He stood, stretched again, returned that book to its shelf, and sought out another smaller and more worn tome. He had always kept journals—it was one of the more peculiar things about his nature and one of the things his father had hated most about his bookish son.
“You will never discover the real world if you always have your nose tucked twixt the pages of a book,” he’d told him.
But the world his father spoke of discovering was not one Bran had wanted to partake of. He had not wanted to be a party to war. He had no desire to meet painted women when he was only twelve and hear unsavory stories of his mother’s death when he was far younger. He had been a boy in love with his imagination and, according to his father, frivolous pursuits.
But he had not been allowed to remain frivolous for long.
When had it been? His twelfth year they stayed in Philadelphia. He flipped through the journal, pausing twice to stroke his fingers along a sketch of a bird and a boyish doodle of a turtle. His journals were once alive with such things and he’d spent many a day flat on his stomach observing the mysterious realms of ants and salamanders and spiders. Worlds within worlds fascinated him.
Then.
Before he became a Maker.
He found an entry from the fourteenth of August.
There are many children in Philadelphia now, some live here year round and some only come in for the spring and summer festivals. Today I was introduced to the Hill families Burchette, Hollindale, and Astraea.
He paused and reread the names. Aha! That at least made sense as to why the name struck a chord with him.
We had a merry afternoon playing hide and seek and Ring Around the Rosie although I, being much their elder, was required to watch them more than participate with them. All was well until two of the little girls got into an argument. There was screaming, yelling, crying, and hair pulling, and then the strangest thing happened—a thing I dare not tell my father due to the tender age of the children and my father’s less than tender nature. In the midst of the fighting an unscheduled wind blew up and whipped ’bout us until we tumbled to the ground, I sheltering the children with my own mortal coil. The wind died down and the screaming and fighting abated. I was mystified. They might have been terrified if only they knew enough to wonder about what I now wonder about.
Had that been it, then? He had met Jordan Astraea when they were both children and been a witness to her odd affinity even then? Or was there something else?
The library’s shutters rattled. Meggie’s head snapped up and she clutched Somebunny to her.
Bran stood, patted Meggie’s soft curls, and returned that book as well to his shelf.
Returning to his desk, he spun sharply around, seeing someone reflected in his lantern’s glass. No one was there. A chill raced over him and for a moment he was as chilled as he’d been trying to put Sybil’s skull to rest. He shook himself.
He was a man of science. Such things were easily explained away if one only sought the truth.
Again at his desk, he opened a shallow drawer and moved a few things out of it. With a quick look to Meg to be certain she was occupied, he slid open the drawer’s false bottom and pulled another journal free. Turning to a blank page, he wrote the day’s date and began his daily entry with, “All things do come full circle and there is, in fact, no escape from the past.”
Chapter Fourteen
Society is no comfort
To one not sociable.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
On the Road from Philadelphia
Rowen was stiff and dusty from the road when the cottage Jonathan promised came into view. With renewed energy he gave a little push with his heels into Ransom’s sides and the horse picked up the pace, Silver’s head bobbing along at his hip.
Jonathan pulled Silver ahead of Rowen once more and only pulled the horse to a stop when they were as close to the cottage as they could get.
Herbs and flowers rioted across a modest fenced yard around which a few sheep wandered, grazing. They looked up at the horses with mild interest and then returned to clipping down any greenery on the wild side of the fence. Rowen and Jonathan looped their horses’ reins round one of the fence’s posts and Jonathan lifted the small bolt that kept a wooden gate shut and slipped into the yard to knock on the door.
“Do we know how near the closest water is?” Rowen asked, his back to the fence and his eyes on the woods and the meadow both.
“Far enough it’d be a struggle for them to get this far inland,” Jonathan said. He knocked on the door but the answering shout came from around back.
A broad man sporting an equally broad hat came around the cottage and gave them both a long, appraising look before he laughed and shouted, “Jonathan! Well, I had no idea you would so soon take me up on my offer to revisit my home. What has it been? Merely two years?”
“Three, Frederick, three,” Jonathan replied, smiling.
“Too long either way. What a pleasant surprise.” He reached over and surprised Jonathan with a bear hug before signaling Rowen to join them inside the yard.
“The horses?” Rowen asked, his eyes roaming.
“They will be quite fine as long as they do not run away. I will fetch them each a bucket of water in a moment. First, though, come inside, both of you.”
The door shut behind them and introductions were accomplished with the efficiency of men on the run.
“One of the Burchettes?”
Rowen nodded. “The youngest of Gregor’s sons.”
“Hmph!” Frederick said. “That’s quite a coup for someone like me to host someone like you.”
“Well,” Jonathan said slowly, “it might cause a coup if you tell anyone, as we are on the run from the law.”
“Oh.”
Some people might have reached for a chair, given such news, and Jonathan was quite certain that some of high social standing would have swooned at the mention. But not Frederick. He said, “Well do tell,” and stoked the fire in his small stove to start the water for a proper cup of tea.
Over tea in the small but generously decorated cottage that stood between the woods and the meadow, Rowen Burchette, Sixth of the Nine, and Jonathan Smithson, his manservant and faithful friend, related their tale to Jonathan’s second cousin, who nodded and asked, “Might I use your adventure as inspiration for a story I am writing? Ah, yes,” Frederick said with a wink as he tipped the teapot to refill his own cup. “I fear you have found yourself in the company of the lowest of the low: an author!” He laughed then, and Rowen glanced to Jonathan for some clue as to how to react.
Jonathan was smiling. “Will you publish our adventures yourself then?” he suggested, playing along.
“Do what Poe did recently? Self-publish?” He shook his head and grinned. “No, cousin, I want to be remembered!”
“So you’re still writing for the penny dreadfuls?”
Frederick let out an exasperated groan. “I wish they’d stop calling them that, but it does garner the public’s attention. So much about writing is marketing nowadays. But I must say that dreadful is not the most accurate description of them if you are writing for them. The publishing world is like anything else: not nearly so awful if it pays you.” He took a long sip of his tea and said from the side of his cup, “So may I fictionalize and immortalize you two in prose as bold young adventuring heroes, one golden-haired and one dark?”
The pair exchanged a glance and, shrugging, agreed.
“Excellent!” Frederick raised his tea cup, saying, “A toast to tea—the great social lubricant!”
“What of wine?” Rowan asked, raising his cup.