I’m a woman who really likes. Shoes
And fit guys with iron-hard thews
And peach pie and custard
And hot dogs (with mustard)
And really big glasses of booze

© jane jago 2018

The Wolfhounds of Lupercalia - or Dying to be Found - a Dai and Julia Mystery for Valentine's Day.

Lupercalia MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani

It was Lupercalia, the day when everyone celebrated romance – and it’s close friend fertility. The shops were full of silly cards and chocolate wolves, and the flower sellers all had sudden hikes in their prices. Dai Llewellyn sat opposite his diminutive wife at the breakfast table and inwardly debated whether she had truly forgotten the date, or she was playing a deep game of her own. Whichever way Julia went on this one, he was convinced he had the situation covered and he carefully camouflaged an inner smile.
He finished his porridge and leaned over to kiss Julia’s pink mouth. She responded with her usual flattering ardour and he put up a hand to ruffle her dark curls.
“Work calls. I won’t be back until supper time. Is there anything you want from Viriconium?”
“I don’t think so. See you later.”
He kissed her again and went out to where his personal all-wheel awaited him. To his surprise, Julia’s bodyguard, Edbert, was leaning casually against the vehicle. The great wolfhounds Canis and Lupo stood with him, waiting for their morning walk.
“You haven’t forgotten what day it is, I hope.”
“No. You’re all right. I have it covered.”
The huge northerner mimed mopping his brow and sloped off. Dai got into the driving seat and allowed himself a smug grin.

He pulled up outside Bryn’s square stone-walled house and tooted cheerily. His friend and second-in-command ambled out with a grin from ear to ear, greying hair tied back and a doorstep of bread and honey in one hand. He climbed aboard and favoured Dai with a straight look.
“I hope you have remembered what day it is?”
“Why does everybody think I need reminding of an over-commercialised randomly-chosen date? Surely my wife knows I love her without some sort of overpriced gift?”
Bryn eyed him narrowly.
“I hope for your sake you’re winding me up, Bard.”
“I am. Here. Look.”
Dai took a red velvet pouch out of his tunic pocket and spilled the contents onto the palm of his hand. Bryn barely looked, instead he stuck his head out of the vehicle window and whistled shrilly. His wife opened the front door and trotted out.
“Show it to Gwen. I was told if it was jewellery she needed to make sure you got it right.”
Dai laughed and leaned out to display a silver chain bracelet from which there hung three charms.
“See,” he said, “there’s a golden ball for when I asked her to come and be my love, the disk has the date of our marriage, and there’s a wolf for Lupercalia. I can add more charms as the years go by.”
“That’s perfect,” Gwen stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before returning to her house.
Dai put the bracelet back in its pouch and the pouch in his pocket before starting the engine and engaging drive.

They were about halfway to Viriconium when both men’s wristphones bleeped simultaneously. Bryn answered.
“SI Cartivel. What’s the panic?”
“Missing child. Cadell Glaw. The kid’s up in the hills somewhere. Parents are sheep farmers and he must have slipped out during the night. He’s three years old and the temperature is well below freezing.”
“You don’t need to ask me, man, get the tracker dogs out!”
“No can do. They are on their way back from Eboracum where there was that big jailbreak. Won’t be here until tomorrow morning. We can’t wait that long.”
“No. We can’t.” Bryn looked at Dai questioningly.
“Alright. Get the address and then call Edbert. Canis and Lupo would appear to be our only chance. Julia will lend them gladly in these circumstances.”

Some two hours later, and it was perishingly cold out on the hill. The farming couple were small dark-haired folk, who quickly understood what Dai had in mind. The man shut his own dogs in the barn and his wife went for a favourite toy to give Canis and Lupo the child’s scent.
“We tried our sheepdogs,” the man said quietly, “but they couldn’t grasp what we wanted.”
“I don’t suppose they could, but these boys are trained to seek.”
Edbert was bundled up, looking for all the world to Dai’s eyes like a multicoloured version of one of the bears that hunted his native forests. Clad in a thick plaid winter coat, with a fur hood pulled close over his head, Edbert seemed oblivious to the cold as he put long leather leashes on the wolfhounds. When they had sniffed the stuffed sheep he snapped his fingers.
“Seek,” he said firmly. “Seek.”
The dogs cast about the farmyard quartering the ground with care, but for a tense few minutes, they could find nothing. Then Lupo’s tail went up and he gave an excited whimper. Seconds later Canis caught the same scent. Then they were off, all but dragging Edbert in their wake. Dai and Bryn got in the all-wheel and followed, leaving the farmer and his wife to wait and hope.

It was an uphill trek, and even Edbert’s formidable fitness was being tried by the rough terrain. After nearly three quarters of an hour of sinew-stretching running and careful driving,  Dai was about to call a rest halt when the dogs lost the scent in the bottom of a rocky valley. Bryn looked stricken, but Dai had more faith in the dogs who cast carefully about the scree-covered valley bottom before drawing a blank. The dogs whined and Edbert encouraged them up to the slope to where they obediently ran around seeking the elusive trail. Dai was beginning to think his faith in the hounds might have been misplaced when Canis lifted his head and gave an excited whine.
“They’ve only found it,” Bryn whispered, “they’ve only gone and found it”.
Before Dai could think of a suitable response the dogs and Edbert had breasted the rise and the hunt was on again.

They seemed to have reached the apex of the hills and the trail led across the tops now where the wind whistled unforgivingly around the stunted trees. Bryn looked increasingly grim, and Dai himself wondered how a small child dressed only in his nightshirt and dressing gown would cope with such cold or indeed, could have travelled so far on his own. Before his imagination could go any further the dogs stopped again, but this time they stood stock still pointing, with their tongues lolling and their eyes sparkling. Edbert beckoned, and Dai stopped the all-wheeler. He and Bryn jumped down.

Once they were out, it was obvious why Edbert wouldn’t take Canis and Lupo any closer. The small sleeping figure was curled up between the woolly bodies of two sheep, with his booted feet sticking out, and a lamb clutched to his chest. Bryn looked at Dai and his eyes were suspiciously bright.
“I really thought we might be looking for a body,” he said.
“Me too,” Edbert admitted in his slow, deep voice.
Dai didn’t waste time talking, he crossed to the sleeping child and put a gentle hand on the head of rough, dark curls.
“Cadell,” he said quietly, “time to go home”.
The little boy sat up and studied Dai through round black eyes.
“Ewythr,” he said and held up his arms.

It was hours later when the medicus had examined Cadell and declared him none the worse for his ordeal, and Edbert and the dogs had made their own way home, that Dai and Bryn climbed back into their transport.
“No point in heading for Viriconium, now,” Dai said genially. “We may as well knock off a bit early and go home to our wives.”
He put his hand into the pocket where his Lupercalia gift for Julia lay, only to find the pocket empty. For a moment the cold of the mountains reached in to touch his soul. He searched with increasing desperation, but it was nowhere to be found.
“Bryn,” he said in a tense thread of a voice. “I’ve lost Julia’s present. It must have fallen out of my pocket somewhere.”
Bryn smiled wryly.
“It did, Bard. Out on the hill. When you bent to pick up young Cadell.”
“What? Did you pick it up?”
“No. I didn’t even see it fall…”
Dai was sure he looked as puzzled and irritated as he felt. “What are you telling me you spado? Is it still up there on the hillside?”
“No.” Bryn put a hand in his own pocket and grinned. “It’s here. Lupo must have seen you drop it and he retrieved. He fetched it to Edbert, who gave it to me because you were busy.”
Dai took the pouch and dusted it off with a trembling hand.
“I owe that dog a great big bone.”

©E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago February 2018

Glossary of Non-English Terms
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
Eboracum – we would call it York.
Ewythr – uncle
Lupercalia – once celebrated with raucous rabbles running through the street, by Dai and Julia’s day it is much more like our own Valentine’s Day.
Spado – literally ‘eunuch’, metaphorically ‘stupid fool’.
Viriconium – we would call it Wroxeter.

You can collect the Dai and Julia Mysteries as individual novellas or snag The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

It’s been a few years together
And we’ve picked up some shite on the way
We have weathered all sorts of weather
We’ve seen blue skies and black skies and grey
We’ve had the odd trouble along the road
And some pretty spectacular fights
But I wouldn’t swap you for your weight in gold
Even though that sounds awfully trite
We can number our wrinkles one by one
And the white strands in our hair
But no one can take away the fun
And the way you have always been there
I guess you know what I would say
If push turned into shove
We’ve had some lovely nights and days
And you’ve always been my love

©️ Jane Jago 2018

I can’t hear you any more. You are too far away now. For a long time I could hear you singing as you walked away from me. Now all there is is the wind soughing in the trees and that’s such a sad sound that I go inside and shut the door. I run my fingers over the smooth planed wood of the table and imagine it’s your skin under my hand. The dog lifts her silky head and catches my tears in her fur, standing patiently as I cry out the hurt of you leaving.

I mustn’t do this. I must not. I scrub my hands over my hot cheeks feeling the wetness with my fingertips.

What a mess. What a lonely mess. All I can hear now is my own breathing. All I can feel now is the cold lump in my chest where I used to have a heart. All I can do is bury my face in your pillow and inhale the smell of your frost crisped hair.

It has been the most part of a day now and the sky is tinted as red as my blood. I am so frozen that I do not even hear the opening of the door, I do not feel the cold breath of wind against my hot cheeks, I do not sense another person coming to stand behind me. It isn’t until a pair of arms comes around me from behind that I think I start to breathe again.

I turn and hide my face in the prickly wool of your jumper.
“You came back.” The creaky scratchy little voice barely sounds like me.
Your calloused palms cup my face, and I see the tears on your cheeks as I feel them on my own.
“I belong here,” you say, and the sky no longer smells of blood, and the dog goes back to her basket.

I feel in my soul that you will manage to leave me one day. But not today. And that’s enough.

©️ Jane Jago 2017

No matter if you travel ever so far away
Beyond the furthest shore,
Or on to what strange places your steps may one day stray
In ever seeking more.
No matter how many worlds you seize, for greed and gains,
On which your flags unfurl.
Always still, so deep within your mind, your home remains
A sacred, precious pearl.

E.M. Swift-Hook

My hands find my clothes where I left them and get out of there as fast as I can get them on, not even close to comfortable until I’m alone on the highway home.

It’s pretty much a straight shot back to Taylor’s, and I’m there in about half an hour.

“How’d it go?” Taylor asks when I come into the bedroom, his voice thick with sleep.

I flinch at that. “Not much of a deep sleeper, are you?”

“Not while you’re out eating,” he says. “Anyone I know?”

“Know any drug dealers?” I ask, fluffing out my hair.

“Depends,” he says, propping up on an elbow. “Does that include pharmaceutical reps?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

“Good,” I say with a yawn. “I need to take a shower.”

He pillows back down. “See you when you get out.”

Going into the shower, I put it on extra-hot, my mind wandering back to that creepazoid guy who grabbed my breast. Yes, that was rude-ass, but not completely unexpected for an orgy room. Why am I reacting this way?

Maybe it was because I was sitting on a dead guy. That must be it.

Get a grip, Eyrtena.

I dry myself off and brush my teeth, then pop two Dramamine and down a couple gulps of Pepto Bismol right from the bottle. One thing Walgreen’s doesn’t carry is a cure for bad tummy from eating crummy souls.

Returning to the bed, I turn off the light and spoon with Taylor, kissing the back of his neck.

“Did the Dramamine help?” he asks.

“Not really.”

He sighs. “I wish you didn’t have to eat bad chaktal.”

“I have to eat, and the alternative is to hurt good people — I can’t do that,” I tell him, caressing his arm. “Never again. This way, at least I feel like I can take some bad people off the street.”

He turns around to face me, pulling my naked leg over his, causing a skip in my heartbeat. “Soon you won’t have to, and then…” he says, tickling the back of my knee.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” I tell him, unable to keep the hesitation out of my voice.

He laughs. “If you had so little confidence, why did you let me sample you, month after month, for a year?”

That isn’t it. My hand goes absently to the vivisection sites on my thigh, two inch-square cubes’ worth, which of course are now unblemished skin and muscle… having eaten, I heal like Wolverine. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? I can heal in moments what it would take a human months to heal, if they heal at all. They’re so limited.

There’s also immortal life: When eternity is yours, eighty or so years is nothing. Who would choose that really?

Me, maybe. I don’t know.

I press my lips to his, letting it linger a bit before withdrawing to my side with a sigh. “Do you mind if we talk about this more tomorrow? I’m suddenly very tired.”

“Of course,” he says, with a hint of disappointment, but he doesn’t press. That’s a lot of why I love him. “Good night, love,” he says, and rolls over to his side, much the way I found him when I first came in.

I pull the blanket up, and snuggle into my pillow, with my palm pressed against Taylor’s back.

His chaktal always tastes of honeysuckle and newly mown grass, and now that I’ve eaten and I’m safe, it’s comforting — and it relaxes me. As sleep overtakes him, sexual desire dissipating, it retreats into his body until I can’t sense it anymore.

Holy shit, I realize, reclaiming my hand from Taylor’s back as if from a hot plate. That guy at the club, he had no chaktal — that’s what’s been bugging me. That’s not possible — no one could be in that room who wasn’t dead, or…

An Incubus.

It was an Incubus.

And somehow, I swear it — he knew me.

You can find out more about Edward Buatois and his writing on his website.

(1) What do you feel is the most significant technological development that has happened in your lifetime so far?

The Internet, bar none. It represents humanity’s third great age –– first was the invention of writing, second the invention of books, and third the invention of the internet. An entire book (ebook!) could be written on it. Entire industries have sprung up, and more will be invented tomorrow… cell phones really, social media, true direct-to-consumer sales such as Amazon and eBay. Not to mention those sites’ impact on brick-and-mortar… Amazon versus Borders, Netflix versus Blockbuster. Social media has changed how we interact, and not always in good ways… people sitting next to each other texting other people all night is one example. More worrisome is it’s also allowed us to balkanize into political fiefdoms where people relate only to people and ideas they already agree with and eschew contact with those we don’t, and thereby maintain their ignorance. The internet’s greatest irony is that the most important social/information sharing tool ever invented may have as its chief impact its ability to get people to stop talking to each other and to discourage exposure to new ideas.

(2) If you could have been on any space mission so far, which would it have been?

I actually had to think about that one. Even the more glamorous space missions… most of them take years to come to fruition, and then the payoff, while spectacular, can be short-lived. For example, the gravity-wave detector, which for the first time measured/confirmed Einstein’s theories about them when two neutron stars collided. REALLY long lead-up, VERY short event. Of course an obvious one for sheer thrill is any moon landing. I’d do that one for sheer fun and wonder, though the discovery payoff, while spectacular, was for the most part “look what we did” and not much groundbreaking in terms of actual science done compared to other endeavors. Of existing space missions, I think the Galileo mission to Jupiter and its moons would be the one I’d want to be on, given the possibility that they could harbor life, and they’re so different, each one of them. So interesting to see other destinies, other possibilities. A close second is the study of extrasolar planetary systems for the same reason… it’s fascinating that we have not found a single system so far that looks anything like ours, not even in the number and distribution of planets. Maybe we ARE special.

(3) What is your main motivation to write speculative fiction?

I’d call what I do Urban Fantasy and/or SciFi/Fantasy. The short answer is that I generally find ordinary people boring. I like to give ordinary people extraordinary abilities and ask what they would do with it. My most recent fantasy WIP is Eyrtena, a woman who craves love except that she’s a Succubus who steals the souls of everyone she loves… a built-in tension between what she wants and what she is. Or the dispossessed teen who accidentally pulls a female Elf to our Earth through a portal, along with an evil wizard… now it’s on him to learn how to do magic before the evil wizard destroys our world: that kid’s going to have to grow up fast. Longer answer: Some might do speculative fiction to imagine possible worlds, and that’s great, I love those stories. Me, it’s about the human element: We’re all on a journey to find our place in the world, figure out who we are and become comfortable in our own skin. (Almost) all of my stories one way or another tend to be about that.

Edward Buatois is an unpublished writer in the science fiction/fantasy genre. He’s written a number of short stories and is working on two novels, both in the urban fantasy realm. He recently discovered the infinite possibilities of writing for anthologies, and has committed to writing one in fantasy and one, as a stretch goal, in forbidden romance. He likes to write stories about ordinary characters with extraordinary abilities and how they deal with them; influences are Jumper, by Robert Jordan; Waiting in the Wings, by Melissa Brayden; and Heartsick, by Chelsea Cain.

Part Two: The Lovers

CHAPTER FIVE

And so it began.
Anna and Sam started meeting, quietly and secretly, like star-crossed teenagers. At first it was a stolen afternoon, then an evening at a pub in the country, then a weekend in a cottage in Cornwall, and so on. They begun to like each other a great deal, but life had made both very careful, and they were taking things slowly. They talked incessantly, and Anna found out that Sam was coming out of a particularly vicious divorce, that he was a very dedicated doctor, that he was hugely prone to the giggles, and that he envied her for having a dog. In his turn, Sam discovered that Anna was a spinster of the parish of nowhere in particular because she and Bonnie were living a truly nomadic life, and that she hid a truly silly sense of humour under a cool exterior. He also noticed, with an inward laugh, that she wasn’t telling Patsy Cracksman about them.

In spite of this one incidence of reticence on Anna’s part, they spoke on the phone almost every day, and met whenever Sam’s work schedule allowed. Physically, though, they hadn’t progressed beyond a few kisses and cuddles and Anna began to wonder if they ever would.

Then, after months of gentle courtship, one Sunday lunchtime they were sitting in the garden of a very nice pub on the banks of the Thames.
“It’s our anniversary next week,” Sam said.
“Anniversary?”
“Have you no romance in your soul, woman? It will be a year since you gave me your number.”
“Oh. I guess it will. Is that an anniversary?”
He smiled gently.
“Of course it is,” he said, “and I’d like us to celebrate.”
Then he took her hand and looked her straight between the eyes.
“That’s why I’ve got something, no two somethings, I need to ask you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not necessarily. Or at least I hope not. But it could be important. I’m assuming the fact that I’m mixed race doesn’t bother you?”
“No. Never think about it, I just enjoy the wonderful colour of your skin.”
He smiled gratefully into her eyes.
“Now the really hard one. Do you want children?”
“Oh Sam. I did once. But it wasn’t ever going to happen.”
He looked puzzled and she ploughed along bravely. “I’m infertile.”
“Me too. That’s why my wife divorced me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I bet that hurt.”
“In some ways. In others the divorce was a bit of a relief. But I’ll tell you all about it some other time. What I need to know now is whether you would think about sleeping with me.”
She blushed rosily.
“To be perfectly honest with you, I find myself thinking about it at the most inopportune times.”
He grinned.
“Me too. Wanna celebrate our anniversary with some hot sex?”
“I think I’d like that a lot.”
“Want a trip somewhere romantic? Paris? Rome?”
“No. What I’d really like is for you, me and Bonnie to take off in the camper.”
“I’d like that too. I’ve got a full list this week, and I’m on call for most of the weekend, but then I have a week off. We could meet somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Well.There’s this pub with a camping field. It’s just off the Cotswolds tourism radar. Good food. Good walking. Friendly. I could book you a pitch.”
“Please.”
“I can get there on Sunday evening. I’ll book you in and see you there. I’ll email directions.”
“Bossy. But just this once…”
“Look, Anna, I’m not pushing you. I still won’t automatically expect anything but companionship. You know I fancy you, and I think that’s mutual, but I’m not a user.”
“Didn’t think you were. Wouldn’t have kept on seeing you if I thought that. No. I’m as curious as you to see where this goes.”
His laugh was lazy and sexy.
“Back at you. This could be all sorts of fun.”
“Oh indeed,” Anna heard herself almost purring and quickly pulled herself back to practicalities. “Sunday night. Will you have eaten?”
“I’ll pick up a burger or something on the way.”
“No you will not. Like lasagne?”
“Love it.”
“Right then. That’s settled. I’ll have lasagne and good red wine waiting for you.”
“Oh woman. You certainly know how to make a tempting offer.”
“I’m trying.”
“It’s a date then.”
“It is, now eat your nice lunch.”
He laughed. “Yes mommy.”

The rest of the afternoon went by happily, and when Sam walked Anna and Bonnie to the station to catch their train back to where the camper awaited them he kissed her hungrily.
“Until next Sunday,” he almost growled.
She put a hand to his cheek.
“Can’t come too soon for me. Take care of yourself.”
As the train pulled away she leaned out of the window, waving like a besotted teenager.

Jane Jago

Though I’m old, I am not such a fool
As much of the modern gene pool
I don’t need to be told
That ice will be cold
Or detergent’s not food as a rule

© jane jago 2018

When Francesca met Richard they were predisposed by fate to like each other – even though neither of them know it at the time. They were both blandly handsome, both successful, both good-humoured if a little humourless, and both laboured under the disadvantage of unimaginative parents who bestowed on their offspring the sort of names more sensibly found in burlesque than high finance.

Richard (Rich to his very few friends) Dripping was an investment banker. He was a whizz kid and a high flyer, if rather more risk averse than his peers, who was tipped for an early seat on the board of the private bank for whom he worked. Francesca (no diminutives please, the name is Francesca) Phaart was a tax accountant whose forensically detail-orientated carefulness had already earned her a junior partnership and made her not a few enemies.

Quite who thought it might be funny to introduce them to each other is rather lost in the mists of time, although the best guess is an undeniably louche specimen rejoicing in the cognomen Francis Ffotheringham, who was rather in the habit of collecting people with odd names. In the end, of course, it matters not who did the deed because some puckish deity somewhere had decreed that they should not only meet but that they should also fall in love.

For a couple of months Francesca and Rich met every weekend, discovering mutual tastes, mutual interests, and mutual dislikes enough to persuade them that they were well on the way to becoming a serious item. With this in mind, Francesca took Richard to her family home in the Cotswolds, where her parents were favourably impressed by the rather stolid young man on whom their daughter’s fancy had lighted. Their only private caveat was his name. As Papa Phaart remarked to his lady wife in the privacy of their wide, white bed:
“Seems a reasonable sort of a chap, but I’m pretty sure he won’t make the top of the tree with a damned silly name like Dripping.”
His wife nodded wisely and passed him a digestive biscuit.

Two weeks later, Richard and Francesca were on an aeroplane heading for the glass and steel tower in New York which Mr Dripping, the second Mrs Dripping, and Richard’s young half siblings called home. By and large, the visit was a success, with the New York Drippings united in approval of Francesca’s bland blonde handsomeness and her placid uncomplaining nature. The entire family accompanied the young couple to the airport and waved them off with smiling fondness. However, once they were through the departures gate the whole American contingent burst into raucous laughter.
“Phaart. Francesca Phaart.” Papa Dripping was holding his sides and the young Drippings were actually rolling around on the floor of the concourse.
“It’s a very good job,” the second Mrs Dripping opined genially, “that Richard inherited his mother’s sense of humour”.
“The lady doesn’t have a sense of humour,” Dripping senior expostulated.
“Precisely.”

But none of this hilarity was apparent to either Richard or Francesca who sailed serenely towards the next phase of their relationship without a care in the world.

In due course, a reputable jeweller was visited and a diamond of suitable size was purchased. The young couple hosted a dinner party at a fashionable restaurant to celebrate their engagement, and Francesca moved into Richard’s home in leafy Richmond.

Certainly, Francesca was well aware that her name caused a great deal of ribaldry among those she mentally dismissed as the uneducated, but she could see no humour in it herself and nor could she quite understand why certain of her acquaintance seemed to think Richard’s surname a source of ill-bred sniggers.

She might have carried on in blissful ignorance, had she not been placed in a position where she could not avoid overhearing a conversation between two female interns at her place of work. She was in one of the stalls in the female restroom, in fact she was about to emerge, when the sound of two sets of clicking heels stopped her in her tracks.
“…madam Phaart,” the voice was loaded with spite, “and I suppose she thinks that becoming Mrs Dripping will make her less of a household joke”.
“You should watch your mouth,” the other voice was quieter and more refined. “You don’t know who might overhear you.”
“I don’t care. Can’t she even see it?”

See what? Francesca wondered. But she was disturbed enough to mention it to Richard over dinner that night. He shook his head bemusedly.
“I don’t know, dear. Does it worry you?”
Francesca shook her fair head.
“Not really. I suspect it was just more vulgarity.”

And that might have been the end of that had not the bank chairman called Richard into his inner sanctum. They were closeted together for the best part of an hour before the older man wrung Richard’s hand.
“You will think about it then, Richard?”
“I’ll do better than that sir. I will get onto it immediately.”

That night he spoke seriously to Francesca.
“It has been put to me that a seat on the board of the bank is being kept warm for me.”
She looked at his heavily handsome face and felt a glow of pride.
“However, there is a stipulation. It is felt that the name Dripping is unsuitable to elevation to the board.”
“Oh. So what will you do?”
“Choose another. With your assistance, my dear.”
“I don’t think it much matters what. Other than Phaart.”
He smiled his complete understanding.
“I am quite drawn to Smith.”

And so it was that, after a bit of legal sleight of hand, Francesca and Richard became Mr and Mrs Smith and enjoyed many years of happy, if unexciting, marriage.

©️ Jane Jago 2018