easing now, and the thunder was just a distant rumble barely audible above the rattle of the trap wheels. The doctor reached behind his seat and handed Milo an old and slightly threadbare blanket. Milo took it, his hand trembling slightly and not just from the cold.
"Do you really think the sorceress will be able to help?” he asked quietly.
"I really have no idea my boy. You'll just have to ask.”
They reached the edge of town and the trap turned down a side street. It stopped outside a neat little stone cottage at the end of the street. There were no signs, no markings to distinguish it from any other, but yet it was one that everyone who lived in the area knew even if they had never had any business there. This was the home of the sorceress.
"Off you go,” the doctor urged. “I'll be waiting for you here.”
Milo stepped down from the pony trap, a deep feeling of trepidation swelling within him. He had never met the sorceress, in fact he had never considered them much before the letter had come for Shana. They were like the monarchy - important in their own right but not something that ever intruded in normal life. He walked down the neat path and knocked on the blue wooden door. There was a white rose growing vigorously round the door-frame and somehow this seemed vaguely absurd, even though it would utterly mundane anywhere else.
A girl opened the door. Milo was not sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this lankly, teenaged girl. She was eighteen at most, with hair the colour of honey that framed her face. She looked at him with mild curiosity.
“Yes?”
“Are... are you the sorceress?” Milo stammered.
She smiled and gestured to her black robes. “Yes I am, Milo Whitlaw.”
"How did you....no.” He shook his head. “No, there's no time for that. I need you to come with me, there's been an accident.”
That seemed to be all the information she required for she nodded, reached for a bag and closed the door behind her. She pointed to the waiting pony trap.
"Is that yours?”
“I, er, yes. Please come with us,” he gestured towards it.
She gave him a cold smile. “I'm sure it would be best if I did. It takes a while to walk. Or did you expect me to fly?”
Milo shook his head, unable to reply. The sorceress climbed up beside the doctor, so Milo took the seat behind them. As the pony trap set off she sat, straight-backed and staring ahead. He though she might ask for more information now, but still she remained silent. He had tried to explain what had happened, but she simply cut him off with a single sharp remark.
She must be the same age as Shana, he thought. Was this one his sister's replacement? He tried to imagine her in the black robes of the girl before him. Would she have turned out the same: sharp and self-assured to the point of rudeness? No, he could not picture it. Shana, who was inconsolable for days when the kitten died? Shana, who could never sing a note in tune, but still poured her heart into every song? No, not at all. He wondered, not for the first time, what life was like behind the walls of the academy.
Mrs Hale was waiting on the the doorstep of the gatehouse when the pony trap pulled into the drive. Milo was the first out of the trap. He held out his hand to the sorceress and she took it delicately. She had very soft skin, and long tapering fingers. Without really knowing why, Milo found himself blushing. Fortunately, the sorceress seemed not to notice. She went straightly to Mrs Hale.
“Where am I needed?”
“Right this way, dear,” the housekeeper said, leading her into the house. Milo followed close behind until the sorceress stopped so suddenly he walked into her back.
“No, you must wait here. No one must be in the room when I am working.” She looked up at Mrs Hale, who gestured to a door ahead that was open ajar. Without saying anything else, the sorceress entered and closed the door behind her. An uncomfortable silence fell over those remaining, which was eventually broken by Mrs Hale.
“I'll put the kettle on, shall I? Nothing eases waiting like a nice cup of tea.”
As the housekeeper bustled off to the kitchen, the doctor led Milo into the cluttered sitting room.
“Whatever will be, will be. You've done the very best you could.”
Milo nodded, but did not really hear his words. Everything seemed suddenly far away and muffled, as if the world had been swaddled in cotton. He was vaguely aware when someone pushed a cup into his hands. He took a sip and tasted nothing. Somewhere (near? far?) a clocked chimed the hour. As the chimes faded he could hear the doctor and Mrs Hale whispering, but found he did not care what they were saying.
After an indeterminable age he heard the click of the door opening and suddenly everything was brought back into sharp focus. He stood up quickly and the cup slipped from his fingers, shattering to shards on the floor, while cold tea soaked into the rug. The sorceress looked slightly shocked at the sudden loud noise.
“Well?” Milo asked, unable to restrain himself.
“Your brother will be fine,” she assured him. “I have repaired the damage. He'll probably sleep for a day or two, but after that there should be no further problems. Now, the matter of my fee.”
The warm feeling of relief that was welling up in Milo suddenly turned icy cold. “Your fee.”
“Of course. I don't work magic for free, not for anyone.” She walked towards him, until they were standing so close the tips of their shoes touched. “Now, for a job like this... Yes, that seems a good price.”
Milo swallowed. “How much?”
She shook her head. “No money, not this time. For saving your brother's life I simply ask a favour from you.”
“A favour?”
“Yes. At sometime in the future, I or another will come to claim payment in a form we choose. You will not refuse what we ask or the work I have done here will be undone. Do you understand and agree?”
He swallowed again. “I do.”
“Good.” From her robes she produced a small leather-bound book, and then a pen and ink. She wrote something down and then handed the book to Milo. “Sign here.”
With a trembling hand he signed his name next to her neat handwriting. The sorceress let the ink dry and the closed up the book with a smile. Turning to the doctor, she added “You can take me home now.”
I'm not sure what I think so far. I'm not particularly enamored with either of the two main characters, though I'm looking forward to writing about some of the others later on. It's quite a different setting to most of the other things I've written, which is interesting, but I haven't fully sorted out all the details of the world yet.
It was quiet in the graveyard; no one else was present. This morning was bright, one of those calm, clear autumn days, and the golden sunshine gleamed on the white marble stone. It was a plain headstone, with the simple legend SHANA WHITLAW carved into its surface. There was nothing else: no ‘Rest in Peace’ or ‘Beloved Daughter’, not even a date; just her name, in sharp capitals, almost as an after-thought.
Milo knelt and laid a bouquet of pink and white flowers down on the soft, neatly cut grass of the grave. At least it was well tended: there were no favourites among the dead here, no matter what their sins might have been.
"birthday, Shana,” he murmured quietly to the empty air. In a nearby tree a magpie called back as if chiding him for disturbing the peace of the morning.
The church clock struck the hour and he was reminded, as he always was when he came here, of her funeral. He could remember none of what had been said, but then very little had been said and none of it with any feeling. The terse sounding voice of the priest as he ran through the motions stayed with Milo still, however. No one else spoke at the ceremony; there had been no readings, as there had when his mother had died. There hadn’t even been any flowers. Those who had come to the service left quickly after the uncomfortable service and it was clear that they would not have stayed for a wake, even if there had been one.
For the daughter of an important local family this should have been unheard of; but Shana’s sins were two-fold. Firstly, and most importantly to the church she was a suicide. To throw away the gift of life was unforgivable, and thus she had gained this spot at the edge of the graveyard and the almost bare headstone. Secondly, she had failed to become a sorceress. To be chosen for the academy, to wear the black robes was an honour for any woman, and Shana had left home five years ago with her father’s hopes and praise. She had returned three years later in a coffin.
The black-edged letter that had preceded her body had explained that Shana had been failing at her studies and had taken a coward’s way out. We were mistaken to have selected her, it finished coldly.
A polite throat-clearing broken Milo from his thoughts and he straightened at the sound of familiar footsteps coming down the gravel path towards him.
"You found me, then.”
"It wasn’t hard to guess where you’d be today,” the other replied. “You should have waited for me,” he added, slightly reproachfully. “She was my sister too. Not by blood, maybe, but by everything else.”
Not by blood. Milo looked at his adopted brother. It was true that no one would ever mistake them for sublings: Tobin Whitlaw was tall and slender, with dark hair and darker eyes. Milo was shorter, stockier, with sandy hair that tended to resist any attempt to tame it. At the same time, no one who knew them would deny the bond between the pair. Tobin was a foundling, left on the steps on the church as a baby and adopted into the family almost fifteen years ago. Neither could remember a time when the other was not around.
“Sorry. I guess I just wanted some time alone with my thoughts.”
Tobin laid his own flowers down. “It doesn't feel like a year has passed since we did this last.”
“It doesn't feel like two years since she died. I can still remember that letter arriving as if it were yesterday. How angry Father was. You know, I don't think he's even said her name once since the funeral. I think he's more worried about the political fall out than he is about losing his daughter.”
Tobin shook his head. “I think you're being unfair. He grieves for her, but in his own way. Just because people do things differently, doesn't make it wrong.”
Milo sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. Sometimes he found Tobin's unfailing diplomacy to be infuriating. Sometimes, he felt, it was good to just lash out, and be right in spirit, even if the words said were wrong. Sometimes he just didn't care to be present with the other side of the story.
"Do you think it really is that hard to be a sorceress?” he asked, changing the subject.
"I don't know. I don't think either of us will ever know much about it, being men. But I guess it can't be easy, or there wouldn't be any need for academies and study and so forth. I’m more curious about whether it's a good idea.”
"What do you mean?”
"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like if there were no sorceresses, no magic? If we'd had to figure things out for ourselves?”
"I can't say I have. Do you really worry about such things?”
They started to walk back past the rows of neat graves to the wrought iron gates, set in crumbling grey stone walls, now held up mainly by climbing ivy and force of habit. The road by the church carried on to the right further into town, but the two young men turned left towards the fields and home.
"I wouldn't say it worried me,” Tobin was saying, “but it is interesting, don't you think? I mean, what if there was no sorceress to pass messages around, and the fastest information could travel was the speed of a good horse? Would we be inclined to try and travel faster? Maybe there would be more train-lines already.”
They crossed over a stile and walked down a path beside a field. The harvest had already been taken in, and now the ground was covered in stubble, waiting to be ploughed back into the earth. Overhead, the clouds were gathering and a stiff breeze was stirring. The previously warm air chilled quickly as the sun was covered over. It would not be long before the weather turned completely and winter began to set in.
"Maybe so, but I know one thing: the sorceresses have kept this country safe. Tobermoerai hasn't been successfully invaded in over a thousand years. No one has even tried for hundreds. I don't know about you, but I'll take a lack of trains over being murdered in my bed by marauding invaders any day!”
Tobin had no retort to this argument, so they walked on in companionable silence for the last mile or so. The house was visible now, rising up from behind a line of poplar trees. It was a functional stone building, large without being ostentatious. The main building had not changed much in its history; the west wing had been built by Milo's grandfather, and the front entranceway had been updated at around the same time, but other than that it remained much as had always done. The new wing had not seen much use, especially in recent years, and now seemed little more than a large and dusty monument to the overstated ambitions of the man.
There was no smoke rising from the gate house; Mrs Hale and her husband were both working at the house. They, together with the groundskeeper and two interchangeable twin maids named Molly and Amanda were the only staff employed at the house currently. With only three people living there and no guests in the last few years, there was no need for any more.
As they reached the stone steps leading up to the front door Tobin stopped.
"Where are you going?”
"I thought I’d ride over to the city. The library wrote to say they’d managed to find a copy of the book I was looking for.”
Milo looked up at the sky. “Are you sure? It looks like it’s going to rain.”
Tobin shrugged. “It’ll be fine: it’s less than an hour each way. I’ve been waiting for this book for a while now.”
“It’s your skin, but you wouldn’t catch me risking a soaking for a book.”
They parted and Milo headed inside and up the wide staircase to his room. Laid out on the desk beneath the tall window were several study books and some loose sheets of paper. He sat down, picked one of the books up at random and began to read. He was determined to best his brother in the next test, at least in one subject. Milo took up his pen and began to make notes in a blocky, clumsy hand. Soon, found himself engrossed in his work, and so was surprised when Mrs Hale knocked at the door a couple of hours later.
"Lunch is served, sir,” she announced primly.
Milo was pleased with his progress, and resolved not to lose his studious mood. “Thank you, Mrs Hale, I'll take it in here.”
“Your father specifically requested your presence in the dinning room,” she replied.
Milo sighed. He had been hoping to avoid his father as much as possible over the next few days. William Witlaw had never been a particularly jovial or conversational man at the best of times. Following the death of his wife and then his daughter he had become even more introverted, spending most of his time in his study. Around the anniversary of either tragedy he became sullen and ill-humoured and Milo had learned from painful experience that it was better to stay out of his way altogether.
"I'll be down in a moment,” he told the housekeeper glumly. “By the way, do you know if Tobin is back yet?”
"I don't believe so, sir.”
Great, Milo thought bitterly. Not only do I have to face lunch with Father, but I have to do it alone. Tobin probably decided he couldn't wait to start reading that damn book.
Looking out the window as he walked down the stairs he spotted it had started raining and took a small measure of satisfaction in knowing his brother was going to get a soaking for his crimes. Reluctantly he pushed open the dinning room door and stepped inside. His father was already sat at the head of the table, eating soup. He did not look up as Milo made his way to sit down, but after a moment cleared his throat slightly.
"Milo, I have received a letter...” he stopped. “Where is your brother?”
"He went over to the library at Glosmouth. I guess he's not back yet.”
"I see. Never mind then.”
Nothing more was said after that. Milo hurried to finish his food, anxious to leave the oppressive silence that was punctuated only by the irregular chink, chink of silverware on china. He stole a look at his father, who was sitting, slightly hunched, a deep frown furrowing his brow. There was a piece of paper on the table beside his soup dish and Milo assumed this was the letter his father had mentioned. His curiosity was piqued, but not enough to risk trying a conversation. Finally the soup dish was empty and Milo was dismissed from the table by a wave of his father's hand. Gratefully he headed back upstairs and sat down again to his studies.
Milo woke suddenly. After a moment of confusion he realised he had fallen asleep on his book and been awoken by a brilliant flash of lightning. The thunderclap rumbled a few seconds later, deep and faintly menacing. Outside, the sky was nearly black, even though it was still mid afternoon. Swollen raindrops dashed themselves against the windowpanes.
Milo stood and stretched. There was a strange tension in the air that he felt had nothing to do with the storm. Confused at this mysterious apprehension that had developed from nowhere he walked towards the door. He could hear footsteps approaching rapidly down the hall. He opened his bedroom door and stepped out, almost knocking over one of interchangeable maids. She jumped with a squeak, almost dropping the bundle of sheets she was carrying.
"Sorry.”
"Oh, you gave me a scare there sir!” she said, collecting herself and her bundle.
"What's going on?”
Her eyes widened. “You don't know? Oh, there's been a terrible accident sir.”
Milo noticed for the first time that the sheets she was carrying were stained with blood. He looked down the hallway the way she had come and noticed the door to Tobin's room was open.
“What happened?”
"horse was spooked by the lightening, rearing up and kicking. It kicked poor Master Tobin pretty hard.” She reached out and touched his wrist gently. “The doctor's there now, I'm sure everything will be fine.” That said, she hurried away.
Milo reached the bedroom just as the doctor was coming out.
"What's happening? How is he?”
The doctor, a small balding man with a hawkish nose and deep-set watery eyes that looked out over his pince-nez spectacles, shook his head. “I should wait for your father.”
“No, tell me now. I have a right to know.”
"Mind your manners, Milo,” his father retorted, coming up behind him. Turning to the doctor, he added, “You might as well tell us both; he'll have to find out sooner or later. The news is not good then?”
"I'm truly sorry, but repairing that sort of damage is beyond me; beyond any physician. If it's any consolation, he won't suffer at all before the end.”
Milo felt as if the floor had shifted under him suddenly. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself.
"Is there truly nothing that can be done?”
"Not by medicine, I'm afraid. Maybe a sorceress could do something? I have no idea really what they are capable of doing to a person.”
Milo nodded. “It's worth a try at least.”
"No.”
Milo turned to his father. “What do you mean, no? You heard him; a sorceress is the only chance Tobin might have.”
"No. No sorceresses. I will not allow them in the house after what they have done to our family.”
"What exactly did they do? Shana killed herself, remember?”
The sound of the slap echoed down the hall. Milo saw the doctor flinch and turn away. William Whitlaw lowered his hand, and took a deep breath. When he spoke a moment later it was in a quiet voice that trembled slightly.
"Thank you for your time doctor. I trust you can see yourself out. Milo, don’t make things any harder than they already are. I’ve said my final word - no black bitch shall step foot in here and that is the end of the matter.” That said, he turned and walked away before Milo could add anything in reply.
The doctor gave him a stiff bow. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said quietly and shuffled off, leaving Milo alone.
He took a deep breath and then stepped back into his brother’s room. While Death was no stranger in Milo’s life, he was not used to it being so close: so tangible. When his mother had taken ill the children had been kept away and of course Shana had died many miles away. The doctor had dressed Tobin’s wounds, and other than the bandages round his head he looked quite normal. The room, too, was the same as it always was: books stacked in precarious piles; scattered notes; the sketches of airships on the wall. If he did not know better it would seem like any other day. But he did know and it wasn't just another day. Today, his family had been further deminished. Soon there would be another neat grave in the church-yard and every year onwards would see another bunch of flowers left to fade on the grass .
Milo had made his decision when the door was opened again by Mrs Hale. The housekeeper's eyes were red from tears; she clearly knew the truth of the situation. Milo suspected the staff had heard it from the doctor, rather than from his father.
"I'm sorry to intrude, I didn't realise you were in here. I'll leave you alone.”
He shook his head. “No, please stay Mrs Hale.”
She dabbed at her tears with a large handkerchief. “Hasn't this family suffered enough tragedy?” she murmured.
“There's not going to be another tragedy,” Milo replied firmly. “No more graves, no more flowers, no more death. Not for a long time. I'm going to go and fetch the sorceress.”
"I heard what your father said. He won't allow it.”
"He won't allow a sorceress in the house,” Milo pointed out. “He said nothing about the gatehouse, right?”
She looked at him as the implication of his words sunk in. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”
“I'm not going to lose another member of my family, not without a fight. Please, Mrs Hale. I'm not asking you to go against my father's orders, but I do need your help.”
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “You're right. You get yourself down to town. I'll see your brother is moved to the gatehouse.”
Milo dashed along along the hall and then down the wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He was outside and in the rain before he realised he not wearing a coat and was still in his house shoes. Caught for a moment between the impetus of his task and the very strong desire to at least put on sensible footwear he almost did not hear the doctor calling his name. The pony trap pulled up along side him and the doctor held out his hand.
"Going into town, young man?” he asked as Milo climbed up beside him.
"Yes please.”
"I thought you might. Managed to talk your father round, did you?”
"No, not yet.”
"Ah, I see. Well, better get a move on then.” He cracked the whip and the little grey pony set of a brisk trot down the gravel driveway.
The rain was easing now, and the thunder was just a distant rumble barely audible above the rattle of the trap wheels. The doctor reached behind his seat and handed Milo an old and slightly threadbare blanket. Milo took it, his hand trembling slightly and not just from the cold.
"Do you really think the sorceress will be able to help?” he asked quietly.
"I really have no idea my boy. You'll just have to ask.”
They reached the edge of town and the trap turned down a side street. It stopped outside a neat little stone cottage at the end of the street. There were no signs, no markings to distinguish it from any other, but yet it was one that everyone who lived in the area knew even if they had never had any business there. This was the home of the sorceress.
"Off you go,” the doctor urged. “I'll be waiting for you here.”
Milo stepped down from the pony trap, a deep feeling of trepidation swelling within him. He had never met the sorceress, in fact he had never considered them much before the letter had come for Shana. They were like the monarchy - important in their own right but not something that ever intruded in normal life. He walked down the neat path and knocked on the blue wooden door. There was a white rose growing vigorously round the door-frame and somehow this seemed vaguely absurd, even though it would utterly mundane anywhere else.
A girl opened the door. Milo was not sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this lankly, teenaged girl. She was eighteen at most, with hair the colour of honey that framed her face. She looked at him with mild curiosity.
“Yes?”
“Are... are you the sorceress?” Milo stammered.
She smiled and gestured to her black robes. “Yes I am, Milo Whitlaw.”
"How did you....no.” He shook his head. “No, there's no time for that. I need you to come with me, there's been an accident.”
That seemed to be all the information she required for she nodded, reached for a bag and closed the door behind her. She pointed to the waiting pony trap.
"Is that yours?”
“I, er, yes. Please come with us,” he gestured towards it.
She gave him a cold smile. “I'm sure it would be best if I did. It takes a while to walk. Or did you expect me to fly?”
Milo shook his head, unable to reply. The sorceress climbed up beside the doctor, so Milo took the seat behind them. As the pony trap set off she sat, straight-backed and staring ahead. He though she might ask for more information now, but still she remained silent. He had tried to explain what had happened, but she simply cut him off with a single sharp remark.
She must be the same age as Shana, he thought. Was this one his sister's replacement? He tried to imagine her in the black robes of the girl before him. Would she have turned out the same: sharp and self-assured to the point of rudeness? No, he could not picture it. Shana, who was inconsolable for days when the kitten died? Shana, who could never sing a note in tune, but still poured her heart into every song? No, not at all. He wondered, not for the first time, what life was like behind the walls of the academy.
Mrs Hale was waiting on the the doorstep of the gatehouse when the pony trap pulled into the drive. Milo was the first out of the trap. He held out his hand to the sorceress and she took it delicately. She had very soft skin, and long tapering fingers. Without really knowing why, Milo found himself blushing. Fortunately, the sorceress seemed not to notice. She went straightly to Mrs Hale.
“Where am I needed?”
“Right this way, dear,” the housekeeper said, leading her into the house. Milo followed close behind until the sorceress stopped so suddenly he walked into her back.
“No, you must wait here. No one must be in the room when I am working.” She looked up at Mrs Hale, who gestured to a door ahead that was open ajar. Without saying anything else, the sorceress entered and closed the door behind her. An uncomfortable silence fell over those remaining, which was eventually broken by Mrs Hale.
“I'll put the kettle on, shall I? Nothing eases waiting like a nice cup of tea.”
As the housekeeper bustled off to the kitchen, the doctor led Milo into the cluttered sitting room.
“Whatever will be, will be. You've done the very best you could.”
Milo nodded, but did not really hear his words. Everything seemed suddenly far away and muffled, as if the world had been swaddled in cotton. He was vaguely aware when someone pushed a cup into his hands. He took a sip and tasted nothing. Somewhere (near? far?) a clocked chimed the hour. As the chimes faded he could hear the doctor and Mrs Hale whispering, but found he did not care what they were saying.
After an indeterminable age he heard the click of the door opening and suddenly everything was brought back into sharp focus. He stood up quickly and the cup slipped from his fingers, shattering to shards on the floor, while cold tea soaked into the rug. The sorceress looked slightly shocked at the sudden loud noise.
“Well?” Milo asked, unable to restrain himself.
“Your brother will be fine,” she assured him. “I have repaired the damage. He'll probably sleep for a day or two, but after that there should be no further problems. Now, the matter of my fee.”
The warm feeling of relief that was welling up in Milo suddenly turned icy cold. “Your fee.”
“Of course. I don't work magic for free, not for anyone.” She walked towards him, until they were standing so close the tips of their shoes touched. “Now, for a job like this... Yes, that seems a good price.”
Milo swallowed. “How much?”
She shook her head. “No money, not this time. For saving your brother's life I simply ask a favour from you.”
“A favour?”
“Yes. At sometime in the future, I or another will come to claim payment in a form we choose. You will not refuse what we ask or the work I have done here will be undone. Do you understand and agree?”
He swallowed again. “I do.”
“Good.” From her robes she produced a small leather-bound book, and then a pen and ink. She wrote something down and then handed the book to Milo. “Sign here.”
With a trembling hand he signed his name next to her neat handwriting. The sorceress let the ink dry and the closed up the book with a smile. Turning to the doctor, she added “You can take me home now.”
I'm not sure what I think so far. I'm not particularly enamored with either of the two main characters, though I'm looking forward to writing about some of the others later on. It's quite a different setting to most of the other things I've written, which is interesting, but I haven't fully sorted out all the details of the world yet.