The rest of the week and weekend came and went without Nellie taking a peek at Rhys’s letters. She did paw through the photo album everyday if only for a minute. She grew familiar with how Rhys changed from chubby cheeked cherub to a square-jawed teen, his flaxen curls darkening to a deep, golden honey wave. The photos with the two brothers together–despite Rhys’s sour expression and Uncle Winston trying hard to hide his annoyances–were some of her favorites due to their similar features. Seeing Uncle Winston and Rhys at thirteen and three was like a preview to what Rhys would look like at thirteen, with lighter, wavier hair. It was a game to try to match the features.
Nathalie and Rhys were obviously much more fond of each other. Nathalie was often hugging him, or feeding him in the earliest photos, or generally doting on him. The smugness on his face in these showed that he was quite spoiled when his sister was involved.
The final picture of Rhys was him in a collared shirt appropriate for church, hair carefully combed. He smiled widely as he showed off a rolled paper that showed he completed Year 11.
She jumped as a soft, firm knock sounded on her door. “Sweetpea, are you ready,” Uncle Winston called. “Nat said we needed to be out the door around now.”
Uncle Winston was bringing her back to school after all the accusations and arguments with the administration. Nathalie was not confident she would remain cool if she saw Miss Campbell or Ms. Pelham, and thought Uncle Winston showing up would be a good show of strength. Nellie was glad for the change in driver; Uncle Winston could not help but make disgruntled comments about all the open spaces and lack of civilization during the short drive. She knew if Nathalie had driven her that she would have asked if she had gone through the letters yet.
Uncle Winston set his keen, blue eyes on the school. His eyebrows lowered. “My god, they don’t hide the fact these public schools are children are prisons, do they? What a dreary, soulless building. How are you expected to nurture your mind with such an uninspired place?” He clapped Nellie on the shoulder. “You report anything of annoyance to me after Nathalie fetches you this afternoon. Understand?”
“You won’t be picking me up,” Nellie asked.
“I want to, lovey, but I must pack,” Uncle Winston said. “I’m supposed to fly back this evening.” He squeezed Nellie’s shoulder, stooping to see her face. “You send me a text if you have any issues after I go. Or if you want to ask about your father, or complain about him, or if you just need to talk about something. Nothing is off-limits. That includes Nathalie. If you need to talk about her, just reach out.”
Nellie had an overwhelming urge to hug him, but thought doing so would make saying goodbye after school less meaningful. She instead nodded, smiling, and climbed from Nathalie’s Crown Victoria. She slung her backpack over one shoulder, turning to face the school. It really was an uninspired building.
She gave Uncle Winston one more small wave before shuffling through the doors, through a blast of sticky, hot air from the heating unit just inside. She unzipped her coat and tried to remember where her locker was, then what the combination was, then where her homeroom was, then where her desk was. She sat with her hands in her lap, holding her silenced phone hidden just under the hem of her tunic-style shirt, with her blue eyes locked on her desk. She held the position for the entire day.
It was too cold to stand among all the other pre-teens to wait for Nathalie, especially with the car not anywhere in sight. She walked down the line of cars towards the edge of the school property, folding her arms tight to hold as much warmth as she could to herself. She shivered, but slowed rather than speed up. There was a young man with a clipboard stopping each car as it entered school grounds.
He looked like a college student except his short, blond hair was combed and in a typical, boring sort of cut that would be suited for boys from the 1950s. The clipboard and haircut would have pegged him as some sort of religious missionary, except that his clothes did not match that profile. From her view, his coat was more of a trench that was some kind of shiny, royal blue.
Nellie hugged herself tighter and ducked her head as she approached, watching from the corners of her eyes as she shuffled passed him–him ignoring her just as much.
“Pardon me, madam,” this young man said in a crystal clear, properly British accent to the car beside them, “do you have time for one question? It would help me enormously with my literature class.” He flashed a smile that could only be described as dazzling. It gained the desired effect of having the car not front up despite the others before it inching along.
Nellie hovered, shivering. She wanted to ask him where he was from without interrupting his homework. A flash from his eyes her way showed he was aware of her unintentional eavesdropping, and seemed annoyed. She re-tightened her coat and rooted to the spot.
“Are you familiar with gryphons, by chance,” he asked, inching nearer to the car as if it would block the question.
“I am,” Nellie blurted out, jumping closer.
There was a pause as the driver glanced from the young man to Nellie, seemingly unsure if the responsible thing to do was drive forward and leave them. A car horn from behind encouraged her to abandon them, leaving the two of them summing each other up.
On closer look, this young man’s coat appeared to be blue leather–not shiny like pleather–and woven with silver threads. There was short, plush, dark fur on the inside collar that suggested the coat was very warm.
The young man eyed her warily, gave a curt nod, and turned to the next car pulling up. “Good afternoon–.”
“Hey,” Nellie said. “I said I knew!”
“Yes, I’m sure a little girl knows all about gryphons,” he said with a clear eye-roll.
“I have a feather,” Nellie said indignantly.
He paused, teetering between continuing trying to engage the next car and turning back to give her a moment of his time. He gave the driver–who had already rolled down her window–an apologetic smile that could make the most cantankerous grandmother coo. He took a step nearer to Nellie, his clear blue eyes looking her up and down.
“You appear chilled,” he commented. “Be quick, for your own sake.”
“Is this really for a literature class,” Nellie asked. “I can’t think of any story a college kid would study with gryphons heavily featured. Or why a guy that sounds like you would be doing a survey in Lynchburg.”
He allowed the clipboard to swing to his side. There was nothing on it but a blank paper.
“What color is this alleged feather of yours,” he asked.
“White,” Nellie said bluntly. “Flight feather. Seems to glow a bit.”
The edge in him vanished. His shoulders relaxed, and the tightness in his jaw gave way to a relieved smile. His eyes lit with excitement as he scooted another inch forward.
“Where did you find it,” he asked enthusiastically.
“Perenelle!” Nathalie stopped the Crown Victoria with a screech. She eyed the young man carefully, pursing her lips. “Get in the car, please. I want us to have time with Winny before I drive him to the airport.”
“Ah, you’re English,” he said with a large smile. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam. I was talking to your–.”
“Yes, I see you talking to a minor right outside of school grounds,” Nathalie said stiffly.
“He knows something about that gryphon outside our house,” Nellie said, leaning eagerly into the window.
“She was outside your house,” he exclaimed.
“It’s a she,” Nellie bubbled. She bounced against the car. “Can he come over?”
“I don’t wish to impose… but may I,” he asked, rocking slightly as if he too was trying not to bounce about.
The cars stacking up behind began honking. Nathalie hissed something unsavory under her breath. She looked from Nellie to the young man, and put both hands on the wheel.
“Get in the both of you,” she said. “Nellie, you take the back just in case I need to toss this boy through the windbreak.”
Nellie stole glances in the rear view as they made their awkwardly silent drive up and through the school pick-up lane. She tapped her knees, squirming in her seat, and blurted, “Is she your gryphon?”
“Not now, Perenelle,” Nathalie said.
“Perenelle…,” he murmured, just under his breath.
The short drive ended with the Crown Victoria crunching the gravel outside the small house. Ash was howling from his outbuilding, sending the hairs on their arms on end. Nellie jumped from the car, running over to release him.
“Don’t let that dog–,” Nathalie tried to yell just as Nellie opened the door.
Ash bounded out, ran in circles, and bounced towards the woods. He poofed into smoke near the edge of the trees and disappeared.
Uncle Winston was halfway out the front door with a cup of tea in his hand. “He really isn’t a dog, then…. Nat, be a pet and load up my bags.”
“Load your own bags,” Nathalie said crossly. “I’ve enough to handle at the moment.”
The young man climbed from the backseat. His eyes were wide as they focused on where Ash had vanished, but there was no sense of fear or trepidation attached. A slow smile spread across his face. He raked his blond hair up.
“My word,” he said. “What type of animal was that?”
“A smoke wolf,” Nellie said proudly. “He’s an adolescent, and packless, so he lives here now. His name is Ash.” She retrieved her backpack. “What’s your gryphon’s name?”
“In the house, Perenelle Herle,” Nathalie demanded.
The cup shattered on the front steps. Uncle Winston stared, mouth half opened, at the young man, completely oblivious to Nathalie’s angry comments over his recklessness. His reaction had Nellie surveying the young man curiously but all she noticed was that he seemed uncomfortable with the attention, but not surprised by it.
“Will you hush,” Uncle Winston hissed at Nathalie. He stumbled over himself to shake the young man’s hand. “Do come in, sir. Tea? I made her buy some.”
Nellie stepped back to take in the full picture of her successful, proud uncle fussing over this random college student. Nathalie had a clear look of disturbed surprise over her brother’s reaction too.
“Winston… explain,” Nathalie said cautiously.
Uncle Winston scoffed, looking thoroughly scandalized. He gestured to the young man, and said, “This is Ira York! My god, Nathalie, you’ve spent far too long separated from your country.” Uncle Winston then whispered, “You are Ira York, yes?”
“I am,” Ira said wryly, “though I must admit I’m surprised you know that.”
“My brilliant wife is a linguist with a penchant for Yorkish kings,” Uncle Winston said, puffing out his chest. “She, in fact, consulted with the Missing Princes Project.” He waved his arms towards the house. “But, enough chatting out here, sir, you must be cold. Come in, come in. The place is cramped, I’m afraid, but warm enough.”
Her eyes popped at the news a prince was graciously accepting her uncle’s invite into her house. She elbowed Nathalie aside to enter after Uncle Winston, her mouth drooping at all the cardboard boxes, scattered clothes, and stacks of plating on the counters. She threw herself into the kitchen, pulling plates out of sight and vigorously wiping the formica with a sponge.
Nathalie did not look as impressed as she slunk into the house. She moved unpacked clothes off the couch for Ira to sit, but showed no further hospitality.
“Nat, tea,” Uncle Winston hissed.
“I’m afraid we don’t have the time,” Nathalie said. “We’ll have to leave shortly for the airport.” She set her eyes on Ira. “Is there somewhere I can drop you off, Mr. York?”
“Don’t trouble yourself, madam,” Ira said. “I’ll just call a rideshare.”
“I would rather a stranger with a car not drive onto my remote property with my twelve-year-old daughter here,” Nathalie said coolly.
Ira nodded fervently. “Understood.” He rested his hands on his knees, turning to get Nellie in view. “Shall we cut to it, then? May I see this alleged feather?”
Nellie bolted for her room as Uncle Winston questioned the importance of a feather, clearly forgetting the half dozen times Nellie had waved it around his nose trying to explain what she and Ash experienced. She grabbed it from her bureau and swung around into the living room, holding it up in triumph.
Ira stood, his eyes locked on it. He slowly took it from her, a smile spreading across his face. “She was here!” He grabbed Nellie’s shoulders. “Where was this?”
“Just beyond the woodline,” Nellie said. “Ash ran off, I went after him, and he must’ve startled her, because next I knew, I was tossed by this great gust of wind and this feather was there.”
“When was this?”
“Um… about five days ago,” Nellie said. Her heart was beating with excitement. “She is yours then? What’s her name?”
“Cecily, but to say she’s mine is a stretch,” Ira said. “She’s like your shadow wolf; not a pet but not some random creature.” His handsome face clouded in a frown. “Five days…. I was hoping it was more recent.”
Old Mrs. Thronebery’s claim of a gryphon–or her description which Nellie took as a gryphon–behind her house just went from completely possible to absolute. Her feather was more than proof; Ira was saying it was his specific gryphon’s feather.
Ira took a breath, exhaling the disappointment off his face and replacing it with a placid smile. “Thank you for giving me some idea of where she was… Nellie, was it? Or, is that too informal,” Ira said. “I can call you Perenelle or Miss….” His face scrunched in thought. “Sorry, Herle, was it?”
“Unfortunately,” Nellie groaned. “Nellie is fine, your, um, lordship?”
“Ira, please,” he said, his mouth curling. He twisted his hands together. “This is… an odd question, but do you have any relation to Commander Rhys Herle?” He turned to Uncle Winston. “There is a strong resemblance once I look at you properly.”
“Commander,” Uncle Winston exclaimed. “Rhys is a commander of something? Nathalie, did he tell you this?”
Nathalie stumbled over her words as she tried to cope with the revelation that Ira knew her brother and remember what he had written about in his letters. Uncle Winston did not help by peppering more questions on top. The timer on his phone indicating they needed to get on the road to the airport sounded shrilly, causing both adults to leap up. There was more scrambling to get the car packed with Nathalie stopping several times to say something to Ira, change her mind, and scurry off.
Nellie was a ball of excitement and a deep pit of anxiety as she watched out the window. Uncle Winston was in the car, peevishly flapping his arms at Nathalie as she wavered near the car, ready to head back indoors. Her gestures towards the house were clear enough.
“She doesn’t want to leave you alone with me,” Ira commented, watching the same scene. “I am a stranger. Perfectly reasonable reaction for a mother to have.”
“She’s not my mother,” Nellie murmured. “I have a feeling you already knew that.”
Ira shrugged. “Families have complexities,” he said. “As for what I know–.”
“Hold that thought,” Nellie said, leaping to her feet. “Don’t go anywhere.” She bolted into her room, grabbed the box of Rhys’s letters, and jumped in a seat beside Ira on the couch. She pulled a fistful out and began to leaf through them. “To make sure you aren’t making things up for whatever reason, what is my mother’s name? Wait one second… here we go!”
The realization that she was now holding her father’s handwriting slammed down on her. She adjusted her old on the lined paper, making it more gentle as if the page was delicate and not simply ripped from a generic spiraled notebook. Rhys wrote in script, which was more difficult to read, but the neatness of his penmanship helped keep most of the words distinguishable.
Rhys apologized for the long gap in letters, the reason being he left his position with the Order of Ferblanc and was offered a new one. Settling in took longer than he expected,and his confidence about this new job was not high. This was in part due to the liaison he must work with being too carefree and a tad airheaded; her role was clearly nepotism being that she was the boss’s big sister.
“Brunhilde…,” Nellie said.
“It has an ‘ah’ sound on the end, but, she was usually called Brue,” Ira said. He smiled sadly. “Liked to tack an ‘e’ on the end for femininity.”
They jumped as the front door was thrown open with a bang. Ash charged in, half knocking Nathalie over as she clung to the handle to stay upright.
“I must leave now or Winny could miss his flight,” she stated. She drew in a breath. “Perenelle, keep that creature inside until I return.”
Nathalie was gone before Nellie could thank her or question her. She stared at her mother’s name in her father’s hand, a queasiness settling in the pit of her stomach. She set the page back in the box.
Ira was holding his hand out to Ash who was stretching to sniff it without getting any closer.
“I must smell of Cecily even now,” Ira mused. “I’m sorry she spooked you.”
“He honestly probably was trying to eat her, so…,” Nellie trailed off. “I can make you tea now if you’d like.” She stood to turn on the kettle as Ira nodded. She searched the fridge, tossing a bit of leftover steak on the floor for Ash. “Are you hungry? We have… ham steak? And… there must be some sort of vegetable in here somewhere….”
“The tea is fine,” Ira said. He gently pat Ash on the head. “Well, aren’t you soft!”
Nellie set the coffee mug full of hot water and a teabag in front of Ira. “You know both my parents then,” she asked.
“Knew is perhaps too strong,” Ira said. “I met them several times while I was a boy. Commander Herle worked closely with my parents before and after he gained that rank.” He smiled warmly. “I’ve met you too before; I’d thought Perenelle sounded familiar. It’s not common enough for me to hear it often.”
“We-we’ve met,” Nellie said, blinking in disbelief.
“Twice,” Ira said. “You may’ve been under a year for both, or a year for the second. Being all of ten, I did not exactly find you interesting. Our interactions were nothing other than me politely saying hello while your parents acted as if you could respond.”
She was presented with someone that knew her real mother, her father, and presumably what it was Rhys had left home for. He may even have insight on why Rhys left her with Nathalie, at what it was that happened to her mother for him to abandon her. It was too much too fast.
“What happened with Cecily,” Nellie asked.
“She was spooked,” Ira said, frowning. His blue eyes wandered off. “There was this… scream.” He shuttered. “Yes, spooked. She’d never bolted like that. I was shed off, and I’ve been searching ever since.”
“You ride her,” Nellie said, bouncing in her seat.
“On occasion,” Ira said. “She isn’t fond of it, and it isn’t comfortable for either of us.” He made a face as he sipped his tea, swallowing it roughly, and setting it down with a degree of politeness. “I’ve never been to America. I wasn’t sure what manner of creatures to expect. Clearly, Cecily was out of her depths as well.”
Nellie draped her arm around Ash’s neck as he nosed his way over, eyeing Ira’s tea as if he too was unsure of the taste. She had no experiences outside of Florida–none that she remembered–so it never crossed her mind how the creatures in the Americas would differ from those in Europe, or other places. The European cryptids, those from overseas, had much more lore and stories written about them. Hundreds of years worth, with decades of more recent accounts. That was undoubtedly helpful for gaining some grasp of what you would be coming face to face with.
The elderly people at the coffee shop had a few funny stories of experiences they had heard, or their own encounters, but the majority of stories had been terrifying. Ira’s reaction to saying the word scream, Cecily’s reaction to bolt and still be on the lam a week or so later, gave Nellie the impression they would have had a much worse experience had they stuck around longer.
“Is that what you do,” Nellie asked, “travel around and find these cryptids with your own cryptid friend?” She smirked at Ash. “Is that a career path?”
“Not exactly to answer both questions,” Ira said, laughing. “Creatures are drawn to me, and I them to a certain degree.”
“I can relate.”
“Yes, I imagine so,” Ira said, reaching over to rub Ash’s ears. “It’s an inherited trait. Both my parents had it. My mother more towards creatures; my father more towards… other. For lack of a proper descriptor.” His eyebrows knit in though. “Maybe describing it as a sensitivity is more accurate….”
“I’m told my father had this oddness, and I’m thinking that’s why Ash is sitting here,” Nellie said.
“Commander Herle absolutely had the sensitivity,” Ira said resolutely. “His towards the other, not so much creatures. They tie together, mind you, so they aren’t so separate.” He reached for his tea but recoiled as he recalled the taste of it. “Perhaps magic is a better word than blandly saying other?”
Nellie’s blue eyes sparkled. “Magic is real!”
“Of course,” Ira said. He picked up Cecily’s feather from the table. “This is proof enough.”
“Rhys was a witch,” Nellie breathed, and hastily corrected, “I mean warlock.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Am I a witch?”
“My guess is no, and we typically referred to magical people as mages unless otherwise specialized,” Ira said, looking thoroughly amused. “Commander Herle wasn’t a mage. He was the exact opposite as a member of the Order of Ferblanc. Ah, I suppose that’s a new term for you too?”
There was so much to ask. Nellie picked through what Ira told her about Cecily, magic, the sensitivities, and looked to the box of letters. There could be more information in there, perhaps Rhys tried explaining about this Order of Ferblanc to Nathalie. He could have written about magic or fantastic cryptids that he encountered. Ira’s parents both had this oddity, and maybe her mother had that too.
The shrill ring of her phone sounded from her bedroom. She murmured a half apology and she clamoured around Ash to get to her room. It was unsurprising to see it was Nathalie calling, a bit surprising to have her shouting concern before Nellie could say hello.
‘I’ve texted you hundreds! Are you all right?’
Nellie winced at the thirty-five unopened texts from Nathalie and five from Uncle Winston–he clearly not as concerned and having been cut off from continuing with the airplane taking off.
“I’m fine,” Nellie said. “I left my phone in my room. I didn’t hear the texts. Did Uncle Winston get through–?”
‘Is he still there?’
“Ira, yeah, he is,” Nellie said. “Ash is watching him. Why? Should I have him leave?”
The pause on the other end was long enough that Nellie pulled the phone back to check the call was still connected.
‘I want to ask about Rhys myself. Check that he isn’t a vegetarian or anything. I’ll be home in ninety minutes.’
“Okay, I’ll ask him to stay for dinner,” Nellie said. “Drive safe. Love… you. Bye.”
‘...Love–’
Nellie hung up. She quickled set her phone to silent, considered it, and changed it to vibrate. She strolled out into the living room where Ira was allowing Ash to snuffle all over his intricate coat.
“You’re not a vegetarian, right,” Nellie asked. “I think dinner is ham.”
-----------------------
I did not expect Ira to show up so soon. But then again, this is the fifth chapter and if Nellie wasn't going to sit there and put pieces together via Rhys's letters (which would've been going nowhere honestly without someone more in the know) then Ira was needed. He probably would've turned up next chapter looking for Cecliy anyway.
I wanted to keep Uncle Winston around longer, but that would've had him derailing things to pry about Ira's family. The more unimportant part of it, because he does have the important part (the 'other' sensitivity). Uncle Winston was originally supposed to tell Nellie about the Order of Ferblanc. Not what it is, because he doesn't know, but to make the cheeky comments about how Nellie is obviously not studying properly because if she did then she'd know Ferblanc = fer-blanc = tinplate = tin. And make more cheeky comments about Rhys running off to be a tin soldier. But, since that was all he would've done I figured I can always make that a text exchange if I really want it in there. Nellie didn't give back the photoalbum and Winston did tell her to keep in touch, so there's room for it.
And Ira is the best person to introduce "sensitivity", or the oddness, because he's got it coming from both parents. (Spoiler-ish, Nellie doesn't, not really.) I thought about having this continue and having Nathalie ask about Rhys, but I wasn't sure how long that was going to get, and I need a minute to try to explain what the heck is going on, lol. I know it in my head, but the right wording is not coming to me.
The distraction Winston would've been going off on is the whole Yorkish Kings and medival monarchy stuff. The Lost Princes Project is a real thing (I'm listing to it now, really interesting) and was a research project following the Search for Richard Project that rediscovered the remains of Richard III, the last Yorkish King before the French took over with the Tudor line. I randomly stumbled upon a movie about that project some months ago, and it was so interesting that I meant to download the audiobook, but then saw they recently completely the Lost Princes Project and downloded that one instead. All a very long way to put that Ira York is connected to the lineage of Yorkish Kings. The surname is a coincidence. I thought it sounded noble. I laughed so hard when I realized Richard III and the two princes were considered Yorkish.
And final note, half for my reference, what Cecily (named both for a Yorkish queen and one of Richard III's nieces) and Ira ran into was a White Bluff Screamer. It was one of the creatures Nellie writes down after talking with the old people in chapter 2. The lore of them is horrific, and it does make me wonder how dark some parts of this will be with all the different creatures and lore involved.
