A Wee Literary Interlude

     Well, hallo there! 

    Before we delve into the wonder-that-is-the-Tolkien Blog Party, I’ve decided to try something new.

    Over the course of—I don’t know, some time, I’m going to be posting sections of a (currently untitled) short story as I write it in three or four parts. Depending on how it’s received here and what I end up deciding to do with it, my goal is to get it published! 

    I will be out of town without any access to the internet for the next week, though, so this is all the story you’ll get ‘till I’m back. Sorry in advance for the cliffhanger.

    What? Cliffhanger? I didn’t say anything about a cliffhanger. How could you possibly think that of me?

    …right.

    Anyhow, here’s the first bit. I’d appreciate any constructive criticism, as usual ;)

——

            It’s raining when he comes for the first time. Big, fat droplets that crawl down the windows like spiders. So naturally the first time he knocks, I can’t hear.

(Angel does. She flees to the basement, whimpering. Storms and strange men and one exhausted human are too much for a poor dog to handle.)

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. Was it just my imagination, or is someone at the door?

The knock comes again, louder. I amble my way to the door, clutching my mug of hot chocolate for security. (Since my dog so rudely left me.) Whoever can’t handle me in pyjamas armed with a piping hot pint of sugar has no right to be pounding on my door at ten thirty at night in a blithering thunderstorm.

I hold my breath as I pull open the door, just an inch. A strange voice greets me, low, with a thick accent. I can’t tell if it’s Spanish or French.

“You are Isobel Langford?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” I manage, somehow suppressing my shock. 

I should close the door. Close the door, Isobel. 

But my body refuses to obey. Instead I stand there gaping at this strange man who has yet to explain his reason for interrupting my previously peaceful night.

“William Batiste, at your service.” He bows politely. Is he mocking me?

I blink rapidly, wondering if I’ve somehow fallen asleep and this is all a bizarre dream. 

I know that name. 

But the cold rain pelting onto my bare feet jolts me to reality and I know with utter certainty that something’s wrong. 

“Right,” I drawl, voice dripping with sarcasm, “and I’m the Queen of England. Who are you really?”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty,” he snarks back, white teeth flashing against the dark. So he’s got a sense of humour, whoever he is. 

(He used to, too.)

“I have told you the entire truth, Isobel—”

“Miss Langford, if you please,” I interject. “Until you prove you are who you claim to be.”

For response he steps into the light and pulls back his hood.

I know those eyes. That face. 

Shock overcomes me and I feel myself falling. No, no, no, Isobel you fool, you’re not about to faint just because there’s an identical twin to a dead man on your doorstep—

But he’s got the same name, too.

The last thing I hear is the crash of my hot-chocolate mug against the floor.

——

    Remember that cliffhanger I mentioned? Yeah, that.

    Thanks for reading! 

    Soli Deo Gloria,

    Astrya