My Mid-Life "Writis"

I had become so used to the smell of blood following me; that I had no idea what to do when it pooled on the street right in front of my shop. Do I run? Do I cry for help? The body was twisted, pelvis up but mouth on the ground. No one had seen anything. I had not heard anything. I could hear the notes hit by the people around me, not just the echos that had been chasing me for the past two years.

“Yes folks, move along, Newport Police will be along soon.” an orderly man shouted out over the screaming of others. I made no sound. The blood looked shockingly dark for such a brightly lit day. It was slowly soaking into the gravel of Thames. It was flowing from the open mouth, and as it kept losing more and more of the redness, and the skin looked to be a pale, almost peaceful, blue. He could not have been much older than thirty. I also noticed his shoes looked new. 

“Miss— Miss!!”

I turned to my left. An officer was waving at me. “Miss, please close up shop for the evening. We will be shutting down Thames Street until tomorrow.” The man then blew a whistle, still right next to me. I jumped back in defense. It was high, around an Eb 5.

“That’s right everyone! We will get this taken care of! Move!”

I tuned him out as the crowd began to be pushed along. Eb 5. Eb 5. 

I was shoved aside into a small alley between the shops. I watched as another man repositioned the body onto his back. There was still only blood pooling in his mouth. Both eyes were open. I never saw the bodies after death. The emptiness in those eyes bothered me. For some reason, it bothered me even more thar it bothered me.

Down the street, church bells began to ring, announcing it was five o’clock in the evening on a Friday night. I forced my way back through the crowd, and ignored the officers until I was able to reach my open shop door. I slammed it shut, locked, then proceeded down to Bellevue Avenue.

 Newport looked different than it did ten years ago. It looked different than five years ago. It looked different from last summer even. Mist Mechanics challenged the love of the historic Colonial styles. The influx of new money dragged along new craftsmen and vendors from not just New England, but the whole East Coast, and even some from Europe. 

The city was once again replacing the light lines along Memorial Boulevard, forcing me to detour. I twirled the skirts into one hand to hop over an unfinished flower line. Thames was full of people rushing in all directions, some to the scene, some away. The sun would be up for another two hours, so there would be plenty of time to watch the blood bake into the newly paved street.

The contoured face seemed to follow me passed Carroll Ave. My face felt the tightness the deceased had lost. Why was this bothering me? I had seen worse the past year. There have been desecrated animals, mutated children, and scarred humans. A dead stranger should be nothing. There were worse smells than that stuck to my skin.

I turned down a random street to try to get out of the way of another cart being pushed along the road. Perhaps I could have time to look over the water before going to the party? The tide was about to come in, and the east side of the island always seemed to smell better than the west. It was clean, full of fresh salt and warm air. It never smelled like blood.

The road was littered with a mix of wood, brick, and steel. Each spare parcel of land was being devoured up to build something else. Three years ago I was able to cut through this section to get home. Another secret route had been taken from me.

The general crowd shoved me back through Memorial, and the scourage appeared. Automobiles. The damnable, disgusting boxes hiccuped loudly off the sides of the street, blocking my access to almost all the of the alleys. Those automobiles could not even fit between the buildings, yet they insisted on pushing their way back there to park. I was trapped with everyone else. I looked around, for any way to get out of this.

Hammers pounded nails on the baseboards of the new shops springing up. Cars fought with horses, carriages, and people to determine who gets to go first on the road. The lines throughout the road crisscrossed. Everyone was going to nowhere. A line of cars, sleek and black, slowly inched forward in the same direction I was going.

I accepted that I had no choice but to let the slow shuffle take me, and tried when I could to dart between the wealthy ladies as they prattled about fashions, or the children chasing each other through the dusty streets. I was expecting it, just for a moment, for the surrounding sensations to tear my breath from my chest and force my heart to race.

Instead, another noise caught my attention. It had been softer throughout the morning shift, hit a few points during the day, and almost mocked me after the officer pushed me out of my shop.

The whistle sounded at an Ab4. It pulsed in my ear, trying to claw its way into my mind. I ducked out of the way of several larger men to close my eyes.

Definitely an Ab4. It was coming from my left— so southeast of me. Perhaps by only a few blocks.

There seemed to be little else in the area. The only pockets of energy hissing around were the mist pipes pulling the pressure through the city and the thrumming of people. I began to stroll towards the sound, the whistle growing louder with each step, but fluctuating in tempo. It was not one constant note. There were breaks in the hold. It sounded like a single flutist who had no time to breathe. I felt myself grin.

Sealing the power of a weak witch would be the perfect way to distract myself before the party.

I knew where I was heading. With the crowding of the city, there were few places where energy could be harvested fast enough without spectators noticing. One of them was about five minutes down Spring Street.

The small wooded area before me was ignored by the folks strolling along the opposite end of the road. A briny smell wafted through the trees— wet pine and salt. Despite that scent, there were no evergreen trees visible in the area. I fingered at my bracelet, it was growing warm as it tried to warn me.

I ignored the glamour and stepped right through the slightest glimmer of the wall. 

The air seemed to condense as the temperature dropped. My breath misted in the air. In my left hand, I drew out a small carving knife. In my right, I held a worn out bone talesman gifted to me when this whole mess started. There was no noise from outside the woods reaching me, only the frail Ab4.

My eyes began to scan the ground. There were small, inconspicuous scraps: a dead bird, bits of pine branches, and burnt wood. But as I rolled the bone in my hand, I could not spot signs of anyone producing that Ab4 whistle. Could the witch have sensed me, and left? 

I turned to my left, and with no warning, the whistle amplified. I fought an urge to scream from the shock, and could not stop myself before dropping my supplies and falling to me knees. I felt a sharp crunch as my knee ground into an abandoned pile of vials. My hands reached to cover my ears out of instinct. Heart racing, I scanned the area. Where could that bloody witch be? 

I struggled to get up. A pungent odor started to steam off of the burnt wood and mix with the cold air. The whistle continued to pulse throughout my body. I coughed, and fought the urge to gag as I tasted copper. I looked around, and there was still no shadow, no movement, nothing to indicate someone else was with me. Instead, I caught sight of a large symbol burned into the bark of a tree.

Damn it, this was a trap!

I clawed at the ground as I lifted the knife. Pressure from the air surrounded me, choking me. I murmured a prayer and flung the knife at the symbol.

It struck the top corner. But that was enough. The whistle wobbled, and shifted to an A#4. Damn, there must be another symbol.

The pressure began to lighten, and I took a deep breath. I cursed at myself for being so foolish. I had been tracking witches for over a year now. How was I not prepared for this? I searched the trees, quickly finding another symbol, this one carved. I limped over to the tree with my knife, yanked it out, and quickly slashed the symbol diagonally. It flared, unleashing a flame, and a word written in Greek remained, crossed out. 

I turned to head over to the other symbol. The smell from the burning pine still coating the air with the consistency of tar.

I slashed the second one as well, and it too ignited before fading into another Greek word. The whistle remained an A#4, but the volume regressed. 

Then, a pile of what looked to be leaves exploded.

Sulfur burned my nostrils, and I pushed myself off the ground. I stared at the ruptured canal. Energy pushed itself out. The ringing cascaded over the whistle. Ten feet before me, another symbol glowed with anger. I grasped at the bone talisman, and crawled to the rupture.

The ground beneath me hissed as the energy threatened to overload, growing hotter as I approached the rupture. I plunged the piece of bone into spot, and instantly, my ears popped. The pressure rose, then fell. The whistle shrieked its protest, before quieting out.

I groaned and forced myself to rise. I took my knife and crossed out the final symbol. Fortunately, it did not fight back. Another word in Greek. I tried to recall what little I knew of the alphabet and language.

“Destiny”, “redemption,” and— “coward”? were carved into the three trees. Coward? That made no sense.

A bell chimed. I grinned at the loud clang, until I remembered what it meant. Damn, I had an hour to report back. The Missus would kill me faster than any witch if I was late to work tonight.

I hate it when I bleed. The stains always bring up questions. Bruises can be written off by clumsiness. Scrapes are a simple consequence of work. But blood— blood beyond a pinprick is preventable. Blood can be evidence. Blood leaves a trail. Blood seems to be everywhere I’ve been today.

It is also a bitch to clean off a marble floor.

I tried not to think about the blood seeping down my stocking as I focused on the pipeline, now glowing a light blue, at the top of the ladder. It traced the cliff, dived from rock to rock, and the faint lighting travels along until it reached our shared target. It was a mix of old wealth and new power. It shined with the desire to innovate, yet desired to keep most everything exactly the way to had been for almost a century.

Bellevue Avenue.

And tonight, another season has begun. It was another reminder how the streets would be filling up with more and more people from up and down the Eastern coast, some as far west as Chicago, and perhaps even from France and England. Newport was the place for the rich to celebrate being wealthy. Each smirk they exchanged felt like a personal affront to those like me, so had to suppress each scowl until the night finally ended.

The bells from St. Augustine rang again. The ten minute walk had taken nearly thirty. I slowly traced my way around the mess of cars and carriages until I could see the small descending staircase. I could see cobalt bulbs glowing along the patio, and the hum of the Mist Machine working at full power rang as I opened the door. Madame’s ball would begin at eight-o-clock. I had twenty three minutes to get upstairs, change, and get back downstairs. Normally, that would not be an issue. Normally, I did not have glass shifting deeper into the cartilage of me knee with every damned step.

There were six steps into the hidden hallway, and another fifteen to get to the laundry room. I dug through to try to find a clean dress for the night. Perhaps I could avoid the trip. It was one hundred and twenty-seven steps, followed by eighty-four stairs, and then fourteen final steps, before reaching my room. Add onto the trip back down to the ballroom—

I grimaced, and turned. I began to count the steps. Thirteen and I was passed the storage room on my left. In another seven, I would be next to the kitchen, followed by the Mist Machine calibrator.

“Cher!” Jacques’s voice burst out as soon as I began to step through the hallway. I poked my head in the constantly open door. His large frame was sweating, his focus was on seasoning a large roast in front of him. Somehow, this man always knew when I was nearby,

“You tryin’ to see if you can finally get fired? Or do you want to get us all fired!” He switched from the roast to a large pot of stew. “You know the Missus lets them folks in starting at seven forty-five, so your ass needs to be out there playing by seven-thirty. Your harpist is going crazy. That old man is a coot, that he is. He hates having a girl playing, especially a young girl like yourself. You complained about being bored, so you get yourself more shit. Miss Ester is throwing hell waiting for you to double check her stitches! I do not care if Satan himself is out there! You needs to be—” he turned to look at me, and stopped mid shout. The anger in his black eyes dropped and was replaced with warmth and concern. His nose flexed, the concern becoming more prominent as he looked me over.

“Oh cher—” he said in a softer voice. He must have smelled the blood. Jacques pushed the chair towards me.

“‘allo, Jacques,” I replied and tried to grin, but I could feel the grimace I expressed. He helped me to sit, and then dragged a stool over with his good arm. We did not speak as I fought to lift my leg. My knee did not want to straighten, and his bad elbow refused to bend.

Without a word on my lack of responsibility, or Jacques’s missing chivalry, he pushed the skirt up. Red lines traced the front of the stocking, and a browning patch pooled at the ankle. Flecks of glass glittered on the left and beneath the knee. Scabs were starting to form. I pried the shoe of with my other foot, and yanked off the stocking, ripping it. I bit back a curse. I would need to fix that.

I took my first look at the damage. Golden pus seeped out around a large shard. Jacques pinched the skin to force the shard out. He ran his thumb along the fluid, then smeared it between his fingers. Viscosity, he had told me once before, was an easy way to judge what to use when playing with bodily fluids. He clicked his tongue before rising to head to a small, almost hidden, cupboard.

I looked my leg over. There was little else for me to do. The outer side was scraped, and the burning wood had left silver lining from the ash. I also caught sight of a bump on my right forearm, and a mirroring one on my left wrist. I flexed and cracked my joints, nothing but my knee ached as the adrenaline began to wear off. I looked back to my knee, and began to pick the larger shards out of the flesh, half listening to the banging of drawers and bilingual muttering.

He always had questions. He did not ask. He sat back down, and together, we returned my leg to his lap. A cool-smelling grease was rubbed into my knee, burning slightly. I inhaled. Tweezers started to click as he plucked the glass.

“Witches” was all I could think of to say. Jacques looked up at me, his follow-up question written on his face.

“There was a murder on Thames today. I could not get the sight out of my head, and I fell for some trap. There has to be one in town who knows about me.”

Jacques looked up in shock.

“Cher?”

“No, I don’t know what happened. It was just—”

“Miss Kinlan!”

“Shit,” I said, and tried to remove my leg from the chef’s lap.

“Miss Kinlan!” Mrs. Clayworthe called out again, her heels clacking on the cement floors. She strolled into the kitchen, her well-styled hair entering first, her train held high in her hand.

I did not bother to rise with Jacques. My knee popped at the sudden drop.

“Where in heavens have you been, child? Ester needs more powder, and I need you to discreetly add back up sheet music to the piano for the girls’ solos tonight. Have you seen Mr. Clayworthe? He said his suit fit him, but I still need you to see if any emergency mending can be done. Honestly, child, for all we have done for you and your mother—” her eyes met with Jacques, not yet focusing on me. “I assume the first courses are prepared. Is there anything the maid can help with? What about the wines? Are they properly chilled.

“Yes, madame,” Jacques said with a bow. “All the food is being kept warm at the trolley. Your husband is a genius. A few years ago we would have been struggling to keep the fires high enough to roast without burning, but this is perfection.” His accent had vanished from his voice. “But Madame, Miss Kinlan may not be able to assist you at the moment.”

“What in heavens?” She finally turned to see me in the chair, my bloody knee still exposed. “Gracie?” her voice thawing as she approached me. “Are you alright, child? What on Earth happened?”

“A mere trip, marm,” I replied. “There is some chaos down by the salon, and unfortunately I was unable to get out of the way.” Which was not a lie— per se.

“The murder?” She removed a glove before letting her fingers skim my knee. “That was right outside of your mother’s shop?”

“Yes, and while I was trying to get out of the way, I was shoved over a yard liner and my knee caught on the metal lines. Mr. DeGuis is assisting me now. I’ll be dressed and on the floor the moment we complete wrapping it, I am sorry, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Clayworthe looked at me, and with a steady face, but questioning eyes, she rose. “Well, I shall get the maids to finish up with the dresses, and Mr. Clayworthe will simply need to be discreet if there is any issue with his handkerchief.” The aloof coldness I had grown accustomed to for years returned. “I will buy you time, but you will need to apologize to the men waiting for you. I do, however, need you to assist Mrs. Daughtry before you arrive.”

“Yes Madame,” I bow my head. She looked me over once more but left without saying another word.

First draft, not even formatted yet.