SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Weeping, Eileen bent her forehead to her knees. The breath of the NightMare was hot upon her nape and the stone beneath her wet with salt, with blood.

Yet she remained.

Wondering, she sat and lifted her hand, curling her long, wraithlike fingers. Had she a mirror, the reflection would bear little resemblance to the human features she had once called her own.

“The price has been paid,” the NightMare said. “And I have a new rider. Come.”

The far wall of the barrow clattered down to reveal a night rich with shadows and starlight, and a wild, fey wind that called them to ride.

Eileen-that-was rose from the stone, her body hollowed nearly weightless, freed of memory, freed of hope. She mounted the black horse.

Together, they flew forward into that sweet dark.

Originally Published By Broken Eye Books in the anthology GHOST IN THE COGS

It was a beautiful home. A home with red brick on the outside and a bright blue door. The wisteria and ivy climbing up one side perfectly manicured, and the gate to the front always shines with recent polish. To the society of Primrose Hill, it is known as a proper finishing school for young ladies. They delicately march through the blue front door each morning. It is said that the owner of the building, Miss Iesult Greensleeves, taught her charges all the most important things. How to make a proper social introductions on Hyde Park’s Mechanical Promenade. Which forks to use, and when. Which gloves are appropriate at what occasion, whether or not it is acceptable to use steam powered gadgets to entertain ones guests.

The truth of the matter would certainly curl the neighbors’ hair into perfect ringlets.

Miss Greensleeves’s Finishing School for Young Witches is no more a place for learning about tea service than it is a place to learn about how to turn one’s husband into a newt.

In the parlor, her charges all dressed appropriately in day dresses, each in a different pastel shade. Their bonnets set aside, their hair coiffed in the most recent styles. And each one of them has a wand in their lap and a teacup in their hand. The girls range in age from at youngest, ten, to the eldest, a sixteen-year old witch. Surrounded by prim and frilly flowers, an owlish young lady sat in the corner, her giant spectacles perched upon her nose as she reads the latest Strand magazine. Unlike the rest, she was dressed in a simple tan gown. The others twittered and gossiped about their promenade in Hyde Park, discussing the latest addition: The Steam Carousel which moved faster than any other carousel in the world. She sat apart, reading by herself.

As soon as Miss Greensleeves stepped into the parlor, she counted under her breath to be sure that all her charges were in attendance. She dressed in a deep blue skirt, bustle, and vest and a white high-necked lace blouse. She strode purposefully to the front of the room. With a snap of her fingers, a small tea cart rolled into the room, tiny puffs of steam emanating from the back of it to propel it across the floor.

“Good morning, ladies. I hope that you are all well rested from the weekend. As you know, your final examinations for the year are coming up, as is the Season. Some of you will no longer be with us after that time as we hope you will have been presented at court and will have met a husband.” The room burst into a flurry of giggles, except for the owl in the corner. “There will be a few different exams: one in comportment, one in spellcraft, and, of course, one in surreptitious casting. The final piece of your work—" The owl in the corner let out a scream. It was a howl of mourning, keening.

It was accompanied by the Strand magazine bursting into flames in her hands.

“He killed him!” She shrieked, waving her hands around.

“Miss Harper, I beg your pardon?” Miss Greensleeves turned her violet eyes upon the owl in the corner, giving her a name. “I’m not sure what the parliamentary vote upon human robotic experimentation could have anything to do with death, no one has been experimented upon yet.”

“He’s dead .” She began to cry, her sobs summoning a raincloud above her head, a roll of thunder coming out from it as she gasped. “He got thrown off of a waterfall and he’s dead .”

“Miss Penelope Harper, if you could recall your cloud, we can talk about this like reasonable witches. It’s not polite to storm inside.” Miss Greensleeves was pulling her wand out of her sleeve and casting a spell to quickly waterproof the entire room—if that raincloud began to storm any harder she’d have the mechanics in here for another month fixing the security systems.

Miss Harper sniffed loudly and pulled a handkerchief out from inside the ruffles of her dress, wiping the tears off her cheeks. The raincloud stopped thundering and raining but did not dissipate.

“Miss Greensleeves, I know you’re a fan, as well. And we both know…” another deep intake of breath before speaking, “We both know that killing the Great Detective by throwing him off of a cliff is entirely unreasonable.”

The room went still with only few nos and gasps from wide-eyed, disbelieving witches.

Miss Greensleeves spoke very gravely. “Our special guest for the séance portion of your exam is none other than Sir Arthur.”

Penelope Harper’s eyes were already quite large behind the giant magnification of her spectacles, but it seemed as though they grew three times larger as realization dawned. “You don’t mean…”

“I do. You see, Sir Arthur may think he can kill off the character and leave us all to mourn the man who never lived.” Miss Greensleeves took a breath and then smiled. All of the young girls shrank back. When Miss Greensleeves smiled, no one wanted to know what she was planning. “But I’m sure with a bit of spiritual mussing about we might be able to show him why he shouldn’t have killed him.”

“But does that mean that we have to make it look like it’s not real?” Beatrix St. John spoke next, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You mean we can do whatever we want, as long as it seems as though we’ve made it all up?”

“I want to scare the shirt off of him, make him think Sherlock Holmes has come back to haunt him and make him pick up a pen again.” Miss Harper spoke, reaching her hand up and tossing the cloud into nothingness.

Miss Greensleeves nodded in the direction of Miss Harper and waved a hand. A few books flew off the shelves throughout the parlor, a few more flew down from the upstairs. “These should help you understand the tactics that charlatans use. We can build some props and integrate a few new spells into the security system.”

The pastel enruffled witches flocked to the book stacks, one girl shouting “I’ll write to the Fox Sisters,” while another snatched a book entitled Communicating Through the Veil and another grabbed a book on demonology.

The witches of London were ready to do battle in the parlor on behalf of their favorite detective.

A few weeks later, a swirl of evening dresses and tambourines bustled through the foyer.

“Ladies!” Miss Greensleeves’s Irish accent rang out from the top of the staircase. She was gowned in a soft lavender evening dress, a simple strand of pearls at her throat. The girls were dressed in froths of satin and lace. Even Miss Harper had traded her brown plaid for an emerald green evening gown, a golden locket at her throat. “As you all know, our guests will be here in one hour to participate in the séance. Since there will be non-magical attendees, you know you cannot use a wand for any spellcasting.”