A Necklace of Souls: SoulNecklace Stories, #1

By R. L. Stedman

'A true dream is when the events I see in my sleep have, or will happen. It's a talent that runs in my family. I was thirteen when I had my first true dream'

Dana wishes she wasn't a princess. She's always being told how to behave, what to wear. The collier's cart seems the perfect escape. Only she didn't realize she'd become so dirty, or so lost. Fortunately this boy, Will, has a sense of direction. And next to the forbidding stranger, N'tombe, he seems reassuringly normal.

Welcome to the award-winning world of A Necklace of Souls: a story of love and loss, of shattered lives and desperate hopes. For bravery is not always measured by strength and magic can be real, if only one has the courage to dream.

Shortlisted for the Sir Julius Vogel Award, A Necklace of Souls was awarded the Tessa Duder Award for Young Adult Fiction, Best First Book at the New Zealand Post Children and Young Adult Book Awards and is a Storylines Notable Book.

The SoulNecklace Stories, Volume One. 387 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Waverley Productions
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780473302948

Book preview

Part One

Castle, Part 1

Chapter One

Dreaming

A true dream is when the events I see in my sleep have, or will happen. It’s a talent that runs in my family. I was thirteen when I had my first true dream.

This was my dream.

Candles cast shadows across the roof and dripped wax on the flagstones. I knew this place — it was the throne room, used on the most ceremonial occasions: investitures, coronations, state weddings. But now it was crowded with people. Laughing, they called loudly to each other, or to the musicians, or the wine waiters. They were not ceremonial at all. What was I doing here?

Feeling like a balloon, I bobbed against the stone roses on the ceiling. This was a most peculiar dream.

Below, the dancers twirled and swayed. They were richly dressed, in stiff embroidered cloth and gold-threaded cloaks that gleamed in the candlelight. But for all their grandeur, their clothes seemed old-fashioned. The men wore wigs and high heels, the women sported nodding feathers. Their voices were harsh, coarse against the music.

Up against the ceiling, the air was stifling and I felt hot and bored. Watching someone else’s party is rarely entertaining.

Then, with a crash of guards’ spears, the doors of the antechamber opened. A soberly dressed woman and a blonde-haired boy in a ruff stood in the doorway. The boy tugged the stiff lace at his throat. This child and the woman — a servant by her dress, a nurse by the way she fussed over his hair — seemed out of place in this crowded ballroom.

Threading their way through the crowd, the boy clung to his nurse’s hand, hiding his face against her skirts, as women touched his head with ringed fingers. Floating above the dancers, I followed. Their white-powdered faces, rouged cheeks and reddened lips seemed sinister.

No-one noticed me. (This is the way of true dreams. You’re a watcher only, powerless to change the events that unfold, even if you want to. Unless, unless, you have power and passion, and then, ah, then there is nothing you may not do. But that night, I had neither. And in my defense, I was young and unused to this way of dreaming.)

At the far end of the room sat a man and woman on golden thrones. King and Queen, but not the king and queen I knew. The nurse and the boy stopped in front of them and the nurse curtsied, the boy bowed. The king reached out and touched the lad gently on the hair.

‘Rise, son. What do you think of it all, eh?’

The boy looked out at the crowd. The white-powdered faces turned towards the throne. ‘They look like clowns.’

The king’s lips curled, in annoyance or amusement. The queen, sitting on the other golden chair, stared at the child. Why did she seem so familiar? Her eyes glittered in the candlelight but her thin, pale face was as immobile as a stone angel.

The king whispered, ‘Fix this evening in your mind, my son. For in time to come, you too will be seated on this throne, giving your child away. You will find it easier if, like me, you learn not to care too deeply for your children. They are a duty only. Especially the girls.’ He paused. ‘My father told me this, and at the time I hated him, as you will no doubt hate me. But he was right, and now I bless his memory for this advice.’

Expressionless, the child stared at the man. The king turned to his aide, a tall man clothed in grey. The courtier bowed and slipped away to the orchestra.

A sudden silence. The crowd stopped their dancing, every face turned towards the throne. The conductor nodded to the drummer and the throb of the bass drum resounded through the room, so deep I felt it through the stone. Trumpets blared. The oak doors behind the throne crashed open. Two sentries sprang into the room and stood to attention beside the doors.

Candles flickered in the sudden draft and shadows swayed across the walls as people moved to watch the slim girl who entered, propelled, it seemed, by the final trumpet blast. In the sudden silence the queen gasped, a harsh intake of breath.

The girl wore only a white robe. Her hair was loose, gleaming hazel in the dancing candlelight. Her feet were bare. Did she feel the cold of the stone floor? Dwarfed by the great stone pillars that held up the arched roof, she seemed frail as she walked to the foot of the throne. The boy smiled at her. She grinned and winked back. Her smile seemed slightly twisted.

There was a sudden twang as a violinist dropped his instrument. The girl looked so pale I thought she’d faint.

Two large manservants, shadow-like in black doublet and hose, entered carrying a black chair. Seated on it was the oldest woman I had ever seen. She was tiny, her spine rounded and slumped. Her hands were spotted with age. Like the young girl, she wore only a white gown and her hair was loose, but it was grey and thin and I could see her scalp.

The old woman looked at the king with contempt. ‘A ball? You dare to turn the Passing into an entertainment?’

She gestured at the guests, silent and statue-like, and the musicians, staring at her with mouths agape. They looked like snared rabbits. Uneasy, the king shifted in his chair, and the old woman seemed to grow. I hovered behind a stone buttress; those eyes seemed likely to see me.

The old woman sighed. ‘Well, appropriate or no, it matters not. Now is the time.’ Her voice echoed around the silent room. As she lifted up her arms, bright jewels gleamed. She wore a shining necklace. It trembled with her harsh breathing, its stones more alive than the wearer.

The old woman looked at the girl. ‘It is a heavy burden, child. But there are ...’ she paused, suddenly breathless, and the necklace glittered, ‘compensations. You will become aware of them in time.’ She smiled, her teeth yellow. ‘Give me your hands.’

I wanted to cry out as the girl put her hands on the old woman’s gnarled and swollen fingers, but I couldn’t speak. Unable to call out, scream or even shake my head in a ‘no’, I hovered by the roof as the necklace flared and sparkled around the wrinkled neck.

The old woman turned to the weeping men behind her. ‘Do it now.’

Grasping the necklace as if it were made from nettles, the men tugged the bright thing from the old one’s neck. Then, in one smooth movement, they placed it about the head of the young girl. The necklace settled, sparkling, against her chest. The girl smiled, stroking the shining gold, the red and blue stones, clustered into the shape of flowers.

The old woman fell back in the chair, her throat open and exposed. The boy whimpered. The queen screamed. And I, unable to say anything or look away, saw that where the necklace had been, the skin had worn away, and where there should have been flesh there was only blood and bone. Through her white ribs, where the blood came welling up, was a-pulsing, a-fluttering.

Caught between the crowd and the stone roof, I watched as the heart of the old woman ceased to beat.

I woke, screaming, my feet tangled in sheets. I tried to get out of bed, but was so hobbled that I fell on the floor in an undignified heap. My head was full of the sight of blood, and my body had a strange feeling of lightness, as though I might take off again and float against the roof. Nurse stood in the doorway, hand cupped around her candle. ‘Lady? Are you all right, Miss?’

I couldn’t answer. Where was I? What had I just seen? Untangling myself from my sheets, I stood up. Daddy. He’d know.

It’s not a wise idea to run barefoot down spiral staircases in the dark. They’re designed to be difficult to navigate, useful in a fortress; not so good when you’re in a hurry and don’t have a candle.

I ran across the courtyard in my nightshirt. The stone was cold under my feet but I hardly noticed. On another night this would have been funny: a girl in her nightshirt, her face tearstained, a nurse behind her, holding a smoking candlestick with one hand and her nightcap with the other, behind her another servant. Following them all came the guard, clattering down from his watch. It was like a circus.

The sentry stopped my companions at the base of the west tower but let me through. I left them arguing while I followed the wall-torches to my parents’ chambers.

Up the stairs, into my father’s room. He wasn’t in bed, but his lamp was on. His bedclothes were all higgledy-piggledy too. It must have been a rough night for both of us. I ran across the landing to my mother’s chamber. Her dressing room was open, but the door to her bedchamber was closed, and through the thick oak I could hear voices.

‘I was on a plain,’ said my father. His voice was thick, as though he’d just woken.

‘Hist! Lady Dana!’ Nurse had pushed her way past the sentry and hovered at the bottom of the stairs, too scared to enter the royal apartments. Good. I put my ear to the door.

‘The air was dry and still, the sky deep purple, as though it was going to thunder. I’ve never seen such an arid place.’

‘It was just a dream, dear.’ My mother’s voice was sleepy.

‘Of course. But it’s more than that, Cyrilla. You know I have these dreams? Where things come true? This is one.’

My mother sounded more interested. ‘What happened next?’

‘I heard a low drumming noise. Da dum, da dum. Like a heartbeat. Then I turned and I saw her.’

‘Her?’

‘You know. Her.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said, Hello.’

‘Well, that was polite.’ My mother yawned. ‘Sorry, my love. You woke me.’

‘She wore a grey shift. Her feet were bare. She floated over the plain. Her hair was long.’ Daddy sounded sad. ‘She used to have lovely, thick brown hair. Now it’s thin and grey. She looked like a hag. She wore the necklace.’

‘What did it look like?’

You know. You’ve seen the portraits.’

‘I’ve never seen the real thing, though.’ I imagined my mother licking her lips. She loved jewelry.

‘You know. Gold, rubies, emeralds and diamonds. Set in the shapes of flowers. It seemed to move on her chest as she spoke.’

‘It doesn’t sound like a true dream, Leo. Might be something you ate.’

‘Cyrilla, listen. Dreamspeaking runs in my family. And the Guardian is the most proficient. She can bend dreams. Rosa has always been strong-willed.’

‘What does Rosa want, then?’

‘It’s about Dana.’

I pushed my head closer to the door. If it was about me, I wanted to hear.

My father sighed. ‘It’s tearing me up, Cyrilla. I want the child to have some time in the sun. Before.’

‘You know what your father said.’

‘He was wrong.’

‘What did Rosa say?’

‘She said: Give her freedom, Leo. She has talent, but she will need more than that, much more. The world is changing. I can see a long way from my tower. Birds bring me news, the wind sighs of new things. Still distant, but coming nearer is a change. Dana must be strong if we are to weather this, our doom.’

‘What does that mean?’ My mother’s voice was sharp.

Daddy laughed. ‘You expect a clear answer in a dream? You should have seen her, Cyrilla. So old. Worn out.’

‘Of course she looks older, Leovane. She is older. We all look older.’

‘You don’t, my love,’ said my father. I could hear them kissing and wished they’d stop so I could hear more about my father’s dream.

There was a sigh. ‘Leovane. Go to sleep, my love. We’ll worry about this in the morning.’

My father chuckled. ‘At least it’s warm in here.’ Then there was silence.

I sat on the other side of the doorway, my hand on the wood. What was I to do? My nightmare was fading. I suddenly felt embarrassed, aware of the draft pouring up the stairwell and the cold stones under my feet. I didn’t want to get caught here.

For once, Nurse didn’t say anything when I went back down the stairs, just threw her cloak around me. She sent the servant and the sentry back to their posts and I forgot that I was thirteen and supposed to be independent. I leant into her, grateful for her warmth.

But once I was back in my bed, the sheets tucked back in and a hot brick at my feet, I began to relax. I wondered: Who was the Guardian? What was the gift? What did Daddy mean, when he said before? And what was this necklace of gold and jewels, set into the shape of flowers?

Chapter Two

Everyday Miracles

Will’s earliest memories were of the moist, sweet smell of baking bread. When he was small, his favorite place to play was the slate-floored baking room. Warm in winter, the smooth floor was ideal for toy carts. And there was plenty of food. A boy is never hungry in a bakery.

As Will grew older, he became Ma’s chief helper. They worked together in the yeast room, Ma blending the ingredients as carefully as any alchemist.

‘What do you think, young Will?’

Will sniffed carefully. Sweet or bitter? Sweet smells suggested the yeast would last longer, but a bitter yeast would give more flavor.

Ma told Will the story of the Norwich bakers who, it was said, had committed murder to keep the secret of their yeast.

‘Yeasts are special,’ said Ma. ‘Each is unique. And vulnerable — a change of moisture, a change of temperature, and they disappear.’

Working with Ma in the yeast room, Will knew that all was well from the sound outside. It was quiet in the fishing village in the early hours. Waves washed against the shoreline. Wind rattled the shop sign and gusted the smell of the baking bread down towards the square. This morning, cartwheels clattered on the cobbled path. The shop door tinkled. The miller, delivering flour for the week’s baking.

‘Time for school, Will,’ said Ma. Will sighed and put his apron away.

---

Da and his apprentices, Davey and Glynn, did the bulk of the kneading. Coated in white flour, they resembled great monsters as they treaded their way barefooted along the dough, molding and mixing.

Flour-covered, Da stood beside the oak table and mounded the dough into loaf-sized shapes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, strong from a life of working dough. His hands moved automatically. Da did not need eyes to see he was creating good bread; his hands, feeling the consistency of the dough, could tell all would be well.

It was Will’s job to check that the temperature was right for the bake. He thrust his fist into the oven, counted to twenty. Too hot and the bread would burn: too cold, the dough would not cook.

Then Davey and Glynn carefully scraped out the ashes from the oven, leaving blackened bricks aglow with heat. Loaves of dough were placed on a wooden board and slid into place in the oven. Will loved watching as, like magic, the loaves rose and their crusts darkened and split.

‘An everyday miracle,’ Ma smiled.

Will’s favorite part of the baking came next, when Ma cut a still warm loaf open to check the bake. Will was always offered the first piece. Only after the boy nodded was approval given; the day’s baking was successful.

---

The plague entered Gwynedd in the winter of Will’s twelfth year.

Goodie Davies was the first to die, but no-one was surprised. ‘She’s been in a dying frame of mind for years,’ said Mrs Jones.

It was only when the priest, Father McCormack, imported forty years ago from the wastes of Scotland, developed buboes under his arms, turned blue, and expired in a messy and pus-strewn heap in front of his own altar that the village folk realized the hell they were about to enter.

‘Best prepare for the worst,’ Da said grimly. ‘Things will change for a bit, Will-lad.’

Da was right. Wearing pomanders and thick shawls, customers now entered the shop singly, speaking only briefly before retreating to their homes. Will’s family went to the Midnight Christ Mass, but there was little cheer to be had, with no priest to say the service and few parishioners devout enough to risk catching the plague.

A Gwynedd winter is always drear, with rain-slicked, slate-grey roofs and chilling wind whining through smoking chimney pots. But this season was exceptionally bleak. People huddled by the fire and said charms to keep themselves well. Even the village school was closed, which was pleasing for a few short weeks. Until Davey and Glynn, the apprentices, became ill.

In the week after the New Year the bakery was cold for the first time in Will’s memory as the oven cooled completely. Ma and Da were too weak to load the wood.

‘It’s just as well,’ said Da, coughing. Spots of blood speckled his lips as he tried to smile. ‘I’m in no shape to knead the dough.’

‘Maaa. I don’t feel too good.’

Ma turned quickly and saw him, slumped in the corner of the bakehouse like a discarded puppet. She felt his forehead. ‘Off to bed with you, young man.’

Da carried him up the stairs, but had to stop twice to cough. His coughs were big belly-shaking grunts that made Will cry, because it hurt so to move. Ma tucked Will into bed and gave him a glass of milk to drink. Her forehead was furrowed in concern and her normally tidy blonde hair was in disarray, falling from under the edges of her cap.

‘Will I die, Ma?’

His mother looked at him sternly. ‘You’d better not, young man.’

It was fear of his mother’s temper that kept Will alive. Tossing on his straw-filled mattress, he listened to it rustle as his head and body ached. The light was too bright and hurt his head, but he moaned when Ma pulled the curtain because he was afraid of the dark. The pain was so bad he wanted to die, but he remembered what Ma had said and clutched the bright spark of life within him, even though the effort hurt. When its flame flickered he blew on it, as Davey blew on the fire wood.

Finally he woke, his throat aching with thirst. Pebbles of rain dashed against the small window. His head throbbed. The house, the village — all were silent. So tired he could not even feel sorrow, he realized an awful truth. He was alone. Drifting back to sleep, he knew this even in his dreams.

Chapter Three

The Most Fortunate of Lands

The village, once a thriving community of one thousand souls, now numbered ten. The survivors were Will, the Schoolmaster and the Davies, a family of eight from the hills who had stocked up their pantry and shut themselves off from the world. It was Mr Davies, riding into the village after ten days of smokeless chimneys, who had heard Will’s faint cries. Will remembered nothing of his rescue from the village of the dead or the ride to the Schoolmaster’s house.

‘Why didn’t more hill folk do that?’ asked the Schoolmaster. His face was skull-like, his arms stick thin. Like the Davies, he had survived by shutting himself from the world.

‘What?’ said Will, soaking stale bread in milk. He knew he should eat, but without Ma nagging at him to do so or Da to tell him stories he found it hard to swallow. It was as though he had rocks in his throat. And the Schoolmaster seemed determined to educate him.

‘Do what the Davies did. Quarantine themselves. After all, plague is well known. There is a saying, my boy, that people who forget their history are doomed to repeat it.’ He cracked his knuckles and tried to make a jest. ‘Which is why we will try to make sure you know as much history as possible. Eh? Eh? What do you say, my lad?’

‘May I be excused, sir?’

‘Do you think you’ve had enough, boy? You’ve got to keep your strength up.’

‘I really think I’m full, sir.’

The man peered at him over his spectacles and his face softened. ‘Very well, go on then. Sit out in the garden, get some sun into you.’

Will sat stiffly on the wooden seat, looking at the garden. Herbs grew thick against the wall and the wildflowers were spots of color against the path. The sun touched his skin and made it warm, but Will’s soul was cold. There was nothing left. Even the village was gone.

Lying in the upstairs bedroom, Will had heard the men talking. ‘Burn it,’ Farmer Davies had said. ‘I’m not a-going in there to bury the dead and risk me and mine. There’s plenty of coal hereabouts.’

The Schoolmaster murmured.

‘Ah, be practical,’ said Mr Davies. ‘How would you pull out the bodies? There’ll be hundreds of folk, all dead. And, no offense meant, but you or the boy aren’t up to digging burial pits. Besides,’ he added, ‘there’s the rats, Master.’

‘Rats?’ quavered the Schoolmaster. It was well known that he hated rats. The school children had laughed at him because every Monday he’d spend good coin to bring in a ratter; his pupils would have done it for much less. Every boy knew how to catch rats.

‘Aye. Thousands of rats now. Bold as brass, some as big as cats. Burn the village, and we’ll burn the rats too.’

‘The houses. They’re built of stone. Will they burn?’

‘The insides will. We need to set a good fire on the inside of each cottage row. A good strong breeze and they should all catch ablaze.’

‘The roofs are slate,’ said the Schoolmaster. ‘The fire might not spread.’

‘Then we’ll light more fires.’

---

So yesterday, in one crematory rush, the village disappeared. The survivors gathered in a small sad group on the hillside and kept vigil as the blaze spread through cottages and shops, systematically destroying the buildings. The church and schoolhouse alone were left standing; the former out of respect for the Lord and the schoolhouse for the Master, who needed somewhere to live. Even the boats at their moorings were torched. To Will, who stood up on the hill through the long day and night, it seemed as though the flames were leaping to the stars.

---

Will felt numb. He didn’t mind this. It kept him from feeling sick, or sad. Listlessly, he wondered what would happen to him. He could stay here with the Schoolmaster, but he’d never been one for the schooling and didn’t think he’d take to it now. Besides, what need for a village schoolmaster if there were no village to school?

The Schoolmaster sat beside him. Will said nothing, but the Master sighed as if he’d spoken, and thrust a piece of paper into the boy’s hand. ‘We’ve had a mail delivery.’

The paper was thick, scratchy and felt important. A ribbon with a piece of red wax hung from it. He turned it over. The writing was spidery and thin as if an ant had walked across the page. Who would send him a letter? Everyone he knew was dead.

‘It appears our plight was known. Your departed mother, may she rest in peace, sent a letter to her sister. The Courier arrived this morning.’ The Schoolmaster’s hands trembled; he looked like an old man. ‘Smoking remains of towns. That’s all the Courier’s seen, one town after another all the way down the coast. He says he hasn’t been yet to where he’s not seen smoke. Doesn’t dare to.’ The Master stood up. ‘Take your time, lad. Your mother was a wise and far-sighted woman.’

Will nodded, trying not to cry.

The letter was strange. It was sealed on three sides of the folds. In effect, it became a small package which, when he shook it, rattled slightly. Puzzled, Will slipped his index finger under the seal, as he had seen Da do, and opened the thin sheet of paper. Into his hand tumbled two wooden beads. Each the size of a fingernail, they were intricately carved. He held them up to his eye and turned each one slowly between his fingers. The carving was of tiny and perfectly formed roses. Each rose had five petals and a thick, thorned stem. They looked like alder seeds.

Maybe the clue to these strange objects was in the letter. Will spread out the thin crackling sheet and with some difficulty, deciphered the spider-like writing of his aunt.

My dear Martha,

What an Age has gone since last I heard from you.

Our dear Father, God rest his Soul, passed away not Two Months hence. How Pleased he would have been to hear from you at Last. As you were always his Favorite, it is Unfortunate that you did not see fit to write to him before his Passing. But well do I recall the words spoken at your Leaving, so mayhap ‘tis all for the Best.

Charlotte has married Seth, the Tanner’s Son. They have three young Sons and I am sure that now she is Wedded and a Mother, Charlotte has more suitable uses for her Boundless Energy.

How strange to think that of us three girls, none of us has had a Daughter.

Wavern and I have two Sons, Aled and Whithern. They are growing Tall and Strong and I must say it takes a Small Fortune to keep them shoed and fed. Aled and Whithern have been taken on as Yeomen at the Castle, which we view as a very Good Thing, as they are provided with all their Meals and Board while at the Castle, and receive two full Changes of Raiment per Year. Later, Aled will take the Farm from us, when we are Gone.

Dearest Sister, how my heart Trembles to think of the dreadful Threat you are facing. I will pray for you every day that you will be Strong and will be able to Fight this most Awful Malaise. Rumors of the Plague have gotten even to The Rose, and you must know this is most unusual, as generally the Kingdom is untouched by the Woes of the World.

It is said that no Evil Thing has ever entered the Kingdom. I do Thank and Praise God that He allowed me to live in this Most Fortunate of Lands.

Of course you may request Anything of me, as I am your Sister and, while conscious of the Hurt you inflicted on our revered Father and saintly Mother (God rest her Soul), I must bow to the demands of Blood.

I therefore enclose two Tokens, for yourself and your dear Son. Look after them with great care, Sister, they are most rare and precious objects.

Come to the Ferryman at the Crossing — you will know where that is, it is where I kissed you all before leaving with Wavern when first we wedded — and give him the Tokens. They will grant you safe Passage into the Kingdom.

Come with all Speed, dear Sister. I pray for your safety.

---

Your loving sister

Agnes

---

Post-scriptum: Dear Sister, I could not grant a third Token sufficient for the remainder of your Family. I am sure, in the silence of your Heart, you will understand my Reluctance when you consider the most Awful Disservice your Husband’s Family rendered us. However, rest assured that You and your dear Son will of course be Right Welcome.

---

‘What does the letter say, Will?’

Will handed the Schoolmaster the note and watched the man’s eyes dart quickly from side to side as he read it through, quite unconsciously sucking in his cheeks with a slurping sound. The children at school had laughed when he’d done that. There had been twelve children at the village school, and now eleven of them were dead.

‘May I see the tokens, Will?’

Will held them out on a flat palm. Without speaking the Master took one then the other, holding them to the light, just as Will had done earlier.

‘Your aunt speaks truth, Will. Indeed, these are most rare and precious objects.’ The man squinted at them and spoke almost to himself. ‘I had thought them only a fable, something from a fairy tale.’

‘What are they, sir?’

‘Entry tokens, Will. As your aunt says.’ The man tapped his finger against his cheek. ‘She sounds a most masterful woman, Will. What do you know of her?’

‘Ma had two sisters. They were called Charlotte and Agnes. Ma was the middle one. She told me lots of stories about Charlotte.’ Ma had loved her sister. Her voice had lifted in a smile when she retold her adventures. ‘Once, Charlotte ran away. She told her parents she was sick of them and hid in the back of a collier’s cart and rode it out of town and when she came back she was all black.’ Will smiled, for a moment forgetting his numbness. ‘She told them to call her Charley and said she wished she was a boy. Once she rode a pig backwards down the street.’

Ma would never tell these stories now. And he could never again hear her voice. What had it sounded like? He’d forgotten so quickly.

The Schoolmaster was talking. ‘What of Agnes, the writer of this letter?’

Will blinked water from his eyes. Not tears, for he had no tears. It must be the wind. ‘She was the eldest. She was bossy, Ma said. She moved somewhere foreign to get married. It was a long time ago; Ma said Agnes had been very unhappy when she went. Ma said it was the only time she’d seen Agnes cry.’ Strangely, it felt good to talk about his family. It made them feel alive again. ‘Da had two brothers, I don’t know their names. He didn’t talk about them much. Ma said that her family and Da’s family didn’t like each other and didn’t want them to get married. That’s why they didn’t have much to do with them. She sounded sad when she talked about them, so I didn’t ask her much, except to ask for stories about Charlotte. She sounded fun.’ He wished the letter had been from Charlotte.

‘Have you heard of the Kingdom of the Rose, Will?’ Will shook his head.

‘It is a land where, it is said, illness and poverty are unknown, where everyone has enough to eat. Some say it is ruled by a