A recurring dream - Original Writing (excerpt)

2015 - novel excerpt

Still obsessing over how exactly I want the beginning to go, because of course I am, but I'm actually really happy with this one. Rest of the story's coming together too, haha.

*

She must have had this dream over a hundred times by now. Every time, it always started the same way; with her stepping down from the carriage, patting the horse’s rump and feeding it a crumbled sugar lump she had kept in her pocket all day for that very purpose. She then waved to her coach-mates and the driver before turning to bound down the short path to her house.

She’d been particularly eager, she remembered vaguely, to show off something she’d made at school. What had it been again, a drawing, a figurine? It must have had something to do with the upcoming celebrations, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it had been. Memory could be funny like that, losing certain details while bringing other, seemingly more insignificant ones into stark relief.

She braced herself as she looked down at the little figure unlocking the door (how proud she had been when her parents had let her have her own key!); the dream usually went one of two ways at this point. The door swung open easily – no ponderous creaking, a good sign – and the little girl and the young woman both stepped into the sun-filled hallway. What came next?

“I’m home!” yelled the little girl, unceremoniously dumping her kit in a heap by the stairs and kicked off her shoes. She didn’t seem particularly put out when she received no response, and instead continued onwards to the kitchen. She fetched a fresh loaf of bread from the pantry, and with a look of immense concentration (the bread knife was, in fairness, about the size of her forearm) set about cutting herself a thick slice. Leaving her past self behind, the young woman drifted away to walk the paths of memory. She knew she had a little time before things started going wrong; she might as well enjoy it.

Not that the house had changed much in the past ten years, really. It was perhaps somewhat less cluttered than it had been back then, and there were fewer brightly coloured pictures on the walls nowadays. In her memory there were even some pennants hung inside, back when she had been young enough to get excited about the preparations, and before the whole biennial event was permanently marred by tragedy.

As if hastened by her dark thoughts, she heard approaching footsteps on the drive, followed by a key turning in the lock. “Wren, sweetheart? Are you back?” The sound of her father’s voice made the bottom drop out of her stomach and she froze in her tracks, unable to turn around. But of course, she wasn’t the Wren being addressed here.

“DAD!” came the answering yell, followed by the noise of her scrambling down from a chair and the thudding of feet as her younger self dashed to greet him. “Is mum with you? Let me show you what I did at school today!” The diminutive form skidded to a halt in the doorway, and for a split second Wren found herself looking directly at the girl she had been - crumbs around a mouth spread in a wide grin, tight curls, fingers sticky with remnants of the fruit conserve she’d had with the bread - before she felt a strong sensation of vertigo and blinked.

When her eyes opened, she was that vulnerable little girl again. The smile died on her lips as she looked at her father in front of her. Nowadays she was only a couple of inches shorter than him, but in this dream she was seeing him as the towering figure he must have seemed back then. Even still, he was nothing like his usual self. His broad shoulders, usually set straight, sagged, and his eyes, red from tears, were devoid of their usual playfulness. It was the first time she had ever seen him look so vulnerable.

She took a hesitant step forward. “...Dad? ...What is it?” He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, shook his head and looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. The colour seemed to seep from their surroundings, and perhaps at the time the sun had in fact dipped behind a cloud - who could say? Her father broke the stillness of the scene by sweeping forward and enveloping her in his arms. They stood like that for a little while, her little figure trembling, his closeness both reassuring and foreboding. Eventually he pulled away and crouched down to look her directly in the eye, his face grave.

“Sweetheart, I’m afraid I’ve got some terrible news about your mother…”

*

Wren lay unmoving in her bed for a little while after waking, before the characteristic call of the bird she was named for caused her to open her eyes, swing her legs to the side and sit up. ‘Just like clockwork,’ she thought, absentmindedly brushing a hand across both eyes and wiping it on the sheets.

The day had only just broken, and the beginning of the sun’s gradual climb suffused the dawn sky with pink. Despite it being early morning it was already pleasantly warm; if the breeze didn’t pick up there was a chance it might grow too hot. Wren made her way to her washroom and splashed some water on her face, then headed down the stairs.

Sparring - Original Writing (excerpt)

2015 - original writing excerpt

Here's some of what I wrote in January. It's pretty clunky and I'm not really confident I'll keep it at all, let alone as Chapter 1, but I'm just kinda glad to be past it. 2000 words or so.

*

It was approaching evening, though the midsummer sun still hung high in the sky. It beat down on the almost empty courtyard of the police headquarters, its sole occupant a young woman training against a target. Sounds from the city were faintly audible, carried on the wind, but it was evident that she was completely oblivious to everything but the exercise she was concentrating on. She wore a simple short-sleeved tunic and close-fitted breeches with thick hide boots, and in her left hand she held a lacquered baton of burnished hardwood. It was around two feet in length, with a strap at one end and a side-handle set a little ways up from it. Off to one side lay a studded leather jerkin she had carelessly discarded before starting her workout.

She had been drilling intensely for almost ten minutes, carrying out the movements with the brisk, efficient air of deep familiarity. The courtyard offered little shade; beads of sweat flew from her as she smoothly cycled through a variety of movements against the training dummy, striking heavy blows directed at locations that would disarm or disable a living, breathing target. She finished her set with an attack to the dummy’s head that reverberated through its entire frame, releasing a satisfying grunt of exertion as she did so. Routine finished, she exhaled and relaxed, tucked the baton into its sheath on her belt and wiped away some sweat from her face.

She made her way over to a water pump situated off to her right, primed it and promptly stuck her head under the ensuing stream. The water was closer to lukewarm than cool, coming as it did from an underground reservoir fed directly by the river, but it was nevertheless refreshing against her skin. Sufficiently cooled, she straightened up, dried her face on her tunic and ran a hand through her hair, brushing water out of the tight curls.

She was just making her way back to pick up the jerkin from where she’d left it on the ground when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The courtyard was located towards the rear of the building where there was little traffic outside of training times, so it was always easy to hear people coming. Her hand idly lowered to rest on her baton, more through force of habit than anything else.

When the approaching figure rounded the corner and stepped out into the light she snapped to attention, her hand immediately falling away as the chief of police came in to view. He was a broad-chested, middle-aged man; the burdens of his position were evident in the worry lines on his face and the amount of grey in his hair, yet despite that there was a welcoming air about him. Unlike her, he was wearing the full uniform, which constituted a deep navy jacket bearing the insignia of the Memoria Constabulary and epaulettes displaying his rank.

He caught her eye and a smile spread across his face, and he made a gesture that was half salute, half easy dismissal.

‘I thought I might find you here. At ease, sergeant.’ She returned the gesture and grinned back at him.

‘Hey chief, you were looking for me?’

‘Yeah, I thought we might head back together for a change. It’s too damn hot in my office, I’d rather finish my work in the comfort of my study. I checked your office first; when I saw that you hadn’t left yet it made sense to look here next.’

‘It’s always a treat to see the chief of police display the brilliant deductive reasoning that got him to where he is today,’ she said dryly.

     

Seeing them together, the family connection would have been obvious to anyone. Being in each other’s presence seemed to invigorate them both; the chief was more energetic, and she seemed more relaxed. There was the distinct impression that together they could take on anything.

'You're lucky I'm off duty, brat. What were you up to anyway, just going through the motions?’

‘Yeah; I was only going to take inventory, but one thing led to another...’ She shrugged, and then shot him a sly look and inclined her head towards where the equipment was stored. ‘Actually, seeing as you’re here, do you want to spar? Just a quick best of three!’

Her father laughed and shook his head. ‘Honestly Wren, you’re incorrigible.’

‘Oh, come on! Besides, you missed last week; you owe me.’

‘True enough. I suppose I have been letting work get in the way of training...’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Fine, we might as well get a couple of rounds in.’

Wren cheered as he strode into the courtyard, shrugging off his coat and draping it neatly across a railing, and followed behind him as he made his way towards the equipment racks. If they were going to spar then she would need a shield, something she’d eschewed against an opponent that couldn’t fight back.

The police in Memoria favoured two different types of shield. One was large and rectangular; it protected most of the body and was adept and stopping crossbow bolts and pushing back against crowds. The other was a small, circular variant of folded metal. It had a convex surface that a gifted combatant could use to turn away blades, making it invaluable in a mêlée. Wren immediately gravitated towards the latter, but her father paused thoughtfully before choosing his. Owing to his greater bulk he found it no great handicap to manoeuvre with a tower shield, and it suited the more defensive approach that he often adopted. Still, he was no slouch with either; after all, he had been the one to instruct her in the use.

‘Ah, what the hell,’ he said, picking up a round shield. ‘Let’s live dangerously.’

They made their way back to the centre of the courtyard, and then squared off facing one another ten paces apart. While her father stretched, Wren sucked in a deep breath to steady herself and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. The ground was hard packed earth, compacted over the years by thousands of recruits carrying out countless tough drills given to them by tougher sergeants. She had been in both of those positions, and yet none of it compared to sparring with her father. He had been training her ever since she had first expressed her desire to join the force, testing her combat skills almost every week since she had turned sixteen.

Across from her, the chief unsheathed his baton and raised it in his typical salute, to which she followed suit. She took him in, curious about his choice of shield; his stance was relaxed, almost aloof, with his weapon arm slightly out in front and the shield covering his centre. Years of experience had taught her to underestimate him at her peril – while she could usually take a round or two, and she’d started winning every so often, it was far from a common occurrence.

He stood motionless, anticipating her approach. She sucked in another breath, took a few steps towards him to close the distance, then lunged forward in attack. Her first move was a feint towards his left side to test what he would do; he stepped out of her range and made no further move that would have allowed an opening. She continued to press him as he avoided her every attack, until a thrust directed at his throat forced him to bring his shield up to block it. The sound that rang out as her weapon connected was like a gong signalling that warm-up was over.

He immediately shifted into high gear to counter-attack, relentlessly sending blow after blow her way and leaving her no room to retaliate. The repeated impacts on her shield sent jarring shocks through her arm, and she realised that she wouldn’t be able to weather it for long without her arm going numb. She gathered her strength, bracing herself, and when the next attack came, put all her weight behind her shield and shoved.

Despite her regular training and athletic build, under normal circumstances Wren would have been hard pressed to shift her father’s stocky frame. She had caught him by surprise however, and thrown him off balance. Capitalising on the opening she’d just created, Wren stepped forward using the momentum from her shove, and twisted around bringing her baton in a backhanded arc aimed at her father’s ribs. He brought down his own baton to meet the blow, parrying it awkwardly, but she had anticipated this and aimed a kick at his knee even as their weapons met. He dropped to one knee to take the hit, and with a deft flourish she switched to her baton’s side grip and swung in the direction of his lowered head in the same movement that she had been practicing just a short time earlier.

She executed it swiftly, but not swiftly enough. Her father hadn’t simply dropped to one knee, but instead had continued forward into a roll, causing her swing to go wide. Realising that she’d left herself open Wren tried to re-centre herself, but her father swept her feet out from under her and within moments had her pinned to the ground, his baton at her throat.

‘Yield?’ he asked, a smile playing about his lips.

‘I yield,’ she agreed with a sigh. He let her go, and she grasped his proffered arm and let him haul her back to her feet.

‘You reacted well there,’ he remarked with a smile. ‘You didn’t pull any punches either, good.’

‘You were one step ahead of me the whole time, weren’t you?’

‘Well yes, that was the point. It’s easy to predict what someone’s going to do when you back them into a corner and limit their options.’

Wren frowned. Whenever they sparred the first point was always the most hotly contested, and she hated losing it because it inevitably led to a sermon along these lines. It also meant that he would do pretty much the same thing the next round to give her a chance at figuring out where she went wrong. It was such a dad move to pull, and she knew that at least part of the reason he did it was because of how much it wound her up.

True to form, the second round went in much the same way as the first. This time round Wren was able to better exploit the gaps in his uncharacteristically aggressive style and was able to take the point. Her heart wasn’t in it however, and he cleaned up the final round. Frustrated with herself, she bowed stiffly, then yanked the shield off her arm and started towards the equipment storage before she could get another talking to. Her father jogged up and fell into step next to her.

‘You know,’ he said, his tone gently chiding, ‘it was your idea for us to spar in the first place.’

He was right, of course. She was 21, and a sergeant at that; she couldn’t keep acting like a child forever. She stopped and turned to face him, apologetic. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just... if that had been a real fight, there wouldn’t have been a round two or three, would there? You don’t get second chances out in the field.’

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ‘You’d be surprised. It’s not always as simple as that, and sometimes you don’t have the luxury of giving up.’ She met his gaze, but didn’t say anything. 

‘There’s more to it, isn’t there? Were you really just letting off steam earlier, or do you have something on your mind?’

‘What? No!’ said Wren, then hesitated. ‘Well, maybe. We can talk at home later, I guess.’

‘Why not now?’

‘I want out of this shirt before it starts to smell, for one,’ she said, getting a laugh out of him.

‘Fair point, I could do with a change myself. You sure you’re okay?’

‘Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll swing by your office once I’m done.’

*

This was a bit of an agonising hump to get over, followed by... another agonising hump. Writing is hard.

Breathless - Original Writing

2014 - excerpt

As always, he rang the doorbell in their distinct five push pattern before slotting in his key and opening the door. The familiar mess greeted him on the other side, with his sister sat on the sofa in the middle of it all like a queen atop her throne of junk. She grinned up at him.

'Sup?'

He sighed. 'Would it kill you to at least try and keep this place tidy while I'm gone?' he asked, picking his way across the minefield of strewn clothes and dirty dishes to deposit the groceries on top of the kitchenette counter.

'I would, you know, but I'm just so busy with all this stuff I have going on...'

'Oh yeah?' he said, unpacking the bags and putting the contents into the fridge and various cupboards. 'Like what, exactly?'

'You know, all that stuff... Learning Braille, keeping up with my studies and whatnot. Takes up a lot of my time!'

'Oh please,' he said, closing the last cupboard to punctuate his point, 'you've got nothing but time.' There was no venom in his words though; they went through this same song and dance at least twice a week. He made his way over to the couch, plopped down beside her with an 'Oof' and closed his eyes.

'Hard day at work?' she inquired.

As per usual. How about you?'

She shrugged. 'Same as ever. Bit more Braille, a few more practice papers. I've got them down so hard I could probably ace the exams with my eyes closed.'

He half-opened one eye and peered at her, grinning. 'Bet you've been waiting all day to use that one, huh?' She stuck out her tongue and punched him on the arm, eliciting a chuckle from him. 'You heard about the plans to scrap the current exam system though?'

'God, yeah, what's that all about? If they change the syllabus before I can-'

She was interrupted by a knock on the door, causing them both to freeze momentarily. They exchanged a glance, then he pushed himself up out of the chair and walked over to the door. He sucked in a deep breath before opening it... to come face to face with his landlord. The breath whooshed out of him.

'Hey Alan, what can I do for you? Rent isn't due for another week or two, is it?'

'Oh no, no, nothing like that. I was just passing by, thought I heard you talking to someone. You've not got anyone in there with you, do you?'

He stood aside to give Alan a good view of the empty room, making a vague sweeping gesture as he did so.

'As you can see, no one here but me. I was just chatting to my sister over the net though, that might have been it? I tend to crank the volume up a lot, sorry about that.'

The older man took the gesture as an invitation and strode in, peering around suspiciously. He waited patiently at the door until Alan was apparently satisfied.

'Yeah, well... keep the volume down in future, will you? And remember, flat rules stat e you need to keep the place in a good state, not just that you can't have any visitors after seven.' He made a distasteful face as he stepped over some of the detritus.

He rubbed the back of his head, every picture of the apologetic tenant. 'Yeah, sorry about the mess. I let it get a bit out of hand what with trying to balance school and work, I'll spruce the place up over the weekend.'

'See that you do.' Alan paused again as he made to leave, his eye caught on something. He followed his gaze and almost burst out laughing - his sister had somehow managed to leave one of her bras draped over one of the light fixtures - but he managed to turn it into a cough and a sheepish smile.

'Fashion design, you know... very spontaneous at times.'

'...Right. Just...  keep what I said in mind, yeah?'

'Yup, will do.' He ushered his landlord out, and - politely but firmly - shut the door after him. When the footsteps had faded, he let out a sigh of relief and made his way back to the sofa.

'Man, what is his problem?' said his sister, appearing beside him and picking her laptop up from where she'd left it. He shrugged.

'Dude's just trying to protect his investment, I can respect that.'

'Whatever, guy is a total creep anyway. I bet he was just lurking in the hallway with his ear pressed up against the door trying to catch you out.

'Yeah well, it's tough finding places that let you pay in cash. Worth putting up with the occasional eccentricity.'

'The last place was better though. I managed to convince that landlord I was a ghost by staying in his peripheral vision whenever he came round.

Her brother laughed at that, which promptly turned into a yawn.

'Damn, I'm knackered. Think I might turn in, you okay for making dinner?'

'Cooking isn't the problem; it's the cleaning up afterwards.'

'Hah, true,' he said, getting up and stretching. 'Aite, I'm off to bed. Maybe with all this exhaustion I'll actually manage to sleep through the whole night.'

'I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you.' He raised an eyebrow at that, and she grinned at him. 'Okay, that one I've been waiting all day to use.'

*

He was by a lake, in a large clearing surrounded by tall, deciduous trees. The grass smelt sweet and fresh, and the sunlight sparkled off the clear blue water. There was a small wooden jetty just off to his right; he walked down it, boards creaking under him. When he got to the end he dipped his feet into the lake, relishing the feeling of the cool water and its contrast with the sun above. he watched the waves ripple out, then closed his eyes and lay back.

After a little while, he realised that there was someone else there with him. He turned and saw a beautiful woman standing at the foot of the jetty. She was dressed in an elaborate kimono, and had a fan not quite covering her coy smile. There was something inexplicably enticing about her, and before he realised what he was doing he'd gotten up and taken several steps towards her.

'Wait,' he thought, struggling to regain control of his thoughts, 'this isn't right...'

The instant that thought formed in his mind, his surroundings immediately changed. The sun disappeared, the clear blue water turned black as night and the temperature dropped precipitously, causing him to shiver. He turned back to the woman and found that she had progressed several paces down the jetty, but he hadn't heard it creak underneath her steps. he took an involuntary step backwards, and her smile grew wider. Too wide.

With every step she took (and he could now see that she floated imperceptibly above the ground, rather than directly on it), he took one back, until there was nowhere left to retreat. There was nothing left for it; he'd have to charge past her. the thought of doing so made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his stomach turn, and this must have been reflected in his eyes as her smile grew ever wider. She opened her mouth and he caught sight of her teeth - beautifully white and incredibly sharp.

'Why are you running from me? Didn't you promise to join me?' Now she too was changing - the bright colours of her fine garments fading and growing waterlogged, her long straight hair growing tangled and matted, dark marks appearing across her skin and her fingernails - but still her smile kept growing ever wider.

When she extended an arm out towards him, something inside him broke. Deciding he'd be safer in the glassy waters, he turned and dived into the lake. Immediately it felt as if there were hands grasping around him, pulling him down, down down...

*

He fell with a thud out of the bed, a messy tangle of arms, duvet and pillow. Swearing softly under his breath, he dragged himself off the floor and into the sitting room. his sister waved to him with a lopsided grin, and he returned both the smile and the wave.

'How long did I manage this time?' She checked her watch.

'Wow, three hours, forty three minutes! That might actually be a new record, congrats!'

'Woo. Maybe I'll be able to hit a whole 5 hours by the time the year's over!' He regretted the quip the second it left his lips, and the lack of a response from the sofa pretty much confirmed it. He changed gears a little. 'How about you? You manage to get any sleep?'

His sister shook her head. 'Nah, I don't really sleep at night anymore. Too many... it's just easier during the day, y'know?' He nodded his agreement. 'I don't know why you do it.'

He shrugged, heading over to the kettle and boiling some water. 'I sleep when I can, yeah? Night shifts have their own share of terrors, after all.' He made two mugs of coffee and brought them over to his sister.

'Cheers.'

'No worries. Hey, you okay?'

He took a good look at her; she'd drawn her knees up to her chest, and it occurred to him just how young she was. 'C'mon, talk to me,.'

'It's just...' she trailed off, then shook her head and continued in a voice barely above a whisper, 'I really miss mum and dad, you know? Do you really think that... that we might really be stuck like this for another year?' She was visibly trembling now, the spoon in her mug clinking against the sides. He pulled her into a tight hug.

Morning Star

Prologue

Captain Inver of the ‘The Serene’ made his way slowly across her deck, his head kept low to defend against the worst of the wind and spray. The combination stung the unprotected parts of his face, but his parka kept him mostly dry and his beard kept him warm. It wasn’t a particularly severe storm – he’d experienced far worse in his long career – but he still offered up a quick prayer. A single harrowing night at sea was enough to make any man god-fearing, and you quickly learned to be thankful for small mercies.

‘Hah, try telling that to that lot down below,’ he thought to himself, furrowing his brow. As shipmaster, he far too often found himself playing babysitter to the First Class passengers, obliged to listen to their petty squabbles. Whenever it got a little too hard to bear he made his excuses and escaped to the deck, secure in the knowledge that none would follow him out in this weather. Fortunately they were approaching their destination and would be off his ship within a few hours, though doubtless there’d be someone ready to complain about the night-time arrival. ‘Bunch of miserable whingers.’

These days, it seemed like everyone wanted to go to Armoroad. It’d long been a major commercial centre, but with the advent of intercontinental travel via ocean liners such as his it had become a dream destination for thousands of young people who flocked there in their droves, looking to make their fortune or find adventure.

The poor fools, he thought, shaking his head. Of course, the sad reality of it all was that precious few managed to find anything but trouble, with the vast majority falling prey to the many unscrupulous and unsavoury types eager to exploit them. With their funds dwindling, the desperate immigrants often found themselves with no recourse but to turn to crime, perpetuating the cycle. After all, who better to lure in an unsuspecting newcomer to the land than a native from his own country?

Inver stroked his chin through his beard. The Serene was a good sized vessel, capable of housing 1800 or so passengers; of that number a little under half would be in Third Class, perhaps with big ideas about returning in First someday. He shook his head again to dispel the thoughts. He’d not come out to dwell on things out of his control, after all.

He made his way towards the prow of his ship and gazed out ahead, watching as the lights of the city slowly came into view. Off in the distance a lighthouse shone, guiding his craft and any other ships around safely to berth. The waters around Armoroad were notoriously treacherous, with many an inexperienced navigator often coming a cropper on the myriad concealed rocks. The many caves surrounding the cliffs were also infamous for being home to a great many smugglers, who made up the other half of Armoroad’s seedy underbelly.

The sheer number of caves made effective policing impossible, which meant that they had free reign to wreak havoc on the prices of legitimate goods such as the ones in his hold. Even if they’d had the manpower, Armoroad’s criminal element was so entrenched and influential that any politician who wished to remain strongly supported tended to downplay the problem... but there he went again, thinking about problems that weren’t his own.

Little by little, the storm began to recede. Keeping one hand on the rail to steady himself, he reached down inside his parka’s inside pocket and after a few moments fumbling with the detritus inside, he withdrew his cigar case. It had been a gift from his son who’d joked that “It should stop mum from tossing them out!” Joke or not, it had done exactly that. Smiling at the memory he removed one of the metal cylinders it held, tipped a cigar out of it, then replaced it and the case inside the pocket. He handled the cigar delicately, running his fingers along the dark wrapper. It was beautifully hand-rolled, with long filler leaves and an exquisitely sweet blend. Each set cost a significant chunk of his pay packet, which was probably the real reason his wife was so against them. He glanced around furtively at the thought of her, then immediately chastised himself. It wasn’t as if she was around to–

“Oh dear Captain, sneaking a smoke? Your wife isn’t going to be very happy!”

Inver gave a start and turned round to see who’d spoken, visibly relaxing when he realised who it was.  The approaching figure was wearing a long dark coat with the collars turned up, hiding his face, but from the effortlessly confident way he carried himself Inver could tell it was Lucien Bale, one of his first class passengers. Ironically enough, the gentleman was actually the cause of many of his woes; much of the harassment he received from certain “influential” women was due to them asking after him so that they might introduce their daughters.

Inver didn’t hold it against the lad though – in fact, he’d quite taken a liking to him, chiefly because he seldom asked for anything and always laughed apologetically whenever the captain played messenger boy for him. He perpetually had a faint smile on his face, as if he didn’t really take the world too seriously. 

 “Yes, well, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” said Inver, grinning sheepishly around the cigar he’d popped into his mouth after cutting off the cap. It was true though; he carried a packet of mints expressly so she wouldn’t find out. “Anyways, you shouldn’t go around sneaking up on your elders like that lad, nearly gave me a heart attack.’

“Oh please, you’re twice as robust as anyone else on this boat – your lovely wife excepted of course.” Lucien pulled to a stop next to the captain, rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers, then jammed them into his pockets. He leant casually against the rail, facing the interior of the ship. “To tell you the truth, I’ve grown a little bored of their company.” 

Inver nodded while trying to light a match. “Aye, I hear that. Bunch of ingrates, always going on about their trials and tribula – Damn it all, why won’t these blasted things LIGHT?” Inver flung the third unsuccessful match to the deck, eliciting a small chuckle from his companion.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he offered, rising. He flicked his wrist in an impossibly fluid motion too fast for Inver’s eyes to follow; at the end of it Lucien was holding out a lit match towards him. Inver bent his head forward gratefully, rotating the cigar to get an even burn.  He took a drag and exhaled through his nose, savouring the smell. A deeply satisfied smile spread across his face as he returned to his position looking towards Armoroad, resting his elbows lightly on the rail.

“Ah, that’s the ticket! Wife can’t stand the things, says they’re going to drive me into an early grave.”

Lucien shook the flame out and casually flicked the match out into the waves, then went back to his position next to the captain. “Even so, a man’s got to have a little fun in his life, eh? Another name for a man with no vices is a bore, I always say. ”

Inver nodded his assent. “Well said lad! S’no way for a man to act, sneaking around in these ungodly conditions trying to enjoy a decent smoke.” He took another deep pull and sighed happily. “Hell of a trick by the way, with the match. That one of those sulphur-coated ones you can strike anywhere?”

“Ah, something like that. Just a little parlour trick I picked up on my travels I suppose,” said Lucien.

 “This your first time visiting Armoroad then?”

“No, but I haven’t been in a very long time,” came the reply. Inver glanced over to his companion and chuckled inwardly; the young man couldn’t have been much older than 30. Still, he remembered how he’d perceived time when he’d been that young – every year had seemed an age.

“Well, odds are it’s not changed much since then.”

“Mmm, and I’ve found that people are much the same everywhere you go.”

“Hah, too right. You visiting family there?”

Lucien made a face. “I’m afraid I don’t really get on that well with my family,” he confessed. “They’re all rather too severe and devout for my tastes; we’ve had something of a falling out because of it.”

Inver could sympathise. ‘It’s been a while since I heard from Thomas, come to think of it. Perhaps I should write, see how he’s doing,’ he mused. Aloud, he said “That’s family for you. Still, nothing wrong with a bit of piety.”

Lucien laughed aloud at that. “That’s one thing I can safely say I’ve never taken to excess!”

“Well,” asked the captain, “if you’re not here to visit family, what brings you here?”

Lucien winked and gave a crooked smile. “Business and pleasure; what other reasons are there?”

The captain gave a hearty laugh at hearing the young man echo exactly what he had been musing earlier. It was comforting to have the assurance that at least one of the youngsters would be able to succeed. Just then the ship suddenly lurched to portside, almost jarring the cigar out of his hand and into the briny deep. Lucien regained his balance just as quickly as the captain, his impressive sea-legs lending credence to the fact that he travelled a lot.

“What the hell are those blithering idiots playing at?” growled Inver, upset at almost losing his cigar.

“Trouble at the bridge?” suggested Lucien. The captain frowned; he and his crew had made the journey dozens of times before and they were still too far out besides, but there was the chance that something unexpected could happen.

“Hrm, there might be. You’ll have to excuse me I’m afraid, best I check up on them.”

 “Of course, don’t let me keep you. I’d have had to head back down sooner or later anyway; I’d promised both Mrs Camersham and Madame Beaumont that I’d consider joining them and their families for dinner upon disembarking. With any luck they’ll have fought it out amongst themselves by now.” He pulled out a watch while saying this, making to check how long he’d been away. Inver had been making to head off, but stopped and gave a low whistle when he saw it, problems momentarily forgotten.

“Hell of a timepiece you got there, must have cost a bundle!”

“Oh, this thing?” asked Lucien, putting it back in his pocket almost carelessly. “It’s nothing special. I daresay you’d be able to get one as nice with some cigar money. Ones those fine must have cost you an arm and a leg.”

“Hah, don’t you go listening to everything my wife says! At any rate, I’ll leave you to your philandering. Try to wait a few hours before causing mayhem with the debutantes, eh?”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything,” said Lucien, grinning wickedly. With that, he gave a cheerful over the shoulder wave and headed back towards the stairs leading down to the ship’s interior. The captain smiled – he could see why the dowagers were all so keen. ‘Still,’ he thought, while the he hurried off to see just what in the blazes his crew were doing, ‘I can’t say I’d trust him with any daughter of mine...’