Hello there.
Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of my book,
Moonlight at Misdarwis.
This is my unofficial,
Fan-written sequel to celebrate 100 years since the publishing of Lucy Maud Montgomery's incredible 1926 novel,
The Blue Castle.
If you haven't listened to The Blue Castle before,
You can certainly look for my reading of that here on Insight Timer.
You'll find all the parts of that book in order.
It's also not necessary,
However,
To have listened to that book before listening to this one.
This book was written so that it can be enjoyed also as just a standalone novel.
I hope you'll join me in this adventure as we are transported back a hundred years or so to a simpler time when there was a slower pace of life.
I know that in these modern times things can often feel quite harsh and hurried and stressful and And as I've mentioned before,
Sleep stories have been personally so helpful for me with my own journey.
And that's why I started recording them and wanting to share them with other people to try to help others to feel some sense of comfort and soothing.
And may this book be something along those lines for you.
But for now,
Let's just take a moment here.
To have a nice Exhale.
Letting go of the day.
Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.
For right now,
There's nowhere else we have to go,
Nothing else we have to be doing.
So we can just relax,
Get ourselves comfortable,
And enjoy the next instalment of Moonlight at Mystawis.
Chapter 2 Deerwood awaited.
The morning after the letter arrived,
The wind shifted.
It no longer whispered through the pines,
It rattled them.
A restless tapping like knuckles against a closed door.
Even the lake looked different,
Less like silk,
More like a mirror dropped and broken,
Scattered with light.
Balancy packed,
Slowly.
Not because she was reluctant,
At least not entirely.
Mastawis had taught her that leaving and loving were not enemies.
Still,
It was hard to fold away the quiet happiness she had built here.
Even for a little while,
Having only just returned so recently.
And yet,
The pull,
She felt,
Was also undeniable.
Barney,
Whistling tunelessly,
Helped without fuss,
Bundling a few necessities into a battered satchel.
An extra cardigan,
The blue scarf Valancy had fallen in love with in Istanbul,
And a small packet of maple sugar he tucked in a few sheets of crisp paper too.
For moonlight musings,
He said with a wink,
And Valancy smiled despite herself.
Good luck and Banjo prowled the perimeter of the cabin,
Suspicious of any new change.
Banjo climbed into the canoe twice and had to be dislodged each time with coaxing and a bribe of smoked fish.
Good luck circled the bundles with wide eyes,
Clearly concerned that someone was about to be left behind.
The lancy paused in front of the little window,
Mug in hand,
Watching the lake shift and tremble beneath the swirling wind.
The sky held that raw blue of early spring,
Not quite warm,
But full of possibility.
The kettle hissed behind her,
And the scent of pine smoke curled around the room.
I'd come all the way,
Moonlight,
" Barney said as he tightened the strap of her pack,
But he jerked his head towards Bluebeard's chamber,
Wherein a scatter of half-written pages lay curled on the table under a stone.
Deadline,
Valancy guessed.
Mailboat leaves tomorrow morning,
He nodded.
If I miss it,
My esteemed publisher will send search parties armed with pitchforks.
Valancy laughed,
But there was a knot of warmth tightening behind her ribs.
Yes,
You mustn't miss it,
She said.
Truly,
Barney,
It's all right.
I can manage,
Dearwood.
He studied her.
That steady,
Thoughtful way he had.
The morning light bringing out the strange,
Violet blue of his dark eyes.
Still,
He said,
I'm paddling you across.
No arguments.
No arguments,
She agreed,
Softly.
They shared breakfast by the stove,
Tea,
Toasted bread and a jar of leftover strawberry jam.
Valancy tried to keep her thoughts on breakfast,
But they strayed.
To Deerwood.
To Olive.
To Georgiana's careful handwriting folded away in her coat pocket.
What do you think?
Olive.
Really wants.
She asked at last.
Barney considered this.
I don't know.
Neither do I.
For Lancey stirred her tea.
Do you think?
I can help her.
If she wants helping.
Balancy looked at him.
You could invite her here,
Barney said.
That's something.
To miss Star Wars.
Why not?
The lancy was silent for a moment.
She may say no,
Probably.
You're very encouraging this morning.
I haven't finished my toast.
' Valancy laughed softly and reached for the teapot.
By mid-morning,
They stood together at the dock.
The old canoe nudged the worn posts,
Its hull still damp from last night's dew.
The mist,
Rising off the lake,
Blurred the edges of the world until Miss Darwis seemed to float like a dream on the slush-streaked water.
Barney paddled with easy,
Confident strokes,
Pausing here and there to break through some particularly stubborn patch of ice with his paddle.
For Lancey sat with her pack,
Tucked at her feet,
Hands folded in her lap,
Watching Mastawis slip away.
First the cabin,
Then the lopsided spruce by the shore,
Then the silver flash of the cats chasing a startled chickadee.
She let the vessel's motion soothe her,
Though something in her chest still felt taut.
Are you nervous?
Barney asked,
Not looking at her.
Yes.
Do you want to turn back?
No.
He nodded,
And they said nothing more for a while.
The canoes slipped past the tree-lined shore into the inlet where loons sometimes nested.
A pair of them startled into the air,
Calling in long,
Wavering notes that echoed across the lake.
Valancy breathed in the scent of damp pine and thawing earth.
A crow called somewhere in the distance.
Maybe Nip.
Maybe Tuck.
She couldn't be sure which.
When they reached the mainland dock,
Barney held the canoe steady while she climbed out.
He didn't say much.
He didn't have to.
Instead,
He pressed her hands briefly in both of his,
Calloused and warm.
Come back soon,
He said,
His voice low and sure.
I will,
" she promised.
He handed her the satchel,
Brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with rough tenderness,
Kissed her cheek,
And stepped back.
Valancy set off up the winding path.
Without looking back.
The mist curled around her ankles,
Tugging playfully at her skirt.
Above her unseen in the thinning clouds.
The moon hung pale and patient in the morning sky.
Deerwood.
Awaited.
The little town hadn't changed,
Of course.
Small towns seldom did.
It still wore the same tidy face it always had.
Prim white porches,
Swept daily.
Hedges trimmed just so.
Curtains drawn halfway to allow glances without commitment.
The pavements were patched where tree roots had lifted them,
And every second shop window bore a hand-lettered sign for eggs,
Knitting wool or mending services.
The Tower of St Albans loomed over the rooftops,
Its old weathervane creaking faintly in the breeze.
Valancy hesitated as she passed the church.
Remembering the damp chill of the pews.
The hollow sermons and disapproving glances.
The way her aunt had pinched her arm once for fidgeting.
During the minister's warning against frivolity.
It seemed like.
There had been no warmth in that building.
Only.
Performance.
Respectability masquerading as righteousness.
She found that she felt no bitterness now.
Only.
Distance.
A cool and grateful distance.
A pair of children walked past with a skipping rope,
Counting in unison.
A dog barked from somewhere unseen.
The ordinary rhythm of the town went on.
Steady.
Watchful.
And,
To Valancy's eyes,
Untouched by time.
She passed the old bakery with its faded striped awning.
The familiar sweet smell of warm bread and cinnamon drifted through the cracks in the door.
Balancy smiled.
She recalled how she had once stood here outside,
Coins sweating in her palm,
Too shy to ask for the raisin bun that she really wanted.
Just beyond,
She spotted Miss Nettie Sloan,
Sweeping her stoop with her usual brisk efficiency.
For Lancey hadn't seen her in years.
Doss!
Sterling!
Miss Sloan called.
Eyebrows shooting up.
Wow!
We'd just about given you up for gone.
Balancy stepped to the edge of the path,
Smiling.
Hello,
Miss Sloan.
I've just been.
.
.
Living a little differently.
Hmm,
Said Miss Sloane,
Eyeing her.
You look it.
There's something about your eyes.
Not the same skittish look.
Well,
I hope for your sake you're not back for long.
It's a miserable year for Maple Blight.
And even worse for Smalltalk.
Valancy laughed.
I'll try not to make too much of either.
Miss Sloane grunted approval and went back to her sweeping.
Valancy continued on.
She passed a patch of wild crocus,
Brave purple goblets,
Shyly poking up through damp leaves.
And remembered the bouquet Olive had carried to church one Easter Sunday long ago.
For Lancey had thought her the most beautiful girl in the world.
She turned down a side lane for a moment,
Past the fence of a house where a maple tree leaned slightly,
Its trunk twisted from storms past,
But thriving all the same.
There,
Once,
She and Olive had made crowns of yellow dandelions and pretended They were queens.
Olive had decreed royal laws with grave importance.
Valancy had merely smirked and followed along,
Childhood had seemed so simple until somehow it ceased to be.
Olive.
Somewhere in Deerwood.
I'll live,
Awaited.
Not the dazzling,
Proud olive of old.
Someone.
Quieter.
Someone.
Wounded.
Everyone knew,
Of course.
Not in loud whispers or public scandals.
Dearwood had a more insidious way of knowing.
The broken engagement,
The unopened hope chest,
The narrowing of eyes that had once been wide with dreams.
For Lancey thought of Georgiana's letter.
The stiffness in the handwriting,
The plea tucked awkwardly inside the formal words.
She had re-read it last night by the fire,
The cats curled beside her,
The lake murmuring under a waxing moon.
Georgiana hadn't meant to say much.
Yet the silence around the words and spoken volumes whatever had happened with Cecil.
There was plainly more to it than Deerwood knew.
Valancy paused beside a low fence where pussywillow catkins had begun to silver the branches.
Their soft grey tips trembled in the breeze.
She reached out and touched one lightly.
There had been a time when she,
Too,
Had been convinced that certain kinds of lives were not meant for her.
That happiness was something delicate,
Always belonging,
To someone else.
Valanci didn't pity.
I'll live.
She didn't scorn her.
She didn't even entirely understand her.
But she remembered what it was to feel small.
And stifled.
Without knowing where the door was,
Let alone how to open it.
She only wished.
Fiercely.
Fervently that Olive might find something more.
Than what dear wood had left her.
Ahead,
Dearwood stretched out,
Prim,
Proper.
Utterly unaware that anyone had ever dreamed beyond its picket fences.
Melantzy hoisted her pack a little higher and smiled.
Not with bitterness,
But with a quiet kind of courage.
The church bell rang eleven times.
Its clear tones skipping across rooftops.
She passed Olive's house then,
Without slowing.
The Wellington residence.
Curtains drawn,
Porch swept,
Every shingle tidy.
Nothing appeared broken.
And yet.
Olive would be inside or nearby.
The thought made Valancy's pulse beat a little faster.
She didn't turn up the walk.
Not yet.
Her for it knew another path.
The quieter one,
Edged with hopeful budding violets and moss,
Leading past the mill lane and towards the edge of town.
Towards cousin Georgiana's house.
A small roof nestled beneath overgrown lilacs just beginning to leaf out.
A gate that's stuck.
A porch with two rocking chairs.
Valancy had seldom been there,
But she remembered the quiet sturdiness of the place.
The sense that things could be spoken there.
Truths that might not fit within the stuffy parlours of Deerwood proper.
And Valancy wanted truth now.
She wanted to hear what Georgiana hadn't quite said in her letter.
To understand.
To help,
If she could.
She reached the garden path just as the wind stirred the lilacs into motion.
The gate gave its usual protest,
But yielded.
A bird startled from the eaves.
Valancy raised her hand to knock,
Heart steady now.
Above,
The thin silver coin of the moon slipped higher,
Lighting the way.
