The Family Jewels

Prologue

Sir Rabenstone did not know what woke him in the midst of an infuriated blizzard. He normally slept well with the wind's screaming voice filling his silent mind. But tonight, he was rigid, sweat dampening the dirty sheets and freezing on his skin when he sat. Searching frantically for an explanation as to his sudden awakening, the memory of a dream played out as a vision on the whitewash wall before him. Foresight had never been gifted to him and he usually took little to no notice of his dreams. But this one had been different. There no denying that fact it was a message.

A child with snow-white hair had been standing in the woods, she was crying. It wasn't the sadness Sir Rabenstone had found disturbing, he wasn't one to care for such trivial emotional states, it was the tears that ran down her cheeks. They were gold. For a moment she had only stood crying until golden blood poured from her heart, staining her clothes and pooling on the grass. After this she had fallen, a broken angel on the ground and would never take flight again. All of a sudden, the woods were possessed by black smoke that devoured the girl. There had been a scream like an eagle and the roar of a lion that enveloped Sir Rabenstone's mind, yanking him back into a reality he was beginning to believe was as surreal as the dream.

Why had he remembered that doll like face and those adorned tears? Wiping his hollow face in an attempt to shake of the fright of waking, he stalked on long legs to the only other piece of dull furniture in his bedroom, a dresser with a broken mirror which often gave him frights when he looked up to see five heads and ten emerald green eyes gazing back at him. Tonight however, his fright came not from the many versions of himself in shattered glass, but the one truth behind them all. He had slept to long. His long chin was coated in stubble and he'd lost so much weight he may as well have been a skeleton. Shaking his head at the shell that had once been Sir Rabenstone, he retrieved a long forgotten lump of coal from the fireplace where dozens of spiders had built their webs.

He proceeded to scribble the image of the girl onto the dirty wall. "Gold tears," he muttered. "Gold. Gold blood. Gold tears. Why the gold. Gold. Gold. Hmm, was it even gold? Who decided gold was gold? Golden tears?"

A light tapping against his peeling wooden door interrupted his thoughts so suddenly that a great ugly line was streaked across a coal girls enormous eyes. Muttering curses, he glided to his bedside placing a black top hat on his head. His fuzzy black hair was permanently imprinted by the hat leaving it poking out the sides around his olive face. He reached for his rod made of ivory and gold, it had been so long since he'd held it that it felt unfamiliar in his hands. He aimed it toward the door, calling softly, "Come in."

The rusted handle creaked and a glass lantern made him squint his grass green eyes. The tiny flaming lights inside the lantern were beetles that glowed yellow. The substitute for flame had been invented by the one carrying the lamp after Sir Rabenstone had banned fire from his home. The master of the lantern was a large toad-like creature shuffling forward on two webbed feet, his barrel body almost completely covered by the bright orange beard on his face. The beard's scent was overpowering due to the food lost in the thick mats that knotted garlic and bones in place.

"What is it, Wart?" Sir Rabenstone muttered, his eyes taking more time then he would have liked to adjust to the light.

Wart's large toad mouth opened, his bushy eyebrows lowering over bulging yellow eyes in disapproval of Sir Rabenstone's tone of voice. "There's a whisper a' the door, Sir."

"So, go answer it, Twarf! What do you think I bought you for?" Sir Rabenstone waved him away, attempting to open the stuck drawer on the dresser where his supply of pumpkin ale was kept. One of Wart's eyes cast a suspicious glance at the picture on the wall, the other not leaving Sir Rabenstone. "Argh," the wizard cringed at the oddly directed eyes. "Please, Wart? You do know how disturbed I become when you do that freakish eye, googlilly thing. Darn drawer!" He yanked it so hard that the dresser almost toppled down on top of him, although the drawer still refused to open. "Wart my old friend, would you mind perhaps opening this drawer for me?"

"I would min', Sir. There was a whisper a' the door an I opened it', an you won't believe who tis'," Wart said.

"The storm no doubt. I always knew your marbles would fall out of those repulsive eyes of yours," he replied wirily. "You know, I really am starting to worry about you, Wart."

Wart snorted, "Say's the man who's ben' sleepin' three weeks?"

Sir Rabenstone was really quite disgruntled by the figure, but only pursed his thin lips in a way that told Wart he did not believe a word he said. Wart rolled his boggled eyes at and continued on his verbal quest. "It's one of the Oakley's."

The drawer had been inching forward until Sir Rabenstone froze as if he'd just stepped outside into the blizzard, sticking it shut again. "Whatever is that hideous traitor doing on my doorstep?" he asked, offended by the very thought despite his hearts dull ache. "Send her off. She chose her path."

"She's dead, Sir."

"Oh, in that case, I will have to see her wont I?" he growled. "Don't want her making a mess on the floor."

"She's frozen. I doub' she'll be makin' that much o' a mess."

"Think man!" Sir Rabenstone flicked the Twarf on the head as he passed. "When she defrosts she'll make an awful stink, won't she? I already have the Garnett scum breathing down my neck! A dead witch stinking up this place will not help the situation."

"I guess no'," Wart muttered ruefully if only to avoid another petty argument. The pair made their way slowly down the dark marble staircases that dared not creak beneath a wizard's feet. At last they reached the round monochromatic island below them. It was not a room but an island surrounded by water before the walls which had been painted to resemble the woods outside. A paint blizzard tore through the trees the same way it was outside. Sir Rabenstone's heart sank a little lower into his stomach when he saw the light cast by the lantern hovering over the corpse guest. Her thick orange ringlets were frozen in place; her eyelids clamped shut by solid tears. Sir Rabenstone imagined the vibrant blue life behind them that would never be again.

"Winter Oakley," he said quietly. "Have you searched the ground for her sisters?" Wart nodded. "Ah, good, you're not as dim as I believed." He continued to examine the frozen witch, wondering, why? Why had she returned? She'd betrayed him years ago. Her and her sisters. All of them as horrible as the icicle at his feet. Eventually, in fear of her thawing out and making a mess, he crouched down to cast a spell of farewell over her, but as he chanted, something moved.

Leaping back, his rod raised and ready, he waited for the latest attempt on his life, only it never came. "Honestly, Sir," Wart grumbled. "I'm startin' to worry bout' you."

"Who has eyes popping out of his head?" Sir Rabenstone shot back, lowering the wand and reaching for the movement behind a cloak the woman clung to. Below was not the lion he'd expected, in fact, the parcel was quite the opposite. Wrapped in a mile of cloth was a tiny newborn whose turquoise eyes sparkled. "Oh, it's a new person," a relieved sigh escaped him. "That's ok. Wart, take them away."

"Sir," Wart called after him. "This is Winter Oakley!"

Sir Rabenstone stopped in his retreat against his better judgement. "Wart," he whined. "Just take them away! Winter is really not up for chatting right now. Not in her state."

"No disrespect, Sir; but no, I'm not taking them away," Wart crossed his arms. "Winter don't leave stuff on doorsteps fer no good reason. Tis' a kid, Sir. Where'm I suppose' t' take 'er?"

Sir Rabesntone shot him a dirty look, however, he stopped down to his knees in order to tug the package free from Winter's desperate grasp, only to snap off one of her fingers. "Oh, icky! That will make a mess in the thawing!" He brushed it aside using his rod, lifting the child who began blubbering. It was in this moment that Sir Rabenstone recognised her. He'd seen her before, the most recent sighting being scribbled on his wall. He just hadn't noticed before as he'd streaked a line of coal across her eyes.

"Wart!" he exclaimed. "It's her! I have just dreamed a dream of her face. Look at it Wart, look!" he held the baby close to Wart's face making her to cry. "Oh, oh, Wart, take it. It's making a noise."

Wart's arms remained crossed and he raised an eyebrow. "Sir, I'm startin' t' think ya need some serious help."

Sir Rabenstone grimaced, "I need no such thing you ungrateful piece of shit. I'll prove it! Take Winter outside an bury her, position four in the graveyard."

"In tis' blizzard, Sir?"

"Yes. And take that finger!" Forcing himself to turn away from Winter, he made his way swiftly and silently back up the stairway, rocking the child back and forth so as to silence her whimpers. She fell silent and he breathed for the first time since holding her. Wart eventually clomped back inside, his moustache frozen solid and his toes a dark shade of blue.

"Sir," his voice was demanding despite the shivers. "T'was inside the cloak." Sir Rabenstone stared at the envelope until Wart, rolling his yellow eyes, proceeded to open it.

"I've told you countless times!" Sir Rabenstone snatched the letter. "Nothing good comes from envelopes. It's bad luck to open one." Wart had no reply and Sir Rabenstone read.

"I'm so sorry."

Sir Rabenstone remained silent and staring long enough for Wart to ask if he was dead. "Do I appear dead creature? Here," he handed Wart the baby. "Take her to a bedroom that's clean and she can stay there."

"Sir," Wart tried to keep the girl quiet despite her starting to whimper again. "I can' let ya keep tis' kid if you won' look af'er her yourself. I have enou' ta do round 'ere. And I can' just be leavin' her in a room!"

Sir Rabenstone glowered at the nerve of his Twarf, although no harm would ever come to him. Wart had been his friend longer than most dared. "Fine. I suppose I have no more pressing matters to deal with." He took the child back and laid her on her end of his bed. "You see that?" he pointed his rod at the drawing. "That means this night was supposed to be."

"You shoulda' ben' an ar'ist, Sir."

"Oh shut your clunker, I know that." Sir Rabenstone blew the compliment to his artistry off. "I believe this little one has a purpose," he gestured to the baby. "I think I know what it is. Even stone disintegrates, taking what's set in stone with it! Wart, I know what runs in her blood."

Wart's bulging eyes widened. "No!"

Sir Rabenstone replied by opening the stuck drawer which seemed to have a mind of its own. "Let's drink to this shall we," he popped the bottle open.

Wart fidgeted somewhat nervously. "Sir, I've ben' your friend a while now; an I feel tha' I should help ya care fer her." Sir Rabesntone smiled thankfully. "Bu', only if you stop wit' the drinkin'."

Sir Ravenstorm scowled at him, but knew that the Twarf was right, again. He'd been asleep far too long, not just speaking for the three weeks. "You are for once, correct. He handed the bottle to Wart. "Take it away." After a short struggle, Wart managed to snatch the drink from Sir Ravenstorm.

"Now I'll av' to put up with your tantrums," Wart muttered.