Chapter 3, part 1

"There she is!" Thom grabbed Beck's sleeve and pulled him along through the crowds, his messenger bag bulking with apples. Beck sighed audibly, but not audibly enough, apparently. Still limping slighty, he barely managed to keep up as Thom skipped past stand after stand full of the most delicious looking exotic foods.

The people in this city appeared to save up all year to be able to spend that little bit more around Christmas. Pineapple, Moroccan spices and fancy fabrics were getting more attention than usual, even from the poor plebs. The carpenter booths were cramped with the most beautiful ornamented crucifixes. Thom himself had been forced to spend the past week carving skinny Jesus figures out of cross-shaped blocks of wood for their little shop. It wouldn't have been so bad, had he been religious, or even remotely interested in the Church. As it was, it seemed that Thom was born with this default and would have to live with the fact that everyone around him was absolutely certain that someone up there in the clouds was looking at them, judging them and taking mental notes to bring them up there or throw them into a giant bonfire that was going on under their very feet.

No. Not for Thom. Thom had seen newly born brothers and sisters die in his arms, and they weren't going to heaven at all. They were put in a hole in the ground. Wasn't that where the bonfire was? Where hell was? He had never been more sure of anything in his life than the fact that these tiny little creatures, born into the world only a few hours, weeks or months, hadn't done anything wrong yet. If there was a heaven, they'd go up there. No matter what his mum tried to tell him, that only the soul would go up (but how would they live?) and spend forever in the Lord's Kingdom, he wasn't buying it. The only proof they had was the writings in a very old book and some paintings. But anyone could learn how to write, all the rich people could, and even Thom knew how to paint.

He and Beck had spent more than a few afternoons trying to come up with alternate possibilities, some as silly as the Church's, some very serious ones that would make them start to look at everything in a new way, and some so stupid and absurd they'd still double over laughing when one of them brought it up.

When Thom and Beck weren't trying to come up with a new religion, they were busy making the rich people's lives miserable. It was the only way they knew how to deal with the overwhelming feeling of injustice. It just wasn't fair that they'd have to work fourteen hours every day to survive in this city, whilst others had nothing better to do than show off their precious clothes and take their snotty little children out for a walk, looking down on them as if they were scum. Well, to be fair, Beck didn't really work either, though if you asked him he'd tell you he worked twenty-four hours a day to keep himself alive. He just chose not to make an honest wage practising a profession, and to steal other people's wages instead. Thom simply had no choice but to work in the family's carpentry. He'd learned how to chop wood from a ridiculously early age and at seven he'd made his first bedside table. Now, age fifteen, he was a full employee under his father's severe supervision. The results of that supervision were visible all over Thom's body in the form of scars, bruises and the occasional cigarette burn. Thom never complained, not with him around, but he was a chronic thinker and had spent enough time contemplating his life versus the upper class's. The only thing it gave him was a clear view of this rotten society, soaked with injustice. So every time Thom and Beck were together, a tiny bit of wrong in the world would be righted.

Like right now.

"Thom, slow down, my ank-"

"Oh, shut it, you big girl, that was ages ago."

"It was only last month!"

"Shh!" Thom turned around and ostentatively laid his finger over his lips, frowning. The bright green hooded cloak was no more than two people away, slowly and hesitantly making its way past the market stalls. Easy peasy, Thom thought, as he eyed the basket that was hanging from an arm, full of the most beautiful apples. He knew why he always followed her, she had an eye for quality. Glancing around one last time, he positioned himself right next to the basket and started quickly replacing her load with his own rotten apples, filling his messenger bag with what he and Beck would be feasting on later.

Thom was prepared to bolt as soon as she'd turn around, but he wasn't prepared for the arm grabbing his, without her body having turned an inch. The cloak fell off and two of the darkest eyes stared furiously into his. The girl's face had been hidden by the hood, her cloak put on backwards, and her arm was folded behind her back, holding the basket. She'd been watching him through the thin fabric of the cloak, Thom realised with a jolt. And despite being caught, a slow smile spread on his face. This lady was smart. The smile soon faded when she opened her mouth to yell.

"You! It's been you all along, hasn't it? Stealing my apples every time, replacing them with rotten ones? You rankish, cow-skilled scullion!"

Thom heard Beck snort loudly at this insult. He was about to turn around to him when a small hand grabbed his chin.

"Are you even listening to me? You have no idea what you've been doing, have you? You've been toying with my very life! My job depends on this; without it I'm nothing, I'd live on the streets!"

A crowd was gathering around them and normally Thom would've just run away, not caring in the slightest about whoever he robbed, not if they were wearing clothes that were worth double the house he lived in. Now, however, he was staring into the young girl's eyes, darker than he'd ever seen a pair, who were tearing up despite the anger in them and her voice, and she furiously wiped at them. And for the first time, Thom felt bad. He actually felt bad for her. He hadn't realised that he had in fact been playing with her life, that this was her job, rather than a display of status.

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... to... look, I'll give you back your apples," Thom said, dumbfounded, and started to pick out the good apples from his bag, but the girl jerked it out of his hands and started doing it herself. Thom just stood there, frozen.

"Don't you ever dare coming near me again or I'll have you dismembered, you newt-spotted hayseed! I know what you look like now!" were her last words as she stomped off, clutching her basket in her arms, long black hair flapping on her back with every step.

It was quiet for a moment, except for the crowd around Thom muttering disapprovingly. There was a hand on his back and then a voice in his ear.

"Damn, she's hot when she's mad."

This seemed to make Thom gain consciousness. He turned around, defeated, and quickly took off in the other direction, leaving Beck, his weak ankle and his witty retorts behind at the market.

***

It was the day before Christmas when he spoke to her again. For the past two weeks Thom had been trying to make it up to her, figuring out what her route was, waiting for her at the corner of the street. The first time he thought he could just go over and say he was sorry, but she quickly changed direction and left him standing there. The second time he brought a flower. Since there weren't any flowers around in the winter, he'd carved one out of a leftover piece of wood. It had taken him over an hour. She didn't even look at it, just pushed past him as he quickly recited his rehearsed speech. He'd spent the last couple of days trying to figure out what he could do to make it up to her, and came up with only one skill left unused: his voice.

There's a gap in between
There's a gap where we meet
Where I end and you begin

He'd seen her walking in his direction, but didn't look at her as she approached. He just kept on singing, trying to ignore the other people who were staring at this crazy boy, singing absolute nonsense at no one. He closed his eyes and kept going.

I'm sorry for us
Dinosaurs roam the earth
The sky turns green
Where I end and you begin

When he finally opened his eyes, she was standing right in front of him. Her head was tilted in a curious fashion.

"Where did you learn that?" she asked.

Thom blinked.

"Learned what?"

"That." She waved her hand in his direction. "To sing like that."

"I don't know. I just do." Thom paused, then added, "I'm really sorry about what I did. I put your life in danger, I know that now. It was wrong, I won't do it again."

She looked away, uneasy.

"Please," Thom pleaded. "Please say you'll forgive me. I haven't slept properly ever since."

Thom didn't know why it meant so much to him, but it did. The girl looked up, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"I forgive you," she started, and Thom felt a wave of relief washing over him, "if you keep singing."

Thom laughed and tried not to blush too hard.

"Alright," he said. She likes music, he thought. My music.

And so he sang on, and she stood there, looking at him as if she could read him as he poured out his heart. It was one of the single most intimate things he'd ever done.

When the song ended, she looked up at the church tower and hastily said her goodbyes, they would be expecting her home soon to help with the Christmas dinner.

"Where do you live?" Thom asked.

"I'd rather not say. Besides, you probably don't even know where it is," she said, waving him off.

"Come on," Thom begged, "try me."

"You don't even know my name!"

"Then tell me your name, too, if that's what's keeping you from telling me," Thom smiled.

She seemed to think for a moment, then went up to him and brought her mouth to his ear.

"D'Haene-Steenhuyse," she whispered softly.

"What??" Thom cried out, baffled. D'Haene-Steenhuyse was the residence of the Groenewaudt family, one of the wealthiest in the city. The fine fabric of her green cloak had revealed a certain status, and her rosy, rather plump cheeks had given away that she was well-fed, but this?

"Wait!" he called, but she was already skipping off.

"Your name!" Thom yelled.

She did a quick pirouette, let out a high-pitched "Natasha!" and disappeared behind the corner with her basket.

Thom spent two more minutes staring at the spot where her cloak had left his sight, something between a laugh and a look of total disbelief on his face.

Chapter Two part 2

Jonny was bored. Bored out of his skull. He'd read every book in the house (his brother had taken quite a few on his trip) and played every game there is to play with a single player. He'd played his lute for two hours straight, until his fingertips were so sore he couldn't press a single string without wincing. And there was just nothing else to do. Music class was on Fridays, history on Tusedays and writing and reading on Wednesdays. Since it was a Thursday, that left Jonny with nothing but staring outside into the garden, watching thin layers of ice melt and trickle down from the leaves under a pale autumn sun.

He missed Cozzie more than he would admit. Missed him for his relentless banter, his lively company around the house, even his dismissive attitude when he was doing something important. Like reading. The fact that he couldn't annoy his brother or be annoyed by him, was probably the worst.

Fuck it. He gave up. He needed to talk to someone. His mother wouldn't be home for another two hours, and so he made his way downstairs. To the kitchen. The kitchen, that was forbidden territory for them. The children were not supposed to mingle with the downstairs staff. To avoid bad influence, or something. Jonny didn't care, he'd do anything to be entertained right now. Even getting into trouble would still be *something*.

He opened the heavy wooden doors and descended the small stone stairs, following the twist they made and running his hand along the clay wall, more out of curiosity than for keeping his balance.
Another set of wooden doors appeared in front of him, and he slowly pulled them open.

Jonny had seen the kitchen before, but that was ages ago. Also, there was no one inside and everything was clean and polished. As it was, the small area seemed crammed, even though only four people were around. Five, including Jonny. Food and kitchen tools were strewn around; three raw chickens were spread out on the table, a bowl of stuffing next to them. There were all sorts of vegetables, being cut by two girls. Probably Agnes and Clara, Jonny remembered, from overheard conversations with his mother to other servants. An older, rather plump woman was standing in front of the huge fireplace, which, together with the large wooden table possibly occupied about 80% of the kitchen space. Machtelt, as her name was, was wearing a big white apron. Well, white. It was covered in fat stains and something brown that was probably blood. The fireplace was embedded in a brick and mortar construction, and a giant cauldron was steaming above it. Lower to the fire, on a trivet, entire potatoes were roasting.

Despite the chimney above the fire, the kitchen was smoky, which blurred Jonny's vision a bit. Thus, when one of the ladies let out a high-pitched yelp of surprise, followed by a rather loud thump, he couldn't really see who it was, at first. The three people in the room seemed to focus their attention to somewhere else than Jonny, though, and he took a step forward to see what was going on on the other side of the kitchen. He was surprised to see yet another girl standing there, staring at him with big eyes, her arms open as if she'd just dropped something. And yes, when Jonny looked down, he saw a large basket full of fruit on the floor, half of its content across the rough tiled floor. He looked back to the girl, who was eyeing Machtelt with a confused expression. Machtelt, who had just spotted him and was quickly taking off her dirty apron and talking rather fast:

"Oh! Sir, I hadn't seen you come in! I am so sorry - girls, stand up and take off your aprons, where are your manners?? - how are you, Sir? I hope everything's alright, Sir? Do you need anything, Sir? If there are any complaints, I can assure you -"

"No! No complaints, nothing like that. I'm fine, by the way, thank you. I just... I came down to..." Jonny tried to think of a good reason to stroll into the kitchen at random and tread the stern regulations of the etiquette without so much as a warning. Unsurprisingly, he failed at this and just sighed.

"I'm just so bored. Mother is out and I'm here alone. I didn't mean to disturb you, I apologise. Would it be okay if I... stay here for a while? I won't say anything, I promise. Just pretend I'm not here."

The four ladies stared at him, and Jonny felt his face go red. This was a bad idea. Maybe if he went up again they could go on pretending this had never happened. Then Machtelt spoke.

"But.. Sir, are you sure? This is, I mean, the Lady would not appreciate it at all, she would not tolerate it if I allowed this-"

"Well she's not here, is she? I promise I won't say a word. I just want to watch. Have something more interesting to watch than the garden. And please call me Jonny."

Machtelt sighed in defeat. She looked at her girls. Then at the cauldron behind her. Then at Jonny again.

"Alright, Sir, if you insist. But it is out of the question that I would refer to you with your first name, Sir, I'm sorry. You can sit down here, if you like, and Natasha will get you whatever you want. Natasha? Pick up that basket, girl, quick. Give this young man something to drink and eat. I have to get back to work, if you don't mind, Sir?"

"Oh, of course not, Madam, as I said, you can just pretend I'm not here. I don't mean to bother you with anything."

Machtelt blushed a little at Jonny's 'Madam', but bent her knees in a slight bow - "Sir." - and finally turned around, put on her apron again and started rummaging in one of the cupboards. A whiff of spices spread over the kitchen, which made Jonny close his eyes for a moment and sniff the air.

Natasha, apparently still not quite over the shock, had filled her basket again with the lost fruit and put it in the corner. She came up to Jonny, a bit hesitant.

"Would you like something to drink, Sir?"

Now that she'd come out of the smoke, Jonny go a proper look at her. She had long shiny and deep black hair, the front chopped off in a fringe. Her skin was of a slightly darker colour than his. Her nose indicated that she probably had foreign roots. Her language, however, didn't give a single hint. Her Dutch was as Dutch as Machtelt's. The typical accent of a serving class Flemish girl.

"Um. I don't know. What do you have?"

Natasha looked questioningly at Machtelt, but the cook was too busy with dinner. Clara and Agnes had gone back to chopping leek and garlic, too, so no help there, either.

"Um. There's tea, or water of course, or some orange juice if you like, I have fresh oranges from the market, straight from Spain -"

"Orange juice sounds nice, thank you," Jonny said softly, feeling like much more of a burden than he would've liked to be.

Natasha retreated to the other end of the table and started cutting the oranges, occasionally glancing at him from under her fringe. Jonny wished he had a fringe to hide behind, too. He promptly decided to grow one.
The kitchen turned out to be a rather cosy area, after the initial strained and uneasy silence. Clara and Agnes's chattering gradually became audible for Jonny and Machtelt was humming a tune whilst stirring a giant mass of what was probably soup and occasionally adding spices, a lump of butter or the remaining meat and bones of what was once the inside of the chickens. Soon Natasha put a mug of fresh orange juice in front of him, mumbling a quiet "here you go, Sir" and retreating to the corner of the room to rummage in her fruit basket. A moment later she took out a few apples, looking at them with a strange expression, a cross between anxiety and anger, and turned to the cook.

"Machtelt, it happened again! I swear I didn't pick these, I inspected each one a long time before I put it in my basket, I swear to you, please believe me!" Her voice wavered a bit as she showed the apples to Machtelt. The cook wiped her hands on her apron and took one from the girl's hands. Agnes and Clara looked up nervously.

"For Heaven's sake, Natasha, will you start taking care of the Lady's goods!" She quickly glanced at Jonny at the last words. "I couldn't possibly ask for money to buy new ones, you'll have to cut off the bad parts. You know the rules: no dinner for you tonight."

Natasha nodded.

"Of course. I'm so sorry, it won't happen again, I promise."

"That's what you said last time," Machtelt said irritatedly.

The girl sat herself at the table next to Agnes, in front of Jonny, at which Agnes moved her stuff over to the other chair, away from her. Natasha didn't look up, but started cutting the apples in a skilled way, dodging the brown and rotten pieces and throwing them on a pile that was growing faster than the pile with the good parts. She looked utterly miserable, and Jonny felt a wave of pity for her.

"What happened? With the apples, I mean?" he asked her.

She looked up, a bit taken aback, but started talking.

"I don't know, really. The last three times I went to the market I came home with apples like these. I didn't buy them like that. Especially today I made sure they were the finest apples around, I spent ages picking them."

She added in a low voice, so that Machtelt couldn't hear: "Clara and Agnes think they might be cursed. Machteld won't hear of it, though."

Jonny's eyes widened. He hadn't thought of that possibility.

"But... they look like regular apples, only gone bad," he offered.

"I know. I don't know what to do." She waited, then pleaded, "please don't tell this to the Lady."

"I won't, I won't," he assured her, not even having expected the request in the first place.

All four resumed their work and after a while started talking to Jonny. They'd answer his questions in further detail than he had asked for and end up talking among each other about something entirely unrelated.

Jonny completely forgot the time, until suddenly the entire kitchen started vibrating and shaking. He had no idea what's going on, but it quickly became clear.

"The Lady's carriage! Quick, Sir, please go back upstairs. We aren't looking for trouble."

Jonny hastily got up, and before he bolted upstairs, thanked all of them for the nice time and the orange juice. Natasha smiled a shy smile, and Machtelt added:

"If you'd like to come back sometime, you're most welcome, Sir, but for now it would be best if the Lady didn't know about it. I hope you understand, Sir."

"Of course, Madam."

"Oh please call me Machteld, Sir, madam doesn't suit me," she blushed.

"Only if you call me Jonny."

"I couldn't possibly, Sir!"

"Jonathan, then," he said hastily, then ran up the stairs two at a time, smiling.

Chapter Two part 1

"What took you so long? I thought you were lying in the gutter somewhere. Or worse, that you'd forsaken your Father." Beck smirked as they quickly manoevered away from the herd of people that was streaming out of the Saint Nicholas church.

"I would never!" Thom replied, pretending to be offended. "It was your fault, by the way. What was that? My mother beat me out of bed with the broom, said I'd ignored her three times before."

Beck laughed his breathy, deep laugh, and explained.

"I got it off my friend at the harbour. It was just a sample, if I want more I'll have to pay. Stuff's all the way from the east, apparently."

"Cool," Thom nodded.

As if on cue, they slowed their pace as they neared the square. This was the tricky part. Even dressed in their Sunday tunics, both boys still looked very much like they didn't belong in a fifty yard radius around the Saint Bavo cathedral. Least of all on a Sunday. A passing carriage made for the perfect disguise; crouching behind the giant wooden wheels, they slowly made their way across the square and into the narrow passage between the giant cathedral walls and the posh, ornamented stone houses next to it. As they heard the bells chime all the way up in the tower, they increased speed and quick as a flash started climbing the scaffolding that was leaning against the grey stone wall in front of them, to the left side of the entrance.

Beck and Thom watched behind a veil of jute as people started filing out under them, flooding the square with their overdone lacy dresses and heavy coats all the way to the ground and ridiculously big hats made of rolled up fabric. Beck reached both hands in his pockets.

"Are you ready?" he whispered.

"Not yet!" Thom hissed back. "Wait for the bishop."

After another few moments, Beck got impatient.

"Let's do it already, people are leaving!"

Just then, the bishop left the cathedral, surrounded by four priests. He had a large white hat on his head, decorated with shiny gold in the form of a cross. Thom leaned over to Beck.

"Bonus points if you get one in the hat."

Beck sniggered.

"Deal. Let's do it."

Simultaneously, they grabbed the coins from their pockets, pushed aside the veil and threw them out over the square. Instantly, women started screeching as men instinctively ducked down. Beck and Thom watched as they saw them gaping at the ground, then greedily starting to pick up as many coins as possible before anyone else would realise what it was. Some women were grabbing the front of their dresses, using them as a makeshift bag for the coins their husband was collecting. Just then someone shouted, "they're fake!" and people started to inspect and then drop their treasure in defeat. As they were brushing off their clothes and composing themselves, the attention turned from the ground towards the sky, where the coins came from. At this point, the bishop turned his head and looked straight at Thom and Beck, a furious, ugly expression painted on his face.

"Get them!" he yelled, pointing a fat stubby finger at the scaffolding, where the two boys startled, their laughter dying down as they saw the four priests starting to come after them.

"Run!"

Thom grabbed Beck's sleeve and pulled him along, running down the length of the scaffolding, easily dodging cement baskets and jumping over mortaring tools. The wooden construction ran all the way to the back of the cathedral, and just when they were nearly there, Beck tripped. He fell face-first onto the floorboards and let out a cry of pain. Thom silently cursed him, but pulled him up and threw Beck's arm over his shoulder.

"Ankle?"

Beck moaned.

"Yeah."

"You're going to need to climb down very quickly. Do not use your bad foot, you'll need it to limp. They're right behind us."

"Shit." Beck winced as he started to climb down the back of the scaffolding after Thom.

"They're here! It's that kid from last time!" someone shouted from behind the corner, and Thom saw a man in a black robe running towards him.

He grabbed Beck from where he hung onto the wooden poles, a few feet above the ground, and threw him across his shoulder. Thank God Beck was hardly any bigger than him, let alone, heavier, Thom thought as he scurried towards the river as fast as he possibly could with an extra hundred-plus pounds on his back. Disappearing behind a street corner, he accelerated, knowing he had to increase the distance between them now that they couldn't see where he was going. Arriving at the riverside, he quickly threw his friend into the high grass and threw himself on top of him, clutching his palm over the other boy's mouth to silence his cry.

They lay there for what seemed to be ages, gasping for breath, chests heaving between them, eyes wide and ears open. They could still hear their chasers muttering in the distance, until the last one gave up. Beck tried to peel Thom's hand off his face, but Thom made a quick little hip movement which made Beck gasp, widen his eyes even more and lie still under him.

"They might pretend to have gone, but wait around a corner or something," Thom whispered in Beck's ear. They were bastards, but clever ones, he mused, thinking of the previous time he'd been in this position. Well, not exactly this position, he thought, and looked at Beck. His cheeks were all rosy and blond curly strands were sticking to his sweaty forehead. Big blue eyes were looking straight into his, and he felt a familiar stir in his groin. He shifted a bit and stopped immediately. Could it... Was this having the same effect on Beck? Thom wasn't sure, but the way in which Beck was looking at him, eyelashes lowering down to his lips every other moment, probably answered the question. This was a bad idea. No, a Bad Idea. A Very Bad Idea, in fact. This was Beck. Beck.

But it wouldn't be a bad idea if there wasn't an idea to begin with, and Thom couldn't say he was very surprised when, the moment he peeled his hand away from Beck's mouth, that very mouth ended up on his own in the blink of an eye. Thom's brain must have shorted out for a moment, because when it started functioning again it appeared that his mouth was actively participating in quite a rough, sloppy kiss. With Beck. Thom tried to peel away, but just then Beck did something with his teeth that made him emit a small high-pitched noise in his throat, a noise Beck seemed to like, gathering from the involuntary buck of his hips. This in turn made Thom's knee jerk, and Beck broke away, face screwed up in agony as he bit his lip to refrain from emitting anything louder than a close-mouthed moan.

"Oh, shit, sorry," Thom apologised and quickly sat up. Beck immediately clutched his ankle as Thom scanned the environment for angry men in black robes. As they were nowhere to be seen, he turned his attention to his friend, who obviously needed help. And who he just kissed, oh God. He'd kissed Beck. Beck had kissed him. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. As much as he wanted to get out of here, he couldn't leave a cripple boy lying in a ditch, really.

"C'mon, let me get you home."

Chapter One part 2

It was well past breakfast time when Jonny woke up. The curtains were already opened, which meant that Marie had already made one or possibly more attempts at waking him from his coma. Jonny groaned and threw the duvet back over his head. He shouldn't have stayed up so late, he knew that. But he couldn't ignore the sudden rush of creativity, he'd had all this music in his head that had to get out, and it was entirely too late to grab his lute and try it out. So he'd written it down. He didn't really know all of the names of the notes he was hearing, but he tried the best he could to describe them and make himself remember them the next morning. Thinking of it now, he couldn't really remember the melody. Curiousness took over and, shielding his sensitive eyes from the bright sunlight streaming through the double door windows, he went to the corner of his bedroom, feet sinking into the dark red carpet, and grabbed the lute case.

"Oh, you're up then. Good morning, Jonathan." Marie had come in, probably sent by his mother this time.

Jonny just grumbled something not quite clear, but definitely with an 'm' in it.

"Breakfast is already cleared, but yours is kept in the kitchen for now. Shall I bring it up or would you rather just eat lunch in an hour? Miss Allen will be joining you at lunch, since rehearsal is straight after."

"Oh, fantastic," sighed Jonny. "I'll skip the breakfast, Marie, but thank you."

The more appetite he had, the more time he could spend having food in his mouth, which gave him an excellent excuse to not talk to Lily. The reason why she was chosen to sing at this recital still wasn't exactly clear to Jonny. No doubt his mother's idea. Whether it was intentional or not, she had a knack of finding kids for her son to hang out with, who were not only completely different from anything Jonny was like, they were also either terribly boring or extremely obnoxious.

However much Jonny would've liked to call Lily both, he had to admit she couldn't be labeled boring. For starters, she talked non stop. It usually wasn't all that interesting, but people seemed to like her animated chattering and apparently enjoyed the challenge of trying to squeeze in a few words of their own. The interesting part, which was, to Jonny's self-admitted shame, the worst, was that she was a terrible gossip. No matter how much he despised her, he couldn't stop himself from listening to the stories of this or that family tragedy, intrigue or felony. And she talked of foreign places as if she'd walked the streets herself, although Jonny was sure she hadn't been anywhere near yet, being only thirteen. Funny how she always managed to leave out the stories with a happy ending, too. What he absolutely couldn't stand, though, was that glint in her eye when she talked about people under her. People down in the lower parts of the city, around the market, and the people who worked in the harbour, but also her own servants. She treated them as if they were dirt, just like her mother did. The servants at the Allen house always seemed tired and sad to Jonny.

Jonny sighed a second time, unpacked his lute and quietly closed the door. His notebook, a gift from Ed and naturally a beautiful piece of art on its own, was spread out on the sheets as he sat down and tried to recreate last night's ideas.

"What in the name of the Lord is that?" Lily was standing in the doorway, her arms folded and a mocking expression on that coquettish face of hers.

"Sod off," Jonny said, without much heat.

"Do you call that music? Is it one of your own 'compositions' again, perhaps?" The way in which she said the word made Jonny's toes curl.

"I didn't expect you to understand it, Lily," he retorted, not looking up as he tried to tune a string. It was high time Luigi taught him how to do it properly; lutes were near impossible to tune.
Lily snorted.

"Believe me when I say I've had the best music education in the entire city, I know what it's supposed to sound like. And that is not it. It sounded as if you were confusing two melodies."

"It sounded confusing? Great, that was what I was going for. It's called 'Lily', by the way." Jonny smiled politely.

"I'm telling your mum," she answered smugly. Jonny's mouth went dry.

"You are bloody well not telling her anything," he said quickly, hoping his glance was enough to make her change her mind.

"Oh aren't I? What makes you think that I would listen to you?"

"I could make you mess up at the recital," Jonny said calmly. Here eyebrow lifted, so he continued. "I could start in a different key so you wouldn't be able to reach that high note, or I could decide to stop and let you continue on your own. Or I could -gasp - confuse two melodies."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Do I look like I care about Lord Vanhaemelen or his son's return from wherever-it-was? Besides, I'd gladly take any punishment after seeing you struggle to keep your tone for longer than one measure -"

"Miss Allen, Jonathan, lunch is being served," Marie announced. Lily lifted her chin, turned on her heels and sashayed out of the room. As Jonny walked past Marie out the door, she gave him a small wink, which lightened Jonny's mood a bit. At least one person in this house understood him.

In the dining room, Susan and Ed had already taken their seats. When Jonny came closer, he noticed that they were each unwrapping something. His face lit up.

"Did Cozzie send something?" he asked excitedly.

"Good to see you too, Jonathan." Ed smiled warmly. "In fact, he has. This is yours, right Susan?"

His wife nodded absently, hands busy inspecting the gorgeous fabric of the scarf their brother had sent her from Florence. Ed handed him his own present. It was rather small, and Jonny tried to suppress his disappointment. The feeling was quickly set aside at the sight of the content of the package: a new quill.


My dearest Jonathan,

I'm writing to you from the top of the biggest cathedral I have ever seen and probably will see; the Santa Maria del Fiore. (Not really, but it sounded nice, didn't it.) Everything is so pretty here, Turin is nothing compared to it. It appears that autumn hasn't quite caught up with Italy yet, the weather is splendid. It's funny how we still call it Italy, though; over here we speak of the Republic of Florence. What once was a Kingdom has now split up into several Duchies, Republics and Marquisates, some hardly bigger than their own capital. I suppose I could tell you all about geography and politics when I get back and save the space in this letter for more important matters.
The gift which is enclosed is a quill, as you can see. It is not just a quill, though. This particular quill was allegedly used by the great Guillaume Du Fay during his stay in Cambria, years ago. He used to perform his lute compositions in the cathedral there, and only three quills were found after he left for Rimini. Or so I was told by this rather suspicious looking merchant, who gave it to me for no more than two golden florins. Either way, it's a quill from Italy, make sure you put it to good use. I wish I could listen to you playing already, but I have so many more cities to explore and life lessons to learn, don't I. You'll see me soon enough, when winter is over.
I hope you are well! Give mother a kiss from me.
My next letter will be sent out from Ancient Rome!

All my love,

Colin


Jonny inspected the quill from up close; the feather was painted green and yellow and it was quite possibly the ugliest thing he had ever seen. However, the tip of the quill was in very good shape; it was sharpened in the right shape and filled with a hardening substance to have it last longer. It was no doubt better than his other quills.

Smiling to himself, he felt a rush of warmth for his brother, and he realised he really missed him. When he looked up, Ed was looking at him, smiling. Jonny knew he missed him too, they'd been very close friends up until Coz's departure a month ago. He pretended he didn't see the glistening corners of Ed's eyes when the latter resumed reading his own letter, hand clutching a leather string with a small ivory hanger, undoubtedly something of which only his brother-in-law knew the true value.

Chapter One part 1

It was well past bedtime, but Thom's eyes were wide open.

The house was quiet, or as quiet as it could be. Both his parents were snoring no more than three feet away, to start with. The house itself was squeaking under the rough autumn wind, the wooden shutters of the window clattering loudly every few moments. Then there was the fact that the city itself was never asleep. People you would never see in daylight were out and about. They were eating, drinking, laughing, working and trading like everyone else. Yet each of these actions had a bit of a dark edge.
They ate things that were either stolen or rotten, they drank liquids that could intoxicate you until you couldn't feel the cold biting off your toes anymore, their laugh was raspy and too loud to be sincere, and as for the work and trade... well. Instead of selling goods they sold their own body, or if they had the power of the leader, other people's bodies. They traded in stolen goods, illegal goods, goods that were frowned upon by the Church and foreign goods that came from so far away that they hadn't even been named yet.

Although Thom had only just turned fifteen, he already knew a great deal about all this. In fact, the folded piece of paper he was clutching in his palm contained some of those goods.

After waiting twice as long as he had promised himself he would, Thom finally moved. He slowly, so slowly, lifted up a tip of the ragged blanket, holding his breath when Andy suddenly moaned in his sleep. False alarm. Thom's heart was beating twice as fast as normal when he slid out of the bed and tiptoed away, around the table, towards the smoldering bits of wood that had been a roaring fire earlier that evening. Shivering, he shook the contents of the piece of paper into his left palm.

It looked different from last time. Thom held his hand closer to the red glow of the wood in the fireplace. Definitely bits of green there. Thom hesitated for a moment. For all he knew it was pure poison, for all he knew he could die a slow, painful death doing this. Like the new thing, the other kind. He'd heard of people not waking up after taking it. It wasn't called 'Saint Anthony's Fire' for nothing, he mused.
Nah. If he didn't try this, he'd never hear the end of it and be called a wuss until the end of days.

Thom unconsciously sucked his lower lip into his mouth as he started dividing the stuff over the scrap of paper, then pressing them together with nail-bitten, stubby fingers and tried to roll the paper around them. It took him four times to get it right, and by the time he had the little stick in between his fingers, he wasn't all that cold anymore. With a glance towards his snoring parents and practically comatose brother, he took a dry leaf from out of the fireplace corner and pressed it to a still quite actively smouldering bit of wood. Within a few moments, it caught fire. Thom quickly put the stick between his lips, held the end in the flames and sucked.

Thom yelped as quietly as he could when the flames ran out of leaf and decided to try his fingers instead. In doing so, he let the stick drop out of his mouth and onto the floor. Cursing inwardly, he scooped it up from the floor - holy baby Jesus, what if the entire house caught fire? - and sucked on it again. The tip lit up in the dark and Thom let out a sigh of relief, not yet inhaling the smoke that was filling his mouth but blowing it in the direction of the fireplace. He got up, grabbed a coat from a chair nearby the door, carefully slid through a narrow opening of the door and set foot in the world that was Ghent at Night.

Trying to find a nice, quiet place to smoke, not too far away yet far enough from the house, he passed a group of old men gathered around a makeshift fire in the middle of the road. Most of them were looking rather grim, except a few, who were holding an animated conversation Thom couldn't pick up. Their accent sounded peculiar, foreign yet close enough to Dutch to notice the similarities. Thom slid the hood of his coat over his head and buried himself in the fabric. They couldn't possible find out that it was in fact a 15 year old kid wandering around the city on his own by night. He might not survive, or if he would, he didn't want to know in which conditions. The moment he walked past, as close to the buildings as possible, a few men noticed his figure and stared him down. It was only when he had practically passed them, that the others turned and sniffed the air curiously. Thom didn't have to think twice and ran as if his life depended on it; because it quite possibly did.

When he finally dared to look back over his shoulder, he was relieved to see that they hadn't followed him. Less relieved, however, to realise that he'd entered a part of the city that he didn't really know all that well. Wisely deciding that it was best to not go any further, he slumped against a brick wall, hidden from the street view by a large oak standing in front of it. He took another sip of his little tobacco stick, like he had been doing even whilst running, to see if it was still going strong. The good thing was that it was still lit, the bad thing that he'd apparently wasted nearly a third up until now. After glancing around him one last time, he took a deep, long drag and let the smoke fill his lungs.

Immediately, his throat closed up while tears were forming in his eyes. Thom pinched his nose, desperate not to cough and reveal his hiding spot. After a moment, he drew in a shaky breath, trying to suppress the tickly feeling in his lungs. Then he felt it: a slight waver in the atmosphere, like a ripple gliding through a water surface. He opened his eyes and for a moment saw the world moving a bit. Excited, he took another drag, carefully, and a slight smile formed on his face when he noticed that it happened again, stronger this time.

By the time the glowing end had nearly reached his fingernails, Thom was smiling broadly, letting the sense of giddy happiness wash over him without any restraint. The sky was turning from dark to bluish, and holding onto the last straw of responsibility, he decided that it was time to go home. What he hadn't counted on was the state of his body: when he lifted himself up, he nearly slammed into the oak tree, at the last moment deciding that hugging it was a better idea. He let out a high-pitched giggle, forgetting his previous anxiousness at being found out. He clung onto the trunk for dear life, whilst trying to compose himself and make the world stop spinning around him (or less fast, at least) and then staggered home, miraculously finding his way back without much effort, or so he assumed later.