Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night

By Iona Datt Sharma and Katherine Fabian

by Katherine Fabian and Iona Datt Sharma

The world you know is underneath the substance of another, with cracks in the firmament that let the light of its magic in...

Layla and Nat have nothing in common but their boyfriend – enigmatic, brilliant Meraud – and their deep mutual dislike. But when Meraud disappears after an ambitious magical experiment goes wrong, they may be the only ones who can follow the trail of cryptic clues that will bring him safely home.

To return Meraud to this world, the two of them will confront every obstacle: the magic of the wild unknowable, a friendly vicar who's only concerned for their spiritual wellbeing, and even the Thames Water helpline. All of which would be doable, if only they didn’t have to do it together.

But the winter solstice is fast approaching – and once the year turns, Meraud will be lost forever. In this joyously queer novella, Nat and Layla must find a way to overcome their differences before it’s too late.

~

"I loved this unusual novella -- contemporary fantasy set in a London illuminated by the light of another world. Elegant, tender and funny, it's a perfect book to curl up with on a winter's night, along with your favourite seasonal accessories (mug of hot drink, festive jumper, pet cat or loved one, etc)." - Zen Cho

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iona Datt Sharma
• Release date: Dec 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463531822

Book preview

Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night

by

Katherine Fabian and Iona Datt Sharma

holly

Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night © 2018 Katherine Fabian & Iona Datt Sharma

Cover art © 2018 Lodestar Author Services

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authors except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the authors.

Contents

Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night

Part 1

Part 2

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Sing for the Coming of the Longest Night

by

Katherine Fabian and Iona Datt Sharma

holly

"Home is our comfort at the winter's height

Sing for the coming of the longest night."

- Iain Frisk and Nigel Eaton, The Halsway Carol (2010)

To A.: ma tha thu ga iarraidh.

- Iona Datt Sharma

To my wife, Amy. I love you.

- Katherine Fabian

Part 1

The glitter is everywhere. Layla has found it inside her phone case and inside her bra. It's insidious and it has that horrible Play-Doh smell and it doesn't even make sense, glittery face paint for the donkey in the nativity play. But Amy wanted to be a fairy princess donkey, and Layla had two utility bills to pay and two slices of buttered toast to unstick from the wall and didn't have the energy to argue. Amy is impressively sparkly even from here.

Her name isn't really Amy, of course. It's Ambika, after an aspect of Parvati. The vedic Ambika was consort of Shiva, goddess of strength, abundance, and retributive justice, and now the beast of burden in some white-people creation myth. Which is unfair, given that the people concerned were actually first-century Palestinians and Layla had three hours' sleep and is just in a horrible mood. Katrina is the one who's good at all this crap. She charms all the mums and dads, remembers their names, asks if they're skiing this year. Layla just chews her hair and wishes she were literally anywhere else, including the mortuary. But Katrina had a client emergency and Layla could get away from work early – she's a pathologist and among their many other virtues, dead people don't complain – which is why she's sitting in this dusty hall at Our Lady Star of the Sea, C of E Infants, breathing in disinfectant as the Archangel Gabriel forgets his words.

I bring you tidings of great joy, Layla murmurs, alongside half the audience all aching to put the child out of his misery. The old biddy sitting next to her seems surprised she knows the line, which is more-than-usually racist given Layla spends so much of her time at these things. School plays, PTA meetings, bric-a-brac sales, music recitals, demonstrations from the magic classes. Amy and her little sister, Jae – who is currently sitting at the front of the hall with the rest of her class, last seen picking her nose but not, thank goodness, eating it – are growing up in a loving, supporting family. They're just like everyone else, really.

Just Like Everyone Else, Really was what Layla and Meraud were going to call their band, back when they were fifteen and ruled the world. It's a happy memory. Absurdly, Layla wants to cry.

Instead she slumps down further in her plastic chair and, because she's the worst mother ever, lets her eyes close for a moment.

Behind her, two preteens, brought along to watch a younger sibling's star turn, are arguing fiercely about whose turn it is to something something Bartholomew something something. It takes her until Archangel Gabriel has stumbled all the way to the end of his scene to determine that Bartholomew is (a) a hamster and (b) not long for this world. Poor Bartholomew. Though on the plus side, at least he didn't have to sit through this play.

She jerks upright a few minutes later to the old biddy saying, Why is that man shouting about King Herod?

That doesn't make sense either, Layla thinks sleepily. Herod has had her turn already. There was scenery chewing. That little girl is going to play Lear. Layla comes properly awake and turns to the window just as someone with bright blue hair thuds a fist into it.

Layla, he mouths through the glass, and then – it's not fucking Herod, is it. Meraud.

The parents are tutting, trying to buzz him away like he's a fly. For a second Layla is frozen by indecision, half out of her seat, so the parents whose view she's blocking are tutting as well, passive-aggression in surround sound. Then she gives up. She grabs her tote bag with Amy's inhaler and glitter pot and all the rest of the suburban-mum-of-two crap she has to cart everywhere like a goddamn fairy princess donkey and heads out into the cold.

Nat's waiting for her by the school fence, tapping his feet. Layla resents that.

What are you doing here? she demands. You can't just bang on the window during the three kings' macarena.

Nat ignores that. Where's Meraud?

Meraud? Layla repeats, though Meraud is the only possible reason Nat could be standing here in this sleet-slicked playground, with his blue hair and ear studs and utter lack of interest in being like everyone else, really. He's not—he didn't come.

But she did ask him, Layla thinks suddenly. He came last year, when Amy was Angel #3. He did a little magic to keep them both warm and guided her hands to the hip flask in his coat pocket. She remembers kissing him on impulse, tasting the sharpness of spirit in his mouth. Katrina laughed at them and took the kids home with an indulgent smile.

Yeah, Nat says sharply, pulling Layla back to here and now. He's gone.

Gone, Layla says, still sounding like a parrot. Gone where?

Just gone! Nat says, as though she's the incomprehensible one here. Gone. Disappeared. Can't be found.

He can't be gone, Layla says impatiently, wanting to get this over with, whatever it is, and head back. Even now Amy might be crossing the great expanse of stage between Nazareth and Bethlehem with no familial witness, because, as discussed, Layla is the worst mother ever.

Can't he, Nat says. "When did you last see him?"

Recently, Layla thinks. Quite recently. A Friday, because Jae had swimming. Last Friday, or the one before.

Yeah, exactly, Nat says, not kindly. He's going to say something else, but Layla is distracted by the muffled sound of applause and the scraping of chairs. She's got maybe five more minutes before the school is not in loco parentis.

Wait here, she tells Nat, and runs back inside.

It takes her most of her five minutes to find Jennifer, whose daughter is Chloe, who does ballet with Amy, who has just come running up radiant with pride and glitter. Any minute now she's going to say Mum, Mum did you see me, and Layla asks silently for her forgiveness before explaining to Jennifer that something's come up, it's a minor family emergency, nothing to worry about really but if she could take the kids for an hour, Layla is sorry to just impose like this—

Of course, Jennifer interrupts. With understanding, because she's a suburban mum of two and, unlike Layla, kindness itself. Take as long as you need. I hope everything's okay.

Layla thanks her, kisses Amy's perfect little head and runs back out to Nat.

Come on, she says, without checking to see he's following. It's ten minutes' walk to her house and the four o'clock darkness is already closing in. Tell me.

Nat glances at her and they start walking, heads bowed against the freezing rain. It's getting colder.

Two days ago, Nat says, abruptly. He was supposed to come to dinner. He didn't turn up. And I thought that was just Meraud being Meraud. You know what he's like.

They both know what he's like. Nat is Meraud's other partner, to be formal about it; his other person whom he stands up on a regular basis.

Although that's not fair. Meraud came to last year's play. He stayed after. When Layla needs him, he shows up.

But then he wasn't answering my texts, Nat says. So I thought maybe he's sick, maybe he's hurt? I got freaked. I went over there this morning and…

And what? Layla says, when he trails off. They're almost at the house and suddenly Layla is irritated again, that her whole day is being upended for this assault of vagueness. If Meraud was hurt or ill Nat would have led with that. This random visitation that refuses to resolve gets on her tits.

What? she says again, as she pulls the front door open against the force of the wind. Inside it's dark, the unwashed dishes where she left them. Katrina still isn't back. What did you find?

Nothing, Nat says, lingering by the door as if unsure of his invitation. Against the white-tile background of Layla's kitchen, he looks as bright and out-of-context as a parakeet. I checked all the rooms. I looked for – you know. Signs of a struggle.

That only happens on TV, Layla says, pissed off at how ridiculous he's being. "Look,