The Historian’s Novel

A duet of laughter chased the wooden wheel rolling down the idle main street. Laughing while playing, with sticks in their hands, two children sung to the tune of their mutt which followed their heels; barking in the enjoyment only a dog who played with children could muster.

“Born from a dragon!” the older boy shouted, striking the wheel to keep it from falling.

   “A princess raised in a cage!” the other said with excitement, tagging in on his turn.

   “A garden flower is all that’ll be left of Havoc the Brave!” they cackled, when their mutt jumped through the hoop, and its hind legs knocked the wheel to the ground.

   Amelia Strightsworth, who had been waiting for the book shop to open, considered whether there would be any worth in chasing after the runts to deliver a few whaps to their rears.

But she couldn’t do that. In every sense of the word. Certainly not while disguised, and most definitely not when the fading verses that trailed behind the trio were meant to make fun of herself.

   At least with their departure, she wouldn’t be forced to endure any more off-pitch singing. Had a bard gotten lost and arrived in town recently? Or was this an example of how mean-spirited children could be. Their song didn’t even make sense. Her father, Havoc Strightsworth, the Baron who owned the land which they stood on was no dragon. At best he could only impersonate one.

   And her choice to keep to herself shouldn’t translate to being compared with a greenhouse raised flower. The fact she intended to relax in her mother’s garden once she had bought a new book… That was coincidence. Nothing more. Still, it did sour her mood. Which, coupled with a jaw that had been hurting all morning, certainly didn’t make for a good start to the day.

   “Too much candy,” their family’s doctor had claimed.

   “The quack didn’t even check,” Amelia grumbled, rubbing her jaw to try alleviating the pain. It didn’t make sense for it to hurt because of sweets, since the acute sensation began well before the pouring of a healthy portion of syrup atop her daily pancake mountain breakfast.

   Seeing the shop-keep approach the bookstore’s entrance through the door’s window, Amelia readjusted her shawl; making sure no stray strands from her dark auburn hair could tell tales. She was only too familiar with the talking-to Heimdall, her father’s aid, would give her should he discover the daughter of his master had snuck out without having arranged for an escort.

   “The people believe you have the blood of a dragon,” he would gripe, shaking his head like how Amelia imagined a disappointed father might do, “it’s too risky to go out on your own. At the very least, take a maid with you to help carry your things.”

   Amelia hmphed at the thought. Blood of a dragon? As if. Her mother had spoiled that myth when Amelia had been but a child. The truth being it was a story invented by the capital’s nobility to alleviate the disgrace they had felt when a youth from a far-away place earned himself a hereditary title through his merits in war.

    “Morning,” the bookstore’s owner greeted politely, as he flipped his store’s sign.

   “To you as well,” Amelia replied, slipping past to begin excitedly browsing. With her finger tracing the shelved books on their spine, occasionally pulling one free to read a few pages, she could already feel her mood beginning to improve. That is, until another customer entered the store, carrying with him several books that he brought to the shop-keeper’s son who managed the front desk.

   Amelia frowned, having hoped for a few more minutes alone. Not wanting to run the risk of idle conversation, she decided to grab a book at random, causing her sleeves to slip down.

   Revealing to anyone who looked how thin her wrists were.

   Blood of the dragon. She wished. More like, no talent for magic or anything else. Even her hair was a shadow of the Baron’s flaming red mane. Really, all she had to prove his blood flowed in her veins were her front canine teeth, which on close inspection looked a tad sharper than average. They weren’t much of a boon. While her mountain of a father who could tear through bone, let alone meat with his fangs, her jaw would start hurting after chewing through anything cooked longer than medium-rare.

   Holding the book to her chest with both arms, Amelia walked to the front desk, side-stepping the other patron who tried brushing against her in passing.

   “I’ll take this one,” she mumbled, waiting for the shop-keeper’s son to write down her purchase.

   “I say, you’re around here a lot,” the chipper youth said, taking out a brown paper bag to stuff the book in, “how is it that you can read so much faster than I can? What’s the secret?”

   “Practice,” Amelia answered, deciding to lie instead of revealing it was not her reading speed that was quick, but the amount of free time she had which made her weekly visits a thing.

   “Dang, that’s boring. I’d hoped there might be a trick to it. Pa only let’s me read when I’m done working. But by then the sun’s almost gone down so I’ve never got enough time.”

   Uttering a half-hearted agreement, Amelia let the boy ramble about the hardships of life. All while secretly wondering how he could find enjoyment in repeating the same conversation each time that they met.

   Or maybe the shop-keeper’s son really was prone to forgetting. Seeing how he reached behind the counter to bring out a second brown paper wrapped package.

   “I don’t remember having ordered anything recent,” Amelia said, when the boy added the package to her purchase without jotting it down.

 “You buy as many books as the rest of the town combined,” he said, handing the bag over, “Pa says he appreciates it. Told me to bribe you with one of the new books we received to pay you back some.”

Amelia smiled at that, “do you know what genre it is?”

“Not in the slightest. He handed it to me already wrapped.”

A mysterious gift? Amelia’s lips curved up a bit wider. Despite not lacking in money to the extent she could probably buy the whole shop with her monthly allowance, the unexpected present left Amelia with a warm bubbly feeling that followed her all the way home.

So joyous were Amelia’s spirits, it took until she sat down to realise her toothache had at some point melted away. This called for a celebration, and soon a maid had delivered a strawberry smoothy with a layer of ground sugar and whipping cream to top it all off.

Yet only twenty-four hours later, her jubilant mood would have re-found its replacement.

It was a wondrous story. Toeing the line between imagination and fact. Written by a person who referred to themselves as ‘The Historian’. For as the author put it, if one’s work became one’s life, then the only logical thing to do would be to start calling yourself by your job’s title.

At first, Amelia assumed the book had been inspired by the Kingdom she lived in. Since it was named: ‘A Fantastical History of the Velvetican Kingdom.’ Being an avid reader of historical books, the author’s idea to mix fantasy with reality pleased her. Amelia soon found herself immersed in the story.

Written in the third person. It focused on the tale of a princess, who at birth, had been stolen away by a midwife on the orders of an opportunistic Marquess who wanted a way by which to blackmail the king. A disagreement between them over an unnamed policy having given rise to a vengeful need for retribution.

Amelia gritted her teeth upon reading how the Marquess arranged for the first drink the Queen took after having given birth to be poisoned.

A great many doctors had in the past confirmed that for Amelia to hold a life in herself, would be akin to suicide. To imagine beating the odds to conceive, only for her child to be stolen while she herself remained paralyzed… It made her want to shout every bad word she knew at the author.

But she couldn’t do that. Her mother, Ophelia Strightsworth, had taught her to be proper. So instead, Amelia called for a maid to brew a pot of tea which she used to calm down.

Luckily, the midwife still had a heart. After having stashed a photo of the Queen in a simple locket with little chance of being stolen for its worth, she rebelled against the Marquess of Rutherford by sending the princess away with her husband who searched for an orphanage outside of the capital city.

   Never once letting the husband know who the baby belonged to, or how her actions would result in their parting-kiss becoming a farewell.

   Many years passed, and the princess grew into a young woman whose description caused Amelia to wonder whether The Historian might secretly be a pervert.  Eventually, a travelling merchant would find it suspicious a small border village could produce a drink of such quality that rumors began about how it must have been made using magic.

   With the Kingdom’s nobility having an iron fisted monopoly on who got to learn magic, (Unless you were lucky enough to be born into a god-gifted bloodline) the merchant pulled a few strings to have the princess’s identity secretly confirmed by a court wizard.

   Thusly, the Kingdom rejoiced. And the name of the lost yet found Princess Grace spread across all the lands.

   Princess Grace would go on to live a lavish life filled with scheming, nobles, fantasy, and a quartet of suitors who sparked enough romance Amelia found herself drinking more tea than normal to try and cool down.

   How exciting. Amelia had never dared choose from the bookstore’s rose-tinted section, where those daring authors who hid behind pseudonyms wrote of a world only adults should know of.

  Checking behind her to make sure the standing maids were far enough off they couldn’t possibly tell what sort of book she was reading, Amelia re-immersed herself in the handsome, beautiful characters who the princess would play with.

  There was the seductive mob boss; Vanridge Dowsinger, a fallen noble whose control over the underground world would grow to such an extend he could be considered a king in his own right. A king that decided there was only one jewel in existence worthy of coronating his achievements.

  Also, an earnest bespectacled alchemist by the name of Richter who worked for the Marquess of Rutherford. A man obsessed with the princess whose lineage was revered as being linked directly to God.

  As well as a dashing, devoted gladiator-slave called Stanton, whose talent with the blade would have him earn his citizenship upon saving the princess from a wild tiger that freed itself during a colosseum event.

  Amelia liked Stanton the most, since he had volunteered himself as the princess’s duelist, when Grace found herself goaded into defending her honor against the Marquess’s son, Gregory Rutherford. Whose over-inflated ego couldn’t handle the notion that a woman might reject him.

  Of course, she couldn’t forget the mysterious mass murderer; Martel Managing, who hailed from a disgraced military ménage. A rather resentful man known for having a mystical power that rendered lying impossible in his presence. He would achieve infamy during his quest for revenge against those responsible for ruining his family. Until that is, he encountered the princess who showed him a path that led not to vengeance but something decidedly pinker.

   There was even foreshadowing the foreign prince who would visit as an ambassador might soon get involved. Which Amelia couldn’t possibly see working out, since the prince, on behalf of his brother the king, held secret dealings with the Marquess, with the express purpose of ruining the Velvetican Kingdom.

   Such were the men who attempted to woo a princess whose habit of feeding each suitor small morsels to maintain interest, made Amelia eager to know who Grace would pick in the end. And how she could possibly handle the fallout.

   Except, ‘A Fantastical History of the Velvetican Kingdom’ turned weird after a point. The genre taking a sudden right turn from an embellished historical romance to plunge straight into horror. It was as if two separate stories had been stapled together. Even the third person perspective ended up switching to the first person. As if The Historian had given up on being impartial and had instead begun hiding in their character’s shadows.

   Like a stalker who had grown tired of viewing their prey from afar.

   The twist entranced Amelia’s want to keep reading. She continued well into the night. Moving from the greenhouse seat to her boudoir where the soft glow of candlelight allowed her to press on after sunset. There she got comfortable for the tragedy which struck the story’s main cast, who developed into obsessed men lusting after a beauty. Becoming each a crazed madman, willing and wanting to do everything they could for the chance at the princess’s hand.

   None saw the conspiracy that brewed outside the main plot. From the West they came, a count of barbarians who laid siege to the border whose guardian dragon had mysteriously vanished. And while the Kingdom mounted a defense in response, it soon found itself faced with more than it could handle when the Marquess of Rutherford sold detailed information on when best to attack by sea to the foreign prince. Who unleashed a great and terrible warrior bearing the blessings of a god, known only as ‘The Leviathan’, onto the Velvetican people.

   Thus did the Kingdom find itself plunged into fire. A once prosperous land pillaged and raped for its value on all sides as if they had crawled out from the very earth itself.

   Amelia found this development to be rather appalling. But if the story had concluded there, she might have been spared to feel mere dissatisfaction. With her frustrated mutterings growing only louder the longer she read, it didn’t take long for the maids who served the Strightsworth household to suspect something bad might have occurred to their miss.

   So it was that when the candlelight leaking out from under the doorframe of Amelia’s boudoir persisted until the wee hours of morning, did the maids gather to enter the room, to find it had become littered with papers bearing messily, paranoid notes. Each ripped or crumpled as if failures.

   The maid who gathered a few up as the others searched for their miss let out a scream when Amelia leapt up from behind a couch to snatch them away.

   “Don’t touch those!” Amelia yelled, with eyes that had gotten extremely bloodshot.

   “Miss,” the worried maid said, while the others crowded around Amelia to examine the state of a young woman who had not slept a wink, “is there something wrong? Were you not able to sleep? Should we call for a doctor?”

   “I’m fine,” Amelia snapped, hurriedly gathering up from the floor more of the papers before anyone could read them.

   The older women made no reaction to show Amelia’s curt attitude bothered them. Rather, the head-maid took the initiative to pull out a thermometer. Upon seeing it. Amelia obediently opened her mouth out of habit and kept the medical instrument on her tongue for five minutes while she continued to clean.

   Seeing the temperature readings appeared normal, the head- maid gave Amelia a sad look while ushering the others out. “Don’t fret,” she said, “no matter what sickness you’ve caught this time, I’m sure you’ll pull through.”

    Amelia couldn’t bear to stay upset. Not with the women who had taken care of her weak self growing up.  “Fine, call a doctor,” she begrudgingly said, enduring the reassuring look the head-maid gave her before hurrying out to do just that. 

   Not wanting anyone else to see the room in a mess, Amelia picked up the rest of her painstakingly written notes and began piling them onto her desk where she began writing more. Only to become distracted by a set of footsteps; loud and heavy enough to reverberate through her chair, coming from outside in the hallway. Followed soon by a second pair whose faster pace gave the impression they were trying to keep up.

   Amelia wanted to snap the pen in frustration. She had half a thought to begin shouting for quiet. That is, until her tired mind recognized the man who began talking.

   It belonged to Heimdall. Her father’s very own personal shadow.

   And he sounded desperate.    

   “My Lord! We cannot continue to patrol without you being there with us!” Heimdall pled, as Amelia crawled to the door to peep through its ajar crack. “Your people have begun to remember you more from the songs sung in taverns than their own memories!”

   The fragmented breaking of a glass bottle smashing itself to smithereens caused Amelia to jump back from the door, before she could regain enough bravery to listen in as her father; the man who Heimdall chased after, shouted back with all the slurred strain of a hopeless alcoholic.

   “Name one person brave enough to covet what I’ve declared to be mine!” Havoc bellowed, and Amelia’s heart refused to match his current tone to the one she so fondly remembered.

   “I’m only asking for you to ride with us in two days,” Heimdall begged, trying to slow Havoc’s march by grabbing the man by his torso; only to start being dragged.

   “Give me a reason why you can’t do it yourself!”

   “I have! Countless times already, you just don’t think they’re good enough!”

   Heimdall’s words were enough for Amelia to act. Placing both hands on the door, she made to fearlessly go out to make a request, only to see the wine which splattered the floor and have her bravado leak out like a balloon that had been poked with a needle.

   “Excuse me?” she said, struggling to raise her words any louder than a whisper.

   Havoc, who had been trying to detach Heimdall, stopped moving. His head turning to look where only the edge of a night gown could be seen poking round a door’s edge.

   “Amelia? Is that you?” Heimdall asked, guessing the identity of the young woman who hid, “shouldn’t you be lying down right now? We heard you were feeling sick.”

   Amelia swallowed her grievance that the maids had already begun spreading gossip across the four corners of the Kingdom.

   “Yes — I mean, no,” she said, finding it hard to put her exhausted thoughts into words, “I mean… What I wanted to say was, that patrol you mentioned, can I join you?”

   “Amelia’s sick?” Havoc echoed; his words addled by wine. His expression twisting into a grimace of annoyance.

   Amelia guessed he probably thought her a coward to hide while she talked. She almost hoped her father might reprimand her for a change. It would certainly beat the silent anger between them that never made itself known.

   Better to finally get his resentment against her out in the open than continue living atop a mountain of needles. Still, she shrunk back. In the end, preferring the status quo rather than test what might be. Grateful that Heimdall would decide at that moment to shove an accusing finger against the Baron’s broad chest.

   “You were there when the head-maid told us!” he yelled.

   “Was I?” Havoc asked.

   Amelia hurriedly moved to interject out of turn when she saw Heimdall’s hand bunch up into a fist.

   “I’m perfectly fine!” Amelia said loudly, not wanting to see the two get into a fight, “Now please, can I join you?”

   Heimdall’s expression turned as lost as Havoc’s, who Amelia mustered enough courage to peek round her door to look at for all of one second. Enough time to find the Baron’s glazed eyes staring right back into her own. Havoc’s lips opened as if wanting to speak on behalf of their owner. But in the end, he said nothing, so Heimdall stepped up.

   “I wouldn’t dare bring her without you,” he said to the Baron.

   “Then we’ll go together,” Havoc said, before trudging away. No doubt in search of more drink that would soon make him forget their conversation had ever occurred.

   Knowing Heimdall would remember even if her father would not, Amelia offered a quick apology for being a disturbance, then slunk back into her boudoir. Where she began tossing every note she had written down and committed to memory, into the fireplace she lit with a match.

   Next came The Historian’s novel, which she held above the growing fire that begged for more food. Her hands shaking, Amelia opened the book to its last chapter, which held inside it the discovery that had started her tiring spiral into self-doubt. Clipped to a page, Amelia removed the aged painting which depicted their Kingdom’s late queen, safely stowed it away, then furiously began ripping page after page of the book until only a couple had yet to be burnt. She clenched those final two pages upon which were written the scrawled notes of another. Of The Historian, who wondered how the dragon who had guarded their Kingdom’s Western border could have possibly disappeared.

   ‘He would have never allowed this,’ ‘Could the Marquess of Rutherford be the cause?’ ‘Where has he gone?’ ‘Is he dead?’ ‘What manner of devil must they have found, to allow them to slay such a being?’

   Such were the questions Amelia once thought nothing much of. Dragons in fiction were not a rare sight, and she had presumed it to be an actual creature, until The Historian had named the fictional guardian beast.

   As Havoc Strightsworth. Her father.

   But even that could be written away as a distasteful joke. Were it not for an off-handed remark found in an earlier chapter, wherein the Marquess’s son announced his engagement with an unnamed woman, whose father happened to be the dragon which had protected the Kingdom’s Western border until his disappearance. 

   How kind of him. How nice. To rescue the daughter of a beast before the savages could sink their claws in her. If only that very same engagement letter did not already lie on Amelia’s desk. It’s validity indisputably proven by the Marquess’s family crest that adorned it in wax.

   The Historian had not written a story. They had lived the future that would soon come to pass.

   Happenstance? Not when Amelia had found that the devil lay not only in the letter, but The Historian’s novel as well. The people, each location, everything matched with the historical records her family kept. It was a fact the novel contained information on the Velvetican Kingdom only her family or the royals would bother to gather. Which meant that either ‘A Fantastical History of the Velvetican Kingdom’ had somehow made its way back in time, or, and she feared this possibility far more, The Historian had travelled into the past for a delivery, in the hope Amelia might be able to change the future.

   She didn’t quite like that prospect as much, since it indicated there might be a reason why Amelia had received the novel, instead of her father. And it wasn’t as if she could tell anyone about it, since the only indisputable evidence The Historian’s novel was real, happened to be the engagement letter she had received before obtaining the book.

   A letter she hadn’t told anyone about. Meaning she didn’t have any proof the book hadn’t been made after the letter. They would think her stark raving mad if she tried telling the world of what she had found!

   Tossing the first of the two remaining pages into the fire, along with Gregory Rutherford’s engagement proposal, Amelia found herself laden with a responsibility that felt far too heavy to bear. All she ended up keeping of The Historian’s novel, was that very last page: A hand-written note from the author who had presumably, in their final moments, lost all sight of themselves.

   ‘Where has she gone?’ it read, ‘is there any worth to be found in carrying on? They’re all burning now. From the smoke rise the screams. Alone did I find her, as beautiful as ever but far too cold for me to dare touch… I wonder… Is there any meaning in clinging to life if I cannot stay by her side? Is there a cost I wouldn’t pay to reverse what has happened?’

   It would seem The Historian had been among the many men who desired a rose they could only ever hope to admire. How heart wrenching. To know that along with the princess who Amelia had begun to respect, would have also gone her own father. It made her want to answer The Historian’s plea with a firm ‘Yes, I’ll do it!’.

   Though there remained a sliver of doubt. A tiny, almost imperceptible voice that clung to the notion this might all be a horrible, terrible prank created by Gregory Rutherford.

   But that voice would be squashed should she manage to find the princess while patrolling alongside her father. Since Grace’s orphanage could be found among one of the towns they would pass. If that could be done, then the rest of Amelia’s hastily made plans to save the Kingdom might be possible too.

A childish thought really. Having kept to herself for so long, forever believing that no matter how far her father descended into his drink he would always remain an immovable, invincible figure who would decide her life for her, the idea she might have to step up and play the role of a hero terrified Amelia.

Ringing the servant bell on her desk, Amelia waited.

   “You called miss?” greeted the maid who appeared, “is there something I can help — oh my word! Are you sick enough you need a fire for warmth?! Please lie down. I’ve heard that the doctor will arrive very soon!”

   “Thank you. But I sent for you because I’m in need of a handsaw,” Amelia said, deciding that being seen as temporarily crazy would be worth it for now.

   “Well?” she asked, when the maid didn’t move, “it doesn’t have to be industrial sized, just get me something that can cut through metal.”

    “Of course, I’ll get right on it. Will… Will that be all?”

No, it most certainly wouldn’t. The handsaw was but a piece of Amelia’s cobbled together plan that needed a hundred things to go right for it to ever work out.

“And prepare some tea meant to cure hang-overs for my father for when he wakes up,” Amelia said, turning away to let the maid know to get started.

Alone once again, Amelia grabbed at her scalp. Running eight fingers and two thumbs through her long hair as she resisted the urge to pull in frustration. But she knew she had no time to lament her own woes. So, after retrieving her personal bottle of sleeping pills, she took twice the recommended amount.

Enough to wake up well rested come late in the evening.

   “Mom, I need your help” she whispered, just barely managing to prepare herself for a nap before the medicine began taking effect; bringing with it a haze Amelia swore caused the painting of the Baroness that hung on the wall opposite her bed’s base to smile down at her.

   “So please… Can you watch over me a bit longer?”