A New Start

Okay, long ago this blog was created to post chapters of my first novel, Stories That Can't Be Read (then known as The Curse Of Newhaven), which is the first in my Circle series. Well, it's been so long since I last posted that the book has now been published on Amazon (.com, .co.uk, .fr, .es, .it) for download to Kindle, iPad, iPhone, iPod Touch, Android, Mac, and PC. It's a pretty good yarn, if you ask me, and the first in a series. Also, it's really cheap. I'm hinting that you should buy it, you'll be surprised to hear.

Anyway, as I'm not posting chapters from it anymore, this blog will now be for anything related to that series that I think is worth bothering you with, which means it'll probably be home to some short stories, character stuff, explanations of who inspired what, that kind of thing. I've started writing short stories leading up to a novel about another pair of characters set in the same reality as The Circle series but in the present day. That series is called The Last Girls, but anything I post to do with that will go on my main blog.

So there you go. A new start, and it should last longer than the last one.

Chapter Two - Heather Lukas

For as long as she could remember, Heather had known things she shouldn't. When she was small, she would sneak into her father's library at night, and read until near dawn. She did this nearly every night for three years, reading two or three books in their entirety over the course of the week. Heather had a tremendous capacity for storing knowledge, and could still recite the majority of these books by heart. She knew the story of the curse as well. Of course, all the children of the town knew of The Curse, but only three knew the story behind it, and of these three, two knew it solely because it had been told to them by Heather. And then, there was her Perception. She never really knew how to describe it, but people always commented that she was very perceptive, and so this was the name she gave it. In actuality, Heather never really knew, or at least never really noticed it until she lost her sight. Until then she merely thought of it as others did; that she was simply intelligent and understood things quickly, and that she had keener instincts than most. After her blinding, she realised that she knew and understood and sensed things that she simply shouldn't. She knew that the tree in the church yard had been blown down one night, without being told, and without overhearing someone else being told. She knew, before anyone else, what had happened at the doctor's house on the night that had haunted Dr... Bachmann ever since. And she knew that one day quite soon, herself and Atticus would be in danger of the creatures, although she did not realise this just yet. Currently, she was too intoxicated by this strange young man's presence to notice. Heather had always been very talkative, and at this moment was talking to her best friend, Violet Rose Glass.

'He must be a very brave man, to be in the forest alone,' Heather hypothesised "very brave indeed.'

'He certainly must.' Violet Rose said this in such a manner that was so unquestioning that it somehow seemed she must have doubted it.

'Maybe he was looking for someone...'

'It must have been someone very important if he was. Maybe a sweetheart of some sort...' Violet Rose knew Heather hadn't fallen for this, but reassured her anyway 'I'm only teasing.'

'I know.' Heather stated this confidently 'You know I never fall for such jokes.'

Violet Rose blushed violently. She always blushed violently because, like Heather, she naturally had a very pale complexion. She was, as her name may suggest, very small and beautiful, and fragile. She had truly black hair, and eyes that weren't much lighter. Her dresses were always the finest in town, which was because her parents were Mr.. and Mrs.. Glass, the tailor and the dressmaker. Violet Rose herself was learning the family business, specifically the manufacture of dresses. She decided to change the subject for a while.

'I made you an eye mask for the dress mother is making you.'

Violet Rose always made eye masks to go with Heather's dresses. She could see neither, but Heather always appreciated this. She liked the idea that she was as well dressed as her friend.

'What colour is it? Does it have a pattern?' Heather always asked, because she knew that special care was taken to ensure her dresses suited her. It seemed polite to ask, even though she knew any dress they made her would be a fine garment.

'Deep, dark red, with black pinstripes.'

'I wonder if Atticus likes red..?'

'Maybe you could introduce me to him, and I could ask if he likes red. Red dresses... red hair and such?' Violet Rose, like everyone else in town, spoke politely, but there was something in the sweetness of her tone and the lady like manner she adopted that made much of what she said sound suggestive, even if it wasn't intended to be.

'Don't you think that would be a little forward, and unladylike? Besides, you just want to be nosy.' Heather said this last part in a humorously stern manner, but it was at least partly true. Heather and Violet Rose shared an inquisitiveness that occasionally spilled over into nosiness.

'Anyway,' Heather continued 'father doesn't want too many visitors disturbing him. I don't think you'd be able to until he is out of bed.'

'But you don't even know what he looks like.'

'I know enough. Anyway, I have to take him lunch now. Will you come later for dinner?'

Violet Rose nodded as Heather got up to leave, and before she could correct herself and answer verbally, Heather replied.

'Come at seven then'

Heather entered the house through the front door, and put her cane on a coat rack. She didn't need it indoors. She knew her way around the house too well. In the front door, five steps, turn left. Ten more steps, a left turn, and she was at the stairs. Fourteen stairs to the upper hall. She turned left at the top, ten more steps, and she was at the door to Atticus' room. She had made the journey so many times that she didn't actually need to count, she just knew where she was, when it was time to turn, when she was at the stairs. She reached forward and put her hand on the door frame, then moved a single finger to check if the door was open or closed. This was her usual technique, as she found it to be the most discreet. When she was younger, Heather checked doors by simply reaching out her hand, but found it to be most embarrassing if the door was open. This door, as she expected, was shut. She opened it quietly and went through. There was a very soft creaking sound.

'I'm sorry, were you asleep?'

'No, I was just laying back.' Atticus' answer at first sounded surprised, but this faded as he went on. Heather supposed he was becoming more used to her alertness, but explained anyway.

'I heard the bed creak. I'm sorry I didn't knock, but I didn't wish to wake you if you were asleep.' She added the apology
as an afterthought, having never realised the impoliteness before. 'Would you like something to eat?'

'I would indeed.' He sounded hungry and eager.

'Well then, I shall be back in just a moment with some thing for you, and then we can talk.' She smiled before leaving. She wanted to hear his stories. After all, any man brave enough to be in the forest alone was bound to have tales to tell.

After Atticus had eaten the bread and soup Heather had brought, she decided to start asking. She thought it would be more polite to ask in a discreet and delicate way, but on the other hand, she was excited and eager to find out if he had any stories as exciting as the she had imagined.

'May I ask,' Heather ventured 'would you tell me some of your adventures?'

'What makes you think I've had any adventures?' Atticus' voice suggested he was trying to usher Heather away from the subject, rather than imply that he hadn't. Heather decided to be less direct.

'You must be very brave to have been in the forest alone,' she began 'but why would you? Why risk such a journey?'

'I was going about my job.' Although this may have been indented to move her away from the subject, it instead gave her a means to question him further.

'So what is your occupation?'

'I find people. If someone is missing, their family or friends can employ me to find them. And if someone should find someone is hiding from them, then I may be employed to find them." The emphasis he put on the word may intrigued her. He seemed to recognise this, as he continued "But then, if I don't think they should be found then I may not.'

Heather couldn't decide if he was clumsily trying to divert her from this line of conversation, or if he was trying to intrigue her. Either way, the effect of this may was to the latter.

'Who were you there to find?'

'You..?' Atticus said this so quietly even Heather struggled to hear, and wasn't sure if she did or not.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Can't remember who...' He sounded afraid and confused as he said this, and seemed as though he was going to continue, but didn't. Heather's instincts told her to change the subject now. Her previous conversation with Violet Rose came to mind. Now she decided to be subtle.

'What is your favourite colour?'

'My favourite colour?' he laughed as he answered 'Green.' Heather presumed she had been far too subtle, until he continued.

'I like red too, though.' This would have seemed like an innocent enough addition, but something in the way he said it suggested, however improbable, that he was referring to Violet Rose's comment from earlier. Impossible, she thought, just impossible. Then, she felt the way he was looking at her. She have sworn he was looking admiringly at her. She smiled, she blushed and she prayed she was right.

A few hours later, Heather was sitting at the kitchen table, while her father was preparing dinner for the Lukas and Glass families. Heather was in an excitable mood. She was attempting to hide why she was so excitable, but it was a losing battle, and she wasn't attempting very hard anyway. She had been talking to her father for some time, and had decided to give his ears a rest. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, rocking slowly back and forth, biting her lower lip. She could only maintain this for a few more seconds, and then...

'He's very brave, you know, Atticus.' The words burst out, and Heather did not try very hard to stop them.

'Do you think so?' Dante said this in a manner that didn't question her as much as it did invite her to continue.

'Oh yes! He was in the forest alone. He must be brave.'

'What about your papa then, eh? He's goes through the forest every now and then.' Dante smiled. Heather walked over to him, and put her arms around him as she answered.

'Of course you're very brave. No one in town is more brave than you.'

Dante smiled and laughed, and ruffled her hair a little. She went back to her chair, unruffling as she did.

'So why did he place himself in such mortal danger? I've not yet asked him myself.'

'He was doing his job.' Heather was determined to divulge these details in a manner as understatedly heroic as she thought Atticus had.

'And that job is?'

'He finds people who are missing, or sometimes who are hiding.'

'So who is he looking for, my pixie? Maybe we can assist him in his endeavour.'

'He cannot remember...' Heather's voice trailed off similarly to Atticus'. It would have taken a particularly insensitive person not to notice the concern in her tone, and her father was not such a person.

'Well, we must hope he can soon, it may be a matter with a degree of urgency. And until he does we must extend him every courtesy and our utmost hospitality.' This went without saying, and Heather could tell he did so only to please his daughter. It pleased her even more when he continued 'And I presume you will be willing and able to attend him during his stay?' Heather's smile answered him fully.

Neither he nor Heather spoke for a second or two, until Dante walked over to his daughter and placed his hand on her shoulder.

'You're quite taken with him, aren't you?' he said, in an understanding manner that suggested it was both obvious and understandable.

'Oh, what a positively scandalous thing to say, father!' Heather said, feining shcok and indignation. It was, however, a perfectly accurate observation.

During dinner, in the middle of a perfectly amusing anecdote, something odd forced it's way to the front of Heather's mind. It was a like a picture in a book. This was not uncommon for Heather, but whereas usually they were clear and distinct for the brief fraction of a moment that they remained there, this one was different. Usually they were detailed and colourful, like the books her father taught her to read from when she was little (but not the books she covertly read in his library). This time, it was rough with jagged edges, and devoid of colour, made up only of outlines. She later realised that this time it was like the sketches Garrison drew before painting, but it's meaning would remain a mystery for too long...

A thin character on the left, and two smaller, huddled figures crouching on the right...

If she had concentrated, Heather may have seen more, or the picture may have developed somewhat and filled in some of the many gaps, but then Jonathan Glass made her laugh and the picture was gone.

After dinner, Heather took some upstairs to Atticus. This was mainly to sit and talk with him, but she was also determined to show the hospitality and courtesy her father had mentioned, and if it provided an excuse be around the unusual guest, then that was fine with her. Again, as she came through the door, she heard the very softest of creaking noises.

'Are you going to sit up like that every time I come in?'

'Sorry.' She really didn't know what he was apologising for.

'No, I should have knocked. Were you sleeping?'

'No, I was just laying down. It, er, it hurts after a while sitting up.'
'I think it's better if you don't sleep too much during the day, now that you're getting better.'

'Why's that?' Atticus enquired. He seemed to be more than a little puzzled. Heather assumed that he just hadn't paid attention earlier. She would have to make sure she and her father impressed the importance of it all.

'It's important that you are asleep by midnight.' She hoped that he would sense the concern in her voice.

'But why?' Heather could tell that, unfortunately, Atticus had a similar inquisitiveness to her. She could not put her finger quite on why, but Heather had a distinct fear that she may cry, and she struggled to mask it.

'Please, will you promise me that you'll sleep between midnight and dawn?' Heather's voice trembled a little as she spoke.

Atticus put her hand very gently on hers. For the first time, Heather didn't start or jump at this. His voice was gentle, and quieter than before, and resolute as he spoke.

'On my word, I will not stir until dawn.'

Chapter One - Atticus Drake

The man in the bed woke up. He was disorientated, and for a moment or two, he could remember nothing. For a second he panicked, fearing one of his greatest gifts had deserted him. This panic was only brief, however, as his memory soon returned. His name was Atticus Drake, and his profession of finding missing and hiding people had lead him to a huge, dense forest in Oregon. Just one thing still eluded him. Who was he there to find? He looked around the room. It was pleasantly, if sparsely, decorated. The bed was in middle of the wall with a space on either side. The door was opposite the bed. In the corner to the left of the door was a wardrobe, to his right, next to the bed was a dresser, and to the left, a chair. There was only one window, in the wall on the left of the bed. Gentle morning sunlight poured in and across the room, the wooden panels on the wall of which were painted a pleasant, light yellow. Something flashed into his mind...

Atticus was standing in the forest. Ahead of him was a tall sinewy man, standing with his back to him. Ahead further still was another man, further off. He was facing Atticus, but his face was obscured. There was a flash of light. The tall man began to turn around...

This flash of the past, however, faded as soon as it came. Then Atticus passed out again.

When Atticus woke up again, it was at least a couple of hours later. He tried sit up, only to fail due to a searing pain in his midriff. He pushed the bed sheet aside with his left hand and looked down. His stomach and lower ribs were heavily bandaged. He had no memory of how or why this was. He gritted his teeth and sat up. The pain of this second attempt woke him up fully. Rubbing his eyes, he finally noticed the plaster cast on his right arm. This apparent injury to his wrist was also a mystery to him. He looked around the room again. I've woke up in worse places, he thought. This was true. Due to his occupation, and his natural preference for nature and animals over towns and people, Atticus spent most nights in the wild. It was then that Atticus noticed the girl. She had been sitting on the chair under the window the whole time. Her hair was a light, auburn blonde colour, in loose curls. The window framed her, and the light shone through her hair giving it the appearance of a halo. Maybe I'm dead, he thought. The pain quickly reminded him, from behind the bandages, that he was very certainly alive. Just as Atticus was about to return his attention to the girl, the door opened, and he was astonished at the sight of the person entering the room. It was a young man, around 19, with the same auburn blonde hair as the girl, cut short and neat. He had a handsome face, with the happy air of a child, and remarkably bright, sparkling eyes. They were eyes that implied a kind, gentle demeanour. Atticus later noted that it was a good thing this young man's his face was so indicative of his personality, as the body below the face would otherwise have been menacing to say the least. He was bluntly put, huge. As he came through the door, Atticus noticed that not only did he have to duck to fit under the door, but he also had to turn partly side ways to fit through, otherwise his breadth would have been to great. Atticus was reasonably tall himself, but this visitor would have towered over him, and his imposing frame dominated the room. And yet... Atticus' gaze was drawn to the young lady to his left. She was, like the young man, pale and smooth skinned, with a few scattered freckles. She was beautiful, and had a strong, presumably family, resemblance to the young man. But Atticus was unable to tell if she had the same sparkling eyes as the young man, as she appeared to be wearing a blindfold. It was made of the same fabric, and had the same pattern as the dress she was wearing. The young man put he tray he was carrying on the dresser on Atticus' right.

"Thank you, Garrison." said the young lady. Her voice was soft and sweet, with a quality to it that Atticus could only describe as helpful.

The young man smiled at her, then glanced inquisitively at Atticus and back to the young lady.

"I think he's getting much better." she said, as if his glance contained an unheard question about Atticus' condition. The young man smiled again, then left, walking as quietly as his hulking size would allow.

"That's my brother Garrison," the young lady cheerily announced "we're twins. What is your name? You've been unable to tell us since my father brought you here, and we could find nothing on your person that might provide any clue."

"Atticus. Drake." Atticus spoke slowly, pausing to calm himself and consider his reply, as he always did. "Atticus Drake. May I know yours?"

The young lady smiled. An unexpected delight. A smile almost worth getting cut up and smashing your ribs and breaking your wrist to see, Atticus thought. Well, almost. She didn't just a smile with her mouth. Her whole face changed briefly to happiness.

"Heather Lukas."

She reached down and picked up a black cane that was on the floor in front of her. A brief look of surprise rose and then faded on her face.

"You're looking at my mask, aren't you?"

"Yes," Atticus couldn't lie to a face like that. "I'm sorry."

"I don't mind. I've never had anyone to notice it before, but I take no offence from it. I am blind. I know that doesn't explain my eye mask, but it's a long story, and my father wanted me to fetch him as soon as you woke up. I shall return shortly." With that, she got up and cheerfully left the room, without using the cane.

Without using the cane. Atticus sat back, and tried to relax. He began to notice other strange things about his two hosts. Garrison made no inquiry about his condition, but following a brief glance, Heather answered an unasked question. How did she know he was looking at the mask? What did she mean, she never had anyone to notice it before? He also thought it was strange that he was able to speak so easily with her. Usually, Atticus found it difficult to speak to most people. He had to think before he spoke, and found he either spoke too quietly, or too quickly. At the worst of times, he would begin to breathe heavily and quickly, and a dread feeling that he would be unable to breathe at all set in. Yet, with Heather, someone he had known for barely ten minutes, he had no such problems. A second unexpected delight. Angelic, he thought. I might not be dead, but she is certainly angelic enough to be there. He had little time to consider these things, as the door opened again. Another visitor. No, this must be my host, he thought. Through the door came a large man, similar in shape and scale to Garrison, although he was somewhat shorter. He was a around 45, and had the same colour hair as Heather and Garrison, short and neat, with a close beard. He also had the same bright eyes as Garrison.

"Mr. Lukas, I take it? My kind host?" Atticus had hoped this would come out as easily and clearly as when he spoke to Heather, but it didn't. Instead, the words burst out as he feared they would.

"Yes, Mr.. Drake. But I insist my friends and guests call me Dante. Only my students need call me Mr..." He had a warm, kind voice. Atticus felt a similar calm to before upon hearing it.

"Where am I?" It had not fully struck Atticus before, but he had no idea as to his whereabouts.

"Newhaven. You were in the forest, and I happened across you."

The name had no real meaning to Atticus, but he decided that his newly acquired wounds and apparent broken bones were of slightly more pressing concern.

"How were my injuries caused?"

"You appear to have been set upon by... by the animals in the forest."

"What kind of animals?" Atticus didn't like the pause.

"None to worry about now. How are the wounds? The doctor will come to see you soon enough, but my daughter has been attending to you. She thinks they are healing nicely."

"They hurt, but I think she is right. May I ask a question about her?"

"By all means."

"She mentioned that she is blind, and that she has never had anyone to notice her eye mask before. I was wondering what she meant." Atticus was hesitant about asking. He was anxious not to risk offending such a lady, or her father, but he had to know.

"She was blinded by illness when she was ten, and has had to wear the mask ever since. As this is not a large town, it didn't take nine whole years for everyone to know."

Atticus looked somewhat dissatisfied at the answer. Dante appeared the sense why.

"She has had no one else to notice," he clarified "because we do not get visitors to pass through. To say our town is isolated is understatement itself. There is the forest for nearly three days journey in three directions, and the hills and mountains to the north. There is only one safe path through the forest, and I daren't reveal it to anyone. Doubtless you can appreciate the good fortune with which I found you."

"I can. But, only one path is safe from what?"

"The Creatures. The animals that attacked you." Dante's face had grown somewhat sterner that before, which made Atticus uneasy. This look, however faded quickly, and the kindly concerned expression returned. "Anyway, I'll leave you for now, but my daughter will return to see to you. Hopefully you'll be able to dine with us all soon?"

"I certainly do hope so."

"Good. If there is anything at all you require, please ask Heather. She'll be more than happy to help." Dante got up and left as he spoke. Atticus laid back, and surrendered to the tiredness that he had been vainly struggling with.

As he slept, the memory from earlier that day returned as a dream...

Atticus was running through the forest. His dog ran ahead of him. Suddenly it stopped. When Atticus caught up with him, it began to growl, ominously. In front of them was a tall sinewy man, standing with his back to him. Ahead further still was another man, further off. He was facing Atticus, but his face was obscured. There was a flash of light. The tall man began to turn around...

When Atticus woke again, it appeared to be noon. He looked to the window, and was disappointed to see that Heather wasn't there. The chair wasn't there either. Then, he felt someone smiling at him.

"So, you're awake again..."

Atticus looked to his right, where he had felt the smile come from. Heather was sitting next to the dresser, still smiling down at him.

"How could you tell?"

"I heard your breathing change. What is your dog's name? All the children are fascinated by it. They've never seen a beast of such size."

"Robaan. Is he all right?"

"Yes. The Creatures appeared to take no interest in him."

"Your father mentioned the creatures. What are they?"

"Nothing to worry about just now. All you really need to know is that we stay off the streets after dark, and to be asleep by midnight."

"Why by midnight?"

"I don't know if I should tell you, really. Just be asleep by midnight, and let the dawn wake you. Do you like the piano? I play the piano rather well."

"Yes, although I..., yes, I do."

"Maybe when you've recovered enough I shall have something to play for you." She seemed excited about the prospect.

She seemed in a good enough mood, so Atticus resolved to ask about the oddities of earlier in the day. Garrison's silence seemed to be the easiest element to ask about delicately.

"Your brother doesn't seem to speak much..." he ventured.

"He cannot. Garrison has been mute for as long as I have been blind." Heather seemed to still be cheerful enough, so he decided to continue.

"When you left before, you didn't make much use of your cane..."

Heather appeared to find this a rather amusing question. She giggled as she answered.

"If you had nine years to practice, I should think anyone could find their way around this town with their eyes closed. I don't really need my cane in the house at all."

As she spoke, more oddities began to surface in Atticus' mind. How could she possibly attend to his injuries without being able to see them? Why was there only one safe route through the forest, and if it was such a dangerous place, why would Dante be there? He decided to begin asking, delicately.

"May I ask, Heather, how can you attend to injuries you cannot see?" He crossed two mental fingers, in the hope that she would not be offended.

"I have ways. And please, calm down," she said, with the same kindly air her father and brother carried "Don't be so nervous about inquiring as to my affliction. I have already said I will take no offence." There was a short silence as Atticus decided whether or not to ask as to how she knew he was so concerned about offending her. The silence was broken by her answer.

"I can tell by your breathing. Whenever you are about to ask about my sight, your breathing increases. It is only reasonable for me to assume the cause to be fear of offending me. And I'm correct in this assumption, aren't I?"

"You are." Atticus smiled "You're very perceptive, aren't you?"

"In lots of ways." Heather laughed. Just like the smile, Atticus thought. Almost worth
suffering the injuries to hear such music. Almost. Heather's laugh spread throughout her, just as the smile took over her whole face. Her mouth, face, shoulders and chest, even her hair seemed to dance to the sound of it. Atticus wanted to tell her how pretty she was, but knew he would simply trip over the words. Later, he thought. Later I will. It was only as he thought this that Atticus realised his clothes and equipment were no where to be seen.

"Where are my clothes? And my equipment?"

"Your clothes are being cleaned, and when you are able to get up my father hopes you will find the clothes of his in the closet to your tastes. Some of them may be a little generous fitting, but Mr.. Glass will fix that." She seemed cheerful and inquisitive by nature, Atticus decided. "Your pack is in the bottom of the closet. My father buried some items that he would not describe to me, but Garrison leaves me to believe they are some manner of weaponry."

"Why would he bury my weapons?"

"We have no such things in this town, so I presume he thought it would be best, and that way children's curiosity would not be of any inconvenience that way, or put them at any risk. I hope you aren't cross."

"Of course not. I shouldn't want to offend anyone that I am a guest of." Normally, Atticus would be concerned, to say least, at his weapons being confiscated, but he wasn't. He thought at first that it was just due to the person breaking this news, but later decided that everyone that had visited him so far was eminently trustworthy.

Heather produced a book from a pocket.

"I wonder, would you be interested in reading something I have written. I like to write stories." She giggled again "My handwriting is somewhat messy, but I am assured it is legible."

Atticus turned red, and hesitated to answer.

"What's the matter?" She seemed to be genuinely concerned. Atticus briefly considered asking how she could tell, but he knew.

"I am afraid I cannot. You see, I was raised by an adoptive father, an elderly, wealthy man. When I was ten, I decided to learn the skills I would need to find my mother, who I had been told was alive when I came to my father's house. This meant leaving the school he sent me to, so I am afraid I am unable to read with any real skill."

A look of disappointment came across Heather's face. He decided instantly that he never wanted to see such a look on her again.

"If you leave me the book, I'll try to read it." The cheery look that Atticus was already used to returned. He was immensely relived. Something that Atticus had not, for some reason, considered yet bubbled to the surface of his mind.

"Heather," he ventured "how long have I been here?"

"I've had the pleasure of your company for four days. Before that, you spent a few days with Dr. Bachmann."

"Have you been alone? What about the lady of the house?"

"I am the lady of the house," she giggled "And when I'm not helping father at his work, I assist the doctor, so be assured you are in good hands."

Atticus suspected that he knew the answer already, but could not stop his next question escaping.

"What about your mother?"

It seemed as if That Look was creeping across Heather's countenance, but Atticus quickly realised this look was much worse. It wasn't disappointment, it was sadness.

"My mo..." she started, before biting her quaking lower lip for a second "Mother is
dead. She died nine years ago."

For five terrifying seconds, Atticus feared she would cry. He put his hand on hers, which were folded in her lap. She jumped slightly, then smiled.

"I'm sorry, I've never had to tell anyone about it. It's a small town, you know."

The Sorrow, Atticus would later name it, and sadly this was not the last time he would see it stain her. The Sorrow had left Heather's face, but her cheeriness didn't return for a few strange, silent moments as his hand lingered on hers.

"Would you like to hear a story?" Her happy air returned as she spoke, and Atticus sharply withdrew the hand.

"I would."

"All right. Once upon a dark and sad time..."

Atticus listened silently as Heather told her story, and wondered how a young lady so cheerful and sweet would know such a gruesome tale.