THE SPECTRAL CITY has arrived!

Solving crime isn’t only for the living.  
In turn-of-the century New York City, the police have an off-the-books spiritual go-to when it comes to solving puzzling corporeal crimes . . .
Her name is Eve Whitby, gifted medium and spearhead of The Ghost Precinct. When most women are traveling in a gilded society that promises only well-appointed marriage, the confident nineteen-year-old Eve navigates a social circle that carries a different kind of chill. Working with the diligent but skeptical Lieutenant Horowitz, as well as a group of fellow psychics and wayward ghosts, Eve holds her own against detractors and threats to solve New York’s most disturbing crimes as only a medium of her ability can. But as accustomed as Eve is to ghastly crimes and all matters of the uncanny, even she is unsettled by her department’s latest mystery. Her ghostly conduits are starting to disappear one by one as though snatched away by some evil force determined to upset the balance between two realms, and most important—destroy the Ghost Precinct forever. Now Eve must brave the darkness to find the vanished souls. She has no choice. It’s her job to make sure no one is ever left for dead.

From Leanna:

Dear readers, I'm so excited to share this brand new venture with Kensington's brand new Sci-Fi/Fantasy Imprint Rebel Base Books. This series has been in my head for years, thinking about what would happen to the Denbury clan in the next generation.

I'm thrilled to introduce you to Eve Whitby, daughter of Natalie Stewart-Whitby and Jonathon Whitby, Lord Denbury, stars of Darker Still and my Magic Most Foul saga, to return "Gran" Evelyn Northe-Stewart to the center of the story, and to introduce you to a diverse set of talented young mediums and the dashing Detective Horowitz. 

I'm eager to bring you eerie action and adventure at the end of the 19th Century, in gritty, grand, mystifying and electrifying New York City, where I have been a proud licensed tour guide for nearly thirteen years, sharing the thrills from the obvious to the obscure in this incredible place. 
Most of all, I'm thankful for your support of me and my work. 

This is a very critical book for me at a critical juncture in my career. If you'd like me to continue writing books, supporting this book will ensure I can. I'll be very honest that the last few years haven't been easy, I've continued to publish but the journey has been hard. If this book does well, it can ensure I can keep my head above water and write the next book. You can purchase this book in any format and know that you're not only directly supporting an author whose whole heart and soul and mission are in her books, but you're supporting a brand new imprint run by New York's last independently run publishing house, Kensington. Please support THE SPECTRAL CITY today and share this with other like-minded readers in your life! Cheers, blessings and Happy Haunting! 

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An exclusive excerpt from THE SPECTRAL CITY

A SPECTRAL CITY excerpt featuring a few beloved return characters and showcasing what's become everyone's favorite part of this series in early reviews and responses: the growing chemistry between the star, Eve Whitby, and her colleague Detective Horowitz. May I present, a 19th century ball! Setting: 1899, in haunted Manhattan…

From THE SPECTRAL CITY (book 1 in the Spectral City series with Kensington, Rebel Base Books, by Leanna Renee Hieber)

Sweeping down her staircase, enjoying the drama of her dress train, Eve lifted the gargoyle-headed doorknocker and let it go, creating an echoing boom on the hefty wooden door that had been put in to connect her home to that of her parents. Her mother let her in, and closed the door behind her quickly, as if a ghost would slip through if she left it open. That was in fact a distinct probability, even though Sensitives had warded the door against them.

Eve now stood in the central hallway of the main Denbury townhouse, which led to a grand staircase on one side, the front door on the other, and a little rounded foyer with rooms edging off of it—parlor and dining room, everything furnished in warm rosewoods and pale satin colors, with an airy palette diametrically contrasting the richer, heavier tones on her side. “See?” she said triumphantly, opening the silk capelet to reveal the dress.

“Look at you, out of black and into something livelier for a change. And purple, no less!” her mother exclaimed. "My favorite,” her mother said with a smile, her green eyes lighting up. “And you wear it beautifully. Is there a particular interest in the Prenze family that has you out on this crisp night?” Eve knew they were asking because this was outside of any of her social norms.

She leaned in. “Do you really want to know?”

Mother turned to Father, who had stepped into the room to greet her. “Do we really want to know?”

“If she asks us that, you know it’s about the ghosts, so I defer to you, dear,” her father said quietly.

Eve held up her hands, absolving herself of any responsibility should they be made uncomfortable.

“You do look lovely, though, Eve, dear,” he added. “Belle of the ball I’m sure.”

“Say it, then,” her mother prompted with exasperation.

“Our department was told to stay away from the family, that there had been ‘spectral intrusion’ when I had ordered no such thing. I want to see why they’re defensive.” When her mother opened her mouth, Eve anticipated her. “I’ll be careful. They are of a certain social status. So is Gran. Nothing will be strange. Paths will cross. I hope to navigate the department that much more safely. No good comes from hiding one’s head in the sand, you know that.” Her mother’s lips thinned, but the expression on her face showed that she couldn’t contradict her own advice. It wasn’t that Eve’s parents had ever wanted her to lie about the fact that spirits ruled her stars; they just wished the paranormal had at least skipped a generation. To give them all a longer respite away from something they’d never asked for.

In her early life, Eve had not appreciated the pain of it. Only Gran could fully navigate the tension, and thankfully her arrival had cured all. Having let herself into the house, she exclaimed at the sight of Eve. “Ah,” Gran cooed, “you wore the House of Worth!” She kissed Eve on the head and moved to embrace her step-daughter.

“That’s it,” Eve muttered. “I was trying to remember who I was wearing.”

“I would have thought,” Gran began in a chastising tone, “considering you now serve the city in the de facto capacity of a detective, that you’d have a better mind for such details, noting every class in which you might find yourself moving in. Besides, they are the very best designers and I confess to loving a gorgeous gown as much as anything. Call me trivial.” At this, Eve laughed and Gran gestured to the door. “Let me take her off your hands. I promise to keep an eye out for promising suitors, the one she already has notwithstanding,”

Gran assured, and when Eve noticed how her parents lit up at this, Gran simply patted Eve on the hand as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. Eve kissed her parents each on the cheek and they followed her to the front door.

Outside, she again allowed herself a moment of grandeur descending the stoop in her gown before the heel of her nicest pair of shoes—some impractical, satin-covered concoction—nearly caught in one of her modest trains. A near tumble down the steps humbled her from any grander notions.

A few familiar ghosts whose spectral forms remained forever in their finest regalia swept up to her, drawn by her finery, and chattered away about their favorite moments from balls long gone and suitors long dead; a sudden, sentimental cacophony. Eve turned to all of them and offered a smile and a little curtsey, which seemed to content them. The burst of spectral onslaught faded, the knot of spirits wafting down the lane to haunt the edges of Central Park, still murmuring about stolen kisses. Eve allowed herself to enjoy their explosive sentiment, letting it kindle a fondness within her.
That’s what she wanted the world to understand about spirits; they told you more about life than death. They were a constant reminder to appreciate it, every moment you could.

Once seated in Gran’s carriage it would be a quick drive to the event. When Eve had suggested they simply walk the avenue and several blocks, Gran had taken one look at her fancy shoes, and Eve relented. “Detective Horowitz agreed to meet me at the event. As social foundation, assurance and chaperone, Gran, can we wait for him at the entrance? I suppose I should have asked if that was all right before inviting him,” Eve said rather sheepishly.

Gran chuckled. “The moment you said you had a ‘suitor’ I was prepared for any contingency. It doesn't surprise me you've created a ruse, but I hope the young man is amenable.”

Eve smiled. “He is, and you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for.”

“It’s my calling,” Gran said, returning the smile. She thought a moment and the smile turned slightly worried. “Do you two intend to go searching the house?”

“As tempting as that might be, I think it highly unwise. I think instinct, and the whisper of spirits, will give us plenty to work with for now, lest my department receive another complaint.”

Pulling up, there was a carriage ahead of them and they stared out the window at the property. It was a large white granite block of a building with golden metal details, ornate cornice pieces, and another rectangular extension of large garden grounds on either side. Tightly trimmed hedges with topiaries poked up from the hedgerows, and the top of what looked like a huge golden gazebo, with open lattice-work more like the top of an enormous bird-cage, could be seen at the rear of the complex. “Well, it’s a . . . statement, this place,” Eve said.

The carriage path cleared and their cab rolled ahead as the next to alight. “The whole property feels like an elaborate series of traps,” Gran muttered. “The walled garden, that outside cage affair, this portico—look, the stones in the arch are like teeth, a mouth ready to swallow guests . . .”

Gran’s driver, a lovely man named John, helped them both out and whistled at the property. “I know it’s not quite your style, ma’am, but it’s something else.”

“It’s something else all right,” Gran said with a little chuckle.

“I’ll be ready by ten, take whatever time you need. It’s good to see you out socializing and not just working, Miss Whitby,” John said, bowing his head.

“Oh, I’m working,” she countered quietly. “That’s the only reason I’m here. But don’t tell them that,” Eve nodded towards the house. “I’m here incognito.”

John laughed. “At least you all keep life interesting,” he said, climbing atop his perch and driving off.

From under the portico maw, a raised portcullis gate with golden spikes hovering over them like waiting fangs, they ascended the few steps to the front door landing. Once inside, a few guests in the wide entrance foyer were fussing with cloaks and capelets, handing them over to a footman dressed to the nines in livery. “There’s a young man who will be here on my invitation,” Gran stated to the footman. “Should we simply wait for him here? I don’t want to be in anyone’s way, but I don’t want any lost lambs.”

Just as she said this, there was a tentative but familiar voice calling out from the shadows beyond the threshold of the open door, part of a head peeking in. “Hello there, sorry if you’re waiting for me!”

Stepping into the bright electric light of the stone shelter was the detective, his mop of curly brown hair tamed a bit, but not entirely. He was in a very fine black suit with a royal blue waistcoat, a small white rosebud in his lapel. Dashing, Eve had to admit. There was something about dressing up that had the capability to create magic and possibility.

“Well,” Gran murmured approvingly.

“Ah, the man of the hour,” Eve declared as his warm brown eyes edged in blue flicked from her to Gran and he smiled a wide, dazzling smile. It’s as if he knew he needed to play his role as charming gentleman and had stepped into it with ease. “Gran, may I introduce you to Mr. Horowitz, who has become a truly valuable asset to me and mine.”

“Jacob Horowitz, at your service, madam,” he declared, bowing slightly before holding out his hand. Gran gave hers. “I’ve heard you’re the cleverest and the most important woman on the planet. I look forward to saying the same from personal experience.”

Gran laughed. “Flattery, even before anyone’s had a glass of champagne— what a lovely night so far. Come, let’s have our cloaks taken up,” Gran gestured to the waiting footman.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” the detective murmured to Eve, his cheeks coloring scarlet. “Mother made a bit of a scene over me.”

Gran graciously involved herself with talking to another lady she recognized. By the way they spoke of dogs and a Reverend it was clear  they knew one another from Reverend Blessing’s ASPCA events. The Reverend, one of Gran’s best friends was an ardent rescuer of animals. It was lovely that Gran knew everyone, it was lovelier still that Gran knew everyone from doing amazing things.

“Mother was so overjoyed at the idea of my going to meet someone,” Horowitz explained, still in a whisper, “well, to be specific, a girl, that she insisted, last minute, on a new suit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her you weren’t Jewish, she might have made me return it.”

Eve chuckled. “Well, it’s a very nice suit,” she offered.

“Thanks,” he said, trying to adjust the stiff collar with a grimace, to no avail. “But I can’t move.”

“That makes two of us,” Eve said, gesturing to her own trappings.

“Well, it’s a very nice gown,” the detective offered in turn.

 “Here we are, in the nicest of things, longing for shirtsleeves.”

“You’re telling me,” he exclaimed. “And the ability to breathe.”

“You’re telling me,” Eve countered, patting the doubled layers of boning and stiff satin. “I’m in the corset.”

Horowitz shook his head. “I don’t know how you ladies do it.”

“I don’t, usually. Thank goodness for modern times and dress reform.”

“Agreed.” Horowitz gestured ahead of him. “For this set, dressing like this is a uniform, part of their job. I don’t envy it.”

“And they don’t envy us; keeping the distinction of classes comfortably each at their own level, not at one another’s throats. I suppose we’re a fine example of capitalism at its most gracious.” At this, Horowitz laughed a little too loudly. Everyone in the entrance foyer turned. Horowitz turned too, as if looking at someone behind him. Eve bit her tongue to hold in a guffaw.

“Come on, you two, into the fray,” Gran said gently and the trio stepped forward. Another liveried gentleman was checking guest names and Eve let Gran do all the talking. What was and wasn’t acceptable Eve didn’t dare presume; she didn’t have the social intricacies to fathom it. While Gran didn’t know the Prenze family personally, one of their relatives had insisted that any function that crossed Gran’s notice was open under her name, and to lean on her association with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This seemed to do the trick and they were allowed to pass into another reception area, an empty room with a marble floor and a reproduction of part of the Sistine chapel painted along the walls, with extra gilding added onto the paint. In this square room a few people stood milling and chatting, glancing around for others they knew.

A stream of people were progressing down another hall beyond the painted anteroom, towards music in the distance. They followed. Wooden pocket doors with golden inlay led to rooms off the main corridor, but all were shut. Small decorative tables were inset along the corridor, each one sporting a grand urn-like vase in 18th century French style that was positively tumbling with fragrant lilies. “Smells like a funeral,” Gran murmured in Eve’s ear, and she again bit her tongue so as not to bark a laugh, her tongue now sore from decorum.

Their trio entered the ballroom and drank it in. It was the very epitome of the nouveau riche that the old aristocracy abhorred. Gaudy and overblown, trying to make a statement not by saying something but by shouting it. Everything was gilded, there were fountains at each corner hewn from marble, and electric light blazed from seashell sconces, illuminating a dome above them littered with hanging chandeliers of innumerable crystals along the circumference and a ceiling painted to be a blue sky with a golden sun at the epicenter. The ballroom floor itself was marble, a theme through the house, but not the best choice for dancing; it made everyone too careful and there was no bounce to it, no give, making movement hard and stiff, not to mention noisy, as if it was all for show with no thought about the enjoyment of it. A cluster of men in tailcoats were near one of the recesses of the ballroom, an inset dais of golden-backed, velvet covered chairs from which one figure stood.

Eve followed Horowitz’ eyes as they widened. The most arresting woman Eve had ever seen descended from the dais with a laugh, her gaggle of admirers following her. A stunning flame-haired redhead, with hair so bright as to be nearly copper, her eyes were wide and crystalline, and her mouth a pink bow of a smile. She was dressed in what appeared to be a white Regency gown, with a length of sky blue crepe hanging from lithe arms. She wasn’t clothed remotely in the style of recent fashion, but appeared to have stepped out of some costumed drama and Eve wondered if everyone had missed an instruction to appear in clothing from long ago. It was obvious that everyone was murmuring about her as a centerpiece of the event. Eve glanced at an enormous portrait hanging at the back of the ballroom, and she understood this woman must be part of the family with her uncanny resemblance to the couple who stood painted in Regency finery, to which her dress was an homage.

Eve found herself moving towards the center of the room, almost unconsciously, as if everyone who looked at this woman was immediately magnetized and drawn into her orbit, when she caught sight of an unfortunate figure by the wall and paused. Horowitz, at her side, followed her eyes and groaned. “Mahoney. After the complaint about this family I can’t imagine he’ll like seeing me here, so let’s try not to be seen,” Eve stated. He was standing in a fine suit, arms folded over his barrel chest, his thinning silver hair swept back from his bulldog-jowled face, a frown drooping down below his bushy mustache. His eyes were affixed, as nearly all were, to the beauteous lady of the house.

This gave her cover to find Gran, who had taken up a gilded chair not far from the punch table.
Her sitting there, as if on a throne, was its own breathtaking moment for Eve, looking at this regal creature in her saffron gown, like a ray of elder sunlight descending from the painted sky, there to illuminate them all with wisdom and wit. Though Eve wondered a moment about her needing to sit. In earlier years she likely would have been one of the first on the dance floor, regardless of the surface, there to shine radiant beams and catch everyone up in her glow. Gran’s eyes flicked behind Eve and as the three of them were close enough, Gran murmured, “Quite the family.” Eve turned to see the beautiful woman talking to a lanky, lean man who shared that same orange-flame hair, save his was streaked with bands of white at each temple. An elder brother.

Additional movement caught Eve’s eye. “Oh, no, here comes a bit of trouble,” Eve muttered. “Gran, I’ll need your help on this. Mahoney is one of our chief critics.”

At this, Gran stood and Eve was reminded just how towering she was—not just tall, but statuesque in her power. The man approached them, his drooping scowl seemingly affixed to his face at rest. Evelyn stepped forward as if to defend Eve, but armed with an effervescent smile, and the parties kept a comfortable distance of a few feet while the music changed to a different baroque tune, something old-fashioned and courtly, matching the gilded, dated decor.

“Miss Whitby, Mrs. Northe-Stewart,” Sergeant Mahoney bobbed his head. He turned to Horowitz. “Detective? What are you doing here?”

“The Horowitz family has been a long-time friend of our family,” Gran stated, and Eve was grateful for the connection to her mother’s school friend Rachel. “I’ve been telling the detective he needs to appreciate the finer things in life, a pastime this family so clearly delights in.”

“I do hope you’re simply here in the service of high society,” he grumbled, choosing to address only the elder Evelyn.

“Oh, of course, why else would anyone attend a ball? Are you a relative or the hired help here this evening?” Evelyn asked pointedly.

Eve kept her face neutral but was surprised by Gran’s directness. Her position, age and wealth afforded her this ability. Eve would hardly be given such breadth.

Mahoney’s jaw clenched. “I believe in this family’s philanthropic work.”

“And just what all does that work entail? Usually the people in my sphere are very public about it, carving their names into cornerstones and naming institutions after themselves.”

“And this family just so happens to be private about it. More godly, don’t you think, to be private about one’s service?”

“So you know nothing about it?”

“I know that Mister Prenze is a reformer to those who have sin in their hearts and minds. Those who are restless and seeking. He’s saved lives and souls. After a family loss, the only succor is prayer.” He spoke with such certainty Eve felt clear he was speaking for himself and some tragedy he personally sustained.

“Well that sounds very fine of him,” Gran offered. “And I’m terribly sorry to hear of a loss.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened. “I’d have thought everyone in high society knew about the death of the Prenze twin.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Gran exclaimed, clucking her tongue. “I’m terribly sorry, how rude of me. I do remember reading about that, my memory isn’t what it used to be!” She shook her head. Eve wasn’t sure if that was true or not. There were games one played in conversations in places like this. “I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced to Mr. Prenze directly—my connection here is through a mutual associate. Is that something you’d like to arrange or would it be best if I manage that myself?”

The sergeant glanced first at Eve, almost as if to ask if she’d put her Grandmother up to this, and then glanced back. “He’s obviously very busy, as is his sister.”

“Well, I’ll just have to introduce myself when I see him unoccupied,” Gran said with a winning smile. “Good evening, Sergeant. My dears,” she turned to them. “Let’s have more punch.”

Eve and Horowitz nodded their heads in respect and followed Gran’s lead of sweeping over to the refreshment table just as fresh champagne was brought out to the guests. Mahoney’s scowl remained fixed after them. Eve could feel it as if it were a hand on the back of her skull, but Gran paid no mind, continuing on with her effervescent smile.

“I am all kinds of curious,” Horowitz whispered.

“If he has a certain ‘ministry’ I imagine he has loyal followers, if this is any indication,” Eve said, watching the admiring crowds at work.

“Industry. I want to know what industry made the family’s wealth,” Horowitz stated. “Usually one can tell.”

“Medicine. Tonics. Placations and palliatives,” Eve offered. “I’ve seen the name in adverts. It’s often obvious in design or motif in homes built from robber baron profit. You’d think there would be at least a caduceus or something, illuminating the source of their fortunes under all the garish light.”

“It is bright, isn’t it?” Horowitz said, looking around. “Almost too bright.”

“Do you want to know the oddest thing of all?” Eve asked. The detective gestured for her to proceed. Eve drew closer, taking one of Gran’s proffered cups and handing one to the detective. She leaned in toward Gran, so that both could hear her murmur. “There are no spirits. Not a one. Ghosts love balls. But there are none here. None passing through, none lingering to watch or pine, or to frolic. This is a void.”

“It’s true,” Gran assented. “Nothing. That’s the strangest thing, next to a marble ballroom floor. Who on earth wants to dance on the hardest stone and injure their feet? Everyone knows the best ballroom floor is a wooden one,” Gran scoffed.

“Perhaps the Prenze family just thinks everyone will glide about their floor,” Horowitz offered with a slight smile. “It does seem to be trying for a celestial sort of look.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Eve replied with a little laugh. “I’m not sure God would be so gaudy, but who am I to guess? Not for mortal minds to fathom.”

“But no spirits in the least,” Gran said, glancing about a shallow clerestory level above the ballroom. “It’s troubling, truly. Because I have felt, since I came onto these grounds, like I’m being watched. Do you?”

“Well, yes, by the sergeant,” Eve answered.

“Beyond that man; he was harmless,” Gran countered. “Just a loyal dog trying to feel very important. But right now, I feel watched. Distinctly. But I cannot find from where, or by whom.”

They looked around, at everyone, at every level, at every bright corner, as there were no shadows to be seen, hoping for an answer.

“Do you dance, Miss Whitby?” the detective asked after a while. She looked at him. His unique face, angled and distinct, was more handsome to her the more she stared at it. He’d asked a question . . .

“I have. At least, I have been taught to dance. And I’ve been known to, occasionally.” Goodness, she thought with terror, could she sound more awkward? And why did she even care? The whole point of her pretense was so that she wouldn’t have to.

“Would you like to?” he prompted.

“Dance?”

“Well, yes,” he replied haltingly. “We’re at a dance. In a ballroom. It’s what it’s meant for, ill-suited floor notwithstanding.” Eve paused. “We don’t have to, I mean, I know we’re not—I understand fully. I feel the same—”

“Ah, a waltz, my favorite!” Eve exclaimed as the music shifted and she tried to absolve them both of awkwardness. Perhaps it was good there were no ghosts, lest they chatter about her and the detective and make her self-conscious. It was one of the reasons she’d been so reluctant to consider a suitor.

Many people often insinuated themselves and offered unsolicited opinions when it came to romance, but none so much as the dead. She’d struck a deal with spirits when she was fourteen that if they didn’t stop fussing over what she wore or looked like, or whether they thought she’d gotten enough rest or had the right attitude about something, she’d never respond to them ever again, on the surety that they’d all, young and old and every kind equally henpeck her to death. Treat me as you’d wish to be treated, she’d had to remind the spirits. Right now, she didn’t want ghostly editorializing as she felt Horowitz’ firm palm cup her waist and his outstretched hand receive hers.

Twirling about, Eve caught sergeant Mahoney’s scowling gaze. On another twirl she caught Gran’s bemused expression, seemingly delighted that Eve was at least playing at enjoying her pretense of a suitor. On another spin, twirled under the detective’s deft arm—and why did he also have to be so effortless a dancer—she watched as the Prenze brother and sister danced together, their fair faces beaming, like oscillating candles with their orange-flame hair, lighting up the whole room as they spun.

There was a great deal of love there; that was clear. And yet, without spirits hanging about in rafters or against walls or swooping down over the company in glee and abandon, as Eve had always known, something felt terribly empty here. There was no life when there was no death . . . This world was entirely incomplete.

They enjoyed one waltz but at the end, breaking apart, their eyes meeting in a flash as bright as the electric bulbs, it seemed clear with a resurging swell of awkwardness that they’d best not indulge in a second.

“Thank you,” they said at the same time, and smiled.

(end of excerpt)
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THE SPECTRAL CITY releases from Kensington Rebel Base Books 11/27 in eBook (only $3.99!) print paperback, or audio book! Pre-orders can get a special gift by putting in their conformation # here!  - Amazon - Barnes and Noble - Indiebound - Signed, Personalized copies via Etsy

Edward and Rose: An Edward Scissorhands Fan Fiction by Leanna Renee Hieber (Circa 1996/97)

DEAR READERS,

Those of you who attend DragonCon may have heard me read from this little gem of teenage fan-fiction. I had promised FOR YEARS to make it available online and I only now rediscovered the file and was able to open and convert it. So, as promised forever ago, here is my Edward Scissorhands, the epilogue:         

Edward & Rose - An Edward Scissorhands Fan Fiction by Leanna Renee Hieber, written around the tender age of 17 or 18 (The now multi-published and award-winning author is now many years older but still loves this little tale, enjoy)

The window he stared out of was cracked, and frosted white-blue in the winter air.  The attic was quite cold, of course, in December, but he didn’t mind, for the open hole in the attic’s rooftop gave quite a lovely view of the midnight sky and was well worth the chill.

              Snow had drifted in and settled in a conical pile directly beneath the open lattice-work of rotting boards and splintered rafters.  Sheets of ice lay in patches near the pyramid of snowflakes, wide and fluffed hundreds of thousands, that had fallen silently all night, all day, without wind or breeze.  Silent snow. 

              He left the window.

              He worked. 

              He sculpted.

              Occasionally, he would return to the frosty window and stare, wide dark eyes surveying the expanse of snow-covered woodland sparsely speckled with leafless trees, appearing like veritable twigs from the height of his attic perch.

              Now and then he noticed animals scurry from tree to tree, pattering across the white ground, birds flitting in and out of branches, disappearing in tufts of white-capped evergreens.

              He liked the view over the woodland.

              The opposite window looked out over the town below.

              He preferred the view over the woodland.

              The woodland was peaceful.

              The woodland did not remind him.

              Of anything.

              A large animal had scurried behind a shrubbery earlier that day.  He was curious what sort of creature it was.  He wished for a second look at it.  He wished to sculpt it, and hoped he could catch a better view of it.

              He had sculpted her a thousand times.

              Many winters had passed since that first shower of snowflakes, but the image of her remained as fresh, as vibrant, and as beloved as if that night were only yesterday. 

              The memories, at least, could not melt. 

              He had waited many winters to see her again.

              She did not come.

              Perhaps she was old now.

              He’d once scored marks upon the attic wall, counting the winters, but he’d scratched it out with a rending sound of metal against hard plaster in a rather unpleasant bout of what he suspected was  heartsickness.

              But that was a while ago.

              He continued to sculpt, not easily bored.

              It was dawn and he hadn’t seen the strange creature scuttle by again.

              The sun burst over the horizon in a usurping ball of fire.

              He pursed his lips.

              While a bright sun was welcome, it would ruin his art.

              But at least it may make flowers grow, he thought, and he rather enjoyed those.

              He had been awaiting the winter crocuses for a whole month.

              The front lawn was speckled with them; white, golden and royal purple; circling the large evergreen topiaries that were maintained in excellent care.

              He descended the inordinately large staircase that led down to the cavernous space that was the foyer of the castle that he solely inhabited. The gigantic arched door opened with a resentful groan. Spiderwebs rustled in the subsequent flow of cool air. A pale face blinked at the dawn, the subtle humming twitch of metal the only sound. He looked down at the bottom of the front steps expectantly.

              No Crocuses.  He pursed his lips again.

              He stepped into the snow and moved to the large topiary in the shape of a dancing, turning young lady whirling around at the center of his front lawn.

              Still no Crocuses.

              But there was a strange-looking girl hiding behind the topiary with a mouth full of crocus petals.

              The girl’s eyes were wide, pearlescent white with bright, grass-green irises.

              The girl gulped the crocus petals nervously.

              Two very pale faces blinked at one another curiously.

              Two pairs of blank eyes registered a sort of recognition, though they surely had never met. 

              The girl who had apparently ate all of his crocuses was covered in a thick grey cloak that shrouded her trembling body.  What could be seen of her face from beneath the shadow of her hood appeared waxen white and tinted greenish, tiny scars the only slight blemish to a porcelain doll face.

              “Do you have any more flowers?  I’m terribly sorry.  I’m starving.”  Said the girl, in a soft voice with an accent foreign to his ears.

              They blinked at one another through a long pause.

              “I... I think you ate them all.”  He replied simply.  The girl downcast her emerald eyes that were clearly not of the township’s making.

              “Ah well.”  The girl said ruefully, in that clipped, clarion speech of hers.  Uneven shoulders shrugged.  “Perhaps in the city?”

              “Perhaps.”  He replied, not used to speaking to someone in his front lawn, especially not someone who looked as if they may perhaps be one like him.  A great while had passed since he had spoken at all. She didn’t look at him in shock or surprise and he found this quite refreshing.

              “Ah.”  Said the girl, shaking and appearing rather drawn.  She turned and began to walk towards the path that led out to the gate far below and out into the cul-de-sac and out into the town.

              “I’m... I’m not sure I would... go down... there if I were... you.”  He hesitantly called to the cloaked girl.

              The figure turned, and her hood fell behind her to reveal thick tufts of flaxen-white hair interwoven with leaves and rose petals that fell in unkempt tendrils all about her frail shoulders.

              “Why?”  She asked.

              “They...”  He began, and lifted an arm, gesturing with a long blade.  “They...don’t like people like us.”

              “I see.”  She replied, at a loss, and plopped down wearily in the snow like a rag doll.

              A thought occurred to him.

              “Oh.  I may... have a Geranium that is still alive in the study...if you like...”

              “Oh, very much, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”  She exclaimed, bounded to her feet and ran forward eagerly in jerking steps.

              He turned and walked towards the open front door.

              He stopped at the threshold and turned back to face his surprise visitor.

              “Welcome to my home.”  He stated in a polite monotone and turned, walking into the cool dark cavern of the foyer.  His leather-like black suit and tousled black hair almost made him disappear into the shadows, and the girl had to blink a few times in order to follow, following the sound of heavy footsteps and the slight rattle of metal.

              She lost sight of him through an arched corridor across the empty floor.

              She heard a slight rustle, and then, by dim shafts of light that came through several open doorways and filtered down from a large staircase, she saw him return again with a potted plant that bore a few wilted crimson blossoms.

              She moved forward weakly, as if to embrace the Geranium.

              He shook his head.

              “Follow me.”  He said, his boyish voice ever gentle.

              She did so, out of the cavernous foyer into yet another vast room bearing a long, narrow table, centerpieced by an angled candelabra.

              An elaborate, unlit lamp fixture dangled and glittered in shades of grey from an arched ceiling.

              A place was already set, as if waiting for an undetermined visitor.

              He set the Geranium near the white china plate, leaned over and blew the dust off the setting.

              He gestured for the girl to sit at the head of the table, before the geranium and the plate.

              She did so, staring up at him with wide innocent emerald eyes.

              A whirring noise was heard.

              The blades and spikes and knives that were the man’s hands clipped and snipped and trimmed and cut.

              His hands returned to his sides.

              The Geranium and its blooms lay organized artfully upon the plate.  The plant itself remained stripped naked in its pot.

              The girl breathed a sigh of great admiration and delight.

              He looked down at her and his purplish lips slightly curved.

              “What is your name?”  She asked, as equally enamored by her chef as she was by her dinner.

              “Edward.”  He replied.

              “I’m Rose.”  The girl declared, and her there was a rustling in her lap.

              A hand made entirely of vines and sharp, thorny rose stems crept out from beneath her cloak. 

              “I’ve been made too.”  She confessed softly.

              She offered her hand out very gingerly.

              He cocked his head to the side and looked nervously at his own hands and their edgy protrusions and looked then at the girl, expecting her to see the difficulty of a formal greeting.  She stared right back, fully aware of the difficulty she too possessed.

              The girl placed her hand of twigs and thorns and thin woven vines beneath the dull edge of a long blade and shook gently.

              “Pleasure to meet you, Edward.”  She said sweetly.  Blood red lips smiled.  Purplish, boyish lips twitched into a nervous smile in response and there was an exhale of breath that sounded somewhat like a pleased chuckle.

              “And you, Rose.”  Edward said, in his most refined demeanor, unaware that he had adopted her foreign accent.

              Rose giggled.  Her hands returned to her lap.  Edward looked down at the plate and nodded, and scurried to take his place across the long table.

              Rose removed her cloak, revealing a pure black dress, made of a thick burlap fabric, corseted and fitted to a slender body frame, and trimmed with dark red ruffles.  She was picturesque; all porcelain doll and flaxen flower-tangled hair, folds of black burlap and thorn ridden hands.

              Edward sat, not taking his eyes off his guest.

              Rose plucked the crimson napkin near her plate with one thorny finger and lay it across her lap.

              Edward skewered his absently with a knifepoint and lay it across his lap.  His plate was bare, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

              “Aren’t you having anything?”  Rose asked, somewhat embarrassed that she was so ravenously staring at the artfully arranged bouquet of blossom and greenery upon her plate.

              Edward shook his head and nodded for her to begin eating.

              She did so, eagerly, and soon the gourmet prepared geraniums had been inhaled and gulped with only a few crisp chewing sounds.

              “Thank you, Edward.”  She said, with most sincere gratefulness.

              “I... I don’t like Geraniums anyway.”  He stated. 

              “What about Crocuses?”  She asked meekly.

              “I do like those.”  He replied.

              “I’m sorry.”  She cringed.  He blinked.

              “They’ll grow again.”  Edward responded matter-of-factly, which was often his way.  “Why is your voice... different?”  He asked simply.

              “Oh.”  Rose laughed, a sweet, little-girl sound.  “My Mistress lived in England, before she came to this country.”

              “And...you... live...”  He began quietly, a long scissor blade indicating towards the direction of the town.

              “Oh no, the next town over.”  Rose replied brightly.  “In that castle upon the top of that hill.”  She pointed westward.  “Mum said every town needed a mad inventor of sorts, and that town seemed to be lacking one, so she moved in.  I was made a year later.”

              Edward looked very impressed.

              “Another mad inventor-”

              “A mad botanist.”  Rose clarified.

              Edward nodded.

              “And yours?”  She asked politely.

              Edward looked at the floor.

              “He had lots of machines.  I’m not finished.”  He replied quietly, and held up his fists of shears and fingers of blades.

              “Mum said she didn’t want to finish me.  Mum said I was just perfect, thorns and all.  Why would I want to be like all the rest, anyhow?”  Rose declared proudly.  Edward continued to look at the floor.

              “There are some people it would be... worth it...for.  To be...finished...I mean.  Normal.”

              Rose blinked at him, white-petal-like lids closing and opening. “Why?”

              “S-so you wouldn’t scare them...”

              “Who did you scare?”  Rose asked.

              “Everyone.”  He replied softly, turning to gaze in the town’s general direction.

              “Everyone?”  She pressed.

              “Well...except for one.”  He said hastily, and rose from the table.  His crimson napkin had become attached to one of the lower blades and he did not notice it. 

              Rose smirked and said nothing, as Edward seemed clearly enrapt in something. 

              He left the room, a sound of clomping heels and clicking metal. 

              She followed.

              Up the long flight of stairs.

              To an attic.

              Rose gasped.  Ice sculptures.  A slew of them, in frozen waltzes across the attic floor.  People, frozen in play, in contemplation.  A girl twirling, enrapt; several of this particular theme.

              “Oh Edward.”  Rose sighed, appreciatively.

              Edward stood near one wall of the attic, plastered with old, yellowed, weathered newspaper clippings.

              One was an engagement announcement.  Edward had a knifepoint held at the top of the article.

              The girl pictured was lovely, blonde, with big dark eyes just as soft and gentle as Edward’s, standing with a rugged young man.

              Suddenly he drew the blade along the article and it split, wrinkled and tore beneath its edge.  The pictured couple separated into two halves and fell to the floor.  Edward poked the picture of the girl deftly with one point and returned it to the wall.  The other half of the picture remained upon the floor.

              Rose said nothing, only watched intently as Edward shuffled with heavy steps over to the window and looked out at the town below.  His plain, smooth white brow was furrowed.

              “Why did... you come here?”  Edward asked, staring out at the cookie cutter suburb below.

              “I smelled the flowers.  The crocuses.”  She began apologetically.  “Mum died a few years ago.  There was no one to keep up the greenhouse.  I did the best I could.  But I had to eat, I couldn’t help it, and soon there was nothing left.”  Rose shrugged and made a face.  “Not even any fertilizer.”  She paused.  “I had no choice but to scavenge.  I am sorry.”

              “Don’t be.  Just... don’t go there.”  Edward stated, a little ringing sound of a metal blade against glass, pointing at the houses below.

              “They won’t like me there?”  She asked naively.

              Edward stared ahead of him.

              “It’s just a different world.”  He replied.

              “But our gardener was so nice.  He was one of them.”  Rose insisted.  A very silent pause.

              “So was she.”  Edward glanced at the wall of clippings.

              “I was in love with him.  Our gardener.”  Rose declared.

              “What happened?”

              “Allergic to pollen.”

              “Ah.”

              “Do you miss her?”  Rose asked.

              “Do you miss him?”  He returned.

              The two stared at the city.

              “Company.  That’s all I really miss.”  She replied earnestly.

              Edward nodded.

              “Yes.”  He agreed, after a long silence.  “Yes.”  He agreed again, more convincingly.

              He moved to one of the sculptures behind him and watched the edges drip slowly.  A whirring sound of metal upon ice.  Ice flakes flew out behind a slender form.  Rose moved forward and let the fall upon her face.  She closed her eyes and felt things stirring deep within her.  An amorphous human form was transformed into a vase of roses.

              “Bravo!”  She cried, realizing that she hadn’t heard such a delighted sound escape from her lips in quite some time.  She applauded as best she could, thorns to thorns.

              Edward appeared relatively pleased, as much as his stoic face seemed to allow.

              Snow began to fall again.

              The two sat upon the floor craning their pale faces towards the hole in the roof and stared at the open sky, watching snowflakes with patient admiration.  Edward still did not seem to notice the napkin that clung to one of the tips of his blades and Rose said nothing.

              Perhaps a couple of hours passed. 

              Time was a suburbian convention.  It did not currently apply.

              “What are you to do?”  Edward asked finally.

              “When?”

              “Dinner.”

              Rose shrugged.

              “Starve I suppose.”  She replied matter of factly.

              “Wish I had a greenhouse.”  Edward stated.

              “How sweet of you.”  Rose murmured, roses upon her cheeks.

              Edward appeared to smile slightly.

              “Am I...sweet?”  He asked meekly, staring at her feet.  His shears clicked anxiously.

              “Very.”  Rose smiled shyly, blinking at him with her sparkling emerald gaze. 

              She felt something stirring near her chest. 

              Such a sensation was significant. 

              A thorny thumb and forefinger fished behind burlap and stays.  She cocked her head to the side, winced, and a tiny snap was heard.

              From her corset she procured a small, fresh white rose tipped with scarlet.

              She stared at the flower excitedly. 

              Looking up at Edward, she grinned, blood-red lips a thin, sloping semicircle. 

              She offered the rose to him happily.

              He shook his head as if he wouldn’t dare accept the gift.

              She held it out, insisting.  He did not move.

              Rose crawled forward and placed the stem in one of the buckles of his leather suit.  He looked to the side, bashfully.  She craned her neck upside down to look into his downcast eyes.

              “I haven’t grown in quite a while.”  She whispered excitedly, and blood-red rose-petal lips kissed him upon the nose.

              She flopped back on the floor with a contented sigh and stared up at the afternoon sky.

              Edward responded in turn, flopping noisily upon his back, spread eagled.

              They stared at the sky and watched clouds become shapes and fancies.

              She occasionally itched her wrist.

              Finally she sat up.

              “Oh dear.”  She stated blandly.

              Edward sat up in one fluid motion.

              She pulled back the thick black burlap of her sleeve that covered her wrist.  Green fronds popped out from beneath the fabric.   She sighed.

              “I was afraid of that.”

              “What?”

              “Weeds.”

              Edward leaned forward.  One hand carefully came near her.

              With a few deft flicks of scissors, wielded with great flair, the green shafts had fallen to the floor and Rose’s wrist was most perfectly trimmed.

              The two stared at one another.  Edward flashed a tiny, pleased smile.  Rose giggled a most pleasantly surprised and quite affectionate giggle. 

              He leaned back upon both fistfuls of shears and it was then that he noticed that his crimson napkin was attached to one of his blades and he attempted to remove it with his other set.  However, in a whir of scissor sounds, he managed to create an unfolding string of hearts out of the cloth rather than depositing it upon the floor.  He looked down at his inadvertent valentine and a look crossed over his blank face that was perhaps consternation, or bashfulness.

              Rose again clapped thorny hands together in delight.

              Twilight came.

              The stars burst forth.

              They watched them.

              They were not afraid of silence.

              Silence was familiar.  Company was comfort.

              Edward sat up again suddenly.

              “I have an idea.”

              “Yes?”  Rose said dreamily.

              “Come.”  He said, rising to his feet.

              Rose obeyed, and followed him. 

              She followed him down the steps, through the foyer, out the front door, and down the path towards the front gate, towards The Street.

              “Edward...”  Rose said cautiously.

              He stopped by the gate and turned.  He gestured for her to catch up.

              “But...”  She hesitated, standing at his side, nervously indicating the city that loomed before them.

              “Do you ... think... I’m... “perfect”...blades and... all?”  He asked gently, innocent honesty mixed with worldly anxiety, while his pale face remained rather emotionless.

              Rose felt that stirring deep within her again. 

              Blossoming. 

              A wide smile.  Rose skipped down the path to the gate.  She slid her arm into Edward’s and nodded, a sufficient reply to his inquiry.

              “Well then....”  He stated, and led Rose out onto The Street.

              They stood, arm in arm, staring at Suburb for a long while.  Eerie, as always.

              It was dark now.

              “Where are we going?”  She asked, giddily.

              They walked to the nearest house.

              A wreath of poinsettias hung upon the front door.

              A whirring sound commenced and in a few moments the wreath was devoid of scarlet leaves and all that remained was an artfully sculpted ring where the greenery had been.  He offered a fistful of poinsettia to Rose, who giggled and danced a hitching little dance of delight, and accepted the pieces of plant.

              Over the course of the evening, all the poinsettias from suburban front door Christmas wreaths accumulated in the folds of Rose’s skirt.

              They passed one particular house.  It looked like any other house.  There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, just like every other house.

              Edward’s innocent demeanor darkened.

              Edward stood at the mailbox, thoughtfully, for quite some time.

              Rose placed a thorny hand gently upon his shoulder, soft enough to not mar his suit.

              He turned.

              Wide, dark eyes stared into wide green ones.

              Silence said everything.  These two knew silence intimately.

              Two solitary tears rolled down two separate cheeks.

              “Time to go home?”  Rose asked quietly, sweetly.  She wished to touch his cheek, but she’d made that mistake one too many times upon her own, as, judging from the similar scars upon Edward’s face, he had as well.

              Edward nodded.

              He turned wearily.

              He began to shuffle off down The Street.

              Rose watched him go.

              He got to the end of the street, heavy tread and metallic pings. 

              Rose felt something wither inside her and she mustered all of her energy for one fervent request that would have been most likely construed as a prayer.

              Edward realized that Rose had not followed him.

              His scissors clicked in a sudden panic.

              He whirled around.

              She stood staring at the other end of The Street, crimson poinsettia leaves trickling from her dress.

              “Rose?” 

              “Edward?”

              The street echoed with their innocent voices.

              Edward pointed a long, knifed finger up the hill to his home.  It was very clear to him what he was to ask, yet he still paused nervously, staring blankly at the figure at the end of The Street that just may make the silences more bearable, and company a comfort.

              “There will be crocuses again soon, Rose... If you’ll be patient...  Lilies, and... irises, too... Will you come... home... Rose?”

              Rose scooped up her skirt and ran in an uneven gallop up The Street, a ringing laugh taking flight into the air.

              A kiss occurred then, at the threshold of two worlds. 

              A sweet kiss.  A long awaited and beautiful merge.

              Thorns touched blades.

              Those nestled in suburban beds may not have understood.

              Those trapped by suburban confines may not have appreciated.

              No matter.

              It never was their fairy tale to begin with.

              They had meddled.

              Fairy tales are best left to their own devices.

              Much gossip occurred when a construction truck arrived at the end of The Street, and a glittering greenhouse was erected at the top of the hill.

              One wrinkled, haggard face watched from a window with great interest as the greenhouse had been erected, and laughed quietly when her neighbors exclaimed that their wreaths had been trimmed clear off.

              A bouquet of two dozen lush red roses appeared one morning on her doorstep, with a note.   

            

  “Much love, Edward and Rose”

              Tears rolled down an old woman’s face.

              It began to snow.

              The old woman walked outside and whirled around slowly beneath the flakes, and silently thanked the forces that create fairy tales that her one wish had been granted.

THE END

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