Celestial Land and Sea

by Amy McLean

  CELESTIAL LAND AND SEA

  AMY McLEAN

  Open Books

  Published by Open Books

  Copyright © 2015 by Amy McLean

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover image "The Ship" Copyright ©Mariusz

  Learn more about the artist at http://akpelan.deviantart.com/

  For Lynda and Robin

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Author's Note

  1

  The earth crunched beneath the wheels as the carriage made its way through the iron gates. They'd returned later than intended, a delay caused by an unexpected downpour, but with no other engagements that evening she didn't consider it to be of any great concern. Perhaps, if she allowed herself to think about it, it might have actually been a blessing; the days were growing longer now, her mind becoming wearier as time seemed to crawl by.

  The coachman pulled open the door to allow Elizabeth to step out. He'd steered the carriage as closely to the entrance as possible to save Her Majesty from the torrential weather, but no precaution could have prevented Elizabeth's hair from becoming soaked as she rushed inside the palace. Her outer garments were tended to as she shook the water from her face. She had to admit it felt good to be home after a tiring day.

  "I wish to sup alone this evening."

  "Yes, Your Majesty," came the reply before she retired to her bedchambers. Not that she ever believed she was truly on her own.

  It's beautiful, isn't it? she thought to herself once she had arrived upstairs. She was watching the rain as it continued to wash down the sides of the building. It pelted the surface of the river, splashing into tiny whirlpools. The shower was coming down fast and hard, and it didn't offer any indication that it was going to stop any time soon.

  "I suppose the city was in need of a good cleansing anyway," she mumbled as she gazed out the window, standing just outside the door to her bedchambers. She fought to erase the images of the countless infected bodies they'd passed on their journey back to the palace. How many had there been? It would have been impossible for her to count them, but she was certain numbers were increasing.

  Not wishing to think about the disturbing conditions of London's streets any longer than she had to, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to the view in front of her. The long corridor that overlooked the Thames was dimly lit, now even darker as the heaviness of the clouds cast a shadow over the city. She stroked a tassel as she rested her head against the velvet curtain, her wig of fiery red hair now dried and loosely fixed on one side of her neck.

  Being alone, she allowed her attention to drift as she admired the flowerbeds below, watching them drink in the water that fell from the sky. She was overcome with a sense of peace as her eyes glanced across the river. There was a particularly soothing quality about the way it moved that she couldn't avoid admiring. It was possible she'd never experienced anything more tranquil than the gentle surface of the flowing river.

  "There is freedom in the water," she thought, as she considered its movements. Nobody told the river where it had to be, or what it had to do. It moved with the flow, and perhaps that was something a person could envy. Her people obeyed her—countless bodies bowing down at her every command through fear and worship—so why was it that she felt so restricted?

  Perhaps she needed to consider the possibility that she'd never really known life. She could have anything—everything – she wanted, ordered for her without notice, so why did she feel trapped within her own sovereignty?

  Her mind weary, she returned her focus to the outdoors as she watched her city absorb the refreshing downpour. She knew there was still some life in her, and while she was still standing nobody could take the beauty of nature from her. She was sure nothing could have disturbed her in that moment.

  "Your Majesty?"

  The voice had sounded from the end of the corridor. She quickly straightened herself, smoothing down the crease in her skirt. She tucked the loose strand of hair that hung around her face behind her ear and took a step away from the window.

  "Lord Burghley?" she addressed the person who had interrupted her. He was a tall man with a nest of greying hair upon his head. "You will be aware that it is quite late. Is there some sort of problem?"

  He scurried up the corridor until he was standing nearer to her. Elizabeth again straightened her posture, ensuring her dominance was asserted over him.

  "Your Majesty," he spoke as he bowed. He hesitated slightly, having been unprepared to find her standing in the corridor and not in her bedchambers. It had allowed him no time for composure. He neatened his burgundy coat, allowing him a mere second to regain his confidence. "I'm very sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but I am afraid that I must announce that there has been word from Ireland that there are plans for another revolt."

  Something told Elizabeth that she should have been shocked by this news, but she would be lying if she said it was not something she had expected.

  "And this has been confirmed?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty. The leader of this apparent revolt is said to be one Tibbott Bourke. I could not say how many men stand behind him, but I do not think we can afford to take risks. Of course, it is up to you what action is to be taken on this matter, Your Majesty," he added, fearing that he'd overstepped the mark in issuing his own opinion when it was not requested. He continued: "They say there is strength in his parentage. It is possible that he may have an expanding fleet."

  "I expect you are right, Lord Burghley. To ensure the safety of my empire, something must be done about this. I will see to it that this Irish brute you speak of is captured and brought to London. I trust you will be able to inform Lord Bingham and instruct him to take the required actions?"

  "Right away, Your Majesty." He bowed and started down the corridor.

  "And, Lord Burghley,"Elizabeth said, returning her attention to the window, "make sure the boy is brought back alive."

  2

  Grace clutched onto her handbag as she hurried down Regent Street. It was times like this that she was thankful she didn't really care for wearing heeled shoes, otherwise she would have been severely running the risk of falling flat on her face. It would simply be one more humiliation in her life that she was thankful she could avoid.

  She glanced at her watch: five minutes to nine. She knew she should have left earlier to catch the underground. It would be so much easier, she'd always thought, if the Northern line took her directly to Oxford Street. No matter how frequently she'd made the journey though, she always seemed to forget about having to change trains.

  A few minutes later, panting as she tried to catch her breath, she reached the main door to the office, a small entrance hidden between two fashion stores. She managed to smile at the receptionist before hurling herself up the stairs.

  "Why can't I just take the lift like a normal person?" she grumbled to herself as she puffed her way up another flight. Every day she vowed to get over her fear of lifts—not only would it be quicker, but it would make getting to work much less of a workout—but she never actually bothered to take any action. Perhaps one day she'd ev
entually do something about it.

  "Probably not though," she confirmed to herself as she finally reached the room. ANCHOR NEWS was written on a piece of A4 in marker pen and proudly stuck to the door with sticky tape to inform visitors of its location. Grace opened the door and slumped inside.

  Not surprisingly, she wasn't the first one there.

  James was busy grinning at something on his computer monitor. Grace didn't dare to ask what it was this time; he was always trying to get them to view some bizarre video clip or awkward picture on the Internet.

  "Morning, James."

  "Morning, Grace. Come and have a look at this!"

  "Do I even want to know what it is, James?" She dropped her handbag onto her desk.

  "Of course you do!" he smirked. "It's a dog wearing a Batman costume. It's wicked!"

  She decided not to look at the picture. James continued to grin to himself, his glasses perched on the top of his gelled hair. He was wearing a purple striped jumper this morning, paired with dark skinny jeans. If Grace had to give him credit for anything, it would be the fact that he always took pride in looking smart. Sometimes a little too much pride, but at least he always looked suitable for work. She hadn't expected this from the new boy. Though she did have to wonder, despite the fact that James had been working with the company for six months now, why he was still referred to as the new boy. Not that he showed any signs of minding the nickname.

  "You know, James," Andy said as he emerged from the coffee machine behind Grace's desk, stirring a cup of black, "you should probably consider pulling up a document or something before Mr Barrie arrives. You know he'll go spare if he catches you looking at anything fun online." He turned to Grace: 'Ah, Miss Byrne! Once again you've managed to beat the boss! You didn't happen to see him on your way up, did you?'

  'Thankfully not: he was probably right behind me though.'

  'Watching your every move?'

  'Oh, don't. You'll give me nightmares!'

  The office door flung open. A short, round man with a thick moustache walked in, clutching onto a paper bag with a chocolate doughnut inside it. A woman was trailing behind him, carrying a tray of take-away coffees, with a folder of paperwork wedged underneath her arm.

  "Good morning, Mr Barrie," Andy spoke to the arrival. He nodded to Fran, who continued to follow the boss to his private office at the back of the room. Once he was out of sight, Andy turned back to Grace and whispered, "Have you ever seen a scowl deeper on a man's forehead before? Something tells me he's not in the best of moods today."

  Which, roughly translated, meant that he should be avoided at all costs. Mr Barrie was the sort of boss that demanded respect but never actually earned it. He didn't really do good moods, and today he seemed even less likely to surprise them with a newfound cheery disposition.

  "Just what I need; I suppose it's my own fault for expecting any different," Grace joked before finally unbuttoning her coat and hanging it up on the back of her chair.

  "Well, we better set things up for this morning's meeting, or you know what will happen."

  "He'll chase us all around the building with a carving knife and hack us all into tiny pieces before eating us one by one?"

  Andy sniggered. "You have one peculiar imagination, Grace. Still, a part of me worries that you might just be right. Come on, James; time to drag yourself away from your doggy porn and start doing some actual work."

  "It's not dog porn, man! This is top quality schnauzer entertainment!" He pointed to the video clip he was now watching. He turned off the monitor and moved to help Andy assemble the tables and chairs.

  Grace placed a chair at the foot of the table, ready to endure the torture of the world's most irritable boss.

  "Right, what have you got for me then?" Mr Barrie grumbled once he had joined them.

  "Well, I'm still working on the article about the junior football teams you asked for..."

  "Thank you, Andy."

  James hiccoughed.

  "Fran, there are one or two things I'd like you to work on today, but I'll discuss those with you in my office later on." Neither Andy nor James, nor Grace looked up from the table; they all knew what this meant, and chose to ignore it. Fran simply nodded at the boss. "In the meantime, I'd like you to continue with the piece on winter footwear you've been doing."

  James hiccoughed again.

  "And James—"

  Hiccough.

  "—will you stop making that stupid noise?!"

  "Sorry, sir," he managed, before forcing another one back down his throat.

  "You'll continue investigating any breaking news stories, yes?"

  "Of course, Mr Barrie."

  "And Grace, just keep doing what you usually do. Right! So if everybody knows what they've been assigned, best get on with it then." Mr Barrie hauled his weight out of the tiny chair. The meeting had been exactly the same as it always was. He'd checked to see that everybody knew what he was supposed to be doing, handed out a few instructions, and then told them to go back to their desks. Nobody really knew why they needed to shift the furniture each morning for the sake of a couple of minutes of unneeded instruction, but they were pretty sure it had something to do with Mr Barrie's need for domination. There was nothing they could do about it except rearrange the tables and chairs then shuffle back to their desks to begin yet another day that promised to be identical to the last.

  The computer groaned at Grace, once again rebelling against her request. She'd never known a machine to be so averse to sending emails. If only Mr Barrie would update the systems in the office, then perhaps she'd be able to perform her work more efficiently. Finally, the computer informed her that the email had been sent.

  She glanced around the office. Everybody seemed hard at work as they typed away, not appearing to be affected by the heavy air that engulfed the room and smothered Grace's good cheer. The clock that hung above the water cooler crawled its way toward the final hour of the work day, and Grace could think of nothing as satisfying as the thought that it was almost time to go home.

  The rest of the Anchor team seemed to be of a similar opinion as they rushed to finish their tasks for the day so they could do whatever it was they particularly enjoyed doing outside of work. Grace didn't have any particular plans for the evening, the calendar sitting on her desk informing her that November was as depressingly empty as October had been for her, but anything was better than being stuck inside prison walls. The room was dense with monotony.

  She was twiddling her thumbs when Andy walked past, carrying an empty mug in the direction of the kettle in the corner of the room. "Powering through this last article, then I'm off!" he said as he stopped next to her. Andy had already been working for the web site when Grace had joined the team three years ago. In charge of Anchor's sports section, he spent most of his time on location, interviewing young champions or covering the unveiling of new sports centres and academies across London. He enjoyed his job, he would never deny that, but Andy had always hoped he would have moved on from the company to higher positions elsewhere by this stage in his life. He had been in the same role for the same web site for over a decade, having landed his first proper job there once he had graduated from university. By some miracle the bleak office hadn't dampened his ambitions though; he still dreamed of breaking free and climbing higher up the career ladder someday. There were only a certain number of school sports days he could cover before beginning to rethink his entire existence, and that was enough to keep his dream ignited.

  "Anything exciting been happening today?" Grace wasn't really into sports, but she always enjoyed talking to Andy regardless of what they were discussing.

  "Not particularly. I spent the morning watching a junior cricket match. There were actually some really talented youngsters playing today. I bet they could go far if they chose to. I can only imagine how good they'll be when they hit secondary school. I'm just about finished writing the article." He looked at the mug he was carrying. "One last top-up to help me pow
er through... The sooner we finish the better, eh?"

  They exchanged smiles before Andy continued to the kettle. Once he was out of sight Grace allowed her eyes to glance over the rest of the room before they landed on James. As the newest Anchor employee, sitting in front of Andy's desk, he had joined the team six months ago as a Journalism graduate. Barely into his twenties, he still reeked of optimism. Grace was sure working at Anchor would soon suck that zest for life out of him. It was only a matter of time.

  Still, she couldn't envy him too much. James was rarely given the chance to parade himself around in public; he was required to spend most of his time stuck in the office. He was responsible for covering all the latest news stories, and always without leaving his desk. He seemed to enjoy working there though. It was all new and exciting to him, his first proper job in the real world, and it did mean he was able to spend a lot of time talking on the phone. He certainly wasn't shy of making a sly personal phone call or two at work either. He had become expert at changing his boyish giggles into a stern offer manner whenever the boss walked into the office. Although he'd frequently come close to it, he'd yet to be caught in the act.

  With nothing else to do for the rest of the afternoon, Grace turned away from James and stretched her attention to the far end of the office. Seated at the desk furthest away from Grace was Fran Taylor. Fran was occupying herself by twisting a bottle of clear nail varnish around in one hand, and twirling a strand of her hair with a finger on the other. She had tousled her red hair—dyed, of course—onto the top of her head, leaving a few strands hanging loose by her face to shape her cheekbones. She always wore her hair up, Grace noticed. Why wouldn't she when it made it easier to leave her chest exposed for the world to see? Fran was quite short in height, but curved and relatively busty. Grace couldn't avoid noting that Fran's blouse was stretched across her chest, the maroon silk fabric pulling at the top button, threatening to pop off at any moment. Grace was sure she'd end up taking a button to the eye one of these days, especially with the way Fran spent more time than necessary leaning over desks and forcing her breasts forward. She always liked to keep her legs on display too, dressing them in a pair of flimsy tights and pairing them with nude shoes in an attempt to lengthen their appearance. On more occasions than she could count, Grace had caught Mr Barrie staring at Fran's shapely legs as they stretched out from under her tiny skirts.