Cat's Quill

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This story is dedicated to Dad, who introduced me to reading and the wonderful what-ifs within the pages of his favorite books, and to Mum, who read this story and encouraged me to get it published. Both of you have given me so much support in so many ways. Thank you.

We are such stuff

As dreams are made on.

~ Prospero

The Tempest

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Acknowledgments

Thank you to everyone who has been involved with this story on its journey from inception to manuscript with comments, brainstorming, beta reading, and the like. With life doing its thing, it's taken a while to get this far, so instead of risking naming names and leaving someone out--you all know who you are.

To Ruth, who suggested I submit this to Dreamspinner Press, and the wonderful people I've met along the way since joining their "family."

To Amanda, Rebecca, and David. Love you guys.

And last but definitely not least, to my friends at Hutt City Libraries.

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Chapter One

Tomas watched the train pull out of the station, his eyes following it until it was a memory under the glare of the sun. The platform was almost deserted, save for two old ladies talking, nodding, and laughing as they walked toward the ticket office, disappearing through the old wooden doors into the unknown of the outside world. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he swatted at the invisible hand, tilting his head in response to a whisper just out of reach, a feeling of almost deja vu. There was no one there. He was alone.

This holiday had been his sister Kathleen's idea, a chance for him to get in touch with his inner self and find the elusive muse which seemed to have deserted him for a better place. Tomas was a writer, but he hadn't written anything in months. He'd start, type one or two lines, delete them, and start again, repeating the process for hours at a time. Nothing felt right; the magic was gone. Two bestsellers and a publisher who wasn't taking too kindly to the non-appearance of book number three. Yes, Tomas knew it was a three-book deal. Yes, he knew he hadn't decided what this last book was about yet. Actually, that wasn't exactly true, but the idea was only a seed, a kernel just out of reach, a rainbow with colors misty after rain, not quite solid, not quite real, just frustrating as hell.

Not quite real because he didn't want it to be. This book would come from the soul, his soul, and he didn't want that on display. The muse could go to hell. He was not writing this.

He shivered as a chill ran up his spine. Sighing, he bent to pick up his backpack. It was old, tattered, and comfortable, yet still large enough to carry everything he needed; with each journey he picked off more threads which had come loose, yet the fabric still managed to hold together. It had accompanied him everywhere over the last ten years and was something familiar to hang on to. He needed that right now. Tomas liked the familiar; it made up for the feeling of not belonging, of being on a journey that he wasn't sure was ever going to end. He traveled light, and always had; it made leaving easier. If he left first, others would not leave him. Not that that was exactly a problem these days. He had very few friends; his habit of switching off and ignoring what he didn't want to answer had alienated most, but he liked his privacy, and if people couldn't deal with it, that was not his issue but theirs.

One last glance at the platform and he walked through into the ticket office and out the far door. Kathleen was wrong. Being stuck in the middle of nowhere was not going to do anything. However, it was a way of avoiding his publisher, especially as Tomas's mobile was still broken and he had not bothered to get it fixed. Hopefully, Fraser would give up and find someone else to hassle. The man was persistent, if nothing else, and while Tomas had not exactly been averse to their few meetings over coffee, he also felt bad in having to tell Fraser he was still not writing. Tomas took his commitments seriously, but this was different, and a matter on which avoidance could only work for so long.

The street outside the station was empty apart from a long-haired grey cat which was lazily washing itself. It stopped, looked Tomas up and down, and then returned to what it was doing, obviously deciding that this human was not worth the effort. Tomas wasn't sure whether that should be taken as a compliment or not. Not worth the effort also meant he was not considered a threat.

Tomas preferred animals to people. They didn't bother hiding under a facade of polite disinterest while nodding and pretending to care about what he had to say. Expressing himself through the medium of print meant that he did not need to deal with people directly but could still speak his mind.

Dumping his backpack on the ground, the messenger bag holding his laptop still across his shoulder, Tomas found a shady spot and leaned back against the wall, arms folded. His ride was late. He would wait. It wasn't as though he had a deadline to meet. It was quiet here. After London, the village of Oakwood felt like stepping back several decades in time to a world less complicated and slower. For the moment, at least, he'd embrace that illusion and focus on the thought that perhaps this place might have potential after all. He could just keep to himself, find a nice tree to sit under, and catch up with some reading.

The sound of a car engine interrupted any hope for a short nap before Tomas had the chance to close his eyes. He didn't bother moving, but instead waited for the car to pull up in front of him. If this was his ride he would find out soon enough. If it wasn't, he could wait a while longer. Whoever it was, the driver did appear to be in a hurry, the brakes squealing as the car came to an abrupt halt.

"Damn it, I thought I'd fixed that problem." A man about Tomas's own age, although he could have been slightly younger than his mid-twenties, climbed out of the car, slamming the driver's door behind him. He glanced around, his mouth curving into a grin when he saw Tomas. "Trouble with these old cars is that they can be temperamental as hell at times," he said conversationally. "Love them, though, just gotta know how to treat them right." The accent was very definitely American, although strangely it did not seem out of place in the middle of an out-of-the-way English village.

Tomas nodded, running an appreciative eye over the car. It was a green Morris Minor, probably from the early fifties, and very well-restored. An interesting choice for this man, who was dressed in a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt, his nails stained with grease even though his hands were clean. His hair was a messy, nondescript brown, a little on the long side but not enough to need tying back. "That is true of most things and people," he replied.

"Yeah, it is." After wiping his hands down his jeans, the man offered his right one to Tomas to shake. "Donovan Campbell. I'm guessing you're Tomas Kemp, and that for once the train was on time, or if my luck's really screwed today, early for the first time in ten years."

Accepting the handshake, Tomas couldn't help but smirk. "That would depend on whether you consider five minutes enough time to be sufficiently screwed."

Donovan stared at him for a moment and then laughed. "That would depend on who I'm with." He bent to grab Tomas's bag. "You are Tomas, right? I'd kinda like to make sure I have the right guy before I take off with your luggage." He raised an eyebrow. "Like to travel light, huh?"

"You wouldn't be holding my bag if I wasn't." Tomas shook his head when Donovan reached for his messenger bag after stowing the backpack in the boot. "I'll keep this with me, thank you."

"Guess you've got all your stuff in it?" Donovan opened the driver's door, gesturing toward the passenger side. "I'm not a writer, but I've heard how protective you guys can be about your manuscripts." He waited till Tomas was buckling himself in and then turned the key in the ignition. "Heidi's a big fan of yours; she's read both your books. She was really excited when she found out you'd be staying at the inn."

"Wonderful," Tomas muttered under his breath. He didn't need a fan hounding him about when his next book would be published. "I don't talk about what I'm working on," he said, not bothering to pretend to be apologetic when he wasn't. "She will have to wait for it like everyone else."

Donovan shrugged. "Not a problem, just smile and be nice to her, okay?" He glanced at Tomas and then back at the road before pulling out into the nonexistent traffic.

"Whatever," Tomas said, his arms tightening around his laptop as the car hit a pothole, lurched, and continued on its way. There was a lot to be said for the idea of going back to writing by hand. This village was quaint and rural. It might be interesting to do things the old-fashioned way and see if that might jolt the stubborn, pig-headed muse into submission. Not that Tomas was going to write this, but he might write something else. Anything else.

"Look," Donovan said. "I don't care whether you're a paying customer or some big shot writer Heidi's got the hots for. If you're rude to her, I'll throw you out on your ass."

"I have no intention of being rude." Tomas shifted his attention to the scenery passing by his window at a rapidly increasing speed. "I came here for some privacy and I would appreciate that wish being adhered to." Green followed green, broken by the occasional brown-thatched cottage, the distance between them growing the farther out they traveled. Crossroads Inn was on the outskirts of the village, far enough to be private, close enough for convenience. Rural England at its best or worst; Tomas hadn't figured out which yet.

"Whatever." Donovan rolled his eyes, throwing Tomas's earlier word back at him. "Life is easier when people get along." He indicated left and turned into a country lane. "I don't know what your problem is, but if there's anything I can do to help, I've been told I listen well over a beer."

"You don't know me. Didn't your mother tell you it's dangerous to offer help to strangers?" Tomas knew he was alienating Donovan further, but he didn't care. This was easier, he told the part of his mind that whispered loudly that he needed a friend. Letting someone in as a friend gave them the power to hurt him later by leaving. This way it wouldn't matter.

Donovan slammed on the brakes. "I thought you were okay," he growled, "and I'm usually good at reading people." He glared at Tomas, then shrugged. "If you change your mind, you're paying, though. I might be a nice guy, but you've just pissed me off."

"Fine with me." Tomas returned to looking out the window. Ignoring was preferable to arguing and usually achieved the same result. It was also less effort.

Another left turn, this one up what appeared to be a long driveway, revealed an old wooden building covered in ivy, roses climbing up the front wall by the door. However, Tomas's attention was taken by the grounds, but more in particular, by the large tree sitting in the middle of what appeared to be an empty field to the side of the inn. Tomas didn't know much about trees, but this one seemed very old, and for some reason, very much alone. It stood tall and proud, its branches overhanging to offer shade, surrounded by the green of the grass, a mixture of brown and gold, leaves prematurely changing color as though to herald the autumn which was still several months away.

"That's our oak." Donovan stopped the car. Tomas climbed out and took a few steps closer toward the tree, still staring at it, his fingers clutching the strap on his bag. "It's an old guy for one of these and nearly a thousand years old according to the locals. It feels like it's always been here and always going to be. One of those universal constants you can rely on, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west."

"Nothing lasts forever." Tomas shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the moment. Dreams were for those who had the energy to pursue them.

"Cynical kind of guy, huh?" Donovan retrieved Tomas's backpack and began walking toward the front door.

"No." A warm breeze ruffled Tomas's hair, brushing it from his face. He swatted at it. "Just realistic."