​

Chapter 21

By the time the girls made it down to breakfast, everything had been cleaned. The soldiers all lay in neat little rows, asleep or unconscious. Maladie was snoring in the back of a gilded carriage. Felton was in the driver’s seat, reading a newspaper and ignoring the slumbering baron.

Gwen peered around the corner into the dining room. Staffers rushed back and forth, trailing a blue smoke in their wake. They set plates, glasses, and drinks on the table. Dusters, rags and polish scoured the walls and ceiling clean as they furiously tried to wipe away all trace of the carousing the night before.

Several of the ghost looked up at Gwen. She smiled weakly. Their faces were blurred, smoked. Some drooped like they were melted.

It must have been because of the flames. Their spirits had been dispelled, and then called back to work almost immediately. What did that even mean? Were they forced into the Tower to recuperate, and then sent out just as quickly? What did that do on the…essence of them? Gwen shuddered.

“We’d better grab a seat,” Rosamund whispered.

“Why?”

“Everwynn is feeling generous.”

Duke Everwynn kicked the door open, smiling. He had two plates piled high with sausage, bacon, fruit and a container of syrup clutched in his fist. He wobbled back and forth as he struggled over to the table.

“Breakfast!” He called out. His voice echoed over the room and out the door. “Everwynn made PANCAKES!”

The three women cupped their hands to their ears. That wasn’t magic, the Duke apparently could be heard whenever he wanted to.

He slid the plates down on the table. He looked at the girls, smiling. “Pancakes are cooking. We are working on all of that. Your rooms are cleaned, and you even had a slumber party, I am so proud of all of you!”

The duke dashed into the kitchen before they could say a word. Rosamund looked at Indearie, and then Gwen.

“No, I can’t explain that.”

Gwen reached over, and picked up a plate. “Melon, or sausage?”

“Both, please,” Rosamund said. “I think today’s going to be big.”

They sat around the table, trying to stay immobile. The staff worked tirelessly around them, while Everwynn dashed in and out with baked goods. Seven plates were soon towering with food.

They tried to make small talk, and failed miserably. It didn’t seem to make much sense to do so.

Gwen was afraid to eat. And after having spent the night awake, she had reached a state of tired where nothing could make her fall asleep, or feel hungry, or want to move.

“Gwen? Gwen?” Indearie waved her hand. “I think we broke her.”

“I think she’s doing the wisest thing possible,” Rosamund said. “Considering the negotiations.”

“What negotiations?”

“Count Deveren is obviously in the kitchen, talking with Everwynn.”

“They are?” Indearie tried to peer through the doors. “Wonder what they’re talking about?”

“Appearances,” Rosamund said. “It’s all about appearances. Deveren can’t look weak, not this early in the game. And Duke Everwynn can’t let it be known that he was incapacitated for months at a time. The other nobles will run roughshod over them in a few months.”

She took a bite of melon, and sighed. “So the two are walking through what has been going on the last few weeks. From Deveren’s outburst, to Everwynn’s absence, to this whole debacle with Maladie. Most likely will be too complicated to make any modicum of sense.”

Gwen wondered why she knew so much about the court dramas. She wanted to talk, but the words weren’t coming out right for her.

And so she sat, silent. People passed her by, and the dining room started to gleam. She tried to munch on some bacon, but not even that seemed to be able to help.

Felton walked in, and looked at the girls. He held onto the newspaper, the paper crackling with each step. The butler looked at the door, and then back to them.

“He has been serving pancakes, hasn’t he?”

The three sank into their chairs.

“Felton used a contraction,” Indearie whispered. “He’s pissed.”

Gwen and Rosamund agreed, but didn’t want to say anything.

Felton sighed. “My lords, if I could beg your attention.

Deveren stormed out of the kitchen. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard!”

“Which means it will most likely work!” Everwynn said, following him out.

“A strawberry dispute?” Deveren said. “A three-month strawberry dispute?”

“We were in the midst of prime strawberry season,” Duke Everwynn said. “And it became heated.”

“What sort of lord would I look like if I tried to kill someone over strawberries?!?”

“Pretty average, if you ask me,” Rosamund muttered.

“Sir,” Felton said. “I wish you would not plot your political schemes before breakfast.”

“Why?”

“They inevitably involve confections.”

Everwynn looked like he was about to argue, and then paused. “Where’d everybody run off to?” Everwynn said, walking back in the room. “It’s not like the boys to miss a meal.”

“I believe that young Doramont is ensconced in a floral protection,” Felton surmised. “As for Drake, if I knew anything of the ward he will be…”

“WaHOOO!!!” Drake hooted, flying through the door. He swiped a plate, spinning away from Felton’s outstretched hand.

“HiEverwynnsogladyou’renotdeadDeverenyousuckpancakes!” Deveren said. The sounds of “Hi Feltooonnnn!” trailed in his wake.

Doramont walked into the room, eyebrow arched. He looked up at the cackling felon, and sighed.

“I was better off in my hole in the ground,” he muttered. The dark boy wandered over, and started layering his plate with bacon.

“There’s pancakes,” Gwen offered.

“Strawberry pancakes,” Doramont said. “I’d sooner gargle blood.”

Gwen stopped eating, and stared. He said it so matter of fact. Like the comparison was obvious. This was his truth.

That was it. That was why Doramont didn’t eat vegetables or fruit. She had seen his magic, felt the connection that was always there for him. Plants weren’t just living creatures, they were his friends. Maybe even family. And he couldn’t bear to bite into something that he felt a kinship with.

Gwen took some of her own sausage, and put it on his plate. She took the pancakes away with her fork.

“Thanks,” Doramont said.

Gwen nodded. “Are you feeling ok? Everyone worries about you with vitamins. Balanced diet and all that.”

Doramont shoved a fistful of bacon into his mouth, and started to down a glass of milk. “The green provides me with their life.”

That was it. That was his whole explanation. Gwen sighed, and shook her head. This place was rather weird.

Felton raised the newspaper to his forehead, hoping to have it bring him calm. “Shall I escort you to Maladie’s estate, Count Deveren?” he asked.

Deveren looked at Everwynn. The duke was trying to scrub out a piece of batter from his apron.

“I believe so,” The Count said.

“So he gets away with it?” Indearie asked.

“Gets away with what, Indearie?” Everwynn asked.

She stood up. “He attacks us, tries to take the house, and he gets away with it?”

“Indearie…” Rosamund warned.

“He was ready to kill us!” Indearie shouted. “He tried to kill the staff. He was ready to kill you! And he gets to walk away from all of this?”

“I have no clue what you are talking about,” Everwynn said. “I invited Count Deveren over this weekend to congratulate him over his ascension to nobility, and ask his advice in a territorial dispute between myself and Baron Maladie.”

“That’s not true!” Indearie shouted.

“It is,” Deveren said. “Involving a rather…luscious, strawberry patch in the northeast corner of the Everwynn estate.”

“It is on my lands?” Everwynn clasped his hands together. “Truly?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll attest to that.”

“Success!” Everwynn said. “I will be sure to send a compote to you and Maladie from the season’s harvest.”

Deveren grunted. “The matter being settled, I’ll take my leave.”

He paused, and looked straight at Gwen. She squirmed under his gaze. It wasn’t harsh, or filled with evil. It was…analytical. He tried to take every part of her in a single glance, compartmentalizing it all.

“You truly did not know, did you?” he asked.

Gwen shook her head.

Deveren looked back at Everwynn, smiling. “Well. Isn’t that a wonderful development.” He bowed his head. “I thank you for the hospitality.”

“Many thanks, Deveren!” Everwynn said as the count was led away. “Thank you for helping determine what is mine!”

The count ignored the jibe, and continued on.

Everwynn took a bite of food. He glowed, and shook his head.

“Duke?” Indearie asked. “What are we…”

“Later, dear Indearie,” Everwynn said. He smiled. “Spend the day, and rest. Rest, and find a new part of life to be grateful for.”

He settled down into a chair, and spent the rest of the meal looking at everyone. Drake came down, and was soon fighting with Doramont about some ephemeral thing. Indearie tried to intervene, and was soon embroiled in a battle over what kind of magic was most annoying.

Gwen looked to her right. Rosamund and Felton were arguing over coffee. Rosamund had a full list of possible improvements to the grounds. Felton bristled, but was content to merely comment on what was feasible and what wasn’t.

As for herself, Gwen found a cup of mint tea placed in front of her. The staff were already looking better, more defined. It was a man today, barrel-chested with a beautifully rounded face.

“What’s your name?” Gwen asked.

“Garrow, miss Gwen,” he said. “I am usually a porter confined to the South Wing, but I was allowed to meet you today.”

“Garrow,” Gwen said. She smiled.

“Could you pull up a chair, and tell me about your life? Before and after, I mean.”

Garrow beamed, and settled into his seat.

“Well, miss, I actually was one of the first to come work for the Everwynns…”

​

Dead by the Book

​

I didn't ask for a destiny.

Especially one that says that I'm supposed to destroy every god in existence.

It made the name William Creed a curse. Made me turn tail and run from the only home I knew. Left my friend, my favorite ghost, and hoped that the gods would just forget about me.

But now I'm back. Chasing the one good paycheck I've seen in years. Chasing some kid who's in way over his head, searching for a book that could break reality.

I'll have to take on dragons, the undead, a whole cosmos of deities, and my own mother.

Welcome to God Street. Where miracles become realities.

​

​

$5.00 Buy a writer coffee! Like what you're seeing? Get writer Jack Holder a pick-me-up so he can keep going! Send a tip

​