Ward of the White Worm

Henrietta had drifted off into an uneasy and frequently interrupted doze as the coach continued its long trip. They had left Graeffeld and went down the moderately well cared for road that was surrounded on both sides by tall thick grass and weeds, occasionally laced with fairy-wing delicate looking flowers that provided bursts of color among the varying shades of green. Olli had eaten a dozen maidberries and then promptly fell asleep, seemingly dead to the world since even a particularly bad bounce against a dip in the ground had not jostled her from her sleep. This left plenty of time for Henrietta to try enjoying her book in the remainder of the daylight, or to enjoy the sights outside. She did the first one for an hour, but had soon found herself nodding off despite herself.

The blue sky darkened several shades between the times Henrietta would close her eyes and open them again. Pleasant rolling hills cast in calm pinks that cascaded across the sky, shrouding lone houses in auras of rose. Subdued purple settling a long veil over the stately and recently rebuilt Parfum Bridge, boasting now its new identity as the first steam powered bascule bridge in the Brynebourne. The great towers which allowed it to be such stood ominously in the purple shade, their titanic forms barely reflected in the dark water of the Murmur River below.

By the time they had approached Stowell close enough to see the eye-lights of some of the shabby dwellings near the edge, night had completely fallen. Black and as thick as tar, with even the holy stars above smothered by it.

Stowell had taken a different route in development than Paeth had. Both had fishing industries centered around the lake, both would deal in ceald salt. However, Stowell had slightly higher aspirations for itself, roughly proportional to how it felt it was slightly higher than Paeth, due to being more southwards (or ‘closer to true civilization’), than Paeth which was northwards (and thus ‘closer to barbarianism’). Part of this aspiration was expressed in ensuring anyone making less than fifty-five pounds annum would be pushed out to the very edges of town due to the additional city requirement that all dwellings of residents have at least six windows, which were further taxed beyond the national standard at an extra three shillings per window. Through this tax they had built a library (membership fees starting at a low price of three pound per six months), a hospital for the ‘deserving labourers’, and a theater called The Grand Dame.

There was more to say about Stowell’s pretensions. How it used the fact it was the most northwards one can go with a telegraph line before the Neighbors would topple it or would subvert the words within. Or how it was home to one of only five Church sanctioned religious printing houses in the entire kingdom. But what was on the mind of many about its status was that it held one of the homes of the Baron de Mausaurgille, and Ashbone Road.

Ashbone Road was originally called Peterbone Road, and had rows of pleasant looking houses with lovely windows and heavy dark painted doors with white-washed steps. Each had been given a little gate of black iron.

In the gas lamps of the night, Henrietta found herself looking at dark coal-smut smeared tenements. They had the requisite number of windows, but they were smaller and made of more lumpen cheaper glass. Some had dim lights inside, obscured by curtains.

Twenty years ago, a fire had consumed Peterbone Road. It was believed it has started at a Mister A. Jacobson’s house, when he misplaced a lit candle next to a muslin gown that had been left out. Or another suggested cause was when the apothecary’s apprentice had foolishly tossed out ash into the yard behind the shop, allowing it to smolder and burn on fallen autumn leaves. Whatever the cause, the flames had been quick.

Henrietta only barely remembered the night. Her memories were clouded by smoke and fear. Hands, delicate hands, had wrapped her in wool and then with shocking strength threw her from one of those pretty windows down to her uncle below. She had the faint memory of her uncle screaming her mother’s name, calling for her to jump.

The wavering figure of a slender woman in her nightdress, a shadow among the red flames at the window. Her uncle’s wife said she never jumped and instead had simply retreated back into the fire.

The houses built later upon the ashes were constructed by Saint Lucia’s Society for the Improvement of the Most Deserving Poor, which in a road that had once housed forty families now housed ninety.

Henrietta watched the houses go by. She could see a night watchman occasionally standing under a lamp, his own hip lantern burning at his side like a cyclopean eye. She did not begrudge the people who had moved in after she had lost everything. She only prayed quietly that no one would have to undergo the horrors again.

But the coaches left Ashbone, and instead went down a different road, wider and more cheerfully lit. The buildings Henrietta could see were not dwellings, but businesses and government branch offices, almost all closed for the night, and a single public house squeezed between the Brynebourne Office of Her Majesty’s Treasury and the Bank of Brynebourne

Soon however, this view was swallowed by trees. The coaches were moving along a long winding driveway that came to a stop in front of a large manor lit by more gas lamps on the outside. But its walls seemed to have their own faint glow.

Suddenly the door was open and she was jolted wide awake by the cold breeze whistling inside. A bundled young man stood there, holding out his hand while Olli finally stirred grumpily. “Hello misses,” he said, “best get inside now. T’ere be another storm comin’.”

“Where is Mister Graef?” She asked, peering out of the coach briefly and finding her hair tugged by whisps of wind. She withdrew her head to gently shake Olli awake and got her to put on her gloves.

“He’s talkin’ with the Baron,” the young man pointed now and Henrietta leaned out to see Theodore, somehow distinguishable in the dark thanks to the light catching onto his long pale hair. “Ye can tell the Baron, he’s the big glowy fellow.”

Indeed, a tall robust man was standing next to Theodore. His face was dominated by a bushy beard, the kind that rugged explorers would wear, and even from this distance she could see the thin traceries of glowing veins in his face. His eyes glanced over in her direction and he immediately doffed off his hat with a bow… knocking Theodore’s spectacles from his face. Both men panicked, and started searching through the dirt.

Henrietta and Olli were quickly hurried into the warmth of the manor itself, which was dimly lit. The entry hall only had a few candles and all of which were only meant to guide guests to their rooms, which the two were taken to swiftly.

The room itself was cozy and clean, with freshly pink papered walls, a decent fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, two beds with thick quilts atop, there was even a large mahogany wardrobe and a table that someone was currently occupying.

It was a small, slender blonde woman with the thin features of someone who had struggled long with illness. She wore a red night-dress, the kind that was appropriate to receive guests in. She smiled gently at the two, pointing to a tray on the table with a teapot and several cups. “Hello, I am Cecilia.” She greeted in a raspy voice that did not quite fit her frail features.

“Hello Miss Cecilia, I am Henrietta Marsh, and this is Olivia.” The mentioned child looked like she was asleep on her feet.

“It’s very nice to meet you both. My husband said Theodore would arrive late, so I moved into your room to avoid the draft. Please, sit! Have some mint water. It clears the throat and lungs of dust and phlegm. My physician recommends it!”

“Ah,” Henrietta’s cheeks colored briefly as she realized she was looking at the Baroness de Mausargille. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Cecilia is fine, I believe in treating others as friends.” She smiled.