Toby Boy's Blog: Prince of Middlemass
October 7, 2025
Halloween 2025 Adventure Part 1
Hi, do you know me? I’m Toby Boy—thriller author, online presence, and unapologetic mash-up enthusiast. It’s my rare pleasure to introduce a special Halloween adventure, starring characters from our upcoming Book 4. As fate (and the calendar) would have it, there are a handful of nights each year when two brothers set aside their differences for the sake of pure imagination. Tonight is one of those nights. So please enjoy Part 1 of *All Souls Night*.
All Souls Night
Dried blue roses were suspended in resin vases in the three corners of the parlor on the first floor of the manor. There could not be a fourth vase, because there was not a fourth corner. It was a narrow room with thick drapes like stage curtains, and behind a wooden screen stood a dumbwaiter that only arrived at the upstairs landing, and a doorway to the old dining room where a fourth corner might have been. Now the whole chamber was commandeered, turned over to private rule, and reconfigured around a large, dark-wood dining table. This too was an exact square. The table had had its legs unscrewed one by one, muscled into place with great difficulty, and then reassembled. All around were signs of long-term occupation: the curling edges of maps had been tacked to the walls, the little clay womb of a round pig sat squatly on the crowded table and promised its future promise. Every make and era of lantern had been hung from the low-hanging chandelier.
Spritely presided from the dining room’s final armchair, his stacked commonplace books arranged like a wobbly ziggurat on the cushions beside him. He held a brass twelve-sider and two ivory sixers.
—The road sloped hard downward, red mud turned dry, flaking from the wheel-well wheels of the wagons. The caravan snaked over the switchback trail. The city’s spires, drenched with morning sun, were still barely visible through the smoke-haze. Dust climbed up the calves of the escort riders. Somewhere in the high crags, a goblin whistle cracked the silence.
Farrow’s character—Maximus Lancewell, by name and by trade—charged ahead on foot. He wore a red cape gilded at the edges, a bandana knotted beneath curls that might have been called a mullet, and a trusty gladius already in hand. There was flair in his every motion that built up as he charged.
Cherie’s character was long-legged, like a gigantic doe running on the wind, her skirt short and fluttering. Her name was Freya Vanferno, with hair longer than a waterfall, trailing behind her like a comet.
Fire-darts spun their heavy tails in the air, as wagons rattled into a new velocity. Horses raised their high-pitched alarm.
Maximus Lancewell lifted his blade with panache and shouted back to the teamsters, “Run on ahead! On, and on to the city!”
Neither the drivers nor the horses asked for the message to be repeated. The caravan burst forward, hooves pounding, canvas snapping in the chaos. One driver glanced back to see the two escorts—the dashing boy and the enchanted girl—make a final stand, blades drawn, framed by the rising dust. Beyond the crest of the hill, a flank of goblins sprang up in a row. Lancewell ran through their chief with his gladius, but many more were already at hand.
The truth wore a different mask.
When the last wagon rounded the bend and the city gates groaned open to accept them, Maximus Lancewell lowered his blade and reached out a hand—not to fight, but to help the goblin rise. The creature groaned morbidly, lolling its eyes and swinging its hands limply.
“I think they’re gone by now, you scene-hog,” commented the young hero.
“How ignorant,” the goblin muttered. His face was like dried fruit in the sun. “I have been plying my craft since the olden times.”
“I told you to ham it up. Not to let loose with pyrotechnics and your squad of scarecrows,” exclaimed the hero, gesturing at the row.
“They’ll tell the story for years. Saved by heroes.” The goblin dabbed its fingertips onto the pooling jelly-jam where the gladius had pierced his shirt. He then sampled it with his tongue and decided, though it was a little tart, that it was not half-bad.
Freya Vanferno poked at the nearest goblin scarecrow with her trusty, stout wand–not much more than a child’s tunic thrown over a dress-makers rig.
The goblin finally dusted himself off and stared. Then said: “There’s no need to disguise yourself in front of us. Your bandana. Your cape. Not even your gleaming short sword. None of that is the real you, dark lord.”
Farrow bristled, wondering why a fictional character could see through his disguise. “Spritely… I mean, ‘Reader’—why does this goblin know who I am?”
Spritely raised an eyebrow and paged through his most current commonplace book. The sound of paper scraping over paper. Then he found the relevant lines. “...Goblins are named after the word ‘Gob,’ for mouth,” Spritely read, his finger tracing the spidery ink. “Goblins say things. Their aim is to talk and talk until, inevitably, they hit their mark. So either he made a guess, or heard a rumor.”
Farrow shifted forward on his cushioned stool. It squeaked softly under him, a broken whimper of upholstery. His onyx sixer lay in front of him, cold and smooth like something from an underground stream. He undulated his fingers above it, not quite touching, letting it rock back and forth. His gaze had gone unfocused, staring into somewhere past the veil.
“Your friend—Pyroclast the beastman—told us who you really are,” hissed the goblin, clicking each syllable like a predator enjoying the sound of its own teeth. “He is insane, of course. But he knows much that is hidden.”
Maximus Lancewell, put away his blade, then tilted his head. “Ah. And where is Pyroclast these days?”
“He’s gotten himself captured again,” the goblin noted with a shrug.
There were cages hanging from iron rings like long-forgotten windchimes out along the Old Telling Road. No wagon or cart went that way anymore. The cages dangled over dry ravines. No birds sang. Each cage cast a long and twitching shadow over the weeds and crumbling mile-markers. The wind made a moaning choir of the metal bars.
“I see,” said the hero. He reached for a suede pouch in his tunic and drew forth a modest handful of minor, uncut gems—cloudy citrine, greenish garnet, a flawed ruby. “I brought the usual,” he said, dropping the pouch into the goblin’s bony hands.
The goblin weighed it, then inhaled deeply through his gills or scars or whatever had once been a nose. “This is only part of the bargain,” it rasped. “Remember me the second half.”
Maximus nodded solemnly. “If, in my travels, I should meet another of your kind, I will tell them that Gob still lives in the stony hills. Find the obsidian vein and follow it for three days; down to the forgotten pools.”
The goblin’s lips parted in a terrible smile, as unto a gate of bone; a massive vault of fangs, cracked and yellowing, arranged like a mausoleum staircase. The creature was aged, beyond sentiment. “I have not seen others of my kind since I was a cub,” it said softly. “I no longer hold out much hope. But I carry on in the knowledge that—when my time comes, and I face the pillar of fire—a dark lord will stand up for me.”
Silence fell in the parlor.
Cherie broke it. “Oh,” she said brightly, with a lilt in her voice like a girl skipping past a graveyard, “he’s a sad little bumpkin after all, isn’t he, brothers?”
They arrived at a place where paths met amidst stands of sword-grass as tall as trees. In the nearest cage humming to itself, legs hanging through the bars like laundry. There sat a beastman with matted fur and wine-colored eyes. He licked his teeth and acknowledged the visitors. There was no fur on the creature's forearms or hands as if it had pulled something out of a fire. The exposed skin was bright white and engraved in patterns.
“Help,” the beastman called out mockingly. “I’ve gotten myself caught again.”
Maximus Lancewell groaned and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Pyroclast,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Cherie’s character breathed through her nose and aimed her stout brass wand toward the cage. “Better get him down before someone starts asking questions…”
The other cages creaked in the wind, and the city walls still smoked in the distance.
“Help,” the beastman called out, mockingly at first. “I’ve gotten myself caught again.”
Maximus Lancewell groaned and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Pyroclast,” he said, flatly.
Freya Vanferno exhaled and raised her stout brass wand, narrowing her eyes at the hanging cage. “Better get him down before someone starts asking questions…”
Around them, the other cages creaked softly in the wind, their occupants long vanished or remembered only in whispers. The iron rigs swayed on their chains, casting long vertical shadows across the forgotten roadside. Above distant city walls smoke from a dozen chimneys started to puff as the last meal of the day hit the skillet.
“Don’t,” Pyroclast said, suddenly serious. “Not the blaze, please. Besides, I can’t be trusted with freedom.”
He gripped the bars of his cage tightly and looked down at Maximus. “Seven leagues from here in a neighboring county, there is an estate. Something untoward is about to transpire there, and I fear for the children.”
Maximus blinked, reacting with old Pyroclast-flavored suspicion to the abrupt shift. “What does that have to do with you?”
“I remember,” Pyroclast said, before tilting into the other side of the cage and saying. “I forget.”
Freya tilted her head. “What is he talking about now?”
Pyroclast didn’t answer right away. He looked at Maximus Lancewell, and spoke with grave purpose.
“Adventurers,” he said. “We have accomplished much together. My warnings have never led you astray.”
The wind stirred. The cage gave a low creak of fatigued metal.
Pyroclast looked down at his hands—his claws—and tested to see if they still obeyed him. He paused, as though he meant to say more. But the silence lingered longer than his breath, and he bowed his head. He looked out past the hills, toward the low line of trees that bordered a neighboring estate. “We are asking… for help.”
“You accept?” Spritely asked in his capacity as Reader. “But this is a dangerous quest. You will need more players if you hope to survive.”
All Souls Night
Dried blue roses were suspended in resin vases in the three corners of the parlor on the first floor of the manor. There could not be a fourth vase, because there was not a fourth corner. It was a narrow room with thick drapes like stage curtains, and behind a wooden screen stood a dumbwaiter that only arrived at the upstairs landing, and a doorway to the old dining room where a fourth corner might have been. Now the whole chamber was commandeered, turned over to private rule, and reconfigured around a large, dark-wood dining table. This too was an exact square. The table had had its legs unscrewed one by one, muscled into place with great difficulty, and then reassembled. All around were signs of long-term occupation: the curling edges of maps had been tacked to the walls, the little clay womb of a round pig sat squatly on the crowded table and promised its future promise. Every make and era of lantern had been hung from the low-hanging chandelier.
Spritely presided from the dining room’s final armchair, his stacked commonplace books arranged like a wobbly ziggurat on the cushions beside him. He held a brass twelve-sider and two ivory sixers.
—The road sloped hard downward, red mud turned dry, flaking from the wheel-well wheels of the wagons. The caravan snaked over the switchback trail. The city’s spires, drenched with morning sun, were still barely visible through the smoke-haze. Dust climbed up the calves of the escort riders. Somewhere in the high crags, a goblin whistle cracked the silence.
Farrow’s character—Maximus Lancewell, by name and by trade—charged ahead on foot. He wore a red cape gilded at the edges, a bandana knotted beneath curls that might have been called a mullet, and a trusty gladius already in hand. There was flair in his every motion that built up as he charged.
Cherie’s character was long-legged, like a gigantic doe running on the wind, her skirt short and fluttering. Her name was Freya Vanferno, with hair longer than a waterfall, trailing behind her like a comet.
Fire-darts spun their heavy tails in the air, as wagons rattled into a new velocity. Horses raised their high-pitched alarm.
Maximus Lancewell lifted his blade with panache and shouted back to the teamsters, “Run on ahead! On, and on to the city!”
Neither the drivers nor the horses asked for the message to be repeated. The caravan burst forward, hooves pounding, canvas snapping in the chaos. One driver glanced back to see the two escorts—the dashing boy and the enchanted girl—make a final stand, blades drawn, framed by the rising dust. Beyond the crest of the hill, a flank of goblins sprang up in a row. Lancewell ran through their chief with his gladius, but many more were already at hand.
The truth wore a different mask.
When the last wagon rounded the bend and the city gates groaned open to accept them, Maximus Lancewell lowered his blade and reached out a hand—not to fight, but to help the goblin rise. The creature groaned morbidly, lolling its eyes and swinging its hands limply.
“I think they’re gone by now, you scene-hog,” commented the young hero.
“How ignorant,” the goblin muttered. His face was like dried fruit in the sun. “I have been plying my craft since the olden times.”
“I told you to ham it up. Not to let loose with pyrotechnics and your squad of scarecrows,” exclaimed the hero, gesturing at the row.
“They’ll tell the story for years. Saved by heroes.” The goblin dabbed its fingertips onto the pooling jelly-jam where the gladius had pierced his shirt. He then sampled it with his tongue and decided, though it was a little tart, that it was not half-bad.
Freya Vanferno poked at the nearest goblin scarecrow with her trusty, stout wand–not much more than a child’s tunic thrown over a dress-makers rig.
The goblin finally dusted himself off and stared. Then said: “There’s no need to disguise yourself in front of us. Your bandana. Your cape. Not even your gleaming short sword. None of that is the real you, dark lord.”
Farrow bristled, wondering why a fictional character could see through his disguise. “Spritely… I mean, ‘Reader’—why does this goblin know who I am?”
Spritely raised an eyebrow and paged through his most current commonplace book. The sound of paper scraping over paper. Then he found the relevant lines. “...Goblins are named after the word ‘Gob,’ for mouth,” Spritely read, his finger tracing the spidery ink. “Goblins say things. Their aim is to talk and talk until, inevitably, they hit their mark. So either he made a guess, or heard a rumor.”
Farrow shifted forward on his cushioned stool. It squeaked softly under him, a broken whimper of upholstery. His onyx sixer lay in front of him, cold and smooth like something from an underground stream. He undulated his fingers above it, not quite touching, letting it rock back and forth. His gaze had gone unfocused, staring into somewhere past the veil.
“Your friend—Pyroclast the beastman—told us who you really are,” hissed the goblin, clicking each syllable like a predator enjoying the sound of its own teeth. “He is insane, of course. But he knows much that is hidden.”
Maximus Lancewell, put away his blade, then tilted his head. “Ah. And where is Pyroclast these days?”
“He’s gotten himself captured again,” the goblin noted with a shrug.
There were cages hanging from iron rings like long-forgotten windchimes out along the Old Telling Road. No wagon or cart went that way anymore. The cages dangled over dry ravines. No birds sang. Each cage cast a long and twitching shadow over the weeds and crumbling mile-markers. The wind made a moaning choir of the metal bars.
“I see,” said the hero. He reached for a suede pouch in his tunic and drew forth a modest handful of minor, uncut gems—cloudy citrine, greenish garnet, a flawed ruby. “I brought the usual,” he said, dropping the pouch into the goblin’s bony hands.
The goblin weighed it, then inhaled deeply through his gills or scars or whatever had once been a nose. “This is only part of the bargain,” it rasped. “Remember me the second half.”
Maximus nodded solemnly. “If, in my travels, I should meet another of your kind, I will tell them that Gob still lives in the stony hills. Find the obsidian vein and follow it for three days; down to the forgotten pools.”
The goblin’s lips parted in a terrible smile, as unto a gate of bone; a massive vault of fangs, cracked and yellowing, arranged like a mausoleum staircase. The creature was aged, beyond sentiment. “I have not seen others of my kind since I was a cub,” it said softly. “I no longer hold out much hope. But I carry on in the knowledge that—when my time comes, and I face the pillar of fire—a dark lord will stand up for me.”
Silence fell in the parlor.
Cherie broke it. “Oh,” she said brightly, with a lilt in her voice like a girl skipping past a graveyard, “he’s a sad little bumpkin after all, isn’t he, brothers?”
They arrived at a place where paths met amidst stands of sword-grass as tall as trees. In the nearest cage humming to itself, legs hanging through the bars like laundry. There sat a beastman with matted fur and wine-colored eyes. He licked his teeth and acknowledged the visitors. There was no fur on the creature's forearms or hands as if it had pulled something out of a fire. The exposed skin was bright white and engraved in patterns.
“Help,” the beastman called out mockingly. “I’ve gotten myself caught again.”
Maximus Lancewell groaned and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Pyroclast,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Cherie’s character breathed through her nose and aimed her stout brass wand toward the cage. “Better get him down before someone starts asking questions…”
The other cages creaked in the wind, and the city walls still smoked in the distance.
“Help,” the beastman called out, mockingly at first. “I’ve gotten myself caught again.”
Maximus Lancewell groaned and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Pyroclast,” he said, flatly.
Freya Vanferno exhaled and raised her stout brass wand, narrowing her eyes at the hanging cage. “Better get him down before someone starts asking questions…”
Around them, the other cages creaked softly in the wind, their occupants long vanished or remembered only in whispers. The iron rigs swayed on their chains, casting long vertical shadows across the forgotten roadside. Above distant city walls smoke from a dozen chimneys started to puff as the last meal of the day hit the skillet.
“Don’t,” Pyroclast said, suddenly serious. “Not the blaze, please. Besides, I can’t be trusted with freedom.”
He gripped the bars of his cage tightly and looked down at Maximus. “Seven leagues from here in a neighboring county, there is an estate. Something untoward is about to transpire there, and I fear for the children.”
Maximus blinked, reacting with old Pyroclast-flavored suspicion to the abrupt shift. “What does that have to do with you?”
“I remember,” Pyroclast said, before tilting into the other side of the cage and saying. “I forget.”
Freya tilted her head. “What is he talking about now?”
Pyroclast didn’t answer right away. He looked at Maximus Lancewell, and spoke with grave purpose.
“Adventurers,” he said. “We have accomplished much together. My warnings have never led you astray.”
The wind stirred. The cage gave a low creak of fatigued metal.
Pyroclast looked down at his hands—his claws—and tested to see if they still obeyed him. He paused, as though he meant to say more. But the silence lingered longer than his breath, and he bowed his head. He looked out past the hills, toward the low line of trees that bordered a neighboring estate. “We are asking… for help.”
“You accept?” Spritely asked in his capacity as Reader. “But this is a dangerous quest. You will need more players if you hope to survive.”
September 15, 2025
🎉 State of the Giveaway – Shipping Has Begun!
A big thank you to all 3,000+ readers who entered the King of Middlemass giveaway — we’re so thrilled by the response! Congratulations again to our winners! ✨📚
We’ve officially shipped our first two deluxe boxes, packed with care and curated surprises to help you feel like you really won something. Keep an eye on this post — we’ll edit it each time we ship a new package, so you can follow along.
📦 First Recipients: September 15
Claire from New York 🗽
Caleb from Illinois 😉
📦 Second Wave: September 17
Alandrea from Virginia
Shelly from Pennsylvania
Vernon from Michigan
📦 Third Wave: September 22
Empress from Texas
Melissa from Texas
Julie from California
Samantha from Montana
Jordan from Oregon
📦 Fourth Wave: October 14
Megan from North Carolina
Lisa from Georgia
Jennifer from Tennessee
Emily from Illinois
Jacqueline from Montana
Thank you for joining us on this journey. More boxes are on the way soon!
— Toby Boy
Middlemass Press
We’ve officially shipped our first two deluxe boxes, packed with care and curated surprises to help you feel like you really won something. Keep an eye on this post — we’ll edit it each time we ship a new package, so you can follow along.
📦 First Recipients: September 15
Claire from New York 🗽
Caleb from Illinois 😉
📦 Second Wave: September 17
Alandrea from Virginia
Shelly from Pennsylvania
Vernon from Michigan
📦 Third Wave: September 22
Empress from Texas
Melissa from Texas
Julie from California
Samantha from Montana
Jordan from Oregon
📦 Fourth Wave: October 14
Megan from North Carolina
Lisa from Georgia
Jennifer from Tennessee
Emily from Illinois
Jacqueline from Montana
Thank you for joining us on this journey. More boxes are on the way soon!
— Toby Boy
Middlemass Press
September 13, 2025
State of the Giveaway Part 2: Final Day w Pic
Three thousand entries? My mind is officially blown. 🎉 To celebrate the final day, I’ve posted a photo of the first two “wow-boxes” fresh off the packing table: hardback, coffee aroma already sneaking through the straw, salmon jerky, DIY title sticker, postcard all nestled together. If you’ve entered, thank you for making King of Middlemass feel truly alive; if you haven’t, there are still a few hours left to toss your name in the hat. Fingers crossed, and with warm gratitude, to every reader.
August 25, 2025
Sneak peek at Don’t Scare Me (KOMM Book 2): new art reveal inside!
This is an excerpt from the upcoming book 'Don't Scare Me' (sequel to the break-out thriller, King of Middlemass). Toby Boy subject to change, all rights reserved.
KLONDIKE SWIM
Annette had once craved the intrigue and machinations of a debutante for herself. Yet it was another woman’s wish that the girl should spread her wings and fly. So it was a mean thing, after setting foot upon the road, to feel the constant cold shoulder—like a torrent borne against her. She remembered the woman’s many kindnesses, and even her well-meaning cruelties. These had shaped Annette. She imagined her mother-figure having been treated even more shabbily than she herself, and all over what? Something as coarse as money. It was times like these when Annette remembered revenge. Success would be a fine revenge—the top of the pyramid, the coldest of the cold, the cruelest of the cruel. But revenge was also revenge.
The terrace of the Providence Hotel was a stone bowl overlooking the winter strand, lined with women plucked from colonial portraiture postures rigid, faces painted with certainty, stoles of sable sweeping the flagstones. Their voices were a low hum of judgment, waiting with eyes as sharp as oyster knives.
But Annette’s arrival silenced their hum. Her gaze swept over the terrace, noting the pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before drifting to the sea-dark strand below. There he was. Next, she selected her steps—toe-heel, toe-heel—passing the brazier fires and wine-glass stares with the breezy disinterest perfected only by someone who knew precisely how much she was being watched. She stopped at the terrace’s lip. above the hotel’s east-facing foundation where gigantic castle stone met the winter mud and the mud met the sea.
She leaned scandalously over the stone fence. “Ooo,” she crooned, loud enough for anyone. “That one’s my one. Riv! Make a muscle, honey.” Below, in the bitter wind of the icy swim, Rivers stood among the pale and the persecuted—retiree torsos drawn like uncooked poultry. But Rivers, resplendent in the Riviera swimwear Annette had chosen (to break hearts, not records,) needed only to flex. His bicep wound itself up like an invitation. Light caught on his shoulder and etched geometry into his skin.
There was no mistaking whom she had meant. But even if she hadn’t said it, one would have known.
She wore a white arctic minx hat, decadent and high-crowned, like a pale blaze of cloud atop her head. Below it, a bombastic jacket in crushed rose hovered above the thigh as if cut by a seamstress with an old grudge against mortal men. Then bare, gleaming skin for winter, followed by deerskin boots, the rich color of heartwood, laced up the calves with something more than functionality in mind.
She placed a hand on her hip with the casual nonchalance of a sculptor claiming credit for a marble Adonis.
A few older matrons instinctively recoiled. One or two held their breath in genuine awe. But a chorus of mumbled disapproval rose, a venomous discord straight out of a Greek tragedy, if the chorus were harpies with powdered faces and pearl chokers.
“That’s vulgar,” hissed one, her tone low but slicing.
“She’s not even registered,” said another, her voice a scalpel cutting through the murmurs with practiced disdain.
“Those hunting leathers are not… APPropriate” murmured a third, failing to find a word that could contain Annette’s audacity.
And from the back, a voice sharp with memory: “It’s her mother all over again.”
The outrage was palpable, a current of resentment pulsing through the terrace like a storm over the sea. Annette had composed the moment deliberately, staged it with the precision of a playwright, and now it gleamed, ready to be sealed in the lacquer of her memory, forever.
It would have remained a fleeting scandal—quickly forgotten—except that the doors to the veranda groaned open again and the rumored pair arrived, trailing a social apocalypse in their wake.
Maddie and Boone stepped onto the terrace like forked thunderbolts. Maddie, her white-blonde curl pinned in an elegant chignon, wore her own crushed-rose jacket and deerskin boots, her obvious poise a ready rebuke to anyone who might stand in her way. Boone, properly groomed and statesmanlike, carried the quiet authority of his ancestry. The matrons’ gazes flickered between Annette’s brazen display and the new arrivals, their disapproval fermenting into something ugly, something that clawed at the edges of decorum itself.
Annette’s upper lip curved into a faint smile.
Rivers had placed fourth, narrowly beaten by a grandfather from the Baltic provinces whose mechanical stroke defied both age and science. By the time Rivers emerged from the surf, slow currents of white steam wisping from his shoulders, Annette was already there, hugging a towel around him like a coronation. Boone, with the polish of a burgeoning statesman, landed a boot on the stamped muddy sand. He extended a hand. "Well swum, Rivers," he said, his voice carrying that timbre, genuine in its admiration yet laced with the awareness of a wider audience. Maddie, her camera out, raised it with a quick, practiced motion and clicked—not posed, not framed, just so. The shutter's snap cut through the wind, capturing the moment: Rivers' damp hair plastered to his forehead, Annette's arm draped over his shoulder, Boone's handshake firm and fraternal. In that instant, amid the congratulations-
"Impressive endurance," Boone added;
"You looked like Poseidon out there," Maddie teased with a slow-blink.
And so, the day’s true victory was etched in the camaraderie of their little gang against the impending chill.
From up on the terrace, among the goings-on, a gray-haired woman in a fox pelt collar leaned over the stony edge. Her voice drifted down like ash. “Such a spectacle,” she said, addressing Boone alone. “But visiting hours at Providence are well over. Those not enrolled ought to be gathering themselves up.”
Annette didn’t flinch. Rivers, the surf and wind still in his ears, did not catch the insult directly, but he clocked its aim and he felt the young woman against him.
“It’s always been the policy,” another called down—a raspy man with only his forehead and eyes visible above the balustrade. “Those without membership privileges always vacate after scheduled events.”
It was true enough. The Hotel Providence was not a hotel in the common sense. It was a private club. One could not simply walk in. One had to be on the list—a list as mysterious as everything else in Roanoke. Its members paid their quarterly dues whether they stayed or not. The rooms never crowded, the staff never hurried, and their silence was as dependable as a wine cellar.
And then: the page-boy. A slight figure in brassy shoes, he picked his way across the muddy strand clutching an envelope as if it were radioactive. He bowed deeply before Annette. “For Miss Annette,” he murmured.
She took it and cracked the seal, her eyes scanning the parchment. “I think it’s an invitation,” she whispered, pulling Rivers close.
Boone cleared his throat the way men do when they’ve decided not to interrupt, and then interrupted. “Just a moment, if you please,” he called, too formal to fight and too vague to obey.
Above, the matrons bristled. Below, Annette refused to yield.
The murmurs swelled again. “The policy stands,” snapped the fox-pelted woman. “Non-members must depart—now.”
Boone looked to Rivers for an out. Rivers only shrugged. “We think it’s an invitation.”
Maddie sidled in on Annette’s other side. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Annette’s eyes widened. “Oh, Riv! I think this must be from Bee. You see? Beatrice Francesca.”
Rivers could not remember who Beatrice Francesca was. But he recognized a coup when he saw one.
The terrace tribunals simmered. “We really would prefer not to call the usher,” said the fox-pelted woman, in a tone suggesting she very much hoped that someone else would.
“It sets the wrong precedent,” muttered the papery man.
Maddie stepped forward, plucked the envelope, and scanned it. “Oh. Darling, it’s gold.” She handed it back like a birthright. “It’s a gold invitation, Annette. It’s the kind they send when they want everyone to see who got it.”
The terrace hushed.
Still, the page-boy lingered.
Spotting him, Annette added, “Accommodation is now… how you say—expected and required.”
Rivers gestured at his Italian swim trunks. “These don’t really have pockets,” he explained. “Design-wise.”
Miss Maddie shrugged. Boone was only too happy to intervene. To grasp hands.
Annette held the envelope aloft. “Upstairs,” she announced for all the bastards in all the cheap seats to hear, “I’ve been invited upstairs.”
Upstairs
The penthouse suite of the Providence Hotel was an empty cathedral—an interior of impossible scale and solemnity. The ceiling rose in a black dome ribbed with ironwork, more like an observatory turned inward than anything meant for hospitality. The marble floor gleamed under the flickering firelight, save for a single, unrolled Persian carpet—worn thin at its center—upon which stood a tall, high-backed chair of carved elm, tufted in oxblood velvet. A wide, open-mouthed hearth dominated the far wall, its brick maw lined with wrought-iron spikes that jutted upward like broken teeth. From within, a fire cracked and danced, casting spasms of orange light across the domed ceiling as if to animate the room in breathing shadows.
In the chair sat a diminutive girl—no more than fifteen by appearance, though her posture made her older. Blonde ringlets fell perfectly down the sides of her face, unmussed and deliberate, framing a countenance that seemed both childlike and etched. She was dressed as if for a holiday excursion in another century: a gray traveling coat cut short to accommodate lace cuffs, black stockings, and a miniature top hat fixed with ribbon beneath her chin, the kind of affectation one might see in a painting, or an inherited photograph no one ever explains. She balanced on her knees a leather-bound tome the size of a butcher’s ledger.
Somewhere a door opened with a hush and a click. “Hello?” called Annette, her voice softened by the enormous silence. The door closed again with a finality not unlike the turning of a self-locking vault.
Annette’s heeled boots tapped across the marble—steady, echoing, assured. She paced forward from the edge of the antechamber’s gloom, stepping out from behind the silhouette like an ingenue whose arrival had been much ballyhooed and tantalized over. A sliver of ashen light seeped in through a bay window, where the low winter sky pressed its remaining light against the glass in a kind of permanent winter dusk. Her white-blonde bob was unshadowed now—her extravagant hat having been removed somewhere below—and her crushed-rose jacket had been left open, revealing the pristine white of her blouse and skirt beneath. Her figure, tall, deliberate, and no longer careless was cut stark against the room’s aged grandeur.
“Bee!” she exclaimed with that old recognition as her eyes lit upon the girl in the chair.
At this, the girl snapped shut the book with both hands, the sound heavy and blunt like a closing doctrine. She slid the tome to one side and stood, though she barely reached Annette’s shoulder. Her face was pale, round, and slightly hollowed beneath the cheekbones. Whatever warmth had once lived there had been replaced by a kind of studied politeness. Annette moved in for a hug, arms outstretched with schoolgirl fondness, but the girl intercepted her with a two-handed clasp instead—both of Annette’s hands now held in both of hers, as if initiating a solemn pact.
“Beatrice Francesca,” said Annette, smiling with effort, “you look just the same as ever. Exactly the same.”
And it was true. Beatrice looked untouched by time. Not ageless—there was something too knowing in the gaze—but rather perfectly preserved, like a figure trapped in amber. Beatrice looked up at her, the way one might look up at a taller, luckier cousin. Her mouth twitched, not quite with envy, but with something adjacent. “And you, Annette,” she said, her voice sugar-dipped and very dry at the same time. “Aren’t you womanly though?”
Annette, who knew how to navigate compliments that carried knives, answered with a gentle murmur and a tilted head, smoothing the air like a ribbon drawing taut. “Your invitation came at a welcome time,” she said, letting warmth do the work of distraction. “Why did you want to see me, old girl?”
Still holding her hands, Beatrice gave a slight tremble. Her voice rose theatrically, pitched toward unseen balconies.
“Oh, Miss Annette,” she cried. “You must never forgive me. No matter what I say, you simply mustn’t.”
Annette matched the energy with dutiful sisterliness, tilting her chin and drawing a commensurate frown. “Well of course I forgive you, dear,” she said. “Now tell big sister what it’s all about.”
At that, Beatrice released her hands, turned her back, and took a few steps toward the fireplace. The firelight clung to her figure in a way that made her seem almost translucent, like a glass candle-holder. She placed her hands behind her back, composed herself, then turned again, her expression fixed. “I might as well tell you,” she said. “I already had a clatch of constables up here. Before you.”
Annette blinked.
“They came because I sent for them in a private dispatch,” Beatrice continued. “But when they heard my request, they soon discovered reasons to be elsewhere. They were my last chance, or so I thought. And then—just as I stepped onto the terrace for air—I looked down…” She paused, letting her eyes settle on the bay window as if seeing it all again. “There you were. Toweling off your hunky Mister Rivers.” She said it like a name she’d read but never spoken aloud. “And then I remembered. You both were the most recent Queen and King of Festival, is it not so?”
“Well, yes,” said Annette, suddenly remembering the consequences of Festival weekend. There had been danger, there was a fire, there was the small matter of stolen purses and commensurate documents. Annette checked her breathing and muted her expression. “But why should that matter?”
Beatrice smiled. This time it reached both of her eyes. “Because, Miss Annette,” she said, her voice soft now, almost reverent, “I am now the mistress of Solstice Court.”
Beatrice Francesca moved slowly toward the hearth again, as if the fire might illuminate her plea. The light cast up the side of her face in streaks, her childish features mottled by adult unease. She did not return to the high-back chair. She placed one gloved hand on a wrought-iron poker, leaning onto it with the tiredness of someone who had not slept.
“Miss Annette,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “do you want to hear something curious?”
Annette inclined her head. She had learned that strange girls often had strange things to say, and that most of it could be survived with charm.
Beatrice didn’t meet her eyes. She reached into a slim rectangular pocket and withdrew a small scroll bound with a lavender ribbon, slightly frayed. She thumbed her thumb against it. “A list of names was given to me,” Beatrice went on, “the lawyers compiled it. They told me to choose who I wanted, as if I would know.”
Annette raised an eyebrow.
Beatrice looked up now, eyes bright with that same theatricality from before, though now it glinted like desperation.
“One of the names was Mister Rivers. Only, he was listed as... ‘The Kid Constable.’”
Annette blinked. Her mouth parted slightly, “He does not care much for that title anymore,” she said.
“No,” Beatrice agreed. “But it’s a part of his record now. Names don’t vanish just because you want them to.” She let that hang a moment, then abruptly dropped the scroll into the fire. Her posture shifted. Her voice grew quicker. “Everything changed once they named me inheritor,” she said. “At first it was easy, telegrams or boring old letters from lawyers. But not even a week after the announcement, things began to go wrong.”
Annette deduced that this was no time to interrupt, ‘Bee’ was on a tear.
“Milk turned to cheese overnight,” Beatrice said. “I don’t mean spoiled, I mean... fully congealed. Bottles in the pantry never even opened.” She held up a finger, counting off. “Backwards writing appeared on mirrors and windows. Not once. Dozens of times. And someone stuffed the chimneys,” Beatrice added. “All of them. With acorns. Hundreds of them. When the fire was lit, it rained smoke and nutmeat and this bitter, bitter stench.”
That one caught Annette. “Acorns.” She pressed a finger to her lips. This encounter had ceased to be charming.
“When that didn't drive me out, the real dangers began. Doors that shouldn't be opened... fires that start by themselves. I’m not afraid for myself, of course,” Beatrice continued, stepping forward again. “But for the innocent people. And I have only mentioned the physical signs. There is more at work. There is always more.” She paused. Then, with exquisite slowness, she removed a single gold pin from the lapel of her coat—an enameled key, small but intricately worked—and held it out, flat in her palm. “I want to make an official request,” she said. “In the name of peace and tradition. Miss Annette. Mister Rivers. My Queen. My King. I would like you to track down the source of these disturbances. Identify it. Capture it, if you can. No, you must.”
Annette did not move to take the pin-key. She was watching Bee’s face now with studied precision.
Beatrice smiled faintly, as if that scrutiny were expected. “I will sponsor you both. Of course. You’ll be enrolled—formally—into the Providence Hotel. Membership. Keys. Quarters, if you like them. And you will be welcome guests at Solstice Court. Not as socialites. Not as spectators. As protectors. Just as it was done a century ago.”
Annette stepped slowly toward the fireplace. She stared at the flames, watching them fracture against the iron teeth of the hearth. She didn’t answer immediately. "I’ll need to smoke on it, dear," she said. But her eyes never lifted from the flames, where all the while the edges of the lavender-bound scroll blackened and curled and burned.
KLONDIKE SWIM
Annette had once craved the intrigue and machinations of a debutante for herself. Yet it was another woman’s wish that the girl should spread her wings and fly. So it was a mean thing, after setting foot upon the road, to feel the constant cold shoulder—like a torrent borne against her. She remembered the woman’s many kindnesses, and even her well-meaning cruelties. These had shaped Annette. She imagined her mother-figure having been treated even more shabbily than she herself, and all over what? Something as coarse as money. It was times like these when Annette remembered revenge. Success would be a fine revenge—the top of the pyramid, the coldest of the cold, the cruelest of the cruel. But revenge was also revenge.
The terrace of the Providence Hotel was a stone bowl overlooking the winter strand, lined with women plucked from colonial portraiture postures rigid, faces painted with certainty, stoles of sable sweeping the flagstones. Their voices were a low hum of judgment, waiting with eyes as sharp as oyster knives.
But Annette’s arrival silenced their hum. Her gaze swept over the terrace, noting the pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before drifting to the sea-dark strand below. There he was. Next, she selected her steps—toe-heel, toe-heel—passing the brazier fires and wine-glass stares with the breezy disinterest perfected only by someone who knew precisely how much she was being watched. She stopped at the terrace’s lip. above the hotel’s east-facing foundation where gigantic castle stone met the winter mud and the mud met the sea.
She leaned scandalously over the stone fence. “Ooo,” she crooned, loud enough for anyone. “That one’s my one. Riv! Make a muscle, honey.” Below, in the bitter wind of the icy swim, Rivers stood among the pale and the persecuted—retiree torsos drawn like uncooked poultry. But Rivers, resplendent in the Riviera swimwear Annette had chosen (to break hearts, not records,) needed only to flex. His bicep wound itself up like an invitation. Light caught on his shoulder and etched geometry into his skin.
There was no mistaking whom she had meant. But even if she hadn’t said it, one would have known.
She wore a white arctic minx hat, decadent and high-crowned, like a pale blaze of cloud atop her head. Below it, a bombastic jacket in crushed rose hovered above the thigh as if cut by a seamstress with an old grudge against mortal men. Then bare, gleaming skin for winter, followed by deerskin boots, the rich color of heartwood, laced up the calves with something more than functionality in mind.
She placed a hand on her hip with the casual nonchalance of a sculptor claiming credit for a marble Adonis.
A few older matrons instinctively recoiled. One or two held their breath in genuine awe. But a chorus of mumbled disapproval rose, a venomous discord straight out of a Greek tragedy, if the chorus were harpies with powdered faces and pearl chokers.
“That’s vulgar,” hissed one, her tone low but slicing.
“She’s not even registered,” said another, her voice a scalpel cutting through the murmurs with practiced disdain.
“Those hunting leathers are not… APPropriate” murmured a third, failing to find a word that could contain Annette’s audacity.
And from the back, a voice sharp with memory: “It’s her mother all over again.”
The outrage was palpable, a current of resentment pulsing through the terrace like a storm over the sea. Annette had composed the moment deliberately, staged it with the precision of a playwright, and now it gleamed, ready to be sealed in the lacquer of her memory, forever.
It would have remained a fleeting scandal—quickly forgotten—except that the doors to the veranda groaned open again and the rumored pair arrived, trailing a social apocalypse in their wake.
Maddie and Boone stepped onto the terrace like forked thunderbolts. Maddie, her white-blonde curl pinned in an elegant chignon, wore her own crushed-rose jacket and deerskin boots, her obvious poise a ready rebuke to anyone who might stand in her way. Boone, properly groomed and statesmanlike, carried the quiet authority of his ancestry. The matrons’ gazes flickered between Annette’s brazen display and the new arrivals, their disapproval fermenting into something ugly, something that clawed at the edges of decorum itself.
Annette’s upper lip curved into a faint smile.
Rivers had placed fourth, narrowly beaten by a grandfather from the Baltic provinces whose mechanical stroke defied both age and science. By the time Rivers emerged from the surf, slow currents of white steam wisping from his shoulders, Annette was already there, hugging a towel around him like a coronation. Boone, with the polish of a burgeoning statesman, landed a boot on the stamped muddy sand. He extended a hand. "Well swum, Rivers," he said, his voice carrying that timbre, genuine in its admiration yet laced with the awareness of a wider audience. Maddie, her camera out, raised it with a quick, practiced motion and clicked—not posed, not framed, just so. The shutter's snap cut through the wind, capturing the moment: Rivers' damp hair plastered to his forehead, Annette's arm draped over his shoulder, Boone's handshake firm and fraternal. In that instant, amid the congratulations-
"Impressive endurance," Boone added;
"You looked like Poseidon out there," Maddie teased with a slow-blink.
And so, the day’s true victory was etched in the camaraderie of their little gang against the impending chill.
From up on the terrace, among the goings-on, a gray-haired woman in a fox pelt collar leaned over the stony edge. Her voice drifted down like ash. “Such a spectacle,” she said, addressing Boone alone. “But visiting hours at Providence are well over. Those not enrolled ought to be gathering themselves up.”
Annette didn’t flinch. Rivers, the surf and wind still in his ears, did not catch the insult directly, but he clocked its aim and he felt the young woman against him.
“It’s always been the policy,” another called down—a raspy man with only his forehead and eyes visible above the balustrade. “Those without membership privileges always vacate after scheduled events.”
It was true enough. The Hotel Providence was not a hotel in the common sense. It was a private club. One could not simply walk in. One had to be on the list—a list as mysterious as everything else in Roanoke. Its members paid their quarterly dues whether they stayed or not. The rooms never crowded, the staff never hurried, and their silence was as dependable as a wine cellar.
And then: the page-boy. A slight figure in brassy shoes, he picked his way across the muddy strand clutching an envelope as if it were radioactive. He bowed deeply before Annette. “For Miss Annette,” he murmured.
She took it and cracked the seal, her eyes scanning the parchment. “I think it’s an invitation,” she whispered, pulling Rivers close.
Boone cleared his throat the way men do when they’ve decided not to interrupt, and then interrupted. “Just a moment, if you please,” he called, too formal to fight and too vague to obey.
Above, the matrons bristled. Below, Annette refused to yield.
The murmurs swelled again. “The policy stands,” snapped the fox-pelted woman. “Non-members must depart—now.”
Boone looked to Rivers for an out. Rivers only shrugged. “We think it’s an invitation.”
Maddie sidled in on Annette’s other side. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Annette’s eyes widened. “Oh, Riv! I think this must be from Bee. You see? Beatrice Francesca.”
Rivers could not remember who Beatrice Francesca was. But he recognized a coup when he saw one.
The terrace tribunals simmered. “We really would prefer not to call the usher,” said the fox-pelted woman, in a tone suggesting she very much hoped that someone else would.
“It sets the wrong precedent,” muttered the papery man.
Maddie stepped forward, plucked the envelope, and scanned it. “Oh. Darling, it’s gold.” She handed it back like a birthright. “It’s a gold invitation, Annette. It’s the kind they send when they want everyone to see who got it.”
The terrace hushed.
Still, the page-boy lingered.
Spotting him, Annette added, “Accommodation is now… how you say—expected and required.”
Rivers gestured at his Italian swim trunks. “These don’t really have pockets,” he explained. “Design-wise.”
Miss Maddie shrugged. Boone was only too happy to intervene. To grasp hands.
Annette held the envelope aloft. “Upstairs,” she announced for all the bastards in all the cheap seats to hear, “I’ve been invited upstairs.”
Upstairs
The penthouse suite of the Providence Hotel was an empty cathedral—an interior of impossible scale and solemnity. The ceiling rose in a black dome ribbed with ironwork, more like an observatory turned inward than anything meant for hospitality. The marble floor gleamed under the flickering firelight, save for a single, unrolled Persian carpet—worn thin at its center—upon which stood a tall, high-backed chair of carved elm, tufted in oxblood velvet. A wide, open-mouthed hearth dominated the far wall, its brick maw lined with wrought-iron spikes that jutted upward like broken teeth. From within, a fire cracked and danced, casting spasms of orange light across the domed ceiling as if to animate the room in breathing shadows.
In the chair sat a diminutive girl—no more than fifteen by appearance, though her posture made her older. Blonde ringlets fell perfectly down the sides of her face, unmussed and deliberate, framing a countenance that seemed both childlike and etched. She was dressed as if for a holiday excursion in another century: a gray traveling coat cut short to accommodate lace cuffs, black stockings, and a miniature top hat fixed with ribbon beneath her chin, the kind of affectation one might see in a painting, or an inherited photograph no one ever explains. She balanced on her knees a leather-bound tome the size of a butcher’s ledger.
Somewhere a door opened with a hush and a click. “Hello?” called Annette, her voice softened by the enormous silence. The door closed again with a finality not unlike the turning of a self-locking vault.
Annette’s heeled boots tapped across the marble—steady, echoing, assured. She paced forward from the edge of the antechamber’s gloom, stepping out from behind the silhouette like an ingenue whose arrival had been much ballyhooed and tantalized over. A sliver of ashen light seeped in through a bay window, where the low winter sky pressed its remaining light against the glass in a kind of permanent winter dusk. Her white-blonde bob was unshadowed now—her extravagant hat having been removed somewhere below—and her crushed-rose jacket had been left open, revealing the pristine white of her blouse and skirt beneath. Her figure, tall, deliberate, and no longer careless was cut stark against the room’s aged grandeur.
“Bee!” she exclaimed with that old recognition as her eyes lit upon the girl in the chair.
At this, the girl snapped shut the book with both hands, the sound heavy and blunt like a closing doctrine. She slid the tome to one side and stood, though she barely reached Annette’s shoulder. Her face was pale, round, and slightly hollowed beneath the cheekbones. Whatever warmth had once lived there had been replaced by a kind of studied politeness. Annette moved in for a hug, arms outstretched with schoolgirl fondness, but the girl intercepted her with a two-handed clasp instead—both of Annette’s hands now held in both of hers, as if initiating a solemn pact.
“Beatrice Francesca,” said Annette, smiling with effort, “you look just the same as ever. Exactly the same.”
And it was true. Beatrice looked untouched by time. Not ageless—there was something too knowing in the gaze—but rather perfectly preserved, like a figure trapped in amber. Beatrice looked up at her, the way one might look up at a taller, luckier cousin. Her mouth twitched, not quite with envy, but with something adjacent. “And you, Annette,” she said, her voice sugar-dipped and very dry at the same time. “Aren’t you womanly though?”
Annette, who knew how to navigate compliments that carried knives, answered with a gentle murmur and a tilted head, smoothing the air like a ribbon drawing taut. “Your invitation came at a welcome time,” she said, letting warmth do the work of distraction. “Why did you want to see me, old girl?”
Still holding her hands, Beatrice gave a slight tremble. Her voice rose theatrically, pitched toward unseen balconies.
“Oh, Miss Annette,” she cried. “You must never forgive me. No matter what I say, you simply mustn’t.”
Annette matched the energy with dutiful sisterliness, tilting her chin and drawing a commensurate frown. “Well of course I forgive you, dear,” she said. “Now tell big sister what it’s all about.”
At that, Beatrice released her hands, turned her back, and took a few steps toward the fireplace. The firelight clung to her figure in a way that made her seem almost translucent, like a glass candle-holder. She placed her hands behind her back, composed herself, then turned again, her expression fixed. “I might as well tell you,” she said. “I already had a clatch of constables up here. Before you.”
Annette blinked.
“They came because I sent for them in a private dispatch,” Beatrice continued. “But when they heard my request, they soon discovered reasons to be elsewhere. They were my last chance, or so I thought. And then—just as I stepped onto the terrace for air—I looked down…” She paused, letting her eyes settle on the bay window as if seeing it all again. “There you were. Toweling off your hunky Mister Rivers.” She said it like a name she’d read but never spoken aloud. “And then I remembered. You both were the most recent Queen and King of Festival, is it not so?”
“Well, yes,” said Annette, suddenly remembering the consequences of Festival weekend. There had been danger, there was a fire, there was the small matter of stolen purses and commensurate documents. Annette checked her breathing and muted her expression. “But why should that matter?”
Beatrice smiled. This time it reached both of her eyes. “Because, Miss Annette,” she said, her voice soft now, almost reverent, “I am now the mistress of Solstice Court.”
Beatrice Francesca moved slowly toward the hearth again, as if the fire might illuminate her plea. The light cast up the side of her face in streaks, her childish features mottled by adult unease. She did not return to the high-back chair. She placed one gloved hand on a wrought-iron poker, leaning onto it with the tiredness of someone who had not slept.
“Miss Annette,” she said, drawing out the syllables, “do you want to hear something curious?”
Annette inclined her head. She had learned that strange girls often had strange things to say, and that most of it could be survived with charm.
Beatrice didn’t meet her eyes. She reached into a slim rectangular pocket and withdrew a small scroll bound with a lavender ribbon, slightly frayed. She thumbed her thumb against it. “A list of names was given to me,” Beatrice went on, “the lawyers compiled it. They told me to choose who I wanted, as if I would know.”
Annette raised an eyebrow.
Beatrice looked up now, eyes bright with that same theatricality from before, though now it glinted like desperation.
“One of the names was Mister Rivers. Only, he was listed as... ‘The Kid Constable.’”
Annette blinked. Her mouth parted slightly, “He does not care much for that title anymore,” she said.
“No,” Beatrice agreed. “But it’s a part of his record now. Names don’t vanish just because you want them to.” She let that hang a moment, then abruptly dropped the scroll into the fire. Her posture shifted. Her voice grew quicker. “Everything changed once they named me inheritor,” she said. “At first it was easy, telegrams or boring old letters from lawyers. But not even a week after the announcement, things began to go wrong.”
Annette deduced that this was no time to interrupt, ‘Bee’ was on a tear.
“Milk turned to cheese overnight,” Beatrice said. “I don’t mean spoiled, I mean... fully congealed. Bottles in the pantry never even opened.” She held up a finger, counting off. “Backwards writing appeared on mirrors and windows. Not once. Dozens of times. And someone stuffed the chimneys,” Beatrice added. “All of them. With acorns. Hundreds of them. When the fire was lit, it rained smoke and nutmeat and this bitter, bitter stench.”
That one caught Annette. “Acorns.” She pressed a finger to her lips. This encounter had ceased to be charming.
“When that didn't drive me out, the real dangers began. Doors that shouldn't be opened... fires that start by themselves. I’m not afraid for myself, of course,” Beatrice continued, stepping forward again. “But for the innocent people. And I have only mentioned the physical signs. There is more at work. There is always more.” She paused. Then, with exquisite slowness, she removed a single gold pin from the lapel of her coat—an enameled key, small but intricately worked—and held it out, flat in her palm. “I want to make an official request,” she said. “In the name of peace and tradition. Miss Annette. Mister Rivers. My Queen. My King. I would like you to track down the source of these disturbances. Identify it. Capture it, if you can. No, you must.”
Annette did not move to take the pin-key. She was watching Bee’s face now with studied precision.
Beatrice smiled faintly, as if that scrutiny were expected. “I will sponsor you both. Of course. You’ll be enrolled—formally—into the Providence Hotel. Membership. Keys. Quarters, if you like them. And you will be welcome guests at Solstice Court. Not as socialites. Not as spectators. As protectors. Just as it was done a century ago.”
Annette stepped slowly toward the fireplace. She stared at the flames, watching them fracture against the iron teeth of the hearth. She didn’t answer immediately. "I’ll need to smoke on it, dear," she said. But her eyes never lifted from the flames, where all the while the edges of the lavender-bound scroll blackened and curled and burned.
August 22, 2025
State of the Giveaway Part 1
#StateoftheGiveaway — Part 1
First, a heartfelt thank-you: over 1,500 readers have already entered the *King of Middlemass* print giveaway. I’m floored. Every entry means there’s one more person willing to poke the sleeping bear of human nature (and maybe meet an ancient terror along the way).
What (will be) heading your way
While the books are at the spa, the rest of the winner boxes are materialising:
* Glossy white mailer
* Shredded “straw” fill (no confetti storms, promise).
* DIY title sticker – place it on your copy wherever it feels right, snap a pic, tag #KingOfMiddlemass.
* Seattle coffee, smoked-salmon jerky.
*beach-postcard of the main cast in swimwear.
* Signed hardback + mini-chapbook adventure.
A quick word on early ratings
A few generous souls have already shelved and starred the book—thank you for the enthusiasm! My own wish is that you read at least a chapter (or 'look inside') before rating. Honest impressions help other readers and keep the cult of beauty honest.
Coming Next
Once the cleaning ritual is complete I’ll post pictures (ink under the fingernails and all). Part 2 will cover the boxing montage and shipping day—tracking numbers included.
Until then, thank you again for helping Middlemass find its early champions.
Stay curious, stay careful,
-Toby Boy
First, a heartfelt thank-you: over 1,500 readers have already entered the *King of Middlemass* print giveaway. I’m floored. Every entry means there’s one more person willing to poke the sleeping bear of human nature (and maybe meet an ancient terror along the way).
What (will be) heading your way
While the books are at the spa, the rest of the winner boxes are materialising:
* Glossy white mailer
* Shredded “straw” fill (no confetti storms, promise).
* DIY title sticker – place it on your copy wherever it feels right, snap a pic, tag #KingOfMiddlemass.
* Seattle coffee, smoked-salmon jerky.
*beach-postcard of the main cast in swimwear.
* Signed hardback + mini-chapbook adventure.
A quick word on early ratings
A few generous souls have already shelved and starred the book—thank you for the enthusiasm! My own wish is that you read at least a chapter (or 'look inside') before rating. Honest impressions help other readers and keep the cult of beauty honest.
Coming Next
Once the cleaning ritual is complete I’ll post pictures (ink under the fingernails and all). Part 2 will cover the boxing montage and shipping day—tracking numbers included.
Until then, thank you again for helping Middlemass find its early champions.
Stay curious, stay careful,
-Toby Boy
August 2, 2025
A Machine That Still Workss
my link text
📡 Excerpt from King of Middlemass
“A Machine That Still Works”
Marlon is one of my favorite characters to write. He’s brilliant, guarded, and in some ways the moral anchor of King of Middlemass. In this scene, we find him doing what he does best.
At first glance, King of Middlemass is a thriller. But beneath that, it’s about how people respond to silence—spiritual silence, institutional silence, the silence of beautiful things that don’t explain themselves. You don’t have to read it that way. You can simply read it for the tension, the woods, the machinery, the dark.
The scene below is one of several set-pieces in the novel. It’s not the beginning. It’s just a moment where things go very wrong—and something unknown begins to make itself known.
Thank you for reading.
—Toby Boy
Author of King of Middlemass (Hardcover, August 2025)
"Marlon had promised himself an early start. Yet it was nearly lunchtime as he trudged up the slope of Hillside Avenue. The sun hovered weakly over the horizon, casting pale light over the higher elevation, a vantage point that overlooked the town below. He trusted his instincts that the signal would be stronger up here, where the air felt thinner and the wind carried whispers of other, deeper seasons.
His signal detector, an ungainly contraption cobbled together from salvaged parts, hung heavily in his hand. Marlon wound its rotator like a fisherman reeling in a stubborn catch. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, the words carrying both hope and frustration. He had placed his faith in the theory of live power, believing it might work even under the oppressive blanket of infrasound.
Then—“Ah ha!”
The needle jerked erratically, spiking with frantic energy. Marlon jogged the rest of the way up Hillside Avenue, past the imposing house that loomed like a sentinel over the town. The paving gave way to packed earth, and then to a hiking trail that snaked into the woods. He kept the device in front of him, turning it incrementally as he moved. The needle twitched and quivered, then swung decisively as he aimed it northeast.
He paused, carefully memorizing the direction. His arm extended outward like a compass needle, marking the invisible path. Satisfied, he secured the detector in the battered hand-case he’d scrounged together. Exhaling sharply, he began walking again, his boots crunching softly against the trail.
He’d dressed simply for the task: dungarees, nearly-new work boots, a plain tee shirt layered under a thermal. His grandfather’s war canteen hung at his side, filled with water only just before leaving town-proper; to keep things light. Now seemed a good time to ease his burden and quench his thirst. He gulped down, and gasped, for it was cold and refreshing after that trek. He set the hand-case on a tree stump and pulled out the detector again, winding it with a better, more practiced efficiency.
This time, the device seemed to spark to life. Readouts that had been dormant flickered and surged, their faint glow catching in Marlon’s wide eyes. His expression turned serious as he set the hand-case aside and placed the detector on the stump. Rummaging through his pockets, he found a stubby pencil and a notebook, the pages worn and crinkled. He wished for the comfort of his overalls, with their ample storage and familiarity, but there was no time for regrets.
He scratched notes into the paper, cross-referencing calculations, double-checking readouts, and jotting small diagrams in the margins. His brow furrowed in concentration, and every so often, he murmured aloud. “Well now, my friends, well now.”
“-Hey there, son. What’ve you got there?”
The voice startled Marlon, sharp against the stillness of the woods. He turned, his hand automatically adjusting his glasses. Three men crowded together on the trail ahead, dressed like dogcatchers but radiating an unease that had nothing to do with lost pets.
The man who had spoken held out a hand, a gesture meant to calm, though his body language betrayed a different intent. The other two flanked him, their movements careful, calculated. Marlon’s fingers tightened around his steel canteen, his knuckles whitening.
The truth, Marlon reminded himself, is more shocking than any threat, more real than any lie. Truth means we have right on our side.
“This is a machine that still works,” Marlon said evenly, though his voice quavered slightly. “I ought to know because I built it. This machine tracks infrasound to its source.” He studied their faces, watching for any sign of recognition or understanding.
The lead man’s expression twisted into something bitter and tight. He understood all right. These weren’t dogcatchers.
“You alone out here, son?” the man asked, his tone still smooth but his eyes narrowing.
Marlon inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. “I came up here on my own,” he answered carefully.
“Well, that wasn’t too smart, now was it?” The man smirked, his voice honeyed but barbed. From the corner of his eye, Marlon caught movement—a fourth figure emerging from behind a tree to his right. They had him flanked, and the speaking man had been the decoy, holding his attention.
Marlon’s breathing quickened. He glanced rapidly to his left, noting the tangled underbrush. It was thick, but it offered a possible escape route. If he abandoned his equipment, he might just have a chance.
“Hey, there,” the man said, his tone almost mocking. “You don’t want to give us a hard time, do you? We’re just doing our job, after all.”
The three men in front stepped closer, their movements deliberate.
Marlon stood his ground, his lower lip trembling but his posture rigid. “What is the nature of the infrasound? Why has it been deployed near Middlemass? And most importantly,” he said, his voice rising, “how can it be shut down?”
The lead man’s face darkened, his smirk vanishing. “Why you damn midget of a—”
But his words were cut off by a guttural growl. The underbrush behind them cracked violently, as though something immense and primal was forcing its way through the thicket.
Marlon’s breath hitched, his eyes darting toward the source of the sound. Whatever was coming, it was big. And it was angry.
It rolled through the underbrush like the prelude to an earthquake, rattling the air itself. The silence shattered as one of the men behind the speaker—a wiry figure with sunken eyes and a loose gait—was yanked backwards. His legs flew out from under him, and his head slammed against the packed clay of the forest floor with a sickening thud. The noise was like the hollow crack of a tetherball smacking a post. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his breath stolen by the force of the blow. Before the others could react, he was gone, dragged into the shadowy underbrush as if pulled by an invisible tether. The forest swallowed him with a grotesque efficiency, leaving nothing but a smear of disturbed earth.
The remaining men froze, their eyes darting toward the spot where their comrade had disappeared. The leader—the one who had tried to soothe Marlon with a patronizing tone—shifted his weight, his face a taut mask of unease. He turned to bark an order, but a blur of motion cut him off.
Something—a shadow, a force, a nightmare in motion—slammed into the man’s side with impossible speed. The aftermath was instantaneous; the patronizing man was kneeling on the forest floor, his arm hung limp where the thing had struck, a jagged bite marking into the flesh and sinew. Blood poured in an unnerving shade, dark and too thick, already pooling at his collarbone. His mouth worked silently, the shock stealing whatever words might have come.
And then it was there, stepping into the clearing as though it had simply come along for a stroll. The beast—no, the creature—was massive, its black and brown fur rippling over muscle as it moved. A rottweiler, but not one like Marlon had ever seen before. This one was three hundred pounds if it was an ounce, its presence more oppressive than the lingering infrasound that buzzed faintly at the edges of Marlon’s awareness.
The remaining dogcatcher of the three that first appeared shouted hoarsely toward the flanker. “Get the prods!” His voice cracked on the last word, high-pitched with panic.
The flanker fumbled at his belt, finally producing a black-handled device with a trembling grip.
The rottweiler’s head tilted, its gaze sliding from the armed man back to the unarmed one. Its eyes gleamed with something too sharp to be instinct. Malice, perhaps. Or something worse. It took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, toward the remaining unarmed dogcatcher.
The man cursed violently, his voice cracking. Then he turned and bolted, his feet pounding the earth in frantic strides. Marlon, still rooted to the ground, realized with a start that he had fallen onto his backside, his legs sprawled awkwardly beneath him.
The beast ambled after the fleeing man with unsettling calm. It moved as though time itself bent to its will, each step unhurried, deliberate, inevitable.
The man with the prod dropped the device momentarily to fumble with a large walkie-talkie clipped to his vest. His fingers pressed a heavy button with urgency, his voice shaking as he barked into it. “This is Perimeter Four! We are sideways. Full contact with Croatoa. Repeat: full contact. Requesting immediate sweep and medical evac!”
But something was wrong. The static on the other end didn’t resolve into words. The man pressed the button again, his voice rising with panic. “devils… Do you read me? Ten by ten! Do you read me or not?”
Marlon’s voice broke through, high and shrill, “does your walkie have a countermeasure against the effects of infrasound?”
The man shot Marlon a dismissive glare but stopped mid-motion. His eyes widened, the walkie-talkie slipping from his hand to the ground with a dull thud. The sudden shift in his expression—a realization, a horror—was all the confirmation Marlon needed.
The rottweiler was back.
It stood just a few feet away, its head cocked slightly as though amused by the unfolding scene. Its chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the deep growl reverberating like an engine idling. The man bolted without a word, his heavy boots pounding against the forest floor as he disappeared into the tangled shadows.
Marlon sat frozen, his breath shallow, his eyes locked on the beast. It turned its head slightly, meeting his gaze with an unblinking intensity. Time stretched thin, the air vibrating with a tension that threatened to snap at any moment. Marlon gripped his steel canteen tightly, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
The beast didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Its presence alone was a force. And, not for the last time, Marlon wondered if truth and right would be enough.
“He-hello there. My name is Marlon. What’s your name?” Marlon asked, his voice trembling but steady enough. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to make any sudden moves.
The rottweiler lowered its massive head, its dark eyes locking onto his. It exhaled heavily, the breath ruffling the air in front of it as if considering his words. Then, it sniffed, the sound cutting through the oppressive stillness.
Marlon swallowed hard, his throat dry, his body taut with fear. He fought the urge to flinch, keeping his posture as still and nonthreatening as he could manage.
A sudden clattering noise erupted somewhere in the woodland, sharp and dissonant, echoing through the trees. The beast’s ears flicked toward the sound, its head snapping up. It reared back slightly, its muscles tensing, and with a single powerful motion, it bounded off in the direction of the disturbance.
Marlon stayed frozen, his breath shallow and his eyes fixed on where the rottweiler had disappeared. He silently counted to ten, each number a deliberate beat to slow his racing heart.
When he finally moved, it was slow and careful. He crawled on his hands and knees toward the stump, his palms pressing against the cool, uneven forest floor. Once there, he wiped a cloth across his damp forehead, the small act grounding him, offering a momentary reprieve. The kneeling figure was still upon the trail like a cairn of skulls.
He collected the signal detector with deliberate precision, slipping it back into the carrying case. His movements were methodical, but his mind raced. His breath came faster, and he nodded to himself as though affirming some unspoken decision.
Marlon pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and, with quick, decisive strokes, carved an "M" into the stump. The letter was rough, a series of jagged scratches, but this marked his progress. He had made it this far, the infrasound had to be in this direction. He stood up, dusting his knees off, and took a step back to survey the scene.
Just as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on the discarded walkie-talkie. It lay on the clay floor, clodded on one side.
Marlon hesitated, his pulse quickening again. He bit his lip, considering, then bent to pick it up. The plastic felt cold and alien in his hands, its weight disproportionate to its size. He turned it over, inspecting it briefly, noting a series of small geometric symbol-like letters. Then, with a deep breath, clutched it to his chest.
His eyes scanned the surroundings one last time. Then he turned and began his trek back through the woods, every sound around him sharp and amplified as though every concealed pair of eyes was sizing him up."
📡 Excerpt from King of Middlemass
“A Machine That Still Works”
Marlon is one of my favorite characters to write. He’s brilliant, guarded, and in some ways the moral anchor of King of Middlemass. In this scene, we find him doing what he does best.
At first glance, King of Middlemass is a thriller. But beneath that, it’s about how people respond to silence—spiritual silence, institutional silence, the silence of beautiful things that don’t explain themselves. You don’t have to read it that way. You can simply read it for the tension, the woods, the machinery, the dark.
The scene below is one of several set-pieces in the novel. It’s not the beginning. It’s just a moment where things go very wrong—and something unknown begins to make itself known.
Thank you for reading.
—Toby Boy
Author of King of Middlemass (Hardcover, August 2025)
"Marlon had promised himself an early start. Yet it was nearly lunchtime as he trudged up the slope of Hillside Avenue. The sun hovered weakly over the horizon, casting pale light over the higher elevation, a vantage point that overlooked the town below. He trusted his instincts that the signal would be stronger up here, where the air felt thinner and the wind carried whispers of other, deeper seasons.
His signal detector, an ungainly contraption cobbled together from salvaged parts, hung heavily in his hand. Marlon wound its rotator like a fisherman reeling in a stubborn catch. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, the words carrying both hope and frustration. He had placed his faith in the theory of live power, believing it might work even under the oppressive blanket of infrasound.
Then—“Ah ha!”
The needle jerked erratically, spiking with frantic energy. Marlon jogged the rest of the way up Hillside Avenue, past the imposing house that loomed like a sentinel over the town. The paving gave way to packed earth, and then to a hiking trail that snaked into the woods. He kept the device in front of him, turning it incrementally as he moved. The needle twitched and quivered, then swung decisively as he aimed it northeast.
He paused, carefully memorizing the direction. His arm extended outward like a compass needle, marking the invisible path. Satisfied, he secured the detector in the battered hand-case he’d scrounged together. Exhaling sharply, he began walking again, his boots crunching softly against the trail.
He’d dressed simply for the task: dungarees, nearly-new work boots, a plain tee shirt layered under a thermal. His grandfather’s war canteen hung at his side, filled with water only just before leaving town-proper; to keep things light. Now seemed a good time to ease his burden and quench his thirst. He gulped down, and gasped, for it was cold and refreshing after that trek. He set the hand-case on a tree stump and pulled out the detector again, winding it with a better, more practiced efficiency.
This time, the device seemed to spark to life. Readouts that had been dormant flickered and surged, their faint glow catching in Marlon’s wide eyes. His expression turned serious as he set the hand-case aside and placed the detector on the stump. Rummaging through his pockets, he found a stubby pencil and a notebook, the pages worn and crinkled. He wished for the comfort of his overalls, with their ample storage and familiarity, but there was no time for regrets.
He scratched notes into the paper, cross-referencing calculations, double-checking readouts, and jotting small diagrams in the margins. His brow furrowed in concentration, and every so often, he murmured aloud. “Well now, my friends, well now.”
“-Hey there, son. What’ve you got there?”
The voice startled Marlon, sharp against the stillness of the woods. He turned, his hand automatically adjusting his glasses. Three men crowded together on the trail ahead, dressed like dogcatchers but radiating an unease that had nothing to do with lost pets.
The man who had spoken held out a hand, a gesture meant to calm, though his body language betrayed a different intent. The other two flanked him, their movements careful, calculated. Marlon’s fingers tightened around his steel canteen, his knuckles whitening.
The truth, Marlon reminded himself, is more shocking than any threat, more real than any lie. Truth means we have right on our side.
“This is a machine that still works,” Marlon said evenly, though his voice quavered slightly. “I ought to know because I built it. This machine tracks infrasound to its source.” He studied their faces, watching for any sign of recognition or understanding.
The lead man’s expression twisted into something bitter and tight. He understood all right. These weren’t dogcatchers.
“You alone out here, son?” the man asked, his tone still smooth but his eyes narrowing.
Marlon inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. “I came up here on my own,” he answered carefully.
“Well, that wasn’t too smart, now was it?” The man smirked, his voice honeyed but barbed. From the corner of his eye, Marlon caught movement—a fourth figure emerging from behind a tree to his right. They had him flanked, and the speaking man had been the decoy, holding his attention.
Marlon’s breathing quickened. He glanced rapidly to his left, noting the tangled underbrush. It was thick, but it offered a possible escape route. If he abandoned his equipment, he might just have a chance.
“Hey, there,” the man said, his tone almost mocking. “You don’t want to give us a hard time, do you? We’re just doing our job, after all.”
The three men in front stepped closer, their movements deliberate.
Marlon stood his ground, his lower lip trembling but his posture rigid. “What is the nature of the infrasound? Why has it been deployed near Middlemass? And most importantly,” he said, his voice rising, “how can it be shut down?”
The lead man’s face darkened, his smirk vanishing. “Why you damn midget of a—”
But his words were cut off by a guttural growl. The underbrush behind them cracked violently, as though something immense and primal was forcing its way through the thicket.
Marlon’s breath hitched, his eyes darting toward the source of the sound. Whatever was coming, it was big. And it was angry.
It rolled through the underbrush like the prelude to an earthquake, rattling the air itself. The silence shattered as one of the men behind the speaker—a wiry figure with sunken eyes and a loose gait—was yanked backwards. His legs flew out from under him, and his head slammed against the packed clay of the forest floor with a sickening thud. The noise was like the hollow crack of a tetherball smacking a post. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his breath stolen by the force of the blow. Before the others could react, he was gone, dragged into the shadowy underbrush as if pulled by an invisible tether. The forest swallowed him with a grotesque efficiency, leaving nothing but a smear of disturbed earth.
The remaining men froze, their eyes darting toward the spot where their comrade had disappeared. The leader—the one who had tried to soothe Marlon with a patronizing tone—shifted his weight, his face a taut mask of unease. He turned to bark an order, but a blur of motion cut him off.
Something—a shadow, a force, a nightmare in motion—slammed into the man’s side with impossible speed. The aftermath was instantaneous; the patronizing man was kneeling on the forest floor, his arm hung limp where the thing had struck, a jagged bite marking into the flesh and sinew. Blood poured in an unnerving shade, dark and too thick, already pooling at his collarbone. His mouth worked silently, the shock stealing whatever words might have come.
And then it was there, stepping into the clearing as though it had simply come along for a stroll. The beast—no, the creature—was massive, its black and brown fur rippling over muscle as it moved. A rottweiler, but not one like Marlon had ever seen before. This one was three hundred pounds if it was an ounce, its presence more oppressive than the lingering infrasound that buzzed faintly at the edges of Marlon’s awareness.
The remaining dogcatcher of the three that first appeared shouted hoarsely toward the flanker. “Get the prods!” His voice cracked on the last word, high-pitched with panic.
The flanker fumbled at his belt, finally producing a black-handled device with a trembling grip.
The rottweiler’s head tilted, its gaze sliding from the armed man back to the unarmed one. Its eyes gleamed with something too sharp to be instinct. Malice, perhaps. Or something worse. It took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, toward the remaining unarmed dogcatcher.
The man cursed violently, his voice cracking. Then he turned and bolted, his feet pounding the earth in frantic strides. Marlon, still rooted to the ground, realized with a start that he had fallen onto his backside, his legs sprawled awkwardly beneath him.
The beast ambled after the fleeing man with unsettling calm. It moved as though time itself bent to its will, each step unhurried, deliberate, inevitable.
The man with the prod dropped the device momentarily to fumble with a large walkie-talkie clipped to his vest. His fingers pressed a heavy button with urgency, his voice shaking as he barked into it. “This is Perimeter Four! We are sideways. Full contact with Croatoa. Repeat: full contact. Requesting immediate sweep and medical evac!”
But something was wrong. The static on the other end didn’t resolve into words. The man pressed the button again, his voice rising with panic. “devils… Do you read me? Ten by ten! Do you read me or not?”
Marlon’s voice broke through, high and shrill, “does your walkie have a countermeasure against the effects of infrasound?”
The man shot Marlon a dismissive glare but stopped mid-motion. His eyes widened, the walkie-talkie slipping from his hand to the ground with a dull thud. The sudden shift in his expression—a realization, a horror—was all the confirmation Marlon needed.
The rottweiler was back.
It stood just a few feet away, its head cocked slightly as though amused by the unfolding scene. Its chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the deep growl reverberating like an engine idling. The man bolted without a word, his heavy boots pounding against the forest floor as he disappeared into the tangled shadows.
Marlon sat frozen, his breath shallow, his eyes locked on the beast. It turned its head slightly, meeting his gaze with an unblinking intensity. Time stretched thin, the air vibrating with a tension that threatened to snap at any moment. Marlon gripped his steel canteen tightly, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
The beast didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Its presence alone was a force. And, not for the last time, Marlon wondered if truth and right would be enough.
“He-hello there. My name is Marlon. What’s your name?” Marlon asked, his voice trembling but steady enough. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to make any sudden moves.
The rottweiler lowered its massive head, its dark eyes locking onto his. It exhaled heavily, the breath ruffling the air in front of it as if considering his words. Then, it sniffed, the sound cutting through the oppressive stillness.
Marlon swallowed hard, his throat dry, his body taut with fear. He fought the urge to flinch, keeping his posture as still and nonthreatening as he could manage.
A sudden clattering noise erupted somewhere in the woodland, sharp and dissonant, echoing through the trees. The beast’s ears flicked toward the sound, its head snapping up. It reared back slightly, its muscles tensing, and with a single powerful motion, it bounded off in the direction of the disturbance.
Marlon stayed frozen, his breath shallow and his eyes fixed on where the rottweiler had disappeared. He silently counted to ten, each number a deliberate beat to slow his racing heart.
When he finally moved, it was slow and careful. He crawled on his hands and knees toward the stump, his palms pressing against the cool, uneven forest floor. Once there, he wiped a cloth across his damp forehead, the small act grounding him, offering a momentary reprieve. The kneeling figure was still upon the trail like a cairn of skulls.
He collected the signal detector with deliberate precision, slipping it back into the carrying case. His movements were methodical, but his mind raced. His breath came faster, and he nodded to himself as though affirming some unspoken decision.
Marlon pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and, with quick, decisive strokes, carved an "M" into the stump. The letter was rough, a series of jagged scratches, but this marked his progress. He had made it this far, the infrasound had to be in this direction. He stood up, dusting his knees off, and took a step back to survey the scene.
Just as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on the discarded walkie-talkie. It lay on the clay floor, clodded on one side.
Marlon hesitated, his pulse quickening again. He bit his lip, considering, then bent to pick it up. The plastic felt cold and alien in his hands, its weight disproportionate to its size. He turned it over, inspecting it briefly, noting a series of small geometric symbol-like letters. Then, with a deep breath, clutched it to his chest.
His eyes scanned the surroundings one last time. Then he turned and began his trek back through the woods, every sound around him sharp and amplified as though every concealed pair of eyes was sizing him up."
June 26, 2025
Festival by Toby Boy
Festival by Toby Boy
Breakfast at the Cottage
The morning light filtered through lace curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns across the wooden floor of the cottage’s kitchen. It was a picturesque little home, tucked neatly between the wilder corners of Middlemass and the sprawling, orderly fields of the homesteader family next door. The space smelled faintly of cinnamon, coffee and tobacco, broken by the occasional sharp sizzle of bacon in the cast-iron skillet on the stove.
Annette sat at the small breakfast table, its surface lovingly scuffed from years of meals and quiet conversations. She wore a cardigan that hung loosely off her shoulder. Her gaze was focused on a fashion magazine, not so much reading as glancing over the illustrations, her mouth tugged into a small, thoughtful frown.
Emily, dressed in an apron stood at the stove, turning the bacon with a practiced flick of her wrist. She was humming softly, a tune that felt both familiar and unplaceable. The sound was comforting in its casualness, the kind of thing that made the space feel more like home. Her mother, seated across the kitchen table was smoking something indeterminate, her nails clacking absently against her bracelets.
“Do you ever think about how mornings like these are numbered?” Annette asked suddenly.
Emily turned, one eyebrow raised, spatula in hand. “Numbered? That’s morbid for breakfast, don’t you think?”
Annette shrugged, folding the magazine neatly and setting it aside. “It’s just… we don’t stay in these moments forever. They slip away when you aren’t looking. That’s all.”
Emily smirked, setting a plate of bacon on the table. “Well, that’s a cheery thought for the day. Would you like your coffee extra-bitter to match the mood?”
Annette rolled her eyes. She reached for a slice of bacon as Emily returned to the stove.
Before she could bite into it, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. All three women froze briefly, exchanging curious glances. It wasn’t often they received visitors who knocked. Annette sighed, placing the bacon on her plate. “I’ll get it.”
She crossed the room and opened the door to find a young delivery boy standing awkwardly on the stoop. He held a small, ornate envelope in his hands, its edges gilded and the paper so pristine it looked out of place against the boy’s ink-smudged fingers.
“For Miss Annette and… Mr. Rivers?” the boy said hesitantly, squinting at the names written in elegant script.
Annette’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Rivers?”
“Yes, ma’am. It says so right here,” the boy replied, thrusting the envelope toward her.
Emily turned from the stove, now openly curious. “Who’s sending you both something so fancy?”
Annette ignored the question, taking the envelope carefully. The weight of it was surprising, the paper thick and expensive beneath her fingers. She turned it over, revealing a deep red wax seal embossed with a design she couldn’t immediately place—some kind of stylized sunburst or crown.
“Thank you,” she said, closing the door before the boy could offer anything else. She held the envelope up, examining it in the light.
“Well?” Emily prompted, stepping closer. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Annette slid a nail beneath the seal, breaking it cleanly. The envelope gave way with a soft crackle, and she pulled out a single folded sheet of heavy parchment. As she unfolded it, an invitation revealed its elaborate calligraphy:
You are hereby invited to attend Festival at Solstice Court
An Evening of Tradition, Celebration, and Prestige
Honoring Promising Couples of Middlemass
Held under the Midsummer Moon
There was more, but Annette’s eyes stopped there, her breath catching slightly. She read it again, her expression tightening.
Emily leaned in warmly, reading over her shoulder. “Promising couples?” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And who figured out that you and Rivers are a couple?”
Annette snapped the invitation shut. “It’s ridiculous. A mistake. Someone’s idea of a joke.”
Her mother, sidelining a cigarillo in favor of playing with her lighter, chuckled softly. “Oh, it’s no mistake, dear. Festival’s been around forever. My own Auntie attended. Very prestigious.”
Annette turned to her, incredulous. “Prestigious? It sounds ridiculous.”
“It’s tradition, Annette. I won’t need to remind you how important that is to us.”
Emily grinned, clearly enjoying her sister’s discomfort. “Well, Rivers will be thrilled, I’m sure. Nothing says romance like an archaic pagan ball.”
Annette raised her chin in indignation, sinking back into her chair. She slapped the invitation loosely across her lap, staring at it as though it might burst into flames.
Emily returned to the stove, her laughter soft and teasing. “You’d better tell him soon. Something tells me he’d want to know.”
Daydream
The grounds were an ode to opulence, a sunken garden with a Grecian flourish. Marble statues posed in the artful decay of antiquity, their smooth limbs casting long shadows on hedgerows sculpted with geometric precision. Pathways wove through the gardens, leading visitors past fountains, their sprays catching the late afternoon light. Beyond the gardens stretched the vast, emerald sprawl of an American lawn, its perfection punctuated by the looming silhouette of the manor house.
Rivers moved with easy confidence, his white-on-white attire making him look like he had stepped out of a Gatsby daydream. His shirt was perfectly pressed, the faintest shadow of suspenders visible through the fabric, and his crisp trousers ended just above polished shoes that crunched happily. He casually carried both his suitcase and Annette’s, one in each hand. His dark hair retained a rebellious edge, a wayward curl brushing his temple.
Annette walked beside him, her own white ensemble a study in understated sophistication. The skirt clicked just so, and the sleeveless sweater accentuated her angelic quality. Her hair was swept back, revealing the clean line of her jaw. She wore the kind of jewelry that whispered instead of shouting. Her chin slightly raised as if the world were presenting itself for her approval. She spared only the briefest of glances for the other couples, also clad in white, who passed by with careful smiles and murmured greetings.
Older figures stood apart, their clothing more formal, their presence more regular. They were spectators of tradition, their sharp gazes cataloging every movement and exchange. Rivers and Annette were not immune to their scrutiny, though Annette’s composed expression suggested she had decided long ago not to care.
Coming down the lane in the opposite direction were the players. A lion with a mane of thick, looped yarn lumbered past, its golden eyes fixed on some distant horizon. A Titania followed, her gown glittering as though strung with starlight. Rivers shifted the weight of the suitcases in his hands without breaking stride, the effort invisible to all but Annette, who raised a single eyebrow as a Frog Prince doffed his cap and bowed deeply in her direction.
She did not return the gesture, nor did she speak, her gaze fixed ahead on the grand double-doors that stood open to welcome them. The portal was enormous, the rich wood gleaming under an arch carved with images of fauna. Inside, the cavernous welcome hall yawned with space and grandeur.
“It’s all more handsome than I expected,” Rivers ventured, his voice low but pleasant, as though they were simply commenting on the weather.
Annette did not look at him, her tone neutral but not unkind. “I am prepared to be impressed.”
“I hear the feasts are exemplary,” Rivers added, his voice dropping to a near whisper as they stepped across the threshold.
High Table
Now dressed in black ties or strapless gowns, the honored couples sat at the high table. The table's arrangement, however, held small peculiarities. Among the pairs of young men and women, there sat a solitary figure—the family heir. He was an angular young man. Skin pale, eyes deep as though they held secrets far older than his years. His posture—leaning slightly forward with his elbows resting on the table—suggested a weariness that no grooming could mask. Unlike the other honorees, he had no date. The empty chair beside him, a silent invitation that none had dared to fill.
To his left sat a hopeful young man. The hopeful was broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with a farmhand's build softened by the veneer of his formalwear. His thick, warm sun-bleached hair had been cropped for the occasion. His eyes swept over the high table with eager intensity. Though he sat beside a radiant young woman in a midnight-blue gown— he appeared more interested in the evening’s social pageantry.
The high table was a place of distinction but it was equally a display. Upon that pedestal, everyone dining on the floor below could look up and gaze at them; every gesture framed in the soft glow of chandeliers that dangled like gilded stalactites from the high ceilings. The couples themselves had been carefully curated, their polished appearances and poised manners forming the centerpiece of the evening’s spectacle.
But they had competition. Across the grand dining hall, a stage rose on the opposite side, slightly elevated above the sea of polished tables and bustling caterers. Upon that stage, a simply smashing rendition of Egyptian Passion had reached a crescendo. Osiris, his headdress gleaming under the stage lights, knelt before a painted backdrop depicting a hillside tower in the hazy distance. The painted strokes were bold and deliberate, their artistry suggestive of ancient truths barely veiled.
Then the Host appeared again.
Rivers, seated further down the table, crossed his arms. His gaze narrowed onto the robed and veiled figure who stepped onto the stage with an air of practiced mystery. The Host’s arrival unsettled the delicate balance of the performance, an interruption that Rivers could only categorize as offensive.
“I know, darling,” Annette said smoothly, breaking his train of thought as if reading his mind. Her tone was light but held an edge of amusement. She snapped up her fork, pierced a particularly large piece of charred, sizzling chicken, and deposited it onto his plate with the precision of a diplomat brokering a ceasefire. “Have some of this. It’ll take your mind off it.”
The Host raised his arms wide, the gesture commanded silence. His voice carried through the hall. “Does Osiris see the tower,” he intoned, “or was it destroyed, as had long been foretold to him?”
For a moment, the hall held its breath, the weight of the audience participation pressing down on every table. Then the hopeful young man at the high table rose. His movements were deliberate, as though he had been forewarned. He spoke with clarity and conviction. “Though the tower was struck by thunder, it stands eternal.”
The response was greeted with an eruption of applause, a wave of relieved approval rippling across the room. Rivers caught Annette’s eye.
The young man’s chosen reply was one of the responses known to steer the play away from its most tragic ending.
From the stage, the Host inclined his veiled head slightly, his expression inscrutable. Beside the hopeful man, the heir’s lips quirked into a faint smile—one so fleeting it -
Double-Up
The suite was classy without the insecurities of ostentation. The queen-sized bed, draped in immaculate white linens, sat atop a polished wooden dais that gave it a stage-like prominence. An adjacent sunken sitting area, with its tufted leather armchairs and a low marble coffee table, invited long conversations. The room was washed in a soft golden glow from sconces mounted on the pale, textured walls, their light diffused by artful shades.
Rivers stood near the bed, dressed in a plain cotton nightshirt and matching pants. His suitcase lay open on the bed—clothes folded with sharp creases, toiletries tucked into compartments, and a small shaving kit. He unzipped the kit, revealing not aftershave but a large beige walkie-talkie, its surface slightly scuffed from use.
He pressed the button on the side, his voice low and deliberate. “Engineer, Engineer, this is Handsome1, over.”
The walkie crackled, the static buzzing faintly before fading. Rivers frowned, crossing his arms, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep. He moved to press the button again, but before he could, a voice broke through.
“You are lucky I put up with your shenanigans, Mr. Rivers. But you were right—there were unsettling distortions in your signal soon after you arrived.”
The door to the suite rattled faintly. Rivers snapped his head toward it, his body taut with anticipation. Without a word, he pressed the walkie’s button again, his tone clipped. “Call me back.” He let go of the button and quickly zipped the shaving kit. Without missing a beat, Rivers snapped the suitcase shut and swiped it off the bed.
The door opened, and Annette swept into the room with the grace of someone who knew exactly how much attention she commanded. She wore a black camisole that stopped just shy of the top of her thighs, her bare legs catching the ambient light as she turned to close the door behind her. Her movements were languid, as though the maze-like corridors of Solstice Court hadn’t worn on her in the least.
“This place is like a maze,” she remarked, spinning to face him with a faintly amused expression. “Awfully bold of them to assign the couples to the same room.”
Rivers leaned against the bedpost. “I have written a letter in protest,” he said, “but I haven’t had a chance to send it yet.”
Annette crossed the room with deliberate ease, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. She waved a hand toward the bed, a gesture that clearly meant he should get in.
Rivers complied, pulling back the covers and settling himself against the crisp pillows. Annette climbed onto the bed beside him. She adjusted the sheets, pulling them over both of them. Her arm draped over his chest, her fingers splayed lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Her knee found its place over his thigh, her body fitting against his as though this were the most natural arrangement in the world.
“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured as a reminder.
Overheard
The guest wing of the manor was a labyrinth, the disorienting architecture seemed willfully deceptive. It was simple enough to enter—one turn, then another—but as soon as a guest looked back, the entrance would have blended seamlessly into the stone walls, vanishing behind them. False doors lined the hallways, promising egress only to deliver dead ends. Secret panels whispered open and shut, and the halls, impossibly, could lead one in circles without ever betraying the trick.
The young heir moved through the wing. His steps were careful but quick, his eyes darting from door to door, searching for some forgotten corner where he might hide. He just wanted an unoccupied bed. Anywhere he could close his eyes and escape the looming conclusion of Festival for a few hours. He turned a corner, his hand brushing lightly against the cold stone wall for balance, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He stopped abruptly.
Behind him, the veiled figure of the Host emerged from the dim candlelight. The ornate mask shimmered faintly, its edges catching the soft glow. The thick robes swayed as he stepped forward, their rich fabric whispering against the stone. The light from the candelabras played tricks with the shadows, casting unnervingly human shapes across the walls.
The heir froze, his breath shallow, his body trembling. He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white as he fought the primal urge to run.
“You seem lost,” the Host said, his voice—something that bordered on pity.
“I… I can’t do this,” the heir stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to straighten his posture, but his legs felt like water beneath him. “I thought I could. I thought I understood. But I can’t give up my life.”
The Host tilted his head. He took another step forward, the hem of his robe brushing against the stone. “You knew the tradition,” he said, his tone measured, even soothing. “The honor it carried. You knew what would be asked of you.”
The heir’s breath hitched. Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them away furiously. “I didn’t think it was real,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Not like this. Please… don’t make me do this.”
The Host remained silent for a long moment, his veiled face unreadable. Then he sighed—a soft, almost human sound. “You are my favorite,” he said simply. “You always were. I’ve watched over you. If it is your fear alone that holds you back, then let it be assuaged. I will spare you the honors.”
The heir’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “You will?”
“I will,” the Host repeated, his tone carrying a faint note of sadness. “But you must help me find another. Festival must have its offering.”
The heir’s shoulders sagged with relief, the tension in his body releasing all at once. “Thank you,” he breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll help. I’ll help you.”
The Host inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment, before stepping back into the shadows. His voice lingered, low and final: “Go now. The night grows long.”
The heir nodded, swallowing hard, and turned away. He didn’t notice the figure concealed in the dark alcove behind him—a young hopeful clutching a towel and a bar of soap, his expression frozen in shock. Face pale, breathing shallow, as he pressed himself against the back wall.
The heir walked away, his footsteps receding down the endless hallway. Hopeful stayed where he was, his heart pounding in his chest. He had heard everything. And though his mind screamed at him, his stone legs refused to obey.
Second Day
Brunch at the high table was a tableau of culinary extravagance designed to distract even the most vigilant of guests. Platters of quivering aspic towers glistened under soft morning light, their jewel-like contents preserved in impossible suspension. Saffron-dusted quail eggs nested atop buttery croissants, while pale, artfully sliced peaches lay draped over delicate crepes as if they had been positioned by a painter rather than a chef. The centerpiece—a glistening crystal bowl of chilled watermelon balls, each as flawless and pink as a pearl—radiated coolness into the air.
Despite the lavish spread, the mood at the high table was uneven, the absence of the young heir cast a faint shadow over the affair. The other couples, scattered across the dais, maintained politeness, but tension rippled. The sea of tables from the previous night were now rolled to the sides, a quiet reminder of the evening’s coming festivities.
From the couples in attendance, a low but pointed exchange broke the surface of conversation. The Hopeful’s date leaned close. “Leave? You were the one who convinced me of how important this event was. There are still two more days left. What will we tell my family if we return early?”
The Hopeful grimaced, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles paled. He turned away, his jaw tight, unable to articulate his unease. How could he explain the dread that clawed at him, the whispered warnings his mind insisted on repeating? How could he confess, here in public, that he felt himself slipping into some unseen trap?
Across the table, Annette caught the moment, her arched brow a silent inquiry directed at Rivers. Without breaking his stride, Rivers returned her gaze and popped one of the chilled watermelon balls into his mouth. He chewed, his expression the picture of deliberate nonchalance.
The sudden clamor of a curtain rising silenced all murmurs, drawing every gaze to the stage at the far end of the hall. The spotlight slammed on, its stark beam illuminating not actors but a strange, makeshift hut at the center of the stage. The structure was crude but unsettling, its jagged edges and darkened entrance suggestive of something primal. From the hut’s blackened doorway, two puppets lurched forward into the light.
The first was immediately recognizable—a Punch puppet, with its hooked red nose and iconic tricorner hat. The second, however, was a bizarre creation: a spotted horse puppet with unnervingly fearful eyes, its painted expression frozen somewhere between panic and absurdity.
“Oh ho!” Punch howled, his exaggerated falsetto filling the hall. “You have been listening at doorways and peeping through keyholes!”
The horse jerked its head wildly, its dopey, drawling voice protesting in exaggerated panic. “Not me, not me, you see, you see. I’m just a horse as deaf and dumb as I can be!”
The creature’s crude movements elicited a nervous reaction that rippled through the room.
Punch, however, was not swayed. He produced a beater-stick from thin air, brandishing it with theatrical menace.
“Neigh! Neigh, I say,” the horse pleaded, bobbing frantically. “Put that stick away!”
In a sudden subversion, Punch cast the stick aside. It clattered loudly onto the stage, the sound punctuated by a few polite scoffs from the high table. Next Punch lunged at the horse, grabbing it by the neck. The horse puppet flailed wildly, its panicked motions crossing the line from comedic to unsettling.
Punch began to spin with the horse, in a dance macabre. “Let me inside. Inside your mind. Your mind, your mind, your mind is mine…”
The moment stretched, lewd and jarring, as the puppets’ interplay became uncomfortably intimate. Punch’s words echoed, their rhythm invasive, as if they were burrowing into the collective consciousness of the room.
The Hopeful’s date looked around for a consensus, her carefully composed expression faltering. Finally, she delivered her assessment with forced lightness. “Well, that was different.”
But the Hopeful was beyond politeness. With a sharp, deliberate movement, he threw his napkin onto the table. He pushed his chair back roughly, the sound reverberating, and leapt down from the dais without using the stairs. He marched across the floor, his determined strides cutting through the sea of arriving attendees like a blade. The crowd’s murmurs swelled in his wake, their curiosity tinged with unease.
Annette had seen enough. Her gaze, sharp and calculating, flicked to Rivers. “Stay or leave, Riv?”
Rivers, ever the strategist, nodded in thought, his brow furrowed. Then he offered an idea. “Tell you what, let’s stick together at all times until we’re free and clear. We’ll call it the buddy system.”
Annette pursed her lips in approval. She reached for a champagne stem, raising it with a deliberate grace. “And who is this ‘Buddy’?” she asked.
Rivers leaned in conspiratorially. “Why, the horse, of course. The horse’s name is Buddy.”
Annette deftly covered her mouth with her hand, ensuring the champagne stayed in as she let out a soft laugh. Then, with an expression that was both rare and wickedly feminine, she gave Rivers a pointed sneer. “He did sound like a Buddy, didn’t he?”
Their moment of levity cut through the growing tension. But as the puppets spun back into the darkness of the hut and as the curtain fell and the spotlight dimmed, a sense of unease lingered, like the last note of a song that rang on forever, refusing to abate.
Hopeful’s Flight
The hopeful, sick with the unbearable evidence of his eyes and ears, ran through the labyrinthine halls of Solstice Court, his steps sure. Yet–the twisting staircases, the narrow, unmarked corridors—it was as though the building itself was alive, its architecture shifting subtly to guide him toward its dark center.
He found himself in a long, dimly lit hallway, the flickering sconces casting uneasy shadows that leapt and twisted with every step. His pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic counterpoint to the footsteps growing louder behind him. Panic surged as he turned his head, only to see figures emerge from the gloom—the Host and the heir. They moved with a predatory elegance, the flickering candelabra in the Host’s hand threw distorted shadows against the stone walls. The Host’s veiled figure loomed, inscrutable and all the more terrifying for it, while the heir’s pale face betrayed no emotion, his steps mechanical.
The hopeful’s breath quickened as a strange, invasive pressure settled over his mind. His thoughts became sluggish, fraying at the edges, as if unseen fingers were unspooling the threads of his will. His limbs felt heavy, his panic useless against the suffocating weight.
Desperation flared. He reached blindly for the nearest object—a heavy brass candlestick resting on a side table. With trembling hands, he swung it in a wide, frantic arc. The weapon connected with the heir’s temple in a sickening collision of metal and bone. The sound reverberated through the hall, sharp and final. The heir’s body crumpled, lifeless, folding unnaturally to the floor.
For a moment, time held its breath.
Then, the Host let out a roar, a sound both human and otherworldly, raw with rage and grief. It echoed through the corridor, shaking the very air, and the hopeful froze, his body seizing in terror. The Host moved with impossible speed, his robes a blur of shadow and wrath. Before the hopeful could raise the candlestick again, the Host was upon him, his veiled face an abyss of fury.
The hopeful’s last moments were brief and violent. The candlestick clattered to the ground, its weight meaningless. Moments later, his lifeless body lay sprawled beside the heir’s. The flickering light from the candelabra cast long shadows over the scene, translating the remaining figure into myriad, grotesque, dancing shapes.
Firepower
Rivers and Annette slipped away from the grand hall, their footsteps muffled against the plush carpeting. The corridors stretched ahead of them, promising escape, but the sprawling architecture of the manor seemed intent on betraying that promise. Where they expected the main entrance and the welcoming expanse of the green lawn, they found only more twisting hallways, each turn folding them deeper into the labyrinth. Rivers frowned, his brow knit in frustration.
“How is this even possible?” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as if the walls themselves were conspiring.
Annette, her calm unshaken, pressed ahead. “It’s just a trick of the layout,” she replied. “I can still get us through.”
He nodded. Soon, their aim shifted to returning to their suite. Both of them had surprises waiting in their suitcases—contingencies against whatever dangers lurked.
As they pressed on, an oppressive silence swallowed their tentative conversation. It was Annette who saw it first—the body sprawled across the floor at the intersection of two corridors. She stopped abruptly, and Rivers, following close behind, collided into her shoulder before freezing at the sight.
The heir’s lifeless form lay in a crumpled heap, his pallid face turned to the side, his hands slack at his sides. Rivers’s breath caught.
“He’s dead,” Annette murmured, stepping closer. Her jaw tightened with determination as she crouched to inspect the scene, her voice low but certain.
Rivers gripped her arm firmly, pulling her back. “We need to get you out of here,” he said, dread pressing on every word.
Annette raised an eyebrow, but she nodded, allowing herself to be led away.
As they navigated the maze-like corridors, they stumbled upon a room that stopped them cold—a funerary chamber, stark and ceremonial. A single slab stood at its center, the hopeful’s lifeless body laid upon it. His arms were crossed like those of an ancient king, a heavy brass candlestick clutched tightly in his hands. The sight was macabre, reverent, and wrong in a way that made Rivers’s stomach twist.
Before either of them could speak, a figure emerged from behind the heavy drapes that framed the room—the Host.
Veiled and resplendent in his ornate robes, he loomed over the corpse-slab. Rivers staggered, his knees buckling as his mind was assaulted by crushing shadow fingers. His vision blurred, and his hands shot to his temples as though to hold his skull together.
Annette moved swiftly, stepping between Rivers and the Host, her voice cutting through the suffocating tension. “Enough of this!” she snapped.
The Host turned his veiled gaze toward her, his hand rising slowly, as if preparing to unleash his malice upon her. Annette’s eyes narrowed, and with a deliberate, underhanded motion, she unclenched her fingers, summoning the inner flame.
A brilliant spark crackled from her palm, igniting a second sun which blazed into existence within the room. The fire consumed the Host, his inhuman scream piercing the air as his veiled form disintegrated into a cascade of ash and a rising wisp of smoke. The force of the flame pushed back the shadow, leaving only scorched walls and silence in their wake.
Rivers, still clutching his sore head, stumbled to his feet. “Sorry, kid,” he muttered, his voice thick with guilt and exhaustion. “Bastard took me by surprise. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I don’t take it lightly.”
Annette glanced at him, her face impassive but her eyes betraying a hint of weariness. She said nothing, brushing ash from her skirt then steadying him with a warm shoulder.
Epilogue
As the first light of dawn broke over Solstice Court, Rivers and Annette emerged from the manor, Rivers holding the suitcases more heavily this time. The grand green lawn stretched before them, dewy and peaceful.
Rivers budged Annette heavily with his shoulder, “I mean it, you saved me back there,” he said softly.
Annette arched an eyebrow, producing an official parchment in one hand and, with the other an ornately decorated Festival coin-purse from her scorched handbag. “Let’s just agree to tell everyone that we were declared the King and Queen of Festival.”
Rivers let out a tired laugh, shaking his head. “Deal,” he said simply.
Side by side, they crossed the expansive lawn, the fresh morning air filling their lungs as they left the elegant suites of Solstice Court behind. Beyond the sunken garden, their steps grew lighter as they neared the edge of the grounds, their thoughts turning to the quiet streets of Middlemass and the promise of normalcy that awaited them there.
Breakfast at the Cottage
The morning light filtered through lace curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns across the wooden floor of the cottage’s kitchen. It was a picturesque little home, tucked neatly between the wilder corners of Middlemass and the sprawling, orderly fields of the homesteader family next door. The space smelled faintly of cinnamon, coffee and tobacco, broken by the occasional sharp sizzle of bacon in the cast-iron skillet on the stove.
Annette sat at the small breakfast table, its surface lovingly scuffed from years of meals and quiet conversations. She wore a cardigan that hung loosely off her shoulder. Her gaze was focused on a fashion magazine, not so much reading as glancing over the illustrations, her mouth tugged into a small, thoughtful frown.
Emily, dressed in an apron stood at the stove, turning the bacon with a practiced flick of her wrist. She was humming softly, a tune that felt both familiar and unplaceable. The sound was comforting in its casualness, the kind of thing that made the space feel more like home. Her mother, seated across the kitchen table was smoking something indeterminate, her nails clacking absently against her bracelets.
“Do you ever think about how mornings like these are numbered?” Annette asked suddenly.
Emily turned, one eyebrow raised, spatula in hand. “Numbered? That’s morbid for breakfast, don’t you think?”
Annette shrugged, folding the magazine neatly and setting it aside. “It’s just… we don’t stay in these moments forever. They slip away when you aren’t looking. That’s all.”
Emily smirked, setting a plate of bacon on the table. “Well, that’s a cheery thought for the day. Would you like your coffee extra-bitter to match the mood?”
Annette rolled her eyes. She reached for a slice of bacon as Emily returned to the stove.
Before she could bite into it, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. All three women froze briefly, exchanging curious glances. It wasn’t often they received visitors who knocked. Annette sighed, placing the bacon on her plate. “I’ll get it.”
She crossed the room and opened the door to find a young delivery boy standing awkwardly on the stoop. He held a small, ornate envelope in his hands, its edges gilded and the paper so pristine it looked out of place against the boy’s ink-smudged fingers.
“For Miss Annette and… Mr. Rivers?” the boy said hesitantly, squinting at the names written in elegant script.
Annette’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Rivers?”
“Yes, ma’am. It says so right here,” the boy replied, thrusting the envelope toward her.
Emily turned from the stove, now openly curious. “Who’s sending you both something so fancy?”
Annette ignored the question, taking the envelope carefully. The weight of it was surprising, the paper thick and expensive beneath her fingers. She turned it over, revealing a deep red wax seal embossed with a design she couldn’t immediately place—some kind of stylized sunburst or crown.
“Thank you,” she said, closing the door before the boy could offer anything else. She held the envelope up, examining it in the light.
“Well?” Emily prompted, stepping closer. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Annette slid a nail beneath the seal, breaking it cleanly. The envelope gave way with a soft crackle, and she pulled out a single folded sheet of heavy parchment. As she unfolded it, an invitation revealed its elaborate calligraphy:
You are hereby invited to attend Festival at Solstice Court
An Evening of Tradition, Celebration, and Prestige
Honoring Promising Couples of Middlemass
Held under the Midsummer Moon
There was more, but Annette’s eyes stopped there, her breath catching slightly. She read it again, her expression tightening.
Emily leaned in warmly, reading over her shoulder. “Promising couples?” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And who figured out that you and Rivers are a couple?”
Annette snapped the invitation shut. “It’s ridiculous. A mistake. Someone’s idea of a joke.”
Her mother, sidelining a cigarillo in favor of playing with her lighter, chuckled softly. “Oh, it’s no mistake, dear. Festival’s been around forever. My own Auntie attended. Very prestigious.”
Annette turned to her, incredulous. “Prestigious? It sounds ridiculous.”
“It’s tradition, Annette. I won’t need to remind you how important that is to us.”
Emily grinned, clearly enjoying her sister’s discomfort. “Well, Rivers will be thrilled, I’m sure. Nothing says romance like an archaic pagan ball.”
Annette raised her chin in indignation, sinking back into her chair. She slapped the invitation loosely across her lap, staring at it as though it might burst into flames.
Emily returned to the stove, her laughter soft and teasing. “You’d better tell him soon. Something tells me he’d want to know.”
Daydream
The grounds were an ode to opulence, a sunken garden with a Grecian flourish. Marble statues posed in the artful decay of antiquity, their smooth limbs casting long shadows on hedgerows sculpted with geometric precision. Pathways wove through the gardens, leading visitors past fountains, their sprays catching the late afternoon light. Beyond the gardens stretched the vast, emerald sprawl of an American lawn, its perfection punctuated by the looming silhouette of the manor house.
Rivers moved with easy confidence, his white-on-white attire making him look like he had stepped out of a Gatsby daydream. His shirt was perfectly pressed, the faintest shadow of suspenders visible through the fabric, and his crisp trousers ended just above polished shoes that crunched happily. He casually carried both his suitcase and Annette’s, one in each hand. His dark hair retained a rebellious edge, a wayward curl brushing his temple.
Annette walked beside him, her own white ensemble a study in understated sophistication. The skirt clicked just so, and the sleeveless sweater accentuated her angelic quality. Her hair was swept back, revealing the clean line of her jaw. She wore the kind of jewelry that whispered instead of shouting. Her chin slightly raised as if the world were presenting itself for her approval. She spared only the briefest of glances for the other couples, also clad in white, who passed by with careful smiles and murmured greetings.
Older figures stood apart, their clothing more formal, their presence more regular. They were spectators of tradition, their sharp gazes cataloging every movement and exchange. Rivers and Annette were not immune to their scrutiny, though Annette’s composed expression suggested she had decided long ago not to care.
Coming down the lane in the opposite direction were the players. A lion with a mane of thick, looped yarn lumbered past, its golden eyes fixed on some distant horizon. A Titania followed, her gown glittering as though strung with starlight. Rivers shifted the weight of the suitcases in his hands without breaking stride, the effort invisible to all but Annette, who raised a single eyebrow as a Frog Prince doffed his cap and bowed deeply in her direction.
She did not return the gesture, nor did she speak, her gaze fixed ahead on the grand double-doors that stood open to welcome them. The portal was enormous, the rich wood gleaming under an arch carved with images of fauna. Inside, the cavernous welcome hall yawned with space and grandeur.
“It’s all more handsome than I expected,” Rivers ventured, his voice low but pleasant, as though they were simply commenting on the weather.
Annette did not look at him, her tone neutral but not unkind. “I am prepared to be impressed.”
“I hear the feasts are exemplary,” Rivers added, his voice dropping to a near whisper as they stepped across the threshold.
High Table
Now dressed in black ties or strapless gowns, the honored couples sat at the high table. The table's arrangement, however, held small peculiarities. Among the pairs of young men and women, there sat a solitary figure—the family heir. He was an angular young man. Skin pale, eyes deep as though they held secrets far older than his years. His posture—leaning slightly forward with his elbows resting on the table—suggested a weariness that no grooming could mask. Unlike the other honorees, he had no date. The empty chair beside him, a silent invitation that none had dared to fill.
To his left sat a hopeful young man. The hopeful was broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with a farmhand's build softened by the veneer of his formalwear. His thick, warm sun-bleached hair had been cropped for the occasion. His eyes swept over the high table with eager intensity. Though he sat beside a radiant young woman in a midnight-blue gown— he appeared more interested in the evening’s social pageantry.
The high table was a place of distinction but it was equally a display. Upon that pedestal, everyone dining on the floor below could look up and gaze at them; every gesture framed in the soft glow of chandeliers that dangled like gilded stalactites from the high ceilings. The couples themselves had been carefully curated, their polished appearances and poised manners forming the centerpiece of the evening’s spectacle.
But they had competition. Across the grand dining hall, a stage rose on the opposite side, slightly elevated above the sea of polished tables and bustling caterers. Upon that stage, a simply smashing rendition of Egyptian Passion had reached a crescendo. Osiris, his headdress gleaming under the stage lights, knelt before a painted backdrop depicting a hillside tower in the hazy distance. The painted strokes were bold and deliberate, their artistry suggestive of ancient truths barely veiled.
Then the Host appeared again.
Rivers, seated further down the table, crossed his arms. His gaze narrowed onto the robed and veiled figure who stepped onto the stage with an air of practiced mystery. The Host’s arrival unsettled the delicate balance of the performance, an interruption that Rivers could only categorize as offensive.
“I know, darling,” Annette said smoothly, breaking his train of thought as if reading his mind. Her tone was light but held an edge of amusement. She snapped up her fork, pierced a particularly large piece of charred, sizzling chicken, and deposited it onto his plate with the precision of a diplomat brokering a ceasefire. “Have some of this. It’ll take your mind off it.”
The Host raised his arms wide, the gesture commanded silence. His voice carried through the hall. “Does Osiris see the tower,” he intoned, “or was it destroyed, as had long been foretold to him?”
For a moment, the hall held its breath, the weight of the audience participation pressing down on every table. Then the hopeful young man at the high table rose. His movements were deliberate, as though he had been forewarned. He spoke with clarity and conviction. “Though the tower was struck by thunder, it stands eternal.”
The response was greeted with an eruption of applause, a wave of relieved approval rippling across the room. Rivers caught Annette’s eye.
The young man’s chosen reply was one of the responses known to steer the play away from its most tragic ending.
From the stage, the Host inclined his veiled head slightly, his expression inscrutable. Beside the hopeful man, the heir’s lips quirked into a faint smile—one so fleeting it -
Double-Up
The suite was classy without the insecurities of ostentation. The queen-sized bed, draped in immaculate white linens, sat atop a polished wooden dais that gave it a stage-like prominence. An adjacent sunken sitting area, with its tufted leather armchairs and a low marble coffee table, invited long conversations. The room was washed in a soft golden glow from sconces mounted on the pale, textured walls, their light diffused by artful shades.
Rivers stood near the bed, dressed in a plain cotton nightshirt and matching pants. His suitcase lay open on the bed—clothes folded with sharp creases, toiletries tucked into compartments, and a small shaving kit. He unzipped the kit, revealing not aftershave but a large beige walkie-talkie, its surface slightly scuffed from use.
He pressed the button on the side, his voice low and deliberate. “Engineer, Engineer, this is Handsome1, over.”
The walkie crackled, the static buzzing faintly before fading. Rivers frowned, crossing his arms, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep. He moved to press the button again, but before he could, a voice broke through.
“You are lucky I put up with your shenanigans, Mr. Rivers. But you were right—there were unsettling distortions in your signal soon after you arrived.”
The door to the suite rattled faintly. Rivers snapped his head toward it, his body taut with anticipation. Without a word, he pressed the walkie’s button again, his tone clipped. “Call me back.” He let go of the button and quickly zipped the shaving kit. Without missing a beat, Rivers snapped the suitcase shut and swiped it off the bed.
The door opened, and Annette swept into the room with the grace of someone who knew exactly how much attention she commanded. She wore a black camisole that stopped just shy of the top of her thighs, her bare legs catching the ambient light as she turned to close the door behind her. Her movements were languid, as though the maze-like corridors of Solstice Court hadn’t worn on her in the least.
“This place is like a maze,” she remarked, spinning to face him with a faintly amused expression. “Awfully bold of them to assign the couples to the same room.”
Rivers leaned against the bedpost. “I have written a letter in protest,” he said, “but I haven’t had a chance to send it yet.”
Annette crossed the room with deliberate ease, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. She waved a hand toward the bed, a gesture that clearly meant he should get in.
Rivers complied, pulling back the covers and settling himself against the crisp pillows. Annette climbed onto the bed beside him. She adjusted the sheets, pulling them over both of them. Her arm draped over his chest, her fingers splayed lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Her knee found its place over his thigh, her body fitting against his as though this were the most natural arrangement in the world.
“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured as a reminder.
Overheard
The guest wing of the manor was a labyrinth, the disorienting architecture seemed willfully deceptive. It was simple enough to enter—one turn, then another—but as soon as a guest looked back, the entrance would have blended seamlessly into the stone walls, vanishing behind them. False doors lined the hallways, promising egress only to deliver dead ends. Secret panels whispered open and shut, and the halls, impossibly, could lead one in circles without ever betraying the trick.
The young heir moved through the wing. His steps were careful but quick, his eyes darting from door to door, searching for some forgotten corner where he might hide. He just wanted an unoccupied bed. Anywhere he could close his eyes and escape the looming conclusion of Festival for a few hours. He turned a corner, his hand brushing lightly against the cold stone wall for balance, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He stopped abruptly.
Behind him, the veiled figure of the Host emerged from the dim candlelight. The ornate mask shimmered faintly, its edges catching the soft glow. The thick robes swayed as he stepped forward, their rich fabric whispering against the stone. The light from the candelabras played tricks with the shadows, casting unnervingly human shapes across the walls.
The heir froze, his breath shallow, his body trembling. He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white as he fought the primal urge to run.
“You seem lost,” the Host said, his voice—something that bordered on pity.
“I… I can’t do this,” the heir stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to straighten his posture, but his legs felt like water beneath him. “I thought I could. I thought I understood. But I can’t give up my life.”
The Host tilted his head. He took another step forward, the hem of his robe brushing against the stone. “You knew the tradition,” he said, his tone measured, even soothing. “The honor it carried. You knew what would be asked of you.”
The heir’s breath hitched. Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them away furiously. “I didn’t think it was real,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Not like this. Please… don’t make me do this.”
The Host remained silent for a long moment, his veiled face unreadable. Then he sighed—a soft, almost human sound. “You are my favorite,” he said simply. “You always were. I’ve watched over you. If it is your fear alone that holds you back, then let it be assuaged. I will spare you the honors.”
The heir’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “You will?”
“I will,” the Host repeated, his tone carrying a faint note of sadness. “But you must help me find another. Festival must have its offering.”
The heir’s shoulders sagged with relief, the tension in his body releasing all at once. “Thank you,” he breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll help. I’ll help you.”
The Host inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment, before stepping back into the shadows. His voice lingered, low and final: “Go now. The night grows long.”
The heir nodded, swallowing hard, and turned away. He didn’t notice the figure concealed in the dark alcove behind him—a young hopeful clutching a towel and a bar of soap, his expression frozen in shock. Face pale, breathing shallow, as he pressed himself against the back wall.
The heir walked away, his footsteps receding down the endless hallway. Hopeful stayed where he was, his heart pounding in his chest. He had heard everything. And though his mind screamed at him, his stone legs refused to obey.
Second Day
Brunch at the high table was a tableau of culinary extravagance designed to distract even the most vigilant of guests. Platters of quivering aspic towers glistened under soft morning light, their jewel-like contents preserved in impossible suspension. Saffron-dusted quail eggs nested atop buttery croissants, while pale, artfully sliced peaches lay draped over delicate crepes as if they had been positioned by a painter rather than a chef. The centerpiece—a glistening crystal bowl of chilled watermelon balls, each as flawless and pink as a pearl—radiated coolness into the air.
Despite the lavish spread, the mood at the high table was uneven, the absence of the young heir cast a faint shadow over the affair. The other couples, scattered across the dais, maintained politeness, but tension rippled. The sea of tables from the previous night were now rolled to the sides, a quiet reminder of the evening’s coming festivities.
From the couples in attendance, a low but pointed exchange broke the surface of conversation. The Hopeful’s date leaned close. “Leave? You were the one who convinced me of how important this event was. There are still two more days left. What will we tell my family if we return early?”
The Hopeful grimaced, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles paled. He turned away, his jaw tight, unable to articulate his unease. How could he explain the dread that clawed at him, the whispered warnings his mind insisted on repeating? How could he confess, here in public, that he felt himself slipping into some unseen trap?
Across the table, Annette caught the moment, her arched brow a silent inquiry directed at Rivers. Without breaking his stride, Rivers returned her gaze and popped one of the chilled watermelon balls into his mouth. He chewed, his expression the picture of deliberate nonchalance.
The sudden clamor of a curtain rising silenced all murmurs, drawing every gaze to the stage at the far end of the hall. The spotlight slammed on, its stark beam illuminating not actors but a strange, makeshift hut at the center of the stage. The structure was crude but unsettling, its jagged edges and darkened entrance suggestive of something primal. From the hut’s blackened doorway, two puppets lurched forward into the light.
The first was immediately recognizable—a Punch puppet, with its hooked red nose and iconic tricorner hat. The second, however, was a bizarre creation: a spotted horse puppet with unnervingly fearful eyes, its painted expression frozen somewhere between panic and absurdity.
“Oh ho!” Punch howled, his exaggerated falsetto filling the hall. “You have been listening at doorways and peeping through keyholes!”
The horse jerked its head wildly, its dopey, drawling voice protesting in exaggerated panic. “Not me, not me, you see, you see. I’m just a horse as deaf and dumb as I can be!”
The creature’s crude movements elicited a nervous reaction that rippled through the room.
Punch, however, was not swayed. He produced a beater-stick from thin air, brandishing it with theatrical menace.
“Neigh! Neigh, I say,” the horse pleaded, bobbing frantically. “Put that stick away!”
In a sudden subversion, Punch cast the stick aside. It clattered loudly onto the stage, the sound punctuated by a few polite scoffs from the high table. Next Punch lunged at the horse, grabbing it by the neck. The horse puppet flailed wildly, its panicked motions crossing the line from comedic to unsettling.
Punch began to spin with the horse, in a dance macabre. “Let me inside. Inside your mind. Your mind, your mind, your mind is mine…”
The moment stretched, lewd and jarring, as the puppets’ interplay became uncomfortably intimate. Punch’s words echoed, their rhythm invasive, as if they were burrowing into the collective consciousness of the room.
The Hopeful’s date looked around for a consensus, her carefully composed expression faltering. Finally, she delivered her assessment with forced lightness. “Well, that was different.”
But the Hopeful was beyond politeness. With a sharp, deliberate movement, he threw his napkin onto the table. He pushed his chair back roughly, the sound reverberating, and leapt down from the dais without using the stairs. He marched across the floor, his determined strides cutting through the sea of arriving attendees like a blade. The crowd’s murmurs swelled in his wake, their curiosity tinged with unease.
Annette had seen enough. Her gaze, sharp and calculating, flicked to Rivers. “Stay or leave, Riv?”
Rivers, ever the strategist, nodded in thought, his brow furrowed. Then he offered an idea. “Tell you what, let’s stick together at all times until we’re free and clear. We’ll call it the buddy system.”
Annette pursed her lips in approval. She reached for a champagne stem, raising it with a deliberate grace. “And who is this ‘Buddy’?” she asked.
Rivers leaned in conspiratorially. “Why, the horse, of course. The horse’s name is Buddy.”
Annette deftly covered her mouth with her hand, ensuring the champagne stayed in as she let out a soft laugh. Then, with an expression that was both rare and wickedly feminine, she gave Rivers a pointed sneer. “He did sound like a Buddy, didn’t he?”
Their moment of levity cut through the growing tension. But as the puppets spun back into the darkness of the hut and as the curtain fell and the spotlight dimmed, a sense of unease lingered, like the last note of a song that rang on forever, refusing to abate.
Hopeful’s Flight
The hopeful, sick with the unbearable evidence of his eyes and ears, ran through the labyrinthine halls of Solstice Court, his steps sure. Yet–the twisting staircases, the narrow, unmarked corridors—it was as though the building itself was alive, its architecture shifting subtly to guide him toward its dark center.
He found himself in a long, dimly lit hallway, the flickering sconces casting uneasy shadows that leapt and twisted with every step. His pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic counterpoint to the footsteps growing louder behind him. Panic surged as he turned his head, only to see figures emerge from the gloom—the Host and the heir. They moved with a predatory elegance, the flickering candelabra in the Host’s hand threw distorted shadows against the stone walls. The Host’s veiled figure loomed, inscrutable and all the more terrifying for it, while the heir’s pale face betrayed no emotion, his steps mechanical.
The hopeful’s breath quickened as a strange, invasive pressure settled over his mind. His thoughts became sluggish, fraying at the edges, as if unseen fingers were unspooling the threads of his will. His limbs felt heavy, his panic useless against the suffocating weight.
Desperation flared. He reached blindly for the nearest object—a heavy brass candlestick resting on a side table. With trembling hands, he swung it in a wide, frantic arc. The weapon connected with the heir’s temple in a sickening collision of metal and bone. The sound reverberated through the hall, sharp and final. The heir’s body crumpled, lifeless, folding unnaturally to the floor.
For a moment, time held its breath.
Then, the Host let out a roar, a sound both human and otherworldly, raw with rage and grief. It echoed through the corridor, shaking the very air, and the hopeful froze, his body seizing in terror. The Host moved with impossible speed, his robes a blur of shadow and wrath. Before the hopeful could raise the candlestick again, the Host was upon him, his veiled face an abyss of fury.
The hopeful’s last moments were brief and violent. The candlestick clattered to the ground, its weight meaningless. Moments later, his lifeless body lay sprawled beside the heir’s. The flickering light from the candelabra cast long shadows over the scene, translating the remaining figure into myriad, grotesque, dancing shapes.
Firepower
Rivers and Annette slipped away from the grand hall, their footsteps muffled against the plush carpeting. The corridors stretched ahead of them, promising escape, but the sprawling architecture of the manor seemed intent on betraying that promise. Where they expected the main entrance and the welcoming expanse of the green lawn, they found only more twisting hallways, each turn folding them deeper into the labyrinth. Rivers frowned, his brow knit in frustration.
“How is this even possible?” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as if the walls themselves were conspiring.
Annette, her calm unshaken, pressed ahead. “It’s just a trick of the layout,” she replied. “I can still get us through.”
He nodded. Soon, their aim shifted to returning to their suite. Both of them had surprises waiting in their suitcases—contingencies against whatever dangers lurked.
As they pressed on, an oppressive silence swallowed their tentative conversation. It was Annette who saw it first—the body sprawled across the floor at the intersection of two corridors. She stopped abruptly, and Rivers, following close behind, collided into her shoulder before freezing at the sight.
The heir’s lifeless form lay in a crumpled heap, his pallid face turned to the side, his hands slack at his sides. Rivers’s breath caught.
“He’s dead,” Annette murmured, stepping closer. Her jaw tightened with determination as she crouched to inspect the scene, her voice low but certain.
Rivers gripped her arm firmly, pulling her back. “We need to get you out of here,” he said, dread pressing on every word.
Annette raised an eyebrow, but she nodded, allowing herself to be led away.
As they navigated the maze-like corridors, they stumbled upon a room that stopped them cold—a funerary chamber, stark and ceremonial. A single slab stood at its center, the hopeful’s lifeless body laid upon it. His arms were crossed like those of an ancient king, a heavy brass candlestick clutched tightly in his hands. The sight was macabre, reverent, and wrong in a way that made Rivers’s stomach twist.
Before either of them could speak, a figure emerged from behind the heavy drapes that framed the room—the Host.
Veiled and resplendent in his ornate robes, he loomed over the corpse-slab. Rivers staggered, his knees buckling as his mind was assaulted by crushing shadow fingers. His vision blurred, and his hands shot to his temples as though to hold his skull together.
Annette moved swiftly, stepping between Rivers and the Host, her voice cutting through the suffocating tension. “Enough of this!” she snapped.
The Host turned his veiled gaze toward her, his hand rising slowly, as if preparing to unleash his malice upon her. Annette’s eyes narrowed, and with a deliberate, underhanded motion, she unclenched her fingers, summoning the inner flame.
A brilliant spark crackled from her palm, igniting a second sun which blazed into existence within the room. The fire consumed the Host, his inhuman scream piercing the air as his veiled form disintegrated into a cascade of ash and a rising wisp of smoke. The force of the flame pushed back the shadow, leaving only scorched walls and silence in their wake.
Rivers, still clutching his sore head, stumbled to his feet. “Sorry, kid,” he muttered, his voice thick with guilt and exhaustion. “Bastard took me by surprise. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I don’t take it lightly.”
Annette glanced at him, her face impassive but her eyes betraying a hint of weariness. She said nothing, brushing ash from her skirt then steadying him with a warm shoulder.
Epilogue
As the first light of dawn broke over Solstice Court, Rivers and Annette emerged from the manor, Rivers holding the suitcases more heavily this time. The grand green lawn stretched before them, dewy and peaceful.
Rivers budged Annette heavily with his shoulder, “I mean it, you saved me back there,” he said softly.
Annette arched an eyebrow, producing an official parchment in one hand and, with the other an ornately decorated Festival coin-purse from her scorched handbag. “Let’s just agree to tell everyone that we were declared the King and Queen of Festival.”
Rivers let out a tired laugh, shaking his head. “Deal,” he said simply.
Side by side, they crossed the expansive lawn, the fresh morning air filling their lungs as they left the elegant suites of Solstice Court behind. Beyond the sunken garden, their steps grew lighter as they neared the edge of the grounds, their thoughts turning to the quiet streets of Middlemass and the promise of normalcy that awaited them there.
Prince of Middlemass
short, stand-alone adventures which include the same world, characters, and themes as the novel "king of middlemass"
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