Chapter Seven: It’s All In Plato
Holweard’s Hollow, Wensleydale, October, 2019 (After Moonrise, Same Day)

The cool, eldritch gleam of Freyia’s gown seemed to draw all the soft light in the cavern, pulling me across the rough floor to the foot of the bed. Holweard wasn’t in evidence, but I was standing right on his node of power, trembling hands reaching out to touch the key to his mana. He wouldn’t be far away.

I was just as glad he’d left me some moments of at least ostensible privacy. I undressed quickly, my usual discomfort with my body magnified. Naked and defenseless, I raised the shimmering white garment above my head, took a deep breath, and pulled it on.

I shivered, feeling the tingling of every hypersensitive nerve. Dear God, this is amazing. More amazing than I had ever dreamed.

A voice whispered through the cavern, indistinct. “Better?” Holweard.

“I don’t suppose a Sprite has any use for a mirror?”

“I don’t work for free,” the voice reminded me in an amused tone.

“Think of it as a recruiting expense.”

A full-length mirror appeared to the side of the bed — one of those massive, old-fashioned sorts in the dark mahogany frames. I stood stock-still, mesmerized. In outward appearance, I was the stunning, raven-haired fertility goddess whose picture in the crypt high overhead had captivated me at twenty-one.

“So I take it you’re applying?”

With great reluctance, I tore my eyes from the mirror. Taking another deep and steadying breath — which caused my wonderfully ripe breasts to stretch the gown’s bodice delightfully — I exhaled and said, “Please. Come and join me.”

This time, he decided to make An Appearance. A warm and inviting breeze swept through the chamber, impossibly carrying the scents of high summer in the Dales, the grasslands and ripening hay, wild marjoram and lavender. . . . It whipped around me, stirring the silken fall of the gown, caressing my skin . . . . I closed my eyes, drinking in the magical moment, smiling in wonder. Yeah, the old guy’s got some moves!

When I opened my soft blue eyes again, he stood before me, somehow combining the Colonel’s gravitas with George Deaver’s handsome and youthful visage, and even a bit of the Pizza Boy’s more rugged physique.

“I see you’ve arrived at a decision after all.” He smiled with a possessive self-assurance, but I thought there was an undertone of something else, something completely different, in his expression. “Are you prepared to do homage for the honors of Chingleput and the lands of your forefathers?”

Slowly — moving vertically in the full skirt was surprisingly difficult — I lowered myself down, bringing one knee to the cold stone floor, then the other. Keeping my body straight, I held up my hands, and he took them in his own, smiling slightly.

“No,” I said gently. “I told you I don’t want it. Not the title, not the lands, not the sheep, not the foxes. Especially not the foxes.”

“What!!!”

I pressed his hands urgently, before he could tear them away, knowing I’d only have one shot. “Wait! I am willing — in fact, I very much want — to be the Lady of the manor. But only if you will be its Lord.”

That stopped him, whether it was my words, my posture, or some mixed-up combination of the two.

I wanted him to listen, which is hard to do if you’re hurling thunderbolts. Possibly real ones. I mean, I didn’t know that thunderbolts were his thing, but I didn’t exactly know they weren’t, either. My lore on sprites was pretty sketchy, and I wasn’t willing to put money on something I read on the internet somewhere when I was facing the genuine article.

Mercifully, his expression softened. “Child . . . the ritual — the magic, if you like — doesn’t work that way.”

“I kind of guessed that.” I quirked a half smile. “I’ve designed games, too.”

“It’s not a game, Luigi. The ritual was created by a goddess. You can’t just — what’s your phrase? — hack it?”

I shook my head. “I know. Not what I was thinking.”

“Oh, dear gods! We aren’t going to spend another whole night talking again, are we? What is with you Littons!”

“Well . . . I hope not the whole night. Maybe a bit of it?”

“No!”

“But I so enjoy our little chats?”

He had a most impressive glower. “Oh, very well! Fine! Talk! It’s what you do best, apparently.”

“I don’t suppose you’d object if I sat down? I mean, these knees are really amazing — the legs, too, actually — but between them not having extra padding, and the stone floor and all . . . .”

“You’re wheedling!”

“A bit?”

There! A ghost of a smile touched a quarter of a corner of his left lip. Just a twitch, but I’d take it. Then, surprisingly gently, he raised me up. A pair of comfortable chairs appeared behind us, and he took the more impressive of the two. “Might as well be comfortable. The gods only know how long you’re going to go on this time.”

I sat, feeling a bit weak-kneed. I got a hearing, anyway!

“Alright. You clearly have some scheme. Let’s hear it.”

“Holweard . . . .” It felt strange to use the name, just like that, with no honorific. I looked at him questioningly.

“It’s alright.” He seemed to understand my hesitation. “I am Holweard. My real name. ‘Humphrey’ or ‘George,’ for that matter . . . ‘Colonel.’ That’s all just window-dressing.”

I nodded, understanding. “Substance and accidents,” I said, reminding him of our discourse on Platonic metaphysics.

“Quite.”

“Holweard, then. ‘Luigi’ is my window-dressing. Luigi is ‘accident.’ Not substance.”

He leaned back in his almost-throne, looking intrigued. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, and I’m quite certain I shall regret it — but would you care to expand on that assertion?”

“As surely as you are Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow, regardless of the outward form you show the world, I am a woman. The form my body displays — or has displayed, up until I put on this gown — it’s a masquerade. And I am so very, very tired of it.”

“I’d wondered about that.”

“You did?”

“Well, naturally. It’s not everyday you see a boy in his Mum’s knickers, or a young man model a maid’s outfit. Live long enough, of course, and nothing’s entirely new.”

I expect I managed a good blush. I mean, Luigi didn’t have a great blush, but I was pretty sure the body I was wearing could rock one solid, and based on the heat signature my cheeks and upper chest were throwing off, it was a fair bet . . . .

Focus, Weej!

It seemed like he was reading a bit of my thoughts. “If ‘Luigi’ is window-dressing, what should I call you, hmmm? What is your name?”

That’s . . . complicated. “I . . . well. I mean. I should have a name, shouldn’t I? Something I’ve always known. But I don’t. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years trying to tell myself that none of this matters. That my body is my reality, no matter what I know in my heart. I’ve tried and tried, and I just feel like every day a little more of me dies . . . .”

He rolled his eyes. “It was a straightforward question. I don’t need your psychological profile.”

Insufferable jerk! “Just because the question’s easy doesn’t mean the answer is! No need to be snide!”

“I’m a sprite, not a social worker. If you're looking for someone to dry your tears or wipe your bottom, you’ve come to the wrong shrine.”

“Fine!” His verbal bitch-slap caused my temper to flare — no doubt exactly the reaction the old bastard intended! I raised my chin. “Call me ‘Freyia.’”

“Well, that’s bold!”

“Sue me. Or she can, I suppose, though I’m pretty sure any copyright she might have had’s expired.”

“I do believe I would enjoy watching you take it up with her.” He smiled. “Alright, Freyia. I think we have the basis for a bargain. The ritual will provide you one night each year where you will be a woman in all ways – in body as well as soul; in accidents and in substance.”

“One night!”

“That’s one night a year more than you’ve ever had. And I think,” he added with a leer, “you’ll find I can make it memorable.”

“And spend every day and the other 364 nights as ‘Viscount Chingleput?’” I shivered. “No, thank you!”

“Well, somebody’s got to do it!”

“You do it, if you think it’s such great shakes!”

“Me? The impertinence!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m an immortal sprite, that’s why!” He visibly brought his temper under control. “Besides, I already told you it doesn’t work that way. The ritual regenerates my mana, my power as the sprite of this node. But power flows the other way, too. The man who takes Freyia’s form for the night rises, restored to his original form, with temporal power on the site.”

“And a good time is had by all.”

“I do my best to make it pleasant for both sides. Usually. There were some scheming shits who deserved to have their noses rubbed in it, and I’ll readily admit I enjoyed doing so. Usually, though . . . .”

“It’s just . . . business?”

He shrugged.

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“I should as well ask if you get tired of eating.”

I thought about that. “Is it? Isn’t it more like asking if I ever got tired of eating boiled oats? Or drinking tea, I guess, since the answer in both cases would be a resounding ‘yes.’”

“Oh, please. If you don’t eat oatmeal, you just eat something else. Kentucky Fried Chicken, no doubt, or perhaps a ‘Big Mac,’ gods preserve your digestive tract.”

“Hey, American food’s improved a lot since you visited back in the 90’s!”

“It could scarcely get worse.”

“Says the guy whose countrymen eat fried bread.”

“The point, if we could perhaps return to it,” he said bitingly, “is that you have choices among the things that sustain you, however dubious their provenance. As we discussed last night — at some tedious length, I remind you — other sources of mana have rather dried up. I can’t loiter about, idly waiting for someone to start burning foxes on a sacrificial altar.”

“I’m guessing there are laws about that these days.”

“Doubtless. But the fact remains: No ritual, and I die.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last night, you said that if you ran out of mana, you would simply become mortal.”

“Does the English language work differently in your upstart ‘republic?’ In this country, ‘mortal’ is the root of ‘mortality!’ I think I’m on solid ground when I suggest that the end result of being mortal is being dead.”

“But we can do something else first.” I leaned forward. “We can live!”

“Just what do you suppose I’ve been doing these last few millennia, anyhow?”

“Honestly? The same thing I’ve been doing lately. Existing.”

“Well, it’s a fine existence!”

“Is it?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice. “Is it really?”

All the thoughts that had been building in my head since the prior night suddenly boiled out as I tried, desperately, to get the sprite to understand what I was telling him. “You’ve said it yourself. Bedding a bunch of skeevy climbers so desperate for a bit of status that they’ll lie on their backs and let you do it. And once you’ve rogered them, you get to be their nursemaid for the rest of their horrid little lives. Talk about drying tears and wiping bottoms! You clean up their legal and personal messes, swat viruses that might cause them a runny nose or an early death . . . . I mean, for fork’s sake, Holweard! What kind of an existence is that?”

“The continuing kind! And, not for nothing, that’s your own family you’re maligning.”

“Don’t I know it,” I muttered. “Listen, have you ever thought that maybe Puck was right?”

“If you’d ever met him, you wouldn’t ask. I believe your charming American expression is, ‘batshit crazy.’”

“Really? Puck?”

“Not without some fine qualities, naturally. He was a sprite. But he had truly dreadful judgment, sometimes. Like when he told Gloucester he could count on the Stanleys and the Percys. Can you imagine? A potted plant would have known better.”

“I thought you said he missed that war.”

“Almost all of it — but by the time he showed up, it was too late to do much good.”

“And what he did wasn’t helpful?”

“Hardly! I mean, unless you’re fond of the Tudors . . . and I suppose your family did well enough by them.”

“He was frequently unhelpful?”

“Very frequently.”

“Then suppose one day he woke up and asked himself whether what he was actually doing was, you know, useful? Helpful? Maybe he decided Britain would be no worse off without his hoof on the tiller?”

“His upper appendages were ‘hands,’ you know. Where do you get your information?”

“Wait, what? You mean there’s something wrong . . . on the internet?”

“Is that your idea of humor?”

“Mmm hmm. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. But to return to my point, Britain was almost certainly no worse off.”

“Are you actually thinking of arguing British history with a sprite?”

“I’m an American. We do that kind of shit, like, all the time.”

“Don’t remind me. You’ll make me think kindly of the McDonalds.”

“Come on. I’m right. You reached the absolute zenith of your power and prestige after the Hanoverians took over. The greatest empire the world has ever seen.”

He waggled his fingers. “Not an unalloyed good, I think you’ll agree.”

“Alright, maybe not. But look, you had Trafalgar. And Waterloo.”

“Good moments, both. Damned Frenchmen.”

“You produced generals and statesmen like Pitt and Wellington.”

“And Cumberland, and Lord North for that matter, who did such a fine job with you lot.”

“That . . . kind of worked out? Anyhow, don’t forget John Russell, Gladstone and Disraeli, Lloyd George and Churchill! You had the Battle of Britain — England’s ‘finest hour!’”

“As well as Neville Chamberlain, who made it necessary to have that “finest hour.” Not to mention luminaries like his father Joseph, or Cecil Rhodes, or Lord Cardigan.”

“Cardigan? The sweater guy?”

“No, dolt, the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ fellow!”

“Oh, yeah. Great poem, though, you gotta admit!”

“I most assuredly do not!”

“And that’s another thing — you had incredible writers! Dickens and Brontë, Thackeray, Austen, Tennyson, Joyce —“

“Don’t go starting with the Irishmen! I did mention the whole imperial project was a mixed bag?”

“Wow! Parochial much?”

“I’m a sprite — Of course I’m parochial!”

“Okay, whatever. I guess being tied down to one hollow for a few thousand years might warp you.”

“Unlike being a rootless vagabond?”

“Point. But seriously . . . can you really say Britain would have done better — been better — if Puck, whom you called batshit crazy, stuck around to ‘help?’”

He opened his mouth for a retort, then snapped it abruptly shut.

“I didn’t think so,” I said, knowing I’d scored a point.

He shook his head. “Unlike Puck, however, I am decidedly not crazy, and Holweard’s Hollow is my care. I can’t exactly leave it to another sprite!”

“No, I know that.” I held his gaze, thinking, Here goes — for all the marbles! “But you could leave it to your child.”

He looked like I’d dropped a sequoia on his head. “My . . . child?”

“Yes, Holweard. Your child. And mine. Ours, if you’ll have me. Great heaps of them, maybe, if we’re blessed that way.”

“I’ve never . . . I mean, a sprite can’t, actually . . . .”

I’d wondered about that; the literature suggested sprites could, “actually,” but I’d had a hunch the human authors had been projecting. Not the time to explore that rabbit hole! “But a mortal can. And we do.”

He rose slowly, looked down at me, and took my hands. “It’s a crazy idea, Freyia. That’s why you came back?”

I nodded. “You could do it, couldn’t you? Use your powers to give me this form permanently, and give you mine?”

“Not that I would, you understand. But the thing’s theoretically possible. It would take most of what I have left. And, ahh . . . no offense, but your ‘form’ could use a few enhancements.”

“Hey!”

“For purposes of health, naturally.”

“Oh, really?”

“Well, maybe one or two of a more, ah, aesthetic nature.”

“Vanity, thy name is . . . Holweard?”

“Maybe a bit.” He smiled, and there was longing in it. “I’m sorry, Freyia. You’re asking for too much.”

I rose, keeping his hands in mine. “I’m asking for everything. I know that. But I offer everything, too. All that I have. All that I am. My life for yours, until death parts us.”

His hands trembled in mine.

Time to sweeten the pot. “If it helps . . . .”

“Yes?”

“If you do manage to give me children, I think I can ensure a really long supply of truly awesome homemade lasagna.”

He laughed, as I’d hoped he would. “Freyia . . . you tempt me. Truly you do.”

From deep within, I pulled a special smile. “I think I have a way to convince you.”

His eyebrow shot up. “Really?”

“If you think you’re the only one who’s tired of talking, buster, think again!”

“No commitment?” He eyed me warily.

“No. No commitment. I understand how much I’m asking. I do. But I will show you, Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow, the difference between bedding a man in a woman’s form, only eager for power, and bedding a woman. A woman who wants you for yourself. I will show you what living feels like — and what life can be!”

I disengaged a hand and placed it on his heart. “But no tricks or rituals. No magic. I’m no goddess, real or pretend. Come to me as a man and let me be your woman, if only for tonight. If only for a moment.”

That did it.

Finally — finally! — The fire in our eyes matched. Without being aware of motion, I was in his arms, and his urgent lips were pressed to mine. Every nerve in my body came alive all at once, and I seized him in a fierce and possessive grasp. You are mine, Sprite, and by my love I will redeem you!

My body was new to me, of course, but it was also right, in a way I had never experienced before. It needed no lessons in that most ancient of dances. Besides, Holweard had skill enough for us both.

Hours later, after we had exhausted ourselves again and again only to come back, insatiable, he pulled me close and laid my head above his heart, my hair cascading over him like smoke over a battlefield. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You lied to me, you know.”

“Hmmm?”

“You did. Twice, even.”

“I’m sneaky that way.”

“There was magic.”

“Ah. Yeah, you’ve got me there.”

He kissed me then, sweetly. Tenderly. With eyes full of both love and surrender, he murmured, “And, you are a goddess.”

~o~O~o~
Epilogue
Shingles Manor, Wensleydale, April, 2024 (four years later)

“Momma?” George looked like he was deep in thought, which probably meant he hadn’t made it to the potty in a timely manner. Somehow, he’d managed to get Play-Doh in his hair; he was clever about those sorts of things.

“Yes, darling?”

“Why Sofa so . . . borey?”

“So-FEE-a, dear. Why do you say she’s boring?”

“She sleeps ‘n eats alla time.”

“All the time.” Holly, George’s twin, nodded in world-weary agreement. “She’s borning.”

“Well, she’s a baby. You weren’t any great shakes at that age, either.”

“Shakes?”

“Sleep, eat, poop. And repeat.”

The word ‘poop’ set them both off. Because of course it did.

My mom smiled. “Your Dad was worse. Pooped all day long. Poop, poop, poop.”

Her words had the desired effect, with George and Holly growing ever more animated with each repetition of the magic word. “Daddy pooped!” George crowed.

“Poopy head! Poopy head!”

Mom looked upon what she had wrought, and saw that it was good. “Freyia dear, where is old poopy head this morning?”

More hysterical laughter.

“Oh, he’s with the architects, of course. Says they have ‘no earthly idea’ when it comes to accurate historical restoration. At this rate, the main building won’t be back to its original Gothic Splendor until the sun runs out of hydrogen.”

“I want to see arc’tecs too,” Holly insisted.

“Arc’tecs! Arc’tecs!” George chanted.

“Poop!” said Holly.

My personal superhero intervened. “Shall I take them down to the site?”

“That would be wonderful, Addie! I don’t pay you enough!”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Addie’s smile was huge, and her eyes sparkled. “Come on, you lot! Let’s get you properly dressed, then bother your daddy for a while!”

“Poopy head!!!” George re-dissolved into a puddle of good humor.

A sudden look of concern crossed Holly’s face. “When we haved lunch?

“I want waSonya!”

Mom beamed. “Then you’re in luck – I made a whole tray just yesterday.”

“A tray?” My delicate eyebrow rose.

“Well, naturally I made a bit extra. Just in case.”

“Of what, the Zombie Apocalypse?”

“Could happen,” she said placidly. “Might as well be ready.”

As Addie gathered the cherubim unto herself and commenced the process of extracting them from the room where I was feeding their three-week old sister, Mom shot me a mischievous look. “I want to look after them myself,” she said, her voice in an annoying sing-song cadence that reminded me a bit of the title character in my final blockbuster, Fus and Feathers. “I don’t neeeeed any help!”

“I’m thinking of reinstating the Baron’s Court. Getting a patent that grants me high and low justice.”

“Which might worry me,” Mom replied. “If you were the baron.”

“You’d be a lot more worried if I were barren.”

“Certainly, but . . . no danger of that, huh.”

I smiled. “Call me Myrtle the Fertile Turtle.”

Addie waved and closed the door behind as she left with her squealing charges.

With the coast clear, Mom chuckled. “He’s making up for lost time . . . daughter.”

“We both are.”

She shook her head. “I look at you, sitting there with an infant at your breast – and a fairly impressive breast it is, too! – and I still can’t believe you’re my child.”

“But then I go and open my mouth –”

“— And all doubt is removed.”

Our ritual complete, she simply sat and watched me, a smile of complete contentment on her face. It was a beautiful and peaceful moment, stolen from the whirlwind our lives had become, which . . . .

“I’ve been thinking.”

. . . . wasn’t going to last. “About what, Mom?”

“Your village, dear.”

That still sounds so effing weird. “Uh huh.”

“They have pub food. And Indian food. Don’t you think they deserve Italian?”

“You can lead a horse to pasta . . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s pasta! If you boil it, they will come.”

“That’s what you said about the EV charging station you had them put in.”

“I did not suggest boiling the charging station!”

“The gist of your argument was remarkably similar, though.” And it always was.

“Maybe. But also I said that about the walk-in clinic. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Given that the alternative is a twenty-five minute drive, yes.”

“So perhaps you should listen to your mother?”

There really isn’t anything more soporific than a thirteen-pound burrito happily sucking your mammary glands dry, and that provided a pretty convenient excuse to check out. I closed my eyes and retreated from my mother’s latest scheme, a smile on my lips.

But just as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, I felt sure and practiced hands rearrange Sophia’s sleeping form, resting her snugly into the crook of my arm, well supported by the recliner. Mom’s whispered words followed me on the smooth slide to sleep: “That’s some good mischief you cooked up there, daughter!”

My husband found me there some time later, and I woke to his touch on my cheek. It was still strange to see my old face whenever I looked at him. Good thing I don’t see well in the dark!

“You sicced the children on me,’ he said accusingly.

“I did. We’re up to three – gotta switch to zone defense.”

“Now I’m going to have to convince the Chief Architect that I will execute him if he calls me ‘poopy head.’”

“I’m sure he’ll call you ‘Viscount Poopy Head.’ ‘Lord Poopy Head,’ at the very least.”

Our daughter gurgled in her sleep – a fairly normal occurrence that nonetheless appeared to melt his heart. “She’s beautiful.”

I looked down at the top of her head. “Yeah. Not bad, really.”

“Amazing. You’re getting the hang of English understatement.”

“I know, right? But don’t get any ideas, buster. I’m not going native. There will be coffee, not tea, just as soon as she’s weaned, or heads will roll – starting with yours!”

“If you insist. You’re quite certain about the name?”

I nodded. “Yep. I was thinking of surprising you, and calling her ‘Heather.’”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would have. Absolutely. Thought I owed it to the old girl, you know.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nope. But there. I’m a mother. I get to change my mind.”

“Thank the gods! To what do your daughter and I owe our deliverance?”

“Research, as it happens.”

He looked at me warily. “Oh?”

“Yes, indeed. See, I wanted to tell Heather, too. So she’d know how much I appreciated her so-timely bit of wisdom, the day I fully intended to leave here forever.”

His look was so similar to that of his son, when caught with cookies (sorry – not biscuits!) that I was hard-pressed not to laugh. Wisely, he kept silent.

“So imagine my surprise,” I continued, “when I discovered that she hadn’t been in the U.K. in twenty years.”

He sank into the chair opposite mine. “I am closing my eyes and imagining that very thing.”

“Are you? Oh, good. My surprise continued to grow – ballooned to amazing proportions – when I learned that she’d gotten herself attached in an informal sort of way to someone from a minor branch of the Hashemites.”

“I expect it did.”

“Had a good run, too, by all accounts, before she got bored with him and moved on. But poor Heather – no children. Not one. Astonishing.”

“Truly. Though, I actually can’t imagine what that woman would have done with them. You can’t just go baking them into pies these days.”

I smiled and waited for him to peek. When he finally did, I said, “That was quite a trick.”

“It was important.”

“Was it?”

“Freyia . . . from the first time I saw you, a fey child with enough wit at twelve to demolish your father, I knew that you might be the one — maybe the only one — who could spring the trap my existence had become. But later, I realized you were in a trap, too. One that was just as intractable as my own, and probably even more cruel. When you drove off that morning, I thought we’d both missed our only chance.”

“And you figured that what I really needed was a pep talk from Heather, of all people?”

He was silent for a moment, then picked his words with very apparent care. “I was around, you know, when you two split up.”

“Pizza Boy. I haven’t forgotten the wandering hands.”

“Something broke in you, that night. I don’t know what. Changed you. I thought, perhaps, if that wound could be healed, you might find a way to recapture the spirit I’d sensed when you were young. There were things you needed to hear from her – and things you needed to say.”

“Things I needed to hear from a fake Heather?”

“Think of it as Heather as she should have been. As she might have been, if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in herself.”

“A sort of platonic ideal of Heather, you mean?”

He winced. “While I can’t argue with your description on purely philosophical grounds, I’m acutely uncomfortable putting ‘Heather’ and ‘platonic’ in the same sentence.”

“No argument here.” I cocked my head. “For what it’s worth, you were very convincing. Had me fooled, anyway.”

“Thank you, I think. She was a memorable character, at the very least.”

“You know, you could have saved a whole lot of trouble – not to mention the need to get in Heather’s skin for an hour or so – by just being honest about what you wanted. If you’d offered me this from the start, rather than my idiot forebears’ sleazy bargain, I’d have said yes.”

He leaned back in his chair, giving me a long appraisal. When he managed to convince himself that I wasn’t going to bite, he said, “It’s not that simple. The deep magic – the real magic – there’s an order to it. A structure. You had to want it. It was the only way out, for both of us, but I couldn’t tell you that. You had to see it for yourself.”

I sat, watching him. Savoring his rare look of uncertainty. When I thought he’d sweated enough, I said, “Holweard, my love . . . .”

“Yes, darling?”

“You are so full of shit.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I’ll think about it. You honestly want me to believe that I had to put all my cards on the table first, before you said a word about what you wanted, or — something, something, something, mumble, mumble — and the magic duck wouldn’t come down?”

“Well, not precisely . . . .”

“That is pure, unadulterated handwavium and you know it!”

“That’s . . . not a word.”

“It is in my old industry. You think I can’t recognize hokum when I hear it? Dude, I made ‘Jiro’s Heroes!’”

“Technically, if I’m not mistaken, I made it.”

“Phhhhhgt. You wouldn’t have the first notion how to do that. All you got’s the pretty face.”

“And the passport, and all manner and style of identifying documents.”

“You probably think C++ is something a teacher writes on your exam sheet when he’s feeling generous. Anyhow — stop changing the subject. Your statement, remember? Booooolsheet!”

He harrumphed most impressively. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“You wanted to test me first – make sure I wasn’t one of those Littons.”

“Nonsense!”

“And your ego got bruised when I told you I could buy Shingles with pocket change.”

“Well, that was a bit of a shock.”

“You just couldn’t bear to be without leverage. To be the one who had to ask.”

“You’re delusional!”

“You like it when I’m on my knees, don’t you?”

“I didn’t think you objected!”

“I don’t. Not the point.” I glared until my chuckle snuck out, and once it had, the laugh followed.

Before long, we were both holding our sides, and Sophia was protesting our antics.

“You did look adorable,” he admitted.

“Cad. Oaf. Insufferable egotist!”

“But that’s why you love me.”

“Who says I love you?”

He picked up our squealing daughter, held her close against his heart, and bent to kiss me. “I say so, naturally. Do you really think I could be wrong about something so fundamental?”

And all I’d had to do was stop fussing about what would make me happy. Amazing. “No, husband. I don’t.”

– The End

~o~O~o~
Acknowledgments

Strange Manors was, as several have noted, an odd little journey, but for those of you who followed the tortured path to its end, thank you. If you left a kudo, please know it really means a lot to me. For a story like this, it usually means I managed to make you smile, and I couldn’t ask for more than that.

Most of you know how much I love to engage with comments— it’s almost like being at a party where everyone knows you and kind of thinks you’re cool. (At least, I assume that’s a good analogy; I’ve never actually been to a party that was anything like that! :)

So an extra thanks to Joanne Barbarella (Luigi’s done with the French Maid outfit, so it’s yours if you want it!), to Catherd, to Erisian (I owe you some more cliffhangers; this story didn’t begin to even the score!), to my beautiful Calabrian sister ‘Drea DiMaggio, to Dallas Eden, Rachel Moore, Suzi Auchentiber, Dee Sylvan, Dave the Outsider, Bru, Patricia Marie Allen, Kimmie (you really got in Luigi’s head), JessicaNicole, Iolanthe Portmanteau, Rebecca Anna (the fair damsel of the sunflowers), Siteseer, Francesca Walker, AvidReader59, Ricky (who taught me everything I know about writing banter), Gillian Chambers and Gillian Cairns, Guest Reader, that lovely mermaid Laika, Lucy Perkins, Jill Rasch, Eric, Bytebak, Ron Houston, Emma (“cemma”, whom I will always regard as Emma Prime), Greybeard, Taryntula, and BarbieLee. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for joining the party!!!

That list is missing four names, because I need to mention them separately. I have been here less than two years, and I feel like I am constantly “meeting” wonderful people whom everyone here has known and adored forever. I recently started a lovely correspondence with both Bronwen_Welsh (“Bronwen O Cymru!”), and Sara Keltaine, both of whom are amazing women and talented writers. Out of the blue, Bronwen offered to proofread each chapter of Strange Manors, and with her help what you read was as free of errors as I can possibly achieve. And I have to thank Sara for introducing me to the useful term “handwavium,” which Freyia was able to deploy to such good effect in the epilogue.

Finally, I cooked up the idea for this story with my Glaswegian friend RobertLouis shortly after he helped me with the later chapters of Decision Matrix. Robert knows the Dales well, and helped me with mood and setting before I even put fingers to keyboard. After that, he also gave me a beta read on each chapter, as did AlisonP, who is one of my earliest friends here on BC and the one who encouraged me to keep writing after my first story was complete. Writing lengthy bits of dialogue with British characters would have been bonkers if I didn’t have Robert and Alison there to check my work, especially since I was trying to write something I could plausibly pass off as “humorous” wherever — and however— English is spoken! Thank you two so much, both for your help, and for your constant support for my writing.

Many, many thanks, everyone. Good night, and joy be with you all!

May 3, 2024
— Emma Anne Tate

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.