#Lawrance Pemberton

[aneurinallday]

The Raven Volumes by R.M. Elster

Barnabas Allenbrought

Thérèse Découx

Thérèse Découx (New Orleans)

Jacob Allenbrought

[rmelster]

Barnabas and Lawrance: the darksome and the daring.

[theladyofsegre]

The parallels and stark differences between Barnabas and Lawrance are saddening, particularly when you realise that for Lawrance, whose house was a hostile place for him, found solace in the outside, whereas Barnabas, whose childhood home was his only haven, feels the world horribly hostile. To think that also Lawrance’s father has no portrait of him or his late wife Thérèse, whereas Barnabas’ father (who wasn’t of a wealthy disposition) kept many portraits of his only child… It’s sad.

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍 (The Raven Volumes’ short stories).

The afternoon sun still reigned in the horizon when the carriage stopped by the posthouse.

An olden building, with a facade painted with a fading white and chimneys of brick darkened by decades of soot and rain, it remained the last trace of civilisation that could be seen by the side of the forsaken road; only a thin column of smoke let the passenger harbour the impression that it still homed human life within its walls. Behind it, wilderness extended itself far from the gaze, untamed, unmarred by the hand of man.

The fatigued horses came to a halt and the dust-covered coachman went to open the door of the carriage, and the travellers jumped out of the cabin as the man knocked on the posthouse’s door. For the few travellers that stopped there, it was a brief half-time meant for the tired steeds to be replaced for others and for the men to stretch their weary bodies.

Lawrance Pemberton came out before his brother, landing on the floor with a groan of relief; long hours of travel had left his agile and lithe body stiff, and he yearned to flee from the smell of dry sweat and starched clothes that emanated from his escort. Once out, the man that accompanied his brother and him handed them their hat.

"Go stretch your legs, boys; they will change the horses, and I will purchase some goods for the travel before we return to the path” he told them, “And young mr. Lawrance" the man addressed him dourly, "Do not wander off too far. We will be back on the way in a quarter of an hour."

"Count on me, mr. Gant” he laughed, before running into the woods, much to his companions’ despair, “Don’t leave without me!”

The youth soon found himself deep into the forest. Trees as old as the soil they were rooted in extended their heavy arms to the heavens, leaving very little room for the sun to penetrate into the clear; the wind whispered between the branches. Lawrance came to a halt, panting happily; he breathed the fragrance of the moss and humid earth, and he sensed the layer of dead leaves and twigs creak beneath his boot, and he let himself be fooled by the emotion, be coddled by the feeling of being back home, back in Philadelphia, and back in the New Orleans of his infant years… Not abandoned by his father, not rejected by his kin, not banished in a foreign island and left to face a fate most uncertain. In the embrace of nature, he felt as if he had never left a home that had never existed.

Not too far from his place, a small fountain surrounded by a circle of stones -the last vestige of long gone path- was the only thing to be seen among the trees. He was stepping closer, smiling curiously at that small, welcoming place, when he heard it.

Breathing.

It was not the sound of an astray traveller, nor that of a tranquil sightseer. He would have been sorely mistaken if he had thought that sound was even human, even. It was the sound of a creature that had long been deprived of air, a ragged symphony that made his hairs stood on end. It was close. Soon, too much soon for Lawrance to recoil, the creak of fallen leaves under erratic steps announced that he would no longer be alone in the clear.

There was a man in the forest.

In long forgotten days of childhood, his mother had lulled him to sleep with old tales from the South, fables of magic and horror that had left their mark on his youthful memory; and she had warned him of evil spirits, shaped like men and heavily veiled and clad not to reveal that, behind their garbs, they hid rotten bones; ghostly appearances that roamed the solitary paths and the quiet forests, awaiting for ingenuous travellers to pass by and drag them to their death…

And what he had in front of him, the panting being, was clad from head to toe in black, like some weeping widow from the days of old; black were his clothes, and his gloves, and even the small buttons were wrapped in black velvet; the veil, so opaque he could barely imagine what horrors where hidden beneath, hung from the wing of the broad-brimmed hat like black mist.

Whatever that was, it seemed to look around, as if making sure there were no unwanted eyes there to look at him, before lifting his dark veil and bend over the calm waters of the fountain. From his position behind the trees, Lawrance could not see but the ridge of a gaunt cheekbone, the line of a bony jaw, the edges of lips that appeared cadaverously pale and dry; But it was enough for him to realise that his eyes had not failed him, and that that was there. Much ghostly. Much breathing. Much there.

His eyes followed him as the veiled man unfastened the small buttons of his collar, and he dampened his neck, a svelte and pale column that appeared to have been carved in bone, and took off his ebony-black gloves, and washing his dead white hands. Lawrance realised the creature was distracted, and that, if he did not want to loose what could be his only opportunity of leaving the forest with his life intact, he had to flee. Slowly, he took a step back, only to unfortunately step over a twig.

He would have swore his heart had stopped beating there.

The veiled man quickly turned his face towards him, but Lawrance fled before their eyes could met.

Never had a boy run as fast as he did that day; he dodged roots and rocks in his flight, and felt branches hitting his face and getting tangled in his hair, but in his fright, he payed little mind to it; he felt the thing following him, until he didn’t, but he did not stop running.

The sun sunk behind him, threatening to abandon him to darkness, when he saw from afar the lights of the porthouse. He breathed in relief as the smell of smoke, straw and horseshit and the sound of conversations between the workers brought back a sense of safety long forgotten.

"Where were you, young mr. Lawrance?" Gant recriminated him once he was by his side, but he could see lines of concern around his eyes "Had it not been for my intercession, we would have departed without you!"

But the man fell silent when Lawrance jumped back into the carriage, uttering blessings and curses alike.

“And where is your hat?” he reproached him, even more shaken. Lawrance had not realised until then that his hat must have gone missing during his flight, but at that moment, glancing at the forest that was now dark and woeful behind him, he realised he didn’t care.

"The hat be damned. Let’s leave now!” Lawrance croaked from the inside, slamming the door closed.

His brother turned to him, disconcerted by how shaken he looked.

“What happens?” he asked, unnerved.

“I’ll tell you another day” he refused. ‘Telling him what I have seen will only bring ill luck to our travels’ he thought.

They resumed to their travel in a question of minutes. Only after the lights of a little village peeked through the curtains of the carriage’s window, Lawrance let his body relax.

With luck, once he was in that damned boarding school -Onstyles, was it?- he would be free of ghostly encounters and cursed forests.

Yes, he was sure he would.

He had just meant to rest.

His steps had driven him to the fountain, and believing he was alone, he tried to clean himself; but having heard a twig break close to him, and seeing a young boy running away, he had realised he had scared him away, having him leave behind his hat. He had attempted to return it to him -“wait! Your hat…! Your hat…!”-, but painfully stiff, his legs could not follow the steps of the youth, and soon, he gave up, weakly grasping the brim of the hat. Defeated, he had returned to the fountain, to spent what little moments of freedom he had left in solitude.

The reflection that the clear waters returned to him was that of something that could have raised from the grave; he could not blame the boy for fleeing the scene, he must have been a terrible sight to behold. In the last days, during his trip, he had been subjected to a treatment more animal than human, undeserving of the toughest beasts of burden; he lived, he slept and he ate what stale and scarce meals were given to him in the darkness of that carriage, only leaving when it halted by a remote porthouse or inn, when he was allowed to walk around and do the necessities that he could not do in his seclusion. He reeked like old clothes and clammy skin, and his whole body itched with the yearning of warm water and soap; his hair was dull, his mouth was painfully chapped and he felt light-headed and disoriented any time he saw the light.

He only needed to rot to be a corpse.

Soon, the harsh voice a man -the coachman of his carriage- sounded in the forest, and he hastily put back that horrible veiled hat over his face and hiding the other under his coat.

“Come! Come now!” the coachman gestured towards him, like he was an animal, and he was very sure that was how he appeared to him.

His father had told him God had made him no less worthy than the rest of its children just because He had made him fair of skin, of hair, of eyes; just as He had not given more love to the beautiful peacock than the grim raven, or more respect to a noble than a humble shepherd. But despoiled of dignity, despoiled of worth, and despoiled of humanity as he was then, he no longer believed him.

Without a sigh, he followed the man back to the posthouse.

He was just a few days from arriving to the boarding school. There, he would take a proper bath, or two or three if needed, and would discard his clothes, and eat earthily; he would be with his friends, he would attend classes and read by the fireplace. He would be safe, and all those days, weeks and months would be forgotten, for a few blissful months, like a feverish nightmare.

They came back to the carriage, and the coachman opened the door for him. He raised his head one last time, taking in the sight of the dying sun, before the door was closed behind him with a blow, and again, darkness was the only thing by his side.

Soon… Soon… He would be treated like a human again. Like he was named Barnabas Allenbrought, and he was just another student in the Onstyles Boarding School.

But not then.

Not yet.

why not torment my poor mutual @marianadecarlos this Sunday.

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒.

CHAPTER ONE: PAST THOSE DARKSOME GATES.

They arrived with the fog, as if they were ghosts.

Two boys of almost the same age, with jolly faces and wrinkled clothes, emerged with a jump from the carriage that, like a raven, had landed at the doors of that gloomy institution. It was an unpleasant, humid and gloomy morning, and a flock of dark magpies crossed the sky between mournful croaks, disturbing the superstitious man who accompanied the brothers; the last had been days of storm and restlessness, of nights of wakefulness and winds that howled terrible omens to those willing to hear them, and although acquitted that morning for a few restless hours, the travellers knew that the biblical anger that the heavens had unloaded against them was not ready to subside. The landscape around him, lonely and clad in mist, seemed to have fled from a painting by Caspar David Friedrich.

While the youths' companion got out of the carriage, sinking into the muddy ground up to his ankles, they began to talk to each other. The brothers had a very healthy appearance, and despite the long journey they had faced and the uncertain fate that awaited them past those darksome gates, they seemed animated; the joy of their faces and the carefree and somewhat mocking nature of both stood out against the sad landscape before them.

The youngest of the brothers, named Lawrance, got rid of the embroidered beret that he wore and smoothed his curls with indolence; he was dark of complexion and light as a doe, and his playful expression allowed a glimpse of his nature, cunning, mocking and somewhat malicious, which had put him in as many predicaments as it had made him flee from others. Not many steps forward, his older brother, Washington, dedicated himself to contemplating the facade with candid fascination.

"This place is very old," he said loudly.

"As old as the town that lays at his feet," said a caustic voice behind him.

The three travellers turned their faces at the same time. A group of five men and a youth not much older than twenty years advanced towards them without haste. They were headed by a mature gentleman, with aquiline features and an icy smile, in whose hair the years intertwined silver strands. There was something in the curve of his thin lips, so threateningly sharp, that seem to not invite joy or confidence.

"Director Holford," the man who accompanied them seemed to have recovered his voice, now painfully low, “I am Silas Gant; this who I accompany are the Pemberton brothers, Washington and Lawrance.”

"Mr. Gant. Mr. Pemberton, young and older” the director greeted them, consequently. His voice hadn’t lost its caustic quality in a smidge. The cohort of teachers and the young man who accompanied him remained as quiet as Death while he spoke again. “I trust that your travels have been without unrest. The teachers and I have the honor of welcoming you on this lucky day, to our beloved institution, Onstyles.”

Mr. Gant barely moved his lips when he spoke again: "Thank you, Director. I trust you have received the letter that their parent sent you.”

"Mr. Pemberton, yes," the director confirmed, licking his lips; there was a strange hunger in the bottom of his eyes, “Tell him that he has nothing to worry about; the prestige of our institution will be honored. Your children will be educated to become two men of profit… No matter how unrily and not very bright they have tried to be so far.

Suddenly, the director turned his gaze to them; those dark and hungry eyes seemed to study them with the contemptuous curiosity dedicated to a couple of disgusting insects. Under his gaze, Washington shrank like a frightened child, clinging to the wide pocket of his coat, and Lawrance took a step back, fearing that that sinister man would extend his hand to grab his jaw and look at his teeth like a horse. He didn't, but he stayed so close to them that they could both feel his breath, heavy and warm, against the bristling skin. At last, he stepped back and went back to the man who accompanied them.

"How old are they, Mr. Gant?"

“Sixteen, both of them. Mr. Washington will turn seventeen this winter” he replied, restrained. Lawrance could see how his gaze travelled to him, as if asking him to forgive him.

"Curious," Holford remarked, in an ominous sigh, “Truly… Curious. But let's not delay the moment any longer. Come, lads, now. Accompany my assistant. He will show you the place.”

‘Tis a joyous occasion to share with my peers: @aneurinallday / My ladyship @lordbettany / @ricardian-werewolf / @theboarsbride (first part of chapter one)

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒.

CHAPTER TWO: FRIENDSHIPS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

The storm had returned long hours ago.

Languidly reclining on one of the many couches that were gathered in the common room, Lawrance did not respond in humour to his calm position; his eyes had a restless glance. It seemed that the agitated state of nature had affected him in spirit. It was the dead of night and nor him nor his brother had been yet visited by the sweet Dream, and having been deprived by the Heavens and the strict rule that Sinclair had shared with them —never to leave Onstyles once the night had come— of the opportunity to wander around, they had made the oath to stay there until boredom or any major force forced them back.

Washington had been terribly disappointed to see the first drops of rain crashing into the narrow window of his room, soon after they had settled in their rooms; after a long and tedious journey, spent first in a dark ship and later in a horse-drawn carriage, he had the illusion of going out to explore before the inevitable start of lessons, walk around the forest and map every path, every stone and every cave that he is eyes saw, which he liked to do. But Lawrance, the always adventurous and lively Lawrance…

He preferred it that way.

"It is better that it rains" he thought, contemplating how the flash of a ray stained the once dark sky with a pale purple fog, and the distant rumble of thunder shook him to the bone, making him shiver "this place makes me uneasy"

Not many steps away of him, his brother dedicated himself to look at the books that rested on the slab above the fireplace in a dusty lethargy, softly muttering to himself as his fingers seemed to read some of the worn out, frayed spines. His little mouse, Cotton, the most faithful companion in his academic exile to English lands, played among some porcelain cups, cleaning the dust with his lustrous whiskers.

“Lawrance!” he suddenly called him, “Look!”

The youth seemed to be pleased with not having to remain another moment resting in woe. He hastily stood up and came by his side, expecting a great revelation.

“What is it?”

“Do you remember that time we went to the Fairfax’s estate? With the big library in it?”

Almost immediately, his hopes for finding something to entertain those idle times vanished. Oh, his brother and his silly little head; he thought life was like one of those books of adventures and intrigues where the protagonists found centenary secrets between the pages of an forgotten, wizened codex, or hidden rooms behind walls that hid family heritages.

“Yes” he recalled, indolent, “The library and that old dusty encyclopaedia that your dearest friend made us see.”

“With the names of all those who read it, yes. James Fairfax I, his son Edward Harry Fairfax, his younger brother Lewis, then Edward’s son, James II…”

“And? Is somebody important’s name on it? The Queen’s perhaps? No.”

He prepared himself to go back to idly lay on the couch, when his brother said something:

“There is a name crossed out.”

He ceased to walk and came back to his side.

“Uh? A name crossed out?” a malicious gleam invaded Lawrance’s turquoise eyes, “Someone’s family’s black sheep?”

“I don’t know. See it by yourself…”

The book, a small volume about birds, which had a coat of arms engraved in black ink the first page, appeared to have belong, in better times, to a certain “Carmichael family”; however, only three people seemed to have read it and leave their name as a testimony of their existence for future readers. Someone, of tangled, almost unintelligible handwriting, named “Sir Malcolm Carmichael”. Someone, of sharp, heavy calligraphy, by the name of Aaron Everling. And someone, named…

“Lads?”

The brothers turned at the same time, their heart on their throat, as they saw themselves being interrupted by the monotonous, benevolent voice of Clarence Sinclair. The young man, pretty much ready to go to bed, wore an immaculate wool nightrobe; his brown hair was tousled, yet his posture wasn’t devoid of that solemnity they had seen in him that morning.

“What are you doing? The hour is late” he asked, in a gentle tone that did not lack judgement. Lawrance saw how Washington looked at his mouse, then hidden behind one of the teacups.

“Just… Finding something to read” Washington hastily replied, cradling the little book against his chest. Some from of tick seemed to make Sinclair’s gesture tremble, but he was quick to hide it. A small, shuddering smile took place on his face,

"I wouldn't touch those books much," he recommended benignly, his smile as painful as if he was forcing himself not to sneer, “Those are dirty, worn out… God will know that dirty hands will have touched them… What rats must have put their dirty little paws on those pages…”

"No rat has ever touched those books. Unless, of course, you consider me one of them…”

Only the inevitable creak of the ground under light footsteps announced his presence. The three late-nighters turned their faces to the threshold, to receive, with an expectant silence, an unexpected companion on that stormy night.

My Ladyship @lordbettany / @aneruinallday / @theboarsbride / @ricardian-werewolf / @nealsneen

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒.

CHAPTER THREE: BREAKFAST AMONG LEPERS.

The morning found the Pemberton brothers intertwined in each other's arms.

Lawrance woke up first, barely stretching as he pushed aside the warm coverlets and his brother's heavy body. He did not keep many memories of the previous night, after that strange evening to the love of the fire with the strange student with pale, weary eyes; he remembered the echo of the storm rumbling against his bones and a knot in his stomach, a long, terrible, terrible dream and a moment of feverish lucidity, followed by him fleeing his bed jumping into Washington’s welcoming arms. Slipping between the sheets and anchored to his brother in a tight hug, Lawrance had fleetingly recalled those distant days of his childhood in which both used to do the same with his mother and father. Abandoning it he comfort of his brother's embrace was like being a child cruelly torn from his mother's lap. It did not took him long, however, to take a pillow and throw it against the sleeping Washington's face.

"Up."

He bend over the discarded travel suitcases and took a crinkly packet from them as his brother groaned and lamented being awake in such a cold and damp room. He lazily unwrapped the brown paper that wrapped their uniforms and, once this was done, he could not help but wrinkle his nose in contempt, as his eyes were faced with a suit that would have suited much better two stiff-necked orphans from the Mayflower than the lively brothers of that room.

"How ugly," he heard his brother murmur in a sleepy voice behind him, as he rubbed his eyes, like he tried to chase away the still present heaviness of the slumber that lingered upon them.

"Well, imagine wearing this every day for the next three and a half months," Lawrance agreed, pulling down his coarse wool socks and placing them on the metal bars of the bed, “I just hope the food is not as monastical as the clothes.”

Dressing was an act as mundane as it was intimate. Washington always forgot to fix the collar of his jacket, and Lawrance had always been more skilled at tying sailor knots than silk ties. Once done with the tying and the fixing, both of the brothers stood proud in front of the small mirror that adorned the dressing table.

“Do you think mr. Lucas is making supper for Emmett and Father right now, back home?” Washington asked, almost shyly, as he fastened the tiny button of his sleeve. Lawrance’s plump lips formed a vacuous smile.

“I doubt it. The hour changes depending of the point, fool, and it may be still be night there. He must be at bed with his wife. And Emmett too, snoring like an old horse. And Father…” but he said no more.

Sheathed in a uniform so black and austere in adornment that anyone would have mistaken them for young funeral pomp helpers, the Pemberton brothers seemed even more different than they already were, as if no drop of shared blood runners in their veins. It would have been impossible to guess that they were brothers. The mild and blond Washington, with his benign, plump face and his green and clear eyes, devoid of cunning or evil; and Lawrance, with his dark face, the wry, mocking curve of his smile and his laughing cat eyes, half-hidden turquoise fire between the black pikes of his lashes.

"Here we stand, Lawrance and Washington Pemberton, illustrious and invincible both: About to conquer the world and eat this miserable boarding school whole," he said, triumphantly.

"Or about to see the boarding school to eat us…" he heard Washington murmur, almost to himself.

As I promised, this is dedicated to @marianadecarlos

This chapter has three parts. This is the first one. As always, your Satanic Majesty @lordbettany AND my bestest friend @Brienna

[rmelster]

Honestly, I aspire to make Lawrance’s relationship with his father as complex and deep as the one I share with my father, with all the good memories stained with the bitterness of the bad ones, the bad ones softened with the good ones, all.

[rmelster]

—Brotherhood, 1853.

14 y/o Washington and 13 y/o Lawrance cos’ I have too many little Barnabas paintings and almost nothing of this two fellas in their childhood / pre-teens years.

[rmelster]

Lawrance, the man you are.

[rmelster]

“No man that smiles like that can be a good man.”

26 year old Lawrance Pemberton. He’s just some guy, living his life, being some living black legend in his lineage, having the ladies fainting. He’s probably some doctor’s secret boyfriend too.

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒.

CHAPTER TWO: FRIENDSHIPS AT THE DEATH OF NIGHT.

Lawrance remembered him.

Though ephemerally, he recalled that he had seen him walking around the halls, while Sinclair guided his brother and him through the boarding school's facilities. In that fleeting moment, the only thing that had caught his attention about him had been his form - that of a young man, likely about the age of Sinclair, but remarkably taller, and even more so, remarkably slender.

But now, seeing him face to face, he found that his height wasn't truly what should have caught his attention. His face, long and doted of sharp, almost jagged angles, was of a pronounced pallor, and his eyes, a pearly blue, flickered behind the severe frame of his glasses like blue fire. Close to the hearth, his tousled hair seemed to be made of fair mother-of-pearl. The storm appeared to quieten as he spoke, resting his weight against the stone of the hearth; he wore a floor-long white nightshirt, and over it, what looked like a frayed cloak of damask that had know better times and better owners.

"Good night, gentlemen," were his firsts words, as he neared the heart and rested his hand on one of the teacups, almost clinging to the place. He then turned to look at the headmaster’s assistant, and his greeting was accompanied by a sombre, humourless expression.

"Sinclair" he greeted him.

"… Barnabas" was the only thing Clarence uttered.

“I pray you are not bothering this lads” the gaunt youth murmured, “And even less at this time of the night… When they should be left at their own.”

“I never bother anyone” he defended himself.

“Oh, but presence here bothers me, deeply. And I would dare to say that your inquiries are not less bothersome for the lads either…”

“I was not bothering them” Sinclair was quick to reply, wronged, “I was just talking to them and telling them not to touch those filthy, filthy books of…”

But his words were interrupted when Barnabas inched closer, so much that he could have felt his breath against his own. Lawrance felt his stomach clenching for Sinclair as the other spoke, painstakingly slow: “… I pray you watch your tongue the next time you speak to me, leech.”

Silence befell upon the room, as heavy as grief. The storm seemed to come back, with raging winds warning them of future dangers and distant thunders that made the lands quiver in awe. Sinclair took a step back, fleeing from his presence. He clutched his nightrobe until his knuckles turned as pale as the brow of Death.

“Have a good night, lads” he bid the brothers farewell, bitterly, before leaving the room in silence.

The moments that followed were quiet and tense. Lawrance stood aside, eyes hostilely looking at that pale-eyed stranger that had irrupted in the common room dressed like Shakespeare’s crooked king and scared the mild Sinclair away with callous, well-aimed words. Washington was downcast, as if he feared encountering those same pallid eyes.

But they were surprised when the once hollow expression of the stranger turned into a regretful smile; the almost innocent quality of that clumsy smiled seemed to soften the form of that elongated and sharp face.

“Forgive me for such lamentable scene” he said, with a soft voice “It must have been most uncomfortable for you; but Sinclair and I do not have a very fond relationship and I sometimes wish to be left alone, without him pestering me. Apologies.”

“He wasn’t pestering us” Lawrance said sharply.

“Oh, then I am pleased that he does not treat you wrong. But he hates the cripple… Therefore, he hates me too… Yes, the crippled, the half-done, the maimed… What many call, in brief, ‘God’s forsaken children’… Or mouses like yours.”

In a fluid movement, he opened a teapot and took the squirming rodent friend back to Washington’s hands, who was quick to press him against his chest, as if shielding him from any further danger; his green eyes were wide with silent gratitude.

Lawrance, however, gulped, and recoiled a step or two. He thought there was a sense of desolation around him, as if he was as clad in sorrow as he was in worn-out damask and silk. He offered them a half smile before making his way to one of the nearby couches and let himself lay over it.

“But you are not crippled” Washington finally said, timid “You don’t… Limp.”

A sad smile took place in the other’s visage; warm eyes, once tender, turned gloomy and troubled within a blink.

“I said cripple, not lame” he said, patiently.

The first time Lawrance heard him, he did not understand what he meant.

A moment of silence followed, but it was soon gone when Barnabas extended his open palm, in an inviting gesture.

“Let me see that book.”

Lawrance saw how his brother handed it to him, his grasp insecure; Washington’s hands were rather short and sturdy; Barnabas’, long and slender, as everything seemed to be in him. Had the young Pemberton been a poet, an artist even, he would have compared those hands to those of a Flemish painting, or an icon, or a weathered pianist; but being none, he just thought those were the mere reflection of its lanky bearer.

“Hm… A History of British Birds, by Bewick” Barnabas hummed, his voice friendly, “A good one. I’ve read it many times.”

“So those are yours?” Washington asked, excitedly.

“Indeed they are. There are many other books here that I brought with me” he said, to later add, with humour, “And I assure, no rodent has ever put its little paws over it. Aside, of course, from your little friend.”

Even Lawrance had to bite down a cackle. It was almost admirable how that solemn faced man could slip such a small joke between lines.

“What is the name?” Barnabas inquired.

“Cotton” was Washington’s response.

“Cotton? And I thought mine was already a rare name…”

“Oh no, I though referred to this little one. Cotton, that’s the mouse’s name” Washington timidly replied “But mine is Washington, Washington Pemberton. And he is Lawrance, my younger brother.”

“By a year!” Lawrance forced himself to protest.

Barnabas seemed to smile fondly, as if he knew nothing of how life was with a sibling. There was a feverish sadness in his pupils, a certain hue of fragility in his wan visage; his lips looked pallid. Lawrance could not help but to picture that weary-faced, lanky youth as someone who had met not a day of mirth in his existence; a sickly child, perhaps, ill-healthed since the crib, deprived of the joy of living a free and gay childhood, and a careless youth, of clinging trees and scratching his knees, of catching frogs in a river or bathe under the sun… Maybe he had been an only son, secluded by strict and protective parents from the world outside in his bedchamber, with no more company that that the words of those dusty books that rested over the hearth could give him… That sad fondness in his eyes would have better appeared in one of those tearful Dickens books, he would think.

“Well, you have already heard my name. The surname is Allenbrought.”

“Never heard of it” Lawrance said, bluntly. He had hoped that, being the boarding school as prestigious as the headmaster had anticipated, he would hear surnames less foreign than that.

“And you will never” Barnabas replied, firmly, “I am the only one who bears it. You may live a thousands lives, and roam the world from a pole to another, and meet every man, woman and orphan; and you will never find another creature under the name of Allenbrought. That I assure you.”

“Maybe it’s a rare surname. Like Strangeways, Thorpe or Madden”, Lawrance thought, smiling mockingly at Barnabas’ words, unaware of how wrong he was.

“It has come to my attention that you are American; you may as well join my friends and me tomorrow for breakfast. You are foreign to this parts, and so are them; they will treat you kindly” Barnabas suddenly offered them, his gaze kind.

“Thank you…” Washington managed to say, Again, a sad, humourless smile, took place on the visage of the youth.

“Spare your gratitude, Pembertons: Helping each other is the least we can do to survive in this wretched place.”

Months later, when his days in the boarding school were long gone and he rested in the cabin of a ship back to America, Lawrance’s slumber would be suddenly struck by a memory that he had inadvertently overlooked; that fleeting moment, when Barnabas had looked at them, almost pitifully, as if they were lambs being sent to the slaughterhouse.

But at that moment, unaware of the peril he would soon face, he just chuckled, because it was the first time he had found friendships in the death of night.

My Ladyship, per always, @lordbettany .

[rmelster]

—I wish thee a happy winter.

Lawrance Pemberton, circa 1856.

[rmelster]

I sometimes think to draw Lawrance, Mr. Pemberton and Tess like this.

[rmelster]

“A boy with a crooked nose and too many opinions.”

16 y/o Lawrance Pemberton y’all

[rmelster]

Laurance Découx, Lawrance’s maternal grandfather and namesake.