Saturnalia (SAMPLE)

chapter one: death comes in threes

The first to die is the deer. The eagerness of cars and vehicles, transporting the irony of joy, made no such notice of the fauna, slain without so much as a curiosity for the bump in the road.

The town of Tottenham Cross was the most alive it had been all year. Music could be heard on every street and in every building, courtesy to the many talented folk who sawed at strings or hit rhythmic beats on odd percussions. Flowers seemed in full bloom everywhere, sprouting in the luscious, warm weather. Colours of all sorts mixed heaven with the lively scents all around, and could have made a hungry beast lay low his teeth, if only to take in the picturesque beauty of the town.

The post office in particular was swarming with the locust of mail; every person within a hundred miles seemed eager to ship some sign of their love, excitement, and good will to family and friends across the country. Only in the beginning of summer was the office ever this busy. Somehow, the winter months kept people safe indoors, but winter was a far off way away, leaving people like Iyan Lutton no time to consider such irrelevant things like the chilling of the wind, or the isolated hush that grew over the world.

Today, Iyan followed the frequent, but kind hearted yelling that his Uncle Hans threw his way, a mess of activities here and there requiring all of their attention all of the time. How they would be able to fulfill a single order, or correctly address so much as a stamp, Iyan had no real idea. Alas, they would. Such was his life - ensuring that everybody had what they wanted, everybody received what they needed, and nobody left unsatisfied. Certainly, the infectious cheer and good nature of the crowd that flooded in all day reduced the negative sting that usually accompanied such thoughts of servitude, but Iyan would have liked a break from the endless chatter, anyhow.

"You're missing a return address, ma'am," he said with a strained smile, his occupied hands hurriedly stamping another customer's box as he stared down at the postcard pushed onto his counter.

"I won't be needing one," came a lilted response, and the peculiar accent had his attention at once diverted from the rote mashing of the ink upon the parcel. His pale, grey-blue eyes (a trademark, if not boring and overused feature of the Luttons, along with the ashy-blonde hair) widened to see the sparkling, unnatural face of a young woman. Her hair was long, wild, and extremely red. Iyan knew he had witnessed such a burning passion of colour before, but it had been such a very long time ago, certainly long enough to be transfixed now by its majesty. The woman hemmed in an amused manner, and he was forced to pull his gaze from her unfettered curls. What a sweet sabotage! He found himself now gazing into the strangest eyes he had ever seen. They were a beautiful, pale brown, as though she had plucked the colour from a plant far indeed from Saint Ivry.

"I'm so sorry," he stuttered, bowing his head when his uncle rushed past, a flurry of parcel ribbon falling from the pile clutched in the owner's arms. "Are you quite sure? These things are hard to ship without."

"Oh," the woman replied, raising her fiery eyebrows. "Well then, may one put the same address down?"

"Em... of course." Her response was muted by the sudden clatter of the front doors, and a herd of giggling youth burst inside. As the distraction stole her attention, Iyan stared, paying the vaguest of attention to the needs of her postcard. There weren't many foreigners in the country - where was she from? How had she found this place, so unforgiving of strangers? Nearly laughing at his own empty-headedness, Iyan glanced at the address the woman had put down, but was merely further stymied. He had never heard of a Catrodea, and was thus left twice as clueless.

Before he could read anything else, the woman turned her elvish gaze back, slid her appropriate fare over the counter, and gave him a cheery smile. No sooner than Iyan smiled back she had left, disappearing through the crowd through the front door. There was no more time to ponder her strange and mesmerising presence - a positive storm of demands assailed Iyan, and he thought no more of the foreigner.