The Girl, The Lord, and the Book

'Hurley would love to sleep on a bed like this,' Iris remarked, patting the softness of the mattress. It was far larger than the bed she had at home, much larger than any other bed she had seen in her life. But everything in the van Zieks' house was so grand as well. She pulled the blanket over her legs; its elaborate sprawling patterns matched the ornately winding headboard of the bed—both of which made Harely and Bearis look so out of place where they sat.

But she had already said so much. Saying any more of how different this house was from her home would start to become impolite. Yet, that was all she could say to him. How big the house was, how fancy the furniture, and how quiet it could be.

Iris tried a story. 'He did once try to build a bigger one on his own,' she said, clasping her hands together as if she could catch a conversation. (Ah, but that made her think again of how her sleeveless nightgown attracted strange looks from the manor’s chambermaids and laundry maids.) 'But, er, he'd forgotten to measure his room beforehand and he couldn't fit it in. So he had to dismantle it right after.'

'As one would expect from that great detective,' van Zieks said, looming a small distance away from the bed. He was still standing closer to the door, and the light of the lamp could barely get to him.

He shook his head, and pressed his fingers into his brow. 'It's no wonder he gotten himself injured,’ he said. ‘The impulsiveness of jumping off such a high balcony... But I suppose it was that or risk getting shot. Still, he will likely stay hospitalised for a while.'

In his other hand, van Zieks held a book—or rather a set of type-written papers bounded into a manuscript. The plain cover revealed nothing of the contents. But not much could be gleaned from the inside either. There was no descriptions, comments, or even an attribution to the author.

Iris had found it in the house's library earlier, hiding quietly in a corner, shoved between old children's books. It was just as dusty as the others, but its lack of a title had caught her eye. She thought that it might at least be written in it, but there were only four short stories inside.

Now, van Zieks was flipping through its pages, skimming over the words like Iris did that afternoon. 'Would you not rather read this yourself?' he asked, closing the cover. 'You are... you're eleven years old now, and I am sure you wouldn't need me to read it to you.'

'But it is your book, isn't it?' Iris said. 'Or, rather, your sister-in-law's...'

She watched van Ziek's usual grouchy expression turn slightly sombre.

That was also another thing she found recently. After so many years, after all her life, she now knew her 'true' father's name, who her mother was, and what sort of family she would have been born into. She had always thought that it would end in celebration, hugs and kisses and plenty of catching-up over tea. She thought that she would learn something new about herself. But there hadn't been any of those when it actually happened and strangely she couldn't get in the mood for it either. Mostly she had just spent the following days thinking about it.

And now she was in the house she would have grown up in, staying with the sad-looking man that she would have grown up with. She couldn't even imagine what the past eleven years would have been like.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she tried to get into another discussion. 'You said that she had written those for you, correct?' she asked, pointing at the book that van Zieks held.

'Yes.' Van Zieks was looking over the bedroom's walls, tracing the swirls of the wallpaper with a finger. He looked down upon his fingertips and wiped whatever came off it with a thumb.

'I apologise for the state of this room,' he said. 'I had not realised how disused it was.'

Iris shook her head. 'No! No, no no! It's perfectly alright!'

Van Zieks looked at her, seemingly accepting her remarks. He looked back down at the book and formed a response. 'You're correct,' he said, after a while. 'She told me that she wanted to write for me. That was when I was only a child myself.'

One could easily imagine (a newly-recovered) Herlock Sholmes patting van Zieks on the back and laughing about how the notion seemed impossible. Iris took care to not let out a chuckle.

She focused back onto the book. 'Since it is yours, surely you would be the best person to read it!'

Van Zieks hummed, in neither a disagreeing or agreeing tone. He opened the book to the first page again where a subtitle, inscribed in tiny letters, read out: “For readers in childhood and those with the passion to seek.” Iris still hadn't figured out what that was supposed to mean.

When she had shown it to him, he said that it had been a long time since he had last seen it. He remembered nothing about what was in it or what it was about. In the end, he could only tell her that it was written by her mother.

'Mr. Rea...' Ah. She must stop calling him that now. 'Er—Zieksy? Why don't you sit on the bed?' She patted the edge of the mattress, where there was ample room for him to sit. The size of the bed really was ridiculous—she barely took up any space on it. 'It'd be much more comfortable than standing over there the whole time. Even you'd get tired of it, I think.'

The man looked up from the book. 'It's alright,' van Zieks said, walking over to the nearby desk and its chair.

Though she was only staying a few days, Iris had brought a few things from home: her typewriter, the latest manuscript and her animal charms. But, other than that, the desk felt so empty without her other bric-a-bracs decorating it.

Van Zieks took a look over it before getting his hands on the chair and pulling it away. 'I can sit here,' he said, turning it to face her. 'I do apologize for not finding a more suitable workspace for you. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any desks or chairs that would have better fit your height.'

'It's alright. Hurley says I'm due to have my growth spurt soon,' Iris insisted. 'Perhaps I'll even have it while I'm staying here!'

He went silent.

'I'm only joking,' Iris clarified.

'I know,' he said.

'Oh…'

She still had a hard time reading his expressions. Sometimes, it really did seem like his face was stuck like that, stuck in that slight frown and furrowed eyebrows. She could never tell what he was thinking, though, she supposed, it was the same with Hurley.

Van Zieks cleared his throat. 'I also know that the detective would very much mind if it happened outside his own home'—he sat on his chair, crossing a leg over the other—'And especially if it happened during his absence.'

'Ah,' said Iris. ‘Yes, he’d probably throw a fit.’

‘As I would expect of him.’ A friendly hint of a smile now quietly came to his face. 'I'll begin reading, if you would like,' he said.

Iris nodded. If you will!'

Opening the book again, van Zieks began to read its first story.

1. The bear and the Boy

Near a small and sleepy village, deep in a tall and quiet forest, there lived a bear who had been living a tranquil life. It had been years since her cubs left her grand and stately cave to seek their own paths, so now she didn't do much except wander in the forest.

'A bear?' Iris said. Her gaze flicked towards Bearis, still sitting by Harely on the pillows. She reached for the bear, accidentally knocking her over when she couldn’t quite grab her. Now, she was lying on her face, away from Harely.

Moving his chair towards the bed, van Zieks leaned in to grab Bearis for her. But, before he laid a finger on the bear, Iris had grabbed onto her and pulled her towards her chest.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

Van Zieks quietly returned to sit.

‘It is quite a coincidence, Miss Iris', he said. 'I only now recall it, but I remember that Lady'—he paused briefly—'your mother, at one point, had developed what you could call an obsession with bears. They had suddenly appeared in many of her poetry.’

'Really?' Iris sat up, and held tighter to her own bear. ‘She kept mentioning them? In her writing?’

'Yes. Although she stopped once Klint made fun of her for it.'

Van Zieks had spoken little about what her mother was like, and only then was it mostly after she found the book. From what she had gathered, Lady Baskerville (as van Zieks kept calling her before his prompt corrections) was a ‘strong-willed, intelligent woman’ (to use his words exactly). Though that was the only thing she had figured out so far.

'Only for being teased?' Iris asked. 'Would she really stop from doing that?'

'No,' said van Zieks. 'It couldn't have been. I think the comment only made herself aware of it, and she herself felt that it was overused.' He reclined back in his chair, switching the cross of his legs. 'However, she did get back at him later—by letting something slip to the guests in a later social gathering.'

She giggled. 'What did she say?'

'I don't know, only that it must have been severely embarrassing. He retreated for the rest of the duration.'

The bear had a routine. In the mornings, she would catch fish and lay them across the grass for breakfast; in the afternoon, she would walk along her favourite trail to sniff the flowers and visit nearby animal friends; and in the evening, the bear would go back to her cave and say goodnight to the stars lighting up the sky. The only time she didn't do these things was when she was hibernating.

'Just like a noble,' Barok scoffed, making Iris laugh again.

One morning, after waking up from hibernation, the bear faced the fresh sun in her eyes and smelled the shining air. 'My,' she said. 'What a nice and warm morning to start a new day! Good weather to be catching fish, going on walks and taking naps. I shall have a wonderful day!'

She walked into a normal day, starting with the glistening river by the cave. She stuck her paw into the river, feeling how warm the flowing water felt on her fur, and listening for the sound of her breakfast.

Not now… not now. There! She struck and caught a large fish, quickly laid on bright green grass, savoured with every bite.

'My, my, my!' she said. 'And the fish was delicious today as well. Truly it will be a wonderful day.'

Mealtime, enjoyed slowly with a savouring attitude, was usually followed by a walk. The bear looked to the brown path, hugged by the greenery around it. Sunlight dappled across it, glowing the new leaves that spring had grown.

But she had not begun to walk yet when she heard those footsteps. Ones which she had never heard before, ones that sounded like no other footsteps she had heard before. They certainly did not belong to someone she knew, did not belong to another animal at all. Quietly—she was always quite a nervous bear—she hid behind a tall tree and listened carefully for the source of the sound. What could it possibly be?

Shaking her head, she said: 'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Maybe it will not be such a lucky day after all. I wonder what I shall be meeting now?'

Grass rustled and a fallen branch had snapped under the weight of a foot. A flock of birds flew away in fright. The bear’s heart beat heavily while her breath grew hollow.

After a few seconds of listening more and feeling more fearful by the second, she spotted the creature. It was a little human boy, trudging through the tall grasses with only a stick in his small grasp accompanying him. He must have only been ten or eleven, for that was the size the bear thought a human boy of that age would be. Still, despite how alone he was, and how young he looked, the boy did not seemed to be scared of how deep he had wandered in the forest. No sign of the fear that the bear had felt.

'What should I do?' the bear muttered to herself. Now, her feelings were quelled, but a new worry appeared to her. 'This won't do at all. My, when my little bears were cubs themselves, I couldn't ever let them out of my sight. And here is a little one so very far from the village where he must have came from! Perhaps I should go up to the boy and ask if he is lost. I know my way around here, and I may be able to lead him back home.’

The bear walked over towards the boy, walking slow to not to startle him and send him running away. Upon getting close, she gave a tame greeting: 'Hello there, human boy. What are you doing here in the forest by your lonesome? Surely you know that it's dangerous for those unfamiliar with the land.'

The boy did not recoil. 'Hello, Mrs Bear,' he said. 'I'm looking for my mother. She's tall and brave and very chatty. Has she mentioned me in passing?'

'You're going too fast, dear' said the bear, shaking her head. 'I—well, firstly I haven't seen another human other than you, and I couldn't possibly hear of you, no—'

'What?', van Zieks said.

‘Huh?' Iris peered over to him. 'Is there something wrong?'

'Ah, no. It's only that... she seemed to have left notes in the margins here.' He pointed to a spot on the page.

'Really? What did she write?'

'Well... she wrote this.' Van Zieks brought the book closer to her, and there his finger showed a few small words, pencil-written in small neat cursive by the paragraph he had read out.

It said: 'The boy's name is Barok, if anyone is wondering' with a smile drawn underneath it

Iris blinked out of surprise. 'Oh,' she said. 'I see why now. Did you see any other notes in the book?'

'As far as I've skimmed through it, no.'

'How peculiar!'

'By any chance have you seen her?', the boy interrupted. 'She went into the forest to collect some mushrooms, but she hasn't yet returned. So I became worried—she dislikes the feeling of being lost.'

‘Of course,’ said the bear. ‘No one does.’

'And so I went in here myself to see if I could find her and bring her back home.’

'By any chance, has that ever happened to you?' Iris asked. 'I mean, getting lost. Or not knowing where your mother was? Perhaps my mother wrote that in because of that.'

'I was too young to remember my own parents, so it couldn't possibly be that,' van Zieks said.

‘Oh. Yes. You did tell me that earlier,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Do not fret over it. I was too young to be attached to them,’ he added. 'Anyways, I think your mother may have just done that on a whim, or as some little joke she had.'

'Does that happen very often? I mean, going along her whims?'

He contemplated briefly before answering. 'That's what Klint might have said.'

Iris grinned. 'My father would say that?’

‘Yes. He often did in fact. He… was often the very target of those whims.’ Van Zieks did one of his ‘almost-smiles’ and lowered the book for a moment. ‘I think she found it entertaining to tease him.’

'You are very brave, human boy,' said the bear. How very courageous indeed! She thought of her own cubs being left behind like that, all alone and without their mother to show them around the forest and look for where the fish may be caught and where the path is nicest and where the cave may be when you've walked so very far away—oh! Even the very thought of made her shiver. No, it wouldn't do to leave a child alone like that. 'Worry not; may I help you in finding your mother? I am familiar enough with the surrounding woods and I am sure we shall find her somewhere here.'

'I would be glad if you did,' said the boy happily.

'Then we should be off promptly.'

Thus, the bear decided it would be best to follow her usual path. It would be easiest, and therefore safest, if they started there. And the walk was long and reached fairly deep into the forest; surely, they would find something or someone along its scenic route.

Only after a few minutes of walk, a squirrel had greeted them. He had waved to them from the upper parts of the forest, and skittered along downwards until he could sit on a low enough branch.

‘Hullo, Mrs Bear,’ said the squirrel. ‘I see that you are on you walks again. Now, who may this young man be?’

'He is a little boy looking for his mother,’ said the bear. ‘Have you seen a human woman walking around by here?'

'No. Not that I know of. My glances around the trees have not caught any being close to a human. But I shall try to ask around if that would assist you. I do hope that you will find her!'

With that, the squirrel disappeared into the branches, leaving both the bear and the boy alone.

The two of them continued further along the path and deeper into the forest. The bright morning shine had now calmed into a blue sunny day and the wind began to blow the cool spring air over them. Surely, surely they would find something soon.

Next, they stumbled upon a small bird. While usually you would find birds in the sky, the bird was busy peering at the ground, looking for worms to peck at and eat. He had just caught one when he spotted the two of them.

''Allo, 'Allo! It's Mrs Bear again!' said the bird. 'And one of them human boys too? What are you doing on here, so deep in the forest?'

The bear spoke up once more. 'We're looking for a human woman. She is the boy's mother and he said that she came searching here for mushrooms to pick. Have you, by any chance, seen someone by that description?'

'The forest mushrooms are really quite delicious. I could see why anyone would want to wander so far for them. But, alas, I've seen no other human here. Well, I shouldn't be keeping you long. Hope you find her soon!'

The bird, after catching one last worm in his mouth, flew away.

‘I used to go on walks with her,’ van Zieks commented. His voice remained low, and he kept his eye on the page as he said so.

‘You mean my mother?’ Iris asked, also quietly, trying to be just as quiet as van Zieks was. ‘In the forest?’

‘There was a cottage. She, with Klint, had taken me there once. And, yes, she did take me out on a walk near its forest, now that I recall so.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

Van Zieks was taken aback—her look made him set the book down fully. ‘I did,’ he said. 'Whenever we had our walks, she always told me to notice the animals and the plants around me.'

Iris gasped. 'It's like what Hurley used to do!' She felt her face flush, processing her own outburst. But it was no use to try and take it back now. 'Well, not quite—but it's the skill of observation all the same! He always told me to notice everything, everything down to the way that a person walks and and how they speak and how they carry themselves and they carry with them.

Nodding, van Zieks tried to continue the conversation. 'Your mother was keen on observation as well, maybe not to the same degree as you are, perhaps, but she practised the skill often.' He had found that he lost the page he was on, and began to search back to where he had stopped. 'She told me to do so too. Would be useful, for a future prosecutor, she said.'

The bear and the boy had to continue once more. Now, much time had passed. Now, the day had settled into the noon. Yet, they still had more path to be thread, and more searching to be done.

Then, lastly, they met with a deer. He was standing a little off of the path, busying himself smelling the freshly blooming daffodils of the spring. With a twitch of the ear, the deer turned and greeted them happily.

'Hello, Mrs Bear! And hello there, you who seem to be a human boy. I can see by your weary expressions that something troubles you. What is it that hurts your spirits in this springtime?'

The bear, now tiring of the search, said: 'We have been looking all day, and yet we have been unable to find the boy's mother. Have you perhaps seen another human around here?'

'Oh, dear. That does seem to be a worrying thing,’ the deer said. ‘Although I cannot help you either for I have not seen any other human here. I wish the best for your journey.' The deer stepped away, attending now to the primroses and crocuses from the corner of his vision.

Reluctantly, the two were alone again. But they had to continue again.

With enough distance behind them, and with tired feet and tired minds, the bear and the boy had walked far enough to approach the bear's cave. The morning sun, which seemed so light and so golden, was now fading and sinking away. The night was coming to end the day, bringing darkness into the forest.

'I'm sorry we couldn't find your mother,' said the bear. 'The forest is... deep and mysterious; she must have wandered far into it's realm.'

The boy listened to her words, silent. There were tears welling up, and falling down on his cheeks. Though he tried to wipe them away with his shaking hands, he could not stop them all. 'But is she going to be okay?' his voice quivered.

Up until now, the boy was chipper, exploring the path with nothing but a goal in his eyes. Though he had not spoken much to the bear, he had not let any worry out of his body. Only now, with the night rising, did his mask break.

'Of-of course not!’ said the bear, putting her body next to him, letting him rest his head on her fur. ‘Why, there's nothing here that would hurt her! I would think that in my long life that I've met nearly every animal here and have seen every leaf that has grown. Your mother will be fine, dear.'

'But she might be cold and lonely!' the boy sobbed. ’And it's my own fault as well!'

'Why ever would that be?'

'Because I left her alone!' he confessed, now fully crying. 'She told me to come and follow her in here. But I didn't want to because I wanted to stay home. I-I was too scared to come here and be with her!'

There was a pause. Iris opened her eyes and turned her head. Van Zieks’ lips were pressed tightly, as if he was preventing something. His brow was extra furrowed now and, though his eyes were still on the page, he was seeing something else.

Should she say something? No words came to her, nothing good anyways, and all she could do was sit there.

He glanced at her, and looked away in a breadth of a second. She pretended not to nice.

Instead, she let the man disguise his brief hesitation with a small cough.

'You shouldn't blame yourself, sweetheart,' said the bear. 'It's normal to be scared, and you didn't know she would get lost. We'll find her soon. Very soon, I believe. But, for now, we shall go rest in my cave and I'll care for you until we find her.'

The bear led the boy along the rest of the path, along past the flowing river where they first met, along until the cave’s opening greeted them.

'It might be cold for you,' the bear said. 'So sleep next to me for the night. I'll be able to keep you warm.'

But as they settled in, they found that there was already someone sleeping. There, in a dark corner, all curled up in rest, next to a basket full of mushrooms, was a woman. It was a woman old enough to be a young boy's mother. Her face looked weary; she had been on her own long journey, and had been through her own worries.

Without hesitation, the boy ran and shook his mother awake. 'Mother! Mother it's me! Wake up—we found you!'

The woman’s eyes blinked open from her sleep, and then blinked more as she tried to figure out what she was seeing, and then more from her surprise. 'You're here?' she said, in a tired voice. 'You came here? I thought you were too frightened to come? Why are you here?'

'Because I was scared I would never see you again!' said the boy.

'Oh, my dear!' She sat up and hugged him. 'I'm sorry for worrying you. I was going to come home quick, really. I just got a bit lost. But I promised I would find my way back to you. I am so sorry.'

The bear stayed where she was and watched the two of them. It reminded her of old times, times when the cave was was full of the laughter and cuddles of her children. Those memories, and the feelings that laid with them...

'Ah, and you' said the human woman, now addressing the bear. 'You are the one who helped him? And this is your cave I suppose. I apologise for running in here without a thought—walking into someone else's home and sleeping there isn't such a polite thing.'

The bear shook her head. 'Oh, it's not a big worry. It was dark and you needed a place to rest.’ She walked over, and laid herself down. ‘You are welcome to stay for the rest of the night if you wish; there is plenty of room here.'

Very soon, all three fell. And, in her dream, the bear had met her cubs once more.

The Prosecutor's Memories

Once finished, Barok closed the book. It was a simple story—typical of a fairy tale—but he had expected that. He could guess at every successive plot beat before it happened, though that could’ve been because someone had read it to him before.

There was once a night or, more likely, many nights, when his sister-in-law had read to him. The years have made the details vague, though it must have similar to this, with her sitting on a chair while he sat in bed.

What had her voice sounded like when she read? The characters would be far more emotive and natural than his stilted attempt.

The story had made him think too much: if only if it hadn't happened, or if it turned out differently or if he could have just done something. It should’ve been her reading to Iris (and laughing with her and embracing her). He shouldn’t be here.

The girl planted her feet on the the mattress, knees up, arms wrapped around them. Her long, pink, curls swayed over her shoulders as she rocked back and forth. The way that the lamp softly lit her pondering round face and perceptive green-blue eyes; it should have been her reading to Iris, not him.

'It was a lovely story!' she said, letting the pink curls cascade over to her right. 'Though I'm still wondering about her comment. What really made her name the boy after you?'

'I'm sure she only did it in jest,' he said.

'Maybe. But there must have been a reason for her to write that in!' She lifted a finger, pointing towards her forehead, just the way that Sholmes would do. 'She could have seen something in you that reminded her of the boy in the story. Or it could have been in her head from the start!'

'I wouldn't know,' Barok answered.

In fact, there several things he was ignorant of. He barely knew her. What did she like to read, or to write? What else did she like to do in her spare time? Or what did she like or dislike and how did she feel about him? So many pieces were missing.

And Lady Baskerville—he still found himself calling her that despite knowing he shouldn't—Elizabeth would have loved her daughter. Even if she hadn't raised her, or perhaps more if she hadn’t since the girl was free from having to grow up amongst the spoiled and stuffy upper-classes. She would find her mannerisms and feats quite charming.

'Either way,' he said, getting up from the chair now, 'I believe that I should be leave you to sleep. It's quite late already.'

Iris jolted upright, slamming her hands down. 'No, wait,' she said. 'It's not too late. Couldn’t you read just one more?'

Barok stopped with his hand still on the back of the chair. 'Another one? What for?'

Iris fiddled with the ears of her Bearis doll. Adorably, whether she was aware or not, she was puffing her cheek out. 'Because...' she began to say. 'Because I want—well, they're sort of interesting, don't you think?'

'Interesting?'

After a pause, Iris nodded. 'Yes. Quite interesting! If I found out someone I knew had written something, I would like to have a read of it myself. You'd never know what kind of things they would write. It could really surprise you!'

That was true. Though Barok had never told her—not yet—but since that trial concluded he had been looking those Randst's magazines stories differently. For such cheap serials, they possessed a refined level of writing; one would never conclude from it's contents that a young girl had been writing them.

Maybe he should ask her whether she had written anything else.

'And,' Iris continued. 'They aren't particularly long, right? I wouldn't mind staying up for just a bit more.'

Barok re-opened the book, flipping forwards and skimming over the next chapter. 'I suppose it would only take a few minutes,' he murmured. He had to admit that it was intriguing his own curiosity as well. He hadn't been allowed to read much of his sister-in-law’s works and, in the more recent years, he hadn't been able to find much of them either. Despite only being a short collection for children, it could yield some insight.

The next story seemed to be about a little girl. He vaguely remembered this one, though not much else.

'I will read it to you if you insist on my doing so,' he said, sitting back down.

Iris smiled at him. 'Thank you, Zieksy.'

2. The Teacher's Perfect Present

There was once an old shopkeeper who cared for a small shop in a small part of the city. He rarely spoke much, only doing so to serve his patrons, and was rarely seen outside. This was his world: selling trinkets he found or made or were sold to him into the hands of the next curious mind who wandered in.

Through this, he developed a sense of what certain people liked. Some were obvious: of course, a young boy would wish for a toy. Others required more observation: the meandering old woman, whose shyly swaying handkerchief presented an embroidered dog, searched for a canine carved in wood.

He could seldom use his ability, however. Throughout the week, only a few persons would wander into the shop and make a purchase. Still, the joy was his, and he admired the shop’s peacefully empty quietness.

'I'm curious now', said Iris. 'Do you know how my mother came up with her characters? I only ask because I've met a few other writers and they all have their own methods'.

Barok looked up from the book. 'I'm...not too sure.'

'Did she have many friends? Or socialised much?’

'She did used to be quite social, yes, much like Klint was. Your mother frequently attended, and occasionally hosted, grand parties. She would waltz through our halls and speak with every attendee and, if I was not with Klint, she often brought me along with her.

'Was it fun?'

'I wasn't too fond of crowds, even back then. And, being so young, I couldn’t partake much those conversations.' As he leaned back into the chair, Barok recollected faded memories of being tugged around to all sorts of rich old gentlemen and high-ranking women who far surpassed him in age. Despite only vaguely remembering it, he knew that he had disliked them.

So did Klint and Elizabeth, as retrospective complaints behind backs made him realise. He remembered walking to his bedroom as the two of them berated a man they had just chattered with. Their enraged whispers had detailed every crime they heard

‘Conversing was not the aim, anyways,’ Barok continued. ‘Your mother advised me to eavesdrop and report to her what could not have been said to a more perceptive and critical adult.’

Iris laughed. 'Perhaps then she borrowed them into her stories.'

'It would make sense. She used to mainly write about nobles and the gentry, as far as I can recall.'

'Hurley has made me eavesdrop too. For the same reason, actually. Although it was only for our detective work, I do find it helps with writing.’

Sholmes. That dubious man. What else have you taught the girl?

'But personally,' Iris continued. 'I've never needed to do much with characters. After all, they’re already there in Hurley’s adventures—maybe only needing a few tweaks and fleshing out.’

One cloudy afternoon, he had put his feet up and read from a cheap serial he bought the day before. No one had been in the shop, so far, and only few passed by it. He began to expect, as he turned a page, that no one would be coming. Then, a little girl arrived.

He put the magazine down on the counter as soon as he heard the door creak. 'Hello, there,' he said, walking over. Although he could admit that he wasn't good at names or faces, he was sure the girl—who had just returned from school, it seemed—had never come in before. 'May I help you with something?

'Oh, yes please!' cried the girl. 'You see, sir, at my school I've got a wonderful teacher who is clever and kind and has made me as clever and kind as she is!'

The shopkeeper nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I do see that.'

'Now, it's nearly the end of the school year and I would like to give her a gift that would suit her. But, no matter how hard I think, I can never find the perfect present!'

'Even the cleverest and kindest of us have difficulties with these things,' the shopkeeper assured her. 'So, have you come here to seek it?'

'Of course! There must be something here!' the girl said. 'Would you be able to help?'

'I've always wondered this,' Iris said curling a strand of her hair around her small fingers. 'I know that the upper-classes handle their education differently.'

'If this is what you are inquiring, yes I did have a governess in my youth,' said Barok. ‘As most children of the upper classes had.’

'What are the sorts of things would you learn?' Iris asked, those bright and clever eyes twinkling from the light of the flame. 'I mean, what sort of things would my mother learn? Was she interested in the sciences?'

'Reading, writing and arithmetic, as is typical, and some supplementary skills, such as sewing, cooking and piano. But I doubt she could receive the education you have.'

Iris's hand went to her mouth. 'Oh!' she said. 'I forgot that they don't teach girls the other subjects.'

'She had her own means. Your mother was willing enough to teach herself the classics, as well as the sciences.' Or, that was how the story was told to him. He never actually learnt how she had done so. 'Being a lady of the gentry, I imagine that she felt restricted in some ways. Though, again, she had her own means. She happened to have a small interest in plants, as you do.'

‘She did?' she said, perking up. ‘What a coincidence!’

'May I ask you one thing?' Barok said, softening his voice.

'Ask away.'

'If this isn't so rude, how are you so knowledgeable? You are quite an educated young lady, much more so than the average man twice your age would be.'

'Hurley taught me mostly.' Iris shrugged. 'I've never really had a normal schooling experience either. I've learnt mostly on the job, you could say!'

She giggled as she said it, though there was a hint of excess force into it.

Iris grabbed the Harely doll and brought it to her lap, next to the Bearis doll. 'You see, by the time I was old enough, Hurley thought I wouldn't really fit right in those tiny little classrooms learning things I already knew very well. And I was really small for my age too, which I think made him worry about the other children. '

'I see.' The words had hit Barok with some familiarity, as if he had once, in the far past, heard those same reasons before.

He was small for his age too, he quickly recalled. But this, he felt (as he looked to the girl brightly reminiscing of Sholmes), could not be disclosed so carelessly.

'By the time I was five, Hurley had already manage to teach me how to read Shakespeare, how to write about the medicinal effects of herbs, and how to differentiate.’ Iris stroked the felt hare’s head, in the same way that you would with a real rabbit. ‘There really wasn't any need for proper schooling anyway'.

'I suppose this means that Sholmes is a good teacher.'

'A lot of the times, yes', Iris said. 'But he gets things mixed up a lot. He was telling me all about bones once but he suddenly switched to talking about the mechanical uses of steam. You've got to have an very active brain to keep up.'

What a noble little girl, the shopkeeper thought, to care so much for her teacher like this. He must try hard to help her,

He guided her into the store’s selection, first showing her the items he placed by the window. 'I have lots of things that you could present her. Perhaps one of these shall suit your teacher well.'

The girl picked up a snow-globe depicting a cottage it’s accompanying snowman. She held it above her face, twisting it around in her hands and observing the powder swirl around the glass. 'This looks quite nice', said the girl. 'But I don't know if this is right. My teacher isn't very fond of the snow, and it really isn't the season for a gift like this.'

The snow globe was left alone and the shopkeeper lead the girl towards a high shelf. Stood on its right side was a miniature horse, crafted to rock back and forth with a single finger push. It had only been sold to the shopkeeper a few months ago, but perhaps it was time for a new owner.

Despite his grown fondness, the shopkeeper handed it to the girl. ‘Maybe this?’ he said. 'I wonder if your dear teacher may be more appreciative of horses?'

'She does like horses, I believe', said the girl, now holding the horse in her palms.

Once again, as with the snow-globe, she spun it and noted how it looked at different angles. The paintwork was delicate and precise and its sculpting was so life-like and detailed; one could easily imagine a little person jumping on and riding it.

'But I'm not sure if this is right either. Horses aren't her favourite animal in the world, and maybe she wouldn't care too much for it it'.

'I've got another question for you', Iris said. 'Have you been making your figures since you were little too? The ones you use for your dioramas and investigative aids'.

Before Barok could answer, Iris handed Bearis to him. 'This one isn't actually the first', she said. 'I remade her—and the big Harely—about a year ago. The first Bearis was made when I was five, when Hurley thought I could be trusted with a needle.’

This Bearis, now in his hands, looked much like the charms Iris hung on her bag. However, she wore a light periwinkle nightgown—similar to the girl’s own dress—and a sleepier expression than the charm version.

Holding it, and feeling the soft muslin of the ears, reminded Barok of holding Meow Zieks on the night of his birthday. He was sat on the edge of his bed, unknowing of the relationship he would foster with the girl. At the time it baffled and irritated him, but now a fondness swept over that day. But even back then he could recognise the neatness of its stitches and its endearing design.

Meow Zieks had since made permanent residence in his office, but was now present in the guest bedroom tonight for the small social gathering.

'So, when did you start?' Iris asked, pulling Barok out of his thoughts.

'Ah. The first time I tried sculpting, it was during a rainy evening.' He gave Bearis back, and made an effort to collate his memories. 'My brother had arrived home and discussed with me a technique that the men at Scotland Yard were using. I have no idea whom he had heard it from—he was still a university student then—but he became obsessed with the concept of carving figures for investigative aids. It was for that reason I picked up on it too.'

'Ooh! What did you make?'

Barok shook his head. 'I can't remember. I feel it must have been the dog.'

'The one named Balmung?' Iris asked. 'That...big one?'

'Yes, but he was only a puppy then', he said. 'It was unrecognisable as any sort of creature—perhaps more closer to a blob, I'm sure—but your mother liked it. She liked seeing the figurines and miniatures I made and she always insisted that I make more.'

Iris tilted her head. 'What about your brother?'

'He stopped immediately when your mother told him mine was better.'

So back on the shelf went the rocking horse, and the shopkeeper then lead the girl further in. She ducked down to look at knickknacks sitting on the bottom shelves, and reached up on tiptoes to see what the upper shelves held above her. Maybe it was to the right here, or to the left here, or maybe over there, or right by there, or perhaps it could be the one behind this or maybe it's the one on the other side, or was it that it wasn't here at all?

The girl had made her way back to store's entrance, and sighed. 'I'm afraid I can't find what I need here. But I can't think of anywhere else I could find it! I'll never be able to give her a present like this. Oh, if only I could just have the perfect one appear in my hand!'

The shopkeeper patted her on the shoulder. He too was at a loss; he didn't mind if she wasn't buying anything from the shop, but her troubled expression troubled him too much.

He took one last look around, trying to see if they had missed something as they walked around. It was then that an idea came to him.

'Do you have an idea of what a perfect present would be?' asked the shopkeeper. 'What sort of thing would it be? Do you know much of your teacher’s preferences?'

'Hmm, yes.' the girl said. ‘I’ve learnt a few things about what she likes.’

'And how much longer would you be able to wait before you need to give it to her?'

'I think I only have a month left of school.'

'Well', said the shopkeeper, 'Why don't we make it ourselves?'

The girl was taken aback by the suggestion, her eyes widening at how simple it seemed. Make one! Why hadn't she thought of that before? She could just make one!

But oh, there was still a problem. 'But-but, sir!' she stuttered. 'I wouldn't know where to start!'

'I could teach you,' the shopkeeper answered. 'All you would need to do is tell me more about your teacher and what you think she may want. And once we are done, you can go off and give it to her.'

And thus, the old man and the girl set out to work. They decided to meet every afternoon, after the girl had finished with her classes, and discuss what they might do for that day and work until the girl had to go home.

First, it had mostly been planning: sketching out ideas which spurred from what the girl spoke of her teacher. Something with nature, to start. Her teacher was apparently fond of walking in the woods and seeing pictures of forest creatures, so it must be something you could find there.

It was after that, when they picked a subject and drawn it on a small block of wood, that the real work had begun. At the girl's insistence, the shopkeeper allowed her to do most of the work, only guiding her hand when she held the knife and teaching her how to make basic cuts. Little by little, the shape of the animal rose out of the block. Yes, she would like this.

The girl had learnt quickly, and soon a small base was made for the animal to stand on. The shopkeeper gathered his collection of paints and brushes, and spent time deciding on what sorts of colours the teacher may like. A warm shade of green, something you would lay your head on; and a complimentary brown that belonged with the grass, something you would like to sit on and observe the sky. And glue between them, connecting them and holding them together.

Eventually, near the end of the month, they called it finished: a figurine of a bear, standing in a grassy field—

'Another bear!' Iris blurted out.

'As I said earlier,' Barok said. 'Your mother had quite a fascination for the creature for reasons I still haven't uncovered myself.'

'She never mentioned why?'

'Not that I remember.'

'I see.' Iris dropped herself back on the pillow. She took Bearis and Harely to the side now, and began to fidget with her hands. 'But do you have any sort of clue why? Maybe she had went to the zoo sometime earlier, or perhaps she'd seen some sort of painting that she liked?'

Barok leaned an arm onto the chair, and rested his head on his fist. He let the book drop down onto his lap. The explanation did seem plausible, however, it was not an entirely satisfactory. Why had they been in so many? And why that animal, of all the ones that were out there? If only she could have been here, or if he could just see her again. There were things that only now he could understand.

He lifted the book again. 'I don't believe we'll ever know.'

The girl wiped her forehead and marvelled at the finished work. She had learnt so much throughout the past month, not only of woodcarving, but also of the patience and determination she had. There was pride in every part of her body and she was excited to finally have her perfect present.

But, most of all, she was thankful. It was on that last day that she expressed this profusely, curtseying and saying her thanks in perfect enunciation whilst she was unable to control the smile on her face. After that, she walked out of the door and ran home, thinking about how wonderful the next day would be.

The days returned to its normal routine. No longer did the shopkeeper hear the door open whilst he read his magazine on the chair and it was much quieter without the chatter that accompanied the hours. It was only him, the shop, and the bric-a-bracs.

Staring out the window—the words on his page could not stick to his mind, he found— he thought about that girl, and how that day might have gone for her. 'Indeed, it was fun and I am glad to have had her here,' he said to himself. 'I would not mind if she never decided to visit again—a girl like that must be kept quiet busy—and I am sure that she must be very happy.'

To his surprise, the door did open once again letting the girl back in to the store. This time, she had brought a friend with her: the very teacher that she spoke so lovingly about. The woman was as much of a pleasure to meet as what the girl had told, speaking with the bright, kind gentleness that the girl also carried. And there, in her hands, did she carry the present that she was given.

'This is the man I was talking about' said the girl, leading the teacher towards the shopkeeper's seat. 'He helped me a lot with your present.'

'Good afternoon,' the shopkeeper said, putting the magazine down onto the counter. 'What brings you here?'

'To express my thanks, of course,' said the teacher. She held out the bear that she carried so gently in her grasp. 'This present is delightful, absolutely delightful. I am very happy to meet the man who helped my girl.'

The shopkeeper shyly scratched his neck. 'And I am very glad to hear that.'

'I say, is there time for us to chat? I would love to get to know you more. Would you start with how you made this perfect present?'

A Lady's Family

At the end of those sentences, she sat the bounded pages on her lap and looked over the bed. He wasn't looking at her, but he wasn't asleep. Only staring at the ceiling, staring at the blankness of the ceiling, hugging a pillow to his chest.

'Did you enjoy that one?', she asked. 'I thought that you would like the sculpting.'

He laid silent, staring at her eyes with his lips pressed together, thinking of something to say but not saying it.

'What is it, dear?', she asked. 'Did you prefer the other one? You may be honest, if you wish.'

He sat up, burying his face in the pillow. The purple curls of his head draped over it, like vines you must push aside in your walk. It wasn't unusual for him to hide his face like that—he's had that habit since forever—but he had been doing it an awful lot now.

It was cute, certainly, but only when he had done something to embarrass himself or when too many strangers chittered down and fretted about him. Hiding himself in his own room, where it was only him and her… it was troubling.

She took a breath. ‘It’s alright if you disliked it,’ she said. ‘These are only first drafts, after all.’

He pulled his face from the pillow, though his eyes still avoided her. 'Lady Baskerville—'

'I've told you, Barok,' sighed Liz, shifting her chair closer. Oh, this poor boy, what was she going to do with him? 'You don't need to refer to me that way. It isn't—was never—my title and with the marriage—'

Barok stiffened, and burrowed back in the pillow. He began to mumble, but lifted his chin as he realised his words were muffled. He turned, dropped the pillow, and bowed (as much as you could sitting in bed). 'Pray forgive the discourtesy of referring to you that way, Lady van Zieks.'

'No, that's not it either.' She fell back, observing how certain he felt in his ‘etiquette’. Within these years, Liz still couldn’t convince him to use her name. He must think that he couldn’t, or was it shouldn’t? It was another strange habit they never could explain. But now, especially now, she wished she wasn’t so stubborn. 'Really, it's alright. Or just call me Elizabeth—if you prefer that. Hasn't Klint discussed this with you?'

At the mere mention of Klint, Barok pouted. He wasn't crying, but he was mute; he retreated his gaze to the bed, placing tightly furled fists on his lap .

Liz arose, replacing her seat with the manuscript, and crouched by the bedside. She set her hands over Barok’s, letting his fists relax into open palms beneath hers. 'I suppose you do miss your dear big brother, being such a noble big brother that he is,’ she told him. Her fingers curled over his smaller ones and she reeled them towards her face. His gaze followed. ‘But you must know that such a noble person has to be called out to someplace else sometimes—on account of their nobleness.'

'They chose him to represent the college because he's their best student,’ he grumbled. His frown turned bitter as he pulled his hands away. 'It's not that I don't understand.'

'Ah, yes, and they chose him because he's clever,' she added. Hands empty, she moved her arms to let her chin rest on them. When did the boy become so astute? Or had he always been so? 'Just a little educational excursion for their top scholar and future prosecutor.’

It was only for a few days and she—and some of the friendlier staff, and Klint himself—had already explained what he would be doing and how exciting it was. But Barok refused to listen to any more.

This was generally accepted to be the reason behind the boy’s discontent. But the strange looks he’d been giving her and the increasing attempts to evade her showed something else.

‘But he really is a noble man; he wouldn't have asked me to read you these otherwise,’ she said, looking over to the manuscript on the chair. ‘And he really did insist, you know? Of course, I would have read you them anyways but—’

'Really?' Barok gasped. He moved closer, putting his hands before her arms. He tilted his head back, moving his hair away of his widened eyes. 'Klint requested that?'

‘He did,’ Liz said. This had been the most he had approached her for the past three weeks. Good. Like this, she may be able to coax him further out.

She returned to her chair, letting her hands rest on the manuscript again. 'He's such a good brother and he always has you on his mind,’ she continued. ‘Besides you, and I suppose those duties he attends to, I don't think much else goes on in his head.'

'But he always has you in his head as well,' Barok said. 'He always talks about you. Often he can't shut himself up.'

She tried not to laugh. 'Does he now?'

'He always says that you're intelligent and beautiful and that you're very nice.' For the first time today, he smiled. 'He's quite annoying.'

'That does sound very much like your brother,' she said, stifling a laugh with a hand to her lips. Yes, the past month may have felt strange with him—and for him, she thought. But, at the very least, he was starting to warm back up to her. Perhaps she might get through to him soon.

'He loves you very, very much,' Barok said, putting his legs off the bedside now. ‘He always says so.’

'Yes, I know, darling. He lets me know of that quite often.'

'And he wants everyone else to know it too. Mr Gregson is constantly irritated.'

‘And that I know as well,’ she giggled. And poor Inspector Gregson—having to deal with it only for the crime of being a friend. ‘What else does Klint do?’

‘Hmm,’ he began to swing his legs and fiddle with his hands as he tended to do, rhythmically tapping his fingers while he thought. ‘He always says that he would do anything for you, give you anything that you wanted. I think he would die for you.’

‘Tell him off for that last part; Klint is quite prone to injuring himself out of pride or plain stupidity. Much more likely, he would die for some more silly cause.’

‘Okay,’ he said, though he probably didn’t understand. ‘But he also says that he would want to live for you always. And if he could, he would love you for eternity.’

‘Such a trite expression. Though I never knew him for his poetry.’

‘And then,’ he continues again, likely because he didn’t understand what she meant. ‘And then, when he marries you, it would be the happiest day of his life. But now you’re really married.' He stopped fidgeting, and quickly turned away again.

It was just like that day, after one restless night with his words still ringing in her ear. They had, unconventionally so, decided to tell the little brother first. Not her own family, not the van Zieks’ staff. The boy.

They were giddy all morning, shoving and running together as if they were still children. In that haze, they had forgotten to worry about how Barok would react. Perhaps they thought he would have reacted in the same way, she didn’t know now. But never did they think he would frown and return to his drawing without another word.

It was either he was confused or upset. Was he angry? He had lightened up soon after, cheerfully joining in their planning of the venue and the celebrating at their ceremony. And, when they stepped into the carriage, he had waved goodbye, grinning.

When they returned, Barok appeared as he was now. Something had changed in that fortnight; so quiet, nearly bashful, frustrated? He withdrew at any attempt of prodding.

Liz had to stop herself from frowning too. Her fingers started to flutter through her pages again. Maybe she should leave now, let the boy have another think and see if she could get through him another time—some more time to get used to her living in his house.

It was a good effort, with some results, but she can try again. She began to lift herself off the chair, and smoothed down the creases on her dress. Klint would be home in a few more days, and by then maybe Barok speak up more if he could hide behind his brother.

‘Ah—’ Barok suddenly blurted out. He was looking at her again, expression still sullen as ever. But his hand, though subtly, had crawled towards the edge of the bed and reached towards her.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

Barok considered her question, putting his knees to his chest. Whatever thoughts he was having, none were apparent in the blank expression he had.

'Is there something you want?'

‘Can you stay longer?’

‘For what?’

His face was scrunched up in a silent plead, several requests locked away by the awkward atmosphere that Liz felt was smothering her too. But he could say one thing. ‘I want you to stay.’

She gently returned to sit, smiling. ‘I love you too, darling Barok,’ she told him. ‘I love you in the same way I always have. Shall we try to carry on now?’

He marvelled at her ability to read his mind (so she hoped, at least) and started to settle more comfortably. ‘Carry on…’ he repeated. ‘Can you read another one?’

‘Of course, I can,’ she said, finding her text story.

3. The Surprising cure

The local advice went as thus: if ill or unwell, head to the corner next to the bakery, go down the road until you smell the roses, and turn right into the clinic. There, you may speak either to the doctor, or if lucky (as in the version told by the town's young ladies), you may speak to his newly employed young apprentice. Despite his lesser experiences, and despite still being quite a young man himself, he had already gained a reputation. Not only for his pretty looks and kind manners, but also his ability to remedy any ailment that he saw.

'I would like to go to a clinic,' Barok muttered.

'Why so?' Liz asked. 'You have a doctor who comes to your home whenever you're sick, do you not?'

'I want to see inside’, he said, folding his legs back up and pushing himself towards the pillows again.

'Ever the curious thing you are,' said Liz. 'Really, Klint must get you out of the house more often. It would do good for you physically as well.'

'Is that why I'm small?' he asked.

'Maybe so.' Though she did recall that she was once taller than Klint. It must be more of a family thing. 'But it's not only that. We should find other children for you to talk to instead of stuffy grown ups.'

'Klint says I might get to go to school soon. When I'm a little older.'

'Has he, now?'

'Yes, but not yet,' Barok said. 'He says I'm not ready for it yet.'

He didn't seem to be in Liz's opinion either. He just seemed so small, so young. Still too innocent. She had no idea how he could handle being alone.

So, of course, one young woman made her way down as soon as she found a bit of trouble. She walked down the street, past the corner next to the bakery, and further along until she could smell the roses. And there, when she entered the clinic, she saw that young apprentice.

'Ahem', said the young woman, arms nestled behind her back as she peered into the doorway. 'Hullo? Excuse me, sir?'

The apprentice turned away from the medicine cabinet, finishing by placing one more bottle in and closing it. 'Oh, hullo', he said. 'What is it that you need me for? Come and have a sit down if you will.'

She stepped forward, putting herself in front of but not inside the room. 'Ah, well, it is kind of unusual. I'm not even sure if you can fix this.'

The apprentice raised an eyebrow. 'Is it serious?'

'Well, no. Not too serious, I suppose.'

'So, a minor injury then? Would you like a bandage?'

The young woman shook her head. 'It's a little more serious than that', she said.

'Then whatever is the matter?' he asked.

'You will promise not to laugh...'

How curious! A serious laughing matter? Whatever could be disturbing her? Still, the apprentice restrained himself and persisted in communicating with her. 'I won't do such a thing,' he said. 'Now, please just tell me what the problem is.'

The young woman frowned but accepted the clause. She stepped forward, entering the apprentice’s domain, and pulled her arms out. There, sitting in her palms, appeared to be a small doll; a gentle-looking thing, with fair hair rolled up into a bun and hands folded on the lap of the green dress. A very detailed creature, but what was most remarkable were its wings—beautiful wings as thin as paper and shimmering the way that the sea would catch the morning light.

The apprentice put his chin in his hands. In the time he had been in this clinic, he had seen many cases of very young children sneaking in with their toys, or sometimes pets, believing they too could be mended in the same way that a human would be. But this woman was no child, she was only perhaps a little younger than he was, and yet had done the same sort of thing.

'What's the matter with your doll?' the apprentice asked.

Gaining more courage, the young woman walked further into the office to give him a closer look. 'She's not a doll', she said. 'I—now, I trust you enough to keep this a secret—she's actually a long time friend of mine. And today, I went to go meet her in my garden and found she had injured herself.'

The doll—the fairy—stood up and curtseyed as greeting, then stood politely, almost shyly, with her hands still folded in front. She was indeed another living creature, not so different from himself and this woman. She breathed, softly like a shy little human, and blinked, like any other green-eyed young woman would. But she had wings which did twitch slightly when the apprentice leaned to inspect her.

'I see', said the apprentice. Certainly, he never had the training to deal with fairies ever before in his life. But seeing that she was closer in form to a human more than a toy or a pet were, he believed that he could at least try his best. 'So, our dear friend, what ails you now?'

The little thing said nothing at first, but soon the fairy blushed and looked away. 'Well, it's—you see—!’ She swallowed her anxiety, but still kept apprehensive. 'I was just flying around as usual, nearby my home, when I had fallen into a bush.'

'Don't be so scared,' said the young woman. 'He would never hurt a soul. Everyone here knows him and we can all put our trust in him. And you needn’t be so embarrassed either. We've all had our own small accidents, after all.'

'Indeed,' the apprentice said. 'I once sprained an ankle myself, when I was still just a boy. I had been walking around in the woods and I had tripped over a branch. It happens often to young people who may forget that they may get injured.'

'Have you ever sprained an ankle before?' Barok asked.

'No, never,' said Liz. 'My father and mother, and the rest of the house, they would have made too much of a fuss if I ever did injure myself. Girls don't usually injure themselves that way and it is only if I were to be doing something I wasn't supposed to.'

'Such as?'

'Playing rough. Only the boys may get to do so.'

'Klint says he won’t play rough with me anymore,' Barok said. 'He says he worries I will get hurt. He hit my head once, remember. Right here.' He pointed over to his forehead, right between the curls of his fringe. 'It hurt, but I only cried a little bit.'

'Yes, I saw you that afternoon,' Liz said. She could still remember the almost tearful, remorseful shaky tone that Klint spoke in as he confessed. It was as if he had gravely injured his brother. She was relieved to find Barok walking in with nothing wrong other than having bright red forehead.

Was it right to fuss over him so much? She understood why Klint did, Barok being the only little brother that he had, and, in all honesty, who would not fuss over him? Looking over him, watching him sit so still and doing nothing but absentmindedly holding a strand of his hair and twirling it with a finger… it was difficult not to feel endeared.

'Do you know what it's like to break a leg?' Barok asked in a low voice.

'I beg your pardon?' said Liz.

He continued to twirl his hair, as his eyes bashfully looked to the bed. 'How loud do you think the crack would be?'

'I beg your pardon?' she repeated.

He lowered his voice even more. 'I think it would be loud when something like that breaks into two. Or, if it was more serious, it would have broken into several pieces I should think.’ He slowly turned to face her. 'Would you feel a difference if that happened?'

'You are making me queasy, little darling', Liz said, leaning her head into her palm. How in the world had he gotten those ideas into his head? A fostered sense of curiosity turned morbid? Surely it was no good for a child to think such things.

In reflecting of her child-caring knowledge, and she would admit that she knew very little, the best course might be to… steer away from it? 'Let's not entertain those questions for now. We—I should think we must finish the story first.

The fairy considered his words, feeling that it was so strange that a man like him could injure himself too. 'I believe it was the bush,' she continued. 'It was a rose bush, you see. It had a lot of thorns and I think I must have cut myself on one. I can't fly so well anymore.'

She pointed to her wing. With a closer look, a very close look indeed, one could observe a small tear. It did not seem too deep, but it had given her enough trouble to seek medical aid.

The apprentice wondered about the fairy's anatomy. There were no traces of blood there, which one would have expected if you had cut a finger on a thorn. Could it possibly bleed from there? And her wings: how could she move them and make herself fly? Perhaps these were strange questions, but knowing more would lead him to the right care.

The young woman, understanding what needed to be done, put the fairy on the the desk and grabbed a chair for herself.

The apprentice did the same, and he faced the fairy with utmost intent. He grabbed a few questions from his mind.

'Does it hurt to move it?' he asked fairy.

'It stings very much so!'

'Is it sensitive to the touch?'

'Indeed it is. And to the cold wind as well.'

'Perhaps what you might need is a bandage to protect it.' The apprentice got up and went behind the desk. This was where he placed the common equipment for when the case was simple. But it was also where he did his other work, and he found that it had became quite messy with papers and pencils and pens and even a pair of scissors scrambled all over it. He brushed the items together and stuffed them into one of the drawers.

There, he quickly acquired the bandage from another one of its compartments. But as he placed it next to the fairy and started unravelling it, he realised that might not have been the best choice.

'Why!' exclaimed the young woman. 'It's just as big as she is.'

'And it looks far too uncomfortable,' the fairy shuddered, bringing a hand around her shoulder. 'I thank you, sir, but I don't believe it could help.'

'No, I completely understand,’ said the apprentice, placing the bandages back. 'Ideally, we must cover the cut somehow, but mayhaps we should try to procure other cures until we find one suitable. What about the wound's cleanliness? Have you cleaned it just yet?'

The fairy shook her head. 'No, I haven't.'

'I took her here as soon as I could,' the young woman muttered. 'I apologise for it now. I was slightly panicked.'

'It's alright,' the apprentice assured. 'For now, we shall use soap and water.'

He went towards the sink, and the young woman brought over the fairy to it. After turning on the tap, he reached over to find the soap. 'Cleanliness is good for wounds,' he advised. 'Dirt and other such things makes it difficult to heal.'

But the fairy looked over to the heavy showers the sink had produced, and the large bar of soap that the apprentice had. She shook her head. 'I don't mean to alarm you again, sir. But I simply think that these items are too large for me as well. I don't mind a few droplets of water, but even gentle rainfall for you humans is too much for me.'

'Oh,' said the apprentice. Putting the soap down, he closed the tap. He watched the water flow wane into smaller droplets plopping down into he sink. 'Yes. That's right. Much too much for you.' He shook his head.

'It hasn't rained in a while,' Barok said.

'No, it hasn't,' Liz said. Yes, she must really find some other children for him to play with—and more often too. He was beginning to converse like an old man. 'Do you like the rain, darling?'

'I think so,' he said. 'I’d like to play in the rain, but neither Klint and the staff allow me. I would catch a cold.'

'And they are quite right for that.'

Barok went quiet again. Liz was about to return to reading when he interjected again. 'But Klint used to play in the rain when he was younger. They didn't mind as much before.'

Thinking back to her own childhood, Liz never had the chance to do so either. Though she always figured that it would have inconvenienced her if she could. Wet dresses and hair, and what to do outside there, anyways? Still, she sort of liked the idea. It was romantic in a way, and she daydreamed of just walking out there and feeling raindrops hit her face and soaking herself.

'If you wish, I could discreetly bring you outside when it rains,' she said.

A slightly widened look from Barok showed his curiosity.

'No one will know,' Liz continued. 'And we can come back seeming nice and dry.'

'We can do that?' he asked.

'Yes. I can allow you because I'm grown up.' She smiled and gave him a small wink.

The boy thought about it, pulling at the edge of the blanket sheets. 'Can we look for the worms?'

'The worms?'

'After it rains, the worms come out of the ground. I think you told me this.'

'Had I?'

'It was a long time ago', Barok said. 'We were sitting in the garden together, you and Klint and I. It was just after it finished raining, and Klint spotted a worm in the grass. And then you told me that.'

It must have been long ago indeed. She could barely remember it. Likely, it must have been in her late girlhood. It was the sort of thing that she would have overheard as a fun fact and the sort of thing that she would have told a little boy.

Liz nodded and gave him another gentle smile. 'Of course we may look for the worms.'

'May I be of help?' the young woman asked. 'I know not much of medicines and cures, but I believe I might be able to find something that could help.'

The apprentice smiled awkwardly. 'She is a bit of an unusual patient, and I do mean little offence'

'I take none,' said the fairy.

'I have just never taken a case such as this before, and I'm at quite a loss. Any help would be very appreciated.'

'Well,' said the young woman, holding her hands behind her back. 'What other sorts of things would you usually do?'

'Other than clean the wound with water, and add a bandage right after, not too much. There are other methods, of course, but I imagine procedures like suturing would not be pleasant, given what we’ve tried.’

'Perhaps not,' said the fairy.

'However...' The apprentice began to pace around the room, not searching for a specific item but perhaps for a new idea. 'Am I correct in saying that there was no blood to clean from your injury?'

The fairy shook her head. 'Well, no! Not at all.'

'And yet it hurts to move it?'

'Absolutely.'

The apprentice had made his way towards the small cabinet. He bent down low, opened it and put his head into it. With a meticulous hand, he rummaged through the items it held inside, hoping that he could find something of use.

'What are you looking for, sir?' said the young woman, following over towards the apprentice. 'Have you got an idea?'

He pulled his head out of it. 'Maybe I should keep trying, despite my earlier failures. There could be something I have missed, for example.'

'Quite wise,' the young woman remarked.

Her eyes went over towards the cabinet, and she crouched down to peer inside it. There was plenty of things inside, mostly strange little bottles and some instruments she couldn’t place a name on.

'How full this little cabinet is!' she said. 'I believe you could find everything one would need in here.'

A flush of red appeared on the apprentice's cheeks. 'Yes, there is quite a lot', he said. 'I am sorry for how unorganised my office is. I get reprimanded quite often, however I can never quite keep it clean.'

Barok suddenly leaped out of bed and ran over to his table. Though it was dark, and one could barely see much away from the small light, it seemed he knew what he was searching for. Soon, he came back and sheepishly presented Liz a small wooden figure.

'What's this?' she asked.

'Balmung,' Barok said. 'I was afraid I might forget where I put him.' He frowned and places his hands behind his back. 'I tend to lose my things. I worried that I would have lost him before I could show you.'

Liz took the figure from his hands and observed it. She recalled telling him, as she was watching him make something else, that he should make another one of Balmung again now that he was a much bigger dog. At the time, he merely mumbled a small 'okay' and went back to his work.

It was much more detailed than his first one, which was made nearly a year ago when Balmung was only a few months old. Its snout was much more defined, and the ears far better shaped. He had even included the collar, with all its small pieces represented in it. And it was even carefully painted too. Barok had certainly grown so much in skill since then, and he will probably continue to get better. If only Klint had just stuck with it—he would probably have a hobby to keep himself entertained.

'It's very cute, darling,' she said, putting it on the bedside table. 'It is very kind of you to make one for me.'

'Do you like it?' Barok asked.

'Why, of course I do.'

Barok slowly climbed back in bed. He tucked himself under the sheets, lifting it and putting his legs underneath, and rested his back against the headboard. Then he turned away and hid himself with his pillow.

'I made it as a present,' he sputtered out. 'A present for you.'

'And I gladly appreciate it, dear,' Liz said.

'Because I think you should get one,' he continued.

'What for?'

Because...' he let his voice trail off and his pillow fall away.

Liz did have an inkling of what he wanted to say, though she thought it was best to let him say it first.

'What for, dear?'

Barok didn't react or, at least, didn't seem to. Something had warmed up inside of him. He looked up to meet her gaze with his gentle blue eyes. 'Because you're my sister-in-law now,' he said. 'Do you mind.'

'Why would I?' she said, barely restraining herself.’

'Do you like it?'

'Of, course I do.’ Liz reached out to pat his hands. 'And if it's possible,' she said. 'Would you make me more of those? I love those sorts of bric-a-bracs and I'd enjoy having them around the room.'

'Okay,' he said.

'Why don't you try something different. Something more challenging? Do you think you could make your big brother?'

'I think I could.'

'Alright then,' she went back to her manuscript and flipped through them. 'Now, where was I?'

The apprentice's face fell into a solemn frown. He sat on the floor and folded his arms over his chest. ‘But even here within my unorganised quarters, I don't see a single thing in here that I could use to help your poor fairy friend.’

The young woman sat next to him. In all the times that she had seen him around in the village, she had never seen him so gloomy. It was then that she realised how young the apprentice actually was. Sure, he was much older and much more experienced, but she had seen that look of disappointment in her faces of her friends and even herself. He was human too, after all.

'You shouldn't worry, sir,' she said. 'You are very bright and talented, as the folks in the village say. We see you work so hard to care for us. But it's only natural to struggle and find problems you can't fix.'

The apprentice looked at her, and smiled at her words. 'I suppose you are right.'

'And of course you would find trouble with something so unfamiliar as torn wings,' the young woman continued. 'One cannot expect to know from first glance how to proceed.’

‘You are right. I’ve never even seen a fairy before.’

'And I can understand. When we first met, we had quite a bit of trouble as well. Whatever she had was too small, but what I had was too big. But we managed to find some balance in between there.’ The young woman looked back at the desk, where the fairy had been sitting. 'There was this small incident we had with a toy, for example. It was the bear toy, wasn’t it, dear?'

But she wasn't there.

The young woman walked towards the dress, followed by the apprentice. The fairy wasn’t on top of it anymore; she had opened one of the drawers to jump into and dig through the contents. Her hands pulled on pair of scissors, pulling it’s handles out of the pile.’

'What are you doing?' asked the young woman.

The fairy looked up and waved. 'Well, you see, I figured the bandages were not such a bad idea. I had a good feel of them but they didn't seem as itchy as I thought they looked.'

'I sure hope they aren't,' remarked the apprentice. 'But you wouldn't be able to put them on.'

'That's what I was thinking as well,' said the fairy. 'But, I feel, in our quest to find the right way to do it, we had missed something so obvious.'

She unearthed the scissors from the pile, and asked the young woman to display it on the desk. It was a plain, unremarkable little thing with no significant feature to speak of—other than the fact that it was a pair of scissors.

'Why, of course! Of course!' the apprentice said. He laughed and took them into his hand. 'I was so caught up in my thoughts that I had completely forgotten about it!'

The young woman began to laugh too. 'We could have just trimmed the bandage all long!'

And so, the apprentice cut a piece of the bandage, making sure that it was thin and small enough to be wrapped along the fairy's wing. Despite the accuracy needed, it only took seconds and only seconds more to place it where it needed to be.

The fairy marvelled at how quick the work had been. She slowly hinged her wing back and forth, observing how different it felt. 'Nearly painless,' she remarked. 'I thank you very much, dear doctor.'

'You're welcome,' the apprentice said, putting his hands in his pockets. 'I am glad that I could meet, and eventually treat, a person such as yourself.'

The young woman pulled a seat closer, and held an arm out to let the fairy jump back into her hands. They sat politely together and watched the apprentice.

‘Ah… are you not leaving?’ he asked.

'Do you, perhaps, have some time on your hands?' asked the young woman?

'Well, I will be busy all day really. Why do you ask?'

The fairy and the young woman looked at each other, no determinacy lost in their expressions. The two whispered something the apprentice couldn’t catch, and giggled.

‘I was thinking that it would be nice if we could have tea one day,’ said the fairy. ‘You seem very nice, and we would love to get more friendly with you!’

‘Would you be free some time soon?’ asked the young woman.

The apprentice thought for a moment. This short time they had spent together… it had been pleasant. ‘Sunday. Sunday afternoon, if that suits you.’

The Sister

Barok crossed his arms, tucking his chin towards the chest with his eyes closed. Liz thought that it was his attempt, however ineffective, to keep himself awake. It would only be natural, seeing how late it had gotten. Though it was a shame they couldn't finish the last one.

She almost got up when his gaze landed on her.

'Who are you writing these for?' he asked.

She stayed where she was.

Barok pointed over to the manuscript. 'You don't usually write fairy stories. Usually you write about dramas and about the nobles and the gentry classes.'

How shrewd! It seemed her lessons in eavesdropping and overhearing had been well-received if he had managed to gather that without ever reading them.

'They are for you, darling,' she said. 'A sample of bedtime stories for little Barok van Zieks. Though they are still in progress, I feel.'

'I thought you said that you were experimenting; trying to figure something out,' he said. 'It was earlier, before I got into bed. You said that you wanted to try something different.'

'Oh,' she said. 'It's also a personal project of sorts, as you’ve gleaned. I've never tried writing for children so I thought to write a few pieces to see how it feels. And it just so happened to know someone to read to.'

The answer seemed satisfactory—she had little else to say. But the boy had such a concentrated look on his face and a mind speedily composing a question. She could not ask him to sleep.

'Do you...' he began.

'Yes?' she said. 'What is it?'

'I have to ask.' He breathed sharply, and a flash of worry came on his face. 'Are you and Klint going to have a baby soon?'

She nearly fell out of her chair.

Seeing her expression, Barok tried to backtrack. 'I—it's just that—I apologise.’ He bowed his head and frowned. 'I was only wondering...'

Liz tried to quickly regain her composure, though her voice still showed her surprise. 'N-not any time soon at least!' she said. 'Not now, of course. We're still a bit young for that. But perhaps a few years on, when we've grown up a little more, we may start to think about it.' She lowered her voice. 'Why do you ask?'

Barok shook his head. 'No reason in particular,' he said. 'We can finish the last story if you like.'

But clearly, clearly, clearly, he had something else on his mind. It was clear in the way that his eyes drifting off to somewhere else; clear in the way that he was attempting to stop the conversation and move on.

Out of some small whim (that urged her to tease), Liz nudged the chair close enough to whisper in his ear. ‘Would you like a little sibling?’ she grinned.

'What?' he asked.

She giggled. 'A little sibling.'

'Sibling?'

'I suppose it would be more correct to say niece or nephew,' Liz said. 'If we had a baby now, they would be like a little sibling to you. You're about as old as Klint was when you were born, you know?'

Barok silently regarded her words. Though it was strange to think about for her as well; ten years ago she was a child who had never thought of growing up. She would never have thought of growing old enough to become a parent.

'A little brother or sister would be nice,' Barok said. 'I would be the big brother, for once.'

'Yes. That's right,' Liz said, trying to relax into the chair. 'Do you believe that would be nice?'

'I think so.'

'Why's that?'

'Because…’ He paused, searching for his answer before giving it. ‘Because then I would be the older and wiser one, for once.’

'I think you would be a great big brother, or I suppose uncle, one day,’ she said. 'You're going to grow up to be a fine young man, I believe.'

‘Like Klint?’

‘Just like him.’

Barok had barely, nearly grinned. Of course, she knew that the mere mention of his dear brother would appease him—and she was glad that it did. But she was being truthful in her assessment. When she into the future, imagining what a Barok her age would look like, she saw a man like his brother. Though not exactly (Klint would hate such a thing). Someone more hopeful: his altruistic heart still untainted by this mad world. Someone she could come to regard highly.

However, she had always admired the boy in front of her, snuggled up in a warm night shirt and large comfortable duvet. He was a strange, bright little boy—but perhaps that was what she needed from him.

‘Um…’ Barok softly said.

‘Do you have another question for me?’ she said.

‘No, it’s…’ He hesitated, hesitated for a long while. He had almost given up, nearly leaving it unsaid, but he chose to speak up once more. ‘I… I think you would be a good mother. You’re very good to me… and you’re already a good big sister to me as well.’

She hadn't realised it, but she had been wrapping a strand of her hair around her index finger. His words stopped her.

She jumped on the bed to hug him.

'Oo-ooh, you're the sweetest little darling in the world!' Liz cooed, smothering him. 'I am so very glad you said that. Lord knows I couldn't have asked for a better little brother!'

When she finally dropped him, Barok was wincing, feeling disgruntled from that attack. She hadn't that in a long while and it probably made it ever more insufferable to endure without preparation. Though, like now, he never expressed that he disliked it.

He patiently sat, having been tackled onto her lap, while she wondered out loud. 'I should think that we would like to have a child for ourselves one day.' A finger went to her cheek as she sighed. 'I think, eventually, we would have a son or a daughter who we would love.'

'Which… would you prefer?' Barok asked.

'Daughter, I think. I would like a daughter. And we would raise her well, letting her grow into a virtuous and intelligent little lady.' Liz put her hands around his body, and pulled him closer. 'And then you will go and play with her and teach her some things yourself. But of course, by then you will be much older and you would be teaching her things you wouldn't know now.'

'Are you teaching me things like that?'

'I think so. I know much more than I did when I was ten.'

'What didn't you know?'

'Many things,' she said. 'Once you reach the age I am now, you will know what I mean.'

Curiosity piqued in Barok's eyes. 'Once I reach...?'

'You will be in my place,' Liz said. 'You might end up sitting by the bed, watching someone younger sitting there, and you will think 'Oh, so that was what she meant'—or something else along those lines.'

He nodded his head slowly, though she was sure he did not comprehend it fully. Whatever the case, he would at least remember parts of her word to him.

'I'll read you one last story, if you will be awake enough for it.' Liz let him go, coming back to the chair and her manuscript once more. She opened to its final pages. 'I feel it's a bit long, but I'm sure you will enjoy it. This is about a ghost.'

4. A house—and all that lived in it

Warm, golden arms patted the moor, reminding the earth of the coming night. It was almost time for the squirrels to curl up and for the flowers to close their petals and for children to return from their play. It was near time for those children to have their supper, say their prayers and rest in their beds. But not her. She hadn't slept or ate or played in years. Hadn't needed to.

And there wasn’t much the house’s resident could do— other than gaze outside. Again, for the fourth (or fifth?) time that afternoon, she passed through the western walls and tended to a different window. More dust was cluttered on the sill and the cobwebs hung mostly from the left corner of the frame instead of the right. This was her favourite window.

She stood (if you could call it standing) and observed. The glass offered the best view of the garden. Maybe once, some stretch of time ago, flowers of every hue and scent bloomed in the garden while young ladies gathered to sip their tea and converse. The path, untouched by wild grasses and abandoned leaves, could walk them back through the door in time for their dinner.

'This one is different,' said Barok, crossing his arms again. ‘It doesn’t sound like a fairytale.’

Liz frowned. 'You're very perceptive,' she said. 'There was another one with a ghost somewhere. It must still be at my desk.'

'Is it possible to misplace a story like that?'

'Very much. You know, I lose my things quite often too.' She sighed. 'I will go and get it. It would only take a few moments.'

'Isn’t it alright to continue?' Barok asked. 'It's not as if it's unreadable, isn't it?'

'I suppose not,' she said. 'But still—'

'I can never read your other ones,' he pouted. 'But I'm quite grown up now.'

'Ah, yes.' She nodded at a careful speed. 'You very much are.'

'And I will have my birthday soon, too.' He sunk into the pillow behind him, the headboard supporting his back as he began to happily consider what an (extraordinarily mature) eleven-year old boy could gain in life.

She was getting older too. Damn it, she was already twenty years old, twenty-one a few months after Barok’s birthday. What could twenty-one bequeath her that twenty had not already consigned to her? And what of twenty-two and twenty-three and all their successive years?

Barok, still contemplating each of his future endeavours, had tucked himself into the duvet. His breath started to slow and deepen.

She continued to read.

The rotting fences invited in occasional visitors: the moor’s hedgehogs, badgers, deer, sometimes a braving pony. Nothing more than creatures of curious temperaments investigating a man-made land. But, on that afternoon, the fence had allowed in two humans.

They might have been children—she only had the vague knowledge to guess and she couldn’t feel that it was right to call them adults. The bigger of the two came in first, holding his flat cap as he pushed the wood aside and crawled under. He held it up for the following child, a smaller one who pulled her dress through the gaps.

They stumbled like strange newborn deer, walking on grounds which hadn't been trodden on for years. The child with the cap picked a fallen branch (one which had long adorned the grass-covered path under it), and swung it at the smaller child. She flinched and fell onto a patch of weeds that had grown quite pretty over the past months. How dared she. Those were her favourite weeds. And to laugh so feverishly while doing so…

Yet the the naive hedges, longing for purpose, guided them further and lead them to a pair of chairs. Wrought iron, dressed in with french curls, rusted and fallen by a dry fountain. The bigger child climbed into it’s empty basin, and gripped onto the broken tiers. He said something to the smaller child, who paid more attention to the chairs instead.

She crouched by one of them and seized its armrest. Then, she stood, forcing the chair upright.

But the resident liked it fallen down! Had they not that it retired? Dreaming of long enviable dreams? And now these intruders had woken it! Forced to observe the unchanging days and while it could do nothing but sit there. Had the girl not realised what she had done?

'Hmm.' Liz paused, placing her chin in her hand. 'No. This is quite similar.'

'What do you mean?' Barok asked.

'The one I wrote for you was sort of like this. It might be why I misplaced it.'

'There was a ghost too?'

'But slightly more curious than incredulous ,' she told him. She thumbed back and forth between the pages. 'Actually, it was an old draft of it. I didn't like it before, so I thought I could have an attempt at re-using parts of it.'

'Did you like some of it then?' he asked.

'I liked that that it was about the ghost in the house.'

Barok nodded thoughtfully. 'Usually it's about the people seeing the ghost in the house.'

‘The haunting, rather than the haunted,’ she said. ‘About what still lives in the house when everyone else has left.’

The boy cried out again, and his finger following the guidance of a tiled path. Now they had spotted that useless door; a way into the house.

The house’s resident was never fond of it—she could not go out, of course—though it always tantalised her, like eve and her apple. If she could pass through it, put a foot on grass, she could run out into the garden as these children had. She could not prevent herself from ruining it as they were.

And now a new worry presented itself: that such things could come in and ruin the rest of this house!

She dived through the floor and peered out the window. They were still far from the door, still discussing among themselves about what they should do next. But soon they will run towards the house, where no wardens or protectors would stop them.

Though an intangible creature, the resident still had some powers.

While her fingers went through cupboards, and her hands passed through abandoned glasses, and she could never sit on chairs, she had found she still could move them. Though it required great attention and powerful strain, most objects shifted under her influence.

She met with a small, wooden chair and felt the push in her mind; she felt hands on the ornaments and how her fingers curled to grip it. It must chill her fingertips, seeing how the ceiling’s leak had showered it. It was with these feelings that she pushed.

She could not let those people in!

The chair came to protect the door. Though those children might later overcome the guard, it’s resistance would keep them away for now.

Though she had no body to exhaust, such actions made her weary and forced her to rest. Normally, she wouldn't have done anything so drastic as that. Even the mere act of curiously taking a tea cup would exhaust her. But an object as large as a chair should make her succumb for days.

The resident felt satisfied with the effort. Perhaps such discouragement may bore of this house and leave her alone for good. And never more would she have to worry about things being destroyed or changed.

She closed her eyes.

Resting. The resident rarely considered it, having no need to for. But, sometimes, when nothing else could preoccupy her, she would close her eyes and step in time’s meandering torrent. In that darkness she could float down the stream for near an eternity—until she opened her eyes to a house of new dust, new mould and rodents.

But otherwise she rested in the nothing. Nothing to feel and nothing to see. There, the only image in her mind was that of this pool, the submersion and the feeling of heaviness.

Barok yawned. It was a large and obvious yawn which had no hope of being covered by a hand. But, even with his failed attempt aside, the drowsiness of his eyes would have betrayed him.

'Would you like to go to bed?' Liz asked him. 'We’re quite past your bedtime now.’

Barok shook his head. 'No,' he said, hiding the fatigue in his voice. 'I want you to finish it.'

'Is it so intriguing? I don't believe it's close to being finished.'

'I want to know how it ends.'

'You want to know its ending?' Liz asked carefully. 'Is that what you so desperately want to know? Or is it not merely the fact that you weren’t supposed to read this?'

Barok shifted and turned his gaze away. 'Yes. I just want to know,' he said. 'About how it ends.'

With newly opened eyes, she saw that the plants had grown. Their placement sprouted more erratically, and nearby leaves scattered sporadically. There had been a storm, it seems. The chair she worried about had fell back on its side. The children had disappeared.

She unwound. Now, she may do as she pleased once more. Roam the house, seeing all that was unchanged in her absence.

Going inwards, in the walls, she could meet again the drawing room. There laid her favourite carpet which could not keep the rotting floor hidden anymore. A lovely thing, once red, flourished with yellow curves that rose and plunged at various angles. Perhaps a favourite of whoever had lived here before?

She was glad she could not touch—she would ruin it if she could. But she grateful to gaze. Sometimes, she could stay right in front of it and observe how it looked under different sunrises and moonlights.

One of the curtains had fallen. Though, the other had decayed, ripped and frayed for a busy company of light in day. She could easily look outside from here, and often, in better circumstances, she did peacefully, expecting nothing to catch her eye.

'Do you think ghosts would like to look out my window?' Barok asked. He looked over to the curtain where moonlight seemed under.

'Do you like it?' Liz asked him. 'But there's not much to look at, is there?'

He shook his head. 'Not so much,' he said. 'But I think it's nice when it's dark.'

'Why so?'

Barok got up and brought her over, sliding the curtains open and pointing out. Outside, the stars alone lettered the sky while the front yard and the gate glowed in blue moonlight. It was the same view she saw in Klint’s bedroom.

'You used to pick me up so I could see better,' Barok said, putting his hands on the sill. 'And then you would look out and say that there's nothing much to see there.'

'And there really is nothing,' Liz said. ‘But it is pleasant.’

'Do you believe ghosts would like it?'

'Perhaps they would. However, ghosts prefer objects with many memories imbued within.’

'Such as paintings? Like the one of mother and father?' asked Barok. 'Then, they would like large houses, correct?'

'Big houses do house many memories,' Liz agreed. 'There must be many ghosts residing here.’

Barok closed the curtains. 'Including my room?'

'Of course,' she nodded. As if bowing to it, she gestured across from corner to corner. 'In all the rooms in your home.'

'Our home," Barok corrected. 'It’s yours as well.'

Liz frowned. 'Yes... I will have to get used to saying that.'

Barok scurried to the chair, picking the last sheets of paper that she left there. Here returned and presented them to her. The moonlight illuminated the words, and the intention he held on his face.

'You should read to the ghosts in this room,' Barok said.

She accepted the papers into her hands. 'What for?'

'So you can get used to talking to them.'

Liz tried not to raise an eyebrow. ‘Do you talk to ghosts?'

'I would like to, I think,' he said. 'It'd be nice to know what they think.'

'I see.'

'But I digress,' Barok continued. He put his hands behind his back, and looked over towards the floor. 'You should read to them. You will familiarise yourself with them—and soon you should think of them as the ghosts who live in your house.'

It was times such as these that he really did seem like a child. But his argument had it’s logic. Talk to the house’s ghosts so much you should believe you share a home. And thus: this must become your home in your mind. Whatever logic it was, she should try to humour him.

'If you wish, I will read to your ghosts,' Liz said.

'Our ghosts,' said Barok.

She sat down in front of him, crossing her legs and sitting the paper on her lap. 'I'll read to our ghosts over here, if you would move the candlelight closer,' she said.

The resident looked over into the garden. There, nothing seemed out of place. No wheelbarrows moved and no strange shadows stalked in the untamed weeds. No birds, no squirrels, no rodents. No wind.

Her anxiety quelled. There was no one there, no one who would intrude into the house and disturb what they shouldn’t. No one to change the house’s ways or put her in disarray.

There was the rattle of a door.

She rushed to the sound, fearing the worst. Those children could not conceive what catastrophe they would permit; to open a door, any door outside the house, was to destroy her life and she wanted to confine that life here. This was all she had.

Downstairs, she sought the sounds. No, this was not from the garden’s little door in the back. It was somewhere else. That grand door. That foyer.

She quickly went there, expecting it to be filled by the outside's cold air, and unwanted sunlight and visitors. But there had been nothing more than a plain door, and an empty room. No children.

The words had finished there. After it was an expanse of blankness, not a single character more of the story. 'Ah, I never did quite finish this,' Liz said. ‘I couldn’t figure out the ending.’

‘Did you have one in mind?’ Barok asked. ‘You might be able to continue on with that.’

She hesitated. ‘No. See, I wasn’t fond of it’s original ending, or much of how it was going. I came up with a few iterations in my head but none had worked. And thus: scrapped and begun from the start.’

‘Oh.’ Barok’s eyes were still half-open, half-facing her with part disappointment. She was going to leave him sleeping without a satisfying conclusion, after all. ‘That’s alright.’

But Liz remained sitting, knowing that something must be done about it. 'Would it be alright if I veered off from the story? Changed it slightly?' Liz said. 'I only gave up because I was stuck. But… what should I do then?'

Barok blinked thoughtfully. 'Have the children in,' he said. 'It would interesting to continue with them.'

'Yes. I do think you're right. But from what point?’

‘Perhaps they got inside after all. She didn’t stop them. She only thought she did.’

‘Ah’, Liz agreed. She dropped the papers to the carpet, and looked up to the walls. ‘Yes. She wakes, and she finds nothing there. But the children had made their way into the house without her awareness.’

‘And they were inside,’ Barok continued. ‘And then she finds their trails in the house. The things that they’ve done to it.’

‘Footsteps, smattered all over the floor. Leading, leading, leading. Tracking what change they’ve stamped into the halls and newly opened. Noises. Opened drawers which shouldn’t have been opened.’

‘And maybe she finds them after she follows the footsteps. And she sees them doing things that makes her angry.’

‘And she could do nothing but to watch and listen—all while they disturbed the undisturbing. Watching them wander through the halls, pointing at places where the wallpaper had since peeled, and where the carpet had been worn down and where the floors had chipped. Skipping in and out of doorways, dancing in the dust rising from it. Mocking the emptiness…’

‘Emptiness?’

‘The emptiness…of…’ Liz stopped. She returned her look to Barok. His eyes were completely fixated on her. ‘Do you see that? I’m struggling again. The emptiness of what?’

‘Of the rooms?’ Barok suggested. ‘Is this how you always write? Starting and stopping like that.’

‘A common experience for the author. You would understand if you wrote.’

‘Should I?’

‘Only if you wish to.’ Liz said. ‘But, anyways, the children… mocking the emptiness that lay within the rooms. And then running up and down the broken staircase. She saw these, unable to say or utter a single cry.’

‘And then she follows them up into the upper halls.’

‘Where they continued, scrambling over the broken vases and portraits and ruined floors.’

‘They kept opening the doors. And even some of the windows. The house…um’ Barok paused, looking around his room for the next word. ‘Was lighter and brighter.’

‘As if the air had finally began circulate again.’

‘And the children hadn’t cared.’

‘They hadn’t even noticed how the house reacted. To them, it was as dead as it always was. They relished in traversing the—’

‘Corpse.’ Barok giggled.

‘Please stop giving me chills, darling,’ she said. ‘Who in the world, or what, gives you such ideas to speak.’ She covered her mouth as she spoke, nearly laughing at her own words as she heard them. ‘Ah, it must have been me, wasn’t it?’

‘Do you not remember your ghost stories?’

‘No it’s only—you are—you could have only been a toddler; I was only a child when I told you such things. You couldn’t have remembered.’ She stopped herself again. Another distraction of the memory. ‘Let’s continue again, shall we? Where did the children go?’

‘The… a bedroom.’

‘A bedroom…’ Liz contemplated for a few moments. ‘Yes. A bedroom. They had scurried into the heart of the house. The one room the resident had never dared to disturb. Something about the air there, about the feelings spurned around it.’

Barok nudged himself closer, captivated. ‘What was inside?’

‘The resident watched them open that final door. They strolled inside, unaware of how much the bedroom tried to push everything out; how determined it was to guard the fabric. A sheet.’

‘With a bear on it?’

Liz had to stop for a second. ‘A bear?’ she sputtered out. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘Klint said you like bears. He said you always put them in your writing.’ Barok yawned. ‘May we continue now? I think we’re almost finished.’

‘You’ve interrupted me, little darling,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘And honestly, I do not use them all that much. Perhaps only three times.’

‘Do you like them?’

‘Well, I do. They are fascinating creatures, to me.’

‘Are they your favourite?’ Barok said, half, maybe three-quarters asleep.

‘I—oh, I will just concede for now since we must finish soon,’ she said. ‘Yes, just for you, little darling, there is a bear on the sheet...’

The sheet hung on the wall. It’s only purpose, it’s devoted purpose, to obscure.

The two children looked excitedly at it. One took a corner in hand.

Fear tugged at the resident’s heart. To reveal what was there, to know what was underneath, would change her forever. But all she could do was stay there, hidden before the door and pray. Stop it. Stop it now. You don't know what you're doing. You can't do that. Not here. Not in my house.

They pulled the sheet off.

The resident at the object once hidden. A portrait, with pale skin, and the gentle uplifted lips. Those eyes that had once known where she belonged. It was this picture that made her think 'That's me…'

‘And then what?’ Barok asked her. 'How does it end?’

It was then that she knew that she belonged in the house, that she would be part of her beloved home no matter how much it would change. And at last, she could close her eyes, and feel herself drift off into eternal sleep.

The Girl's Good Night

Iris blinked the sleep away. Somehow, she managed to make van Zieks read all four of them in the end. It was much, much later than her previously established bedtime. But still she fought herself to stay awake; there were still a few things to be said and, after all, it wouldn't do good to fall asleep on the floor either.

'It's quite a strange story,' she said, barely keeping a yawn in. 'It feels almost as if she stopped halfway and then stuck something else at the end. Doesn’t it?'

But van Zieks was looking at the window they had just uncurtained. The pale light casting his face made him look so distant, like a dream you had just woken up from. The small taps of his finger on his knee, however, affirmed that he was not just a ghost.

'Do you know anything about that, Zieksy?' Iris asked.

Van Zieks looked away from the window and frowned. 'Again, I fail to remember anything of it. Though, I feel she that she did mention an unfinished draft...' he muttered. The finger taps stopped to rest. 'I do hope that Mr Sholmes doesn't mind you being awake this late.'

'He won't be,' she said, pulling the corners of her mouth into a heavy smile. 'Hurley can't scold me about it—not until he stops doing all those all-nighters himself!'

Van Zieks almost chuckled. He granted her a hand and together they stood up from where they had sat.

'She used to let me sleep late, your mother,' van Zieks said. 'Klint could argue, but she would be too preoccupied by her own late sleep to listen to him.'

He led her to the bed, watching as she tucked herself in. Iris felt so many questions and thoughts were begging to be said, but she found that very little of her words could come out now.

'If you would like, I could perhaps peruse through more of the library to see if there are any more of her works there,' van Zieks said in her place. 'I'm sure she must have left more somewhere.'

'I'd gladly help,' Iris managed to say, despite the blanket being so comfy, and the pillow being so soft. 'After breakfast, if you're not busy.'

'I don't believe I have much work to do,' said van Zieks. 'So I should think we could spend some time searching in the morning.'

'That's wonderful,' she said, letting her uncle bring her dolls closer to her. Who knows what sort of things they might find in there? And what sorts of they might talk about after? She felt that she learnt so much already, from the bits and pieces that he had said to her. 'Goodnight, Zieksy.'

Van Zieks moved to the candlelight. He paused at the flickering flames, then at Iris who could now barely keep her eyes open. Though, she managed to look into his gaze briefly before he quickly extinguished it and retreated to the door.

She wondered if he had seen something, recalled some vague memory that had just returned. There was an expression there she couldn’t quite get—but she had a quiet guess.

With the light of the halls illuminating him, van Zieks turned around to address her again. 'If that's all, I shall bid you goodnight for now.' Even then, Iris could see him curtsey as he said that. 'Sleep well, Miss Iris.'

He closed the door. She hoped he had heard her wish him goodnight as she closed her eyes.