Moonlight At Mistawis - Chapter 8: The Invitation Stands

Welcome to Chapter Eight of 'Moonlight at Mistawis', my independent, unofficial sequel to L. M. Montgomery's beloved 1926 novel 'The Blue Castle'.

Back in Deerwood, Olive cannot quite forget Valancy’s extraordinary invitation to visit Mistawis. Surrounded by the familiar voices and expectations of her family, she finds herself wondering what life on that strange little island might actually be like — and whether she dares to find out...

You do not need to have read or listened to 'The Blue Castle' first. 'Moonlight at Mistawis' can also be enjoyed as a standalone story.

Settle in, get comfortable, and enjoy this gentle literary sleep story, read aloud by the author.

Transcript

Hello there. Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Moonlight at Miss Darwis. This is my unofficial, Fan-written sequel to The Blue Castle, Which was published 100 years ago now, In 1926, By the incredible Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery. Here we are in September 2026 as I'm sat here recording this. And I am so delighted to be sharing my version of a sequel to this story. What began as just an idea really about a year and a half ago, Wondering what happened to the characters from the Blue Castle after that book. Has been a real labour of love and I'm so glad and excited to share it here with you. I do hope you're enjoying the story if you're listening along. This will be chapter 8 of 28, So we are actually already a quarter of the way through this book. If you haven't yet heard the preceding parts of this book and you'd like to, You can certainly look for the playlist for Moonlight at Mastawis and listen to all of the parts there in order. You can also listen to my recording of The Blue Castle if you like, If you haven't heard that. Or maybe as a refresher, If you have heard it before. You certainly don't have to have listened to The Blue Castle, Though, To be able to listen to this book. It was written as a standalone novel. But for now, Let's just take a moment here to have a nice, Deep exhale. Letting go of the day. Letting go of whichever baggage you 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 installment of Moonlight at Miss Starwes. Chapter Eight The Invitation Stands It had been three days since Valancy had visited Olive's residence. Olive hadn't told anyone. Not her mother, Not her father. Olive had kept the whole peculiar visit to herself. Valancy. Had sat in her parlour. As calmly as if all the years between them had amounted to nothing. Very little at all. That. Perhaps had been the strangest part. And then. . . She had invited Olive. To miss Starwiz. Mr Whiz That island. That's mad! She had imagined the place a dozen ways. Wild and improper. And overgrown with pine. In her mind, It was all logs and clutter. Possibly damp. With uncurtained windows and a fire that smoked. A place where women wore no corsets. And men took off their boots indoors. She had never dared or wished to imagine herself. Stepping foot there. And yet. . . Now! She found that she could not stop thinking about it. From her bedroom window seat, Olive stared down at the front walk, Where Valancy had stood just a few days before. Her mother's hydrangeas, Sickly looking this year, Quivered in the breeze. There was no one outside now. But the post boy on his bicycle, And he did not look up. She reached for her embroidery, Something useless and floral, But her needle had gone missing again. Probably rolled into the floorboards. She let her hands fall into her lap. There was a knock at the door. Olive came her mother's voice. Your uncle Benjamin has dropped by. We're in the parlor. Olive didn't answer straight away. She closed her eyes for a moment, Let the breeze from the window brush her cheek, Then stood, Composed herself, And descended the stairs with every step perfectly measured. The drawing room smelled faintly of furniture polish. Uncle Benjamin was seated near the fireless hearth, His coat already off and his braces visible, Sipping noisily at tea. Aunt Wellington sat like a carved idol in her wing chair, An imposing woman with beautifully arranged iron gray hair, Spine stiff and lips pursed, Watching him as though he were a stray dog she was trying to determine the breed of. There she is! Uncle Benjamin crowed. Thought you'd vanished into thin air, My girl. Still hiding away upstairs with your embroidery. Olive inclined her head. Good morning uncle aunt wellington barely glanced at her you might have come sooner The tea has already gone lukewarm. I'll warm it in a moment, " Olive said, Sitting beside the tray. Uncle Benjamin waved a hand. No need. I've drunk worse. He leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. Well now. Guess who dropped by my shop the other day? Your cousin, Valancy! Walked in like she owned the place. Calm as a clock. I almost swallowed my pencil. Aunt Wellington arched an eyebrow. What on earth for? Said she was just having a look around. Bought a little bottle of my best cinnamon oil of all things. Said it. Reminded her of somewhere? Looked like she had all the time in the world. He gave a chuckle, Shaking his head. I'll say this. She carries herself different now. Confident. Crowd, Exactly, But steady. The kind of steady that money brings, If you ask me. Neat little hat, Sensible gloves, Not a thread out of place. Olive kept her eyes on the teapot, Though her ears burned. She's done very well for herself, Aunt Wellington said coolly, As if correcting him. Though how she managed it. Heaven only knows. Quite the success story, Benjamin chuckled. Married that old fellow? Dropped off the mat? Then reappears two years later with her house on a private island and looking as if she She doesn't care a button what Dearwood thinks of her. Olive busied herself with the cups. Visited me a few days ago too, " she said after a moment. Aunt Wellington looked up sharply. She did? Olive nodded without looking up. She was. . . Calm. Polite. She said, I was welcome to visit them at Miss Star Wars. Her mother drew a sharp breath. And you didn't think to mention this? I didn't see that it required a report. Really? Olive! Aunt Wellington took a prim sip of her tea. If you'd had any sense, You'd have sent her packing. That sort of woman doesn't come calling without some purpose. I didn't get that sentence, " Olive said. She seemed sincere. Oh. They always do when they want something. Aunt Wellington muttered, Don't forget she disgraced us all once. Ran off to live up back. Embarrassed the entire family. And now we're meant to clap and throw roses because she's come back with lace on her sleeves. She didn't ask for applause, Olive said. Uncle Benjamin laughed. Wow. I think it's a fine thing. Bit of spice in the family. And that fellow Redfern. He's no idiot. Owns that whole island outright, Doesn't he? And books shipped in from England by the. . . Maybe Valancy always knew what she was doing. She didn't. Aunt Wellington snapped. She got lucky. Olive curled her fingers tightly into her palm. Did she say anything else? Her mother asked, Watching Olive keenly. No, Just that I was welcome. Uncle Benjamin gave her a speculative look. And are you going? Olive looked out the window. I. . . Haven't decided. Aunt Wellington scoffed and looked uncertain. Aren't thinking of going, Are you? No, Of course not, Olive said quickly, But her cheeks had coloured. It was just… Strange, That's all. I think she meant it kindly. Aunt Wellington made a snorting sound. Kindly. She meant to flaunt herself. Parade about like some gypsy queen and make you feel small. Honestly, Olive! You must be more guarded. She's always had a streak of drama in her. And I don't care what anyone says. No woman turns her back on her family, Then comes prancing back. Without some purpose of her own. There it was again, That thick, Cloying feeling, Like a parlour with all the windows closed and the fire too high. Was hardly a parade, " she said. Aunt Wellington. Poured more tea. With a slightly trembling hand. She must be lonely. Uncle Benjamin said thoughtfully. Living out on an island like that? Olive looked up. She doesn't seem it. She said quietly. She looked content. Aunt Wellington's teacup clicked against its saucer. I dare say a person can seem anything for a few minutes, Especially when they're trying to impress. I don't think she was Trying, Olive replied. Her mother. Gave her a long, Measuring look. You sound almost sympathetic. I'm not, Olive said, A little too quickly. I just. . . Noticed. I have a headache, She said. Please. Excuse me. Olive did not wait for permission. She walked to the door with careful posture, Left the room, And climbed the stairs at a pace just shy of fleeing. Her mother and Uncle Benjamin exchanged a glance, Both frowning slightly, As if they'd missed something but weren't sure what. In her bedroom, Olive shut the door and locked it. Then she stood very still, Listening to the house. The muffled voices downstairs resumed. The grandfather clock in the hall struck noon. Somewhere behind the walls, A pipe gave a low, Metallic groan. And Olive, Well, Olive walked to the window, Opened it wide, And breathed in the gusty April air like someone One gulping water. She pulled the window to again, Then stood still, Her breath shallow and uneven. Beneath her feet the murmur of conversation rose faintly from the parlour. Her mother's clipped tones, Uncle Benjamin's rumble, A distant clink of china. The house, In its usual way, Carried on. She turned and drew the curtains against the harsh April light. It filtered in anyway, Soft and persistent, Outlining the shape of the old watercolour above her writing desk. The same tidy English countryside picture she'd chosen at sixteen, Convinced it marked her as tasteful. Fourteen years later, It hadn't shifted a single inch. Olive sat stiffly on the edge of her bed. What had possessed her? To say all that. She doesn't seem it. She looked content. As if that was some. . . Excuse. As if she were defending Valancy. Of all people. She looked around her room, Tidy and restrained. The glass tray of hairpins on the vanity. The pressed blouse lying across the chair for church. Her collection of poetry. Only the serious volumes visible. There were others tucked behind them out of sight. A slim volume of Christina Rossetti. A tattered French phrasebook she had once tried to study. Dreams are for those who sleep. She hadn't dreamed in a long time. With the little noise of frustration. Olive got up and crossed to the wardrobe. She opened it and stared at the neat rows of skirts, Blouses and dresses. But she was thinking of Valancy's little house on the island. Not tidy, In the way Aunt Wellington would approve of, But warm, Lived in. The kind of place where you might read a novel without feeling that you had to apologize. She'd imagined, Stupidly, That Valancy's wild adventures would end in ruin or scandal. That she'd come crawling back. Instead. She'd disappeared and re-emerged with colour in her face and laughter in her voice. Now! Home that seemed like. Something out of a storybook Olive lifted a dress sleeve, Then let it fall. Too many of the dresses in her wardrobe seem to have Cecil caught in their folds. Memories of dinners, Calls and dutiful afternoons she had once assumed were leading somewhere permanent. She sighed. Deeply. Left the dresses as they were, Shut the wardrobe with a soft click. Crossed to her writing desk. And sat down. She pulled out a sheet of writing paper. One of the good ones. The ones with the embossed border. And stared at it. She wasn't sure what she meant to write. Or why. But Lancey's words, At the end of that brief visit, Had lingered. That quiet offer, Truly olive. The invitation stands. Anytime. Olive had nodded politely. Assuming it was one of those invitations not meant to actually be accepted. Valancy's eyes had met hers. Steady. Unflinching. And Olive had sensed that She meant it. She dipped her pen. And paused. The scratch of the nib as it touched the page startled her. She wrote. Dear Valancy Thank you for your visit the other day. I admit, I was surprised to see you. But. . . It stayed with me. In a way I didn't quite anticipate. Your invitation to Mastawis was. . . Unexpected. Perhaps not entirely unwelcome. She stopped. That sounded absurd. She drew a line through the last sentence and began again. Your invitation What's? Kind. I have thought about it and If the offer still stands, I might. Not immediately. Things are so very busy just now. Perhaps. Soon. If the weather holds. And if it wouldn't be an inconvenience. . . It would be interesting to see that place of yours. There, That was measured. She wouldn't have written it at all if she hadn't meant it. But she also didn't want to seem eager. She signed it with a practiced flourish and read it over twice. Then she folded it neatly and placed it in an envelope. She set the letter aside. She wasn't going to post it right away. She'd wait a day or two. If she still felt the same by then. If it didn't feel ridiculous. She might slip it into the mail when no one was looking. She stood and went to the window. The church bell tolled. Somewhere in the distance someone was burning leaves and the scent drifted up to her on the April air. She thought of Valancy, There, Just three days ago. Inviting her as casually as if It were the most ordinary thing. In the world. Perhaps. It was. Olive looked back at the envelope on her desk. She did not tear it up.