The Locket

J. A. Clement

Contents

1.
The Locket

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Other books by Weasel Green Press:

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE LOCKET

Copyright © 2012 J.A. Clement

ISBN:

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permission should be addressed to the author.

This story was first published in Christmas Lites 2, an anthology in support of the charity National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. It is now republished with kind permission of the editor.

We are just about to release our sixth editions of Christmas Lites – we hope you’ll check out some of the other exciting, haunting and hilarious stories in the anthologies, and help us raise money for a really good cause.

The Locket

"When will they be here, Mama?"

Mariana glanced up from her embroidery at her daughter, seven years old and full of the excitement of Yuletide. "Soon, Nereia; they can't be far off now." She stopped. “They? Who do you mean?"

"Papa..."

"And?"

Nereia glanced away and then looked back at her mother through mischievous lashes. "I'm not supposed to tell..."

Mariana waited.

"...but Papa said he had a surprise for me, a big surprise, and when I asked if it was a pony he laughed and said just wait till I tell her that! And I said tell who but he said if he told me it wouldn't be a surprise any more." Nereia stopped to consider this. "So my surprise is a she and if it's not a pony it must be a person?. Though it might be a pony...?" She looked at her mother hopefully.

"It's not a pony," Mariana confirmed gravely.

Nereia gave a one-shouldered shrug and turned back to stare into the snowy darkness.

Mariana had to hide a smile. How like Raian! Doting father that he was, he could not bring himself to deny his daughter anything she wanted, and she was a sharp little thing. Even the long-awaited pony was simply a matter of time, Mariana had pointed out how changeable children could be, citing herself at that age as an example; she had demanded in quick succession a horse, a kitten, a puppy, a monkey and a boa constrictor, (though in all honesty she had thought this last was a new type of corset for grownups.) Being given the kitten to start with, she had played with it for precisely ten minutes before giving it to the scullery maid as a present and asking where was the monkey?

After that, she had not had her own horse until she was fourteen, still in the schoolroom but starting to gather the skills and accomplishments she would need to cut a fine figure on her coming out Season four years later. In Mariana’s opinion, this was the age at which her daughter should have the horse, and not before. All she had to do now was to persuade her husband to remember that when he was possessed by one of his fits of generosity… She could not be angry at him though; his generous nature was one of the things she loved about him.

"Is it true that I don't have to go to bed till midnight, Mama?" Nereia cut into her memories, coming away from the window to sit next to her mother. "Papa said that if you said yes, I could stay up and see the actual Yule ceremony this year. May I, Mama? I'd really like to, may I?" She fluttered her eyelashes winningly.

"If you are a good girl, and do as you are told during the ceremony, then yes, you may even take part if you wish."

"Oh, Mama! I should like it above everything! What shall I do? Shall I paint the Yule log? What colours shall I paint it?"

Mariana laughed. "No, my dear; we don't put colours on the log. We dry it all year and then as Autumn comes we paint it with scented oils so that when it burns, the smoke is sweet and fragrant."

"Oh..." Nereia was clearly a bit disappointed at this. "What else can I do?"

"Well, a very important part of the ceremony is the bit where we look at all the events of the past year and we are thankful for them."

"Is it the burning bit? I like the burning bit." Nereia wriggled with excitement.

"Yes it is." Mariana smiled, thinking how scandalised her own mother would have been if she had called it ‘the burning bit’.

"So I draw all the pictures of the good things?"

"Everyone in the house has to draw them apart from children who are too young to do so. This year your father and I decided that you were a big enough girl to draw your own pictures and to burn them. We have already drawn ours-"

"Ooh what did you draw, Mama?"

"We don't tell anyone until the ceremony itself; that way everyone thinks of their own and doesn't copy."

"Can I start now, Mama? Can I? Pleeeeeaasssse?"

Mariana laughed at her daughter's overacting, set down her needlework and went to the cupboard for pencil and paper. "If you do a good job, I shall let you use my waxes to colour them in."

"Oh thank you Mama..." Nereia was round-eyed at the prospect of this rare honour.

She sat at the little side table and was soon busily drawing, just the tip of her tongue showing as she concentrated. When she caught her mother watching her, she exclaimed “No peeking, Mama!” and covered her work with one arm.

“Sorry, my love.” Mariana went back to her sewing in a rather half-hearted manner. She knew who was coming over and was as excited as the child, though trying not to show it.

Nereia drew quietly for a time, while Mariana sewed and the fire crackled in the hearth. Then Mariana paused. Yes; the sound of hooves approaching, though their normal clatter was muffled by the snow on the drive. She set aside her sewing and went to the window; the coach was drawing in to the front of the house and the postillions dismounted to bring torches and open the door. Mariana turned to see Nereia watching her, eyes sparkling with excitement and pencil poised in the air. She gestured to the window and the girl flew to look out, shouting “Papa’s here! Mama, he’s here!”

Barely giving her mother time to stand aside, Nereia dashed out of the room and down into the high, chilly front hall, coming to an abrupt halt two stairs from the bottom as the front door opened. Mariana followed at a more leisurely pace as the butler, Birchbeck, processed grandly to the door followed by menservants in greatcoats who went out to help unload the luggage, and maids who stood ready to take coats and hats.

Two figures came in, one muffled in a thick, hooded cloak and the other-

“Papa!” Nereia threw herself at her father who caught her up in a cold, snowy hug. “Papa, your nose is very cold!” She squealed as he buried his face in her neck and gave her a big kiss; then he set her back upon her feet and assumed a mock-serious expression.

“My dear, that was very rude.”

Nereia looked at him challengingly. “What was rude? Your nose IS cold! That’s not rude, it’s true.”

“That’s not what I was talking about. We have a guest, my pet, and you have not made your curtsey to her.”

Nereia turned, suddenly shy, and curtsied to the other figure who was untangling herself from the thick woollen cloak. She proved to be a graceful lady with curling chestnut ringlets falling from around a bun high on her head. The lady curtsied back very deeply, a full Court curtsey, and paused in place at the bottom.

“Your Majesty!” she proclaimed solemnly.

“My Majesty?” Nereia was not sure how to react to this but her father was smiling.

“Yes, you must be Your Majesty - or possibly Your Highness?” She had very blue eyes, and there was a friendly twinkle in them. Nereia took to her at once.

“Why must I be a Highness?”

“Why, your father tells me so every time I talk to him,” the lady teased gently. “He’s always calling you his little princess. You told me so yourself.”

“But I’ve never met you before - how could I tell you?”

The lady came out of her curtsy and took her reticule off the table. Rummaging inside it, she retrieved a much-worn and crumpled piece of paper, covered with large childish letters in crayon and in places, translations in a more adult hand.

Nereia recognised it at once. “That’s my letter! How did you get it?”

“You sent it to me, my dear.”

Nereia looked at her with mounting excitement. “Then... Are you my Godmother?”

“The very same, come to wish you and your parents a merry Yule!” And Nereia’s Godmother bent down to give her a great hug.

“Merry Yule, Godmother!” Nereia hugged back, breathing in the heady scent of violets that her Godmother wore and recognising it as the same scent from the stiff paper of the letters her parents read out to her. Then she drew back and dropped a little curtsey of her own. “Oooh, I nearly forgot! I am honoured to meet you, Lady de Lacey.”

The adults laughed, and Mariana applauded. “Well remembered, Nereia; good girl! It’s so wonderful to see you, Liza,” she continued. “Do come up into the warmth! You must be frozen after that journey. Was it very bad?” Mariana beckoned them back up the stairs, but Nereia hesitated as her father shed his coat and changed his snowy boots for house-shoes.

“I’ll be up in a second, my pet; why not wait in the warm?”

“I’m just going, Papa, but – That’s really my Godmother, isn’t it?”

“Yes, petal, it surely is.”

Nereia considered this. “She looks nice. Do you think she will play with me?”

Raian smiled. “I think she will spend more time playing with you than she will with us if you’re not careful! She loves your letters, you know. But she is only here for a few days. She has been sent to another country by the King, to help with the war, and we might not see her again for a long time so she arranged to come and spend Yule with us here first.”

“That was a good idea,” Nereia agreed gravely. “I have never seen her before and I am quite six years old! Otherwise she might not have come until I was a proper grown up.”

“Very true.”

Nereia left her father smiling at her serious tone and ventured back up the stairs into the cosy parlour where her mother had just called for cakes and mulled wine to warm the travellers. She slipped round the door quietly and went to sit in her favourite place in the window-seat.

“-loss of life is terrible.” Liza shook her head. “It’s getting worse, too; Faramond is doing all he can to keep the atrocities under control but we’ve been at war with the Shantar for five years now, so there isn’t a tribe on their side that hasn’t suffered. The Mother has to walk a fine line. On the one hand, if the Mardonese left the Mountains tomorrow, she wouldn’t follow. She has no intentions of empire-building and isn’t in the least interested in any territories outside her own domain, but while the Mardonese attack, the Shantar will defend, down to the last child if necessary. Given the increasing brutality of the Mardonese army, it’s no surprise that she can’t keep the hotheads from retaliating.”

“But why are we attacking the Shantar? It all blew up so suddenly and it makes no sense, not even now!” Mariana shook her head. “A whole war for the sake of some diplomatic insult or the other? I know we Mardonese can be that stupid but the Shantar normally have more sense!”

“Diplomatic insult my foot!” Nereia was slightly shocked and greatly amused to hear her Godmother snort in a highly unladylike fashion. “The King was persuaded that there were seams of gold and gems hidden in the folds of the mountains. The country was getting increasingly hard-up because of the sheer cost of building that stupid palace of his, and the ministers were getting restless so he decided that all that gold should be his. The Shantar weren’t using it. Soldiers were sent in posing as traders to investigate; having been told in no uncertain terms that they could not travel into a certain area because it was the hominids’ territory, they decided that that was too facile a lie and it must be that that area was where the gold was. The King wanted to believe it, so he was easily persuaded; the ministers at the time knew that even if there was no gold, a war is always good for the economy, and the army wanted a bit of action so the few dissenting voices, such as your family, have had a pretty hard time ever since.”

Raian entered the room. “Ladies! Are you talking high politics again? Poor Nereia will be very bored.”

Mariana looked round guiltily. “Oh! I didn’t realise you were there, my pet.”

“Yes, Mama. What is a hominid?”

“Hominids are about your height, and furry. They live high in the Shantar mountains, my dear.” Liza explained, but just as Nereia was about to ask more she was distracted by the discreet entry of Birchbeck with the cakes and mulled wine. After some pleading, Nereia tasted a sip from her father’s tumbler but was given a glass of warmed milk for herself.

They chatted for a while; Liza told them a little about how Yule was celebrated in Mardon and Nereia bombarded her with all sorts of questions (starting, naturally, with what kind of horse she had and what its name was) but after a while Mariana set her glass down.

“Ladies, it’s getting a little late. We should think of getting ready for dinner.”

Nereia jumped off the windowseat, but somewhat to her surprise nobody else got up.

“Nereia, come here.” Her father gestured her over to stand in front of them, and somewhat shy at becoming the centre of attention she did so. He smiled at her. “This year is a special Yule, because it is the first time you are to join in. We have brought you a little gift to mark the occasion so that you never forget it.”

“Is it a horse?”

The adults laughed.

“No, my pet, it is not a horse. It is this.” Raian took out a small velvet bag from his pocket and gave it to Nereia, who opened it to find a small but exquisitely engraved silver locket inside. “This belonged to my mother, once upon a time, and when I wrote to tell her that your Mama was expecting a child, she sent this to me for just this occasion.” He opened the clasp and hung it around her neck.

“Oh thank you, Papa. It is very sparkly,” she observed approvingly, tilting it to look at the patterns on it.

“And when I knew that it was your turn to take part in Yule, I painted these to go inside it,” Nereia’s Godmother added, handing her a small package wrapped in the usual violet-scented paper. With her mother’s help, Nereia teased it open to reveal two paper-thin ovals of ivory, each painted with a tiny portrait. One was her mother and the other her father, both so lifelike they seemed likely to move at any minute.

“How wonderful, Liza!” Mariana exclaimed, and Raian grinned cheerily as he helped Nereia fit them inside the locket and then shut it carefully.

“They are lovely; thank you very much, Godmother. You’re very clever.” Nereia gazed admiringly at Liza. “Perhaps later you would paint me a picture of a horse? I’d like a big black one with a star on its chest.” She began to describe the horse in detail, starting with the fact that his name was to be Toby, but her Papa held up a hand and she fell quiet again.

“Reia, perhaps you can tell Liza about your horse later? We don’t have enough time now.” He stood, and the others followed suit. “Why don’t you go and change into your pretty frock for the evening? It will be dinner soon and you know what happens then, don’t you?”

“The burning bit!” Glee was written all over Nereia’s face, much to her Godmother’s amusement.

“The burning bit?”

“Yes, and this year I’m to help!” Nereia jumped down from the window seat. “Godmother, when I’m dressed will you teach me how to do my hair like that please?”

“Certainly, my dear; I’ll change my dress and come in.”

“Thank you, Godmother!” Nereia skipped out of the room, delighted; she was not sure which was the more exciting, getting dressed for her first real Yule party or getting her hair done in a real grown-up’s hairstyle.

It was some time later when Nereia and Liza descended from the dressing room, ushered gently out by Nereia’s nurse, Edith, who watched them down the stairs with a fond smile. Liza had changed out of her own travelling-clothes and into an amazing confection of satins and ribbons, gracefully ruched with a full skirt. Her dress was the rich purple of far-off hills, with a cream lace edge where the neckline stretched from one shoulder to the other, and a matching long satin ribbon around her waist. Nereia thought it was quite the prettiest thing she had ever seen, and her Godmother’s chestnut curls gleamed red in the candlelight as they fell to her shoulders. (Edith thought it was quite extraordinary for a lady not only to dress herself, but to arrange her own hair as well, but when Nereia had mentioned this Liza had laughed out loud and calmed the flustered nurse by saying that she had spent a lot of her life travelling and so was self-sufficient to an unladylike degree).

Nereia herself was conscious that she also was looking very pretty in her green velvet gown, and had been immensely pleased with the matching cream ribbon she had been given to wear in her hair as her Godmother had directed Edith in arranging it.

As they descended the stairs there was a lovely aroma of cinnamon, cloves, pine, citrus; the Yule decorations had been set up while they were away. In the parlour, Mariana and Raian were waiting, and once everyone had admired everyone else’s splendid attire to Nereia’s satisfaction, they made their way to the ballroom where the servants were waiting. The room was chill and quite dark, lit only with a few candles held in the hands of those inside.

They gathered around the fireplace and waited. The doors shut behind them, and Nereia shrank close to her father as the darkness descended upon them.

“It is the end of the year, and the New Year is upon us,” Raian intoned. “We who wait in the dark give our thanks for the fruitfulness of the land and sea, and for the rising of the sun each morning, and the set of the sun at night. We are thankful for our families and friends, and for all the joys of the year that has died with the setting of this last sun.”

“We give thanks for the year and mourn its passing,” everyone intoned, making Nereia jump.

“Sara?” Raian nodded at the youngest scullery maid who walked to the fireplace in which Nereia noticed for the first time that the Yule log lay, unlit.

“These are my thanks.” The maid was very nervous, and had to clear her throat to continue. “My mother gave birth to a sister, and both are safe and well.” She crumpled up a paper and threw it into the grate with the log. “My brother was taken on as apprentice to the sailmaker.” She threw in another. “And... and a personal one.” She threw in a third, blushing mightily. Nereia noticed a movement to one side; the third footman was grinning sheepishly at that, but she couldn’t work out why. The scullery maid stood back in line and the next maid stood forward.

One by one, all the servants took their turn, ending with the housekeeper and the butler. Nereia was a bit bored in places but some of them were quite interesting.

Liza stood forward. “These are my thanks; for the safety of friends and family. For a chance of being of use in bringing the war to an end; and for the hope that future generations bring us.”

Everyone smiled at Nereia at that bit, so she guessed it was her go and stepped forward boldly.

“Do I say these are my thanks, Papa? Well they are. THESE ARE MY THANKS!” A titter ran round the room as she shouted the words and she put hands on hips and glared round. “I don’t know what was funny about that! Anyway. For Mama. For Papa; and for the pony that Papa says he’s going to give me...?”

“Reia!” Her Mama’s face had the look she wore when trying not to laugh.

Nereia stuffed that drawing back into the frilly pocket that hung from the waist of her dress. “Oh all right then, that doesn’t count. I did this one just in case.” She produced yet another of her drawings. “Thanks that I met my Godmother, and she put my hair in a pretty style.” She threw the papers into the grate and stepped back to her place as Liza beamed with genuine pleasure.

Once Raian and Mariana had added their own, Raian took a candle and lit the edge of one of the papers in the fireplace. Soon there was a blaze, and the kindling stacked under and around the log caught, followed by the sweet smell as the oils painted on the log itself began to heat. Soon the fire was roaring away, burning so hot they had to back away and the line broke up into chattering groups.

There was a thunderous knock on the door; and then another and another.

The room fell into excited silence for a moment; then someone shouted “The wassailers!”

A cheer went up as Birchbeck went and threw open the doors which led onto the terrace to reveal a group of much-muffled figures with wreaths of holly and lanterns.

“Behold, good revellers,” a bass voice boomed. “The King of Wassail has come to bid you fair days and good fortune in the new year!”

A shiver of tambourines, a roll of the little drum, and they parted to let through an enormous character, horned like a deer and dressed all in scarlet and green. Everyone bowed or curtsied.

“Goodman Belric, will you bid me enter in?” The King of Wassail gestured to Nereia’s father who did not seem in the least surprised though Nereia herself was more than a little dubious.

“That I will, and right heartily!” Raian held out to this new guest a deep, wide bowl brimming with mulled ale. “Partake of the guesting cup, and bring good luck and fair health to all within!”

Nereia watched wide-eyed as each of the wassailers kicked the snow off their boots as they came to the door, took a deep draught of the steaming ale and came within. Some she recognised; the baker, their friends from further along the road, the lady who sometimes came to arrange flowers for the table when her parents had people coming over; but others she did not know. All had musical instruments with them, and once inside they shed their cloaks and coats and began to play.

“I see a new face!” the King of Wassail rumbled. “In fact I see two! Welcome, my dear, to the ceremony of the new sun.” He held one hand out to Nereia, and extended the other to Liza. “And to you, Lady, welcome to Scarlock, and may fortune lend you her wings on your journey.”

Nereia hesitated, but Liza took his hand and so she did so as well, and with a flourish everyone found a partner and the dance began.

The fire roared in the grate, filling the room with sweet scents, and the musicians played merry tunes that everyone danced to. There was singing and at some point the maids began to hand around trays of sweet little spiced fruit pies. There was a bowl of mulled ale, steaming so that Nereia felt a little heady with the fumes and so large that she was a little afraid that she might fall into it.

She danced with her Godmother; and her father and mother and Edith and various members of the household. It was a bit strange because servants and visitors and the family were all chatting and dancing with each other like normal people.

Birchbeck led Mariana back after the end of the dance and turned to Nereia.

“A dance, my lady?”

“Yes, please!” She jumped up. “Only, I’m not a very good dancer, Birchbeck, because I don’t know the steps.”

“That doesn’t matter at Yule!” Birchbeck was smiling broadly, which was not something she saw often, but it made his eyes all sparkly when he did. Nereia liked Birchbeck, and she approved that on this one night no-one seemed to be like a servant or a master; everyone was just themselves. It felt odd but in a good way - and besides, her Papa spoke to people like that anyhow, though her Mama did not seem to approve of it. The music was jolly, though, and she was soon out of breath trying to follow the dances, saving it only to laugh with delight when someone got it all wrong again.

As the evening faded into joyous drowsiness, Nereia started to feel very sleepy, but was too excited to miss a moment. She curled up on the sofa in the corner and lay half-asleep on her mother’s lap, watching the dancers whirl and sway in time to the quicksilver flute, the darting fiddle and the thudding of drum and tabor. Eventually the clamour across the town faded. The lights were put out, the music finished and the revellers all drifted off to their beds.

Nereia half-woke in her own bed later, smiling sleepily at three butterfly kisses; the usual two from her Mama and Papa and another from her Godmother. Warm, heavy sleep reclaimed her and she dreamt of ribbons and satins and dancing, as secure with her family around her as a pearl in its shell.

Down in the ballroom the Yule log smouldered as the joys of the passing year fell to dust and ashes, while outside snow continued to fall across Scarlock. Streets and houses across the town were smothered under a thick, pristine blanket of snowflakes. All was still and quiet in the frozen darkness save only the wintry sea, which continued to gnaw at the cliffs below with its restless hush, hush, hush...

About the Author

J. A. Clement lives with her husband and a lordly lurcher in the South of England. She absolutely loves having the opportunity to share her stories with real live readers, and is working on the next book in her On Dark Shores series along with a whole new series, yet to be named.

To hear first about new releases and the occasional giveaway, sign up to her mailing list via her blog; mails are only sent a few times a year at most. However if you have questions or comments, she’d love to hear from you, and can be found lurking in cyberspace at the following.

Connect with JAC online:

@jaclementwriter

jaclementwrites

jaclement.wordpress.com

jaclement.ondarkshores@gmail.com

Acknowledgments

As always, there is much to be grateful for, so these are my thanks (I trust you will not be offended if I don’t draw pictures though!).

For Amy Eye, editor and general force of nature, who puts hours every year into putting together the Christmas Lites anthologies, and helps us raise money for the NCADV.

For the patient help of such kindly geniuses as Julia Lee Dean, who keeps my characters consistent, Mary Noone (who is attempting to keep me consistent - tbc!) and Lise Lotten who very kindly beta’d for me.

And of course, for my lovely Will and Jack the Luxury Lurcher, who keep me sane or, in Jack’s case, keep me on my toes, usually in a muddy field in the rain…!

For all of you, and for the help and support you have given and continue to give, for all of this I am truly grateful.

Happy Christmas, people!

JAC.

Other books by Weasel Green Press:

Jo Edwards:

Work Wife Balance

Potbound

Foggy’s Blog

* * *

Dulcie Feenan:

Christmas comes to Oddleton

* * *

J.A. Clement:

On Dark Shores series

1: The Lady

2: The Other Nereia

Parallels series:

The Black-Eyed Susan

The Locket

Song of the Ice Lord

The Scarred Artisan (from Song of the Ice Lord)

The Last Dragon (from Song of the Ice Lord)

A Sprig of Holly

The Holly & The Ivy