The Poetry of Ravens and Roses Read online

  The Poetry of Ravens and Roses

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2022 Laura Briggs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Image: “Cottage”. Original art, “Floral Border” by Ellebell, and “Lighthouse” by Festiven. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Title Page: “Late Summer.” Original art, “Swirl frame” by Sjezica, “Lighthouse” by Festiven and “Fashionable young girls” by filitova. Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

  Dear Readers

  When the pandemic began, I had begun writing the first draft of Maisie's next adventure, hoping the world would soon be back to normal — hoping that the circumstances of her new story would be in line with the sense of normalcy her readers would know, too.

  The world is still taking slow steps towards the familiar: slower than everyone hoped, but maybe that's why the crisis of Maisie's world resonated with me. Possibly it will resonate with some of the series' fans, who know that sometimes, some things are changed beyond our hopes.

  In Maisie's case, she's a heroine in the midst of a fight that she can't give up. She wants to salvage her dream from its recent crash and see her book on shelves, like the ones she has admired and loved all her life. She wants to become a better, stronger writer, and wants her heart not to be permanently broken by the one person for whom she wishes nothing but a wonderful future — even if that future happens to be apart from her own. She wants to choose the high road, but she finds she's too human to ignore the fact that what's best in life is sometimes horribly painful for the one trying to live up to its standards.

  Fortunately, she finds herself surrounded by friends who sympathize, because they're battling their way through difficult circumstances, too, whether isolated in a London flat or saving a Cornish hotel with financial books barely in the black. In real life and in fiction, having people who understand you is what makes any crisis more bearable.

  Perhaps that's what most of the world is going through right now, and what makes it easier to imagine the next stage of Maisie's story that will be reaching forward, the way the rest of us are trying to do in difficult circumstances. We all need the glimmer of hope that Maisie is looking for, and the kind of second chance she's giving herself after losing so much.

  I hope readers will be intrigued by the little glimpse into that future, and the strength that is helping her build a new life with unexpected pieces, many of which are yet to come. In the meantime, we can share in her bittersweet triumph of one thing she truly deserves — seeing her dream finally come true.

  At Christmas, New York glitters like every other metropolis on the planet, blanketed in lights that rival the neon and digital glow of Times Square. Trees in chic, upscale department stores, in designer window displays with mannequins and high-end winter fashions that draw fascinated stares from passers by. There's a glitzy tree in Rockefeller Center, life-size toy soldiers in Macy's toy department, and a skating rink in Central Park, decorated with green garlands and shiny red Christmas balls. A little girl skates for the first time, inching slowly and falling down. A girl who probably used to compete in junior competitions outstrips everybody else on the ice, trying a double axel.

  I came to watch, the way I used to at Christmastime when I spent time in this city as a university student. Once or twice, I ventured out there in rented skates that were always a tiny bit too large, just because I liked breathing the crisp, cold air, loved the excitement of happy people and classic holiday songs. Back then, I was a lousy skater, and I still wasn't much better, even after Sidney gave me lessons on a frozen pond north of Cornwall, during a freak cold spell my first winter in England.

  I fell down a lot then, too. He laughed, then helped me up and used his body to give mine balance. As it happened in my case, skating was easier with two people leaning on each other, especially when one already knows how not to fall.

  I could still picture the frosty reeds along the edge, the dusting of snow over a Yule log tree and an evergreen wood close. A sharp scent, dusky spice mixed with fresh cedar needles and wood shavings from firewood, imbued Sidney's clothes.

  The skaters on the lake look happy, unlike me. I know I look lonely, sitting by myself on one of the benches. New haircut, a return to the short, fun one of two Christmases ago — a bright red scarf and a cute new wool felt winter hat purchased on impulse in a department store, under the heady influence of wassail-scented candles and spritzes of vanilla-scent body sprays and cranberry spice aftershaves in the air — and no real holiday smile to go with them. But I am still trying.

  My mom gave me this ticket last year, telling me I should get away from it all. Losing Sidney, losing my manuscript's big moment. Why she picked New York instead of home surprised me, because some of its moments weren't my happiest ones.

  Maybe that was the point, though. Making happiness out of the low moments. I was a 'lemon into lemonade' kind of girl for the most part, so it made sense. Being happy again meant I had to find a way to neutralize the sour that life had given me last year. Since there was nothing more cheering than Christmas — not to a girl who loves Charlie Brown trees and peppermint cocoa — this was my way of following through with that resolution. I was going to be happy again, and with new goals and a new confidence. I was going to lay the broken pieces in a box, making room for experiences and people.

  On the ice, the little girl falls down, helped up by a father who dries her tears. I watch, smile, and marvel at how we always think getting up will be easier once we grow up. My fingers twist the miniature castle charm on my bracelet, belonging to a golden summer afternoon, a smile that I wouldn't be seeing again.

  I am not wondering how Alex is right now.

  ___________________

  "One hotdog, hold the onions," Ronnie informed the vendor, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. "Gee, does the city always have to be so cold?"

  "You could wear gloves," I pointed out. "Just mustard," I said to the vendor, who opened the hotdog's steam bath in his cast and fished out a plump red sausage for the open bun.

  "And spread more germs? No, thanks," Ronnie said. "They say gloves spread more germs than bare skin. You know, washing, hand sanitizer, those are supposed to be our friends." He squirted some of the latter into his palm and rubbed.

  I pulled off my gloves as we strolled away from the food cart. "Being careful about one's health in a big city is a completely different game from village life," I said. "But I do have a bottle of germ-killing gel in my pocket." I produced it with a smile. "It's just kind of mixed up with my lotion and spare change."

  Ronnie shook his head, as if pitying my unpreparedness. He took a bite from his hot dog. "So, what kind of big plans do you have in the city?" he asked. "Rockettes Christmas show? Some Broadway thing? That new Disney show is popular, whatever it is — you used to love those movies."

  "No big plans," I answered, shaking my head. "Just quiet ones. I'm going to walk around, drink in the festive decorations, and go see some old haunts, like the library."

  "Ooh, you're killing me with the excitement," said Ronnie, jokingly.

  I had always loved the city this time of year. Clouds of marshmallow in gourmet hot chocolate called to me, like the winter wonderlands made from glitter and Dior fashions, the cheesy littl
e colored lights strung on balconies and fire escapes, sporting mini trees or menorahs twinkling in the windows behind them. Christmas shopping was chaos in Macy's and Saks Fifth Avenue, with me in search of a gift for my mom on a student's budget, surrounded by polar bear animatronics, gilded swans, forests of pink-bauble trees and other winter fantasies.

  "Remember my old roommate, Emily? The one who was studying medicine? I'm meeting her for dinner one night," I said. "I'm going to see the lights and carolers in the park with her friends the night before I go home."

  "Home," repeated Ronnie. "As in — real home?" he asked, hiking both eyebrows.

  "As in England," I answered. "That's home for me right now, as you know." Flicking a stray onion from my bun, which had sneaked on with my sausage.

  "I just thought you might be coming back, after ... you know." An uncomfortable pause from Ronnie. This was the closest he could come to the subject of Sidney's accident. The one that had ended our love story by changing him into someone who didn't really remember who we were.

  Alex was in London, probably not thinking about me or his old life in Cornwall on a daily basis. He was doing something new, something Adele probably found suitable for a boy with his privilege and possibilities.

  "My book's being published in the spring with a London publisher," I said. "I still have my job at the hotel, and I still have my friends. Why would I leave?" I licked mustard from the side of my finger. "It's not as if there's anything for me in my mom's town, except part-time jobs and the same little room I vacated for my college dorm." I knew what Ronnie really meant, which was that getting away from England would put distance between me and my heartache.

  He coughed into one hand. "Listen, uh, if you're going to be in town ... you're welcome to spend Christmas with us," he said. "There's an open invitation to the Christmas Eve party for you, as my guest. Mom won't mind at all," he added, in case he knew what I was thinking. "She knows there's nothing between us — she's really taken with Eva, it's completely different this time."

  Ronnie's mother had never liked me, but I wasn't a gorgeous Dutch financial advisor, either. I must be a magnet for rich boys with disapproving mothers. Adele couldn't see me out of Alex's life fast enough the first time she met me — the only time she had ever been nice to me was when she thought letting Alex chat with me during his recovery would help him be more like his old outgoing self. I hated to think what destiny she had in mind for that passion if he found it again.

  I wondered what he was doing with his time, then did my best to change trains of thought.

  "How are things with Eva?" I asked, wiping my fingers on my napkin. "How did she feel about the swallow migration trip?"

  "She's okay with it. Birds aren't her thing, but she's friends with some naturalists from her university days, so she kind of gets it," he said. "She's really liking New York so far. But she's into urban life, has one of those modern minimalist apartments. The company she works for is heavily invested in eco lifestyle products. Furniture made from sustainable bamboo forests, biodegradable chairs from some kind of alternative plastics — you know the kind of thing, it's in all the commercials."

  "She sounds really amazing," I said. I could picture her — posh, smart, well-bred and sophisticated. Exactly the kind of girl to fit into the Sutcliffe family's perfect plans for their son's life. Since Ronnie was happy, I couldn't be happier for them.

  "So ... what about that invitation?" Ronnie asked me. "Come to the party?"

  "I think you and I both know that's still not a good idea," I answered, hiding my smile. "Even with Eva in the picture." Truthfully, I couldn't think of a worse way to spend Christmas Eve than spending a boring evening with the Sutcliffe's stuffy friends. Even good canapes and an excuse to rent a posh frock wasn't temptation enough.

  "Honestly, my family would love to have you," said Ronnie, completely lying. "Or are you going to your mom's? She must be crazy ready to see you."

  "My mom's on a road trip to the Grand Canyon with some of her book club ladies, since their cruise was canceled," I said. "I'm going home, Ronnie." Home to quiet isolation in Sonia's cottage while she was off to London, leaving me to trim my tiny tree and eat soft, buttery Christmas cookies that were not from the terrible recipe collection of kindhearted Mrs. Graves.

  "If you change your mind," began Ronnie, with a hint of timidity for this second time, now that his exuberant courage was wearing off. It was the same as always — I knew there was still a tiny bit of fear in him for his family's disapproval. I was still one of his 'bohemian' college friends, after all.

  "Oh, look — that vendor is selling blown glass Christmas ornaments," I said, pointing towards one of the stalls in a striped-awning holiday market like those cropping up in tiny wonderlands wherever there's space and tourism in the city. This one sported hand-painted ornaments with cat faces, Christmas trees, and kids sledding down snowy hillsides. "Aren't they cute?"

  Ronnie rolled his eyes — but good naturedly, the way he always had when my attention was grabbed by shiny things or interesting scenery, usually interrupting some important observation while he was birdwatching. I liked birds eating seeds from feeders, or as a flash of bright feathers in a tree, or doing funny things in internet videos. Ronnie, however, spent hours scrutinizing their every move in real life, no matter how boring.

  "At least tell me about these quiet plans of yours for the holiday," he said, trying not to look impatient while I admired a little ornament painted with a spotted fawn and some evergreen trees. "Is that for some kind of holiday decorating thing you're doing?" He scratched his head.

  Here, I surrendered to pity. "I think I've bored you enough for one day," I answered, putting the ornament back. Having gone junk shop trolling with Ronnie once long ago, I knew when he was reaching his limit, even if he never noticed when I reached mine. Time to change things up by looking for some migrating bird species in the park.

  ___________________

  Winter months at the Penmarrow Hotel where I work in Cornwall are sleepier, at least when there are no tour buses of Poldark fans traveling around the coast. Once the Christmas decorations are packed away — a monumental chore, given our interim head of housekeeping's penchant for decking the halls — we wait for spring bulbs to wake up from beneath mulch and spring buds to break out on trees, as if the season is dozing underneath cold sand and sea foam washing like snow on the beaches.

  The Penmarrow's status as an 'international' hotel was shaken slightly by recent global events, but its manager and owner Mr. Trelawney has done his best to hold together the business and keep up the traditions that created its reputation. This includes a staff of colorful characters from all different points of the globe, such as myself — the lone American in a sea of Irish, English, Indian, and Scandinavian voices, currently. And our fake Portuguese porter. Oh, and, there's a new German gardening assistant who replaced Norman after his secret career was revealed.

  Brigette, the head of housekeeping — interim, although I suspected no replacement would ever come — was picking tiny little curled brown leaves from the herbal sprig bouquet on the table, a frown on her lips. "Hamm's greenery arrangements leave something to be desired," she said. "The quality of this one makes me miss Norman, almost."

  "With his bouquets of wilted paperwhites?" snorted Katy. She was winding up the hoover's cord.

  "I said 'almost'," said Brigette. Her nose wrinkled primly as she turned the greenery to its most flattering side.

  "Why not get something from the local florist?" I asked. "Some nice roses."

  "We are economizing during the hotel's readjustment period," said Brigette, who was now tidying the reception desk. "At this time, we are avoiding frivolous expenses whenever there are suitable materials at hand. I simply wish Hamm had a more critical artistic eye."

  I knew Katy was rolling hers, without me turning around. I went on with my current job of cleaning hidden debris from the impressive foyer's big potted ferns and tropical plants. Mostly plastic act
ion figures, lost sunglasses, and lots of cigarette stubs from the hotel's chain-smoking porters, Riley and Gomez.

  "When you're finished with the carpets, Katy, please lay out the new tapas menus on the wet bar," said Brigette, making a note on the staff schedule. "Sam always forgets. I don't want customers confused, because servers sometimes bring them the regular dining menu, which is incorrect."

  "Not finger foods, you mean," said Katy.

  "The correct term is 'appetizers'," Brigette answered. "They can hardly handle a steak and chips at the bar, can they?"

  From the back of Katy's throat, a sound between a snort and a scoff.

  My shift ended after lunch, so I walked back to Sonia's cottage. I took the long way via the shore road, with a shopping list in my pocket for essentials. The water looked cold, and I could still recall the memory of feeling those frigid waves lapping at my feet. Cheery lights in the high street made up for the gray light of afternoon, the way white candles cheer windows of Scandinavian homes in winter.

  "One sack of dog kibble, please." I put the money on the counter from the envelope in my pocket, which contained the cash payments for looking after 'those mongrels' of Sidney's, as Dean referred to them. "And a tin of doggie treats, please." On bleak midwinter days like this, even dogs needed a little extra cheer to remind them spring was around the corner.

  No midwinter decorations to cheer us, like at Christmas, I thought, as I turned the corner to the church lane. Those neat-trimmed shrubbery fences contained empty gardens, winterized bird baths, but no color or cheer except a few odd-blooming European shrubs that brought just a little bit of flower into the world, regardless of frost or snow.

  The big Nativity scene was long gone from the church's lawn, and the holly wreath from the vicarage's door had been tossed in the compost heap by now. Mrs. Graves had opened the curtains in the front parlor, a row of potted herbs lined up on the windowsill, hoping for sun.