Unnatural Ends

UnnaturalEnds a novel by Christopher Huang This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2023 Christopher Huang All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Inkshares, Inc., Oakland, California www.inkshares.com Edited by Adam Gomolin Cover design by Tim Barber Interior design by Kevin G. Summers ISBN: 9781950301065 e-ISBN: 9781950301058 LCCN: 2021949307 First edition Printed in the United States of America Contents Prologue Part One Alan Roger Caroline Alan Alan Alan Alan Roger Roger Roger Roger Caroline Caroline Caroline Caroline Mowbray Part Two Alan Alan Alan Roger Roger Caroline Caroline Alan Roger Caroline Mowbray Part Three Roger Roger Caroline Alan Roger Caroline Alan Roger Caroline Alan Mowbray Part Four Caroline Caroline Alan Roger Iris Roger Caroline Alan Oglander Sr. Brewster Lady Linwood Davey Miss Whistler Sir Lawrence Linwood Mowbray Epilogue Historical Notes Acknowledgements Grand Patrons Inkshares In loving memory of David Liu Francis Ow Mary Ryan Hans Schweizer Agatha Wilhelm Sing Keng Ng Thomas Ow “I knew a man,” he said, “who began by worshipping with others before the altar, but who grew fond of high and lonely places to pray from, corners or niches in the belfry or the spire. And once in one of those dizzy places, where the whole world seemed to turn under him like a wheel, his brain turned also, and he fancied he was God.” —G. K. Chesterton, “The Hammer of God” Prologue August 1903 In the beginning was Linwood Hall, and Linwood Hall was the world. That was how the Linwood children—Alan, Roger, and Caroline—saw it. The high tower room they’d claimed as their playroom was its centre, a remnant of the Norman ruin from which Linwood Hall had evolved, and from its windows, they could see for miles in every direction. The howling winds brought them heather and gorse and peat smoke, and there was no light but the liquid gold of the sun pouring over the ancient oak plank floors. Immediately to the east, the mossy-roofed village of Linwood Hollow nestled in a bowl-like dip in the landscape, but beyond that and all around was nothing but the wheeling North Sea gulls and the open, windswept expanse of the North Yorkshire moors going on and on and on to forever. Any conventional means of access to the tower room had long since been lost to some ancestor’s rebuilding zeal. The only way there now was through the servants’ passage, a network of narrow corridors behind the walls, much of it unused and unexplored, to a door hidden behind one of the cabinets in the first-floor linen closet. From there, a staircase wound up through the darkness with steps worn down to a dangerous angle, to arrive finally at the sunlit glory of the tower room—Camelot. A girl of about seven or eight was hurrying along the passage. She was a graceful child, with eyes so dark, her pupils seemed one with her irises, and long black hair swung down her back in two fat braids. This was Caroline Linwood, and she was imagining herself as the ghost of some historic Linwood, gliding soundlessly through the walls of the house. Her preferred entrance to the passage was a secret panel behind the grand staircase in the great hall, well placed for dramatic disappearances; today, however, she’d had to begin her journey from the kitchen instead, as she’d had to nick something out of the pantry for her play. The kitchen entrance was no more than an open arch—prosaic, unromantic, and no way to stage a dramatic exit—but then, the servants had no call to hide their movements from one another. Up ahead, behind the tower door, was Roger Linwood, Caroline’s brother, a year and a half older. He was applying axle grease to the door hinges because he’d had quite enough of that door squeaking when they opened it, potentially alerting every servant within earshot. He meant to fix it just as he’d fixed the secret panel from his own room—his favourite entrance to the servants’ passage because it was his own. Caroline didn’t know this, of course. Squeezing behind the linen cabinet, she threw the door open, and the collision was quite enough to squelch any further pretence at being the Ghost of Linwoods Past. “Oy! Watch where you’re going, you!” Roger frowned down at his sister in a perfect imitation of their father. It was widely known that Sir Lawrence Linwood’s children were all adopted, so no one expected much family resemblance; but Roger, darker even than Caroline and with a hard-to-place exoticism about his features, promised to be at least as tall as Sir Lawrence once he was grown, and his frown really was a perfect imitation of his father in one of his sterner moments. And an imitation was all it was: a moment later, it had melted into a cheerful grin. “What do you think?” he said, nodding at the door. “Smooth as silk, and not a sound. You can do nearly anything with glue and grease, I say.” “You can do what you like,” Caroline replied, eyeing his grease-stained hands. “Only don’t touch me.” “As if I’d want to!” Roger shoved his pot of axle grease into a corner. He’d have to return it to the handyman’s workshop before it was missed. For now, he simply bounded up the stairs to the glimmer of sunlight above, shouting to his sister, “Come on! Alan’s waiting for us.” Alan was the eldest of the three, adopted as Roger and Caroline were, but fair and flaxen-haired. He was lodged in the west window of the tower room, where the afternoon sun outlined his silhouette in gold and made his hair shine like a halo. One long leg swung against