Myrken Wood.
The toy shop of Aloisius Horatio Treadwell.
A thorough cleaning of the Tubbian priest's spare bedroom in the toy store has long been in demand. In short, the room was dusty and stuffy, not used much since his cousin, one Bartholomew Drivel, had left Myrken Wood and abandoned his half of the toy store's operation.
Then again, stealing the man's wife out from under him wasn't the best of things Aloisius might have ever done.
But in this pursuit of bobbling about the bedroom with a feather duster and a pink apron borrowed, admittedly, from Alice's kitchen at home that's worn over his bright yellow, one-piece pajamas, Treadwell found something most unexpected.
It was a note, a letter, a missive sent from his home town of Westenford, Amasynia, just over ten years ago.
It was a note he simply folded closed again after seeing the first line of text in its shaky, quivery hand.
To Aloisius Treadwell, Myrken Wood
Magistrate Treadwell,
I must regretfully inform you of a decision recently made by your wife, Blanche. She came to me several days ago with a request--and accompanying very large donation to the church in Westenford--to annul your longstanding marriage to her on grounds that you were not taking care of your duties as a husband by your leaving your wife and daughter in Westenford to live and work in Myrken Wood without further support for their welfare. I had little choice but to agree and to accept her request. In addition, Blanche has sold your estate to your neighbor and has left Westenford without saying where she went.
I am at work to console your daughter in these matters. I give you my deepest apologies and wish you the best.
Respectfully,
Benedict Took
"Benedict, Aloisius. Old Benedict."
Now, a snort rolls forth from the elderly tax collector.
"He wasn't terribly old by comparison--barely seven years between the two of us--but he wore his age much harder than most. He was a frail one, Pastor Took! Frail and old, little more than bones and robes!"
Fwumpf of hefty rump onto cushiony guest bed.
"I never wrote him back. The last I heard of Blanche was that she left Westenford with Stephen."
Stephen. The name is spat out; once a perfectly amiable, friendly butler for the Treadwells, he became a thieving louse, a verminous fiend who stole away Treadwell's first wife and nearly cost him his family estate.
"Babette came here, of course."
Fat fingers tremble down the sides of the apron. Babette. Treadwell's firstborn. His daughter. His baby girl. The plump-bellied, over-dressed, usually gaudily fashioned love of his paternal life who had very soon after joining him in Myrken left his heart wrenched from his ribs. She married against his wishes a small lord of little funding, less land, and no promising of a future--all in the name of love!
Wet tears fill those blue, beady eyes.
His baby girl.
But, wait?
Carriage wheels outside? Horse's hooves? In this snow? At this time of night?
A definite stop of the coach.
A shrill command outside of, "Stay here, child, until I know."
Moments later, a rapping-knocking at the door sees Aloisius without time to scurry to his own bedchamber in the back to put on a proper robe. Lamp and cane are gathered; the note is left behind on the bed. To the door he wobbles, wheezing of breath by the time he arrives and opens it enough to peer out.
"By Tubbius's fat, fleshy bosom, mmph mmph! Pastor Took?"
For there stands a fragile man seven years Treadwell's senior, a frail preacher of a church devoted to the worship of the one Creator, wearing his customary heavy brown robe, gloves, and boots, the hood of the robe raised to nearly swallow his head.
"Chief Magistrate Treadwell, I must speak with you immediately."
"But the snow! The North Passage Down is blocked nicely still! How--?"
"Luck, sir, and divine providence! Now, the door?"
Backward the aproned toymaker waddles, waving his guest inside, only to find himself scrutinized by clouded, weakened, elderly eyes from mere feet distant.
"Mercy, Chief Magistrate, you've only grown even more bulbous than your father and grandfather ever had time to do. How you've lived to swell so round at our ages I shall never know."
"Luck, sir, and divine providence, mmph mmph!" The jab returned. A frown given. A nod given toward the paired rocking chairs before the fire as he sets his lamp on a table away from any toys. "Sit, preacher, and warm yourself. Something to drink? To eat?"
"No, Mr. Treadwell, I shan't impose. I'd rather find something at one of the inns." Over to the rockers, though, the wisp of a man goes. "Besides, you mentioned Tubbius, and given the look of you, I'd say you've cast off the faith in the Creator to better serve your own immensity?"
The frown spreads across the jowls, disappearing within folds of white fluff and wrinkled face.
"You know well enough, preacher, that Holy Tubbius is a merry servant of our Father, the Creator. There's no shame in worshiping Him."
"You would pay homage to a gardener more than the master of the house, Mr. Treadwell." A sniff. "Bless me! It's cold out there! And I'm not here to debate philosophy, sir, although I hear you've taken up a position of great importance in your church. I'm here because there is someone with me, out in the coach, whom you simply must meet."
"Pastor Took!" A harrumph of breath as Aloisius plods across the floor to join the man in his own rocker. "I know everyone in Westenford and Myrken who would even remotely mean anything, hmm hmm, of any importance. You need not have made a special trip here, mmph, in your condition."
"You would do well to remember your own, sir. I expect, by the Creator's grace, to be most unfortunately giving your eulogy if you don't shed some of your flesh. But that's no matter. You've changed not a bit in ten years save to grow larger and older. If it weren't for the welfare of my charge outside, I wouldn't be here trying to talk sense into you."