J Braithwaite: The First Night's Mice

The house was… Old. But better. There was a giant garden that the caretaker had taken you and Papa through on the tour. You weren't allowed much in the garden in the old house. Your governess, your latest, only allowed you to sit on a bench by the wall as the gardeners worked. Apparently the head of your old school had sent her a letter just to warn her about you.

This garden was big. Almost wild. A pond, big. You instinctively tried to stick your foot in and Papa quickly stopped you, reminding you about your shoes. White Hair offered to hold your shoes while you dunked your feet. Your previous governess would chide you for even taking off your gloves or jacket in the school room. She might have thought you'd become like Grandfather and walk around with nothing but a bear on.

Your feet had long since dried, White having knelt down and dried them for you once your group had gotten to the stoop. Your father was quiet, a rare smile on his face as he looked at the garden, his crooked fingers absentmindedly rubbing your shoulder. A dinner, just you and Papa. Two governesses and a tutor ago, one of the would make you sit and finish every single thing on your plate, even when your stomach twisted unpleasantly as you forced it down. This was easy. Nice. Nothing overcooked and everything was settling nicely into your stomach. It was easier for Papa too. It always took him long to eat at family dinners. Elaborate meals, fish, chicken, endless, and you'd sometimes just watch him just to shut out the yammering and volume of the table. He'd be unable to use his arm. Not that he couldn't, it was just uncomfortable for him. Picking up the knife with his left hand, using the weight of his right one to pin something down with the fork, slicing, putting down the knife, switching the fork to the other hand, stabbing it, lifting and eating it, putting it down, picking up the knife again. He was usually the last at the table and seemed more tired after it.

Cooked food, shredded chicken, gently melted golden cheese, smaller vegetables. Everything Papa could eat without the fuss of changing hands every couple of moments. It was quiet. Properly. Just the hushed wind, and the occasional bird call. In the old house there was always the sounds of servants in hallways just out of sight, shouting from a family member, voices rising up, up, up, sharing stories, mean stories and your throat would burn-

Papa's finger gently rubbing the back of your hand.

"All okay?"

"All okay."

Papa's room was down the hall from yours. His room had a big wooden desk and books piled on top and rolled up maps and a telescope peering out the window and you felt giddy. Papa's room. It was like when you'd walk into his office, or his bedroom or his reading room at the old house and it was plainly his room. Star charts and big dusky books. Like he had always lived here.

White had just changed you into your sleep clothes when the knock came. From the big door. Emergency post. Your father, jacket-less, waistcoat forgotten, one sleeve rolled up over his thin arm, the other loose and covering the entire forearm, hanging just under his fingers. He tried to hide the letter from you but you knew your grandfather's scrawl. Jagged and sharp and increasing in size the longer he wrote until it was just scribbles. Your cotton nightshirt felt too hot now. Watching as White helped him with his jacket and overcoat, his bag repacked, wincing as he shuffled around. Your father struggled to stay up further int he day. Tired, yes, but you'd notice that it would become hard for him to even get up the more he did. He'd be able to lift you and carry and do anything in the morning, but by the night? Sometimes he'd take a deep breath before even lifting a mug to sip from. Grandfather calling him back and Papa winced as he knelt down to kiss your forehead.

He was supposed to stay the week before going back. Now you were in your bed, knowing his room was empty.

You pulled the covers up a bit. Everything smelt different. New yet old. Papa had made sure to pack everything important. An old toy, the blanket you had grown up with. everything set aside to soothe you on the first night. You hadn't told White that Papa usually asked if you wanted to read a story, or listen to family history or try and map out the constellations. Your first governess used to make up stories where you two would take turns saying a sentence and the other had to add on, with a rhyme. It was a very faint memory, but you were pretty sure when she had said something about Mr Badger picking apples, red and fresh, when you rhymed it with something something tasting of flesh, and that was the last of that. You couldn't imagine White telling a bed time story. So you curled up. Shut your eyes. Waited.

Time ticked on. The big window rattled gently against the wind. An owl call. You shifted. Bed squeaked. Squeak squeak. Mice hiding from the owl. You were once told that mice burrowed into dead things for cover from time to time. You soft wiggling. How did stupid little mice know when something was dead? Apparently they'd only need a few seconds before burrowing into a freshly shot deer. So they didn't mind warmth. Or blood. Just waiting for stillness. The squeaking stopped. Your leg itched. Mouse. Bite. Squeak.

You threw the covers off you and started kicking, breathing hard and erratic, the mice clear as day to you, trying to squirm into your legs, little heads chewing and hands scrabbling. Tiny claws, scratch scratch scratch into your soft flesh and skin and white fur stained red and-

The door opened. A flickering lamp. Opened waistcoat, loosened collar, light refracting off the small, rounded glasses. White hair.

"This doesn't seem like sleeping, your highness." They mused.

The mice scattered. It was like Governess Lucinda and Mister Billington and and Miss Debille when they wouldn't listen and blame you, for the missing things and the broken things and the mean things and the cut hair and the-

"Mice." You said.

"Ah." Breath White come in and put the oil lamp down, white hair falling into their eyes, relaxed and soft. Different to the strict hairstyle, pulled back and smooth. They seemed gentler. They sat down on the edge of the covers. "Mice, hm?"

You nodded and showed your legs. White leaned over, ungloved fingers taking hold of your ankles and gently turning them. Looking.

"No bites. No scratches."

You made a soft noise of despair. They didn't believe you. White gave you a blank smile and rubbed their chin gently.

"Must have been baby mice."

"Baby mice?"

"Blind. Toothless. No claws, just pink paws." Red fresh and your flesh. Claws and paws. Did they know they just rhymed? Like the old bed time routine. "They wouldn't leave a mark."

You nodded. They weren't saying you made it up. Little bloody liar, and your wrist being grabbed and shook by the tutor, the book shredded at your feet but it wasn't you, you were always blamed but you didn't-

A cool hand letting go of your ankle. It brought you out.

"Breathe White, I don't want to sleep with baby mice." You finally managed.

A dark eyebrow raised.

"Braithwaite."

"Breathewaite."

"Braith."

"Braith."

"Waite."

"Waite."

"Braithwaite."

"Waitie."

"… How about you sleep in your father's bed tonight and in the morning I turn over the mattress and chase the mice out into the garden?"

"… I can do that?"

Waitie smiled, a quick thing. Not even showing teeth. One of the teachers used to show too much teeth. As if they wanted you to get a good look at their molars. Waite's eyes also smiled. Like your Papa's. The curve, a slight crinkle.

"In your future you can start and end wars, tell people to grow only potatoes in their fields, outlaw growing your moustache too long. But in the meantime, yes, you may go to your father's room to sleep. Not every night, of course, but tonight? Very much allowed. You and the mice will sleep well."

You grabbed your toy and the blanket. Papa's room already smelt like him, despite him staying only a little while. Waitie pulled back the covers for you, and held your hand as you crawled in, like they were helping you into a carriage. Tucking you in before gently shaking out the blanket and laying it over your stomach. The toy against the pillow.

"Anything else, your highness? Story about the older Linwood-Horne Royals? Your father mentioned- Oh."

Braithwaite glanced down to an Heir already dozing, nose tucked into a pillow that smelt faintly of their father's cologne. They gave a wry smile and picked up the oil lamp and slipped out of the room, shutting it behind themself.

"… Mice." They pondered. And left for their own room.