“A woman? What kind of woman?”
A man’s voice. Like a rumble of thunder—yet precise as a scalpel.
“A young woman, sir,” came Mrs. Butterfield’s hushed answer. “I should say perhaps twenty-three.”
“Who is she?” that deep, penetrating voice again. A winter wind of a voice.
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Didn’t or couldn’t?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, what does she look like?” he pressed.
“Medium height; she’s wearing a red dress that’s in rather poor condition, a long black coat that was probably her mother’s, and a blue straw hat,” Mrs. Butterfield told him. “She’s got a pretty face, black eyes. Although I must say she looks a deal too pale, and a bit on the thin side. Very black hair, too. Only one piece of small luggage.”
“You don’t know her?”
“Never seen her before in my life, sir,” she said.
The man let out a labored sigh.
“Very well, then, show her in. I’ve had about enough of Milton for this half of my lifetime, anyhow.”
The door suddenly swung open. She jumped back as Mrs. Butterfield stuck her head around and smiled at her.
“Do come in.”
She nodded, trying not to shiver, and stepped past Mrs. Butterfield.
“May I present Mr. Basil Collingwood,” Mrs. Butterfield announced. Then, the housekeeper curtsied, and bustled off through a doorway to the left, leaving Her alone.
The dusty scent of books filled Her nose and throat. Frowning, she cast a glance through the well-lit, backward-L-shaped room. Off to her far right and nearly behind her, three armchairs crowded with pillows cornered a low, knick-knack-laden fireplace and mantel, forming a small, cluttered parlor; ahead of her and to the right stood a chestnut-colored piano buried beneath stacks of books and papers. Beyond that waited a desk laden with a shiny typewriter, glowing lamp, more books, several pens, a few portraits, and a pile of blank paper. All the walls round about were composed of shelves, crammed floor to ceiling with all sizes of books. Everything was lit by a chandelier that hung over the desk, as well as lamps on iron sconces that clung to the corners of the bookshelves.
Directly in front of her, a red-carpeted staircase marched straight up and away, then abruptly turned to the right and vanished into the next story. The wall this created before her also cradled a wide, thick bookshelf…
Her fingers slackened on her baggage, and she stared.
A young man sat on top of this bookshelf.
He leaned back against a thick pillar, and stretched his long legs out across the top of the shelf. He wore only coal-colored trousers, stockings, a shirt and grey waistcoat—no coat or shoes or tie. He held a cumbersome old book up in front of him, a set of brass, round-rimmed reading glasses resting on the end of his nose. Right beside his left shoulder, a lamp protruded from the pillar, illuminating the pages, as well as his angular, white, striking face, and short, curly dark hair. He turned his head. Light flashed from his lenses.
He frowned directly down at Her, over the top of his spectacles. A terrible, dark, stormy brow—eyes grey as frost caught in the morning sun.
“So you won’t tell Mrs. Butterfield your name,” he stated—his bass tones vibrated through Her marrow. “But you understand English and you’re not deaf.”
She nodded, clenching her jaw, feeling all her muscles go cold.
“Is your identity some sort of secret?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to guess?”
She clutched her bag handle so tightly she feared it might break.
He rolled his eyes, slapped his book shut and swung his legs over the side. He tossed the book down on top of the shelf—it landed with a tremendous thud. He pulled off his spectacles and set them on the book, then easily hopped down to the floor. The floorboards squeaked uproariously.
She sucked in her breath, her ribs contracting and her brow twisting as she fought not to turn and run. Even without his shoes, he was a good foot taller than she—lean, yet carelessly graceful. He stuck his hands in his trousers pockets, kicked his head back and strode up to her, eyeing her down his nose.
“So what is it, then?” he asked flatly. “Lisp? Stuttering? Aphemia?”
She frowned up at him, blinking rapidly. He sighed again.
“Come, don’t be shy. I’ve heard every wretched utterance a human mouth can possibly spit out—no mumbling or sputtering that comes from yours has a chance of surprising me.”
She stood frozen, fighting to breathe, to keep her head from spinning…
He frowned harder at her, his grey eyes flashing with lightning—cutting down into her heart.
“Are you entirely mute, then?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her cheeks flushing.
“Ah. All right.” He turned crisply, snatched up a piece of paper, a book and a pencil from off the piano, and swooped back toward her.
She flinched back.
“What—What on earth?” he scoffed, instantly stopping and wrinkling his nose at her. “Calm down. I’m not in the habit of attacking people with writing utensils.” He arranged the paper on top of the thin book, then held all three things out to her. “Tell me what you want.”
She stared at the paper, wide-eyed, her heartbeat accelerating.
“Come, come.” He shook the book and paper. “I have dinner at my club tonight and I still have to dress for it.”
Slowly, She set her bag down on the floor, stood up again, reached out and gingerly took the book and paper from him. She clutched them tight in both hands.
“Here,” he pushed the pencil at her.
She jerked back.
Mr. Collingwood sighed for the third time and put his free hand on his waist. He raised his eyebrows at her.
“In case you’ve forgotten, this instrument is what you use to write.”
Her fingers trembled. She pried her left hand loose of the book and paper, and took the pencil from him. Biting her lip, she pressed the tip to the paper.
And stopped.
Stared helplessly at that blank space. Her vision swam. The book and pencil trembled.
She lifted her head and met his eyes. Her brow twisted, her lips parted once more...
“Well, good lord!” Collingwood laughed incredulously. “You are mute and entirely illiterate?” He flung his hands out and gestured violently to her. “What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do with you?”
She stared at him, her blood suddenly boiling. Her eyes stung.
“Were you sent here by someone?” he wanted to know. “What sort of idiot sends an illiterate mute to a language expert? Do you have references he gave you? Is that what this is?” He took a quick step toward her and reached—
She threw the book, paper and pencil down. They slammed onto the floor.
She spun on her heel, flung the first door open, charged loudly down the short hallway, burst out the front door and darted into the night, cold tears running down her face.
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OTHER BOOKS BY ALYDIA RACKHAM
The Beowulf Seeker
The Riddle Walker
The Last Constantin
The Campbell River
The Paradox Initiative
Lady Rackham
Christmas Parcel: Sequel to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol
The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Torn Page
The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Scarlet Gown
The Mute of Pendywick Place and the River Thames
The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Irish Gamble
The Mute of Pendywick Place and the Ghost of Robin Hood’s Bay
Christmas at Pendywick Place
Dear David: The Private Diary of Basil Atticus Collingwood
Scales: A Fresh Telling of Beauty and the
Beast
Glass: Retelling the Snow Queen
TIDE: Retelling the Little Mermaid
Bauldr’s Tears: A Retelling of Loki’s Fate
Alydia Rackham’s Fairytales
Amatus
Galatea: A Novella of Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins
Linnet and the Prince
The Web of Tenebrae
The Rooks of Misselthwaite Book I
The Oxford Street Detectives
The Last Scene
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Camelot stifles under the tyrannical thumb of Mordred, and the entire land has been swallowed in shadow. Now, a ragtag band of knights and peasants must attempt to seize the castle and retake the sword of the true king, led only by an obscure young man who pulled a sword out of a stone, and a wizard who has been sleeping in the depths of the earth for three hundred years.
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About the Author
Alydia Rackham graduated from McPherson College with a bachelor's degree in English. She has published 75 fanfiction stories and 27 original novels.
In addition, she is a singer (winning superior ratings at state competitions in both high school and college), an artist, an avid traveler, and has performed in 21 theatrical productions, 6 short films and one feature-length film to date (winning a Jester Award in high school for the role of Mrs. Higgins in My Fair Lady, and a gala award for Best Female Performer in a Musical for her role as Mary Poppins in Salina Community Theatre's Production of Mary Poppins.)
She wrote the screenplay for the feature-film Inkfinger, which was featured in four film festivals, including the Hollywood Dreamz International Film Festival and Writers Celebration in Las Vegas, Nevada, where it was nominated for Best Cinematography. It also won the Award of Merit at the IndieFest Film Awards in La Jolla, California.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Rooks of Misselthwaite- in the Forgotten Garden Page 7