Chapter One: The Colonel’s Got to Know
San Jose, California, June 30, 1982

The first time I met Colonel Holweard, I was twelve and very, very pleased with myself. With Father as angry as I’d ever seen him and Mom flitting around the house like a hummingbird on cocaine, trying to make our normally shambolic living space “presentable,” a perfect day beckoned bright.

With all the confusion, I’d managed to liberate a pair of Mom’s panties from her bureau and I’d been wearing them all day. Father had caught me doing that once before and almost had apoplexy, so I’d known it was an absolute no-no since I was five.

And I ask you: what could be more irresistible than that? Hmm? Anything?

While Father’s satin-induced rage on that memorable occasion had been really something to see, it had neither distressed nor deterred me. His rages tended towards commodity status. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. He had a convert’s zeal about Catholicism and America, not necessarily in that order, and could be quite vocal in his complaints about his country of origin, especially when he started in on the hard liquor. Kentucky bourbon, naturally, since anything that came from, or was associated with, the United Kingdom was shunned.

So, yeah. He hated the monarchy. The Anglican Church. Heathens, too, though I wasn’t sure why. He hated soccer and H. Salt and beer and gin and his own accent and God knows what else. Most of all, he apparently hated his family, and he had fully intended to tell his younger brother that he wasn’t welcome to visit. Or, as he would have put it himself, to “sod off.”

Mom, the dark-haired, dark-eyed and unpretentious All American Girl Father had latched onto when he left Britain for good, pushed to allow the visit. Uncle Geoff had seen action during the Falklands conflict – something else Father despised, vocally – and wanted to stop in San Jose to visit us before returning home.

“Hank, honey,” she had said. “Don’t be like this. He’s your brother. Luigi’s never even met him. Just once?”

Mom just loved family, probably because she had more relatives living in close proximity to her than any creature on earth, maybe even including bees. I couldn’t keep track of them all. Grandparents, great aunts and even greater uncles, aunts and uncles, cousins of all manners and degrees . . . . her clan apparently migrated to this country from Calabria all at once, some eighty years earlier. In contrast, I had never met any of my father’s relatives. Not one.

Father said I hadn’t missed anything, which naturally left me intensely curious.

Mom prevailed, of course. Mom always prevailed. Father would rage and she would keep pouring bourbon into him until he either agreed or passed out, at which point she would tell him he had agreed. I never quite understood their marriage.

So it was that the three of us were sitting together in the living room, waiting for my Uncle to arrive and praying that the AC in our bungalow didn’t fail like it had already done three times since school got out. It was clearly overmatched by the kind of heat the South Bay can effortlessly generate all summer long.

Dad had already started on the bourbon, which he mixed with Coke and poured over ice. I’m pretty sure he did that just to be spiteful. “Remember now,” he told me for probably the sixtieth time. “You are to call him ‘Jeff,’ understand? Just ‘Jeff.’ If he requests that you call him something else, I expect you to decline.”

“But I call Mom’s brothers ‘Uncle,’” I said, just to be annoying. “Shouldn’t I call him ‘Uncle,’ too?”

“Your mother’s brothers have unpronounceable names.”

“‘Giulio’ and ‘Matteo’ are hardly unpronounceable,” Mom said, indignantly.

He mumbled something into his drink about foreigners. For all that he wasn’t wild about his country of origin, he didn’t seem to be all that fond of any other place either.

I didn’t get the full-on dust-up these opening salvos promised because the doorbell rang. Father struggled to get out of his chair, but Mom beat him to the punch and had the door open before he achieved homo erectus. “You must be Geoffrey,” she said warmly. “Please come in . . . Oh! I didn’t know you were bringing a friend!” She stood aside as two men entered.

The first looked a bit like my father, but substantially younger, more fit, and much, much more sober. “And you must be the lovely Sylvia,” he said smoothly. “I’m delighted – delighted! – to finally meet you! Please allow me to introduce my friend, Colonel Holweard.”

Holweard was short – shorter than Mom, anyway, though still taller than I was that day. Stocky, with dark hair, a broad, plain face, a fierce mustache and pale, curious eyes. Though my uncle was more imposing, Holweard seemed to draw attention like an injured moose draws mosquitoes.

I was so focused on our guests that I hadn’t paid any attention to Father. “You!” he said, sounding shocked and angry. “What in the name of Beelzebub are YOU doing here!” Father’s face had gone white.

But that could mean just about anything.

Holweard grinned impishly. “Hello, Grace, old boy! Just stretching my legs, you know!”

“Don’t call me that,” Father snarled. Looking at his brother, he said, “How could you have brought him?”

My uncle looked bemused. “Good to see you, too, Henry. Obviously, the Colonel and I served together, and we’re returning home together. Don’t worry – we’ll not be spending the night.”

“Oh, but you have to!” Mom said, distressed. “I have a bed all made up for you!”

“Thank you, dear lady,” Uncle Geoff said, his voice warm. “But we’ve managed to obtain a delightful hotel near the airport, and our flight tomorrow is early. We won’t impose – except, perhaps, for dinner?”

“No.” Father sounded surly.

“Yes.” Mom, of course, sounded firm. “Hank, it’s practically ready. An extra place setting is no trouble.”

“He’s trouble,” Father said, looking at the Colonel.

“I’m wounded. Truly wounded! Cut to the very quick!” But Holweard didn’t sound wounded, he sounded mildly amused. The right word, though I didn’t know it even at a precocious and obnoxious twelve, was “sardonic.” “Really, dear boy. It’s far from home, and we’re just here for the evening. What trouble could I possibly be?”

Sardonic, certainly, with maybe a side of “challenge.” His curious eyes held Father’s for what seemed like a long, long minute.

I don’t know what Father saw, looking into the Colonel’s pale eyes, but he made an abrupt gesture and said, “Fine. Whatever. We’ll feed you – then I expect you both to be on your way.”

“Hank!” Mom’s tone said “NOT happy” so clearly even a twelve-year old could understand it.

He didn’t get the message. “I said, ‘fine,’ Sylvia. Now, let’s eat.”

“Henry Grace Algernon Litton, your behavior brings shame to my house!”

Oh, sweet Jesus! When Mom used your full name, you knew you were so far in the doghouse you’d have flea bites from forehead to feet. I hadn’t even known Father had so many names.

“You will behave like a gentleman and you will treat our guests with respect, and you will start by offering them drinks!” Her glare should have turned him to stone, in which state he would have been only slightly less useless.

“Splendid idea!” My uncle said brightly. “Sherry, if you have it, Henry. Dry, preferably.”

Father looked dazed. “Sherry? No, we don’t have anything like that.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got something to whet the palate,” Holweard said, sounding jovial. “I’m not finicky like your brother, so anything will do.” He looked at the bourbon-and-coke on the rocks that Father was clutching like a life-preserver and winced. “Excepting that, of course.”

Father shook his head as if he were clearing it. “Wine . . . we have some wine.”

“That will do perfectly,” Uncle Geoff replied. His accent was very much like Father’s, but it seemed cleaner, somehow. Crisper. It plainly annoyed Father, and I wondered whether I could copy it.

Father wandered into the kitchen in search of the wine, and Mom finally managed to get our guests seated in the living room. “I am delighted to finally meet you,” she said to my Uncle. “I’d like to say that I’ve heard a lot about you, but the fact is, he doesn’t talk about . . . before.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. I don’t think I’ve heard from Henry since he sent word of your wedding . . . after it had occurred, of course.” Uncle Geoff shrugged. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

I decided I’d been quiet long enough. “I’m Luigi,” I said.

“Yes. Quite,” said Uncle Geoff.

“I am confident,” Colonel Holweard pronounced, “that there has never been a ‘Luigi’ in your family.”

“Cool!” I said. “I’m number one!”

“My father’s name,” Mom said, a touch of warning in her voice.

Father came back in, carrying a bottle of something pink and three glasses. “Everyone in the family has damned silly names,” he said. “Henry. Geoffrey. Hugh. Algernon, for the love of God! Anything was better than that.” He started pouring.

“What a peculiar color,” my Uncle marveled, looking at the wine. “Whatever is that?”

Father looked at the label. “White Zinfandel,” he pronounced, sounding unconvinced. Given its color, I could see why. He handed glasses to Mom and our guests.

“You won’t be joining us?” Holweard asked, amused.

“I’ll stick to bourbon, thanks,” Father replied.

Uncle Geoff swirled the glass, looked at it in the light, then tilted it toward his nose and took a delicate sniff which left him startled.

Colonel Holweard, in contrast, just upended his glass and downed it in three mighty swallows. “Any port in a storm. Though . . . ah.” He looked pained. “Not port. Clearly, not port.”

Uncle Geoff took the smallest of sips and his face assumed a strange, pinched expression. But he was trying, so he held the glass in both hands while looking at his brother. “Thank you, Henry.”

Father said nothing, and the silence became a bit awkward.

Mom tried to make some conversation, and my Uncle and Holweard did their best to help her. My initial conversational gambit hadn’t gone all that well, so I sat and watched.

I didn’t learn much. Mom coaxed Uncle Geoff into relating something about friendly fire at some place called Two Sisters, but that was a mistake.

“Damned imperial nonsense!” The soapbox was available and apparently irresistible; Father couldn’t help but stand atop it and declaim. “Risking lives for a few lumps of rock and some sheep!”

“Don’t start, Hank, please!” Mom implored.

He ignored her. “Who does Thatcher think she is, anyway? ‘Lady’ Palmerston! We’ve no business policing the world’s sea lanes anymore!”

“We?” Now Uncle Geoff looked smug.

“You, then,” Father said, heatedly.

“Perhaps you intended the royal ‘we,’” his brother said, sticking the knife in further.

“Is royal wee different?” I knew better, of course, but it seemed like a fun way to annoy Father and baffle our guests, all at the same time.

“No! It stinks just like common wee,” my Father sneered, clearly understanding my question. Fate compelled him to spend time with a twelve-year-old – me, specifically – while neither my Uncle nor his friend appeared to have done so.

“Practically sacrilege, dear boy,” the Colonel replied. “I’m sure it’s sweet as the gentle rain from heaven.”

“Would you care for some more wine?” Mom asked, throwing the only life preserver she could think of.

“Perhaps with dinner,” Holweard demurred. “I shouldn’t like to overindulge.”

“Dinner!” Mom exclaimed, seeing an opportunity for escape. “Give me just a moment, it should be almost ready!” She hopped up, but paused to glare at Father. “Behave!” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

Father glared at Holweard, saying nothing.

My uncle sighed, then looked at me. “So, young ‘Luigi.’ What do you know about our side of the family?”

That got Father’s attention. “More than he needs to!”

“But I don’t know anything! Are they criminals?” I thought the possibility might be cool.

Uncle Geoff chuckled. “Oh, no. Much worse than that."

"Much, much worse," Holweard agreed.

"We’re aristocrats.”

“Uhhh . . . like, dukes and princes stuff?”

“Nothing so fine as all that.” Uncle Geoff waved a dismissive hand. “Merely Viscounts, but that still ‘counts,’ if you follow me. You know what a Viscount is?”

Father interrupted, before I could respond. “Luigi – what’s more important? A viscount, a prince, a duke, an earl, or a marquess?”

Well, he’d drilled me on that one, at least, so I belted out the answer. “They’re all the same, because all men are created equal!”

“Oh, dear God,” Uncle Geoff moaned. “Henry, I expected the republicanism. But the pedantry? What’s become of you?”

“I’ve grown up,” he snapped. “I don’t need a pedigree, or a castle, or tenants. I work. Like real people do.”

Uncle looked at his companion. “Gracious, Humphrey! See what I’ve been missing, all these years!”

“Ah, yes! The glories of ‘work!’” the Colonel replied. “I’m sure I’ve read about that somewhere, but offhand I don’t recall the treatise.”

“I don’t understand, Father.” I couldn’t bear to miss out on the fun. “You hate your job. You say so all the time!”

“Of COURSE I hate my job. That’s why they call it ‘work!’”

“Well, that certainly clears it up, doesn’t it?” Uncle Geoff said with a smirk.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mom announced with a sort of desperate cheerfulness.

We all trooped into the dining room, where the table had been set for five for the first time I could remember. My mother, greatly daring, had decided to attempt roast beef in honor of our guests. She’d heard somewhere that Englishmen liked it.

It was about as successful as the rest of the meal.

Somehow, we got through it. I don’t recall all that much. The food, so much worse than Mom's normal cooking . . . Mom’s frantic efforts to get her recalcitrant and increasingly soused husband to have a ‘civilized’ conversation with his younger brother . . . Uncle Geoff’s barbed banter . . . all of that mostly washed over me.

What I remember most were Colonel Holweard’s eyes. Darting here, looking there, taking in everything. Seemingly seeing everything. He didn’t say all that much, but I never forgot his eyes. Especially when he turned them on me.

By the end of the meal, Father was barely capable of standing, much less doing anything that might be described as ‘civilized.’ Mom took it upon herself to see our guests out, struggling to maintain some semblance of normalcy. “Thank you so much for coming, Geoffrey,” she said. “I have wanted to meet you for such a long time.”

He clasped her hands in his own and said something appropriate, I’m sure.

Colonel Holweard looked at me and grinned. “If you find that ‘work’ isn’t to your taste, you could do worse than being Viscount Chingleput some day. I can promise you this – the Viscount doesn’t need to nick his Mum’s knickers!”

I must have looked blank, since it took me years to figure out what on earth he had just said.

He laughed, winked, and was gone.

To be continued . . . .

Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story!

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

Chapter Two: Reconnaissance in Farce
Lyddon Hall, University of Leeds, October 15, 1990 (Eight years later)

Heather was in my room again. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Come on, Weejie,” she coaxed. “You can’t possibly want to wander around some old pile of rocks. Could anything be more tedious? Do you have any idea how many castles are just lying around the countryside, taking up space and gathering dust?”

“I’m sure someone’s done a count.”

“We don’t have counts. Or we do, we just call them earls.”

“Why? You don’t have earlesses. You do have countesses.”

“Oh, don’t start! It’s because we’re English. It doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, it’s not supposed to.”

“Let me guess. If it made sense, the French could figure it out.”

“Quite possibly. And imagine what a disaster that would be.” She flounced onto my bed, since I was already sitting in the only chair in the room. “Aren’t you at least going to offer me a biscuit?”

“Mi casa es su casa – near as I can tell, anyway.” It certainly seemed to be true, and I wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. “The tin’s on the shelf by your head.”

“And there you go with the Spanish again. Honestly, Weej! You are entirely capable of being good company when the mood takes you. Why are you being so difficult?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because you want to drag me down to the City for the weekend to chaperone you and Diana and Sarah. I’ll spend the entire time acting as a mobile coat-rack, hauling packages from store to store for three women.”

“Three stunning, beautiful, enchanting women . . . including moi. Really, Weejie dear. What’s not to like?”

“And there you go with the French. Though, seriously, I don’t think it’s supposed to rhyme with ‘boy.’”

“Are all Americans so pedantic?”

Now there was a question that didn’t require hours of research. “I’m gonna have to go with a big ‘no’ on that one.”

“You mean to tell me I caught the only pedant of the lot?”

“Wow, you make it sound dirty! But, yup, pretty close.” I started singing, “Don't know much about history. Don't know much biology.”

Her face assumed a pained expression and she let out a groan.

No reason to let her off that easy. “Don't know much about science book. Don't know much about the French I took.” I wiggled my eyebrows to make sure she got the connection to our conversation.

“At the risk of being rude, you don’t know much about singing, either.”

“No, no. You missed the point. As a nation – as a cultural grouping, if you will – Americans don’t know much about virtually any of those things. We are a determinedly, fiercely, and above all, proudly ignorant people. However, I am the exception.” I wagged my finger at her. “Plus, my singing could get me into the Cordon Bleu.”

“Tell me you know that’s a cooking school.”

“Yes. Of course I do. My singing is so farging amazing that they’d overlook my shortcomings in the cooking department.”

“I assume that means your cooking is execrable?”

“Oh, hell, yeah! Hey – that would make an amazing Scrabble word. Drop the “x” on a triple letter score —”

“It’s nine letters, Weej.”

“Yeah, but if you were to play ‘crab,’ or maybe ‘able’ —”

“Stop! Just stop! I will do no such thing. Now, will you get off your high horse and come with us to London?”

I chomped on a cookie. “Biscuit” my ass. These McVitties things are cookies, for crying out loud! They’re also really good. “Heather, I’m sorry. I really do want to go castle hunting this weekend.”

“Well then,” she said, “I suppose I shall have to go with, if only to make sure you don’t fall down a garderobe or something equally preposterous and fatal.” She got off the bed and stretched, looking for all the world like a martyr preparing to make the final sacrifice. “Diana and Sarah are going to be rather annoyed at you.”

I was about to say something . . . like, I don’t know, “Really, you don’t need to bother,” but she was already on her merry way.

“Ta-ta!” she said as she breezed out the door.

I shook my head. How does she do that? I really don’t understand Heather. Like, at all.

~o~O~o~

“Well . . . It’s certainly a fine example of a pile of old rocks,” Heather said, gazing at our destination. “Colorful, I suppose. If you’re fond of gray.”

“If you’re trying to tell me it’s not Harrod’s, you may rest assured that I got that.’”

“Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t even think such a thing. But, really . . . .” she cast another practiced look at Castle Neuf before adding, “It’s not even Marks and Spencer.”

“Let’s have a look, anyhow.”

Heather threw me a doubtful glance and said, “Oh, very well. I expect they’ll have a car park by the entrance, these places always do.”

The one advantage to having Heather along was that she was generally accessorized in appropriate and useful ways, and today was no exception. One of her better accessories had five wheels, one of which was in the wrong place and allowed her to steer. She was currently using it to navigate a winding and difficult road up the small hill on which the castle was perched.

“A car park?” I asked. “How delightful! Will they have swings and teeter-totters so the cars can play while we’re out and about?”

“Behave, Weejie. It’s a long walk home.”

Sure enough, there was a parking lot by the front entrance, just as Heather had surmised. It appeared to have been designed with tourist buses in mind — the large, imposing kind that travel in flocks during the season, rather like Canadian Geese. Alas, however, this either wasn’t the season or the buses had found greener pastures. Or grayer pastures. There were only two other vehicles in the lot. At a guess, their owners worked here.

We decamped from Heather’s car – something that required a good bit of bending and twisting, on account of its, ehem, proportions. The entrance might have been imposing, I suppose, if the big drawbridge actually crossed something, but if the place had ever sported a moat, it had been filled in long since. A fussy looking woman, middle-middle in class, upper-middle in age, was sitting just inside what might once have been a guardroom. She waved us in. “It’s two pounds fifty for entrance, unless you can show student IDs. Oh, and five pounds will get you the tour.”

Heather looked dubious about the tour and I suppose I could see why. I mean, the whole place really didn’t look much larger than a decent-sized public library; it was hard to see how we might miss anything.

“Oh, the tour’s a must. An absolute must.”

I must have jumped half a foot; the voice came from behind me, and I hadn’t heard him come up. I spun around to see a young man; short and stocky with a mischievous smile and eyes that positively sparkled. “You’ll be the tour guide, won’t you, Mrs. Tibbets?”

“You will not be spoiling my tour, young man!” The woman behind the desk looked both incensed and affronted.

That decided me. “Well then, with this gentleman’s recommendation – and his company, of course – we’d be delighted to do the tour.”

“We might have a small difference of opinion,” Heather murmured in my ear, “about the meaning of ‘delighted.’”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” the young man said, as if Heather’s aside had been offered up for general consumption and comment. “His accent notwithstanding, I’m certain your young man meant it in the classic British sense.”

“Insincerely, you mean?” Heather snarked.

“Exactly so, my dear! Oh, we’re going to have a splendid time together!”

Mrs. Tibbets crossed her formidably fleshly forearms under her well-supported and thoroughly suppressed breasts. “I will not give a tour with this . . . person in the group!”

“Oh, that’s such a pity,” he replied. “Then I shall have to give them the tour without you!”

“You will do No. Such. Thing!” No smoke came from her nose, but I half expected to see it.

“Dear Mrs. Tibbets,” he said soothingly, “If the three of us buy entrance tickets – well, if I do; they’re clearly students and will get in for free – you can scarcely keep us from wandering around together, can you? Or prevent me from making whatever observations come to my mind?”

This was nearly as much fun as baiting Father. Nothing really quite compares, of course, but the young man was tying Mrs. Bluff and Bluster into knots that would make a sailor proud. I wondered which way she would finally topple.

“All right! All right! I shall give the tour. I shall expect reasonable behavior from you, young man! No interruptions. No snide asides.”

He smiled slowly. Almost . . . dangerously. “But darling, what earthly fun would that be?”

She glowered, but in the end, she probably had no choice. She took our money, put it in the till, and gave each of us a wholly unnecessary paper ticket. “Follow me, please,” she said shortly.

Leaving the front gate area, she walked into a small courtyard. Castle yard? Whatever. Brown grass. Directly in front of us was the keep, such as it was. There really wasn’t anything else inside the walls.

“Welcome to CastleNoof,” she said woodenly, going into her spiel. The long and short of story was that it was the ninth castle built by some greedier-than-average follower of William the Bastard. It had gotten lots of upgrades in the centuries after it started as simple motte-and-bailey, but the last of them must have been around the time of Columbus.

“The lower floor of the keep is the only remaining part of the original structure,” Mrs. Tibbets explained.

“If by ‘lower floor,’ she literally means the floor itself – as in, the flagstones,” our young gentleman explained sotto voce, but it was loud enough to carry. Naturally.

Mrs. T chose to ignore the commentary. “The outer walls were built during the Second Baron’s War in the Thirteenth Century. The license to crenelate is recorded in the Patent Rolls, and was signed by King Henry III.”

“Who probably thought he was ordering an execution. Or quite possibly a bit of breckie. Not a very bright chap.”

“Mr. Deavers!” Mrs. Tibbets voice was low with menace.

He just smiled.

Heather decided it was time to do something other than simply watch tennis. “Is there any sort of view from the battlements?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Mrs. Tibbets said repressively.

“You mean you haven’t looked?” Deavers asked, with open-eyed faux incredulity.

“As you are perfectly well aware, Mr. Deavers, the upper battlements are unsafe, and access is strictly prohibited!”

I couldn’t let Deavers have all the fun. “Are you quite sure it isn’t loosely prohibited? I mean, ‘strictly’ seems like the only adverb that’s ever attached to that word.”

“Strictly. Most strictly.” Mrs. Tibbets was both firm and severe on this point.

“I see.” I looked around. From where I was standing, there wasn’t much to see that wasn’t strictly prohibited wall. “Then it's the keep, I suppose.” It didn’t look very promising.

“The ground floor’s off limits,” Mrs. Tibbets warned, “On account of its extreme age.”

“It’s just that they haven’t gotten around to cleaning it,” Deavers supplied happily. “Good help is so hard to find.”

“Aren’t the upper floors supported by the ground floor?” I asked.

“Certainly, young man. How else would they be supported?”

“Um. Okay. Never mind.” I was looking for stairs. Perhaps around back? “How do you get to the upper floors?”

“From the battlements, naturally,” Mrs. Tibbets replied.

Heather weighed in. “But you said – “

“Strictly prohibited,” Mrs. Tibbets said triumphantly.

“But . . . .”

“Strictly.”

I looked around again. “What do we, ah . . . you know? Tour?”

Deavers was happy to explain before Mrs. Tibbets put her spin on it. “This delightful plot of grass. You stand here – right here – and dear Mrs. Tibbets will talk. Expound. Declaim. Pretty endlessly, as it happens. It’s really a question of how much of it you can stand.”

“Doesn’t anyone live here?” I asked.

Three sets of eyes looked at me, bemused. Heather was first out the gate. “Whoever would want to?”

“The castle is owned by Viscount Chingleput,” Mrs. Tibbets explained. “But the family hasn’t lived here since the sixteenth century.”

“They pinched better digs when old King Harry stole all the church land,” Mr. Deavers added.

This straightforward explanation didn’t sit well with Mrs. Tibbets. “Acquisition of the abbey property was approved by Act of Parliament!”

“Making the theft entirely legal and proper,” Deavers replied, sounding pleased with the explanation.

“Stole it fair and square, eh?” I asked.

“It is not theft if it’s approved!” our guide hissed, scandalized.

“Mrs. Tibbets,” I asked diplomatically. “How long is this tour?”

“Oh, I could talk for hours about Castlenoof,” she said. It sounded like a threat. “History . . . architecture . . . legends. Even ghost stories!”

“How ‘delighted’ are you feeling, Weej?” Heather asked.

The thought of spending endless hours standing in the cold listening to Mrs. Tibbets tell ghost stories was acutely unappealing. “Actually, I was thinking I might be reaching my tolerance level for delight.”

“If you held on to your ticket, it will also get you into the family estate,” Deavers said helpfully. “It’s just three miles away. Shingles, they call it.”

It seemed like a strange choice for a name. “Like the virus?”

“A contraction of the title, I should think,” Mrs. Tibbets sniffed. “Chingleput . . . Singles. These things happen, over centuries.”

“Don’t you believe her,” Deavers said. “It’s the virus. The old man was riddled with it.”

“Mr. Deavers! That will be quite ENOUGH!”

But we decided that Shingles was likely to be the lesser of two evils, and opted to take our leave of the basilisk of Castle Neuf. Mr. Deavers invited himself along — something he managed with a smoothness and finesse that impressed even Heather.

Still, he had been good company, and quite useful for slaying dragons and such, so I wasn’t going to object. Even though somehow he got the passenger’s seat, and I ended up crammed into what was humorously called the “back seat.”

“You sorted back there?” Heather asked. “The car is grumpy when all the seatbelts aren’t fastened.”

I tried to move my arms to locate the device and failed. “I’m just exactly as ‘sorted’ as I’m going to get,” I said shortly. “Your Playmobile Car will just have to sulk for the five minutes it’s going to take us to go three miles.”

Deavers slid his seat back, neatly kneecapping me. “Ah! Much better!”

“Do you mind?” I asked, indignant.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied cheekily. “Oh — it’s three miles as the crow flies. A bit more of a trek for us, I’m afraid.”

I groaned, but Heather didn’t hear me as she got the engine to turn over and headed us down the hill.

It took seventeen and a half excruciating minutes to travel the three miles from Castle Neuf to Shingles. Between my captive knees and the contortions required to keep my head from hitting the roof, I was acutely uncomfortable the entire time. Heather and George were chatting merrily, but I just tuned them both out. Maybe being a portable clothes rack wouldn’t have been so bad.

But I’d had a hankering to see the “family estate,” even though I’d promised Father that I’d stay away. Well . . . especially because I’d made that promise, and I knew how deeply furious he would be when I cheerfully broke it. He had no sense of humor at all, and even less where his family was concerned. What better way to get his goat? So I endured the drive without groaning more than six or seven times.

“Well! Heather said suddenly. “Looks like the thieves and brigands did well for themselves!”

With several contortions of my back and neck, I managed to see what had caught her eye. Shingles — presumably it was Shingles — was certainly impressive enough, in a dark, gloomy, gothic sort of way. Much larger than Castle Neuf, with plenty of those deep, narrow windows that have pointy-arched tops and provide almost no light. The stone appeared to have come from a very different quarry than the castle. It had probably been a delightfully toasty golden brown originally, but was now the somewhat less appealing color of industrial sludge.

We parked by an ostentatious main entrance, smack in the middle of by far the largest structure in the complex. Although it looked like someone had gone to great lengths to disguise it, the main building had clearly begun its long life as a church of some sort before aging gracelessly into something a bit more tawdry.

Getting out of the car took even more work than getting in, but eventually I accomplished it to the accompaniment of groans and swear-words more common in the Bay Area of my youth than the North of England. I’m not saying Brits are more refined; their swear words are just weird. And they don’t seem to understand that simple, one-syllable synonyms for copulation and defecation can be employed endlessly and in virtually any situation.

The gate guardian of Shingles was a woman of around Mrs. Tibbet’s age, but considerably broader in the beam and far more cheerful. “Good morning, and welcome to Shingles!” she called out, as we stepped through the massive, dark door that must have been 12 feet tall.

We were in an antechamber of some sort – a decorative lump grafted onto the older main building, like a Gamay Beaujelais head on the rootstock of a Concord Grape. The stone in the ribbed vault over our heads had lots of fussy tracery and the side windows of the anteroom were large and colorful.

We got a big smile from the gate guardian, who came out from behind her high desk, positively beaming. “Such a lovely morning! Do come in! Let me give you the orientation, then you’re free to poke around, except in the areas marked ‘No Admittance.’”

I stepped forward, returning her smile. “I’m guessing that would be ‘strictly no admittance,’ right?”

“There’s no other sort, now is there?” she said, laughing. Spotting our companion, she said, “You’ve brought a personal guide with you, I see. Good morning, young George!”

“Mrs. Gee! So good to see you in such good humor,” he replied with a smile.

“Well, not that you need it, what with George and all, but we’ve just received these delightful pamphlets in full color, so you’ll have some idea what you’re looking at.” Seeing the tickets in our hands, she added, “Oh, and you’ve been to the castle, have you? Well, it won’t have taken you very long to figure out why no-one lives there anymore!”

And that was pretty much all the orientation we got. At the other end of the antechamber from where we entered, five shallow steps lead to a deep stone arch and very solid looking doors, one of which was open. Up we went, and entered a large, dark and forbidding great hall. According to the lovely brochure, it had originally been the nave of the monastery church.

“Holy ground, hmmm?” George said as we moved past the side aisle into the main area.

“Don’t they do a deconsecration or something, when they stop using it as a church?” I asked, looking around.

“Ostensibly. But surely . . . ground is holy or it isn’t, don’t you think?” There was, as usual, mischief in his voice – but something else, too.

And I’ll confess, I sure felt something. Maybe it was holy ground, or maybe it was just plain old spooky. The stone was dark and forbidding and the lancet windows were next to useless. Seven bays of tall arches and a simple cruciform ribbed vault, barely illuminated by clerestory windows. The flagstones were smooth with age.

The proportions were all wrong, naturally. The space was incredibly high relative to either the width or length of the hall – unsurprising, since the old church had been cut in half. The pamphlet explained that the transept and quire had been converted into living quarters for the family.

My family.

I hadn’t said anything to Heather – or to anyone else, for that matter – about my connection to the family that owned this heap of stone. The university had certain cliques, like any other education establishment, and the children of the aristocracy formed one of them. It was a small and obnoxious group, and I didn’t want anyone to think I belonged there. Even though it would have been a positively stupendous way of annoying Father. Some of life’s joys, great though they most certainly are, do not justify the sacrifice.

Although the stained glass windows all depicted scenes from the Gospels, the space was otherwise pretty secular. It had been set up as a feasting hall, I suppose – a long, narrow table running down what had been the length of the nave and a raised platform with an elevated table at the end in a “T” configuration. A monstrous big chair dominated the middle of the raised table, intricately carved, upholstered in red velvet. It even had a decorative canopy over it.

I shook my head. “Okay. Was the guy, like, morbidly obese? You could fit three normal humans in that thing!”

“Important to impress the masses, Weej,” Heather snarked.

“Impress? Any regular dude sitting in that chair is going to look like a five-year-old!”

“Ah,” said Deavers. “But he’ll look like a rich five-year-old, so age won’t matter! You should try it!”

“The sign says we’re not supposed to touch the furniture.”

“So, don’t touch it. Keep your hands to yourself. Just sit in it!” Deavers was, as usual, grinning wickedly.

“Go ahead,” I invited. “Let’s see how you look!”

He shrugged. “I shall look stunning, naturally. I always look stunning!” He hopped up onto the dais, sauntered over to the semi-throne thing, and sprawled gracefully on the seat. “As you see. Now, all you little people . . . bow and scrape, why don’t you?”

Heather laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Naturally,” he replied. “And, of course, nobles are irresistible to the lower sorts, aren’t they? Admit it . . . You want me to throw you on the table and have my naughty, aristocratic way with you!”

Heather only laughed harder.

For myself, though . . . Deavers actually did look pretty good sprawled on the throne. Powerful, even. As if sensing my thoughts, he gave me a sardonic look.

“Now, George!” Mrs. Gee stood in the entrance, sounding like a mildly exasperated nanny. “You know you aren’t supposed to be there. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“By all means, ask away,” he said airily. “My lordship is in the mood for hearing petitions today.”

Despite herself, Mrs. Gee giggled girlishly. “All right, George. I’ll look the other way – this time – but for God’s sake don’t let the Colonel know!”

Deavers made little shooing motions with his hands, and Mrs. Gee vanished back the way she’d come.

“The Colonel?” I asked him. I had a very vivid memory of a Colonel.

Deavers confirmed it, as he rose gracefully from the oversized chair and came down off the dais. “My uncle Holweard. He looks after the place while the Viscount is off doing whatever it is he does.”

“The Viscount’s in the counting house,” Heather paraphrased, “Counting all his –”

“Vices,” I supplied.

“That should keep him occupied for a while,” Deavers said brightly. “Let’s finish looking around, while he’s tied up?”

We strolled around the courtyard, which had been a cloister back in the day. The Baptistry had been converted into a gazebo by the expedient of removing all non-load-bearing walls, and the former monks’ living quarters had been converted into guest accommodations that were, like the Viscount’s private quarters, off limits.

“The crypt is really the best part,” Deavers said.

“That’s something you don’t hear every day,” I snorted.

“Weej, it’s England,” Heather explained. “We always reserve the very best for dead people.”

“Certainly,” Deavers agreed. “It’s when they are at their finest, after all.”

The crypt was located where you would expect – under what had been the transept of the church – and was reached by a narrow stone stair to the side of the exit from the Great Hall. All of the former residents of the space, which presumably had been abbots and such, had been removed to literally greener pastures. The crypt was now reserved for Family.

Each of the Viscounts had his own niche and sarcophagus, as well as a portrait on the wall. All the portraits looked like Father, just with different facial hair and styles of dress. A dreary prospect indeed, from my perspective!

Deavers filled us in on all the gossip with respect to the former lords, and from his descriptions they were a sordid lot indeed. The first Viscount’s portrait depicted him in martial glory upon the battlements of some very foreign-looking fortress. “The battle of Chingleput,” Deavers said.

“I can’t say I’ve heard of that one,” Heather remarked.

“Why am I not surprised?” Deavers’ voice was dry. “A minor battle in the Second Carnatic War.”

I shook my head. “The second what?”

“Quite,” Deavers agreed.

“And, ah, what’s his name commanded the victorious British army?” Heather asked.

“Of course not,” Deavers said. “That was Robert Clive, and he commanded company troops.”

“Then why did . . .” She paused a moment to check the name, “Algernon Winthrop, here, get a title out of it?”

“He didn’t. He got a title out of forgiving a rather large gambling debt that embarrassed King George’s idiot brother, Cumberland. But he said he was present at Chingleput, and Clive got a nice round sum to confirm it, so it seemed like a good enough fit.” Deavers studied the picture critically. “He does look rather dashing up there on the battlement, don’t you think?”

“Moderately dashing,” I allowed.

“Positively irresistible,” Heather pronounced.

We made the circuit, with each Viscount looking less distinguished than the last. It must be a coincidence that they line up that way, I thought. Please let it be a coincidence! But the final niche was completely different.

“Weej, you’re gaping,” Heather scolded.

I ignored her. The woman in the full-sized painting almost leapt off the canvas. Long, raven-black hair, soft eyes, pale, perfect skin, a figure to die for in a dress that accentuated every curve – tight bodice showing full breasts and a trim waist, and an exuberant skirt that cascaded over wide hips like a fountain . . . .

“Weej! Wake up!”

I shook my head, as if to clear it of cobwebs. “Why would I want to?”

“Well, you do look a bit like an idiot, so there’s that.”

“Uh . . . right.” I looked at Deavers. “Who is she?”

“Well, you know what the nuns always say,” he responded.

I decided that I wanted to know who the woman in the painting was, even if I had to walk into his joke to find out. “No. I don’t really know any nuns. What do they say?”

“It’s a mystery.” He sounded smug.

“Seriously?”

“Quite. No one knows who she is, or what her painting is doing down here . . . other than livening the place up.”

“And attracting boys like honey attracts flies,” Heather added, acidly.

“Alright already,” I replied testily. “Can I help it? It’s by far the best piece of art in the whole place.”

“Your devotion to art history is an inspiration, Weej. Now, if I can pry you away from your girlfriend here, I don’t suppose you can be persuaded to find a place for lunch?”

I laughed and agreed, and we found the exit.

When we got back to the car, Deavers said his farewells. “If you want someplace local, the Victoria has a nice ploughman’s lunch and decent fish and chips. And, it’s right next to a really special shop for naughty underthings!”

Heather laughed and hopped in the driver’s seat. So she missed his broad wink and my ensuing scarlet blush.

To be continued . . . .

Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story.

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

Chapter 3: Maid in America
San Jose, California, June 30, 1995 (Five years later)

Heather was seething as we left the theater. “We absolutely shouldn’t have bought tickets. I knew we’d regret it.”

“I don’t know,” I said, mostly to be oppositional. “It had its humorous moments.”

“Humor?” She looked at me, her expression a mixture of aghast and appalled. Aghalled, maybe?

“Sure. I mean, the implication that Wallace was the father of Edward III is pretty funny if you think about it, since it would have required Edward’s mom to get pregnant at age 10 and carry the baby for around seven years before giving birth.”

“What?”

“Especially since she didn’t even leave the continent until years after Wallace died. An immaculate conception, maybe?”

She shot me a still-more appalled look, which I hadn’t even thought was possible. “How can you even say such a thing! She was French.”

“Well, yeah.” I was goading her and I knew it, but it was a habit I just couldn’t bring myself to resist.

“And while we’re on the subject, where did Wallace get off sacking York?”

“Maybe he pulled a permit?”

“It absolutely did not happen.”

“Poetic license. Don’t take it personally.”

“I’m from York, you bumbling colonial! Of course I take it personally!”

I unlocked her car door and opened it for her. “Can we go back to where we were discussing the improbability of French chastity?”

“The entire movie was absurd, from start to finish,” she shot back as she got her seatbelt fastened. “Stupid idea.”

Shutting her door and walking around the car to the driver’s side gave me the time I needed to compose my response. “I didn’t suggest we see it.”

“You didn’t talk me out of it, either!”

“I assumed you were looking forward to seeing a Scotsman get hung, drawn and quartered.”

“Well . . . that part was pretty good. But the rest of it? Heroic Scots?” She made a noise that is difficult to transcribe. It sounded a bit like “Phhhhghts,” and it was about what you would expect from a Yorkshire girl, under the circumstances.

“You know, you’ve all been one happy country for a few centuries. Maybe it’s time to let it go, don’t you think?”

She glared at me. “Says the man whose country is still fighting the Civil War.”

“Yeah, but that’s just a hundred thirty-some years ago.”

“Your whole nation, such as it is, is barely more than two centuries old!”

We continued in this vein for several miles as we drove past campus and found our way to the apartment we shared. It was familiar terrain, since we’d been together for five years now.

I still wasn’t sure how that had happened.

After my year at Leeds, I’d finished my BS back home and gotten accepted at Stanford in the Electrical Engineering/Computer Sciences Laboratory PhD program. Before I knew it, Heather came over to visit and stayed with me in my apartment. Somehow, she never got around to leaving.

She was still fuming about dastardly Scots and the idiot Americans who love them when we arrived at our quite modest apartment. Upon entering, she stalked back to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable, while I went to the fridge to see what might be handy.

“Luigi Litton!!!”

The tone of her voice was enough to bring my foraging to a halt.

She stormed back from the bedroom, waving a really lovely red bra like it was the Oriflamme of St. Denis. “Haven’t I told you – haven’t I been very clear – that you are never to borrow my underwear?”

“Well, in fairness, you do get some pretty nice shit,” I said, placatingly.

“I am – you must agree – a truly remarkable woman. A thoroughly modern, exceptionally tolerant woman.” In a tone of pure menace, she added, “Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Well, sure . . . .”

“One of the rare women who would have no issue with her fiance parading around in suspenders, knickers, and a bra.”

“We aren’t actually –”

“Don’t interrupt me! What’s your band size?”

“Thirty-eight,” I confessed.

“And what, pray tell, is my band size?”

“Thirty-four.”

“The difference between the two being?”

Math, at least, was my strong suit. Well, one of them. “Four inches, technically.”

“Four inches! Do you know what happens when you stick a thirty-four inch band on a thirty-eight inch moron?”

“He looks cute?”

She made a sound like a buzzer. “Ehhhhh! Wrong! Incorrect! Not cute! Never cute!” Affecting a bad Italian accent, by way of the Nintendo bastards from Japan, she added, “Baby Weejie, Number: Not one!”

Swear to God, if I ever make it in the video game world, I’m going to create a thoroughly obnoxious, but insidiously memorable, character and name it after Nintendo’s founder. It will be so bad that no-one will give their children his name, not until fifty generations have passed!

I couldn’t let Heather know how much I detested Mario Kart or she’d use it even more. We had that kind of relationship. “I’m a weener,” I replied, mimicking the line the Luigi character uses when he, err, wins.

She gave me an arch look. “Well, about that, actually . . . .”

“Now, now, let’s not get personal.” I may not be He-Man, but my equipment is fully functional!

“A red lace La Perla bra is quite personal, don’t you think? I rather imagine it’s why they call them ‘intimates.’”

“I can think of more plausible reasons,” I smirked.

She whacked me with her delectable delicates. “Enough! I had a special prezzy for you, and now I think I shall send it back!”

Heather had a talent for finding truly naughty presents, but puppy-dog eyes weren’t going to get me out of this dog house. “I apologize.”

“Specifically?”

Yeah, she was pissed in the American sense of the word. “I’m sorry I borrowed your bra, Heather.”

“And . . . ?”

“And I won’t borrow it again?”

Whack! “Try again, Weej — you’ve already wrecked this one!”

I swallowed. “I won’t borrow your other bras?”

“Good start. And you’ll buy me a new one?”

“Well, I mean . . . I bought that one, didn’t I?” Heather didn’t have any income, far as I knew. I’d probably bought the present she was talking about, too.

Whack! “Not the point, Princess!”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“A better one?”

“There are better ones?”

Whack. “There are always better ones, silly.”

Ah, the joys of being a woman! “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll buy you a better bra.”

“And you promise you won’t wear it?”

I hesitated just an instant too long, earning another whack from the lacy La Perla. “I promise I won’t wear it,” I said hastily. Maybe too hastily. A promise made under threat of physical violence isn’t enforceable, is it?

She gave me a long, skeptical look before relenting. “Fine, then. You shall have your prezzie after all — it’s laid out on the bed. You might as well have this too.” She handed me her erstwhile weapon of choice.

“Laid out on the bed” sounded promising, so I took my new bra and headed that way with a smile I was careful not to share with Heather.

Oh, she is a naughty girl, I thought, as my eyes caressed the French Maid’s outfit she’d found for me. Now I remember why I enjoy her company! In a trice — whatever the hell that is — I had divested myself of my boring male attire and fully engaged in the serious business of transforming into a sexy, submissive slut.

Black silk stockings, and a black lace garter belt . . . I ignored the black panties, though, and purloined the red pair that went with the La Perla bra. Can’t break up the set, after all. Crinolines to fluff out the micro skirt of the black dress with the tight sleeves and deeply scooped neckline, white lace at the collar and on the little square at the front of the skirt. Four-inch black patent heels and a pill-box hat . . . . I’m in heaven. Or Nirvana, or something!

It took me a bit to do something interesting with my hair and makeup, but I didn’t want to keep Heather waiting too long. God knows what she’d get up to with free time on her hands. I made my way back to the living area, schooling my walk and my expression into something suitably meek.

Heather was sitting on the couch in a pose of studied nonchalance, legs crossed at the knee, her bare right foot waving back and forth. “Oh, there you are. What took you?”

I clutched my skirt with both hands, did my best curtsy — it needed work, but I was eager to practice! — and murmured, “Sorry, ma’am. No excuses, ma’am.”

Her eyes gleamed wickedly at my little display. “I should think not. Come here, girl!”

I minced over and stood directly in front of her, keeping my eyes downcast.

“Give us a spin, now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, mild as a newborn lamb, and gave her a slow twirl.

“Hmm,” she humphed. “A competent initial effort, I suppose. You should practice. But just at the moment, I need my toenails painted. Chop, chop, now!”

I spent the next fifteen delightful minutes on my knees, my legs tight together and my pantied butt hovering just above my silk-encased ankles, tending to Heather’s toenails — which, in all honesty, needed a bit of tending. It wasn’t a maid’s place to say “tsk, tsk,” but I surely thought it . . . when I wasn’t entertaining far more interesting thoughts and making them as welcome as a rich John in a high-priced bordello.

My unorthodox fantasies were rudely interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. “That’ll be the pizza,” Heather said. She pulled a pair of bills from her purse, made a roll, then leaned forward and tucked them into my bra, barely concealed by the bodice of the uniform. “Get that, would you?”

Frozen in disbelief, I gave her a look of pure horror. “But . . . I can’t . . . .”

She made her “phhhhghts” noise again. “My nails are still sticky. Besides, it’s just some kid you’ll never see again.”

“Palo Alto isn’t New York City!”

She raised an imperious eyebrow, which served to remind me of my current lowly state. Deliciously lowly state, for certain specific purposes, but still. “Serves you right for ruining my best bra,” she humphed. “Now handle it, missy!”

I rose from my kneeling position and reluctantly made my way to the door, steeling myself for the reaction I was sure to get from Domino Dude. Now I remember why Heather and I aren’t engaged. Witch. But she was right, really. Why should I care what a delivery boy thinks?

The bell rang again, twice, just as I reached the door and yanked it open. . . . “Mom!”

And there she was, long-suffering look and all, carrying a dish of lasagna large enough for the entire 101st Airborne. “Good evening, dear,” she said with a sigh. “Give me a hand with this, would you?”

She handed me the dish and breezed past. “Hello, Heather. Don’t you look nice tonight. I love that color on your toenails!”

A very startled Heather started to get up, but Mom waved her back. “No, no! I can see they’re still drying!” She bent over and bussed Heather’s cheeks with audible “smacks.”

“We weren’t expecting you tonight,” Heather managed, covering her discomfort at the cross-channel invasion of her English space.

“Yes, I can see that,” Mom observed, casting a look in my direction. “Luigi, darling, I’d hoped you’d outgrow all of that once your father was no longer alive to torment.”

I decided it was time to stop gaping like a beached guppy and get in the game. “The priest said he’d be looking down on us from heaven.”

Mom crossed herself piously. “He’s a holy man, Father Caspian, but don’t believe everything he says. I think he makes a lot of it up.”

I nodded in agreement. “All that stuff he told us about water getting turned into wine seemed a bit like wish-casting. That man does like him some grape.”

“Don’t be snide, dear. If you’re going to dress like that, why don’t you set the table.”

“And get your mum and I a glass of wine,” Heather added sweetly. “There’s a good girl.”

I put the lasagna pan down on the dining room table before the weight of it permanently damaged my arms and clip-clipped my way to the kitchen, grinding my teeth silently and trying to think of something witty to say. But it’s hard to pull off insouciant when dressed like a cherry tart.

Best to just roll with it.

I poured two generous glasses of Greco Bianco — Palo Alto sported some good wine shops — and put them on a tray. Might as well do it right. Then I carried the tray over and bent my knees to offer glasses to the women, now facing each other on opposite sides of the big couch like opposing duelists at dawn. “Your wine, ma’am. Ma’am.”

They selected their pistols from the proffered tray, but otherwise ignored me. “Are those horrid realtor people still bothering you, Mrs. Litton?” Heather asked.

“Nonstop! They seem to think my little bungalow will be worth something.”

“Conventional wisdom suggests God isn’t making more real estate,” Heather observed.

Mom had to think about that one before waving it off. “I’m sure that’s right. But if they think it’s going to be worth more soon, maybe I should just sit on it for a while so that I get the benefit, don’t you think?”

I thought about what the nascent tech boom was doing to housing prices in the San Jose Area – what people were starting to call the “Silicon Valley,” and opined, “good thinking, Mom.”

“Seen and not heard, missy!” Heather said sternly, before returning her attention to my mother. “It takes ages to train the help properly!”

Mom played right along, damn her. “I can certainly see that. Heavens, she didn’t even do her nails! Anyhow, as I was saying . . . I think I’ll sit tight for now. Matteo was up just last week; he agrees completely.”

Why she would listen to Uncle Matteo, who was a fine hand with the butcher’s knife he wielded at the meat department of Vons, rather than the son who actually knew something about property values in our area, was beyond me. I wobbled on my right heel and scrambled to avoid dropping the plates I’d pulled from the cabinet. Maybe not entirely beyond me, I thought with a rueful grimace.

Once I had the table set with plates, silverware, napkins, glasses of cold water, and appropriate serving utensils, I said, “all set.”

Heather gave me a look of pure disbelief.

With an internal sigh I was careful not to display, I walked the ten feet to where she was sitting and gave her another curtsy. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”

My mother rose first and smiled. “He’s much more polite this way, Heather. I can’t say I’m wild about the look, honestly, but . . . clearly there’s a plus side.”

Heather did her best to stand with feline grace, which . . . not bad, all things considered. She gave my cheek a double tap. “Still a work in progress, but we’ll get there.”

When she got to the table, however, her demeanor changed. “What’s this?” Her tone was icy.

“Dinner? Uh . . . ma’am?”

“Is there a reason – some shred of an explanation – for why you set the table for three?”

I saw my mistake and cursed myself. She’s going to play this for all it’s worth! “No ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am.”

Mom was having almost as much fun as Heather. “Clear it away this instant!” She tried to sound stern, but couldn’t suppress a giggle.

I pulled the third place setting as they seated themselves. Unsure what to do, I retrieved the wine bottle, poured a bit more into each of their glasses, and unobtrusively retreated about five steps back into the kitchen. It wasn’t a huge apartment.

Mom and Heather continued to chat — pleasantly, to all appearances. Or, make that, to most appearances. Anytime the two of them were in the same room together, a certain sparring always seemed to be taking place, just below the surface.

They were, this time, content to ignore my presence. Until, that is, the doorbell rang again, because of course it did. Heather just shot me a look.

What the hell, I thought, resigned to my fate. I’ll never live the day down anyway. I walked over to the door and opened it, to the intense amusement of the Pizza delivery guy. He was on the rugged, scruffy side and probably wasn’t any younger than me.

“Who is it, missy?” Heather called out.

Turning my now flaming red face back toward the table, I said, “Pizza delivery. Ma’am.”

“Goodness! I’d completely forgotten! We have so much food already . . . why don’t you ask if he’ll join us?”

My eyes closed briefly as I turned back to the doorway. Yep. I’ve made the guy’s list, and he’s checking me twice . . . . “We had an unexpected delivery of food. Would you care to have some lasagna before you go?” My eyes pleaded with him to say “no.”

The message failed to transmit, or — more likely — his receptors were overloaded with other stimuli. I guess the opportunity was just too good to pass up. “Sure!” he enthused. “But . . . I gotta deliver the pizza. Or at least collect for it.” He stepped past me into the room, looking around for some place to put the big square box.

I took it from him. “Right this way,” I ground out, leading him to the table.

“Hey, thanks! This smells just like my mom used to make!” He was eyeing the lasagna longingly.

Mom stood and beamed. “It’s a family recipe! Please, come in, come in!”

You’d think it was HER place.

“You’re Italian?” he asked, as if her hair, her face, and her cooking required any additional evidence to complete the picture. You expected smarts from the Pizza Boy?

“My family is from Calabria,” Mom said. Her pride in this fact was as evident as it was strange. I mean, seriously. Tens of thousands of people shook the dust of Calabria from their shoes when they fled the bad times, and they’d been assiduous ever since at obeying biblical injunctions on fruitfulness and multiplicity. Might as well have imported loaves and fishes.

“I’m Luke,” he said, sticking his hand out for my mother to pump enthusiastically. “My family’s from Naples.”

“Well,” she said, trying to come up with something polite to say.

“You poor dear,” Heather supplied, rising in turn and extending a graceful hand.

Luke took it, and seemed disinclined to let it go. “No, really, it’s great. Everything about Italy is great. Pizza! Art! History!”

“History, like ‘Caligula,’ or history like ‘Mussolini?’” I asked.

Pizza Boy looked baffled. “Huh?”

Mom gave me The Look and directed me, naturally, to set another place for our unexpected “guest.” “Sit! Sit!” she implored him.

Luke finally released Heather’s hand – the dog! – and took a seat. I bussed about getting him a place setting and bent to put it in front of him.

“Eeep!”

“You have something to say, missy?” Heather asked.

“No ma’am. Nothing, ma’am.” I was disinclined to tell them that Luke’s hand had wandered under the back of my skirt to give my rump a pinch. I scurried back to the kitchen.

Luke helped himself to an enormous slice of lasagna and dug in with a degree of relish that could not have been better calculated to win my mother’s heart. Heather and Mom kept him company, probably matching a small forkful for every three truckloads he shoveled into his face.

“Would you like a bit of wine with that?” Mom asked him.

He looked conflicted for a tenth of a second before succumbing to temptation. “Just a little one, maybe,” he said. “I still have to make deliveries tonight.”

Heather snapped her fingers, and I knew it was my cue. Another glass on the table, and I began to pour. This time, I managed to give no sign when I felt his fingers tickle my ass.

He managed to finish in five minutes flat. “Sorry; I gotta get back. But thanks for this, it’s been great.” Again, he took Heather’s hand, this time in both of his. “Really, really great!”

“Delighted,” she demurred.

At Heather’s request – well, command, really – I escorted Luke to the door. “Don’t forget to pay him, Missy,” Heather sang out.

You. Are. Such. A. Witch!

As I reached into my decolletage and pulled out the payment for the pizza, I’m sure my poor excuse for a blush — olive skin, you know — stretched to below my skimpy skirt. “Here you are, sir,” I said, desperate to have this over with.

He leaned in close to take it. “Are you free after work?” he whispered.

My eyes went wide. The guy must think he was dropped into a wet dream! “No, sir,” I said, careful to keep my voice low. “Mistress is very strict.” Damn, Weej! Just how did “low” manage to slip into “sultry?” WTF?

He looked crestfallen. “Can I have your number?”

“Forty-two,” I husked, closing the door on his puzzled face.

“Was he trying to pick you up there?” Heather inquired, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

“Umm.” There wasn’t anything wrong with Heather’s hearing. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you give him your number, then?” With charity for none, and malice toward Luigi . . . .

I decided a bit of subtle, but servile, defiance would serve her right. “Yes, ma’am,” I said brightly.

It didn’t work. “A threesome might be fun.”

The idea both surprised and unnerved me. It . . . might be?

That, however, was a bridge too far even for my Mom. “You see, Luigi? There are consequences to dressing like that! Being a woman isn’t all fun and games!”

“I might have missed something,” I responded, “but fun and games seemed to be his main area of interest.”

“Luigi!”

“Mom!”

She slapped her hand on the table. “I want you to stop the foolishness. All of it. You are my only child and I’m not getting any younger. I would like to live long enough to play with my grandchildren!”

“Mom, please. Your mother is still alive. Your grandmother is still alive. It’s not like you’re living on borrowed time!”

“You never know,” she said darkly. “There was your father, cut down in the prime of life!”

“By cirrhosis of the liver.”

“That means organ failure.”

“No, Mom, it means he handed the Angel of Death a scythe and frickin' dared him to take a swing.”

“Still.”

Heather was watching the byplay with amusement, like someone with seats at Wimbledon’s center court. Being English, she seemed disinclined to let loose with cheering when one side or the other scored a point. This was actually a tactical error on her part; regardless of the merits of her arguments, my Mom would nonetheless expect vocal — even voluble— support.

Not hearing it, Mom changed tactics. “You need to settle down. I don’t know about this woman,” she indicated Heather with the lift of her head, causing “this woman” to bridle in a most satisfactory way, “but she’ll probably do. What are you waiting for?”

“True love?” That response wasn’t going to win me any brownie points, but I was more than a little miffed with Heather anyhow.

Her expression didn’t disappoint.

Once launched, Mom tends to extend attacks across a wide and shifting front, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when she followed her first sally with something completely different. “Also, you’re being stupid about family. You know how I feel about that.”

“I do recall you were generally against stupidity.”

“You should get back to your uncle,” she said, ignoring my attempted diversion. “The, whatsits. You know, the discount.”

Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Discount?”

Mom waved her hand, annoyed at herself. “That wasn’t it, but —”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not? He’s invited you to visit. Said you could stay for as long as you like. Read between the lines! He has no children. No heirs. You could get all of it.”

“I don’t want it.” There. I'd said it.

Mom looked baffled. Heather, interestingly, looked not only baffled, but . . . angry?

Mom was first out the gate. “You used to talk about it all the time!”

“That was just to annoy Father.”

“But you said —”

“Looking down from heaven. I know. I was just teasing, Mom.”

“It’s land. An estate. A . . . a title. Imagine!”

“As you can tell,” I said, fluffing my little black skirt, “I have a vivid imagination. But I’ve been there, Mom. It’s . . . I mean. Really. I don’t know why anyone would want it. This is where things are happening.”

She gave my modest apartment a look that spoke volumes. “Here? Really?”

“Yes, here!” I actually stamped my foot, which must have looked cute as all get out. Not exactly the tone you’re looking for, Luigi! “Here in Palo Alto! We’re remaking the world, Mom. Castles and manors and all that nonsense . . . it’s yesterday. It’s medieval. No-one in their right mind wants it!”

Mom was stunned into silence. I mean, she probably would have expected a speech like that from Father – on the rare occasions when he was sober – but not from me.

Heather, on the other hand, rose to her full height, angrier than I could ever recall seeing her. “Luigi Giovanni Litton,” she said, her voice low and bitter, “do you mean to say you were offered the Viscount’s title and turned it down?”

“What? No! I . . . .” My mind whirled. “What do you even know about that? I never said anything!”

“You are such an infant,” she scoffed. “I knew the day you insisted we visit that old castle rather than go down to London. Information on the peerage isn’t exactly secret.”

“Okay . . . so what? I’m not interested. What’s it to you?”

“Suppose I’m interested! Don’t I matter, too?”

“What?” This was so completely out of left field I couldn’t even formulate a response. We aren’t married. We aren’t even engaged!

She walked over to where I was perched in my four-inch heels and stood two inches from my face. “You will call your uncle, apologize for being rude, and accept his invitation.”

What the hell? “I will not!”

“You do as I say, ‘Missy!’”

And, deep inside, something twisted, bent, buckled . . . and snapped. “What do you think I’m going to do? Curtsy? Screw you, Heather!”

Her right hand cracked across my cheek so hard I saw stars. “Goodbye and good riddance, you little pansy!” She grabbed her purse and stormed out the front door.

Serves you right that you forgot your shoes!

“Never understood what you saw in that one,” Mom sniffed.

“Not helpful, Mom.”

“Yes, that was definitely one of her many faults. I could list a few more, if you like.”

“Mom!”

She sat back down and patted the seat recently vacated by Lucca di Napoli, the lascivious lasagnavore. “Sit.”

I sat. It seemed like a good idea.

“Despite what you currently look like, you’re my son and I love you. That girl wasn’t good for you. I knew it; you knew it.”

I looked down, unable to meet her eyes, but murmured, “we had our moments, Mom.”

“No doubt.” Mom doesn’t seek out sarcasm, but she doesn’t take heroic measures to avoid it, either. If she’d concluded that present circumstances fairly screamed for it, I couldn’t really fault her logic.

“Did you have to mention my uncle?” I couldn’t keep the whine from my voice.

“I was curious to see whether she knew . . . and how she would react.”

“Wait, what?”

“Luigi, honey. You two got along like a pair of Sicilian capos. I think I understand why you stayed.” She raised a hand to bounce one of my cute curls. “But I wasn’t sure why she did. Now I know . . . and so do you.”

“That’s nuts, Mom. That property’s not worth shit – I bet your Palo Alto bungalow will be worth more in ten years!”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s from the old world, like your father. People back there don’t see things like estates and titles the same way we do.”

“Father wasn’t like that at all.”

“He was, Luigi. He walked away from it, and he never told me why. But all that hatred, that anger . . . would he have felt all that, for all those years, if it hadn’t been important to him?”

I had to think about that. “So . . . you think she was chasing me because she wanted to be a ‘noble?’”

“You know what I think, son. What do you think?”

“I think,” I said very carefully, “that I have a killer headache, and that my feet hurt, and that I need to clean up this mess or I’ll be even more angry in the morning.”

“Okay, dear,” she said soothingly. “I’d stay to help, but . . . you make such an adorable maid, I’d just get in your way.”

“Grrrrrrrr!”

“Maids don’t growl, sweet cheeks.” She rose, kissed my forehead, and departed, pausing at the door just long enough to say, “You should hand-wash those panties. They’re far too expensive to ruin in the washing machine.”

I sat at the table, all dressed up with nowhere to go. I should have been thinking about Heather, I suppose, but I wasn’t. I was thinking about me, mostly. And about my family. It seemed like I couldn’t escape my crazy father even after he’d slipped the mortal coil.

Why DID father walk away from it all?

To be continued . . . .

Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story. And to my dear friend Joanne – this chapter was for you!

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

Chapter Four: Camp Crypt-o-Night
Santa Cruz, California, September, 2019 (Twenty-four years later)

“You should go,” Mom said, setting down her magazine.

It was a beautiful morning and we were having breakfast on the deck high above the beach and the sparkling Pacific Ocean.

I was going through my typical dog’s vomit of morning emails – solicitations, invoices, trade press articles, more solicitations, the occasional bits of correspondence, and still more solicitations. Today, I’d received something from Colonel Holweard, which came as quite a shock. If I’d thought about him in years — and I probably hadn’t — I’d likely have assumed he’d have passed away by now.

“Whatever for?” I turned my attention away from the surf to look at her directly. “I only met the guy once.”

She took a measured sip of orange juice, apparently considering the best approach to her self-appointed task. “It’s been six months, and you're still acting like a mangy old cat who’s been dumped in a puppy farm.”

“Am not,” I retorted, trying to sound indignant but failing to put much energy into it.

“Really? You’re going with that?” Her fond smile should have been endearing.

“Okay, maybe that was a little prepubescent.”

“Just a touch.”

The girl slipped outside and discreetly started clearing our breakfast things.

“Thank you, Addie. I’ll keep the coffee for a bit,” Mom told her with a smile.

“Of course, Mrs. Litton,” the young woman murmured before retreating into the house.

“Nice girl,” Mom remarked.

I shrugged. “Seems competent.”

“See what I’m saying? The old Luigi wasn’t like that.”

I had trouble keeping my annoyance in check. “Like what?”

“Dismissive. Uncaring. ‘Competent?’ Really? She works hard, goes above and beyond, and you never give her so much as a kind word!”

“I pay top dollar.”

“Would you listen to yourself? Being kind — being decent — is more important than money!”

“That’s astonishing!” I laid it on thick as hot asphalt on an interstate. “I can’t wait to tell the staff what they’re getting in place of a bonus this year!”

She rose abruptly. “Be that way!” She followed Addie into the house, righteous indignation flowing from her like the Nile at full flood.

I returned my attention to the sparkling blue water, grimacing as I replayed the scene in my head. By the third replay of my mental Blue Ray, the conclusion was inescapable. Yeah, Weej, you really ARE turning into a dick.

I’d managed to avoid that, mostly anyhow, through twenty-plus years of non-stop work. I’d been the boy wonder without being a dick, and even the wise-assed ideas guy, and the hottest commodity in the valley of the IPOs. As time went on, partners and colleagues had left, pursuing dreams of their own, but always with regret and on good terms. They were replaced, one by one, with employees I’d selected myself, until we’d gotten too big for even that individual touch.

Then suddenly, almost overnight, I discovered I’d become the old man. The wise and understanding guy who kept the teams going. Who led by example, being the first one on in the morning and the last off at night. I learned how to bring the right people together so they could achieve creative heights. But by then the only thing I was creating was an organization so perfectly balanced and so carefully maintained, that it no longer needed me around.

So I sold it.

Now all I had was money and more time than anyone could want. Of course I was miserable. And naturally, I was taking it out on everyone else. Like I said, a dick.

I sighed, got up, and went in search of Mom.

“Go away.” Her annoyed voice was muffled by the thick bedroom door she had locked behind her.

“Can we talk?”

“I’m not speaking to you.”

“Ectually,” I said, purposefully mimicking my Uncle’s barely-remembered accent, “you are speaking to me.”

“Telling you to go away doesn’t count.”

I’m easily diverted, and couldn’t resist. “How do you figure?”

“The way that most people figure. Only you wouldn’t get it.”

“Yeah . . . but I’m the only child you have. So isn’t that your fault?”

“My fault for marrying that fool of an Englishman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Try to keep up, Luigi. Nature, nurture, he was there for all of it. Messed you up. Papa was right; I should have found a nice Calabrian boy.”

“Mom. Do we have to shout this conversation through a solid core door?”

“You could go away.”

“But I won’t.”

“If I ask nicely?”

“But you won’t. You’re in a bad mood, remember?”

“How could I forget?” The door opened and she gave me the evil eye. “All right. I’m all ears. So. What? What do you want to say, Mr. Ex-Big Shot Master of the Universe, that is so urgent?”

“That I’m sorry?” The “ex” rankled, stupidly, but I swallowed my pride and my perfectly natural urge to swap a biting retort for my planned apology.

My restraint didn’t impress her. “That, you could have shouted. Probably should have; everyone in the house could stand to hear it.”

“Would that get me out of having to apologize to everyone individually?”

“Is that how you were raised?”

“Well, honestly, there were some times —”

“You’re not helping your case.”

I felt my shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I know. Have I really been that bad?”

“Is the Pope Italian?”

“Ummmm . . . Not exactly?”

“Nonsense! He’s as Italian as I am!”

“Your family left Italy a hundred years ago.”

“See? You’re doing it again! And you’re changing the subject. Yes. Yes, the Pope, whose family name is Bergoglio, as you know very well, is as Italian as pasta, and yes —”

“— Pasta came from China.”

“— And YES, yes, a THOUSAND times yes, you’ve been that bad! You’ve been worse. Your whole life, I’ve worried about you. Been proud of you sometimes. Questioned your sanity? Yes, occasionally. No, make that frequently! But never, until these last few months, have I been ashamed of you.”

Ouch. “Momma . . . I guess I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, thank you, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Queen of the Angels! Then maybe — for once — you’ll try the listening thing!”

Time to take my medicine. “If I have to.”

“Try not to sound so enthused. Now. You’ve spent your life doing, doing, doing. You’ve forgotten how to just be. You need to get away from here, from everything that reminds you of who you’ve made yourself.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. Go to this funeral, if only because you’re family and that’s what families do. Then lose yourself somewhere. Find your mischief again.”

“Mischief?” I snorted. “I thought you wanted me to find a nice girl and give you grandchildren.”

“I haven’t given up yet! You aren’t even fifty, though you act like a grouchy old man! But the way you’ve been lately, no woman worthy of having my grandchildren would put up with you. Besides . . . .” She stopped scolding, and a smile played hide-and-seek across cheeks that lost their blush decades back.

“Besides?”

“Mischief comes in lots of forms, Luigi.”

* * * * *

That’s how I found myself, a week later, in a large church in the north of England, listening to a bishop in a funny hat wax rhapsodic about Geoffrey Hugh Nigel Litton, 9th Viscount Chingleput. Uncle Geoff, as I had in fact never called him.

I made it just in time for the service, having pushed my departure until the last possible moment in the vain hope that something might come up. It turns out my Silicon Valley “suit” didn’t pass for formal attire — who knew? — and I was the recipient of numerous disapproving looks from various no-doubt important personages. I hoped at least some of them were dowagers.

Getting frowned at by a dowager struck me as a good way to say, “I’ve arrived.”

The choir was probably better than they sounded. I’m not the best judge, being tone-deaf. Also, I discovered an allergic reaction to incense. After enduring two full hours of meaningless noise and eye-watering smoke, I was moved to offer my own earnest prayer of thanksgiving that Father hadn’t raised me in the High Church Anglican tradition.

I immediately recognized the man who seemed to be running everything, even though I’d only seen him once, when I was twelve. Colonel Holweard looked surprisingly sprightly, and unlike almost everyone else in the church, he had nothing but smiles for me. Sardonic smiles, to be sure, but smiles nonetheless.

“Well, there you are! Coming to the interment, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Colonel. I mean, I barely knew him!”

He fixed me with a pale eye. “You’re family. All he had, in the end. A Litton should be there.”

And indeed, only a handful of us were there in the crypt, when Uncle Geoff was laid in the tomb that had been prepared for him. A portrait had been painted years before, in anticipation of this day, showing him in both his prime and his uniform. Remembering George’s story about the first Viscount, I thought at least Uncle Geoff had earned it.

Which reminded me . . . “What ever became of young George Deavers?” I asked the Colonel.

“Today’s not a ‘George’ day,” he replied cryptically. Which was fitting enough, I suppose, given where we were.

My eyes kept wandering to the niche that was different from all the rest. The portrait of the mysterious woman was every bit as compelling as I recalled. You haven’t aged a day, I thought. Wish I could say the same!

The churchman and his minions had followed us, and sure as God made fried green tomatoes, they’d thought to bring some incense. I barely made it through the incantations that accompanied the interment without asphyxiation, and beat a hasty retreat to fresh air at the last “amen.”

The Colonel found me there a few minutes later, my eyes still streaming, and joined me on the stone bench where I’d been quietly hacking up a lung. Well, maybe not so quietly.

He was silent for a while, to all appearances taking in the day. Holweard seemed to belong there, in a way that I couldn’t imagine belonging anywhere. “It’s yours, you know. All of it.”

A line from an old classic popped into my head. What, the curtains? But I doubted the Colonel would know the reference, and I didn’t feel up to explaining it. “Just like that?”

He waggled his fingers, still looking off into the middle distance. “Eh. Britain doesn’t have a continent’s worth of acreage, you know, so we tend to be a bit fussy when it comes to land transfers. There are formalities. Feoffment of Livery with Seisen used to be much more complicated. But it’s always something.”

I looked around, taking in the grounds. The old stone was no different than it had been the last time I was here. In Silicon Valley, thirty years is forever. Here, it’s barely yesterday. “What would I do with it?”

“Very little, I expect,” the Colonel replied promptly. “With these old historic buildings, everything that isn’t absolutely required by law is generally prohibited.”

A memory teased. “Strictly prohibited, I assume.”

“Just so.”

I sat for a bit, thinking. “It’s not my place,” I said, finally.

“It could be, though. And you wouldn’t have to stay here all the time. God knows, Geoffrey didn’t. Nor your grandfather.”

“What happens to it if I don’t take it? Does it . . . .” I ran the equivalent of a Boolean search through the midden-heap of my long term memory, and grinned when I hit paydirt. It’s amazing the shit you learn when you’re writing the lore for a video game. “Escheat?”

“To the crown? No. A third cousin twice removed is next up, I should think,” Holweard replied. “One of the McDonalds. Very much a distaff branch of the house.” He paused, then added, with evident reluctance, “Irish.”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“I expect opinions differ,” he said diplomatically.

“Based on?”

“Whether you’ve actually met any of the McDonalds.”

The image of a clown in a yellow outfit and orange hair bubbled to the surface of my undisciplined brain. “I see.” I finally felt sufficiently recovered from airborne poisons to stand.

The Colonel rose as well. “Think it over. Why don’t you spend the night?”

The thought of sleeping in my uncle’s sick room had no appeal. “I’m booked at the Victoria.”

“Nonsense. Your uncle was remiss; he hasn’t been here in over a year. The staff got the master’s quarters ready for you.”

“Oh, honestly, they shouldn’t have!” They REALLY shouldn’t have!

“But they did.” He sounded almost smug. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?”

I opened my mouth to suggest that somehow, I’d see my way clear to doing just that, but he beat me to it. “Splendid, splendid! Just follow me, young . . . ah . . . Luigi. I’ll send someone to retrieve your bags.”

~o~O~o~

How on earth am I expected to SLEEP?

The “master’s quarters” didn’t refer to what any normal human would think of as a “bedroom.” Located in what had originally been the Church Quire, the ornate bed stood solitary and alone, flanked on two sides by Gothic stone arches, now filled with dry-cut stone and pierced by smaller doorways. Ridiculously high above, moonlight filtered through clerestory windows, shaded by the deep blues and reds of older stained glass. The thick rugs covering the flagstone floors did little to provide any warmth.

The staff had been delighted to show me around after my talk with Colonel Holweard, giving me the “backstage” tour that I had been denied when visiting back in the 90s. But even the ones who lived on the premises stayed in one of the out-buildings at night. I had the whole main building, which could easily have housed a regiment, all to myself.

I half-expected to hear the voice of Vincent Price, or maybe Bella Lugosi. Welcome, foolish mortal, to the Haunted Mansion.

I tried sitting up in the bed and reading. But my pad was low on juice, having had almost as long a day as I’d had myself. Somehow, no-one had ever gotten around to adding amenities like, I don’t know, electrical outlets, and the expression on the guide’s face when I asked for the WiFi password had been priceless. I checked my phone only to find it was already gone.

My screens went dark. I was left in the distorted moonlight, hearing every strange sound a building several centuries old can generate. Perfectly fine rooms at the Victoria. And, a cheerful pub with seriously good beer right ‘round the corner. What the hell am I doing here?

It felt like I lay there half the night, listening to the whispers of long-gone monks. It was probably only half-an-hour or so, but it sure felt longer. Long enough, anyway. I made a disgusted noise – which, naturally, echoed back at me from every stone surface in the whole damned place – and got out of bed, wrapping myself in a thick bathrobe the staff had thoughtfully provided and stuffing my feet in my LL Bean slippers.

I took to pacing. The “bedroom” was probably on the order of eighty feet long! Back and forth. Back and forth.

My father was born here. He’d grown up in this building, somewhere. Grown up with staff looking after him, catering to his every whim. No wonder he was so messed up.

Gradually I became aware of something. It wasn’t a sound, exactly . . . or, maybe it was. But something. I felt a pull . . . an urge to move . . . a call. Wrong number, I snarled, continuing to pace.

Back and forth, back and forth. The pull became stronger, like a memory that you can’t seem to shake. Eff that! Just watch me. Control-Alt-Delete.

Back and forth, back and forth. The sense of “summons” was growing more and more insistent. I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang “la la la” as I paced. But it wasn’t really a sound, unless it was. Whatever, my efforts to drown it out didn’t work.

The door in the arch closest to the church nave wasn’t actually closed. I hadn’t noticed it before, and I was sure I’d checked. But there was a little bit of light leaking from behind it, which was strange in and of itself. I padded over and checked. Pushing the door open just a bit more, I stuck my head through the opening to see where the light was coming from.

I couldn’t tell. There was a passage ending in a staircase, and the stones themselves seemed to glow.

“Uhn uh!!!” I was surprised at the sound of my own voice. But the door resisted my increasingly urgent efforts to close it.

I heard something . . . I was sure I heard something. It sounded like a sigh. On the floor of the corridor, faint blue arrows appeared, pointing towards the staircase.

“Are you fucking kidding me! I designed ‘Jiro’s Harrowing Halloween Heist!’ I know how this game ends!”

The light from the arrows grew stronger. Okay, so the summons was coming from below.

I deliberately turned my back on the doorway, set my jaw in my best attempt at an attitude of Churchillian defiance, and resumed my pacing.

On my third pass, I noticed that there was a card on top of the bedspread which hadn’t been there before. I paused, tempted to ignore it, but finally reached down and picked it up. It was addressed to “Lord Luigi Litton.” “Lord?” Seriously? Inside the flap, in neat and precise calligraphy font, it read, “The honor of your presence in the crypt is most urgently requested.” I ran a thumb thoughtfully over the card as I pondered this new development.

Engraved. Naturally.

A nice room, a fine pub, the company of normal people, good beer . . . all of it, not ten minute’s drive back in the village. But no, I’d decided to stay here. What a moron.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Growling at myself, I tied the bathrobe tighter and stalked over to the open door. The light from the arrows in the corridor was on a loop, starting near me and progressing to the staircase. Muttering “okay, okay, I GET it,” I stomped down the corridor.

At the top of the stairs I hesitated, thinking of a line from an insurance commercial. When you’re in a horror movie, you make bad decisions. It’s what you do. But setting aside – by which I mean, “aside from the setting” – I wasn’t really in a horror movie, was I? It felt far too cheesy for that. More like the kind of camp you might expect from Star Trek. Set phasers for peanut butter! Still, I’m quite capable of making stupid mistakes in almost any genre and I knew it.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this!”

But down I went, the stone staircase spiraling into the depths. The glowing arrows continued down the stairs, on the off chance I’d miss the point again. There was another door at the base of the staircase, but it was already open. And, sure enough, it led straight into the crypt.

Unlike the corridor or the stairs, the only light in the crypt came from the painting of the mystery woman – a painting which now glowed with eldritch light. I was drawn to it like a drunk to rotgut – enough that I was even able to ignore the stale residue of incense that still permeated the space.

The light somehow emanated from within the painting, making the stunning image incredibly lifelike. I half expected her to speak . . . and desperately wished that she would. Almost without volition, my hand rose and my fingers brushed her cheek . . . .

At my touch, the image faded, becoming at first translucent, then transparent. She vanished, leaving behind yet another doorway, with another staircase descending to the depths. The walls glowed, pale as ice.

I am SUCH an idiot! But I couldn’t stop now. Taking a deep breath, I plunged through the doorway and began to descend.

After two full circles of the spiral staircase, the nature of the stonework began to change. The neat, dressed stone gave way to something rougher, darker. Older. The stairs were less even and required careful monitoring. Some steps were deeper, others more shallow.

Another circuit, and yet another. Getting back up from here is going to be SO much fun, I thought. Followed by, I should be so lucky.

I don’t know how many circuits I took. With each turn, I felt like I was leaving my world further and further behind. By the bottom, the stairs were little more than rough boulders, not shaped so much as simply placed.

But at least there was a bottom – a small, dim, rough-hewn chamber with an opening opposite the bottom of the climb, framed by a fifteen-foot high trilithon and surmounted by a lintel that had to weigh twenty tons.

I thought about turning back. Really I did. Probably would have, too, but the idea of climbing that crazy staircase was enough to deter me. Fine. Whatever. Hell of a place to die.

I walked forward and felt a chill as I passed through the entrance into a cavern. I couldn’t tell its size; darkness filled the void. The only light came from what I assumed was the center of the chamber, an area that held a massive platform.

It was a bed. Not so ornate at the monstrosity upstairs, but no less large and imposing. Rather than a bedspread, it was covered by huge animal skins. Bear, I thought. Other pelts were smaller but more sinister; I thought they might be from wolves. Damned BIG wolves, too. But a garment of some sort was artlessly draped across the pelts – something considerably more modern.

I was drawn to it, like I had been drawn to the painting in the crypt. Before I knew it, I was by the bed, touching the most amazing creamy silk I’d ever encountered. Lifting it up, I found a floor-length robe with a gathered waist, full skirt, long sleeves and a deep, rounded neckline. What was very clearly hand-stitched lacework softened the lines of the neck, hem and cuffs. I ran a finger down the shimmering fabric. Out of nowhere, I thought, I bet it would feel incredible . . . .

“You took your time.”

The voice came from behind me. I spun to find a heavy chair between me and the exit, and on the chair, wearing nothing but a bearskin robe, was Colonel Holweard.

“Why am I not surprised?” And, truth is, I wasn’t.

“I was starting to think I might have to send vestal virgins to get you.”

I grunted. “Gotta be tough to find, these days.”

“Not that you’d know it from the old tales,” he replied, “but they always were. Still, we’ve wasted half the night. There’s scarcely time to do this properly.”

“Do what, Colonel?”

“Colonel!” He laughed – a big, full-bodied laugh that lacked the restraint I would have expected from him. It should have been lost in the vastness of the cavern; instead, it filled the space. “A title of convenience. I am Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow!”

Ummm. “Okaaaay . . . . That’s . . . nice, right?”

“Nice? Nice? What do you mean, ‘nice?’”

“I’m guessing a ‘Holweard’s’ a good thing to be? Maybe? Help me out; I’m not from ‘round here.”

“You have been called to this place. Summoned. Do you think that was some sort of parlor trick?”

I thought about that. Well, not about that, exactly. I thought about how to respond without hurting the old coot’s feelings. Nope. I got nothin’.

“Yes?”

He looked flummoxed. “The lights? The sound? The secret passage?”

“Dude. You need to get out more. I’ve designed stuff that’s way more advanced than that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Swear to God.”

“You are referring to your ‘video games?’ Correct?”

“Well, yeah. Like, The Fall of Fus was way better. And then there was the battle scene in —”

“Have you in fact designed anything in the real world?”

“What’s ‘real?’” I looked around. “Warner Brothers could put this together in about three days.”

“Indeed?”

“Seen ‘em do it. C’mon, Colonel. What’s this all about? Some kind of scam?”

His pale eyes bored into me. “Well, I know a little something no set of brothers you know could manage.”

“You might be surprised.”

He leaned back in his heavy chair, looking extremely smug. “All you need to do is put on that delightful gown I’ve laid out for you.”

“Oh, that’s going to happen!” I scoffed.

“Humor me. I wouldn’t think it would be a problem for you.”

“Why would you say that?”

His eyes gleamed. “Remember the first time I met you, young Luigi? I assure you, I haven’t forgotten.”

“That . . . was a long time ago. I was just teasing Father.”

“Ah, yes. Your dear father. He wouldn’t do it, either.”

That certainly got my attention. “What did you say?”

“He wouldn’t complete the ceremony. Ergo, he couldn’t become Viscount Chingleput.”

I opened my mouth to blister the skin off him, but stopped myself just in time. “No. This is all bullshit. What’s your real game?”

Again, his eyes gleamed. “Put on the gown, Luigi. It will be easier to explain.”

“Try me.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I shan’t. It’s apparent that you’re entirely too accustomed to having your own way. This is my hollow, and I am the master here! So if you’d like me to explain things, you’ll have to put on the gown.”

And just like that, all the light in the chamber vanished, plunging me into darkness.

“Hey!!!”

No response.

I tried again, sounding maybe just a little less sure of myself. I cautiously moved in the direction of his chair, fully intending to throttle him. But both Holweard and the chair appeared to be gone. He could have slipped away quietly, but that chair?

I had never experienced darkness so complete. Slowly, carefully, with much waving of my hands in front of me, I found my way back to the bed in the center of the chamber.

What to do? I didn’t want to climb that staircase at all; the notion of doing so in pitch black darkness was even less appealing. Wait for morning? I snorted. As deep underground as I was, there would never be a “morning.”

As reaction to the last few bizarre moments set in, my legs began to shake. What am I doing here? I plunked myself down on the bed, needing time to think. My hand, looking for purchase, landed on the damned gown and I felt the contact like I’d hit a high tension line.

It’s just fabric, for God’s sake, I told myself sternly, suppressing the desire to remove my hand like I’d burned it. Fabric!

Oh, but it wasn’t just fabric. It felt amazing. And . . . yeah. It had been years. A lot of years. Not since grad school. Almost a quarter century? Really?

Not since Heather.

And just like that, my memory brought me back to my old apartment, in the early morning after that long sleepless night, slowly, carefully and methodically removing every article of female clothing, every bit of makeup. Picking up the shears and raising them to my hair. Snip. Snip. Snip. No more, I had promised myself.

But that was so long ago, and I no longer had anything left to prove. Not to anyone. I could dress however I damned well pleased, and tell the world to stuff it. Couldn’t I?

The only thing holding me back in that moment was the knowledge that the crazy old man wanted me to put on the gown. But he wasn’t around, it was dark, and . . . what the hell.

I shrugged out of the heavy bathrobe, kicked off my slippers, and rapidly divested of the shorts and t-shirt I’d worn to bed. With trembling hands, I slid my arms inside the garment, found the sleeves, and pulled it over my head. I shivered as the fabric slid down my body like the most intimate of caresses. It took me just a second to adjust the bodice so that my full breasts were properly nestled in the . . . .

Wait. What??????

To be continued . . . .

~o~O~o~
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story.

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

Chapter Five: Foreplay and Byplay
Shingles Manor, Wensleydale, October, 2019 (immediately following)

In the stillness, in the all-encompassing darkness, only one sense out of five could help me.

So, yeah, I copped a feel.

And, sure enough, the flesh I encountered, everywhere on my body, was firm, female, and, errrr, sensitive. I mean, like, really sensitive. Like “sensitive as a semanticist in a seminal seminar on patriarchy.” Wow! The least touch, the barest motion of silk against skin, caused ripples and waves of . . . .

Okay, Weej. Get a grip!!!

It took all of my willpower, and probably more besides, to sit down on the bed without simply collapsing. I plunged my wandering hands firmly into some handy bear skins. Or whatever the hell they were. Into a nearby animal skin, and it’s . . . .

“Much better, don’t you think?” Holweard’s voice was low and lazy, a whisper just behind my right ear. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.

When I spun to clock him, I came up empty.

“Now, now,” his voice purred – from a completely different direction – “behave!”

“Why should I?” My voice was as silky smooth as the gown, high and warm. It should have sounded panicked. Or maybe furious. It . . . didn’t.

“Because I wish it.” By my left ear, this time.

I felt a feather-light touch where my collar-bone met my neck, and shivered.

“I desire it.” Another touch.

My mind seemed to be freezing up, just as my body grew warmer. I tried to come up with a stinging retort, but only managed, “Ungggh . . . .”

“Yes, ‘ungggh’ indeed,” he chuckled. “And there are things you want, too. Things you desire. Aren’t there, little one?”

Little one? I felt a finger move slowly, inexorably, down the decolletage of the gown, the flesh underneath turning to flame. “Uhhh . . . . huh . . . .” My voice sounded dreamy.

The exploring finger was joined by its mates, cupping my breast and causing my breath to catch. “So perhaps we can be of service to each other, don’t you think?” Soft lips brushed my neck.

His question echoed in the empty, cavernous space that used to house my hyperactive brain. Don’t you think? Well, sure. Of course I thought. Usually I couldn’t stop thinking, in fact. I had cogent arguments with non-existent people when I was forking asleep, for God’s sake. “Don’t I think?” I asked softly, surprised that sound came from my lips. My full, moist, hungry lips. Lips that wanted . . . . Stop that!!!

“Yes,” he murmured. Another gentle kiss to the neck.

I had a sudden vivid image of vampire canines growing from Holweard’s jaw and shivered again, somewhat more violently. Weej! Think!!!

Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. The hormones held the high ground in their battle with the mind, and they fought dirty. Filthy dirty! But, maybe . . . .

With a supreme effort, I lurched to my feet, grabbed the skirt and whipped the gown back over my head, panting. The panting, at least, sounded like me. I thought I’d give it another try. “No.” Definitely my voice. “We’re going to talk, Colonel. Before anything else happens!”

His chuckle came from a distance this time. “Oh, if you insist. Talk, talk, talk, you Littons. It’s a wonder you managed to survive, all these centuries. Or at least, to reproduce.”

I carefully – almost reverently – lay the gown back on the bed, giving the silk a last, loving touch before searching about with groping hands until I found the heavy wool bathrobe I’d worn on my descent. After confirming OEM factory settings had been restored on my external plumbing, I belted up and sat a few feet from where I’d placed the gown. “You could turn the lights back on,” I complained.

“I could,” he agreed. “Though why I should escapes me. I don’t have any trouble seeing you, after all.”

I chewed on that. “Well . . . you did mention that you want something from me. So, there’s that.”

“Are you offering?”

“I don’t even know what the deal is. I’m not offering diddly until I do.”

“I could provide diddly,” he suggested, suggestively. “Without charge, even. A little bonus.”

“Lights, Colonel!”

“Oh, very well. Dreadful boy.” And just like that, I could see him, back in his bearskin robe in the big chair I had been unable to find when I went hunting, intent on throttling him. I, on the other hand, remained in darkness.

I collected my thoughts, pleased that they once again seemed amenable to an old-fashioned round-up. Yee haw. “Okay, like I said. Not from ‘round here, so I’ll need this in penny packets. What’s a ‘Holweard’?”

“What’s a ‘Luigi?’” he countered.

“Huh? Oh . . . so Holweard is your name.”

“There may be hope for you after all. I was beginning to wonder. Yes. My name is Holweard.”

“Okay. Cool. But ‘Luigi’ is the name of a person. What are you?”

“I’m a sprite.”

“Really? I’ve always been more of a Seven-Up guy myself. Father ruined me on Coke products.”

“Gods! This conversation is going to be excruciating.”

“Roger that, big guy. Feel your pain and all. But if you aren’t referring to a fizzy drink that’s ‘naturally tart and not so sweet,’ what the eff are you talking about?”

“Luigi. Concentrate. Surely your upbringing was not so impoverished that you haven’t heard of sprites. Pixies. Imps. Fairies.”

“Oh, right, right,” I said, once again accessing the part of the brain where I stored random and useless scraps information that got woven into the backstories of games. “And dryads, naiads, nymphs. Okay. Gotcha. So, you’re some kind of fairy?”

“You should talk,” he snarked. “No, I’m a sprite. I told you that.”

“Alright already. I’m tracking,” I said, allowing my annoyance to show. “So what does a sprite, you know, do?”

“What does a human do? Apart from sleep, procreate, and turn food into excrement?” He waved impatiently to cut off my response. “It depends on the sprite. Puck, to take one prominent example, was ambitious. He thought he could look after all of Britain, poor sod. I was always more sensible. I have been the sprite of this hollow since the world was young.”

“I hate to break it to you, but this is a hill.”

“It wasn’t, back when the world was young.”

“You say.”

“Well, I was there.”

“And you just go on living, like, forever?”

“Not . . . exactly. We need mana, like you need food.”

I did another dumpster dive into my memory banks. “Like, Moses in the desert stuff?”

“No. It’s simply power, I suppose. Energy.”

“Okay, I guess I get that. Like collecting Dragon Energy Balls in that game from Second Empire Apps, right?”

“Don’t start.” He looked like he’d sucked a grapefruit.

“Just trying to find a common point of reference here.”

“A commendable endeavor in which, I am sad to say, you are failing utterly.”

“Damn. You really need to get out some. So, let me try it this way. How do you get ‘mana?’”

“Different ways,” he hedged. “Sacrifices, mostly.”

Woa, Nellie! “Seriously? Like throwing first-born babies into the fiery pit of Ba’al?”

“Don’t be absurd. No-one’s done that in forever! Or, a very long time, anyway. Never cared for it myself, though I gather Inti swore by it.”

“Who?”

“Sun god. Incan variety, you understand. Foreign sort.”

“Yeah, well. We haven’t met.”

“We weren’t looking to move the earth out of its orbit or anything. Nothing that would require quite so much mana. We didn’t need more than occasional chickens, geese, foxes.” He closed his eyes, smiling. “The smell of ritual sacrifice in the morning . . . ! Ah, it was a marvelous thing!”

“Not so great for the foxes, I’m guessing.”

“Have you ever spoken to a fox?”

“Do I look like Doctor Doolittle?” I countered.

“No idea. Do you?”

“That would be ‘no.’”

“Well, I don’t know how foxes ever got a reputation for being any sort of clever. They make peers of the realm sound both sagacious and succinct, I assure you. I never felt the least pang.”

I thought about it for a bit. There seemed to be a sense to what he was saying, but I wasn’t understanding the mana . . . economy, for want of a better word. “How do you get people to sacrifice chickens and shit?”

“Be serious! You can’t generate mana by burning manure. What an idiotic notion!”

“Lighten up, dude, it’s a figure of speech! And not for nothing, but you are asking me to ‘be serious’ about ritual sacrifice. Know what I’m saying?”

“Not remotely.”

I rubbed my temples. “Okay. Let me try to get back on track. If I may rephrase, just exactly how do you convince people to kill and burn animals so that you obtain . . . whatever it is that you obtain.”

“You do things for them, obviously. Small things, for the most part. Smile on the harvest. Turn the eyes of a handsome man. Get the cow to stop its endless philosophizing and generate milk.”

“Cows philosophize?”

“Of course. They certainly haven’t anything better to do.”

I could follow the cows down their own rabbit hole, of course – it’s how my brain always works, and I share Gary Larson’s view of just how funny cows really are – but I pulled myself back from the brink. “So you can do magic?”

He shrugged. “Magic? You might call it that. For me, it’s just a matter of using my natural powers, and that requires mana.”

“I’m thinking you probably need to make sure the sacrifices generate more mana than the favor requires you to spend, right?”

“We are required to run a positive net balance in the aggregate, yes. Else we fade away. Become mere mortals. It’s happened to most of us, over the centuries. Even Puck, though I think that was just heartbreak, really.”

I didn’t want to get distracted . . . I wasn’t going to be distracted! I was going to . . .

Screw it. Can’t pass this one up! “Okay. Fine. You got me. Why was Puck heartbroken?”

“Well, he was trying to look after all of Britain, as I said. But he kept getting diverted by one silliness or another. Usually female, if you take my meaning. Then he’d look up and discover that the place had gone to hell while he was otherwise occupied. Thought he had young Godwinson settled once he took care of Hardrada, for instance, so he ambled off for a little tryst, and came back to find Normans all over the place. Frenchmen, you understand. Same thing with the Wars of the Roses.”

“There were Frenchmen?”

“Oh, heavens, Luigi, of course there were Frenchmen. Henry Tudor wasn’t English. Henry V’s French widow took a fancy to a passing Welshman. As one does, I suppose. Anyhow, the rest is history.”

“Got it. Sorry. Couldn’t resist. So Puck gave up because of the Tudors?”

“No, no. He muddled through that. He even made it through the Scots, and that was far worse. But when he settled in for a charming little threesome down in Devonshire and we ended up with Germans on the throne, the poor fellow just gave up.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see that. But, ah . . . Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was kind of under the impression people weren’t doing the whole ‘burnt offerings’ thing anymore. Right?”

“You’d be surprised at how long we managed to keep it going, really. Invaders would come, and they’d bring their own gods, naturally. The Romans, the Norsemen. We all generally got along. We’d keep our little shrines, and pay their gods a bit of mana. Or they’d put up a shrine where we were, but they’d cut us in.”

“Sounds like a protection racket.”

He smiled like a T-Rex. “Just business, young Luigi.” But his smile faded. “Things got complicated when the Christians washed up. That whole ‘your God is a jealous God’ business was not an exaggeration.”

“Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” I quoted.

“Which would have been perfectly fine,” he said, sounding testy. “No one was looking to go before Him, you know. We were quite content with ‘a little behind, and off to the side,’ if you take my meaning.”

“But no dice, huh?”

He looked momentarily puzzled at the expression, then nodded. “No deals, no cuts. When they built churches right on our nodes, we could usually siphon off enough mana to at least survive, though, so long as we were discreet. Their services aren’t old-style, but they do generate mana.”

“Sounds like what we call ‘theft of services’ in the cable industry.”

He looked pained. “Quite. But of course, even those sources of mana are drying up now. It’s a secular age.”

“So, curtains for those of you who stuck it out?”

“Nonsense, young man! Such defeatism! One just has to get inventive, that’s all. I haven’t relied on burnt offerings in ages.” He looked insufferably pleased with himself.

“What about incense?”

“What about it?”

“Are you gonna tell me that you don’t inhale?”

“One can scarcely not.”

“Tell me about it. Or maybe you don’t enjoy it?”

My snide reference went over his head. “A minor power boost. Barely worth the mention, really, and certainly insufficient.”

I decided to try being noncommittal. “Uh huh.”

“Come on, scamp. Admit you’re interested.”

“I’m almost fifty . . . hardly a ‘scamp!’”

He raised an eyebrow, wordlessly reminding me that my comment was about as absurd as . . . I don’t know. Bilbo Baggins boasting about his 111th birthday to Gandalf. Whatever. “Okay, fine. Count me as curious. But don’t read too much into that – I’m curious about everything.”

“Well, it’s actually a fascinating tale.”

I groaned internally. He sounded like a teenager who wanted to explain something earth-shatteringly clever that he’d been the very first to discover, like sexual intercourse. I could be asleep right now. In a charming inn.

“You see,” he continued in much the same tone, “I got along famously with the Norsemen when they showed up – part of the reason I was so annoyed with Puck over that whole business with Hardrada. Such a fine, sensible, people. Pragmatic, you know? Transactional view of the world.”

“Yuppers. Got it. And?”

He looked annoyed at the interruption. “Well. A bunch of Danes put a shrine to Freyia right by my hollow and started just pouring mana into it. Lots of lovely sacrifices. Sheep and cattle for the most part. Stolen, naturally, which is why they were so anxious for the favor of the gods.”

“They do sound like an upstanding bunch.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge. Anyhow, Freyia eventually made an appearance and we worked out an arrangement. She let me run the shrine, and I would designate one of the religious sorts to stand in for the Goddess for the fertility rights.”

“I’m sorry, what? You lost me.”

“The fertility rights. Surely you know, Freyia was the goddess of fertility.”

“I . . . uh. Haven’t done a deep dive on the Norse pantheon.”

“Pity, that. Freyia was an absolute peach. Had a chariot pulled by cats, if you can believe it. But the whole thing was grand, you know. Norns. Wolves and serpents. Mischievous squirrels! They were a wild lot.”

Okay, now we were really leaving the reservation. I prevented my brain from doing a Look! Mischievous squirrel! and endeavored to bring the Sprite back to the matter at hand. “You were saying?”

“Right. Well. Freyia and I cooked up a little ritual where whatever religious chap was nominally in charge of the shrine would assume her image for the fertility rights at the major festivals, while I, of course – being Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow – would do the honors on the male side. Generated plenty of mana for my operations, Freyia was pleased with her share, and the religious fellows always agreed – or they were replaced.”

“Convenient.”

“Judgy, Judgy. You haven’t engaged in any sharp practices in your business affairs? Put people in a position where they felt compelled to do what you might want, as opposed to following their own desires?”

“No! Well . . . mostly ‘no.’ I think. I mean . . . .”

“No? I think? I mean?” He gave me a knowing look. “Really, Luigi. I think I know what you mean.”

“Alright, already! I get the general picture. But the Norse haven’t been here in centuries, right?”

“A thousand years,” he sighed. “Such a shame. Good times.”

“The Vikings were ‘good times?’”

“Certainly — if you were a Viking,” he smirked. “Although they weren’t, actually. Vikings, that is. They just went a-Viking. The rest of the time they were farmers, like everybody else. Almost as tedious as foxes, farmers.”

I opened my mouth to argue and shut it. Focus, Weeji! “Okay, fine. Whatever. But they’re gone, so . . . no more visits from your girlfriend the fertility goddess, right?”

He nodded. “No more visits. But that just required me to improvise, as I said. With a few modifications, I was able to use the same basic elements to generate mana from the new, nominal masters of the shrine. Turns out that monks have the same ambitions as laymen, and I could always find one eager enough for the abbot’s chair to, shall we say, do homage for it.”

“Shut up! You seduced monks?”

“We made mutually agreeable arrangements,” he huffed. “The seduction only happened later. You know, to ‘seal the deal,’ as it were.”

I might not have the highest opinion of clergy, especially after they spent significant portions of the day trying to poison me with their horrid smoke. But still! “Alright, spell this out for me. What did you do for the corrupt monks, and what did they have to do in return?”

He gave me a long look, then shrugged. “Simple, really. I rigged the election for the monk who was willing to pay for it. He assumed Freyia’s form by donning the garment she had left with me, and submitted to my, ah, mastery.”

“None of the other monks said anything when the new abbot suddenly looked like the medieval equivalent of a pin-up girl?” My mind served up an image of Marilyn Monroe, rendered in stained glass. Color me skeptical.

“I expect even the unworldly monks would have noticed that. But no. The initiation rite simply had to be performed once before investiture. The lucky monk was his usual charming self in the morning.”

“And that one ceremony generated enough mana to keep you going?”

“Nooooooo. The arrangement was a bit more involved than that. The ritual was repeated once each calendar year, though the renewals naturally weren’t as powerful. But in exchange, I did provide continuing services. The usual, you know. Health and harvest sort of things.”

“No-one ever recanted?”

“Now and then. But without my assistance, things tended to get run-down, you know. Monks would get nostalgic for the old days and wonder if God had turned his face from them. Before long, it was nothing but grumble, grumble. Letters get written to higher-ups.” He waved his arms spaciously. “And then, well. New elections.”

I thought about everything he had said, and the pieces started to fall into place. Freyia. The monks. And, of course . . . . “So, when King Henry seized the abbey and gave it to my family, you just adapted the same formula, didn’t you?”

“More or less. No elections to rig anymore, which rather spoiled my fun. That was such good sport! But I’d known the Littons for centuries already. Plenty of their younger sons wanted to be abbots, being so close to the family seat and all. It was relatively simple to adapt the rituals.”

“And they just . . . submitted?”

“It was always their choice. If they wanted to be Lord Litton – or Viscount Chingleput, when I got them a convenient upgrade – there were things they had to do. They held their lands and titles from the King; they had to pay homage to him for it. But no-one rules in Holweard’s Hollow without also paying homage to me!”

Okay. Lots to unpack here. But . . . oooh, I can’t resist the squirrel! “You were responsible for them becoming viscounts?”

“That? Oh yes. I was there when Cumberland lost that card game to Winnie Litton.”

“You cheated at cards?”

“Nothing so sordid!” He sounded genuinely offended. “I just removed the alcohol content from Winnie’s drinks, so that he played sober for once.”

“And Cumberland didn’t?”

“Dear gods, no! He had frightful brandy breath before breakfast most days. A meal he tended to eat mid-afternoon, which is about when he got his ample Hanoverian posterior out of his poster bed.”

Okay . . . stop now, Weej! Stay on target. “So . . . ummm. Look, all the King requires for fealty is that you swear some oaths. It’s not the same, you know.”

He swatted my objection away. “Those oaths weren’t insignificant back in the day. Any number of your ancestors had to raise troops and fight when the king called in those obligations.”

“Yeah, well. Sure. But they didn’t have to sleep with some old guy!”

“Their loss, if they didn’t. I’ve had a few millennia to perfect my technique.”

I tried to repress my body’s instinctive shiver at the reminder. Yeah, he was pretty slick! But I didn’t want to talk about that. “Did any of them . . . you know . . . say ‘no?’”

“Very few. I’m quite persuasive.” He leered at me.

“Letch!”

“I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Besides . . . You are confusing accidents for substance. I am Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow. That is real. The form is immaterial.” And just like that, sitting in the big chair, sardonic smile lighting his features, was . . . .”

“George Deavers!”

He stood and executed an exaggerated bow. “In the flesh . . . as it were.” Striking a pose, he added, “though perhaps, with your mixed background, you might prefer something with a more Mediterranean aspect.” His shape changed again.

I couldn’t place him. But an old memory was tickling the back of my brain . , . .

“All of Italy’s great,” he said, with a completely flawless American accent. “And your Mom’s lasagna’s awesome!”

“Fuck me! It’s Pizza Boy!”

“You aren’t the only one to conduct a little reconnaissance.” He resumed his seat, along with the Colonel’s visage, though Deavers’ grin remained throughout. “You forgot your metaphysics.”

I had, and couldn’t repress either a memory or the smile that attached.

“It’s all in Plato?”

“Naturally.”

“Bless me,” I murmured. “What do they teach in those schools?”

He looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Slightly more contemporary reading.” Okay, Weeji. Bite the bullet.

But he must have sensed where I was going next from the darkening of my expression. “Go on. You want to ask about Grace. Yes, he declined. Rather vociferously.”

“Grace? Oh, you mean Father. Why do you call him –”

“I called him Grace to annoy him,” the sprite said bluntly, interrupting me. “Look, I don’t know how much you know about your father’s past, before he decided to pickle his internal organs like they were a Sixth Form science experiment, but he was a nasty young man.”

“Would that be before or after you sprang your little ceremony on him?” I made no attempt to hide the accusation in my voice.

“Before. Well before.” He leaned his head on one fist, giving me a sideways look. “I’m afraid your grandfather, the Eighth Viscount, was a silly man. Had no trouble with the ritual – he was the sort to look at the ceiling and think of England, or at least of Shingles, but that’s perfectly acceptable. And he did his dynastic duty by finding someone suitable and getting both an heir and a spare. But he was also one of the most notorious . . . well. His sexual preferences were considered unorthodox. And, at least at the time, illegal.”

I rolled my eyes. “So Grandfather was gay.” This is a big deal because . . . ?

“Oh, quite. Flagrantly and flamingly so, by the standards of the day. The peerage shielded him from the consequences somewhat and I did what I could, but he definitely made things difficult.”

“And you think that was ‘silly?’”

“Incautious. Great good heavens, there were gaggles of gay men gamboling about back then. Back whenever, come to that. Perfectly normal. But society at the time demanded a certain degree of discretion, and Hugh wouldn’t have it. Eventually he got so tired of the nonsense that he decided to take off to France with a gorgeous man considerably younger, to recapture the glories of his youth.”

“Sounds pretty sensible to me,” I shot back.

“Perhaps. But it put me in a bit of a pickle. Without the annual ritual, I had to be very careful of my mana reserves. I couldn’t spare any for the little things that make life easier around here – including ensuring the Viscount’s good health.”

“He’d have to be here for that?”

“Or I’d have to be there – wherever ‘there’ might be. I can’t leave my node for long, and I can’t do as much when I’m away, but I’m not completely helpless. So, yes, I went off to France and tried to convince Hugh to return, but he said he’d never set foot in England again. He didn’t.”

“Okay. I mean, not really. But I see why he felt that way. What’s that got to do with Father?”

Holweard’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You can see, surely, why having a parent who was the laughingstock of his public school would have mortified your father? And why he might try to, shall we say, overcompensate?”

“How?” I wanted to sound incredulous, but all I managed was to sound small.

“The usual ways. For starters, by sleeping with every girl within a fifteen league radius. Pretty, ugly, tall, short, rich, poor, old, or . . . young. Too young. It didn’t matter to him. I’ll give him this much, he did take precautions, or you’d have bushel-baskets of half brothers and sisters scattered all around the countryside like sheep. Remember that Gorgon who gave you the castle tour?”

I certainly did! “You. Cannot. Be. Serious.”

“Scout’s honor.” He did a thing with his fingers.

“Get out. You were NOT a Boy Scout!”

“Well . . . no.”

“But . . . you are serious? Really?”

“Really. It wasn’t enough for him to tumble all the girls, though, he had to bully the boys as well. And they couldn’t very well fight back. He was going to be Viscount Chingleput some day, as he was very quick to remind them.”

“I’m starting to feel less bad about needling him all those years.” And starting to understand why he had to be peeled off the ceiling when he found me in Mom’s lingerie!

Surprisingly, the Sprite waggled his fingers noncommittally. “I don’t know that I’d lose any sleep over it myself – not that I actually sleep, you understand. But his father was at least partly to blame. And he paid a stiff price even before you were born.”

My look was a question; I assumed he could see it.

“He’d been so keen to be the Viscount, he could barely manage to look somber throughout the interment ceremony after Hugh’s body was brought back from France. When he found out the price, though, he was completely destroyed.”

“I guess I don’t understand. Legally, he was the heir. How could you prevent him from becoming the Viscount?”

“I couldn’t. But, you know, things just happen when my authority here is tested.”

I looked skeptical again. “The beer goes sour? The cattle start reading Kierkegaard? Come on. Why would he care?”

“Times change. Try parliamentary commissions of inquiry, on various improprieties. The powers that be – the mortal sorts – were less inclined to look the other way, after dealing with Hugh all those years. I can shield the Viscounts from this and that . . . but nothing says I have to.” In a harsh tone, he added, “I am no mortal’s servant, and I don’t work for free!”

“Blackmail?”

“Scarcely. The improprieties were real, and I wasn’t responsible for them. I wasn’t keen on cleaning up after your father’s escapades, either, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Sometimes I have to stare at the ceiling and think of England, too.”

“Or Shingles?”

“Shingles? Bah!!!” He barked. “No. Holweard’s Hollow. This is my place. I am the master here!”

I sat with that for a minute. “Uncle Geoffrey?”

“Your Father came storming up from the crypt, hunted down Geoffrey, and threatened to have him hung, drawn and quartered if he so much as spoke with me.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t listen.”

“He laughed in his face. Grace had bullied him for years, of course. When your uncle saw his chance, he took it. Your father naturally couldn’t bear to see Geoffrey elevated in his stead, so he decamped for that barren wasteland where you were born. I still ended up dealing with the messes he’d left behind, but only because Geoffrey requested it.”

“And gave you the mana.”

“Just so.”

I couldn’t bear to sit anymore. I got up and began to pace, back and forth, across the bottom of the enormous bed.

The Sprite watched me, staying silent.

I think better when I’m moving, so back and forth I went, and when that didn’t work I tried forth and back. The thinking thing still wasn’t functioning very well. Eventually I discovered that I’d stopped moving. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that I could now make out the creamy sheen of Freyia’s gown, gleaming on the bearskins. I stared at it stupidly.

Holweard broke my toy train of thoughts, which was just as well. It hadn’t gotten beyond HO scale anyway.

“So there it is, Luigi. Chingleput is all yours. I think I can also assure you a long and healthy life, a decent harvest, and continued good ale at the village pubs.”

“If I yield to you.”

“Is it so much to ask? For all that?”

I closed my eyes and managed, somehow, to reboot my brain. Then I turned and looked straight at him. “Why would I want this place?”

He looked dumbfounded. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sweet Jesus!” I exploded. “I feel like I’ve been trying to tell everyone this my whole life. You. My mother. Heather.”

“Oh, yes. What did become of that delightful gold-digger?”

“I have no idea. Don’t distract me. Look, here’s the thing. What does a lord do, anyway? Sit in the House of Lords or something?”

“That’s, ahh, somewhat complicated these days.”

“I’ll bet. Okay, fine. Do I, like, hang out with other ‘lords?’”

“It’s considered good form.”

“Met ‘em when they were in their twenties, some of them. Did nothing for me.”

“Perhaps they’ve improved with age.”

“You compared them to foxes, I think.”

“I did?”

“Yerp.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, then his expression brightened. “Well, speaking of foxes . . . the hunting in the area is exceptional.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m quite serious. It’s an absolute must!”

“And you're on, like, horses, right?”

“Naturally.”

“There’s nothing ‘natural’ about trusting your life to a brute whose brain is the size of a tomato!”

“You do them a grave injustice.”

“Plus, I’m thinking the graphics are gonna suck. I’ll stick to video games.”

He winced. “Alright. ‘Bottom line,’ as you Americans are so fond of saying. The title comes with a fair bit of land in fee simple absolute. You own the entire village — shops, hotel, pubs, the works. You also own significant acreage in crops, and a sizable herd of sheep. All of which combine to generate profit at year’s end on the order of three million pounds sterling. Three million pounds, Luigi. Every year. For doing nothing. Isn’t that worth a little bending of a knee?”

“Or two?”

“I’m not fussy about positions.”

The absurdity of the situation began to overwhelm me. Here I was, in the bowels of the earth in the dark of the night, arguing my price with a creature who had been there before the Caesars stamped the first coin that could have been rendered unto them. I snorted, trying to hold it back. Hiccupped.

But I couldn’t contain it. My laughter sounded hysterical even to me, which just made me laugh harder.

Holweard looked positively perplexed.

I laughed harder still. “You . . . you . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I was laughing so hard my sides ached and I collapsed back to sit on the bed.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to share the joke,” Holweard asked acidly.

“Do you . . . have any idea . . . what . . . I did . . . for a living?”

“Yes, your ridiculous ‘video games.’ You’ve mentioned.”

“Uh huh.” I tried to compose myself. “I was good at it.”

“No doubt.” He didn’t sound impressed.

“No, seriously. One of the best.”

“We’re not talking about games, Luigi. This is real.”

“Okay, well.” I wiped my streaming eyes. “Let me lay some ‘real’ on you then. I sold my company a few months ago.”

“Better late than never.”

“Yeah, whatevs. Might not have been my best move. Care to guess what I got for it?”

“Money, I’m sure.” The tone, as ever, was dismissive.

“You could say that. Call it six hundred eighty-nine million dollars, give or take, plus some pretty favorable stock options that might be even more valuable than the cash in five years, assuming the buyers don’t completely screw the pooch. But the cash alone I could chuck into an index fund and net thirty mill a year in passive income, easy.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Holweard seemed at a loss for words. “That’s . . . that’s . . . .”

It felt good to get some of my own back. “Real, Colonel. It’s real. Land isn’t power anymore. And that, as ‘we Americans’ like to say — that! — is the bottom line.”

“It’s obscene!”

“Judgy, judgy! Plowing unwilling monks isn’t?”

“Pfffft. They were all willing, young man!”

“Whatever. You made them whores. My family, too.”

“Everyone had a choice, and the alternative wasn’t exactly starvation.”

“Yeah, right,” I sneered.

His eyes flashed fire. “Would I have done better, do you suppose, to rot the minds of children with constant images of violence, mayhem . . . pornography?”

“What do you mean?”

“Reconnaissance. I’ve seen some of the characters in your games!”

“Hey!”

“Well? Can you deny that ‘Princess Pinata’s’ preposterous proportions are purposefully drawn to, shall we say, get a rise from your ‘target demographic?’”

“Just because –”

“Of twelve year olds!”

“Dammit, that’s not fair!”

“Isn’t it?” His rejoinder scorched the air between us.

I wanted to rage at him, but . . . Be honest, Weej. You weren’t just in those meetings, you chaired them. You know what calculations went into the decisions. I swallowed. Hard. “Okay. Point made, Colonel.”

“Good!” He rose. “Well, I see that I have nothing to offer you after all. I suppose I shall have to deal with the McDonalds, gods help me. Still, if Puck could stomach the Stewarts, I shall manage somehow. Perhaps they can at the least be taciturn!”

I took a deep breath. “I haven’t said ‘no’ yet.”

To be continued . . . .

~o~O~o~
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story.

I’m doing a long road-trip for a few days and may be slow responding to comments. But you know me: I will respond!

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

Chapter Six: Flight Risk
Shingles Manor, Wensleydale, October, 2019 (The following morning)

“Shahlah pute yer bag in’t boot, sir?”

At least, that’s what it sounded like the boy had said. I was finishing a late breakfast, and my brain appeared to be on a soft strike. “Work to rule,” as it were, and the contract apparently hadn’t specified translation services. “I’m sorry?”

“Yer bag,” he said patiently, shifting his eyes to the carryon that was my only luggage. “Would you lahk me ta pute it in’t boot of yer car?”

Slow and surly, my brain brought the memories of my decades-ago stay in this part of the world back online and the boy’s words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. “Yes, please. I’d appreciate it.” I fished the keys from my pocket and gave them to him.

The “Colonel” made no appearance this morning, and I didn’t expect him to. Holweard had been in quite the temper at the conclusion of our discussion. “Since you’ve already wasted the entire night talking,” he’d snapped, “you can bloody well come back to the hollow after moonrise if you’ve anything further to say.” Then he’d vanished, leaving me to make my tortured way back up the many, many levels of stairs to the crypt, and then back to the master bedroom, cursing a blue streak the whole way.

At least he’d left the lights on.

It had been 5:30 a.m. when I got to sleep, but after four hours or so I’d had all the “rest” I was likely to get. I threw off the covers and paced, like I was walking through everything that happened, again and again.

I’d spoken to an honest-to-gods-and-goddess immortal. Someone with first-hand knowledge of the world before Hastings . . . before the Norsemen, or even the Romans. I’m more than geek enough to eat all that up. He was utterly fascinating. Also obnoxious, conceited, opinionated, narcissistic, maddening, narrow-minded, unprincipled . . . . But still.

And, well . . . okay. The experience had been pretty amazing in other ways, too. What I had felt, in those moments that I had worn Freyia’s gown . . . . I couldn’t begin to describe it. If only . . . .

I snorted in amusement. I hadn’t gotten used to being stupid rich yet, but already I’d found that money couldn’t buy a lot of things. Both Holweard’s time and Freyia’s gown were definitely on that list. Indeed, Holweard’s sole interest in me was as the senior surviving heir of the Litton family. And I had zero desire to be Viscount Chingleput or the nominal master of Shingles. Less than zero desire. You couldn’t pay me to do it; sure as hell I wouldn’t whore myself for the “privilege!”

I’m not just a gamer, I’m a game designer. One of the best. I told myself that I had to be missing something, that it was just a matter of finding the right key. But try as I might, it wouldn’t come, and after a couple hours of pacing, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I didn’t have anything more to say to the Sprite after all.

Mom had suggested that I simply go play when I was done with my family business in the North of England, so I hadn’t actually made any plans. I could stay as long as I wanted, and I decided as I finished my beverage of someone else’s choice – which is to say, tea – that I’d more than done that.

Just slip out the back, Jack. Make a new plan, Stan.

Right. I trotted out the back door and down the steps, retrieved both keys and car from the boy who’d put my bag in the trunk, and sped off. Within a minute, a curve in the road wiped Shingles from my rear-view mirror.

Two and a half hours later, my car properly returned, I was at Leeds Bradford Airport, still with no plan, idly looking at places where all the pretty planes were scheduled to go. It might not have been the most sophisticated way to travel, but I literally had no deeds to do or promises to keep. All I had was a desire to be somewhere – anywhere – other than where I was. Get far, far away from trouble.

Or temptation.

Well, I was going to need a ticket to somewhere. So I found myself a cafe in the welcome hall, and wonder of wonders, it actually served coffee. From there, I looked at the list of departures, and tried to think what sounded like it might be interesting. Dublin sounded cool. Or possibly Dubrovnik. Maybe Czech out Prague . . . .

“Luigi Litton . . . what on earth are you doing here?”

Startled, I stopped gazing at the departures board and found a matron looking down at me, a funny sort of smile on her . . . .

Shit. Really? I mean, seriously? “It’s an airport, Heather. Is this a trick question?”

“And of all the airports in all the cities in the world, you walk into mine?”

That was . . . pretty good, actually. But . . . “Isn’t that s’posed to be my line?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Unless maybe you bought the place, which I suppose you might have done. Though, I’m not sure it’s the best investment.”

“So you’re saying I should tell them I’m not interested?”

“Definitely. One star; would not recommend.” She stood for a moment longer, then playfully said, “Aren’t you going to offer me a biscuit?”

I stood slowly, trying to regain my equilibrium. Just seeing her brought an immediate flood of memories, but not all those memories were good ones. I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray. You wore blue. I wore . . . Well, I was dressed like a French maid, so . . . very little?

After a quick and frantic search I found my manners where I keep my default settings. “Will you join me? Do you have time?”

“I’d like that.”

“Can I get you something?”

“No need.” She sat. When I still stood, irresolute, she said, “I’m fine. Sit.”

So I sat. I still couldn’t think what I was going to say to this woman, who had inadvertently shaped my life so much.

Heather being Heather, she took the initiative. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” she teased.

She seemed so glad to see me; I just smiled . . . .

Well, not exactly. Sure I smiled – but it probably made me look less like the happy-go-lucky student she remembered and more like a shark. “Do tell.”

Her eyes narrowed. “My boys – all three of them – couldn’t get enough of your horrid games. All day, all night. Why in heavens did you have to make such irritating characters?”

“That would be ‘Jiro. Or possibly his evil twin, Fus.”

“No! No! Don’t say the names! Never say the names! Those names are banned in my house! I can’t even hear them without their stupid, insidious laughter ringing in my ears!”

I chuckled. “All the characters, and their voices, were tested out the ying yang to ensure deep market penetration and profit maximization.”

“I can’t help thinking, somehow, that everything you just said is horse manure. Why might that be?”

“Because it is. My investors bought it, though.” I said nothing more, but my shark smile stayed firmly in place.

“Oh, come on, Weej. You know you’re going to spill!”

“Can you keep a secret?” My face, I’m sure, was wholly free of guile.

“Of course I can!”

Heather was, as I knew full well, constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret. But I didn’t mind this particular rumor getting around . . . very informally, of course. So I’d have just the right amount of plausible deniability. “I had a personal score to settle with a guy named Fusajiro.”

Her face lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. “Oh, that’s simply delightful! Do remind me not to make you angry!”

I tried to come up with a non-revealing response, but all of my mental search terms generated non-valid results. Error 503. Backend fetch failed.

After watching my face register the internal malfunction, she sighed. “I guess it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

Dammit! Do NOT go there! Reboot on safe mode! “I wasn’t angry at you, Heather.” I tried my very best to make it sound sincere.

“You are an appalling liar, Luigi Litton!”

You have no idea. “Nonsense! I’m an accomplished liar!”

She laughed. “You will say anything to win an argument, won’t you? But you can’t win this one. If you hadn’t been angry, you wouldn’t have tossed all my shoes.”

“I gave you back everything else. Even boxed it up for you.”

“I have a distinct recollection that my feet were very sore!”

Yeah. Got me. “Sorry about that.”

“There you go again.” Her smile, broad, amused, almost wicked, was exactly what I remembered. Still crazy, after all these years. “Lies. Just atrocious!”

“Same old Heather,” I chuckled. “The best defense is a good offense.”

“It is!” she insisted. “Well. That is to say . . . it is when you don’t have a defence.”

Keep it light, dude. “You’ve always got a defense.”

“Not this time.” Her voice was low, and serious in a way I’d seldom heard from her, which naturally made me both suspicious and uncomfortable. “I was an idiot. There’s no defence. I’ve wanted to write to you, so often, to apologize for how I treated you.”

I had locked this pain away for so many years. Why is it still there? My throat was suddenly dry and I took a gulp of coffee, playing for time. Disengage!

“That’s okay,” I said. Or intended to, anyway. What actually came out was, “I wasn’t hard to find.”

“You certainly weren’t. Could have knocked me over with a feather, the first time I saw your name on the back of one of Hector’s games!”

“You could try not to sound quite so astonished.”

“I was, though . . . I never really understood what you did with all that computer Hocus Pocus. And you have to admit, Brutus would never have said you were ambitious.”

“Given his track record with ambitious guys, I’m thinking that’s a good thing.”

“Right you are. But anyhow, there you were, the picture of success. And then, of course, I couldn’t possibly write. You’d just have thought . . . .”

Apparently she couldn’t bring herself to say “gold digger.” I wasn’t going to say it either, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking it. We both were. The white elephant in the room.

“Weej —“

Danger, Will Robinson! I cut her off. “You don’t have to explain anything. It’s been over a long time.”

She shook her head, hard. “I need you to know the friendship was real. And I should have left it there — we were good friends.”

I’m afraid my look was a bit skeptical.

“We were friends, and we were good at it? Had fun together?”

I smiled. “Yes, absolutely.”

“There you go. But then I let my head get all filled with rubbish dreams about becoming some sort of great lady. God! I mean really — I’d have been a complete disaster at it.”

“Nah. You’d have rocked. Thrown the whole peerage on its collective ear.”

“I’m sure it’s been tried.”

“Not by someone with your . . . skills.”

“I’d have looked ridiculous.”

“Compared to whom? You have seen the peerage, haven’t you?”

“I’d have been beastly to the staff.”

“Yeah, well. Okay. Can’t argue with you there.”

She was silent for a moment. “I feel horrible about chasing you to California.”

“The tan looked good on you.”

She brightened. “Did it?”

“Absolutely! Best shade of red I’d seen outside of a lobster pot. Must have hurt, though.”

“Bastard!”

“Nah. You wouldn’t have chased me if I had been.”

“Certainly not!” It came out with her trademark zing, but then she caught herself, and added quietly, “And that was the whole problem.”

Dammit! Damn, damn, damnedy, damn, damn! Can’t you let me blame you in peace? Why can’t you just stay properly villainous? Rub your hands together and cackle or something?

“Okay, listen.” Deep breath. “You need to stop beating yourself up about this. I let it happen, and I knew . . . I knew it wasn’t love. It was fun; I enjoyed it. But we didn’t love each other.”

Her expression was indescribable. “You might have said something!”

“Told you that you had a defense.”

“You little git! What were you playing at?” The tone was humorous— but also, not.

“Charades?”

“Really?” No humor this time.

“Well . . . kind of, yeah.” I shrugged, uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m not normal; I get that. But I thought, ‘hey, I sure look normal. I’m in school, I’m cruisin’, and I’ve got this hot English girlfriend.’”

She gawped. “‘Hot’ and ‘English.’ Together. In the same sentence. Are you quite all right?”

“Well, hot and super cool all at the same time. You know Americans swoon whenever they hear a British accent.”

“Ah, yes. The colonial cringe.”

“Hey!”

“So I was effective arm candy?”

“Yeah. And so I figured, you know, maybe I’m okay? After all, my hot English girlfriend doesn’t mind if I like to . . . .’” I stopped myself before that got even more embarrassing, and simply concluded, “Anyway. I thought maybe I could fool the world.”

She saw where I’d been going. “I noticed all my little presents to you were in my box. Even that delightful maid’s outfit.”

“Yeah.”

“You looked adorable.”

“Thanks . . . I think.”

“So you just put it behind you?”

“Yes . . . .”

She gave me a skeptical look. “Your pause says otherwise.”

Keep it concrete, Weej! “I stopped dressing. I stopped fooling around, stopped trying to be normal. I thought I’d take a shot at being extraordinary instead.”

“If you do say so yourself?”

I shook my head. “Didn’t say I succeeded. It was just a dream.”

“Based on what I read about the sale of your company, I’d say you managed a pretty fair dream.”

“I got a good price for it.”

“Your company? Or your dream?” When I didn’t answer, her look softened. “Are you happy?”

“Bad time to ask.” Attempting to lighten the mood, I added, “after all, I’m still largely pre-caffeinated. How about you?”

“I had a cuppa.” Her smile said, two can play that game, and you’re outmatched!

“Witch! Are you happy?”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

I leaned back, smiling. “Probably not.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Well, don’t believe me! But I am. Happy, that is. I have all the things I never wanted, and I’m just ecstatic. Does that make any sense?”

“Given that you used to want to be ‘Viscountess Chingleput’ of all things, I’m going with ‘yes.’”

She had the grace to giggle. “I reckon I had that coming. But it’s true. All I had to do was stop fussing about what I needed to be happy, and suddenly, I was.”

Uh huh. “Sounds like something I’d find in a fortune cookie.”

“You should be so fortunate. Anyway, you don’t eat fortune cookies.”

“I don’t. So, what made you stop worrying about being happy?”

“The usual, bougie story, I guess – the sort I’d hear from Mum, that would make me just roll my eyes.” She shrugged helplessly. “I met a great guy – Donny. Strong, quiet type. Helped me get my head screwed on straight.”

“That must have been a shock. How could anyone recognize you?”

That earned me a finger wag. “Now, now. Yeah, it was a bit of a shock. But that’s alright. Anyhow, we did the church wedding, and had three boys, and . . . God, Weej. It’s just been the most amazing ride!”

I sat back in my chair, stunned. She sounded — no, she was — completely sincere. This was Heather!

“Come on, let me show you pictures!”

No!!! “Of course. Whatcha got?”

She pulled out her phone and started whipping through a staggering large photo collection. Her husband Donny looked like he was around six three and handsome in a reedy sort of way; the boys appeared to be twenty, eighteen and fifteen, give-or-take, exhibiting various combinations of their parents’ not-all-that-dissimilar Northern English genes. There were heaps and heaps of smiles . . . and a love that was real, warm and genuine.

I would not be convicted, by a jury of my peers . . . .

After showing a recent photo of Donny and the boys right in the airport, she explained, “They just were off on holiday together in Dublin; I had to work so I couldn’t go with. But they should be landing in just a few and I should get to their gate. Would you like to meet them?”

Oh, look at the time! “I’d love to, Heather. I would, but . . . I really do have to be going.”

“You are an appalling liar, Weej.” She put her hand lightly on my wrist. “But I understand. And I’m sorry if I’ve rubbed rock salt in old wounds.” She rose, put her phone in her bag and a smile on her face. “If you do buy the airport, knock it down, would you? Piece of rubbish, if you ask me.”

I stood. “I’ll do that.”

“You’ll be alright?”

“I will. Take care of yourself. And . . . Heather?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Thanks. I had no idea I needed this.”

“Right then. Don’t squander it!” She gave my hand a final squeeze, turned, and was off.

I watched her go, shaking my head in wonder. Heather, a doting suburban wife and mother. I didn’t see THAT coming!

I felt a familiar click in my brain . . . The feeling I get when pieces of a problem that I’ve been worrying about suddenly rearranged themselves, creating a pattern that highlighted an unexpected solution. All I had to do . . . .

My gestalt moments were famous at my company. Partly because they were responsible for some of our greatest triumphs, but mostly because I might as well be catatonic while they are rearranging my brain, which can take an embarrassingly long time. The world continues to do its thing, but I kind of check out from it for a bit, like I’ve slipped out a side door for a breath of fresh air. One of my partners had even managed to draw a mustache on me during an early episode, without my even noticing.

Click.

Click.

Clicketty-clicketty-click.

After a moment of staring blankly into space in a way that almost certainly tripped silent alarms in airport security — foreign male acting suspicious! — I downed the dregs of my coffee, picked up my bag and headed resolutely for the exit. Heather was right after all — I was an appalling liar. In fact, I was so bad at lying that I might have inadvertently told her the truth.

I did have someplace I needed to be.

To be continued . . . .

~o~O~o~
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story.

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

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.