Does this work?

Lucia 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 in each and every one of those. 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 very good definition to the muscle there. He would make an excellent 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 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 Lucia'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.

Before and after.

This is the first draft:

"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. The thing was someone's stately home, of a certainty, but had square built towers at each corner, crenulations atop the whole roof and the general air of a house that gave injury if it received 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, as a group of people came 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 about her, she looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand and welcomed him to the castle.

"You look as if you need some time to recover from your journey. The deck chairs are already set up, so perhaps  you'd like to take a rest until lunch and you can meet the others properly then."

Jack was led around the side of the building to a walled area where two deck chairs looked like 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 of her going away.

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

"Ah, sound again. He really does look most desperately ill, Bridie. David knows the father from the Army, says Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with knives with natives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, I believe, but David says he a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father is in the East, Singapore, I think he said, training troops, for goodness sake. Apparently, 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 mam, bright too from what I saw of him on the ride in. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man that's not decrepit in the whole of the area. Even the schoolboys is running off for being soldiers. I saw Alice Buckland's eldest only this morning. He's finished with the railways and off 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 of it. Why they can't end it all with a compromise I can't understand."

They drifted off, or he did, though his mind seemed attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. He tried to put a face to the name and came up with something from a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. Did they come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a picture on a bedside dresser. Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, he felt. 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 there will also be dragons and demons, but always there will be faces. Human minds find them in things that human eyes look at. On the wall behind Jack, in the lichen covering it and the cracks and crevices faceting it, were two. One a man; the other a woman. The woman's, pretty and concerned, turned to the man's.  

"He looks like death!"

"As close to it as he's been, how else would he look? 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. "

Then the faces faded and all that was left was lichen. 

And this is what I got after a bit of playing with Pro Writing Aid:

"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, as a group of people came 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 until lunch.  You can meet the others properly later."

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 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 Fairbairn is quite the most dangerous man he's ever met. Scarred from face to feet from fighting with knives with natives, if you can believe such a thing. The family are Trade, I believe, but David says he a good sort. Typical David. Apparently, the mother's dead and father is 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 mam, bright too from what I saw of him on the ride in. Mind, that wasn't much. Slept most of the way, he did. He'll need building up if he's to stay awake for the full day. To think he's neigh on the only thing you'd call a man that's not decrepit in the whole of the area. 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 off 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 mam?"

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

They drifted off, or he did, though his mind seemed attached to what they'd said. Fairbairn, William E. He tried to put a face to the name and came up with something from a photo. A slim man, bespectacled, clearly hard as nails. Drills in fighting. Playing with a knife. A slim, beautiful, vicious-looking knife. He had the knife in his luggage. Did it come from him? Was that it? All he could find of a father – a knife and a picture on a bedside dresser. Mother?  No, nothing at all. He'd been on his own for a long time, he felt. 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, sleeping, heard nothing 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. "

Then the faces faded and only lichen remained. 

  The difference isn't as dramatic as it has seemed with bits I've done before, but I do think the second draft is an improvement.

I know, I know...

...it's very early to start posting up stuff from a new book, but I'm excited by this. This isn't the end of the first chapter, but I want ot put it up and then go on to finish the chapter off. It gives a good idea of what is to come, introduces the concept nicely along with the protagonist.
There's going to be a lot of sex in this one. There might also be zombies. I knew about the sex, 'cos that was the inspiration (there is a story to that and I will tell it in another post), but it wasn't until today that I realized it couldn't be all beer and skittles. Something bad has got to happen to my character. That's not just 'cos the need for an arc to the story, it is a requirement of this story. That's why it will have to be zombies too - the hero would see it that way because that's a meme he would have grown up with and a way to visualize his problems.
I hope that doesn't make much sense yet, I don't want people to go 'oh, yeah, that's where they fit in', when they arrive.
Anyway, this is it:

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.

"Upsdaisy. 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 gentleman a glass of water? He looks faint. I fear the heat has been too much for him."

Cut-glass accent. Home counties. Was he there? Jacob sounded west country.  Jack, lost in fog, knew only he was on a train and had to get off. He reached out a free hand and felt the top of the seat. 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. They're in the guard's van and Matthew will get them off for you. Now can you just come this way…"

Jacob was 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, the flesh smelled of lemons and sweet, summer sweat. Fresh laundered linen brushed his face and calmed his nerves.

Jacob climbed down from the carriage and helped Mrs. Maguire steer Jack to a small, horse-drawn buggy. Has a name, thought Jack, and I know it, but it was lost 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. How was he 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. There was nothing else in the 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, he blurted out.

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

Jack caught, though Jacob missed, the flash of pain that crossed 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 was 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, it was surely 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, my 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.

It was a kiss 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 was no part of an act. Husband at the war, came the voice from the back of his mind, hasn't done that 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 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 feel the same need. 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 was: '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 was down the line, 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."

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.