Mourning Under the Bridge

By C. Amethyst Frost

In the kingdom of Edleton, a newborn baby is whisked away from the magnificent home of her prominent wizard family, and believed to have been consumed by the fire that killed her parents. She is delivered to a group of strays and grows up homeless, starving, and cold. Ten years later, the child, now called Mourning, reemerges from the shadows and is reunited with her family. From rags to riches, Mourning's new life is not exactly one of luxury. Her family, who consist of a stern, uptight older brother, his fat screeching wife, and her three bratty kids, all seem to hate her. As Mourning tries her best to fit in, she experiences way too many "accidents" in her new home and begins to wonder if she was better off in the streets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Amethyst Frost
• Release date: Jun 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984723638

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Mourning Under the Bridge

By C. Amethyst Frost

C. A. Frost

***

Copyright © 2010 by C.A. Frost

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews and critiques.

Published by C.A. Frost, Fort Worth, TX

Smashwords Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Second E-book edition 2012

ISBN: 978-0-9847236-3-8

Cover Art by Jessica Frost

Published in the United States of America

Dedications

A big hug to my family for their patience and support.

I also want to acknowledge the great influence of my alma mater. Through the high standards of Georgia Southern University’s Writing and Linguistics department, good writers become great ones.

Table of Contents

Dedications

Chapter One: A Kingdom in Mourning

Chapter Two: The Orphans of Edleton

Chapter Three: Mourning Sickness

Chapter Four: The First Day of School

Chapter Five: Aunt Margarite and the Healer of the King

Chapter Six: Narrow Escape

Chapter Seven: Hunters

Chapter Eight: Hiding in Plain Sight

Chapter Nine: The First Pullman Heir

Chapter Ten: The Mansion and the Count

Chapter Eleven: The Dungeon

Chapter Twelve: Mourning the Heiress

Chapter Thirteen: Bravery

Chapter Fourteen: Mourning the Sister, Mourning the Friend

Chapter Fifteen: The Adoption Circus

Chapter Sixteen: There’s No Place Like Home

Chapter Seventeen: Punishment

Chapter Eighteen: The Old and the New

Chapter Nineteen: Home Again

Chapter Twenty: Everything in its Place

Chapter Twenty-one: Beautiful Things

Chapter Twenty-two: Losing Control

Chapter Twenty-three: The Attic

Chapter Twenty-four: Glowing Soup

Chapter Twenty-five: Poison

Chapter Twenty-six: Secrets Revealed

Chapter Twenty-seven: The Mourning Son

Epilogue

Chapter One: A Kingdom in Mourning

That is good news, the old man said flatly. The cloaked figure before him smirked in satisfaction. This guest was not someone the old man would have hastily invited in, at least not unaccompanied. The servants must have thought the visitor’s news was worthy of entry. But they were wrong. Something was wrong. The old man sensed it. He was sure there was another motive for this unexpected visit. Or was he being paranoid?

We have good news as well, if you haven’t heard. Happened just this morning, in fact. The man motioned toward the corridor beyond the doorway. Pity my son could not be here. He’d be pleased. But ah, the queen’s death. Such a tragedy for all. Ah, but from the bad comes the good. She’s beautiful, my little one. A miracle, I’d say, so soon after the queen. And now your news. Two lives for the price of one. That must mean something, eh? Would you like to see her? My wife’s in the nursery now.

There was a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning. The morning sky was blackened by the storm, a fair setting for a kingdom in mourning. The intruder turned and departed the lab. When the door closed, the old man waved away his uneasy feelings and sat down to write a letter to his son.

He did not see the black glowing symbol on the door—the cursed seal of death—until he smelled smoke. By then it was too late. Had the situation not been so grim, the man would have laughed at the irony. He was one of very few wizards with knowledge to fight dark magic. Yet, he would die in his own home, a home filled with defensive magical tools. Tools, sadly, that lay on the other side of the door. He was foolish enough to let his guard down and had fallen victim to his own trust. The old man was helpless.

The fire caused the servants to shuffle hastily out of their basement quarters, tripping over each other to seek safety. When they saw the black seal on the laboratory door, most of them fled the mansion in fear. Only one servant stayed behind. A young woman with thick green hair paused to pound on the lab door, careful to keep her fists clear of the glowing black outline.

Master! Master! You’ve got to get out! How can I help you?

You are a good woman, he said sadly through the door. But alas, I am afraid there is nothing. I do not have my staff.

I can get it for you!

Dear child, it matters not. The curse will not allow magic in or out. My foolishness will consume me.

The window, then! Can you escape through the window?

But as she choked on the thickening smoky air, she knew there was nothing that could be done. The young woman was just an elf, but even she knew that dark magic was impenetrable. It was a terrible truth. Her master would surely die.

No, the old man croaked desperately. Listen to me. Get to my wife, please. I fear the worst, that she is already dead. And there is nothing you can do for me. But the baby! You must save the baby! Bring her to my son. He will protect her. Tell him what has happened, and he will protect you too.

The woman did not want to leave the man to die, but the dense air was too much. She heard the baby’s cries and dashed to the nursery. The old man’s fears were confirmed. The old woman was lifeless on the floor. But the baby was alive! She was wiggling around, naked, inside a shallow basin of water, where her mother had been bathing her. Her tiny lungs were too busy screaming the injustice of the world to inhale much smoke. The elf scooped up the slippery infant and wrapped her in a newspaper that was lying on a nearby chair. (Mourning the Queen, the headline read.) Tucking the damp little bundle under her coat, she fled the mansion, passing a crowd of screaming servants and villagers huddled on the bridge outside the gate. They had called for the kingdom guards. No one was brave enough to confront the cursed house.

The elf did not take the baby to her master’s son. She promised to save the child’s life, and she knew there was only one way. With all of the kingdom focused on the fire, or else mourning the queen, it was easy to enter the South Forest undetected. Finding an old battered tent full of stray children would be more difficult. But this elf was once a stray too. She knew how they hid and soon found the tent deep in the woods, far past the forest residents and camouflaged by a clump of bushes. About two dozen children hid there, ranging from toddlers to teens, wizards and elves in the mix. The servant woman startled them, causing a few of the younger kids to scatter. The older ones, however, recognized her.

An infant? said a teenage boy, taking the bundle from the woman and looking at the others uncertainly.

A newborn, the woman replied. Her mother was a friend of mine. She died in birth just this morning. Please, she’s in terrible danger if they find her. A newborn orphan! Who knows what they’d do to her.

Probably drop her in the river, another boy said. All right then. Give her here. First thing we need to do is get her some proper clothing. Can’t run around in a newspaper all her life, can she? Does she have a name?

The second boy took the baby from the first and peeled the paper from her slimy newborn body. A single word was left imprinted on the newborn’s bottom. A little girl with long brown hair pointed at the baby’s bum and giggled.

Mourning, she read.

The old man and woman died in the fire. Their house was destroyed. Or at least the cursed half was. No one was ever able to get close enough to save it. And no magic combined could rebuild it either. You see, as soon as the green-haired servant passed through the gates with the baby, an ancient spell took effect. The gate was magically sealed, as were all of the entrances to the house. The protective spell allowed no one to enter until such time that the rightful heirs came together to reclaim it.

And a decade went by.

Chapter Two: The Orphans of Edleton

I know of the tales told to humans about magical kingdoms, of wondrous adventures in a world in which they could only dream. The stories talk of wizards with unimaginable power. There are goodies and baddies, and the goodies always win. But there’s really more to it than that. What about the in-between, those neither good nor bad? You never hear about the homeless, the orphans, the workhouses. The things the wizards hide.

I could tell you a lot about hiding. I made a life out of it. Like the day of the raid, for instance. There I was, crouched behind a stinking water barrel in a narrow alley between two shops. If anyone found me, I’d be beaten, punished, banished, or maybe even killed. My crime? I was an orphan, a stray. In my world, strays were not allowed. They stained the kingdom with their ugliness and were, therefore, forbidden to exist.

Lewis and I should have stayed in the quarry pit like we were told. That was our hideout, our home. Or at least it was that morning. Now we’d have to move again. All because Lewis and I left the camp to help with the raid, and stupid Lewis got caught. He was never very good at sneaking around. He stood out like a sore thumb. Dark blue hair that stuck straight up in the air. Most shades of elfin blue hair were lighter, more aqua than blue. Lewis’s hair was the color of a blue jay. People couldn’t help but notice him. He might have been able to convince everyone that he was a visitor from out of town. Except that his clothes were too small, they didn’t match, and he had two stolen apples protruding from his trouser pockets. All those things were noticed about the time Lewis was pulling Mr. Hawking’s gold pocket watch from his tailcoat. The fruit vendor and a passing villager pinned Lewis to the ground, and uproar began at once. Guards appeared out of nowhere. They and the villagers scattered around searching for the others. To them, strays were like rats. If one was found, there would be a nest of them somewhere, and no one could sleep at night until they were all exterminated.

Peering out from the alley, I saw a flash of blue and green in the distance as Bach, Rigger, and the other strays darted off into the North Forest. Behind them, a thin teenage girl with long brown hair followed at a hasty walk. Jo could almost pass for a villager, as graceful as she was. But she was pale and dirty with a dingy dress and no shoes. If there wasn’t such a commotion going on in the merchant square, someone would have noticed she was a stray.

I ducked back further into the alley. I was trapped like a rat and the guards were on full search. There was no way I could run across the square fast enough and not get caught. So the North Forest was out of the question. I couldn’t go back to the quarry either. Once a stray was caught, we had to move on. No looking back. We knew that stray elves were brought to workhouses, where they were beaten until they revealed our hideout. So we had to move quickly, always leaving evidence behind so the guards would get that oh-just-missed-em feeling and the captured stray would not suffer more than necessary. We didn’t know what else went on in a workhouse. For once a stray was captured, we never saw him again.

I tried not to think about that because I had other worries. If I did not get out of that alley, I’d be caught next. It looked like I had two choices. I could take the chance and run across the square, which frankly, was suicidal. Or I could climb into the smelly, gnat-infested barrel of water and hope that no one looked there. Both options stank.

There was one other option, though I dared to even think of it. Magic. If I created a distraction on the other side of the square using magic, I might be able to run out without notice. But if I was caught. . .

I’d been a stray all my life and always thought I was an elf. The lady who brought me to the strays was an elf so everyone just assumed I was too. I was small and blonde and fair skinned. So I could have been a Liosalfa elf, except for the small matter of my magic. You see, elves didn’t have magic, at least not the sort that wizards had. They could do no more than mold objects with their hands, like wands and pots and statues. I couldn’t mold anything. What I could do was knock over an apple in a cart to make the rest of the apples tumble. I could swish a woman’s bonnet off her head and make her chase it down the road. An elf couldn’t swish anything. In another lifetime, another world, I would love to have been a wizard. But in the Kingdom of Edleton, a stray with magical powers was a dangerous thing. There would be no workhouse for me. From what I heard, stray wizards were disenchanted and banished to human lands. Their memories were erased and they were dumped off at human asylums for crazy people. That’s what they did to wizard orphans. The lucky ones were killed.

If I stayed in the alley, I would definitely be caught. And running into the spotlight now would be a big mistake. The buzzing of flies inside the water barrel was certainly not appealing.

There was no other choice. I had to use magic.

Poking my face out from the alley entrance, I was relieved to see that most of the crowd was scurrying around the opposite side of the square. A woman in a bathrobe and curlers stood just outside her door talking animatedly to a guard, pointing this way and that. No doubt, she was fabricating her own encounter with the blue-haired apple thief. At the top of her house, swaying in the autumn breeze, was my diversion. This woman was obviously an elf or she would have dried her laundry by magic instead of lining up her underwear on the roof for the whole world to see. But lucky for me she did.

I reached my hand toward the direction of the clothesline, concentrating hard on the swaying garments. It took a couple of tries, but I managed to loosen several pairs of ballooning bloomers, which swished and floated down into the square. One landed on the apple merchant. Another on the guard who was taking the woman’s statement. The woman screamed in surprise and embarrassment. Several other merchants and guards were now draped in the woman’s underwear. One man tried to be helpful by gathering the pairs that landed on the ground. His reward for returning them was several rapid blows to the side of the head by the woman, who shrieked with humiliation. Now all the guards in the square turned their attention to her, prying her away from the man in an attempt to stop the assault.

This was my chance. Moving quickly, but not enough to cause alarm, I slipped out of the alley and skirted around the inner edges of the square. Just behind the apple cart, I spotted a drainage hole. The vendor was too busy laughing at the woman and her underwear to notice me lift the drain’s grate and slip inside. This was one advantage of being small. I could get into places that most people couldn’t. I crawled through the pipe, using it as passage across the square. After a good distance, the pipe still didn’t open up, and I started to worry. The light from the entrance faded away, leaving me to crawl around in the dark. Did it ever end? The drain was so narrow that I couldn’t even turn around. If I really wanted to go back, I’d have to crawl backwards. It was pitch black now and quiet except for a few twitching sounds I suspected to be roaches or rats. The thought made me shudder.

The tunnel curved around in a complicated manner, and I had to scoot like an inchworm to get around it. Just when I thought I’d be trapped in the drain forever, die of suffocation and become rat food, I saw a light. The drain was narrower here, so to get to the opening, I had to lie flat and pull myself along with my elbows. Finally, I dropped out of the hole and landed in a stone ditch. I stood, lost my balance, and rolled to the bottom of the ditch.

I sat up, rubbing a bruise on my elbow as I tried to figure out where I was. The ditch I landed in was a dried up riverbed that ran beneath an old bridge. The bridge looked like it hadn’t been used in years.

A dirt road skirted along one side of the river, curved left, and stopped at the bridge’s entrance. There was a stone wall to the right that, thankfully, blocked my view of the marketplace. And ahead, past the bridge, was a vast field of green nothingness. So I guessed the sole purpose of the dirt road was to get to the bridge.

I started to see the potential of this spot as a new hideaway. The old bridge, once it crossed the dry river, stopped dead at a forbidding looking iron gate, beyond which sat the sad ruins of an enormous estate. Trees as thick as a giant’s ankle were swallowed by overgrown brush. And up the hill a bit, I could just make out a huge black and white shape. A building of some sort, I guessed. Whatever it was had not been visited for a very long time. The gate was rusted and sealed shut. Something blue glowed between its two doors. I couldn’t see well from where I was, but it wreaked of magic and screamed, in no words at all, KEEP OUT. A chill ran up my spine.

This place was clearly deserted. The river didn’t run. The dirt road dead ended. And the stone wall kept the bridge and river out of sight. It was a perfect home for the homeless.

I waited until after dark to go find the others, assuming there were any others left. There was a very real chance that I was the only survivor.

In the ten years I’d lived on the streets, a lot of strays came and went. Some were captured like Lewis. Some, like Danny and Rosco, simply grew up and left the kingdom with the hope of finding a better life. There were twice as many of us last year. After Danny and Rosco left, things just got harder. Two strays were captured during a food raid. Two were killed in the same raid. Cornelia and Mitchell got sick just a few months ago. We couldn’t help them. Even workhouses didn’t want sick orphans. They’d have been killed if we brought them there. So they died.

I shook my head. Bad thoughts always came to me when I was alone. I liked to keep busy, planning the next meal or imagining what it would be like if I’d had a family. The strays were my family, of course. I liked them a lot. But sometimes I thought about having adult parents and living inside a house. I’d never been inside anywhere, except maybe a barn or a storage shed. And only long enough to steal something. Some of the strays lived in houses before they were orphans. The stories they told were hard for me to imagine.

When the sun finally set, I followed the riverbed away from the bridge and toward the North Forest. If any other strays survived, I had an idea of where they would be. The North Forest was the camping ground of the Svartalfa elves. The Svartalfa guarded it pretty well. So if a group of strays did manage to sneak into the forest, there was only one place for them to hide. It was not the most dignified nor pleasant hiding spot. But then, being a stray wasn’t really about pleasant and dignified, was it?

At the edge of the woods, quite a distance from the official forest entrance, I crouched behind a large garbage bin, waiting until all nightly activity of the forest quieted, before moving again.

When it was safe enough, I stood, brushed myself off, and knocked on the bin. I heard a sharp pattern of movement inside, like the sound of a startled animal. Then it was quiet again, and I sincerely hoped there wasn’t a startled animal in there. I knocked again.

Hellooooo, I sang, quietly. Are there any rats in there?

I heard a rumble of movement now, bodies stumbling over bodies. Then the lid lifted and two glowing eyes peered out at me. A moment later, a patch of pale green hair emerged, and a fourteen-year-old boy spilled out of the bin, rattling off a string of profanity.

Don’t scare us like that, Mourning, Bach hissed. You okay? We were afraid you got caught.

Three more boys, Rigger, Mason, and Freeman popped out and rolled over the edge, landing at Bach’s feet. The bin door lifted once more.

Mourning! Thank goodness, Jo whispered. Mason, help us out.

Jo hoisted up Josh, who was twelve and much shorter than the others. He teetered on the edge until Mason gave a tug that brought Josh plummeting to the ground. Jo heaved herself up by standing on something (or someone) inside the bin.

Isn’t Sawyer with you? I asked. My answer came when a pair of dark hands flailed around from inside the bin. Bach and Jo each grabbed hold of one and pulled him out.

Pee yoo! I said, wrinkling my nose. You all stink. If I’d have kept my mouth shut, they wouldn’t have hugged me.

They got Lewis, Bach said, becoming more serious at once.

I know. I saw. We stood around in silence for a moment. My heart tightened and tears welled up in my eyes. I was thankful it was dark so no one could see. Changing the subject, I asked, What about food? Did anyone get anything?

Again, they looked uncomfortable. Tuesday’s a bad day for a raid, said Jo. The merchants restock, and they know there’ll be thieves. The guards patrol on Tuesdays.

My stomach grumbled on cue. I had to turn away to keep them from seeing my tears. It had been two whole days since we had anything to eat. We hardly ate much anyway, but we almost always had at least a bite of something each day. Being hungry hurt.

What about in there? I said, pointing to the garbage bin. Any leftovers?

Nothing you’d want to put in your mouth, Mason replied, making a face. Don’t worry, Mourn. We’ll find something. We’re just having a bad week.

We need to find a new hideout before morning, Bach said. We can’t go back to the quarry. Lewis . . . you know. He kicked at the dirt beneath his feet, then sighed heavily. I think he wanted to cry too, but boys didn’t do that sort of thing in front of other people.

I already found a place, I told them, my spirits lifting from having contributed for a change. It’s really perfect. No chance of anyone seeing us.

Not another trash bin, I hope, Sawyer said.

Nope. Follow me.

The strays were satisfied with the new hideout I’d found. They didn’t jump for joy like I’d hoped, but we were all pretty sad about Lewis. And it wasn’t like they could see it properly in the dark anyway.

What’s that up there? Mason asked, squinting his eyes toward the estate.

Just an old ruined piece of land, I said. The gate’s locked up and the weeds are overgrown. No one’s been here in years. Trust me. It’s perfect.

Everyone shrugged and nodded, too tired to argue. We all lined up on the river’s incline, which was the softest place on the ground to lie. We didn’t have blankets. The rags we used at the quarry were left behind. Bach took off his shirt and laid it over me for a blanket. It smelled terrible, but it was a nice thing to do.

The next morning, I was the third to awaken. Bach was sitting up, sleepily watching Mason, who was running around exploring our new home.

Do you know what this is? Mason said excitedly, coming down from the bridge. It’s the old Pullman place!

Bach stood up with sudden interest. Mason waved for him to follow, and the two climbed back up the incline and crossed the bridge. Curiosity lured me to follow them both to the estate side. Up close, I could see the blue glow of a five-point star hovering over the center of the gate. Mason shook at the iron posts, confirming that it was locked.

This place is legend! he said. Danny used to tell us stories about it. An old couple lived here a long time ago. They died in a fire. A cursed fire! Look, there’s the house. Looks like only half of it’s burned. They never rebuilt the place ‘cause of the curse. Everyone’s afraid to go near it.

Who cursed it? I asked.

No one knows. Mason shook the bars again. Too bad there’s not another way in. This would be a perfect hideout.

I wouldn’t go in there, Bach said. I heard the Pullmans were master wizards. If a curse killed them, imagine what it would do to a bunch of elf kids.

Mason scoffed and shook the bars once more. If there really was a curse, I’m sure it’s worn off by now. He gave up trying to get in and looked around. This is a great place to hide, though. No one would even think to come here.

That wasn’t entirely true. In the first three weeks we lived under the bridge, we did have a few visitors. They were harmless, though. Sometimes it was a carriage of people who took a wrong turn and were lost. Those types immediately turned around and left without any intervention from us. Others needed a little coaxing. The legend of the cursed estate lured teenagers to the bridge, each daring the other to touch the gate. Young men brought their girlfriends with the hope of spooking them into a cuddle.

We could not allow anyone to cross the bridge. The bridge crossed the river at an angle. So we could easily hide from those coming onto the bridge by simply lying flat in the high grass. Crossing back over the bridge from the gate, however, put us in full view of any intruder. I sometimes had to use magic to make sure that never happened. I wasn’t very good at magic, but I was creative. Swishing bonnets was my specialty. I could also create whistling sounds in their ears, lean trees into their pathway, and shower their carriages with stones. The visitors always ran away, either spooked by what they thought was a curse or inconvenienced by hatless disheveled hair.

Overall, the bridge was the best hideout we had so far. We could move about freely during the day instead of huddling close together afraid to make noise. The boys shaped a variety of bowls out of large stones. Jo made same weird looking pieces of furniture from fallen tree branches. Sawyer dug dozens of toilet holes in a nearby field. It was really starting to look like home. We were lucky enough to have free water delivered right to our hideout. The merchants in the marketplace emptied their water barrels into the drain in the merchant square, the one that I’d crawled through to get here. We collected the water in bowls as it dripped from the pipe. The morning water was drinkable. This was the leftover drinking water that the merchants used the day before. At