It had been some time since Lancaster had visited the mall, and he knew it was about time that he visited Curlew himself; the shop, which sold musical instrument and (supposedly) lessons to play said instruments was located within 8th Dimension Mall and, though the business had done well when Lancaster sat behind its desk two or three nights a week he’d been told that its revenue had fallen into disrepair.
It was Roxette who filled the cured vampire in. Roxette, who, as soon as the cure had properly taken hold felt—according to her own testimony—as if fetters had fallen from her soul. No longer enthralled, as Lancaster no longer had the power to hold her in his sway, she was free as she pleased. But she hadn’t. Roxette had been a gutter scamp having to beg for money or thieve just so that she could eat. Lancaster’s inadvertent enthrallment of her had irked her to begin with, but his guilt had caused him to shower her with gifts; a roof over her head, plenty of food, money to buy new clothes and, really, whatever she wanted. Over the years Roxette had learned from Lancaster; she’d grown into responsibility until he’d trusted her to manage Lancaster’s in his absence. Bjorn had taken care of Bunk Backpackers as best as he could, and Axl—Roxette’s erstwhile friend whom she had begged Lancaster to enthral simply to pull him into line—had been left in charge of Curlew and the Harper Rock River Cruises. They were the least demanding of Lancaster’s empire.
But he hadn’t been able to manage, but nor had he asked for help. He’d skimmed money, he’d been rude to customers, and once the fetters of enthrallment had taken hold he’d done a runner. Curlew was on the verge of foreclosure, and Lancaster had to swoop in, now, to open it back up and return it to its former glory.
The keys to the shop jingled in his hand as he made his way into the brightly lit hall of the mall. He knew that here, too, there was going to be a possibility of people recognising him and waving to him, saying hello—and he wouldn’t know who they were without proper prompting. Not wanting to be rude and adopting a philosophy of open honesty, he kept his eyes open and his demeanour welcoming.
On his way through, Lancaster had to pass the shark tank—a wonder that he shouldn’t have forgotten, but which he had indeed forgotten. He approached it now with awe, though memories clamoured at the back of his skull like children behind a school gate, waiting to be released at the end of a school day.
It was Roxette who filled the cured vampire in. Roxette, who, as soon as the cure had properly taken hold felt—according to her own testimony—as if fetters had fallen from her soul. No longer enthralled, as Lancaster no longer had the power to hold her in his sway, she was free as she pleased. But she hadn’t. Roxette had been a gutter scamp having to beg for money or thieve just so that she could eat. Lancaster’s inadvertent enthrallment of her had irked her to begin with, but his guilt had caused him to shower her with gifts; a roof over her head, plenty of food, money to buy new clothes and, really, whatever she wanted. Over the years Roxette had learned from Lancaster; she’d grown into responsibility until he’d trusted her to manage Lancaster’s in his absence. Bjorn had taken care of Bunk Backpackers as best as he could, and Axl—Roxette’s erstwhile friend whom she had begged Lancaster to enthral simply to pull him into line—had been left in charge of Curlew and the Harper Rock River Cruises. They were the least demanding of Lancaster’s empire.
But he hadn’t been able to manage, but nor had he asked for help. He’d skimmed money, he’d been rude to customers, and once the fetters of enthrallment had taken hold he’d done a runner. Curlew was on the verge of foreclosure, and Lancaster had to swoop in, now, to open it back up and return it to its former glory.
The keys to the shop jingled in his hand as he made his way into the brightly lit hall of the mall. He knew that here, too, there was going to be a possibility of people recognising him and waving to him, saying hello—and he wouldn’t know who they were without proper prompting. Not wanting to be rude and adopting a philosophy of open honesty, he kept his eyes open and his demeanour welcoming.
On his way through, Lancaster had to pass the shark tank—a wonder that he shouldn’t have forgotten, but which he had indeed forgotten. He approached it now with awe, though memories clamoured at the back of his skull like children behind a school gate, waiting to be released at the end of a school day.
