Ravensby Od (Paperback)

It has often been observed, by minds commonly accounted wise, that extraordinary events come about in threes. There is a kind of magic to that number; something compelling, satisfying on some instinctive level no one can quite describe.

Consider. Were you to be offered a crisp butter biscuit by a kind hostess — the sort designed for elegant tea-tables, and therefore, the approximate size of a six-penny coin — you might feel that to consume one merely whets your hunger. A second improves upon the impression — but it is the third, the magical third, that has the power to satisfy you. Having devoured three such delicacies, then you may return to the contents of your tea cup, and the patter of your hostess’s conversation, and put thoughts of butter biscuits and sugar behind you.

Well, then. I do not know how extraordinary the events of this tale may prove to be, but the preponderance of threes must be considered a fortunate beginning. Let’s proceed.

The island kingdom of Anglatora was once among the most magical places in the world, steeped to its very eyebrows in strangeness and wonder. This happy state of being persisted until the old wizard Tamlin unaccountably disappeared, taking most of the magic away with him. Since that day, Anglatora has declined steadily in oddities, but whatever it may have lost in the way of magic, it has gained significantly in what one might term the comfortingly ordinary. Were you to visit Anglatora now, you would find everything happens more or less as you might expect it to.

With, perhaps, one or two exceptions.

At the present time (that being three hundred and twenty-three years since the disappearance of Tamlin) there are three Ravensbys in Anglatora, varying in size and importance. The first in both qualities is of course Ravensby Magna, a grand place situated on the westerly coast. Its distance from the capital might once have retarded its prospects, but since the advent of the railways it has enjoyed so steady a succession of gentlemen and fine ladies from the city as to transform it entirely. Many a grand seafront mansion has since sprung up to accommodate this holidaying elite, and in the seasons of finer weather (admittedly of limited duration in Anglatora), the place might fairly be said to bustle.

The least in size and importance is Nether Ravensby. Trailing some twenty miles south of its grander cousin, Nether Ravensby possesses nothing whatsoever to recommend it. A scant, meagre, muddy little place, its residents console themselves for this dearth of finer features by affecting a settled dislike of everything to do with Ravensby Magna — especially the gentlemen and fine ladies.

A little farther inland lies Ravensby Od. Nestled between three grand hills and sheltered, thus, from wilder weather, Od is a mild, mellow place with a palpable air of eternal tea-time. Lacking the grandeur of Magna, it lacks also the dreariness of Nether, and therefore might be considered Exactly Right.

In this last of the Ravensbys live three widowed ladies. Finding themselves alike in situation (devoid of either husband or child, and therefore free from all restraint), they had long since formed a confederacy, and saw each other every day of their lives (or near enough).

We concern ourselves first with Meg Lavender, middling as to age and meagre as to fortune, who lives in a dilapidated cottage at the end of Nettle Lane. And it is here we find her, upon one drowningly wet morning at the end of November, down on her hands and knees in her cramped little hallway, wielding a collection of old rags against a steady stream of water leaking down from the roof. It could not contrive to be a neat, simple leak, the sort that results from a neat, simple hole in one’s roof, and descends in distinct droplets into a conveniently-placed bucket. This particular leak came in at the lintel over the door, and ran in glistening rivers down the length of the frame, and thence over the cold stone tiles of her floor. Whereupon, either she or the one, stout maid her dwindling fortune permitted her to employ, strove to soak it up in cloth, before it could flood the house as far as the stairs.

It was in this ignominious situation a visitor discovered her, sometime after sunset. This visitor had not the sense to wait, when no one came immediately to the door. He opened it himself, and came striding in, adding a quantity of mud to the swirling waters, and turning them brackish. ‘Oh!’ said he, receiving an unaccustomed view of his unwitting hostess’s raven-coloured hair, ordinarily neatly arranged, but falling just now out of its pins. Her face being turned to the floor, he saw nothing of her countenance, and her annoyance, therefore, passed him by. ‘This is a poor moment to receive guests, perhaps,’ observed he wisely.

Meg muttered a choice syllable or two under her breath, and contrived to heave herself halfway up off the floor. Her back groaned in protest; when had she grown old enough to suffer such indignities as an aching back, and after what was, really, only a very little labour? ‘Edmund,’ she sighed upon identifying her interloper. ‘I am, as you can see, urgently employed.’

‘Let me help,’ said the gentleman, to his credit, and though Meg (in all the futile pride characteristic of a poor and half-forgotten widow) protested, he was soon down on the floor with her, mopping up rain with uncommon energy. ‘The rain was lessening, as I rode,’ he informed her. ‘I do believe it may stop entirely by the morning.’

‘Let us hope and pray that it will,’ answered Meg fervently. ‘Then I may sleep in peace again.’

Edmund regained his feet, and stood a moment in unhappy contemplation of the damp and chilly cottage. He was too big for the place, a tall man, and bulky about the shoulders; the cramped proportions of the limestone building seemed smaller than ever, when he was in it. ‘I wish you would permit me to—’

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