The Derenial: The Case on High Earl Street

Chapter 1- My Reasons (1)

Derenial- (n) from the Yunnish root word 'derenia', meaning second life. Because what if death if not a second life.

"I must admit something," Sarah said in the darkened room. It was deep into the night and only the strum of a violin from a nocturnal neighbour two storeys down broke the silence. "I've been lying to you. Many, many lies. All of which I regret. But what I regret most is that even as I tell you, I know you cannot hear." From beside her the shape laid under the covers of both wool and darkness so that only light brown lengths of hair could be seen.

"I look forward to telling you this again if-" her voice choked. "When. When you wake up. Still, if only for me, I shall explain. But to understand, I must take you back to when it started, to the night things changed. Back to when I was a child and a single knock rang on my family's door."

Sarah's POV

It was the 8th of June in the year 1749 of our Father who art in Heaven. Something had been brewing that night. Mother had been more secretive than usual and snapped at each proposal I gave, not that I was authoritative in any sense- I was nine with the vocal range of a songbird. I only looked at her twice that day, fear and guilt within her eyes, that is until she bared her teeth and barked for me to go upstairs.

Father was gone almost everyday, the navy had seen to that. Luckily, his father and father's father were wildly rich and mother sat in the liberties she had been served alongside her ring. We lived in an homage to great men: large paintings of people in lavish clothes with rapiers at their sides and coattails far beyond. The magnificent building surrounding the paintings was just pomp. It was a large lattice of wooden beams that ran up the walls, through them, and framed the mansion. And with the walls came protection for the oiled painting and a home to house the legacy.

The rest of the manor was as white as the day it had been sculpted a hundred years before. It only had two storeys and yet was divided into several wings, each one a different shade of white and brown and always particular on what shaped objects would go in which as to not anger the memory of our ancestors.

It was the second time I looked at mother when she said that I would stay in my room. Later that evening I got some obscure food delivered by one of the servants. The only time I was allowed to eat in my room was when I was sick and they would serve me through the dumbwaiter. But although I was not sick, and it didn't seem especially important to do so, a bell rang and food was drawn up from the floor below.

I stayed awake longer than I should have, I was occupied anyway- talking to John as I always did. He was a curious friend. He would creep into my room, all the while acting as if mother was a dragon, but I suppose she was close enough. We would talk through the night and sometimes during the day, but we both knew the risks of that. He was the same age as me- well, at the time. I found that we had much in common and when tea time came we pondered a great many things while grasping at beards neither of us had.

From outside my window I saw, several hills away, a burning oil lamp make its way along the path. Nothing but the manor was on the road and so within a few minutes I heard a carriage pull up and I heard the door knocker on the metal bones of the house. From the echoing clang to chimes, the midnight hour hit on the grandfather clock and the scamper of feet rushed the stairs. A masculine voice answered the door and called for the guests to enter.

As for me, I went to the dumbwaiter at the end of the room, opening to hear the voices as they made their way into the downstairs parlour.

"What are they saying?" John asked me and I shushed him. I poked my ear into the dumbwaiter's shaft, hearing footsteps from the ground floor pass by and into the parlour. "What are they saying?" I shushed him again.