Page 6 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

“The Papyrus—the Paper clan.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Millicent sat up in the bed, looking for any signs of familiarity.

“What don’t you understand, young one? You have to be from either the Vráchos—we, the Rock clan, the Papyrus or…”

“Or?”

“The Forfex—the Scissor clan.” Pétra turned as if to check that there were no witnesses to her speaking the name. “How do you not know this? You are too soft to be Vráchos. You were following the trail of… Might you be Papyrus?”

“I’m… I’m… not from here.” She too looked around verifying the lack of witnesses to her admission.

The woman jumped from her seat, startled at Millicent’s words. “Now I’m afraidIdo not understand. Where might you be from?”

“Lancashire.”

“Is that a real place?” Pétra stared inquisitively at the girl.

“Of course, it’s real. I live there with my mum and dad—Margaret, Charles and Jules as well. We’re a family. I have to be dreaming. I just have to be.” Her eyes began tearing up once again.

“There, there…” The rock woman tried to console Millicent. “You rest some more whilst I attempt to figure this out.”

As Millicent did like she was told, Pétra set her son to fetch the clan elders, eventually drifting back off to sleep by convincing herself she was in the middle of a dream. However, she roused to the sensation of poking and prodding by granite-like fingers and sat up, drawing the bed covers close to her body for protection and modesty.

None of this seemed possible. None of it. Part of her wanted to believe the dream theory, but her eyes didn’t lie. Still, Millicent rubbed at them vigorously to ensure they weren’t, in fact, deceiving her.

She studied those who seemed so foreign. Their features were stunningly chiseled, actually chiseled, and their skin wasn’t smooth as porcelain, but marble…brushed marble. Not a one of them had eyes duller than gemstones—emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst—the list of colors went on as each new clan member hearing of her presence filed in to gawk at and ponder the stranger to their lands.

Fascinating and bizarre as they clearly found Millicent to be, she in turn was equally awed by their skin markings, streaked in blacks, whites, greens and blues or mottled travertine, looking every bit human in size and feature, yet enhanced in ways the home fires could never understand without seeing for themselves. Curious, too, was their manner of dress. The women wore their hair tied back loosely, letting the majority fall to their shoulders in ringlets. And the amount of skin showing would surely lead to imprisonment back home. Bare arms and necklines—hems falling no lower than shin level—scandalous. The men, younger women and girls wore even less, exposing midriffs and thighs.

“Pétra insists we hold in common a language of our ancestors. Please, do not fret. We bear you no ill.” The distinguished man gave a slight head bow and waved his hand with a gesture of friendship. “I am Granítis, elder and clan leader.”

“Millicent, Millicent Merchant.” She let the blanket drop away, exposing her tiny frame.

“Where have you come to us from?” He puzzled at the fabric cinched tightly around her neck and the lace that ruffled down the bodice ripped ragged and tinged dirty brown.

“Lancashire.”

“Where is this Lang-cash-ear?”

“England, of course.”

All rumblings of sound in the room ceased as Millicent stared back at the span of bewildered onlookers. It was that moment that she realized how very far from home she’d traveled.

“Why were you trailing the Papyrus?” Pétra’s son spoke out, but then ducked sheepishly behind another clansman.

“Yes, dear… Why were you?” Granítis straightened his form to a more businesslike demeanor.

“I stowed away… on their ship. I was running away. They didn’t know of me… we were sucked into a whirlpool—”

“A whirlpool… on the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve done it. I need to go—to meet with Shefdew. Chrónos metakínisis. Shefdew has found skoulikotrypa.” Elder Granítis bowed his head once more to a dizzied Millicent lying timidly in the bed and hurried out of Pétra’s home.

“Please.” Millicent said, and begged pardon, “What is a Shefdew?”

“Not a what—a who,” Mármaro replied. “Shefdew is the clan leader of the Papyrus. If you in fact came to us by way of the skoulikotrypa, Shefdew would know of its existence.” He lightly brushed his finger along Millicent’s arm. The way he studied it suggested he was perplexed by her lack of markings.

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