New, new, new.

My first new idea for a story in ages. I've had lots of ideas for the sequels to Brendan, though they don't all join together as well as I'd like them, so are going down in print very slowly.
This one came to me while watching an Italian film on youtube. I have at least half of a story because of that, but it is still something I'm going to steal, rather than borrow. They always say that's OK, I think because stealing the idea means making it completely your own, which is something I think I can do here. I'm quite excited by the new idea, which might be a more approachable story than Brendan for many people. this is the first part of it. I've used the free version of Pro Writing Aid to help me play with the structure and polish the writing. This might be a bit early to start doing that, but I wanted to play with the programme and I'm very happy with the results. Sadly, I didn't keep a copy of the first draft I produced to compare it with.

The Castle.

The moon shone on the river and the castle. The day, June 5^th 1915, had been unusually hot and dry; the walls of the castle soaking up more sun than even they could easily absorb. Windows gaped wide to let the night's breezes cool the interior. Those asleep inside fell to more settled slumber as the walls breathed out heat and sweat dried from bodies.

Outside, the air turning cool and sweet, the moonlight glinted on the river in slow dancing patterns. Owls flew; small animals scuttled; trees moved like graceful, but forgetful women, not sure of where they'd meant to go next.

From out the trees, walking slow and unhurried on the gravel path to the castle entrance, came two figures. A watcher, though there was none, would note things, some of them odd things, about them. One a man, the other a woman – no, not likely to be first remarked.  Wearing clothes not of their era - more obvious, though not as much as the fact the clothes were the silver white of the moonlight. Subtle, though somehow most certain to be first recognised, was that the moonlight was shining not on these two, but through them.

At the edge of the gravel courtyard, both paused while the woman looked around at the scene.  The castle sat atop a small hill which rose from the river and gave a view reaching down to the bridge and distant mill. The hill made a natural Amphitheatre, a grass-covered lap of earth leading away to the line of the wood they'd just left. A few sleeping sheep dotted the slope.

The woman nodded, pleased by the prospect. The man stood, arms akimbo, proprietorial pride written on him. He'd been on this hill before the building started, had ordered the design of the castle, been the force behind it becoming a beautiful stately home, overseen its furnishing, watched as it acquired its patina of age and been well pleased with what he'd wrought.

He looked to the woman, made a slight bow and waved his hand in a gesture of formal invitation.  The woman gave him a smile, dropped a playful curtsy and walked on towards the entrance. By force of habit, both entered through the door. A less remarkable feat had they opened it first. Our imagined watcher might have enjoyed seeing them pass through its solid timbers, ghosts on a tour of their new habitation.

Inside, they climbed the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms. The war had taken the men away and in the house were women and girls, peacefully sleeping, unaware of the spectral forms moving amongst them.

At length the two stopped. The woman nodded.

"It's perfect."

The man smiled and they faded into nothing.