FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Garden

Chapter 33

My Dearest Charles,

You are not going to believe it - in fact, you may just upset your tea, so if you are drinking it whilst reading this, put it down. Are you ready? Your baby sister has gotten married!

I know. Take a moment to let it sink in.

After leaving Loxney, Lily and I crossed the border into Kingdom Curith and came to rest in Homyn Willow Wood. We actually met Lily's tribe there. And, oh, Charlie, they were in such a poor state. What's more, they were furious with Lily - as furious as they were that horrid night in the forest. I thought they were going to hurt her, but they simply spit and cursed and threw things. As for myself and the escort, we were their prisoners in the beginning, though they only took our weapons. They didn't even bother to tie us up and actually fed us and cared for us, though they were starving themselves.

I still don't fully understand why they were angry with Lily. I believe it has something to do with their magic. Lily is their princess (can you believe it?) and her bloodline is their tie to magic. When she went away, she took their magic with her. I can not escape the feeling that my actions caused their downfall. Had I not stolen Lily that night from the forest . . .

Oh, Charlie. Why didn't you tell me that Bastian razed the forest? Is Crinnington truly gone? It brings tears to my eyes. Those foxes did not deserve what happened to them! The one who committed the crime was shot by Richie. I saw it with my own eyes. No one else should have suffered for it.

No doubt Bastian only received mangled details of the whole affair, and believing the foxes were beginning an uprising, he tried to put them in their place. And now look what's happened? Lily's tribe has suffered tremendously for it. Charlie, please. If you are truly going to visit with Bastian, convince him that the foxes are innocent. Perhaps they can return to Varimore then. If it isn't too painful for them to return.

I do hope things work out for them. Lily and I have been living with them for some time, and you won't believe it, Charlie, but their spirits and things are real! I have seen their god fly across the moon with my own eyes, and in the morning, the forest is alive with game. He feeds them and protects them and watches over them. It is nothing short of astonishing. Charlie . . . their faith is real. Real.

You'll think I've gone round the bend, but I have decided to convert to their faith. I can not ignore the evidence when it is staring me in the face. I have explored the ruins here, and more evidence of our villainy and our role in their downfall keeps emerging. It's the sort of thing the church would want burned in a pyre. Charlie, if I could get tracings of the runes I have found back to the crown . . . or perhaps to some scholars over in Ingles. There is real proof of our history here, Charlie, not just of the foxes but of dog history. I realize I am playing with fire by trying to bring these matters to light, but how else will we ever move forward out of the dark ages? We as proud canines must humbly accept history for what it truly was and try to learn from our past mistakes. Or we are doomed to repeat them. As Bastian repeated them by razing the forest.

Lily's tribe is faring well currently. Their Ti'uu god cares for them each day. They say he returned because Lily returned. I can't imagine what would happen to them if Lily were to leave again. I have begged her to stay with them and to allow myself and our escort to do so as well. Of course, this means I shant come home, Charlie. I'm a married bitch now with a love and whole new life. Be happy for me. For I am the happiest I could ever be.

I love Lily's tribe. The children play games with me and braid my mane. One of the vixens taught me to shoot with a bow. Their meals are incredible, and everyday I awake with my sweet Lily at my side, beautiful and soft and remarkable as every sunset. When she kisses me, Charlie, I feel whole. And if I ever had to leave her side, my soul would ache.

I wish you could have been at our wedding. That wedding with Dick felt like a waking nightmare, like it was happening to someone else and I was standing by, helplessly watching. But my wedding with Lily was a true joining of souls, and I relished in it, I lived in every moment, aware of every heartbeat.

Oh, Charlie, we danced with flowers in our manes. We danced in the sunlight. We laughed. We held each other. We ran through a field of flowers as the sun beat its blessing upon us. We fell in the tall grass. And as I made sweet love to my Lily, the whole word came alive. I kissed her, Charlie, and flowers burst into bloom.

I couldn't be happier out here in the forest, though sometimes I see the sadness in Lily's eyes. She didn't tell me until after the wedding that her father had died, and even then, I had to coax it out of her.

I still can't believe it. I guess I'm a right fool for not realizing. She cut her mane not long after we met her tribe. She cut it clear past her ears, and now it stands in pretty red spikes that cascade when she moves. She looks right lovely, and somehow, just as wild.

I knew she cut her mane to mourn her tribe and all who had been lost. But I didn't know she had lost her father or that he was even alive before she ran away. One night as I held her, she told me everything. And seeing her tears . . . it made me feel so helpless. Like I could do nothing to ease her pain. And in truth, what could I do except hold her?

Every time I look at her, I remember when Father died and how you held me. I would crawl into your bed at night. You would wake and hold me . . . and you would sing. You didn't realize it then, but it helped, Charlie. I sing to Lily now. When she cries at night, I hold her and I sing the song you sang to me. I feel her heart beating behind her breasts, and I know mine must beat for hers in those moments when despair has taken hold of her. Every breath I breathe for her, every kiss, every whisper belongs to her. Anything. Anything to lighten her load.

Oh, Charlie. I wish I could take all her sorrow and pain and send it down the river. She doesn't understand it, but I push for peace because of her. Before I petitioned to stop the hunt because I felt it cruel. Now with her in my arms each night, I knowit is cruel.

But there is even more. Charlie . . . I do believe I am pregnant. Nothing about me physically seems to have changed, and yet, as I was seeing to the wash the other day, one of the elderly females of the tribe approached me.

Charlie, her eyes were such a pale blue, they were almost white. And they were glazed, covered in a veil that fogged them. And yet, she could see. Her white mane was long and shaggy and dragged in the dirt with her tail. She was so thin and hunched, it was a wonder she had ever escaped Crinnington alive. The others call her Oromo the Wise. They say that with a touch, she can see into the soul.

As you can imagine, I did not sit well with her touching me. But as she was passing me by, she tripped. In kindness I caught her. She grabbed me in the struggle and froze, staring at me with her unnerving eyes. After a long pause, I helped her to stand and hastily went back to scrubbing the laundry. Her touch had left me shaken. In a bad way.

As she was walking away, she said to me over her shoulder, "It's a boy." And I think my heart about dropped to my tail.

Charlie, what am I to do? I am carrying the king's heir. If anyone finds out . . . I know what you are thinking, but my carrying Bastian's pup is not a reason that I should come home. I am happy here in Homyn Willow.

I know you want the best for me and that you do not consider some backwood on the edge of Curith the safest place for your pregnant sister, but do not tell his majesty. I beg of you.

Perhaps one day you could come here to visit? I know Dick hates nature like a cat hates water, but you would love it. Drag him along, just to spite him.

Love always,

Your Evie

P.S. Do not, not, not tell his majesty I am pregnant, Charlie!

Charles read the letter one last time before folding it and tucking it away in his coat. He was sitting at Giselle's bedside, watching over her as she slept. It was the middle of the day, and sunlight pressed against the curtains, which had been closed due to Giselle's constant fever.

Jessica sat at the old female's side, half-dozing as ever with her cheek fat on her fist. Charles glanced over at her and pitied her more than he pitied Giselle. The poor girl hadn't had any proper sleep all week.

"Water . . ." Giselle rasped. Her eyes cracked open and she yelled hoarsely, "I said water, you slut!"

Jessica winced and ran to fetch a glass from a nearby tray. She went red as Giselle went on.

"I know you've been riding Haskell's cock," the duchess hissed, and sitting at the bedside, Charles awkwardly adjusted his cravat. "That's why you're tired, not because you've been caring for me! You think I didn't hear the two of you panting the other night? You dared to let him fuck you right here in this room? I should send you both packing."

"M-My lady," Jessica stammered and the glass of water trembled in her paw as she yielded it.

Giselle struggled to sit up and snatched the glass. "Yes, haven't a word to say in your defense, have you? Indeed, it would shock me if you could stop drooling long enough to form a proper sentence. Tell your precious Haskell that Richard won't be hiring you on. When you have his mongrel pups, you can support them some place else."

"M-My l-lady . . ." Jessica stammered, her lashes fluttering. "I n-never . . ."

Charles looked at the girl and felt sorry for her all over again: she was completely horrified that the duchess had overheard them.

"Of course, you never," Giselle said with a contemptuous laugh. "You were just sucking his dick, weren't you?"

Jessica's lashes flew wide. She had been rubbing her arm, but now she stood frozen.

"So loudly I do believe he pierced a hole in the back of your skull," the duchess went on. "It would certainly account for the vacant staring. You are lucky I don't have you flogged for it." Her lip curled to reveal a fang. "Get out."

"Yes, m'lady!" Jessica turned tail and whisked out as fast as she could.

"That's how you handle servants, Charles," Giselle said, looking self-satisfied. "I do hope you were taking notes."

Charles scoffed. "Forgive me, Aunt, if I fail to see the benefit of running an estate through intimidation and fear."

"No. No, you wouldn't see the benefit, would you? That's giving you far too much credit," the duchess sneered. She waved a weak paw. "Why are you here? Where's my boy? Where is Richard?"

"Out in the courtyard on some mad hunt for something or other," Charles returned. He shook out his kerchief and started dabbing the sweat from Giselle's forehead.

Giselle closed her eyes as Charles cared for her. "Why are you doing this? I will find a way to bring Evelyn home and she will live with Richard as his wife, whether they want it or not. There's nothing you can do. Your groveling is futile."

"Futile," laughed Charles. "You sound like a villain out of one of Evie's books." He sat back and regarded the old female coldly. "I don't want anything from you. I don't care about your money, and you can shove your blessing. I'm here for Richard, whether you like it or not, and I will see him through this if it kills me. Do you have any idea how you hurt him? No. That would be giving you way too much credit. I imagine you haven't any idea how anything you say or do affects him. Because you can't look past your own snout to see love and devotion when it is in your face."

Giselle watched Charles quietly, her eyes calm as they peered from the stringy red locks that cloaked her gaunt cheeks. "You l-love my boy?" She began to cough.

Charles sadly dabbed the spittle from her lip. "Yes. And he loves you. So do us all a favor and stop making this so bloody hard on him."

"As if it's easy for me," Giselle cracked hoarsely. "I'm the one d-dying . . ."

"I know," Charles whispered. "I wish . . ." He sighed. "I'm so tired of watching death in this house. First Mother . . ." He trailed off when Giselle glared at him. His nostrils flared. "The Duchess Victoria was my mother, Aunty. Because she loved me. She loved me!" He glared at her and was surprised when her eyes apologized.

"V-Victoria would want me to accept you," Giselle whispered. "But I can't . . . I can't . . ."

"It's alright, Aunty," Charles said wearily. He adjusted the sheets around her. "Go to sleep. You need your rest --"

"No," she whispered. "I don't have much time. You should tell Richard to stop looking for the key and come sit with his dying mother!"

"Right away," Charles said. He started to get up, but the duchess caught his paw.

"No," she whispered. "Wait . . . Charles."

Charles slowly sat. "What is it, Aunty?"

"You . . . have a good heart. I can admit that. You were always such a good boy, unlike your little _horror_of a sister," she growled.

Charles laughed softly. "It is impossible for you to talk to me without anger eventually dominating your tone?"

The duchess frowned. "Charles . . . Evelyn may not come home. I've finally come . . . to accept that," she said with difficultly. "Richard won't . . . when I die he'll need someone. . . . he'll need you . . ."

"I'll take care of him, Aunty. I always have."

"Good. You always were such a good boy . . . your mother wasn't your fault . . . your father made poor choices, it couldn't be helped . . ."

Charles held back the urge to snap: "Would it help if he cheated with a purebred?" For his mother had identified as a greyhound, but her background had been that of a mixed heritage. He patted Giselle's paw. "Alright, Aunty. I'll go and get Richard now --"

"No!"

Charles stopped again. The duchess was struggling to get her locket off. He gently removed it for her and handed it to her, but she waved for him to keep it. Ears pricking forward, he opened it to find two portraits inside. The portrait on the left was of Giselle and Victoria when they were little girls. The portrait on the right was of Giselle, Victoria, and a little boy he didn't recognize. . . . though the boy looked a great deal like Dick.

"Victoria," whispered Giselle sadly, "would have wanted you to have it."

Charles looked at her in amazement. "I can't keep this! Richard should --"

"K-Keep it," Giselle insisted. "After all you've done for an old bitch . . . in her passing."

Charles didn't know what to say. Before he could speak, however, Dick burst into the room. They both looked over to see him standing there, coat ruffled and mane mussed. He was covered in dirt and stank of sweat, and it was clear he had been digging - with his bare paws.

"Richard!" Charles cried. "Have you gone mad!"

"No," Dick said, grinning as he lifted something in his paw. "I've found the key."

Charles still hadn't a clue what was going on an hour later when they had managed to get the duchess in a wheelchair. They wrapped her in her favorite mink coat and wheeled her out across the estate, through the various courtyards, and to the old garden.

The afternoon sun beamed warm upon their heads as they stood before the gate, waiting for the servants to clear away the vines and debris. Charles saw Dick glance anxiously at his mother every now and then, but the fresh air seemed to be doing Giselle a world of good. She sat straight in the wheelchair, face hard, chin lifted proudly, coughing only now and again into her kerchief.

"But there might be something heavy on the other side," said Sarah, who was standing nearby with medicine and water on a tray. Her long golden mane shimmered in the sunlight as she shook her head anxiously. "Master Dick, you shouldn't be the one to open --"

"Hush, fool girl," rasped the duchess.

Sarah bit her lip and hushed.

Dick stepped forward with the key, and after brushing aside the vines that had grown over the lock, he inserted it. Everyone waited with bated breath as the gate slowly creaked open. When it swung to a stop, the garden was revealed to them at last, wild and untamed as flowers covered fallen benches, stone archways, and the cobbled walk itself in a riot of color. Butterflies drifted lazily, yellow, blue, and red. Little birds hopped in cracked birdbaths, white, brown, and blue as they darted to and fro. Great trees towered along the walkway, coated in moss and wound with flowered vines. Some of the mushrooms, meanwhile, had grown large enough to rival a fairy tale.

Charles slowly wheeled the duchess into the garden, into its magic of sunlight and birdsong. He glanced down when he heard her long sigh of content. Dick walked at her side, and Charles saw him watching his mother hopefully.

"We could restore it," Dick said. "We'll have to hire a new gardener to keep it . . ." He and Charles avoided looking at each other.

The duchess coughed into her kerchief. "D-Don't be foolish. I haven't time to wait for that. It's perfect the way it is." She pointed. "Over there, Charles. Take me."

Charles obeyed, pushing the wheelchair where the duchess had indicated. Behind him, he could hear Sarah and the other servants following. Haskell was there as well, shears on his shoulder and sweat on his brow from cutting away impeding vines.

Charles brought the wheelchair to a stop and blinked. Giselle had maneuvered them to a patch of tall grass and weeds under a tree. He saw nothing there. He and Dick looked at each other.

"The grass, you fools," Giselle snapped at the servants. "Do you truly believe I dragged us all down here to look at weeds?"

Haskell leapt forward and ripped the grass up in fistfuls. He stopped, panting and heaving, when a small headstone appeared. The breath caught in Charles' lungs. He glanced at Dick, who seemed just as surprised to find a grave maker in the garden. The servants were also shocked, and glancing around at them, Charles had to wonder if there was anyone on the estate who knew the grave was there. He had to remind himself the garden had been locked for fifty years.

Tangled in the grass beside the grave was a board of wood fastened with broken rope. A swing. Glancing up, Charles could see the tatters of rope dangling from the tree branch above, dangling where the swing had snapped off.

" 'Here lies the Marquis Richard Bernard Kingsley,' " Dick read aloud from the gravestone, " 'son of Duke Bernard Thaddeus Kingsley and the Duchess Lauretta Edyth Kingsley, and once heir of all the land. Let this small portion bring him everlasting peace.' " Dick glanced at his mother curiously. "Mother?"

"It was an accident," Giselle whispered, tears in her eyes. "I was pushing him. The rope s-snapped and he fell. They put him here, in his happy p-place. . ." She began to sob.

Charles and Dick exchanged unhappy glances.

"Mother . . ." Dick whispered sadly and leaned down to put his arm around the duchess.

The duchess stared miserably at the grave.

". . . eight, nine, ten! Ready or not, here I come!" giggled Richie. He was ten years old, a skinny little boy with the fiery red mane of his father and the gentle, lonely eyes of his mother. In shorts and a long coat, he ducked out from behind the tree and ran to find his bored teenage sisters, who had barely attempted to hide.

Giselle and Victoria were one year apart but were always as close as their ages. Giselle's mane was red, Victoria's white, and it was often laughingly said that Giselle was the fire to her sister's ice. Indeed, Giselle was something of a hothead, while Victoria was always smiling and sweet. But despite their opposing natures, the sisters were seldom apart, and sat in the garden together even now, despairing over the fact that they were soon to separate.

"You shall marry that bore Verneus," Giselle said angrily as her sister watched her sympathetically. "You get to stay here and inherit Father's titles and land while I shall be sent far away to marry some geezer who's had two wives already! Father casts me off so easily! Why? Aren't I good enough to stay like you? I know the court loves you, but they love me too!"

Victoria put a soothing arm around her sister's shoulders and pulled her close. Their long curly manes touched, and the pearl necklaces resting on their breasts gleamed in the sunlight. They were dressed elaborately in fine gowns, for they had just come from court, and the ballooning skirts hid their little slippers as they sat in the grass behind a tree. It was meant to be their hiding spot while indulging their brother's game, but they hadn't given it much effort.

"That's not true," Victoria said and shook her head so that her long white mane shifted around her. "Richie shall inherit everything when he is old enough. My job is to master the duchy and the estate until he is grown. If Richie were eldest, I'd be packed off as surely as you. And I would lose my name and everything."

"Like hell you would," Giselle moaned. "Father adores you. That's why I'm being sent off!"

Victoria sighed. "Come now. You sound like a pup --"

"Hey!" Richie yelled, hopping around the tree. He scowled. "I found you in two seconds flat. You aren't even trying!"

Giselle made a face. "Bugger off, you little --!" She snatched a fistful of grass and threw it at her brother. Richie giggled and dodged the onslaught easily. He grabbed a wad of mud and threw it at them. The girls went rigid as the wet slap splattered their cheeks, cleavage, and manes. As he leapt about laughing, Giselle cursed and Victoria moaned, heavily dragging the mud from her eyes.

"Ah! Mother's going to have a heart attack!" Victoria wailed.

Giselle screamed through her pressed fangs. "Arrghhh! And who will she blame for this? Me!" Eyes brilliant as flames, she snatched up a wad of mud and hurled it hard. Richie failed to dodge this time. He took a mouthful and sulkily spit it out as Giselle pointed and laughed at him.

"Stop this at once," Victoria scolded. "Honestly, the two of you are like small children."

"We are children," Richie said, and licking out his tongue, he threw more mud.

The girls screamed and chased him, ballooning skirts bouncing as he easily evaded them around trees and over benches. They eventually flanked him, closing in from either side with paws full of mud. Richie had no chance to escape. He giggled as his sisters smashed his face either side with mud, and with muddy arms, he embraced them. The siblings went down together in the grass and lay there, laughing in the sunlight.

"Goooooot you to play with me," Richie taunted after a pause.

Breathless and happy, Giselle tickled his chin and Victoria gave him a muddy kiss on the cheek. He protested both.

"Ewwww!"

"Except Mother is going to kill us," Giselle scolded. "Look what you've done! This muff cost a fortune. You think fox pelts are growing on trees?"

"I wish you wouldn't wear fox," Victoria complained. "And to mock Fassil with it? It's base."

"No," said Giselle haughtily. "It's pretty."

Victoria glared at her sister. "They are intelligent creatures --"

"And currently in fashion," Giselle taunted.

Victoria rolled her eyes. "Who's to say what's in fashion? If wearing fish on your feet were in fashion, would you do it?"

Giselle set her teeth. "Just because you don't care for fine things --"

"Argh!" Richie moaned. "Giselle is going away soon. Can't we have a nice day of it?"

The girls guiltily fell silent, and the three of them stared at the bright blue sky.

"That one looks like fire," Giselle said, pointing to a cloud. "Or Victoria's mane in the morning."

Richie giggled. He looked at Giselle sadly. "Will you come to visit me once you're gone?"

"Yes," Giselle said and took his paw.

"You promise?" Richie pressed. He frowned at her. "You gotta promise to always visit. I'll be alone."

Victoria frowned sadly. "Richie . . ."

"You're getting married," Richie said unhappily to Victoria. "You'll have a pup soon and forget all about me. Everyone will."

"No, we won't," Victoria said soothingly.

"Never!" Giselle vowed.

Richie's lip trembled.

"Hey," Giselle whispered happily. She squeezed his paw. "How about I push you on the swing? It's your favorite."

"Mother?" Dick said. He swallowed a sob and shook her shoulder. "Mother?"

The Duchess Giselle stared with blank eyes at the little gravestone, her bloody kerchief tight in her fist. Charles sadly closed her eyes.

Dick shook his head. "Ch-Charlie, what are you doing? She isn't . . . Mother?" He touched her shoulder again, as if refusing to believe that she was gone.

But she was.