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CHAPTER 1

THE SHADOW PEOPLE

 

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 MANY YEARS AGO, I learned a lesson that I could scarcely forget—one that would echo through my mind whenever a moment stilled. During the course of my unusual and macabre existence, it has become abundantly clear that all of humankind could be profiled into three distinct categories, and the perception of this grouping is of utmost prudence. Woe to the ignorant and wayward—those who ignore the wisdom of this warning, for the hour is late, and like a villainous fog, the day of judgment creeps closer with every swing of the pendulum.

 First and foremost are the Sheep; they are the average humans, the majority of the population. Oblivious and naive to their surroundings and swayed with little effort, they are a prime target of social and political manipulation and absent-minded persuasion. Trends are by far their greatest weakness, flaws seeped in the seven deadly sins, too distracted to even notice the wolves gathering at the gates, however rabid and salivating for their flesh. Perhaps the truth is simply too terrifying for the mind to accept, and so they ignore what they see with their own eyes; a forfeited logic in lieu of a promised security that could never be more than a delusion. Remaining in their controlled, naive bubble is much simpler than facing the reality of this ruse, and make no mistake . . . their moment draws nearer with every turn of the cheek. After all, a simple mind is the greatest tool to those who plot against the light, and a heart of want is their catalyst. Those who are caught unaware are always the first to perish; lambs to the slaughter.

Then we have the Shepherds; these rare personalities prioritize the best interests of the flock, although their guidance tactics are often misplaced, as the blind simply cannot lead the blind. While their hearts are in the right place, the arrogance of their unwavering certainty is all too common. Shepherds will fiercely protect those close to them, often assuming roles of moral authority such as clergymen, law enforcement officers—or even soldiers. They are willing to sacrifice themselves for their flock, showing little hesitation to put their lives in peril if the cause proves adequately noble—a perilous sentiment for those lacking wisdom. Many who embark on the path of righteousness find themselves lost along the way, surrounded by influential corruption—the injustices and tyranny of evil men. And so they must tread carefully lest the darkness take them, little-by-little becoming what they detest above all . . . indifferent.

Lastly, there are the Wolves. Dangerous, cunning and ever scheming, an instinctive sense of survival is their most notable trait. These predatorily motivated individuals typically thrive in packs, making them all the more difficult to kill, yet equally predictable. Enemies of the wolf must always expect to be outnumbered, as fighting fairly is not in their nature.

Within the pack, there are only ever temporary allegiances, as it is the nature of a wolf to constantly push its boundaries, inching closer with every plot towards the coveted alpha state, fueled by envy and often hatred. Therefore, the alpha must always be suspicious of those who intend to take his place, as even their closest allies will not hesitate if the opportunity presents itself, and weakness will not be tolerated. Concepts like loyalty or obedience are never more than an illusion—a ruse to climb their way up the ladder and nothing more. The defensive strategies of the alpha are simple: trust no one and control the pack with brute force and primal fear.

Understanding the three basic classifications of human personality is a crucial lesson, and outright devastating to learn the hard way. There is simply no empathy for those who put stock in foolish sentiments such as loyalty or friendship. A lamb may confuse itself for a wolf or a shepherd, and when put to the test, no fate is more common than utter destruction.

So, where do I stand? This is a complicated question, considering the complexities of the life I have been cursed to endure in my short but questionable cycle. Perhaps judgment is best left to the perception of the beholder.

Let us see what you make of it.

 

My story begins in the year 1871, twenty-nine years before the turn of the century. My name is Meric, and I was born in late autumn, in the quaint and scenic county of Warwickshire, England. Here, the thick brush of tall trees hovered like sentinels over babbling brooks and peaceful rivers, far from the bustle of village life. A thick fog enveloped the land consistently, humble yet haunting to a wandering or over-imaginative mind. There is a subtle peace about the countryside, where open skies and fresh air encourage a flourishing mind in harmony with body and soul. However, I found the townsfolk commonly riddled with gossip, unnecessary hardships, and even scandal.

The land provides abundantly, yet most of the villagers I encountered burden themselves with daily wages, financial worries, and the economic status that commonly accompanies it. I must not judge, however, given my own—some say—high society privileges; a status I never requested nor truly enjoyed beyond basic needs.

My family estate was nestled in the thick brush of the English woods, several kilometers from the nearest town. For generations, our bloodline was born, raised, and perished in silent isolation. Being born into wealth, I believed I had everything a young man could possibly need—or so I had once thought.

Friends were scarce in my youth. The occasional son or daughter of my father’s business companions would grace us with their presence every so often while he held his meetings behind closed doors. However, they were never the same child twice, rendering any effort to get to know them fairly redundant.

To be of Bishop blood was to thrive in solitude, it seemed. During our regular excursions into town, my father would keep me close, often pulling me away from other children, sometimes even forcefully. Thus, literature became my only escape, though I was not permitted to read anything of a non-practical purpose. Fiction was strictly monitored and, in most cases, banned in my household, with anything imaginative deemed a waste of time. However, this could not quell the curiosity of a youthful spirit. When I was not studying, my free time was spent roaming about the surrounding forest with nothing but the flourishing imagination of a young boy to guide me. Fond memories of a carefree youth were crucial, for they would not last long.

Some say the age of reason is twelve, the day you realize your parents are fallible and mortal, often triggering the beginning of youthful rebellion. Several months after my twelfth birthday, everything took a turn for the worst, granting me but a short while to rebel and question authority, as most children do. I spent the majority of my time in bed, enduring a prolonged state of pain that defined this period of my youth. Suffering a constant course of acute agony, commonly localized in the back and joints, it would seize my muscles like rusted gears at random. It was tear-jerking—a bone-deep, soul-crushing pain that felt as though God Himself was smiting me for some unknown reason. This strange condition teased any sense of hope that might have lingered given the chance, as whenever the pain seemed as though it had run its course, I would wake from slumber crippled in torment, as though designed to break my spirit.

The physicians were unable to determine the cause of my condition. Though terms such as bone cancer and advanced calcium deficiency were thrown about, no prognosis was ever officially confirmed, but merely hypothesized. Many doctors visited our estate in those days, each visibly apprehensive—frightened even, though I could never discern their reasons.

I vividly recall the moment my sickness finally broke my spirit. Lying in bed, hands grasping the headboard and a wooden brace between my teeth, tears soaked my youthful cheeks. Amidst my own cries for relief, I overheard the physician explaining to my keeper that the symptoms of my mysterious malady were likely permanent—a battle I would have to endure for the rest of my days.

It was the first time I had contemplated taking my own life, but this devastating revelation is not what bookmarked this specific day in my memory. I was no stranger to depression, but fear is what took me that day—a terror I had not known possible at such a young age; my very first encounter with the moving shadows. A coldness—a subtle drop in temperature served as an early warning, but the feeling of being watched—stalked from across the room would churn my stomach moments prior.

The emergence of the Shadow People had begun.

These dark, human-like figures would erratically scurry across the room as I lay alone in my bed, and would often follow me about house when I was well enough to walk. Echoes of faint whispers would jump from one corner of a room to the next, shooting chills up my spine. A psychologically hallucinative reaction to the pain was suggested by the so-called experts, but I knew evil when I felt it, and there was no convincing me otherwise. There were devils in the walls—scheming phantoms that lurked in the dark of every corner watching—waiting.

My condition took its toll on my father, who insisted that what I was seeing was all nonsense—that only severe physical trauma could possibly cause such daunting delusions. He believed that my mind was simply playing tricks on an already vulnerable and extensive imagination. Despite his skepticism, I knew that when the pain lessened and became somewhat tolerable, the shadows would somehow remain, albeit less frequently and noticeably quieter.

In the dead of night, halfway between dream and reality, the shadows thrived. Their features were much more defined, offering the only clue to their possible human nature. As I attempted to sleep, I would see them surrounding my bed, whispering conspiratorially in a language I could not identify. The sensation was all too familiar, a prodding observation that seemed to study my every move and symptom. With every whisper, hints of enjoyment could be sensed, as though they took pleasure in my agony and discomfort. In my darkest moments, I would whisper back, staring unblinking into their black forms, shaking and peeking from my covers.

‘Who are you?’

‘What do you want of me?’ I asked, but there was never a clear reply—at least not for a long while. I never knew my mother, yet I often pondered what she would have done had she survived my birth. Would she have chased away the demons, whispered prayers to banish them from my side? Would she have cradled me as I cried through the night, soothing me to sleep when I could no longer bear their hungry gazes? Or would she have turned a blind eye to my pleas for solace, much like my father, drowning out my screams with his relentless work schedule?

The absence of a maternal figure left me grasping at any semblance of motherly care—consequence of a childhood marked by neglect. When I was very young, before falling ill, I received a mysterious package in the mail with no card, sender, or return address; a simple children’s book that I cherished deeply. Reading "Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland" before bedtime, I often imagined Alice beside me, mimicking the voices of the vibrant characters I grew to love. In my youthful imagination, I wanted to believe that the enigmatic gift had been sent to me from beyond the grave. A heart perpetually yearning clung fervently to the naive notion that, in some ethereal manner, my mother had sent me this book as a reminder that she was watching over me in my darkest moments.

I was shocked I was even allowed to keep it, not only because we had no knowledge of the sender, but because of its whimsical storyline. “Fiction offers no tangible knowledge or opportunities for financial or political advancement,” was a mantra often repeated in my household.

In my own naivety, I once believed that my father’s neglect was a result of my curious condition. For years, I deceived myself, convinced that he couldn’t bear to see me suffer, and thus distanced by burying himself in work. However, the simple truth is . . . he had always been distant, even before my illness. No amount of pleading could sway him from his pursuit of financial success, not even for a day with his only son, outside scheduled arrangements. Our “bonding,” if it could be called that, was a matter of scheduling; any concerns of note requiring an appointment to address. The annual handshake of passive approval was reserved for my birthday each year, if he happened to be home that day, but that was about the extent of our physical interaction.

The closest semblance of a lasting friendship I can recall was with my childhood educator, a callous and aloof man named Mordecai. At first glance, one might mistake him for a butler, but he merely oversaw the household staff and never lifted a finger to assist with any duties. Of average height and noticeably lean, he moved with a lightness akin to a feather, gliding through the halls like a cat on the prowl, often appearing seemingly out of thin air. My father would jestingly suggest he wear a bell. “In all my travels and certain perils, it will be your bloody lurking about that will stop my heart one day; mark my words.” I heard him shout more than a few times.

Mordecai was an enigmatic individual, exceedingly private and a rather uninviting companion, to say the least. The only break from his ever looming presence was when he immersed himself in painting landscapes, and he was rather good. Art—as I understand—is typically a domain of passion, hinting the existence of a human soul behind his piercing blue eyes, a notion I often questioned, given his less than human demeanor.

Undoubtedly, he epitomized meticulousness; his attire flawlessly pressed each day, collars turned down—no discernible five o’clock shadow even late into the evening, and I had never once caught him shaving. Pomade was his primary grooming tool; never a single black strand out of place, leading me to believe he maintained such perfection even in slumber—if he indeed slept at all.

He seemed to me a master of all subjects, everything from mathematics and economics, ancient history and all sorts of subject matter; a straight forward sort of bloke who served as a limitless library of textbook responses, every story lacking emotion of any kind, but merely bland dictation. Nothing was ever personal and he seemed to lack both compassion and personality. When he spoke, he did so only to teach and not once had he attempt to connect to me on a personal level.

There were no comforting words for a child in want—no promises of a brighter tomorrow when all appeared bleak and desolate. In the darkest moments, he would simply gaze, expressionless and composed, hands clasped over a knee as if waiting in a silent room, devoid of any empathy. Those same piercing eyes, unsettling and ominous, would watch me incessantly as I carried out my daily routines, scrutinizing my every action to report back to my father. They had a history together, I gathered, though neither of them ever spoke of their connection. I often wondered how anyone could form a bond with Mordecai, given his utter lack of personality; but then again, my father seemed to attract the strange and unusual.

I would see my father only once every three to four months—or even less frequently, depending on how distant his latest investment took him. Tom Vaughn Bishop was always impeccably dressed and maintained a commanding presence over himself and others. Yet, he was also very private man. The little I knew of him came only from what he chose to reveal, and no amount of pleading could coax Mordecai into disclosing any specifics about his life or the company he kept—nothing beyond what a business associate might know. It wasn’t until my mid-teens that I learned of his ventures in international investment banking, mining, fine arts, politics, and archaeology. From what I learned much later in life, if there was an opportunity for considerable profit, you could bet he had his hands deep in the honey pot.

Protecting and cultivating a vast family fortune made him nearly unreachable, as his dealings took him across oceans, to the far corners of the world, and through countless remote villages in between. From the wild, untamed plains of Africa to both the foundational and newest remote settlements of the Americas, it would be an understatement to call his travels extensive. I kept a chest of trinkets at the foot of my bed, filled with souvenirs that arrived in brown paper parcels once a month, each accompanied by a letter detailing where he had acquired the enclosed item. These letters described the often peculiar customs and cultures of the places he visited—whether it was a bustling market in Calcutta, a Tibetan monastery high in the Himalayan mountains, or a gold encampment deep within the rainforests of the southernmost regions of the American continent.

His life was a grand adventure, filled with seemingly endless peril—one that stood in stark contrast to my own. I had never stepped beyond the county lines of Warwickshire, and each parcel I received was like peering through a tiny window, offering but a fleeting glimpse into another world—a world I could never know, given my condition.

I often found myself sifting through my souvenirs, imagining I was by his side, exploring remote and intriguing places while my father tended to his business affairs. It was the closest semblance to a normal relationship I could envision at the time. That’s all I really wanted in my youth: to not feel left behind, if only for a short while. Though the chest of trinkets sparked my imagination, it also served as a painful reminder that I was unwelcome at his side—a thought that triggered a chain reaction of emotions leading to depression, and grim thoughts always intensified the pain. And so, in utter solitude, I would turn to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, imagining my mother’s phantom hand in mine as I coped as best I could with the hand I had been dealt.

As the hours crawled by, turning months into years, I gradually found comfort in the cover of night, where shadowy figures faded into the deepest black. I hoped—perhaps naively—that if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. Over time, I grew accustomed to their nightly presence, and I began to sleep with the drapes drawn tightly over both my bedroom window and my bed, creating the densest darkness I could muster. Yet, no amount of darkness could shield me from the whispers or the unsettling sensation of being watched—unseen eyes ever leering, ever intrusive.

Utter blackness has a way of playing tricks on the mind, often blurring the line between dreams and reality. I would find myself whispering into the darkness, caught in that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, and after a while, the darkness would whisper back—in a language I could actually understand. There were several distinct voices, though I could never tell if they were merely in my head or if the Shadow People were finally speaking English. These conversations would fade from memory by sunrise each morning . . . perhaps for the better.

One voice, in particular, stood out—a cold, raspy tone. It would emerge at the tail end of my regular night terrors, visions so vivid, so disturbingly profound that I dared not speak of them for fear of being committed to a padded cell. This demonic tone seemed to catch my screams, somehow muffling all fear—or perhaps it was the embodiment of fear itself. I couldn’t be certain. It was as though this vile presence thrived in the cold, clammy flesh of my brow, its exclusive domain the drenched sleepwear I found myself in each night.

As a result of my lack of restful sleep and an unknown condition, I was an exceptionally sickly-looking child, according to Mordecai. Eyes sunken in pale, green hues of chalky flesh, aged beyond my years—a fact I could have confirmed had I the courage to look into a mirror. I avoided my reflection at all costs back then, terrified of what I might see, unwilling to acknowledge the monstrous form my keeper suggested. He truly was a cruel son of a bitch.

This torment endured from age twelve to fifteen—three years that drained my will to carry on in every conceivable way. Darkness became my home; not a place of warmth or comfort for a weary mind, but a tainted sort of refuge, much like the way prisoners adapt to life within the walls, and upon release, find themselves fearing the outside world. The deeper I withdrew, the more symptoms of my affliction began to surface. Daylight grew almost unbearable, as though the sun had been brightened and the heat turned up, yet no one else seemed to be affected. The world continued to turn, and I remained hidden in the shadows, like a creature of the night.

Alone with my inner demon, I dwelt hopeless and broken, abandoned and destroyed.

The day of my fifteenth birthday was meant to be my last. I had everything planned out: how I would do it, when, and where. I would hobble into the woods in the dead of night, however long it took me—however painful the journey. Then, at daybreak, I would fill my pockets with stones and walk—crawl if I had to—straight into the river. My only birthday wish was for my father to come home so that I could say goodbye, but he hadn’t bothered to make the journey; just another brown paper parcel I hadn’t the will to open.

The night prior, as I contemplated the aftermath of my death and whether anyone would even care, I drifted off into dreamscape. For the first time, the night terrors didn’t come—no visions of mutilation or infernal perversions that no child could possibly conjure from their own imagination. Instead, I heard the voices speaking in the darkness, as they had many times before when I was awake—worried tones, as if they sensed what I planned to do the following night. But it was the creature who spoke for them.

Though I cannot recall exactly what it said, I know that it was afraid—fearful even that I might actually follow through. Just when I thought madness had truly taken hold of me, something new happened: a rectangular shape appeared in the midst of the black far out of reach, and a strange light pierced through what looked like a door frame. For the first time, I could see, and within this dim light stood a man I did not recognize. At first, I assumed this was the demon’s voice taking on a physical form, and even his red eyes seemed convincing, but he felt entirely different.

There was no malice or hatred in his presence, but rather a commanding aura of compassion and a willingness to stand boldly and intercede. I can’t recall his face—or even the sound of his voice, only the piercing red eyes and furrowed brow—a lone warrior who had come to chase away the beast within.

That morning, I woke in a cold sweat, and the scream that erupted from my throat marked the first time in three years that the dark presence hadn’t restrained me. I had never wept so hard or felt so liberated, as though the entire ordeal had been one grand and crippling nightmare, and I was finally granted a glimmer of mercy.

Whoever that strange man was, he had given me a second chance. I pushed my plans aside and convinced myself to wait another day. The river wasn’t going anywhere, after all. That day, I managed to walk all the way to the kitchens and back, despite Mordecai’s insistence that I remain bedridden. But I had had enough of him. The pain had lessened, and a sense of renewal coursed through me, filling every vein with purpose. A day turned into a week, and all the while, I kept convincing myself to wait just one more day.

I vividly remember the first time I worked up the courage to open my front door, bracing myself for the sunlight I expected to pierce my eyes and scorch my flesh. My fingers trembled as they reached for the knob, but the pain I anticipated never came. The sun didn’t burn—it warmed my heart as much as my skin. It was one of those rare mornings when the sky was clear, yet it rained nonetheless. My cane slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor as I stood on the front porch, arms outstretched in the sunlight, drenched from head to toe, laughing and weeping like a madman. A radiant world of life and color awaited me, finally emerging from the crushing darkness that had held me hostage for so long.

In that moment of rebirth, as the rain washed away the filth that had clung to my very being, I thought of the red-eyed man, knowing beyond any doubt that he had liberated me—though I knew not why or how. Whether he was real or merely a figment of my imagination mattered little; I was alive and on the road to recovery.

As I healed, the pull of exploration and adventure grew stronger than ever, the untamed beauty of nature beckoning me from the prison I had long called home. What had once been a distant dream—the only positive memory of my childhood—had finally become a tangible possibility. Yet, I dared not roam the forest alone, unsure if—or when—my condition might return. The safest bet was the nearest town; a poor but acceptable compromise. Surrounded by the bustle of townsfolk, I felt less vulnerable, the camaraderie of the village enough to occupy my mind while I recovered.

Among the people, I encountered many new faces and found myself conversing with girls for the first time. To my surprise, I found them quite the bore. Though I would later realize this was an unfair generalization, my initial impression of the feminine gender was far from enlightening. They seemed overbearingly posh, lacking the scrappiness I admired in the boys, who were always seeking the next thrill—though often coming up short, much like myself. There seemed to be no flair for adventure, no interest in anything beyond the usual gossip; it was, to say the least, disappointing. Literature at the time often portrayed women in this light, but I never truly grasped the demeanor of the common female until I observed it firsthand.

Though there were many physically attractive ladies among the populace of Warwickshire, I desired none of them, as they all seemed to share the same personality, as if they had been born from the same mold. The feeling appeared to be mutual; given my sickly appearance and somewhat crippled state, I didn’t think the cane improved my chances. Trying to explain my unexplainable condition to a girl I had just met was hardly an ideal way to start a conversation, and of course, everyone asked. I found it easier to spin a more captivating tale, often fabricating stories of being thrown from my horse in a daring chase, rather than divulging the truth.

After all, the hysteria from years prior still lingered in the village. Warwickshire was no stranger to tales of witch burnings and strange occult practices. To speak of a demonic presence that stalked my nightmares would not bode well, I hypothesized. It was awkward enough feeling the judgmental eyes of the local parishioners as I limped past the church; their whispers felt as loud as shouts, as if proclaiming, “Behold the crippled Bishop’s boy, more dead than alive!” Or perhaps I was simply over thinking. I was admittedly a tad paranoid back then.

Amongst the crowd, the divide between wealth and poverty was glaringly obvious, regardless of my physical appearance. The downtrodden of even a small town would hide like cockroaches in shady alleyways during the day, while nightfall drove away the innocent and the lost, and those morally compromised flourished like poisonous mushrooms. As the sun disappeared from the sky, women sold their bodies to make ends meet, drunks brawled in the streets, and all the while, those of reputable status slept soundly in their beds, blissfully ignorant. It was but a glimpse of the urban areas I would soon come to know firsthand; England was no stranger to loose morals and reprehensible behavior.

“Life and love flourish bountifully in the light,” my only friend, Jordan, once said. “Darkness is the Devil’s playground if left unchecked.” Jordan was undeniably a peculiar soul. It was during a leisurely drive home from one of these town excursions that I first met her.

The carriage moved steadily along the narrow country road, beset by thick greenery, cutting through the densest section of forest between town and my family estate. I peered through the window, bracing the head of my cane tight as I admired the scenic view, and nothing of consequence on my mind. The gentle motion and casual pace of the horses had a way of clearing thought. I could see why my father preferred to be on the move, a natural nomad it would seem.

It was during this moment of clarity that I noticed an anomaly in my peripheral vision, perhaps a fated interruption. As we approached a bend, the rustling of leaves drew my attention, as though something was moving alongside the trail, shadowing the carriage. At first, I thought it might be an animal; I had never seen a human move with such swiftness.

As we slowed to turn onto the less defined path to home, the silhouetted shape of a small child caught my eye. Without hesitation, I tapped my cane against the interior, signaling Mordecai.

‘Stop the carriage!’ I yelled, and the horses halted abruptly at the corner. The door flew open, and I stepped onto the road, peering into the thick greenery.

‘What troubles you, Master Bishop?’ Mordecai asked with his usual monotone.

‘I—I thought I saw something.’

‘May I remind you that there are books to be read and lessons to learn before dinner this evening—’

‘Quiet.’ I cut him off, straining to listen. When only silence followed, he persisted.

‘There is nothing to see here.’ he adjusted the reins with an unimpressed lift of his left eyebrow, a hint of annoyance in his demeanor. ‘I must insist we move on. Traipsing into unknown and concealed areas while still in recovery—’

‘There!’ I interrupted, pointing into the green glow of the dense brush. A disheveled, dirty-faced girl briefly appeared before vanishing behind the trunk of an ancient maple. I stepped toward the tree line, leaning on my cane as I searched for my elusive quarry, squinting for a second glimpse of the mysterious young lady of the wood. I limped off the road and craned my neck into the distant darkness, beyond where the light touched the leaves.

‘I will not warn you again, Meric—’

‘Warn me?’ I snapped, turning with a scowl toward the driver’s seat above. My courage was bolstered by my recovery, and I felt braver with each passing day. ‘Might I remind you that my father employs you, and not the other way around? The only reason you’re permitted to accompany me into town is that his worry exceeds his confidence in my recovery.’

Mordecai’s beady blue eyes narrowed. He often carried himself with the air of an entitled monarch, quick to deem anyone who questioned him as insolent and beneath him.

‘Very well, arrogant boy,’ he said coldly, tightening the reins and stepping down from the carriage with a sharp motion. He straightened his tailcoat, his almost faded German accent sharpening his tone—an aspect of his speech that usually went unnoticed unless he was provoked. ‘Since my efforts regarding your well-being are so ill received, and given that you seem capable and have clearly reached the conclusion of your mend, I shall walk the rest of the way.’

‘That’s a bit much, don’t you think—’

‘Should you stumble in the forest and your condition abruptly return, you can crawl your crippled body back home by your lonesome.’

Though there was certainly a worry that such a mishap could indeed occur, curiosity fueled what bravery I retained. As Mordecai turned his back and began his clearly miffed walk home, I suspected he expected me to beg him to return mid-stride, finding reason in his haughty response. But I was relieved to be rid of his ever-leering presence.

‘Good bloody riddance—’

‘Meric.’ A high-pitched, almost motherly voice floated on a strange, haunting wind. The horses grew agitated, clearly disturbed. The maternal call seemed to pull me toward the tree line with a hypnotic insistence, as if the young lady within waited, sensing my hesitation and drawing me inward like a moth to a flame.

‘Hello?’ My frail voice echoed off the trunks and stones. ‘Is someone there?’ I peered deeper into the shadowy recesses of the dense wood, uncertain whether the girl was merely a figment of my imagination, but there seemed no sign of her either way. ‘I assure you, child, I mean you no harm.’ When I received no response, I turned back and eyed the driver’s seat, knowing it would be a struggle to climb up and return home with the horses and carriage.

In that moment, my decision to side with Mordecai was driven more by fear than anything else. I realized I was not in optimal condition to be trapped and crippled in the forest, especially since I couldn’t possibly keep up with whoever it was.

‘Here.’ As I neared the carriage, a renewed sense of determination caught my stride. When I turned abruptly, I spotted her in the distance, nestled at the base of a large oak tree.

‘There you are.’ A curious grin spread across my face as I ventured into the brush, caution thrown to the wind. Moving through the leaves, the serene presence of nature felt almost divine. I had missed the natural world, finding no setting more humbling or peaceful than amidst the innocence of life . . . that is, until I saw her for the first time.

Normally, rough terrain would wreak havoc on my back and joints, but the adrenaline and sheer intrigue of the moment made the pain bearable. I quickened my pace, hobbling forward and daring not to take my eyes off her, fearing she would dart away the moment I looked away.

Slightly out of breath, I limped through hanging willows and draping leaves, clutching my cane as if it were a lifeline—though I feared that might not be an exaggeration. Stepping over wildly overgrown roots that jutted from the earth like deformed arms, I entered an unusual circular formation of towering oak trees, their immense girth suggesting they had been planted a thousand years prior.

‘Hello?’

‘Come closer, Meric,’ said the strange and wild-looking girl. She knelt among a bed of surprisingly large dandelions, digging into the ground with her fingers. Her pearl-white skin was hidden beneath layers of dirt, with strands of tangled chestnut brown hair, yet shimmering golden blonde in the sun. She was in desperate need of a bath, though her appearance irked her not; the scuffs and dirt suggested a child raised by wolves, I assumed. Her dress, once white, was now frilled cotton, torn and stained with muck and grass oil. On her feet was a pair of second-hand military-grade boots, several sizes too large—clearly hand-me-downs, made for a small man.

As I moved closer, the scatter I had expected did not occur. When her straightened brow lifted and our gazes met for the very first time, I was struck by what I saw. If eyes are indeed the windows to the soul, as some suggest, then the deep sorrow of a broken child reflected back at me, glazed with an unspoken wonder that captivated some deep part of my psyche, even I could not quite comprehend. The hues of her iris carried a strange trait I had not thought possible until that very moment—mismatched as though her creator used a few spares he had lying around. One eye was a bright green, matching the emerald tones of the leaves around her, while the other was a deep sky blue, like a lone shimmering sapphire glimmering at the bottom of a fountain at mid-day.

Taking in her overall appearance, I thought it a shame she kept herself so disheveled, for she was the most captivatingly beautiful girl I had ever met. She put all others to shame by comparison, though she would never be accepted in cosmopolitan society, and friends would be scarce, no doubt. However, it wasn’t long before I discovered that, like me, she really didn’t have any friends to begin with.

Gesturing for me to sit, she placed her dirty finger over her plush, pink lips, requesting my silence. I knelt carefully opposite her, putting all my weight on the cane until a shaky knee pressed against the overgrown grass, unconcerned about staining my lavish attire. Kneeling in the center of the ring of oaks, it felt as though I was in the presence of ancient knowledge.

She took my free arm and pulled it close, her fingers gently opening my hand and placing the tiniest of seeds in the center of my palm.

‘What is this?’ I lightly chuckled, unsure of what strange game we were playing. But she kept silent as she closed my fingers into a loose fist. The rustle of leaves above sounded like squirrels quarrelling, and for a moment, I thought she might not be alone, but there was no one up there. A brilliant ray of sunlight beamed through the layers of the green canopy high above, shining solely upon my hand like the touch of God through the clouds. Within my fist, I could feel a tingling sensation followed by a light tickle.

Eyes locked in wonder as particles drifted about the sunbeam like little pixies, tiny roots squeezed out between my fingers, coiling as they reached my knuckles.

‘How are you doing this?’

Opening my hand, the wildling girl took the root, placed it gently within the earth as a new mother might, and covered it with dirt. She sculpted a small mound, and this was the first time she really spoke to me— profound words of the utmost vitality and deep-seeded meaning—words I would never forget.

‘Greatness, whether positive or negative, must be nurtured accordingly.’ Drops of water shook loose from above, branches like a wet dog trickling down upon us as though a tiny raincloud hovered above. ‘The simplest of minds may plant a seed, Meric; an act which requires little to no intelligence,’ a tiny green stem then pushed from the dirt, the plant growing faster than I had ever thought possible. Leaves spouted and reached, sharp thorns emerged, and a hip swelled to proper size in a matter of seconds. Then, vibrant red petals burst forth like butterflies from a single cocoon, and a beautiful rose blossomed in the sunlight as my jaw hung in wonder. ‘A loving hand is required if we are to bask in its beauty; neglect owns not your heart, dear boy.’

Strange, I thought, that a child a few years my junior would address me like a mentor, but I was too caught up in the moment to care; she had captured my full attention. I wondered what wondrous sorcery granted her command of living things, and for a split second, I feared Jordan might have been of the wooded people—Celts of legend and lore who once thrived in the area. Had an elder of Warwickshire witnessed this magic, she would have certainly been put to death, but I saw no evil in her—not even a speck of malicious intent.

‘What is it you want from me, child?’ I asked, as we were clearly beyond niceties and polite banter with such a display. ‘Why have you lured me here this day?’

Jordan replied with a somewhat crooked smile, one I wasn’t entirely convinced she could help. ‘The world has missed you, and it is time to come out from the shadow.’

Beyond her abilities, whatever source from which they may stem, there was something about her that pulled at my heart like no other before. Perhaps it was her thin, slight frame and the general demeanor of a lost and neglected youth, or could it have been the way she looked at me, as though she were a long-lost soul reunited after a lifetime of search? I questioned not how she could possibly know my name before any formal introductions had been made, nor did her wondrous magic deter me in the slightest. In that moment, we became the best of friends and have remained so since that fateful afternoon.

Jordan was gifted in other mysterious ways; I was astounded the first time I witnessed the admittedly strange phenomena. Like a character in a child’s storybook, all manner of woodland creatures would flock to her, as though they could sense her presence and were lured in, as I once was. They would approach ever so casually, with absolutely no fear, as if they somehow counted her amongst their own—even the dangerous animals most would avoid. It was a beautiful but often annoying trait seeing as she would often find herself too distracted with chipmunks or beavers to keep a basic conversation.

She became my partner in many adventures to follow. The more my body healed, the more I found myself in the forest with Jordan, no longer alone in my passion for discovery. Our pairing was light in nature—never a care in the world nor worry of physical ailments or hardships. It was a stark difference from life at home; one mere theory and endless rules, stern, cold, and bland in every sense of the word. Mordecai was practically machine-like compared to her lively company, filled with life and the thrill of imagination I had craved so desperately.

He knew little of my new friend, which was my preference. Whenever there was the slightest inquiry, I divulged only what he needed to know: that she was capable of summoning help if my condition took a turn for the worst, and nothing more. By observation alone, both he and my father had coached me well in the areas of privacy and intentional concealment, the misleading turn of a clever phrase when it mattered most.

Weekends were made free of my insufferable daily lessons, and so we would venture outward and remain from dawn until dusk, staying for as long as the daylight allowed. The gradual change in atmosphere and company seemed not only to heal my body but my heart as the days progressed, until one wonderful evening I lay in bed, exhausted from a long day’s trek, and realized that something was missing. The whispers had silenced, and there seemed no sign of the dark shadow figures that once haunted my quarters nightly.

I sat up, curious and baffled by their absence, wondering if they had suddenly lost interest—or perhaps if something had altered my senses, making me incapable of seeing or hearing them anymore. Yet I chose not to dwell on such theories; I was more than glad to be rid of them. My dreams were now filled with a new sense of happiness, light that had chased away the night terrors like a divine guardian. It was the first time in my life I had experienced any semblance of normalcy—just a boy at play with his friend, without a care in the world.

I wasn’t entirely sure if I believed in God at that point in my youth, but I knew a miracle when I felt it. My transformation, both physical and otherwise, was nothing short of miraculous.

However blissful this period of my life truly was, it would be short-lived. Like all things in nature, happiness is only ever meant to last a season. For every summer, there is a winter, and the days leading up to the coming cold would be filled with uncertain distress. Looking back, I was thankful we had that one summer together before the snow rendered the landscape bare, thick with snow and bitterly cold.

The weather often made it impossible to see Jordan, a sleigh in lieu of a carriage when the snow thickened the land, and rendered the country roads undriveable. When it was possible, we would meet in secret at the local pub, always wary of Mordecai’s invasive eyes. Our bond was a well-kept secret. She would dress more lady-like in public, though her attire was limited by poverty, and I often dressed down to avoid standing out in her presence. To outsiders, I merely enjoyed the occasional pub visit, as we were never seen coming or going together. Our solace lay in the shady parts of the upper floor, where we would speak of memories past and long for the freedom and refreshing renewal of spring, which seemed to be frustratingly biding its time.

Christmas of 1885 was unlike any in memory. Every year, as the holidays approached, Mordecai and I would set up decorations in the main sitting room of the estate, spending our time in relative silence. This year was different. Days prior, my father returned from his lengthy travels with a renewed demeanor atop his usual passive personality—the first holiday in many years he had made a point to be home on time for the festivities. But he had not come alone.

Upon their arrival, I was introduced to a cousin I had forgotten even existed. I recalled in my younger years overhearing a vague conversation about his sister—or my Aunt Emily, I suppose; I don’t believe I ever met the woman. A brief mention of her husband and only son comes to mind, but no real specifics. All I knew was that they didn’t get on well; something to do with her husband’s obsession with his faith, if I remember correctly. By the time my cousin and I finally met, he was on the cusp of manhood, and I was trailing behind, yearning to catch up.

A proper gentleman by outward appearance and poise, Edward, though in his late teens, resembled my father both in style and personality, exhibiting the same passive demeanor. Close blood relation was unmistakable straight away, his pitch-black irises a dead giveaway, a distinct feature of all who sprout from the Bishop dynasty.

He was not exceptionally tall but had an inch or two over me at the time, before I would eventually hit a growth spurt and surpass him slightly. His complexion was fair, with a wide face emphasizing his short, dark hair and matching stocky frame.

Edward was a man of high stature, and he carried himself in a way that proclaimed his awareness of it. He was a fashionable teen, always up to date on the latest trends, and rather proud of it; a boy who would often boast of his worldly and culturally elite status. However, the two peas in a pod differed when it came to personal expression, as he rarely shied away from sharing his opinions—at great length, whether called upon or otherwise.

Still, I couldn’t help but enjoy his company, as he counted me as kin, his often harsh judgment of others strictly reserved for outsiders. There was a charismatic style to his overall mien—a charm that could not be ignored, as though his presence demanded attention whenever he entered a room, always upright with his cape and cane, as though he bled confidence. Thus, my first impression of my once-estranged cousin was quite intimidating.

For the first time since I could remember, Thomas Vaughn Bishop returned from his excursions to spend the holidays with his family, more so for Edward’s benefit than my own, I surmised. Though not much was said between the four of us that season, it felt close enough to a real family Christmas for me, having no real comparison beyond Charles Dickens novels. Needless to say, any presence beyond Mordecai’s blank and emotionless demeanor was a pleasant upgrade.

My only gift beyond mementos from abroad that year was a newly published book by an upcoming author named A. Conan Doyle. The title, A Study in Scarlet, featured a rather interesting character: a detective named Sherlock Holmes and his faithfully observant understudy, Dr. Watson. Such literature was usually shunned in our home, so it came as a pleasant reminder that there are exceptions to my father’s often unfair rules.

‘I thought fiction and fantasy were a waste of my intellect?’ I asked him Christmas morning, staring at the cover in hand. As he sipped his brandy in his armchair, he considered his only son.

‘My views on the subject have not wavered. However, Doyle is a colleague, and his work comes highly recommended, and not without purpose.’

‘How so?’ I queried. ‘What purpose does his work fulfill?’

‘A keen eye for noticing what others overlook, boy. You would do well to observe the practices of one Sherlock Holmes. Such skills are priceless if mastered.’

He did not reveal much, but one thing was abundantly clear: my father wanted me to pay heed to my surroundings—to learn how to read between the lines of any given situation. Of course, I wouldn’t quite comprehend this meaning until much later, after his untimely death—but I’ll get to that soon enough.

Edward had come to stay with us due to a recent death in the family. His father had died of cancer of the tongue—the irony not lost on him, as he was a preacher of the faith—and his mother was committed to a psychiatric hospital a few short months following his demise. My cousin was an odd sort of fellow, there was no doubt. His humor did not match mine at all, but over the following months, I came to understand the disturbing reasons behind his cold and distant demeanor—a posh and condescending poise that masked his abusive upbringing.

Edward’s father—who shared his name—had been a member of an unorthodox denomination of faith, both private and independent of the Roman Papacy. The Plymouth Brethren were a well-established branch of Catholicism, overly strict and cold both in faith and practice, as they evidently didn’t know—or perhaps chose to ignore—where the line between discipline and abuse truly lay.

The more he spoke of them, the more I came to see that life in Edward’s home was anything but normal. It seemed the only thing worse than having a neglectful or absentee father was being cursed with a father like his. As a boy, he had experienced neither a real Christmas nor birthday celebrations of any kind. Gifts of any nature were strictly illicit and considered attachments to the sin of physical or primal want. Absolutely no visits from friends were allowed, and perhaps worst of all, the prohibition of any and all emotion. To care was weakness—to feel beyond religious duty opened one up to vulnerability—a doorway to temptation, so claimed the sect.

These obdurate doctrines were not only enforced within the household but outside the walls as well. Edward’s private school was run, operated, and maintained by the Plymouth Brethren, and under the rule of a sadistic headmaster, he was no stranger to the lashes of the birch rod. I remember asking him about the abuse that occurred at his school, but he would simply shrug his shoulders as if it had not bothered him at all. To the contrary, he confessed that he had never felt the lashes in any painful manner but instead extracted a twisted sense of enjoyment from his punishment. This was nothing of which his parents had not been aware, and in his mother’s final days of sanity, she concluded that if the punishments inflicted upon her son were cruel in any manner, then the severity of the sentence must have matched the severity of the crime.

Her callous philosophy was the reason Edward outright loathed his mother. When he spoke of her, she was often referred to as a witch of sorts—a sinister hag whose sole purpose of existence was to make his life as miserable as humanly possible. The feeling was mutual, as she would commonly refer to her only son as the Antichrist of the apocalypse, and given her extensive knowledge of the Catholic faith, she would not have used this term lightly.

My father viewed his sister’s overtly harsh opinions as the lunatic rantings of a woman gone mad, driven to insanity by the loss of an overbearing husband and an inability to effectively reprimand her rebellious teenage son. And so, it was with great empathy that Edward was welcomed at our estate—what little time he actually lived there, beyond the contents of his luggage.

When Edward moved to our estate permanently, he found a sense of freedom in his work, for he was a scholar above all else. At home, he was permitted to study the Bible and not much else—quite adept at sneaking literature into the home. With his arrival at our estate, he was suddenly free to research whatever he wished and learn to his heart’s desire. He was rarely seen without some sort of literature on his person; frustratingly, he was permitted to read fiction, while I was still prohibited beyond the approved titles.

During the few months I spent with him, I learned many things about his peculiar personality. He seemed to have little respect for anyone who couldn’t further his social or professional status, with the exception of myself, of course. There were times when he seemed a typical teen, but these moments were fleeting at best. The human aspect of his personality vanished just as quickly as it would appear, surfacing only when speaking of his father and the manner in which he was raised. After getting as close as we could without breaking through any of his emotional barriers, I found myself somewhat content with having someone to talk to while I was confined within the property line daily.

Edward showed little interest in what typical boys do, making it difficult to carry on a conversation with him at times. He called it maturity—I called it a Bishop characteristic, as in many ways he was like my father with his aloof disposition. I often felt out of place when the three of us were together, wondering why the men in my family were so distant—so cold toward their fellow man.

At least with my cousin hanging around the house regularly, however distant, I had another friend besides Jordan—or so I thought. The development of our relationship ended long before it could form any lasting bond when my father insisted on taking his nephew along with him on his extended excursions; Edward was to be his chosen ward, it would seem. The distance between us was more my doing than his, a natural jealousy inevitable. I was relatively healed, after all, and couldn’t help but bitterly wonder what made my cousin so special—so important that he would be chosen while I was so easily cast aside, and by my own flesh no less; a recurring theme in my life, I thought.

With Tom and Edward out of the picture, it was once again just Mordecai and me maintaining the household. As time progressed, I found myself spending more and more time with Jordan. Our relationship was a well-kept secret. She was an orphan abandoned and raised at St. Mary’s Orphanage just inside the village limits, the riff-raff unwelcomed in civilized society. Her low status was the reason I decided to keep the specifics of her upbringing undisclosed, for my father would surely disapprove of our rapport, and I would be compelled to sever any and all social ties with my young friend. At the time, I thoroughly enjoyed having a separate life from my snobbish household and emotionally distant blood.

Jordan seemed strangely worldly for an orphan, a child left on the steps of the orphanage in infancy. She observed the traditions of cosmopolitan behavior from a distance, perhaps out of want or an obscure desire to be adopted by a family of stature—though I could not know for certain. There was clear derision—even bitterness—when the matter arose in conversation, and I assumed this was her way of lashing out at a society that had rejected her. In this, we found common ground harmoniously. Together we were the rejects, a badge of honor we wore proudly . . . at least, that is what we had convinced ourselves.

Spring was a time of renewal, the leaves bright and youthful, serving as a profound metaphor—a joyous poem declaring our liberty. Warm days were spent swimming and exploring old ruins of abandoned estates nestled deep in the surrounding countryside, rummaging through discarded belongings—random trinkets left behind and forgotten, much like ourselves. Once cherished—perhaps even loved—belongings of families long since moved on were too much of a burden to be crated, yet they found a home among the elements of nature and our regular adventures. The irony was too obvious to ignore. We would make a game of guessing who had lived there before the homes fell to ruin, often involving scandalous affairs, murderous villains, and valiant heroes—fictions that revealed an obvious thirst for a creative imagination denied these many years.

We danced and played among the trees, hills, and river bends, frequently lost in our own world and dreading the return to normalcy each night—a world where I was alone and Jordan was unwanted, just another number in a system of inevitable poverty. Months would go by without word from my father or Edward, save for the usual brown paper parcels, which I found myself caring less and less about in my healthier state. They would return only for a few weeks at a time but would set off again for increasingly extended durations, and each time, I found my cousin growing a little colder—a little more detached.

Months turned to years, and I was becoming quite accustomed to the routine, until one day they returned and suddenly realized that I had stepped over the threshold of youth and into adulthood.

Everything was different.

The pair of them were suddenly a prying presence in my life, asking about private matters involving my physical—even sexual—development, which I found highly intrusive and embarrassing, to say the least. I had spent many happy seasons without them and was quite content in keeping it that way. Jordan had brought only positivity to my life, and their negative ubiquity felt almost foreign in contrast. I was gradually beginning to understand that I was merely a Bishop by name and nothing more.

I spent almost the entirety of the eve of their return arguing with my father—a screaming match I could not forget if I tried. Word had reached his ear that I was keeping regular company with an orphan girl from town, no doubt slipped from the reptilian tongue of my soulless chaperone.

Mordecai: ever the snitching thorn in my side.

Father was livid, to put it lightly. Hours progressed as he raged about how I was too good for her, and that our upstanding, worldly kind shan’t meddle with those of such poor social quality; this from someone who hadn’t even bothered to request to meet her in person. Tempers flared, and words were said that would change the way I viewed my own bloodline forever.

‘You don’t even know her!’ I yelled in her defense at the peak of the heated argument.

‘I don’t need to know her, Meric! These paupers are all the same; ever snarling after that which they did not earn, nor could they possibly understand. The last thing we need is a diluting of our bloodline, simply because you lack the confidence to court a proper lady.’

‘My confidence is intact, no thanks to some.’ I ground my teeth, eyes narrowing at his assumptions about her character. ‘She’s a friend, Father. I’m allowed to have friends, am I not?’

‘For now!’ he blurted out. ‘Next thing I know, she’ll be swelled with your bastard’s seed in her poverty-stricken womb. How could a Bishop dare show his face in the public eye with such shame besmirching our good name?’

‘If you knew her, you would not say such ghastly things.’

‘Neither do I want to know the little harlot.’

Upon such a repugnant insult, I straightened my posture, fists balled at my side, ready to defend her honor, innocent and pure as it was.

‘Know your place, boy,’ his eyes thinned to slits. ‘And you’d best remove that obstinate gleam from your eyes, lest I do it for you.’ his spine straightened, a challenge to his authority accepted, and only then did I realize just how intimidating he could be when his stature was threatened. ‘You are forbidden from seeing her again, you hear me?’

‘I hear you perfectly clear,’ I replied, jaw clenched. ‘I hear the ignorant words of a blind old fool, frightened of how others will see him.’

Standing up to my father was out of character, and questioning his close-minded mentality resulted in the first and only time I was physically disciplined. I recall the sting of his leather belt all too well, though I did not grant him the satisfaction of a single tear. He was so used to perceiving me as this fragile thing, I don’t think he ever thought himself capable of causing me strife in such ways. Whether I was in the wrong or not was debatable depending on perspective, I suppose. Nevertheless, there was a lingering bitterness that would echo throughout our remaining time together, which was unfortunately not very long—a fact I would come to regret.

Despite Edward’s assurance that it was for my own good, I suddenly realized just how alike they truly had become. Rather than argue my point to win over their ignorance, I found it easier to simply let them be who they needed to be, and would wear the reddened swell of my so-called discipline with justified righteousness, knowing my father was in the wrong.

Needless to say, I was forbidden to ever see her again. For the first time, I found myself counting the days until they would once again leave for their business excursions so that I might be free to live my life as I pleased. My counting would end much quicker than I had expected.

Edward informed me later that night that we were to travel to Whitechapel the following day to attend one of my father’s infamous richest-snobs-in-the-world dinner parties. Straight away, I knew my invitation to this event was not genuine, but a forced decision made in haste and desperation, as Mordecai was unable to keep me from seeing Jordan indefinitely. The trip would last only a few days, and so I let it be. Upon my submission to my father’s request to attend, I was ordered to venture into town to purchase new dress robes for the occasion, as a recent growth spurt had exposed my ankles and wrists with most of my wardrobe.

I was not to travel alone, however; my cousin was ordered to stay by my side the entire time. From what he had revealed in the heat of the argument, my father had made clear his fear of an unwanted pregnancy—that our family line would be contaminated with commoner blood—a blasphemous concept in his world. It was useless to try and explain that we had never even kissed in all our time alone—not so much as a held hand beyond childish play.

Traveling by horseback, I shifted restlessly to get comfortable, not only from the swell of cured leather from the previous night, but from a genuine worry that my horse might spook at random. A fall would undoubtedly worsen the tail end of a long and strenuous recovery, and I was determined not to spend a minute longer bound to my bed than absolutely necessary. I had only recently gotten used to getting around without the aid of a cane, and my limp was hardly noticeable. It was as though the strange medical anomaly had never even happened, though the mental scars would never truly heal. However, Edward was quite insistent, having spent half his time recently confined in carriages, and would have no more of it if he had any say in the matter.

The trip was made in relative silence—a not-so-subtle awkwardness that I honestly welcomed, as an air of bitterness remained stale between myself and the Bishop manor in general.

As the horses trotted along, I kept a vigilant eye out for any sign of Jordan, knowing a confrontation with Edward would be disastrous. Upon arriving at the local clothier, I groaned as I dismounted my horse, relieved to be free of it. We tied the reins before the door and proceeded inside. I glanced over my shoulder one last time, and with no visible sign of my friend, I entered the shop with a breath of relief.

‘We should have ordered you something from Paris,’ Edward grimaced, adjusting the collar of yet another shirt I had tried on, none of which met his impossibly high standards. ‘Slim pickings amongst the commoners, I’m afraid,’ he sighed. ‘But, seeing as we hadn’t the foresight to predict the spontaneity of your untimely invitation, I suppose these will have to do,’ he declared, speaking above his usual volume to ensure the shopkeeper heard. While he continued to insult the collection of what he deemed subpar fashion—though I found it perfectly adequate—I caught myself staring at the full-length mirror. It had been ages since I dared to look upon my own reflection, a lingering habit from my sicker days.

For the first time in recent memory, I was relatively pleased with the man staring back. My eyes weren’t nearly as sunken as they once were, the usual dark rings all but vanished. I looked relatively healthy, much to my relief. My skin had rejuvenated to a smooth, healthy tan, but my long blonde hair seemed out of place with the dress robes. It was as though I had inherited some of Jordan’s wilder characteristics. Nevertheless, it was clear that the sickly boy had grown into a strapping young man, strong and confident. I barely recognized myself.

‘What would you do without me?’ Edward smirked as he tied my hair back. ‘A bath and a shave, and I daresay you may indeed pass as a gentleman, if you can manage to keep this mane of yours properly groomed. I’ve hunted wild game with better grooming habits.’

‘How I despise dressing up,’ I muttered, tugging at my collar as Edward inspected my reflection in the mirror. ‘How do you walk around in these penguin suits every hour of every day?’

‘You get used to it after a while. The stiffness of the fabric will contour somewhat—the higher the quality, the less discomfort in daily wear. Though I wouldn’t expect much flexibility from this selection,’ he huffed, the clerk at the counter maintaining a polite composure fairly well in light of a potential sale. ‘By the way, you might want to brush up on your dining etiquette before we leave for Whitechapel. We wouldn’t want to embarrass our dynasty with your less-than-proper mannerisms.’

‘God forbid I use the wrong fork at the dinner table,’ I scoffed. ‘I might ruin our good name by eating a pudding in the wrong form.’

‘At first glance, I’d assume you ate from a trough,’ Edward chuckled.

‘You haven’t the faintest idea how you make people feel, do you, the way you carry on?’

‘I’m afraid I lack the ability to care, cousin,’ he sighed, as passive as ever. ‘I’m a busy man, as you well know, and I haven’t the time to consider anyone but myself.’

‘Oh, you’ve made that quite clear, Edward.’ I sniggered bitterly. ‘You know, you could have defended me yesterday. Why do I get the feeling that you simply go along with everything my father says? Whatever happened to being your brother’s keeper?’

‘Pretenses tire me so,’ he sighed. ‘Do not trifle yourself with such nonsensical ideals, Meric; we are not brothers, we are cousins, as you well know. And while we’re on the subject, I hardly see how blood relations should determine one’s loyalty . . . though I am rather fond of our little talks.’

‘I should have expected as much,’ I shook my head in disappointment.

‘You’re displeased?’ he asked, handing me the next coat.

‘It’s nothing,’ I tried to dismiss the topic, but he pressed on.

‘No, really; no point in bottling it up.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t really know much about loyalty between family, given the way you were raised and all—’

A piercing glare caught the words in my throat.

‘I could just as well say the same about you,’ he replied after an awkward moment, not meeting my gaze. ‘I can’t exactly argue with your logic, though I wouldn’t know where to start, sorting out the differences between your upbringing and my own. But I should point out one key factor you seem to be overlooking.’

‘Which is?’

‘You’ve only just endured your first disciplinary reprimand, whereas I’ve been . . . corrected since before I could bloody walk.’

Unsure how to respond, I felt a swell of guilt. Though my condition had broken my will, my parents were not directly responsible for my misery, and the bitterness in his tone revealed his contempt for his abusive upbringing.

‘I—I didn’t realize—’

‘An ill-suited topic for any occasion; we’ll speak no more of it.’ This was probably the closest thing to a touching moment I could expect. ‘So, tell me about this lady friend of yours.’

‘Also an ill-suited topic, seeing as you’ll likely side with my father on the subject—any subject, really.’

‘On the contrary; I encourage any relief from the strain of everyday life, and I find women to be of great service in this regard. I know girls who could suck the meat off a turkey leg in one go—’

‘Charming, Edward.’ I chuckled under my breath, his vulgarity never shocking.

‘Your father fears this . . . gutter rat of yours will bear your seed, thus undoing the legacy he’s worked his entire career to preserve, and understandably so—’

‘No such interests have been pursued . . . and you will hold your tongue whilst speaking of her.’ I threatened, not quite sure of how I could enforce it, but I was resolute.

‘For someone who professes innocence of such primal desire, you seem suspiciously defensive—’

‘I would be just as defensive if she dared speak of you in the same manner; the difference being that Jordan never would. You may be of higher social status, cousin, but when it comes to general class, you may fall short of this so-called “gutter rat” of whom you speak so ill.’

‘The key is knowing when to rid of them after their use,’ he continued, as though my words were merely inner monologue. ‘Pillow talk must never be encouraged. Furthermore, if you are acquainted with the right physicians—those with thirsty pocketbooks and proven discretion—there are . . .  procedures to dispose of unwanted offspring—’

‘Are you truly incapable of shutting that trap of yours?’ I blurted out, unable to tolerate another word of his arrogantly vulgar resolve. He glanced around, noting the shocked expression of the clerk behind the counter, clearly offended by the subject’s illegality and crudeness being discussed so freely in his establishment.

‘Shall we take our business elsewhere, Sir?’ he asked, but the man lowered his brow and went about his work. ‘One must never miss an opportunity to learn of crucial life lessons, Meric; a wolf does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep.’

Embarrassed and anxious to hurry along, I agreed to Edward’s choice of attire and proceeded to the dressing room, where my comfortable clothes awaited. I had almost disrobed entirely when the ring of a brass bell signaled another customer entering the clothier. My heart sank like an anchor when I peered through the slatted door to see Jordan’s mismatched eyes surveying the shop.

Edward, holding my father’s pocketbook, turned to catch a glimpse of her less than acceptable attire, and his expression turned mischievous as she breezed by. Fortunately she had not been out and about the forest that day, and the Sunday dress she usually wore to morning mass was relatively clean, even though it was a weekday. Jordan had the foresight to prepare for an untimely clash, knowing of my family’s impossible standards. Her hair was properly brushed and tied in a neatly braided bun, and sported a pair of laced heels rather than the oversized military boots she commonly wore, gaining her a few inches in height as she tapped toward the dressing room in haste.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and hoped she wouldn’t spot me and make her leave before disaster struck. But I had left my shirt draped over the dressing room door—a shirt I had worn many times in her presence.

‘Meric, might I have a word?’ Her high-pitched tone was worrisome—desperate even.

‘Not now, Jordan,’ I whispered. ‘My cousin is at the counter. Hurry back out while there is time—’ but it was too late, and Edward’s voice cut me off.

‘So, you’re the little mud pie with whom my dear cousin has been gallivanting about in my absence?’ He looked her up and down, a mix of disapproval and lust in his beady eyes. ‘Not a bad set on her, Meric, but I’m afraid she’s got a bit of wear and tear on the social level—’

‘Hold your damn tongue!’ I blurted, exiting the dressing room in such haste that I neglected to fasten the buttons on my shirt. The stern and surprisingly commanding tone was unexpected; my vulgarity even less so. Rather than fueling what would surely be a haughty confrontation, Edward simply grinned and bowed out of the conversation like an overly faux servant.

‘This could not have waited another day?’ I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, knowing he would be listening to every word.

‘Word has reached me that your father has strictly forbidden any further contact with me.’

‘Well, they will not be around for long, rest assured.’ I buttoned my shirt, trying to keep my eyes off her stunning features with surprising difficulty. I had never seen her so dressed to impress. I couldn’t deny that it attracted me, but any lingering gaze, accidental or otherwise, would only cement Edward’s assumption that we had indeed been intimate. ‘After this trip to Whitechapel, I’m sure they’ll be on their way once more. I shall speak with you then—’

‘You most certainly will not!’ Edward’s eavesdropping was nothing new to me, but it was clear that this particular conversation was not immune to his usual rude and stubborn interference. ‘You know damn well what will happen if you continue seeing her, Meric. Your father warned you once—’

‘To hell with my father and his rules.’ My spine straightened like never before, but this did not deter him.

‘You will not speak of your own blood in such a manner, certainly not in public. I might remind you how quickly word travels within such a small population.’ Turning to Jordan with a spiteful and chilling grin, he tossed a coin to the floor with utmost arrogance, and a deafening silence ensued. He could not have been more offensive if he tried. Her jaw hung slacked in awe, not quite processing just how rude a boy he truly was. ‘There, now be on your way, woman. I’m sure that’ll do for a bath and a meal.’

She stood silent, the shock of his piercing words still settling, but as expected, he just kept flapping his gums.

‘Run along now. No doubt there’s a vacant street corner somewhere in need of your nightly skill—’

A hand hurled toward him, but Edward, clearly accustomed to the backlash of insulting the opposite gender, anticipated the strike and caught her wrist tightly.

‘Come now; we mustn’t behave like animals,’ he spoke clearly, slow and hauntingly calm. ‘Now, sauntering into a male establishment may speak volumes of your admittedly presumptuous brawn—a trait my cousin may find endearing, perhaps even attractive—but I harbor no patience for women who know not their place amongst men of stature.’ Catching her other hand in mid-swing, he suddenly turned sinister, his black eyes like piercing daggers. ‘Oh, she is a feisty one, Meric—’

‘You’re hurting me—’ she gasped, but when she raised a knee, almost as if he expected it, he swiftly turned his hips, and with a sharp twist of both arms, Jordan was forced to her knees. His eyes darkened even more, if that were possible, peering into her soul, bordering on inhuman.

‘Unhand her this instant!’ I demanded, barely placing my hand on him before he raised his brow, abrupt and vicious like a guard dog. In that instant, I was struck by a familiar likeness—one I had seen many times before. This was malevolent glare of the demon that once haunted my dreams; I would know the feeling anywhere. A sudden fear robbed me of my courage, thickening my blood like snake venom.

He turned back to her, a crooked smile forming as she trembled on the floor.

‘Behold, your whore in her natural state, Cousin,’ he flaunted his power over her, savoring every moment of pain and humiliation as the entire room seemed to darken. ‘Bishop blood is off-limits to vermin like you; do you hear me?’ Though she cringed, Jordan would not grant him the satisfaction of an answer. ‘So, crawl back to whatever shite hole gutter from which you spawned, while you still draw breath in this world—’

Finding my courage, I shoved him away, careful not to provoke a violent backlash. This was the first time I genuinely feared him, unsure of what darkness had taken hold in that moment. As though a switch had been pulled, Edward suddenly snapped out of whatever hatred had consumed him, becoming aware that others had entered the shop, our confrontation no longer private.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I asked, still in shock. Extending a hand, I helped Jordan to her feet as she slowly rose, completely at a loss for words. Even for Edward, his behavior was inexcusable and out of character, as though someone else had taken control.

‘These are—er—private matters, and we will address them as such,’ he insisted, maintaining his condescending tone, even though it was his own behavior that had drawn the attention of the other customers. He straightened his loosened brown locks, attempting to keep up the pretense of a well-tempered aristocrat, though he fooled no one.

‘Then I suggest you keep your absurdly invasive nose out of my business while we finish our conversation,’ I replied cautiously, gesturing toward the exit, and hoping he was embarrassed enough to comply. With a menacing glare, Edward turned, feigning disinterest, and quietly slipped out the front door, pretending he wasn’t associated with either of us.

Jordan’s state of shock broke my heart. Her bottom lip trembled, the hurt in her eyes palpable. I felt cowardly for my delayed response in defending her honour, letting down the only true friend I had ever known.

‘I—I apologize.’ I took a much-needed breath. ‘He’s usually not so—’

‘Evil?’ her appalled expression didn’t waver.

‘I suppose there’s really no other way to describe it.’ my eyes lowered. ‘I hadn’t expected a warm greeting, but I must admit that was troubling to watch—’

‘There’s something very wrong with that boy, Meric—something . . . unnatural,’ she whispered, her disturbed gaze locked on my cousin through the front window.

‘Well, perhaps if you understood his upbringing, then you would—’ I caught my breath as she turned to me, the hurt in her eyes stopping me mid-sentence. ‘I shouldn’t defend his behavior. He will be dealt with accordingly, rest assured. In the meantime, I’ll only be gone a couple of days.’

‘You mustn’t leave, Meric.’ Edward’s vile behavior suddenly became secondary as Jordan revealed the true reason for her urgency. ‘There are horrible things afoot—’

‘What are you talking about?’ I replied with a slight chuckle, thinking she was having a go at me, but there was nothing playful about her demeanor.

‘You will not return to Warwickshire should you willingly choose to leave, I am quite certain.’

Unsure of what to make of her request, I brushed it off. Our relationship had always retained a certain child-like innocence—a playful and imaginative zest—so her obvious plea, filled with brash urgency, was oddly unnerving.

‘I don’t really have much choice in the matter, Jordan—’

‘There is always a choice.’ she took my hand ever so gently, but I pulled back when I felt Edward’s eyes through the window. She had never taken my hand before—not like that—and though I genuinely welcomed the gesture, the repercussions were too costly to consider. I calculated the odds like a gambler, trying to ignore the discouraged gleam in her eyes, but to little avail.

‘My father is quite insistent. I’m afraid he’s in no mood to be trifled with.’ Turning, I showed her the fresh lashes still lifted and swollen on my flesh. She gasped, holding her hand to her lips.

‘What did you do to deserve such punishment?’

‘Nothing of consequence; the matter is closed,’ I lied, not having the heart to reveal that defending her honor had been the cause.

‘The path before you is forked, and if you turn down this path, I fear you will never recover.’

‘You’re not making any sense—’

‘I know how I sound!’ she blurted out, not at all concerned with the customers just five meters away. ‘Please, just . . . trust me; don’t go.’

She had never been so sincere, at least not in my presence. I hadn’t the foggiest clue how she could be so sure something awful would happen in Whitechapel, and I didn’t ask, but I would live to regret not heeding her warning.

‘We’ll speak when I return . . . and I will return, Jordan,’ I assured her, but she remained unconvinced. ‘You have my word.’

‘Meric, please; you don’t understand—’

‘That is my final word!’

It was as though something had instantly sucked the life from her—glistening eyes filled with a subtle devastation, mourning she would not voice aloud. Her brow lowered, and her shoulders slumped, knowing her pleas were but a futile attempt. Had I only listened, everything could have been different, but I brushed her off like she was nothing—like her trust meant nothing.

 

 

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