Angela Slatter's Blog, page 19

A Miscellany of Death & Folly

A Miscellany of Death & Folly is now available to order!

… An entertainment including works from some of the finest authors of the weird and morbid working today: A collection of admirable knick-knacks and curios, fictions, non-fictions, poems, for your amusement.

It isn’t intended to depress or distress, to trigger or traumatize. It doesn’t condone ghoulish, maudlin or destructive attitudes. It simply is… A dismal, witty, pretty, weird trifle of a thing on which, dear reader, I hope you enjoy passing a little time in the run of this absurd, overlighted dream we call human life.

The full table of contents is as follows:

THE BONE-CAGE BLUES by Cate Gardner

THE CRYPT OF YEDDI GUMBAZ by Albert Power

DEATH HAIKUS by David Yates

SZÉKELY’S LAST PLATE by D.P. Watt

TARTINI’S FINAL DREAM by Chris Kelso

DEATH AND THE BALLADRESS by Adam Bolivar

THE PROMISE OF SAINTS by Angela Slatter

GENTILE FANCIULLACCI PASOLINI by Paul StJohn Mackintosh

DARKNESS by Ismael Espinosa (translated by George Berguño)

DEATH BECOMES HER by Icy Sedgwick

ANODYNE SOLUTIONS by Kaaron Warren

ALL THE WILD ANIMALS by Brendan Connell

A MONUMENT by Adriana Díaz Enciso

PROFIT AND LOSS by Hayden Peters

BLACKHEARTS AND SORROWSONG by Suzanne J. Willis

EDWIN’S CURSE by Kayleigh Marie Edwards

The book is a lithographically printed, 250 page sewn hardback with colour endpapers; limited to just 300 copies.

For more details and to order visit: http://www.egaeuspress.com/Death_&_Folly.html

For a Halloween Snack

Stephen J. Clark’s “Homunculus”

Here’s my short story “Sourdough” …

Sourdough

by Angela Slatter

My father did not know that my mother knew about his other wives, but she did.

It didn’t seem to bother her, perhaps because, of them all, she had the greater independence and a measure of prosperity that was all her own. Perhaps that’s why he loved her best. Mother baked very fine bread, black and brown for the poor and shining white for the affluent. We were by no means rich, but we had more than those around us, and there was enough money spare for occasional gifts: a book for George, a toy train for Artor, and a thin silver ring for me, engraved with flowers and vines.

The sight of other children in other squares, with Father’s uniquely gleaming red hair, did not bother Mother at all. After he died, I think she found it comforting, to be reminded of him by all those bright little heads.

Our home was in one of the squares at the edge of the merchants’ quarter – the town was divided into ‘quarters’ that weren’t really quarters. Seen from above, the town.

It was a large square, made up of groups of much smaller squares (tall houses built around a common courtyard); in the centre of the town was the Cathedral, high up on a hill, then spreading around it in an orderly fashion were rows and rows of city blocks, the richest ones nearest the Cathedral, then the further out you got, the poorer the blocks. We sat just before the poorest houses, not quite good enough to be in the middle of the merchants’ rows, but still not in among the places were rats shared cradles with babies. We had several large rooms mid-way up one of the tall houses, and Mother leased out the big ground-floor kitchen for her business.

From the time I could walk I would follow Mother around the kitchen, learning her art. For a while she was simply annoyed by my constant presence, as I got under foot, but when I learnt to sit on the bench next to the huge wooden table on which she kneaded the bread, and be quiet, she decided to share her knowledge. I was her firstborn, after all, and her only daughter.

When I could see over the top of the table, I started to help her. Baking tiny child’s loaves at first for practice, much to Mother’s amusement, then making the dark, ‘poor’ bread for those who could not afford refined flour. Finally, I was allowed to create white bread to grace the tables of the rich: those born to wealth and knowing nothing else, the higher merchants, the bishop and his like. I began to create complicated twists of dough to look like artworks. At first Mother laughed, but the orders kept coming for them, so she watched and imitated me.

One morning, after we’d finished baking for the day, I began to play with the leftover dough on the board in front of me. Soon a child formed, a baby perfectly copied to the life, with tiny hands and feet, an angel’s smile and a sculpted lick of hair on its forehead.

Mother came up behind me and stared. She reached past me and squashed her fists down on the dough-child, pushing and kneading until it was once again a featureless lump.

‘Never do that. Never make an image of a person or a child. They bring bad luck, Emmeline, or things you don’t want. We don’t need any of that.’

I should have remembered the dough-child, but memory is a traitor to good sense.

#

There was to be a wedding, arranged, a fine society ‘do’ and we were to supply the bread.

The parents of the groom – or rather, his mother – insisted on being involved in every decision pertaining to the wedding, so there was a power struggle in train between her and the bride’s mother (two titans in boned bodices). Things were getting tense, apparently – this information we had from Madame Fifine (about as French as Yorkshire pudding), the confectioner who was to supply the bonbons for the wedding feast. We were to appear at the groom’s parents’ house, goods in tow, to show our wares.

Mother and I tidied ourselves as well as we could, pulling flour-free dresses from chests and piling our hair high. Artor and George were press-ganged into carrying the wooden trays of our finest white breads to the big house near the Cathedral. We were shown into a drawing room almost as big as our ground-floor kitchen.

As soon as the boys gingerly laid the trays on the big table, Mother shooed them out. I knew they’d be in the stableyard, bumming cigarillos from the stable and kitchen lads, eyeing the horses longingly, waiting for the day when Mother could afford a horse and carriage (that day was a long way off, but they hoped the proceeds from the wedding would speed up the process).

The drawing room was awash with boredom. The parents sat stiffly across from each other on heavily embroidered chairs whose legs were so finely carved it seemed that they should not be able to support the weight of anyone, let alone these four who almost dripped with the fat of their prosperity. The bride, conversely, was thin as a twig, nervous and sallow, but pretty, with darting dark eyes and tightly pulled hair sitting in a thick, dark red bun at the base of her neck. The groom did not face the room: he had removed himself to the large French window and was staring at the courtyard below (probably watching my brothers watching his horses). He had dark hair, curly, that kissed the collar of his jacket, and he was tall but that was all I could tell. Madame Fifine had said he was called Peregrine.

Mother nodded to me and I took the first loaf from one of the trays, showed it to the clients so they could observe its clever shape (a church bell with bows), then placed it on a platter and cut six slices for them to taste. The two mothers, the two fathers, the bride all took their slices and the room was silent but for their well-bred chewing. I crossed the room and offered the groom the last slice. He didn’t turn, merely raised his hand in a ‘no’ and shook his head. I noticed his hand bore the stain of a port-wine birthmark.

‘It would be a shame, sir, to waste something so fine.’

Perhaps struck by the fact that I spoke to him, he looked at me and broke into a smile.

‘Yes. You’re right. It would be a shame.’ He took the bread, green eyes bright. ‘What hair you have, miss.’

I blushed.

‘Emmeline.’ Mother called me and I began my task over again: now the loaf shaped like a flower, now the one like an angel, now all the animal shapes (rabbits, doves, kittens, a horse), the one like a church. Each time I saved his slice until last and we spoke in low voices, he asked me about my life and laughed at my pert answers. When the tasting was finished, the mothers began to argue; the design to choose was the cause of combat. Finally, they turned to the girl, Sylvia, and made her decide. She had the look of a trapped animal and I felt sorry for her.

‘Perhaps…’ I began and all eyes turned to me, the mothers’ brimming with affront, the fathers’ with boredom, the groom’s with amusement, my own mother’s with something like dread, and the bride’s with hope of rescue. ‘Perhaps Miss Sylvia has a favourite animal or flower. We could make the bread to her choice if she does not like what we have brought today.’

‘A fox!’ she cried, clapping her hands to her mouth as if she had said something a-wrong or too bold. I smiled and she said more firmly. ‘Yes, a fox. That would please me.’

‘As you wish, Miss Sylvia.’ Mother’s voice was a relieved breeze. ‘My Emmeline can make anything with her hands; she has great skill.’

So it was settled. The bride had spoken, and defied both her mother and future mother-in-law. Mother and I hefted the wooden trays scattered with the remains of butchered loaves and made for the door. The groom was there before the footman and ushered us through. He smiled and I felt as warm as bread fresh from the oven.

#

In the months before the wedding he came to me many times.

The first time I was alone in the kitchen – Mother was ill, spending half her time sleeping the other half shouting delirious orders (which I ignored) from her bed. Artor and George took turns delivering the bread and sitting by her side, while I kept the kitchen running.

I dropped the tray when I saw him at the door. I was covered in flour, my hair covered by a scarf, and barefoot because I loved the feel of the kitchen flags cool and covered with a light dusting of flour. He laughed and held out the largest bunch of flowers I had ever seen. I examined it as he picked up the fallen tray and placed it on one of the benches. This was no posy picked from the fields outside the town, these were exotic blooms, blossoms grown in hothouses and afforded only by the rich.

‘Hello, Miss Emmeline. Are you baking for my wedding yet?’

‘That’s months off, young sir, as you well know. How would it look to serve stale bread at your wedding feast?’

‘It would be appropriate, more appropriate than you know. My fox bride might even tell you that herself, if she were truthful.’ He touched one of the florid roses in the bouquet and smiled. ‘Do you like these?

‘They are very fine, sir. Fit for your bride.’

‘But I think you will like them best.’

‘Yes.’

We did nothing more, that first time, than talk. Subsequent times were very different, but that first visit, I think, made us friends and stood us in good stead. He brought gifts, even though I told him not to; something for me always, sometimes things for Mother and the boys. Artor and George, hostile and suspicious at first, were won over when he brought the horses. Two of the finest creatures I’ve ever seen, with a red-gold fleck to their coats and white stars on their foreheads. Peregrine told me later that their colouring reminded him of our bright hair. The most beautiful thing he gave me was a ring, rose-gold with a square-cut emerald.

‘A dangerous stone,’ I told him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘An emerald will crack, if given by a lover whose heart is unfaithful,’ I replied. He laughed and dragged me down.

‘Yours will be safe.’

I had no expectation of marriage – I was friend and mistress. He would marry his fox bride, as he called Sylvia, and I knew it. I only expected constancy and for many months I had it.

When my belly began to swell, he laughed with delight, his fingers lightly dancing over my taut skin, stroking the curls at the apex of my thighs, and gently showing me how pleased he was at what we had made together. I thought then, briefly, of the dough-child, but put it from my mind.

One day, a fortnight before his wedding, he ceased to visit. Instead, the fox bride came one morning as I kneaded dough in the kitchen.

She was different to the nervous girl I had met months ago. She eyed the kitchen – and me – with disdain, as if she might somehow find some uncleanness clinging to her silken skirts from the mere proximity of such a place and personage. I put my hands to my stomach. She snorted, a brief, sharp laugh that cut.

‘You will not have him anymore,’ she said. ‘He will be my husband.’

‘You do not love him,’ I replied. It had not occurred to me that the fox bride would not share.

‘But I want this marriage. I want to be away from my parents. I want to be mistress of my own house. But if he keeps running to you, keeps loving you more and more then he may decide not to marry me.’ She glared. ‘I will not allow that to happen.’

‘Stay away from here. Stay away from me. I will tell him.’

‘He does not remember you.’ She laughed, came close, and showed her sharp white teeth in a smile. ‘Why do you think he isn’t here? With his love, watching what he’s planted grow? You’re not the only one who can make things; potions are more powerful than bread, little Emmeline.’

Her hand shot out and she laid her palm against my belly. I moved back, almost falling over an uneven flag. ‘Watch nothing goes into your food, Emmeline. You wouldn’t want to lose this last piece of Peregrine.’

I heard her laughter even as she walked down the street. I thought only to run to Peregrine, but my nose began to bleed and my belly contracted so hard that I did fall this time, and mercifully found the dark balm of sleep.

#

Their wedding day dawned grey and overcast as summer slipped into autumn. The weather kept all but the most enthusiastic of wedding goers at home – the old women who wait outside the church, knitting and yammering, commenting on all aspects of the event: how the bride looked, how well her dress suited (or not), if she was glowing and if so, why (honeymoon baby, my sainted aunt!), and how long the marriage would last.

It was with these ancient birds that I waited on the first day I had managed to leave my bed.

The child had come too soon, a little boy, looking not unlike the dough-child, and leaving me bereft. Mother had barely left my side, worrying that I would not speak, would not touch the still little body before she took it away. Artor and George brought me posies but they only made me cry. I missed the brief funeral that was held for my son, confined to bed by a bleeding the sad, gentle little doctor could not stop. Mother brought an old woman one night who gave me something foul to drink and applied a sweet-smelling poultice of moss between my legs. My body started to repair itself then.

Mother told me that the boys had tried to speak to Peregrine; he had simply looked at them in bewilderment, saying he did not know who they were. They had hidden the horses he had given them in a stable at the outer edges of town, in case someone accused them of theft. Mother had presented herself at the big house, ostensibly to discuss the wedding bread, and Peregrine simply looked through her. She felt that she must be a ghost, so empty was his face. The old woman who had tended to me told her there were things that could bewitch a man’s mind and make him forget his dearest desire.

The fox bride was more than she seemed.

I watched her as she left the Cathedral on her husband’s arm. I would have let her have this; it had never been my intent to take it from her, but she had stolen my lover and my child was dead. She stepped into a puddle of mud as she headed toward the carriage, and shrieked her distaste as her silk shoes and white lace hem turned the colour of dirty chocolate. I smiled in spite of myself and slid the hood from my head, my bright hair shining out in the dimness of the day. Peregrine looked up from his wife’s distress and saw me. His face twisted, distracted and uncertain, but he did not know me. His attention turned back to his bride and I slipped away before she could see me and triumph.

In my kitchen, I found the remnants of the wedding bread dough and began to sculpt another dough-child. I fashioned it as cunningly as the first but this time with intent and not a little malice. Such magic requires only intent and ill-will but no great skill.

I drew from my finger the ring Peregrine had given me. The emerald gleamed at me, intact, unbroken; his heart was never unfaithful, only his memory. The ring was pushed into the dough-child’s belly. I made a bellybutton to cover its ingress.

When it came from the oven, it had a fine golden crust and looked like a cherub. I delivered it to the cook at the house the newlyweds were to share; she was a friend of Mother’s and took the dough-child gladly.

‘Tell them it’s for fertility, to bless them with a child.’

She nodded. ‘They shall have it for supper this very eve, Emmeline.’

#

He told me later how the dough-child had been served to them on a silver tray, with butter and a selection of jams. Sylvia had ooh-ed and aah-ed over the silly little thing and happily cut herself a thick slice, slathering it with sugary conserve. Peregrine ate the bread dry and unadorned. When the sourdough touched his tongue his memory returned.

The fox bride continued to eat as he railed at her. She greedily chewed and swallowed great bites of bread, laughing at his rage and talking around her food, telling him she would do it again, too. Then she began to choke. Her face went red, then blue around the lips as she struggled to draw in air. She pointed at her throat, threw things at him as he stood, staring in horror. When she was finally still, he called for a doctor.

The little doctor, the one who had attended me so unsuccessfully, found the emerald ring lodged in her throat. He, I’m sure, recognised it and placed it in Peregrine’s hand, closing the young widower’s fingers around the piece of jewellery. ‘Someone will be looking for that, young man.’

I no longer wear it very often, knowing what I did with it, although I do bring it out now and then to remind myself of his constant heart. We live in another house, as far away from his parents as he could get, but still in one of the nicer squares. My mother runs her business out of a real shop not far from us, and has two young girls apprenticed to her.

‘They don’t have your touch, Emmeline,’ she sometimes says but she knows why I will no longer bake, why my hands will never again knead dough. She is happy, for she knows her grandchild comes. I am content to visit the small grave where my first child lies. I speak with him often and tell him about his father and sister, who comes to us soon. I tell him I am sorry I could not protect him and that I will never forget him. My memory is true.

###

“Sourdough” first appeared in Strange Tales II, (Rosalie Parker, ed.) Tartarus Press, December 2007, then again in Sourdough and Other Stories, Tartarus Press, 2010.

A MISCELLANY OF DEATH & FOLLY

A MISCELLANY OF DEATH & FOLLY will be available to order on November 2nd, Dia De Los Muertos (The Day of The Dead). I’m absolutely delighted to have a story in this book – Egaeus produces such exquisite collector’s editions!

A frivolous little volume, it will feature all manner of literary delights from:

Cate Gardner

Albert Power

David Yates

D.P. Watt

Chris Kelso

Adam Bolivar

Ismael Espinosa (translated by George Berguño)

Icy Sedgwick

Kaaron Warren

Angela Slatter

Paul StJohn Mackintosh

Leena Likitalo

Brendan Connell

Adriana Díaz Enciso

Hayden Peters

Suzanne J. Willis

Kayleigh Marie Edwards

More details will be announced in due course.

Heading into Halloween 2019

If it’s the second year you do it, it’s totally a tradition, right?

So, as I did last year, here are links to all my spooky stories that you can read online for free. They’re not all nice, so be warned. Most are witchy or witch-adjacent

This year’s additions (1. I do like cats, they just did not fare well in this story; 2. Muy Gothic; 3. Ah, yeah, blood porridge):

Wilderling

The Heart is a Mirror for Sinners

The Red Forest

And here are last year’s posts:

Post the First

Post the Second

Post the Third

Happy Book Birthday, Hex Life!

As it’s already October 1st in Australia, Hex Life is having its birthday! Edited by the fab Christopher Golden and equally fab Rachel Autumn Deering, this magnificent tome contains WICKED NEW TALES OF WITCHERY! Go! Buy! Read! Pick yours up at your favorite bookseller.

Oh, hey, I’m ToC buds with Helen Marshall again! Hi, Helen.

Ania Ahlborn

Kelley Armstrong

Amber Benson

Chesya Burke

Rachel Caine

Kristin Dearborn

Rachel Autumn Deering

Tananarive Due

Theodora Goss

Kat Howard

Alma Katsu

Sherrilyn Kenyon

Sarah Langan

Helen Marshall

Jennifer McMahon

Hillary Monahan

Mary SanGiovanni

Angela Slatter

New Two-Book Deal!

Art by Kathleen Jennings

I’m absolutely delighted to say that, thanks to the excellent work of my beloved agent Meg Davis (Ki Agency), I’ve signed a two-book deal with Cath Trechman of Titan Books.

The novel currently known as Blackwater will be published in 2021 and the novel currently known as Morwood will be published in 2020. Both books are gothic fantasies set in the same universe as the Sourdough and Bitterwood mosaic collections, the novella Of Sorrow and Such, and the upcoming The Tallow-Wife and Other Tales mosaic.

More details (like covers) as they come to hand.

Dilatando Mentes

I’m absolutely delighted to say that Sourdough and Other Stories will be translated into Spanish by the lovely folks at Dilatando Mentes (“Expanding Minds”) Editorial! Sourdough will be published in Spanish in 2021, and gradually all my other single author collections as well.

This is the gorgeous English language version published by the wonderful Tartarus Press in 2010.

Morwood

I’ve hit the halfway point on my new novel, Morwood, so I thought I’d share the first chapter and the piece of art that inspired the story. This painting is by Ruth Sanderson and I first saw it at WFC in Washington in 2014, I think. 

Morwood

by Angela Slatter

Chapter One

My previous three weeks had featured a long series of carriages; conveyances of varied age, cleanliness and distinction, much like my fellow passengers. From Whitebarrow to Briarton, from Lelant’s Bridge to Angharad’s Breach, from decaying Lodellan where fires still smouldered to Cwen’s Ruin, from Bellsholm to Ceridwen’s Landing, and all the tiny loveless places in between. A circuitous route, certainly, but then I have my reasons. And this afternoon, the very last of those carriages finally deposited me at my goal before trundling off to the village of Morwood Tarn.

Or rather, at the gateway to my goal, and there now remains a rather longer walk than I would have wished at such a late hour and with such luggage as I carry. Yet, having waited with some foolish hope for someone to come collect me, in the end I accept that I’ve no better choice than shanks’ pony. My steamer case I push beneath some bushes just inside the tall black iron gates with the curlicued M at their apex (as if anyone might wander past and take it into their heads to rifle through my meagre possessions). The satchel with my notebooks is draped across my back, and the carpet bag with its preciously cargo I carry in one hand, then the other for it weighs more than is comfortable. I’m heartily sick of hefting it, but remain careful as always, solicitous of the thing that has kept me going for two years (some before that, if I am to be honest).

The rough and rutted track leads off between trees, oak and yew and ash, so tall and old that they meet above me in a canopy. I might have appreciated their beauty more if it had been earlier in the day, had there been more light, had it been summer rather than autumn, and had my coat been of better quality. And certainly if I’d not, soon after setting off deeper into the estate, begun to hear noises in the undergrowth by the side of the drive.

I do not walk faster, though it almost kills me to maintain the same steady pace. I do not call out in fear, demanding to know who is there. I do, however, pat the deep right-hand pocket of my skirt to make sure the long knife is there. I have walked enough darkened streets in dreadful towns to know that fear will kill you faster than a blade to the gut or a garrotte to the throat.

Whatever it is has stealth, but somehow I sense it makes just enough noise on purpose that I might be aware of its presence. Occasional snuffles and wuffles that must seem quite benign, but which are not when their source is defiantly out of sight. Some moments I catch a scent on the breeze, a musky rich odour like an animal given to feeding on young meat and sleeping in dens, and that threatens to turn my belly to water. I lift my chin as if the sky is not darkening with storm clouds, as if I am not being stalked, as if my heart is not pounding so hard anyone within a mile of me can hear it. But I keep my steady, steady pace.

At last, I step out from beneath the twisting, turning canopied road and get my first sight of the manor house spread out before me. I pause on the gravel drive and stare, despite the knowledge that something remains behind me, somewhere in the trees. I take a deep breath, give a sigh I didn’t know was waiting in me.

It might have appeared quite simple, the structure, if approached from the front: almost slender-looking, two storeys of pale grey almost silver stone and an attic, but I’m coming at it on an angle and can see that the manor is deeper than it is wide. It digs back into the landscape and I wonder how many rooms there might be. There are banks of diamond-paned windows of coloured glass: a strange and expensive adornment. Whatever candles are lit inside on this drear day make the windows glow, an eldritch rainbow; I was not expecting that. In front are flowering tiered gardens, three, leading up to ten steps and a small porch, and thence to a door of honey-coloured wood set beneath a pointed stone arch. A duck pond lies to the left, and to the right flows a stream, too broad too jump but too narrow to count as a river. I wonder if it ever floods.

Lighting flashes, great white streaks of fire casting themselves across the vault of the world.

Behind the house itself is a smallish building, charcoal coloured, of such a size as might contain four rooms. It has a tall chimney, and I can make out a lightning rod affixed there too. I wonder at that, but am more hopeful it might be to my advantage. A waterwheel is attached to the side, fed by the not-quite-stream-not-quite-river, yet the place does not appear to be a mill.

Once again, the lightning flashes, in quick succession striking the ground in two places in front of me, and hitting a third time on an old yew tree not far away. It stands on its own, a lone sentinel by the side of the drive, and it burns so quickly that I’m astonished rather than afraid.  I’d stay to watch, too, except the heavens open at last and thick angry drops fall hard and inescapable. In spite of everything, I smile: the storms of the region will serve me well. From the undergrowth behind me there comes a definite growl, all trace of sneakery and concealment gone.

Finally, I run.

I leave the drive, which meanders back forth down a gentle slope to the manor house, and take the shortest route over the rolling lawn. The journey would have been less fraught had I not been concerned with rolling an ankle and clutching the carpet bag so tightly that my ribs bruised against its contents. I arrive at the entrance no less wet than if I’d simply strolled. My progress has obviously been noted as the door is pulled open before I set foot on the first step.

Inside that door, a blaze of light and a tall man waiting there, attired in black, a long pale face, and thinning blond hair scraped back over his scalp. For all his skeletal demeanour he wears a gentle smile and his eyes, deep-set, are kind. His hands are raised, gesturing for me to hurry, hurry.

Just before I enter beneath the archway, I glance over my shoulder, at the lawn and gardens across which I’ve come. Lightning flares yet again and illuminates the grounds, silvering a strange hunched silhouette back up on the curve of the drive, and I think of … something. Something large but of indeterminate shape, something I cannot quite place, nor does its colour even remain in my memory; there’s only the recollection of red eyes. Resolute though shivering with more than cold, I cross the threshold.

The entry hall is surprisingly small, not grand at all, but well-lit; a silken rug like a field of flowers takes up part of the floor space and I make a point not to step on it with my muddy shoes. There are small pieces of furniture, plain occasional tables, a single cherry wood chair, an umbrella stand hollowed from a sparkling rock of some sort, a rosewood hallstand bearing scarves and a parasol, but little else. Closed doors with ornate knobs lead left and right. The burnished staircase to the upper levels is quite narrow, its carved newel posts are the heads of girls with nascent antlers on their foreheads; on the landing partway up there’s an enormous stained-glass window.

‘Miss Todd,’ said the man with certainty; no surprise, really, unless the Hall is frequented by random young women on a daily basis. He waves his hands as if doing so might squeeze the moisture from my thin jacket and thick skirts. I catch sight of my reflection in the enormous mirror that is the centrepiece of the hallstand. My tiny green silk hat appears to have melted, and I can feel the extra weight of the rain in the thick braided bun of my mousy hair. It will take hours to dry. My face is pale and I appear ghostly, although I’ve never felt so triumphant in my life. I glance away before I can examine too closely the look in my own eyes, and blink, hold the closure for a few moments to compose myself so the man cannot see inside me either.

‘Yes,’ I say and it feels not enough. ‘I’m Asher Todd.’

‘I am Burdon. We did not expect you until tomorrow, my dear Miss Todd.’ His hands clasp together like penitent wings. ‘I do apologise, we’d have had Eli meet you with the caleche. Although given the current weather perhaps the caleche would not have offered much protection.’

‘Ah, the walk was refreshing, Mr Burdon, I’ve been trapped in coaches and carriages for days’ ? weeks ? ‘the open air did me good.’ I twist the ring on the middle finger of my right hand, which is slippery from the rain. I dab at it ineffectually with the least soaked part of my skirt, trying to make it less slippery for I cannot afford to lose it.

‘Just Burdon, Miss Todd. Well, I hope you don’t take a chill, the family would not be best pleased were you to fall ill from our neglect.’ He gives a little bow, strangely sweet. ‘Come along, I shall take you to your rooms.’ He eyes the carpet bag clutched to my side, the satchel dripping noisily on the flagstones. ‘Is that everything?’

‘Oh no. My trunk.’ I frown. ‘I left it by the gate.’

Burdon looks over my shoulder and juts his chin. I turn to see a figure stooped to pass beneath the stone arch of the door, my steamer trunk nestled on a broad shoulder as if it were no more than a box of kindling.

The figure gently puts the trunk on the fine rug as if it weren’t gushing with rain, then shakes like a dog. An oilskin cloak and a broad-brimmed hat are removed with a great cascade of droplets, and the shape resolves into a tall young man with ruddy hair, blue eyes and stubbled chin. He glances at me, then away as if I hold no interest.

‘Eli Bligh,’ he says and at first I think the use of a full name is an introduction, but no: a reprimand. ‘Mrs Charlton’ll not be pleased at that.’ Mr Burdon nods meaningfully at the small lake that has collected on the floor.

Eli shrugs. ‘To the lilac room?’

‘If you please.’

Eli hefts my trunk once more, as if it contains more burdensome than feathers, not books and boots and frocks and carefully wrapped bottles and a basalt mortar and pestle blessed by the Witches of Whitebarrow. He turns on a heel and is gone up the polished staircase before Burdon and I even take a step to follow; as he passes I catch a scent of port-wine pipe smoke and something I cannot quite place. The butler’s hand touches my shoulder but lightly, to direct me upwards.

‘It’s a good thing you got to us before evening fell, the estate can be a dangerous place for those unfamiliar with the lay of the land.’ He smiles to take away any suggestion of fear mongering. ‘I daresay you’ll be an old hand soon enough and learn our ways.’

‘Thank you, Burdon.’ Using a person’s last name thus, speaking as if he were my servant is not natural to me; it isn’t the way I was raised. ‘And the family …?’

‘At a fete in Morwood Tarn,’ he says, then glances through the great stained-glass window as we step onto the landing; closer, I can see it’s a battle scene between angels and wolves, now brilliant as the lightning sparks outside, now dull as it dies. ‘Although I daresay they’ll have taken sheltered somewhere to avoid the storm.’

‘Ah.’

‘Just between me and thee, Miss Todd, if I were you I would take the opportunity to rest this evening. You’ll be earning your coin soon enough with those three children. Time enough to meet everyone on the morrow.’ He smiles fondly to let me know they’re not entirely monsters, then the expression stales. ‘And I’ve no doubt Master Luther will put you through your paces as well.’

I look askance at him, but he merely smiles again and presses my elbow: Go left.

Up on the first floor is a small pretty room (so, no attic servants’ hideaway for me); it’s cold but there’s a hastily-lit fire fresh in the grate but no sign of who set it. . The armoire, dressing table and secretaire are all in a pale coloured wood; by the fire are an armchair and a small table with a tray on it: a bowl of steaming stew, a plate of bread, a single small cake, a glass of what looks like tokay await, and my stomach rumbles. The curtains are a washed-out purple, as are the draperies around the bed. And there is a small crystal bowl of dried lilac on the bedside table with mother-of-pearl inlay, so the air is lightly scented. My trunk is at the foot of the bed, and Eli is gone but for that hint of pipe smoke.

I enter the room but Burdon does not follow. Turning, I look at him and he bows, a sweet courtly gesture.

‘I trust  you will be comfortable here, and perhaps even happy with us.’ He smiles again. ‘Should you need anything, the cord by the fireplace will bring someone to you. Sleep well, Miss Todd.’

‘Thank you, Burdon,’ I say, thinking I won’t sleep for an age; then I glance out the windows and see that night has fallen whilst I paid no attention. I’m aware of the door closing behind him as I stare at the rain throwing itself against the glass as if it would burst into the room if it could. As I hear the click of the snib I’m overcome with exhaustion. There is an armchair by the fire and I stumble to it, a shaking overtaking my entire body and I think I will sick, right here in this pretty room. I let the carpet bag slide to the floor, there’s the gentle thud of the contents on the rug, not too much of a protest, and I slump.

After a while, the shaking subsides, the roar in my head subsides, but my stomach is still all-at-sea, so I break off a piece of bread and stuff it into my mouth like an urchin. It’s salty and sweet, and soon I’ve eaten it all too quickly. Then the stew, which is delicious, meaty and rich with red wine. The tokay and the seed cake I leave for later so as not to make myself sick.

I’m drowsing in the chair, one side of me dried by the fire, the other still sodden and cold, when there’s a knock at the door. I call out, ‘Yes?’ but there is no answer, so I heave myself upward and go to answer.

No one is there.

I step into the long corridor ? unlike the ground floor, the first is but dimly lit ? and looked left and right. Another door was open, partway along, so I tiptoed towards it. Inside there was a bathtub, clawfooted, steam rising from it.

But again, no sign of who drew it.

I shrug; I will take it.

Such a beginning is mine at Morwood Grange.

***

Repost: Your Writing is Not You – or How to Interpret/Deal with Writerly Rejections

I’ve written before about rejections and how to handle the dent they make in your self-esteem, and I think it’s advice that bears revisiting from time to time. One thing any writer needs to develop (apart from mad writing skills and the ability to respect the deadline) is a thick skin. Not everyone is going to like your writing. Some folk will love it, some will loathe it, some will feel neither here nor there about your hard-won wordage – the only thing you can control is yourself and your reaction.

The thick skin doesn’t mean that you listen to no one – after all, if someone’s correcting your spelling (and they’re correct), it’s not a matter of your artistic integrity being attacked. Be grateful and gracious, say “thank you”. Don’t be embarrassed even if the person is a bit of a douche and is trying to make you feel embarrassed – that’s their damage, not yours, their insecurity, not yours.

The thick skin means that you keep on writing even after you receive a rejection. I do know people who’ve given up after their first rejection. Don’t be one of those people. Write in spite of the rejections because you should always be writing your story – your first draft – for you. You are your first reader, your first audience member after all. We never learn anything without trying and failing – the greatest teacher in the world is failure. Writing is hard, submitting it to another’s gaze is hard, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous editors is hard; but the important next step is to work out what went wrong. One of the ways you can do this is to read your rejections. Now some writers will laugh and call this “rejectomancy”: a form of scrying as dodgy as peering at the entrails of pigeons, but really there are genuine lessons to be taken away.

So I give you, the Hierarchy of Rejections.

The Bad Rejection

The bad rejection can be a sign of a few things. You’ve sent your sexy nurse story to a gardening magazine. This is also a lesson to research markets and read submission guidelines very carefully. Chances are you may well get a bad rejection from an overworked, underpaid, very tired and impatient editor.

Or it is possible the editor is simply not accepting any more submissions, or stories of a particular type. You might have missed the deadline. There’s also the possibility that your story sucked. It might be a mostly invitation-only anthology with just a few open sub spots, which means you’re competing against a lot of other writers (please note: this is not a reason not to try – by all means submit, it’s good practice and editors may well start to remember your name in a positive fashion).

No rejection should ever say “Please hand in your pencil/pen/quill/stylus/laptop at the door and never, ever write again”, but the sad fact is that sometimes the bad rejection may well be rude or mean. Maybe you got someone on a bad day – you didn’t do anything wrong, you just got caught in the jet stream of an editor’s bad mood (donut shipment didn’t arrive; failure of a project; pet death, etc – you don’t know what’s happening in other people’s lives, so keep a little perspective); or the intern who’s doing the slush reading has an agenda. I once got a rejection letter from the editor of a leading spec-fic magazine that did not mention my story at all, but did offer quite a lot of personal abuse because I had provided an email address for notification of rejection/acceptance in order to save trees. This editor was so moved/offended/drunk that he typed this rejection letter personally, used his own envelope, schlepped to the post office, paid for the stamps himself, and roundly abused me for forcing him to do this. Have I ever submitted to that magazine again? Will I ever submit there again? If asked/begged for a story by that magazine will I ever say “Yes”? The answer to all three questions starts with an N.

The Fair to Middling Rejection

This is your standard “thanks but no thanks” letter. It doesn’t say you’re a bad writer. It just says not this story, not now. Maybe not ever. Maybe you’ve chosen the wrong market. Maybe you need to revisit the story and do a bit of flensing. Maybe it was just not quite right. And once again, some of the reasons listed in the bad rejection section may apply. But do not be downhearted, do not vow never to submit that magazine again. Keep trying.

The Hopeful Rejection

This is the letter that is almost the same as the fair to middling rejection, except in it an editor asks if you’ll consider re-working the story, with no guarantee of acceptance. Depending on the extent of the re-writes, give it some thought. Work out if the time investment is worth it for the pay day, and for the time it will take away from working on other stories. And consider whether this re-working can be a good learning experience for you in terms of craft and editing.

The Best Rejection of All

This is the gold standard of rejection letters, the one that says “Okay, not this story, but please send another.” What this means is “This particular story is not for us, but we like your style and ability so much that we want to see something else from you – yes, you! Yes, this is an invitation to YOU. And you know what? This shows we have noticed your work; we will remember your name and, with any luck, you will now get out of the slush pile a little faster.” These are all good things, dear reader-writer; these are not cause for depression. I have known some writers to get a rejection like this and think “Well, that’s a total rejection.” No, it’s not. The door has not merely been left open, but someone has also made cookies and the beverage of your choice.

In Conclusion

Don’t just accept one rejection and assume that’s it for your writing career – your skin cannot be that thin, your ego that fragile. How many rejections are too many? How long is a piece of string? If a tree falls in the forest does anyone hear it? These are questions with either no answer or an infinite variety of answers, all of which may be right, wrong or a little of both.

How much persistence do you have? Because the best friend of talent is persistence. Personally, I give a story twenty rejections – it’s an arbitrarily chosen number. It gives me time to get a story across a variety of markets. If it gets the boot from all twenty then I look at re-writing or re-purposing the story. Sometimes the rejection letters help with this because sometimes you get that rarest of things: the rejection letter with feedback telling you why the story was not right for them. These are rare because editors of magazines, journals, anthologies, etc, don’t generally have time to provide feedback on every story they get. Nor should they have to do so. You want feedback? Join a writing group.

The main thing to remember is this: your writing is not you. At the beginning of your career especially, a rejection feels like someone saying your baby is ugly. You may well be tempted to wander around the house doing an Agnes Skinner impersonation: “A dagger! A dagger through my heart!” The greatest danger is reading a rejection letter and only picking out the negative bits and then translating that negative part into self-loathing – “I’m a bad writer! My stories suck! I’ll never make it! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Okay, you get to do this for fifteen minutes – time yourself, then move on. Do it in the privacy of your own home; do not howl online. Then return to writing. Send the story straight back out.

And a golden rule? Do not reply to a rejection unless it is to say “Thank you for taking the time to consider my work.” “Thank you” goes a long, long way. Don’t argue with the rejection. Don’t try to get the editor to reconsider. Don’t write back rejecting the rejection. Don’t blog about the rejection, naming and vilifying the editor – if you’re going to do that, then just save some time and shoot yourself in the foot right now (off you go, we’ll wait). Take Neil Gaiman’s advice. My favourite part is “The best reaction to a rejection slip is a sort of wild-eyed madness, an evil grin, and sitting yourself in front of the keyboard muttering “Okay, you bastards. Try rejecting this!” and then writing something so unbelievably brilliant that all other writers will disembowel themselves with their pens upon reading it, because there’s nothing left to write.”

Remember that every writer at some point suffers rejection – you’re not alone. And remember that it will happen throughout your career. You will never get to a point where no one dares reject you – and you shouldn’t want to because rejections keep you sharp, keep you learning, keep you trying.

35hrs to go!

The beautiful Winter’s Tale kickstarter has 35hrs to go.

And $800 to go before it’s fully funded, so if you’ve got some spare cash …