Before I post the next bit of a X, I feel I must express a bit of nervous frustration. Last week, Joni Labaqui, organizer for Writers of the Future, posted the first round of honorable mentions for last quarter. My name wasn’t on the list, but as I said, it was only the first. Since then, there have been no updates, no letters in the mail, no glorious phone calls. Ack! I just want to know! Every trip to the mail box is full of hope and disappointment, every time I check my blog feed my heart skips a couple beats. Ah, tension. This is what great stories are made of, right?
Also- I forgot to post my NPI update yesterday, for many reasons, including that my husband had a weird reaction to his medication. I wrote, though! And for me, that’s what really, really matters. Still, I haven’t dropped out yet. I think. I haven’t written yet today, so the verdict is still a bit up in the air.
On with the show!
Beauty isn’t the word Caedin would have used to describe her uncle’s home. Quaint, maybe. Or charming, if she stretched her definitions a bit. Eccentric. Yes, that was the word for it. Lisney Manor was a prime example of eccentricities.
Solid stone steps led up to the manor’s double doors, both of which were closed fast against the cold. Someone had hung wreaths upon the doors in anticipation of the coming holiday. Set in the center of each wreath was a stuffed bird, one grey, one blue. Both tilted in an odd fashion, as if caught in mid-jump, ready to fly. Or commit suicide.
Shutters were drawn over the many windows on the front of the house. Blue shutters and red shutters and faded yellow shutters, not pair quite alike in color. A few hung from one hinge, listing slightly, held up by it’s twin shutter. Spring would come, and at least a handful of them would come toppling down when they were drawn. Caedin glared at them. She loved the sun, and could scarcely imagine keeping the shades drawn through the winter, much less into the warmer months.
A tall spire sprouted from the rear of the house, crafted of the same stone as the front steps, though the rest of the house was made of wood. A faint green light pulsed between the cracks in the shutters there, so slight it might have been her imagination, if she were prone to imagining such things. She turned to her uncle to ask him about it, but he was already to the door, hauling her second largest bag. Mr. Bradley trotted up the steps behind him, with her remaining luggage. Lady Cheswick, of course, had remained in the carriage, giving Caedin a final farewell and entreating her to visit before pulling the door shut against the wind.
Caedin followed the men into the house, wrapping her arms against the fierce wind that had sharpened during the ride. Tiny flakes of snow appeared in the air, little bits of ice that clung to her hair and shoulders. She closed her eyes and ducked inside, pulling the door behind after her.
They stood in a cramped foyer, a bench to the right covered in stacks of paper and books. Caedin glanced at the literature; just a few dusty tomes with odd symbols inscribed on their covers. She’d heard her parents talk about uncle Alexander’s odd tastes, usually in hushed tones later in the evening, when tiredness and a bit of brandy got her parents warm and talkative. Caedin would sit on the stairs and listen to them talk, just lovers, not parents in the middle of the night. Now, Caedin wondered how happy her parents would be to know she was living with this strange man, and his unsavory entertainments.
“She’ll be fine. She has the heat, and her notes to entertain her.” Mr. Bradley was saying. Lisney frowned, a definite wrinkle forming between his heavy eyebrows.
“I can’t bear the thought of Lady Cheswick left to her own devices for too long, stuck in the carriage like that.” He took a step away from Mr. Bradley and glanced at the door that led further into the house. “Perhaps you’ll return…you’ll both return, when Caedin has had a chance to get acquainted with the old place.”
“Well…” Mr. Bradley walked over to Caedin and lifted her chin with one, strong finger. She felt her pulse quicken as his breath heated her face. He smelled of oranges and sugar, and something sharp beneath. He smiled, like he could feel her rushing blood, and released her. “You have the right idea, Lisney.”
“Good, good…” Lisney placed his hand on Mr. Bradley’s upper arm. It looked small and frail against the younger man’s strength. “I’ll see about Sunday night. An early dinner?”
Mr. Bradley nodded, wished them both farewell, and left in a whirl of icy wind. Caedin held her breath until the sound of his horses had faded, then turned to look at Lisney, who stood by, his face purple. She laughed—she couldn’t help it! He’d been holding his breath, too, clinging to the last noises of departure, and he looked like a drowning toad. Startled, Lisney coughed, his hands twitching around his face.
