The Typewriter

Chapter 2 or Day 2 of NaNoWriMo 2012 (1,701 words)

Chapter 2: Lydia Applewhite at home

Lydia Applewhite sat in her drawing room staring out the window into her immaculately manicured front lawn. Her eyes were fixed on the wooden oak gate that opened onto the sidewalk of Applewhite Avenue, but it was not the gate, the avenue, or the lilac and roses that bloomed in her front yard that she saw. The vision in her head was the face of Mile Dragonslayer, she could not get it out of her mind. The blue flaked gold eyes, the high elfin cheekbones, and the perfectly sculptured aristocratic nose, all features she was well acquainted with because she saw them in her mirror every morning. The only difference, she thought, between Mr. Dragonslayer's features and mine is his hair. She picked up a cup of tea and took a ship, I have the platinum hair of an elfin magic user and his hair is the midnight black of a Tarken warrior.

Placing the porcelain cup back on the coffee table, she got up and walked across the room to the bookcase. She picked up a color photo of her father and chills undulated up her spine. Except for the difference in hair color, Miles Dragonslayer was a younger version of Luther Applewhite, her father. She frowned, considering the only explanation she could find; Could Dad have fathered another bastard before he died? What other explanation is there?

Oddly enough, it was not the thought of her father leaving his genetic code strewn haphazardly across the country that bothered her. What disturbed her was not knowing, she hated the feeling of being left in the dark. She despised an enigma that she could not solve. That was why she had read all the manuscripts which her father and grandmother had left in the typewriter room. The problem was that she had never found the manuscript she most wanted to read, the one with her mother's name on it.

What could have happened to that manuscript? She wondered as she left the drawing room. She stopped at the front door to make sure it was locked and then went down the hall to her bedroom. As she passed the typewriter room, she paused placing her hand on the antique bronze doorknob and smiled when the door refused to open. It was a good indication that the door was locked tight against against anyone bold enough to breach the sanctity of her home. Then, with a deep sigh, she continued to her bedroom and a good night's sleep.

Unfortunately, for Lydia, a good night's sleep was not in the stars. She dozed, dreamed of Miles Dragonslayer and woke with the voice of her father ringing in her ears. She tossed and turned for several minutes only to doze again and drift off into another dream. This time it was about her half-sister, Cora Nolan. She had not thought of Cora in decades, not since her father's funeral and the reading of his will. He had left Cora the house on Star Light Court, the house in which Cora had been conceived.

"Why," she whispered getting out of bed and walking to the window, "didn't Dad mention a son in his will." She picked up a blue robe lying on the foot of the bed. "Mr. Dragonslayer looks about thirty or thirty-five, but he could be older. He could've been conceived a year or so before Dad died, so perhaps Dad didn't know about him. If Dad had known, he would've mentioned him in the will. Dad always wanted a son to carry on the family name."

Going into the hall, Lydia started for the kitchen, but stopped when she reached the typewriter room because the two inch thick oak door was slightly a jar. She stood at the door listening, from the room drifted the sound of the surf; the sound of waves washing against fine beach sand and the music of a flute. Opening the door she looked into the four hundred by five hundred square foot room. In the exact center of the room sat an oak desk with an antique typewriting sitting in the center, while to the left of the typewriter an electric lamp glowed a soft white. On the right side of the desk was an oak side table holding two reams of pure white typing paper. While in plush lavender office chair sit under the desk.

Stepping into the room, she inhaled the scent of spring, lilacs and roses accompanied by the scent of fresh turned sod. Frowning she look around the room trying to find something amiss, but with the exception of the glowing lights, everything looked normal. The plush gray couch with the two floor lamps set waiting for her to pick up a manuscript and begin reading. The gray carpet felt like silk to her bare feet.

Taking a deep breath, she turned right and begin slowly circling the room. The ceiling high oak bookshelves were still stuffed with the manuscripts created by her father, grandmother, and herself. Finally, she reached the movable ceiling high ladder resting against the west section of the bookshelf. There lying on the floor under the ladder was a manuscript. Bending down, Lydia picked up the manuscript and read the title Nancy Applewhite Lost in the Mist.

"At last," she said as she walked to the desk, "I've found the lost manuscript. I can finally learn where Grandma Selma sent my mother." A tear fell down her cheek, "Too bad Dad isn't alive to read this with me."

Opening the bottom drawer of the desk, she started lay the manuscript on top of the items in the drawer. "Not there, Lydia" her father's voice echoed through the room. "Take the manuscript into your bedroom and hide it there." Closing the desk drawer she left the room and pulled the door shut behind her. After a few seconds, the lock clicked into place and the handle no longer moved.

Forgetting about going into the kitchen, Lydia went back into her room and sit down on the bed. She placed the manuscript on the pillow and rested her left hand on top of it. Should I read this now, she though, or wait until daylight and read it in the setting room. What had her father told her about reading any of the manuscripts. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sometimes it helped her to remember.

On his death bed, he had given her the rules for reading the manuscripts. The rules for reading the manuscripts, unlike the rules for creating them, were passed verbally from parent to child and only when death was inhaling the parents life. Dad said, she smiled, that you read about strangers in the Typewriter room any time of day, but kinfolk and acquaintances you take those into the garden on a sunshiny day and read them there. She never got the chance to ask him why; however, she knew that it had to have something to do with safety.

Lydia had grown up with magic. She knew how dangerous the spells were. One had to be extremely careful in using them and in copying them onto paper. She knew that the typewriter and its spell was the most dangerous piece of magic on the planet. Even her grandmother, who had figured out how to enchant the typewriter, had to be paranoid careful when using the spell and when rereading the manuscripts she had created.

"So," she said to the manuscript resting on her pillow, "I take you out into the garden and read you there. Then what do I do with you? Do I put you back on the bookshelves? Do I bury you in the garden? Do I burn you? I wonder?"

Looking out the window, she watch the sky turn from deep black to gray-white and then to blue. Stretching and yawning, she placed the manuscript on the bedside stand and then went to the closet. Opening the door, she contemplated her choices for the day. She could wear one of her long black mourning dresses or she could chose something a little happier. This morning, a flowered lilac and pink short sleeved spring dress came to her attention.

"Mom's dress," she smiled as she removed it from the closet. "I've haven't worn Mom's dress in almost thirty years. I'll wear it while I'm reading the manuscript. Dad never said anything about what type of clothing a person wears to read the manuscripts." Placing the dress over her right arm, she went into the bathroom, hung the dress on the door knob, and turned on the shower. An hour later, she left the bathroom dressed and ready to go into the garden and read the manuscript. Returning to her bedroom, she pick up the manuscript and then went to the kitchen.

"Gena," she said to the cook as she entered the kitchen, "I'm having breakfast in the back garden this morning."

"You look beautiful today, Miss Lydia," the cook smiled. "Are you out of mourning?"

"It's too nice a spring day to mourn anything. I'm going to spend the day in the back garden, so you can put my breakfast and probably my lunch in the gazebo."

"Will you have anything special for lunch," Gena placed a plate containing eggs, bacon, ham, hash browns, and toast on a tray with a glass of orange juice, a cup and a pot of coffee.

"I would like," Lydia's brow wrinkled and then she smiled. "I would like a baked potato, roast chicken, green peas, a slice of chocolate cake, and sweetened ice tea." Lydia held the back door open for Gena and together they went into the garden.

In the vine covered gazebo, Lydia placed the manuscript on the picnic table and then sit down. Gena carefully placed the food in front of Lydia and then poured coffee into the cup. "What time would you like lunch," she ask before leaving the gazebo.

"Around noon... And, Gena, if anyone calls me or comes to see me today, tell them I'm busy and won't be available until late today or tomorrow morning."

"Of course, Miss Lydia."