Three-thousandth post, time-honoured tradition, unaccustomed as I am, etc.
This is the start of ch1 of the second book in my WIP series. (There is also a prologue, but that has different characters.) As it’s the start of book2, I’m particularly interested in how it might come across to readers who haven’t read book1. My ideal would be to interest them enough to seek out the first one, without putting them right off with a load of completely impenetrable references to previous events. I'm aware that might be easier in an action sequence, which this isn’t.
All other thoughts and comments very much welcomed, of course.
****************************************************
There had been a soft breeze from the sea, and the dappled shade of pines, and quiet. There had been days when she’d had nothing to do but swim and think, and nothing to worry about. Less than a week ago, it now felt to Hana like another century. Saguna was jammed with traffic, with flies, with people, with sun-heat trapped in the canyons between buildings — and worries were at her like dogs.
The flat-bed cart creaked forward another yard, and its wheel jolted into a pot-hole. The others on the cart, crew and servants also returned on Aurora, whooped at the sudden lurch — they were happy to be back on the mainland, and would have whooped at anything. Hana pressed her palm harder against the long packing crate, trying to transmit reassurance through her touch on the wood.
‘Home soon,’ she whispered. ‘Then I can help you.’
She hated the necessity of the crate. If a jolt roused Tashi, how would she know? For more than a day, as Aurora had chugged through coastal waters roughed up by the first autumn winds, she’d stayed with him, frightened the pitching and rolling of the boat would disturb the fragile equilibrium within his demon-transformed body. Ashore, her unease had grown rather than calmed, especially in this crowd, this seething press and bustle — not just from fear that Tashi might stir, but fear of discovery. How the Sagunites might react if someone found out what was being transported through their midst, she didn’t dare think.
‘Hana?’
She turned. Her father stood next to the stationary cart.
‘Might as well make use of the delay, I thought.’ He carried several newssheets. ‘It’d be useful to know what’s been reported, if anything.’
‘I’m busy.’ Hana stroked the crate. ‘Orc and Cass can read, can’t they?’
Ferman nodded, looked as though he might say something else, then walked back to the open carriage in front, where he handed the newssheets round to Stefanie and the Strandborn cousins. Hana suspected his reasons for trying to include her. Maybe he worried she saw Orc and Cass as usurpers for riding in the carriage; it must have occurred to him that any passer-by would assume them to be the Quallaces’ children, their northern colouring much more like his and Stefanie’s than Hana’s own olive skin and dark hair. She felt disappointed with her adoptive father for thinking she might be so insecure about her place in the family. She was too old for that.
She watched the fair heads of the cousins — the supposed cousins — bend over their reading, searching for news of the thousand deaths they had indirectly caused, of the warships destroyed by an abomination given physical existence only through some supernatural quality they possessed: the same quality by which Tashi’s demons had transformed him into a grotesque horror, as though in mockery of Hana’s efforts to save him.
Sometimes, she wished her new friends had never come within a thousand miles of her.
The jam took half an hour to clear, and they spent the same again following the rough course of the river through Saguna’s northern outskirts. Hana felt stiff and tired by the time the two vehicles rattled between the gateposts of The Cypresses and up the short drive. The shutters were open, so Mrs Baraktis must have received the telegram Ferman had sent from Carnega when they’d taken on coal. Beds would be ready, and water heated. An hour’s rest, Hana promised herself, and she would begin her work on Tashi.
The front door opened as they pulled up, and Mrs Baraktis appeared. Hana expected her to wait at the portal, with her usual chilly dignity; she was surprised and alarmed when the housekeeper picked up her skirts and ran across to the carriage.
‘Thank Harcassia you’re here, master!’
Ferman jumped down. ‘Mrs Baraktis, what is it?’
‘The doctor’s just left,’ she said. ‘He can’t do anything.’
‘Doctor?’ said Stefanie, climbing down after her husband. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Not me, mistress! He came yesterday morning, and now he won’t wake up!’
‘The doctor?’
‘No! No, the — no, I —’
‘Calm yourself,’ said Ferman. ‘Who came?’
‘Sir — your brother.’
A frown pulled Hana’s brow. Ferman looked baffled: he glanced round at the others, as though one of them might grasp a sense that he’d missed. ‘Jorik, you mean?’
‘You have only one brother,’ said Stefanie. ‘Show us,’ she told the housekeeper.
Hana slid herself off the cart, and followed as Mrs Baraktis led her parents through the hall and into the drawing room. A fire burned in the hearth, despite the warmth outdoors, but Hana chilled at what she saw. She barely recognised Jorik Quallace. The quick wit and enthusiasm that had animated his features the few times she’d met him were gone, replaced by absence and pain. He lay on a couch, shivering beneath a blanket, his head jerking from side to side. His red-blond hair was dark and curled with sweat, his forehead slick, his lips drawn partly back.
‘Fever?’ Stefanie’s voice was tight. She went over.
‘There’s no heat in him,’ said Mrs Baraktis.
Stefanie touched Jorik’s forehead. ‘Then why is he perspiring?’
Hana wondered that too. She had seen something like Jorik’s condition before, but that had been in the world she’d left behind. It couldn’t be here too.
‘The doctor couldn’t explain it,’ said Mrs Baraktis. ‘But the way it came on so sudden, and the way it happened …’
Hana noticed the small votives Mrs Baraktis had placed around the couch.
‘The way it happened?’ said Ferman.
‘I tried to do as he said, sir, but I’m only made of flesh, same as everyone —’
‘Speak more clearly,’ said Ferman. ‘What did he say for you to do? Why is he even here?’
The housekeeper smoothed her hands down her dress. ‘He came two nights ago.’
‘From Makassa?’
‘Yes. He said he expected you to return soon — I would have told him no, not for months, except your telegram came that day. And he said you might be with a monk.’
Hana’s chest squeezed.
‘A monk?’ said Stefanie. ‘Did he give a name?’
‘No, mistress. He just said he needed to speak to that monk, or if not, then to you, sir. He was in a terrible state. He told me he hadn’t slept for three nights, and must not sleep before your return. He ordered me not to let him.’
‘Heavens,’ said Ferman.
‘Whenever he was seated or resting, I was to watch over him,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I grew more weary than I’ve ever been.’ She sounded close to tears. ‘In the small hours last night, I had to answer a call of the body. When I returned a few minutes later, he was slumped over his book, and I couldn’t wake him, not with any talking or shaking. The doctor thought it exhaustion brought on by lack of sleep. He said to keep your brother warm and hope rest would bring him out of it. He’ll be back this afternoon, the doctor, and if there’s no improvement he’ll get him taken into the hospital.’
‘Did Jorik say why?’ asked Hana, words coming with difficulty from an empty-feeling chest. ‘Why he couldn’t be allowed to sleep?’
The housekeeper glanced at her with the same old look: if not quite hostility, then suspicion. ‘I asked, of course,’ she told Ferman. ‘He said knowing would put me in danger too.’
Ferman swallowed. ‘Exhaustion already working its effect, no doubt.’ He shook the sleeper’s shoulder. ‘Jorik, old man. You wanted to talk to me.’
‘And Shoggu,’ said Hana. ‘That must be who he meant. And this … I’ve seen this before. Or something like it.’
Ferman looked at her. ‘You think this is Daroguerre’s work?’
‘I hope not. But there must be a connection. With the island, I mean.’
‘But how did he even know about Shoggu?’ said Stefanie. ‘And if he did, why didn’t he know he was dead?’
‘He can tell us that when he wakes,’ said Ferman. ‘The way you freed Shoggu,’ he said to Hana, fixing his pale blue gaze on her. ‘Will that work here?’
‘I’ll try.’ It felt inadequate, but there was nothing else to say. She felt scared of the dependency the seriousness of his face placed on her. She had never known siblings. It alarmed her how much the sick man on the couch might mean to her father. Although she liked Jorik, he was not of her blood, just an outlying member of a family who’d taken her in. A family she could now repay — or fail to.
This is the start of ch1 of the second book in my WIP series. (There is also a prologue, but that has different characters.) As it’s the start of book2, I’m particularly interested in how it might come across to readers who haven’t read book1. My ideal would be to interest them enough to seek out the first one, without putting them right off with a load of completely impenetrable references to previous events. I'm aware that might be easier in an action sequence, which this isn’t.
All other thoughts and comments very much welcomed, of course.
****************************************************
There had been a soft breeze from the sea, and the dappled shade of pines, and quiet. There had been days when she’d had nothing to do but swim and think, and nothing to worry about. Less than a week ago, it now felt to Hana like another century. Saguna was jammed with traffic, with flies, with people, with sun-heat trapped in the canyons between buildings — and worries were at her like dogs.
The flat-bed cart creaked forward another yard, and its wheel jolted into a pot-hole. The others on the cart, crew and servants also returned on Aurora, whooped at the sudden lurch — they were happy to be back on the mainland, and would have whooped at anything. Hana pressed her palm harder against the long packing crate, trying to transmit reassurance through her touch on the wood.
‘Home soon,’ she whispered. ‘Then I can help you.’
She hated the necessity of the crate. If a jolt roused Tashi, how would she know? For more than a day, as Aurora had chugged through coastal waters roughed up by the first autumn winds, she’d stayed with him, frightened the pitching and rolling of the boat would disturb the fragile equilibrium within his demon-transformed body. Ashore, her unease had grown rather than calmed, especially in this crowd, this seething press and bustle — not just from fear that Tashi might stir, but fear of discovery. How the Sagunites might react if someone found out what was being transported through their midst, she didn’t dare think.
‘Hana?’
She turned. Her father stood next to the stationary cart.
‘Might as well make use of the delay, I thought.’ He carried several newssheets. ‘It’d be useful to know what’s been reported, if anything.’
‘I’m busy.’ Hana stroked the crate. ‘Orc and Cass can read, can’t they?’
Ferman nodded, looked as though he might say something else, then walked back to the open carriage in front, where he handed the newssheets round to Stefanie and the Strandborn cousins. Hana suspected his reasons for trying to include her. Maybe he worried she saw Orc and Cass as usurpers for riding in the carriage; it must have occurred to him that any passer-by would assume them to be the Quallaces’ children, their northern colouring much more like his and Stefanie’s than Hana’s own olive skin and dark hair. She felt disappointed with her adoptive father for thinking she might be so insecure about her place in the family. She was too old for that.
She watched the fair heads of the cousins — the supposed cousins — bend over their reading, searching for news of the thousand deaths they had indirectly caused, of the warships destroyed by an abomination given physical existence only through some supernatural quality they possessed: the same quality by which Tashi’s demons had transformed him into a grotesque horror, as though in mockery of Hana’s efforts to save him.
Sometimes, she wished her new friends had never come within a thousand miles of her.
The jam took half an hour to clear, and they spent the same again following the rough course of the river through Saguna’s northern outskirts. Hana felt stiff and tired by the time the two vehicles rattled between the gateposts of The Cypresses and up the short drive. The shutters were open, so Mrs Baraktis must have received the telegram Ferman had sent from Carnega when they’d taken on coal. Beds would be ready, and water heated. An hour’s rest, Hana promised herself, and she would begin her work on Tashi.
The front door opened as they pulled up, and Mrs Baraktis appeared. Hana expected her to wait at the portal, with her usual chilly dignity; she was surprised and alarmed when the housekeeper picked up her skirts and ran across to the carriage.
‘Thank Harcassia you’re here, master!’
Ferman jumped down. ‘Mrs Baraktis, what is it?’
‘The doctor’s just left,’ she said. ‘He can’t do anything.’
‘Doctor?’ said Stefanie, climbing down after her husband. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Not me, mistress! He came yesterday morning, and now he won’t wake up!’
‘The doctor?’
‘No! No, the — no, I —’
‘Calm yourself,’ said Ferman. ‘Who came?’
‘Sir — your brother.’
A frown pulled Hana’s brow. Ferman looked baffled: he glanced round at the others, as though one of them might grasp a sense that he’d missed. ‘Jorik, you mean?’
‘You have only one brother,’ said Stefanie. ‘Show us,’ she told the housekeeper.
Hana slid herself off the cart, and followed as Mrs Baraktis led her parents through the hall and into the drawing room. A fire burned in the hearth, despite the warmth outdoors, but Hana chilled at what she saw. She barely recognised Jorik Quallace. The quick wit and enthusiasm that had animated his features the few times she’d met him were gone, replaced by absence and pain. He lay on a couch, shivering beneath a blanket, his head jerking from side to side. His red-blond hair was dark and curled with sweat, his forehead slick, his lips drawn partly back.
‘Fever?’ Stefanie’s voice was tight. She went over.
‘There’s no heat in him,’ said Mrs Baraktis.
Stefanie touched Jorik’s forehead. ‘Then why is he perspiring?’
Hana wondered that too. She had seen something like Jorik’s condition before, but that had been in the world she’d left behind. It couldn’t be here too.
‘The doctor couldn’t explain it,’ said Mrs Baraktis. ‘But the way it came on so sudden, and the way it happened …’
Hana noticed the small votives Mrs Baraktis had placed around the couch.
‘The way it happened?’ said Ferman.
‘I tried to do as he said, sir, but I’m only made of flesh, same as everyone —’
‘Speak more clearly,’ said Ferman. ‘What did he say for you to do? Why is he even here?’
The housekeeper smoothed her hands down her dress. ‘He came two nights ago.’
‘From Makassa?’
‘Yes. He said he expected you to return soon — I would have told him no, not for months, except your telegram came that day. And he said you might be with a monk.’
Hana’s chest squeezed.
‘A monk?’ said Stefanie. ‘Did he give a name?’
‘No, mistress. He just said he needed to speak to that monk, or if not, then to you, sir. He was in a terrible state. He told me he hadn’t slept for three nights, and must not sleep before your return. He ordered me not to let him.’
‘Heavens,’ said Ferman.
‘Whenever he was seated or resting, I was to watch over him,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I grew more weary than I’ve ever been.’ She sounded close to tears. ‘In the small hours last night, I had to answer a call of the body. When I returned a few minutes later, he was slumped over his book, and I couldn’t wake him, not with any talking or shaking. The doctor thought it exhaustion brought on by lack of sleep. He said to keep your brother warm and hope rest would bring him out of it. He’ll be back this afternoon, the doctor, and if there’s no improvement he’ll get him taken into the hospital.’
‘Did Jorik say why?’ asked Hana, words coming with difficulty from an empty-feeling chest. ‘Why he couldn’t be allowed to sleep?’
The housekeeper glanced at her with the same old look: if not quite hostility, then suspicion. ‘I asked, of course,’ she told Ferman. ‘He said knowing would put me in danger too.’
Ferman swallowed. ‘Exhaustion already working its effect, no doubt.’ He shook the sleeper’s shoulder. ‘Jorik, old man. You wanted to talk to me.’
‘And Shoggu,’ said Hana. ‘That must be who he meant. And this … I’ve seen this before. Or something like it.’
Ferman looked at her. ‘You think this is Daroguerre’s work?’
‘I hope not. But there must be a connection. With the island, I mean.’
‘But how did he even know about Shoggu?’ said Stefanie. ‘And if he did, why didn’t he know he was dead?’
‘He can tell us that when he wakes,’ said Ferman. ‘The way you freed Shoggu,’ he said to Hana, fixing his pale blue gaze on her. ‘Will that work here?’
‘I’ll try.’ It felt inadequate, but there was nothing else to say. She felt scared of the dependency the seriousness of his face placed on her. She had never known siblings. It alarmed her how much the sick man on the couch might mean to her father. Although she liked Jorik, he was not of her blood, just an outlying member of a family who’d taken her in. A family she could now repay — or fail to.
