Nevestory Academy {Working Title} {Long-ish?}

Mars wrote:Long-ish? Reaaaallllllyyyyy? I'm going to divide my critique up much the same way as you divided up your chapters, if you don't mind. These will just be first impressions, I'll come back tomorrow for overalls, helpful stuff, etc. I'm not going to list all the good things as that would take FOR-ever.

I
Huzzah for no grammar mistakes or too awkward wording! I like your words. Nothing to say there.
What I will say, however, is that this chapter sans the last couple of paragraphs is all description. And it's lovely, lovely description, and I feel like I live in Lillooet now, but does feel a little like wading through honey. During it, I was thinking, "This is all very well and good, but who's this Frank Maveo and why do I care about him?" Since your first paragraph made him sound so interesting.

So, I suggest that you definitely keep the description, because it's good. But mention Frank Maveo a few more times throughout, to keep the readers going and so that we don't forget about him.

II
Your third sentence is a little long/awkward. Also, I suggest, for the mother, either sticking with Mrs. Maveo or Lily Maveo, not both. Probably Lily, since you call the father George.

As for the scene where George says that they will have to get rid of Frank: it's interesting, because it definitely says something about the parents that they would give up their child so easily. I mean, parents get very attached to their kids before they're even born, a lot of the time, and to simply get rid of this baby they'd had for three months-I don't know. It just seems weird.

Maybe George could want to get rid of him, Lily could protest a bit, but George could win. Same outcome, but then Lily seems like less of a cold and callous witch.

But, again, it is interesting that they can talk about giving up their son so casually. So...I'm indecisive.

At the bottom of the note to the orphanage-am I right that Lily starts crying right before she can finish her name? Otherwise, either sign it with her full name (which she wouldn't do, seeing as they want anonymity) or, I think, don't sign it all. Unless the L comes into the story later. Hmm. Reading on..

In the paragraph beginning "Do all children..." I think his thoughts should be italicized, not in quotations. For a minute I thought he was speaking to his parents.

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I know you said you'll probably use this for later. Do that. Right now, I didn't like being thrown forward into Frank's future so fast. How did he get there, what happened at the orphanage, what, exactly, is Nevestory and why is it so important to him...all need to be answered. Definitely, definitely, those need to be answered.

*yawns* I'll continue this tomorrow. Night!
-Mars

Also, I am definitely having a hard time deciding between Mrs. Maveo and Lily.

Actually, she only signed with an L to apply mostly anonymity to the letter but to keep a shred of her identity and responsibility for Frank, I suppose. So, I'm thinking of keeping it as 'L', but we'll see. ;D

Secondly, I think it was because I was depending on the description of the town to give off the tone that out of the ordinary things weren't so welcome?

I vote for Mrs. Maveo (and for Mr. Maveo as well, for George), then, if they don't show up later. This will make them more distant, and then, I think, I wouldn't expect them to come back.

What would be interesting, then, if you're planning to write about his childhood as well, would be if he took out the letter from time to time and tried to figure out who L was. I don't know if you're already doing that, but it would show some continuity. Or something.

Actually, what I got was more that it was very ordinary, but friendly instead of hostile. Maybe I'm just not reading it right? Also, I think that portraying Lillooet as hostile could be done in waaay less words. You mentioned that Lillooet's attitude plays a part in Frank's head as he grows up? If you really wanted to keep the description, then it could come out little by little in Frank's thoughts.

I wish we could see more of Frank's thoughts as he's being secreted away. You spent time on Lily's feelings, and being abandoned by one's parents is obviously going to be devastating, and all we get of Frank is "Oh, well, perhaps they'll change their mind!" I wish we'd seen some shock and despair, or crying (his is a baby, afterall, however genius) or...oh, I just want to know more. Since, I assume, I'll be spending most or all of the rest of the story inside his head...anyway.

Hannah wrote: I'm sort of going to critique along the way since it would be harder to do piece by piece and take parts xD

*I, Mrs. Maveo, was said to have complained that her child spent the full first week of his life wide awake, passed from arm to arm and from shade of life to shade of life. Though the announcement in the town newspaper was entirely too humble, the day of Frank Maveo's birth in the small town of Lillooet was not to be an occasion that was let go unnoticed. **In that town, neighbors were almost closer than family was, especially in the cases where a person's family lived outside of the city limits.
* You need to put commas
** This really doesn't make sense @_x and it ruined the "illusion" you are supposed to have in the beginning of a novel.
Lillooet was the type of town where the Olen family could say to the post mistress that she and her family were all welcome over whenever a bonfire was raging in the backyard and from then on every neighbor, family of the post mistress or not, would watch eagerly out their dusty windows for the first flicker of flame to announce their fortune. The families that had settled in the region were mostly small, beginning families; most of the households were occupied only by a couple that had come to the green valley to start their life peacefully. Despite the inescapable connections between households which were facilitated by the ease and frequency of communication in public places such as the grocery store, the town certainly was peaceful enough to please them all. Though gossip flew more rapidly than the goshawks common around the region, it never blossomed into foul feelings or betrayal – it was more a passage of knowledge than a gathering of material for malicious intent.
----------------------Will continue to review ^^

To the south of the town ran a small stream that was labeled on official maps as Lurtenbard Stream. The locals, however, referred to it more affectionately. Visitors found it odd that it was commonplace for the youth of the town to claim they were heading out to pay a visit to “Old Man Lurtenbard” when they were later seen to be heading away from all dwellings of any sort. Certainly there was no residence on the banks of the oft turbulent waters of the town's only water source. Surely the son or daughter was headed only for trouble, a meeting with some shady sort of character, if with a person at all. Then the visitor, with a worried but self-satisfied expression, would half-chastise and half-interrogate the father, wondering if he was aware that his child had just thrown the wool over his eyes, so to speak. Hearty chuckles would then erupt, signaling that the joke did not lie where it seemed to lie.

“No, my friend,” the father would speak, attempting to keep his voice void of both insult and amusement to best pay regards to politeness, “Old Man Lurtenbard is the river just yonder. I'm well aware of where my child is going, thank you. Now, would you care for another cup of coffee?”

Indeed it seemed the same way with everything in Lillooet. Outsiders would rush in, eager to experience and to pass judgment upon the small town life. They'd bring their shiny cars filled with fancy baggage and would walk the dusty streets with an air of charity and disgust. Within hours, however, their steps would carry the rhythm of a different tune. Appropriately shamed by one townsperson or another, the outsider would be forced to accept the truth that the people of Lillooet were no less civilized than anyone from a larger city. They handled themselves well. They didn't need the extensive social ladders and backstabbing competitions of large cities, and yet they weren't victim to the ignorant and bumbling pace that some small towns had adopted through lack of progress.

To the north of town was a curious grouping of hills and caves that were a stark contrast to the perfectly flat fields that Lillooet was built on. In the cold dawn-light of winter, the snow-topped caps of the hills seemed to mirror the crests of waves crashing upon themselves in a frigid, diamond-like ocean. In summer, the hills seemed only a protective kind of wall around the town, carpeted with lush green bushes, trees, and flowers that swayed in the cool evening breezes. Despite these beautiful appearances, the hills had been named for the dangerous and ever-enticing caves that were contained within the domes of earth. Too often had young people run off to the caves for sport and never managed to find their way home. It was for this tragic reason that the hills were known as the Vanishers. Just as Old Man Lurtenbard had an official name, so the Vanishers were known as the Southern Small Alps on government-issued maps. Jinksonville, to the far north of Lillooet, laid claim to the Northern Small Alps, and had the fortune of possessing the less dangerous set – the Northern Small Alps had no caves at all.

Completing the circle of security, forests flanked Lillooet on both the east and west boundaries. Unlike the forbidding Vanishers, these forests were open and friendly to adventurers who wished to explore their reaches. For this reason, they had no significant names – they were known only as the friendly woods or the inviting forests of the west or east, respectively.

“They're mighty easy to navigate, stranger. I don't know why you're making all that fuss. The forests of the west are filled with berries and mushrooms that you might find useful and tasty and I can guarantee you won't get lost even if you get distracted by these bounties,” the Lillooetian would say, attempting to comfort the hesitant visitor, “My great-grandfather, an explorer of sorts, even went through to mark paths on the trees in the case that a visitor such as yourself might wish to take a day hike.” More often than not, however, consolations were met with stubborn fear. In rebuttal to whatever excuses the visitor might conjure up: “Alright, then. I can't force you to explore the woods, but at least stay away from the hills then. They're not as friendly as you're making them out to be.” True Lillooetian manner: not forceful, not vengeful, truly concerned with others though the 'others' may not have shown the same concern for any Lillooetian.

These varied surroundings were the reason that most visitors kept strictly to the road through the East Woods and to the buildings in town. Lillooet was not a place that tourists came for outdoors activities. The buildings gave adequate entertainment as it was, though, so there was no real disappointment at this fact. Main Street was the focal point of the town even when it was first being settled. Small shops selling books, groceries, flowers, clothing, and trinkets lined the sole paved road and met the lone sidewalk in the community. Dirt or gravel roads branched off of this thoroughfare towards small circles surrounded by old, unique houses. Each house had its own, sprawling backyard, though families often made pacts that allowed their singular properties to overlap and mingle with the others, creating a rather confusing patchwork of backyard ownership. Lillooetians who'd kept their backyards to themselves were normally quite proud of the way their lawns were kept, especially Mrs. McGrew who lived on Rice Street, a road branched off the south west of Main Street. Mrs. McGrew, who had been a widow for many years by the time Frank Maveo was born, spent most of her days outside on her lawn either gardening or trimming, fertilizing or watering, landscaping or tending to the small pond she'd manufactured.

Off the north west side of Main Street, a little closer to the inviting woods than Mrs. McGrew's house, Mourning Dove Lane stretched back towards the hills. George Maveo, a resident on this very lane, often claimed the Vanishers as part of his backyard in jest but everyone in town knew he'd never really want to be responsible for such desolate features of the land. For such a majestic backdrop, the Maveo family home was rather mediocre and unassuming. Shabby blue shutters covered tarnished windows that never shined no matter how hard Mrs. Lily Maveo scrubbed the glass. The white paint on the body of the house was chipping and peeling and the stairs to the back porch were missing a step, but the family did not feel it necessary to expend extra money on renovations – they had a new baby to take care of.

It was into this modest house, modest town and with modest announcement that Frank Maveo was born. Indeed, as his mother said, his first week of life was eventful and wakeful, but he did manage to doze off in the arms of strangers every now and again. When he was awake, he did not cry. At first, this worried his mother and caused every neighbor that came to bless or examine the child to question his health. After a week without any other physical manifestations of any sort of trouble, however, the questions and worries died off and it was assumed that he was simply a very well behaved child.

In truth, Frank Maveo was more than simply well behaved. The first moment he emerged from his mother, Frank recognized the light and identified it as light. He somehow associated this light with goodness, most likely gaining this viewpoint from the words he heard muffled in the womb. Thus, he did not cry when he was born into a cold and bright world. He was able, without explanation, to see the faded wallpaper that hung in his mother's bedroom through his newly opened eyes and to identify it as part of her when he was only days old. The faces that blurred before the baby's face were also etched into his mind and the newborn found himself able to judge the haptic reaction each visitor would have based on their facial expressions. Those with darting eyes and shifting lips often held him gingerly and briefly, while those with parted lips and bared teeth chose to tuck him close to their bodies for more extended visits. Luckily these special skills were not things that Frank could express except in the absence of tears, and so his first weeks slipped past uneventfully.

II

“Mama, I'm not sleepy,” mumbled Frank.

He was only three months old. The sleepy house was flung into immediate uproar beginning with the scream of Lily as she realized that her baby son had just uttered intelligible words with unmistakable presence of mind. She dropped him onto the bed that they had both been reclining on and leaped to her feet on the hard wood floor.

“What... did... you say?” she whispered through jagged breath. One of her delicately worn hands reached up to lightly cover her trembling lips, but her words still echoed in the sudden silence of the dark room. For many moments, her panic was the only audible sound, expressed through the parting and reuniting of her lips in uncertainty, the shuffling of her bare feet against the comforting, homey grain of the floor, and the sound of her hands clasping and reclasping repeatedly as if trying to decide which position brought more security. Then a timid voice crept out to respond, joining the sounds of disbelief with its lisping, lilting tones,

“I'm not sleepy.” Frank's electric blue eyes, now wide with frightened anticipation of his mother's next reaction, had been odd enough for his mother. It wasn't really advisable to stick out around town, for though Lillooetians were not naturally vengeful, unfamiliar traits in those that were claimed as residents of the small town were often a point of sore regret. The first visitors to see the startling color of Frank's wondering eyes commented that it was a curiosity, to be sure, but nothing the townspeople couldn't become accustomed to. A newborn child speaking in complete sentences, however, was a completely different story.

Witchcraft. The word whirled in through the small crack in the room's only windowpane and proceeded to completely pervade the entire room until Mrs. Maveo was nearly asphyxiating under the building, smothering pressure of the word and all the implications it brought in tow. Witchcraft. With eyes now rounded and enlarged to their full extent, the terrified mother backed further away from the bed where her child lay, arms and legs flailing slowly as if he were trying to right himself and move towards her. Her lower lip trembled so quickly that the movement was nearly only a blur, but her shaking hands betrayed the rest of her sudden horror. Witchcraft. To Mrs. Maveo, it was the only sensible explanation. No child ever spoke before he'd lived even half a year of his life. Frank must have been tainted.

Her mind rushed back to the events surrounding her pregnancy and Frank's birth, and her memory caught on one snag that she would not be freed from. Just after she'd began to show signs of being with child, a traveling band of seamstresses and singers had passed through Lillooet on their way to the larger cities on the far side of the Vanishers: Jinksonville, South Range, Yiwun. The night had been clear and cold and Mrs. Maveo remembered admiring the way the stars seemed to shine more crisply than usual, sending gracefully sharp slivers of light to the chill ground. Her husband, of course, had been right by her side as they'd meandered around the makeshift booths and paused to hear the haunting and lilting voices of the wanderers.

All of a sudden, one of the women that had been completely engrossed in the verse of the song she was singing cut off and stumbled forward towards Mrs. Maveo, wrinkled hands outstretched as if to grasp the over-rounded protrusion and wrench it away from where it belonged. In the woman's wild lavender eyes, fire danced to match that of the bonfire in the center of town. Her unruly blond hair flew in every direction as an unexpected gust blew past the small group, chilling Mrs. Maveo to the bone and causing her to pull her maroon shawl a bit tighter around her narrow shoulders. The cold now felt uncomfortably present in the slightly rectangular end of the expecting mother's prominent nose, but she hadn't time to consider the sensation.

“Your child will betray us!” the strange woman shouted, words cracked with age but clear nonetheless, “Your child will betray us all, the wicked thing, and take up our stolen palace to celebrate his treachery!”
“Have you met this woman before, dear?” questioned George Maveo with unshakable certainty. Mrs. Maveo had always described him as her personal boulder and he lived up to this name. He'd been the driving force in choosing Lillooet for their residence, when Lily was torn between the small town and the big city, and she'd taken his decision with comfort. When the new pace of life and social customs proved worrying to his young wife, only George was able to provide adequate reassurance to combat Mrs. McGrew's nonchalance that could have been mistaken for coldness had not The Boulder seen directly to the stable core of the situation. Even with a wild woman shouting in his face, George kept his countenance as clear and calm as a pristine lake at dawn. Mrs. Maveo was shocked by the abruptness of the outburst but with her husband's reassurance, she regained her composure.
“No, love. Let's move on,” she suggested, tugging at George's linen sleeve and turning her head away from the woman. The woman's companions muttered amongst themselves as the scene died down, but calmed down before the couple was even out of sight. The event hadn't even circulated in the town gossip for more than a week – an insignificant lifespan for news of any kind.

Surely that's what caused this! thought Lily in a frenzy, The old witch was angry with my child and cursed the poor, unborn dear! Now he's ill-fated, doomed beyond salvation and I am thrown to the future of a cursed mother as well.

Mrs. Maveo's screams had reached the kitchen by then, and George finally appeared in his wife's room. His face, usually calm, appeared slightly strained as he saw his wife trembling over their baby boy. Her desperately horrified scream still rang eerily in his ears and traveled into his voice, betraying subtle worry in tones only his wife could capture and decipher.
“Lily, darling, are you alright?”
“No, George...” Mrs. Maveo sobbed, flinging her arms around her husband's neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He felt her whole body tremble against his and could only stare with paralyzed eyes at his child who now sat still as marble on the bedspread. George had never been particularly shaken by the bright hue of his son's eyes before, but now as they bored into his own of a more subdued azure tint, the man called The Boulder was distraught as he noticed the amount of sentience in the young child's face. Terrible thoughts darted back and forth across the synapses in that most reasonable man's mind as Lily whispered a broken account of the past moment's events into her companion's ear. Is he a punishment sent to us? But what wrongs have we committed? Certainly he will not be well-received in this town. And what will the Lillooetians think of Lily and I? Oh, this child was born only to wreak havoc in our lives! But to what end?

“My God, Lily,” Mr. Maveo's incredulous susurration carried unintentionally to the tiny, immaculate ovals of skin that formed his young son's ears. The utterance, tinged with disgust, fear, and an unspoken decision, displayed its meaning distinctly to Frank Maveo, and in its stirring bass tones, he heard his future. It was as if in some exchange of realities, George Maveo had, instead of the three words that his wife heard as the definite reality, spoken seven words of a more adamant nature, disregarding any societal rules of filial loyalty: “We have to get rid of him.”

“Father...” cooed Frank, voice as quiet as possible to prevent any intensified horror at volume rather than simply the unbelievability of the situation. Mother and father watched as their child raised one small, plump hand, round fingers outstretched desperately. They saw the confusion and betrayal written clearly across his facial features, now slightly contorted with emotion. None of the pleas of the small boy could reach their hearts, however, for as much as they could clearly see he was intelligent, their minds also blocked the possibility of the present event, causing a turmoil between belief and disbelief for both Lily and George Maveo. The only way to deal with such a stalwart quandary in Lillooet was to get rid of it completely.

“Where can we bring him?” asked Lily sotto voce from the corner of her rouged and trembling lips.
“Perhaps to the end of the East Road, my dear?” responded George with the same volume as his wife. She turned to face him then, back to what had been the joy of her life for the past three months, allowing the child one last scrap of tenderness from her cooling heart,
“We can't just leave him on the road, George. Perhaps an orphanage in Yiwun?”
“Seems reasonable enough, they'll be obligated to take him if we leave him without notice.” Frank's startling eyes followed the rapport between his parents with sinking expectations. His father had regained his customary stability and was now speaking with unmistakable confidence.
“Awfully cruel, discarding our troubles for someone else to endure,” Lily Maveo pondered aloud. Truly, she was no evil, heartless hag, but the event had so shaken her wits that she'd, too, forgotten her mother's love and devotion in the face of fear.
“Yes, my dear, but perhaps they are trained to deal with... divergences of this sort.”
“Allowing that you are right, still, what explanation can we give to the Lillooetians?”
“A terrible accident, for that is what this is. A terrible accident that we were landed with a cursed child who died at so young an age when he wandered into Old Man Lurtenbard's company and never returned.” The father's eyes flashed ominously with the foreign pleasure he found in imagining his child drowned, “Or would that be easier – to tell them that tale as the truth?” Lily's eyes, wide with shock for the past ten minutes, expanded even more; her bottom lip separated from the top with a small popping sound to express her utter astonishment.
“George,” the word slipped out with an entourage of breath, loaded with a mixture of disgust and intrigue. But no, her morals could not be warped even for this most bewildering circumstance, “An orphanage will be adequate. After all, even cursed beings deserve the chance to live.” Her reason spoke to her husband's conscience and he nodded once, glancing over Lily's shoulder to where Frank sat, waiting for his life's verdict.

“Then let's prepare for the journey,” fell the final decree, resounding in the room until it died on the white, wooden walls. At first, both parents started for the open doorway, until they simultaneously realized that a small child, especially a cursed one with unfathomable powers, could not be left alone.
“I'll watch him, love, and write the notice to accompany him on the steps of the orphanage. Don't forget a basket to leave him in. That's how these operations are done, yes?” Mrs. Maveo stepped back towards the rustic desk that was positioned beneath the only window in her bedroom. Stationary was already waiting for her on the surface of the table, as if this need had been expected. George nodded and then continued down the creaky stairs to the kitchen where he began to prepare what he thought necessary for the journey to Yiwun.

“Now, Frank,” said Mrs. Maveo, turning apprehensively to face her son, shaking voice betraying her feelings, “Please sit there like a good boy while your mother writes a letter to someone who will care for you after we've gone away.” Taking pen in still-trembling hand, Lily Maveo composed the following document.

Dear Caretaker,

My husband and I have lately found ourselves burdened with this queer child who will no longer adhere to our needs and wishes. I do, however, wish for you and your establishment to give him the best care that you can muster and allow him to live whatever life he is entitled to. Please do not encourage him to retrieve his former family, as we will be in the process of attempting to forget this unfortunate event.

With many sincere thanks,
L

Unexpected tears of bereavement suddenly slipped down Mrs. Maveo's face as a scrap of her remaining motherly conscious surfaced in her heart and reminded her that she'd waited years for a child of her own. The fragment of sentimentality writhed impatiently in her mind for a few minutes as if screaming at the highest volume possible how ludicrous it was to throw away her dreams because of a moment of superstition, worry, and the possible loss of her reputation.

“Lily, are you ready?”

Quickly as the thoughts had come, they shattered when reality glided back into her mind. George was downstairs waiting. Frank had to be given to someone else's care.
“Yes,” thought Lily to herself, “I wanted a child, but at what cost? Every woman has her limitations, and a prematurely intelligent child is far beyond my own.” Echoing her self-assent, Mrs. Maveo shouted back to George, gathered her son up in the blanket he had been sitting on, and rushed down to meet her strength personified. The journey to Yiwun would take at least four days, but the path was straightforward and resplendently flanked with possible resting points, most notably the Connor Inn which was hailed as the finest inn of the region.
“Shall we notify your work on the way out of town, love?” questioned Mrs. Maveo, going over a list of ends to tie up in her mind as she kept her stride in time next to her husband's.
“No, my darling, I told them there might be periods where I'd be absent to aid you in the care of... Frank, so there should be no problem with our jaunt, especially if we're able to procure a horse on the way home, perhaps.”
“And we've no problem with finances?”
“No, love, don't worry your pretty little head. I've got enough to cover us should we get delayed even a week more than expected. We'll be fine, Lily. Just put... that in the basket and we'll be off.”
“Yes, love,” replied the mother, slipping Frank and his blanket into the cupping bottom of the basket more tenderly than even she expected.

Frank had, as he watched his mother and father abandon their love for him, decided it would be most prudent if he'd cease speaking from that point on. “Perhaps if I remain silent, they will change their minds,” hoped the young boy silently. Even as the thought passed his heart, however, he knew his actions and their effects were irreversible. He felt it slightly unfair that his parents, who had doted on him so exclusively during the period where he hadn't dared to speak, would discard him so readily, simply because he had no idea of the proper age for a child to begin talking normally.

“Do all children have to decide when they'll first use their voice? Certainly I can't be the most impatient child in the history of the world. Or perhaps all the other children in this... 'orphanage' I'm destined to will be the same as I. They'll have spoken before their parents allowed as well. Maybe I shouldn't risk it though.”
Frank's conflicting thoughts faded as the basket rocked in a steady rhythm against Lily's hip and the movement lulled him into a sense of temporary security that granted him the ability to slip into a blissful sleep.

As if with a mother's intuition, Mrs. Maveo glanced down at Frank the moment he closed his piercing eyes. Silent, and with eyes shut, she imagined the events of the past half hour to be nothing more than a dream or a mistake. He'd never spoken, and his eyes had been a normal, clear blue since his birth. Why had George made the hasty decision to leave town on a whim that had no foundation? Her steps continued, but the purpose in them faltered.

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{NOTE; This piece will come most likely in a LATER part of the book or in a different book altogether, but I indulged myself a bit to write a little piece in the future!}

“And so it is with unending, ever-flowing pride and most joyous pleasure that I open the doors this day to Nevestory Academy in all its unrealized splendor.” The pair of scissors that the man held were poised to tear through the shining red ribbon that had been hung across the doorway into the large, imposing building. Behind the ribbon, the doors were ornately carved with delicate depictions of two griffins – one on each of the wooden planks, heads facing each other. The beaks were sharply defined, both half crescents that began in a row of small feathers and ended in a vicious apex. Sparkling spherical eyes of deep ruby were slightly chipped, telling faded stories of passing robbers mostly foiled by the enduring strength of those intransigent jewels. In the sunlight of late afternoon, each stained feather of the griffins' bodies seemed to glint as if made of precious hematite rather than of dark pine. Wings unfurled, the griffins emanated intense pride and protectiveness over the livelihood that was set to pass beyond their threshold.

Frank's eyes glistened to match the shimmer of the doorway behind him. This moment had not come without months of work based on the impetus of countless, experience-filled years. Memory of the past brought tears with it. Memory, however, was fading in favor of the fast-approaching future. The crowd was waiting with bated breath, and they would not let the ribbon cutting be stalled much longer. Frank wished to savor the moment, but knew that he could not keep himself in one moment for eternity.

Time always rushed on and he'd been too often left behind to repeat such a mistake at such a crucial moment. It seemed to Frank as if this temporal assault bent at his volition, revealing diamonds of lasting perfection hidden in every element of the scene at hand. From the glitter of the doors to the beam of light that reflected off the silver scissors and onto the joyous, healthy faces of those gathered to witness the ceremony, each detail flashed and engraved itself onto the eager and willing canvas that was Frank's memory. Then, as each facet left its imprint, it rushed on to meet the falling pieces of ribbon. Both halves fell into elegant bunches at the sides of the doorway.

A muted cheer rose from the gathered mass of people as they all moved forward, advancing as if to receive a reward rather than to walk into the empty entrance hall of a school that had only been approved for operation the previous week. Frank stepped sideways into the center of the top step to block the flow of people and indicate that the first step inside was reserved for him. It wasn't a reservation made out of selfish motivation or disdainful greed; it was only a sort of sentimentality tinged with sadness and loss that urged the aging man to go against his kind and generous reputation for a fleeting moment and to save first entry into Nevestory Academy for the spirit of its past.

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Now~ Do your worst! ;D

Mrs. Maveo was said to have complained that her child spent the full first week of his life wide awake, passed from arm to arm and from shade of life to shade of life.

Though the announcement in the town newspaper was entirely too humble, the day of Frank Maveo's birth in the small town of Lillooet was not to be an occasion that was let go unnoticed.

Though gossip flew more rapidly than the goshawks common around the region, it never blossomed into foul feelings or betrayal – it was more a passage of knowledge than a gathering of material for malicious intent.

For this reason, they had no significant names – they were known only as the friendly woods or the inviting forests of the west or east, respectively.

“My God, Lily,” Mr. Maveo's incredulous susurration carried unintentionally to the tiny, immaculate ovals of skin that formed his young son's ears. The utterance, tinged with disgust, fear, and an unspoken decision, displayed its meaning distinctly to Frank Maveo, and in its stirring bass tones, he heard his future. It was as if in some exchange of realities, George Maveo had, instead of the three words that his wife heard as the definite reality, spoken seven words of a more adamant nature, disregarding any societal rules of filial loyalty: “We have to get rid of him.”

“Where can we bring him?” asked Lily sotto voce from the corner of her rouged and trembling lips.

The father's eyes flashed ominously with the foreign pleasure he found in imagining his child drowned,

Frank's eyes glistened to match the shimmer of the doorway behind him.