The Crescent Hour ✓

Chapter 1. Unearthed

© 2013 Lujayn Ambers. All rights reserved

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The image for the cover on the right is by Kryseis Retouche.

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Chapter 1. Unearthed

The tip of the fountain pen slid across plain paper, staining it in black. Clara paused to adjust the position of the leather-bound diary, placing it above her raised left thigh. She continued writing, ebony letters bending to the will of the pen.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw a pebble flitting through the air and heading to her tree. Clara closed her diary, her pen falling down, and placed it in front of her to block the stone. It bumped the hard cover of the book and plummeted to the ground. She surveyed the thicket where the stone had come from.

There he is. What was he thinking? I could have fallen off the tree! she thought as she glared at the young man hiding between two clumps of bushes.

Timothy walked out of his hiding spot, clutching at his ribs and shaking with laughter. When he sobered, he said, “You should see your face. You look like a ghost!”

She frowned at him. “What was that for?”

His blue eyes twinkled. “I wanted to surprise you.”

She wanted to pinch his pug nose for startling her. Dropping her diary in the crook of a low branch, Clara jumped down from the tree. Timothy took the diary and gave it to her, an apologetic smile playing at his lips. She lifted her skirt to her shins and knelt down to search for her pen. Yellow streaks of light shimmied through the leaves, dappling the grass below her in shades of gold and brown.

“Right, I’m going to the apothecary. Mother needs medicine,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

She looked at his retreating back until he disappeared behind the gate. He was her best friend. They had spent their childhood days playing by the gardens and chasing rabbits in the fields. When they had reached adulthood, their friendship had evolved. They could not act as themselves unless they were far from prying eyes for he was a footman and the son of their head cook, while she, the daughter of a wealthy merchant.

The wind whistled, stroking stray curls of red hair from her face. She spotted the fountain pen. It had fallen into a hole hidden by the roots of the tree. Clara dipped her hand into the gap but as she pulled out the pen, she touched a rough fabric instead of the soft grains of soil. Curious to know what she had discovered, she pulled out the cloth.

A small pouch caked with mud hung between her thumb and index finger. She opened it and took out an antique necklace. It was beautiful and warm to the touch. A silver chain slid down her hand.

The locket was circular and bigger than a golden coin. Intricate designs were etched on its surface, surrounding four leaf-shaped red crystals lodged at the centre. The crystals formed a flower of ruby gems. At the back of the circular metal, there were strange markings of a foreign language. Clara touched the locket, intrigued by its charm.

I have seen this before. I know it.

When she opened the locket, a flash of light blinded her eyes until she closed them. Then it was gone. She blinked, unsure of what had happened. Shocked, she threw the necklace to the ground and leaned back. Had she seen the light or had it been a figment of her imagination?