The Fire and the Fog Read Online Free Page B

dear, I’m sure they’ll love
it.  Have you decided which of the girls you will ask to the
festival?’ his mother asked again as she began to clear the
table.  Gel’s father had already left the table, and was
heading to his study as he did every evening.  Othwaithe
always said after dinner was the best time for paperwork, though it
was understood that he spent more time napping than working. 
Gel, on the other hand, sat and stared at his stew for a few
moments, pre-occupied with poking at a small chunk of
carrot. 
    ‘I,’ he started, frowning deeply in thought,
‘well, I haven’t decided yet.’  He looked up over his bowl,
and gave a wry smile, ‘Can’t I just take them both?’ he asked,
still poking desultorily at his stew, all evidence of hunger
banished by his new train of thought.
    His mother laughed as she cleared away the
remnants of dinner, her laugh a silver peal of light in the
encroaching dusk.  And Gel sat and thought, and the evening
ground on.
     
    ***
     
    Later that night, after dinner had been
cleared away and homework had been done, after Gel had played his
new song for his parents, his father looking over ledgers, his
mother knitting another pair of too-small socks; after washing and
bathing for the night, Gel lay deep inside his small bed, covered
in hills of covers and quilts, surrounded by mountains of
pillows.  Gel had always found it comforting to be weighed
down while he slept, but at the moment his mother and her stories
were all the comfort he needed. 
    She sat, perched on the edge of the bed,
waiting for Gel to decide what story he wanted that night. 
For Gel it always seemed that no matter how many books he read, no
matter how many stories of knights and magic, of powerful swords
and secret rings, of damsels in distress, his mother’s bedtime
stories were by far the best.
    Every night, after Gel had washed, and
cleaned his room, and finished his lessons, and lay curled up, safe
and warm in bed, his mother would walk in, sit beside him, and wait
for him to tell her what story he wanted to hear.
    Gel lay in his fortress of blankets
thinking.  Running over all of his favourite stories, over all
the stories his mother told best, until at last he decided.
    ‘I want to hear about the princess and the
mirror’ Gel said, snuggling further into his covers and closing his
eyes, waiting for his mother to begin.  Maybe he was getting
too old for these stories; certainly the other kids in the village
had stopped hearing bedtime stories years ago.  But he didn’t
care.  The stories were comforting, and his mother seemed just
as happy to tell them as he was to listen.
    She smiled first, bending over to kiss his
forehead and run her hands through his light blonde hair. 
‘Very well, little one’ she said softly, and Gel felt safe.
    ‘Not too long ago, and not so very far away,
there lived a princess in a castle’ Maerge began, only to be
swiftly interrupted by Gel.
    ‘Was she pretty?’ Gel asked his eyes now open
and questioning.
    ‘Of course she was,’ his mother replied,
reaching over to stroke his hair again, ‘now shush’.
    ‘It was a lovely castle, and its king, the
princess’s father, ruled over many happy subjects.  The
princess lived in the castle with her sisters, and she had many
friends among the servants and the townspeople, but she would often
go off on her own to explore. 
    It was not that she had no love for her
family or friends, it was just that the old castle was so large, so
empty, that it seemed lonely.  The princess hated to see
people sad and lonely, so she would often go and explore the large
castle, to make it feel happy, and lived in.
    So, when the princess was not riding in the
country with her friends, or learning to be a princess with her
sisters, she would wander the castle, finding new rooms, new
places; old places. 
    And so it was that one day, as she turned the
corner in an ancient, unexplored part of the castle, trailing her
hand