Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters: Part One

PART ONE

By Winter Woodlark

For Nigel, Henry and Arthur

my mother Marilyn

and niece Lily N.

Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters – Part One

Copyright © 2015 by Winter Woodlark.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

A Forest with no Name

Nettle Blackthorn propped her long legs upon Bessie’s dashboard and wiggled her toes against the flow of hot air blasting from the air vents. The large map spread across her thighs gently billowed, as she busily traced a finger along the thin black line marking the stretch of highway running parallel to an expansive forest that took up much of the map. Bessie, the Blackthorn’s motor-home, gently jostled Nettle about as she rode shot-gun beside her father, driving alongside the very forest that she was frowning at on the map. She tapped a finger absentmindedly against her pursed lips and cast an askew glance out the window to the great wall of trees.

They’d been travelling along the long, long, straight road for well over an hour now, and had hardly come across another vehicle, nor seemed to gain on the craggy mountain ranges ahead. The scenery was the same. On one side an immense tussock grassland, on the other a swathe of swampy marshland hugging the forest’s tree-line.

The forest was ancient and pressed so tightly together she could barely tell oak from poplar from ash. Its trees and shrubs and vines were so thickly knotted about one another, Nettle assumed it had never been threatened by loggers or woodsman. She wondered if anyone would ever dare to approach it with an axe. Even from inside Bessie, Nettle felt the forests disquieting presence, an unsettling feeling: ignore it, keep to the road, travel onward, best forget the forest even exists. Yet, she found she couldn’t.

The forest reached high into the murky sky and its long shadow cast a gloomy light across the road, so it seemed to Nettle they were travelling in never-ending twilight. Enormous twisted roots plunged into the mire, like a line of roman soldiers marching forward on a deadly rampage, while gnarled branches stretching skyward threatened to engulf the sun, if it ever dared to peer out from behind the clouds. Perhaps it was afraid to, perhaps it had good reason to hide.

It was peculiar - earlier, when they’d slowly descended the treacherous mountain, now well behind them with its tight twisting roads slick with morning ice, Nettle’s breath had caught in her throat as a tingling anticipation thrummed through her body while gazing upon the immense valley below. The forest promised adventures. As far as Nettle could see, the vista was a thick carpet of trees caught in autumn’s clutches, awash with fiery hues of golden copper and burgundy. Rolling hills erupted from within the forest, and she could see in part a river winding through, yet nothing on the map indicated these natural features.

You OK? asked Fred, noticing yet again she was rubbing her back like a farm cat against a wooden post.

Nettle shrugged, scouring her spine against her backrest. The annoyingly persistent itch had returned. Just irritated is all. She frowned flicking the map with a finger. I don’t get it. There’s nothing on this map that shows what’s in that forest. Not a hill, or a river. They haven’t even put a name to the forest.

Fred’s glasses had slipped slightly and he pushed them back up his hawkish nose before replying. It’s called the Forgotten Wilds.

Nettle’s thin lips curled into a lopsided smile. Huh, funny Dad. I suppose they forgot all about naming it on the map?

Something like that, Fred grinned in return, wiggling his thick eyebrows up and down. They shared the same distinctive smile.

Nettle rolled her eyes at her father and went back to investigating the map. But there really wasn’t anything to investigate, just an enormous wash of light green colour marking the forest. She continued to squint at it, wondering if she was going to spot something faintly named within the forest... sorry, the Forgotten Wilds, she corrected with slight derision.

A wooden cage latched to the wall directly behind her held a thrush perched on a swing, preening his spotted chest with his little beak. He stilled for a moment, cocked his head and chirped. Nettle twisted around in her seat. She reached up and slid a finger through the cage to scratch his head. Hey Willoughby, not long now, she cooed.

Nettle’s younger brother, Bramble, sat cross-legged on the couch reading his latest book on chess. Immersed in opening gambits, he’d barely looked away from the book in the last hour. He sat across from his cousin, Jasmine, who liked to be called Jazz. She was rapidly typing a reply to a text on her cell-phone. No doubt, judging by her smug expression, embroiled in slanderous gossip with one of her friends from Sister Miriam’s School for Girls - an elite boarding school her parents could no longer afford to send her to. The no-longer-affording part was something Jazz demanded her relatives never, ever, give away. Her friends had no need to ever know her family’s vast fortune had been stolen. Jazz, despite Nettle’s misgivings, was positive her parents would locate the accountant that absconded with all their money and by the end of the month she’d be reinstated back at Sister Miriam’s and out of her poor relatives moving home.

At first, Nettle didn’t notice Bessie’s momentum slowing. When it finally registered, she turned from Willoughby, perplexed. Are we here?

Her father had slowed the motor-home down to a crawl. To Nettle’s surprise, they were approaching a road that cut from the highway, over the marshland by way of a robust but basic wooden bridge, and headed directly into the Forgotten Wilds. The dirt road looked freshly constructed, as did the bridge. Whoever had created the road had simply smashed through the forest with utter recklessness and little concern for the resulting devastation. Much like a snow-plough, broken branches and entire trees had been felled and now littered either side of the road like mounds of rubbish. Nettle felt quite ill gazing at such thoughtless destruction.

Bewildered, Fred scratched his head, his long wavy black hair ruffled slightly. He was well overdue for a haircut.

Dad? Nettle prompted. She quickly searched the map, but as she well knew, there were no roads that led from the highway into the forest. Bessie moved slowly ahead, they were nearly adjacent to the road. Her father stared at the new dirt road leading into the forest. Dad, Nettle tried again. With no response Nettle jabbed his forearm with her finger.

Huh? Fred near jumped, turning her way. He stared blankly for a moment, his gaze slipping past her, returning to the road.

Ugh, Nettle mentally sighed, he can be such an absent minded professor. Dad, where does it go?

Her father was silent for the longest time. She thought he’d forgotten and was just about to ask about the road again when he finally answered in a distant fashion, I’m not sure...

A sudden noise erupted above the soft rumblings of Bessie’s engine: a shrill horn blasted, startling Jazz and the engrossed Bram.

What was that? Bram queried adjusting his glasses in the same manner their father did. Nettle looked into her side mirror. Right behind them was an old fashioned school bus with dark windows. The cream coloured vehicle blasted its horn three more times. It sounded agitated and annoyed and wanted them gone.

What’s their problem? Jazz popped her shoulder with attitude as she adopted a scornful glower.

I guess we’re in their way, said Fred distantly.

Just as her father spoke, the bus’s engine roared. Its powerful motor rocked the vehicle from side to side. It gave one last long annoyed blast, then drove right by, cutting sharply in front of Bessie to turn off the highway and onto the mysterious road. Dust billowed beneath the tires; the bus wasn’t about to slow down for the dirt road and its numerous potholes.

As the tour bus passed by, Nettle tried to see through the tinted windows. It was too dark. All she could make out were shapes of figures. The bus appeared to be completely full of passengers. Nettle took note of the logo on the side of the bus: Olde Town Tours. In smaller letters underneath, it read "Take a Vacation Back in Time." The bus rolled over the bridge and into the Forgotten Wilds. Soon enough, it was gone from sight. Take a Vacation Back in Time? Maybe it’s one of those role-playing vacations, like those murder mystery dinners.

Their curiosity satisfied, both Bram and Jazz went back to analyzing chess moves and sending snarky text messages.

Olde Town? questioned Nettle. Despite her father’s natural olive hue, he had paled. He looked extraordinarily uncomfortable, taking Nettle by surprise. She was instantly worried. Dad what’s wrong?

He hesitated in answering her. It’s just... I don’t understand why anyone would be going to Olde Town.

Why would that bother him? It was just a tour bus.

Fred carried on, Olde Town was, and always has been, deserted.

It’s a ruin?

Kind of. Abandoned more like. I went there once, when I was a little older than you. He grinned, and Nettle saw a flash of what her father would have looked like as a mischievous kid. Boy did I get in trouble with your grandfather. He was furious to find me traipsing around in the Wilds. Nettle wished she’d known her grandfather, but he’d died before she was born. Fred pointed down the mysterious road. You can’t see it from here, but Olde Town was built on a hill. When I came upon the village, the homes were mostly built from stone, and quite a few had withstood the elements, even centuries later. He tapped his finger against his bottom lip, his brow furrowed in thought. I suppose with some work, they could easily be inhabitable once again.

Nettle’s curiosity was piqued. What happened, why was it abandoned?

Her father shrugged, I’m not exactly sure, I was never able to find out what happened from your grandfather. All I know is, something sinister occurred and the villagers started vanishing.

Nettle’s mouth had formed an impressed ‘O’. She looked to the road, dust hanging in the air. Guess it’s not deserted anymore.

No, agreed Fred, with one final concerned glance at the dirt road, It’s also not far from the cottage.

Nettle’s murky green eyes, the same shade as the swampy marshlands they travelled beside, lit up. Really? She scanned the road ahead, expecting to see some sort of neon road side sign flashing ‘Blackthorn Cottage This Way!’ Which was quite a ridiculous notion, as she realized she hadn’t spotted any sort of electricity pylons anywhere on the highway.

Fred drove forward, leaving the new road to Olde Town behind him. He drove at a slower pace. Like his daughter, he was scanning the forest’s tree-line, not for a bridge and driveway as Nettle presumed she should be watching for, but a pair of hawthorn trees.

There, he said triumphantly.

What?

Right there! Her father gave her a wide grin. He tossed over his shoulder, Hold on everyone. Fred took great glee in driving Bessie off the highway. The motor-home lurched as she rumbled over the embankment and into the marshland.

Nettle shrieked, Dad, what are you doing?!

Whoa, way to go Dad! yelled Bram, not caring that his chess pieces flew everywhere.

Nettle gripped the edges of her seat, bracing herself with her feet jammed firmly against the dashboard. Bessie lumbered slowly onto the marshland guided by Fred who barely blinked, focused on the precarious navigation of the soft ground before him.

The motor-home rocked from side to side as it moved over tussocks and reeds, dipping into the mud sucking recesses of the marshlands. Yet the trusty Bessie managed to weave across the marshland on a path obviously well known to her father, and safe enough to cross for such a huge and heavy vehicle.

Where are we going? Nettle whispered, not because she didn’t want anyone to hear her ask, but because her breath was sucked from her with fright. At any moment, she was convinced they were going to get stuck and slowly sink into the quagmire.

There, her father said. Right into the Wilds. Fred drove Bessie toward the pair of hawthorn trees. Nettle was jostled as Bessie’s tyres gripped a firm hold upon solid ground, the vehicle dragging herself from the soft sludgy marshland onto the hardened ground of the forest. Nettle sighed with a deep sense of relief to have survived the dangerous bog.

As Fred turned the motor-home toward the Forgotten Wilds, Nettle wondered how the vehicle was going to get through the densely packed trees. She need not have worried, for a moment later Bessie passed between the pair of hawthorn trees, and as their prickly foliage scraped over the vehicle, it was almost as if the forest parted, granting them permission to enter its depths.

Nettle realized they were actually on an overgrown driveway. Branches noisily scratched Bessie’s sides as they cut through the thick woodland on a winding avenue lined with a myriad of trees: alder, yew, birch, dogwood, elm and pine and so many, many more trees, scraggly, stunted, knotted, prickly, covered in lichen and dripping with creeping ivy. Mid-autumn had burned many leaves a variety of hues ranging between lemon, peach and gold, with the odd fire-red, stripping many, but not yet all of the deciduous trees their leaves. The canopy overhead arched over the driveway, allowing only a scattering of dull sunlight through.

Despite Jazz’s protests, Nettle wound down her window and rested her chin upon folded arms. The persistent itch between her shoulder blades eased as cool damp air pinched her cheeks cold. She closed her eyes and drank in the pungent smell of moist rich earth and decadent decay. Insects noisily buzzed in the murky light while Bessie’s wheels crunched upon a deep layer of crisp dead leaves. It felt good to be surrounded by nature.

A moment later, Nettle realized Bessie had come to a slow rolling halt half-way down the long bumpy driveway. Nettle pushed herself from the open window to give her father a quizzical look.

Nettle’s eyes, framed by short thick eyelashes, flashed wide. Dad? Are you OK? Fred was staring ahead, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Small beads of sweat had gathered at his hairline and he looked waxen and incredibly nervous.

From behind, Bram poked his golden head out his window, scanning the driveway ahead. Has Bessie broken down again Dad?

Uncle Fred, whined Jazz, still sitting in the dinette, completely absorbed with holding her cell-phone aloft at different angles, I can’t get reception.

Fred turned to Nettle. Long dark locks of hair were plastered to his forehead. His haunted dark olive eyes unnerved her. She asked in a hushed voice, not wanting to worry Bram, Dad what’s wrong?

Fred’s rough calloused fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His voice was a broken whisper. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.

What do you mean?

I shouldn’t have brought you back here.

Nettle was confused, why is he suddenly so afraid to be here? You’ve done nothing but talk it up for the last two days. Bram’s excited to see the place. We can’t exactly turn around and leave now.

Fred’s gaze flitted back to the driveway. Maybe we could… I could take you to my sisters. It wouldn’t be…

When Nettle heard the sadness and despair in his voice it finally made sense. Oh, she realised, he’s afraid to open the door and find the cottage empty. For once, in regard to her mother, she felt a pang of heartache for her father.

Aunt Mae, said Nettle, a little louder than anticipated, is trying to track down the Accountant.

Pardon? interjected Jazz, overhearing her mother’s name.

Dad’s talking about taking us to your parents, Nettle explained to her cousin. Nettle continued quietly so only her father could hear. They can’t take us in Dad. They’re the ones who sent Jazz to us.

The bankruptcy is temporary, Jazz said, suddenly appearing right behind them. She glared at her younger cousin with a pout. Daddy will find that crook of an accountant, we’ll get back our money, our home, and no-one need ever know about the bankruptcy. At least my friends believe I’m on a camping trip.

"But, you are on a camping trip. Bram rolled his eyes at his older cousin. Dad, you promised we’d come home," he said, his voice betraying hurt and confusion.

Not under these circumstances, Fred said quietly.

Oh, it’s supposed to be when Mum comes home? Not likely. Ugh, she could of kicked herself, but it popped out without thought. Snide comments about her mother were always close at hand.

Fred shot his daughter a sharp look. What was that? Nettle’s own expression began to match Jazz’s pout. Maybe being back here was going to be good for him. He needed to finally accept his wife had gone for good and she was never coming home. Nettle glared back at her father, her lips a tight line, refusing to answer.

Jazz was the one who piped up. She said -

Nettle lunged over the seat and pinched Jazz on the arm. Ouch! Uncle Fred! Jazz shrieked, leaping back rubbing her arm.

Nettle! Fred gave his daughter a withering stare. His glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back with a finger while waiting for his daughter’s apology.

Behind her uncle’s back, Jazz gave Nettle a smug look. Nettle’s thin lips hardened and her green eyes narrowed into slits.

We’re waiting, said her father.

Nettle turned reluctantly to her cousin. Sorry, Jasmine, she said knowing fully well what kind of response she’d elicit from her cousin.

Jazz, shrilled Jasmine. You know it’s Jazz! She turned to her Uncle. Squashed up in this tin-can may suit you, but I am in need of a bed, a real bed. Uncle Fred, you promised us proper beds and proper showers.

For the longest time Fred was silent. He looked over at his children and niece. His decision made, he took a deep breath, his slumped shoulders straightened and a determined glint re-entered his gaze. OK, we’re going in. But there is one thing you must promise me. All of you, including you too, Jasmine.

"Jazz, Uncle Fred."

OK, Jazz. He stared hard at each of his children. Nettle felt a lecture coming. "Do not leave the house. Do not go into the woods."

Huh, Nettle wasn’t expecting her father to deny them the woods. The forest wasn’t exactly inviting, but they were kids, and up for adventuring. Why bring them home if they weren’t allowed outside?

Bram was snappy with his questions. Why, what’s in the woods? Is it dangerous?

It’s just not a safe place to be. People have gone missing in there, it’s easy to get lost and… Fred looked into the distance, lost in thought.

And what? This time it was Nettle asking.

The woods are home to some very dangerous creatures.

What kind of creatures? asked Bram, a little too curious for Fred’s liking.

Ah, well, you know, the usual kind… The three children stared at him, demanding a precise explanation. Silver-moss springs, grenick-vines, toadstools…

Springs and toadstools? Nettle echoed with disbelief.

Fred flushed and changed tactic. Just don’t leave the house, he said firmly.

What if we need something from Bessie? Bram asked.

Yes, of course, you can get whatever you need from Bessie.

So we can go outside?

Yes. No. I mean, yes, Fred flustered. You can go outside. But just stay in the yard OK.

How big is the yard?

Big enough, just don’t go into the woods, OK.

How far away are the woods? How do I know if I’m playing in some trees, that it’s OK, and not the woods?

Bram, you’ll know, answered his father with thinly veiled vexation. Now promise me, you’ll stay in the yard, and not go into the woods.

Bram nodded, like Fred knew he would. He was a good boy and reliable. Jazz agreed with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders and toss of her coppery hair, and Nettle said nothing. OK? He pressed.

OK, whatever, said Nettle still smarting at having to apologise to Jazz.

Right, then, said Fred heaving a sigh. Blackthorn Cottage it is.

Bessie advanced forward once more. It wasn’t long before they broke free of the woods and drove into a clearing of sorts, for most of it was an overgrown yard of weeds and broken picket fencing.

To call Blackthorn Cottage a ‘cottage’, was modest. The precarious stone house was tall and narrow, and three stories high. Thatch clad the roof of the house, including the tower that jutted slightly above its peaked gables. The years had aged the thatch to light silver. A rampant white rose bush had twisted itself around the porch balustrade, pushed between its wooden floorboards, and crept up the cottage’s stone walls, around window sills, and through a broken window pane, as well as beneath the gap in the front door.

This is it? Jazz asked. Her tone and imperiously arched eyebrow flaunted mockery. Blackthorn Cottage?

Nettle nodded, her mess of long black hair bobbed. It’s exactly how I remember it, except for the broken windows.

The yard could do with a tidy up, Fred mused.

Nettle cast a glance over waist-high grass and tussock. You think? They both broke into grins.

I’ve got dibs on the bathroom! Jazz lithely leapt from Bessie. Bram scurried after his cousin as she skipped up the rickety porch steps.

Hey, called Fred, leaning out the driver’s window. You’ll need the key. He produced an old fashioned brass key from the glove box and held it aloft.

But Jazz had already twisted the door handle and the cottage’s front door swung open. She entered; Bram right behind her.

Fred jumped out of the driver’s seat, Hey, he yelled. Fear urged him to sprint toward the cottage. Don’t go in there!

Nettle hurriedly pulled on her sheepskin lined boots, pushed open her door, and slid out of Bessie. She caught up to her father at the porch steps. Dad! What’s wrong?!

I locked the door before we left.

Fred bound up the steps and into the cottage. Nettle ran after him, the wood groaning beneath her weight.

CHAPTER TWO

Return to Blackthorn Cottage

Nettle left the front door open, stepping over the thorny branches to enter a large open room comprising the kitchen and lounge. The once white plastered walls were now yellowed with age and lack of cleaning. There was a small section walled-off for the bathroom, washhouse, and pantry. In the very centre of the room was an enormous fireplace, built from river stones. The enormous chimney spread its girth through the next two floors, the heat of the stones warming the upper levels on cold nights.

The rampant rose bush had pushed under the front door and through a broken window pane quite some time ago, Nettle concluded. The creeping green tendrils had rambled up the room’s front wall, its shoots twisting around crooked paintings, latching onto rustic curtain rails and slinking over shelves, making it seem as if the wall itself was part of the wild garden outside.

A curved entrance opened to the tower that housed the spiral staircase leading to the upper levels, from which Nettle realized, the sound of thumping feet and doors slamming were coming from. Nettle supposed it was her father, hurrying from room to room. As to why her father was in such a panic to search the cottage was blatantly obvious to her now. The room she had entered was a mess. Blackthorn Cottage had been ransacked. Every draw and cupboard had been opened and their contents strewn over the floor. But who? And why? Great slashes of silver scorch-marks scoured the walls. Nettle leaned close to inspect what looked to her like silvery glitter still imbedded within the pock-marked walls where the paint had been blistered by intense heat. Yet nothing obvious had caught on fire.

Jazz opened the bathroom door startling her. She escorted Bram out, a hand on his shoulder. You’ve been robbed. She patted his back in a manner she hoped convey her sympathies, but to Nettle, resembled more like the pained grimace of someone unused to bothering with other people’s problems. But luckily the bathroom’s OK. So… I’ll test it first. With a little push, she had Bram out of the bathroom, and shut the door on his surprised expression.

Bram turned to roll his bright blue eyes at Nettle, who shook her head in shared disbelief. Their self absorbed cousin had no idea the world didn’t revolve solely around her.

Fred made his way down the staircase, his boots making a racket on the wooden steps. He stumbled off the last step, hunched over and out of breath, a fire-poker held limply in one hand. It’s... OK... I thought... he huffed and puffed and wheezed, No one here.

Dad, are you OK? Nettle asked. He looked as if he’d run a marathon. He nodded, sucking in air, gave her a thumbs-up, and slumped into his old armchair. A cloud of dust billowed from the cushion as he sank into it. He regained his breath.

Who could have done this? asked Nettle, her dark brows drawn together as she surveyed the destruction.

When her father didn’t answer she glanced up. He was deathly still, the colour drained from him. His fingers gripped the armrests like claws. He gazed around at the room at all the upturned and smashed furniture and scorch-marks on the walls.

Dad? Nettle asked concerned. It must have only just sunk in for him. He was too busy running around making sure no one was here. Dad?

He started, obviously forgetting she was there. She held his gaze, then allowed it to slip away as he gave himself a sharp shake to release the tension. He relaxed back into the chair expelling his breath. When he shrugged, he smiled, his mood lightening. I guess it could have been anyone really, we’ve been away for ages.

Have they taken anything?

It was a reasonable question to ask, she thought, except her father glanced away, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, the tell-tale sign he was thinking how to avoid the truth. What is going on?

I don’t think so, though it’s impossible to tell with the state the rooms are in. In a brighter tone, he turned to her with a comforting smile. Kids more like, just out to make a mess.

Nettle didn’t believe him, he was acting really weird. Only a week ago he abruptly decided to take a family trip back to the cottage, then, when arriving, he didn’t want to enter the property. She was positive he had the same thought as her. Someone had been searching for something in particular. But for what?

Where’s Jazz? Fred asked.

Bathroom, answered Bram. He was sifting through a pile of dusty items near the fireplace. Hope you don’t need it, she’ll be in there forever.

What do you have there? inquired Fred, he thought he recognized the wooden toy in his son’s hand but couldn’t be sure.

Nettle decided to do some investigating herself. While her father joined Bram, squatting down beside him, she ran up the staircase.

Bram had discovered a small cluster of wooden toys within the mess on the floor. Wow. Are these all mine? When I was a baby? He’d found a spinning top, a rattle and a donkey.

Fred beamed, I carved them myself. When Bram handed his father the toy donkey he’d been holding, coated with a strange splattering of red and green paint, his father added, Ah well, your mother painted them... somewhat.

Over the past few years, the Blackthorn family had traversed the country from market to fair, utilizing Fred’s natural talent with wood to support their travels. They’d park up at a new camp ground and he’d poke about the surrounding woodland finding the right kind of twig or broken branch. It sung out to me, he’d say, and then spend the evening hours whittling, wood shavings littering at his feet, deep in thought as the wood took shape, almost of its own volition.

A series of nicks and scratches caught Fred’s attention. Over here Bram, he urged going over to crouch by the wall near the stairwell. He pointed to a faint pencil line and a name scribbled beside it. This was how tall Nettle was the day you were born. Fred pointed to another measurement. See here, this was how tall you were, when you were only six months old.

Cool.

Fred grinned. There are so many things to show you. Your first baby-shoes, the tree-house, old photographs of your mother we couldn’t take with us....

The smile on Bram’s face quavered, becoming more forced, like an uncomfortable mask he wore. Fred noticed. Hey buddy, what’s the matter?

Bram scuffed the floor with the tip of his worn sneakers. He frowned, annoyed and frustrated that his father didn’t understand. He finally sighed heavily knowing he was going to hurt his father, but unable to avoid it. I don’t remember this place, or those toys or even getting measured. I don’t remember anything.

Of course not, you were so little when we left.

That’s it, Dad, I’m not going to remember this place am I? I don’t even remember Mum. I was a baby when she left.

Fred’s throat pinched tight. How could he be so oblivious? To Bram, this cottage they lived in for a brief time as a happy family, even his own mother, were strangers.

Bram placed an arm around his father’s shoulder, wishing he hadn’t been so tactless. Fred cleared his throat noisily and clasped his son’s hand. With his wide mouth, honey locked hair and heart-shaped face, he looked so much like his mother. The only concession to himself were the spectacles. Yes, you’re right. But it’s not to say these things, these memories of you growing up here, didn’t happen. He squeezed Bram’s hand until a smile crept over his son’s lips. Humour an old man, huh, let me tell you some tales.

Dim light filtered through the dirty bay windows of the staircase and its tower as Nettle made her way up to the second floor. She was a tall and lanky girl, with a long narrow face and thick dark eyebrows that feathered upwards, above nondescript green eyes and angular cheekbones. Her nose, like her fathers, was slightly hawkish. Her lips were thin like his. Her complexion was olive, however, unlike her father’s vibrant hue, hers was dull and had a rather dusty depth to it. She, in her own description, considered her looks, like her skin tone, dull and exceedingly uninteresting. She wore her usual uniform of woollen tights – today, her favourite grey and black striped pair - teamed with khaki shorts and a comfortable hoodie. Normally, she had a hat pulled over her long messy black hair. Hats were her thing and she had stacks of them. Baker Boys and Gatsby; fleece lined Trapper hats; pretty berets and skull clinging beanies; Chullo or Ushankas, especially good for blustery winter days or a Chilote with their pom-poms. But today she’d left her cat hat with its bristly whiskers in Bessie when chasing her father inside the cottage.

Along the curved wall were a series of pictures. She lingered to rub a hand over the dusty glass, revealing a miniature landscape crafted from cleverly layered leaves and two children made of twisted twigs playing beneath the boughs of a tree. A sudden image crowded her mind, of her, as a child, sitting at her mother’s long-toed bare feet, sorting through a wicker basket of green grasses and crisp dead leaves. The memory so vivid, she even felt the warm sunlight striking her forehead as she squinted up at her mother’s face.

Nettle reeled slightly under the intense recollection. Her fingers curled into fists and she dug her short nails into the soft flesh of her palms. I don’t want to remember. Briar doesn’t deserve it! She’d hardened herself over the years, suppressing such memories, resolving to forget about Blackthorn Cottage and everything to do with her mother. She ran up the rest of the steps to the second floor, intently keeping her gaze downward.

She found the doors open to the rooms, no doubt by her father, and in a state as her father described, barely disturbed. This floor housed their playroom, a small study and library. Nettle wandered into the library, the wooden floor creaking beneath her footsteps, dust motes stirring with her intrusion. Her father’s favourite armchair with an opened book cresting the worn leather armrest, stood beside the stained glass window, a leadlight image of birds taken flight in various hues of blue.

When she was young the room seemed enormous. Books lined every inch of wall space, reaching for the vaulted ceiling, a dizzying height for a six year old. Now, nearly thirteen, Nettle found it to be just a small pokey room, with a low ceiling, full of dusty old books.

Four bedrooms took up the entire top floor. Nettle purposely didn’t look into her parent’s bedroom as she passed by. She tentatively entered her own bedroom, which overlooked the back garden now rife with weeds. It was exactly how she remembered it, although a lot smaller. It’s strange being back here, she thought, as if the room belongs to some other little girl. The pale lemon plastered walls were adorned with pictures cut from her favourite story books, though now, Aladdin’s brightly coloured clothes had faded with age. A thrush and robin, carved by her father, hung from the ceiling on a mobile.

She smiled, wandering over to her dresser. Little Judy Carbunkle and Tonks! Two dolls, leaning against one another, stood on top of the dresser: Judy Carbunkle, a delicate southern belle with golden ringlet hair and bright red cheeks and lips, and her beau, Private Tonks, a moustached soldier, proudly standing at attention with his bayonet rifle, lovingly carved by her father for her for her fifth birthday. There once was a time when she’d barely been apart from these dolls, tucked under an arm, joining her on daily adventures.

A small four poster bed stood in the centre, unmade. Nettle paused at that, her set of drawers were pulled open, as well as the wardrobe doors. Her childhood clothes had been rifled through, and some spilled over the open drawers, coated in dust. The disturbance here was isolated pockets, and she surmised, had been made by them, not an intruder.

She only had vague memories about the day they left. It was too long ago, nearly seven years. She had fragmented images of being woken in the middle of the night and carried somewhere, by someone who wasn’t her father, their unfamiliar scent too earthy, their height too short.

Before that memory, the last thing she remembered was being tucked into bed by her mother. Briar had been crying. She’d been confused as to why her mother always seemed to be so sad back then. The next morning, when Nettle awoke, she realized that comfortable feeling of being rocked, was from being jostled around in the back of an old car. She and Bram had been placed on the back seat, tucked under a crocheted rug while they’d slept. Her mother wasn’t there. She’s gone, Fred had said, and he’d refused to say anything further. With confusion