Tesni hadn't been to Argostine before Anwen invited her. Anwen had married in Birmingham, surrounded by the extended Fairchild clan, but had gone off to live at her husband’s family estate on an isle to the northwest. Not quite Irish, but near enough that the gossip rags dragged Anwen’s name through the ton’s muck and grime for nearly a fortnight before they realized that this Sir Inry Rowan Cathair person she was wed to was of nobility and, by course, fabulously wealthy.
Well, then everything was good. Anwen left with little more than a dashed lace kerchief over her shoulder and the couple were off to Argostine by carriage and ferry and boat and that was that.
For nearly a year, Tesni didn’t hear from her sister except on holidays when a wire would be delivered to her parents’ house. She’d get a phone call from her mother and take a cab over to the old manor. They’d make biscuits and cakes and all crowd around the short telegram. It was always reassuring to read that Anwen was doing well and so was Inry--Oh and how is Tes and the Blake family? Is Father’s leg any better? Whatever happened to Miss Kirsch? Hope the bluebells are blooming quite nicely. STOP.
Then, five years into her new life, Anwen didn’t send a telegram for Easter. Tesni’s mother phoned her about it, but Tesni could only reassure her with empty promises and the like. Perhaps she’d gotten sick. There would be another telegram, surly. But there wasn’t another telegram.
Instead, in July, there came a letter to Tesni from Anwen. Tesni phoned her mother after reading it a dozen times, trying to glean some message of duress from its otherwise cheerful verbiage. An invitation, it was, and a declaration, but could it be more? Tesni was concerned and intrigued all at once. “I’m going to Argostine,” she told Mother after relaying its contents.
Her mother replied, “Really? You’ll be needing some wet-wear from Ollie’s then. It’s awfully balmy there this time of year. Will you take--”
“I’m worried,” Tesni said urgently. “It wasn’t like her to miss Easter.”
“I know it.” Her mother sighed. “You should come by for your father.”
“I’ll go alone.”
“Tesni’el Cennady,” Mother said sternly, affecting the use of her full name.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Tesni demanded, challenging her mother’s knowledge of the northwest--and her mother’s unflinching faith in Sir Cathair, in this particular case.
Of course, her mother had long ago realized that arguing with her was a fruitless venture. “At least take a lady with you. Perhaps Lily? Agrostine may be a paradise, but the roads leading to it were paved by well intentioned travelers.”
“I will,” Tesni lied. She didn’t plan on going by road anyway.
They talked a little more of the usual things, but she was relieved when she hung up the earpiece on its wall fixture. It can be tiresome to lie to the people you love, but for Tesni, it was nearly second nature. So many years of explaining why she was unmarried or why she cared only for working and reading…
She never lied to hurt anyone, of course, but sometimes the ease with which some falsehoods came to her shocked and appalled her, leaving her feeling slightly dizzy, exhilarated perhaps.
Her father saw through her in those moments, but only when they stood in the same room. It was like he could smell the lie. (Part of his frustration with telephones came from not being able to see the other caller.) He had once told Tesni that the reason she was so discomfited by lying was because God was laying His hand on her, reminding her that the same breath she used to lie could be taken away at any moment if He saw fit.
She had once told her father she would never lie again for that, but her father had only grimly grimaced grudgingly at her.
Tesni slapped her cheeks, scaring off her mind’s wanderings, and she pointedly debated in silence for a moment before deciding to get ready right then and there. She would take the afternoon train, transfer in the evening and hopefully arrive sometime in the morning, fresh and ready to face anything.
The truth is, however, no matter the preparations, Tesni would not be ready.
From Birmingham, she shared her cabin with an older couple (retired working-class Londoners) on their way to Liverpool for a football-fueled holiday. The trio chatted for a while about the usual things: What games had been played recently, who was rooting for who; who had gotten married, if anyone knew whom who was; what the weather was like where they were heading, and if they’d ever been before.
Tesni told them with social delight, “I’m going to be meeting my nephew for the first time! He was just born. His showing is this Sunday and I’m meant to be there as Godmother.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” the Missus Going-to-Liverpool exclaimed. “Isn’t tha’ jus’ wonderful, Henry?”
Henry Going-to-Liverpool was a bit dubious. “Quite, quite. Where’s did you say you were headin’ then again, Luv?”
“Argostine. It’s on a little island, just off the coast near Blackpool.”
The missus had never been to Liverpool before, but Henry’s grandfather was from thereabouts and Henry recalled stories that his older man had once told him about the isle in the west. “Blackpool’s just a ways north of Liverpool. It’s… not ‘xactly the Isle of Man, now is it?”
“What’s that mean?” the missus demanded a little sharply, giving Tesni a teasing smile. “It isn’t the Isle of Man. So what on earth do you mean?”
“I just mean it’s not very hospitable. And that’s coming from a city man.”
Tesni asked, “Hospitable? You mean it’s a wild place?”
“Or Irish,” Missus Going-to-Liverpool said with a knowing nod.
“No,” Henry said certainly, clearly struggling with his patience. “I just mean… The folk there are queer. My Grandad used to tell us spooky stories about the place.” He crossed his arms. “Ruffians and criminals alike live about its crags as sure as the pirates rule ‘em.”
“The pirates?” Now Tesni laughed. “Are you sure your grandfather wasn’t playing y--”
“My grandfather was a Navy man. There wasn’a drop of play in him,” Henry said sternly. Then he said, “They say he was plum nutter, but I don’t doubt for a second that there’s something damn near otherworldly about that place off Blackpool, and you’d do well to err well away from that Godforsaken--”
“Keep your blaspheming voice down, Henry! Christ Almighty!” Missus Going-to-Liverpool shrilled before she clout her husband in the ear. “She’ll think we read for the fun of it, you keep that dizzy-aged rubbish up!”
“Dizzy-aged? You’re three years my senior, Trudy.”
“Oh, you!”
Tesni couldn’t excavate any more spooky tales from the couple, as the missus then degenerated into a bit of a nag, verbally laying into poor Henry about how he couldn't conduct himself in a polite, innocent conversation and his tall-tale-telling was why her brother never invited them over for anything, and that she had been a fool to eg him on, knowing full-well what nonsense went on between his ears.
Pirates and otherworldliness? Tesni considered Argostine a little more critically, but what she knew of the place was only what her sister had hinted at in her many correspondences. Now that Tesni considered it, she had a rather forbidding thought entreat upon her traveler’s anticipation: Anwen never did say too much in her missives, did she? Of course, Anwen reassured the Fairchilds of her well being and she asked after folk she’d once been private with… but she never did tell about life in Argostine--not in any detail. She only ever said that everything was well…
It’s paradise, Anwen had telegraphed. It’s more wonderful than imagined. I can’t wait to start my life here. I love it here. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, save Mummy and Daddy’s parlor on a cold winter night with the fire ablaze and Tesni reading the latest penny dreadful aloud…
Tesni thought, Speaking of pirates, this does taste a bit like rum.
When she got off at Liverpool, she had a couple hours until the train left for Blackpool. She spent the time at a local cafe--one not nearly as extravagant as the ones she used to frequent in Soho--where she enjoyed several cups of black tea and one, lone coffee. She would have had her time in reverse, but they charged nearly six quid for a cup of black gold and so she was put off.
A lad scuffing boots on the streetside eyed her typewriter case curiously. Noticing him, Tesni beckoned him over to her summer table and gave him a piece of her teacake while she got the case in her lap. She opened it a crack, peaked in, closed it, then eyed him suspiciously. “Can you keep a secret?”
He slowly nodded, eyes going wide with grave understanding.
She let him peak inside too and he gasped. Marveling at the contraption, he asked in a whisper, “But what’s it do?”
“It makes people change their minds.”
The boy considered this. “Like the Good Book?”
“Very much so, Sharper,” she said with a smile. “Go on, touch it.”
He reached out and thumbed a key. Without paper, the machine cried out a resounding c-clack! and the boy’s hand jerked back in surprised delight. He pushed a key with his finger and again the writer wrote on air. He wiped crumbs off his other hand after stuffing the rest of the cake in his mouth. “Where are y’takin’ it?” he asked, eyeing her other small case.
“Somewhere secret. No one is supposed to know I have it, so keep it in your pocket, eh?”
He nodded excitedly. Then he looked a little shy as he asked, “Could you make some’ne’s mind change f’me?”
“Who’s mind?”
“M’brother’s.”
“What’s your brother thought that you want changed?”
“He joined the Queen’s service. He’s goin’ to The Africans soon.”
Tesni’s mouth went dry. She took a quick sip of tea before she asked, “You want him to stay?”
“Well,” the boy considered. “I’s no’fair to ask, but I just don’t want him to forget me.” He nodded to himself then and asked, “Could I get somethin’ to make his mind remember?”
Tesni smiled slowly. Then she cracked her knuckles in an unlady-like fashion and fully opened her typist’s case with a bit of a flourish. She fished a piece of parchment from the topside of her case and filed it into her machine. She set the carriage and, after making sure that her first hammer lined up with the heading of the page, she paused and asked, "What's his name? I can't rightly cast on his mind if I don't know his name."
Eagerly, he offered, "Alexander Tooley!"
"Do you know what pay he got for getting in?"
The boy shrugged.
"Does he have any marks on his uniform that are different than other soldiers you've seen?"
The boy made a cross with his fingers.
To: Mr. Alexander Tooley, Tesni wrote as her fingers flounced over her keys. She sent the carriage back, rolled up the page and set to work on the body of the letter. The boy ordered another teacake on her tab to eat while he waited.
The sun was nearly down when she finally sat back in her seat and pulled out her reading spectacles. After a quick skim, she used a small drop of correction on an arrant letter, rolled the paper down, aligned her hammer--waited, waited, waited for the fluid to dry, then punched the correct letter into its respective place. Then, with a showman's flourish, she pulled the paper from its seat and folded it in thirds. She pulled a stamp from her case, had the boy lick it for good luck, and sealed the letter.
"Now," she said, holding back the parchment for a moment. She looked over the boy's endearingly shoe-polished face and said meaningfully, "This should arrive into his hands only. Do you understand? Unto his hands only… else the machine's magic won't work."
The boy crossed his heart and Tesni gave him the letter. "Thank you, M-Madame," he affected with a deep, theatrical bow. "An' thanks f'the cake too!"
She grinned, good deed all but done. "Off you go then. Myself? I've got a train to catch."
He bit his lip as he collected his buffing things and his stool, his brother's letter tucked up under his hat. "Where're y'headed?"
"Argostine," Tesni told him.
His hopeful mirth all but evaporated. "Are… Are ya from that island?"
"No, I'm visiting my nephew."
"Oh!" A bit of his good cheer returned. "Well… Godspee', Madame. And thanks again. Honest."
"You're very welcome," she relented, grabbing up her things. "Take care now, Mr. Tooley." He grinned and dashed off down the way, skirting into an alley where he all but disappeared from view.
Tesni paid off her tab, made a pleasant stroll to the station, and passed onto the train to Blackpool. Finding her compartment empty of company, she lounged on one side of the cubby, unbuttoning the middle of her brassiere so she had a bit more access to the air she's been depriving herself of. Relaxed, she felt her eyes growing heavy by the time the iron wyrm finally pulled away from Liverpool Station…
Be at this spot, Ms. Fairchild. Or would you rather it happen?
She jerked awake when a shout rang out down the platform: "BLACKPOOL! BLACKPOOL! LAST STOP! BLACKPOOL! BLACKPOOL! LAST STOP!" The ticket puncher went on for another minute or so before falling silent. In that time, Tesni collected her things and made her way out the passenger car and onto the platform.
In a fit of annoyance and embarrassment, she quickly dropped her baggage and turned back toward the train-side of the platform to readjusted her blouse and jacket. Letting out a breath of tension, she sighed, picked up her bags, and set about finding the night's ferryman. She went by the platform ticket booth and asked after a service from the salesman.
"I can phone one, shall I?" he said boredly.
"I dunno," Tesni said shortly. "Will you?"
The man's moustache quirked up in amusement. "Bit of a brick, you are… Awlright, Lass. Grip yer skirts awhile an' I'll have awl' Laszlo come by w'a mule."
"With a… With a what?
The ticket salesman, in the middle of dialing on his two-piece, eyed her over the counter and smirked. "A carriage fer Her Brickiness," he explained.
"Oh. Thank you."
"Aye. 'Ave a seat, Lass. He'll be along shortly."
The mule-drawn cart was along in a quarter-hour. Back aching for her shallow nap on the train, Tesni painfully got into the cart with the cabby’s helping hand. He snapped the reigns and threw her back into her seat. Holding her traveling cap to her hair, she grit her teeth.
Grin and bare it, Ol’ Girl, she told herself. Only the ferry and we’ll be Islandbound.
“Name’s Laszlo,” the cabby said over his shoulder conversationally. “Take it yer headed for Argostine. Gordon back that told me a tale. Young lass like you travelin’ alone, all bollocks ‘n’ brassiere out for the ‘ole lot to swing at? Must be a serious business yer in fer, eh?” He pronounced her sister’s township like Arr-go-steen, rather than the English Ah-gus-tine.
“I’m visiting my nephew and his lot,” she said gruffly.
“Never ‘ad m’aunt visit me--even when I took pox. There an occasion?”
“His first showing.”
“Oh!” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Po-ta-to Cath-o-lic?”
“I… er… I don’t know,” Tesni admitted after she put together what it was he was asking. “I never thought to inquire.”
“Are you a Catholic?” he asked.
“I’m a typist,” Tesni said flatly.
“Oh. Well then. To each their own.” He spoke no more except to bid her Godspeed when he dropped her off at the most pitiful of piers jutting out from Blackpool’s warren-like docks.
She went to the very end of it. The moon struck the inlet, spilling silver across its relatively calm, dark waters. She could see, just on the horizon, a dark line across the channel. If she were to put her thumb up, and turn it sideways, she would have made the line disappear.
Argostine.
“Argostine?!” The ferryman called out to her, jarring her from her ruminations. “Are ya fer Argostine?!”
“Aye-er-yes!” Tesni barked as she picked up her skirts and picked up her feet. “Sorry. Yes. I’m going to Argostine,” she assured the pole-carrying scarecrow at the stern of the little punt.
“Alone?” The ferryman asked, genuinely surprised.
“Yes,” Tesni said, throwing her clothing luggage aboard, but carrying in her typewriter. “I’m visiting my nephew. It’s important I make it in time for morning tea.” She almost fell, but managed to sit as she slipped.
“You’re not jus’ flappin’ yer parts either, I see,” the ferryman said, letting out a sigh. “Awlright then. That’ll be two quid.”
“A bleeding sovereign?! It’s just across the way!”
“An’ there are dangers all along that way, Miss.” The ferryman pushed away from the pier. “Be a shame if a lonely lady was caught out like so…”
Tesni blinked rapidly. Then, sheepishly, she rummaged in her purse for one gold two-pound coin. The ferryman accepted the Queen’s currency without a word, but he did smile slyly in the moonlight and nod at her just once. Then he put on a business-like mug and drove forward with a grace and ease that put Tesni’s discomfort onto an edge of simply stunned, like a deer that’s just been fed dried corn while at rifle-point.
She fell asleep rather reluctantly, but the steady swimming of the skiff all but rocked her into unconsciousness, despite her best resolutions…
By iron or by blood, Ms. Fairchild? Consider ours a Zenithal duel!
“Tha’s it then.”
You know he was a knight once? But then, he was an afterthought.
“Miss. Miss!”
Don’t trust a word the cutter says. He’s a poacher, fashioning quills.
“Dammit, Lady! Wake up then!”
Tesni gasped. She was clutching her typewriter to her chest. She felt chilled to the bone, despite the balmy summer air. She felt everything was sticking to her, heavy with salt water and sweat. She met the sober eyes of the ferryman and gaped like a fish for a moment before she shook her head and took his proffered hand. He hauled her up easily and set her about disembarking. She was unsteady on her feet, her shoes wobbling over the uneven, water-bloated pine of a dark-colored pier.
“Easy does it, Luv. Jus’ a little wave-woke is all. It’ll pass,” the ferryman said to her. Then he put his pole to the wood and pushed away.
“Wait!” Tesni barked. “My other bag!”
“Eh?!” He cupped a hand to one ear.
“My other bag!” she shouted insistently, stamping her foot.
The ferryman laughed out loud then and pushed back to the pier where he unloaded her luggage case to her without anymore recourse. He winked at her as she took it and said, “Get some summer in ya, you ol’ bird. I’ll be seein’ ya soon.”
“Heaven forbid,” she mumbled, but he heard her and laughed merrily.
He pushed away from the dock and gave her a crisp salute with a flick of his scarecrow arm. “Mind the ferry,” he called to her, then went on.
A fox, that one! Tesni thought acidically. Mind the ferry? Oh, certainly. That’s what I came here to do, after all. Right after you make off with all my unmentionables! Despite herself, she managed to huff a laugh.
Gathering her wits, Tesni sat down on her luggage for a moment and knocked the bracken out of her shoes. She readjusted one of her stockings and then nodded, satisfied. She probably looked several times worse for wear, but once she was received at the estate, all would be well. She put a hand to her stomach as if to sway the growing hunger there with an empty promise of future feasting.
But until Tesni was received at the estate, Argostine would receive her.
The sun rose behind her, bathing the island in warm, emerald light. For a moment, she just stood on the pier and looked out at a new world. It was such a beautiful new world too. Tesni could understand why her sister had called it paradise.
The island of Argostine was crescent-moon in shape. The bay within its metaphorical shadow received small, incremental shipments from Blackpool, but it was too shallow to receive anything larger than flat-bottomed, freighters. On the inside of the crescent was the sprawling township of Argostine itself, cut into the ivory crags and stairs that covered the curve around the backside of the island like the spines of some sleeping tail-consuming serpent. There were tall, impressive birch trees everywhere that had room to spare. Most of them were verdant and welcoming, covered in English ivy and bright, turquoise lichen. But as the trees grew near the stair-like, hex-shaped mountain crags, they became twisted in shape, sprouting from awkward places and sometimes just clinging to the surface of some white rock, hundreds of feet in the air, curving upward to lap at the sun.
Otherworldly… Tesni considered the phrase. Then she smiled to herself and picked up her bags. She left the pier and made her way to the dockhand’s public house to ask for directions. Surly the Cathair Estate was a sight to behold on its own, the abode of the island’s own Lord. She probably could have wandered about to find it on her own, but she liked the idea of having a guide. The idea of it made her feel like real gentry. And she really needed to feel like gentry after being practically robbed by that ferryman from before.
The Screaming Siren was a bit of a two-story shack with modern additions in the form of a barn and loft, but it boasted rooms for only a bob and ale for less than half that. It wasn’t the sort of place she would ever be caught dead in, but needs must and she walked with confidence up to the barkeep.
The man looked up from stirring an inconsequential mixture in a hearth’s cauldron. His eyebrows disappeared into his sweaty, brown bangs, and he said through his drooping moustache, “How can I serve the lady?” He glanced behind her, as if expecting someone to follow after, but there she was.
Tesni asked, “Would you be able to call on someone to direct me to the Cathair’s Estate? They’re expecting me.”
“And… you are?” he asked patiently, almost beautifically.
“Oh, Lord have mercy,” Tesni said, wiping sweat from her own brow. She set her luggage on the ground and sat sidesaddle on one of the rickety barstools. “Instead, could I bother you for a drink?”
The barkeep smiled briefly. “What’ll y’ave?”
“Bitters, please.”
“Bitter what’s?”
“Bit--er… Do you have any barbiturates?”
“Barb-what’s?”
Tesni let out a bit of a groan through her nose and said, “Ale.”
“Aye, Lass. One breakfast comin’ up!”
“Breakfast?”
He set a pint in front of her, foaming out the top and spilling onto the bar. He was grinning. “That’ll be one denarius.”
“A… what?”
“A… penny.”
“Oh!” She fished into her purse and drew two pennies from its contents. Sliding them over to the keeper who made them disappear under a dirty towel, Tesni eyed her drink for all of a second before she said, “My name is Ms. Tesni Fairchild and I’m in town to visit my sister, the Mrs. Inry Cathair, and my newborn nephew, Michael Cathair.”
“Mrs. Inry Cathair… ” the barkeep drolled, throwing his towel over one shoulder. Where the pennies ended up is anyone’s guess. He sucked his teeth for a second and said, “An’ ya say you’re travelin’ alone?”
“I am. It was imperative I make it to Argostine as quickly as possible.”
“That so?”
Tesni frowned. “Yes. It’s so.”
The barkeep nodded then. “Aye, I’ll send ya wi’ one o’ my boys t’ take ya up yonder way. It’s a bit of a waltz, but I’m sure a hardy sow like yourself can manage wi’ ankles like those.”
She tucked her feet up into her skirts. “I beg your pardon!”
“No, I beg yours, Madame,” the barkeep laughed. “I mean well.”
Embarrassed, but mollified by his manners, Tesni sniffed. “Dare I say… you’ve given me more of a charming welcome than that ferryman did at any rate,” she relented. She took a delicate taste of her ale at that admission, but decided to refrain from another if she could help it.
The barkeep raised one brow at her. “Cole give ya trouble?”
“Is that the scoundrel’s name? Indeed he gave me trouble! He charged me an entire sovereign just to get to shore! Granted, he did bring me before morning tea as I’d requested, but…”
“A whole sovereign, ya say? Ya must be set back quite a bit.”
“Oh, I should fair fine, but I appreciate your concern nonetheless… Now, about that guide?”
“Aye.” The barkeep turned and shouted, “Niall! Getcher arse down’ere!” There was a crash from somewhere upstairs and then several thumps against bare wood. All the while the barkeep grinned from ear to ear and said, “He reckoned I dinna see him stalk in ‘ere wi’ the smith’s bairn. Perfect timin’ on yer part, Ms. Fairchild.” Then he made a gruff noise and spit on the boards at his feet. “Forgive me. Been two hands since I’ve had a God-fearin’ patroness.” He extended his hand and said, “Name’s Eoin, but alls call me McCarthy. You can call me whatever ya like.”
“Mr. McCarthy then,” Tesni decided.
He opened his mouth to dispute or agree, but before he could, a lanky boy of teen age came tumbling down the stairs, hitting nearly every step in stumble all the way down. On the thirteenth step, he nearly fell, but managed to sit instead. He gave them both a dower sort of expression as he rubbed his sore backside. He smelled more like ale than Tesni’s ale did.
“He’s knackered,” Tesni stated, narrowing her eyes.
“Bit mouldy. He’ll do,” McCarthy insisted, crossing his arms. “Oi, Boy. Get decent ‘n’ take the bonny Ms. Fairchild to Cathair Caeseal, y’ken?”
“Aye, Daid.”
“Eh?”
The boy, Niall, sighed and stood up languidly, hitting the steps two-at-a-time. “Aye, a Dheaid!” he barked over his shoulder.
McCarthy shook his head as his son disappeared. “I blame his mam.”
“His mother?”
“She went an’ died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly.
“Why’re you sorry?” McCarthy asked with a small smile. “She was a squinchy awl twat with a nasty temper. God love her though. No one else feckin’ did.”
Tesni felt the hysterical urge to laugh, but manage to bury it inside herself before it could manifest. She waited patiently for the boy to reappear. In that time, she swirled her ale around and watched it lick the inside of the tin tankard. “How do you manage?” she asked suddenly.
“Manage?” McCarthy echoed. Then a look of realization took him and he sobered slightly. “The grace of God is my reckoning,” he said numbly.
“The grace of God…”
“Ms. Fairchild?” Niall said from the landing, tightening his belt as he strapped a cudgel of some kind to his hip. He turned to his father and said something that Tesni couldn’t rightly follow. McCarthy answered in kind with a quick smile and a wave of his hand.
Then Niall beckoned to her and grabbed up her bags for her.
“Oh! Already! How lively, thank you.” She then turned to Mr. McCarthy and gave him a slight curtsey. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Thank you for your company,” McCarthy said. “Return when y’can.”
“I’ll call on you,” she said, but then sucked in a breath and added, “When I’m available, I’ll call on you.”
“Oh? Soon, I hope. Successful widowers like m’self oft have full days.”
“No doubt,” Tesni said with a polite laugh. Then she nodded to Niall and followed after him out The Screaming Siren.
In much higher spirits than before, Tesni followed Niall into town where the rough dirt track turned into shoddy, wagon-wheel-scarred cobblestone. There were gutters, thankfully, so the roads didn’t so much reek of waste as look like they should reek of waste. There were loose, rampant sheep throughout the township, and their recently shorn bodies lumbered lazily out of the way when Tesni and Niall came close. Finally, they passed by the cottages and came into the city square, barren save for a large well at its center serving as old-time fire protection for the township’s most important buildings.
Across the square, past the well, lay a drive that disappeared behind a bend in the trees. Niall pointed to it and checked to see she was looking in the right spot before he nodded to her, dropped her bags, and said, “Road. Up… ann, a Cathair Caeseal. Tuigim?”
“Tuigim?” Tesni said uncertainly, picking up her bags.
Niall nodded, having delivered her as far as he would go. “Beidh Dia leat,” he told her certainly, then he left her alone in the town square.
Holding up her bags uncertainly, she walked off the cobbles and her feet sank into the marshy center of the square. She grimaced as each step made a sloooorp-ing sound. By the time she got to the other side, she had mud up to her ankles and she was sweating so much, she could feel rivulets of moisture running down her back in small, irritating crawls.
She stopped for a moment to mark her progress and take stock of her soiled stockings.
That’s when she finally noticed the six men closing in around her.
She didn’t have time to ready herself or call out.
They descended on her with quick, disinterested intimacy. One moment, she was holding out her hands as if to hold them all at bay, and the next, she felt hands on her from all sides, tearing at her in all directions. They all wore black kerchiefs and goggles and cowls. They could be anyone. They all wore the same kind of working clothing. All of it, stained green and black and ocre. Their knuckles were wrapped for sparring, but Ms. Fairchild didn’t prove much of a pugilist.
At long last, they wrestled her to the ground. She felt her purse leave her. A kick met her hip, then her shoulder, then her ribs. She couldn’t catch a breath. All she could hope was that it would be over quickly and they wouldn’t kill her. But they were impersonal, professional. The kicks came when she struggled or cried out. She cried out when they kicked her. The punches came to her face, but were only meant as warnings. They could break her absolutely, but they didn’t want to break her. They wanted her money. They wanted her jewelry. They turned her luggage inside out onto the cobbles. They kicked her. They punched her.
No one made a sound, save for her poignant and agonizing cries.
She was curled as tight as she could curl up in her travel corset, her forearms braced against the side of her head. Through the motion and legs and the grunts of effort, she saw a seventh pair of legs up the road toward Cathair Estate. The pair of legs led up to a torso. The torso had a pair of arms and a face.
A man with half-moon spectacles was watching this gang beat her, a green-tinted look of abject horror written across his face. He took a step back. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than right there.
His panicked eyes met hers and Tesni screamed, “HELP ME!”
The men pummeled her in response. She tasted blood.
“HELP ME, DAMN YOU!”
The man just stood there, frozen.
Then, he bolted around the bend in the trees.
Coward, Tesni thought in condemnation, covering her head as another blow came down. She wondered, in a distant sort of way, how these men got away with mugging in broad daylight, but then she already knew.
Cowards. I haven’t met but three and already, I know them as cowards.
Tesni’s tears dried up. She relaxed. The blows stopped coming in tight frequency, then they stopped altogether. The men lost interest. They all stood around her, but they weren’t looking at her. They were looking at each other. Eyes met goggles met shadowed features. Then they all dispersed to their own ways. One of them tossed Tesni’s empty purse over his shoulder, pocketting her coinage. Another gathered up her things and locked up her clothing luggage and just sauntered away with it. Only when two of them puzzled over her typewriter case did she struggle to get to her feet.
“Don’t… Don’t you dare!” she growled at them. The two men considered her and then looked at the contraption. One of them bent down, opened up the stationary side and scattered the blank parchment as far as he could throw the lot--as far as the wind would take it. The two men kicked the case to the side, spilling the typewriter into the street with a struck bell of protest. Then they simply walked off their separate ways, leaving her alone in the street.
Tesni, shaking with adrenaline and pain, glanced around before she slowly crawled to her typewriter and wrapped herself around it. She was like that for a long time, sobbing quietly. The sun beat down on her and the acrid wind reminded her of her exposed state. Her bodice was still in tact, but her outers were stained with blood and mud. She wasn’t sure where her shoes had gone.
A hand touched her shoulder and she lashed out. Her blunt fist hit the man in the glasses with all the fury of the small and he yelped in pain when she hit him. Then she fell back, clutching her machine. “Oh…” she said lamely. Then she glared at him. “You monster.”
The man, nursing a bloody nose with a hand that shook almost as much as Tesni’s, took his glasses from his face and fumbled as he traded the pair for a handkerchief in his inner breast pocket. He held the white square out to her without saying anything. She snatched it from him and put it to a cut on her head that otherwise would have poured into one of her swelling eyes.
“I’m…” the man began, but the words failed him.
“You’re sorry?” Tesni hissed, trying to get to her feet. She fell to the cobbles once, but the second time she wavered, the man caught her and held her upright. She leaned on him, but only because she had nothing else to throw her weight against. “I bet you’re sorry.”
“I... am. I'm Garet Malory. You’re… new,” he stated.
“Is that a question, Mr. Fucking Malory? Of course I’m bloody new!” She hit him in the chest, hard, and he grunted before letting her slip. He only just caught her before she hit the ground, pulling one of her many injuries taunt. “You sheep-buggering, back-water-drinking bastard!” She let all her father’s favorite working class curses bubble up out of her. Then, resting on his lap and feeling slightly better now that she’d given him a piece of her mind, she demanded, “Take me to… Take me… to…”
“To...? Ma'am?”
Something shook her.
“Miss!”
ns 15.158.61.20da2
