It's been a while since the previous Halloween prompt, but I thought it only apt to return to the Twist universe for this one. This here was the alternative ending to the story that I never got to write, mainly because it would have needed another half a million words and several more years (real and fictional) to get us there. I always meant to one day put this little scene down to paper though and thus, here it is!
As for the Halloween prompt, it called to include at least three of the following: Autumn harvest, Jack O'Lanterns, Thursday, black cats, blue dogs, poetry, politics, gothic architecture, lace handkerchiefs, psychic ability and/or fortune telling. Oh, and also to keep the story to 1874 words. Rest assured that no-one is more surprised than I am that I actually managed to do so…
And now, without further ado, I hope you enjoy this brief return to the royal world!
Windsor, England
October 2023
It's just that the moon is full
"There, there," I murmur. "There, there."
My son, unimpressed, wails even louder.
"Darling, it's past midnight," I reason with him. "You're tired, I'm tired, and we should really go to sleep."
The wailing continues, unabashed.
I sigh.
"No sleep," I mutter to myself. "Right. Got it."
He's in that impossible state of being when he's dead tired but can't sleep, making him too tired to sleep. Me, I could drop into bed right this instance, but alas, it is not to be.
Getting up from the armchair, I hoist him to lie against my shoulder and start pacing the dark room. As I walk, I lightly jiggle him in my arms, hoping that the movement will calm him down.
Not so, of course. If anything, he just screams louder.
"Darling," I plead. "If you would just stop screaming, maybe then it'd be easier to fall asleep."
It's no use, of course, applying logic when dealing with an exhausted infant, but at this point, I'm willing to try just about anything.
In reaction to my words, he turns his tear-stained face towards me and despite my own exhaustion, there's a sharp tug at my heart. He's as tired as I am, poor little guy, and at least as desperate.
"Do you want a lullaby?" I ask, gently rubbing his back. "Shall Mummy sing for you?"
His wails don't increase in volume, which I take to be assent to my suggestion. Softly, I begin to sing.
Heathcliff, it's me, Cathy, I've come home
I'm so cold, let me in your window
Heathcliff, it's me –
"Interesting choice of lullaby," a voice behind me comments drily.
I don't even bother to turn, merely shrugging, as well as I can with the baby against my shoulder. "Your son won't sleep and this was the first song that came to mind," I inform my husband.
"It's certainly thematical," he acknowledges, raising his voice to be heard over the baby's continued screaming.
Now, I do turn to look at him questioningly. "How so?"
"It's Halloween," he reminds me and in the half-dark of the room, I can see him smiling. "It's also full moon today and witching hour. If there ever was a time for songs about corpses rising from their graves…"
"Her ghost might have risen from its grave, but her corpse didn't," I inform him, still lightly swaying on the spot in the forlorn hope that it might calm our son. "He did have her dug up, but only to look at her. He certainly didn't dance with her corpse."
"I bow to your superior knowledge on the matter," he replies, adding a little bow to emphasise his words.
I roll my eyes, knowing he can see it in the light of the full moon falling in through the window. To the infant in my arms, I relay in a sing-song voice, "Your father is an awful man, my darling. Stands there and mocks us while you're crying your little heart out."
As if to make my point, his wails grow even louder, which at least has the pleasing effect of propelling his father into action.
"Shall I take him?" he offers. "You must be exhausted."
"I am rather tired, yes," I answer haughtily while surrendering our son into my husband's arms. Once he's securely settled, I raise a hand to gently stroke a tear-stained baby cheek. "As are you, aren't you, my darling? Too tired to sleep and getting ever more tired the more you cry."
"Anything I can do?" asks his father while moving the infant to lie comfortably in his arms.
I shake my head. "No. He's warm, dry and fed. He's just totally exhausted. He's been grizzling for hours."
There's an understanding sound in reply. "And you're keeping Mummy awake, too, aren't you, buddy? What say you, shall the two of us see whether we can't get you calmed down and let Mummy go to sleep?"
Yes, please!
I don't have time to voice my agreement, alas, when, without anything as much as a warning, the incredibly happens – looking up at his father with wide-eyes, our son blinks once and then, just like that, stops wailing.
The silence that follows is almost eery.
"Huh?" Looking up at me, my husband raises an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"You know what that was," I grumble, narrowing my eyes. "I spent hours trying to calm him down and the moment you arrive, he's suddenly the calmest baby alive!"
"It's my magic touch," he informs me cockily. "I can't help it."
"Careful, mister!" I warn him. "There's a line there you don't want to cross."
"Am I coming up to it?" he wants to know, and in the moonlight, I can see him grin.
"Look behind you," I inform him and toss my head for good measure.
He laughs softly, knowing to take the exchange for what it is – entirely in jest. The baby, meanwhile, makes a quiet, content sound and gazes up adoringly at his father.
"Traitor," I mutter, but I smile as I do so. There are, after all, few sights in the world I love more than my family together like this.
"Ah, I'm sure he likes you fine as well," teases my husband.
And really, is there any other adequate response than to stick out my tongue at him?
He laughs, quietly so as not to startle the baby. Then, more serious, "I'm sorry I couldn't be here earlier. The reception ran longer than planned and… well, you know how it is."
Indeed, I do. In almost six years as princess of this realm, I learned the trade and I learned it well. As a royal, you're inevitably the main event and unfortunately, that little fact means you can't always leave when you want.
"It's okay," I assure him. "You're here now."
In response, he smiles at me and, leaning forward a little, lightly kisses me over the top of our son's head. I return the smile and savour the touch.
"Mummy?" asks a small voice from over by the door, interrupting us.
I turn and immediately hold out my arms to our daughter. "Come here, my sweet. Did your brother wake you?"
She shakes her head, but ambles over to us anyway, dragging her favourite cuddly toy behind herself by one leg. It's a wombat, well-loved after staying by her side for all four years of her life so far, and it never fails to remind me of another Halloween evening, sixteen years ago, when my life was different and I knew neither the man by my side nor the two children we now call our own.
Wrapping my arms around her, I pick up our daughter, supporting her on my waist. She snuggles her head into the crook of my neck and holds her wombat closer.
"Hey there, pumpkin," her father greets her and reaches out a hand to stroke her hair.
"Do you want to tell Daddy about the Jack O'Lanterns we carved today?" I suggest, the thought triggered by his seasonally apt nickname for our daughter.
She nods her head against my neck. "Mine's prettiest."
"Of course, it is." He smiles. "Did Mummy send photos of your pumpkin to the grandparents?"
"I most certainly did," I confirm. "They were all four of them very impressed by her work."
Our daughter grins, toothily, and in doing so, she looks so much like her father it's almost eery.
"He said he came by to look at my pumpkin," she tells us conversationally. "He liked it a lot."
Um…
Who is 'he'?
Quickly, I exchange a look with my husband, but he only shrugs.
"Who did, darling?" I ask carefully, lightly stroking her hair.
She, alas, just gives me a look that says I should jolly well know who she's talking about.
"He stood by my bed when I woke up earlier," she informs me instead. "He said that I'm very good and clever."
What the what?
"Sweetheart…" I begin.
My daughter, alas, just chats on cheerfully, "He said he's very proud of me. He promised that if I'm good, all my wishes come true."
Seriously, if we weren't in Windsor Castle, one of the best-protected premises in the country, I'd start getting worried right about now. Even as it is, I have to suppress the urge to call for Hanson immediately.
Looking up at my husband, I find him to be as dumb-founded as I am. Only our son is unaware, currently too busy trying to eat a fist to listen to what his sister has to say.
"Some sort of imaginary friend, maybe?" mutters their father, clearly reaching for an explanation.
"Or else, the castle is haunted after all and our child just turned psychic," I murmur back.
It's meant as a sort of dark joke, but even as I speak, I shivers run down my spine. Halloween, full moon, witching hour…
Could it be…?
I feel myself shudder involuntarily.
"Anne Boleyn's ghost, you mean?" That's my husband and when I look up, I see the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.
I laugh softly at the old joke and as I do, I feel the peculiar feeling fall away from me as quickly as it came. There are no ghosts, I remind myself, not even in this old gothic pile of a castle, and Halloween as we know it is just an invention by the American candy industry.
"Prat," I call my husband, but he just grins wider, reaching out to wrap his free arm around my waist. I don't push it away.
Looking down at my daughter, I gently kiss the top of her head. "Whoever it was, it was just a dream, sweetie," I tell her soothingly. "Now, do you want to sleep in Mummy and Daddy's bed tonight?"
Her wide grin is answer enough and so, not long afterwards, we find ourselves in the main bedroom, all four of us now only too ready to go to sleep.
And thus, with our daughter cuddled between us and our son in his little bassinet by our bed, we sleep deeply and without further disturbances through the night, be they by ghostly spirits or otherwise.
In fact, when a bright morning dawns and I get up from the bed, I'm ready to write off the happenings of the previous night as a very peculiar dream. Pulling on a bathrobe, I leave my husband and daughter to sleep, instead picking up my already wide-awake son and wandering over into the sitting room, quietly humming to myself.
It's only when I've entered the room and see the two men waiting there that I stop dead in my tracks.
They're high-ranking government officials and I haven't even had time to ask myself what reason they could have for standing in our sitting room before 6am in the morning when, without warning, they both drop down to their knees.
I cool trickle of anticipation passes down my back.
"Good morning," greets one of the men, clearing his throat awkwardly. Then, after the briefest moment of hesitation, he adds, "Your Majesty."
And just like that, I know whose ghost it was that visited us last night and why it did so.
To say goodbye.
- Fin -
The title of this story is taken from the song 'Diamonds and Rust' (written by Joan Baez, released by her in 1975).
