Rachel Bostwick

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Fiction Blurbs

Following the Line

by

Railroad Tracks, overgrown

From a writing prompt in The Dragon’s Rocketship today:

You’ve been gone for three days.

My mother tells me real trains used to speed along these tracks. She took me to see them once – giant steel beasts perched on parallel rails, waiting in silence for masters that never returned. She tells me she used to be afraid to walk between the lines, that if one of them raced behind you, you’d be dead before you heard their shrieking whistles.

I’m not afraid. That was a long time ago.

Now weeds have grown between the decaying wooden ties and saplings have stretched their limbs up and over the trail, forming an austere cathedral sacred to the memories of the past. I don’t worship between the trees, but you do, and I know if I follow the line, I’ll find you somewhere at the end.

The Last Firefly

by

firefly

Haven’t you ever wanted something so badly, that you knew having it would change your life forever? That happened to Grant a few years ago, shortly after Summer and Lina moved underground into the barrio he and his mother live in.

 

A short from the world of The 7th Judge

 

It was, as far as anyone knew, the very last firefly.

Summer had shown him a picture of a tiny beetle with a glowing behind in one of her mother’s fairytale books, and he’d been captivated. Since then, half of her art had been populated by swarms of the little lights, and together they wondered what it must have been like to seem the lights dancing around them in the old days. Grant couldn’t read, and Summer’s mother was the only survivor he knew personally who could. That made research tough, but he started by asking question of the old folks.

“Yes, I remember fireflies. No, we called them lightning bugs. We used to drive upstate to see swarms of them hiding in the low hanging branches of the willows. We’d fly through the the velvet dark in bare feet and catch them in our fingers. We let them go right away of course.”

“Firefly? My pa bought me one, but I broke it only a week later. He ‘bout killed me.”

“We smushed them against the pavement to make a glowy goo.”

“If you watched one in your hand, it had a kind of Morse code. It was calling to its friends to come and save it.”

“We caught a million of them in ball jars to make lanterns for the tree house.”

“My neighbor had three of them, and she let me borrow one, on its chain. My uncle caught me with the light on and I had to give it back, but it was worth it.”

All Grant could tell for sure was what he and Summer had learned from the book – they were bugs. And they had lights in their bums. It wasn’t much to go on. It sounded like they had once flocked out in the country, but people must have domesticated them or androidized them or something. He got the best description from Jerky Joe – it was he who had broken his within a week of purchase, but he remembered it in great detail. Jerky Joe was only in his fifties and he always had the best memories of the world before. He described the silver filigree and the swamp green light. He told Grant how he trained it to follow him around in the woods and it helped him light his way home. His face lit up while he was speaking, as if the memory of the firefly was casting its warmth over his countenance even now.

Grant had to find one. Had to. He was tired of traipsing through shadowy tunnels, pointing the assist light of his pod into spidery corners, never knowing for sure what was crawling around his feet. He loved exploring, but he hated the dark.

So he started asking around about a little velvet box with a winged lightbulb on the outside. No one had seen one. He bribed a few of the urchins with a pouch of Joe’s jerky and a handful of shinies to start scouting around in some of the apartment buildings. He picked the richest apartment building that had big enough places that kids might’ve lived there once, and he started looking. This particular building hadn’t been cleared yet. The prospect of searching it was gruesome but full of promise. For every bed with a skeleton about the same size as him, his chances of finding a firefly increased.

In the meantime, he was finding good stuff. Great stuff, trade-able stuff. Christmas? Done. Art supplies for Summer, a couple of still-legible books for Mrs. Layce, a beautiful cameo brooch for mom. When he had to sell the brooch to feed the family for a month when mom was laid up with a stomach sickness, it didn’t even phase him.

And then he found it. He hadn’t really believed he would, certainly not in the first building that he tried. And even if he did, he didn’t believe it would still work after sitting in a box (or worse – around the neck of it’s owner) for thirty years. But now he held it in his hands. He loosened it from the clasp and it hovered in the air before him. He took a step away and it followed him. He wanted to dance. He wanted to leap. Instead, he scrambled down eight flights of stairs – the firefly hot on his heels, the black velvet box clutched in his fingers – and flew toward the subway tunnel. He took the stairs two, three at a time. He slowed to a fast walk and the firefly caught up with him. It passed in front of him, about three feet, at eye level. His pod was tucked safely into his pocket. The glow of the firefly was twice as bright as the assist light and he didn’t need to point it. When he made a turn, he simply had to quietly direct it with his voice. It obeyed him better than that mutt he’d taken care of last year. He made it home in half the time. He ran his fingers along the dull stone wall to find the end of the door. He tapped the safety knock – four short taps then a slow slide. He almost didn’t bother, he just wanted to bust in and show his mom what he had found. But he didn’t want to give her a heart attack, so he knocked.

No answer.

He tapped again.

Nothing.

“Mama?”

He pushed the door open, jiggling it slightly to get over the rough patch of carpet. Mom wasn’t in the livingroom. He walked through the archway into the dark bedroom. The firefly followed ahead of him and lit the whole room.

“Grant…” she said. She was laying on her fleece on the ground. She hadn’t covered up with the blanket, and her nightgown was scrunched all around her as though she were tossing and turning. The swampy light of the firefly cast death shadows over the contours of her face.

“Mom, why aren’t you up?”

“I – I get Lina.”

He put the firefly away under his pillow. Mrs. Layce was fetched and herbs were administered, but the fever didn’t go down. There was nothing else for it. Mom needed antibiotics and she needed them fast. They hauled her up to the city hospital. Medicine was administered immediately – no one in the Bronx would ever be turned away due to lack of coin – but she wouldn’t be allowed to leave without paying. Or being sealed into employment. And Mom was so proud of her unbranded arm.

It didn’t take long to find a buyer for the firefly. A rich guy paid him enough coin to get Mom out of the hospital and home with a month’s worth of medicine that would clear the sickness right out of her body. Everything would be fine. There was enough left to buy a sack of colorful beads for Summer and a new pod for himself – one with a better assist light. He bought a better dog, too, one that would chase ahead of him and keep spiders away.

Summer took the beads and gave him the warmest of hugs. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the firefly – how he’d been so close to having one for himself. Maybe she would have understood. Maybe she would’ve helped him search another building. There were always more apartment buildings. Some were cleaned out, some were just as full of promise as that one had been. But he just didn’t have the heart. Besides, he had to do a lot more work with Mom recovering. Somebody had to keep food on the table. She fussed at him to get out and have fun more often, but as long as Summer traveled with him, hunting for food was fun enough, anyway. Always had been, always would be.

At Christmastime, Summer presented him with a gift – a loose bundle wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine. He pulled it out and gasped. It was a beautiful wool-lined cloak – the kind you really needed to be treasure-hunting in January in the Bronx. And Summer had decorated it all over with beautiful silver and green beads in the shape of tiny fireflies.

She passed him a little folded piece of paper. He opened it. It was a picture she had drawn of the two of them, walking through some dark tunnel – it could have been any tunnel, really, dark and mysterious. He was wearing the cloak, she was standing beside him holding her pod and pointing the assist light into the darkness. The light was pointed at a box with the lid open just the tiniest bit. You couldn’t see what was in the box – but that was the point, wasn’t it?

He squeezed her hand. “Want to go looking for treasure?”

She smiled.

 

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Vegas

by

6080282815_b2a08c072c_b Vegas Strip by Samantha Celera

No Sign Posting Permitted

Excerpt from a side story that I am writing occasionally. It’s different from my usual style but I like the way it reads.

Days 61 through 63 Owen spent in Las Vegas. Vegas was supposed to be the place to go for a man with a broken heart. He wore a dark suit and a dark jacket with a red power tie – he thought maybe Jane had mentioned that blue ties were more in fashion today – but he didn’t care, he wanted red. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he knew it was right; he looked the part.

He withdrew enough cash to look like a high roller, not a tourist, and then locked his real credit cards into his suitcase. He was down the first day, then caught up at the tables on day 62. He was making friends as easily as he used to. He told a lot of exaggerated stories about sailing and judging and made people laugh, even when they lost to him. He bought drinks for himself and those around him. People were drawn to his energy.

On day 63 he was joined by a cute blonde in her late twenties with blue eyes and nice ankles. She didn’t seem to want to place many bets of her own, just wanted to stand in his shadow and reflect him, and that felt good. He felt more like a man than he had in two months, stronger than he had since the first heart attack.

When he decided he was going to take a late lunch break, she followed him. Standing in line to eat with him, she tugged on his tie, pulling his face down to her level, grinning up at him and whispered something, not quite explicit, but definitely promising. He felt himself grow rigid and hot at her words and made a joke, something self-deprecating, the kind of joke that from a man in his position, just meant ‘don’t stop.’

She touched his arm and laughed encouragingly, a light, musical laugh, but when she did he saw how empty, endless and blue her eyes were. They were missing the warmth and the brownness and the sweet spirit that he loved. He dismissed himself suddenly, as quickly as he could without hurting her. He took her number on a napkin and did not promise to call.

He fled to his room, tossed the napkin in the hotel trashcan, stuffed everything in his large suitcase, and checked out without bothering to cash out. He hunted for his car in the vast parking garage – it took him an extra fifteen minutes of wandering around between seemingly-identical silver Civics because his brain wouldn’t focus – then floored it across the desert. It took only one rushed hour to get from that lunch line to the open highway. He never bothered eating lunch at all that day; he just drove.

He checked into a sleazy motel in Palmdale, not sure where he really wanted to go next. He ordered pizza, watched a stupid old comedy and fell asleep with the TV still on. That night, the girl was there in his dreams again, crystal blue eyes, loose blonde hair, tugging at his tie, pulling his face down to hers. But then the fever broke. Blue eyes were replaced with warm brown ones and in his dream it was Jane who was loosening his tie and throwing it in the trashcan on top of a crushed napkin, unbuttoning his steel grey shirt, tracing the outline of his scar with her mouth, with her tongue.

He woke at four-thirty the next morning from a deep, violent sleep. He stripped the bed in disgust and balled up the sheets, piling them into the corner to spare the motel staff from having to deal with it.

Later, over black coffee, he pondered where to go. He had a friend with a beach house in Dana Point. Far enough south that he wouldn’t feel the need to run home. A quick phone call and only a few awkward questions later, he had the address, the location of the key, and the welcome to stay for as long as he liked.

At least by the ocean he would be able to breathe again.

 

Meet Me in the Moonlight

by

The sky in the great hall was a bright blue, sunny and clear. Alice smiled up at the messenger fairies swooping down with the packages. She wasn’t expecting anything, but the brilliant spring day was affecting her so that she was full of light and joy.

And love.

After all the messengers had delivered their packages, a single sparrow spiraled down and landed on Alice’s shoulder. Alice had never before seen a sparrow deliver mail, but there was a tiny parchment roll gripped in the sparrow’s foot. She took the parchment, and before she could even say ‘thanks’ the sparrow was gone.

The parchment was a soft eggshell white with a spiky black script. She knew the handwriting very well. Her heart missed a beat as she read the verse written there:

**

Meet me in the moonlight
Where children fear to tread
Where wolves and centaurs gather
And satyrs make their bed.

No trodden path will guide you,
No brilliant lights will glow.
Just listen for my whisper,
And you’ll see where to go.

Don’t let your soul be troubled,
Just let your heart be led.
Find me in the moonlight,
And you and I will wed.

Yes, meet me in the moonlight,
Tonight we shall be wed.

**

It was a long, long morning. She dozed through History and made a glaringly obvious mistake in Maths. But nothing was worse than Potions. Her Draught of Desire was a jeweled tone of purple when it ought to have been a glowing red. All her classmates looked to her purple mixture with dismay – why wasn’t theirs purple? This of course led to much experimentation, including her brother Herbert trying to charm his purple to match hers. Havoc ensued.

“Detention, Miss Jones. Please stay after. Everyone else is dismissed.”

One by one, they filed out, Jon and Leon giving her empathetic glances as they left. Herbert was the last to leave. He gave her a smart wink and shut the door behind him.

Silence descended on the classroom. He towered above her and held her in place with a long, thoughtful gaze. She felt herself beginning to tremble. He slowly took her hand into his and touched his lips to the inside of her hand. His words were simple but they resonated deep within her. “Come here tonight. Look on my desk.” Then he nodded politely and walked away.

It was going to be a long, long afternoon.

**

Begin at the beginning –
I know you will remember.
The place where we first lingered,
It happened in September.

The moment you first touched me,
I knew I had been blessed.
But even at that moment,
How could I have guessed

That of all my earthly blessings,
You would become the best.

**

A parchment that matched the one she had received at breakfast lay open on his desk. She read it quickly and needed no further explanation. She remembered that day with the clarity of a photograph. She had wandered away from Hogsmeade, wearied by Leon and his girlfriend bickering and Jon’s mooning over whatever female he had been interested in at the time. She wandered aimlessly over the grounds, around the lake, and into the fringes of the forest.

There she saw him, lying in a bed of leaves staring at the gray autumn sky. He became a human being at that moment, she realized, no longer a teacher or a grown-up or a spy. His stern face was relaxed, his eyes lightly closed, his breathing shallow and slow. Possessed by someone other than herself, she leaned down and touched his forehead to wake him.

And instead of snarling or scolding, he sighed.

They talked for an hour and became the most unlikely of friends.

She shook herself from the reverie. It wasn’t a long walk to the little clearing in the woods, and it was one she had taken many times last year, her sixth year. They had met there many times, both by chance and by design.

Laying in the grass was another scroll, a smaller one, attached to a stake in the grass.

**

Between the woods and water,
There stands a lonely tree,
I know you will remember what
She says for you and me.

For this our happy union
She’d witness if she could,
A. J. + O.P., eternally,
Carved deep into her wood.

**

She strolled over to the tree – their tree. A birch tree, stubbornly growing strong despite the cold climate. She hadn’t been there when he carved it, but he had known that she would find it all the same. She lovingly traced the letters he had carved into the bark – their initials. It was childish and romantic, and she had known at that moment that she was in love with him, and that her love would grow strong in spite of the dark times and contrary social circumstances.

Below their initials, a message was carved lightly into the bark:
Twelve steps towards Polaris,
Then forty to the night.
Kneel down and bless the pillow
Where I laid my head that night.

She read the words aloud and they vanished from the surface.

Twelve steps north and forty west, and Alice stood exactly where she had known she would. This year – her seventh – had wrought a change in their relationship. With the increase of attacks on wizards and witches at the end of the summer, Alice had fled to the school for safety. She enjoyed two blissful weeks of poring through the library and roaming over the grounds. She had been afraid that he would forget her over the summer, but if anything he seemed to crave her company more than ever. They met up in another clearing, a little deeper in the woods, to read and to sit close together. On the final night of summer, she snuck out and met him after dark. They slept innocently in one another’s arms. He had laid his head down on a flat, smooth rock. She had laid her head on his chest.

And there, laying on the rock was another note.

**

Your touch is such a blessing,
You will remember this,
A tiny hole inside the pole
Where we shared our first kiss.

**

The ‘pole’ was one of the huge wooden beams that held up the football stands. It had been a rather boring match between North and South house teams, with North winning from the first. She’d had a terrible day, scraping a pair of barely passing grades on Maths assignments. She hadn’t been sleeping well, anxious about the coming examinations, about the war, about her parents, and about his safety. He must have seen her slip out of her seat and down behind the stands to have a good cry. She leaned forward against one of the beams and wept her heart out.

She wasn’t alone for long. He found her quickly, turned her around, and demanded she tell him what was wrong. Refused to let her go until she confessed. Then, with a strange, fond laugh, he had kissed her for the first or many times, up against that strong wooden beam.

There was a knothole, and it became a mailbox for them. If he seemed more tightly wound than usual, she would leave a little treat for him, something to make him smile. She didn’t like to write down her feelings, so she would leave him a lemon drop (how he hated them; how it made them both laugh) or a kiss on a piece of paper, or a riddle to take his mind off of the day’s aggravations.

And he, well… as it turned out, he was a writer. If Alice had thought about it when she was eleven, she might have known. He had always spoken with a crisp, understated eloquence. But who thinks about alliteration and rhythm when they are eleven?

So he wrote to her. Little notes to tell her he was thinking of her, little rhymes to try and cheer her up, or great tomes to pour his heart out to her. He left them there for her, in the little hole. Their little postbox.

And there it was. Another note.

**

Tonight we’ll find fulfillment,
The Lioness and the Snake.
Remember where I told you?
We were standing by the lake.

**

Owen Poet had a fairy godmother who was a seer. Of course, she wasn’t actually a fairy. Just one-eighth American Indian. And she wasn’t actually his godmother, either, just a great-aunt on his mother’s side. But family legend named her a seer all the same. At his Christening, she bent over his cradle and whispered a prophecy – that the Darkness would never be defeated until he brought about the union of the mortals and the lords.

He believed, and had believed since that first day in autumn in her sixth year, that she, the mortal-born witch was to play the lioness to his aristocratic snake. He told her so on one unseasonable warm day in February, standing beside by the lake, his large hand wrapped around her smaller one.

“And so we must be together,” he told her quietly. “The fate of the world depends upon it.”

She had laughed. “As if I needed an excuse.”

“Do you want me as I want you?” he asked, not daring to look down, but staring out across the lake.

“I want you in every way,” she whispered.

Then he kissed her.

She found the spot quite easily – he had marked it with a single starflower, glowing silver against the purple night. A parchment was wrapped around the stem.

**

Now pick this lovely flower.
And hold it up just so.
This flower is your wedding jewel,
This nightgown your trousseau.

Now think a little deeper,
I treasure every tear,
You cried and laid against me,
When I was filled with fear.

That night I made a promise
Which tonight I mean to keep.
From now until forever,
May you never need to weep.

Come now unto that garden,
Where I now stand in wait.
Hurry, love, come to me.
The hour is growing late.

Come find me in the moonlight, And tonight we shall be wed.

**

How she had cried that day. A weekend not so long ago, she had slipped into the forest to be alone, but found him already waiting for her. She had kissed him ardently, and laid him down in the cool green grass, telling him in plain English words what it was that she desired. She could feel him pressed against her through their thick school robes, and knew that he wanted her as well.

But his conscience would not allow it.

“How will I feel tomorrow, waking up and knowing that I have taken advantage of you?”

“Owen, think!” She kissed him and nuzzled into his neck. “Do I seem like a woman coerced?”

“No,” he answered hoarsely. “No, Alice.”

“Then please…” she buried her face in his chest.

“I can’t…” He closed his eyes. “If anyone found out that I had taken advantage of you… with our age difference, only a marriage would allow it. Even that would set tongues to wagging… we can’t…”

“I can’t wait much longer, Owen,” she said sadly. “And neither can you.”

He had known that she was right, and he promised that it would be soon. But it was weeks before she heard from him again.

And that had only been in the form of a little sparrow.

When she found the little circle of trees where he had made his promise, it was aglow with little fairy lights and wreaths of roses. Owen was there with his back to her, wearing his finest school robes, and Lord Acorn stood before him in his nightdress. The Lord was flanked by Herbert Jones and Sirena Poet, each in plain robes of their house colors.

Lord Acorn bowed slightly when he saw her. “Ah, Alice Jones at last. Have you come before these witnesses of your own free will, in order to accept the life-long pledge of love extended to you by Owen Poet?”

Owen turned around then and gave her a watery, question smile.

She smiled softly. “I have.”

“Then let us begin.”

 

Time and Season (a vignette from the Fourth Empire universe)

by

“Your words are very pretty, sir, but what do they mean?”

Her simple prose cut through his poetic monologue like a knife through butter. He was taken aback. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

“That’s just what I said, sir. All that rubbish you’re saying about me. What does it mean?”

“It means just what it says, Alexandria. You’re as beautiful as -”

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. But why are you saying it? What is the purpose of all this rubbish?”

“I… well. I suppose it means I would like the hold your hand.”

She tossed her short brown waves of hair and pointedly did not move her hand out from under her sleeve. “I see,” she replied curtly. “Is that all?”

“No,” he answered quietly. “I would also like to go dancing with you after your performance this evening. Then I would like to walk you up to your room and steal a kiss from your sweet lips before-”

She cut him off again. “I see. Well, you should have said that in the first place, instead of going into all that blather about the stars.”

“Would have assented?” he asked hopefully.

“Absolutely not.”

“Will you now?” he asked, taking his one last chance.

“Don’t be a fool.” She stood up, grabbed her violin and her bow, and trotted away.

“…please come alone.” The noted was signed from ‘A Friend’, but Alexandria knew better. Mysterious notes came from men, even pleasant, friendly notes. Alexandria weighed every word in her mind. Bring her violin? Perhaps someone sought a private concert? That would be fun. But not if her tried to kiss her. Oh, no. Alexandria knew all about that.

“What is it, child? What’s bothering you?”

Alexandria looked up in surprise, “Hello, Madame Bonsoir. I wasn’t expecting you here this evening.”

The headmistress nodded, “I know.. but little Marie said that you were distressed, and that you had received a missive. May I read it?”

Alexandria’s brow furrowed. The lack of privacy here bothered her, but what could she do? She reluctantly handed the note over.

Madame Bonsoir read the note, then laughed. “Poor child. An admirer at your age? Well..”

Alexandria was young, beautiful, talented, refined, and naturally charming. Why shouldn’t she have an admirer. The headmistress cringed with jealousy. How long had it been since Lord J’kath had come to see her? His absences were longer and closer together than they had been when she was younger, and now his wife was expecting. His new wife. She shuddered.

“I wouldn’t go if I were you, child,” she said lightly. Men are dangerous, especially at your age. They are cruel, conniving, and underhanded. They seduce you and leave you lonely. Do you understand?

“No, mistress. What does that mean, seduce?”

Alexandria was seventeen, and the absolute picture of innocence. Madame Bonsoir wanted it that way. She liked her girls protected. Their music was sweeter, more special, more precious. Besides, the music of a virgin was laced with the olde magic.

“Never mind. Stay in your room, tonight Alexandria.”

“Yes, Madame.” She smiled.

The absolute picture of innocence.

She walked slowly along the beach. She was in no hurry to meet the strange man; she didn’t want to seem too eager. She found a rock outcropping with a surface smooth enough to sit on, then perched upon it and lifted her violin to chin. She began to play, a slow piece and melancholy. Her white dress billowed in the wind, her soft brown hair flying back from her face like a flag. The world around was green and fog and the crashing of waves. The moon hung low in the air, a few stars hanging around it, but most of the air was full of fog and cloud.

Alexandria took the man’s breath away, and as her haunting melody filled the air, he was enchanted. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she stood up, carried away by her own music, playing up at the sky like a wolf howling at the moon. The man drew nearer, then sat down on the wet sand by the rock. He looked up at her, then closed her eyes, too, and listened.

The sudden stop of the violin awoke him. He opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. She looked afraid.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” he replied softly.

“Alexandria. Didn’t you send for me?”

“Is it that easy, Alexandria? All I would have to do is send for you and you would come?”

“I-” she faltered, then shrugged. “I wanted to see who sent for me.”

“It wasn’t I.”

“Who are you?” she repeated.

He stood up and offered her his hand. “Jækob. You’re very good, you know. How long have you been studying?”

“Two years under Madame Bonsoir. My father taught me before.”

“And who is your father?”

“A bishop.”

“Lovely.”

Alexandria nodded.

“You also are lovely,” he said simply.

“Well,” said Alexandria.

“Well?” he asked.

“That was rather unexpected,” she answered.

“Was it? Don’t you think you’re lovely?”

“Not really. But that’s irrelevent. I’m not a man.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I had noticed that. You’re graceful and very lovely.”

“I don’t like men,” she interrupted.

“Why not?”

“Madame Bonsoir taught me that men are conniving and seducers. I should stay away from them. I should stay away from you.” Alexandria rose to leave. She picked up a cloak that she had dropped aside and moved to pull it over her shoulders.

“Wait,” he said.

“For what?”

“Don’t go, I mean,” he answered.

“Why not? I told you, already-”

“I’m not a man, either, you see.”

“You’re not? Then what are you?”

“Just a boy.”

“What’s the difference.”

“I’m not conniving or seductive, and you have nothing to fear from me.”

Alexandria sighed and sat back down on the rock. It was raining now. “I shouldn’t have come, boy. I’m going to be in big trouble now. I don’t know how to go back without Madame seeing me. I never thought of it before.”

The rain was pouring down her face, and the world had shifted from green to light purple. It wasn’t so windy anymore, only rain, coming straight down. The enchantment was lifted. Jækob looked at Alexandria and saw suddenly not the face of a muse, like earlier, but the face of a friend in trouble.

Much more comfortable. Much more loveable.

He smiled.

“I’ll get you back in, Alexandria. I think I may know a few things about this place that you don’t.”

They climbed a trellis that led to Jækob’s room. Alexandria had never before seen the room of a visiting patron, and was delighted. The walls were decorated with paintings of the Allpan Mountains. She ran her fingers over the bumpy brush textures.

“They look so much like the mountains,” she exclaimed. “They’re beautiful.”

“You like art?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I think. I’ve never looked at art, before, only music.”

He smiled, “Art is like music, but you can see is. It’s not so frightening, I think, but it’s just as easy to get lost in painting as picture as it is playing the violin to the sky.”

Alexandria smiled slightly. She looked up. “You paint, monsieur?”

“Call me Jækob, please.”

“Jækob.”

He smiled and gestured over to an easel by his bed. “I paint. Would you like to see?”

Alexandria shrugged, conscious of the fact that she was still in his bedroom, and feeling a bit trapped. “Yes, but…”

“Good! Come here.”

Alexandria followed him over to the easel.

On the easel wasa young woman in the middle of a field. Her coloring was much like Alexandria’s, brown, with milk-white skin, and she was wearing a red velvet dress. Her feet were bare, and one of them was kicking out of the grass as she spun, a violin in her hand. Alexandria grinned. “You like violins, Jækob?”

“I like to see girls playing violins. I don’t think I could play one myself.”

“I could teach you.”

“Could you? Would you?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Thank you, milady.” He bowed.

Alexandria laughed, then fell silent.

“I’d better go,” she said suddenly.

“Absolutely. Can you get back to the dorm from here?”

“Easily. Will I see you again, Jækob?”

“I will find you, Alexandria. I want to learn how to play the violin. And perhaps you will let me teach you to paint.”

She smiled and nodded. “Good.”

“Goodbye, Alex.”

And she was gone.

“Now what would keep Madame’s finest pupil out until midnight, that’s the biggest question,” announced Marie as Alexandria crept into the dorm room. There were three candles lit, by the three beds in a row of the three nosiest girls at the school. The one in the middle was Marie Heresford. Alexandria blushed to her ears.

“A man?” guessed Erika, one of Marie’s less-than-bright satellites.

Marie shrugged. “Maybe.”

Marie was beautiful. Even Madame Bonsoir had to admit that. Her red curls went about 20 centimeters past her shoulders. Her eyes flashed green when she was proud or happy, which was most of the time. She was reclining on her bed with a music theory book in her lap, obviously her excuse for being up so late.

“I was practicing by the shore,” Alexandria informed Marie coldly. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Madame. If she finds out I got my violin wet, she’ll have me executed.”

Marie laughed, “Is that all?”

Alexandria shrugged stoically. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I suppose.” Marie tucked her theory book back into her nightstand and blew her candle out, motioning for the other girls to do the same. “You’re a real bore, you know that, Alexandria?”

“You’re just jealous, because I’m so devoted to my art,” Alexandria sang.

Marie laughed. “I have much more important things on my mind than art, Alexandria Stepperson.”

Alexandria was accustomed to the dark, and changed into her nightgown by the light of the moon that streamed in through the large windows that lined the walls. She peeled back the comforter on her warm, all white bed, and tucked herself in. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Men.” Marie’s whisper rang right by Alexandria’s ear. She sat straight up, surprised by the closeness of the girl.

“Marie, what are you doing over here?” Alexandra whispered shrilly. “I have to go to sleep.”

“I wanna talk.”

Alexandria sighed. “What’s on your mind, Marie?”

Marie grinned in the darkness and climbed uninvited onto Alexandria’s bed. “Jean-Luc.”

“The flautist?”

“Mmhmmm…”

“What about him?” Alexandria asked. Now that she was in bed, she could feel her energy dissipating, and she really wanted Marie to leave and go to sleep.

“He asked me to steal out with him this evening and… I did.”

“You did?” Alexandria was suddenly awake.

“Mmmhmmmm… we walked through the forest, we held hands, and he made me sing for him.” Alexandria stifled a laugh. Marie had an awful singing voice. “Then we sat on a big stone in the middle of the clearing…”

“Girls! What is the meaning of this?”

Marie jumped out of Alexandria’s bed and quickly climbed into her own as Madame Bonsoir entered the room. “Sorry, Madame!” she exclaimed.

“Sorry indeed! So this is all the noise I heard. I was worried that some of my girls might have been leaving the building.” She glared at them.

Alexandria’s eyes widened.

“Oh, no, Madame,” Marie said. “We’d never.”

“No. I thought not. As it turns out, it was just one of the boarding patrons. He said he didn’t see anyone.” She frowned slightly. “I must admit I was uncertain as to whether he was telling the truth. Boys like that have trouble lying…” she trailed off.

Alexandria flushed scarlet. It must have been Jækob, and he must have covered for her. She would remember to find a way to thank him.

“That’s a relief, Madame,” Alexandria put in.

Madame Bonsoir smiled. “I know you would never be consorting with the patrons, Alexandria. You know better, don’t you? You learn well.”

Alexandria felt her stomach churn with guilt. “Thank you, Madame.”

“Yes, Alexandria. I expect you to look after the little ones. If any of them leave, you’ll tell me won’t you, dear?” She did not wait for an answer. “Anyway, goodnight. No more chatter between you two, understood?”

“Yes, madame,” they murmured in unison.

“Goodnight, then.”

She closed the door behind her. Alexandria sighed softly in relief.

..sigh. It had been a beautiful night, but Alexandria was overloaded with guilt. She was scared, too. He said that he was a boy, not a man. She was holding onto that. So, technically, she hadn’t been out with a man. She had just been playing a song for a boy that happened to meet her along the coast. Jækob.. Jækob. A nice name. Nice eyes, too. Nice curls. Fantastic voice. Like a prince, or something..

Alexandria slowly drifted off to sleep.

Alexandria turned the note over and over in her hand. She had read it five times already; she had it memorized. But she still hadn’t made a decision. Jækob wanted to see her again. He wanted to learn the violin. He wanted to teach her about paint. That was the part that appealed to her most – learning about the music that you could see. It was said that artists and magicians used the same implements. Alexandria wanted to ask Jækob about that.

But should she go? She doubted it. It was the sabbat today, she could do whatever she wanted, and the sinkhole was within the grounds. There was nothing irregular about a visit there. Only that she knew he would be there.

She decided a to take a walk.

The “sinkhole” was the most beautiful spot on all the grounds. It was a circular clearing, about twenty feet in diameter, in the middle of the woods, sunk about six feet into the ground. It was carpeted with soft green grass. A little river fell into the sinkhole, creating a small pool near the edge. The river continued about ten feet into the hole, then flowed right into the ground. There were several mossy boulders and logs that had fallen into the hole. The younger girls often sat there, watching the little waterfall and composing childish poetry.

Alexandria climbed down on one of the fallen logs which served as a downward bridge into the sinkhole. There he was, crouched on the largest of the boulders with a sketchbook in his hands. From her perch, Alexandria could see that his eyes were closed. She leapt lightly down onto the ground, and crept up behind him. She climbed onto the boulder and lightly tapped his shoulder.

He jumped. “Alex! You scared me!”

Alexandria grinned.

“You didn’t bring your violin,” he said. “I’m disappointed.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “It’s too wet here. I shouldn’t have been playing by the ocean either. It could ruin my violin. If Madame found out, I’d have dinner duty for a month.”

“Aw, I’m just teasing you. This is a much better place for painting anyway. And if we need music, we’ll sing.”

“You sing?” asked Alexandria.

“Why of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I didn’t know boys did.”

“Some boys have better voices that girls. I, for example, can sing very well.”

Alexandria’s eyes flashed. “Can’t beat lessons from Madame Bonsoir, boy or not.”

“Let’s try it. Do you know any duets?”

“Scores,” she replied airily. “You pick one.”

“”Time and Season?'” he asked hopefully.

Alexandria wrinkled her nose. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Hmm, a duet. Obviously. How about ‘Live My Life’?”

“Ah, yes. A beauty. I know that one,” Alexandria replied confidently.

They were well matched in tone and fluency. Alexandria’s strong point was range, his was breath control, but they let it rest at that.