This will be the You Write On sample

There is one other piece that I've written and will post up for people to see, but I won't be putting much more of the book up here. Anyone who reads to the end of this section should be able to work out why. I live in UAE and don't want a visit from the police.

The Castle.

The moon shone on the river and the castle. The day, June 3^rd, 1915, had been unusually hot; 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 none did, would note things, odd things, about them. One a man, the other a woman – true, but 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 shone 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 formed a natural Amphitheatre, a grass-covered lap of earth leading away to the line of the woods 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,  overseen its furnishing, been the force behind it becoming a beautiful stately home, watched as it acquired a patina of age and been well pleased with what he'd wrought.

He looked to the woman, made a slight bow and extended 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 this, had they opened it first. Our imagined watcher might have enjoyed them passing through solid timbers; ghosts on a tour of their new habitation. Or perhaps not.

Inside, they climbed the stairs and surveyed the bedrooms. 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, pensive still, but content.

"Perfect."

The man smiled. At his gesture, they faded into the air; the thin, thin air.

Jack

"Wentbridge, Wentbridge. All passengers for Wentbridge.  Excuse me; young  sir? You're getting off here, aren't you?"

Jack heard the voice and felt himself not so much awake as rise from the bottom of a black lake toward it. Exhaustion crushed him like a weight of water.  The surface an impossible distance above his head and him wanting nothing more than to sink back into the darkness, the voice came again, injecting unwanted buoyancy.

"Are you alright, sir? You're looking very peaky. You are getting off here, aren't you?"

A sudden banging beside his head. Glass. Knuckles on glass. Someone rapping their knuckles against the glass of a window. He'd been asleep with his head resting against the window and now someone was knocking on the glass. He started and his eyes twitched, lids almost parting.

"Jacob! Jacob! That one's mine darling. Can you be getting him up for me? I've to drive him to the house."

The voice was Irish, a woman's. Muffled by the glass, but still with a bubbling huskiness almost enough to make him open his eyes to see who owned it.

"Trying Mrs Maguire, but I've seen slaughtered sheep faster to move than this one. He alright, is he?"

"Ah, the poor love's been ill with the scarlet fever, so he has. Can you give him a hand up, darling?"

"For you Mrs Maguire, the very shirt off me back."

"A thousand thanks Jacob, but it's the boy I'm after and not your laundry. That one yer mammy can do for ye."

Someone chuckled and hands slipped under Jack's armpits from behind. His arm was raised and wrapped around skinny shoulders.

"Upsidaisy. Up you come now sir, can't be keeping Mrs Maguire waiting now, can we?"

Half lifted; he pushed legs like dead meat against the floor to help raise himself. His eyes fluttered open and colours danced for a moment before shapes coalesced. An old, old lady, clothed in something last fashionable when Victoria was single, sat on the seat facing.  She looked at him with concern.

"Can someone get this young gentleman a glass of water? He looks faint. I fear the heat has been too much for him."

Cut-glass accent. Home Counties? Jacob sounded West Country. Maguire Irish. Where was he? Jack, lost in fog, knew only he was on a train and had to get off. He reached out a free hand and grasped the seat top. Wood, solid, good to lean his weight on. Steadied between the seat and Jacob, he tried to pull his mind to the jobs at hand; standing first, walking next, getting off the train. Luggage? Did he have luggage? He couldn't cope with luggage.

"My bags?" His voice croaked with the rasp of a hinge never oiled and not used for far too long. His mouth was dry and he wanted water badly. "Where are my bags, please?"

"Oh, don't you go worrying yourself over them, sir. They're in the guard's van and Matthew will get them off for you. Now, can you just come this way?"

Jacob was Jack's height, but a skinny youth, and Jack's weight caused him to struggle. Jack, ashamed of his weakness, marshalled his will and directed legs to walk. They staggered instead, but, grasping for the support of the seat backs, he and Jacob lurched down the carriage to the door and the brightness of the sun beyond.  He half fell into the arms of Mrs Maguire. Like falling into a warm bed, fresh laundered linen brushed his face and calmed his nerves. The flesh beneath smelled of lemons and sweet, summer sweat.

Jacob climbed down from the carriage and helped Mrs Maguire steer Jack to a small, horse-drawn buggy. Has a name, thought Jack, one I know, but it hid in the fog. He tried to pull himself up to the buggy's passenger seat, but had to be wrestled aboard like a sack of onions. He slumped forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, fighting the fog and a wave of nausea. Why so sick? What had happened?

Like an actor responding to a cue, a voice came out of the back of his mind.

"You're very lucky to be alive and have no complications, young man. Scarlet fever is easier to treat nowadays with Dr. Moser's horse serum, but still drags most sufferers to an early grave. You'll need weeks to recover and somewhere better than this wen, but you'll heal in good time, have no fear."

Handlebar moustache; a beard to rival Darwin's; a face from another century. The stethoscope around his neck confirmed the bedside manner. A doctor. His name? Lost in the same fog. Finders? Something like. The face was familiar; known from early childhood perhaps, gruff voice, Lowlands Scot, an aura of competence – someone to trust.

"His father's message came just this morning, doctor. His friend will put Master Jack up for the summer at his place in Devon while he recovers. You'll stay at the castle and can roam the grounds until you are well.  It'll be an awful adventure for you. They say Wentbridge is a beautiful place. Quiet, but very lovely."

The woman, another familiar face, smiled at Jack. Accent's from the Hebrides, he thought, face from an angel's grandmother. Grey hair, tightly bunned, grey eyes, lightly smiling, covering, barely, a worry. Not a woman to fret, said instinct, but holding a concern over him. He'd been, and surely still was, worse than they wanted him to know.

"Marvellous Janet, marvellous. Arrangements have been made; I take, for his travel?"

"Indeed, Doctor Cameron. He'll go by the morning train and be met at the station."

"Excellent, excellent. So we'll see you when you get back then Jack."

The curtain of memory closed, leaving nothing else but fog until he'd woken on the train. Before? Injections, hospital beds, pain and confusion. Shards of a story he'd rather forget.

"That's right Mrs Maguire. Eighteen tomorrow."

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Jacob blurted out.

"An' I'm joining the regiment on the weekend.  They wouldn't take me before. Knew me proper age, see, and told me the railways needed men too. Can't stop me now, though."

Jack caught, though Jacob missed, the  pain flashing across Maguire's face. She wiped it off almost before it registered, replacing it with a smile Jack thought looked like the sun rising over a nudist colony.  Odd image to come out of the fog, said the voice in his head. What does it even mean? Must be something he'd heard.

"And isn't my Fergus there as well? You must be looking out for him. Both in the same regiment, he'll look after you, sure an' he will. Tell him, when you see him, the odd letter will never be taken as an insult now, won't ye?"

"Well, I will if I do, but they're saying it won't last much longer now. Probably all.."

"Over at Christmas, I know. God willing it will."

Jacob's flushed face darkened a moment and Jack saw the question he was struggling to form. So did Maguire.

"Ah, but you'll look the very devil of a handsome young buck in your uniform, an' you will so. Sure an' the girls will all be after ye. Well, never let it be said Bridie Maguire got left at the back of that line. Come here an' give me a kiss now, for yer birthday an' going away an' all."

Jacob blushed red to the tips of his ears. He looked around; to note who was watching, Jack wondered, or for a place to run? A skinny, pimply, pasty-faced youth, the weight of rifle and pack would probably topple him. If this wasn't his first kiss, then surely it claimed the best second place Jack had ever seen.

Maguire, even through the fog, struck as a woman words like Junoesque, voluptuous and, well, others denoting ' well-built'  with a strong emphasis on the 'well',  had been coined to describe. She knew about fun, he thought, and how to have it.

She grabbed Jacob by the shoulders and pulled him to her. He stood like a beast about to be slaughtered, not sure where to put hands and face. Maguire looked him coolly in the eye.

"Now ye'll need to be taking more of a grip on things than that, me lad. Try like this."

She took his hands and slapped them to her generous rump. The boy's eyes widened further than Jack thought humanly possible, but before he'd the chance to say or do anything, Maguire had his face between her hands and had plastered his lips to hers.

A kiss, Jack thought, to pour lust into the loins of a bronze statue. If eyes on train or platform missed it, Jacob surely burned every one of the heartbeats it lasted into his memory forever.

Jack remembered reading of a Confederate soldier who survived a tremendous battlefield blast to find himself utterly unharmed, though stripped of every scrap of clothing. Jacob looked a successful audition for a theatre performance of the part.

Maguire released him with a hesitation, a near reluctance Jack suspected no part of an act. Husband at the war, came the voice from the back of his mind, hasn't in a while, I'll be bound.

"Woah, missus! I'll have a one o' them too an' you've got any to spare."

"Away wit ye," Maguire shouted to the driver, her grin one the devil'd buy at auction and keep for his Sunday best. "The lad's off to the wars and needs something to keep him warm of a night-time."

"Well, I'm off to Coventry tonight and I'm of the same mind. If you've done with him, can I have him back? I've a train to run and we're late already."

Jacob regained the train with a curiously crouched shuffle; Maguire the constant north to his compass's needle. She stayed on the platform to wave him off, give him a wink 'lascivious' stretched itself tight to describe and mouth something Jack thought said: 'Come back for more'.

A ticker tape of thought crossed and recrossed the youth's face, repeating and repeating the only important idea in his mind. Jack read it as the train pulled out. I did that, me. It was me did that, I did. They'd likely need iced water to get his mind to anything else for the rest of the day.

Maguire stayed on the platform, waving, till the train rounded a bend, her radiant smile fading as dark clouds moved across her mind. She walked to the buggy, hitched skirts and swung herself up with an athletic grace. She took the reins, shook the brown horse into movement and sank back into herself.

"That was kind."

She looked at him.

"I'm sorry young master, what was that?"

"He was going to ask about the fighting, wasn't he? You took his mind off it. That was kind."

She shrugged. "Ah, it's nothing. These boys are all after running off to the war, so they won't look like cowards. Jacob's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he can read. He knows how many are coming back with bits shot off them, or not coming back at all. I pray it's over before he finishes the training and gets shipped off to France."

Jack nodded. Dates and figures and names of battlefields hid somewhere in the fog, but his impression of the Western Front was a maw chewing up young men and leaving them to fertilise the ground they battled over.

"And Fergus? He's your…?"

"Husband."

Jack'd heard the word pronounced with strong degrees of condemnation before, but never such as Maguire packed in. She'd slapped the appellation down like a fish full of lead weights on a filleting board.

"He's at the front?"

"Not yet, still at Aldershot going through his basic training."

"How long will that take?"

"Not sure. He's been gone a month and thinks he's eight weeks more before they'll ship to France, but they say it's a terrible mess and not one of them knows how to find his arse with both hands, ah, excuse my French. God willing they'll never see the trenches."

"Volunteered did he?"

Bridie laughed. "God bless you no, young sir. The magistrate did the necessary for him. Said if he had such a taste for fighting men in uniform, he'd accommodate him with pleasure. Catch Fergus Maguire volunteering for anything more than another man's whiskey, an' it'd only be 'cos he'd another man's whiskey already inside him."

Jack looked sideways at her and his eye caught on the smooth swell of a breast half released by the opening of her blouse's top buttons.

Dear lord, came the voice in his head, Moby Dick sighted on the starboard side.

Her eyes flicked sideways to his gaze and she smiled a small, but intensely knowing smile. The day Bridie stopped attracting men's attention she'd probably find herself secretly relieved. Until then, though, she'd lots of ways of making use of it. Her eyes flicked back to find him still looking, not sneakily or guiltily as a Jacob might have done, but with something of open appreciation.

"Sorry," he said, catching her eye on him, "but isn't a young man supposed to admire the beauty of the hills and dales when he comes to the countryside?"

She snorted with a laugh pitched midway between amusement and disparagement. She'd received smoother compliments in her time, but the boy had a cool head on him for one so young. She'd keep an eye on him. There'd been an awful tiredness in his voice, but nothing to suggest he thought himself on forbidden ground.

 Jack found the movement of the buggy lulling and had no argument with it pulling him back to sleep. His head sank to his chest. He was only dimly aware of the ride to the castle and missed the village entirely.

***

"Master Jack? Master Jack? Sorry darling, but we're here now and you're going to have to get down."

Jack opened his eyes, got his first view of Wentbridge Castle and liked it. Someone's stately home, of a certainty, but square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house giving injury if receiving insult. Later he'd wonder why such pugilistic architecture lived in Devon, but for now it gave him a solid sense of security.

His arrival had clearly been expected, a group of people coming out of the front entrance as he stood, swaying lightly. None of the faces were familiar to him, but he picked out the lady of the house instantly.  A handsome woman with an air of command, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle.

"Yes, you'll need time to recover from your journey, surely. The deck chairs are set up, so perhaps you'd like to take a rest in the fresh air until lunch.  You can meet the others properly later."

The others took their cue from this and disappeared back into the house. Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked the answer to a prayer. He slumped onto one of them and stammered out a half apology for his state. Bridie promised him a flask of beef tea and he drifted off in the silence when she left.

An indeterminate time later voices came back towards him, but he couldn't raise the energy to open eyes and engage in conversation, so didn't.

"Ah, sound again. He really is most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says William Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with natives and knives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, but David says he's a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father's in the East. Singapore, he said, training troops, for goodness sake. The boy was at school when he fell sick and the father contacted David to ask for help, so… Oh, just leave the flask. He can have something when he wakes."

"Good looking young lad, he is ma'am, bright too from what I saw of him in the shay. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to even stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man not long since decrepit in the whole of the area now. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I met Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and enlisting this weekend."

"Damn young fools. I know I shouldn't say it, but since they started using gas, I can't see any good end to this war. It's going to grind on until even fatuous idiots like French get tired. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand."

"How old is he ma'am?"

"Fifteen, David said. Looks older, but then… "

They drifted off, or he did, though his mind attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. Troops? No, he had been, but was with the police now, training the riot squad in self-defence. He tried to put a face to the name and biography, but could come up with nothing but a face in a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Memories of him? All his tired mind could muster were scenes that might as well have been from the cinema. They lacked accompanying music, but equally, lacked any feeling. He couldn't find himself in any of those scenes.

Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. A thing forged in Hell and made for only dark things. He had the knife in his luggage. Did it come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a knife for killing and a picture on a bedside dresser? Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, then. Well, never mind, he was used to it. A face, a woman's, pretty and concerned, floated into his mind, but then the fog rolled over him again and he slept.

***

Look at the cracks in the ceiling; at the patterns on the bathroom tiles; at a splash of water on a concrete path. There will be faces in the dots and lines; patches and splashes. Perhaps also dragons and demons, but always faces. Human minds find them in things human eyes observe. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering and the cracks and crevices faceting, were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's. 

"He looks like death!"

Jack slept, with nothing in his ears but distant soughing of wind in branches.

"As close as he's been, how else would he? He will heal, though. This place, these people, they will do that for him.  Rest assured, he'll get well here. A day, two, you won't recognise him. "

She knew it to be true. His opinion of the doctors of their time was low to non-existent. 'Blood-letting leeches treat a patient only to find how many of the next nine they'll kill with the same poison.' Yet he'd trusted the Scot. This place had ways to treat him their own time could not aspire to.  She nodded her head. A tear might have run down her face, but it's hard to tell with cracks in a wall.

The faces faded and only cracks and lichen remained.

***

Eleonora walked out to the deck chairs and looked at the young man.

" Quel povero raggaza." she murmured. The boy was handsome, she thought, but terribly ill. Something of the poet or warrior in the face. Dark hair, an expressive mouth. Young, but lean and shapely, unlike Rudolph. There was a beautiful confluence of line where his neck met his open collar and the swoop of the collar-bone. She wished she had her sketch pad with her to draw it. Her eye traced his shoulders. Wide, proportionate to his frame, probably excellent definition to the muscle there. He would make an beautiful study for a portrait. Perhaps she could draw him sometime. The line of the eyebrows and the lips… She pulled her eyes away. No better; now they caught a young man's flat stomach and slender waist. No, she did not wish to compare with Rudolph. Two months gone and every second of his absence a blessing – she hadn't felt his hands on her for that long.  This boy's hands… the fingers of a pianist, long, sensitive. She imagined them stroking the keys, she imagined them stroking…

Why? Why did this happen with almost every man who wasn't her fat pig of a husband? This boy, this sick, sick boy… She reached out a hand towards his face, but stopped herself before she touched him. No. No, not a good idea.  She took a step back, her foot inadvertently scraping the gravel. She flinched, waited to see if he would wake, wanting and not wanting him to.  The head moved, but the eyes didn't open. The lips parted and formed, perhaps, a name. They marked a line across her vision those lips, like charcoal marking paper, the shape of them captivating her. Imagining the pressure of charcoal stalk on paper, the pressure of finger onto skin…   A single bead of sweat stood at his temple and Eleonora's hand moved to wipe it, stopped, started, stopped again. Her hand wanted to touch… she caught herself, turned quickly and walked back to the house.

***

Jack had no idea how long he’d slept when he woke, throat leather dry. The sun was high now, but he couldn’t remember where it had been, so the knowledge didn’t help. On a small table beside the deck chair was a battered old flask. Something to drink. He opened it to a wonderful, warm, meaty smell. Bovril? Memories of football games in winter. Though no. This had something more to it. Bridie had said she’d made up some beef tea for him. He couldn’t remember ever having that, but knew it was recommended for invalids.  Recent history suggested he qualified, so he poured himself a cup of the still-warm brew and took a long swallow. As it went down his throat, he felt every cell of his body greeting it like a Royal procession, with clapping, cheering and ecstatic flag waving. What on earth had she put in this? Put hairs on your chest and part ‘em down the middle that would, said the voice in his head.

He couldn’t argue. He must have been dehydrated and was surely starving. He’d no memory of eating, not even of which day he last had or what he'd eaten. He drained the cup and poured himself another. This one he sipped whilst gazing at cloud galleries. Birds sang, the wind soughed, the clouds changed exhibits. Somewhere in the distance a cow passed a casual complaint to a friend.  A decent time later, after careful reflection, the friend replied. Bees passed over his head and commented on this latest gossip. At length, the cows passed more remarks on the gossiping bees, melodious birds and soughing leaves.  Perhaps this passed for a busy day here.

Somewhere there had to be other people in the world and they had to be doing things; important, noisy, difficult and dangerous things. They weren’t doing any of them here and nor was he. Peace, and beef tea, soaked into Jack like warm rain into dried soil. He felt life return. When had he last felt so relaxed? Who cares, sang the birds. Enjoy it while you can, soughed the leaves. He felt himself in a pool outside the world of clock-ticking time. And it was good. He floated, exulting. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do beyond drink beef tea and relax, so, like a man climbing back into warm water, lowered himself once more into restful sleep.

***

He heard the clicking of heels and swishing of skirts coming towards him, opened his eyes and sat up. That was easy. The girl coming towards him was young, dressed in something simple that said maid, casually pretty and, he'd swear on a stack of money, an outrageous flirt. Some things you just know, don't you?

"Oh, you'm awake sir. How you feeling now, then? Lady Ambridge said I's to ask you if you're well enough to take a bite for lunch with the family?"

Jack wasn't up for fighting dragons yet, but the prospect of lunch and meeting his hosts held no pain.

"Well, that case, I laid out a change of clothes in your room. You can wash up a bit 'fore it's time to eat."

He followed her into the house and up the stairs. The view from behind was pleasant and, he'd swear, twitching more than even generous nature intended. Farmer's daughter, he thought, knows what the bull is for and what tupping and covering mean.

She showed him into a room. Simple, but tastefully decorated with four blue walls, there was a change of clothing on the bed and a basin with a ewer of water on a small dresser near the window. He walked to the dresser and caught sight of himself in the mirror there.

The face was a stranger's and a sight to give pause. Those black-ringed, blood-shot, wasted eyes, the sunken cheeks and, God, was there a blood cell left in his body? A line from a poem rattled in his mind, 'A face something, something, ghostly, something, whiter shade of pale.' Where did that come from? If in doubt, said the voice in his head, say Shakespeare. You really should be better read.  Bram Stoker hadn't made Dracula so pallid.

"They'm saying you was sick with the scarlet fever, sir. My mum says 'at took two of her sisters when they was young 'uns. Must have been awful. You feeling better now? "

She was standing just a touch too close as she asked. Just a touch. Jack had a feeling she'd have been closer still, but for his obvious invalid status.

"Well, if Dr. Frankenstein'd found that on his slab," he gestured with a thumb at the mirror, "I think he'd have burst into tears and taken up dentistry, but, yes, I suppose so. The fever is over, so I can only get better now, can't I?"

She grinned. "That's the spirit sir. You'll like it here, I'm sure. Um, is there anything else I can get you?"

She twirled slightly as she stood, her skirts (petticoats under there?) moving and whispering. It's an excuse to stand there longer, Jack thought. I haven't had enough beef tea yet, Jack thought.

"Ah, no, thanks, not for now.  Though, sorry, what's your name, please?"

"Me sir? I'm Abigail, sir. Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."

She bobbed him a small curtsy, the smile on her face genuinely happy and happily saying, 'knew you'd be interested.'

"And I'm Jack. Delighted to meet you."

She grinned again, twirled that tiny twirl again and paused for just a second, before bursting into giggles.

"Oh, sorry sir, you'm waiting to get changed, amn't you? I'll come back in just a bit and show you the dining room, then?"

***

The dining table was Jack’s image of a stately home dining table. If Jesus had fed the five thousand here, they’d have mostly been seated. His hostess, Lady Charlotte, was largely what he thought the lady of the Manor would be: business-like, in control and, since the men were away, in total charge. The sort of woman you'd describe as handsome and elegant, Jack could imagine her fox hunting in the modern age, sharing a chariot with Boadicea in a previous one.

He’d expected more servants than Bridie and Abigail, but, with the butler and all the other men gone; he wasn’t surprised the family had found little need (and fewer opportunities) to replace them. He hadn’t expected a governess, because he hadn’t known the family had a daughter, Deidre, absent for reasons he didn’t catch, but expected back at the weekend. Finding one, he wasn't surprised. That too fitted his preconceptions. The governess, Miss Brompton, wore her blonde hair in strict and uncomfortable-looking fastened-up braids, her mouth in a permanent moue of disapproval and, Jack decided after entire seconds of forced conversation, her mind in a strait-jacket of rules and restrictions.

What Jack had not expected was the last member of the family. Eleonora Angela Ambridge, the Italian wife of Lord David’s younger brother, Rudolph. If Janet from the doctor’s office was the grandmother, this was surely the angel granddaughter. Every artist of the Renaissance, all of their apprentices, their relatives, their pets and their pet's fleas would have formed a queue to her door to beg, plead, and offer body parts in return for a chance to have her as a model.

Strange then, thought Jack, that a woman who could stun most men into adoration by simply looking up at them through her long eyelashes was surely the most timid, shy and twitchy of Heaven’s inhabitants to ever exit the Pearly Gates. Afraid of her own shadow, that one. Perhaps she'd stunned them from too early on, been too nice to talk to for too many, never learned how to deal with men as a result and now found herself scared even of him. And I know I'm nothing to be scared of.

Through the meal she avoided eye contact with him whilst always giving the impression she knew where his eyes were and when they were looking at her.  She didn't seem any happier if he was or wasn't looking. Jack gave up on trying or caring until he was stronger and concentrated his conversation on his hostess.

After the meal, Charlotte she took him to the library, suggesting he could find something interesting to read, then pointed out walks he could take from the room's windows. Apparently there was a holy well near the river, a pleasant walk to the mill, some places further upstream which were good for swimming from and a trail on the other side of the river which offered good views of the castle. Jack admitted to enjoying sketching and was sorted out with sketch pad and pencils along with a shoulder bag to carry them in.

He took a lie down for a while and then returned to the library to pick out a book. The first thing to catch his eye was a copy of Pride and Prejudice. A book he'd heard of, but never read. It saved him the energy he'd spend searching for anything else, so he dropped it in his bag and headed out.

The holy well, he decided, was fortunate in being on the way to somewhere else. People wouldn't be as disappointed in it as they'd be if they'd made a special trip. He continued to the bridge, crossed a stile and found himself on the road which lead up the hill to the village and which he must have been driven along earlier. The hill, he thought, he'd keep for another day. He crossed the river, turned back towards the castle and walked on a path that took him by a farm house, chicken houses and trees.  As the track entered the trees it split, one way leading to the river's edge, the other rising up and winding through the trees. Jack took to the higher ground, thinking he might get a better view from there.  The farm, the countryside around, the entire world seemed deserted. Half the population gone to the war and this a sleepy place anyway, so not odd. He doubted he'd meet anyone and so was surprised to catch sight of a woman seated by the side of the lower path. Seated? Or was she lying down? Had she fallen there? She was curled into herself in a posture which struck him as odd. There was a bag and what looked like another sketch pad on the ground beside her. Were her eyes closed? She seemed conscious, though, and her arm was moving slightly. Was that a moan?

Unsure as to what was going on, and hesitant to embarrass himself,  Jack moved closer, used a tree to give himself cover and peeked around it. The woman was Eleonora. Reclined against a rock, her skirts hitched up to allow her hand to reach between her legs, she was indeed curled into herself, her hand moving and yes, small moans starting to break from her. Not the only one expecting this place to be private, said his voice. Not a moment to interrupt, thought Jack, and definitely not one to be caught interrupting. Then his eye caught the sketch on the opened page of the pad lying on the ground. A face. Even at this distance, a recognisable face. His.

Jack moved back down the track using the utmost care not to step on anything that would crack, not to fall over and generally not to make a sound. Then he walked to the mill and spent the rest of the day sketching there. It gave him a tangible alibi for his whereabouts later.