Chapter One

Cocooned within his favourite blanket, the elderly man rested, eyes closed, nestled by the crackling fireplace. The deep obsidian hair of his youth had morphed to a mantle of purest white. The smooth skin he once boasted now resembled crumpled tissue paper, its intricate network of lines and crevices narrating the story of his journey. He thought back over his long life and a smile of satisfaction creased his weathered countenance. 
In the stillness, he could hear the children race down the hall, stop, whisper amongst themselves, then quietly tiptoe into the room. He opened one eye and smiled at them. 
“It’s okay guys. You can come in. I’m not asleep.”
“Yay,” they said as they formed a semi-circle on the floor in front of him. He raised his recliner to the upright position as the littlest one ran to him and cried, “Up Gwampa, up”. He lifted her onto his lap and cuddled her in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his chest.
“And what, pray tell, may I do for you ladies and gentlemen on this glorious day?”
“Tell us the story about the witches and the faeries again, Grandpa. Please. It’s my favourite,” said Evie, bouncing up and down.
“It’s my favourite, too,” whispered her grandpa.
“Me, too, Gramps. Tell us about the witches’ flight to Fairy Island,” said Oliver, bouncing up and down on his feet.
“Yeah, and how the king chased them with his sword trying to kill them,” said Alex swishing an imaginary sword.
The old man laughed as he began his tale. “Then let’s start there. It was a dark and stormy night, a long time ago…

 

Awaiting the lamplighter's arrival for his customary nocturnal chore, Mayfield street remained veiled in a shroud of mist, darkness and silence. Only the echoing sound of the driver’s whip and the clattering of the horses' hooves resonated through the damp air. The carriage stopped at number fifty-seven and a cloaked figure descended from the vehicle into the fog. The front door opened casting a warm glow onto the courtyard as the wraith darted around the puddles and through the entrance.
“She’s in her room, Milady,” said the impeccable butler.
“Thank you, Bennett,” responded the young woman as she ran past, tossing her dampened cape to him. Swiftly she ascended the stairway to the tower room in the dwelling she had called home her entire life. Throwing open the door, she called “Mother, you must help me. I’m in desperate trouble.”
An older woman, dressed in her nightwear turned from the altar where she had been performing her nightly ritual and calmly spoke. “Everloure! What on earth? Why are you here and not at court?”
“Oh, Mother,” sobbed Everloure. “I had to escape as quickly as I could. Something awful has happened.”