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 Copyright © 2022 By MJ Colgan and AC Lawlor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
For information contact: dreamindiepublishing@gmail.com
Cover design by Diana TC, www.triumphcover.com.
ISBN: 978-1-9168972-5-0 (paperback)
FOR OUR WONDERFUL PARENTS… Just kidding! Parents; if you are
reading this, please stop. Like seriously.
For the spicy book whores at Cliterature book group; who love
their FMC’s badass and their MC’s growly with a side of damaged,
spread those pages baby…
Map of Dezrothia
Trigger Warning: This story contains content that might be troubling
to some readers, including, but not limited to, depictions of abusive
relationships, alcohol use, mentions of child abuse, mentioned child
birth, physical & mental abuse, sexually explicit scenes and graphic
violence. Please be mindful of these, and other, possible triggers.
 Thank you to our incredible team of alphas, betas and editors;
Kalynn, Rhiannon, Ruchna, Kendra, Kate, Maryann, Jessi, Alexandra,
Kerstin and Kelly. We love and appreciate you more than you will
ever know and can’t thank you enough for being with us from day
one of our author journey.
I reached into my bag, pulling out the almost empty flask for a quick
sip of water, sweat trickling down my spine as I took a moment to
catch my breath. Nix turned to, no doubt, tease me for falling behind
again, but before he got a chance to open his mouth, he stumbled
over a damp tree root concealed by the dewy leaves blanketing the
forest floor.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head at his clumsiness. “For
someone who has grown up here, you should know better than to
take your eyes off the track.”
“If you could just keep up then I wouldn’t need to keep looking
back to see where you are,” he taunted back.
 “It’s not my fault your legs are so long. I have to damn near run
to keep pace with you. We are making good time anyway. At this
rate we will have hours to spare.”
We’d left before sunrise to collect supplies in preparation for
relocating camp tomorrow. We have lived in our current patch of the
Fading Vale for a while now, and risked being found by the King's
horde if we stayed in one place for any real length of time.
“It’s been so long since we’ve had a chance to venture out to one
of the villages though, I just want to get there,” he grumbled,
running a hand through his curly shoulder length hair. “Besides, I
heard Dorgoil has a tavern!”
The closest village to our current camp in the Vale was Dorgoil,
home of the gnomes. It was only a six-hour hike, but it was mostly
uphill and we were running on very little sleep as it was. Clearly, I
was more affected than Nix as he was bouncing from foot to foot,
waiting for me to get moving again.
“I get it, I’m excited too. But if you fall over and break something
in your impatience, it will only take us longer waiting for you to
heal,” I chastised, holding out the water to him for a swig before
swinging my backpack back on.
Tightening the straps, I trundled forward, making sure to avoid
the moss-covered trees rising out of the earth around us, while Nix
walked at my side.
“Fair point. But you're hardly one to talk. Your parents told me
what happened when you went to Pinefall, remember. Someone got
a bit too excited to meet the pixies and–”
 “Stop,” I whined jokingly. “If I never have to visit that place again,
it will be too soon.” A grin pulled at his lips, but he quickly covered it
up by running a thumb down his bearded jawline. His facial hair was
as unkempt as the waves on his head, but he didn’t like to use the
few blades we had on preening himself, which was understandable.
The scruff covering his chin, upper lip and jaw suited him though,
dampening the baby faced look he sported without it.
Being older than Nix by a few years, I had been able to join my
parents on these trips a time or two before he could. But this was
still only my seventh village trip.
Whenever we packed up and moved to another area of the
somber, unforgiving forest, we were always sure to find somewhere
we had never stayed before in order to better evade detection. We’d
do this every few months or so, meaning opportunities to step out of
the Fading Vale were few and far between. So, for me to say I never
wanted to return to Pinefall again told him how serious I was about
my trauma over the whole ordeal.
Nix was like an annoying little brother, but it only made me love
him more. I had been the only child in our little community until
Nixen had come along as a happy accident when I was four. We
became inseparable from that point forward. Thank the fates that
accidents still happened, even with a resident witch to deal with
contraceptive potions.
I felt a playful shove at my side and followed Nix’s gaze up from
the dense undergrowth. I had been too busy navigating to see the
glimpse of patchy blue sky and sunlight peeking through the tree
canopy. We were almost there.
 “My eyes! My eyes!” Nix joked as he always did when we finally
broke out of the thick canopy covering the forest we called home.
As we made it to the path that would lead us into the village of
Dorgoil, I breathed in the scents of flowers and freshly harvested
crops that were a welcome change to the tree sap and earthy
fungus we were used to.
I glanced over at Nix and saw that he was doing the same, his
nose high in the fresh air. The excited energy coming from him was
infectious, and I too was elated to be out of the Fading Vale for the
first time in what felt like forever.
Whenever the Rebel Alliance leaders determined it was time to
move camp again, we begged our parents to let us be the ones to
go on the supply runs, desperate for a change of scenery from the
moss-covered trees, threadbare tents and dimly lit campfires.
They refused at first, but eventually agreed that once we had
come of age, and therefore entered immortality at twenty-five, we
could.
It was understandable. They wanted to shelter us from those who
wished us dead, or worse, extinct. Even once immortal, we weren’t
invulnerable and could still be killed. It was just a lot harder now
with our bodies’ natural healing abilities.
Honestly, I think the only reason they truly allowed it, even now, is
that they are riddled with guilt for bringing us into a world where we
will spend our lifetimes on the run, just for existing.
As we approached Dorgoil, I took in the sights of the village. Lush
rolling fields and well-tended farmland were flooded with sunlight,
creating a tranquil feel I couldn’t wait to make the most of. But as
we crept closer, you could see the individual homes and community
buildings were made up of sticks and twigs barely clinging together,
likely the only materials available since the King had exiled them so
far from the city.
When King Regis had taken the throne nearly four hundred years
ago, he separated the races with his new Lore. He banished the
gnomes to the edge of the kingdom, along with many other species
he deemed unsavory or ranked low in combat skills, like the
brownies and pixies. He wanted to be surrounded by the strongest
beings, but not so strong that he couldn't control them. What a
coward.
What gnomes lacked in strength, they made up for with their
incredible farming abilities, enhanced by their affinity for earth
magic. The King knew and exploited this. He took ninety percent of
their harvest as a tax for living in his realm, leaving them with barely
enough to feed their own people. He and his Court had so much
more than they needed. It would rot and go to waste before it could
even come close to being consumed.
I looked at Nix and sighed. “Regardless of the poverty and
segregation here, I would still trade our life of fear in the Fading Vale
for this relative peace,” I mused, taking a moment to dream.
“Or better yet, a life in the capital where we would have wealth
and freedom. One day, Eva, we will have that,” he said, as if it
wasn’t a pipedream. “One day, when the King is no more and we are
free to be ourselves. We will find a nice place to settle, have families
and give them a life filled with making only happy memories.” He
had such conviction in his voice that I almost believed him.
 The royal family were high fae. Though I had only ever read and
heard rumors about them, I knew enough to have decided they
were a stuck up, entitled and conceited race. They wouldn’t survive
a day fending for themselves in the outer villages of the kingdom, let
alone the Vale.
The little I knew of Ezerat itself, the capital of Dezrothia, came
from the books I had managed to collect over the years on trips like
this. It was a far cry from what we were used to. Its residents were
mostly made up of strong beings like shifters, witches, warlocks and
high fae, all with riches and luxuries beyond my imaginings.
“If ending the King was a possibility, the rebels would have tried
to by now, don’t you think? But nope, we just hide and wait, and for
what? For the fates to grant us a miracle?” I replied waspishly,
unable to hide the sour tone seeping into my voice.
Nix was a dreamer, and I loved that about him. But how he
managed to be such an optimist when his DNA was quite literally
everything the King despised, I’d never know. He was not only a
half-breed, but half thrakos, making him very powerful. But where
most would see these as desired qualities, King Regis saw them as
threats to his rule and spent his reign trying to eradicate those with
one, let alone three, of these ‘faults’.
Nix’s mother was a seer witch and a leader in the Rebel Alliance.
She was wise, old and powerful, but a year ago she disappeared
without a note or trace. I feared the worst. Nix was convinced she
was out there somewhere on a greater mission, forced to leave him
as a result of a vision or prophecy.
 He had many fanciful theories on her whereabouts and why she
would have left without even saying goodbye to him, her only child
and the absolute apple of her eye. I humored him, not wanting to
voice my own theories, well more concerns, but I had never been as
optimistic as him.
Like Nix, his mother was as loyal as they came. I just couldn’t
imagine, not for a second, she would have gone this long without
even sending a message via raven, unless something terrible had
happened.
Nix inherited a touch of her magic, but his more dominant traits
came from his father, a full-blooded thrakos. Sadly, he was killed
when Nix was only a boy.
Ironically, the thrakos were the only race ever created, not born.
Engineered by the King himself with the aid of a powerful warlock,
they were made to have superior senses, speed and strength,
compared to shifters, with the added benefit of being able to wield
fire and fly short distances.
While the combination made them lethal, their vast power came at
a price. They had inner demons to battle, but those I knew
personally were all good people.
He’d made the thrakos all male to establish that they wouldn’t
have families to distract them from their duties, ensuring that they
were loyal to him alone.
Only, it didn't quite work out like he had planned. When the
thrakos were created, mating with races outside of your own had
been illegal for decades. In his arrogance, King Regis hadn’t
considered that they might mate outside of his precious Lores.
 It didn't take long for a thrakos to fall in love with an injured
shifter female he encountered on a reconnaissance operation.
Apparently, he’d felt a pull towards her scent, like one would a True
Mate, and nursed her back to health. One thing led to another, and a
child was conceived. That child is believed to be the first half thrakos
in existence, but the Rebel Alliance found many more in the
centuries since.
Needless to say, when the King heard the thrakos could create
hybrids, they had become enemy number one. He ‘cleansed’ his
horde with a mass extermination of any who didn’t flee in time and
refilled his ranks with shifters, witches, warlocks and high fae.
“Let’s go, Eva!” Nix called, snapping me out of my reverie.
I smiled up at my best friend, meeting his warm, almond shaped
eyes, before we wandered arm in arm into what seemed to be the
heart of the village. We sought out the traders, wanting to get the
boring stuff out of the way first so we could explore. We needed
various supplies for moving camp, but first was food rations.
We knew the gnomes didn’t have an abundance of food to spare,
but they would no doubt be happy to accept coin from any who had
it.
“Ok, you sort out food rations, and I’ll find someone selling
anything we can use as camp equipment and clothing during the
winter,” I told him. With a mock bow in my direction, off he went.
I rushed along the stretch of vendors with various textiles
displayed on their carts. I wanted to get the shopping list checked
off as quickly as possible so we could start enjoying ourselves,
pretending we were ‘normal’ and not on the run for an afternoon.
 I stopped when I saw an elderly female gnome sitting by her
wares of beautifully woven blankets. They would be perfect for when
winter months settled in, and the Fading Vale moved from cold and
damp to bitter and icy.
“How much for the blankets?” I asked, eyeing them none too
keenly, even though I’d already set my heart on the bottle-green one
which perfectly matched my eyes. I had limited coin and it had to
cover everything we needed to replenish and then some. I couldn’t
give my eagerness away if I had any chance of bartering.
The blankets were necessary, but I needed some coin left over. I’d
wanted to surprise Nix with a sword sharpening kit since one of the
rebel leaders, a full-blooded thrakos, had visited our camp not so
long ago with one. Upon seeing how blunt Nix’s blade was, he had
taught him how to sharpen it, and I’d seen his eyes light up when
using the handy gadget.
It might not seem like the best gift in the world to most, but when
you lived with the monotony we endured, having something else to
help fill your days and keep your mind busy was a huge win. The
fact it would actually come in useful too was a bonus.
I knew Nix would love one, the problem was you couldn’t even
buy basics like bread and milk in the Vale, let alone tools. None of
the Vale’s residents would want to risk drawing attention to their
whereabouts by opening a stall. Besides, they would have to keep
moving, so nobody would know where to find it again anyway.
Restocking would be impossible. And then there was the sheer size
of the Vale. Yeah, just no.
 “Not seen you ‘round these parts before,” the old lady said, pulling
my attention back from my musings. She narrowed her eyes on my
form, distrust evident on her features, but then glimpsed the leather
pouch on my hip. “Twenty silver a blanket.”
Surprise flashed through me, my eyes widening. It was too much.
She obviously wanted to haggle, but could I get her down to a price
that would ensure we had enough for what we would need? Was the
poverty in this village really so bad they had to charge so much? Of
course, I knew the answer already, but it still stunned me.
“I can give you ten per blanket, and I will take ten of them,” I
replied, maintaining eye contact. My father had taught me the art of
haggling and this wasn’t the first time I’d had to, but would the old
gnome go for it or play hardball?
She laughed bitterly. “Do I look like I was born last cycle? These
are worth at least eighteen silver each,” she snorted, and I let out a
breath. Ok, this wasn’t going well. I could see Nix having his own
battle with the hunter across the path, no doubt trying to work the
price down for our food too.
I laced my voice with flattery and tried a different approach. “Of
course not, I meant no disrespect, ma’am. I just don’t have much
coin, and I would really love your fine blankets for the winter
months. How about fourteen silver each and we shake hands?” I
asked, holding out my coin ladened palm.
She narrowed her beady eyes on me. “Make it fifteen and we have
a deal. Better you than that horde of King Regis’ getting their hands
on my wares and wrecking them,” she said as her eyes danced
across the horizon like she was looking for something.
 “King Regis’ horde? Here? So far from the castle?” I asked, my
chest tightening at the possibility they might be so close.
She frowned deeply and nodded. “Aye lass, we are expecting
them to come through to collect their taxes any day now. They sent
word they would come early, something about a special guest
joining in on a hunt nearby. Our farmers are exhausted trying to
ready the goods in time.” Her resentment toward the King was
crystal clear in her voice.
Tucking a strand of silver hair behind my ear, I looked around for
Nix, seeing him now waiting over by the tavern, his bags filled with
goods. “Right, well thank you for the blankets,” I said distractedly,
shoving the coins into her gloved palm, grabbing my purchases
before making a beeline for my friend.
“We need to leave,” I whispered as I reached him, my senses
open and listening to every little sound as paranoia set in.
“Calm down Eva, we have time before they expect us back. Let's
have a drink in the tavern, I already bought all the food we need
with coin to spare.” The joy in his voice at the prospect made part of
me wish the old dear hadn’t said anything so I could relax with an
ale in blissful ignorance.
But this was our reality. We would be fools not to return to camp
and warn the others that we had to move now. Tomorrow could be
too late.
I pulled him close and repeated what the old female had said.
Nix’s eyes widened in alarm. Without a second's hesitation, he
grabbed half of the stack of blankets from my arms. We raced back
in the direction we had come, with not even a glance back at the
village we had been so desperate to explore.
We twisted and danced our way past the perturbed residents of
Dorgoil and crossed the border running head first into the Fading
Vale. With adrenaline fueling us, we didn't stop for at least two
hours straight, hurdling the fallen trees and ducking to avoid low
hanging branches. Ignoring the scratches from thorny bushes and
pine needles embedding into our skin, we neared camp in a fraction
of the time it had taken us this morning. Nix had remained in his fae
form, running at the same pace as me to conserve his energy should
he need to shift when we finally made it back to camp.
Suddenly, Nix stopped dead in his tracks, slamming his arm out in
front of me. “Eva, do you hear that?” His voice was low, but urgent.
Blood pounded in my ears as I listened intently to whatever had
spooked him, and my heart raced as the sounds of agonized
screams coming from our camp were unmistakable. My entire body
trembled as it dawned on me that we were too late; we didn't make
it in time. The horde had already found them.
I looked at Nix, his throat bobbed as he wrung his hands and
dread grew in my chest. When the distinct metallic smell of blood
drifted to me on the wind, I had to clamp my jaw to stop the bile
rising in my throat. “Nix, we have to help them,” I beseeched, not
knowing where to begin as I tried to calm my thoughts of anguish
for our friends and family.
Our bags discarded, Nix took my arm, and we crept closer to the
thicket of trees surrounding our camp.
 The thundering clashes of steel striking steel and guttural snarls of
wolves and thrakos were the only things helping to mask the pained
cries of the injured. The breath left my chest, and I struggled to
draw air as I took in the fighting before us.
Where were my parents? Oh fates, were they already fighting?
Were they hurt?
A familiar male voice carried across the battlefield to me.
“Evangelia. It’s the Regis horde, you can’t be here!” My eyes darted
over the fighting bodies as I saw it was Ambrose. He was struggling
against another wolf shifter, only the horde’s soldier was much larger
as they battled in a part shifted form, using their claws and fangs
while remaining on two feet.
I scanned the camp until I saw an unfamiliar male in the distance,
clearly high fae from his ethereal beauty. I had never met his kind in
person, only knowing of them from stories, but they rang true as I
realized he was standing in the middle of the carnage, his head
thrown back in laughter, like he was enjoying the slaughter more
than any sane soldier should. His raven black hair was a wild mess
around him, his leather armor splattered with blood; at his feet,
broken bodies lay so mangled I couldn't tell who they were.
I couldn't leave our people to be butchered like this. “But…” I
started to reply to Ambrose, but Nix cut me off before I could argue.
“He’s right, Eva. Remember your training. Do not shift! I will find
you as soon as I can.” And before I could so much as blink, Nix
shifted into his thrakos form.
His height remained unchanged at six foot two, but now there
were lethal reptilian wings, blacker than the night sky, sprouting
from his back as his shirt ripped apart to accommodate them. His
teeth sharpened into fangs while his big chocolate eyes and mass of
mousy brown hair remained unaltered.
As he disappeared in a blur of speed to join the battle, I worried
at the rings adorning my fingers, searching the carnage in front of
me. Where were my parents? Fates dammit, they had to be here
somewhere.
Shit shit shit.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I pressed closer to the
battlefield, my hands itching to grab the dual daggers that sat at my
hips. I remember the day my mother gave them to me. “Mayhem
and Chaos, just like you my sweetling,” she’d told me. They were
beautiful blades, the obsidian center bleeding to the sharpened
gleaming metal edges matching the onyx streak that ran through my
long silver hair.
My parents and I were more vulnerable than the others in the
camp, the beasts inside us lying dormant thanks to the effects of the
two enchanted rings we each wore that they insisted I never
remove.
It might be suicide for us to shift in front of anyone outside of the
Rebel Alliance, but I could still help. Having to conceal what I was
my entire life meant I’d needed to hone my combat skills. I trained
every day of my damned existence to be ready for if, or more
realistically when, this day inevitably came.
The King has been terrorizing the people of the Fading Vale
unrepentantly for centuries. His unwavering hatred of hybrids and
thrakos forced innocents into hiding, never staying in one place for
long knowing that being found meant being slaughtered for merely
existing.
The tyrant couldn't have just let them leave when he’d ascended.
No, he paid off sea creatures, like the merfolk and kelpies, to guard
the coast, making escape by sea to another kingdom impossible. He
even closed the portal in Ezerat, shutting off any communication
with the mortal realm ever since. The sick bastard wanted to hunt us
for his own sadistic pleasure.
I slowly made my way deeper into camp. The fog was low,
melding with the plumes of smoke coming from the fires destroying
everything we had in this world, and making it nearly impossible to
see clearly in my fae form.
I paused, concentrating on controlling my breathing enough to
listen for any immediate threats.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” My toes curled, a blade of ice
sliding down my spine at the sound of the velvety male voice coming
from behind me. I whipped around, daggers drawn and ready to
slice anyone who tried to threaten me.
Instead, staring at me was the black-haired male who had been
laughing maniacally surrounded by death and despair. Now he stood
mere feet from me, coated in blood and smirking wickedly. He made
no effort to conceal the way he was looking me up and down with
his piercing blue eyes, licking his perfectly symmetrical lips.
Before the panic could seize me entirely, I heard my father’s
labored voice call out, “Evangelia!”
I leapt backwards, blades still raised, putting some distance
between me and the enemy while my eyes darted frantically to
locate where my father’s voice had come from.
The battle was spread wide across camp, making it near
impossible to focus as the tent fires burned furiously. Bright sparks
of lethal spells lit the smoke in colorful sporadic flashes, likely from
those with witch blood dueling hard, fighting for their lives and the
lives of their loved ones.
Then I saw them. My parents were being held at sword point by
two high fae males, one taller than the other, but neither were as
looming as the blue-eyed demon closest to me. Blood drained from
my face, rendering me disoriented and cold, frozen in place,
unblinking. As I met their stares, a heart-breaking blend of love and
fear shone back at me as they each forced a small smile in my
direction.
“Mom, Dad,” I whispered, defeat weighing heavily on my
shoulders. A leather clad hand landed on my armored waist, and I
realized I’d messed up.
I had been so worried for my parents that I’d taken my attention
from the threat that was now at my back. “Tell me, why are fae like
you hiding all the way out here, with dirty abominations no less,
pretty girl?” His smooth voice murmured against the shell of my ear.
“A beauty like you has no business associating with the filth of the
Fading Vale.”
Suddenly I was forced to the male’s side, his grip tightening on my
waist as he dragged me forward, closer to my parents.
“Any last words for your future King, traitors? A heartfelt speech?
An appeal to my soft side to spare you? A thank you, perhaps, for
ending your miserable existence? You know, that kind of thing.” His
sing-song voice was mocking, giving them but a moment to respond
before gesturing a sharp nod to his accomplices.
They immediately raised their swords to my parents' throats, and I
wanted to scream at them to transform and defend themselves.
They could end these high fae in an instant, maybe even save the
whole damned camp, or whatever was left of it at least.
But I knew they wouldn’t. Their shift would be felt across the Vale
and someone would tell. The price on our heads would far surpass
anything we could offer the villagers we trade with for our survival,
or the nomads we passed in the Fading Vale, for their silence. No,
shifting wasn’t an option. It was never an option for us. They would
never stop hunting us.
My pair of silver rings matching theirs felt suddenly too tight. The
one I wore on the middle finger of my left hand burned as it
suppressed my shift while my emotions were so out of control. I felt
my enemy’s hand grasp my chin, forcing me to look at my parents
as my mother’s eyes filled with tears and my lip trembled.
She swallowed roughly, but her glassy eyes steadfastly held mine.
“Look away, don’t see us like this. Remember what we taught you,
sweetling,” she whispered sadly. She was accepting her fate, and it
killed me.
The males holding my parents swung back their swords in unison,
and I tried to turn away, but his grip on me was unyielding. I quickly
scrunched my eyes shut instead. It was cowardly, but I couldn’t
bring myself to look; I couldn’t watch the people I loved more than
life itself be murdered in front of me. The vice-like grip around my
heart was too much.
 My world came crashing down as I heard the whistling of the
swords cut through the air, followed by two heavy thuds hitting the
cold ground. I squeezed my eyes tighter still, my legs weak. The
only thing stopping me from crumbling to the ground was the strong
hand on my jaw. The pain in my chest was surely going to kill me,
and part of me wanted it to.
Before my mind could fully comprehend what had happened,
hands grabbed me roughly and started dragging me away. I could
hear my parents' murderers talking, not a care in their world as they
bantered, but I struggled to focus on their cruel words.
I didn’t dare open my eyes again until I was certain I wouldn’t see
the lifeless eyes of the two people I loved most in this world looking
back at me. If I didn’t see it, maybe I could convince myself none of
it had really happened?
Because if it were true, then all of my worst nightmares, what I
feared most my entire life, had just become reality.
ONE WEEK PRIOR
A chill caressed me as I looked up at the cloud covered sky, the
change from the balmy autumn to bitter winter fast approaching. I
found my footing along the cobblestone street, taking in the soon-
to-be closing establishments adorning this prime stretch of Ezerat
city.
There were a few new stores I hadn’t visited yet. On my left, I
saw the swanky and very expensive looking flower shop which was
allegedly owned by a witch who claimed to be a seer. The sign
above the entrance proclaimed it ‘Florist of Fortune.’ I wasn’t sure if
that was referring to the overpriced bouquets or whether you,
perhaps, got a free palm reading with your purchase.
 Although it was over the top and extravagant, I couldn’t help but
be impressed by the fancy signage above the door. It was intricately
made with the most beautiful, tightly woven exotic leaves and
blooms of the darkest blues and palest shades of gray, twisted and
warped to spell out the shop’s name. Apparently, it had been spelled
to change color depending on the day's weather forecast. Judging by
the current climate, I’d say the rumor was probably true.
I rolled my eyes as I saw the new gift shop on my right, ‘Royal
Regis Regalia.’ Its window display was, unsurprisingly, brimmed full
with royalist ‘collectibles’ and other cheap items. My brother’s and
my face stared back at me on tea towels and tankards, and I
shuddered. I turned my attention to my silent companion, taking in
his hulking form and considered our somewhat odd friendship.
I’d often wondered if we spent so much time together because he
enjoyed my company, or if it was out of duty to ensure that one of
the kingdom’s princes didn’t meet an untimely end. Not that my dad
would care.
Alaric was the highest ranking general in my father’s horde,
working his way up the ranks to this position for the past three
hundred odd years. Ironically though, he was also the person I
considered to be my closest friend.
I rubbed the ache in my jaw from where my father had struck me
earlier. My impending immortality couldn’t come soon enough. It
wasn't that I was particularly desperate to stop aging and live
forever, far from it, but more that the faster healing would come in
handy.
 My father, King of Dezrothia, lashed out whenever he was
reminded of his late wife, my mother, which was pretty much every
time he saw me. He was always sure to remind me it was my fault
she’d died, while I tried to remind myself it was my birth that killed
her, not me personally.
He had always been mad, but his insanity had gotten worse as the
years progressed. Once I came of age and my body could take more
hits, I knew it would only get worse still.
Since I was a boy, he’d always made sure the injuries I sustained
could be explained away as combat training related. Once they
healed, he would tarnish my skin again with fresh marks and the
cycle continued.
It was no secret that when I wasn’t in the Crooked Claw drinking
myself into oblivion, I was in the castle's training halls, so cuts and
bruises were of no shortage. Alaric was with me more often than
not, training me unyieldingly to ensure I could fight off the attacks
that came all too frequently. I was sure it would prove invaluable
once I came into my immortality, and daddykins could brutalize me
all the more harshly without much risk of going too far. He wouldn't
want the headache of explaining to his kingdom he had beaten one
of their princes to death.
As we walked further up the street, I snuck a sidelong glance in
Alaric’s direction, his grim expression giving me pause as I heard the
easy laughter coming from the tavern.
He was just staring off ahead of us, not reacting to anything I’d
said. The entire walk had been mostly silent, well on his part, and
while he was never particularly chatty, he usually bantered with me
at least a little.
“You know, you can talk to me,” I said, a teasing edge to my
words to try and break him from his brooding.
He eventually drew himself back into the moment, his silver eyes
sharp once again. “Yeh wouldnae like what I have to say kid,
probably for the best yeh keep yer nose clean.'' With a deep grunt,
he pulled open the heavy door so forcefully that the sign above,
boasting the words Crooked Claw framing an image of an overfull
tankard, swung in its wake as he pushed his way inside.
I loved this place. A crackling open fireplace sat in the center of
the room with tables circling it to ensure they’d all benefit from its
heat. On the back wall was the bar where Bill, the owner, was
standing. His wife, Melina, flittered from table to table speaking to
patrons, making sure they were all behaving no doubt.
Bill and Melina were lion shifters and had owned and run this
tavern for close to a century. The cozy atmosphere made it a
popular spot, though it didn’t hurt that the ale was cheap and the
food never failed to warm your bones on a cold day.
I followed Alaric as he squeezed his large frame through the
crowded space, leading us to our usual spot at the back and lifting a
hand in greeting to a few other warriors we passed. Unsurprisingly,
Axel was one of them. The shifter was often with Alaric as he’d
acted as a kind of mentor to him since he’d joined the horde several
years ago. I’d been a boy at the time, but I remember how quickly
they seemed to hit it off. Which had been unusual for Alaric as he’d
never been one for making friends with his soldiers.
 We slumped down in our darkened corner, away from the rowdy
patrons, and Alaric signaled for Melina to bring us some drinks. She
nodded, knowing we weren’t picky on what we were drinking,
despite the luxuries in the castle where only the best would do for
the King.
It didn’t take long for Melina to arrive at our table, drinks in hand.
As she smiled, the fine lines around her amber eyes creased,
betraying her age along with the gray which peppered her rich
brown mane.
“There we are, Highness, Alaric,” she said, placing our drinks
down with a wink.
The taste of ale flooded my tongue, replacing the bitterness from
my run-in with a certain bastard today with something much more
palatable. I relaxed back into my seat, looking at my friend while
admiring his wide shoulders and the scar that ran from under his
right eye to his jaw, partially covered by his rugged, dirty blonde
hair.
He never told me the story of his scar, but it had to have
happened a few centuries ago before he hit immortality. If it wasn’t
for his ability to heal, he would be riddled with them by now given
his long career fighting for my father. Alaric was a key leader in the
regular hunts to find thrakos and half-breeds in the Fading Vale.
He looked up from his drained tankard, his stare meeting mine as
he licked the ale from his upper lip before clearing his throat. “Like I
said, yer no’ gonnae like what I got to tell yeh. But I cannae leave
yeh in the dark,” he grimaced.
 Alaric’s accent was unusual in the capital, though where it was
from exactly, I had no idea. It had a way of sending a shudder of
heat through me, especially the thicker it got; usually when he’d had
more than a few drinks and on the rare occasion his anger flared.
“Go on, what has dear old dad done this time?” Whatever it was,
it had to be about my father. Unfortunately, Alaric’s steely gaze was
unwavering, and I blew out a sigh of frustration as he remained
stoic. “Do I need to ply you with more booze to get your lips loose?”
His low rumble of a laugh filled the space between us. “It’s no’ a
bad idea, kid.”
I signaled Melina again, who nodded in turn. Bill was at the bar,
already getting two more drinks poured. “Want some whores too
while I’m spoiling you?” Mirth danced in the air at my words, and I
gave him a cheeky wink.
“Yeh ken I dinnae need whores, I’ve been fuckin’ since long afore
yeh were even a wee twinkle in yer ma’s eye.” Alaric wasn’t wrong,
he was an intimidating bastard, but it had the shifters drooling,
damn near pawing at him.
The sharp stab of guilt at the mention of my mom sat
uncomfortably in my chest, but luckily Alaric didn’t seem to notice
and kept talking. “Now quiet down or I’ll no’ tell yeh what yer da
told me today.”
I grabbed the fresh drink that had been placed in front of me and
took a sip, hoping he got the idea that I was all ears and going to let
him speak.
“Yer da is sendin’ Elikai to the Fadin’ Vale on a hunt for his comin’
of age present… but yer no’ comin’ with us.''
 The pang of pain at the knowledge my brother was, once again,
getting something handed to him by our father did nothing to ease
the weight of guilt in my chest. Ironic that he only has disdain for
me, as my brother and I were practically identical.
“Let me guess, you’re going to lead the hunt?” Of course, he was,
my father wouldn't let Elikai go without the best back up. Despite
the twat looking down on Alaric for being a shifter, his ruthlessness
on the battlefield meant there were few enemies that fought him
and got to live to tell the tale.
“Aye, gotta make sure no ill comes to Regis’ golden boy.”
“How long will you be gone?” I asked, the pain turning to jealousy.
“Well, he wants me to gather the taxes while we’re at it, by my
reckonin’ a few weeks. I’ve to take them pair of brats that Elikai
always has followin’ him too.”
“Graves and Sloane?”
“Fuck if I ken their names-”
“I’ll be sure to thank him for the fucking invite as well then.”
Would it kill him to invite his own brother? It was my birthday too,
and he knew the King wouldn’t have thought about me. I swear,
sometimes it felt like he enjoyed me being left out. “I thought he
was having that party in the ballroom anyway? Whenever I’ve seen
him around lately, he hasn’t stopped going on about it.” The more I
thought about it, the more wound up I got.
“Aye, you dinnae have to tell me-”
“And collecting the taxes too? What’s that about? Training him up
to take over as King one day?”
 “Look, I knew yeh’d be pissed, but why’re yeh so put out by it? I
thought you didnae want to be King anyway?” He was right, but that
didn’t make it any easier.
“I don't. It’s just… shit.” I was going to be alone, again, for weeks
and there would be nothing to distract Dad from my actions either. I
knew I was acting like a brat, but the shit sandwich Alaric just
delivered was a hard one to swallow.
“Kane-”
“Forget about it.” I told him, putting my mask of indifference back
in place before I carried on. “Let’s make tonight one to remember
during the weeks you are gone.” I raised my drink to him in a mock
celebration and plastered on my widest grin, making sure it reached
my dimples. He shook his head, but raised his tankard to meet mine
before letting his gaze wander the room, clearly hunting his prey for
the evening.
I followed his lead and noticed one of my regular bed partners
talking to a high fae couple. Crystal. Her name suited her. She was
beautiful on the outside, but once you dug a bit deeper, you noticed
she was just a cheap, fake imitation of what she pretended to be.
I wasn’t a fool; I knew her type well. She’d come to me originally
looking to lift her own status, but we ended up with an agreement
to reap the benefits of warming each other's beds, no strings
attached. She even enjoyed taking other bedmates almost as much
as I did.
Movement in my peripheral drew my attention back to where I
was sitting. Alaric had stood and was making his way to the bar.
There was a shifter female practically spilling out of her low-cut
dress, and I’d put good coin on that being where he was headed.
Thanks to the stupid Lores, he had to stick with his own race when it
came to these sorts of trysts. That narrowed his destination down to
the available shifters, but I knew his tastes as well as my own at this
point.
I moved my attention back to Crystal, her long, strawberry blonde
hair taking a more reddish hue in the firelight. She happened to look
up at that moment, a smile spreading across her pretty features. I
tilted my head and knew the sway of her hips and arching of her
spine as she sauntered over was exaggerated to entice me. I didn’t
often fuck a female more than once, but even though I’d had her
body several times now, she still knew how to draw me back in.
“Hey, handsome. I was just thinking about you. Looking for some
fun tonight?” She glanced back at the couple she had been speaking
to, sending a little wave over to them, but their eyes had already
followed her to my table. I could see the interest in them, rumors of
my tastes no doubt reaching most ears. Crystal was always
accommodating for me, finding extra bed partners we both could
enjoy.
“Always,” I murmured, brushing my lips across the hand she held
out as she dipped into a curtsy. Alaric returned, the busty brunette
giggling behind him as they joined us. The clatter of a key on the
table had me biting my lip in anticipation for what was to come. And
I meant that literally.
The key was to the room upstairs that Alaric and I often shared
when we took bedmates. I couldn't very well take commoners back
to the castle, so it had started as a security measure. Given my
station, he couldn’t relax when I was naked in a room full of
strangers fuck knows where in the city, and I didn’t want to
cockblock him while he stood guard.
But over the years, the heated looks thrown between everyone in
that room had become addictive. The dangerous thrill of skirting the
Lores made it that much hotter.
Melina was happy to accommodate us, and we paid her a lot of
coin in return for her ‘generosity.’ She was old enough not to be a
purist, having lived in a time when it was normal to mate with other
races, so sharing a room didn’t even make her blink.
The high fae couple joined us, clearly eager after whatever Crystal
had told them, and I was ready to pretend I wasn’t about to face
weeks in the castle evading my father at all costs.
We ordered a round of drinks, an icebreaker to get the party
started with our new companions. I felt Crystal's palm under the
table, trailing up my inner thigh and settling on my cock, making it
twitch in anticipation.
“Naughty, naughty,” I murmured, dragging her into my lap. “Are
you really that eager to take my cock? To show me how good you
take it in front of our new friends?” I reveled in the feeling of her
pressing her thighs together, trapping my hand there.
I signaled Melina to just send the drinks up to our room, and we
wasted no time heading for the stairs.
This was going to be fun.
I groaned as I rode my horse along the uneven path. This was going
to be a long, painful trip if Elikai and his two cronies didn’t shut the
fuck up. It didn’t help that last night with Kane had been wild. I
really hadn’t wanted to leave the warmth of the pile of bodies at the
Crooked Claw before the sun had even fully risen, especially not for
this.
I flexed my shoulders. The marks left by the cat shifter had not
quite fully healed yet, despite the natural healing ability we shifters
have. It wasn't as powerful as the high fae’s, and I hadn’t wanted to
wake Kane to heal me. The hellcat must have sunk her claws deep.
Completely fucking worth it.
 I rolled my eyes as I heard the two spoiled gits encouraging Elikai
in his fanciful bragging about his epic achievements, not that he
needed any egging on or had achieved fuck all to boast about.
He’d lucked out in the gene pool, as had his identical twin, Kane.
Even for high fae they stood out in their alluringly good looks, but
other than that, Elikai was pretty fucking average.
What had Kane said those wee shites names were again? Fuck, if
I could remember. I’d seen them around the castle plenty, but didn’t
pay any mind to them. This trip would change that.
We hadn't even mounted our horses before I’d decided I would
likely wind up killing them. Annoyingly, they would probably be
missed by their parents, both their fathers being two of the King's
closest advisors, otherwise I would be looking forward to it. I am a
monster after all. What was a little more blood on my hands? Or
down my throat.
“I’ll slay those dirty thrakos! They will be pissing themselves when
we come riding up!” The lanky one laughed, elbowing one of the
guards who’d joined us on the hunt. If the thrakos were pissing
themselves, it was more likely from laughing at this fucking idiot.
The chorus of eye rolls from my soldiers confirmed they were
thinking something similar. We were warriors, not babysitters, but
the King’s word was final. “I’ll run the first one through before they
even know what's hit them!” the fool continued.
I pursed my lips together, as my jaw ticked in irritation. Then the
words left my mouth before I had a chance to possibly regret them.
“A thrakos will have yeh on yer arse quicker than yeh can blink. Yeh
need to sneak up on ‘em if yer gonnae have any chance of survivin’,
so that means learnin’ to shut yer trap for five fuckin’ min-”
A dramatic throat clearing cut me off. “Graves, we both know that
I, Prince Elikai Regis, heir to the Dezrothian throne, am the best
fighter that has been seen in decades, no centuries, no millennia!
So, it will be I who will have those dirty thrakos cowering at my feet,
begging for a mercy that they simply do not deserve!” Kane’s mirror
image crowed, putting on a fucking performance as usual.
How the fuck could identical twins be so bloody different? Kane, at
least, is a half decent person, considering where he came from.
Elikai was just a stuck up, self-
“Alaric, how much farther?” came the whine of Elikai’s voice,
irritating my ears as he shifted his attention to me.
We were surrounded by rolling grassy hills. There was not much
else to see apart from a few clusters of trees and the worn road we
were trotting down. The journey had barely begun, and he was
already complaining. If this was how the whole hunt would be, I felt
sorry for my already slipping sanity.
“At least double what we jus’ rode to get to the first village,
Highness.” The less I said, the better.
Elikai didn’t seem to mind, preferring the sound of his own voice
anyway. “The audacity of the common peasants not paying their
fealty to the crown. I can’t wait to get the rest of the coin that we
are owed.” His eagerness betrayed him. He didn’t care about fealty
to the crown, he only cared for what he thought he was owed. It
was one of the many reasons I didn’t get along with the princeling.
I wasn’t the only one who struggled with him either.
 “All due respect, Highness,” Krista interjected as she looked over
her shoulder, her brown hair pulled into a braid whipping around as
she looked at the prince. “But we really do need to keep our voices
down to listen for any potential trouble,” she explained, her bright,
honey-colored eyes a sign of her shifter side, filled with irritation. I
didn’t need to see the look the entitled Prince gave her to know it
was unpleasant.
I’d heard a lot in the training hall about the new female grizzly to
join our ranks. She was surprisingly nimble, could handle a
longsword better than many of the males, and in her bear form, she
was known for savaging her enemies. I liked savage, and we needed
it going against the thrakos.
Elikai tsked. “Nobody would dare. You have the easiest job in the
world hunting with me.” I rolled my eyes so hard I saw the inside of
my skull. “Just ask Alaric, he trained me once.”
He was right. I had trained him for several years alongside his
brother, once upon the fates. I'd instructed them to fight each other,
to see how their training was coming along and what areas I needed
to focus on for each of them to improve.
Elikai had disarmed Kane with a dirty move, but he’d immediately
declared himself the winner of the duel nonetheless. The way he’d
thrust his sword in the air, chin high and chest out, told me all I
needed to know about the male.
“Aye Highness, I did train yeh once upon a time.” I didn’t need to
tell him my own thoughts, his version of events would likely differ.
“And wasn’t I the best student you ever had? It's why you no
longer train me, isn’t it?” he gloated, more of a statement than a
question. This wee shite was going to be the end of me.
After he bested Kane, he’d decided he was done with his lessons
at the tender age of seventeen. He started making his way through
the barracks instead, picking fights with anyone willing to draw their
sword.
Never came to me for a fight though, which I’d always thought
was an interesting decision on his part. Definitely a sensible one.
I’d silently thanked the fates when it was clear he had no intention
of returning to class and certainly didn't push the matter. “Somethin’
like that, Highness,” I mumbled.
This was going to be a long fucking trip.

It had been another shite night's sleep camping between villages,

though we were several days into our trek now. Elikai still kept
everyone awake with his pronounced sighs and groans of
discomfort.
We all had our roles to play, apart from the princeling and his two
stooges who’d been doing their own thing the entire trip. I was
happy to let them. It was better than them being in my hair.
Whenever they stuck their noses up, or the pompous Prince
argued his ‘accommodations’ were not adequate for a royal, I’d just
feign a bout of deafness.
Thank the fates, we only needed to visit the pixies now before we
reached the Fading Vale at long last.
 The village of Bouldercliff, had seemed picturesque, not too
dissimilar to some of the earlier villages we’d visited, until you
looked closer. Everything could benefit from some sort of repair
work. There were missing thatch on roofs, doors off their hinges and
clothes so threadbare you could see through them as they hung on
the line.
The disparity even in just a few hours' ride from the castle was
shocking, and it only got worse the farther out we rode. Just a few
villages before, those bordering the towns, the inhabitants wouldn’t
have been seen dead in clothes that were worn to the point of
revealing holes.
I often wondered when traveling out here if the increase in
poverty from the city to the towns and villages was so obvious in
other kingdoms. I had never ventured outside of Dezrothia to
compare. Very few had after Regis took power and control of
everyone's comings and goings. I knew better than to trust what I
read in books, not that there were many to find these days that
mentioned the realms beyond Dezrothia. It was all fantasy and fairy
tales anyway.
Our visit to Bouldercliff had been a total fucking disaster, despite
Jarid’s warnings. The bald-headed warlock had been with the King’s
horde for quite some time. His job was mainly to ensure no one was
left behind on this pointless venture. I only wished, on this occasion,
that he wasn’t so good at his job. Having the princeling with us
meant he’d been on even higher alert than usual, always ready to
throw up a ward to shield him at a moment's notice.
 As we’d approached the hills, the warlock warned the brats to
tread carefully with the trolls who resided there. Unsurprisingly, they
hadn’t listened.
Trolls were big, ugly fuckers and weren’t known for their
friendliness or patience. They had no loyalty to the crown, having
once lived happily in the mountains, until King Regis came along and
hadn’t liked them being so close to the city. He’d ‘allowed’ the spider
shifters to inhabit the mountains instead and sent the trolls to these
hills. Thankfully, their leader must have bribed them with something
really fucking good to ensure they didn’t wind up putting the prince
on the dinner menu.
We’d left early anyway, just in case, and our next stop had been
the quaint village of Ulana Hill, home to the elves. They were
willowy beings; though they looked similar to the high fae, their
pointed ears gave them away. Their looks mixed with being less
powerful made them undesirable in the King’s eyes. Hence them
living so far from the Capital.
Thankfully, the elves didn’t attempt a coup either. They hadn’t
even offered resistance when Elikai had openly mocked their poverty
and kicked off at how light the bag of coin they’d handed over was,
lest the King caught wind of it and set the horde on their village. It
wouldn’t be the first time a village was rendered to ash from the
King's orders of violence.
I’d spotted the elven elder shooting daggers at some of the village
folk when they’d been making a few choice hand gestures behind
Elikai’s back, but I hadn’t bothered to question it. Elikai’s pride would
not deal well with mockery. Besides, he and his two followers
deserved it for being complete cunts.
Thank the fates, afternoon had only just been upon us by the time
we left Ulana Hill, so we didn’t have to stay the night. Instead, we
rode until the sky was painted in pinks and violets.
When I’d seen the pair of fools pretending to joust with branches,
they must have pulled down from low hanging trees along the way,
I’d decided it was time to set up camp for the night to rest the
horses, before someone lost an eye; or I forgot why I couldn’t just
kill them and be done with their bullshit.
Elikai had moaned relentlessly about having to sleep on the floor
in a tent again. Krista explained calmly that it had been too early to
stop riding for the night when we’d finished with the elves, especially
if we were to make Elikai’s schedule of reaching the Vale on his
birthday. She further explained it would be too dangerous to travel in
the pitch of night this far from the castle to reach our final village
stop.
To which the stumpier brat had replied, “Who the fuck do you
think you are talking to, whore?” While I’d been busy trying to
remember his stupid fucking name to call his bullshit, a squeal
pierced the air, and I realized Krista had decked the asshole. No one
outside of the hunt would ever hear about it. His ego wouldn’t allow
him to admit to being put on his arse by a female, and a shifter at
that. I’d definitely be letting Kane know over a pint when I got back
though, he would likely need a good laugh.
At every village we approached now, Elikai’s dark eyebrows would
lower and pinch together while he wrinkled his nose in distaste. Our
final stop was Pinefall, home of the pixies. The tax purse would be
light and the harvests thin. The difficult times the pixies faced
weren’t limited to a few families, they all suffered. While they
wouldn’t recognize the prince so far out, the armor we wore and
likely my own face as a frequent member of these hunting parties,
would let them know who we were.
Krista was away taking care of our business with Jarid, while I
remained to tend the horses, which unfortunately meant babysitting
duty.
“How long until the Fading Vale now?” Elikai asked for the
thousandth time, his excitement palpable.
“Couple hours' ride, I reckon. We’ll be there by early afternoon,” I
told him, brushing down a chestnut mare while he sat bone idle. A
male like him would never understand the concept of looking after
those around you, and they will look after you in return, soldiers and
steeds included.
“Finally,” he drew out, and left to find his little friends. He’d been
particularly insufferable today, but I’d expected it given it was his
twenty-fifth and he would come into his immortality. I took a
moment to wonder what Kane would be getting up to and hoped his
father stayed away from him while I wasn’t there to pick up the
pieces. Highly unlikely though, given that today also marked twenty-
five years since the King had lost his wife to childbirth.
Shaking myself out of my worry for Kane, I moved to my own
dappled stallion as Krista returned with a few bundles under her
arms. Jarid followed closely with a large sack on his back, obviously
having decided to conserve his magic by carrying the goods
manually.
We worked together getting the horses loaded up again. Though it
was my first time working with the female, she knew what she was
doing. Jarid was a well-seasoned rider, moving without question.
Krista looked at me over the horse, worrying her lip. “Alaric, are
you sure having those three in the Fading Vale is wise?”
“We have no choice, lass. If King Regis hears we didnae let ‘im get
his moment, he’ll string me up by ma bollocks',” I told her bluntly,
not missing the way she glanced down to my crotch at the mention
of my balls.
Her husky laughter filled the air. “Rather yours than mine,” she
said with a suggestive wink. “But if they end up on my sword, don’t
say I didn’t warn you. I don't think I'll ever volunteer for a hunt
again before checking the guest list.”
I just nodded. She was lucky she could switch out on rides such as
these without much of a consequence or drawing the King's
attention.
I didn’t have that luxury.

We finally crossed the border into the Vale around midday. Thick fog
surrounded us, white clouds pressing in on all sides. Even with my
improved shifter eyesight, it was nearly impossible to make out the
difference between friend and foe.
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and to the deep and painful colour of shame and anguish on her
face, poor Harry’s courage fell. He did not speak—he glided into the
vacant chair, and suddenly abandoning his poor design of
concealment covered his face with his hands.
“Harry is not well—he is not strong poor fellow,” said Agnes almost
sobbing, “get a cup of tea for him, Rose. Martha, sit down.”
Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in the face of
poor Harry’s passionate sister. The fierce impatience of her anger
seemed melting away—melting into that utter despondency and
hopelessness—that deep humiliation, which with the second sight
that sometimes adds new pangs to sorrow, saw that to hope was
useless, and yet in the depths did only cling the closer to this
impossible hope. Poor Harry! Martha was not given to weeping, but
then she could have wept—such desperate burning tears, as only
come out of the depths.
Cuthbert felt that if he had helped to increase their pain by being a
spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by hastening
immediately away.
“I shall have a long walk,” he said, with forced ease, “and I think I
must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss Muir. What am I to
say to your uncle?”
“That you left us—Nay,” said Martha, restraining herself with a great
effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange yearning look of
grief, “say little to the old man, Mr. Charteris. He knows how he
would wish us to be in his own gentle heart—and it is best to leave it
so; say we were well—and now we must not detain you. Harry, have
you anything to say to my uncle?”
Poor Harry uncovered his white unhappy face. “I?—nothing—
nothing—you know I have nothing to say—good bye, Mr. Charteris.”
“It is so short a time since we left Ayr,” said Agnes, offering Cuthbert
her trembling hand.
And then he left the room.
 The lobby was quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard some sound
like a suppressed sob as Rose stole out after him, and closed the
parlour door. It was Violet sitting in gloom and solitude on the
ground, with her little desolate heart well nigh bursting. Martha had
been displeased at her. Harry had struck her—and fearful dreams of
being utterly alone, and having no one in the world to care for her,
were passing drearily through Violet’s mind. That sad dumb anguish
of the child, which we do not seem ever to remember when we have
children to deal with, weighed down the young spirit to the very dust.
She thought, poor solitary girl, miserable proud thoughts of dying,
and leaving them to grieve for her when she was dead, who would
not care for her enough when she was living—and she thought, too,
of toiling on alone to the vague greatness which children dream of,
and shutting up her heart in her solitary course, from those who had
chilled and rejected it so early. Poor little dreaming inconsistent
poetic child, who in an hour could be bright as the sunshine again—
but while it lasted there were few things in elder life so bitter as that
childish pain.
Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, holding the
weeping and reluctant Violet within her arm. “Mr. Charteris,” said
Rose, eagerly, “do not say anything to my uncle about——. I mean,
will you just tell him we are well, and not say that anything ails
Harry? Will you, Mr. Charteris?”
Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither did Rose;
but whatever it was it cheered her; and as he went away, the
youthful woman lingered in the darkness, stooping over the child.
Rose had reached a further stage than Violet in this grave journey of
life; and if she knew more fully the absolute causes of the family
affliction, she had outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other
thoughts, too, came in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of
her own heart, as she soothed and consoled her little sister. Harry
hitherto had been constantly the central object in her mind—the
dearest always, and in his brightest times the best—perhaps only the
more endeared for all his weakness; but now there began to dawn
upon Rose a stronger, purer, higher ideal. Stealthy and tremulous
the thought glided into her mind; a higher excellence than poor
Harry’s—a fairer fate than that of Harry’s sister. She put it away as if
it had been guilt; but still it had looked in upon her, and left a trace of
secret sunshine behind.
Thus they were, the child and the girl—Violet already cheered by
the gentle voice of Rose, and Rose lightened with the fair fantastic
light of her own thick-coming fancies. Neither forgot the sorrow which
was parted from them only by these slight walls—neither yet could
stay their involuntary tears—and the elder heart overflowed with pity
and tenderness for poor Harry; but yet there were others than Harry
in the world for both.
Within that little room it was far otherwise. He was sitting there still,
his clasped hands covering his face, and the cup of tea, which
Agnes had poured out for him, standing untasted on the table. No
one else had thought of beginning to this joyless meal. Agnes sat
near him, leaning her arm upon his chair, touching his shoulder
sometimes, and murmuring “Harry;” but he had not lifted his head.
Opposite him, Martha sat very still, her eyes wandering about, her
fingers convulsively clasped, her features moving. Sometimes she
started suddenly, as if she could have dashed that aching brow of
hers against the wall; sometimes a low unconscious moan escaped
from her lips; and when, after wandering round the room, noting the
little well-known peculiarities of its furniture, as people only do in
their bitterest moments, her eyes turned to Harry lying motionless in
his chair, with the damp hair clustering upon his brow, and his hands
hiding his face, the anger and passion fled away from her brow like
shadows. Poor Harry! in his weakness, in his sin—only so much the
more her own—not the strong man now, for whom she had woven
dreams of fond and proud ambition—but ever and always the
dependent boy, the child she tended long ago—the unhappy lad over
whom her heart yearned now as a mother. Martha rose—the tears
came out from under her dry eyelids—a sad smile dawned upon the
stern harsh features of her face. She laid her hand upon his
shoulder.
“Harry, Harry, is it worth all this misery? We have nothing but you—
no hope in this world but you. Will you take it from us, Harry? Will
you make us desolate?”
 The little wife looked up through her tears, begging forbearance.
Poor Harry himself lifted his head, and grasped the hands she held
out to him. “Never again—never again.”
Her tears fell upon the clasped hands, and so did his. “Never
again.” Violet crept to his side, and softly laid her little hand upon his
arm. Agnes, weeping quietly, rested her head upon his shoulder,
almost happy again in the reconciliation; and Rose stood behind his
chair.
Poor Harry! They all heard his vow; they all tried to take up their
hope, and once more look fearlessly on the future. No one believed
more devoutly than he did himself that now he could not fall again.
No one was so confident as he that this sin was his last: “Never
again.” Heavy, unseen tears flowed from under Martha’s closed
eyelids that night, when all the rest were peacefully asleep—poor
Harry first of all. Never again! The words moved her to anything but
hope. Poor Harry!
 CHAPTER XI.

“Winter hath many days most like to Spring;

Soft thawing winds, and rains like dew, and gleams
Of sweet inconstant sunshine.—I have seen
An old man’s heart that ne’er was done with seedtime,
Abiding in its gracious youth for ever.”

The next morning very early, while Martha Muir, unable to rest, sat
at the window, carefully mending the torn coat which was poor
Harry’s only one, Cuthbert Charteris set out on the top of the coach
for Ayr. What he had seen on the previous night oppressed him
heavily, weighing down even the natural exhilaration which the
morning sunshine usually brought to a mind void of offence towards
men, and walking by faith humbly with God. Continually that scene
rose up before him—the hidden tears and trembling of Agnes and
Rose—the stern agitation of Martha—the fatuous smile upon poor
Harry’s white conscious face. “Poor Harry!” the stranger echoed with
emotion, the sad tenderness of this lamentation so familiar to Harry’s
nearest friends.
Harry, meanwhile, was peacefully asleep, unconscious of the
hopeless musing of his sister, as she sat by the window not long
after sunrise, doing this sad piece of work for him, and of the gloom
which he cast over the happier mind of his friend; a common case—
almost too common to need recording.
It was the afternoon before Charteris left his inn to seek the house
of Alexander Muir. In the intermediate time he had been wandering
about the town, and hunting through one old churchyard which lay in
his way for the graves of the Allenders; but his search was not
successful. The afternoon was bright and warm, the month being
now far advanced, and he was directed easily to the residence of the
old man whom everybody seemed to know. It was in one of the quiet
back streets of the town, a narrow-causewayed lane, kept in a kind
of constant twilight by the shadows of tall houses. The house he
sought was not tall—its low door opened immediately from the rough
stones of the street; and on either side was a square window fortified
with strong panes of greenish glass, which gave a hue by no means
delightful to the little checked-muslin blinds within. The upper story
was a separate house, and had an outside stair ascending to it,
which stair darkened the lower door, and served as a sort of porch,
supported on the further side by a rude pillar of mason-work.
Cuthbert thought it a very dim dusky habitation for the gentle uncle of
the Muirs.
A little maid-servant, with a striped red and black woollen petticoat
and “short gown” of bright printed cotton, opened the door for him.
Descending a single step, Cuthbert entered a narrow passage, at the
end of which was another open door, with a bright prospect of trees
and flowers, and sunshine beyond. The lobby was paved with brick,
very red and clean, which the little servant seemed just to have
finished scouring; and an open door on one side of it gave him a
glimpse of a trim bed-chamber, with flowers on its little dressing-
table; on the other side was another door (closed) of another bed-
room; and, looking to the garden, the kitchen and the little parlour
occupied the further side of the house.
“Will ye just gang in, sir,” said the girl, removing her pail out of
Cuthbert’s way; “ye’ll get him in the garden himsel.”
Cuthbert obeyed, and passed by himself to the other door.
A very singular scene awaited him there. The garden was a large
one, and formed the greatest possible contrast to the dusky front of
the house. Apple trees in full blossom, and a bright congregation of
all the flowers of spring, surrounded the more homely produce in
which the large enclosure seemed rich. The door was matted round
with climbing plants, roses, and honey-suckles, which, in a month or
two, would be as bright and fragrant as now they were green; and a
splendid pear-tree, flushed with blossom, covered one entire side of
the house.
 But the animate part of the picture was still more remarkable—
scattered through the garden in groups, but principally here near the
door where some fine trees sheltered, and the sun shone upon
them, were a number of girls, from fourteen to twenty, working the
Ayrshire work as it is called—to wit, the fine embroideries on muslin,
which the Muirs “opened”—and talking, as girls generally talk, very
happily and gaily—with snatches of song, and pleasant laughter.
They had all the average good looks, and were dressed becomingly,
as girls in their class, who maintain themselves by needlework,
generally are. Completely astonished at first, Cuthbert became
amused and interested in the scene as he stood a moment
unperceived at the door, especially when, through the embowering
leaves, he caught a glimpse of the person he had come to see.
He was a little spare man, with hair nearly white, and a hale ruddy
cheek. Seated in an arm-chair, in front of his parlour window, with a
book in his hand, it was very evident that the good man’s book had
very little share of his attention. At present he was telling a story to
his audience; and Cuthbert admired the natural eloquence, the
simple grace of language, in which he clothed it. His speech was
quite Scottish, and even a little provincial, but untainted with the least
mixture of vulgarity; and when he had rounded his tale with a
quotation from Burns, he opened the book in which he had been
keeping his place with his finger, only to close it again immediately,
when a new demand was made upon his attention.
“Eh, Mr. Muir,” said one of the girls, “what for have ye such lots of
horse-gowans yonder in the corner?”
“They’re no horse-gowans, Beatie, my woman—they’re camomile,”
said the old man.
“And what is’t for? is it for eating?” asked the curious Beatie.
“It’s for making drinks for no weel folk,” volunteered a better-
informed companion.
“It’s for selling to John Wilson, the man that has taken up physic at
his own hand,” said the chairman of this strange assembly. “They tell
me he’s a friend of Dr. Hornbook’s; you’ve all read of Dr. Hornbook in
Burns.”
There was a general assent; but some, among whom was the
Beatie aforesaid, looked wistful and curious, and had not heard of
that eminent personage.
“It’s a profane thing, a profane thing,” said Alexander Muir. “Keep to
the Cottar, like good bairns. Ye’ll get no ill out of it. But what ails ye,
Beatie, my woman?”
“Eh, sir, it’s a gentleman,” said Beatie, under her breath.
Whereupon there ensued a dead silence, and a fit of spasmodic
industry came upon the girls, occasionally interrupted by a
smothered titter, as one of the more mischievous, who sat with her
back to the door, tempted to laughter her companions, whose
downcast faces were towards the stranger.
Cuthbert introduced himself in a few words, and was heartily
greeted by the old man. “I have an obligation to you, sir, as well as
the rest of them, for your care of Harry,” said the uncle; “and ye left
them well? They are my family, these bairns, an old solitary man as I
am, and their friends are most welcome to me.”
“You seem to have another family round you here,” said Cuthbert,
looking with a smile on the demure group before him, some of whom
were painfully suppressing the laugh which they could not altogether
conceal.
“Neighbours’ bairns,” said Alexander Muir; “bits of innocent things
that have not the freedom of a garden like mine at home. There is a
kind of natural kin between them and the spring. I like to see them
among my flowers, and I think their work gets on all the better, that
they are cheery in the doing of it; but to tell you the truth, I cannot
see, Mr. Charteris, how our own bairns should think themselves
better in Glasgow than with me, now that Harry has gotten a wife.”
“They wish to remain together, I fancy,” said Cuthbert, sadly
remembering the bitter tie which kept them beside poor Harry; “but
both for health and happiness, Mr. Muir, I should fancy they would be
better with you.”
 “Say you so?” said the old man, eagerly, “for happiness; aye, say
you so?”
Cuthbert hastened to explain away, so far as he could, the painful
meaning of his words, leaving it to be inferred that it was only the
fresh air and freedom of this pleasant place, of which they stood in
need.
“I am going in for a while with this gentleman,” said uncle Sandy,
raising his voice as he turned to his little congregation; “but mind
there is no need for you turning idle because I am not here to look
after you; mind and be eident, as the cotter’s bairns were bidden to
be.”
The girls acknowledged the smiling speech addressed to them by
great demonstration of industry, and for a few minutes the blue
stamped leaves and branches of their muslin grew into white
embroidery with wonderful speed. The old man looked round upon
them with a smile, as they sat bending down their heads under the
glistening sunshine over their pretty work, and then, laying his book
on his chair, he led the way into the house.
The parlour was a very small one, considerably less than the best
bed-room, which occupied the front of the house, and which, by an
occupant of less poetic taste, would have been made the sitting-
room. But Alexander Muir did not like the dull prospect of the little
back street; he preferred to look out upon the garden in which so
much of his time was spent, and the little room was large enough for
all his quiet necessities.
His old easy chair had been removed from the fireside corner to the
window. It was a latticed window, furnished with a broad shelf
extending all the length of its deep recess, which seemed to have
been made for plants—but no plants interposed themselves between
the sun-shine and the books, which were the best beloved
companions of the old, gentle, solitary man. Cuthbert looked at them
as they lay in little heaps in the corner of the window. There was no
dust about them, but almost as little arrangement. They lay, as their
contents lay in the head of their good master, mingled in pleasant
friendliness. The Fourfold State and the Crook in the Lot embraced
the royal sides of Shakspere, and a much-used copy of Burns lay
peacefully beside the Milton, which, to tell truth, opened more easily
at Comus or at Il Penseroso than in either Paradise. Besides these
there were Cowper and Young, an odd volume of the Spectator, an
old time-worn copy of the Pilgrim, with Samuel Rutherford’s Letters,
and Fleming, the interpreter of prophecy, and the quaint Willison
ballasting some volumes of Scott and Galt. Daily friends and
comrades were these, bearing marks of long and frequent use, some
of them encased in homely covers of green cloth, which the old
man’s own careful hands had endued them with; some half bound,
after his fashion, with stripes of uncultivated “calf” defending their
backs, and their boards gay with marbled paper. It was pleasant to
see them, in their disarrangement, upon the broad ledge of the
window, friends too intimate and familiar to be kept on ceremonious
terms.
“Take a seat, Mr. Charteris,” said uncle Sandy; “if you had come
while Harry was here it might have been pleasanter for you—for
Harry, poor man, is a blithe companion; maybe over blithe
sometimes for his own well-doing: And you think the bairns would be
better with me?”
“Nay,” said Charteris, hastily, “except in so far as this house of
yours, Mr. Muir, is certainly a most pleasant contrast to the din and
haste of Glasgow, and your nieces, you know, like your young
friends yonder, are of kin to spring.”
The old man had seated himself in his easy chair, which Cuthbert
would not take. He took off his spectacles to wipe them with his
handkerchief, and shook his head. “There is Rose, to be sure, and
little Lettie; but my niece, Martha, Mr. Charteris—well, I cannot tell—
the spring may come to her yet after the summer has passed. I
would not put the bondage of common use about Martha, for the like
of me is little able to judge the like of her. It is a hard thing to
understand. It might have been a question in the days of the auld
philosophy—what for the mind that would have served a conqueror
should be put into her—a mind that can ill bow to the present yoke—
when there is even too much need of such in high places. It will be
clear enough some time—but it has aye been a wonder to me.”
 “There may be difficulties in her way to conquer, more hopeless
than kingdoms,” said Cuthbert involuntarily.
“Young man, do you ken of any evil tidings,” asked Alexander Muir,
with sudden haste and energy.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Cuthbert, annoyed at himself for speaking
words from which inferences so painful could be drawn—“You must
hear my special mission to Ayr, Mr. Muir. Your niece has told me that
the name of her grandmother was Allenders—it is an unusual name
—Could you give me any information about the family.”
The old man looked considerably surprised. “They were strangers
here,” he said. “I mind of Mrs. Calder, very well, whose daughter
Violet married James Muir, my brother. He was ten years younger
than me, and so I mind of his good-mother, though she died long
ago. They came from London, Mr. Charteris. There was a father and
two daughters in the family. I will let you see all that remains of them
—their grave.”
“And are there no papers—no way of tracing the family to their
origin,” said Cuthbert, with some uneasiness.
“We have never thought it of any importance,” said the old man,
smiling, “if it is, we may fall on some means maybe. It sharpens
folk’s wits to have something to find out—but what depends on it, Mr.
Charteris.”
“I have said nothing of it to our friends in Glasgow—fearing that the
name might have misled me,” said Cuthbert, “but there is, I am glad
to tell you, an estate depending upon it—not a great one, Mr. Muir—
a comfortable small estate producing some four hundred pounds a-
year.”
Cuthbert wanted to be rather under than over the mark—four
hundred pounds a-year! the sum was princely and magnificent to the
astonished old man. He looked at Cuthbert in a mist of
bewilderment. He took off his spectacles and wiped their glasses
again. He put up his hand to his head, and rubbed his forehead in
confused amazement. “Four hundred pounds a-year!”
 “So far as I have gone yet, it seems almost certain that your
nephew is the heir,” said Cuthbert. “The surname of itself is much,
and the Christian names confirm its evidence very strongly. If you
think there can be anything done to trace the origin of these
Allenders, I should be glad to proceed to it at once.”
The old man had bowed down his head—he was fumbling now with
nerveless fingers at his glasses, and suddenly he raised the
handkerchief with which he had been wiping them, up to his eyes.
Some sounds, Cuthbert heard, like one or two broken irrepressible
sobs, “For Harry—for the unstable callant—the Lord’s grace to save
him from temptation—that I should live to see this hope!”
The short broken sobs continued for a moment, and then he raised
his head. “I see, Sir,” said the old man, with natural dignity, “that to
thank you for troubling yourself in this way, with the humble concerns
of these orphans, who can render you little in return, would be to
hold you in less esteem than is your due. I take your service, as, if I
had been as young and well endowed as you, I think I could maybe
have rendered it—and now tell me what it is you want to discover—
that I may further it, if I can, without delay.”
 CHAPTER XII.

“What! mine own boy?”

Almost in Lindsay’s words, Cuthbert told to the old man the story
of the Allenders. He listened without making any remark, but
evidently, as Cuthbert saw, with great attention.
“John Allenders—yes, that was the name,” he said, when his visitor
had concluded. “And Violet and Rose—it looks like—very like, as if
these bairns were the folk you seek. I pray heaven they may; no for
the siller,” continued the old man, turning back on his way to the pin
where hung his low broad-brimmed hat: “no alone or even specially
for the siller; but for other matters, Mr. Charteris—other things of
more concern to Martha and me, and the rest of them, too, poor
things, than silver and gold; though no doubt an honourable
maintenance, no to say a grand independence like that, is to be
thankfully received for itself, if we would not sin our mercies—and
now, sir, I am ready.”
Charteris followed without any question.
The old man turned first to the garden door, and looked out. His
young guests had slackened a little in their industry; one of them sat
solemnly in the arm-chair, reading with great emphasis from the
book he had left. Another had thrown down her work to arrange in
elaborate braids a favourite companion’s hair; and two or three other
groups, with their heads close together, were discussing “the
gentleman;” and what could possibly be his errand with Maister
Meur. “Bairns,” said the old man, looking out smilingly. With a
sudden start the girls resumed their work, the occupant of the arm-
chair threw down the book in great haste, and fled to her own seat.
“The book will do ye no harm; ye may read it out loud, one at a
time,” said the gracious patron of the young embroiderers; “but see
that you do not forget what work must be done, or make me forsworn
of my word, when I promised to see ye keep from idleness. Mind! or
we will cast out the morn.”
Saying which, the old man turned to the street door, directing his
little Jessie as he passed the kitchen, to have tea prepared with
some ornamental additions to its ordinary bread and butter, which he
specified in a whisper, exactly at six o’clock.
“And I have a spare room that you are most kindly welcome to, if ye
can put up with my small accommodations, Mr. Charteris,” said the
master of the little house, as they passed into the street; “but I see
you are for asking where we are to go. There is one person in the
town that may very likely help us, I think. She was aunt to my sister-
in-law, that’s now departed, and knew all about the Allenders. She is
an old woman. I would not say, but she has the better of me by
twenty years; but she’s sharper at worldly business yet, than many
folk in their prime. She has some bits of property and money saved
that will come to the bairns no doubt some time, but the now she
holds a firm grip, and is jealous of respect on the head of it. I will
take it kind if ye will just grant her the bit little ceremony that has
grown a necessity to her, Mr. Charteris. She is an aged woman, and
it does not set youth ill to honour even the whims of gray hairs.”
“I shall be very careful,” said Cuthbert with a smile, for he did not
think it needful to add that he was a very unlikely person to show any
want of courtesy to the aged or the weak.
They walked through the town somewhat slowly, for the old man
paused now and then to point out with genuine pride and affection
the notable things they passed. The polemic Brigs, the Wallace
tower. His mild gray eye kindled as he reminded his visitor that this
was doubly classic ground—the land of Wallace, and of Burns—of
the old traditional hero whose mighty form looms over his country
still, and of the unhappy poet whom the poor of Scotland cherish in
their hearts.
Alexander Muir was one of those whose end of life seems almost
as pure as its beginning. A spirit so blameless and placid, that we
might almost think it had only been sent here, because it is a greater
joy to be a man, and know by certain experiment the wonderful
mystery of redemption, than to be satisfied with such knowledge as
the sinless in heaven can gain. It is happy for us, amid the dark
records of common lives, that here and there God permits us one
such man, born to be purer than his fellows; so much lower than the
angels that the taint of native sin has come with him into the world—
so much higher than they, that the mantle of the Lord has fallen upon
him, and that he stands accepted in a holiness achieved by the
Master and King of all. Lichened over with the moss of age, in quiet
places here and there five gracious souls of this happy class, and
Alexander Muir was one.
But very human was the pure unworldly spirit, deeply learned in the
antiquities of the country, with which his very life seemed woven.
Happily proud of all its fame and all its great men, and interested
even in its prejudices, there could have been found nowhere a guide
more pleasant. Cuthbert and he insensibly began to use the
language of intimates—to feel themselves old friends; and when the
children in the streets came forward to pull the old man’s skirts, and
solicit his notice, the young one, impatient at first of the delay,
became soon so much interested in the universal acquaintanceship
of his cheerful companion, as to linger well pleased where he chose
to linger. Almost every one who met them had a recognition
respectful and kindly for uncle Sandy. His passage through the street
was a progress.
“But we are putting off our time,” said uncle Sandy at last. “This
way, Mr. Charteris.”
They were then in the outskirts of the town; before a two story
house, of smaller proportions than his own, the old man at last
concluded his walk. The door stood open, and the sanded passage
leading to a flight of stone stairs, floury and white with “camstane,”
proclaimed the house to have more occupants than one. A door
opening into this passage gave them a glimpse of a family
apartment, where the mother stood at an ample tub washing, while
children of all sizes overflowed the limits of the moderately clean
kitchen. This woman, Mr. Muir addressed kindly, inquiring after her
exuberant family first, and then for Miss Jean.
 “Ou ay, there’s naething ails her,” was the answer, given not without
some seeming ill-humour. “I was paying her the rent yestreen. She’s
glegger about siller now, than ever I was a’ my days; and as for
gieing a bawbee to a wean, or an hour’s mercy to a puir body, ye
micht as weel move the heart o’ a whinstane; no that we’re needing
ony o’ her charity. I have a guid man to work for me, that has been
even on seven year wi’ ae maister, and there’s no mony could say
that; but it’s awfu’ to see an auld body wi’ such a grip o’ the world.”
Leaving Miss Jean’s tenant, operating with angry energy upon the
garments in her hands, they proceeded up the camstaned stair to
the door of Miss Jean’s own habitation. A very small girl, dressed in
a remote and far-away fashion, with a thick cap covering her short-
cut hair, admitted them, recognising the old man with a smile of
evident pleasure, and looking with a little alarm at his companion.
“You will tell Miss Jean it’s me, Katie, and a stranger gentleman I’ve
brought to see her,” said uncle Sandy; “and when is she to let you
home to see your mother?”
“Whisht,” said the little girl in a whisper; “she’ll hear. She’ll no let me
at a’. Oh, if you would speak to her, uncle!”
“So I will, Katie, my woman,” said the old man kindly, patting the
head of the little drudge as she showed them into a front room; “and
mind you and be a good bairn in the mean time, and dinna be ill to
her, even if she is ill to you: and now you must tell Miss Jean.”
The child fingered a moment. “If ye please, uncle—maybe she’ll no
let me speak to you after—is Lettie ever coming back again?”
“Maybe, my dear; there’s no saying,” said uncle Sandy. “I will try if
she can come to see you, or maybe I will take you to see her; but,
Katie, my woman, you must tell Miss Jean.”
The little girl went away with a lighter step. “She is a faraway
cousin,” said the old man, “a fatherless bairn, poor thing, needing
whiles to eat bitter bread; if our bairns come to their kingdom they
must take Katie Calder. I think the blood is warmer on our side of the
house; any way none of them will grudge the bit lassie her
upbringing.”
 Miss Jean Calder’s best room was furnished with a set of old
lugubrious mahogany chairs, and a solemn four-posted bedstead,
with terrible curtains of heavy dark moreen. Neither the bed nor the
room were ever used, the other apartment serving all purposes of
kitchen, parlour, and sleeping-room to its aged mistress and her little
handmaiden. They could hear sounds of some little commotion in it,
as they sat down to wait. Miss Jean had preparations to make before
she could receive visitors.
At last, having completed these, she entered the room. She was a
tall and very meagre old woman, with very false black hair smoothed
over the ashy wrinkled brow of extreme age, and a dirty cap of white
net, hastily substituted for the flannel one in which she had been
sitting by the fireside in the other room; an old, dingy, much-worn
shawl and a rustling black silk apron covered the short-comings of
her dress; but underneath the puckers of her eye-lids, keen, sharp,
frosty eyes of blue looked out with undiminished vision; and, but for
the pinched and grasping expression which seemed to have settled
down upon them, there would have been intelligence still in the
withered features, which once, too, had had their share of beauty.
Some one says prettily that Nature, in learning to make the lily,
turned out the convolvulus. One may trace something like this in the
character of a family as it descends from one generation to another,
as if, the idea of a peculiar creation once taken up, experiments were
made upon the race, and gradations of the mind to be produced,
were thrown, first into one position and then another, until the climax
was put upon them all by the one commanding spirit in which the
design was perfected. It is not uncommon. Miss Jean Calder was a
lesser and narrower example of the mind of Martha Muir; eager in
her young days to raise herself above her comrades, she had
repelled with disdain the neighbours’ sons, who admired her; while
yet she resented bitterly the neglect with which her honest wooers
avenged themselves afterwards for her disdain. Then the selfish,
fiery, proud woman began with firm industry to make a permanent
provision for herself; and from that early period until about two years
before this time, she had toiled early and late, like the poorest of
labouring men. All that might have been generous and lofty—if there
ever was such admixture in the ambition and pride of her youth—had
evaporated long ago; a tyrant of unbending will in her small dominion
—a hard, grasping, pitiless creditor to the miserable tenants who
happened to be in her power—an unhappy spirit, clinging to the
saddest dross of worldliness, she had become.
A sad object—but yet standing, to the mind of Martha Muir—if we
may venture so to speak of the working of Him who creates all—in
the relation of a study to a great painting—a model to a finished
statue.
“Good morning to ye, Alexander Muir,” said Miss Jean, “who’s this
ye’ve brought in your hand?”
“The gentleman is from Edinburgh, Miss Jean,” said Alexander. “He
is a friend of Harry’s, and has been kind to him, as most folk are,
indeed, who ken the lad.”
“I tell ye, Sandy, ye have made a fuil of that boy,” said the old
woman harshly; “a wasterful spendthrift lad that would throw away
every bawbee that he had, and mair, that he hasna; but he needna
look to sorn on me if ever he comes to want. I have nae mair than I
can do wi’ mysel: and where’s my twenty shillings, guid white monie,
that I gied to fit him out?”
“He will pay it back some day, no fear,” said Alexander, “for I hear
from this gentleman that Harry is like to prosper, poor man, and no
doubt he will mind his friends, Miss Jean. The gentleman has been
speaking to me of your guid sister, John Calder’s wife. He thinks he
kens some good friends she had. Did you ever hear what part that
family came from?”
“Ay, good friends? where are they? what’s like to come o’t?” said
Miss Jean, fixing the frosty eyes, whose keen light contrasted so
strangely with her ashy wrinkled face, on Cuthbert.
“I cannot tell,” said Cuthbert, warily, “it depends entirely upon what
relationship I may discover—but it may be good for those who were
kind to the Allenders, Miss Calder, if I find that they were relatives of
the family I suppose.”
“Kind to the Allenders? Do you ken, lad, that it was my mother took
them in, when their father died, and the poor things hadna a mortal
to look after them?—kind to the Allenders, said he?—weel, weel—
puir bairns, they’re baith gane.”
Something human crossed the sharp pinched selfish face—even in
this degraded spirit, there was a memory of the fragrant far away
youth.
“And Mr. Charteris,” said Alexander Muir, “would like to ken where
they came from, Miss Jean—it is weel kent how good ye were to the
orphans—I am meaning your mother—and no doubt you ken better
about them than indifferent folk;—that was the way I troubled you,
and brought Mr. Charteris this length.”
“Wha’s Mr. Charteris?”
“It’s the gentleman,” said the old man simply.
“If they left any papers,” interposed Cuthbert, “or books, or any
relics indeed from which we might discover their origin—I should feel
it a great obligation, Miss Calder, if you would assist me to trace it.”
“Obligation! I have little broo of obligation,” said the old woman with
a grating laugh, mingled of harshness and imbecility. “I have seen
ower mony folk that I obliged, slip away out of my hand like a
knotless thread; but is there anything like to come of it? I dinna ken
this stranger lad—I can put trust in you, Alexander Muir—that is in
what you say, ye ken.”
“Well, Miss Jean, it depends upon what the gentleman finds out,”
said the old man, a little proud of his tactics, and marvelling within
himself at his own address, “if he can be satisfied by means of any
papers or books or such like—I believe something good may come
of it.”
The old woman wavered. “It’s a hantle trouble,” she said, “to put a
frail woman like me to, that have but a little monkey of a lassie to
help me in the house,—but there is a kist ben yonder in below the
bed—and there may be some bits of things in it—I dinna ken—but
neither her nor me are fit to pull it out.”
“Can I help?” said Cuthbert, hurriedly.
 “Ye’re unco ready wi’ your offer, lad,” said Miss Jean, grimly, “it’s no
for love o’ the wark, I judge, wi’ thae bit white lassie’s fingers—look
at mine,” and she extended a long shrivelled hand, armed like the
claws of a bird, “na, na, I ken naething about you—but if Katie and
you can manage it, Sandy Muir—and she’s a fusionless brat, no
worth the half of the meat she eats—I’ll be nae hindrance—ye can
try.”