Alise Gifford

Tales of a Chivalrous Klutz

Dedicated to my mother, who put up with all my crap,

Mike, who let me toy with Kol and still loved me after I did,

and finally my stupid, misspelled middle name: Alise. (Ah-leese, rhymes with 'crease')

Cheers.

Prologue: Applewood Flames

Our story begins in the middle of the night, during a blustery, cold autumn in London. The moon was a white pearl in the sky, sailing on the wisps of clouds. It was the sort of night where one would appreciate a warm blanket, a mug of hot chocolate, and a crackling fire.

In fact, the tale begins with the fire that on that very night was crackling merrily in the parlor fireplace of the Gifford household.

Warren Gifford looked over his paper, giving a soft smile to his young daughter, sitting on the rug. She was happily watching the flames lick at the apple wood, which was wafting the room with a sweet, agreeable scent.

"Don't put your hand in the fire, Alise," he murmured gently.

Little Alise looked up with a smile. "I won't," she told him, then looked back into the flames. They danced softly, reflecting in her round, innocent grey eyes. "It bites."

Warren gave a soft chuckle at the analogy. "Indeed."

"Aren't Mum and Dev coming back yet?" Alise asked.

Warren gave a glance at his watch, then up at the grandfather clock. "They're late," he murmured around his dark mustache, glancing back to the watch. He got himself up with a soft sigh, holding out a hand to his daughter, who jumped to her feet, pink lace dress swirling about her knees. "Come now, let's get you to bed."

"But I..." Alise trailed off, frowning. "I want to wait for them," she looked up, tugging his hand, her eyes wide. "Something's telling me I need to stay downstairs and wait for them."

Warren chuckled softly, then mussed her dark brown hair. "Oh, nonsense, dear one. What could happen?"

Miles away, a sound like a gunshot rent the air. Fifteen-year-old Devlon Gifford jerked himself up in the back seat of the Oldsmobile with a gasp, automatically reaching up to straiten his glasses. "Wh-what was that!"

Eileen Gifford's short blonde curls swung to the side as she steered off the road, drawing a soft hissing breath between her teeth. "Nothing, Hun, just blew the tire."

Devlon nodded hesitantly, pushing his glasses back up his freckled nose. "Warren will worry if we're late," he told her.

"We have a spare, and there's a car jack in the trunk," Eileen raised an eyebrow. "It sounds like you're the one who's worried, Devlon."

Devlon shook his head. "No..."

His mother's other eyebrow raised. "No?"

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "I'm just worried about Alise. I've got a bad feeling..."

Precisely as the grandfather clock in the parlor struck twelve, Alise shot strait up in her bed with a gasp. The smell of apple wood filled the house, but somehow... it was darker.

Sour.

Something was wrong

"Papa?" she asked, toddling out of bed. She coughed. Her throat felt scratchy. "Papa... Mum? Dev?" She swallowed back a bad, bad lonely feeling, but it stayed in her throat. "Papa..." her voice ended in a quiet, fearful squeak.

There was a bright, flickering light showing around all the edges of her bedroom door. It looked almost surreal. Breathing in short, panicked gasps, Alise reached up with both hands for the brass doorknob.

There was a sizzling sound.

With an earsplitting scream, she pulled her hands back, clutching them to her chest. The pain didn't stop. It seeped down into her palms, as though her very bones were on fire. She couldn't get enough air.

Choking slightly on the sickening smell of burnt flesh, she finally mustered enough courage to, whimpering, look at her palms. They were a ghastly white, the burns shiny. It was getting hotter all the time. She was shaking uncontrollably with the pain, tears streaming down her face. The pain wouldn't stop. It wouldn't dull. She lightly pressed her palms to her face, so the tears would drip onto them. It didn't help much.

She couldn't open her hands all the way. She couldn't clench them either. She couldn't move her hands. She couldn't move her hands.

Panicked, she began hiccupping. She was breathing so fast, so shallow, that she couldn't get any air. "Pa... Papa..." she choked, the door swimming in her vision. There was a creaking noise upstairs, followed by a yell, and then a large crash. The floorboards shook under her feet.

"Papa," she cried, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. The smell of smoke was assaulting her senses now. "Papa! Come get me, I'm scared...!" there was a groan from directly above her, then another thunderous crash. "Papa!"

Frantic, Alise half-raised her hands to the doorknob again, and found them wilting back. She couldn't forget the pain that still raged through both her hands. The smoke smelled horrible, so much she didn't want to breathe. For a moment, she doubled over with a coughing fit.

Biting her lip, she reached out and clamped her already badly burned palms on the glowing door handle, and lost her breath with another scream.

The handle wouldn't turn. It wouldn't turn! Papa, it won't turn!

With a deafening bang, the door exploded. Shards and splinters flew past her, cutting her face and bare arms, ripping her nightdress. Her eyes wide, she stared through the doorway, along with the now scarred wall.

The entire living room was engulfed in flames.

Whimpering, Alise backed up, until she hit her bed. She fell to the floor, staring into the flames, clutching her throbbing hands to her chest. She began to cough again, so hard she thought she'd be sick. There was no way out. There was no path through the flames. There was no way out.

Someone screamed, but it wasn't her.

Alise's heart leapt into her throat as an axe slammed through her tightly closed window. Glass shattered across the floor, and a hand clamped over the side of the pane. At first she didn't recognize the pale, familiar face, the fine blond hair that fell into wide brown eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. But then he spoke, and her heart rose in elation. Though she made no sound, tears streamed down her face as she held out her arms.

Devlon Gifford swept Alise up in his arms, holding her tightly to him. She buried her face in her older half-brother's shoulder, holding on even tighter than him, so tight her hands screamed in pain.

He pulled them both through the window, pushing stray shards of glass away with his hands, and jumped onto the hard ground outside. He only managed a few steps towards the street before they were surrounded by neighbors, and their mother, sobbing, had thrown her arms around both of them.

She could hear a siren, faint in the distance. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. But no one seemed to be listening to her. "Papa's still inside," she cried, trying to point at the house, but her hands wouldn't work right. It hurt too much to move them. "He's still inside...!"

Devlon heard her. Giving a frantic gasp, he shoved her into her mother's arms, spinning around towards the house, running towards it.

"No...!"

"Blimey, what's he doing!"

"Devlon!"

"He's already gone in once-"

"Devlon, you can't-"

Alise wasn't listening. The sirens were deafening now. Squirming down from her mother's arms, she raced after her big brother, who was now climbing up the trellis, heading for one of the upper windows of the burning house. The flames were licking out of her bedroom window now, and from there she could see it flickering on the second floor, too...

"Dev!" she shrieked, grabbing onto his pant leg. Suddenly there were firemen and neighbors all around her, helping her pull her elder half-brother back from the trellis, though he fought them for all he was worth.

"It's all right, son, it's okay-"

"He's still in there!" Devlon gasped, his glasses knocked askew. "We can't just leave him-"

Firemen were already shouting orders. Hoses were already sputtering to life. Ladders were extending to meet the high throes of the building.

Several firemen disappeared inside the window. Smoke continued to billow out, flames to lick the walls of the lower levels. At this rate, the entire building could collapse.

Clinging to both Devlon and her mother, Alise held her breath, watching the upstairs window. After nearly a minute, several firemen emerged, making their way down the ladder, carrying a limp figure-

Alise heard someone screaming and realized it was her. It was only when the charred, limp, unrecognizable form was ushered on a stretcher to the waiting ambulance that she, her mother, and her brother realized the fully horror of what they were seeing. It was Warren.

Devlon seemed to be in a different world. Alise couldn't speak at all. As soon as they were loaded into the back of the ambulance, the doors closed behind them, she became aware of the tears that were streaming down her cheeks.

"Warren," he mother whispered. She was kneeling next to Alise's father's prone form, still sprawled on the stretcher. Paramedics were giving him oxygen, inserting IV's, and shouting orders to each other.

Underneath the oxygen mask, Alise watched her father's blurry eyes open. The entire left side of his body, including his face, was an angry, shiny red. His cheek, nose, lips and chin looked like a melted candle. His clothes were charred, and even Alise knew that the skin underneath was burned so badly that there was no way to repair it.

He didn't say anything, didn't move, but smiled with his eyes. They closed. Then, there came the sound that would echo in their hearts forever.

The long, loud, unbroken beep of the heart monitor.

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