Chapter 1
Angel listened to the gentle pour of rain. Awkwardly sprawled over the wicker chair, she planted her feet upon the bannister and felt the chilled water melt over her toes. Even with the large rooms and high ceilings of the estate house she often felt closed and suffocated.
“I need time, space”, she breathed, “just to be”. Her thoughts trickled like the water droplets feeling their way down her calves. “to be separate” she imagined, “to be apart from anxiety, from thoughts, to be the rain, falling and free, flying into the dirt where the trees plug their roots in and grow tall, they hang over everything and touch the sky with their skinny fingers”.
It was cold. She pulled the blanket a little tighter around her shoulders. She wasn’t ready to go back inside, not yet. Ange coveted the sanity of others, her controlled breathing slowing and began to steady out.
Eric pulled up a chair next to her, sat down and wordlessly offered a steaming mug of chocolate. He knew the drill. Ange needed time; he wanted her to have it, just not alone. The tin roof filled their silence with the tapping of rain, and the creaking of wood. The sounds were ambient, relaxing.
Ange took the mug and blew on it gently. “It was a plane crash this time” she offered after several minutes, “twisted metal pulling everyone together, then apart like the inside of an accordion. I don’t know what they mean, I just want them to stop.”
Eric listened and nodded solemnly. He expected Ange had enough of her own thoughts right now without needing his.
“How long since they started, Ricky?” she said, “how long since everything was normal and we could just get on with our lives”.
Eric saw her eyes brim before she hid her face in her hands. “It’s been 5 months since your birthday” he answered, “your first dream was about a week and a half after Uncle Ron’s barbecue”. He paused and smiled cheekily, “So, which part of that family get-together makes you think we were ever normal?”
“Please, Rick-star, I’m serious. It used to be only once a week when they started, now its every night, several times a night. I just can’t keep this up. I’m going crazy.”
“It had to happen eventually,” he said, “on behalf of all the Tobokens in town; I’d like to proudly accept you into our family.” Eric began to shake her hand.
Ange pulled away. “Not everything is funny, Ric”.
“No” said Eric, “only the things that matter”.
The girl sniffed.
“Do you remember Dad’s Ode to Aphrodite?” Eric asked, “How he sang loudly, then hesitated and would correct himself all the time?
Ange smiled, “He started with how unsurpassably beautiful the goddess Aphrodite was, and after every verse would concede that Mum was an angel, more beautiful than she.”
“If my only mission in life is to cheer up Ms Angel-boots, then I want to look back on my life as an old man and see a job well done”.
Ange sighed and wiped her eyes. She began to wave her hand to the invisible people in the garden, “Thank you, thank you” she said, “It is my pleasure to receive this Family-Member-of-the-Year Award for Most Insane Teenager. I’d like to thank my sponsors, all the little people who made this day possible.”
“You are a true Toboken”, Eric applauded, “couldn’t be prouder”.
“I feel like a Toboggan” Ange admitted.
“That’s just the crazy talking” Eric chirped back quickly. “Do you want breakfast?”
“Eggs on toast?” Ange suggested.
“Anything you want”.
Ange went back to her room and curled up in the sheets. As she returned to her thoughts she began to cry softly. No one seemed to really understand how these dreams were affecting her. Every night without relief; every morning without an answer. She couldn’t focus during the day, she would space out, although no one had caught her yet, she didn’t understand what was happening to her. It was scary. She just wanted to understand.
It wasn’t too long before she could smell the mushrooms. Eric knocked.
“If you wish an audience with the queen you must come bearing gifts”. She said through the door as she wiped her face.
“I have these, your majesty” Eric said presenting the plate, “the rarest of delicacies in all of southern India, they call it ‘scrambled’”.
“Delicacies indeed,” she said, “but how do I know if these strange foods be not poisoned?”
“I shall gladly test it for you, your highness” Eric said producing a second plate, “it is my honour to die in the service of the crown”.
“Such a shame” retorted Ange, “your nobility in my courts and loyalty to this house have warranted that you should take the crown upon my death”.
“In that case,” Eric said, switching the plates, “you should taste the eggs, they’re to die for, really”.
Eric made a show of leaning forward and watching her put the first fork-full into her mouth. Ange exaggerated savouring the bite and loudly enjoying every moment of it.
Eric laughed, sprawling back to find shelter in a cushion. “Really?” he said, “they’re that good?”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Sire,” she said in a breathy voice, “if I were to die, I could think of no better way than to be overcome by these delicious morsels.”
“Oh, hurry up and die then,” Eric said, “I can’t bear the sound of your moaning any longer, any more and I’ll go mad”.
“Mmmmmm, Awwwww, Mmmmmm, Ooooooh” she continued. Ange laughed as Eric writhed in mock pain.
“What a blow to the kingdom,” Eric said, “their queen dead, the usurper mad, what hope do the people have left”.
“I have that effect on people,” Ange said, “the kingdom shall be divided according to this scandalous treason, and our families shall wage petty disputes until we’re all in the ground, or worse”.
“What’s worse than being six feet under?” asked Eric.
“My Lord, you should surely know,” she said shyly, “being Queen, of course”.
“It must be a terrible drain on your majesty”.
“Oh, you have no idea”.
They both laughed. The eggs really were good. No one could cook quite like Eric, Lord of the kitchen if there ever was one.
“Did you bring the sauce?” she asked.
“Never leave home without it,” he said.
They each concentrated on their own plates for a while, clinking cutlery filling the silence.
