31_days | [SEPT 15] [ORIGINAL] THE LEECH CHARMERS

Title: The Leech Charmers
Day/Theme: September 15: 'tremble like a flower’
Series: Original (though rather Lovecraftian)
Characters: Three OCs.
Rating/Warnings: G

“Come on, sweet boy.”

The vicar cupped his cheek politely in the morning room. They blushed and broke apart as the maid came in, set down the silver tray, the pink-sprigged teapot with the uncomfortable handle, the plate of ginger biscuits.

Thomas moved to pour the tea; pulled his hand back.

“We should wait for Grandmother.”

“Of course.” The vicar sat back, tugged at his dog collar.

Outside the light came down green through the lime tree. The paving underneath was so thick with stickiness that it looked, through the French windows, as if it had rained, though with something more viscous than water.

Thomas folded his hands in his lap, cocked his head to listen for movement upstairs. There was nothing to be heard.

He smiled encouragingly across at the vicar, a sandy-haired young man who hadn’t yet grown into his hooked nose, his high cheekbones. Thomas himself had had plenty of time to grow into his own face, though he looked, his grandmother was fond of saying, not a day over eighteen.

Naturally, the vicar had to perform his ceremonial duties whatever he felt about the matter in private, but Thomas always tried to cultivate a friendly relationship with new incumbents, and this one was especially promising.

So he brushed some imaginary dirt off the pale cotton twill of his trousers and leant forward. He could see his own face now, his messy black hair and fresh cheeks in the greenish depths of the mirror behind the vicar’s pinking right ear.

“How are the new arrivals doing?” Thomas asked. “Is that young scholar still poking around?”

The vicar settled back a little. This was a professional matter; he was on familiar ground.

“Well,” he said, “he’s been talking to some of the less reliable locals. And Mrs Penston caught him snooping around the church on Thursday afternoon. But he spends most of his time in the tea rooms, scribbling away.”

He shook his head mournfully.

“He looks worse and worse every day, I must admit. I don’t think the food can be agreeing with him.”

Thomas sighed, clasped his hands round a knee, twiddled his thumbs.

“So, perhaps a fortnight?”

“I would imagine so,” said the vicar, nodding. “Though, if I might ask, why go to such an effort?”

“Oh,” said Thomas. He flapped a slender hand.

“He’s another one of those super-distant cousins, apparently. Not that he knows it yet, of course. But Grandmother’s always been so keen on keeping the family together.”

As if on cue, a soft dragging came from above them. The vicar swallowed, reached up to smooth his hair. Thomas grinned at him, leaned over to ruffle it. The vicar jerked back, pleasantly scandalised.

“Please, my dear boy!”

“Call me that often enough and you might get enough centuries under your belt for it to mean something,” said Thomas.

His grandmother came in from the hall, moved over the carpet, settled on the rose-patterned chippendale.

Thomas winked at the vicar, took up the teapot. He filled all their cups to the brim, the red vivid in the light spring air.