The Fortunes of House Haytham

[catch]

Stanilav Haytham was third-generation rich, and thus far, he had managed to avoid the pitfalls that fortune brings to a family. His grandfather had built the business, setting himself, sometimes, on the carts that carried produce and cloth and Derry Red and Razasan seaports on the Great Roads. His own father had helped, and, with a shrewd mind, continued to build on what the Grandfather had wrought. There was no idleness to be had. Even if his father could afford dozens of men and dozens of great carts on dozens of roads, Stanilav had been put to the lowest position, and had taken himself to the highest. Proven, rather. Stanilav's father would have not have accepted anything less of his son, and would have raised no one else as high.

As his father had done, so had Stanilav. His sons, at this moment, were running supplies to the Derry-front, and coaxing the wine from smugglers, and bringing back the furs that would be wanted, needed, in the winter-months. Heavier demands, as well, on things such as tea and spices, silks and lace, and fine embroidery plucked by more exotic hands than could be found in Myrkenwood. Three sons, he had, and a daughter. And if there was one pitfall, one failing of Stanilav Haytham, it was his daughter. He was blind to her faults. She, of course, could not be expected to sit shivering in a driver's seat, or scout dangerous paths for the carts ahead. No. She was a Lady, a fine, pretty Lady, of her mother's blonde hair and her father's pale eyes.

Janna Haytham was to be a Lady.

"Lady Rhaena Olwak herself will be there," she had begged. "The Governor's Lady, Papa, and it may be a masked Ball, but I could go, I could go and find a fine, rich lad, and be seen with the Lady."

"I'll not have every young hound sniffing after you," he had said, quite gruffly. He was a gruff, hard man, with hard and angular features, and eyes like ice. Jana did not see the hardness in him. She had quivered her lip in her pale, little pout, and had stamped her foot. And, as always, he had relented.

When they brought her back, the Constables smelled drunk. They smelled of cheap ale and rum. They had covered her with a heavy coat that stunk of dead leaves. Stanilav was certain that he would not forget the glaze of their eyes, the way they stared at Janna's slim, trembling form. Dogs. Dogs.

"We suspect someone's been at her, M'Lord," one said, the rum-smelling one, and at least he was humble. At least he acted as if the words were an atrocity. "There were - was a brawl, you understand. Lots of cover. Lots of distractions. She was seen with a man, but the masks -"

"Get out," Stanilav had said, and he had shut the door firmly in their faces.

Janna's mother is the one that took her to her room, that bathed her, that spoke into the great nothing of Janna's empty-eyed silence. She had put her to bed. Stanilav sat in his drawing room and pulled at his pipe. His cold eyes looked at nothing. When the inevitable questions came, his replies were terse. Nothing had happened. Frightened, she had been, by brawling-men. That was all.

Of course she was in good health.

When Janna's middle began to swell, Stanilav still sat in his drawing-room, and he smoked his pipe. And his eyes looked at nothing.

[Rance]

Sometimes it took weeks to write a letter.

Gloria Wynsee unfolded the little ribbon of parchment under the edge of her desk at the Inquisitory as if she intended to hide some kind of secret. She'd written the address weeks ago after finding it -- with some sloppy bribing of the book-keepers at the Meetinghouse -- in the paperwork of an old populace analysis.

She found it because she knew the name. Janna Haytham. A disease in her mind, a memory that was not a memory, but a clinging, oily stain. An agony in her belly and between her thighs that sometimes woke her in the night, gasping no, no and you can't like she could change a deed that had already happened--

A deed that had already happened to someone else.

Dear Janna Haytham,

I am a friend. Not one you have met yet, but a friend nonetheless. Sometimes one does not need personal contact to strike up a friendship and it is my hope that you would be willing to do so with me.

I have bad dreams. I am not mad. I just have sometimes got bad dreams. I do not trust to tell anyone about them anymore because I am afraid someone will snatch it out of my mind. That sounds possessive. Sometimes I am afraid people will think I am mad.

I am a seamstress and I am very good at embroidary. My spelling has gotten much better and now I am using periods much better than before, I would simply put commas everywear and it probably made my letters look like idiot things. I write this letter because I would like very much to get to know you if you are willing. You mustn't feel obliggated of course, but I fear I have hesitated too long in writing you.

I have bad dreams. I am not mad. One time I had a dream and you were in it. I was awake, and I sensed you were hurt very greefisly griefously and no one came to you.

In the confines of a broken tooth, a pebble of black oil drummed as if it had its own heartbeat. Old blood, Catch's blood, a resilient artifact that had not washed away with saliva. It had hardened, calcified, a dark stone lodged against the dead root.

The seamstress turned to another piece of parchment.

You may throw this letter away and I will never have ill will towerd you because some things ought not be spoken of if a heart is in too much pain. And you need not even write of it. Just instead, I think I wished for you to know that sometimes a day may be made better to know of a friend you never thought you had. If that makes sense. If that makes even the tiniest crumbled morsel of sense, you see.

I am hoping you are well. If your hand is able and your mind is willing I am never overce to sending or writing letters. I am still learning this language and I rather enjoy both the practise and the company,

your friend,
Glour'eya Wynsee

She sent the letter, letting the ink dry by air instead of sanding it -- the sand, instead, she licked off the tips of her fingers when none of the other Inquisitors were looking. She crunched its grains between her teeth and sent the letter by courier, the Broken Dagger cited as the return address.

And for the rest of the day, everyone she saw -- for just a split-second -- wore yellow, yellow dresses.

[catch]

At first, she thought it was a cruel joke. It was not that we are ashamed of you, her mother said, even as a maid was hied to look after her, even as the door that led to her rooms were carefully locked, morning and night, and only sometimes - only sometimes - was she allowed out, to stroll in the privacy of their gardens, bordered by high, brick walls. We want to keep you safe, only safe. My poor baby, my poor, little girl -

And the maid brought up the note, and Janna thought it was a joke, something her brothers did at Father's command, to give her this illusion of a friend. But the writing was too poor. Her eyes devoured the words, again and again, the strange and foreign syntax, the shaky letters, the splotches of ink that no practiced hand could produce. It must be a joke. Her eyes fell again to that name, that strange, exotic name, Glour'eya Wynsee.

She had a dream. A dream about her, about her screams.

She sat at her desk, and she wrote.

Glour'eya Wynsee,

I will not throw away your letters. I think you write just fine -

Janna had a problem; she struggled to write, her mind empty of what she could possibly say. Her notes had always been hastily-dashed things, instructions towards meeting-places; anything substantial was said in public. More than anything, she did not wish to offend this strange writer. She put the pen-nib to her lips, nibbling upon it, an atrociously bad habit that her Governess had never managed to wean her from.

I think you write just fine. I am nothing as useful as a seamstress, though I know some embroidery. Mother is better than I am, but mostly we pay for our samples and designs. I do not think you are mad. I have visions, too, when I sleep. I think most of us do. Waking visions are special things.

I am very hurt.

Please write to me, more. Your name is strange. Where do you come from?

Janna Haytham

[Rance]

The first returned letter of many -- it was months ago, when her words were more timid and she had ten fingers instead of nine.

Janna,

What kind of things to do you make dreams about. I would like to here of them. You see sometimes I dream awful things, terrible things, there is one Dream that comes back into my head over and over, I cannot bear to talk of it but needles to say I do not like it, I will have dreams of Dreams and I will wake to ruined linens and I cannot squeaze my head enough to make it go away, you understand

I am from a place called Jernoah. are you from here? Were you born here? You would laugh very much at my sounds, I say my R with a heavy tongue and all of my fowels are long.

I won't stop writing, I cannot, I think because I have had this vision of you it is like a god saying it is best that we talk. tell me seacrets if you would like, I promise that I will never make fun or turn my cheek against your words.

Your friend,
Glour'eya

For two months it was a secret. For two months, as autumnal banners raised high in the summer light, the letters were frequent, a back-and-forth series of dialogues that allowed for two young women who'd never spoken in person to better know one another. She was careful about the delivering of the letters -- they were littered with words of fears, declarations of loneliness, lamentations of missing friends, discourse on dreams, theories, badly-spelled philosophies--

Until, for four weeks, the letters stopped arriving for Janna Haytham. For two of those weeks, Civil Constables meandered the streets, a self-proclaimed authority.

Rhaena's death became a fire on the words of gossiping women.

The red and gold standards were ripped from the poles.

And a missive arrived.

Janna,

Forgive me. She is dead now. She is dead and I am supposed to be smiling. I take my baths as I aught to now. Did you lose an hour too? I was away; I was very far north of Stonebrook. There I had my Black Hour.

I had ten fingers but now I have got nine.

I lost all of my clothes, I woke up and I hadn't any clothes.

Please tell me you are well. Please also say you do not hate me. I am going to chapel with my Cherny tomorrow, would you like to come to chapel too, I want nothing more than to sing and hope the time comes back. Everything is being righted, but the linens are always cold and

Please write me.

Your friend,
Glour'eya