flavour of the day and rocky road with peaches
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Born in the Spring
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: lucubration, Rocky Road #13: library/study
Toppings/Extras: fresh peaches
Wordcount: 888
Summary: Isaac Prowse’s birthday present.
Notes: Follow-up for Token of Gratitude! Lucubration: The act of studying by candlelight; nocturnal study; meditation. Peaches: Your feelings aren’t your best guide.
He’d spent the whole day reeling at the fact that it was his birthday and that he was twenty-five years old. Twenty-five! Not a bad age at all, Isaac Prowse had reflected as he’d smashed Gannum Shaw’s head into the wall of his cell repeatedly to get the location of his illegal shipment of chintz out of him. The twenty-fifth of May. He’d been born in the springtime.
Knowing his birthday made him feel closer to his mother for some reason, and that made him happy.
That evening he sauntered into the Ashdown townhouse with a light heart. Springtime! The air was full of flitting, darting birds and butterflies; everywhere he looked, flowers were growing, from the cultivated bunches of Ashdown’s luxurious gardens to the tiny daisies and dandelions pushing up at the cobble-edges. The sun was bright but not stiflingly hot. What a wonderful time to be born!
When he was called into Ashdown’s study that evening, he wiped the smile off of his face-he didn’t want to be unprofessional, after all-and entered silently… but still he was reminded of the spring. The window was ajar, letting a cool Maytime zephyr curl in, and the place had been brightened by a tied bunch of daffodils.
Prowse gazed at them a moment, wondering where they’d come from. Then he realised it must have been Ashdown’s little sister Rosalind-nobody else would ever send or bring flowers to the strange young man.
“Good evening, Mr Prowse,” Ashdown said, not looking up from the ledger he was busy writing in.
“Evenin’, sir,” Prowse said cheerfully, and then internally cursed because he’d reverted back to his old accent again. It was unshakeable, the accent of his birth, he was certain of it. However, Ashdown said nothing, merely raised one eyebrow a little and continued to write.
“Over there,” he said, vaguely waving one arm towards a walnut bureau on the opposite end of the room. Prowse made his way over to it a little cautiously, though he was very curious. He wondered what his master’s idea of a gift was.
What he found was a small leather-bound book, found to be on closer inspection a novel called Jack of Newbury by someone called Thomas Deloney. Prowse had never heard of him, which embarrassed him instantly. He turned it over in his hands.
“I’m, uh, still not that good at reading, sir,” he mumbled.
“Don’t worry,” Ashdown responded a little sneeringly, “it’s no great work of literature. I have heard, however, that you spend almost every night training yourself to read. Admirable devotion to the cause, I must say. This should… help you ease into it, I suppose.” He cleared his throat delicately. “What is inside may be of more importance to you-don’t open it now, Mr Prowse, good grief.”
Prowse stared down at the cover, which felt like it was burning through the skin of his hand.
“It’s only a small list of names. The people who murdered Mr Charles Buckett. An old friend of yours, I believe.”
Just hearing the name made him feel like he’d been punched in the throat. Prowse opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and then snapped the book open, plucking a note out of it.
“And you want me to…?” he began.
“You may do whatsoever you please with the information,” Ashdown said, voice suddenly cold. “As far as anyone else is concerned, it did not come from me.”
Prowse understood that. But he just had to ask-
“How…?”
He’d spent a long time after Charlie’s death trying to find the culprits. He hadn’t had a lot to go on. Who cared about another murdered street brat among many, after all? Everyone knew that Charlie’s violent death had been coming to him for a long time.
“You should know me by now, Mr Prowse,” Ashdown said, following the sentence with a cluck of his tongue. “I can find out anything, given the incentive. A lot of it is to do with knowing the right people-which, of course, I do.”
Prowse was suddenly struck by thoughts of his brothers… but he couldn’t go that way now. He had just been given a present, after all.
“Thank you, sir,” he said after a while, frowning down at the names. There were five of them-there had been more on the night, but the natural selection that occurred in London’s dingy back alleys had clearly whittled their number down. He dimly recognised a few of them. “Do I… have the night off?”
There was a pause. Ashdown put down his quill and sighed.
“Yes,” he said, “but don’t get killed. It would be… most unhelpful.”
“I won’t,” Prowse said, and left the study. He made it halfway across the adjoining drawing room before he suddenly stopped and tore the list of names in half-and then again, and then once more.
He felt a little sorry for his young master, who clearly had no concept of letting things go. He almost heard Charlie’s disappointed groan-wimpin’ out as always, eh, Zac? It didn’t matter though. Things changed. Stabbing the bastards that killed Charlie wouldn’t do anything. Was that how Ashdown answered all of his problems?
Well, it was his job, wasn’t it?
Book tight under one arm, Prowse went to read.
Title: Born in the Spring
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: lucubration, Rocky Road #13: library/study
Toppings/Extras: fresh peaches
Wordcount: 888
Summary: Isaac Prowse’s birthday present.
Notes: Follow-up for Token of Gratitude! Lucubration: The act of studying by candlelight; nocturnal study; meditation. Peaches: Your feelings aren’t your best guide.
He’d spent the whole day reeling at the fact that it was his birthday and that he was twenty-five years old. Twenty-five! Not a bad age at all, Isaac Prowse had reflected as he’d smashed Gannum Shaw’s head into the wall of his cell repeatedly to get the location of his illegal shipment of chintz out of him. The twenty-fifth of May. He’d been born in the springtime.
Knowing his birthday made him feel closer to his mother for some reason, and that made him happy.
That evening he sauntered into the Ashdown townhouse with a light heart. Springtime! The air was full of flitting, darting birds and butterflies; everywhere he looked, flowers were growing, from the cultivated bunches of Ashdown’s luxurious gardens to the tiny daisies and dandelions pushing up at the cobble-edges. The sun was bright but not stiflingly hot. What a wonderful time to be born!
When he was called into Ashdown’s study that evening, he wiped the smile off of his face-he didn’t want to be unprofessional, after all-and entered silently… but still he was reminded of the spring. The window was ajar, letting a cool Maytime zephyr curl in, and the place had been brightened by a tied bunch of daffodils.
Prowse gazed at them a moment, wondering where they’d come from. Then he realised it must have been Ashdown’s little sister Rosalind-nobody else would ever send or bring flowers to the strange young man.
“Good evening, Mr Prowse,” Ashdown said, not looking up from the ledger he was busy writing in.
“Evenin’, sir,” Prowse said cheerfully, and then internally cursed because he’d reverted back to his old accent again. It was unshakeable, the accent of his birth, he was certain of it. However, Ashdown said nothing, merely raised one eyebrow a little and continued to write.
“Over there,” he said, vaguely waving one arm towards a walnut bureau on the opposite end of the room. Prowse made his way over to it a little cautiously, though he was very curious. He wondered what his master’s idea of a gift was.
What he found was a small leather-bound book, found to be on closer inspection a novel called Jack of Newbury by someone called Thomas Deloney. Prowse had never heard of him, which embarrassed him instantly. He turned it over in his hands.
“I’m, uh, still not that good at reading, sir,” he mumbled.
“Don’t worry,” Ashdown responded a little sneeringly, “it’s no great work of literature. I have heard, however, that you spend almost every night training yourself to read. Admirable devotion to the cause, I must say. This should… help you ease into it, I suppose.” He cleared his throat delicately. “What is inside may be of more importance to you-don’t open it now, Mr Prowse, good grief.”
Prowse stared down at the cover, which felt like it was burning through the skin of his hand.
“It’s only a small list of names. The people who murdered Mr Charles Buckett. An old friend of yours, I believe.”
Just hearing the name made him feel like he’d been punched in the throat. Prowse opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and then snapped the book open, plucking a note out of it.
“And you want me to…?” he began.
“You may do whatsoever you please with the information,” Ashdown said, voice suddenly cold. “As far as anyone else is concerned, it did not come from me.”
Prowse understood that. But he just had to ask-
“How…?”
He’d spent a long time after Charlie’s death trying to find the culprits. He hadn’t had a lot to go on. Who cared about another murdered street brat among many, after all? Everyone knew that Charlie’s violent death had been coming to him for a long time.
“You should know me by now, Mr Prowse,” Ashdown said, following the sentence with a cluck of his tongue. “I can find out anything, given the incentive. A lot of it is to do with knowing the right people-which, of course, I do.”
Prowse was suddenly struck by thoughts of his brothers… but he couldn’t go that way now. He had just been given a present, after all.
“Thank you, sir,” he said after a while, frowning down at the names. There were five of them-there had been more on the night, but the natural selection that occurred in London’s dingy back alleys had clearly whittled their number down. He dimly recognised a few of them. “Do I… have the night off?”
There was a pause. Ashdown put down his quill and sighed.
“Yes,” he said, “but don’t get killed. It would be… most unhelpful.”
“I won’t,” Prowse said, and left the study. He made it halfway across the adjoining drawing room before he suddenly stopped and tore the list of names in half-and then again, and then once more.
He felt a little sorry for his young master, who clearly had no concept of letting things go. He almost heard Charlie’s disappointed groan-wimpin’ out as always, eh, Zac? It didn’t matter though. Things changed. Stabbing the bastards that killed Charlie wouldn’t do anything. Was that how Ashdown answered all of his problems?
Well, it was his job, wasn’t it?
Book tight under one arm, Prowse went to read.