Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 5

When Arthur wakes up the next morning, he feels a strange lassitude and unconcern float through his limbs and mind. Vaguely, he thinks that Gregory must have put something in that tea in the evening. But he doesn’t care, he decides- he likes this. He likes not being scared, or worried. 

Then he notices what woke him- raised voices from somewhere. Or one raised voice. He thinks that’s Darcy sounding upset again. 

Come to think of it, he never found out what she was upset about yesterday, before she threw the inkwell at Gregory…

Maybe he’ll ask her later. 

Right, Gregory- he peers around, but there’s no sign of him, either cat or boy. 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 4

For lack of anything else to do, Arthur returns to the castle, decides to explore it some more- from the way Llew was talking, they can stay here now, and he said the wards would protect them from his father. Arthur still thinks there has to be a catch to this, especially what with Llew admitting he’s fey, and brought them there to protect it- from, Arthur guesses, the things the wards don’t protect it from? 

In any stories he’s ever heard, the fey are usually tricky and not nice. But then, who knows how accurate those stories are? They certainly don’t get mages right. So… so he guesses he’ll accept this opportunity for now, and if it goes terribly wrong… he’ll have to deal with it. And it’s not like he has any other options, really. 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 3

Arthur startles when his door opens, then relaxes when it’s just Gregory- then tenses again, because he remembers… about Gregory now.

Gregory gives him his usual bright smile, holds out an envelope and waggles it.

“The nice lady said Darcy sent this. What’s it say?”

Arthur frowns in confusion- Darcy sent them a letter? Then he sees the address on the front of the envelope, carefully printed, and realizes the misunderstanding. He swallows.

“It’s not for us. It’s for a Dr. Seward in London. That…” He glances up at Gregory. “That’s got to be her father?” He frowns. “What are we supposed to do with it?”

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 2

Arthur lands on his hands and knees, retching, into… are those flowers? Their stems are dense and scratchy against his palms, and underneath there is warm dirt, and everything is covered in purple flowers.

He almost wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then remembers the fancy clothes he’s wearing, spits against the taste of bile and uses his hand instead, wipes that on the plants and dirt. All he had all day was water, so it’s not so bad.

He lifts his head and looks around.

There are no houses. He’s never seen anything like this- hills, covered in purple flowers as far as the eye can see. Blue sky. The air smells… different. Watery, somehow.

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 1

There’s worse things the girl could do than eat him, and Arthur’s not going to think about them too much, because there’s enough things to be scared and worried about right here, right now. 

How large is this prison, anyway? Surely, they have to arrive somewhere, preferably outside, soon? 

The alarm is still clanging, and there’s still shouting and the stomp of boots around them- and since they pass the slumped forms of two bodies at one intersection, it seems they are still on the trail of the skeleton. 

And then the girl… stumbles and falls over. Arthur slews to a stop, a good few yards from her, looks at her being a bundle of red dress and red hair on the floor and isn’t sure what to do. Is… is she dead? Or… is it some kind of trap? 

Gregory, of course, doesn’t have any such concerns, because when he hears their footsteps stop, he turns around, looks confused, sees her on the ground and runs back. 

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Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Introduction

August, 1899

Newgate Prison looms overhead, squat and wide, grim stone rising sheer from the sidewalk. Arthur rubs his damp palms against the legs of his trousers. The wool of them is strong and dark, the shirt crisp against his skin. A good suit- shillings and shillings worth of clothes he’s wearing, shillings they- he could’ve spent on food. (Shillings he doesn’t know where Gregory got them from.)

Except the thought of food makes the tense nausea sitting in his stomach bubble, and he has to swallow. 

No, he has to do this. 

No matter how much he wants to be anywhere, anywhere but here right now. No matter how clammy he feels, how small, how weak. 

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