Cornelia Ruddle lived in her own world. Solitude for fifteen years had left her mind a restless, impressionable being. No family wanted to adopt her. Now, on the brink of her seventeenth birthday, the orphanage is ready to release her into the world with the rest of the beings. The shadows were the first to whipser their secrets to Cornelia.
PERPENDICULAR
More often than not there were tearful goodbyes. The young adult carried a suitcase full of their measly clothes and a handful of petty cash. A group crowded around them, hugging and sobbing, whispering words of advice and talking about the days long forgotten.
“… I remember you were just a tiny little thing …”
“… so shy, so young …!”
“… and I remember you saying …”
“You were always hungry! …”
But when Cornelia Ruddle descended the stairs that fateful morning only the young maid stood at the bottom of the stairs holding her jacket.
“Good morning, Miss Ruddle,” the young blonde said. Her hair sat in a coil over her right shoulder, bouncing as she moved toward Cornelia. “I trust you slept …” her voice trailed off as she lifted her eyes. Cornelia had donned her slippers just as she did every morning – on her hands. The girl seemed appalled.
“Well? Quite, actually.” Cornelia said, removing the slippers from her hands and giving them to the girl’s frozen hand. “I find my hands are frightfully cold in the morning,” She added as the girl numbly took the slippers from Cornelia.
Cornelia took the jacket that the maid was holding and slipped it around her shoulders, checking her appearance in the full-length mirror at the front door. “I dreamt a strange dream – as expected. But this one …,” Cornelia muttered, her voice getting softer as she turned, checking her appearance at every angle, “this one was exceptionally odd.”
The young maid bowed to Cornelia, but stopped before going any further. “W-what was it about … Miss Ruddle?”
Cornelia inhaled deeply and spun on her heel to face the young maid. “Most peculiar, indeed,” she said, smoothing a crease on her skirt. “I dreamt the shadows could talk. I’m certain it’s only a matter of time.”
“That’s …”
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
“I daren’t call it fascinating Miss Ruddle.”
The maid looked over her shoulder, a crease appearing around her lips. She bowed carefully. “Good morning, Mr. Crowe.”
Cornelia surveyed Mr. Bascom Crowe with an expression of intense distaste. He was what she’d refer to as a dandy. He had a vehement obsession with appearances – he made sure that he was neatly trimmed around the middle section, and his clothes were pressed so primly that the shoulders could very well double for weapons.
Bascom Crowe was also the owner and manager of the Clotilda Crowe Orphanage. He’d inherited from his father’s hands and lovingly gazed at the portrait of his later mother each morning – his mother in which the orphanage had been named after. The reputable Bascom Crowe had become quite a sour man since his father had been admitted into Lunewick Institute two years before.
Cornelia remembered Mr. Crowe – that is, the real Mr. Crowe. He’d been quite the odd man – very disrespectful in comparison to his son. It was true that Cornelia must give him the benefit of the doubt – his son was nothing short of annoying and over-bearing, and his wife had been a beautiful, demanding woman who had left a massive whole in his pocket before leaving.
The portrait that hung over the living area’s entrance showed Mrs. Clotilda Crowe looking proud as a peacock: she had her jagged nose lifted in the air, her scarlet lips pursed. She had donned a royal blue gown that poured around her in an almost denticulate pattern. The deep lines around her eyes were nothing to send Cornelia’s heart jittering when she stared into those sly, green eyes. They were a shade lighter than any she’d ever seen – almost like a chalky mint colour. The portrait was one of the biggest Cornelia had ever seen – bigger than that of royalty, she was sure – and Mrs. Clotilda Crowe was wearing the most glittering jewels she had ever seen. The amount of jewels she was weighed down with were greater than the amount that even most gypsies wore.
Mr. Crowe strolled over to Cornelia, scuffing his polished shoes along the entrance hall’s worn hard-wood floorboards. “Good day to you, Miss Ruddle.” Mr. Crowe gave a gracious bow, extending his arm. He was not betrothed, as far as Cornelia was sure. He was in his mid-twenties or early thirties, and everything about him screamed “misfortune” to Cornelia.
The maid was flushed a deep shade of scarlet when she felt Mr. Crowe’s gaze on her. He hadn’t inherited the startling green eyes of his mother, or the iron gray eyes of his father. He had plain brown eyes that were just like the colour of mud. “It was a good day … but I have an odd feeling that it is going to get worse.” Cornelia snapped, placing a hat neatly over her disheveled hair.
She hadn’t been able to come to terms with Bascom Crowe since he’d become the master of this orphanage. He treated her like she was incapable of mostly everything. He surveyed her as though she were a being lower than his self. And the other day he’d brought a man from Lunewick Institute to speak with her.
“I wish you luck, Miss Ruddle. The world is a complicated mess out there, and I hope you’ll be able to make your own just fine.”
“You can take my word for it, actually,” Cornelia muttered, reaching for her suitcase. She’d packed little but her stash of money and stacks of crumpled pages that were littered with lines of ink. The corners stuck out the edges of her suitcase, rustling as she moved.
“Unlike your parents, I have not been coddled until this point, and I expect that I’ve been hardened to most that would frighten you in this world.”
Mr. Crowe harrumphed before turning on his heel and ascending the stairs. “It’s a shame the Institute could not arrange a room for you. I’m more than a little afraid to have you running wild in our world.”
“Good day to you, Bascom.” Cornelia grumbled through clenched teeth. She roughly lifted her suitcase and swung it through the door.
“I’m sure we will meet again, Miss Ruddle – ’tis a small world.”
The very thought sent goose bumps crawling up her arms. She slammed the front door of the orphanage closed, inhaling deeply. Cornelia breathed the dense, sooty air. Her lungs filled with the strange mixture of open oxygen – something her lungs had never had the taste of before. She’d lived in solitude for fifteen years without a single clue as to her life before and only paper, a fountain pen and her thoughts to keep her company.
For the first time Cornelia could look at the very real, very clear picture of the world beneath her.
North-East Lunewick was a drab city. It was filled with the usual inhabitants that ranged from lonely widows, businessmen in search of great riches, or the gypsies. Lunewick was alternately known by all as “Gypsy Land”. Massive groups of them moved in each spring, and left late fall; only those who knew their calling, or were making enough money, would continue to spend time in North-East Lunewick during the dead season of winter. Most of these were fortune tellers, spirit callers, and pick-pockets.
Not only was it well known for the gypsies, but many groups of fresh-faced debutants from the bustling London streets would come to explore the acclaimed haunted houses during the autumn season of Halloween. But the looming reminder of Lunewick Institute – which sat in the center of Greater Lunewick which was more than a few kilometers away from North-East Lunewick – could be seen in sallow-faced families that would pass through the streets in search of a gift for their loved one whose mind was drifting into places that were unimaginable to the mundane; Cornelia understood.
Lunewick was full of empty, boxed-shaped houses clumped together on thin, sloped streets. At every corner of North-East Lunewick the road would stop and turn into a set of stone stairs that rose to another level. The higher the mundane climbed, the more they could see until finally they stood atop the buildings and could look down at the slow-motion lives that puttered around beneath them. They could see Lunewick that was stacked upon itself like a pop-out card – the worst cut-and-paste job known to man.
Upper Westwall – which, ironically, sat much lower than Lunewick – was close to tearing down the town. It wasn’t until a wise little boy mentioned that the only reason Westwall was going to rid itself of its shadow, Lunewick was because of the gypsies. He’d pointed out to them that by tearing down Lunewick it would only cause all the gypsies to move into their city.
So here Lunewick stood; a wonder unknown to Cornelia.
Cornelia stepped out into the world a ready mind. Her hat was pulled tightly over her head, the air crisp and fresh as she breathed. So long had she waited for this moment – this fleeting moment when all those years of solitude would be behind her. Cornelia was just another being, and she was ready to blend right in with the crowd.
***
So this isn't even the whole first chapter. I just wanted to give everyone a taste and see what they think of it!
I think it would really help the story if you expound on it a little more. Maybe you could write a scene from Cornelia's childhood or something, as long as it catches the reader's attention.