Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

How are the dogs? That lovely bitch of yours will be a terror for the hares this year. I trust Miss Askew thrives. An odd business the other day - I had a stand-off with a mob of the local soldiery. I quite feared for my life, though I do not think I showed it. They came upon me while I was pissing on a wall behind the inn where we had passed the night. Ugly devils. Paid them off and they let me be. The country here is very poor. The peasants wear the bark of trees upon their feet for shoes. Danzig on the Baltic is our next stop and we hope to have some news of the flying doctors there. I shall have to buy myself a decent cloak for the weather is turning. Keep an eye on my sister, she is not used to being alone.

I am, Sir, your most obliged and humble servant.,

Julius Lestrade

Jls Lestrade to Miss Dido Lestrade

Kashubia, 12 November

Dear Dido,

We are nearing the Baltic coast and the city of Danzig, which About tells me is a thriving merchant city much populated by Scots. The land here, though fertile, is poor, worse than France, but the people seem less oppressed. It is also damn cold, a wind that blows in our teeth for it comes out of Russia. Yesterday eve my back seized up completely while I was lying in bed trying to read Candide by the candlelight. For several minutes I could not move at all and even fancied I should die there, a godless clergyman in a hovel in Poland. Punishment no doubt for my reading Voltaire. It is About's book. He has made me a present of it. He met Voltaire in Geneva.

It is a mistake to travel in the hope of solving one's problems. One merely transports them and is thus forced to endure them among strangers. Hovj is that for a pensee? // will be a great relief for us to reach a civilised town. Even About's equanimity has been somewhat ruffled by these last two days of slog. I will not say he quite snapped at Mr F; it was more the soft growl of a very big dog, rather impressive and comical when you consider one could make three Abouts from the flesh and bones of one Featherstone. It is dangerous for Mrs F to see her husband constantly in the company of a superior man. I am sure Mr Featherstone shines like a star among his fellow slavers but he sputters like a damp brimstone next to About.

I believe I can smell the sea. A cold green sea.

I am, affectionately, your brother.,

Julius Lestrade

Konigsberg, first city of ducal Prussia, basks fatly under blue skies. Mami Sylvie clatters in through the slushed streets, a bell rackets in the cold air. Mrs Featherstone desires to make some purchases. They link arms and set out from their inn. The Reverend buys senna and tobacco. About buys a fine fur hat. In the same furrier's the Featherstones purchase pelisses, 'This for the lady, this for the gentleman -sehr schon, nicht wahr} And this other gentleman, he will also be wanting?'

The Reverend considers his diminishing hoard, and settles for a pair of gloves. Outside they admire themselves in the shop window. 'Now,' says About, 'we are fit to meet an empress!'

With fresh horses they set out the following morning, travel hard, deep into the night, chasing the Pole Star towards Riga. The snow, half thawed, freckles the landscape, but on the afternoon of the second day, clouds roll in from the east: blue, grey, white. Throughout the night, snow, shifting stealthily around the shuttered windows of their inn, falls steadily, pausing just long enough next morning to persuade them to continue on their way, then falling again, relentlessly, a soft crushing weight of snow. It is exhilarating at first, its weird dances, weird beauty. Then, quite suddenly, as though a mental spark has flown between the travellers, they are alarmed by it. What if the coach should become bogged? Where would they seek help? Have they not been rash to travel so late in the year? About raises his hands. Peace! In Riga they shall have Mami Sylvie fitted with runners, a very usual way to travel in this part of the world and wonderfully pleasant. They shall skate into St Petersburg! He has done it a thousand times. For his own part he is very glad to see such weather. They will go twice as fast on the runners. All for the best in the best of all possible worlds! He winks at the Reverend, and yet to the Reverend's eyes even About appears unsettled, glancing furtively at the impossible curtains of snow, the failing light. How slow the horses go, up to their knees in the drifts! It is agreed, in the very next village they come to, they shall seek shelter. No point tempting fate. They do not have a race to win!

They stare out anxiously, searching for the silhouette of a house, the flicker of a light.

There!'

Well espied, Mrs Featherstone!'

It is little more than a hovel. About jumps out, beats at the door. The others peer through the window at him, wiping their breath from the glass. The door opens. About enters. Five minutes later he returns, the snow melting from his boots as he settles back in his seat.

*We are saved!' He chuckles. 'The delightful fellow informs me there is a monastery no more than a half-hour's ride from here.'

The half-hour passes. An hour. There is no sign of any monastery. No sign of anything. Mrs Featherstone enquires testily if Monsieur About understood the directions. Monsieur About fixes on her a hard and intimate look. The Reverend is quietly calculating their chances if they are forced to remain out in the storm. They have some biscuits and there is the last half-bottle of the French brandy. Might a fire not be possible? He has