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Authors: Mercedes Lackey
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lecturers ascribed the phenomenon to drinking too much, although
they never had an explanation for why it also happened to teetotalers.
He shook himself out of his dark thoughts as a trio of drunk sailors lurched past
in the street, singing.
Disaster averted,
he told himself, and felt relief. Suzie would take care of the girl, get her settled
in safe lodgings, see to what she needed. Reliable little Suzie! If only she’d been
a mage . . .
Well, she wasn’t, but with her good heart she was a treasure he would sorely miss,
the more so since she’d been with him longer than any other assistant that
was
a mage.
He and Jack turned down a little lane connecting two larger streets. Both sides of
the lane were lined with two-story dwellings, wedged-in and dwarfed by the three-
and four-story townhouses of the two streets themselves. Those towering townhouses
were owned by very well-to-do families of what might be called the “upper” middle
class who could afford a second home for summer, and didn’t care for either the country
or conventional watering spots like Bath. This was where the wife and kiddies came
for the summer, both for a bit of fun and to avoid the perilous climes of London,
and where the good, hardworking husband came for his holiday. All except for this
lane, whose occupants, with the exception of Lionel, were white-haired and elderly.
This lane was where his house was—outright bought and owned, like the townhouses,
rather than rented. There were only half a dozen of these little places, three to
each side of the street, and all were at least two hundred years old. Their proportions
were a bit broader than the townhouses, although the ceilings were a bit low. He often
wondered how they had survived the conversion of Brighton into a holiday resort, when
the little houses like them had been knocked down and replaced with the grander townhouses.
Perhaps the explanation was simply that the owners had refused to sell at any price,
so here they were, hemmed off and overshadowed.
For someone like Lionel, being hemmed off and overshadowed was anything but a handicap.
After all, he was gone most of the day, so why would a lack of sunlight bother him?
And the relative darkness in the morning, when he was sleeping long past the hour
when most were awake, was just what he needed.
The little scrap of a back garden that belonged to his house had been left to go wild,
and whatever could flourish nurtured only by the rain and the little sun that got
down there did so, and what didn’t, died. The fact that it had ended up becoming a
tiny wilderness pocket of shade-loving plants was a happy accident. Birds loved it,
and he even had a resident squirrel.
He’d completely renovated the inside when he’d bought the place, so he had all the
conveniences of the most modern of flats, including laid-on gas, a boiler for hot
water, gas fires instead of coal, sound indoor plumbing, and floors that did not tilt
in every possible direction. He didn’t care that he had no view, it didn’t matter
that the inside needed artificial lighting even at midday. The fact that those tall
buildings on either hand also muffled the noise of the city was something he had counted
on, and more than made up for the shadowy interior.
The house was the middle of the three, with a door right on the street, so poor Jack
hadn’t any stairs to climb. The modern gaslight at the door had been left lit by Lionel’s
housekeeper; by its clear beams he unlocked his door and waved Jack inside.
There were no smells of cooking, other than the lingering aroma of fresh bread. The
housekeeper was very old-fashioned in her cookery habits, and saw no reason why they
should buy bread when she could make it.
That lack of cooking-scent meant that the supper laid out for him in the dining room
under the hygienic metal domes he insisted on would be cold. Probably Sunday’s ham,
which
they never had an explanation for why it also happened to teetotalers.
He shook himself out of his dark thoughts as a trio of drunk sailors lurched past
in the street, singing.
Disaster averted,
he told himself, and felt relief. Suzie would take care of the girl, get her settled
in safe lodgings, see to what she needed. Reliable little Suzie! If only she’d been
a mage . . .
Well, she wasn’t, but with her good heart she was a treasure he would sorely miss,
the more so since she’d been with him longer than any other assistant that
was
a mage.
He and Jack turned down a little lane connecting two larger streets. Both sides of
the lane were lined with two-story dwellings, wedged-in and dwarfed by the three-
and four-story townhouses of the two streets themselves. Those towering townhouses
were owned by very well-to-do families of what might be called the “upper” middle
class who could afford a second home for summer, and didn’t care for either the country
or conventional watering spots like Bath. This was where the wife and kiddies came
for the summer, both for a bit of fun and to avoid the perilous climes of London,
and where the good, hardworking husband came for his holiday. All except for this
lane, whose occupants, with the exception of Lionel, were white-haired and elderly.
This lane was where his house was—outright bought and owned, like the townhouses,
rather than rented. There were only half a dozen of these little places, three to
each side of the street, and all were at least two hundred years old. Their proportions
were a bit broader than the townhouses, although the ceilings were a bit low. He often
wondered how they had survived the conversion of Brighton into a holiday resort, when
the little houses like them had been knocked down and replaced with the grander townhouses.
Perhaps the explanation was simply that the owners had refused to sell at any price,
so here they were, hemmed off and overshadowed.
For someone like Lionel, being hemmed off and overshadowed was anything but a handicap.
After all, he was gone most of the day, so why would a lack of sunlight bother him?
And the relative darkness in the morning, when he was sleeping long past the hour
when most were awake, was just what he needed.
The little scrap of a back garden that belonged to his house had been left to go wild,
and whatever could flourish nurtured only by the rain and the little sun that got
down there did so, and what didn’t, died. The fact that it had ended up becoming a
tiny wilderness pocket of shade-loving plants was a happy accident. Birds loved it,
and he even had a resident squirrel.
He’d completely renovated the inside when he’d bought the place, so he had all the
conveniences of the most modern of flats, including laid-on gas, a boiler for hot
water, gas fires instead of coal, sound indoor plumbing, and floors that did not tilt
in every possible direction. He didn’t care that he had no view, it didn’t matter
that the inside needed artificial lighting even at midday. The fact that those tall
buildings on either hand also muffled the noise of the city was something he had counted
on, and more than made up for the shadowy interior.
The house was the middle of the three, with a door right on the street, so poor Jack
hadn’t any stairs to climb. The modern gaslight at the door had been left lit by Lionel’s
housekeeper; by its clear beams he unlocked his door and waved Jack inside.
There were no smells of cooking, other than the lingering aroma of fresh bread. The
housekeeper was very old-fashioned in her cookery habits, and saw no reason why they
should buy bread when she could make it.
That lack of cooking-scent meant that the supper laid out for him in the dining room
under the hygienic metal domes he insisted on would be cold. Probably Sunday’s ham,
which
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