Ursel cocked an eyebrow and half-smiled.
“You know what she’s up to?”
“Not as such. But I have an idea.” She finished her tea and stood up. “I’ve got to go home. See my family and friends. Speak to the founders. But I’d like to drop by later, if that’s alright? At Naylor’s. To see what Wella has to say.”
–
Chase sat at the table in Naylor’s quarters, stealing glances at Ursel’s silhouette. She was stood by the window, looking down on the sprawling city. Naylor lingered in the doorway, leaning against the jam, arms crossed.
“I’ve never known anywhere else,” said Ursel, her back still turned. “Neither have the rest of my family. Only the oldest founder has travelled elsewhere, but she was a young child at the time and can’t remember.” She turned around and joined Chase at the table. “But that’s about to change.”
Chase and Naylor both raised their eyebrows, asking the same question.
Ursel smiled. “The founders have decided to live up to our purpose and become a travelling theatre once more.”
Chase slumped, deflated.
Naylor read the situation and stepped in. “That’s exciting news. When will you leave?” he wrote.
“In a month or so. It’s been eighty years; there’s no rush. And there’s a lot to pack up and prepare. Performances will run for another couple of weeks, then we’ll start to dismantle the big top. They decided to keep the new play running for a final fortnight; it’s proving popular.” She smiled at Chase, who missed the intended gesture.
There was a faint knock at the door. Naylor went to let Wella in. Chase stared at a point in the centre of the room, pained by the presence of Ursel now that he knew he was about to lose her again.
Wella entered, her face beaming. She walked over to Ursel and embraced her warmly. Then she stood back and looked around her. “Where’s Clo?”
“In her room,” said Naylor. “Why?”
“Ask her to join us. She needs to see this too.”
While Naylor disappeared, Ursel leant towards Chase. “Will you scribe for me?”
Naylor returned, his arm draped over his daughter’s shoulder.
Chase sat rigid, pencil poised.
“I received a package,” said Wella. “Since then, I’ve been in Cole’s workshop, preparing this.” She moved over to the table. Naylor and Clo gathered around. Wella pulled from her tunic a piece of paper, folded concertina-style. “A master template for an unexpected print run. We thought Bluemantle was over, but it turns out there’s need for one final edition.”
She opened up the folds to reveal text on one side. It was a letter, explaining about the Test and its true purpose. It detailed what the resits were actually for. It went on to account for the hundreds of children who had disappeared over the decades, revealing the truth about what had happened to them, who they had become – adults now, and altered. The letter closed with a lengthy apology, expressed by its author, Allear Commander Dent Lore, on behalf of the Authority of Wydeye. It also confirmed permission to publish the letter, along with a document it referred to as enclosed, to be distributed among the citizens of the city.
Wella turned the paper over, revealing a reproduction of something that should not exist. A map that was not of Wydeye.
Acknowledgements
I have received so much help, support and encouragement throughout this project, for which I am deeply grateful.
I am indebted to freelance editor Donna Hillyer for her excellent editorial skills on an early draft of the book. Her comments enabled me to extract the story from where it had become buried and to let Bluemantle breathe. It is a far better novel for it.
Thank you to my wonderful early readers: Mark Langston, John Turvey, Amanda Jane Franklin and David Franklin. Your honesty, insight, constructive feedback and plot-themed cakes were invaluable. You also gave me the confidence to know I was on the right path – welcome reassurance on a journey without a map.
Talking of maps, the two illustrations that bookend Bluemantle are the work of the super talented Shirley Bellingham. Shirley transformed my amateur scrawls into two beautiful maps – one of Wydeye and one of elsewhere. Thank you for helping to bring this world to life.
I am extremely grateful to graphic designer Jan Massie of Brilliant White Design for her help, expertise and fantastic creative talent. A warm thank you to Leanne Turvey for her unwavering love and understanding and for suggesting I build a garden in my mind in which to refuel. Also, my thanks to friend and fellow author Ray Dafter, for his ongoing encouragement and for calling me a writer.
Most of all, I thank my husband, Mark, whose belief in me and my ability to write a story worth reading is the reason this book exists.
Bluemantle is also in your hands thanks to The Book Guild, who found potential in its pages and thought it worthy of publication. With their professionalism and wealth of experience, they have been a pleasure to work with.
Finally, I would like to thank the amazing bands and artists who make me feel the way followers do when they watch the Troubadours perform live. In particular, a special thank you to Haken and Caligula’s Horse, whose unforgettable gigs in London in 2017 provided the inspiration for this novel.
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