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    Felicity Stockwell and the Widow’s Son
    Felicity Stockwell and the Widow’s Son
    Felicity Stockwell and the Widow’s Son
    Ebook130 pages1 hour

    Felicity Stockwell and the Widow’s Son

    By Greg Kearney

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    About this ebook

    In J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels it is suggested that the magical world which, she creates, exists in other areas of the world besides the United Kingdom.
    Here then is the story of Felicity Stockwell, a normal American girl with a family secret. It is a story of the magical world of J. K. Rowling invention as found in America. Within this story the reader will find references to the world of Harry Potter but in a uniquely American context expressing the American experience, history, culture and values.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGreg Kearney
    Release dateFeb 20, 2012
    ISBN9781465859211
    Felicity Stockwell and the Widow’s Son
    Author

    Greg Kearney

    G. M. Kearney is a librarian living in Perth, Australia. He is the author of several children's books including The Apple Trees of Tchin.

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      Book preview

      Felicity Stockwell and the Widow’s Son - Greg Kearney

      FELICITY STOCKWELL AND THE WIDOW’S SON

      BY G. M. KEARNEY

      Text copyright 2003 by G. M. Kearney This work is based on J. K. Rowling’s Harry Pottter and the Philosophers’ Stone and other related works by J. K. Rowling. No claim of ownership of those works is made or implied by the author.

      Published by G. M. Kearny at Smashwords

      Author’s Introduction

      In J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels it is suggested that the magical world which, she creates, exists in other areas of the world besides the United Kingdom.

      Here then is the story of Felicity Stockwell, a normal American girl with a family secret. It is a story of the magical world of J. K. Rowling invention as found in America. Within this story the reader will find references to the world of Harry Potter but in a uniquely American context expressing the American experience, history, culture and values.

      Greg Kearney July 2003

      Chapter One Felicity Stockwell’s Birthday Morning

      Felicity looked out the window at the steeple of the First Congregational Church across the street from her house. It was early June, and, as is the case in Rhode

      Island this time of year, fog had crept in from the bay and now lay like a thick woolly blanket over the roofs of Providence. The steeple of the old church disappeared into fog.

      Great, thought Felicity, the first day of summer vacation and my thirteenth birthday and it’s wet and foggy.

      Felicity had been in a somewhat sour mood anyway upon learning that her mother and father had planned to leave for Cape Cod on Saturday. She would have to celebrate her birthday at her grandparents’ cottage on the Cape, away from her friends. To make matters worse, there was nothing to do there.

      Felicity pulled on her clothes, in the process disturbing the slumber of her cat, Marx, who was making himself quite comfortable on her jeans, which had been dumped on the floor last night.

      Marx looked up at her and blinked his eyes before walking from the room.

      Felicity took one more look out the window as she brushed her hair. Well, at least the fog is lifting; perhaps it won’t be such a bad day after all, she thought.

      Felicity put down the brush and took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She was a slight girl, with dark red hair that fell to her shoulders. In her school’s uniform she showed the beginnings of a figure, but dressed as she was today, in jeans and a University of Rhode Island sweatshirt, no one could see that. Satisfied with her appearance, she went down the stairs to breakfast.

      Good morning, her mother’s voice greeted her as she came into the kitchen. The Stockwell home was an old brownstone in the centre of the city.

      The kitchen was small, with a table at one end looking out at the equally small backyard. Felicity remembered that as a small girl, she longed for a home outside the city with a big lawn. But this house was close to her father’s work and there was a park nearby. As Felicity had grown older, she had come to appreciate living in the city.

      There are some waffles for you on the table, her mother said, without turning from the ageing waffle iron that always burned the first two waffle attempts . And I set out the real maple syrup because it’s your birthday. There are some cards on the table for you, too.

      Her mother turned from the waffle iron. Anne Stockwell was a handsome woman of 40 with dark red hair the same colour as her daughter’s. She was the music teacher at Felicity’s school, St. Andrew’s.

      Oh, and Roger Williams came by this morning and brought you this, she said, handing Felicity a small box and a card in a light-blue envelope.

      What? thought Felicity,Why in the world would Roger Williams be giving me a gift?

      Her mother saw the puzzlement in her daughter’s eyes. Smiling, and with a slight teasing in her voice, she replied,You know, he has always had a crush on you.

      Felicity felt her face get warm. Being faired-skinned like her mother, she blushed easily.

      Felicity had known Roger for what seemed like forever. Roger was a year older than Felicity and had attended St. Andrew’s with her until last year, when he had gone to Salem Academy in the mountains of Maine. Salem Academy was her father’s old boarding school, and, since Felicity was an only child, it was expected that she would be attending there, as well, in the fall.

      She looked down at the box and the envelope with Roger’s precise handwriting on it. The kids at school would sometimes tease Felicity about Roger but, if the truth be told, she really didn’t mind. Roger had been a good friend to her for as long as she could remember and having him at Salem comforted her about going to a strange school so far from home.

      Roger was sometimes strange himself. He had a talent for being able to disappear, seemingly at will. One minute he would be with you and the next he was nowhere to be seen. And there was that time in the fifth grade when Mary and Alison were teasing Felicity about her red hair, bringing her almost to tears. Roger had told her to pay no attention to those Muggles. He said it as if she should have known what he meant, which she didn’t.

      Felicity had asked Roger What’s a Muggle? At this question Roger seemed to become agitated. He had told her it was nothing, nothing at all. Just an old term his parents used. Felicity had not been satisfied with this answer. She had attempted to look up Muggle in the dictionary but it had not found it.

      Since that time she had, on occasion, wondered about the word.

      She turned the card over and opened it. Inside was a card with a cat, Felicity’s favourite animal, Purring a birthday greeting. Beneath this were the words: Happy Birthday, Felicity, I’ll see you at school this fall. Roger.

      What’s in the box? Her mother asked.

      Oh, the box! Said Felicity, remembering the box before her.

      She opened the box from Roger. Inside, wrapped in paper, was a ball, about the size of a baseball but harder. It was a golden colour with stitching around it. Felicity couldn’t tell what it was made of for sure… In the same clear handwriting Roger had printed: To Felicity, you will understand what this is later.

      What a curious gift, thought Felicity to herself. Roger is certainly living up to his odd reputation.

      Felicity turned the ball over in her hands. It had clearly been used quite a bit. Two rather noticeable holes were in either side.

      It must be something from his school, said her mother, who had come over next to her and was examining the ball. His mother said that he is on a team at school, you know.

      Yes, that must be it, said Felicity, still studying the ball in her hands.

      Well, you had better eat your breakfast. I have an errand for you to do for me this morning and there are some other cards on the table.

      Felicity sat down at the table and looked over the handful of cards that were before her. One from her school principal, which she, and every other student at St. Andrew’s, received, without fail, every year on their birthdays. One from her Sunday school teacher at the church across the street and one from Aunt Joan.

      Aunt Joan was her father’s sister who had never married and lived in the old family home outside of Amherst. The place was a crazy collection of antiques and family mementoes dating back to before the Stockwell family came to America in the 1600s, at least that what Aunt Joan always told her. In addition to the endless collection of bric-a-brac that she kept, Aunt Joan also kept an owl as a pet.

      The small bird would sit in its cage, eyes closed, looking for all the world as if it were stuffed. Once, when Felicity had been visiting, she had poked at it with a short stick she had found among her aunt’s belongings. The owl had only opened its eyes for a moment before returning to its customary state.

      If anything, Aunt Joan was even stranger

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