I.D. Johnson's Blog, page 5
November 15, 2015
NaNoWriMo The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas: Chapter Seven
I am posting the chapters of my NaNoWriMo novel as I finish them for your reading enjoyment. Please keep in mind I have not edited any of this--I'm posting as I go. I would love to hear what you think of the story so far! Here's Chapter Seven!
The BaitIt didn’t take too long for Corey to navigate back to his home, considering he had magic traveling powers of his own, much like Santa’s though not as powerful, particularly when it came to speed and the manipulation of time. Nevertheless, he found himself pulling into what was now deemed the “airport” landing strip in no time, and the elves who oversaw the transfer of the flying teams to and from the barn quickly set to work freeing the reindeer from their harnesses, inspecting their condition, and moving them back to their stalls where they would be brushed, fed, and watered.Corey did not pause to speak to either the reindeer who had gotten him to and from his destination safely and speedily or the elves that greeted him as they went about their jobs. Instead, still keeping one hand securely in the pocket of his topcoat, he made his way swiftly back to his own lodgings, mindlessly nodding in response to a few passersby who yelled out to him in greeting. His hand was wrapped securely around his passenger, and as he became more anxious to get the tiny fellow back to his own place where he could better provide for his security, he began to realize his grip was steadfast and he must loosen it or else all would be lost through the destruction caused by his own hand. Upon reaching his own doorstep, he threw the door open in haste, causing it to slam against the wall. Yet, the repercussion didn’t slow him, and he only stomped his boots momentarily on the doormat before yelling, “Mr. Waddlebug?” and taking a few quick steps toward the kitchen.“Corey, darling, why are you in such a hurry?”The voice he heard in reply, however, was not his servants, nor did it come from the kitchen. In fact, it was quite feminine, and Corey spun around promptly once he realized he was not alone in the room. “Mother?” he asked, fighting the temptation to roll his eyes. Though he usually welcomed a visit from his mother, now was not the time. He had important work to do, work she wouldn’t understand or approve of--and she was quite discerning. Eustacia Cane was quite tall and slender--for an elf. She had long ago retired from her position in Santa’s Workshop where she tarried for centuries making the finest toys, dolls in fact being her specialty. She had long brown hair which she always wore in two thick braids down her shoulders. No longer required to wear the uniform of one of Santa’s elves, she now chose to wear dresses most days, and today she was dressed in a bright shade of purple. The long-sleeved velvet gown covered her completely, even trailing the floor a bit around her black, pointy shoes. She sat in Corey’s favorite chair, by the fireplace, her lythe fingers crossed in her lap. Though she was almost half a millennium old, one could not tell from her face; she didn’t look a day past forty. Such was often the case with elves who aged so differently from humans.As her youngest son turned to face her, she smiled. It had been a few days since she had seen him, and he was her pride and joy after all. “How was your visit to England?” she asked, gesturing towards the chair across from her, hopeful that he would take it and describe his journey to her.Corey glanced at the kitchen door over his shoulder. He knew he heard Mr. Waddlebug scurrying about, as usual, but since his servant didn’t bother to respond to his urgent cry, he knew he would have to wait to take care of his newly acquired bartering chip. Sighing quietly to himself, he plastered his charming smile back on his face and turned back to his mother, who was waiting anxiously for a response.He sat down in the chair she offered, careful to keep his hand lightly around the small body in his pocket. There was a bit of squirming, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or curiosity. He readjusted his fingers, hoping to show that he was in charge in this situation, and focused his attention on his mother’s question. “My journey was--wet,” he admitted. She laughed, and he felt the urge to continue. “I met Ms. Fizzlestitch. She is quite an interesting character, and I hope to return to collect her in a day or two once she has had time to get her affairs in order.”“Oh! So she has agreed to come?” Eustacia clarified, leaning forward a bit in her chair. “How wonderful! I have heard amazing stories about her work. I should love to see it for myself.”Corey redirected his gaze away from his mother’s eyes and toward the eyes of one of the enormous reindeer that stood sentinel by the fireplace. It would be much easier to stretch the truth to this wooden animal than his own flesh and blood. “Yes, she’s quite excited about the proposition. I think she will be a major asset to our operation.”Eustacia snickered. “Oh, Corey, must you always speak so formally? I am your mother after all. I’m so proud of you. Every time St. Nicholas sends you out to collect a new recruit, you never let us down.”Corey ignored the first part of his mother’s statement having heard similar requests hundreds of times before. “I suppose I owe it all to grandfather’s shrewd business sense,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen, pondering how he might excuse himself, at least momentarily, to retrieve some sort of a container--with a lid.“Well, your father certainly never had any of the famous Cane family sensibility when it comes to negotiations or propositions,” she waxed, crossing one arm and propping her elbow on top, her head resting on her fist. “But he does know how to whip up a fantastic batch of peppermint candy. Leaving it to your older brother to run the business side of things was the best decision Cristobal ever made. Cassius was always much better at those sorts of things.”“Yes, of course he was… is,” Corey corrected, his attempt at humoring her slipping away from him a bit as his mind wandered to the squirming creature in his pocket. “Mother, would you excuse me for just a moment? I need to speak to Mr. Waddlebug.”Her eyebrows knitting together for just a second signaled that Eustacia suspected something out of the ordinary was happening with her son, but she nodded and said, “Of course. I believe he is in the kitchen.”Before she even finished her sentence, Corey was up and making his way towards the swinging kitchen door. Once he entered the kitchen, he could see there was simply no excuse for Mr. Waddlebug not answering him when he had yelled for his servant earlier. He was sitting at the round kitchen table, one elbow supporting his rather large noggin, a well-worn book in one hand and a cup of steaming tea at the ready. When Corey entered, he didn’t even look up, as if he was mentally transported away by the story in hand. “Waddlebug!” Corey spat out in a sharp whisper. The sound of his name caught his attention, and the old elf sat up quickly, rattling the table and sending droplets of tea onto the wooden surface with a splash, his spoon clattering against the side of the china cup. “Sorry, sir,” he replied, righting his spoon and setting the book aside. “I didn’t hear you come in.”Corey had no time to argue. “Get me a jar with a lid--but poke some holes in it or something. And be quick about it.” Still whispering, Corey pulled the creature out of his pocket, his hands cupped around it for security, and as Mr. Waddlebug jumped up to do as he was instructed, he glanced curiously at what his master was holding, but he was not able to tell.After a few moments of hasty action, Mr. Waddlebug produced the requested jar, the tin lid stabbed through enough times to provide adequate oxygen, in his un-expert opinion. “What is it?” he asked as Corey stepped over to the kitchen counter towards the newly fashioned cage.Without answering, Corey carefully dropped his captive into the jar, quickly securing the lid so that the little mouse could not escape. “There,” he said proudly, placing both fists on his hips. “Now, she’ll have to come to the North Pole.”Again, Mr. Waddlebug asked his question, eyeing the mouse curiously. “What is it?” “What do you mean what is it?” Corey asked, still whispering, but this time his voice a bit louder out of frustration. “It’s a doormouse, of course,” he replied. “Yes, I can see that,” Mr. Waddlebug admitted. “But why are you keeping it in a jar?”Corey sighed again, rubbing his brow, suddenly aware that he felt a headache coming on. “Because I want to keep it safe. Once Serendipity realizes it has gone missing, she’ll come up here to retrieve it, and then we will have her.”Mr. Waddlebug took the information in, chewed on it a moment, and then asked the one question he knew could potentially make his master quite angry. Nevertheless, he needed some clarification. “So, the doll maker refused to come on her own then?” Corey’s lips pursed for a moment in anger, and he took a deep breath to keep from yelling. At last he replied, “No, she didn’t refuse. Not exactly. She just needs some more persuasion, that’s all. And once she is here and sees all that we have to offer, she’ll stay. I’m sure of it. In the meantime, this little fellow needs to be kept safe and sound. And that is up to you. Do you understand?’“Yes, of course, sir,” Mr. Waddlebug replied, looking at the little mouse curiously as it tried to claw it’s way up the sides of the small glass jar.“And make sure my mother doesn’t find out about this. Or anyone else, for that matter.”“I will,” Mr. Waddlebug assured him.“Very good,” Corey replied, nodding as he began to step back towards the swinging kitchen door.“Sir?” Mr. Waddlebug cried after him.One hand on the door, Corey stopped and turned his head. “What is it?” he asked sharply.“What is his name?” Mr. Waddlbug asked, smiling at the little mouse in a friendly manner so as to reassure him.“What difference does it make? He’s nothing more than a bargaining chip,” Corey explained, pushing open the door, and reapplying the confident smile to his handsome face, hoping to hide his frustration, exhaustion, and cynicism. He might of been able to fool anyone else, but not his mother. “Corey, what’s the matter?” she asked as he returned to the chair he had most recently vacated.Corey sat down heavily, crossing one leg so that his shiny black boot rested on the opposite knee. “Nothing, Mother. I’m just a little tired,” he assured her, taking away his fake smile and replacing it with a less assertive one, one meant to comfort her. Eustacia studied her son closely for a moment, attempting to decide whether or not he was being disingenuous with her. “Corey, have you ever thought, perhaps, it’s time to slow down a bit? Start a family?”“Mother…”“I’m only saying, when your brother met Pyoria and started working less and concentrating more on his home life, he became much happier--and much easier to live with.”Corey raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying, Mother? That I’m difficult to live with?”“No, of course not, dear--not you. It’s only, I think you would be much happier if you had some balance in your life. You work yourself to death. And being half elf, I would think you would have at least another couple of hundred years before you should even begin to think about full retirement. Why not slow down a bit? You have plenty of time to accomplish all of your professional goals,” Eustacia explained in her gentle, nurturing voice.
As much as Corey wanted to dismiss her words, he knew she spoke the truth. He did work too hard. He had completely ignored any symbolance of a private life for decades, if not longer. However, he wasn’t about to agree with her outright, not this moment anyway when he had such an important task at hand. “Mother, please don’t worry about me. When the right woman--or elf, fairy, what have you--comes along, I’ll know it. And I’ll slow down then.”“But Corey, you’ll never meet her if all you do is work. Unless she’s one of your projects,” Eustacia added, an idea popping into her head. “Corey--what does this Serendipity look like? Is she… pretty?”The expression on Corey’s face would have answered her if the resounding, “No!” did not, as he reeled in horror. Visions of the crazy-haired woman with alabaster skin so pale she could be mistaken for an albino, her hands covered with paint, her eyes nearly transparent, filled his head, bringing along memories of the stench that seemed to hang around her like a cloud, and he felt his stomach begin to churn again. “No, mother, I assure you, Serendipity Fizzlestitch is anything but pretty.”“Oh, that’s too bad,” Eustacia muttered.“Don’t worry about me, Mother,” Corey assured her, leaning forward in his chair. “I’m still in my prime. I’m not even two hundred years old yet. There’s plenty of time for me to meet someone. Now, you should be getting home. I’m certain Father will be wondering what’s happened to you.”“I’m sure you’re correct,” she replied, standing. “Just take care of yourself, Corey.”Corey stood and wrapped his arms around his mother, stooping to do so. “I will. Never mind me. Now, shall I walk you home?”“Heavens, no,” she insisted, patting him on the cheek and smiling at her handsome boy. “I can manage. I love you, Son,” she reminded him.“I love you, too, Mother,” he said, kissing her rosy cheek.“My sweet, sweet boy. I got so lucky with you, darling. Such a good boy!” She continued to mutter words of affirmation as she took her hooded cloak off of the peg near the door, slipped it on, and let herself out.
Once she left, Corey let out the breath he had been holding. She wouldn’t think he was such a sweet boy if she had any idea that he had just kidnapped a little mouse and now intended to hold it hostage until its rightful owner agreed to come to the North Pole--a place she refused to visit. Nor would his mother agree that he was so spectacular if she could even imagine the lengths he was willing to go to in order to assure that said owner was never able to return to her home in England ever again.
The BaitIt didn’t take too long for Corey to navigate back to his home, considering he had magic traveling powers of his own, much like Santa’s though not as powerful, particularly when it came to speed and the manipulation of time. Nevertheless, he found himself pulling into what was now deemed the “airport” landing strip in no time, and the elves who oversaw the transfer of the flying teams to and from the barn quickly set to work freeing the reindeer from their harnesses, inspecting their condition, and moving them back to their stalls where they would be brushed, fed, and watered.Corey did not pause to speak to either the reindeer who had gotten him to and from his destination safely and speedily or the elves that greeted him as they went about their jobs. Instead, still keeping one hand securely in the pocket of his topcoat, he made his way swiftly back to his own lodgings, mindlessly nodding in response to a few passersby who yelled out to him in greeting. His hand was wrapped securely around his passenger, and as he became more anxious to get the tiny fellow back to his own place where he could better provide for his security, he began to realize his grip was steadfast and he must loosen it or else all would be lost through the destruction caused by his own hand. Upon reaching his own doorstep, he threw the door open in haste, causing it to slam against the wall. Yet, the repercussion didn’t slow him, and he only stomped his boots momentarily on the doormat before yelling, “Mr. Waddlebug?” and taking a few quick steps toward the kitchen.“Corey, darling, why are you in such a hurry?”The voice he heard in reply, however, was not his servants, nor did it come from the kitchen. In fact, it was quite feminine, and Corey spun around promptly once he realized he was not alone in the room. “Mother?” he asked, fighting the temptation to roll his eyes. Though he usually welcomed a visit from his mother, now was not the time. He had important work to do, work she wouldn’t understand or approve of--and she was quite discerning. Eustacia Cane was quite tall and slender--for an elf. She had long ago retired from her position in Santa’s Workshop where she tarried for centuries making the finest toys, dolls in fact being her specialty. She had long brown hair which she always wore in two thick braids down her shoulders. No longer required to wear the uniform of one of Santa’s elves, she now chose to wear dresses most days, and today she was dressed in a bright shade of purple. The long-sleeved velvet gown covered her completely, even trailing the floor a bit around her black, pointy shoes. She sat in Corey’s favorite chair, by the fireplace, her lythe fingers crossed in her lap. Though she was almost half a millennium old, one could not tell from her face; she didn’t look a day past forty. Such was often the case with elves who aged so differently from humans.As her youngest son turned to face her, she smiled. It had been a few days since she had seen him, and he was her pride and joy after all. “How was your visit to England?” she asked, gesturing towards the chair across from her, hopeful that he would take it and describe his journey to her.Corey glanced at the kitchen door over his shoulder. He knew he heard Mr. Waddlebug scurrying about, as usual, but since his servant didn’t bother to respond to his urgent cry, he knew he would have to wait to take care of his newly acquired bartering chip. Sighing quietly to himself, he plastered his charming smile back on his face and turned back to his mother, who was waiting anxiously for a response.He sat down in the chair she offered, careful to keep his hand lightly around the small body in his pocket. There was a bit of squirming, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of fear or curiosity. He readjusted his fingers, hoping to show that he was in charge in this situation, and focused his attention on his mother’s question. “My journey was--wet,” he admitted. She laughed, and he felt the urge to continue. “I met Ms. Fizzlestitch. She is quite an interesting character, and I hope to return to collect her in a day or two once she has had time to get her affairs in order.”“Oh! So she has agreed to come?” Eustacia clarified, leaning forward a bit in her chair. “How wonderful! I have heard amazing stories about her work. I should love to see it for myself.”Corey redirected his gaze away from his mother’s eyes and toward the eyes of one of the enormous reindeer that stood sentinel by the fireplace. It would be much easier to stretch the truth to this wooden animal than his own flesh and blood. “Yes, she’s quite excited about the proposition. I think she will be a major asset to our operation.”Eustacia snickered. “Oh, Corey, must you always speak so formally? I am your mother after all. I’m so proud of you. Every time St. Nicholas sends you out to collect a new recruit, you never let us down.”Corey ignored the first part of his mother’s statement having heard similar requests hundreds of times before. “I suppose I owe it all to grandfather’s shrewd business sense,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the kitchen, pondering how he might excuse himself, at least momentarily, to retrieve some sort of a container--with a lid.“Well, your father certainly never had any of the famous Cane family sensibility when it comes to negotiations or propositions,” she waxed, crossing one arm and propping her elbow on top, her head resting on her fist. “But he does know how to whip up a fantastic batch of peppermint candy. Leaving it to your older brother to run the business side of things was the best decision Cristobal ever made. Cassius was always much better at those sorts of things.”“Yes, of course he was… is,” Corey corrected, his attempt at humoring her slipping away from him a bit as his mind wandered to the squirming creature in his pocket. “Mother, would you excuse me for just a moment? I need to speak to Mr. Waddlebug.”Her eyebrows knitting together for just a second signaled that Eustacia suspected something out of the ordinary was happening with her son, but she nodded and said, “Of course. I believe he is in the kitchen.”Before she even finished her sentence, Corey was up and making his way towards the swinging kitchen door. Once he entered the kitchen, he could see there was simply no excuse for Mr. Waddlebug not answering him when he had yelled for his servant earlier. He was sitting at the round kitchen table, one elbow supporting his rather large noggin, a well-worn book in one hand and a cup of steaming tea at the ready. When Corey entered, he didn’t even look up, as if he was mentally transported away by the story in hand. “Waddlebug!” Corey spat out in a sharp whisper. The sound of his name caught his attention, and the old elf sat up quickly, rattling the table and sending droplets of tea onto the wooden surface with a splash, his spoon clattering against the side of the china cup. “Sorry, sir,” he replied, righting his spoon and setting the book aside. “I didn’t hear you come in.”Corey had no time to argue. “Get me a jar with a lid--but poke some holes in it or something. And be quick about it.” Still whispering, Corey pulled the creature out of his pocket, his hands cupped around it for security, and as Mr. Waddlebug jumped up to do as he was instructed, he glanced curiously at what his master was holding, but he was not able to tell.After a few moments of hasty action, Mr. Waddlebug produced the requested jar, the tin lid stabbed through enough times to provide adequate oxygen, in his un-expert opinion. “What is it?” he asked as Corey stepped over to the kitchen counter towards the newly fashioned cage.Without answering, Corey carefully dropped his captive into the jar, quickly securing the lid so that the little mouse could not escape. “There,” he said proudly, placing both fists on his hips. “Now, she’ll have to come to the North Pole.”Again, Mr. Waddlebug asked his question, eyeing the mouse curiously. “What is it?” “What do you mean what is it?” Corey asked, still whispering, but this time his voice a bit louder out of frustration. “It’s a doormouse, of course,” he replied. “Yes, I can see that,” Mr. Waddlebug admitted. “But why are you keeping it in a jar?”Corey sighed again, rubbing his brow, suddenly aware that he felt a headache coming on. “Because I want to keep it safe. Once Serendipity realizes it has gone missing, she’ll come up here to retrieve it, and then we will have her.”Mr. Waddlebug took the information in, chewed on it a moment, and then asked the one question he knew could potentially make his master quite angry. Nevertheless, he needed some clarification. “So, the doll maker refused to come on her own then?” Corey’s lips pursed for a moment in anger, and he took a deep breath to keep from yelling. At last he replied, “No, she didn’t refuse. Not exactly. She just needs some more persuasion, that’s all. And once she is here and sees all that we have to offer, she’ll stay. I’m sure of it. In the meantime, this little fellow needs to be kept safe and sound. And that is up to you. Do you understand?’“Yes, of course, sir,” Mr. Waddlebug replied, looking at the little mouse curiously as it tried to claw it’s way up the sides of the small glass jar.“And make sure my mother doesn’t find out about this. Or anyone else, for that matter.”“I will,” Mr. Waddlebug assured him.“Very good,” Corey replied, nodding as he began to step back towards the swinging kitchen door.“Sir?” Mr. Waddlebug cried after him.One hand on the door, Corey stopped and turned his head. “What is it?” he asked sharply.“What is his name?” Mr. Waddlbug asked, smiling at the little mouse in a friendly manner so as to reassure him.“What difference does it make? He’s nothing more than a bargaining chip,” Corey explained, pushing open the door, and reapplying the confident smile to his handsome face, hoping to hide his frustration, exhaustion, and cynicism. He might of been able to fool anyone else, but not his mother. “Corey, what’s the matter?” she asked as he returned to the chair he had most recently vacated.Corey sat down heavily, crossing one leg so that his shiny black boot rested on the opposite knee. “Nothing, Mother. I’m just a little tired,” he assured her, taking away his fake smile and replacing it with a less assertive one, one meant to comfort her. Eustacia studied her son closely for a moment, attempting to decide whether or not he was being disingenuous with her. “Corey, have you ever thought, perhaps, it’s time to slow down a bit? Start a family?”“Mother…”“I’m only saying, when your brother met Pyoria and started working less and concentrating more on his home life, he became much happier--and much easier to live with.”Corey raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying, Mother? That I’m difficult to live with?”“No, of course not, dear--not you. It’s only, I think you would be much happier if you had some balance in your life. You work yourself to death. And being half elf, I would think you would have at least another couple of hundred years before you should even begin to think about full retirement. Why not slow down a bit? You have plenty of time to accomplish all of your professional goals,” Eustacia explained in her gentle, nurturing voice.
As much as Corey wanted to dismiss her words, he knew she spoke the truth. He did work too hard. He had completely ignored any symbolance of a private life for decades, if not longer. However, he wasn’t about to agree with her outright, not this moment anyway when he had such an important task at hand. “Mother, please don’t worry about me. When the right woman--or elf, fairy, what have you--comes along, I’ll know it. And I’ll slow down then.”“But Corey, you’ll never meet her if all you do is work. Unless she’s one of your projects,” Eustacia added, an idea popping into her head. “Corey--what does this Serendipity look like? Is she… pretty?”The expression on Corey’s face would have answered her if the resounding, “No!” did not, as he reeled in horror. Visions of the crazy-haired woman with alabaster skin so pale she could be mistaken for an albino, her hands covered with paint, her eyes nearly transparent, filled his head, bringing along memories of the stench that seemed to hang around her like a cloud, and he felt his stomach begin to churn again. “No, mother, I assure you, Serendipity Fizzlestitch is anything but pretty.”“Oh, that’s too bad,” Eustacia muttered.“Don’t worry about me, Mother,” Corey assured her, leaning forward in his chair. “I’m still in my prime. I’m not even two hundred years old yet. There’s plenty of time for me to meet someone. Now, you should be getting home. I’m certain Father will be wondering what’s happened to you.”“I’m sure you’re correct,” she replied, standing. “Just take care of yourself, Corey.”Corey stood and wrapped his arms around his mother, stooping to do so. “I will. Never mind me. Now, shall I walk you home?”“Heavens, no,” she insisted, patting him on the cheek and smiling at her handsome boy. “I can manage. I love you, Son,” she reminded him.“I love you, too, Mother,” he said, kissing her rosy cheek.“My sweet, sweet boy. I got so lucky with you, darling. Such a good boy!” She continued to mutter words of affirmation as she took her hooded cloak off of the peg near the door, slipped it on, and let herself out.
Once she left, Corey let out the breath he had been holding. She wouldn’t think he was such a sweet boy if she had any idea that he had just kidnapped a little mouse and now intended to hold it hostage until its rightful owner agreed to come to the North Pole--a place she refused to visit. Nor would his mother agree that he was so spectacular if she could even imagine the lengths he was willing to go to in order to assure that said owner was never able to return to her home in England ever again.
November 14, 2015
NaNoWriMo Chapter 6: The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas
I am posting the chapters of my new book, The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas, as I finish them. This is my NaNoWriMo entry as well. Please let me know what you think and keep in mind that this is completely unedited.
A Visitor It hadn’t taken long for Serendipity to get over her shock at Maevis’s departing words. She was certain that, even if Maevis had read the letter correctly, the information had to be incorrect, or else someone was playing a prank on her. She was quite certain that Saint Nicholas was not trying to recruit her services. If there was such a person as Santa Claus in the first place, and she had stopped believing in him the year her father had passed away, there was little doubt in her mind that murderers could be on the nice list, and why would Saint Nicholas look to recruit a doll maker who wasn’t even on his list of those who deserved a gift? Serendipity had been extremely busy since the day the letter had arrived, not because of its existence, but because of the conversation she had carried out with Maevis that afternoon. The money was almost gone, which meant there would soon be no place for the dolls. She needed to finish them. At the rate she was going, it would be another two decades before they were all complete. That simply wouldn’t do. She had made a solemn vow to her father on the day of his remembrance ceremony that she would not rest until all of the dolls were finished and in the hands of waiting children. It was a promise she intended to keep, even if she fell over stone dead trying. And some days she felt that might be the case. On this particular day, the wind was blowing rather sharply, rain pelting the side and roof of the cottage, and she labored away having gone without sleep for several days and having only eaten an apple or bite of bread crust from time to time. She was working at a pace that even she had never thought herself capable of, and every once in a while, she felt the sudden urge to simply drop to the floor or crash her head into the table, but she had to fight the temptation. There was so much to do. She was working furiously to sew a dress, this one for Hester Pineyfrock in a dark shade of green, Pozzletot watching and chirping his disapproval at her pace from time to time when a knock at the door caught her attention. In fact, by the time the knocking finally registered, she realized it was not the first knock. She had grown quite accustom to Maevis knocking and then letting herself in that she no longer seemed to notice the knock. This was different, however. It wasn’t Maevis’s gentle rapping to announce her presence; rather this was a knock with a purpose, and Serendipity couldn’t help but feel both startled and alarmed at its existence. Putting the dress aside, she wiped the back of her hand against her forehead and stepped around the table toward the door cautiously. She knew the door wasn’t locked--it never was--and she felt foolish for not always keeping it secure. As she drew closer, the knocking increased, and finally she found her voice just enough to manage a quiet, “Who’s there?” Without hesitation, the answer came in the form of a question. “Ms. Fizzlestitch? Are you home?” The voice was that of a man--and Serendipity froze in her footsteps. She had not seen or spoken to a man in eight years, not since Deputy Shillingpepper had finished his second interview with her and left her as Maevis’s ward. She wished there was some way she could simply hide or convince this stranger of a lack of her existence, but she had already called out to him once. Her only options were to reply, or to lock the door and demand he go away. Despite living as a hermit for so long, she still had a bit of her mother’s strict, proper upbringing in her, and she couldn’t bring herself to simply throw the lock and back away. For all she knew, this man was a fiend who would burst the door down or break in through one of the windows. “Who is it?” she finally repeated, hoping for a quick reply and dismissal. “Cornelius Cane, at your service,” he replied in what seemed to be quite a chipper voice. “Did you receive my letter? I’ve come to collect you and take you to the North Pole straightaway.” Serendipity caught her breath. The letter. So it had been real. Or perhaps this was some prankster from the village come to embarrass her. Yes, of course, that had to be it. Of course, that didn’t explain how the letter was kept from turning to ash as it hovered in the fireplace, but she dismissed that thought from her mind. And to think she had almost fallen for it. In the sternest voice she could muster, she demanded, “I’m not interested. Please leave now.”A squeaking sound from the table let her know that her friend disapproved of her behavior, but she would have to reason with Pozzletot later. This was a discussion to be had by adults. Human ones at that.Standing in the rain with only the cover of a very small overhang, Corey was beginning to lose the chipperness in his voice as he began to realize Serendipity was not going to be as easy a case as he had initially believed. He resisted the urge to bang his head into the rough-hewed timber that constituted a door and relied on his power of persuasion instead. “Ms. Fizzlestitch, if you would allow me to enter, I’m quite certain a quick discussion will change your mind. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”There was that phrase again, and Serendipity was beginning to loathe it. Who was she to deserve the opportunity of a lifetime when her family saw so little opportunity in the short spans of theirs? Her voice grew a little stronger this time as she called out, “No thank you! I’m not interested. You may go now.”Corey could hear in her voice that she was no one to be trifled with--not that day anyway. He had been in similar situations before, though never with someone in their youth such as Ms. Fizzlestitch. Generally speaking, the younger the crafter, the more capable he or she was of believing in magic. This was particularly true when it came to young ladies. Nevertheless, Serendipity was beginning to challenge him, and while he was up for the challenge, he was not up for the rain; snow was one thing--rain was something else entirely. “Very well, then,” he replied. “Might I trouble you for a drink of water then?” he called, hoping that he would make more progress with her if he could meet her face to face. Then, she could look into his dazzling green eyes and fall captive to his mesmerizing gaze as so many young ladies had before her. Serendipity was puzzled. She had not expected him to give up so quickly, nor had she expected him to make any requests of her. She did have a pump in the corner--though she only had one drinking glass, which she used for herself, the rest all used for holding paint or paint brushes. She would hate to deny him a drink, however, a glass of water being the simplest form of hospitatlity she could think of. She hesitated though, not wanting to let a stranger into her home, particularly since she knew he would have so many questions--about the dark, the dolls, the mess. Eventually, however, her mother’s words regarding manners won out, and she stepped to the door, her hand shaking as she fumbled with a doorknob she had not manipulated in more years than she cared to count. The door opened slowly, and Corey stood posed with his most inviting, kindest forced grin plastered on his face, pouring empathy into his eyes as if it were as liquid as tears. However, he was not prepared for the sight that caught his gaze as Ms. Fizzlestitch finally stood before him. She was squinting against the light, little that there was in the downpour, her hand sheltering her eyes. He noticed immediately how deathly pale her skin was, how her nearly white hair looked as if it had not been combed or brushed for years. Paint stained both hands, her elbows, and even parts of her face, as well as her simple frock. And her eyes, when she did open them, were the lightest blue he had ever seen. Momentarily, he thought he had come face to face with a spectre or apparition. He was caught so off guard, for once, he was rendered momentarily speechless. As she said nothing, only stepped to the side so that he could enter, he found himself wanting for words, and eventually was able to stutter out, “Th-thank you, Ms. Fizzlestitch,” as he forced his feet to cross the threshold. Inside, he could plainly see the reason for her lack of coloration and her resistance to the light. It was nearly pitch black except for the flickers of a dying fire. The curtains were thick and drawn tightly, and as she shut the door behind him, he couldn’t help but feel as one might upon finding oneself in the bottom of a grave while still alive. The room was a disaster from what he could tell in the dimness, with paint and doll parts litering a table near the fire, a few chairs here and there, and discarded materials skittered across the floor. The remnants of dirty dishes covered the table and parts of the floor as well, and he noticed immediately the presence of several mice, mostly on the floor but one fat one on the table next to the dolls. His stomach began to churn, and he realized it was not simply because of the fact that someone could actually live this way, but it was quite obvious that Ms. Fizzlestitch had not bathed--nor perhaps emptied her chamberpot--in quite some time. Cornelius Cane felt very certain that he was about to be sick all over Ms. Fizzlestitch’s living quarters, and he couldn’t help but wonder for how many years the remnants of such an occurrence might remain untouched. “Here you are,” Serendipity was saying. He turned to see she was offering him some water in a small tin cup, which also didn’t look to be particularly clean. He had not even heard her using the pump and wondered if she had simply chosen the less paint filled of the cups on the table for him to utilize. Nevertheless, he had a job to do, which meant he must be charming, so he took the offered beverage, raised the cup to his lips, and took a sip, once again fighting off the urge to vomit at the thought of what he might be consuming. As quickly as possible, he handed the cup back to her, and choked out a quick, “Thank you.” He knew he needed to gather his senses about him if he was to continue. Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the table, examining her work. What he saw was quite impressive. Though the dolls littering the work area were in different stages of completion, each was so well done, he couldn’t help but be temporarily distracted from his repulsion. “Amazing…” he said quietly, aware that Serendipity had stepped over and was now standing at his elbow, her arms crossed. “You are extremely talented, Ms. Fizzlestitch.” “You asked for water, and you have had some. Now you must go,” Serendipity said very matter-of-factly, wishing he were not invading her personal space. Corey ignored her, stepping around the table and picking up the head she had been working on earlier that day. “Look at this detail,” he said, turning it over in his hands. Serendipity’s hands instinctively flew up, wanting to protect her interest. She hesitated, reached again, dropped her hands. Corey tossed the head up into the air, caught it and sat it back down on the table, unaware of the trepidation he was bringing upon his hostess. He picked up one of her other dolls, this one nearly complete. “The coloring all goes so well together.” He flipped Maggie Wentworth over in his hands and then carelessly lay her back down as Serendipity reached for her to straighten her dress. He fumbled through a stack of fabric, shook some jars of paint and inspected her brushes before returning his attention to the artist whose hands were following in his wake, straightening what he had set askew and returning items to their rightful position, a look of horror plastered on her face. All the while, Pozzletot scurried from one safe haven to another as he was unable to tell in which direction Corey might toss something next, and when it seemed the visitor was done throwing her treasures about, Serendipity scooped her friend up and sat him carefully on her shoulder. “I had heard about the magic you create here,” Corey stated, turning toward the fireplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the letter he had sent but unable to locate it. He turned his attention back to Serendipity who still stood on the other side of the table from him. “Now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I can’t help but believe we’ve made the right choice. You will be a fine addition to our team, Ms. Fizzlestitch.” He extended his hand in a welcoming gesture, hoping she would grasp it and agree to accompany him back to the North Pole with no more discussion. Serendipity looked at his hand as if she had no idea why he had held it out in her general direction. She adjusted Pozzletot on her shoulder. “Thank you for complimenting my work, Mr….” “Cane, Cornelius Cane. But, please, call me Corey. All of my friends do,” he smiled, his hand still waiting for hers. “Mr. Cane,” Serendipity continued, “but I assure you I am not right for your team. And while I appreciate your consideration, I have neither the desire nor the ability to join you in the North Pole. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.” “But that’s the beauty of joining us,” Corey prodded, finally withdrawing his hand, glancing at it as if he were the one with some sort of unsightly stain before resting it on his hip. “There will be hundreds of elves assigned to your shop, Ms. Fizzlestitch. You’ll be in charge of supervising each of them so every doll is crafted just as you would have designed it yourself, but you won’t be left to labor so intensively all alone. Surely you can see the value in that? With our system, you’ll be able to make thousands and thousands of dolls each year.” Serendipity was not listening. In fact, she had tuned him out from the moment he had began to speak. She would let nothing this strangely dressed man claiming to be from the North Pole said persuade her from changing the course she had embarked on so many years ago. Pozzletot squiremed, as if to say she should consider the offer, and she promptly sat him down on the table. He ran towards Corey, apparently seeking a better seat in which to listen, and Serendipity crossed her arms tightly across her chest, feeling both frustration at the visitor and betrayal by her friend. “Mr. Cane, I assure you, there is nothing you can say that will persuade me to leave my home and accompany you--anywhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she repeated, “I have much work to do.” Corey took a deep breath. He seemed to be getting nowhere with this one. Even his charming smile and sparkling eyes had little effect on her. He might have to try another tactic. Afterall, he had never failed--though it had occasionally taken more than one trip--and he was determined that Serendipity Fizzlestitch would not be his first upset. Besides, she truly would make a remarkable asset to the team. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he lamented, shaking his head, both hands on his hips now, his red velvet jacket pushed back behind him. “Perhaps you would consider coming north with me for a tour of the facility? Then, if you don’t like it, I’ll bring you home straightaway.” Serendipity raised one eyebrow, curiosity beginning to get the best of her. She wondered precisely how they would get to the North Pole. Then, realizing what she was thinking, she shook her head, jarring the concept from her mind. She was not going to the North Pole, and she had very little faith that this man was from there or was going there either. “Mr. Cane,” she repeated, this time stepping towards the door. “Thank you so very much for the offer, but again, I am not interested. I am quite happy with my life here in Dunsford.” Corey dropped his hands to her work table, bending offer with a sigh, and Serendipity felt remorseful for a moment, not wanting to disappoint him, or anyone else. However, she was not convinced that this wasn’t some sort of prank, and her resolve to stay put did not waiver. She turned to the door, pulling it open, and then returned her attention to Mr. Cane who was now standing upright with his hands deep inside of his pockets, his head still downcast. “Well, if you change your mind, please drop us a letter. Simply write North Pole on the envelope and toss it in the fireplace,” he explained as he began to walk briskly to the door. He paused for a second as he passed her by and bowed his head, as if he were tipping a hat, but since he did not wear one atop his spiky hair, the gesture seemed rather odd, and Serendipity wrinkled her forehead again in curiosity, as she nodded her understanding and watched Cornelius Cane glide swiftly out the door. She closed it behind him, glad to be blocking what little sunlight was poking through the clouds and didn’t realize she hadn’t uttered a proper goodbye until he was gone. For a moment, she wondered what form of transportation one might use in transferring to and from the North Pole, and perhaps in answer to her question, she swore she heard the jingle of bells briefly before her world returned to what it had been before the oddly dressed man had entered. Shrugging her shoulders, Serendipity threw the lock on the door and made her way back to the work station. “Strange fellow,” she muttered in the direction where she had last spied Pozzletot, but her friend was not there. Believing he must have taken refuge in one of this hallows, she surveyed her workspace, made a few more corrections to the disarray Cornelius Cane had caused, and then began working on Maggie Wentworth once again, thoughts of Cornelis and the North Pole pushed out of her mind almost as quickly as he had appeared and disappeared from her life. Once Corey realized Serendipity would not be easily persuaded to join him, he made a rash decision, choosing to employee the only idea he could think of to ensure she must change her mind and eventually accompany him to the North Pole, at least briefly. He was surprised at first that he was able to carry out his plan without being caught, but once he was free from her lair, he knew she would likely not follow him outside into the rain, not quickly enough anyway, even to retrieve one of her most prized possessions, if she even noticed in time that it was missing. As he guided his shiny silver sleigh, pulled by two of Santa’s finest, at light speed back towards the North Pole, he kept one hand inside of his coat pocket, assuring his passenger would stay safe and warm until he made it to the North Pole. Then, he would let Ms. Fizzlestitch know he had a “stowaway” and the only way she could possibly retrieve her little friend was to pay a visit to the Village. Once he got her there, he was quite certain she would never leave.
A Visitor It hadn’t taken long for Serendipity to get over her shock at Maevis’s departing words. She was certain that, even if Maevis had read the letter correctly, the information had to be incorrect, or else someone was playing a prank on her. She was quite certain that Saint Nicholas was not trying to recruit her services. If there was such a person as Santa Claus in the first place, and she had stopped believing in him the year her father had passed away, there was little doubt in her mind that murderers could be on the nice list, and why would Saint Nicholas look to recruit a doll maker who wasn’t even on his list of those who deserved a gift? Serendipity had been extremely busy since the day the letter had arrived, not because of its existence, but because of the conversation she had carried out with Maevis that afternoon. The money was almost gone, which meant there would soon be no place for the dolls. She needed to finish them. At the rate she was going, it would be another two decades before they were all complete. That simply wouldn’t do. She had made a solemn vow to her father on the day of his remembrance ceremony that she would not rest until all of the dolls were finished and in the hands of waiting children. It was a promise she intended to keep, even if she fell over stone dead trying. And some days she felt that might be the case. On this particular day, the wind was blowing rather sharply, rain pelting the side and roof of the cottage, and she labored away having gone without sleep for several days and having only eaten an apple or bite of bread crust from time to time. She was working at a pace that even she had never thought herself capable of, and every once in a while, she felt the sudden urge to simply drop to the floor or crash her head into the table, but she had to fight the temptation. There was so much to do. She was working furiously to sew a dress, this one for Hester Pineyfrock in a dark shade of green, Pozzletot watching and chirping his disapproval at her pace from time to time when a knock at the door caught her attention. In fact, by the time the knocking finally registered, she realized it was not the first knock. She had grown quite accustom to Maevis knocking and then letting herself in that she no longer seemed to notice the knock. This was different, however. It wasn’t Maevis’s gentle rapping to announce her presence; rather this was a knock with a purpose, and Serendipity couldn’t help but feel both startled and alarmed at its existence. Putting the dress aside, she wiped the back of her hand against her forehead and stepped around the table toward the door cautiously. She knew the door wasn’t locked--it never was--and she felt foolish for not always keeping it secure. As she drew closer, the knocking increased, and finally she found her voice just enough to manage a quiet, “Who’s there?” Without hesitation, the answer came in the form of a question. “Ms. Fizzlestitch? Are you home?” The voice was that of a man--and Serendipity froze in her footsteps. She had not seen or spoken to a man in eight years, not since Deputy Shillingpepper had finished his second interview with her and left her as Maevis’s ward. She wished there was some way she could simply hide or convince this stranger of a lack of her existence, but she had already called out to him once. Her only options were to reply, or to lock the door and demand he go away. Despite living as a hermit for so long, she still had a bit of her mother’s strict, proper upbringing in her, and she couldn’t bring herself to simply throw the lock and back away. For all she knew, this man was a fiend who would burst the door down or break in through one of the windows. “Who is it?” she finally repeated, hoping for a quick reply and dismissal. “Cornelius Cane, at your service,” he replied in what seemed to be quite a chipper voice. “Did you receive my letter? I’ve come to collect you and take you to the North Pole straightaway.” Serendipity caught her breath. The letter. So it had been real. Or perhaps this was some prankster from the village come to embarrass her. Yes, of course, that had to be it. Of course, that didn’t explain how the letter was kept from turning to ash as it hovered in the fireplace, but she dismissed that thought from her mind. And to think she had almost fallen for it. In the sternest voice she could muster, she demanded, “I’m not interested. Please leave now.”A squeaking sound from the table let her know that her friend disapproved of her behavior, but she would have to reason with Pozzletot later. This was a discussion to be had by adults. Human ones at that.Standing in the rain with only the cover of a very small overhang, Corey was beginning to lose the chipperness in his voice as he began to realize Serendipity was not going to be as easy a case as he had initially believed. He resisted the urge to bang his head into the rough-hewed timber that constituted a door and relied on his power of persuasion instead. “Ms. Fizzlestitch, if you would allow me to enter, I’m quite certain a quick discussion will change your mind. This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”There was that phrase again, and Serendipity was beginning to loathe it. Who was she to deserve the opportunity of a lifetime when her family saw so little opportunity in the short spans of theirs? Her voice grew a little stronger this time as she called out, “No thank you! I’m not interested. You may go now.”Corey could hear in her voice that she was no one to be trifled with--not that day anyway. He had been in similar situations before, though never with someone in their youth such as Ms. Fizzlestitch. Generally speaking, the younger the crafter, the more capable he or she was of believing in magic. This was particularly true when it came to young ladies. Nevertheless, Serendipity was beginning to challenge him, and while he was up for the challenge, he was not up for the rain; snow was one thing--rain was something else entirely. “Very well, then,” he replied. “Might I trouble you for a drink of water then?” he called, hoping that he would make more progress with her if he could meet her face to face. Then, she could look into his dazzling green eyes and fall captive to his mesmerizing gaze as so many young ladies had before her. Serendipity was puzzled. She had not expected him to give up so quickly, nor had she expected him to make any requests of her. She did have a pump in the corner--though she only had one drinking glass, which she used for herself, the rest all used for holding paint or paint brushes. She would hate to deny him a drink, however, a glass of water being the simplest form of hospitatlity she could think of. She hesitated though, not wanting to let a stranger into her home, particularly since she knew he would have so many questions--about the dark, the dolls, the mess. Eventually, however, her mother’s words regarding manners won out, and she stepped to the door, her hand shaking as she fumbled with a doorknob she had not manipulated in more years than she cared to count. The door opened slowly, and Corey stood posed with his most inviting, kindest forced grin plastered on his face, pouring empathy into his eyes as if it were as liquid as tears. However, he was not prepared for the sight that caught his gaze as Ms. Fizzlestitch finally stood before him. She was squinting against the light, little that there was in the downpour, her hand sheltering her eyes. He noticed immediately how deathly pale her skin was, how her nearly white hair looked as if it had not been combed or brushed for years. Paint stained both hands, her elbows, and even parts of her face, as well as her simple frock. And her eyes, when she did open them, were the lightest blue he had ever seen. Momentarily, he thought he had come face to face with a spectre or apparition. He was caught so off guard, for once, he was rendered momentarily speechless. As she said nothing, only stepped to the side so that he could enter, he found himself wanting for words, and eventually was able to stutter out, “Th-thank you, Ms. Fizzlestitch,” as he forced his feet to cross the threshold. Inside, he could plainly see the reason for her lack of coloration and her resistance to the light. It was nearly pitch black except for the flickers of a dying fire. The curtains were thick and drawn tightly, and as she shut the door behind him, he couldn’t help but feel as one might upon finding oneself in the bottom of a grave while still alive. The room was a disaster from what he could tell in the dimness, with paint and doll parts litering a table near the fire, a few chairs here and there, and discarded materials skittered across the floor. The remnants of dirty dishes covered the table and parts of the floor as well, and he noticed immediately the presence of several mice, mostly on the floor but one fat one on the table next to the dolls. His stomach began to churn, and he realized it was not simply because of the fact that someone could actually live this way, but it was quite obvious that Ms. Fizzlestitch had not bathed--nor perhaps emptied her chamberpot--in quite some time. Cornelius Cane felt very certain that he was about to be sick all over Ms. Fizzlestitch’s living quarters, and he couldn’t help but wonder for how many years the remnants of such an occurrence might remain untouched. “Here you are,” Serendipity was saying. He turned to see she was offering him some water in a small tin cup, which also didn’t look to be particularly clean. He had not even heard her using the pump and wondered if she had simply chosen the less paint filled of the cups on the table for him to utilize. Nevertheless, he had a job to do, which meant he must be charming, so he took the offered beverage, raised the cup to his lips, and took a sip, once again fighting off the urge to vomit at the thought of what he might be consuming. As quickly as possible, he handed the cup back to her, and choked out a quick, “Thank you.” He knew he needed to gather his senses about him if he was to continue. Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the table, examining her work. What he saw was quite impressive. Though the dolls littering the work area were in different stages of completion, each was so well done, he couldn’t help but be temporarily distracted from his repulsion. “Amazing…” he said quietly, aware that Serendipity had stepped over and was now standing at his elbow, her arms crossed. “You are extremely talented, Ms. Fizzlestitch.” “You asked for water, and you have had some. Now you must go,” Serendipity said very matter-of-factly, wishing he were not invading her personal space. Corey ignored her, stepping around the table and picking up the head she had been working on earlier that day. “Look at this detail,” he said, turning it over in his hands. Serendipity’s hands instinctively flew up, wanting to protect her interest. She hesitated, reached again, dropped her hands. Corey tossed the head up into the air, caught it and sat it back down on the table, unaware of the trepidation he was bringing upon his hostess. He picked up one of her other dolls, this one nearly complete. “The coloring all goes so well together.” He flipped Maggie Wentworth over in his hands and then carelessly lay her back down as Serendipity reached for her to straighten her dress. He fumbled through a stack of fabric, shook some jars of paint and inspected her brushes before returning his attention to the artist whose hands were following in his wake, straightening what he had set askew and returning items to their rightful position, a look of horror plastered on her face. All the while, Pozzletot scurried from one safe haven to another as he was unable to tell in which direction Corey might toss something next, and when it seemed the visitor was done throwing her treasures about, Serendipity scooped her friend up and sat him carefully on her shoulder. “I had heard about the magic you create here,” Corey stated, turning toward the fireplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the letter he had sent but unable to locate it. He turned his attention back to Serendipity who still stood on the other side of the table from him. “Now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I can’t help but believe we’ve made the right choice. You will be a fine addition to our team, Ms. Fizzlestitch.” He extended his hand in a welcoming gesture, hoping she would grasp it and agree to accompany him back to the North Pole with no more discussion. Serendipity looked at his hand as if she had no idea why he had held it out in her general direction. She adjusted Pozzletot on her shoulder. “Thank you for complimenting my work, Mr….” “Cane, Cornelius Cane. But, please, call me Corey. All of my friends do,” he smiled, his hand still waiting for hers. “Mr. Cane,” Serendipity continued, “but I assure you I am not right for your team. And while I appreciate your consideration, I have neither the desire nor the ability to join you in the North Pole. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.” “But that’s the beauty of joining us,” Corey prodded, finally withdrawing his hand, glancing at it as if he were the one with some sort of unsightly stain before resting it on his hip. “There will be hundreds of elves assigned to your shop, Ms. Fizzlestitch. You’ll be in charge of supervising each of them so every doll is crafted just as you would have designed it yourself, but you won’t be left to labor so intensively all alone. Surely you can see the value in that? With our system, you’ll be able to make thousands and thousands of dolls each year.” Serendipity was not listening. In fact, she had tuned him out from the moment he had began to speak. She would let nothing this strangely dressed man claiming to be from the North Pole said persuade her from changing the course she had embarked on so many years ago. Pozzletot squiremed, as if to say she should consider the offer, and she promptly sat him down on the table. He ran towards Corey, apparently seeking a better seat in which to listen, and Serendipity crossed her arms tightly across her chest, feeling both frustration at the visitor and betrayal by her friend. “Mr. Cane, I assure you, there is nothing you can say that will persuade me to leave my home and accompany you--anywhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she repeated, “I have much work to do.” Corey took a deep breath. He seemed to be getting nowhere with this one. Even his charming smile and sparkling eyes had little effect on her. He might have to try another tactic. Afterall, he had never failed--though it had occasionally taken more than one trip--and he was determined that Serendipity Fizzlestitch would not be his first upset. Besides, she truly would make a remarkable asset to the team. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he lamented, shaking his head, both hands on his hips now, his red velvet jacket pushed back behind him. “Perhaps you would consider coming north with me for a tour of the facility? Then, if you don’t like it, I’ll bring you home straightaway.” Serendipity raised one eyebrow, curiosity beginning to get the best of her. She wondered precisely how they would get to the North Pole. Then, realizing what she was thinking, she shook her head, jarring the concept from her mind. She was not going to the North Pole, and she had very little faith that this man was from there or was going there either. “Mr. Cane,” she repeated, this time stepping towards the door. “Thank you so very much for the offer, but again, I am not interested. I am quite happy with my life here in Dunsford.” Corey dropped his hands to her work table, bending offer with a sigh, and Serendipity felt remorseful for a moment, not wanting to disappoint him, or anyone else. However, she was not convinced that this wasn’t some sort of prank, and her resolve to stay put did not waiver. She turned to the door, pulling it open, and then returned her attention to Mr. Cane who was now standing upright with his hands deep inside of his pockets, his head still downcast. “Well, if you change your mind, please drop us a letter. Simply write North Pole on the envelope and toss it in the fireplace,” he explained as he began to walk briskly to the door. He paused for a second as he passed her by and bowed his head, as if he were tipping a hat, but since he did not wear one atop his spiky hair, the gesture seemed rather odd, and Serendipity wrinkled her forehead again in curiosity, as she nodded her understanding and watched Cornelius Cane glide swiftly out the door. She closed it behind him, glad to be blocking what little sunlight was poking through the clouds and didn’t realize she hadn’t uttered a proper goodbye until he was gone. For a moment, she wondered what form of transportation one might use in transferring to and from the North Pole, and perhaps in answer to her question, she swore she heard the jingle of bells briefly before her world returned to what it had been before the oddly dressed man had entered. Shrugging her shoulders, Serendipity threw the lock on the door and made her way back to the work station. “Strange fellow,” she muttered in the direction where she had last spied Pozzletot, but her friend was not there. Believing he must have taken refuge in one of this hallows, she surveyed her workspace, made a few more corrections to the disarray Cornelius Cane had caused, and then began working on Maggie Wentworth once again, thoughts of Cornelis and the North Pole pushed out of her mind almost as quickly as he had appeared and disappeared from her life. Once Corey realized Serendipity would not be easily persuaded to join him, he made a rash decision, choosing to employee the only idea he could think of to ensure she must change her mind and eventually accompany him to the North Pole, at least briefly. He was surprised at first that he was able to carry out his plan without being caught, but once he was free from her lair, he knew she would likely not follow him outside into the rain, not quickly enough anyway, even to retrieve one of her most prized possessions, if she even noticed in time that it was missing. As he guided his shiny silver sleigh, pulled by two of Santa’s finest, at light speed back towards the North Pole, he kept one hand inside of his coat pocket, assuring his passenger would stay safe and warm until he made it to the North Pole. Then, he would let Ms. Fizzlestitch know he had a “stowaway” and the only way she could possibly retrieve her little friend was to pay a visit to the Village. Once he got her there, he was quite certain she would never leave.
November 13, 2015
NaNoWriMo: The Doll Maker's Daughter Chapter 5
I am posting my entry for the National Novel Writing Month contest as I finish each chapter. Please let me know what you think! Please keep in mind this is completely unedited even by myself.
Maevis Visits
Lizzet Sassafras was dressed in her finest holiday gown, complete with white bloomers and black boots, a stylish matching hat atop her blond curly hair, ready to be wrapped up and shipped out to whichever sweet little girl had petitioned for her creation when Serendipity heard a slight knock at the door, followed by a rattling of the knob and the stomping of heavy boots against the mat that somewhat protected the rough wooden floor. She did not turn, not yet, as she was still admiring her work. Instead, she called over her shoulder, “Good morning, Maevis.”
Maevis was satisfied with the dryness of her boots and she crossed the few steps to the table, dropping the heavy basket she carried in the only cleared off place as she replied, “Morning? Serendipity, it’s practically evening. It’s past five in the afternoon. Why don’t you open the curtains and let some light in here?”
At the suggestion, Serendipity turned her head sharply, peering at her friend with a glance that said in no uncertain terms that the subject was to be dropped immediately. “It matters not what time of day it is. In here, time is always the same.”Maevis let loose a sigh that sounded almost more like a growl, shaking her brown curls, which she had swept up and clipped atop her head, as she did so. She was much older than Serendipity, forty on her last birthday, and had known the girl since she was a very small child, having joined the Fizzlestitch household when it seemed three small girls were too much for the previous help to contain without another set of hands. “Serendipity,” she lamented, still shaking her head. “I do hate to see you this way.”“Enough,” the girl replied dismissively, as she turned her body toward her only ally that didn’t amble on four legs. She still had Lizzet in her hands and offered her to Maevis for her inspection in order to change the subject. “What say you?” she asked with a smile on her face at last. She was rather fond of her latest achievement and was hopeful that Maevis would agree that this one was extraordinarily special.“Oh, Serendipity!” she exclaimed quietly. “She’s marvelous. Look at the detail! I knew when I fired this one the last time she would turn out beautifully. You’ve really done a nice job!”“Thank you,” Serendipity smiled. “I thought the pink in the fabric went nicely with her cheeks. Oh, but I will need more of that color--rosey pink. Can you bring it next you come?”“I should be able to procure some more,” Maevis nodded, still turning the doll over in her hands. “Her hat goes quite well with her frock.”“I thought so as well,” Serendipity agreed. “Where is she off to?” she asked. Maevis handled all of the requests and all of the shipments as Serendipity never--with one recent exception--handled her own mail.“Well, we had a request from a little girl in a village in Iceland, but it’s becoming a bit more difficult to get your father’s business partners to make extra stops. I spoke to Mr. Tiggleham just yesterday and he said he may be headed north in a few months, but in the meantime, she may need to be redirected toward one of our other girls from the waiting list--perhaps in Dunsford or maybe I could take a trip into one of the larger cities. Oh, I do hope we can find a way to get her to Arnketia Manusdotter. The letter she wrote to you was just lovely.”“Could we pay a courier, perhaps?” Serendipity inquired, pressing one finger to her lip.Maevis brushed her arm away just before she slipped her finger inside of her mouth. “Serendipity, really, you are aware that the turpentine I bring you for your brushes will work on your hands as well, aren’t you?”Serendipity briefly glanced at her hand, which was stained with paint in a variety of colors, everything from black to the same rosey pink they had just been discussing. She shrugged dismissively but dropped her hand to her side and waited for Maevis to answer her initial question, which she promptly returned to after the brief scolding. “We haven’t the money for sending a courier,” Maevis explained. “In fact, love, you should know that money is growing tighter by the day, and unless you can come up with a way to make money doing this,” she gestured towards the dolls in the basket she had just brought in, “I’m afraid this endeavor cannot last much longer.”“No,” Serendipity replied shortly.“Serendipity…”“It’s out of the question.” She crossed her arms across her chest and tilted her head down emphatically. “My dolls are never to be sold, only given away as gifts.”“I understand that,” Maevis explained, backing up a bit, “but once the money is gone…”“Then we’ll just have to sell something else,” Serendipity replied, starting to turn away.Maevis grabbed her charge by her thin shoulder. “There’s nothing left to sell. Everything of nonessential value has been sold already. The only things left in the main house are those that I and Ms. Crotlybloom require in order to make it day to day. We’ve sold all of the nonessential furniture, the paintings, even the curtains in the unused bedrooms.”“What of my mother and sisters’ things? Their clothing, shoes…”“Gone all of it.” Maevis hesitated briefly before quietly adding, “We’ve even sold some of your father’s things--not the important ones, of course.”Serendipity’s eyes widened for a moment, but upon realization that he would no longer need any of his worldly possessions, she did not begin an argument. Afterall, she would never return to Marwolaeth Hall herself, so what difference did it make if her father’s clothing and cologne bottles were still present or not? Still, the realization that they were running out of resources was disconcerting. After a few moments she asked, “What of the hall itself?”Maevis’s eyebrows grew together. “What of it?” she inquired, not sure what her charge was getting at.“Why can we not sell it? Keep this cottage and one of the others for you, let Ms. Crotlybloom go. Why must we keep that dreadful place? I shall never step foot in there again.”“Serendipity,” Maevis began, leaning forward, her hands on the table, “we can’t. That’s where all of the doll parts are kept. There’d be no way we could store them all here.”Nodding, Serendipity suddenly remembered it had not been that long ago that Maevis had asked to sell the last remaining warehouse. It had required making space in the hall for all of the fabric, hair, eyes, bisque heads, what remained of her father’s initial supply of paint--everything Serendipity used to assembly her art. “All of the money from the warehouses is gone then?” she confirmed.Maevis’s curls bounded up and down as she assured Serendipity such was the case. “You know your mother sold off almost every single one of your father’s assets after the ship went down. Anything she could sell, she did, in an effort to keep her household afloat. The only thing she didn’t sell were the doll warehouses because…”“Because my father had them listed in my name, as my property.”“That’s right. We were down to one, just this last one…, and now it’s gone, too. If you were to sell the hall, there wouldn’t be any place left to keep the dolls. And there are so many left, thousands…”“Seven thousand four hundred and ninety-six,” Serendipity replied, her eyes glossed over in deep thought, her unblinking stare landing somewhere over Maevis’s left shoulder near the front door.Maevis just shook her head in disbelief, though she realized she should not have been shocked that Serendipity knew precisely how many dolls were left and how many she had completed. “Yes, I suppose so,” she replied. “And we wouldn’t want to displace them.”“No, we cannot do that,” Serendipity agreed.“So, we must find a way to continue to pay the few expenses we do have. But I am afraid that managing a courier service at this time is impossible.”Serendipity’s blond, matted, frizzy hair beat up and down like a large hat when she nodded her head in response. “Perhaps we could rent it out, a room or two, perhaps?”Once again, Maevis shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s likely,” she began. The blank expression on her charge’s face led her to realize she would have to say more, despite the fact that she did not want to. After a while, she continued. “No one nearby would want to live at Marwolaeth, Serendipity. And I’m afraid rumors have spread into outlying areas as well. It would be rather difficult to procure a renter of any sorts since most people believe the place is…”“Haunted?”“Yes, and cursed.”Serendipity’s expression shifted for a moment, her eyes narrowing but then rapidly widening. “Is it haunted, Maevis? Have you ever seen… anyone?”Maevis’s was stone faced for a moment as she contemplated the purpose behind the question. At last she replied simply, “No, I’ve not seen… anyone.”Whatever spark had momentarily flickered in Serendipity’s eyes was gone now. A moment later, she said simply, “Well, we will have to find a way to keep afloat then.”Maevis knew there was no sense in pressing the issue just now. Serendipity was clearly exhausted and unable to make any sort of decision. Pushing the idea of selling the dolls would have to wait for another time, one when she was better equipped to make a financial decision. In the meantime, she would find a way to make the household meet at each end. She always had before. “All right, love,” she said returning her focus to the basket she had brought in as Serendipity’s attention returned to whatever she had been working on. “Here are the heads I fired yesterday.” She began to remove the fragile pieces from the basket, sitting them gently next to Lizzete on the table. “The fabric you requested is also here, and I brought you some soup and a couple of apples.”At the mention of food, Serendipity instinctively wrinkled her nose, causing Maevis to waggle her finger in her direction as she said, “You must find time to eat, Serendipity. Otherwise, you will wither away.” The shrugging of thin, boney shoulders let Maevis know that her threat was not necessarily a menacing one and she let out another sigh. She couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for the transformation that had taken shape before her eyes starting with the day her father’s business associate had knocked on the door of Marwolaeth to report his death at sea, and the skittish creature who was afraid of her own mother, as well as her own shadow, had now turned to this grief stricken nearly unrecognizable former shadow of her bubbly self, who had locked herself away in retribution for a sin she would have never committed if Maevis had been present and able to provide her with assistance on that fateful day eight years ago. Several times, Maevis had broached the subject of responsibility with Serendipity, but it never did either of them any good. She insisted it had been her fault that her sisters and mother had died, even going so far as to blame her father’s death on herself as well. while Maevis repeated that it was an accident--everyone knew she had not switched the canisters on purpose, including Deputy Shillingpepper, who had released the young girl into Maevis’s care. There was no question that Serendipity’s actions could have been prevented if only Maevis had been in the kitchen that morning…. She watched for a few moments as Serendipity worked, laying out the hair for her next project and readying her tools. Clearly, she was not in the mood to talk today. Occasionaly she was, but Maevis could never predict what would cause her to be chatty and what would prevent her from voicing what was on her mind. She glanced around the room one last time, looking to see if there was anything else she could do. The lanterns were still full, since Serendipity rarely turned them on. Everything seemed to be in its place, and she was just about to turn to leave when something white caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. “What’s that?” she asked, staring in the direction of Serendipity’s rocking chair. Serendipity was lost in thought, her back to Maevis, and she had no idea that she had even spoken until she realized she had crossed the room and was standing next to her chair. By the time she opened her mouth to protest, Maevis had the envelope in her hand and was removing the paper from within. “It’s nothing…” she began. “Who would deliver a letter here?” Maevis asked, knowing full well the mail carrier, Mr. Barkingstop, would never make his way out to the cottage. “No one,” Serendipity assured her, stepping over to her side, her hand reaching for the letter, before she hesitated and dropped it to her side. “No one delivered it.” “Then how did it get here?” Maevis asked, stepping away, as if she were attempting to protect the letter from Serendipity’s grasp. Serendipity sighed. “It came down the chimney,” she explained as nonchalantly as possible. “Down the chimney?” Maevis repeated, her eyes wide. “Whatever do you mean? Was your fire out?” “No.” “Well, then, how did it make it down the chimney?” She turned the letter over in her hands. “There’s no mark of ash or soot…” “I’m not sure,” Serendipity admitted, “but it came down the chimney, and it’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“Whoever sent it?” Maevis asked as she began to unfold it. Serendipity snatched at the letter again, this time the hesitation out of her system. “It’s nothing,” she repeated. But Maevis was too quick for her and she was not able to get it before the older woman spun around on her heels, her back to her charge now. “If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind if I read it.” Maevis was beginning to wonder if a gentleman suitor hadn’t found this long lost princess in the woods--though one glance at Serendipity’s current state of unkemptness negated that thought quite quickly--and she unfolded the paper and began to read. Her eyes skimmed the words quickly, her mouth open in awe and disbelief, but the words retaining their situation in her mind. “Serendipity!” she proclaimed upon finishing, her hands shooting down by her sides. “Do you know what this says?” Thin shoulders shrugged. “Of course I know what it says,” Serendipity assured her. “I did read it after all.” Maevis knew better than to argue with her about her ability to decode literature, so instead she assumed Serendipity had somehow managed to decipher the message. “If what this says is true--and if it truly arrived the way that you said it did--Serendipity, you’ve been summoned to join the finest group of toy makers ever assembled.” She drew the paper up before her eyes again, rereading, contemplating the words carefully. Then, more to herself than the other woman in the room, she mumbled, “I have heard of things like this, old folk tales mostly, but I didn’t know it was true. Never would I have imagined it was possible that this could be true.” Serendipity’s confusion was well hidden by her look of nonchalance. “It doesn’t matter,” she assured Maevis, finally giving up on the possibility of retrieving the letter from her friend’s hands. “I’m not going anywhere anyway.” “Not going?” Maevis repeated. Serendipity turned her back and crossed back over to her table, and Maevis followed. “What do you mean you’re not going? Of course you’re going. You have to go.” “I don’t have to go anywhere,” Serendipity reminded her, picking up the bald-headed doll she was about to begin working on. “There is no one in the world who can make me leave my cottage and the work I have to do.” "Serendipity!” Maevis implored. “Don’t you realize, this would solve all of your problems. If you could go… join this team of toymakers, you could finish all of your dolls, and thousands more. You wouldn’t have to worry about paying for Marwolaeth, storage, food, or anything else. Serendipity, this is the chance of a lifetime.” For a moment, pale blond eyebrows raised as if in consideration, but just as quickly as the hopeful expression flickered into existence, it extinguished. “My lifetime is of little consequence,” Serendipity reminded her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.” Maevis opened her mouth in protest, but closed it sharply. Setting the letter down on the corner of the table, she pulled her woolen shawl around her shoulders, gathered her basket, and began to walk towards the door. “Fine,” she said, one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t forget to eat your soup before it gets cold.” Then, as she pulled open the door, she mumbled, “How anyone could say no to Santa Claus is beyond me,” and stepped outside into the damp, misty air.
Maevis Visits
Lizzet Sassafras was dressed in her finest holiday gown, complete with white bloomers and black boots, a stylish matching hat atop her blond curly hair, ready to be wrapped up and shipped out to whichever sweet little girl had petitioned for her creation when Serendipity heard a slight knock at the door, followed by a rattling of the knob and the stomping of heavy boots against the mat that somewhat protected the rough wooden floor. She did not turn, not yet, as she was still admiring her work. Instead, she called over her shoulder, “Good morning, Maevis.”
Maevis was satisfied with the dryness of her boots and she crossed the few steps to the table, dropping the heavy basket she carried in the only cleared off place as she replied, “Morning? Serendipity, it’s practically evening. It’s past five in the afternoon. Why don’t you open the curtains and let some light in here?”
At the suggestion, Serendipity turned her head sharply, peering at her friend with a glance that said in no uncertain terms that the subject was to be dropped immediately. “It matters not what time of day it is. In here, time is always the same.”Maevis let loose a sigh that sounded almost more like a growl, shaking her brown curls, which she had swept up and clipped atop her head, as she did so. She was much older than Serendipity, forty on her last birthday, and had known the girl since she was a very small child, having joined the Fizzlestitch household when it seemed three small girls were too much for the previous help to contain without another set of hands. “Serendipity,” she lamented, still shaking her head. “I do hate to see you this way.”“Enough,” the girl replied dismissively, as she turned her body toward her only ally that didn’t amble on four legs. She still had Lizzet in her hands and offered her to Maevis for her inspection in order to change the subject. “What say you?” she asked with a smile on her face at last. She was rather fond of her latest achievement and was hopeful that Maevis would agree that this one was extraordinarily special.“Oh, Serendipity!” she exclaimed quietly. “She’s marvelous. Look at the detail! I knew when I fired this one the last time she would turn out beautifully. You’ve really done a nice job!”“Thank you,” Serendipity smiled. “I thought the pink in the fabric went nicely with her cheeks. Oh, but I will need more of that color--rosey pink. Can you bring it next you come?”“I should be able to procure some more,” Maevis nodded, still turning the doll over in her hands. “Her hat goes quite well with her frock.”“I thought so as well,” Serendipity agreed. “Where is she off to?” she asked. Maevis handled all of the requests and all of the shipments as Serendipity never--with one recent exception--handled her own mail.“Well, we had a request from a little girl in a village in Iceland, but it’s becoming a bit more difficult to get your father’s business partners to make extra stops. I spoke to Mr. Tiggleham just yesterday and he said he may be headed north in a few months, but in the meantime, she may need to be redirected toward one of our other girls from the waiting list--perhaps in Dunsford or maybe I could take a trip into one of the larger cities. Oh, I do hope we can find a way to get her to Arnketia Manusdotter. The letter she wrote to you was just lovely.”“Could we pay a courier, perhaps?” Serendipity inquired, pressing one finger to her lip.Maevis brushed her arm away just before she slipped her finger inside of her mouth. “Serendipity, really, you are aware that the turpentine I bring you for your brushes will work on your hands as well, aren’t you?”Serendipity briefly glanced at her hand, which was stained with paint in a variety of colors, everything from black to the same rosey pink they had just been discussing. She shrugged dismissively but dropped her hand to her side and waited for Maevis to answer her initial question, which she promptly returned to after the brief scolding. “We haven’t the money for sending a courier,” Maevis explained. “In fact, love, you should know that money is growing tighter by the day, and unless you can come up with a way to make money doing this,” she gestured towards the dolls in the basket she had just brought in, “I’m afraid this endeavor cannot last much longer.”“No,” Serendipity replied shortly.“Serendipity…”“It’s out of the question.” She crossed her arms across her chest and tilted her head down emphatically. “My dolls are never to be sold, only given away as gifts.”“I understand that,” Maevis explained, backing up a bit, “but once the money is gone…”“Then we’ll just have to sell something else,” Serendipity replied, starting to turn away.Maevis grabbed her charge by her thin shoulder. “There’s nothing left to sell. Everything of nonessential value has been sold already. The only things left in the main house are those that I and Ms. Crotlybloom require in order to make it day to day. We’ve sold all of the nonessential furniture, the paintings, even the curtains in the unused bedrooms.”“What of my mother and sisters’ things? Their clothing, shoes…”“Gone all of it.” Maevis hesitated briefly before quietly adding, “We’ve even sold some of your father’s things--not the important ones, of course.”Serendipity’s eyes widened for a moment, but upon realization that he would no longer need any of his worldly possessions, she did not begin an argument. Afterall, she would never return to Marwolaeth Hall herself, so what difference did it make if her father’s clothing and cologne bottles were still present or not? Still, the realization that they were running out of resources was disconcerting. After a few moments she asked, “What of the hall itself?”Maevis’s eyebrows grew together. “What of it?” she inquired, not sure what her charge was getting at.“Why can we not sell it? Keep this cottage and one of the others for you, let Ms. Crotlybloom go. Why must we keep that dreadful place? I shall never step foot in there again.”“Serendipity,” Maevis began, leaning forward, her hands on the table, “we can’t. That’s where all of the doll parts are kept. There’d be no way we could store them all here.”Nodding, Serendipity suddenly remembered it had not been that long ago that Maevis had asked to sell the last remaining warehouse. It had required making space in the hall for all of the fabric, hair, eyes, bisque heads, what remained of her father’s initial supply of paint--everything Serendipity used to assembly her art. “All of the money from the warehouses is gone then?” she confirmed.Maevis’s curls bounded up and down as she assured Serendipity such was the case. “You know your mother sold off almost every single one of your father’s assets after the ship went down. Anything she could sell, she did, in an effort to keep her household afloat. The only thing she didn’t sell were the doll warehouses because…”“Because my father had them listed in my name, as my property.”“That’s right. We were down to one, just this last one…, and now it’s gone, too. If you were to sell the hall, there wouldn’t be any place left to keep the dolls. And there are so many left, thousands…”“Seven thousand four hundred and ninety-six,” Serendipity replied, her eyes glossed over in deep thought, her unblinking stare landing somewhere over Maevis’s left shoulder near the front door.Maevis just shook her head in disbelief, though she realized she should not have been shocked that Serendipity knew precisely how many dolls were left and how many she had completed. “Yes, I suppose so,” she replied. “And we wouldn’t want to displace them.”“No, we cannot do that,” Serendipity agreed.“So, we must find a way to continue to pay the few expenses we do have. But I am afraid that managing a courier service at this time is impossible.”Serendipity’s blond, matted, frizzy hair beat up and down like a large hat when she nodded her head in response. “Perhaps we could rent it out, a room or two, perhaps?”Once again, Maevis shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s likely,” she began. The blank expression on her charge’s face led her to realize she would have to say more, despite the fact that she did not want to. After a while, she continued. “No one nearby would want to live at Marwolaeth, Serendipity. And I’m afraid rumors have spread into outlying areas as well. It would be rather difficult to procure a renter of any sorts since most people believe the place is…”“Haunted?”“Yes, and cursed.”Serendipity’s expression shifted for a moment, her eyes narrowing but then rapidly widening. “Is it haunted, Maevis? Have you ever seen… anyone?”Maevis’s was stone faced for a moment as she contemplated the purpose behind the question. At last she replied simply, “No, I’ve not seen… anyone.”Whatever spark had momentarily flickered in Serendipity’s eyes was gone now. A moment later, she said simply, “Well, we will have to find a way to keep afloat then.”Maevis knew there was no sense in pressing the issue just now. Serendipity was clearly exhausted and unable to make any sort of decision. Pushing the idea of selling the dolls would have to wait for another time, one when she was better equipped to make a financial decision. In the meantime, she would find a way to make the household meet at each end. She always had before. “All right, love,” she said returning her focus to the basket she had brought in as Serendipity’s attention returned to whatever she had been working on. “Here are the heads I fired yesterday.” She began to remove the fragile pieces from the basket, sitting them gently next to Lizzete on the table. “The fabric you requested is also here, and I brought you some soup and a couple of apples.”At the mention of food, Serendipity instinctively wrinkled her nose, causing Maevis to waggle her finger in her direction as she said, “You must find time to eat, Serendipity. Otherwise, you will wither away.” The shrugging of thin, boney shoulders let Maevis know that her threat was not necessarily a menacing one and she let out another sigh. She couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for the transformation that had taken shape before her eyes starting with the day her father’s business associate had knocked on the door of Marwolaeth to report his death at sea, and the skittish creature who was afraid of her own mother, as well as her own shadow, had now turned to this grief stricken nearly unrecognizable former shadow of her bubbly self, who had locked herself away in retribution for a sin she would have never committed if Maevis had been present and able to provide her with assistance on that fateful day eight years ago. Several times, Maevis had broached the subject of responsibility with Serendipity, but it never did either of them any good. She insisted it had been her fault that her sisters and mother had died, even going so far as to blame her father’s death on herself as well. while Maevis repeated that it was an accident--everyone knew she had not switched the canisters on purpose, including Deputy Shillingpepper, who had released the young girl into Maevis’s care. There was no question that Serendipity’s actions could have been prevented if only Maevis had been in the kitchen that morning…. She watched for a few moments as Serendipity worked, laying out the hair for her next project and readying her tools. Clearly, she was not in the mood to talk today. Occasionaly she was, but Maevis could never predict what would cause her to be chatty and what would prevent her from voicing what was on her mind. She glanced around the room one last time, looking to see if there was anything else she could do. The lanterns were still full, since Serendipity rarely turned them on. Everything seemed to be in its place, and she was just about to turn to leave when something white caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. “What’s that?” she asked, staring in the direction of Serendipity’s rocking chair. Serendipity was lost in thought, her back to Maevis, and she had no idea that she had even spoken until she realized she had crossed the room and was standing next to her chair. By the time she opened her mouth to protest, Maevis had the envelope in her hand and was removing the paper from within. “It’s nothing…” she began. “Who would deliver a letter here?” Maevis asked, knowing full well the mail carrier, Mr. Barkingstop, would never make his way out to the cottage. “No one,” Serendipity assured her, stepping over to her side, her hand reaching for the letter, before she hesitated and dropped it to her side. “No one delivered it.” “Then how did it get here?” Maevis asked, stepping away, as if she were attempting to protect the letter from Serendipity’s grasp. Serendipity sighed. “It came down the chimney,” she explained as nonchalantly as possible. “Down the chimney?” Maevis repeated, her eyes wide. “Whatever do you mean? Was your fire out?” “No.” “Well, then, how did it make it down the chimney?” She turned the letter over in her hands. “There’s no mark of ash or soot…” “I’m not sure,” Serendipity admitted, “but it came down the chimney, and it’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“Whoever sent it?” Maevis asked as she began to unfold it. Serendipity snatched at the letter again, this time the hesitation out of her system. “It’s nothing,” she repeated. But Maevis was too quick for her and she was not able to get it before the older woman spun around on her heels, her back to her charge now. “If it’s nothing, then you won’t mind if I read it.” Maevis was beginning to wonder if a gentleman suitor hadn’t found this long lost princess in the woods--though one glance at Serendipity’s current state of unkemptness negated that thought quite quickly--and she unfolded the paper and began to read. Her eyes skimmed the words quickly, her mouth open in awe and disbelief, but the words retaining their situation in her mind. “Serendipity!” she proclaimed upon finishing, her hands shooting down by her sides. “Do you know what this says?” Thin shoulders shrugged. “Of course I know what it says,” Serendipity assured her. “I did read it after all.” Maevis knew better than to argue with her about her ability to decode literature, so instead she assumed Serendipity had somehow managed to decipher the message. “If what this says is true--and if it truly arrived the way that you said it did--Serendipity, you’ve been summoned to join the finest group of toy makers ever assembled.” She drew the paper up before her eyes again, rereading, contemplating the words carefully. Then, more to herself than the other woman in the room, she mumbled, “I have heard of things like this, old folk tales mostly, but I didn’t know it was true. Never would I have imagined it was possible that this could be true.” Serendipity’s confusion was well hidden by her look of nonchalance. “It doesn’t matter,” she assured Maevis, finally giving up on the possibility of retrieving the letter from her friend’s hands. “I’m not going anywhere anyway.” “Not going?” Maevis repeated. Serendipity turned her back and crossed back over to her table, and Maevis followed. “What do you mean you’re not going? Of course you’re going. You have to go.” “I don’t have to go anywhere,” Serendipity reminded her, picking up the bald-headed doll she was about to begin working on. “There is no one in the world who can make me leave my cottage and the work I have to do.” "Serendipity!” Maevis implored. “Don’t you realize, this would solve all of your problems. If you could go… join this team of toymakers, you could finish all of your dolls, and thousands more. You wouldn’t have to worry about paying for Marwolaeth, storage, food, or anything else. Serendipity, this is the chance of a lifetime.” For a moment, pale blond eyebrows raised as if in consideration, but just as quickly as the hopeful expression flickered into existence, it extinguished. “My lifetime is of little consequence,” Serendipity reminded her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.” Maevis opened her mouth in protest, but closed it sharply. Setting the letter down on the corner of the table, she pulled her woolen shawl around her shoulders, gathered her basket, and began to walk towards the door. “Fine,” she said, one hand on the doorknob. “Don’t forget to eat your soup before it gets cold.” Then, as she pulled open the door, she mumbled, “How anyone could say no to Santa Claus is beyond me,” and stepped outside into the damp, misty air.
November 11, 2015
NaNoWriMo: The Doll Maker's Daughter Chapter 4
I am posting the chapters of my novel for NaNoWriMo as I finish them! This is completely unedited so please keep that in mind. Please let me know what you think. If you'd like to read the first three chapters, you can find chapter one here, chapter two here, and chapter three here.
Chapter 4Corey The snow was coming down hard, the flakes small and sharp, more like ice droplets than the fluffy white puffs one usually thought of when considering this particular type of precipitation. But after a century or so of living in the Village, Cornelius Cane had grown immune to the cold and the various forms of solid water the clouds heaved down upon them. As he crunched along the well-decorated cobblestone street that led to his home, his mind only vaguely noticed the impeccably hung twinkling white lights that decorated each of the cottages, shop fronts, and various other buildings, their iridescence broken up only by the velvet bows and greenery interspersed every few feet. Here, Christmas decorations were not seasonal, they were part of everyday life, and while he did occasionally stop to marvel at their splendor, particularly when they had recently been changed out, after a while, like the snow, the decor became part of the background, an inconsequential part of his existence.Corey wasn’t particularly tall at five foot three, though he towered over every other male in his family. He had dark black hair that he carefully sculpted into a wavey point atop his head each morning using a special gel his father had created ages ago, the secret ingredient only known to him and now his son. He had a handsome face which he always kept clean shaven, with piercing green eyes which his mother likened to an evergreen. His smile, when he chose to wear such an adornment, was often broad and warm, but it always seemed to read as forced to those who were particularly discerning, and that’s because often times it was. Though Corey was extremely talented when it came to recruiting--he’d never failed, not once--he was keenly aware that the job had grown a bit tiresome, and while he couldn’t fathom any other line of work, he often wondered if it was all worth it.Nevertheless, as he pushed open the door to his cabin, he couldn't help but reflect on the conversation he had just had with his boss, the head of operations around here, and he was certain this most recent recruit was going to be precisely what was necessary to fill the gaps left by the recent demise of Mrs. Marple D. Meriwether, Doll Maker extraordinaire. Corey brushed a few lingering snowflakes from the shoulders of his red velvet topcoat before removing it and hanging it on a hook next to the door. The rest of his suit was also red velvet, with the exception, of course, of his starched white shirt. Even his tie was mostly red with thin white stripes. He always dressed in a similar three piece suite in red and white, green and white, or the occasional mixture of the three. It paid to look professional and in keeping with the family name and spirit of the season, no matter how mundane his current occupation may have become. His parents, both retired, still lived in the Village, and he wouldn’t dream of either of them seeing him look anything but dressed to impress.The fireplace blazed, providing enough light for him to ignite the lamps in his quaint living space. His cabin consisted of a great room with a massive fireplace adorned with a mantle sporting the carved heads of two reindeer with full antlers in a rich mahogany wood. A swinging door kept the cooking quarters separated, and a steep staircase led to three sleeping chambers; his own room was the largest, of course, with a smaller room for guests, which were rare, and then a room for his valet, Mr. Waddlebug, who was likely in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. All of the rooms were decorated in a rustic fashion, as were most of the dwellings in the village. And of course there were reminders of Christmas everywhere one looked. From the reindeer on the mantel to the mistletoe hung above the doorway to the kitchen, to the angels that sat upon the window sills near the ceiling, little touches were everywhere, and while Corey certainly didn’t decorate this way himself, he didn’t even notice it anymore unless the team of elves responsible for changing out such decor came by and left something new, in which case after a day or two the unfamiliar item would begin to blend in with the rest becoming little more than the visual equivalent of background noise.“Mr. Waddlebug?” Corey shouted as he straightened a stack of books on the end table next to his chair. “Are you present?”There was a clattering from the kitchen which confirmed Corey’s idea that Mr. Waddlebug must be preparing the evening meal, and he sat down in the cushioned chair, stretching his back as he did so. After a short moment, the kitchen door swung open and an older man no more than three feet tall with a long white beard and pointed ears emerged, his red tunic and green tights covered with a long white apron splattered with what appeared to be flour.Corey eyed him suspiciously for only a moment before shaking his head dismissively and idly picking up a snow globe from the table, turning it over in his hands, unleashing a blizzard upon the residents of the tiny white church encased inside.“Oh, hello, sir,” Waddlebug greeted him, his voice a higher pitch than one would have suspected considering the length of his beard. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was just tossing together a shepherd’s pie for supper. How was your meeting?” He paused a few feet in front of the kitchen door, as if he knew he would need to run back in momentarily so as not to ruin the meal.“It went quite well,” Corey confirmed, losing interest in the globe and setting it aside. “I believe Nick is on board with our selection. Now, I just need to head down and collect her.”“That’s assuring, considering you already sent the letter,” Mr. Waddlebug said, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen with a sniff of his bulbous nose.Corey chuckled to himself quietly. “I’ve never been wrong,” he reminded his friend. “Never once in over two hundred and seventy appointments…”“Yes, I know,” Mr. Waddlebug interrupted, “but did you explain to Nick about her… situation?”“Of course not,” Corey said, adjusting himself in his chair. “There was no need to. He already knows everything. He is aware of the… incident. He understands what transpired, why it transpired, and that has nothing--and I mean nothing--to do with her ability to make a high quality product that thousands of little girls all around the world will love and enjoy.”Mr. Waddlebug stared at his master intently for a few moments, his dark eyes narrowing in deep thought. After a bit, smells from the kitchen brought him out of concentration, and he shrugged his shoulders before turning back to his important work on the other side of the door, shouting over his shoulder as he went, “Well, I suppose you know better than I do, sir. Supper shall be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Corey watched as the door swung back and forth a few times after the little man had disappeared beyond it, a few terse words shouted and muffled by its closure and the bang of metal on metal as short legs blustered about the small space. He picked up a candy cane from the dish off of the table, one that was always well stocked, and began to twirl the striped candy between his thumb and first finger, contemplating Mr. Waddlebug’s question. Of course Nick was aware of what had transpired at Marwolaeth Hall. He knew everything--from the smallest indiscretion to the most unselfish act of kindness. And if Serendipity’s error had not been enough to remove her permanently--or even momentarily--from the Nice List, why would it prevent her from moving to the Village and using her talents to their very fullest? No, he was certain Mr. Waddlebug’s concern was nothing more than a trifle based on fear and misunderstanding. Ms. Fizzlestitch would be a fin addition to the team of human toy makers that oversaw the worker elves, of that Corey was certain. And once she arrived in the Village next week, everyone would see that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.
Chapter 4Corey The snow was coming down hard, the flakes small and sharp, more like ice droplets than the fluffy white puffs one usually thought of when considering this particular type of precipitation. But after a century or so of living in the Village, Cornelius Cane had grown immune to the cold and the various forms of solid water the clouds heaved down upon them. As he crunched along the well-decorated cobblestone street that led to his home, his mind only vaguely noticed the impeccably hung twinkling white lights that decorated each of the cottages, shop fronts, and various other buildings, their iridescence broken up only by the velvet bows and greenery interspersed every few feet. Here, Christmas decorations were not seasonal, they were part of everyday life, and while he did occasionally stop to marvel at their splendor, particularly when they had recently been changed out, after a while, like the snow, the decor became part of the background, an inconsequential part of his existence.Corey wasn’t particularly tall at five foot three, though he towered over every other male in his family. He had dark black hair that he carefully sculpted into a wavey point atop his head each morning using a special gel his father had created ages ago, the secret ingredient only known to him and now his son. He had a handsome face which he always kept clean shaven, with piercing green eyes which his mother likened to an evergreen. His smile, when he chose to wear such an adornment, was often broad and warm, but it always seemed to read as forced to those who were particularly discerning, and that’s because often times it was. Though Corey was extremely talented when it came to recruiting--he’d never failed, not once--he was keenly aware that the job had grown a bit tiresome, and while he couldn’t fathom any other line of work, he often wondered if it was all worth it.Nevertheless, as he pushed open the door to his cabin, he couldn't help but reflect on the conversation he had just had with his boss, the head of operations around here, and he was certain this most recent recruit was going to be precisely what was necessary to fill the gaps left by the recent demise of Mrs. Marple D. Meriwether, Doll Maker extraordinaire. Corey brushed a few lingering snowflakes from the shoulders of his red velvet topcoat before removing it and hanging it on a hook next to the door. The rest of his suit was also red velvet, with the exception, of course, of his starched white shirt. Even his tie was mostly red with thin white stripes. He always dressed in a similar three piece suite in red and white, green and white, or the occasional mixture of the three. It paid to look professional and in keeping with the family name and spirit of the season, no matter how mundane his current occupation may have become. His parents, both retired, still lived in the Village, and he wouldn’t dream of either of them seeing him look anything but dressed to impress.The fireplace blazed, providing enough light for him to ignite the lamps in his quaint living space. His cabin consisted of a great room with a massive fireplace adorned with a mantle sporting the carved heads of two reindeer with full antlers in a rich mahogany wood. A swinging door kept the cooking quarters separated, and a steep staircase led to three sleeping chambers; his own room was the largest, of course, with a smaller room for guests, which were rare, and then a room for his valet, Mr. Waddlebug, who was likely in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. All of the rooms were decorated in a rustic fashion, as were most of the dwellings in the village. And of course there were reminders of Christmas everywhere one looked. From the reindeer on the mantel to the mistletoe hung above the doorway to the kitchen, to the angels that sat upon the window sills near the ceiling, little touches were everywhere, and while Corey certainly didn’t decorate this way himself, he didn’t even notice it anymore unless the team of elves responsible for changing out such decor came by and left something new, in which case after a day or two the unfamiliar item would begin to blend in with the rest becoming little more than the visual equivalent of background noise.“Mr. Waddlebug?” Corey shouted as he straightened a stack of books on the end table next to his chair. “Are you present?”There was a clattering from the kitchen which confirmed Corey’s idea that Mr. Waddlebug must be preparing the evening meal, and he sat down in the cushioned chair, stretching his back as he did so. After a short moment, the kitchen door swung open and an older man no more than three feet tall with a long white beard and pointed ears emerged, his red tunic and green tights covered with a long white apron splattered with what appeared to be flour.Corey eyed him suspiciously for only a moment before shaking his head dismissively and idly picking up a snow globe from the table, turning it over in his hands, unleashing a blizzard upon the residents of the tiny white church encased inside.“Oh, hello, sir,” Waddlebug greeted him, his voice a higher pitch than one would have suspected considering the length of his beard. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was just tossing together a shepherd’s pie for supper. How was your meeting?” He paused a few feet in front of the kitchen door, as if he knew he would need to run back in momentarily so as not to ruin the meal.“It went quite well,” Corey confirmed, losing interest in the globe and setting it aside. “I believe Nick is on board with our selection. Now, I just need to head down and collect her.”“That’s assuring, considering you already sent the letter,” Mr. Waddlebug said, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen with a sniff of his bulbous nose.Corey chuckled to himself quietly. “I’ve never been wrong,” he reminded his friend. “Never once in over two hundred and seventy appointments…”“Yes, I know,” Mr. Waddlebug interrupted, “but did you explain to Nick about her… situation?”“Of course not,” Corey said, adjusting himself in his chair. “There was no need to. He already knows everything. He is aware of the… incident. He understands what transpired, why it transpired, and that has nothing--and I mean nothing--to do with her ability to make a high quality product that thousands of little girls all around the world will love and enjoy.”Mr. Waddlebug stared at his master intently for a few moments, his dark eyes narrowing in deep thought. After a bit, smells from the kitchen brought him out of concentration, and he shrugged his shoulders before turning back to his important work on the other side of the door, shouting over his shoulder as he went, “Well, I suppose you know better than I do, sir. Supper shall be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Corey watched as the door swung back and forth a few times after the little man had disappeared beyond it, a few terse words shouted and muffled by its closure and the bang of metal on metal as short legs blustered about the small space. He picked up a candy cane from the dish off of the table, one that was always well stocked, and began to twirl the striped candy between his thumb and first finger, contemplating Mr. Waddlebug’s question. Of course Nick was aware of what had transpired at Marwolaeth Hall. He knew everything--from the smallest indiscretion to the most unselfish act of kindness. And if Serendipity’s error had not been enough to remove her permanently--or even momentarily--from the Nice List, why would it prevent her from moving to the Village and using her talents to their very fullest? No, he was certain Mr. Waddlebug’s concern was nothing more than a trifle based on fear and misunderstanding. Ms. Fizzlestitch would be a fin addition to the team of human toy makers that oversaw the worker elves, of that Corey was certain. And once she arrived in the Village next week, everyone would see that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.
November 10, 2015
The Doll Maker's Daughter Chapter Three: NaNoWriMo
I am posting the chapters of my novel for NaNoWriMo as I finish them! This is completely unedited so please keep that in mind. Please let me know what you think. If you'd like to read the first two chapters, you can find chapter one here and chapter two here.
Chapter ThreeThe LetterAt first, Serendipity went about her business as she would any other time. After a short nap, she was always ready to dive right back into her work, picking up precisely wherever she had left off. Today should be no different: she picked up the dress, realized her needle was missing, and chose another one from a wide selection stuffed inconspicuously into a well-used pin cushion. She threaded the needle without looking on the first try, and settled down into her chair, training her mind on other things, anything, other than that letter that sat across the room from her. She decided to concentrate on the doll she was working on, number 1,452, or as she had nicknamed her, Lizzett Sassafras, thinking how smart she would look attending a cotillion in the pink lacey dress she was currently creating for her. Lizzett sat on the table near the head of number 1,468, the one she had been working on earlier, which she had chosen to name Hester Pineyfrock (her dress would be green, of course) Lizette’s rosey cheeks showed their approval of the fabric shade Serendipity had chosen, and for a few moments she was able to live vicariously through the dolls she was bringing to life.After a few minutes floating around in another dimension, one where dolls went to fancy parties, waltzed for hours with handsome young gentle-dolls, and ate dainty pastries, Serendipity felt eyes boring into the back of her head, and she wasn’t sure if it was one of her four-legged friends, or the letter itself, but she was no longer able to fight the voices, and she quickly found herself lost in a different world.“Serendipity! You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met. How can you be twelve years old and still not know how to read!”“What a bobolyne you are, Serendipity! Do you even know how to write your own name?”“Dalcop!”“Nincompoop!”“Lazy good for nothing cumberground!” Even as she sat in the solace of her own home, tears began to sting her eyes at the memories, not only of how the words had stung but of how her own actions had assured those people would never have the opportunity to hurt her again--or do so many other things…. If only she had never asked about the dolls. If only she had paid better attention to her mother. If only she had tried harder to be a good sister, finish her chores, learn to read…. Serendipity swiped at her eyes, determined not to let the voices from her past haunt her, not today. Yet, the longer that letter lay behind her, the greater the reminder that she had faltered so grossly in a similar situation. Eventually, she turned her head slightly to look in the direction of the letter and noticed it appeared to have moved closer to her. She dismissed the thought and returned to her sewing, swiping away some wayward tears as she did so. “Serendipity, I shall teach you to read myself.” It was the voice of her father now filling her mind, and she sat the fabric down on her lap momentarily, squeezing her eyes tightly, turning her face up towards the heavens, as if he could somehow see her if he looked down upon her. She held that position for a long pause, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs, trying to remember his scent--tobacco and leather--and then exhaled slowly. She slowly opened her eyes, and before setting them on the doll dress, she stole another glance at the letter, wondering if it had moved forward again. At least another five minutes went by before she thought of the letter again. This time, it was the quite familiar voice of her own beloved Maevis who had worked with her endlessly trying to teacher her letters and sounds, short words, how to combine syllables, so many thing she just never could seem to grasp. But rather than coaxing her to attempt to sound a word, her friend’s voice was saying simply, “What have you to lose? Give it a go.” And she was right, of course. Serendipity knew that nothing terrible would happen if she were to stand, retrieve the letter, open it, and attempt to read it. In fact, the tragedy that had occurred some eight years ago hadn’t happened because she had read--in fact, it had happened because she had not read. While it was the thought of attempting to read that caused her heart to pound and her palms to sweat, if history were to repeat itself, she’d need to ignore the letter--to not read it. So with that realization, Serendipity stood, sat her sewing aside, turned, and took one step towards the letter, her bare foot sliding across the rough floor, dragging along the splintered wood cautiously. With a deep breath, she took another step forward and then another, until the letter was at her feet. All she had to do was bend over and pick it up. Her hand shook as she reached for it. She examined it again, feeling its weight, light, and its significance, quite important. She read her name again--something she could do easily, and then held her breath as she slipped one thin finger beneath the seal and broke it open. She slowly pulled out one thin sheet of paper and watched the envelope flutter to the floor. Carefully, the unfolded the halved paper, noticing immediately that the ink was black, not the same gold as the outside. It was written in flowery cursive, not calligraphy, certainly not print, which would make it easier. She glanced down at the words, squinted, realized the room was too dark, and stepped over to the fireplace. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the new light, but she continued to squint, thinking, perhaps, that would somehow help. She attempted to remember the things her father had told her--about letter names and shapes. She glanced up, thinking of Maevis’s words, then she returned her eyes to the note and did her best to decipher the message.Dear Ms. Fizzleswitch:Yes, that part was easy. All letters started out with “dear” and she knew her own name.“You are c or g lee in vtb to jo in us as an e lit mem der of tyou mak rs atthe N or the P old. Please ex qct me onw eek for tob ay. We areh on orb to have so me one of yor tall enbs am go st us.Sincerely,Serendipity did not dare attempt to decipher the signature, as it was signed in such a way that none of the letters looked recognizable at all. She sighed. None of it made much sense. She looked at the body of the letter again. She knew some of the words--and parts of it seemed to make sense. Clearly, she was invited to go somewhere. But where? And who had invited her? Why would anyone want to invite her to go anywhere? Everyone knew what she had done…. No one would ever associate with her by choice. No, whoever sent this letter was clearly poking fun at her grim situation or had sent it to her by mistake. At any rate, she wasn’t going anywhere. That was for certain. She glanced over the letter one more time, let one more sigh go, and then folded back up, and retrieving the envelope from the floor, she shoved it back inside. For a moment, she contemplated tossing it into the fire, but then she remembered it wouldn’t burn, and she tossed it into her rocking chair instead. A small squeak at her feet let her know her friend had returned. Bending over and scooping him up, she made her way back to her straight back chair next to her work. “There you go, Mr. Pozzletot. I tried--and I failed. At least I gave it a go,” she thought to herself, shrugging. Then, discarding the thought as quickly as she had discarded the letter, Serendipity returned to her work, hoping to finish number 1,452 in time for Maevis to ship her out by the end of the day tomorrow. Somewhere, a little girl was waiting for Lizzette Sassafras, and Serendipity did not wish to disappoint.
Chapter ThreeThe LetterAt first, Serendipity went about her business as she would any other time. After a short nap, she was always ready to dive right back into her work, picking up precisely wherever she had left off. Today should be no different: she picked up the dress, realized her needle was missing, and chose another one from a wide selection stuffed inconspicuously into a well-used pin cushion. She threaded the needle without looking on the first try, and settled down into her chair, training her mind on other things, anything, other than that letter that sat across the room from her. She decided to concentrate on the doll she was working on, number 1,452, or as she had nicknamed her, Lizzett Sassafras, thinking how smart she would look attending a cotillion in the pink lacey dress she was currently creating for her. Lizzett sat on the table near the head of number 1,468, the one she had been working on earlier, which she had chosen to name Hester Pineyfrock (her dress would be green, of course) Lizette’s rosey cheeks showed their approval of the fabric shade Serendipity had chosen, and for a few moments she was able to live vicariously through the dolls she was bringing to life.After a few minutes floating around in another dimension, one where dolls went to fancy parties, waltzed for hours with handsome young gentle-dolls, and ate dainty pastries, Serendipity felt eyes boring into the back of her head, and she wasn’t sure if it was one of her four-legged friends, or the letter itself, but she was no longer able to fight the voices, and she quickly found herself lost in a different world.“Serendipity! You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met. How can you be twelve years old and still not know how to read!”“What a bobolyne you are, Serendipity! Do you even know how to write your own name?”“Dalcop!”“Nincompoop!”“Lazy good for nothing cumberground!” Even as she sat in the solace of her own home, tears began to sting her eyes at the memories, not only of how the words had stung but of how her own actions had assured those people would never have the opportunity to hurt her again--or do so many other things…. If only she had never asked about the dolls. If only she had paid better attention to her mother. If only she had tried harder to be a good sister, finish her chores, learn to read…. Serendipity swiped at her eyes, determined not to let the voices from her past haunt her, not today. Yet, the longer that letter lay behind her, the greater the reminder that she had faltered so grossly in a similar situation. Eventually, she turned her head slightly to look in the direction of the letter and noticed it appeared to have moved closer to her. She dismissed the thought and returned to her sewing, swiping away some wayward tears as she did so. “Serendipity, I shall teach you to read myself.” It was the voice of her father now filling her mind, and she sat the fabric down on her lap momentarily, squeezing her eyes tightly, turning her face up towards the heavens, as if he could somehow see her if he looked down upon her. She held that position for a long pause, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs, trying to remember his scent--tobacco and leather--and then exhaled slowly. She slowly opened her eyes, and before setting them on the doll dress, she stole another glance at the letter, wondering if it had moved forward again. At least another five minutes went by before she thought of the letter again. This time, it was the quite familiar voice of her own beloved Maevis who had worked with her endlessly trying to teacher her letters and sounds, short words, how to combine syllables, so many thing she just never could seem to grasp. But rather than coaxing her to attempt to sound a word, her friend’s voice was saying simply, “What have you to lose? Give it a go.” And she was right, of course. Serendipity knew that nothing terrible would happen if she were to stand, retrieve the letter, open it, and attempt to read it. In fact, the tragedy that had occurred some eight years ago hadn’t happened because she had read--in fact, it had happened because she had not read. While it was the thought of attempting to read that caused her heart to pound and her palms to sweat, if history were to repeat itself, she’d need to ignore the letter--to not read it. So with that realization, Serendipity stood, sat her sewing aside, turned, and took one step towards the letter, her bare foot sliding across the rough floor, dragging along the splintered wood cautiously. With a deep breath, she took another step forward and then another, until the letter was at her feet. All she had to do was bend over and pick it up. Her hand shook as she reached for it. She examined it again, feeling its weight, light, and its significance, quite important. She read her name again--something she could do easily, and then held her breath as she slipped one thin finger beneath the seal and broke it open. She slowly pulled out one thin sheet of paper and watched the envelope flutter to the floor. Carefully, the unfolded the halved paper, noticing immediately that the ink was black, not the same gold as the outside. It was written in flowery cursive, not calligraphy, certainly not print, which would make it easier. She glanced down at the words, squinted, realized the room was too dark, and stepped over to the fireplace. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the new light, but she continued to squint, thinking, perhaps, that would somehow help. She attempted to remember the things her father had told her--about letter names and shapes. She glanced up, thinking of Maevis’s words, then she returned her eyes to the note and did her best to decipher the message.Dear Ms. Fizzleswitch:Yes, that part was easy. All letters started out with “dear” and she knew her own name.“You are c or g lee in vtb to jo in us as an e lit mem der of tyou mak rs atthe N or the P old. Please ex qct me onw eek for tob ay. We areh on orb to have so me one of yor tall enbs am go st us.Sincerely,Serendipity did not dare attempt to decipher the signature, as it was signed in such a way that none of the letters looked recognizable at all. She sighed. None of it made much sense. She looked at the body of the letter again. She knew some of the words--and parts of it seemed to make sense. Clearly, she was invited to go somewhere. But where? And who had invited her? Why would anyone want to invite her to go anywhere? Everyone knew what she had done…. No one would ever associate with her by choice. No, whoever sent this letter was clearly poking fun at her grim situation or had sent it to her by mistake. At any rate, she wasn’t going anywhere. That was for certain. She glanced over the letter one more time, let one more sigh go, and then folded back up, and retrieving the envelope from the floor, she shoved it back inside. For a moment, she contemplated tossing it into the fire, but then she remembered it wouldn’t burn, and she tossed it into her rocking chair instead. A small squeak at her feet let her know her friend had returned. Bending over and scooping him up, she made her way back to her straight back chair next to her work. “There you go, Mr. Pozzletot. I tried--and I failed. At least I gave it a go,” she thought to herself, shrugging. Then, discarding the thought as quickly as she had discarded the letter, Serendipity returned to her work, hoping to finish number 1,452 in time for Maevis to ship her out by the end of the day tomorrow. Somewhere, a little girl was waiting for Lizzette Sassafras, and Serendipity did not wish to disappoint.
November 7, 2015
The Doll Maker's Daughter Chapter Two: NaNoWriMo
I am posting my novel for National Novel Writing Month chapter by chapter as I write it. This is Chapter Two of The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas. For Chapter One, click here.
The Doll Maker“A merchant, who had three daughters, was once setting out upon a journey; but before he went he asked each daughter what gift he should bring back for her. The eldest wished for pearls; the second for jewels; but the third, who was called Lily, said, 'Dear father, bring me a rose.' Now it was no easy task to find a rose, for it was the middle of winter; yet as she was his prettiest daughter, and was very fond of flowers, her father said he would try what he could do. So he kissed all three, and bid them goodbye.” “Papa! That merchant had three daughters, as well, just as you have three daughters,” Serendipity laughed as sat upon her father’s knee, listening to his deep voice portray the tales of the Brother’s Grimm in full spectrum.“So he does,” Rudolph Fizzlestitch confirmed. “But I’m sure that his three daughters are not nearly as beautiful as mine.” He lay the book aside for just a moment and smiled at the sweet face of his youngest daughter, her blond curls pulled into sharp braids behind her ears, just the way her mother liked them. Serendipity giggled, looking up at the ruddy face of her dark-haired father. “When shall I learn to read, Papa?” she asked, shifting her eyes to the much-loved volume as it sat on the end table next to Papa’s comfy chair.“Soon,” he confirmed. “You’re going on five years old now. Both of your sisters learned when they were about your age. Have you been studying the ABC book I brought you from my last trip?”Serendipity glanced across the room at where the volume poked its spine out from the shelf, its binding already showing some wear. “Yes, Papa,” she nodded. “I’ve been looking at it each day. I have asked Charity and Grace to help me with my letters, but they are always so busy with their own lessons.”“And what of your mother?” Rudolph asked, adjusting her small body on his knee so that he could better meet her eyes and running a finger across the end of his bulbous nose.“Mama is quite busy with the household. Ms. Maevis has sat with me from time to time but….” Serendipity hesitated, her finger instinctively hooking the corner of her mouth.Rudolph gently tugged her hand away. “What is it, darling?”“Well, sometimes, some of the letters look exactly the same. And… sometimes I think the book has grown new letters, ones that weren’t there the day before.”Rudolph chuckled and patted her knee. “Oh, Serendipity, my sweet, you’ll get the hang of it. I promise, as soon as I get back from my next trip I will take some time off and I shall work with you myself.”Serendipity’s face lit up. If anyone could teach her to read, it was her father. “Do you promise?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her chest.“Yes, yes, my dear,” Rudolph replied, hugging her to his neck. Her arms squeezed him tightly. “As soon as I return from Germany, I shall teach you to read.”“Germany…” came her mother’s voice from the entryway to the parlor. “Of all the silly notions…”“Now, now, dear,” Rudolph said, lifting Serendipity as he stood, sitting her in his chair and crossing to his wife. “Though I will fully admit it was Serendipity’s idea to broaden our horizons, I’m not at all against this change in goods. You know as well as I do that the cotton market is drying up. If the States go to war as expected, there will be far less opportunities to procure enough marketable goods to continue current profit levels. Diversifying our assets just makes sense.”Prudene Fizzlestitch shook her husband’s arm off of her shoulder and took a few steps into the room. “Rudolph, you can spring those canned phrases on our associates as much as you’d like to, but I for one know that the only reason you chose to explore the bisque doll market is because of this young lady right here. She has you completely wrapped around her finger.”Serendipity’s eyes widened. Her mother was a tall, thin woman with proper shoulders and a pointy nose. Though she had often witnessed pats of affection and confirm glances aimed at her sisters, she had very few remembrances of tenderness, and while she often supposed that her mother had possibly loved her once, when she was an infant, that time had long since passed for some reason completely unbeknownst to her. Though she was never cruel, she was often sharp and impatient, always choosing to side with Charity and Grace whenever there was the slightest possibility that Serendipity had remotely wronged either of them.However, staring into her mother’s blackened eyes, the kind voice of her father reassured her that she was loved, and his fondness for his youngest daughter more than made up for any disdain seething from her mother. “Prudence,” Rudolph chuckled, absently stroking his nose again, leaving it a familiar shade of red, “to be sure, our sweet girl did have some influence on my decision. After all, no one loves her dolls more than our little Serendipity. But I do not make business decisions based on the whims of wee tots.” He crossed to stand next to her, his eyes silently asking if she would evade another attempt at fondness. Her eyes softened slightly, which he took as acquiescence, and he rested his hand softly on her shoulder. “We’ve already made a significant profit on the first two shipments. I promise you, this is my last trip to Germany for some time, and I will return to the cotton mills just as soon as these last pieces arrive.”Prudence shook her head. “You already have an entire warehouse full of heads, fabric, glass eyes--human hair…”“Mostly mohair…”“How many more pieces do you need?”“Prudence,” Rudolph implored again, taking her gently by the shoulders to face him, “this is a wise investment, I promise you. You’ll see. Have you ever known me to throw away good money?”Prudence turned her head and her eyes bore down on Serendipity where she sat in an over-stuffed chair. The longer her mother looked, the more she began to sink into the chair, a lump forming in her throat, her stomach knotting beneath those dark eyes. After what seemed like ages to the small child, her mother returned her stare to her father and said calmly, “I only hope you haven’t let the dreams of a small child destroy our fortune.”Rudolph Fizzlestitched laughed, his smile reaching his eyes. “I haven’t, I assure you. After all, I named her Serendipity for one simple reason. She is our fortune.” And giving his wife one last squeaze, he turned to his daughter, still laughing, scooped her up in his arms, and began to dance her around the room.At the touch of her father’s hands, Serendipity’s trepidation melted away, and she began to giggle, swaying through the air to the tune of “Ring a Ring of Rosies,” as her father hummed. As the verse ended, he lifted her high into the air and then brought her quickly back to the ground as she sung, “We all fall down!”Serendipity shut upright, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced around the room for a moment, not quite sure of where she was or where she should be. The familiar surroundings of her own loft began to calm her raging pulse, and she put her hand on her chest, pressing down slightly least it should chance to try an escape. She half expected to see the smiling face of her father, half expected to see the disparaging stare of her mother. Neither were there, of course. She wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. They were both gone, long gone. She had done them both in, one at a time, through different, yet ultimately equalizing circumstances.After a few moments to shake the memories from her head, she threw the thin blanket she allowed herself off of her legs and slid across the rough hewn floor to the ladder, half climbing, half falling down the stairs to her workspace below. Regardless of the time, the room always looked the same--dark--and though she had a pocketwatch somewhere, she never cared to look at it. She could tell the time only by the arrival of her friend Maevis, who came by at least twice each day, once in the morning and once in the evening, and occasionally by her own stomach, which would often alert her when she had not eaten for several days. Other than that, time was of little importance to Serendipity, and she measured the passing of her life only by the number of dolls she completed and the number she still needed to finish. As she made her way to the table and the previously cast aside dress, she was certain of two things: Pozzletot would show his disappointment in her behavior through his absence, and the letter would still be present--staring at her just as distinctly as the unfinished dolls.
The Doll Maker“A merchant, who had three daughters, was once setting out upon a journey; but before he went he asked each daughter what gift he should bring back for her. The eldest wished for pearls; the second for jewels; but the third, who was called Lily, said, 'Dear father, bring me a rose.' Now it was no easy task to find a rose, for it was the middle of winter; yet as she was his prettiest daughter, and was very fond of flowers, her father said he would try what he could do. So he kissed all three, and bid them goodbye.” “Papa! That merchant had three daughters, as well, just as you have three daughters,” Serendipity laughed as sat upon her father’s knee, listening to his deep voice portray the tales of the Brother’s Grimm in full spectrum.“So he does,” Rudolph Fizzlestitch confirmed. “But I’m sure that his three daughters are not nearly as beautiful as mine.” He lay the book aside for just a moment and smiled at the sweet face of his youngest daughter, her blond curls pulled into sharp braids behind her ears, just the way her mother liked them. Serendipity giggled, looking up at the ruddy face of her dark-haired father. “When shall I learn to read, Papa?” she asked, shifting her eyes to the much-loved volume as it sat on the end table next to Papa’s comfy chair.“Soon,” he confirmed. “You’re going on five years old now. Both of your sisters learned when they were about your age. Have you been studying the ABC book I brought you from my last trip?”Serendipity glanced across the room at where the volume poked its spine out from the shelf, its binding already showing some wear. “Yes, Papa,” she nodded. “I’ve been looking at it each day. I have asked Charity and Grace to help me with my letters, but they are always so busy with their own lessons.”“And what of your mother?” Rudolph asked, adjusting her small body on his knee so that he could better meet her eyes and running a finger across the end of his bulbous nose.“Mama is quite busy with the household. Ms. Maevis has sat with me from time to time but….” Serendipity hesitated, her finger instinctively hooking the corner of her mouth.Rudolph gently tugged her hand away. “What is it, darling?”“Well, sometimes, some of the letters look exactly the same. And… sometimes I think the book has grown new letters, ones that weren’t there the day before.”Rudolph chuckled and patted her knee. “Oh, Serendipity, my sweet, you’ll get the hang of it. I promise, as soon as I get back from my next trip I will take some time off and I shall work with you myself.”Serendipity’s face lit up. If anyone could teach her to read, it was her father. “Do you promise?” she asked, clasping her hands in front of her chest.“Yes, yes, my dear,” Rudolph replied, hugging her to his neck. Her arms squeezed him tightly. “As soon as I return from Germany, I shall teach you to read.”“Germany…” came her mother’s voice from the entryway to the parlor. “Of all the silly notions…”“Now, now, dear,” Rudolph said, lifting Serendipity as he stood, sitting her in his chair and crossing to his wife. “Though I will fully admit it was Serendipity’s idea to broaden our horizons, I’m not at all against this change in goods. You know as well as I do that the cotton market is drying up. If the States go to war as expected, there will be far less opportunities to procure enough marketable goods to continue current profit levels. Diversifying our assets just makes sense.”Prudene Fizzlestitch shook her husband’s arm off of her shoulder and took a few steps into the room. “Rudolph, you can spring those canned phrases on our associates as much as you’d like to, but I for one know that the only reason you chose to explore the bisque doll market is because of this young lady right here. She has you completely wrapped around her finger.”Serendipity’s eyes widened. Her mother was a tall, thin woman with proper shoulders and a pointy nose. Though she had often witnessed pats of affection and confirm glances aimed at her sisters, she had very few remembrances of tenderness, and while she often supposed that her mother had possibly loved her once, when she was an infant, that time had long since passed for some reason completely unbeknownst to her. Though she was never cruel, she was often sharp and impatient, always choosing to side with Charity and Grace whenever there was the slightest possibility that Serendipity had remotely wronged either of them.However, staring into her mother’s blackened eyes, the kind voice of her father reassured her that she was loved, and his fondness for his youngest daughter more than made up for any disdain seething from her mother. “Prudence,” Rudolph chuckled, absently stroking his nose again, leaving it a familiar shade of red, “to be sure, our sweet girl did have some influence on my decision. After all, no one loves her dolls more than our little Serendipity. But I do not make business decisions based on the whims of wee tots.” He crossed to stand next to her, his eyes silently asking if she would evade another attempt at fondness. Her eyes softened slightly, which he took as acquiescence, and he rested his hand softly on her shoulder. “We’ve already made a significant profit on the first two shipments. I promise you, this is my last trip to Germany for some time, and I will return to the cotton mills just as soon as these last pieces arrive.”Prudence shook her head. “You already have an entire warehouse full of heads, fabric, glass eyes--human hair…”“Mostly mohair…”“How many more pieces do you need?”“Prudence,” Rudolph implored again, taking her gently by the shoulders to face him, “this is a wise investment, I promise you. You’ll see. Have you ever known me to throw away good money?”Prudence turned her head and her eyes bore down on Serendipity where she sat in an over-stuffed chair. The longer her mother looked, the more she began to sink into the chair, a lump forming in her throat, her stomach knotting beneath those dark eyes. After what seemed like ages to the small child, her mother returned her stare to her father and said calmly, “I only hope you haven’t let the dreams of a small child destroy our fortune.”Rudolph Fizzlestitched laughed, his smile reaching his eyes. “I haven’t, I assure you. After all, I named her Serendipity for one simple reason. She is our fortune.” And giving his wife one last squeaze, he turned to his daughter, still laughing, scooped her up in his arms, and began to dance her around the room.At the touch of her father’s hands, Serendipity’s trepidation melted away, and she began to giggle, swaying through the air to the tune of “Ring a Ring of Rosies,” as her father hummed. As the verse ended, he lifted her high into the air and then brought her quickly back to the ground as she sung, “We all fall down!”Serendipity shut upright, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced around the room for a moment, not quite sure of where she was or where she should be. The familiar surroundings of her own loft began to calm her raging pulse, and she put her hand on her chest, pressing down slightly least it should chance to try an escape. She half expected to see the smiling face of her father, half expected to see the disparaging stare of her mother. Neither were there, of course. She wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. They were both gone, long gone. She had done them both in, one at a time, through different, yet ultimately equalizing circumstances.After a few moments to shake the memories from her head, she threw the thin blanket she allowed herself off of her legs and slid across the rough hewn floor to the ladder, half climbing, half falling down the stairs to her workspace below. Regardless of the time, the room always looked the same--dark--and though she had a pocketwatch somewhere, she never cared to look at it. She could tell the time only by the arrival of her friend Maevis, who came by at least twice each day, once in the morning and once in the evening, and occasionally by her own stomach, which would often alert her when she had not eaten for several days. Other than that, time was of little importance to Serendipity, and she measured the passing of her life only by the number of dolls she completed and the number she still needed to finish. As she made her way to the table and the previously cast aside dress, she was certain of two things: Pozzletot would show his disappointment in her behavior through his absence, and the letter would still be present--staring at her just as distinctly as the unfinished dolls.
November 6, 2015
NaNoWriMo Chapter One
I am participating in NaNoWriMo again this year (that's National Novel Writing Month) which means I have challenged myself to write 50,000 words in November. After much contemplation, I finally decided to write a fantasy Christmas story. It is definitely different than anything I have ever written before, but I think it will be a lot of fun to write. I hope it is just as interesting to read! I have decided to post the chapters as I go. Please keep in mind this is all raw--none of it is edited even by me--so there may be errors and I may end up going back and making some structural changes as well. But this is a great opportunity to let you in to my writing process and also share my story with you as it is literally unfolding (pun intended.) I would really love to hear your thoughts!
Here is Chapter 1 of The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas.
The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas by ID Johnson
"Serendipity"Marwolaeth Hall was an imposing structure with its gabled roofline, imposing turrets that numbered three, and the seemingly daunting sharpness of even its rounded turret that capped the bay window on the eastern side. It wasn’t necessarily the largest dwelling one might chance to come across in the moorland near the village of Dunsford, England, but it was certainly commanding enough to make one stop and consider the nature of those who would make such a place their home. Even in the daylight it seemed to whisper of treachery and consternation, and it was no wonder the original owners had given it such a fortuitous name.Serendipity Fizzlestitch had not called Marwolaeth her home for nearly eight years, choosing instead to occupy a much smaller, much less daunting cottage nearly twenty furlongs to the south of her original home, off in the woods where the trees blocked most of the view of the gothic structure. Not that she ever went out where she could potentially catch a glimpse, nor did she ever dare peek out the tightly drawn, black woolen curtains. Her mind was apt to visit Marwolaeth even without a visual reminder and she found it best to distance herself in every way possible if she were to hold on to lingering strands of sanity, no matter how drifting or fleeting they may be. No, Serendipity had not stepped foot inside Marwolaeth even once since she had been dragged out screaming by Dr. Tweedlton and Deputy Shillingpepper the morning of April 8, 1862, the day she had killed her family.The cottage consisted of one large room with a loft where Serendipity kept a mat on the floor where she occasionally gave in and rested for a few hours from time to time. More often, she dozed restlessly for an hour or so here and there in a wooden rocking chair situated near the fireplace, which was often the only source of light. Maevis was always telling her to open the curtains or light one of the lanterns she kept oiled on her weekly visits. But Serendipity preferred the dark. It was harder to see one’s sins in the absence of light.It was also a bit harder to see her work, but she had become so accustomed to the repetitive movements of her art that she truly required very little of her eyesight. There were times, however, that she felt her eyes had become so accustom to the dark that she was fairly certain she would be able to see even in the pitch black. She has always had pale skin and light hair but now, whenever she accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the tin tea pot or one of her other meager dishes, she hardly recognized herself. Which was not unwelcome. The idea of being someone else was a pleasant one, and perhaps, if she had the smallest spark of hope that she could ever metamorphosize into someone other than who she was, she might entertain the possibility of doing just that. But she knew in her heart she would never be more than the doll maker’s murderous daughter who occupied a cottage behind her childhood home which continued to mock her in every passing thought and memory.She sat in her straight back chair near the fire, her large magnifying glass posed between herself and the head she held carefully in her right hand, a finely tipped paint brush slowly tapping against her chin as she contemplated precisely the expression for this newest beauty. Over the years, she had become so familiar with the medium she now felt as if she were able to interpret the personality behind each blank slate and bring forth a living individual from within. It generally only took a moment of careful contemplation before the face began to speak to her, and then the paint brush would begin to dance in her hand, and before she knew it, there was a jovial smiling face looking up at her. After each layer of flesh toned paint, the doll would need to be fired. Since the kiln was located elsewhere on the property, Serendipity relied heavily on Maevis to take away her sweet friends and bring them back unharmed in a timely fashion. She had eventually come accustom to taking leave from one companion for a spell only to be reunited with her again time and again, finding solace in another equally precious individual as she waited, until at last the paint was set. Once that part was finished, Serendipity was free to complete each doll one by one, laying each solitary strand of hair, attaching the body and limbs, and crafting the perfect fashionable outfit and shoes to represent the personality that spoke to her from behind the blank facade. Now, after several moments of quiet contemplation, this new friend began to speak, and Serendipity allowed her hand to flow freely across the surface of what would soon be a lovely face, the picture in her head projecting onto the bisque in fluid, unhurried movements.As she worked, brushing on tiny eyebrow hairs one by one, there was a fluttering at the fireplace that momentarily caught her attention. The magnifying glass before her would have given any spectator a magnificent view of her left eye, had anyone been nearby, and she hurriedly pushed it aside so that she could attempt to discover what had apparently flown down the chimney. Glancing about, she realized a medium-sized stark white envelope was resting comfortably atop the flickering shards of orange and purple waving about inside the hearth. It struck her fancy that the paper was not instantly engulfed in flames, but since she was rather busy with her new companion, she dismissed the phenomenon and returned to her work, certain that scurrying over to retrieve it would be of little use should it be capable of catching fire, and if for some reason it was impermeable to flames, it would be thusly situated upon completion of the feature she was now creating.Several moments, perhaps half an hour, passed before Serendipity was satisfied with the smiling face, and she eventually sat the doll head down carefully on the roughly hewn wooden table that held her paints and turned her attention back towards the fireplace, certain that whatever wayward piece of postage had haphazardly found its way into her chimney would be long gone. But it wasn’t. It still sat there uncharred and unblemished atop the dancing flames, staring at her almost as intensely as the blank canvas she had just personified.Serendipity stood and stretched her back, noting that it no longer seemed quite as erect as it once was from so many hours of carefully examining her work, and crossed the few feet to the fireplace. Before she made a move to retrieve the stalwart article, she contemplated its existence a moment longer. Finally, taking the poker in her long, spindly, paint-stained fingers, she drew the envelope out of the flames, and it came to rest on the brick surround, no worse for the wear.Again, Serendipity hesitated. The envelope was seal side up, red wax with a mistletoe imprint anxiously awaiting the tear of a quick finger. She was certain that, once she flipped it over, she would see some print--something she would likely find indecipherable, as most writing was, and she did not like being faced with such a predicament within the solace of her own solitary abode.At last, she bent down and took the letter in her hand, surprised that it didn’t even appear to be warm. With an audible sigh, she flipped it over and was surprised to see that she could, in fact, read the inscription. It simply said, “Serendipity Fizzlestitch,” written in neat, gold ink in legible, if not slightly fancy script.A soft squeaking near her feet caught her attention, and she sighed again, this time in relief. Glancing down, she saw one of the few living creatures she considered a friend. “Well, Pozzeltot,” she said, bending to scoop the little mouse into her free hand, “it seems we’ve received a message.”Pozzletot wiggled his little black, whiskery nose to and fro, rubbing his hands together several times before resting back on his haunches against Serendipity’s palm. His eyes were large and curious, and his tail wiggled back and forth as if he were trying to form a question mark.“I haven’t any idea who it is from,” Serendipity admitted, flipping the foreign object over in her hand. “I would suppose it is some sort of a magic letter, if I still believed in magic,” she continued.Once again, Pozzletot made an inquisitive sounding squeak, gesturing as if to ask a follow up question. He rubbed his nose with his hand and shook his tail. Then, looking off across the room, he squeaked again, louder this time, and within a few seconds several of his colleagues skittered across the room, congregating near Serendipity’s feet.“Well, hello my little loves!” she exclaimed, dropping carefully to her knees and bending closer to the floor. “It seems like it’s been days since I’ve seen any of you, I’ve been so preoccupied with my work.” She lowered her hand so that Pozzletot could join the others and sat in silent observation as they seemed to chat in a language she could only assume to understand.After a moment, she realized they were all gesturing toward the letter now, and she returned her attention to it as well. Once again, she examined the front and the back, turning it over in her hands several times, before shrugging her shoulders and addressing the small audience. “I suppose I could open it. It’s only… you know how I feel about… reading.”Pozzletot stepped forward, an encouraging expression on his whiskery face. As she stood staring down at his innocent wide eyes,they momentarily morphed into the shocked expression of pain and disbelief she had created the last time she was in a similar situation, and her stomach began to tighten, her breathing labored. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, my friends. I… can’t. Not now.” Before she could catch a glimpse of their disappointment, she stood, tossed the letter aside, not even watching as it landed near her rocking chair on the wooden floor, and returned hastily to her work. There was hair to string, gowns to stitch, shoes to assembly. Whatever the envelope contained could wait. Eventually, most of her tiny roommates scampered off, back into the solace of the cottage walls, leaving only Pozzletot to accompany her as she worked. He made his way up the gnarled table leg and found a seat next to Serendipity’s spool of thread. Though a dusty Singer occupied one corner of her living space, she preferred to stitch by hand, as her grandmother had shown her when she was a wee lass, and she was quick and accurate with her weapon of choice. Pozzletot often watched her work, often in silence, though the occasional squeak of marvel served as quality assurance even if her mind wandered from her work to distant times, as it so often did. Occasionally, she would share her remembrances aloud in whispered stories to her tiny friends. Pozzletot was often joined by other members of the household; Bitsy, Muffincrumb, Mr. Waddlepants, or Gypsim, perhaps. Today, however, it was only he, and after a few moments, Serendipity began to justify herself. “It’s not as if I have invited the outside world in, mind you,” she began mid-thought, insisting Pozzletot infer the context. “It’s probably nothing anyway, mind you. Perhaps a Christmas card….I believe the holiday season has just past. Perhaps it’s nothing but a piece of recently discovered postage the postman mishandled. I should think it would have been better directed to… the main house, where Maevis or Ms. Crotlybloom could have given it some attention.” Pozzletot squeaked, and Serendipity shifted her eyes away from her work momentarily before returning them to the hem she was working on so adamantly. “I have no explanation as to why it didn’t catch fire and turn to ash,” she admitted. “Perhaps the world has invented some flame retardant paper in these past few years.” Once again her eyes flickered in his direction, and he seemed to scratch his head in disagreement. Huffing, Serendipity’s pale blue eyes crinkled a bit as she peered closely at the small stitches she rapidly, yet precisely, placed along the folded edge of gingham. “Don’t look at me like that,” she replied sharply. “You can’t begin to understand what it’s like for me….” This time, Pozzletot seemed to disagree quite harshly, stamping his narrow foot and knocking Serendipity’s favorite paint brush off of the paint jar where she had rested it a few minutes ago. “Now, now,” she scolded, righting the instrument, “I won’t have you questioning my motives. It simply won’t do. You’re a guest here, after all, my tiny friend,” she reminded him.Pozzletot slowly shook his head from side to side, a disparaging expression on his pointy face. Serendipity tossed the dress onto her lap, paying little care for the sharp needle, which came loose from the thread and tinkled across the floor. The knot in her stomach was making itself known again, and flashes of grim faces, the wretched smell of vomit mixed with blood, and the harsh voice of her mother all came back to her. “Serendipity! What have you done? Foolish child! You’ve killed us all…”“No!” she exclaimed, snapping back to the present. “I won’t do it.” Rising from the chair, she flung the dress on to the table, only slightly leery of the open paint jars, and turned her back to the astonished mouse sitting nearby. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Pozzletot, my head is aching. I think I shall retire to my quarters for some rest.”
Pozzletot squeaked at her retreating back as she made her way across the room to the rickety ladder that led to her loft space. His protests fell on deaf ears, and Serendipity ascended to her private chambers with nothing more to be said from any of her permanent house guests.
Here is Chapter 1 of The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas.
The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas by ID Johnson
"Serendipity"Marwolaeth Hall was an imposing structure with its gabled roofline, imposing turrets that numbered three, and the seemingly daunting sharpness of even its rounded turret that capped the bay window on the eastern side. It wasn’t necessarily the largest dwelling one might chance to come across in the moorland near the village of Dunsford, England, but it was certainly commanding enough to make one stop and consider the nature of those who would make such a place their home. Even in the daylight it seemed to whisper of treachery and consternation, and it was no wonder the original owners had given it such a fortuitous name.Serendipity Fizzlestitch had not called Marwolaeth her home for nearly eight years, choosing instead to occupy a much smaller, much less daunting cottage nearly twenty furlongs to the south of her original home, off in the woods where the trees blocked most of the view of the gothic structure. Not that she ever went out where she could potentially catch a glimpse, nor did she ever dare peek out the tightly drawn, black woolen curtains. Her mind was apt to visit Marwolaeth even without a visual reminder and she found it best to distance herself in every way possible if she were to hold on to lingering strands of sanity, no matter how drifting or fleeting they may be. No, Serendipity had not stepped foot inside Marwolaeth even once since she had been dragged out screaming by Dr. Tweedlton and Deputy Shillingpepper the morning of April 8, 1862, the day she had killed her family.The cottage consisted of one large room with a loft where Serendipity kept a mat on the floor where she occasionally gave in and rested for a few hours from time to time. More often, she dozed restlessly for an hour or so here and there in a wooden rocking chair situated near the fireplace, which was often the only source of light. Maevis was always telling her to open the curtains or light one of the lanterns she kept oiled on her weekly visits. But Serendipity preferred the dark. It was harder to see one’s sins in the absence of light.It was also a bit harder to see her work, but she had become so accustomed to the repetitive movements of her art that she truly required very little of her eyesight. There were times, however, that she felt her eyes had become so accustom to the dark that she was fairly certain she would be able to see even in the pitch black. She has always had pale skin and light hair but now, whenever she accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the tin tea pot or one of her other meager dishes, she hardly recognized herself. Which was not unwelcome. The idea of being someone else was a pleasant one, and perhaps, if she had the smallest spark of hope that she could ever metamorphosize into someone other than who she was, she might entertain the possibility of doing just that. But she knew in her heart she would never be more than the doll maker’s murderous daughter who occupied a cottage behind her childhood home which continued to mock her in every passing thought and memory.She sat in her straight back chair near the fire, her large magnifying glass posed between herself and the head she held carefully in her right hand, a finely tipped paint brush slowly tapping against her chin as she contemplated precisely the expression for this newest beauty. Over the years, she had become so familiar with the medium she now felt as if she were able to interpret the personality behind each blank slate and bring forth a living individual from within. It generally only took a moment of careful contemplation before the face began to speak to her, and then the paint brush would begin to dance in her hand, and before she knew it, there was a jovial smiling face looking up at her. After each layer of flesh toned paint, the doll would need to be fired. Since the kiln was located elsewhere on the property, Serendipity relied heavily on Maevis to take away her sweet friends and bring them back unharmed in a timely fashion. She had eventually come accustom to taking leave from one companion for a spell only to be reunited with her again time and again, finding solace in another equally precious individual as she waited, until at last the paint was set. Once that part was finished, Serendipity was free to complete each doll one by one, laying each solitary strand of hair, attaching the body and limbs, and crafting the perfect fashionable outfit and shoes to represent the personality that spoke to her from behind the blank facade. Now, after several moments of quiet contemplation, this new friend began to speak, and Serendipity allowed her hand to flow freely across the surface of what would soon be a lovely face, the picture in her head projecting onto the bisque in fluid, unhurried movements.As she worked, brushing on tiny eyebrow hairs one by one, there was a fluttering at the fireplace that momentarily caught her attention. The magnifying glass before her would have given any spectator a magnificent view of her left eye, had anyone been nearby, and she hurriedly pushed it aside so that she could attempt to discover what had apparently flown down the chimney. Glancing about, she realized a medium-sized stark white envelope was resting comfortably atop the flickering shards of orange and purple waving about inside the hearth. It struck her fancy that the paper was not instantly engulfed in flames, but since she was rather busy with her new companion, she dismissed the phenomenon and returned to her work, certain that scurrying over to retrieve it would be of little use should it be capable of catching fire, and if for some reason it was impermeable to flames, it would be thusly situated upon completion of the feature she was now creating.Several moments, perhaps half an hour, passed before Serendipity was satisfied with the smiling face, and she eventually sat the doll head down carefully on the roughly hewn wooden table that held her paints and turned her attention back towards the fireplace, certain that whatever wayward piece of postage had haphazardly found its way into her chimney would be long gone. But it wasn’t. It still sat there uncharred and unblemished atop the dancing flames, staring at her almost as intensely as the blank canvas she had just personified.Serendipity stood and stretched her back, noting that it no longer seemed quite as erect as it once was from so many hours of carefully examining her work, and crossed the few feet to the fireplace. Before she made a move to retrieve the stalwart article, she contemplated its existence a moment longer. Finally, taking the poker in her long, spindly, paint-stained fingers, she drew the envelope out of the flames, and it came to rest on the brick surround, no worse for the wear.Again, Serendipity hesitated. The envelope was seal side up, red wax with a mistletoe imprint anxiously awaiting the tear of a quick finger. She was certain that, once she flipped it over, she would see some print--something she would likely find indecipherable, as most writing was, and she did not like being faced with such a predicament within the solace of her own solitary abode.At last, she bent down and took the letter in her hand, surprised that it didn’t even appear to be warm. With an audible sigh, she flipped it over and was surprised to see that she could, in fact, read the inscription. It simply said, “Serendipity Fizzlestitch,” written in neat, gold ink in legible, if not slightly fancy script.A soft squeaking near her feet caught her attention, and she sighed again, this time in relief. Glancing down, she saw one of the few living creatures she considered a friend. “Well, Pozzeltot,” she said, bending to scoop the little mouse into her free hand, “it seems we’ve received a message.”Pozzletot wiggled his little black, whiskery nose to and fro, rubbing his hands together several times before resting back on his haunches against Serendipity’s palm. His eyes were large and curious, and his tail wiggled back and forth as if he were trying to form a question mark.“I haven’t any idea who it is from,” Serendipity admitted, flipping the foreign object over in her hand. “I would suppose it is some sort of a magic letter, if I still believed in magic,” she continued.Once again, Pozzletot made an inquisitive sounding squeak, gesturing as if to ask a follow up question. He rubbed his nose with his hand and shook his tail. Then, looking off across the room, he squeaked again, louder this time, and within a few seconds several of his colleagues skittered across the room, congregating near Serendipity’s feet.“Well, hello my little loves!” she exclaimed, dropping carefully to her knees and bending closer to the floor. “It seems like it’s been days since I’ve seen any of you, I’ve been so preoccupied with my work.” She lowered her hand so that Pozzletot could join the others and sat in silent observation as they seemed to chat in a language she could only assume to understand.After a moment, she realized they were all gesturing toward the letter now, and she returned her attention to it as well. Once again, she examined the front and the back, turning it over in her hands several times, before shrugging her shoulders and addressing the small audience. “I suppose I could open it. It’s only… you know how I feel about… reading.”Pozzletot stepped forward, an encouraging expression on his whiskery face. As she stood staring down at his innocent wide eyes,they momentarily morphed into the shocked expression of pain and disbelief she had created the last time she was in a similar situation, and her stomach began to tighten, her breathing labored. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, my friends. I… can’t. Not now.” Before she could catch a glimpse of their disappointment, she stood, tossed the letter aside, not even watching as it landed near her rocking chair on the wooden floor, and returned hastily to her work. There was hair to string, gowns to stitch, shoes to assembly. Whatever the envelope contained could wait. Eventually, most of her tiny roommates scampered off, back into the solace of the cottage walls, leaving only Pozzletot to accompany her as she worked. He made his way up the gnarled table leg and found a seat next to Serendipity’s spool of thread. Though a dusty Singer occupied one corner of her living space, she preferred to stitch by hand, as her grandmother had shown her when she was a wee lass, and she was quick and accurate with her weapon of choice. Pozzletot often watched her work, often in silence, though the occasional squeak of marvel served as quality assurance even if her mind wandered from her work to distant times, as it so often did. Occasionally, she would share her remembrances aloud in whispered stories to her tiny friends. Pozzletot was often joined by other members of the household; Bitsy, Muffincrumb, Mr. Waddlepants, or Gypsim, perhaps. Today, however, it was only he, and after a few moments, Serendipity began to justify herself. “It’s not as if I have invited the outside world in, mind you,” she began mid-thought, insisting Pozzletot infer the context. “It’s probably nothing anyway, mind you. Perhaps a Christmas card….I believe the holiday season has just past. Perhaps it’s nothing but a piece of recently discovered postage the postman mishandled. I should think it would have been better directed to… the main house, where Maevis or Ms. Crotlybloom could have given it some attention.” Pozzletot squeaked, and Serendipity shifted her eyes away from her work momentarily before returning them to the hem she was working on so adamantly. “I have no explanation as to why it didn’t catch fire and turn to ash,” she admitted. “Perhaps the world has invented some flame retardant paper in these past few years.” Once again her eyes flickered in his direction, and he seemed to scratch his head in disagreement. Huffing, Serendipity’s pale blue eyes crinkled a bit as she peered closely at the small stitches she rapidly, yet precisely, placed along the folded edge of gingham. “Don’t look at me like that,” she replied sharply. “You can’t begin to understand what it’s like for me….” This time, Pozzletot seemed to disagree quite harshly, stamping his narrow foot and knocking Serendipity’s favorite paint brush off of the paint jar where she had rested it a few minutes ago. “Now, now,” she scolded, righting the instrument, “I won’t have you questioning my motives. It simply won’t do. You’re a guest here, after all, my tiny friend,” she reminded him.Pozzletot slowly shook his head from side to side, a disparaging expression on his pointy face. Serendipity tossed the dress onto her lap, paying little care for the sharp needle, which came loose from the thread and tinkled across the floor. The knot in her stomach was making itself known again, and flashes of grim faces, the wretched smell of vomit mixed with blood, and the harsh voice of her mother all came back to her. “Serendipity! What have you done? Foolish child! You’ve killed us all…”“No!” she exclaimed, snapping back to the present. “I won’t do it.” Rising from the chair, she flung the dress on to the table, only slightly leery of the open paint jars, and turned her back to the astonished mouse sitting nearby. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Pozzletot, my head is aching. I think I shall retire to my quarters for some rest.”
Pozzletot squeaked at her retreating back as she made her way across the room to the rickety ladder that led to her loft space. His protests fell on deaf ears, and Serendipity ascended to her private chambers with nothing more to be said from any of her permanent house guests.
October 17, 2015
American Horror Story Hotel a.k.a. Hotel Transylvania
One of these two is about some comical vampires who run around a hotel, talking funny, and playing around with other monsters. The other is a cartoon my little girls watched with their dad on Columbus Day when they had the day off from school. I jest--sort of.
Not so gaga over Gaga.
I've been a fan of American Horror Story for a while now, particularly of season one when it was actually about a haunted house. The story line always kept me awake for several nights after each installment, wondering what the creaking noise might be or if I had closed the shower curtain all the way (no need for surprises there!). This fifth season has got me a little perplexed, although the appearance of Evan Peters in the second episode has me hopeful that things will improve rapidly.
I guess my Gaga meter is running low. I just can't seem to get on board with the Countess character she is playing. She's supposed to be a vampire--and that's my thing (after all, I have written a few novels about bloodsuckers) so I should be enjoying watching her and those sexy minions lap up blood from unsuspecting party-goers and the such, but I am finding her ability to say words and convey meaning a little lacking. I'm not sure if she's throwing the rest of the actors off a bit or if her fellow cast members didn't quite get enough rehearsal time, but a cast that usually leaves me spellbound is not bringing the splendor this time around--with few exceptions.
And Peters always brings his A game, but his portrayal of millionaire JP March seemed a little cartoonish as well.
Kathy Bates and Sarah Paulson never skip a beat, and so far they have really stood out for me in this otherwise questionable season.
But it's early, and things can always get better--although I'm not sure they can get any more sadistic and creepy. We've already gone down some pretty unfathomably grotesque, macabre, and sexually explicit paths in the two offerings. It's hard to imagine anything worse than being super glued into the corpse of woman nailed to your headboard. But I'm sure the writers will come up with something. They always do.
Meanwhile, Hotel Transylvania Two was also pretty good, according to my daughters, who even a week later are still repeating the most famous line, "I do not say blah, blah, blah..."
Not so gaga over Gaga.I've been a fan of American Horror Story for a while now, particularly of season one when it was actually about a haunted house. The story line always kept me awake for several nights after each installment, wondering what the creaking noise might be or if I had closed the shower curtain all the way (no need for surprises there!). This fifth season has got me a little perplexed, although the appearance of Evan Peters in the second episode has me hopeful that things will improve rapidly.
I guess my Gaga meter is running low. I just can't seem to get on board with the Countess character she is playing. She's supposed to be a vampire--and that's my thing (after all, I have written a few novels about bloodsuckers) so I should be enjoying watching her and those sexy minions lap up blood from unsuspecting party-goers and the such, but I am finding her ability to say words and convey meaning a little lacking. I'm not sure if she's throwing the rest of the actors off a bit or if her fellow cast members didn't quite get enough rehearsal time, but a cast that usually leaves me spellbound is not bringing the splendor this time around--with few exceptions.
And Peters always brings his A game, but his portrayal of millionaire JP March seemed a little cartoonish as well.
Kathy Bates and Sarah Paulson never skip a beat, and so far they have really stood out for me in this otherwise questionable season.
But it's early, and things can always get better--although I'm not sure they can get any more sadistic and creepy. We've already gone down some pretty unfathomably grotesque, macabre, and sexually explicit paths in the two offerings. It's hard to imagine anything worse than being super glued into the corpse of woman nailed to your headboard. But I'm sure the writers will come up with something. They always do.
Meanwhile, Hotel Transylvania Two was also pretty good, according to my daughters, who even a week later are still repeating the most famous line, "I do not say blah, blah, blah..."
October 16, 2015
NaNoWriMo is Coming!
It may sound like a setting in a fantasy novel, but NaNoWriMo actually stands for National Novel Writing Month, and it's write right around the corner. November 1 is the official launch, but that's still two weeks away, and I'm ready to write now!
So, I think I might start a little early. Unlike the 3 Day Novel Writing Contest, you can start your novel before November 1 so long as all of the words you count towards your total are written in November. And since my goal of 50,000 words would be a very short work for me, I am confident in thinking that I could start ahead of time and still have enough steam in my story to finish out my goal.
I've been contemplating my writing topic for several months now, and I've decided to write a fantasy Christmas story. I would love to get it out in time for this Christmas season, which means I need to be really nice to my editor, cover designer, and husband (cause he's gotta give me time to write!)
Here's the synopsis:
Serendipity Frizzlestitch lives alone in a small cottage behind the estate house she was born in. She keeps to herself almost exclusively. Her father died when she was a small child, and her mother and older sisters never quite understood Serendipity. One fateful day, a horrible accident leaves Serendipity all alone and doubting her worthiness to ever love or be loved again. She moves to the cottage to work on her father's passion--doll making.
Then one day, a letter arrives via the fireplace. Serendipity's inability to decipher the words is a valid excuse to dismiss it entirely until a resounding knock on the door leaves her facing the first visitor (outside of her nursemaids) she has had in almost a decade. She stands face to face with the handsome--and unusual--Cornelius Cane, Saint Nicholas's chief recruiter, who has come to whisk her away to the North Pole where she will be employed by the great toy maker to oversee the mass production of her dolls for all of the children in the world.
But Serendipity doesn't want to go, which leaves Corey facing the possibility of failing for the first time ever--something he cannot fathom.
He must find a way to get Serendipity to the North Pole....
And when he does, he must make her stay or else he may disappoint the jolliest soul of all.
Serendipity wants to make her dolls alone--not for Santa. (Pic courtesy of Defiant Art)There are, of course, lots of twists and turns and mysteries to unravel, and potentially a love connection as well.
I've never written anything like this before. It will be my first holiday themed fantasy--full of whimsy and the unusual.
What do you think? I can't wait to meet my cast of characters and see what they have in store. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
So, I think I might start a little early. Unlike the 3 Day Novel Writing Contest, you can start your novel before November 1 so long as all of the words you count towards your total are written in November. And since my goal of 50,000 words would be a very short work for me, I am confident in thinking that I could start ahead of time and still have enough steam in my story to finish out my goal.
I've been contemplating my writing topic for several months now, and I've decided to write a fantasy Christmas story. I would love to get it out in time for this Christmas season, which means I need to be really nice to my editor, cover designer, and husband (cause he's gotta give me time to write!)
Here's the synopsis:
Serendipity Frizzlestitch lives alone in a small cottage behind the estate house she was born in. She keeps to herself almost exclusively. Her father died when she was a small child, and her mother and older sisters never quite understood Serendipity. One fateful day, a horrible accident leaves Serendipity all alone and doubting her worthiness to ever love or be loved again. She moves to the cottage to work on her father's passion--doll making.
Then one day, a letter arrives via the fireplace. Serendipity's inability to decipher the words is a valid excuse to dismiss it entirely until a resounding knock on the door leaves her facing the first visitor (outside of her nursemaids) she has had in almost a decade. She stands face to face with the handsome--and unusual--Cornelius Cane, Saint Nicholas's chief recruiter, who has come to whisk her away to the North Pole where she will be employed by the great toy maker to oversee the mass production of her dolls for all of the children in the world.
But Serendipity doesn't want to go, which leaves Corey facing the possibility of failing for the first time ever--something he cannot fathom.
He must find a way to get Serendipity to the North Pole....
And when he does, he must make her stay or else he may disappoint the jolliest soul of all.
Serendipity wants to make her dolls alone--not for Santa. (Pic courtesy of Defiant Art)There are, of course, lots of twists and turns and mysteries to unravel, and potentially a love connection as well.I've never written anything like this before. It will be my first holiday themed fantasy--full of whimsy and the unusual.
What do you think? I can't wait to meet my cast of characters and see what they have in store. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
September 15, 2015
2015 Three Day Novel Writing Contest Recap
You may recall that I spent last Labor Day weekend writing Transformation--a feat that nearly killed me.
Okay--that may be an exaggeration, but writing nearly 80,000 words in three days is a pretty difficult task.
This time around, I decided to tone it down a bit for my 3 Day Novel Writing Contest entry. I only wrote 54,000 words.
In three days.
It nearly killed me.
(But only because I was already sick.)
Compared to most of the other writers I was keeping up with that weekend, it still seems to be quite a lot of words.
But it's not the quantity that counts. It's the quality.
And I think you'll really like what I produced.
Learn more about the 3 Day by clicking here.
The name of the book is Ghosts of Southampton: Titanic. I have added the Titanic part recently because I have decided this will, in fact, be a series. I have a few alpha readers looking it over now and no word yet, but I think y'all are gonna like it.
The story is about a woman named Meg who boards the Titanic in Southampton, her home town. She is running away from someone, but we don't know who, not at first. She is determined to start her life over again. Unfortunately, we find out pretty quickly the man she has been engaged to for the last three years is also on the ship. Only he doesn't recognize her because they've never met. He's a billionaire from New York City named Charlie Ashton. And when Meg finally meets him face to face, she realizes she's made a terrible mistake.
But he's not the only person Meg is running from, and it seems some of her other ghosts have also followed her aboard the Titanic. If she doesn't figure out a way to explain to Charlie why she left Southampton without ever even meeting him, she knows she'll lose him forever.
Oh, and the boat is sinking....
I don't want to give the ending away, but the boat sinks.
Over the course of the three days I spent with Meg and Charlie (and Kelly, Daniel, Jonathan, Molly Brown, Ruth, and Baby Lizzy) I fell in love with them and their story! And I can't wait to share it with you! The only problem is, if I want to have any chance at winning the 3 Day, I can't publish the story until after the winner is announced, and while I really don't think I'll even make the short list (I didn't last year and look how successful Transformation and the rest of that series has become) I still feel like I should wait.
Luckily for you I've decided to go back a bit in Meg and Charlie's story and write Ghosts of Southampton: Without Consent--which will be a prequel to Titanic. And--I may go back further than that as well. AND--I'm thinking about publishing it on Wattpad and some other free sites.
What do you think? Does Meg's story sound interesting? Are we all Titaniced out or are we good for another go? I'd really love to hear your thoughts.
P.S. If you're a writer at all, you owe it to yourself to try the 3 Day. It's one of the hardest most amazing things you will ever do in your life. The last 3 Day saw the creation of Cadence, Aaron, Elliott, and Eliza, and who doesn't love them? You can purchase Transformation here for only 99 cents and see what can be done in only three days!
Okay--that may be an exaggeration, but writing nearly 80,000 words in three days is a pretty difficult task.
This time around, I decided to tone it down a bit for my 3 Day Novel Writing Contest entry. I only wrote 54,000 words.
In three days.
It nearly killed me.
(But only because I was already sick.)
Compared to most of the other writers I was keeping up with that weekend, it still seems to be quite a lot of words.
But it's not the quantity that counts. It's the quality.
And I think you'll really like what I produced.
Learn more about the 3 Day by clicking here.The name of the book is Ghosts of Southampton: Titanic. I have added the Titanic part recently because I have decided this will, in fact, be a series. I have a few alpha readers looking it over now and no word yet, but I think y'all are gonna like it.
The story is about a woman named Meg who boards the Titanic in Southampton, her home town. She is running away from someone, but we don't know who, not at first. She is determined to start her life over again. Unfortunately, we find out pretty quickly the man she has been engaged to for the last three years is also on the ship. Only he doesn't recognize her because they've never met. He's a billionaire from New York City named Charlie Ashton. And when Meg finally meets him face to face, she realizes she's made a terrible mistake.
But he's not the only person Meg is running from, and it seems some of her other ghosts have also followed her aboard the Titanic. If she doesn't figure out a way to explain to Charlie why she left Southampton without ever even meeting him, she knows she'll lose him forever.
Oh, and the boat is sinking....
I don't want to give the ending away, but the boat sinks.Over the course of the three days I spent with Meg and Charlie (and Kelly, Daniel, Jonathan, Molly Brown, Ruth, and Baby Lizzy) I fell in love with them and their story! And I can't wait to share it with you! The only problem is, if I want to have any chance at winning the 3 Day, I can't publish the story until after the winner is announced, and while I really don't think I'll even make the short list (I didn't last year and look how successful Transformation and the rest of that series has become) I still feel like I should wait.
Luckily for you I've decided to go back a bit in Meg and Charlie's story and write Ghosts of Southampton: Without Consent--which will be a prequel to Titanic. And--I may go back further than that as well. AND--I'm thinking about publishing it on Wattpad and some other free sites.
What do you think? Does Meg's story sound interesting? Are we all Titaniced out or are we good for another go? I'd really love to hear your thoughts.
P.S. If you're a writer at all, you owe it to yourself to try the 3 Day. It's one of the hardest most amazing things you will ever do in your life. The last 3 Day saw the creation of Cadence, Aaron, Elliott, and Eliza, and who doesn't love them? You can purchase Transformation here for only 99 cents and see what can be done in only three days!
