1.

 

Dig Up the Bones but Leave the Soul Alone

 

Dover- 1864

 

            In the midst of a cruel environment, a round sphere: global and hardly yet connected; the world was an improving mechanical machine that had it’s falls and rises within democracy, aristocracy, monarchy and the simple rules of any utopia that had survived- Isle Revland was a woman caught between.

            Standing at the ness, her naked feet massaging the mud surface below the frigid lake, her wandering eyes reached farther across the surface. The air was bitterly decreasing with warmth, the large amount of liquid swaying notsamuch as it would with a risen and benevolent sun. She wasn’t into the astrology, the stars of world; People said that you could see the same star from another country- she had never been outside the small little town...not that she could conjure a memory of. What did it matter if the stars that shined above her were the world’s admirers?

            With slender and meek hand, she bent over to search for her prize. With the mist rolling in, the early morning air hard to breathe in, the young woman had difficulty reaching to her contraption. It was agreeable to give credit to paternal ancestry; he was the fisherman after all. He had never once thought of an ensnarement, not once; that she could take the most achievement from her genius thinking.

            With a genuine smirk that glowed her brilliance, she curled her dark lips as her hands met the ice water with accosting weeds. Her fingers trailed along the banks, unable to find her object as she leaned over continually. The long-knit dress was all she possessed as attire; she made it entirely on her own with cloth that was left from her ancestors. Forward onto honesty, the likeliness of the cloth coming from bags of potatoes from the Irish family towards town was a higher possibility.

            Within a short sum of time, Isle regretted having sewn the dress long. Her fingers grasped the rope with satisfaction and the smile appeared once more on her plain face. A sudden pull came from the other line, pulling her body into the murky lake that belonged to the sea creatures of old and legend.

            Hesitation wasn't an option; Isle crawled to the bank, panting ferociously. Her curls of raven hair were dripping down the hole of her breasts and attire, the water dripping down her arms and legs. Relief washed over her as she pulled in her knees to her chest, holding it close.

            “Take care, Isle,” she whispered. “To succumb to a life of water filled throats and unreachable air would result to death.”

            She still had grasped the rope, but looking at it, she realized it wasn’t the rope she beseeched. Another tracker’s trap? The fishing hole wasn’t to be occupied from anyone else. She threw the rope aside, her small bony fingers running through her thick hair. Out of her peripheral vision, a figure stood from behind the nearest rock to her starboard.

            “Oi! ‘Tis a lovely morning to ya, Isle,” smiled the creature. He was of small stature, hardly a man. In any case, with his attitude and devilish tricks, becoming a man could be a challenge to the small boy. His smile was filled with delight and success, his cap covering his tan hair and his clothes sagging on his body. Angrily she pushed herself from the pebble shore to her feet, wringing out the water from her body and hair. “Lookin’ for ya fishees?”

            He held up what she had hoped to accomplish, only to be feverishly disappointed. He held up the contrapment, empty of any source of meal or economical income for her. It might have been full as the lake if the imp hadn't destroyed it.

            “Ye better run off, ghost! The sunlight shall burn yer eyes!” he shouted, taking the rope with him as he traveled through the mud, over the rocky steeples and up towards the northern forests to town. She growled under her breath seeing his shadow intertwine with the darkness. She muttered a curse, one that blew harshly in the cold wind.

            “Little he knows of his bearing,” she sighed. Turning back to her belongings, she bent down carefully to grasp the small knife and place it in her hand. The air was cold enough to freeze her, but dry her from the ridicule placed upon her. Taking the longer way seemed beneficial.

            With no animals to pick up in that trap, she only had one ensnarement left in front of the cottage. She hoped eight would be dumbfounded enough to travel their way into her ropes; yet the life of another being was fragile and weak. Her own soul was a shattered world and daring to rob another of life seemed heart wrenching. Life, as they say, carries on.

            A sinking heart and weighed down hair, she trudged with bare feet on the dirt path of the earth, the feelings and surroundings familiar to her. Awaking mornings was the routine, money was a need and food was a result. A life without fish was a life knowing no food and money. The grasses blew in the wind with grace, dancing along with its tempo as she trudged hazily along, rhythm lacking in Isle’s spirit.

Fighting is in our blood, Isle. Pride, Money, Sex; tis the Irish way. Yer mother knows not of yer blood sprinting in yer veins.

            Her father’s words echoed into the air as she walked past the old worn foliage, the lake was unseen.

The sun rising, the mist going away, the creatures stirring and noises filled the air with sound and happiness...Life had awaken.

            Along with her memories.

 

            “Little one, water from the well, if ye would.”

            Her mother was once a beautiful woman; long heavenly luxurious hair that ever curled awakening in the morning. Her family, developed in England preferred nativism within their lands in Cambridge, but when the famine up in Ireland flashed through in 1845, many immigrants fled to the inhabitants of England.

            Out of all royalty, riches and jewels, Mary Weat experienced a love deeper and richer than anyone or any God could offer her; that man was the Irish drunkard Richard Revland. With no money, only love to guide the young lovers through the unformidable future, they settled down in Dover.

            Years past before Isle was brought into their lives, but by then it was behindhand.

            Mary had flourished under depression, most days leaving the small bed all three shared at the night. Richard’s drinking habit hadn’t ceased; it was enraged. In a small little shack they lived, dreams shattered, and a little girl to take care of.

            “Take ye little soul to the well before I strike thee!” shouted her father. The poor girl, tangled knots of black hair stretching to her waist, took the empty bucket with a saddening heart and face. He didn’t look back at her, just at his wife setting the fire within the small place. Isle looked back to see her mother look at her father with an expression Isle had never understood until she was a grown woman. Eight year olds, no children could understand that hardness and cruelty of life.

            Isle had hummed as she took the bucket to the well a far distance away. At the time, children could imagine of fairies, distant and hidden lands across the seas and small islands; it was a fantasy world for her. Lacking friendships at her side, loneliness came with the benefit of imagination, but also the consequences of darkness.

            The well was deep, and a small barrier blocked anyone from falling in. The rocks were very unstable, hardly kept together. Many children plunged, one a year or so, as Isle was told and that parents discussed over drinks and large dinners. Her parents used to contribute to that, and it abruptly grindlocked. So did the money, the small dinners, the happiness. All that was left was scraps and leftovers.

            The little girl, careful of the fall, tied the rope to the bucket handle, then lowered the bucket slowly into the water. Around her was only sunshine and beauty, nothing she had to be afraid of. Sometimes her parents would embark her on late journeys for tasks, something Isle was afraid of accomplishing alone.

            The bucket embarked its own journey back up, one treacherous and dutiful. Isle pulled hard on the rope to get it back to the air, to the light inside the world. It was nothing but a dark cavern within that pit; darkness was underground. Hell was a place she would never go to; she vowed her life for that.

            Carrying the bucket with two hands was still formidable and easier, yet the load wasn’t any lighter. Water sloshed side to side, sometimes hitting Isle in her face. With cold brown eyes she would sometimes laugh. That time, that final time, she didn’t.

            Reaching the house, it was quiet from the outside. No screaming, no shouting, no moaning to be heard. The crackles of the fire were soft.

            Opening that door, she let out a scream, a dreadful cry into the morning air. It was no longer light as the world became dark in the moment, and all but the world couldn’t help her.

            She was on her own.

 

            She flashed to get the gruesome scene from her mind. Maturity gained from age, only from that moment thirteen years ago; a young woman with enough to get by. Barely enough.

            The road had journeyed her through thought and mind, but also to her destination. The small pond from earth was inhabited with smaller fish and tiny population. Rarely any fish were caught in the trap, mostly none. To her luck, the trap was set by the bank, where occasionally walkers would toss food into the water. She tugged the rope hard, the contrapment pulled out of the water. Two fish flopped on the pebbles, and Isle sighed. It wasn’t good….but she had some.

            She took her knife, stabbing both fish on the side of their heads. They died instantly, still leaving them to be skinned and sold for meat. Collecting the bodies, she traveled to the small shack across the trail in the green light woods. The small steps to its door weren’t inviting; its structure wasn’t. It appeared as wood on wood, just stacked as hardly a house or living environment. Still, it remained Isle’s home for as long as she could remember.

            Opening the unhinged door was difficult holding the fish, but she barged through and then shoved the door back into place inside. Turning around back to the small setting, a few feet away was the other wall. The small bed built for one had remained strong after all those years, love and three asleep upon the sheets.

            Isle placed the fish in a white cloth on a small table, then began to set a fire to the area near her left. The sticks were set and she placed a lit match on the sticks and she watched carefully to control the fire. Once it was set, she stood up, still facing the wall.

            The room was quiet except for the crackling of the fire, just as once before. Isle closed her eyes, the brown swirls put to rest as she wrinkled her nose.

            The room became alive.

            “Two fishes? Ye can’t get merely catching six!” her mother announced, looking at the cloth on the table. Isle turned around, her curls spinning with her. Her mother had her blonde streaks back into a tight bun as she examined the fish. Her father walked over to the new household guests, glaring down at them.

            “These are healthy,” he grunted. “Saves ye the least.” His brown eyes went to his daughter, one that was still alive. His skin looked dead, along with his wife’s. Their bones were visible, and their wounds still bleeding as if thirteen years hadn’t passed, as if they were still living.

            “Ye taking them to the market, are ye?” he asked her.

            “Yes, of course,” she nodded, looking down. “God willing I can gain few money worth from their fragile lives.”

            “Ze fragile lives,” rolled her mother’s eyes. “Fish are animals, animals are savage, Isle. Their life is of no importance than to provide for us.”

            “Life is a speculation,” Isle retorted, picking up a book from her shelf. It included multiple written sermons from Jonathan Edwards, all of them were finished from that night. The library and scholar maps were open today; it was worth returning to gain another book to keep away from the thoughts…the loneliness….them.

            “Stop filling yer head with knowledge, child,” Richard grunted, wrapping the fish up again. “Knowing everything about yer world won’t aid you in living it.”

            You’re not exactly aiding me to live it either. She bit her lip, placing the book near the fish to remind herself. Pulling her black curls behind her ear and shoulders, she looked at her parents. They didn’t seem at all interested.

            “Yer dress is wet,” her father mentioned. She blushed deeply, looking down. She nodded quickly, then began to move back towards the fire to warm herself. “Did ye fall in?”

            “Child, ye cannot swim,” her mother whined.

            “T’was nothing,” Isle shook her head, grabbing linens and cloth toward her and crumpled them together. “Little imp near the water stretched me in the banks.”

            “Georgie’s son?”

            “Perhaps it was he,” Isle motioned her shoulders up. “I believe he released fish from my trap.”

            “I shall take care of he,” he grunted. “Little boys will learn their lessons- get ze prize of a lifetime.” Just as you made me understand my lessons…

            “Ye will do no such things,” her mother remarked. Richard rolled his eyes at his wife then grasped her clothes. She yelped softly as he held her roughly, and Isle looked down. Grasping the fish and the book, she was to leave this nightmare.

            “Ye will do as I say,” he growled at her. Noticing his daughter leaving, he cocked his head to her as Isle reached the door. “Ye will stay!”

            “Ye are dead,” she retorted. “I will not listen to such ridicule-.”

            Suddenly she felt a sharp tip against the nape of her neck and she froze. The small knife from the fish gutting was once in her pocket, but now against her back. They had disappeared, leaving only the knife in thin air against her. Her breathing grew shaky, heart pounding but she rolled her eyes. Turning around quickly she grasped the knife in the air and shoved it back into her holes of a dress.

            It wasn’t the first time the ghosts of her parents threatened her; it also wasn’t to be the last. She couldn’t escape, go anywhere. Placed in a world she didn’t belong in, a century she didn’t seem to care. A poor woman was she, poor enough to not have food every day, to not be able to move.

            To not be loved.

 

            The walk to town was always short enough for exercise and healthy attribution, but it was also well aways from the forest trees and lakes. After the hour from the incident, her dress was well dried but her thin skin remained frigid. She never grasped the cloth of the fish in fear of ruining the meat that was within the meat. She knew she had to get to the table.

            The table was a selling market, one that you could stand until products were sold or another inhabitant had forced the person to leave. Isle could see in the distance that it was wide open, and she wore a soft smile upon her face.

            It disappeared quickly when her brown eyes met Adelaide Pearl’s blue sparkling eyes. She stood near the chapel, an elegant blue dress to match her eyes and the parasol above her head. Her hair was neatly curled with some technique as the blonde waves shone in the sun. Her red lips smirked at her, then she turned to her followers and snickered something softly. The rest of them, matching their leader in fashion and style, laughed amongst as well.

            Isle rolled her eyes, continuing to walk to the table. She placed the two fish on the table, slowly carving their skin and peeling it off.

            “Oh my!” Adelaide exclaimed softly, coming over to the table as soon as Isle had finished. Looking up from the scaled fish, Isle was outmatched socially, economically, and in her own mindset, out of luck in concerns to beauty. Adelaide was the perfect doll, except her attitude killed Isle. “Only two today?”

            “If ye are to not buy these off of me, I would ask thee to please vacant the table,” Isle remarked softly, taking the small knife from her pocket. Adelaide erupted into sweet laughter.

            “A character, Isle, that is what ye must be,” she grinned. “Ye know how to erupt the crowd into laughter, only from walking into the room.” She looked back at her girls, who were glaring at her. It was the signal that Adelaide’s reputation was not to be ruined from her time spent at the table, especially when Isle was selling. She raised her nose, turning back to Isle. “Stay the little hermit ye are, and amuse us?”

            She waltzed away with poise, poise Isle wished she could shove out a window. It was every day, every damn afternoon it was Isle’s event to be mocked, publicly humiliated. First by the boy, then Adelaide. The town mocked her…Isle could understand why.

            When she was only ten she ran to the Constable, screaming about seeing the bones of her parents rise, forming inside the household. In fate of the girl, he did follow her to the house, only to find it empty and the girl remaining to scream.

            She grew past the ghosts, the hauntings. The mockery stayed. She was shunned from society, one that Isle was unsure about contributing to.

          

            Overtime, one of the woman approached the table. Isle wasn’t slightly surprised as she began to pour the money from her pocket. She held her son’s shoulder to her side, the boy she recognized. He widened his eyes, switching from his mother and Isle. Isle cut the head of the first fish then washed over the meat. Ideas on revenge of the child sprung into her head, but she shook them away. Isle was not such.

            “Mother…must we buy from the Ghost?” he pleaded.

            “Quiet, Lukas!” she growled at him. She returned her soft gaze to Isle, who looked at her with the same expression. Isle continued on as if the harsh words didn’t pierce her heart. She was accustomed to it. “My apologies, miss.”

            “That’ll be sixteen pence,” Isle murmured, wrapping the fish in a new clean cloth for the woman to carry back home. The woman sighed, looking at her money.

            “It’s more than Mr. Lowell….but he ran out of stock an hour ago,” she replied, handing her the money. It was obvious to Isle that if the town butcher hadn’t decreased in fish, the mother wasn’t to have come to Isle. “I know it’s all ye have as work, however.”

            “We do what we must do with what we are given,” Isle remarked quietly, taking the money and handing the woman the wrapped fish. She said a soft thank you, but turning around was accosted by Mr. Lowell. His presence frightened them, and even Lukas gave a soft gasp.

            “Buying from the little wasp, are we?” he asked. He was a strong, burly man; something the town needed with the toughest meat and cleavage needed to pulverize the food. He was losing his hair rapidly, and his eyes and face were always filled with a dark glare. A sense of mystical evil, something supernatural stuck into his shadow and deepening face. It was strange to think her parents were once friends with this man, but shortly before they….left…the friendship ended abruptly. His glare turned to Isle.

            “Ye were out of stock,” she returned quickly, grasping Lukas’ hand. She trudged past him, leaving him alone with Isle on the other side of the dirty wooden table. Many townspeople stood to watch, but Isle avoided their curious eyes and his menacing pair.

            “Miss Revland.”

            She returned a nonchalant look, then began gathering up her other meat stock. With the pence and the fish, it would take as a small meal for the day, perhaps with a small leftover of the soup she was to buy. His presence was still strong.

            “Do ye need something, Mr. Lowell?” she scowled.

            “I want ye to take the offer given,” he replied strongly.

            “I’ve heard it enough. I will not take yer offer. Selling my fish and meat to ye would rob me of money. I ask for the same amount as ye, but if I was to take the offer, ye give me half of my income. I hardly make enough already, sir.” She cleaned up and grasped the lone fish, knife, and book to return. He eyed her cautiously as she glided past him.

            “You’re parents look a little grown on ye,” he growled under his breath. She returned a cold look at him. Their dark eyes clicked for a moment before out of fear Isle removed her gaze. With swaying black tangles, she walked down the road east, mostly away from the crowd. Despite not having friends, she had the local scholarly studies and library at the edge of Dover.

            Opening the fancy wooden door to the medium building, her nose was filled with the aroma of books and unread pages and words of ink. She smiled deeply, the environment filling her heart; it was a place of safety and heavenly words. It appeared to be vacant, unlike some days when the books would be stacked to their high ends and Mr. Gladdens would be jammed with records, returners and beginners. Mr. Gladdens, the librarian, was a short white-bearded man with thick trimmed glasses rounding about his stocked out nose. He had well enough manners, too soft that the man would be walked over frequently. Isle pitied him, just as he pitied her.

            “Isle, back already?” he asked her. She walked towards him in his white shirt and dark pants, handing him the Edwards sermons.

            “I had enough time on my hands this week,” she explained. “Ye have new writings?”

            “Not since the past few moons,” he sighed. She followed him into the smaller room only accessible by him and occasionally Isle and scholars. The studied scholars would prefer the serenity of loneliness in the back room, not the rambunctious noises in the main rooms. He placed the book upon the shelf it stood for, his organization neat for a nervous man.

            “I saved something for ye,” he admitted. Isle perked up in happiness, finding it strange the man had some of a gift towards her. Her dress trailed the undusted floor to his second desk, the first located in the entrance. Despite being a small, quaint library, the first desk was devoured and scourged by papers and hardcovers. This one was rather neat without the impeding dust. He walked behind it slowly, opening a drawer. Isle eagerly waited, hoping it twas something unread and new to the imagination.

            “Dante Alighieri,” he announced, handing her a large book. She took it with gratitude in her soft fragile hands the humongous book. “Divine Comedy as it were…and Italian work. I assumed ye enjoyed foreign works.”

            “Thank ye,” she replied, looking at the outer rims and spine of the hardcover. Never seeing the book before, it was strange to find it with dust designing its pages and took home on her own hands.

            “I want ye to take it,” he replied, pushing his glasses into his forehead. Isle looked up from the book with shocked brown eyes towards the man, her sudden new acquaintance. He smiled gently with thin, peeling lips and Isle erupted into a smile.

            “Yer quite sure?”

            “Yes, absolutely. I don’t need it; ye are in need of a friend, Isle.” He walked back to her, one hand under to support the book and the other on top. He placed his large old hands on hers, clasping the book and her hands. He gave another weary smile.

            “Books are proof that humans can supply magic.”

 

            Isle sat in the corner on the library upon a soft thin rug between herself and the wooden floors that ran along its area. The large brick fireplace beside her crackled violently; at times memories and her hauntings would return to her, but the deep of the book would contain her.

            Responded he, when he beheld me weeping, “If from this savage place thou wouldst escape; because this beast, at which thou criest out, suffers not any one to pass her way, but so doth harass him, that she destroys him.

            With her eyes and soul intent upon reading the novel, her bones shook when sudden shouts were heard from outside. She looked up from the words, finding Mr. Gladdens walking towards the door. He opened it vigorously, in hope of discovering what the ruckus was about this time around. Occasionally the fights from drinking and robbery would erupt upon the streets, adding only another cruelty to the inhabited world.

            “What must it be?” Isle asked curiously, walking away from the small corner, the book sturdily in her hand as she walked quickly to his side. She hadn’t realized everyone else had vacated the premises before this occurred. He glared deeply out the crack of the door.

            “It appears…the town is under new management,” he remarked. Isle tried to take a peep from the door, in which Gladdens gratefully opened for a full view.

            Ahead towards the streets, women and men stood close and huddled listening to a man near a factory entrance. He wore a fancy brown coat and top-hat, his glasses smaller than the man beside Isle; he appeared to be making an announcement, and the world passed under the quiet of his loud voice.

            “New management will not result too much changes around ze town,” he declared, appearing to read off of a small paper as his guidance. “Ze factories are the main import of ze city, in which under ze management of Mr. Smith, will be asked for a stronger work force.” The crowd murmured slightly, talking amongst each other. It only meant a small deal to Isle until he spoke once more.

            “Ze women’s work forces will be announced as new spaces have arrived,” he remarked. Isle leaped up, her soul crying out. A job opporutnity….at a factory! It was an unbelievable force as he continued speaking, her ears only listening to her thoughts. She could have meals twice a day, maybe three! New clothes…new books…. Everything she could be brought into place was imagination in her head…

            “Ye will conduct your name upon this list if interested in the opportunities with half of fifty spots available,” he spoke, and part of the crowd dispersed, the men waiting for their factory news to begin. A few women approached the man, one including Adelaide, her formed companions following shortly.

            “Ye should take the opportunity, Isle…” Gladdens said softly. “Ye need the money. It can grant ye the life ye dreamed of.”

            “Dreams are foolish,” Isle replied quickly. “This money gives me food…that is all I shall need in this life.”

            She departed down the steps to the road, leaving Gladdens in a state of mess and obstruction in his library. He watched her depart, arriving closer to her destination. In each step she slowed, each step showing hints more and more of hesitation. Gladdens was saddened by Isle’s words of her dreams. He knew her accomplishments would be tremendous if she could give herself up to the world. No, she was much too strong for that. He closed the door, returning to his own business.

            “The ghost is coming to apply?” Adelaide announced, finished with the task at hand. The older gentleman holding the listing paper lowered his head to take a look at Isle, finding her dirty and implacable to any tasks. Her hair was a mangled mess of black; her clothes were not trimmed, ironed or primed to any form of cleanliness. Isle looked down at the ground, away from Adelaide’s cold eyes.

            “The opportunity is for women, is it not?” she replied. A follower snickered softly, Adelaide glaring back at her. She quieted rather quickly at the glare, and Adelaide returned her gaze to the creature before her.

            “She cannot work here, Mr. Kipps,” she said, now turning her attention to the man. “She is unable to maintain the look of a woman, the cleanliness of a human being, and her soul is as dark as the pits of Hell.”

            “Now, dear child,” the man stuttered, looking at her. His eyes shifted to the pitiful woman in front of him. Despite her dirty skin, hardened posture and soft eyes, the man saw a humble attitude and some sort of knowledge to the business. “I shall discuss her abilities. You all girls return home.”

            They trotted away, Adelaide’s eyes fixed upon Isle. Her heart beat softly and her breathing was hard and fastened. Isle looked up, finding the man looking at her. Her presentation was hardly welcomed, she knew, but it was all she could afford.

            “Yer name?” he asked.

            “Isle Revland,” she answered softly, her hands tumbling with themselves. It was unknown as to whether or not this man had an idea of who she was, the rumors spreading around about her and her ghostly soul. Doubts arisen, Isle put away the idea of obtaining a position.

            “Where’d ye get yer attire?”

            “I made it, sir,” she replied. He eyed her once more, looking at the workmanship of the woman. The long dress was sewed perfectly, even with the raw and dirty fabric.

            “Ye know of machinery? Any knowledge?”

            “I read a book.”

            “Ye learned that from words?” he pondered. She nodded eagerly, unknowing of the journey their conversation was to arrive towards. He enjoyed the fascination in the woman neatly.

            “I made the dress when I was sixteen,” she spoke.

            “Sixteen? Dear child, what is yer age, if I may ask?”

            “A little over twenty, sir. It’s the only attire I own, the only fabric I could place my hands on and sew.”

            “Yer a poor woman, aren’t ye?” he whispered. He sighed, her name written on the list and he looked at it. She had knowledge on the process, and it was well enough for him, but for the Boss? He gulped, her name becoming blurred with his thoughts and his ideas. She waited patiently, looking at the sweating man.

            “Can ye arrive eight sharp o’ the morning…we shall discuss yer working station,” he answered. Isle’s heart leaped, and she let out a soft sigh and nothing more. Just as was the opportunity gained hard, maintaining it remains the challenge.

            “Indeed,” she nodded. He was glad enough to fill the necessary spots; it was hard to determine the mindset and abilities of each woman approaching him. Something made him hesitate only on Isle….it certainly wasn’t her lack of knowledge on sewing nor her attitude. It was a deeper mechanism, one he could feel on his skin but couldn’t see with her eyes. He could dig up every bone in her body, study it to know her…but without the soul the assessment would be void.

 

            Arriving to the small shack once more, a small bowl of soup and the fish cut neatly inside of it, she leaped for joy. Her heart was aflutter with each step, her mind swarmed with ideas of what tomorrow brings. It was only darkness now, her first and last meal of the day. She could hardly eat from excitement, her mouth craving only tomorrow but her stomach begging.

            Devouring the soup, she heard a clangor behind her.

            “Ye got a factory station?”

            She turned slowly around to observe her father towards her small empty closet in the corner towards the door. He leaned on the wall, his rough messy brown hair disintegrating upon his head, his skin burning. His eyes were never so red, so dark.

            “Yes,” she replied softly. She stood up from the small stool and he charged over and spilled the rest of the soup onto the dirty floor of dust and worms. Isle jumped from the noise, stepping back as he grabbed her forward.

            “Ye will leave us, forget about us?!”

            “Tis only a twelve hour shift every day, excluding the Holy Day,” Isle murmured. “I am not leaving.”

            “I feel my bones burn with your hatred,” he growled under his breath. There was no drinking in hell, but his aroma reeked of it terribly, Isle turning away from him. “Yer not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

            “Tis money for me to live! Ye cannot force me to stay!”

            He shoved her hard into the wall and took the fish knife he hid with his powers and slashed her right shoulder down to her elbow. She grimaced, looking at the wound and didn’t have enough time to clear for the next blows.

            And the one after that.

            And the one after that.

 

 

 

2: Graced With A Taste of the Beauty Underneath (2)

2.

Graced With the Taste of the Beauty Underneath

 

           Early morning started to rise, as did the helpless, wandering child Isle Revland, struggling to force her bruised aching body from the cold wooden floor of dust and maggots. Her arms shook as her palms of sweat met the wood-boards, her legs following in the same rhythm of vibrations and pain. Standing on her bare feet, she groaned softly, her lower back corrupted and rough as a rock; her head buzzed and pounded hard; every muscle and bone was a broken machine that didn’t work but aggrieved to carry on.

           Her brown eyes hazily blinked, her head pounding and the room spinning in rotational velocities too quick to comprehend. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and concentrating on her thoughts. She pulled her straggly strands of black hair behind her ears, reopening her eyes to the scene once it became solemn and quiet.

           She waited. Her father through action and word that night made his idea clear: leaving wasn’t an opportunity. I ain’t leaving…tis a job, is all. It was a rough circumstance of emotion, as she wanted to please her parents, giving them life after death. At the same time as she pitied them in their soft shells of a body, no longer a heart or soul, a darkness overcame them from beyond the grave. Her fear of them burned her more than the pain from cuts and bruises, the physical pain wasn’t as tremendous of the authoritarian torment.

            Waiting was the idea of a loon; she had to escape. It would nearly be breakfast; she had no money. Her opportunity would approach soon enough, one that she feared would prove to be residue at the end of the day. The dreams set before her never involved a factory, an employment. It was away from her parents; anywhere left was better than everything. Walking from the middle of the room, a heavy heart weighed her down reaching the door.

           “I’ll be back tonight, that I promise,” she whispered to the open air. She opened the door, finding the air crisp yet harsh. Isle reached for a small cap, brown and dirty such as her dress, her eyes and her life. The cloth of a cap wouldn’t keep her ears warm, that was always an issue with the cold; she decided to tuck most of her black hair towards the back of the sou'wester, configuring it was a mess and unwanted. Looking her best, she strutted with the confidence of a woman, overlooking the smile as the most imperative attribute.

        

Reaching town as the sun rising cast shadows on the buildings, the telegraph station and the chapel, all but her shadow seemed to appear on the extensive grime road. Her shadow was of its own darkness, afraid to see the light. If it were to appear, it might wave back at Isle, triggering herself to shy away in fear of it. Shadows to her were more than dark shades; those dark shades had eyes that watched every movement, had legs to follow you even in the light, had arms to torture your bones and skin, and had a mouth to speak its devilish tongue.

Many were not awaken; perhaps the ones with open eyes and moveable bodies were placed inside the factory at the time. Isle was expecting the petite doll, Adelaide, to watch her movements and terrorize her amid the town and commoners. Now, inside a factory with other women, and a man hardly power-stricken to oversee the accosting accounts of the other twenty-four against Isle, it was no longer working twelve hours of sew and hem; it was twelve hours of an aching ear and heart to the confrontations of antagonists. She had the Devil of a whisperer to deal with, and the tormentors of a professional griever added to the amount of voices Isle heard.

The building was a white peeling walled of morbid, painful attribution to Dover, being the only woman’s workshop for miles. The windows were closed, and always seemed to be with the latch to freedom was immovable with any torque. Isle quietly opened the wooden shaved door to the interior, the last shadow to arrive at the sunrise factory

Isle expected a remark about her surname, The Ghost; a simple observation about the simplicity and scraps of a dress and attire- her hair was surely mangled despite its holding within the cap, it could’ve been the business of matter- or the dark eyes the would peer from under the black curls and swim with the hauntings and memories of her past, glistening with the sun rising over the height of the factory. It was all until the sun went to sleep she could rest her heart and advance from her nationals.

Yet it was hushed. Not a word was whispered, not the wind howling could carry a swallowing of slaver that was caught from the Ghost’s arrival into the factory, filling the last station of the white tables, which also seemed shaven and peeled with the walls under the sun. Isle’s expectations lowered gave her a haunted heart, not that it already wasn’t occupied with such. Words were punitive; silence was the greatest enemy. Adelaide’s blue eyes slanted, turning dark and burning with hatred.

“Miss Revland, ye have arrived,” announced Mr. Kipps, trotting down the steps that attached to the left, western wall of the factory. Up the steps must’ve been an office, supplied of Mr. Kipps and perhaps another, as a shadow crossed the walls inside them. Isle shifted her attention to the man approaching her in his trench coat and small boots to fit upon his smaller thin body. His size was no match to Isle, who was more than half his bodily size, which made him ponder on the woman's health.

“I have,” she nodded, her arms entangled together to keep for comfort and warmth. Without a book, the fresh crisp air of the lake, or occasionally the small conversation with Mr. Gladdens, her body became the wing of shelter for her, a hiding place. She could begin to feel her hair retreat from the cap, struggling to breathe under the surface but she placed it tightly on once more.

“Mr. Kipps,” Adelaide said, her small red lips opening with what once was a sweet sound to his ears as harsh and taciturn. “In request from all, if Miss Revland is to take air and space within this facility, that she does it with much detachment as possible.” She gestured to a long table, away from the three tables the women worked at, five or eight to each, a machine and necessary materials needed placed in front.

Mr. Kipps turned to the table at which they gestured behind him, and Isle could hear him breathe out like a whisper, a challenging authority emotion that Isle understood plainly. He returned his gaze, but to the meek woman direct.

“If the lady shant mind,” he replied softly. Isle looked down at the floor of the factory, finding the grey concrete cold and improper. Her bare feet shuffled, and with a tighter strength of her arms, mustered what pride she had left and departed it from her mouth.

“As you wish,” she whispered.

 

Isle stood at the table after the hours of an uncertainty had passed. Sweat dripped down the side of her face, the sun beginning to lower but the air of other bodies and breath began to dwindle down to the twenty-five in the room, one for certain in the office and perhaps another embodiment as well. The curls from her hat, meant to be concealed, were practically slipping away, just as the world had when Isle constructed her mind.

The needle in hand, the sewing machine placed upon the table, the piles of imported cloth spread across the white, empty table of her loneliness all lay with a determinate mind. With a subject at hand, a project to be completed, Isle’s ample other world shut down, and her concentration was a one-track road to the station.

Even with the harshness of her hands with the needle work, her nimble fingers tired and sore, her eyes were lax; her visage covered with sweat was concentrated. She was concluding up the left shoulder of the dress, the part always saved for last. Having a procedure for each order aided Isle; she desired order.

With the sun setting, Isle knew it had to be getting later, which preordained departure. With enough money to buy supper, breakfast for tomorrow, and save some little, it was a slow descend up the hill that Isle slumped down each day, back into a puddle of mud and laugher surrounding her.

She could feel their blistering eyes on her the entirety of the work hour; it wasn’t hard to sense. Isle’s ears burnt terribly and ached when someone spoke, and there was incessant prattle. When it was quite loud and boisterous, they were talking about something else. When it was quieted down, they were discussing someone in the environment, most likely herself. Occasionally the energetic voices talked about anyone despite if they had the knowledge of hearing it.

“Alright Ladies, let’s close up,” Mr. Kipps announced from the top of the stairwell. Isle glanced over her shoulder to him, and he was watching over the ladies to the tables of the left wall. Isle swiftly finished the final dress, looking at its remarkable blue fabric and its perfect length. She smiled at it, folding it with speed and placing it in another basket of the other finished supply.

“Exhausted of the work, Isle?”

She turned to see Adelaide, her face slightly aged from the work full hours, but also a cold stare. Her blonde curls weren’t well primed as usual, which concluded her determination in work. If anything Isle was to enjoy of Miss Adelaide, it would be her determination, whether or not it was used against her.

“It was quite agreeable, actually,” she returned with a soft smile. Adelaide snorted, looking at the baskets. She paused suddenly, looking at the eight straw containers on Isle’s work table. The dresses were neatly stacked and packed, and everything seemed in order. When Adelaide snapped and glared at Isle, she didn’t have to guess to figure she did something terrible.

“Mr. Kipps, we have a delinquent,” she announced. Isle took a deep breath in her large dress, turning to the man standing on the stairs. The ladies beginning to depart paused, and the room was filled with his large sigh. He began to walk down the stairs.

“Ladies, go on home,” he said to the ones near the door. Walking to Isle, he looked at Adelaide. “Ye as well, Miss.”

“Sir, it’s impossible the quantity of her work as produced to this much,” she explained. The man now stood behind Isle, looking at the baskets as well. Isle heard his breathing pause, but he still moved to Adelaide. “She must’ve taken from another. Eight baskets! Eight!”

“I shall take care of it,” he replied. Adelaide glanced at Isle with a hidden evil, then turned around accepting the money from the young boy at the door who gave them the daily dosage. Isle watching Adelaide’s small quiet steps out the door, she took a deep breath of liberation. But a new foot pattern was heard, coming from the upstairs office which made Isle’s blood turn icy in her body.

“I’ll take care of it,” the voice said. It wasn’t jagged, in fact its sweetness surprised Isle in a sense that he hid himself the entirety of the day. She looked at Mr. Kipps, who seemed to object at the man hidden from her vision.

“Sir, it’s quite something I can handle,” he stuttered, but the footsteps were already trudging down the steps. The room became heightened, just as her senses. Her hairs prickled up, her skin became cold and her body was frozen in place. His steps were behind her, and he motionless stood inches away, her brown eyes looking at the table.

“Please, the office has been a wiseacre! Some excitement shall do, Andre,” the man said. His lack of accent surprised her, despite hearing some English from the man. Andre Kipps nodded, glancing at Isle for a second then departing behind her back.

Isle glanced down at the wooden table as the side of her vision was clear, and his figure was seen next to her. Out of nervous habit, she ran her fingers through her hair, except disremembered that she wore her cap firmly. It flew onto the muted ground, and she looked at it as her black curls fell flat on her chest and bounced slightly.

The man, as she glanced down, was bending over to pick up the hat. He wore an expensive black covering that shielded to his legs, pants extended. Standing up facing her with the sou'wester in his hand, she noticed his dark blue confer over his white shirt. It was a palpable factor that the man as rich and not lacking substance to supply himself with elaborate attire. It wasn’t the only thing she perceived.

His face was composed, almost curious about her. With deep brown eyes exploratory towards her, distress washed over once more. His brown hair was neatly prepared, long enough to reach his ear and the nape of his neck, but clean cut to look well-polished.  Despite the soft eyes and facial features, his quietness gave Isle a stir. He looked at her, then held out the cap for her to take. She stared at his extended hand and the cap, her hands hollow yet shaking.

When she didn’t retrieve the hat from his hands, in fear of some snare, he placed it gently on the table. His incessant examine of her didn’t aid to her discomfort and nervous comportment, and she desperately vexed to remain calm in front of the handsome man, who seemed at most ten years ahead of her age.

“What is your name, Miss?” he asked, the sweetness still placed in his voice. Only a few feet away, and his arm leaning against the table his eyes would not admonish. It wasn’t penetrating, but a simple stare with inquisitiveness. It was strange to think she received glowers and conversations daily, yet this man shook her bones.

“Isle Revland,” she returned softly, their eyes meeting. His lips quirked and flinched, and a small smile crept on them.

“Exquisite name,” he remarked. He held out his hand for a gesture, small friendly shake. She hesitated, he could see it in her brown eyes, a quick flash. She placed her dirty, cut and bruised fingers in the stranger’s hands, his larger and much sterner. His grip was fierce but gentle, and hers rested in his hand without meaning.

“Jonathan Smith,” he introduced himself. She nodded, taking in his character and personality, along with his title. “Dover’s new Governor.” That wasn’t a shock to her; he had to have been someone imperative, not just a factory owner. A new face in town, another voice to mock her, she had never seen the man before. Their hands departing, she returned to gathering the few things she had brought, yet he observed at something much different than the glistening past of her eyes.

The bruises and cuts, which were on her hands, were understandable to sewing and inconsistent machinery. The green and blue skin deep pains stretched up her neck in splotches, her black curls not holding up enough to hide her secret. The dress reached up to the bottom of her collarbones, but he could see a small scar leading towards her chest. She could still feel him looking, and a sudden burst of frustration and anger rose to her, so much that she could burst to tears.

“Have an abusive occupant at home, do you?” he asked her softly, getting closer, almost whispering in her ear. It gave her a small startle, but she shook it off quickly, her breathing heavy and a heart faster than any horse galloping away from battle. His lack of accent, which was beginning to become more noticeable, especially when he referenced her, began to mock and annoy her internally.

“I live alone, Mr. Smith,” she grunted, leaving it simple.

“Jonathan,” he verified at his name. “Please, call me Jonathan.”

“Mr. Smith, may I go home?” she queried quickly, turning to him, her hair swaying with her sudden movement. He looked at her, configuring why in fact she still remained upon the premises. Remembering the issue that was produced, he rose a finger, a sign of patience, and looked at the baskets piled of dresses made from her very hands.

He took one up, not one from the highest but somewhat in between, the fourth or fifth basket chosen from the eight. He let the dress flow, the neatly piled cloth now flowing in the wind. He admired the white milieu, while small detailed green vines flowed from all corners, and red roses blooming from each section of the dress, small but detailed. Isle shrunk back, admiring it as well and finding it well suited for any woman of Mr. Smith’s choice.

With the white buttons sewn in the front, and the length perfect from touching the dirty floor, Jonathan Smith could hardly notice the sewing areas and any imperfections in the dress. He beamed at the dress, then at her.

“This is fine work, Miss Revland,” he nodded. “I can assume that you are not a thief, and wouldn’t dare steal from me or my workers, I presume correct?”

“Sir, stealing from ye is stealing from myself,” she replied. She had a physiological side, which made him smile wider, which shook Isle once more.

“Sighted as this dress is suitably made, with time and exertion, along with the eighty three others you completed currently, I wish you to partake this,” he said, folding the dress once more and handing it Isle. She stared at it, folded in one palm and its warm invitation blinding her.

“I cannot, Sir.”

“You’ve a surplus; one dress shall not be amiss. It would suit you wisely, Isle.” Don’t call me that. Ye are a stranger, and know nothing.

In spite of her unfamiliarity of the man, and wishing to be left from the factory, and his uncomfortable physique around her, she accepted the dress in her hands with a quick flashing smile, one with motion lacking feeling. He leered back at her, longer than her advent to him.

“Trevor at the door shall let you obtain your pay for the day, Miss,” he announced. She nodded, her lips turning grim as she passed him and the other white peeling tables of the factory. Thanking Trevor for the sum of money, not looking back at Mr. Smith, she already dug into thought about her future meals. Her black curls, their ends dripping tried to reach for the dirt floor beneath her as Andre Kipps and Jonathan Smith stood in the quiet room with the sun retreating from the orange sky.

“The poor girl,” Kipps announced, walking over with his small attaché case in hand. “Can’t get an hour of incessant glamour about her, let alone earn some living in her wretched life.”

“Do you know Miss Revland?” Jonathan Smith asked, the sweetness rising in his voice again, curiosity able to cover his hidden eagerness to learn more about this beautiful creature that he beheld. He wished his ears to be filled with her name, his eyes to only see her brown bashing at him, the black curls that flowed like a raven’s feathers against its tethered skin. A chill rose through him as he recalled his single touch with her, just a small greeting.

Nothing more, he tried to contemplate. Twas a handshake and nothing more.

But it was something additional.

 

Isle Revland returned home, the fire out and the place filled with darkness. Also solitude filled the air, a sense of tranquility and ease.

With a few lit candles, a few blankets to keep warm, and hot fresh soup rushing through her veins and stomach, she smiled internally. Despite the mocking, the almost deportment of no longer having a work force on the first day, it was a good day.

She admired the dress that hung away from the open window, flattering the roses projected on the fabric that came from her very hands, the fabric imported across oceans and seas to be made with her small fingers, but also her broken soul. Through her shattered, haunted heart and hidden imagination and fantasy re-running in her mind, a beautiful creation was brought forth, something Isle would never proceed to envision.

The quiet solitude environment made her smile contently, then the thought of a cold hand pressed against hers made her gape. The cold, large hand of Jonathan Smith arrived within her mind once more without warning; Isle couldn’t determine its danger to her. Thinking about his brown features, his flawless pale skin and sweet voice, the missing parts of his English enunciation…

Yet there was something secreted, something underneath that made her so engrossed. It was too early to assume, but Isle didn’t think she’d see him quite often nonetheless. He was a working man, running a business that involved money, and apparently in charge of Dover under his leading.

If he had much magnificence on the outside, how much was buried beneath?

 

Jonathan Smith sat in his room, the darkness overcome from the moonlight rays shining in through his tall lean glass windows, and the fire crackling in front of him. The chair, the purple worn fabric falling apart, the chair he could think for hours and contemplate an entire life story, soon felt troubled on his body. The warmth of the fire flickering towards his face gave no comfort, the heat of the room, the darkness or the light. The solitude was never a friend to Jonathan, the loneliness of a bed and a chair beside him, his hand missing another.

He wasn’t past his prime, hardly not! A slow descend to thirty was inevitable, and the acclaimed prize was hidden in his mind and life sped up for his monumental accomplishments of thirty long years of work and toil to obtain his father’s dynasty and maintain it. Yet it was of those years, despite his younger sister occasional visits from London, it was a life unaccompanied.

His mind turned back as it had been all night, to the woman he had met. It was strange to him, that a woman charmed him in suchaway as never before; not only of her beauty-magnificent beauty!- but the mysterious cloud around her heart and mind that succumbed him to her. He was found in pleasure thinking about her, the way she thought, spoke and moved. He hadn’t heard what Andre was talking of; her lack of fortune certainly was a down.

He knew something was the cloud around her, something Dover knew but him. Andre understood, the young blonde charm Adelaide agreed…Isle Revland knew of the cloud that shadowed her into another person, something inhuman…yet her skin, her hair and her mind was everything but alien. Perhaps another angle at whatever everyone could see, but something foreign to her was outrageous.

Underneath that cloud of smoke, there was beauty…there had to be. It was a dark secret, one he was determined to clear through and free the woman from the toxic of the dark cloud that Isle succumbed to every day, morning and night.  He had the small taste of Isle Revland, something entirely diminutive that it was sufficient to get him profitable.

Jonathan Smith knew- he knew the dangers and dilemmas from coming forth strappingly.

But the idea of having Isle Revland, not any further lady, seemed as if all fell into place.

 

3: We Have All Been Blind (3)

3.

We Have All Been Blind

               The week passing, the suns and stars incessant in their usual fashion of transcending each hour in perfect sequence. Isle Revland, the woman of the story, hadn’t gotten Jonathan Smith since, but the sentiment remained in the factory settings…She could feel his presence in the office up those wooden stairs.

           Most of the time Isle was able to maintain a strict focus on her work, yet her body would freeze and shiver, as if He glared out the glass window from the second story office, watching her work. The shudders given, she determined, were neither good nor bad, but superstitious and curious. Inquisitiveness struck herself, as it does for everyone once in a lifetime; Jonathan Smith was a man of propriety, wealthiest and struck with handsome features. Surely, he had contact with other woman before, yet now, it seemed as if Mr. Smith couldn’t stay away.

           He couldn’t, but had to.

           Isle Revland hadn’t thought of the man plentiful; Jonathan Smith couldn’t get her outside his small, busy mind no matter the time or his current occupation or visitors. She was an internal marking in his body, something he couldn’t get rid of. It excited him, never interested highly in a woman before, no matter the years or months lasted. It had been a week…and it was unlike than before.

           As much as it excited the fancy, handsome man, his thoughts and affections frightened him.

           His life became a constant awareness of how he performed, exclusively around her. How he spoke about her, thought about her was something he could never foresee, and the unanticipated scared Jonathan to his bones. He had no idea of the lady’s intentions, judgments or passions…It might be hard to project his feelings, but for Isle Revland it could be hard to reject them.

           And so, the week carried on, minds full and never unoccupied. With The Divine Comedy to finish, a white linen cap to complete for her Holy Day uniform, and the daily workings of life, Isle Revland hadn’t time for the impossible, let alone to small possible to complete. The world was ahead of her, and it seemed time wasn’t a strong companion beside her.

         

           “All done for the day, Miss Revland?”

           Apparently, losing her thought and absent-mindedly continuing her work, her mind snapped back to the location as she stood. Her hands still occupied the finished cloth, a small dress for a young French girl that didn’t need that much of an expensive dress to play and address with dirt anyways.

           The factory, as Isle assumed, closed minutes ago, as all the other womenfolk had departed, leaving the thinker of a woman to have been accosted by Jonathan Smith. She realized his apparel had changed, with a loose black shirt, his occasional pants but a long brown coat with large buttons and fanciful detail and embroidery on the fabric. Admitting, she venerated his taste in expensive apparel, despite its outrageous price.

           “Yes sir, I seemed to have drifted,” she replied quietly, placing the last small dress in the baskets before her. Her black hair was braided tightly down her back, simple and out of her way, as she preferred it. His smile was never gone, it seemed in her presence, as he watched her carefully fold the dress.

           “You are very gifted, I must say,” he remarked, rubbing his large hands to his brown hair, its handsome support never changing.

           “Efficient,” she corrected. “Ye are wearing what French and propers can express; I simply acquire what I can achieve and through that time and effort, can create such a “endowed” product.”

           “You lower yourself.” She eyed him carefully, not with a glare but not a kind smile, in which Isle would never have given him. She nodded, in agreeance but also a formidable goodbye as her hair swayed towards him and her back away, eager to accept her last payment before Monday. Tomorrow, the Holy Day, she had a small plan, but it didn’t seem as wonderful as before.

           “Miss Revland, may I inquire that it is quite dangerous to travel such late?” he announced, rushing beside her and catching his breath as she walked out of the establishment to the dark, cold air of the night-something that was common.

           “I am aware of the dangers present, Mr. Smith,” she retorted, but paused, turning around in the moonlight to see him exit the factory in such alarm.

           “Jonathan,” he corrected, coming towards her. “I must insist to accompany you to your establishment.”

           “No, sir, I beg it of ye-”

           “I insist, madam,” he grinned his white teeth, walking so he could stand beside her. Even with the darkness of the night and the dimming lights of the factory, he could see her beauty and she could see his. “Frigid night, such as this; I wouldn’t dare want you to catch a cold.”

           She had to laugh softly at his consistency with her, and with a small blush, she did allow him to. He walked beside her on the dirt road, no shadows, lights or sounds to be made besides their travelling feet and carried voices.

           “How do you like Dover?” she asked, wanting some talk through the night, but nothing too personal….anything about her was off-limits to the man.

           “I admit, the small town is emergent on my heart,” he nodded, looking around as he noticed the trees and no longer the small buildings. He considered she lived afar off, but was afraid if travelling too far would get him lost. “It’s very different from London and Cambridge, all the cities.”

           “What are the conurbations like?”

           “You ever been outside Dover, Miss?”

           “Never in my entire life,” had she admitted. He nodded, taking it in. The more he sullenly got to know her, the easier he assumed it would be for her to be closer to him….and the farther that got…well, Mr. Smith can only imagine so much within his head before exploding into the realm where reality cannot reach.

           “It’s very garish, congested; the air quality not as fresh and nature-like as here. The people, thought vary in strength and size, also sex, have well ample manners. It’s in France you find the common people with poor volumes of manners. I admit I find some here, none of which I shall disclose.” He paused for a moment, taking in the silence of the night. “I can adopt you hear and see most of the town, I suppose.”

           “I shant object to it, Sir,” she replied quietly.

           Arriving past the small pond to their left, and the lake still ahead a small mile tread, the shack stood and remained, and Isle took a deep breath. Activity had been quieted down, but somehow she felt the air tense, especially the air thin and the cold breezes blow through her hair.

           Jonathan didn’t want to remark about the size, let alone anything from the building. It was all she had, and with that, he didn’t object. It may have been too small, filthy interior space, but he couldn’t say more for a poor woman. A poor woman with a broken spirit yet a burning heart.

           “Tis quiet around us, isn’t it?”

           Isle had forgotten his presence… yet didn’t jump from his voice. She froze, and the air grew darker and deeper into her heart. They knew he was here….

           “Quite so, sir,” she replied, turning to face him. “I thank you for the time given.”

           “A pleasure.” He trudged forward to her, in which she didn’t object, but her mind was telling him to run. Sir, ye best be on yer way….these ghosts will catch ye.

           “The night is young, yet tiring,” he sighed, taking her small hand into his. She looked at him carefully as he pulled her hand to his lips, and with warmth kissed its surface tenderly. Her cheeks began to burn, and she thanked the lack of light for her sake. “Shall I inquire a sight with you soon? Perhaps morrow?”

           “Perhaps ye shall, Mr. Smith.”

           “Jonathan,” he smiled. He produced a small bow for her, without a hat to tip, and began his journey back through the small woods and to town, where she was sure Kipps was to give him a ride to his establishment miles away…

           And she was left alone in the air that haunted her, and entering the house she wouldn’t be alone. She urgently wished to plea out for Jonathan, perhaps have him stay longer to calm her nerves. Nay; the longer he stayed, the more likely the vulnerability was, specifically in lieu of him.

She had to face the danger, alone, and take the consequences for her actions.

Yet her only crime was thinking about the way Mr. Smith thought of her. And oh, how her heart smelted.

         

Entering the house, there was no revelation to see them standing on the opposing wall. Their clothes the same as always, dirty and archaic, their arms were folded angrily yet their faces were utter. She closed the door, taking a deep breath. It appeared thinking about Jonathan made the imminent chastisements seem less punitive.

“Evening,” Isle said clearly, her accent thick in her fear as she cleared her throat, closing the door behind her, as if she was locking herself in her own prison cell for eternity.

“The man outside, whom was he?” her mother asked. Without seeing her face, the tone sounded curious than anything. Isle ran her fingers through her black hair, looking at them once more. Stolid they remained.

“Mr. Smith, the factory owner,” she explained. “He averred he stride in the night for my fortification.”

“Did he dearth to come inside?” Father questioned. She looked at him with lenient brown eyes, seeing the malevolent chortle appear on his face. Her heart sank in additional terror, now fear for the man, hopefully a far distance to avoid the dangers of her parentages.

“Nay,” she shook her head. “He has other onuses, I am quite definite.”

“Affluent, his attire appeared. Is he further than the owner?” To Isle’s surprise, it was strange for them to know the same information about this man, perhaps more about him than Isle could ever guess. He did have a obscurer side, perhaps not dark but just uncovered…she was afraid her parent’s knew of it.

“The man is Dover’s new governor, is he not?” her father pondered, now a long pipe elongated into his mouth, and the smoke evaporating out of its end to the room. His eyes still held darkness over her, the evilness of a man.

“Perhaps; I discern not much of the man,” Isle remarked quickly, making her way to the dress hanging on the wall.

It was impeccable, she would make tomorrow a splendid treat, for herself of course. The lovely dress, her hair in perfect contour… A change in status wasn’t probable; status was for the prosperous, and wearing a apposite and exquisite dress didn’t change her revenue. It could change her sobriquet…her designation around town. She had never known, never really thought about her appearance of face or figure

That is, until Jonathan Smith jagged it out with his saccharine voice.

She wanted to say it wasn’t to charm him, at all it wasn’t. It was towards her own personal innermost gain of feeling stunning on the outside, the heart to be beating for own motives. Maybe Jonathan would find her elegant, perhaps other men, and Isle tried to remind her soul that they didn’t matter.

But Jonathan’s face, lighting up as if he saw her already in the dress….it was hard not to conceive.

“Ye have feelings for the man?”

Isle turned around from the dress, almost in a soft gasp, towards her mother’s voice by the lit fireplace. Her mother studied the face of pale, surprised and utter truth upon Isle’s plain face. Mary’s face did not change in any aspect to the emotional reply of her daughter, instead remained cautious and curious about this Mr. Smith.

“I-I have no such things, ye know of that,” Isle replied.

“Tis He, Mary, that the man has feelings,” Father replied, letting the smoke from his mouth. “I have seen the way that man looks at ye, Isle.”

“Nay interest in a man; I don’t have time, or the heart,” Isle sighed.

“Ye might always falsify,” her mother announced. Isle looked up at her mother, who stood by the fireplace still, her movements not made but her voice traveling far. She could see the seed embedded in her daughter’s head, and the farther she continued, the better her life could be….despite the fact she already lived, and by doing so, Isle’s soul would be shattered. What would it matter…”Yer feelings can be manipulative.”

“What?” Isle exasperated.

“His wealth….his approaches! Don’t you see your opportunity Isle?” she exclaimed, a wild grin and excitement flashing in her eyes as she approached her daughter, her hands on her shoulder. Her father remained silent to her right, but the malicious and exhilaration assorted in the air, and the two ghosts began to apprehend.

“I have my opportunity, Mother, at the factory,” Isle explained. “The money is coming in.”

“More could,” she nodded eagerly. “His feelings….reciprocate them.”

           Isle paused, looking at the wild appearances upon their faces. For the first time, in all their savage years to her, she did not recognize the adults that stood before her: the dead, evil demons within her life for the past twelve years had transmuted.

“Re-reciprocate them?”

“No, of course not,” her mother stopped. “I meant, darling, mask yourself in his love; he will come to you! An osculation….something to catch by, and blinded by you he will espouse you!”

“He doesn’t love me… nor I him!” she retorted, screaming at them.

“He will…..you never have to endure such an agony of love. It’s a disguise, do you see?” her mother asked eagerly.

“I don’t,” Isle spat, moving away.

“The night, the night of passion and entrance of the two souls to intertwine, you execute the man! If your love was strong enough, he’d leave you everything, and you take it for yourself. Assassinate him, and bring the money hindmost.”

“What? NAY! I won’t!” Isle shouted, moving farther away from the evil in front of her. She didn’t love the man, it was unquestionable; her feelings, hesitant. It was arduous. Conviction was a difficult idea for Isle to process, and at the moment and for the rest of her life she could no longer trust her own parents. “That’s not who I am, I would never!”

“The dough, Isle!”

“Not over a man’s life!” Isle screamed. “Not his….not Mr. Smith’s, not after what he has appreciated of me.”

Her parents glanced at each other, their eyes interlocking with their dead, cold hearts and it was if they spoke within the mind to each other. Richard’s face already impressed with its evil façade, became darker than ever before, and as it did their youth began to dissipate, and Isle breathed heavily, looking at the people within her establishment with immense power.

“Ye do have ze feelings,” Mary announced.

“It’s not as such,” Isle retorted, but her heart shattered her hard.

“He is no difference, he will not love ye,” Richard said. “Ye will see.”

Isle stared at them, and in a blink of an eye, the room became vacant. The sweat that dripped down her face was wiped from her hands. The black hair that descended from the top of her head was a mess, hardly decorated for tomorrow’s showing.

There won’t be a show, tomorrow.

Confusion sprang over her, as her breathing and heart slowed. In the first existence, she was to take advantage of the man’s feelings, disguise under reciprocated feelings and murder the man for his wealth. It’s a good idea No! Ye mustn’t fall to that, Isle, ye are smarter….I am smarter. Isle pondered to herself now, that when Mary and Richard locked each other, that now the idea evaporated along with them.

Now, they said that he does not love her, and she wasn’t bothered by it.

Yet, her heart was dropping inside of her, and as she told it to hush, she began to think about what the ghosts meant. Yet nothing came to mind.

Putting everything the way it was, the dress, the fire, the furniture…and her life, Isle proceeded to make her dress ready for tomorrow’s showcase: The Ghost.

“In this, we find the Holy Trinity to become manifested into humanity, brought upon our souls to prevent us the dangers of eternal damnation.”

The chorale of Dover began to manifest itself, mostly into song and spirit of the Holy God above. Truthfully, overhead the choir and the crowd of people held within the church’s gold walls, glass-stained images of the world as windows for the sunlight to pass through, and decorative old wooden pews for seating- above all was Isle Revland, in the smallest pew of the hidden second floor of the Dover Chapel.

Clandestinely, there was a door left of the entrance, a wooden oak format that made it seem forbidding to enter. Isle was never scowled from doing such, sitting away from the mass. Many knew she was up in the loft, and as much as the woman was a Ghost, even Ghosts needed their share of the Holy Word, despite their already set destination to Hell.

The pitches of the choir, which were dressed in white robes, such as the Priest, who sang along in the hymns. The sunlight reflecting off his balding head blinded Isle from her height, and yet she still sat at the top, alone. Glancing away from the Priest, who was beginning to exit towards his chambers, Isle could see Jonathan Smith towards the front on the left, a pew in which was crowded with acquaintances unknown. He seemed to be listening along, singing was unknown to her for his face was another angle. Yet with his suave brown hair, flowing down to the nape of his neck, and a hat in his hand to not cover his fanciful attire, her heart felt it’s attraction, and his presence was known to her.

The room began to depart as the service was over, and Isle sat tolerantly. Her black hair, bowed to perfection, bounced down her cheeks and to her tight chest that was restrained from the dress given. Her brown eyes examined the cold outside the coloured glass windows, displaying the man of a shepherd with his flock gathering behind on the hills. Just as Mr. Smith had arisen with song, many had flocked to him in the same manner.

She stood up, her dress flowing down to her legs and ankles, in which made with strong white ribbon, were her shoes. Not meant for walking, for which the trek from her small cottage seemed distant enough; she never would enter a Holy domain with no shoes, and she left the ribbons as that as their purpose. It seemed equal time to depart, and she turned left to the stone staircase to the wooden oak door, leading to the show.

With a light heart and heavy, draining smile, Jonathan Smith admired the townsfolk around the Chapel, entertaining each other with stories, laughter, and the children amuck upon the muddy ground. The sky looked bearing outside with its grey surface, the sun forbade to shine. It was strange to think, for it was shining during the service through the glass.

Too many faces and names blurred into his mind, just as he desired to depart from the manners of people, and back to the solitude of the outdoors. The children seemed friendly; a game of ball or tricks might suffice for his nervous habit. He was their Governor, not a ruler or monarch. His people required him.

He was not to be his father.

As he glanced at the woman beside him, departing to discuss a topic with a large group of lovely ladies, he caught the eye of Adelaide, in which Jonathan Smith’s own sister, Irene, went to depart. Her smile was wide, showing her snowy tines at him gladly; her blue frock stretched towards the floor, and Jonathan had to laugh at the idea of Hell easily latching on to drag her to its pits. Despite his perception of the woman on the inside, he still had to maintain his image. He returned a smile, lighter than hers but the evil inside her heart still presided.

Irene Smith, a year and half younger than her brother, was a beautiful lady of the age, with streaked orange hair drifting down to her waist, braided and perfected from the amount of chambermaids of the Elmer Mansion, in which Jonathan now presided as residence. Her peach gown was elegant, far more a match than Adelaide’s but the understanding of Dover was, in fact, that it was indeed not London. Irene, bred of London material, was no match.

Yet, with the residence placed in, Irene considered herself to acquaint with the women of the town, those worthy of her companionship. With cold brown hazel eyes, sharp exquisite eyebrows and features, and a worthy body for any wealthy gentlemen, although she already had one in mind back in London- Irene seemed the goal for any lady to reach for perfection.

She enjoyed the laughter and gossip flying about with the females, and glancing back at her older brother, whom seemed rather pale in the face, escaping the grasps of those who admired him. She did never understand his lack of society heart, for which she enjoyed other’s company. He looked back, a grim smile upon his face to her. She returned to her laughter and giggles of the women.

Jonathan, his mind apart from the society troubling around him, encountered another distressed mind stumbling out of a wooden oaken egress.

With a sudden sensation off the final step, her hand already on the black ring of the door, opening it and falling was a fear. Yet, firm hands caught her, and in the next moment, Isle Revland was buried in another man’s white shirt. Not just any man.

As she could open her eyes, she smelt his aroma of pine surround her, and she almost fainted from it again but the desire to retreat from his arms awoke her. His hands wrapped around hers, and she slowly straightened her back to face her savior.

“Are you alright Miss?”

Beholding up at him, the two stood in shock and silence.

“M-Miss Revland,” he stuttered, his face turning a bright red upon his cheeks. Even with the blink of an eye, the batting of her long eyelashes, Jonathan Smith couldn’t bear to look at such beauty, as his eyes strained at her. With fumbling hands and mind, he glanced down at the stone floor, and also the hem of her dress.

The white dress, in which he had given her, was better fitting than he had assumed. Its floral print of red flowers and light green vines, traveling across the body and the lace backing, the dress was slightly bigger than the emaciated body of the woman, but fit snugly across the chest. Her face, with no flaws, shone brightly to him. No longer were her eyes most stunning, but between her curled raven hair, the unsoiled tender face, or just the entire embodiment of Isle Revland, he could no longer ascertain her beauty as hidden.

Her heart flustered, in which she spoke in her head to calm her nerves, as the man still held her in his arms, and was reluctant to release. They were right…he does partake these feelings. His grip of fingers on her skin, the long sleeves of the dress were wrinkled from his touch, and with her sweetness of voice, it awoke him.

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, I-” he paused, releasing his grip with the awakening from his blindness of beauty. “Are you quite alright, Isle?”

A few others murmured at the hearing of her first name, not her last or her title of the town. She remained, her heart recovering from her fall but beating from his presence. She pulled a black curl behind her ear, the white cap covering the top of her head. She let out a soft smile, and a giggle that melted him.

“I did take fairly a fall,” she remarked.

“Yes, you did,” he nodded, his voice barely heard from his shaking, yet with a scoff and laugh, he couldn’t help blushing and grinning at her.

“I am quite fine,” she finally answered. “I thank ye for saving me from a perilous pain.”

“Perhaps it would’ve been better than the bruises and pains of your body.” He first regretted speaking of her bruises, especially in public. Even he hadn’t known the source of them, either she beat herself daily or someone did it for her; yet she lived alone. There was little he knew of the woman, yet everything he wanted to. She seemed stumbled from his remark, but remained calm and complacent, fitting in.

“Slogging up the mountains,” she lied. “It’s an adventure at its best.”

“The nature and air of the world never cease to amaze the humanity it holds,” He nodded. “Ye are an adventurous spirit, Miss Revland.” The hand in which he still held, he pulled to his thin lips, and left them there too long, enough for society around to remark.

“And the Ghost blushes deeply.”

Isle turned to see Adelaide standing there, her mocking voice filling the air. Jonathan looked as well, and it was then that Isle pulled her hand away from his and departed her eyes. She cleared her throat, and it seemed she was embarrassed from his attempt, and Mr. Smith’s façade showed a sheepish thought.

“I thank ye once more, Sir,” she said. She produced a small bow to him, quickly enough for him to reach out to her and miss by a large amount. He sighed, watching her swift dress move above the dirt and mud, her hair bouncing behind her.

“The creature admires you,” Irene notified, standing beside her brother. He turned his green eyes to her, and she glared back as much. “You will do best to have lunch with the ladies and I; Perhaps your head and nerves could be set.”

           “It might as much,” he replied, as if none of it had happened.

But it had, and that’s what made Jonathan aware of his heart.

The lunch, as splendid as it was, and not feast worthy for a Governor nor his family wealth; with a firm roast of meat, exquisite French tea and bread, the luncheon ended with splendor and simplicity. It consisted of Jonathan and Irene, along with the company of Adelaide and another followed, learned to be Catherine. Despite being invited to dinner, Adelaide and Catherine seized the conversations.

“I do absolutely love Dover, although Paris is just lovely,” Adelaide sighed, her blonde curls blowing in the cold, blistering wind. Jonathan would’ve preferred tea by a fire, indoors, despite his love for the environmental experiences of the world. The wind made everything cold, and Jonathan hated a taciturn realm.

“Paris is a different setting,” Jonathan admitted. “Many inhabitants with thick accents; I could barely learn the language when I was younger.” He held a small smile, but in the view of Adelaide, it was taken with a flirtatious angle.

“I haven’t remained recently, perhaps it could be a welcomed travel,” Catherine announced. Adelaide gave a snobbish look, sipping her tea at her friend’s remark. Catherine was the one to invite herself to countless events, whether or not she was invited.

The table grew silent as the patrons of the place began taking the empty plates of small pastries, and the money was soon to be acquired. It was no doubt, being the gentleman of the ladies, he would pay for their meals. It wasn’t as if he was to diminish rapidly.

           “I heard from a bird’s ear that you are to be engaged,” Adelaide grinned to Irene. She blushed deeply with a stutter of a laugh. Jonathan sipped the remainder of his drink silently, his sister beside him.

           “I do not know of Adam’s affections,” Irene replied scrupulously.

           “I also heard you two were caught in Mr. Arnold’s tarn in the Hotel de Chagney stark-naked together,” Catherine announced. Jonathan coughed on his tea, in which the table grew dead. Irene’s stare towards the gal was maleficent, and Adelaide glared at her friend as well. Catherine, whose contract must’ve been accomplished, gave back a daring smile.

           “Mere rumors,” Irene retorted. “Adam and I are completely involved with each other, but in which his hunting careers take over this summer, I fear that I must wait for the question.”

           Irene had finished with the terms of her life upon the line, and insisted on upon another subject. As she was to deteriorate Adelaide, she figured the gal had nothing against her. With the sparkle of her blue eyes, she could see the likeness towards her brother, and considered her a fine specimen for her sibling. Looking at Jonathan, he didn’t seem to notice.

           “What of this…Ghost?” Irene asked. Jonathan’s ears perked, hearing the title thrown around. He expected a laugh or mock from the girls, but their stares remained and grew pale with an unexpected turn. The girls knew of Mr. Smith’s strange acquaintance with the gal, and in order to keep their connection, didn’t wish to speak.

           With Irene’s stare, however, Adelaide first spoke.

           “That silly creature?” she countered, sparking up a scoff. “She is nothing of importance amongst the community than being the town laugh.”

           “She seemed entirely interested in you, Jonathan.”

           He looked at the gals, who spoke lightly of his name. Hearing Isle’s title, he had completely blanked out into his imagination and world of his own. He straightened his posture, entering the conversation, unsure of its path.

           “In me?”

           “You didn’t see the way she awed at you?” Catherine remarked. Irene sat unamused. He should see how all the women look at you, brother.

           Jonathan became flustered at the idea of Isle’s feelings towards him, and it seemed pleasurable. His face grew brighter, and as he tried to hide his blush from the environment of colorful blue parasols, white tables and detailed china pots.

           “She seems challenging,” he replied. “I formally understand the woman to be inferior to this town, but the lady rather intrigues me.” The girls paused slightly, forced not to erupt into laughter. Even his own sister shook in her seat, her bones holding back the sweetest of mocking. “What? You of all ladies do not see her beauty?”

           By then the air filled with laughter, and Jonathan sat there, unamused by the actions and the reactions of his acquaintances, especially his younger sister, whose sweet voice filled the air.

           “Brother, you amuse me,” she replied, rubbing his shoulder, her peach gown untouched by the cold or the food.

           “I am quite serious.”

           “Oh yes,” Adelaide replied with cynicism. “She is beyond all angels, that Ghost.”

           “The dress she wore was very exquisite,” he remarked indifferently. “In fact, she had sewn it herself within the factory, and I supplied it to her. She needed the clothing, along with what else she desires.”

           “Oh yes, that is the subsequent dress she owns,” Catherine sneered. “The other one is ghastly brown.”

           “Isle Revland is lovely in brown,” he murmured.

           Irene, who was looking at the white napkin upon her lap, shifted her gaze to her brother. She could see the frustration rushing in his veins, and the hate of the remarks about this woman. It made her ponder on what she had missed on this Isle Revland, and what her brother admired about her. He kept his eyes away from the girls and his sister, and Irene Smith could see the feelings pour from his heart, flood to his eyes and almost be spoken out in public. She decided to end it.

           “Ladies, I think it’s time we depart,” she announced. “Why don’t we see the library? My brother highly enjoys books.” The girls stood up from their chairs, looking at Mr. Smith. “Isn’t that right, Jonathan?”

           Yet he hadn’t enjoyed the idea. Sure, he had bookcases of novels and experiments and maps of the world. He heard the word, but no excitement entered his heart, as Isle Revland filled his soul and heart. It was if as they mocked the Ghost, his heart entered a perilous, unending Hell.

           He followed the ladies out the parlor, showing polite gratitude towards the employees and their lovely environment of tea. The air still remained to be frozen, and Mr. Smith fixed his long black petticoat, covering his white shirt and remaining spotless. He decided to remain close to his sister, away from the flirtatious Adelaide and the proud Catherine.

           “Catching some fresh air may produce a clearer mind, brother, wouldn’t you think?” she said, looking at her brother with her long braid hitting his side. He returned a solemn look, his soft brown eyes connecting.

           “The air does me fine,” he responded. He took a deep breath, trying to consult to his sister’s wishes. To calm his soul and heart, he needed to clear it from his mind and forget about it. IT did nothing for his nerves, let alone his future.

           “A book should suffice,” she smiled. “I am surprised you hadn’t found yourself upon the Magistrates novels he supplied to you as a welcome gift.”

           “Well, given the opportunity, have I the time and pleasure to open such, I will gladly,” he smirked. She smiled back at her brother, and placed her small warm hand on his back. Such was their love, Irene had no idea it could be broken from a single woman later on in the future.

           “Mr. Gladdens,” Jonathan Smith cheered. The small, timid librarian, who stood at the doorway of the library, met eyes with the Governor, and a small excitement crept upon his olden face.

           “Mr. Smith, a pleasure it is,” he announced. He glanced at his companion, in which at first his assumption was of his wife.

           “This is my sister, Irene,” Jonathan cleared, and the librarian understood. “I heard you have a full case of literature. I sure hope to have the chance to enter when I have the time.”

           “Oh please, I am always open from dusk to dawn, excluding the Holy Service hours,” he replied eagerly. The smile on his old face lightened Jonathan’s heart, and the white striking hair of the librarian made him seem elderly, in which he was entering the stage, but also fatherly. Jonathan smiled in return, Irene beginning to look at an open bookcase placed outside the shop and discovered a broken spine from a novel.

           Looking at Mr. Gladdens, his smile disappeared in a second. His mouth stood agape, and his heart froze. Mr. Smith walked up the steps to him.

           “Dear God,” he muttered.

           Mister Smith spun around to determine the sight of fear, and found it perfectly placed buildings off upon his darling Isle Revland.

           “Heads Up, Ghost!” a young boy shouted. His face was smeared with mud, his clothes stained yet a heart stained with scorn. His small hands dug into the earth, its warmth inviting to his cold skin, and the brown, murky lumps of liquid sat in his hand. His knees were now straight, and holding the mud in his hand, he glanced directly at Isle Revland, who was walking by with a basket of bread. The mud flew into the air.

           Before the world could watch, before Isle could react or understand the young boy’s teasing, and before Jonathan Smith could shout and reject, the mud smeared upon the poor girl’s face.

           She stood there, frozen as the mud dripped down her flawless face, which could no longer be seen from it’s brown thickness. The basket was flung from her arm, the bread upon the ground and the mud dripping onto it’s surface. She breathed heavily through its thick mask, unable to move or think.

           The world thought first. Most erupted into laughter, their shrieks of entertainment into the frigid air. The youngsters were certain to admire the accomplishment of the prank, and the parents were to scorn…not join along. Behind him, Jonathan could hear Mr. Gladdens let out a soft groan and saddening sigh.

           That’s when the rest of the world agreed to the idea.

           Out of nowhere, every angle possible, mud slurred onto Isle Revland’s body, covering her once white floral print dress, her thin legs and arms, seeping into her raven black hair and skin. The mud’s thickness stuck to her like darkness, and she struggled to grasp it off. With mounds of mud thrown onto her, she soon lost her strength to fight.

           “Please, stop!” she shouted at them, later screaming, as she was forcefully shoved into a puddle of mud, and her arms grew tired and couldn’t lift herself up. It was a large circle of mobs, buckets of mud thrown on her head, balls of the dirt tossed and the laughter shrieking into the air.  “Stop it, I beg of you!” The desperation and anger in her voice brought out no accent as to which Jonathan could hardly recognize as her voice.

           He trudged over to the crowd, yet Irene Smith followed to his side, glaring at him. She pondered upon what actions he would throw upon the woman, whether he would rescue the broken heart or join along with Adelaide and the other mudrackers.

           Yet he stood there, around the circle, his heart frozen and body shaking. Her brown gaze, underneath the piles of mud on her face and the wet, tangled black hair, her eyes met only his. They were pleading at first, begging for his aid upon this torment. Yet he couldn’t move, he was stricken.

           “STOP!” she shrieked, and in which the world paused their laughter and the mud.

           She returned her glance to Jonathan, and the crowd backed away slowly. He stood on its edge, Irene remaining to still be placed beside him, her arm interlocked in his. Some commoners still held piles of mud in their hands, or buckets full, but her torment had terminated quickly.

           “You did say, brother,” Irene said, “she does look absolutely lovely in brown.”

           Isle could only look at Mister Smith, her mouth possibly agape and tears smearing the mud on her skin and attire. He shook his head at her, begging her to understand his position in the predicament.

           She understood, she understood alright. He didn’t love her, no, she was blinded by the idea, as was he.

           She quaffed her way out of the mud puddle with her hands, crawling onto the drier dirt, her dress trailing behind, ruined. Her aching arms could hardly support her, pulling herself to her feet, but in success, her feet ached and sloshed with mud on the hard ground. With all strength left to carry her through, she ran. And ran far, far away.

           “Isle Revland, Dover’s Ghost

           Ye are the one we mock most

           Having screamed to seen the dead

           Your parents death bright red

           Run away, little child, covered in mud

           Else soon you shall be devoured in blood.”

           The chant incessantly continued, throughout the night, towards the next following sunrise. The town couldn’t stop, and soon it was heard in the night the screams of Miss Revland, the marks of mud stained to her skin, but also the scars of her heart from the treacherous, barbaric Mister Smith.

           Yet the night was restless in Elmer Mansion, the cold sheets no comfort to his heart. His thoughts ranged, and how he wished he screamed to her, took the mud from her face, wiped it away….

           Devoured in blood, covered in mud, they had chanted.

           It was meant for Isle Revland, the Ghost, yet it freed Mister Smith of his blindness of the goodness of the small town Dover.

           His eyes were covered in mud, and his hands stained with her blood.

 

4: Digging Deeper, Loving Harder (4)

4.

Digging Deeper, Loving Harder

 

            “Where is she, Kipps?”

            The growl came from the man in the junction, fervent and yet thwarting filled his every bone. Jonathan Smith, with a russet jacket that poured down to the floorboards of the factory-office; sitting uncomfortably on the wood stool, he couldn’t face the truth. His hair was perturbed as waves, which resulted to his ire in which he would clench his hairs with his rough fingers.

            Kipps sustained on his drudgery, tallying up the dues and payments while listening to his superior and governor rumble off once more about the woman. His small timid hands held the quill, writing the numbers on the paper. Andre paused, looking up.

            “You know what transpired, you were at hand,” he replied sensitively. Andre knew, along with Mister Smith, that the intact municipality was there and witnessed the provocation. To Andre it was fathomable she would not return, for the women whom worked for him under his own supervision could torment Miss Revland.

            Jonathan endured, his right hand fondling his chin, a tense habit he picked from his father. His hands would grip his jaw and slither down as he thought raptly, and for the past week his thoughts straggled to Isle… the way the woman glared at him when he did nothing. What could he have done?

            He knew there was a number of actions he could’ve done to save her; pulled her from the mud and into his arms. Then his reputation would be at stake, and everything he had could be stricken away from him. As much as Mister Smith negotiated that his pride and title wasn’t imperative to him, it truly was, and otherwise the pitiable woman would feel sanctified from the public.

            It was his culpability.

            “I’m going to see her,” he proclaimed, standing from the chair. Andre looked at him once more.   Mr. Smith straightened his attire and hair, a deep fear flashing from his eyes.

            “What good shall that do, sir? Pester her until she returns?” Andre retorted.

            “I can assist her.”

            “Ye didn’t benefit her last time,” Andre said, standing up from the long brown desk. When he stood, the table shook with papers and utensils rattled. He slicked his tan brown hair back, looking at his master. “What makes ye think she trusts ye now?”

            “She doesn’t have to,” Jonathan replied. “I don’t need her permission to aid her.” He went to exit the door when Andre followed him. His green eyes flashed a dare, a dare to open that door to lead out the office.

            “Maybe she isn’t asking for help, sir,” Andre said firmly. “If ye do something, no matter yer intent, it can occur a disaster.”

            “This is my fault,” Mr. Smith sighed angrily. “I didn’t aid her, I know…I regret it deeply.”

            “Ye did what ye thought was best,” Andre reconsidered.

            “I am to take responsibilities for my actions, and that means that woman. She is a citizen of Dover…I must watch over her.”

            Before Andre could remark, Jonathan opened the door to the factory, finding the women startled by his quick steps down the broken stairs. Their wild eyes met him, their fingers nimble and working, yet he could feel their want for him, the desire of his attention. Without making a fool of himself, or to desire their attention, he didn’t speak a word and headed towards his destination to set the stars back into the sky and help them shine as the beautiful things they were.

 

            “Ye didn’t heed to us, child.”

            Isle sat on a chair, her feet dripping with water as the liquid slid down her body. Having no towel to dry, only a fire to sustain as heat, she sat on the chair to dry. It was lucky enough Mr. Gladdens brought one of his past daughter’s nightgowns, something of a white fabric that was slipped onto her body easily. Her hair dripped, tied together tightly in a braid to her shoulder.

            Her brown eyes stared at the fire as she heard her mother’s words behind her, and with the fire crackling the footsteps became heard lightly. With the flames on her face, she remained still and motionless, watching them flicker a wave of anger towards her. Her heart remained mollified and silent.

            “We are ze only’s ye can trust now, Isle,” Richard remarked. No…I can’t trust ye. I can’t trust anyone anymore. “Ze man is not deserving of yer precious heart, child. Yer worth above all.”

            “He shall not bother ye again,” her mother spat. “The man comes one step towards ye, I will strike him. Better yet, ye might as well have ze opportunity, Isle.”

            “I will not strike a man who has not stricken me,” Isle whispered, her hands frigid from the water and wishing for the heat. Upon her skin she could still feel the mud, no longer there, etch her skin and seep deeply, her soul absorbing the mud into hate. She had already cried everything, a bitter weep that swept in the air and yet was inaudible.

            “He has slain yer soul!” Her father shouted. “Ye must do the same.” He grasped the back of the wooden chair and pulled it hard. Isle yelped, almost falling off, wishing she had as she was dragged to her father. When pulled to his satisfaction, he held a sharp blade to her chest, then flipped the handle to face her. “Ye know what to do.”

            “Richard, everyone shall know,” Mary whispered to him. He eyed her cautiously, darkness filling his face.

            “No matter,” he growled. “Her soul is full of it, Mary…it needs be released.”

            “Father, no,” Isle retorted, still placed on the chair, the water no longer dripping, but also absorbed to her skin, heart and soul as a refreshment of reality. She stood from the chair, handing him back the dagger. He did not accept it.

            “Ye will do as I say, child!” he shouted. He moved forward to her, an advancement so violent and yet familiar with her, that she had no other instinct. The blade still in her hand, she shoved it into her father, the demon of her past, in which he froze, looking down at the impalement of his body. Isle gasped, moving away from the man, and Mary began to scream.

            “You imp!” she shouted at her daughter. Richard pulled the blade from his chest, blood seeping down its edges and to the floorboards. He charged at her once more.

            “Ye will regret yer actions.”

            “Papa, I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking, I apologize,” Isle pleaded, holding her hands up and crouching down. The dagger was still elevated as he towered over her bent body which desperately pleaded him. “Papa.”

            He knelt down, stroking her black hair as she began to silently weep. He touched her bare knees, her dress despite its largeness was short to its end. He then firmly grasped the knife and placed it under her chin, pulling her face to his.

            “I am the DEVIL!” he screamed.

            With a sudden knock, all disappeared. The knife, in which was held in his hand, disapperated with him. She let out her final breath, glancing around the room with terrified eyes. The blood still remained on the floor from her attack, but the room was vacant. The air, however, seeped with darkness and evil, and their presences were still made known to her.

            The knock came once more to her right, the front door being intruded upon. Isle stood, her thick long braid weighing her down as she trudged to the door. She assumed it was perhaps Gladdens, who brought something to eat, more clothing…or just someone to talk to. It can’t be….the shop is open now. Without fear or emotion, she opened the door.

            “Isle.”

            The air grew colder and obscurer than she could ever evoke in the past thirteen years, and the sun was concealed nippily as her eyes met Mr. Smith, who addressed her informally as a much his attire was not as so. His auburn eyes, in which she chanced, where lenient and pitied her. She did not wish to be commiserated; she favored to be left unaccompanied.

            She did not speak, even so when he had. He acknowledged the new gown, in which he had not seen. Perhaps it was a nightly attire, and therefore never been around her at such times, could not assume it’s newly perception. Her gaze was not harsh, yet neither inviting. She had never pushed away from him, but this time all seemed diverse.

            “Miss Revland, I sincerely apologize for what occurred in those days past,” he proclaimed, his hat in his hands as he approached. The stairs were small leading to where she stood, and with no thoughts of intruding, stepped up them to face her, finding himself towering over her even on the lower step. She hated domination…the way he stood reminded her of the paternal affections she was forced upon. However, in her fortune, his face spoke less of that abuse. “My actions are incomprehensible, as were the mob’s immoral actions.”

            “There are two natures of evil, Governor,” Isle declared, her hand on the doorway and the other behind her back. The feeling of an imperturbable blade slid up her hand, which made her body tremble. “Evil such as the commitment of ones actions, and the evil of the observant eyes of the confronting.”

            “I should have enunciated out, my dear, in sincere compunction I speak the truth,” he whispered. “When it occurred, it was as if I was ensnared in a frozen deception, in which I could not move nor speak. Please, you must-”

            He hesitated, and she looked at him enquiringly. His scrutiny was no longer upon her, but of any kind that mounted within the house. She watched him as his eyes held the movement, and Jonathan pulled her inside, the door closing. They were left alone in the room, the floorboards creaking underneath his feet as he inspected the chamber.

            There was the bedstead, hardly anything he could see as retiring upon on the far wall; ahead stood a mirror upon walls that peeled and rotted from the harsh weather and old age. Behind him he heard the hisses of a fire, and since its heat was no longer powerful, the fire died out from the deficiency of wood. To his right was the door, nothing more. There was no man within her domiciliary.

            “I saw a bloke,” he said, beholding around the room until meeting her gaze. It was soft, yet accepting. It was if the world became evolved into anarchy, and she was the only sane person any longer. “Whom was he?”

            A thought erupted their actions, one that both rather relished in a congenial way. Isle was to route to his arms, pulling his obscure coffee hair to her face and interlock such lips to hers, eyes fastened and hearts exposed. He was to bind his arms around the white gown, tight enough to feel her movements of the hips and slants. Mutually they would become intoxicated with another, humming within the kisses and poisoned with the fallacy of love, the fallacy of the thought placed inside their small, intense minds.

            In an instant it would be transformed with the sagacity of a dagger in one hand, and sweltering pain through the other’s heart.

            “No,” Isle exasperated, opening her eyes back to actuality. She surveyed Mr. Smith respire in, opening his eyes back to the reality of the locale. Both were in their rightful places, to look and observe the other, yet Jonathan detected she felt the same thought, passion and knowledge as he had that second.

            “Did-did you engrave that to me?” he stuttered, looking to her. Her eyes widened at him, and once again the man immobilized in his place. Her face was displayed with horror, her eyes in shock and her face distorted in such a fear and an inescapable scream etching to retrieve from her voice and extenuate into the air.

            The dagger was through him, impaling the same area she had struck Richard, the demon of a father. Yet Jonathan stood there, examining the revulsion upon her face. The blood seeped from his jacket, through his white shirt and dripped onto the floorboards, the meticulous puddle as Richard’s.

            “Miss Revland, are you alright?” he asked her, stepping forward. A barricade struck him, separating him from the frightened woman in front of him. It was an imperceptible barrier, one he could not foresee treading forward. A hand jostled him away from her, and now he could sense the difference of air towards Isle. It was if another world she had entered could not be grasped.

            Switching the angle, Isle gawked at Richard, dividing the line of reality and nightmares, his back turned to her. The dagger placed inside Jonathan was no longer there, and her heart grew to rest.

            Until she clenched her hand and found the handle of it in hers.

            “Acclaim it,” the demon growled, turning around and accosting her. Over his shoulder of darkness, Jonathan glimpsed at her.

            “Miss Revland, it be superlative you tell me what is befalling this instant,” he said gravely, but his voice shook at the end. He never felt such blackness in a range before, or a peculiar terror of the mysterious and supernatural as her face was blooming and traumatized.

            “Ensure it!” Richard snarled, charging at her. He seized her arm resolutely, and she let out a soft bellow as the agony entered her body from its nerve. Jonathan stepped forward, seeing her exclamation.

            “Isle!”

            “Ye will do as I say, child,” Richard tousled into her ear. “The punishment,” he whispered, with travelling hands around her, “will be extremely painful.” She closed her eyes, lost in his touch and he grasped her neck firmly, just as her arm and put his other hand on the knife, making her fingers clench it tightly. “Now…”

 

            When Isle awoke, her eyes widened, she found herself in Jonathan’s arms, his limbs clamping her waist. His eyes viewed her with apprehension, as she returned a frightful gaze. Her right hand went through the slit of his arm, yet the other…around his neck held the blade behind his heart.

            “No,” she howled, shaking her head. “No!” She shuffled to move away but Mr. Smith brought her back.

            “What is this madness?” he asked her roughly, his grip tighter and yet still gentle to insert his passion. He could see in her eyes an unreachable dimension, and knew if he had not to escape her from it, she would soon be lost.

            “I shant do it!” she shouted. “No matter the soul, no matter the chastisement.”

            “THE AIR CHANCES COLD

            IT MEANS WE ARE HERE

            SORT OUT AS WE SAY OR WE WILL SCOLD

            AND DEVOUR ALL YOU HOLD DEAR.”

            The blade in her hand, despite the tears streaming down her face and pushing of it against his chest, with a sudden torrent of defiance dropped to the ground, and even Jonathan heard it’s ember on the floorboards. Before he could turn around to notice, the air, growing fierce and frozen, the demons awakened to full height, Isle grabbed Jonathan’s wrist, pulling him from the establishment.

            Rushing out the door, him trailing behind, Isle stumbled onto the earth. He went to aid her up slowly, but she still continued on without his hand in hers. The air became turpentine with each step, purer and fresher. She trudged to the lake, her bare feet entering its cold affections towards her, and folded her arms to the scenery ahead.

            “Miss Revland!”

            She disregarded his shouts, even in fear of leaving him behind to her parents’ wrath. Yet she heard his treads upon the gravel with his weighing shoes, and even with her shaking breaths she could hear his coarse inhalation. Then, instead of the gravel, she heard the rushing water behind her as he swilled through, almost knee yawning into the brook. He stood beside her, looking at her blank appearance to the scenery. She wanted to look into his face, but in fear of his eyes, she continued the empty stare of the mountain fog and quiet lake.

            “I insist, madam, you confer with myself upon what occurred,” he exhaled, almost angrily. Keeping her eyes apart, she could feel the heat of his frustration. Her lack of contact infuriated him, and his accent that was once hidden from the voices of Dover came with the shouts.  “Madam!”

            “Ye wouldn’t believe me, exclusively if I told ye,” she retorted, tears filling her eyes. She moved her head quickly to appear to gaze, but still her eyes looked away. The water swilled beneath their feet, and as her voice carried in the distance, the world grew quiet.

            To Jonathan, beside him was a woman whom measured herself ignored, a lady without the freedom of being such of what she natural of. Her belvedere on the world was dazzling; that set of mind spellbound him in another perception of lust towards her. Yet the way life beheld to her was vexatious upon his heart; the foul that pulverized her suppressed her deeply.

            “….You can ensure to me,” he whispered to her.

            “Ye dare say I can!?” she retorted, now looking straightforward into his eyes upon the memories of the past days of mud, tears and shrieks. His face remained calm at her shout, and his kindness still rose from the saccharinity of his voice, relaxing her heart for only a moment.

            “What is haunting you, Isle?” he asked. “I plea to help-”

            “Why?! What is yer obsession with me, such as much I cannot trust my own contemplations nor feelings! Hope is aloof, it is no longer my friend!” she cried at him. He moved through the water, now standing in front of her.

            “Isle…” he said, taking her hand. “You can tell me…”

            She endured, looking into his eyes. Her heart beat profligate for him, and the thought of fainting made her frail. His firm hands upon her prevented such, but luckily the strength left inside her soul congregated together. His forgiving features upon his face, the race of his core and edifice of his mind astounded Isle, in which she knew there was an alternative lateral to this man she assumed.

            Ought I to tell him? What shall he contemplate of this- witchcraft? Some sort of sorcery? Can I unveil with him a secret held within my heart for eternity and offer all to him?

            Or do I murder his heart?

            In her fortune, the opportunity disappeared.

            “Dear God, you are hurt,” she whispered. He met her gaze to his port arm, in which a large laceration developed, bright rubicund liquescent seeping through his white shirt. She hadn’t recalled the displacement of his coat, and looking back to the shore, his affluent attire lay sprung across the dirt, her heart plunging at its sight.

            “I-I’m thriving,” he shook his head. “Tis nothing.” He returned his gaze to her. “What has completed this- to me, to you?”

            “Ye must see a doctor,” she urged softly, her hands upon his wound. He shook his head once more, his hair gliding across hers. Their breaths intermixed, and the closeness between the two became an obsession and desire. “I beg of ye, go.”

            “I shall not vacate you unaccompanied now,” he retorted, his vigorous arm reaching to her head, holding it.

            “I shall be sufficient! It shall not detriment me,” she lied. Through her concerned eyes and façade, the lie seeped through. He glared at her, and she was caught. “It shall not harm my heart.”

            “Articulate it to me,” he whispered, closing his eyes and guiding her head against his. She shook her head, which ground softly against his forehead, and she let out a breath that shook.

            “Mr. Smith-”

            “Jonathan,” he altered.

            “Ye must return to the town. The physician will examine the wound,” she said. “Ye are to tell him ye…” She began to run through scenarios within her head, a perfect lie. “Ye slashed a rock.”

            “Slashed a rock,” he murmured with a nod. His eyes opened to her once more, and their heads rose to each other. “You will return to labor tomorrow, indeed?”

            “If ye shall wish it, sir,” she replied.

            “Will ye tell me the evil that roams your heart, miss, in a later setting?” he asked, retreating to the shore and picking up his jacket. He returned his gaze to the woman who turned round to meet his gaze.

            “Nay; if I shall, it will haunt yers,” she replied.  He nodded, no longer to thrust the sermon he desired. He trudged back to the water’s edge, kissing her forehead steadfastly before departing. She watched him eye the establishment, which howled in the wind at him.

            He made up in his mind that she was protecting him from this malevolence, while at the alike spell, facing this vulnerability alone.

 

            To Isle’s scope, she held she was liability to a favor for the man, and in return to his minimalism of accepting her position, the favor was to be requited. As much as the abhorrence in her heart that remained fabricated slowly, returning to the employment offered bequeathed her harmony of mind towards Mister Smith. It was peculiar to think she wrapped the transaction by serving herself, but she knew it at least gave him the satisfaction knowing she was receiving income and engaging in social activities.

            The factory remained quiet for most days, unless Isle’s ears would power off as a machine, her focus maintained on completing each task at hand one step at a time. She knew it as a possibility, for she understood the power of her focus. No longer did her body tremble at his eyes watching her from the open door of the office up the broken stairs; instead she embraced his presence politely, somewhat as an acquaintance –and just that-.

            It was days after the occurrence at Isle’s establishment and Mr. Smith’s wounds were bandaged daily to keep hidden. He always did prefer long sleeve upon his arms, the coziness of one’s coat to feel compact. The only person to notice was Andre Kipps, yet even he hadn’t inquired it’s injure location.

            As much as Jonathan wanted to admit, he still thought about the evilness of that shack in the woods, to which Isle Revland inhabited. The more he asked questions, the less he knew and the more he wanted to understand. The last couple nights brought dreams to his sleep, something about the evil in the chambers; it wanted him. He ended up, one night with a sleepless attitude, conducted a list of the questions he wanted answered. While others were easily answered, the top questions remained in his mind daily.

            Was Isle Revland safe; does she need his aid?

            Is she protecting him by not telling him…or is she protecting it?

            Whatever the it was, he knew it was dangerous. He hinted the community understood it, perhaps underestimate it. The mocking surely brought its anger, yet why hadn’t it exploded nonetheless? If Isle Revland was to live there every day, the evil must be strong enough to keep her there….something was holding her there in that prison of Hell.

            He decided to get his answers…people who knew Isle the closest, and the people who despised her the most.

          

 

            It was a Wednesday, as he could recall to make his visit to the first person, and as Jonathan assumed, the only person close to Isle. It was Mr. Gladdens, the librarian, scholar, and friend of Dover. He was an older man raising a younger daughter, somewhat older than Isle. She was in Paris, her musical voice to fill their hearts and not his.

            Coming down the steps that Wednesday in the factory did not surprise the women. By then they were accustomed to his sudden absences during the work hours, occasionally glancing up to catch him with a smile. Adelaide always watched him, smiling if he was to return a look. This time, all women were focused on the work of setting a basis for stockings.

            Turning from the stairs, the back of Isle’s dress sprung softly, her body leaning forward against the grimy worktable, her fingers intense upon stitching the stockings carefully. He walked to the aisle, his hand’s sweating as he was to walk past her fragile, scrawny physique. She froze when his hand glided across her hip to her lower back, then with the quickness of step, he launched himself down towards the entrance. She watched him leave, his hand in which he had touched her flexing in fear and nervousness. A small blushed appeared on her face, but with a quick shake, she returned to the cotton in front of her and stitched in a pattern, her heart secretly beating for him.

            Stepping into the cool air of Dover midday, Jonathan Smith immediately turned down the south path, leading towards the main part of town. The chapel, bakery and butcher resided beside his main destination, the library.

            Upon reaching it, Gladdens had placed smaller invaluable wood shelves, and a primary set of books outside. Despite the cool air, the sun added its warmth to his display. The older man turned, hearing the governor’s footsteps to his establishment. His face brightened, the white bushy brows raising with his spirits.

            “Mr. Smith, what a pleasure!” he announced, trudging down the small entrance steps to the path. Jonathan returned a small beam, gladdened to see the man so spirited about his visit. It was no surprise to see the gent on the path, for everyone understood Mr. Smith was a man of scholarship and verses. Literature was a prize to him, and indeed his closest friend.

            “Afternoon, Mr. Gladdens,” he reverted, seeing the man step down to greet him.

            “What brings you to my establishment? I have heard Elmer Mansion has quite a library,” he smiled.

            “I’ve actually come to discuss someone with you,” Jonathan announced. Gladdens nodded, allowing him inside the library. He hadn’t entered before, just had small conversation outside…before the incident that he didn’t prevent. He admired the small rooms and large shelves.

            “Is it news of my daughter?” Gladdens asked, stepping behind his large desk.

            “I’m afraid not,” Jonathan shook his head. “I have some inquiry of Miss Revland.”

            The smile, the spirit of Mr. Gladdens sunk, and no longer was there a smile upon his face. It hadn’t grown taciturn at the sound of her title, however it was something that he detained back. His white hair had suddenly grown whiter in the light, yet his blue eyes remained at their luscious calmness.

            “I shant talk about her, sir,” he replied hurriedly.

            “Sir, you must understand-”

            “I don’t wish to see you near her, ye understand?” he said, almost angrily. “The girl has been through enough already.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “It’s nothing Sir, just leave it to rest.”

            “Mr. Gladdens, is there a place where we…shant be heard?” Jonathan asked. He gave the old man an earnest look, one that even as his governor Gladdens couldn’t overlook. He exhaled a puff of air, and guided Jonathan to the bottom chambers where he once gave Isle his treasured novels, a place of hiding. It was a discreet dwelling.

            “Ye may wish to see this,” Jonathan said, rolling up the expensive sleeves of his petticoat. On his arm, besides the bare skin and small signs of hair, was a wrap of bandage. Unrolling the bindings, the gash revealed. It remained red and thick, yet bleeding was no longer an issue.

            “Dear God, where did ye get that?” Gladdens whispered.

            “I took a visit to Miss Revland.” Before Jonathan could speak another word, Gladdens interfered angrily.

            “Ye touched her didn’t ye!? She defended herself and ye are here to arrest her, aren’t ye!?”

            “If I had come as such, I wouldn’t be here, I’d be at the Constable,” Jonathan replied gravely. “She did not detriment me, something else did. Rather in that house.”

            Gladdens grew dull and silent. It was the same as before, the secret he knew was seeping from his skin and visible to Jonathan.

            “I…she wouldn’t want me to say,” he sighed.

            “She wouldn’t tell me….I don’t know if she is defending me, or the assailant,” Jonathan returned, a sigh heaving from his breath.

            “Both.” Gladdens looked up at the governor. “Ye mustn’t go back, sire.”

            “Isle is in danger; implore yourself to explain this to me, ye are closest to her!”

            “Even not I know of her darkest secrets.”

            “You know this one,” Jonathan said. “I can see it, as much as I saw her struggle with it.”

            “If ye go back, it will destroy ye.”

            “I don’t intend on it hurting anyone,” Jonathan growled. “Tell me what I must do.”

            Gladdens sighed once more. The anxiety inside of the governor’s heart startled him, as to why he wished to help Isle. Perhaps he could see some love upon his face towards the gal, and she deserved any man.

            Yet the secret was too deep for his own heart. If anything, it was to come from Isle’s lips and only her’s. Maybe the pain would be spared.

            “The butcher…he knows everything about Isle’s parents,” Gladdens answered. He began up the steps towards the main level, Jonathan following with him and a question.

            “What do her parentages have to do with this?”

            “Everything,” Gladdens replied, stepping out of the dark secret hole and into the light of words and literature.

 

            As much as Jonathan would’ve wished to discuss anything with the butcher, he had a luncheon with Adelaide. His sister had suggested it, and Jonathan assumed it would be a nice way to earn some information on Isle, seeing this date as the main mastermind to Isle’s complications.

            It started off agreeable and obliging, the tea warming his soul and heart. Her blonde curls and blue dress were too melodramatic, as much as Jonathan wanted to bile his soup onto the parlor’s carpet. The exchange was general and simple, and the laugh and smile of Adelaide, as much as she tried to charm, was sham.

            “It has been a nice day,” she remarked, slowly entering her fork into the small slice of cake given, and Jonathan stirred more sugar into his tea. He nodded, sipping it as she took a bite of delight from it.

            “It has been generally pleasant. Cool air and sunshine reminds me of the mountains,” He nodded.

            “Is there something ye wish to discuss?” he looked up from his tea to see her looking at him. He looked surprised from the accost, but tried to remain solemn about it. “I see it in your eyes and yer anxiety.”

            “As a matter of fact-”

            “Is it about Miss Revland?”

            “How did you know?”

            “I had the feeling,” she murmured. “Ye fancy her, sir?”

            For his heart to be true, he was confused. It was strange to think of Isle protecting something evil, yet protect him from it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but feared for Isle’s safety as well….unless she wished to remain with it. He had a strange connection with her he could not fathom himself.

            “I wish to know more about her, is all, miss.”

            “I oblige to the task,” she smiled, fixing her posture. “What would you like to know?”

            “How long have you known her?”

            “Since I came from Paris when I was ten…she’s younger than I am. She was about eight at the time when my family arrived…it was about two months later when her parents died.”

            “Her parents? Had she lived in Dover her entirety?”

            “I suppose so,” Adelaide shrugged. “Many of the town knew her parents and of herself.”

            “How did they die?” he asked. Adelaide paused, looking to her once pleasing dessert that now was as appetizing as the mud upon the ground, or the mud she had thrown against Isle’s skin. She had no remorse for it, and she wasn’t angry about telling Mr. Smith of Isle…the more he knew about her secrets, the more she had a chance for normalcy.

            “…It was a suicidal death,” she said quietly. Jonathan remained quiet, looking at Adelaide. Now he understood why Isle was alone, why she had no companionship with her. Yet, it didn’t explain the shadow of a man in her establishment, or the marks on her skin.

            “What were her parents like?”

            “About as poor as Isle was,” she remarked. “Her father was from Ireland, I could remember about his accent and scary bearing. Drunk rather habitually. He was a fisherman, that’s how he retailed his meat and gained some income. I suppose Isle learned from him.”

            “If…Isle was eight, the Constable should’ve responded and acted upon this, correct?”

            “The Constable seemed to disregard it, that is until Isle came screaming a week later to his office claiming her parents were in her house.”

            “…In her house?”

            “Yes,” she nodded. “She dragged him back to find it empty. Some said the Constable as his duty was to take the Isle in, but again he disregarded her. A week later, he visited her with some food and bread and found her talking to air.”

            “Her parents are haunting her?” Jonathan asked.

            “Supposedly,” Adelaide murmured. “That’s why we call her The Ghost. She perceives things others can’t, and something needs to be done about her Sir. She is not like us, she is dangerous.”

            “I will handle this,” he said sternly. She nodded, finding peace in her heart.

            Yet his heart was not at peace. Her parents? It makes some sense about everything… The reason she defended this evil was because they are her family…and she defended him…he wasn’t sure why.

            Yet if her family is the one bruising her, and they left Isle alone at such a young age, they have no right to intrude now. His heart began to throb at the sight of Isle’s face, the one he had experienced before…yet he was also frightened of stepping in that house. He hoped he never had to.

            “What do you know of the Constable?”

            “He used to be associates with her father, Richard, along with the butcher. One day, they just all broke it off and became the vilest of enemies. They used to have the lethal of fights in the square.”

            “Do you know what ensued?”

            “I don’t think anybody does but them…”

            Good. I have something against both of them. The sooner Jonathan could terminate the date, the faster he could converse with the butcher and Constable. It seemed everyone in this town had secrets, and if Jonathan was to be its governor for the time-being, he was to discover every one…for his sake.

            For Isle’s sake.

 

            Arriving at the butcher’s establishment, it was most likely also his household. It held a large room in the visible, a much colder room towards the back, and a cot to the smaller part to the side and his daily necessities. By the way of the interior, it was almost a protective barrier of the meats in the posterior.

            Jonathan treaded in, fortuitously with a covering from the conserving meat meant to be fresh for tomorrow. He found Mr. Lowell behind the carving table, a large knife in his hand cutting into a piece of meat the magnitude of a physique. Blood soaked from the once white apron that covered him, and he sawed carefully, his dark eyes meeting Mr. Smith.

            “Afternoon,” he grumbled. “Normally your maids are sent the daily package to Elmer Mansion. Did they not receive it?”

            “I am not here for meat,” Jonathan replied. The butcher gave a superstitious look. He fixed his posture straight, placing the knife aside.

            “My apologies, but all I have is meat,” he retorted.

            “I’m here to know more about someone. Do you know of Isle Revland?”

            “The hermit down the northern road? What’s she to us?”

            “You were acquainted with her father,” Jonathan replied.

            “That was a long time ago,” he rumbled. “We had a complication.”

            “What complication was it?” Jonathan pushed. From what he gained from Gladdens, Adelaide, and now this butcher, it seemed earning information out of respect and not fear was possible. He enjoyed it rather, freely given what he asked for.

            “He stole half a stock’s meat from me to sell,” he replied lowly. He picked up a flatter sharper knife and began to chop the meat.

            “You knew it was him?”

            “Richard? He was the only man who sold meat, now it was his daughter before he gained a job at yer establishment.” He glanced up, the blood dripping on its mat and the apron shining crimson. “What is this to ye, anyways?”

            “I’m here to clarify things,” Jonathan said quickly. “Was Richard Revland caught with your meat?”

            “No.”

            “Then it might not have been him.”

            “There was no other meat service, here, sir,” he growled. “I suggest you either buy meat or leave the premises, Governor.” Jonathan, solemn to his answer, glanced over his shoulder.

            “I don’t seem to be holding up a line,” he retorted nicely.

            “Yer wasting my time,” he snarled.

            “Richard Revland doesn’t have the freezing system to be capable of preserving the meat. You must’ve known that and watched what Richard sold at his markets. You didn’t see any of your meat.”

            “If you are suggesting I killed those scraps of Isle’s parents, you are wrong.”

            “I never suggested such a thing,” Jonathan replied. “I’m more fascinated with your tone towards the gal.”

            “I’ve done what I can to sustain her,” the butcher sighed. “I considered….since they were dead…I’d watch after her….she sold what meat she could. I offered her to sell her meat to me and gain some price, in which she rejected. I offered a nice home, a marriage, in which-”

            “A marriage?” Jonathan interrupted. “When was this proposal made?”

            “Past few days….I considered she needed the aide.”

            “You’re not one to support her, let alone touch her!”

            The shout filled the air until the door behind Jonathan opened, and in walked another soul. Lowell remained his gaze upon the Governor, watching him. His sudden burst of anger had surprised him, but also revealed one of Mr. Smith’s darkest emotions…feelings towards this woman.

            “Governor.”

            Jonathan turned to find the Constable, standing a few paces off. He wore his official ensemble, almost such as a naval officer of the British Guard. He would’ve recognized it, seeing his older cousin enlisted in the same fashion. The Constable’s eyes were sunk back and dark, and his face aging. He wore a small expression, if it all exultant.

            “Constable,” he nodded.

            “Is everything alright?” he asked, his face now turning to Lowell.

            “Ideal,” Lowell grumbled. “I was enlightening Mr. Smith of Miss Revland.” The air grew colder, not so much as Jonathan had felt within the shack of Isle Revland, but enough to give his heart unrest. The Constable and Lowell remained quiet, just looking at each other.

            “Interesting topic, young man,” the Constable replied. “An interest in courting the woman, or merely deploying her out of Dover? I have tried myself, Sir. She is not one to leave.”

            “It’s a situation I must handle,” Jonathan nodded. “I excuse myself from your presence. Good day.”

            He trudged past the Constable, shock not found within him as the Governor exited from the establishment in a hurry. He glanced at Lowell, no longer intoxicated with his meat. Their dark eyes met, just as once before fourteen years ago with the wild idea. Another wild idea had transformed in their minds, and Lowell wore a low smile.

            “He knows, doesn’t he?” the Constable asked. “He has an impeccable nature to the woman.”

            “He knows what I told him…He takes one step to Isle Revland and he becomes meat for my block,” he replied. “His feelings make him blind.”

            “You think he can get rid of Richard and Mary?”

            “I meditate he can purge us of Isle. That’s the delinquent, isn’t it?”

            “And if he doesn’t?”

            Lowell returned a look, sometimes questioning the Constable’s understanding of Lowell’s darkness. He placed the axe back on his rack, leaving the meat salted and finished. He was to cook it later, but too much on his mind traveled to his lips. He had something to accomplish, and it was to be finished with success.

            “If he doesn’t rid of Isle, then we must.”