Nevermor - (Book 1)

Chapter One

Nevermor - text copyright 2012 Lani Lenore

Chapter One

1873

1

Wren looked down at the tips of her shoes, closed her eyes and transported herself into her own past.

She imagined the large, familiar house that she’d once called home, which had the notches in the doorframe marking the progress of her growth since she was a child.  Her mother was in the other room, knitting mittens for the baby, and Henry was in the hall, making a mess with his jacks.  The thump of the rubber ball resounded down the wooden corridor, so that even their servant, Agatha, could hear it in the kitchen, where she was preparing tea.  Wren sought the smell of her father’s pipe that was still on the air, though he was away at work.  The heady aroma never left.  It saturated everything.

Wren could almost recall it – only almost.  She sniffed once as if she could catch a whiff of the memory, but it was just beyond the veil.  When she couldn’t quite immerse herself in it, she had no choice but to come back.

Taking in a deep breath as if to seal the images away – to place them back in a tidy corner of her mind where they had been preserved – she opened her eyes to see her reality.  When she looked up, she hadn’t managed to deliver herself.  No magic spell could take her back to her innocent youth.

Miss Nora’s Home for Wayward Children was not anything more or less than what was expected.  The gray walls, with their peeling paper, were patchy with water spots that started at the ceiling and spread out at the angles like an infection.  There was always a pervading smell of the thick coal smoke that covered London, billowing out from the chimneys of the factories that had taken over the East End.  As with all the other row houses and lofts, a thin layer of black dust covered every surface and never seemed to go away, no matter how much one wiped or fussed.  It was the only thing that seemed constant and eternal to the ones who lived here.

The Home wasn’t a palace, but it was a roof over the head and a bed to sleep in, as opposed to living on the streets with so many other unwanted children.  Wren knew this, and not a day went by that she didn’t have to remind herself that she appreciated it.

It was a Wednesday, but all of Miss Nora’s orphans – these forgotten children who seemed to be a class of society all their own – were dressed in their Sunday best.  They were excused from their schooling for this event: adoption day.  Wren had been through so many of these days before, and each time, she told herself that this might be the one that counted – the day that someone would want to take her home.

Just remember to smile at the decent ones and keep your head down when the riffraff pass, she coached herself.

Wren was in a simple dress that she had made herself, stitched by hand from basic cloth.  It hung limply on her thin frame and the seams were a bit crooked, but it made her look innocent and young – at least she always hoped for that.  There was no reason to draw attention to her nubile body or otherwise make herself look the whole of her fifteen years, for doing so might garner unwanted attention.  She didn’t want the wrong visitors to notice that she was pretty.  She was too close to marrying age to risk that.

She was holding Maxwell’s small hand in hers, her callused fingers against his smooth palm.  He was only four and needed her steady hand to keep him in place, but aside from that, she wanted to show the visitors that they were together.  They were blood siblings and she needed that message to be clear.

Henry was standing on the other side of her, looking sloppy as usual.  His brown hair was a bit too long but he wouldn’t allow her to cut it.  His clothes were too big – chosen from a collection that had been at the Home for years before they had come here.  He’d agreed to stand next to her, but insisted on his independence by refusing to hold her hand.  The idea of touching his own sister disgusted him like nothing else.  Such was his thinking at twelve.