Excerpt from Residuum: Ghosts of Southampton Book 3

I'm finally writing the sequel to Titanic: Ghosts of Southampton Book 2! I have heard from so many readers that they are really interested to hear what happened to Charlie and Meg after they arrived back in New York City. We are all hoping for a happy ending, but first our two heroes will have to face some demons. After all, Meg's been through a lot with the loss of her father, the abuse of her mother and uncle, and now Titanic. Charlie survived the sinking, but that doesn't mean everything is as it should be. Here's the unedited prologue for Residuum I've just written. I hope that you enjoy it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Also, Prelude is now available and will be free today, November 2, 2017. It is the prequel to Titanic and you can find it here.

Residuum

This amazing cover for Residuum was created by JC Clarke at The Graphics Shed

Prologue

            “The water was so cold, little crystals of ice immediately formed atop anything and everything that crested the surface. The sensations below weren’t any better, however. It was as if a thousand tiny pins were plunged into my flesh all at the same time. Even through my leather shoes, my coat. It didn’t matter; so I took them off. The entire Atlantic Ocean was already pulling me down. I didn’t need anything else hastening my journey to the abyss.”

            The man in the brown leather chair cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “And then what do you remember next?”

            There was a long pause of consideration as thoughts fought to both spring to the surface and hide deep in the recesses of his mind. At last, a sentence was formulated. “I didn’t have a lot of time to decide what to do. There’d been plenty of chances, mind you, to climb into one of the lifeboats. I’d declined. Even though I’d been below deck and had seen what it was like down there, had seen the water crawling up the walls, lapping up the staircase, one concrete step at a time, I suppose even then it was difficult to wrap my mind around what was actually happening. But I was determined not to take the seat of another, particularly a mother or child. And though I had given great consideration to what I might do when I inevitably found myself in the Atlantic, my plan wasn’t as developed as I would’ve liked.”

            “You say you had a plan though?”

            “Not really. I suppose I’d like to think I had one, that I would come up with something spectacular at the last moment to save myself. That’s what I’d reassured everyone else, all those who beckoned me aboard the lifeboats with them. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had climbed aboard a lifeboat. No one else filled those seats. Hundreds of empty seats. Did you see that? In the papers?”

            He glanced up from his notes. “I did. I read it later, after the reports were filed.”

            “Right. So, here I was trying to be… heroic or chivalrous, I suppose. It turned out my efforts were wasted, and I ended up dying because of it. Momentarily, anyhow.” He remembered what it had been like to slip away and then come crashing back to his own existence and pushed those thoughts aside, returning to his previous thought. “I believe there’s another word one might use to describe my actions in turning down a perfectly good lifeboat.”

            He scratched his balding head beside a thin line of light brown hair. “And what word might that be?”

            “Foolish.”

            There was a “hmmm” sound in response, which was neither an agreement or a disagreement. “So once you were in the water, what happened then? Do you remember exactly?”

            The words were having difficulty placing themselves in the correct order again. It took a moment of forced introspection. “I had intended to find something that would float. I assumed, a ship with that much lumber aboard—deck chairs, tables, doors, what have you—would have enough debris to easily find something I could mount and wait. I was under the impression that the lifeboats would come back—the half-empty ones for certain. It made little sense to me to think that those people, the thousand or so who had made it safely aboard a life vessel--would sit idly by. I assumed it would only be a matter of moments before there was a rescue party, if you will. I also remembered seeing a light on the horizon before we went under. I thought this other ship would be our salvation. It turns out I was mistaken in all of my optimistic assumptions.

            “In answer to your inquiry, however, there really is no order of things, no chronological account I can replicate for you. There was no time. Curious souls often ask me how long it took for the rescue boat—that’s what they like to call it, which I find quite ironic—the rescue boat to come back and begin to check to see who was still alive. I can’t answer that question, honestly. It was an eternity. It was the blink of an eye. I can’t precisely tell you what happened after I found myself completely submerged in the Atlantic. Nothing happened. Everything happened. All at the same time.”

            There was a long pause as the thin man in the upright leather chair seemed to ponder how to proceed. “Can you describe how you felt?”

            He pressed the palm of his hand into one eye socket, pressing hard enough to feel an ache before running his hand through his brown hair and straightening the hem of his jacket. He cleared his throat. “I felt like I was going to die. My body was both on fire and frozen solid at the same time. It’s hard to describe, but at some point, the human body becomes so cold it burns. I had the fleeting thought that there were three choices that lay before me, and I didn’t truly have any options because there was no time to weight the potential outcomes. I only had time to react.”

            “What were the choices?”

            “The first one was to fight—to swim as fast as I could in any direction; it really didn’t seem to matter which. Thrash about, try to make a headway in one bearing or another. I couldn’t see any of the lifeboats, so there was no sense in attempting to reach one, but swimming would be action, and action seemed to be an option.

            “The next was to do nothing. To stay perfectly still and allow the ocean to take me, as it so clearly wanted to do. As I said, I could feel it pulling me. It wasn’t the suction created by the ship or some such rubbish would-be scientists will try to explain in their overly-wordy, overly-educated statements. It was the ocean itself. She wanted me, wanted all of us, and her lapping waves were an invitation to let go of everything I’d ever known before and simply cease to exist.”

            He went quiet again, and the man across the room seemed perplexed as to whether or not he should issue another prompt or simply wait. He tried the latter for a lengthy while, and then, just as his thin lips parted to probe, the story was continued.

            “The third option never really existed. I just thought it might. I thought there was a chance that I could employ the same tactic I had every other time I’d been in such a precarious situation, sure of nothing but certain death. It didn’t work this time, however.”

            “What tactic is that?” he asked, squinting behind his thin-rimmed glasses.

            The answer came more quickly than expected. “Wake up.”

            The inquisitor absorbed the answer and then gave one short nod of the head. “I see,” he said quietly, as if it had never occurred to him that one might even think that was an option. “I suppose it makes sense one might assume, under the circumstances, they must be having a dream.”

            “A nightmare,” he corrected.

            “Indeed.”

            “Once I realized that my preferred escape method was not a true possibility, a parade of familiar faces skirted through my mind, people I wished to see again, and I began to look around for an alternative. That’s when I saw the collapsible.”

            “About how far away do you think it was?”

            “In truth, not far at all. At that point, it didn’t matter, however. Any sort of movement whatsoever was excruciating. All of my joints had frozen stiff after just a few minutes in the water. It could’ve been a hand’s breath away and reaching it would’ve been nearly impossible. I’d say, it was less than ten yards’ distance. It may as well have been floating up next to the mocking moon.”

            “And yet, you were able to reach it, eventually.”

            “I was. I’m sure I don’t know how. When I started out on my journey, there was quite a commotion surrounding the upturned vessel as those nearby struggled to gain traction and buoyancy. By the time of my arrival, everyone was much more… still. Some were grasping hold with all their might. Others slipped below the surface and were not strong enough to recover from the siren call of the abyss. There was no helping them, no matter how badly the others wished they could assist. At that point, it truly was every man for himself.”

            “You were able to find a spot somehow, and to grab hold?”

            “Somehow,” he agreed. He began to strum his fingers on the arm of the couch intermittently, as if typing out a message using Morse Code.

            “And you’ve no idea how long you were there, you say?”

            “No.” The answer came quickly, unlike all of the other words that refused to form coherent sentences.

            “Do you remember being plucked from the water, then? When the lifeboats finally returned?”

            “No.” Equally as easily accessible. “I don’t remember anything again until after I awoke on Carpathia.” He was quiet for a very long time again, before he reconsidered his statement. “That’s not true. I do remember something else.” His voice was soft now, just above a whisper, and the man across the room leaned forward in his chair, straining to hear. “It’s the true reason I’m here.”

            “What’s that?”

            The strumming stopped, and he looked up, a shift in his countenance. “The photographs in my mind are one thing. I see their faces. That’s… troubling. It’s not the worst of it. But every time I close my eyes, I distinctly see each of them. A woman with short, curly hair. A man with some sort of wrap on his head, his face frozen in anguish. Literally frozen. A little boy, maybe six, clinging to a woman I presumed to be his mother. A baby wrapped in layers of blankets and nestled between an arm stiff with frost and a bosom that would never feed the child again. Their faces are haunting, and they are everywhere. Despite that daily terror, it isn’t the worst.”

            “It isn’t? What is it then? What could possibly be worse than seeing the faces of the dead everywhere you look?”

            “Dr. Morgan, have you ever considered the different definitions for the word ‘drown’?”

            The question seemed to take him aback, and he scooted his shoulders into the chair. “No, I can’t honestly say that I have.”

            “I looked it up in the dictionary because I was curious as to precisely what it might say. It’s such an interesting word. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it? Drown. Drown. Drowning. It sounds almost as morbid as the meaning behind it. The latter definition is almost as unsettling as the first, though, when you think about it. You can’t just stick to the first definition, mind you, doctor. You have to read them all. ‘To die under water of liquid or other suffocation.’ Yes, of course, we all know that one. We were all trying so hard to avoid it that night, though I’m not sure any of us thought of the true cause of death—freezing. Nevertheless, the Atlantic that night was full of over two thousand persons trying hard not to succumb to the first definition of the word drown.

            “If you’ll read further, however, my good man, you’ll come up with another definition. ‘To overwhelm as if to render inaudible, as by a louder sound.’ Dr. Morgan, since I’ve arrived back in New York City, I’ve heard all sorts of loud sounds. Whistles, horns, people shouting, doors slamming, music playing. Some of them startle me because I now have a new association with each of them. I can’t imagine what might happen should I ever again hear the loud popping sound of a firecracker exploding, much like the distress signal that was fired off that night. But one thing that still eludes me, Dr. Morgan, is the second part of that definition—a louder sound, one that renders the original sound inaudible.”

            “I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean.”

            “It’s quite simple, really, Dr. Morgan. I’ve come here, I continue to come here, because I’m hoping that you can help me extinguish, or otherwise drown out the constant noise I’m hearing, not with my ears but with my mind. Not just while I’m sleeping but even when I’m awake. It never stops. It’s there all the time. And, Dr. Morgan, while I’m quite certain that a psychiatrist of your caliber is just as capable as anyone in the world at helping me with this problem, I must admit I’m afraid it might be a lost cause.”

            “Why do you say that, Mr. Ashton?”

            “Because, Dr. Morgan, it’s been nearly six months since Titanic sank, and I still hear them. I still hear the screams, the wails, the cries for help. I still hear the thrashing sound of two thousand people desperately trying to survive, trying to accept option one and fight for their lives, for those of the ones they love, many of which were right there with them, freezing to death, being dragged under by the pull of the Atlantic. I’m afraid, Dr. Morgan, that I’ve reached the startling conclusion that, despite the irony of the word itself, there’s no helping my situation. Quite frankly, kind sir, I’m of the opinion that nothing drowns out the sound of drowning.”

            Dr. Laurie Morgan was silent for some time, taking in the statement his patient had so decidedly declared, not sure how to respond. Eventually, he cleared his throat, and taking off his spectacles, he picked up a cleaning cloth off of the desk beside him and began to carefully clean the lenses. “Mr. Ashton…” he began.

            “Please, call me Charlie.”

            “Right. Charlie, I do think there is an answer, that we will find a way to make the noises stop, or at least lessen. I understand you’ve been through the sort of traumatic experience only a few people can identify with. However, I believe if we continue to work together, we will eventually see results, and you’ll begin to feel much better.”

            Charlie ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. He wanted to believe the doctor. He’d already made some progress in the few months they had been working together, but he didn’t know for sure if there was any solution. Today had been a bit of a breakthrough in that he was able to tell the doctor precisely what it was that was still troubling him. Choosing to be optimistic, he nodded, and reaching over next to him on the lounger he refused to lie on, he grabbed his hat before standing. Dr. Morgan rose out of his chair and stepped forward, and Charlie had to tip his head and peer down at the much shorter man. “Thank you for your time, doctor.” He extended his hand, and the doctor shook it. “I will see you next week.”

            “Thank you, Charlie,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Yes, next week. I hope to work on finding some answers then.”

            Charlie nodded and forced a smile, thinking that might be all but impossible. He headed for the office door, and waving goodbye, he let himself out. The receptionist, an older woman with graying hair, smiled at him, and Charlie wished her a good day before making his way down and out of the office building into the busy streets of New York where amidst a crowd of thousands, he felt just as alone as he had when he’d been floating in a sea of faces in the frigid Atlantic.

Why Serendipity is Dyslexic: Lessons From Doll Maker

Many of you followed my NaNoWriMo journey on this very blog, reading along as I wrote The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas, publishing chapter by chapter in the raw as it was finished. And many of you may have been surprised at the darker parts of the story. This is a bit of a spoiler, but the reader discovers pretty quickly that Serendipity has accidentally killed her mother and two older sisters because she can't read.  I think it also becomes evident pretty quickly that Serendipity clearly has a severe form of dyslexia, and that's what led to the awful accident that claimed the lives of her family members.
So, why in the world would I write something like that in a Christmas book?
First of all, the theme is rather dark anyway--it's Gothic--dreary England, Victorian era, cursed house, etc.  So a gruesome death fit right in. However, that wasn't my primary reason for including this tragedy--it's because I wanted to bring some attention to dyslexia in a way that stood out.  Dyslexia is the number one undiagnosed learning difference/disability in the nation. One out of every five children has dyslexia. If we are going to start finding these kiddos and helping them, we've got to start talking about this issue. And as a writer, the best way for me to draw attention to it is to write about it.
Now, certainly I realize this is a very extreme case. The likelihood that anyone would accidentally kill their own family because of dyslexia is pretty ridiculous.  Nor do I want people to think that I believe people with dyslexia are dangerous or that if you have dyslexia, we should fear you. On the contrary, my own daughter has dyslexia, lots of the students I work with have dyslexia, and I have recently started teaching dyslexia--so, no, I absolutely did not want to bring negative attention to the issue; I simply wanted to make a statement that dyslexia is real, it takes patience and understanding, and it can be treated with the right program.
In the story, Serendipity is so focused on her differences that she can't see anything positive about herself until she finally meets some people who are willing to accept her differences and help her learn to read despite her dyslexia. She finds out that she actually has a lot of talents and skills that other people do not have, and that these can, in part, be attributed to her dyslexia. She finds out that many brilliant thinkers and creators in history have also had dyslexia, and that these people went on to be major contributors to science, art, politics, mankind in general.
While, at first glance, the idea that Serendipity's dyslexia causes her to make a catastrophic mistake may seem detrimental to the cause of bringing awareness to the issue, I hope that by the time the reader finishes the book he or she will see the true meaning behind my extreme interpretation. Beyond that, this is a story about overcoming obstacles, recognizing one's strengths, and realizing one's potential. (And it's also about Christmas, and who doesn't like Christmas?)
I'd love to hear your thoughts on the issue!

The Doll Maker's Daughter at Christmas Chapter 18

Here is the long awaited Chapter 18!  Sorry to have kept you waiting a few days. Remember this has not been edited yet. If you'd like to read from the beginning, click here.

A Revelation

Almost as quickly as Serendipity  began her search, she heard a small squeaking in the corner behind a cupboard. “Pozzletot, is that you?” she asked hurrying over towards the sound.  Sure enough, there he was crouched between a low cupboard and the wall. She hadn’t noticed the quick flick of Corey’s wrist that had summoned him to that location, nor did it occur to her to ask why he hadn’t simply used his magic to conjure the beast back into his possession once he realized the little mouse had stowed away to the North Pole in the first place.  Rather, she was more focused on cuddling her long lost friend, and snatching him up, she cradled him carefully in her hands, exclaiming, “Oh, Pozzletot, my sweet friend! I’m so happy to see you!” She smothered him with kisses and laughed as he squeaked in delight at the reunion as well.

She felt Corey’s hand on her back before she realized he had crossed the room. “There we are,” he said smiling. “How lovely to have the two of you back together again.”

Serendipity turned and wrapped her arm around Corey’s neck, carefully holding Pozzletot in her other hand. “Thank you so much for bringing me here to fetch him,” she whispered.

“You’re quite welcome. I’m sorry I took him away from you in the first place,” he replied.

Serendipity wasn’t sure if he meant to say “accidentally” or not, but at this point it did not matter to her. She was happy to have visited the North Pole, happier still to be reunited with her lost friend, and happiest of all for having the opportunity to meet Corey--the real one, not the fake one who had showed up on her doorstep days ago flashing a fancy smile and offers of unfathomable joy for the rest of her existence. Before untangling her arm from his neck, she kissed him quickly on the cheek and then backed away, blushing, focusing her attention on her chatty little friend.

Corey blushed as well, and after a moment, he cleared his voice and said, “Let me show you to your chambers, Ms. Fizzlestitch.”

“Yes, of course,” Serendipity replied. “It’s only…”

“What’s that?” Corey asked, pausing just before the kitchen door.

“I havent’ an overnight bag or anything,” Serendipity responded, thinking how very uncomfortable her dress would be to sleep in.

“I’m sure I can whip up something,” Corey assured her, pushing the door open, and smiling at her over his shoulder.

Serendipity smiled as well and let him go through the door first, though it did cross her mind that should she stand just right under that mistletoe again, he would be forced to kiss her. As tempting as it was, she followed him up the stairs instead, noting how his staircase was so much more gradual an incline and so much easier to climb than the rickety ladder that led to her loft.

“Here we are,” he said stopping outside a door at the end of the hallway. “I think you shall find everything you need inside.”

He pushed the door slightly ajar, and glancing in, Serendipity could see a quaint room with a nice size bed made of log timbers and what appeared to be a comfortable mattress, a dresser with a looking glass, and a bookshelf.  There was a cozy looking quilt on the bed and a small fireplace in the corner, which came to life before her eyes.  Her gaze returned to the bookshelf for a moment, and Corey asked, “Would you be more comfortable if…”

“No,” Serendipity replied. “Leave it. It’s fine.”

“All right then,” he said smiling meekly. “You should find everything you need in the dresser, but if I missed anything, please let me know. Or Mr. Waddlebug. His room is right next to yours, and mine is at the end of the hall.”

“Right,” Serendipity nodded, following with her eyes as he gestured. “Thank you again for everything, Corey.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” he said leaning against the door jam with one hand, his face ever so close to hers.

“Oh, yes, there is,” she insisted. “You’ve taught me so much in one day; I can’t even begin to explain to you how nice it’s been to be… alive again.”

“You should consider being alive everyday,” he replied. “You’re very good at it.”

He was leaning ever closer to her now, and she could feel his breath on her cheek.  “I think… I think I should be off to bed now.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Corey said stepping away from her. “Pleasant dreams, Serendipity.”

“Pleasant dreams,” she echoed with a slight nod before stepping quickly into the guest room, shutting the door with one hand and pressing her back into it. Looking down at Pozzletot, who was still perched on her free hand, she smiled, feeling her face become flushed.  Her little friend seemed to be making kissing noises, his paws rubbing together in front of his face. “Oh, stop!” she said. “You’re such a silly little mouse!” Sitting him down on the bed, she stepped over to the dresser where she found a beautiful red nightgown in just the right size. “I certainly underestimated our dear Mr. Cane, now didn’t I?” she asked to no one in particular. “He is a good man after all. A good man indeed.”

When Serendipity finally awoke the next morning, sunshine was streaming through the window despite the thick green curtains, and she wondered how she had possibly slept so long. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time in ages. Stretching, she glanced around the room and was overjoyed to see a still sleeping Pozzletot nestled on the pillow next to her.  She giggled with glee as he scratched his nose in his sleep.  She considered waking him but decided instead to let him sleep a bit longer and then quietly pulled herself from the bed.

She crossed the room to the closet where she had hung her dress the night before, but upon throwing open the door, she was happily surprised to see a fresh frock hanging there. This one was in a bright blue, with a thick woolen cape hanging next to it, complete with matching hat and mittens.  Beneath it sat a new pair of brown leather boots. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, and bending down to snatch one up she saw that they were just the right size. In the drawers behind her, she found just the right undergarments as well. “He’s thought of everything,” she whispered to herself as she readied herself to go downstairs and find Corey so she could thank him for his overwhelming hospitality.

By the time she was dressed, Pozzletot was awake and rubbing his belly, an indication that he was as hungry as she was.  Scooping him up and setting him on her shoulder, Serendipity ascended the stairs. She could hear voices coming from the kitchen, Corey’s for certain and what must be Mr. Waddlebug in reply.  The words were difficult to make out, and it wasn’t until she was just about to push the door open that she heard Corey say, “I’ll tell her. Now, please stop bothering about it. You are correct in saying it is better that she find out from me, and she will. In good time.”

Of course, Serendipity had no idea whether he was speaking about something she needed to know, or someone else, and not being one to eavesdrop, she coughed once to announce her arrival and then pushed the door open.

Both gentlemen stood as she entered, and Serendipity returned Corey’s warm smile. She knew she would be most happy to see him but the butterflies in her stomach came as a surprise, a welcome one.

“Good morning,” Corey called out to her as she entered the room. “Don’t you look radiant this morning?”

“Why thank you,” Serendipity blushed, curtseying in an attempt to show off her new dress. “You certainly have exquisite taste, sir.”

“I’m so glad that you like it. Here, have a seat,” he insisted, pulling out the closest chair between them. “And please, meet my associate, Mr. Waddlebug.”

For the first time, Serendipity  turned her attention to the other gentlemen.  She couldn’t help but remember Corey’s description of him as being “a bit bug like,” and while it wasn’t overwhelmingly so, she could see enough of a resemblance between the beady eyes and boxy features of the little man’s face that she had to stifle a giggle.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” she said, taking the hand he offered. He placed his lips gently on the back of her hand, causing her to gasp at his formality, and smile at his attempt at being debonair.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mr. Waddlebug replied. “Let me fix you a plate.”

“Oh, please don’t bother yourself. I don’t mind looking after myself,” Serendipity began, but he was already up, piling bacon, eggs, and homemade scones on a white china plate, which he promptly sat before her. Her utensils were there already, as was a brightly colored Christmas napkin, and he poured her a spot of tea as she began to dig in.

“Thank you so much,” Serendipity said as she tasted each of the offering on her plate. “You are an amazing cook, Mr. Waddlebug. This and the gingerbread men you made last night, why it’s a wonder you don’t open a restaurant.”

“Gingerbread men I made?” Mr. Waddlebug asked, looking at Corey who only shrugged.

Serendipity didn’t seem to notice as she continued to eat only slowing to make the occasional “mmmm” noise or take a sip of her tea.  It had been years since she had stopped working long enough to eat a meal, and possibly years before that since she had eaten anything as tasty and nutritious as this somewhat balanced meal.  As she ate, Pozzletot climbed down from her shoulder and Mr. Waddlebug made sure he had his fill of scone crumbs as well, talking sweetly to him as he did so.

Corey was finished with his breakfast before Serendipity even entered the room, and he sat and watched her eat, sipping his tea in amused silence as he had never seen anyone so overjoyed at the pleasures of a simple breakfast.

Once she had finished eating, Mr. Waddlebug offered her more, which she refused, patting her full belly, and then he cleared the table leaving only the few remaining crumbs intended for Pozzletot.

“I don’t think I’ve eaten like that in… well, probably at least eight years,” Serendipity reminisced, leaning back in her chair and smiling.  “Thank you again, both of you, for your hospitality.”

“We are just happy to have you here,” Mr. Waddlebug remarked as he placed the last of the breakfast dishes in the dishwater to soak.

“I’m happy to be here, too,” Serendipity admitted with a satisfied smile.

“All right then. I’m off to go about my chores,” Mr. Waddlebug said, pulling a thick coat off of a hook by the back door. “Serendipity, Pozzletot, have a nice day. I hope to see you both soon. Sir,” he added, looking at Corey who nodded at him and then he scuttled out the door letting a breeze of cold air into the little room as he did so.

Serendipity shivered. “It’s a bit colder out there today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Corey agreed. “That’s why I made sure you had something warmer to wear today.”

“Thank you,” Serendipity said thinking of the gray winter wear she had left in the closet.   “You know, he does look a bit like an insect, it’s true,” she offered. “And he does waddle slightly, as well. I believe your assessment was rather spot on.” Corey laughed but did not respond, which prompted Serendipity to continue with her assessment. “Of course, if I were named based on my appearance, I should wonder what I would be called.”

“Well, that depends,” Corey replied shrugging. “If you were named on the first day I met you, I would have to call you something very different than what I would name you on the last.”

“And what would you call me today?” Serendipity asked placing her hands beneath her chin in an angelic pose.

Again, Corey couldn’t help but laugh. “In that pose? I don’t know,  Snow Angel, perhaps.”

“Snow Angel? I rather like that,” Serendipity admitted.  “I’ve been called worse.”

“You’ve been called better,” Corey suggested. “I think your father had it spot on when he named you Serendipity.”

She smiled serenely at him for a moment before she finally said, “You know, Serendipity doesn’t just mean ‘luck’ or ‘good fortune’ as so many people think. Firstly, it means to find good luck and good fortune by accident. And I’m afraid, for most of my life, I’ve only stumbled into the accident part and never the fortune part. I think, however, perhaps my luck is changing a bit.”

His green eyes settled in on her face for a long pause before Corey finally spoke. “I hope so,” he said quietly.  “I truly hope so.”

Serendipity began to feel a bit uncomfortable.  In order to break the tension, not only did she look away, but she asked, “And what of you? What should we have called you if your name was based solely on your appearance?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Corey said, chuckling quietly. “Spike?”

“Spike!” Serendipity laughed. “Quite suitable! I was thinking something like Prince of Velvet, but I do like the name Spike for you ever so much better!”

“Are you poking fun at my suits?” Corey asked, faking offense.

“Not in the least,” Serendipity assured him. “In fact, I think you look very sharp--quite stylish, certainly unique.”

“I have a very important job, you know,” Corey continued. “And I need to make sure I am dressed for the occasion.”

“Of course!” Serendipity agreed.

“Beside, my father always dressed thusly before his retirement, and I suppose I have modeled my own appearance after his,” he admitted, looking down at his suit red and green striped shirt, red jacket, and matching pants.

“I am certainly not one to disagree with one attempting to emulate one’s father,” Serendipity stated matter-of-factly.  “Now tell me, does your father’s hair also replicate your own?”

“You don’t like my hair at all, do you?” Corey asked, his expression playing somewhere between offense and amusement.

“Well, honestly,” Serendipity admitted, “at first I found it quite odd. But now, I will say it has grown on me, and I’m actually quite fond of it.” To prove her point quite literally, she reached up and touched the spikiest section of his hair, which he bent forward in order for her to access. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “I expected it to be crunchy, but it’s not at all, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Corey agreed. “It’s my father’s own secret hair gel recipe. Only he and I know the secret ingredients.”

“Not Cassius then?” she asked, drawing her hand back to her side of the table.

“No, Cassius prefers a much more boring hairstyle,” Corey explained. “He’s, well, he’s a bit ordinary, I’m afraid.” His voice sounded overly empathetic, which caused her to giggle. “You find humor in my older brother’s lack of variety?”

“No, I find humor in your interpretation of it,” she replied. She continued to laugh for a few minutes before she finally regained her composure.  “Tell me, Mr. Cane, what business must you be about today? I’m sure your schedule is quite full.”

“Oh, yes, quite,” he agreed. “I have various important appointments to keep--with various important persons.  Why? What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Serendipity began, “if you have time, and if it’s not any trouble, I think I should like to meet the Snow Queen--that is, if you think she might have time to meet me. Just for a moment.”

Corey’s expression changed for a moment, and Serendipity couldn’t tell if it was concern or if he was just considering the request.  After a moment, he said, “The Snow Queen, right. I’m really not sure. I suppose I could check with her to see if she is available.  I thought that, perhaps, you might consider taking a look at some of the cottage designs we have available, you know, just in case you decide to… stay.”

Serendipity was certain the topic would come up eventually; it had to as she would either have to ask to be taken home or he would have to offer to take her--or offer to find her another place to stay. “Corey…” she began, toying aimlessly with the handle on her teacup. “I…”

But before she could continue, he said, “Listen, Serendipity, there’s something I need to tell you.” He placed his hand on top of hers, and the tone of concern in his voice made the hairs on her arms stand up. Serendipity looked him straight in the eyes and held her breath, having no idea what it might be, though she was certain by his tone it couldn’t be good.  “I, uhm, haven’t been completely honest with you…” he began.

She continued to stare at him as he absently ran his free hand through his hair. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Whatever it is, Corey, you can tell me,” she assured him quietly.

Corey swallowed hard, and looking deeply into her pale blue eyes he said, “I, uhm, that is… uh… I made the gingerbread men with magic.” Then, he drew his hand away from hers and covered his face with both palms, shaking his head slowly from side to side as he did so.

“What?” Serendipity asked, not sure whether she should laugh or smack him for making her feel as if he were about to say something truly important. “That’s it? That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

Corey didn’t meet her eyes for a moment, which made her wonder if there were something more. “That’s it,” he finally confirmed, still staring down at the table. “I just thought you should know the truth.”

Serendipity shook her head. “Well, all right then. The truth is very important to me, but… I thought you were going to tell me something.. important.”

Saying nothing, Corey shrugged his shoulders again, still looking away. Serendipity squinted one eye and looked at him closely, as if she were trying to see into his soul, to see if there were more.  For once, she couldn’t get a good read on him, however, and so she decided that if there were something else he needed to tell her, he would do so in good time.  “Well, as long as we are being honest…” she offered at long last.

This got his attention and he finally turned to face her again, his hand resting in front of him on the table. “What is it?” he asked a curious expression on his handsome face.

“I wasn’t quite telling the truth once yesterday either,” she admitted.

“How’s that?”

“Corey,” she began, “if I knew that only female reindeer have their antlers this time of year, surely I must know what mistletoe is for.”

His smile was back then, the real one, the one that she had grown to love. “I did find that rather odd,” he confirmed. “But I was more than willing to show you.”

She smiled from ear to ear just the, and realized he had taken her hand in his. She sat staring into his eyes for the longest moment, content to do so for the next several hours if fate should have it.  However, eventually, he said, “We should… go, check with Ingrid--the Snow Queen--see if she’s busy.”

“Oh, can we do that?” Serendipity asked, clasping her hands together.

“Yes, let’s just go. What’s the worst that can happen? She can turn us out, I suppose.”

“All right, then!” Serendipity giggled. “Let me go grab the cape you brought me, and I shall be ready straightaway!”

As she stood, she noticed something over his shoulder. “Oh,” she said as he followed her to the door. “Perhaps you can ask her for another snow poinsettia when you arrive,” she said, one hand on the door.

“What’s that?” he asked, glancing back at the counter where the flower stood.

“It seems the one she gave you has died,” Serendipity explained.

As she bounded out the door and up the stairs, Corey crossed back over to the potted flower. Sure enough, the leaves that were vibrant and green just yesterday were now brown and twisted, the once beautiful flowers a sickening yellow.  Shaking his head, he exited the room and went to put on his coat.