cookies. The fresh sweet smell filled his
workshop. It was a comforting scent, reminding him of the warm
kitchen.
“Just received Alethia’s letter from the
Academy.” She flourished an envelope dramatically. It was the color
of parchment, sealed with red wax.
Alethia. His precious daughter. He looked
away from the damning blue prints and thanked the housekeeper
warmly. She had looked after his little girl ever since she was a
baby, pulled from her mother’s stomach to save her life. She was
the only mother Alethia had known in her whole childhood. She would
be turning twenty soon, no longer his little girl, but a young
woman.
His heart sank when he read the letter. She
was one of the chosen few to take part in the Great Gathering. He
should be brimming with fatherly pride. Yet… yet, seeing the blue
prints and knowing what kind of vessels would be launched made him
more perturbed.
He kept seeing her in front of him. Pale,
almost white hair, smooth-skinned, looking as if she was fragile.
She was not. She was no porcelain doll. She was made of stronger
stuff, all steel inside. When she was just a toddler, people would
make comments about her blindness, that he should be pampering and
coddling her. She was not an invalid, as he always told himself.
Never. She had her mother’s fierce determination, a fiery spirit,
though she did not display it often.
It would be a Great Gathering. Of what manner of greatness, Paul Forrester did not want to think
about. With an heavy heart, he went back to the blue prints and
started to make notes about it.
~*~
Far away from the machinations of London,
Cornwall was a quiet county and Victor very much preferred it to
remain that well. He was only a fisherman, from a long line of
fishermen. The sea was in his blood and he was more than happy to
spend his mornings in his boat and netting fish.
There was some talk in the marketplace,
where the fishermen would gather and sort out their catch, about
the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. God bless Her Majesty . And life
would still go on. His wife, Martha, had just given birth to a boy,
his fifth child. Food on the table and clean clothes to wear were
more important than courtly pomp and pageantry.
Oh bloody hell, the net was exceedingly
heavy today. Heavier than his usual catch which he would easily
haul with his considerably strong right hand. Must be something big
– a large salmon, perhaps – caught in the net. A fat salmon with
roe would feed his family well or fetch a few shillings from the
market. Either way, it was good.
He pulled the net, heaved it into the boat
dripping with seawater and writhing with live fish. Looked like a
sizeable catch. As expected, there was something large bulging the
net. He leaned forward to look at it…
… only to stare into baleful eyes, the color
of black polished stone. And a crescent-grin filled with toothy
malice.
Victor jumped back. He should be accustomed
to the sight of sharks. But this one was an odd blighter, with a
long horn protruding from its head. And what a strange tail .
It was more serpent than shark. He prodded it; it was already dead,
probably of exertion, crimson blood trickling from its gills.
A serpent shark . Now that would scare
his children, though his oldest – Henry – might just relish the
tale as all pre-adolescent boys would when it comes to the macabre
and the strange.
He yanked it to one side of the boat, noting
how heavy it was, though streamlined. It must have been beautiful
in water. This random thought startled Victor and he laughed at
himself for being such a sentimental fool. Back to work.
~*~
The streets of London teemed with her
citizens. There were boys holding the day’s broadsheets, shouting
to attract business. Fashionable ladies and well-dressed gentlemen,
dapper in well-tailored coats and pants, walked down Hyde Park. By
now, the word that there would be a Golden
workshop. It was a comforting scent, reminding him of the warm
kitchen.
“Just received Alethia’s letter from the
Academy.” She flourished an envelope dramatically. It was the color
of parchment, sealed with red wax.
Alethia. His precious daughter. He looked
away from the damning blue prints and thanked the housekeeper
warmly. She had looked after his little girl ever since she was a
baby, pulled from her mother’s stomach to save her life. She was
the only mother Alethia had known in her whole childhood. She would
be turning twenty soon, no longer his little girl, but a young
woman.
His heart sank when he read the letter. She
was one of the chosen few to take part in the Great Gathering. He
should be brimming with fatherly pride. Yet… yet, seeing the blue
prints and knowing what kind of vessels would be launched made him
more perturbed.
He kept seeing her in front of him. Pale,
almost white hair, smooth-skinned, looking as if she was fragile.
She was not. She was no porcelain doll. She was made of stronger
stuff, all steel inside. When she was just a toddler, people would
make comments about her blindness, that he should be pampering and
coddling her. She was not an invalid, as he always told himself.
Never. She had her mother’s fierce determination, a fiery spirit,
though she did not display it often.
It would be a Great Gathering. Of what manner of greatness, Paul Forrester did not want to think
about. With an heavy heart, he went back to the blue prints and
started to make notes about it.
~*~
Far away from the machinations of London,
Cornwall was a quiet county and Victor very much preferred it to
remain that well. He was only a fisherman, from a long line of
fishermen. The sea was in his blood and he was more than happy to
spend his mornings in his boat and netting fish.
There was some talk in the marketplace,
where the fishermen would gather and sort out their catch, about
the Queen’s Golden Jubilee. God bless Her Majesty . And life
would still go on. His wife, Martha, had just given birth to a boy,
his fifth child. Food on the table and clean clothes to wear were
more important than courtly pomp and pageantry.
Oh bloody hell, the net was exceedingly
heavy today. Heavier than his usual catch which he would easily
haul with his considerably strong right hand. Must be something big
– a large salmon, perhaps – caught in the net. A fat salmon with
roe would feed his family well or fetch a few shillings from the
market. Either way, it was good.
He pulled the net, heaved it into the boat
dripping with seawater and writhing with live fish. Looked like a
sizeable catch. As expected, there was something large bulging the
net. He leaned forward to look at it…
… only to stare into baleful eyes, the color
of black polished stone. And a crescent-grin filled with toothy
malice.
Victor jumped back. He should be accustomed
to the sight of sharks. But this one was an odd blighter, with a
long horn protruding from its head. And what a strange tail .
It was more serpent than shark. He prodded it; it was already dead,
probably of exertion, crimson blood trickling from its gills.
A serpent shark . Now that would scare
his children, though his oldest – Henry – might just relish the
tale as all pre-adolescent boys would when it comes to the macabre
and the strange.
He yanked it to one side of the boat, noting
how heavy it was, though streamlined. It must have been beautiful
in water. This random thought startled Victor and he laughed at
himself for being such a sentimental fool. Back to work.
~*~
The streets of London teemed with her
citizens. There were boys holding the day’s broadsheets, shouting
to attract business. Fashionable ladies and well-dressed gentlemen,
dapper in well-tailored coats and pants, walked down Hyde Park. By
now, the word that there would be a Golden
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