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As Others See	By : Jedishampoo Category: +G to L > Howl\'s Moving Castle > Howl\'s Moving Castle Views: 3018 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Howls Moving Castle, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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As Others See - Chapter
2
By Jedishampoo
Rating: R overall, mostly PG-13. Some
language, sexuality, not too explicit.
Summary: A magical misfire ends with the
wrong Howls in the wrong worlds. Howl's Moving
Castle (Movie) crossover with Howl's Moving Castle
(book).
Author's Notes: This is mostly an excuse to play
with the people involved and see how I might make the movie characters would
deal with Book!Howl and the book characters deal with Movie!Howl. Thanks to
sakura haru and sharpeslass for their betas!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this
story, Diana Wynne Jones or Studio Ghibli does. I'm just playing with them.
x x x
Howl sprinkled a pinch of
pink gol-powder into the air, spoke the word, drew a circle in front of him
with his finger, and stepped forward. Into an invisible barrier. Again.
He glanced over at Sophie
and Michael where they sat at the table, Calcifer floating above his grate
between them.
"Third time's the
charm, right?" he said, in a hopeful voice. Despite his two failures he
felt much better than he had two hours ago. At least he was doing
something.
"Are you sure you're
doing it correctly?" Sophie asked in a weary voice, leaning her head
forward into her hands. "It doesn't look like anything's happening."
"It's happening,
Sophie, you just can't see it," the earnest Michael said. "Right,
Calcifer?"
Green flames grew and shrank
over Calcifer's somewhat sinister-looking blue face. "Yup. But you're
being blocked. I can't tell what's causing it."
"Maybe you need more
gol-powder," Michael suggested. He stood. "We were running pretty
low, anyway. I should go get some more. Uh. Howl. Do you want to come with
me?"
"No," Howl and
Sophie said in unison.
Surprised at her refusal,
Howl looked at her. He knew why he hadn't wanted to go. The thought of
seeing their world was an enticing one, but he would rather keep working on the
home-spell. He was too worried about Sophie to waste time exploring. His
Sophie, that was. He raised his eyebrows at the other one.
"We should keep him
where Calcifer can keep an eye on him," Sophie explained. "And
Calcifer can't go without landing the castle."
Howl and Michael both
rolled their eyes. "I just want to keep working, anyway," Howl told
them.
Michael only looked
relieved. "I'll be back," he said, and practically ran to the door
and turned the square knob to yellow. It slammed behind him, and then there was
silence.
Howl grabbed a cloth rag
from the bench and bent over to erase the chalk line he'd drawn on the floor.
He would have to draw it again; now there was gol-powder mixed with the chalk.
He wondered if perhaps Michael was right, and he'd been using too little.
"He really just wants
to run by Cesari's to see Martha," Sophie said.
She was speaking to him.
Howl was somewhat surprised by this. "Martha?" he asked.
"My other
sister," Sophie said. She stood and walked over to a closet and returned
carrying a little broom and dustpan. She handed him the dustpan and jiggled the
broom at him. Howl got the idea. He bent over and laid the pan on the floor,
and let Sophie sweep the chalk into it.
"My Sophie's sister
Lettie works at Cesari's," he said. "It just reopened. She doesn't
have a sister Martha." Though Howl had known a Martha or two�
"I wonder where Lettie
is, anyway," Sophie said, and turned to empty the dustpan into a little
bin next to the bench.
Howl waited a couple of
moments, but she didn't seem to want to continue chatting with him. So he
shrugged inwardly and began to look over the books on the magic bench,
wondering if he'd missed something that could help him.
"I suppose I should
make lunch," she began again. "You are probably hungry."
"No," Howl said,
keeping his voice light and friendly. "Thank you, though."
"Hmph. Well, I'll make
some anyway. Michael and Lettie and whoever she returns with may want
something." She paused for a moment and looked him up and down.
"Though you should be hungry. You're a little thin."
Howl laughed out loud,
which seemed to startle her a bit. But she'd made him feel even better. She'd
sounded so much like his Sophie in that instant. "So I don't look exactly
like him, then?" he asked with some satisfaction.
"You look a lot like
him," she replied, staring at him with brown eyes-- his Sophie's eyes, odd
with that red hair. "It's rather spooky, actually. Except for your
eye-color, which hasn't faded as you'd said it would. They're still too blue."
"My eyes are blue,"
Howl told her. Since she was staring at him so intently, he felt a little more
free to examine her in return. Perhaps her hair was the wrong color but Howl
certainly couldn't call it unattractive. The dark yellow of her dress suited
it, bringing out golden highlights shining among the pale red. With her big
brown eyes, she looked like one of those fanciful paintings of Fall in Her
Youth.
His eyes involuntarily slid
down to look at the rest of her. Her figure, as he'd noted earlier, was nearly
exact in size and proportion to his Sophie's. In fact, he rather thought the
style of her dress would suit Sophie. It had one of the new lower waists that
allowed the fall of the skirt to flare out in a saucy manner at the hips. And
the bodice was modest but cut cunningly just so to accentuate her firm little
bosom--
The sweat that broke out on
the back of his neck caused Howl to realize where his thoughts had led him. He
looked away in a hurry. Books, he thought. Crossing spell. He
wasn't going to ogle a strange girl. Though he comforted himself with the idea
that she was Sophie, in a way. And it had certainly been much longer
than ten minutes since he'd thought about sex, thus disproving the statistic
he'd ruminated upon earlier that morning. And he was only human, after
all.
Perhaps Sophie had read his
thoughts, because her cheeks flushed a little. But she didn't glare at him, or
slap him, only turned away to dig through the larder. Howl didn't watch her as
she bent over, not at all.
"So are you from Wales,
too?" she asked him after a few moments of laying out bread and cheese.
"Wales?
No," Howl told her, glad of the not-silence. "I've been there. Too
rainy for me. I'm from right here in Ingary. Well, you know what I mean."
"Ah," Sophie
said. "Well, Howl is from Wales.
If you go into Howl's bedroom you can see it from his window. He hates to go
there-- he always catches cold-- but I know he feels comforted by its being
there. And now I'm talking too much about personal things. Argh.."
"It can't hurt for us
to compare notes," Howl said, a bit surprised. "I wouldn't have
minded seeing this place under other circumstances. And you only said it
because you care about him, and I can't fault you for that."
"Hmmm," Sophie
said. Howl could hear her as she sawed at a loaf of crusty bread, and the thunk
as she sliced at some heavy cheese. "The problem is that you're actually
listening to me, as well as talking to me. So tell me some more. When are you
getting married, for instance?"
"I don't know,
exactly," Howl admitted. "That's up to Sophie. Soon, I hope."
"Ah," she said
again. Then, casually, "Tell me about her."
Ah, thought Howl. She was being so
nice because she was curious and wanted information. Wanted to know what her
Howl was experiencing. He couldn't fault her for that, either. And conversation
went two ways; he might learn something, also.
"You look like
her," he said, wondering what else to say. "Except for the hair. Hers
is shorter, and a sort of silvery color, very pretty. There were some things
that happened. A witch cursed her, and--"
"Hmm. I know the
story, I think. How very odd, that someone else has lived my life." Sophie
didn't sound very happy about it. But she continued. "You're different
from Howl, though."
"I'm glad to hear
it," he interjected. He wasn't too happy himself to think that he wasn't
perfectly unique. He did feel better, however, to think that such was a general
human failing, and not simply a failing of his own. He'd been told he was vain.
Of course, she'd said that her Howl was vain also. This was maddening.
"I was trying to
say," she said with a significant look and a threatening wave of her
knife, "that then it must stand to reason that she's not exactly like
me."
"True," Howl
admitted. So he told her about Sophie, how sweet she was, how giving, hoping
that this girl didn't take it to mean that she wasn't. Once he got started, he
couldn't seem to stop. It was strange to realize, suddenly, that he was
talking to her. It was easy, actually. Before his Sophie, he'd been rather
close-mouthed himself. Of course, he hadn't had anyone to talk to, except
Calcifer.
"Calcifer is
practically her devoted slave, which is more than he ever was for me. And I've
known him for sixteen years."
"Sixteen?" Sophie
broke in. "Calcifer? You've only been with Howl for what-- five, six
years?"
"It's all a drop in
the bucket to a fire demon," Calcifer said.
"So?" Sophie
replied. "It still means it's different. You're all different." She
sounded happy at the notion.
Howl thought he knew how
she felt. "We're all still special," he told her in a soft voice. He
wondered if he was trying to convince her or himself. "You've been through
a lot for him, I think, and that can't be discounted or duplicated. And I'm
sure he appreciates it and still will, when this is all over."
"You're thinking about
it too much. Oh! We're out of my favorite tea. Is that the door? Thank heavens,
it's Lettie and Ben. Hello."
She sounded glad for the
distraction. He could talk to her, but she was not the demonstrative
sort, and Howl had embarrassed her. He really, really missed Sophie
right then.
So he looked at the
returning beauty Lettie, and the sharp-featured, sober-suited man who followed
her in with a somewhat dumbstruck, melty expression. Some things were
universal, Howl was coming to learn.
"That's him,
Ben," Lettie said, removing her coat and pointing at Howl. "Isn't it
the strangest thing? Sophie, where's Michael?"
Sophie developed a mulish
expression, but introduced Howl to the newcomer. Howl watched the other wizard.
The man stared back at him.
"How intriguing,"
Wizard Suliman said. "He's not Howl. But the resemblance is
remarkable."
"So I've heard,"
Howl mumbled to himself.
The man shook his head.
"I'm sorry I took so long. I was in the middle of something
important." But the expression he shot at Lettie made Howl suspect that
he'd still hurried through the something important.
"Sophie?
Michael?"
"He's getting more
gol-powder," Sophie finally told Lettie. "And probably visiting
Martha."
"Gol-powder, eh?"
Suliman said, staring. "Nice thinking. But I don't think that's going to
do it."
Howl set his hands on his
hips and sized up the other fellow. He could tell instantly that he, Howl, was
a bit more powerful and experienced despite the other man's advantage in years.
Still, Howl couldn't turn down friendly help, not in this situation.
"Oh?" he finally
replied. "What do you think, then?"
The man was still gazing
oddly at him, and Howl didn't think he was being sized up in return. Suliman's
expression showed that he was still clearly in the Wow, he really looks like
Howl, how can this be? stage. But Suliman answered, if somewhat
incoherently. "I think it's going to take parts."
"Parts."
Sophie perked up. "You
mean like in the yard?"
Suliman shook his head.
"No, from my workshop. For me to go to your world-- dimension-- and
arrange things. You," he said, pointing at Howl, "could probably
manage it without parts, if you weren't so closely involved. But it was your
concurrent spells that caused it in the first place, so you can't go there
unless Howl comes back here. And I think it'll take both of you doing it at the
same time. Hmm. This is tricky. I'll have to go home and work on it."
"You just got here,
Ben!" Sophie objected. "At least eat some lunch first."
Suliman looked over at
Lettie. "Don't mind if I do," he said. "It'll take a while to
build, anyway."
Howl sighed. He was going
to be stuck here forever. Perhaps he'd try the gol-powder spell one more time. Third
time's the charm, he thought, not really believing it.
x x x
After lunch Howell figured
it was time to work on getting home, to break that strange barrier he could
sense, blocking his most inconspicuous attempts to cross over. But every time
he approached the table where the books and spell ingredients were, Markl ran
over to see what he was doing. "Are you going to try the spell
again?" he'd ask, or "what do you want me to do?"
Howell dearly wanted to
tell the boy to bugger off. But the ginger-haired tyke was so young, and so eager;
and just too cute to rebuff. He'd made Howell smirk a couple of times during
lunch. And besides, Howell told himself, he didn't want to blow his cover.
So he tried exploring, but
exploring didn't get him much further. Howell first found a closet and a
bedroom. The latter was full of women's things yet still managed to look
completely unused. He shut the door on that room to find Sophie pausing in her
dishwashing to stare at him oddly. Her room? he wondered. Did she
live here?
She certainly seemed very
at home here. But come to think of it, his Sophie treated his castle the same
way. She didn't live there, though, at least not yet; her stepmother and
stepfather made sure of that. And she never visited alone. A Martha or a Lettie
accompanied her, always.
Of course, this Sophie had
the old lady-- the Witch of the Waste, though they called her Granny here--
for a chaperone. And she was plenty frightening, though Howell had already
discounted her as a threat. Mostly. She was the same Witch he'd known, or this
world's version of her at least, but she had no fire demon, no powers. The only
threat she posed was possibly to his virtue. Her eyes followed him more
assiduously than did Sophie's, and the look in them could be described only as
lascivious.
He opened another door and
found another small bedroom, tidy but slept-in. He shut the door guiltily.
"Go on in," the
old lady cackled. "Just give me a few minutes to get up and join
you."
"Granny," Sophie
sighed, taking off her apron and sitting at the couch. She looked at Howell,
then looked down quickly and smoothed her green dress. The gesture drew his
eyes inexorably toward her figure. Very like Sophie's, he thought.
"Don't be greedy,
young lady," Granny said. "Sides, he likes it. I need a cigar."
"Two a day. You
promised," Sophie said in a somewhat schoolmarm-y voice.
"All right, Miss
Bossy. I'll wait 'till after dinner."
Sophie merely smiled at
this, glanced again at Howell, then glanced away.
Howell couldn't comprehend
it. When he'd teased her, she'd gone all injured and shocky. It must be
something in the tone of voice, he mused. Or there was a history here he didn't
understand, and couldn't ask about.
Frustrated, he stomped over
to the last downstairs door, next to Calcifer's hearth. It led outside to a
small, rounded, grassy yard.
No one followed him out,
which was a good thing. But he also found no metal plates stored here, no other
magic junk for spell-assistance, and that was a bad thing. Howell set his hands
on his hips and looked up at the blue, blue sky, and let the afternoon sun warm
him while the high-altitude fall breezes cooled him right off again.
"Grrr," he said.
"What's wrong with
you?" came Calcifer's voice from beside him. Calcifer had turned around in
the hearth to face the outside, and was watching Howell with narrowed yellow
flame-eyes. "You've got Sophie all worried, and me, too. If you don't
straighten up, then she'll never marry you, and then where will we all
be?"
"It's not all that
bad, surely," Howell told the little flame, thinking furiously. His eyes
flew to his hand, and the ring upon it. He realized for the first time that it
wasn't the right betrothal ring, his ring, and that it wasn't even on the
correct finger.
He wondered again what his
Sophie was doing at that moment, and realized that he missed her. He understood
her. Sure, she could be a little cold, and she'd never have kissed him when he
was passed out or have visited him in the bathtub, but surely that would all
change once they were married. Wouldn't it?
"Bad? Aww, maybe
not," Calcifer answered. "She'll never leave you. I just hate seeing
her upset."
"You always did like
her, didn't you?" Howell asked, looking at the small orange face and
feeling very clever.
"Maybe," Calcifer
said. "Except that time when she cleaned the fireplace and tried to put me
out. Or when she dumped a bucket of water on me."
She did that? thought Howell. That sweet girl?
He could hardly believe it. It might be pushing it, though, to try and get the
whole story. So he just said "Yeah?" in a noncommittal tone.
"Guess she had
to," Calcifer admitted. His flames snapped when he laughed.
Howell had an idea.
"Calcifer, we've known each other a long time, right?"
"If you think sixteen
years is a long time."
Sixteen? History he didn't understand,
and couldn't ask about. Howell shrugged mentally, and chose his next words
with care. "I need help with something. Something important. But I can't
tell anyone in the house, even you, because it's a surprise. A good one. Where
do I go? Who do I ask for help?"
Calcifer's eyes narrowed
again and he was silent. Howell felt some trepidation at the pregnant pause,
but Calcifer was only thinking. "Well, if not me, then I'd say Sophie. If
not her, then I'd say nobody I know of. You'll just have to figure it out for
yourself, like you always do."
"Ah," Howell
said. What a depressing life this fellow had, he thought. No Wales to go
home to. Howell wouldn't try to find it himself unless it was as a last resort,
or else risk getting even more lost than he was already in this world. And this
world's Howell had no apparent friends, except those here, cozy little family
that they were.
But they were not his,
Howell's, family. And he would have to find help somewhere. He came to a
decision. He left the sun and the wind and went inside.
"I'm going out for a
bit," he announced to the 'family.' He added a smile, his very best and
most sincere, for the benefit of any hurt feelings. "I won't be
long."
Sophie stood from the
couch, and smoothed her gown again. Howell was momentarily distracted once more
by the slide of her slim fingers on the green fabric, and the curves they
caressed, and then he realized she was following him to the door. She leaned
forward, clearly expecting a kiss. Howell screwed up his courage (odd, that)
and offered her a quick peck on the mouth. Her lips were warm and soft. She
smelled like Sophie.
He stood back, quickly, and
turned the knob randomly to pink. The door led to a grand, bustling city. It
certainly looked like Kingsbury. Howell wanted to cheer.
"Will you be home in
time for dinner, do you think?" Sophie asked.
"I'd like nothing
better," Howell told her with complete and utter sincerity.
x x x
The third time was not the
charm. The door-powder spell had failed Howl once more, this time with an
audience that included another wizard. Howl so very hated to appear foolish.
Thankfully, if he left, he would never have to see these people again.
He stepped back from the
invisible barrier yet again, and looked at the group eating lunch at the table.
Sophie looked resigned. Lettie looked sad. Ben Suliman, however, looked
impressed.
"You gave it a good
go," the wizard told Howl between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. "If
I didn't have an outsider's perspective, I'd have almost thought you were going
to make it. Did you used to have a fire demon, too?"
"Yes," Howl said,
and looked at the chalk on the floor. Another mess to clean up, and nothing to
show for it except an outsider's perspective. He swept the floor,
emptied the dustpan, and looked at his chalky, awful, gaudy clothing-- not
appropriate for doing magic at all-- and had to concede temporary defeat.
"Natural talent too,
just like Howl," Suliman added. He looked at Lettie and Sophie. "The
resemblance, both physical and circumstantial, between two such fellows really
is uncanny. And rather frightening." The girls just nodded in agreement.
Howl was tired of hearing
how much he looked like Howl. He was tired of spells that didn't work. He was
tired of being dirty. He was tired, period.
Still, he was nothing if
not usually civil. "Did you say parts?" he asked Suliman. "How
long do you think it might take to reverse this madness?"
"I can probably have
something put together by tomorrow morning. We'll just need to plan a bit, of
course. You'll need to tell me what to expect over there. If Howl's there,
he'll know me, but I'll need to be prepared."
"True," Howl
said. Just then the outside door opened, and Michael blew in, followed by yet
another attractive female. She resembled Sophie and Lettie. This, then, must be
Martha.
Michael's cheeks were pink
and he was smiling like a bit of a fool. "Mr. Suliman! Am I glad to see
you. And Howl's back! Wait, I'm sorry," Michael said, staring at Howl with
a sheepish expression. "You're so alike that for a moment I thought maybe
you'd done it."
"He certainly looks
like Howl," the new girl said, staring as well. "Hello. I'm
Martha."
"Hello," Howl
told her, trying to smile. But he'd reached his limit with the whole
resemblance issue. "Sophie, not to be rude, but I need to do something.
Where's the bathroom?"
She flushed a bit and
pointed across the kitchen to a door. Howl realized she'd gotten the completely
wrong idea But there was nothing he could do about it at the moment; they'd all
see soon enough. He had work to do.
"He acts weird, like
Howl, too," he heard Martha say as he locked himself in the bathroom.
It was an impressive
bathroom, too, Howl had to admit. It was fitted out like a bathroom in a
palace, with a large mirror, a bathtub, shelves and shelves of potions, and lo
and behold, a real shower. Howl tried the taps in the shower and was rewarded
with a fine, misty spray of hot water. "Good going, Calcifer," he
said, stripped, and went to look among the potions.
The shower wasn't as
relaxing as a bath, but Howl decided he wasn't in the mood to soak. Something
was bothering him; he felt jittery. So he found the potions he needed, did what
needed to be done, and turned off the shower.
When he'd dried off he
looked at the clothes on the floor. He hated to put them back on but he had
nothing else to hand. How stupid was it, he thought, to have a bathroom on the
ground floor and the bedroom upstairs? So he dressed again, hung a towel over
his head, and exited to the main castle room. Only Sophie was there, cleaning
up.
"Martha had to get
back to work," she told him. "Michael went with her. Lettie went to
help Ben. Our reputations are going to be in shreds after this. I hope you're
happy."
"I'm not," Howl
told her.
"Good," she said.
Howl looked at the stairs.
The bedrooms were up there. He started up and then heard Sophie call out behind
him.
"Where are you
going?"
"To change," he
said. "If you would please only tell me which door I need, I'll be out of
your hair."
Sophie gasped. "But
there are rules about Howl's bedroom."
"Well, what are
they?"
"Don't touch
anything."
"That's hardly
helpful," he told her.
Sophie sighed. "I'll
go with you, then, to keep an eye on you. But Calcifer is still here, so you
just watch yourself."
Howl laughed, startling her
again, and continued up the stairs. "I'd hoped you'd realized by now that
I'm not going to try anything. I'm not a monster." At least, not
anymore, he thought.
At the top of the stairs
Howl found a short hallway. Sophie pointed to a door at its end, and Howl went
in. And sneezed. He had to admit that the room was not as cluttered as his, but
it was mightily dusty. Apparently even Sophie didn't come in here. Yet,
he thought, eyeing her as she followed him in, and the ring she twiddled upon
her finger.
"Well, if you're
anything like Howl in more than looks, then you've probably got a
reputation," she said in a prim little voice.
"Hmm," Howl
answered, noncommittal. He couldn't exactly refute that particular statement,
though he was faithful to his Sophie. He had no reason to look anywhere else,
now. And there, it had been at least an hour since he'd thought about sex. The
thought bothered him for some reason, but he couldn't fathom why. It was just
another worry niggling at the back of his mind in a worrisome situation. He
looked out the window at a grey-and-green scene that was somehow familiar.
"Is that Wales?"
he asked.
"Yes," Sophie
said. "That's his sister's house."
"Sister?" Howl
said, and felt very sad for a moment. "I always wished I'd had a sister.
Or a brother."
"Oh," Sophie
said, clearly uncomfortable, and stared at him. Her eyes were sympathetic. For
a moment she almost seemed to be reaching out to pat his arm, but then her gaze
became closed again and she brushed at some dusty books with nervous gestures.
"Well, Megan is a bit of a bitch, if that makes you feel any better. And
there I am, discussing personal things again. Curses."
Howl stepped back from the
somewhat dreary scene at the window. "Well, it's about to become more
personal, because I'm going to change clothes."
"Oh," she said
again. She took a couple of steps back and twiddled her ring some more.
"I'll turn around and stand by the door. And I'm leaving it open!"
"As you please,"
Howl said, and laughed at her silliness. He was not modest, and not interested
in her. Well, not much, anyway, he thought, watching her graceful form as she
glared at him and then spun to face the hallway.
He found the closet, and
the most sober suit in it. He managed not to make any 'ick' noises at the mauve
satin and lace suit, or at the awful sleeves on some of those shirts. He
wondered, though, how this nice, black suit had survived among all the others.
He put it on and found a mirror. The suit was slightly too large, and Howl felt
pretty good about that, but it wouldn't do to look dumpy. He magicked it just
enough to fit it properly, and ran a hand through his re-blackened hair. He
looked pretty darn good, he thought, even if his eyes were still a little too
green.
"Done," he
announced to Sophie's back.
She turned and looked, and
her eyes grew wide. "Oh! That's better. Mostly. You look less like Howl,
at least Howl as he is now." She brushed at her skirts. "I can't
believe I was in here while you changed clothes."
She looked, acted and
sounded so much like Sophie in that moment that Howl didn't think before
speaking. "Well, it's not like you've never-- Oh." The niggling worry
from earlier grew from a pebble into a boulder, and slammed into his brain. He
plopped onto the bed, sending up a cloud of dust. "Oh. Oh, damn."
Sophie looked at him and
her expression grew worried; she ran over to him and slapped his shoulder.
"What? What?"
Howl thought dimly that he
must look really terrible to have engendered that sort of a reaction from her.
He glanced down at the dusty bed. It didn't help. "I just thought of
something. Sophie-- ah. Sophie sleeps with me. If she doesn't realize-- you
don't think he'd--?"
"She what?!"
Sophie hit him on the shoulder again, harder this time. "But you're not
even married. See! You are a lecher."
He barely heard her, the
thoughts were tumbling about so in his brain. He himself wouldn't, he thought.
But he tried as he had earlier to imagine himself in the other Howl's head.
They'd said he was sly. He had a lovely fiancee who loved him, true; but this
Sophie wouldn't tell him enough about Howl, except through her silences, and
those were not encouraging. His head definitely hurt now, and he left it that
way.
She hit him again.
"Defend your actions, mister," she said.
Howl looked up at her.
"I don't have to," he said. "I'm going to marry her. It's
just." He hated to say it. "What if she doesn't know? Really-- do you
think he'd�?"
"Argh," Sophie
said in reply, and hit him on the shoulder one last time. "If he does,
then it's your fault."
"That's not
helping," he said. She was misdirecting her anger again, Howl somehow
realized. She wasn't sure what her Howl would do, and so blamed him, Howl. He
was beginning to understand her a little, but it still didn't make him feel any
better.
"I don't care. And
here I am alone with you, lecher, but I can't leave you in here. So come
on!" With those statements she stomped to the door and held it open, and
pointed to the hallway. "I think I hear Michael now."
"How fortuitous,"
Howl said to her in a somewhat sarcastic tone that was surprising even to
himself.
"Oh! Pretending to be
you. What I won't do to him when he gets back," she mumbled as she
followed him from the room.
That definitely did not
make Howl feel any better.
x x x
Howell strolled the
bustling streets of Kingsbury, hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune
from a song about shepherdesses and dukes. This was to conceal the fact that he
was in a very bad mood.
Normally he might have
considered his situation an adventure. There he was, in a world like one of his
own, but slightly different. Gorgeous weather; the sun cast a happy light upon
the city, glinting white flashes from freshly-cleaned windows as he passed, and
brightening the yellow-and-red royal flags waving from every pole. There were
plenty of odd and fascinating little vehicles about, chugging cars on the
streets and little wasp-flyers in the air; his own Ingary didn't have such
bizarre things and Howell was pretty certain that none of those had existed at
any point on Earth, either, even in America.
And there were plenty of
girls, pretty girls in pretty fall-colored dresses strolling arm-in-arm with
fellows or each other, giggling and shooting coy glances at other fellows,
himself included.
Still, Howell was not
happy. He'd had no luck on his quest to find the Wizard Suliman. They'd been
pretty damn surprised to see him at the castle. That was never a good
sign. And after he'd climbed those endless, guard-bedecked stone steps, and
spoken to at least a dozen identical retainers, he'd been informed that she-- she--
was out today but would return tomorrow.
So, therefore, would
Howell. Unless someone rescued him first. He had no better plans at the moment.
Oh, he'd tried to rescue
himself. But even after finding a chemist's and procuring some
spell-ingredients (and wasn't it lucky he'd found those coins in the pockets of
those damned tight pants), and finding a nice, secluded spot, he'd been unable
to magic himself back home. He had several suspicions as to why this was
happening-- the foremost being that since he and the other Howell had been the
cause of this odd switch, then they would have to reenact the exact same events
at the same time to reverse the mixup. But there was no way to get over there
to tell the other bloke what to do, and vice-versa.
And to top off his
unfruitful hours in Kingsbury, every moment he spent alone when he wasn't
working magic he was experiencing guilt over his deception. He'd been
eyeballing and kissing some other man's girl, one who wasn't his own fiancee to
boot, no matter that she looked and smelled and felt like Sophie. She wasn't;
she was a different person, a bit soft was how he might describe her,
and she certainly didn't deserve to be so taken in.
Mostly, he was annoyed with
the guilt. He'd never been burdened by it before. Maybe it was something to do
with the heart, though rationality told him this was not so; a heart was merely
an organ that moved oxygen through the blood, and was not connected with
emotion in any way. Maybe it had more to do with being happier than he had in a
long time (until he'd gotten stuck here, of course). He'd found a girl he still
wanted once he knew her. And Sophie-- the one here, was not her. But too close
for comfort.
There was no chance that
something similar was happening in his own world. Even if the other Howell
tried anything, Sophie would never allow it. She hardly ever let him get
too close for too long-- more's the pity.
So there would be no cosmic
justice, only his own worries about himself, and how he was to get home. And it
was too late to reveal himself now. He'd just have to stick it out, and pretend
to be someone who was nice and never teased anyone and probably wasn't much fun
at all.
So Howell traced his steps
back to the Kingsbury castle entrance, took his hands out of his pockets,
pasted on a fake smile, and opened the door.
The silver-haired Sophie
was there, and she turned and smiled at him when he entered. "Hello, Howl!
You must have had a very good walk. You look so much better," she said,
her grin as bright as the sunshine outside.
Fingers of guilt tickled at
his gut again. Who'd have thought he could make her so happy by only smiling?
If he'd walked into his own castle smiling like that, his Sophie would have
scowled at him suspiciously and asked what he had to smirk about. That was how
she showed she loved him. He missed her.
But this Sophie tripped
over and greeted Howell without outstretched hands. Surprisingly, the warmth of
her fingers and the delight in her grin made him feel welcome, even lightened
his foul mood. Then a sharp ache reminded Howell that the love here wasn't his.
For a few uncomfortable moments he wasn't sure what caused the ache more:
missing what he had, or having what he couldn't.
"You've got the color
back in your cheeks. I'm glad. Though your eyes still look strange,"
Sophie said, and her kindness broke Howell's odd moment. Except she looked like
she might try to kiss him again, so Howell released her hands after only a
quick squeeze.
"Mi-Markl," he
called, looking around the strange airy castle room. The boy's red head
appeared over the top of the couch. Howell tossed a half-empty bag of
gol-powder at him. "Take this and put it away, would you?"
"Oh, good, Master
Howl. We were almost out."
"Let me show you what
I made," Sophie said, waving her hands. She walked to the couch and bent
over to pluck something off the cushions. It was a hat, pink with rose ribbons
and little white-and-green silk lilies-of-the-valley around the brim. She put
it on and twirled, green skirt flying to show her shapely little calves.
"It's the wrong season for these colors, but I don't think I care."
She seemed almost gleeful
at the notion. "Pretty," Howell said, and meant it.
"Do you think? I
finished something else but I'll show it to you later."
"Um. Okay,"
Howell told her, not knowing what else to say. He looked over to see the flabby
old Witch staring at him.
"I still say he's all
wonky," the hag said.
"He's fine,"
Sophie told her firmly. "And I prefer blue, but Howl, your eyes actually
look well with that suit." She looked him up and down and then blushed
again.
This time Howell recognized
that blush for what it was. His Sophie sometimes did the same thing, though she
tried to hide it. It was what gave him hope for their romantic and sexual
future.
The similarities between
this world and his own were as striking as the differences, and yet he was
starting to get used to them. It was an adventure after all, Howell decided. He
might as well relax and stop worrying; he wouldn't be able to do anything
useful until tomorrow, anyway, when he returned to see Royal Wizard Suliman.
"Why, thank you,"
he told her, and smiled. The smile might have been a bit feral, but he couldn't
be sure. He twirled for good measure. The old lady laughed.
Markl rolled his eyes.
"When are we gonna eat?" he wanted to know.
Howl felt his stomach
rumble. Something sure smelled lovely and he'd had a long walk in the fresh
air. And climbed a lot of steps. "Dinner sounds wonderful," he said.
Everyone looked at him in
some surprise. "It must have been a very good walk, if you've got
an appetite," Sophie said. "Vegetables and ham?"
"Still sounds
good," he said.
Dinner was as jovial as
lunch had been. Sophie seemed to be everywhere at first, setting out dishes,
serving, cutting food for Markl and the old lady, tossing scraps at Calcifer.
Unlike his Sophie at times this one seemed very matronly, like a mother or a
housekeeper. Or maybe it was just that silver hair, Howell thought. Then she
took off her apron and tried surreptitiously to check her reflection in a
window before sitting, and again she seemed like a young girl.
There was a lot of chatter.
At first Howell just ate and tried to laugh at the appropriate moments, but
after a bit he realized he was enjoying himself. His Sophie rarely ate dinner
with him, not since she'd become his fiancee and moved out of the castle (a
backwards sequence of events if Howell had ever seen one). She and a Lettie or
a Martha might cook, but usually dinner was very bachelorified and over
quickly. Every now and then this Sophie shot him an odd look and Howell
wondered if he was expected to be more participatory.
After a short silence at
the table, and one of these odd looks, Sophie said, "If you will not tell
us of your day, shall I tell you of something amusing that happened last year
around this time?"
Howell opened his hand at
her. "Be my guest."
Sophie quirked her eyebrow
at his tone (Howell wondered if it had been too ironic) and in a show of very
bad manners, set her elbows on the table. "Making the hat reminded me. And
I remember because it was only a few days before the King's Birthday-- which
reminds me again, have you decided what you're going to do about that? It's
already the fourth."
Howell realized she was
talking to him. "Still working on it. It's a surprise," he
prevaricated.
"Hmm. Well, anyway,
Lettie had just started at Cesari's," she continued. "She had already
met a young man, of course. They were to meet in the park and she wanted a hat
covered with fresh flowers. She said she wanted to look like a flower garden to
impress him, which seemed rather silly, because Lettie doesn't need such things
to keep a man's attention. But she was very young then. And I told her
the day was too warm and they would wilt, but she threw a tantrum and insisted.
She wanted dahlias, and coneflowers, and marigolds. They all make very bad cut
flowers for hats, you know. Chrysanthemums would have been better. I didn't
even think about the-- well, anyway, she met her young man in the park, and of
course it was a warm day, and the bees were terrible--"
"Ugh, bees,"
Markl interjected.
Howell smiled at the boy
and looked back at Sophie, interested despite the utter femininity of the
story. This was the most Sophie spoken since he'd arrived here, and her face
was animated, brown eyes laughing, fingers weaving little patterns in the air
as she told her tale.
"Bees. They followed
her everywhere, of course, because she smelled so good. Her young man, thinking
he was being gallant, swatted at them. One stung her on the nose, which swelled
to twice its normal size. She ran home in tears and wouldn't leave her room for
three days, just lay in her bed and wailed at me and said that if I had to be
right all the time, then I could have at least remembered the bees."
Markl rolled his eyes, and
the old lady cackled at the foolishness of young girls.
Howell laughed and leaned
forward on his own elbows. "And are you always right, Sophie, dear?"
She flashed him an innocent
expression. "Of course I am. You know that."
"Except when you are
wrong?" Howell leaned further. He was rather surprised to find that he was
flirting with her.
She leaned forward as well,
until their noses were nearly touching. "But I am never wrong. It comes of
being the eldest sister." She grinned. "Can you remember a time when
I was not right?"
"Well," Calcifer
began.
"But oh, Miss
Prudence, I seem to remember--" Howell started to say, and then stopped
himself just in time, remembering who he was talking to and who she wasn't, and
the history he didn't know and couldn't ask about. "Wait, I've forgotten,"
he finished lamely.
Sophie laughed. "Of
course you have," she said, and kissed him on the nose, and for a quick,
brutal moment, Howell wanted to come clean. He wanted to stop deceiving them
all, and he wanted to ask questions. Perhaps they could help, his desperate
thoughts told him. But nearly as instantly, the feeling vanished. For what
could they do but make his life more difficult? They were only a little boy and
two ladies, one young and one old, neither of whom had any magical abilities
whatsoever.
And he wondered again what
the other Howell was like, and how big a milksop he might be, if he couldn't
tease anyone and had a girl who was always right.
He scraped his chair back
from the table and stood. He surveyed the cozy scene for a few moments; saw the
golden glow cast over the wooden room by Calcifer's warm-colored flames, the
open and friendly faces watching him, and smelled the smells of a normal home.
It was more appealing than he'd thought it might be.
But relaxing was not an
option after all, when he was prone to relaxing too much in front of this
not-family. Howell patted his stomach and said in a hearty voice,
"Wonderful food, but unfortunately I've a need to get some reading
done." He looked at Markl. "Got to get that spell right,
y'know."
"Are you sure there's
nothing wrong with you, Howl?" Calcifer asked, little yellow eyes
narrowed.
"I'm fine!
Really," Howell said, and forced a laugh. "It's just been an--
exciting day. And I need to look through some of the books in my room."
"Of course,"
Sophie said. She looked at him closely, then shook her head and stood to begin
clearing the dishes.
The Witch creaked to her
feet and patted her own large stomach. "Well, I'm going out for a smoke.
Help Sophie with the dishes, why don't you, young man?"
Howell froze for a second,
trying to come up with a quick excuse, but then realized she'd been talking to
Markl.
"All right," the
boy said, and shoved another roll in his mouth before standing to help.
Howell breathed an inner
sigh of relief, then realized that Calcifer was still staring at him. He needed
to make his escape quickly. "Night, all," he said with a small wave,
then made for the stairs.
x x x
When Howl and Sophie came
downstairs Michael had indeed returned. So at least Howl could impress him with
his jet-black hair and with how much he no longer looked just like Howl.
He still had that sick feeling in his stomach about Sophie, but there was
nothing he could do. Waiting was his only option. And Sophie was strong. She'd
rescued The Great Wizard from himself, after all, and had managed to clean up
his act and his castle in the process. She could fly on her own for a bit, and
afterwards they would just have to pick up the pieces as usual.
Michael gave Howl a bit of
a startled look when he spotted him. "Did someone die?" Michael
asked.
Howl could only laugh.
"I certainly hope not!"
Michael laughed in return,
a bit nervously. "You're dressed for a funeral, and so glum. But you look
less like Howl, now, anyway."
"Good," Howl
said, for that pleased him just fine. He set his hands on his hips and took a
deep breath, and prepared himself to survive the next twelve hours or so.
"I'm going home,"
Sophie said with a glare at both of them. "I don't suppose I should bother
to wait on Lettie."
Howl found that he actually
didn't want her to leave just yet. At least she was familiar. She was a bit
thorny, sure, but that he could deal with and had, many times in the past, from
many people.
"I'd like to go out
anyway," he told her. "Shall I escort you home?"
"You! No. I'm still
irritated with you."
"Why ever for?"
Michael wanted to know. He glanced over at the hearth in confusion.
"Calcifer?"
"I don't know what
she's talking about, either," Calcifer said with a wave of his green
flame-hair.
"You can't leave.
You're not allowed," Sophie said over her shoulder as she opened the
closet, looking for her coat.
Howl opened his mouth, but
surprisingly, Calcifer interjected in his defense. "He's an adult, Sophie.
I'm not keeping him prisoner."
"But we need him to
get Howl back!"
"And believe me, I
won't miss that," Howl said, trying to hide a grin. "You think I
don't want to get home?"
"He's right, Sophie.
He hasn't done anything," Michael added.
Howl watched the little
argument with some interest, as well as with some pity for Sophie. Michael and
Calcifer were clearly enjoying her discomfiture. Her glare of steel pierced
them all; she must play the martinet around here, Howl thought, even more so
than his Sophie did at home. He missed her terribly for a moment then pushed
the feeling away, tucking it back inside his subconscious where it belonged,
along with nothing he could do and afterwards and he'd better
not.
Sophie pursed her lips.
"Fine, Calcifer. Traitor," she said, and tied her light brown cloak
at her waist. She glared again at Howl. "I guess if you're walking with me
then I can keep an eye on you, for a while at least."
Feeling a bit guilty about
it but doing it anyway, Howl laughed at her again. Anyone could be a target for
her fury. At least she'd stopped calling him a lecher. "I'm looking
forward to it."
Howl watched her turn the
square knob to blue, and played an instantaneous guessing-game in his head--
probably not the wastes. Kingsbury, then? But she opened the door onto a town
that looked very like Market Chipping.
Outside it was late
afternoon, and the slanting sunlight gave the yellow, cross-beamed houses a
golden luminescence. The streets were quiet except for a few passersby, dressed
in simple clothing and walking with purpose in their eyes, and a few
horse-drawn carts. The air was clean, almost bucolic, unpolluted by mechanics.
Howl breathed deeply and
offered Sophie a crooked elbow. She ignored it and strode ahead, fisting her
little hands at her sides, forcing him to catch up. Breezes teased the loose
strands of her long reddish hair, setting them dancing about her pale, stony
face.
"Ben will see Lettie
home, I'm sure," she said, staring straight ahead.
"And me," Howl
added in a carefree tone, and breathed more of the country smells. He stuck his
hands in his jacket pockets and considered whistling, but then decided she'd
had enough aggravation. "Where are we?"
"Market
Chipping."
"Ah, I thought
so."
"Does it look
familiar?" she asked. She didn't sound happy about it, as usual. Then she
seemed to take a deep breath of her own, and spoke in a more conversational
tone. "My mother and stepfather are in town for the fall festivals. He has
houses everywhere. They'll live in Kingsbury in the spring, the country in the
winter. They live in almost as many places now as Howl does. But I spent my
whole life here. Curses."
"Getting personal
again?" Howl teased. His mood had improved, and he wanted hers to, also.
He suspected they had the same worry; they were almost in this together. So he
took his left hand out of his pocket and jiggled her elbow with two fingers.
"What?" she
asked, looking up at him. Her brown eyes had taken on a gold nearly the color
of her dress in the fading sunlight.
"Come on,
Sophie," he said, still feeling odd calling her that out loud. "Let
me at least play the gentleman."
She didn't say anything
snarky at that; perhaps she'd tired of casting aspersions on his nature. In
fact, she didn't say anything at all, just hooked her elbow around his. She
kept a regulation sort of distance, however, and focused her eyes ahead once
more.
"That's my girl,"
he said, feeling somewhat nostalgic about it.
"You act so
differently from Howl," she said after a minute or so of silence. "I
know how to deal with him. And I'm still going to clobber him when he gets
back."
Howl knew how she felt.
"Do you often clobber him?"
"Of course," she
said, and then laughed at herself. "That's why we get along so well. I
don't baby him at all."
"Good," Howl said
with some feeling, though he had a suspicion that she might baby Howl more than
she thought. But he kept that suspicion to himself.
"I guess I just don't
know how to deal with you. Or how to control the situation, getting Howl back,
everything. It's out of my hands, and I can't stand it." It seemed that
once she started talking, the floodgates were open. "I suppose I'll have
to deal with this sort of thing all the time once I've married Howl. Still,
happiness is not overrated at all, no matter what they say. Argh. I don't know
what it is about you, but I can't stop telling you things."
"I don't mind. I like
it."
"I know. That's
probably the reason. I don't even talk to Howl like this."
"Maybe you
should." By habit, or perhaps trying to be comforting, Howl tugged her
elbow until she was a bit closer to him, and didn't look so much like she was
being led away at gunpoint.
She let him do it.
"Yes, but then I usually do or say something stupid."
"You? No, you're very
sensible. I can tell." Then Howl realized he sounded like he was flirting
with her.
She looked startled, but
her surprise seemed to be directed more at his sentiment than his tone.
"You're very smooth. But it's nice to hear it for once."
"I'm happy to
oblige."
"You're too kind, sir,"
she said, then laughed. "See? I sounded ridiculous right then."
"No, we were both just
being ridiculously polite." Howl was beginning to suspect he knew why she
felt so free to tell him these things: it was because she could get a Howl-sort
of perspective without embarrassing herself before the man she cared about.
Everyone had their issues,
he decided. Sophie-- this one-- had some sort of fear of sentiment, fear of
appearing to care too much. His Sophie had no problems with sentiment at all,
much to his appreciation. Her issues had all been about her looks. But once
she'd gained confidence by walking through fire and sorcery, she'd been able to
move past it. And himself? He had... well, he was a bit moody, perhaps. And he
was sure he had other faults.
Ultimately, though, this
was not his world and he didn't plan to stay in it for longer than he
absolutely had to. And if he wasn't going to worry about his Sophie back home,
then he sure as hell shouldn't be worrying about this one. Still, he was. He
just wasn't completely sure why.
Perhaps his silence went on
for too long; she paused in her walking to stare at him, and he wondered if she
was searching his face for irony or ridicule. Or maybe she was just looking for
Howl. Finally, she said, "I must admit, you have a great deal of charm. So
does Howl, though, so I guess it just stands to reason." She sighed and
started walking again, pulling him along. "It makes one wonder how many
sides one coin can have."
"I prefer not to think
about it," Howl admitted.
"Me, neither,"
Sophie said. "It's rather freeing, not to think about it. So, when,
exactly, are you getting married?"
And there she was again, not
helping him to not think about it. "I told you, whenever Sophie
says go." He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
"Hah. Maybe she
doesn't trust you."
Howl laughed at her. She
was projecting again. "That's not very nice," he told her.
"Perhaps not. But I
have a theory, even so. Do you want to hear it?"
"Desperately,"
Howl said, not untruthfully. "Give me the insider's perspective."
She chuckled at the joke.
"I think she will. I think--" Here she paused for a while, and
narrowed her eyes at some passing, giggling girls, with that silent, get
lost look she did so well. The girls moved on and Sophie practically yanked
at Howl's arm, hurrying him along before continuing. "I think she probably
has been very good and quiet her whole life. And now for a while she can play
the part of someone who does not follow the rules. Every world has rules. Here,
Howl is a respected sorcerer, one of the Royal Wizards. At home in Wales, his
sister wonders why Howl doesn't have a job. If Sophie is an eldest sister-- it
feels strange saying such a thing, like I'm talking about myself-- then she's
expected to be responsible. But now she's being rather wanton."
In this particular instance
Howl could not inwardly accuse Sophie of projecting; that scenario was
something he had suspected himself. But he had no objections to wantonness on
Sophie's part, none at all. In fact, he enjoyed it. Lots. And there, it had
been at least another half-hour. "Oh," he said, lost in other
thoughts. His smile must have been rather stupid-looking.
"And like any man, you
take advantage." Sophie's voice was smug. "I believe I'm right, and
it's refreshing to feel that way. Oh, look. I'm home."
"Huh?" Howl said,
tearing his thoughts away from more pleasant things. He halted and looked up at
an imposing, white-columned and red-bricked doorway set a few yards back from
the street. A little gold plaque nailed into the bricks proclaimed it to be the
residence of the Sacheverell-Smiths. The windows on the door were cut
crystal-glass, and like prisms they caught the sun's last rays and spat them
out into little shrinking rainbows on the stone porch.
"Nice," Howl
said, thinking he should say something.
"Yes," Sophie
agreed in a flat voice. Then she blew out a breath and pulled her arm from his,
only to grab his hands. Her fingers were cold. "Good night. For the last
time, I hope."
"Good night,"
Howl told her. He'd been trying to be kind to her, but her dismissals were
beginning to grate on his nerves. And his ego. So he added, in a wry voice,
"No kiss, I suppose."
To his surprise Sophie
didn't slap him, merely stared at him and kept a firm grip on his hands. Her
brown eyes were dark in the bare light of the dusk, and assessing. "You
may, if you wish."
"Uh," Howl said,
stupidly, and stared back at her. He took a moment to marvel at himself; how
much had he changed, that such an invitation should flummox him rather than
make him feel justified in his existence? He'd just never expected that
from her. He coughed to recover his aplomb, and a teasing tone. "I
was joking. What about your reputation?"
She cocked an eyebrow at
him in some sort of challenge. "No one will be surprised to see me kissing
my fiancee. You don't want to."
"That's not it! Well,
perhaps. I am engaged. It's just-- why all the rules and regulations?" he
asked, trying to remind her of her own excuses. His intuition had failed him at
that point. He could come up with no excuse for her behavior. Or for his own
hateful curiosity.
Sophie shrugged, still
holding his hands in her cool, firm grip. "Sisters have to watch out for
each other. Mostly, though, it's to annoy Howl. He thinks he can have
anything."
Ah. Howl laughed darklySo he was some
sort of revenge, then, for foul deeds real or imagined. Perhaps it was all the
talk of wantonness, but Howl realized he was feeling the challenge. There was a
healthy dollop of guilt there, too, mingling with the resident curiosity to
form an oddly intriguing mixture of emotion in his belly. But how could he help
it? She was Sophie, the woman he adored, in a way. A kiss wouldn't hurt
anything. He'd done it before, after all, unknowingly.
"All righty,
then," he said and jerked at her hands, closing the distance between them.
Her face was pale and set, shining like a statue through the dimness. She
didn't really look like she wanted to be kissed, though Howl thought he could
detect a bit of reciprocal curiosity in her gaze. They were in this together.
So he bent his head and set
his lips against her pursed ones. They were surprisingly warm given the
coldness of her expression; but no, not really like his Sophie's at all. She
just stood there, breathing through her nose for a few interminably
disappointing instants. And then she pulled her hands from his and Howl figured
it was over and began to back off.
But she'd only been
gathering some sort of resolve. Her fingers gripped his shoulders all in a
rush, forcing him to kiss her more firmly.
Forcing him? That was an
unfair thought; Howl was participating in this foolishness, and quite
willingly. Besides, he had something to prove. What, he wasn't sure. That he
was something better than Howl, more tender a lover? Human nature was more
powerful than magic most of the time, and made less sense. Not quite knowing
what to do with his freed hands he did the obvious and familiar; clasped his
fingers about her waist, warm through the plushy weight of her coat.
With his eyes closed Howl
felt less guilty and somewhat more aroused. She did taste and smell like
Sophie, heartbreakingly so, he thought, as he pulled her close and let his
tongue tease the slippery inside of her mouth. She returned that intimacy, and
after a few minutes he realized that he was enjoying that familiar-but-not
sensation much more than he should. The flesh was weak, and her breaths harsh
and excited.
Guilt was feeding his
arousal, or at least so he told himself. At some point he'd squeezed her close,
forearms pressing into her back, and he could feel more of her than he'd
thought possible through that coat. And soon, he realized dimly, things would
become irreparably interesting.
His arms uncrossed in a
rush and Howl jumped back in a blundering manner that he hated but couldn't
prevent. Sophie-- the wrong Sophie-- untangled her fingers from his hair and
stared at him, as silent as he.
Her cheeks were pink in the
light from the house; they gave life to that pale, heart-shaped face. Anger?
Lust? Howl waited for her to slap him but she didn't, merely took her own step
back.
"Hmm," she said,
then yanked at the fabric of her buff-colored coat, straightening it in a very
Sophie-like gesture. Her feet backed her away a few more steps, bootheels
clicking on the stone pavement. She turned to ascend the short stairs that led
to the porch. "I'm not her, you know. And I think I shall keep all of this
to myself."
"Good idea," Howl
said, unable to think of a better riposte. He felt a need to defend himself, and
sought frantically for something to say. An uncharacteristic, naked admission
found its way through his lips. "I do love her. Desperately."
"I know," Sophie
said, and her voice held grave sincerity. "Good night."
Howl gave her a little
wave, and turned into the night. The cool air was gratifyingly head-clearing.
Yes, he'd been a revenge, and some sort of a test of her own curiosity. That
didn't make his actions correct. Perhaps he did take advantage. Was that a
fault, then?
Howl didn't want to think
about it. He wandered the town, trying with little success not to think about
his Sophie at home, and how he didn't deserve her, and how he wasn't going to
grab hold of her as soon as he got home and never let go, only glue himself to
her side like some sort of conjoined twin. He tried not think about how
stupidly, blunderingly close he could come every minute of every day to losing
her, and how no matter what happened here or there, he would pick up whatever
pieces he could or risk a lonely, meaningless future.
x x x
Howell lounged on the bed
in Howell's room, idly thumbing through some sort-of-familiar books of magic,
and thanking his lucky stars for blessed privacy.
Away from the eyes of
others he'd not needed the flattering suit. So he'd shut the door, found a
comfy white lawn nightshirt, lit a few lamps, and prepared to wait out the
night.
It was Calcifer's eyes that
he'd mostly been avoiding. The little orange demon was figuring things out, and
Howell was not yet ready for them to be figured. At least, unless he himself
was doing the figuring. He flipped through a few pages in one of the larger,
illustrated tomes, releasing a slightly musty, old-bookish scent into the air.
These books were interesting but he doubted he'd find anything useful in them.
He could only pass the time until tomorrow when he could apply to the Wizard
Suliman for assistance.
Truthfully, he was hiding
from Sophie as well. She was too attentive and affectionate, and he was too
conditioned to be attracted to her. She kept getting so close, and tempting him
with something he wanted but couldn't yet have.
So it was with no small
measure of exasperation that he heard the doorknob turn and the door open, and
saw Sophie slide through the gap. Who would have thought he'd have to lock
it? Howell wondered. But not for long. She shut the door behind her, and
the room suddenly seemed smaller than it should have.
"What--" he
started to ask are you doing here? and then realized that it would have
been an incredibly stupid question. So he recovered with, "is up,
Sophie?"
"What a silly
question," she said anyway. She set one hand at her hip and pointed the
other at the side of the bed nearest the door. "Get over here. Sit,"
she ordered. "Let me look at your head."
"I'm fine,"
Howell said. He didn't want to get any closer. She was wearing a thin
sort of robe-- over what he did not know-- belted at the waist, and somehow in
this room, with the bed, it all seemed more uncomfortably intimate than it had
when he'd been naked in the tub and she'd merely been doing laundry.
"Now," she said,
and jabbed her finger on the bedspread a couple of times for emphasis. "Or
I'll come over there. Let me see your head!"
She'd probably do it,
Howell decided. She was being uncharacteristically bossy, acting sort of like
his Sophie. He had little choice. So he scooted over to dangle his legs over
the edge of the bed, making sure the nightshirt covered everything, and
prepared for his medical inspection.
The inspection wasn't very
clinical. Her fingers were gentle against his scalp, light and sensual as they
brushed at his hair. Even more so was the way she pressed the top of his head
into her shoulder so she could bend over him. He was trapped in a little circle
of her warmth and the scent of freshly-washed skin. A tendril or two of her
hair brushed damply against his cheek and he realized she'd probably just
bathed.
"I am a wizard, in
case you've forgotten," Howell said, to break the uneasy moment.
"I haven't,
Love," she said in a tone that was no-nonsense and sweet at the same time.
"How could I? Every day an adventure of some kind."
She didn't know the half
of it. "As you
can see, I'm fine," he said aloud. "So you can--"
"I see," she said
before he could finish, and kissed his forehead. Her fingers slid down to sit
on his shoulders.
She was very close. Howell
looked up at her, hoping his expression was not too pathetic, and wondering
what it would take to make her leave. Again he toyed with the idea of telling
her who he really was, and again he discarded it. Only a few more hours, he
hoped, and he would be back where he belonged. She need not know until it was
too late to punish him for his deception.
"Poor Howl,"
Sophie continued, smiling tenderly. "Grumpy again, and here I'd promised
to show you something."
"What?" Howell
asked before thinking.
Sophie took a step back and
Howell was very thankful. But only for a moment, for she grabbed one of the
dangling silken ends of her robe-tie and flipped it in his face rather saucily.
When he didn't take the bait she puffed out an exasperated breath, setting her
silver bangs flying, and pulled at it herself. Howell stared, helpless and
transfixed as she opened the robe.
He told himself he was very
thankful when she dropped it to reveal a pink nightdress. Not for long, though,
because the gown was somewhat revealing in itself. It was long, reaching to the
floor, but the sleeves were mere pink straps and the bodice sheer, and tight.
It snugged against the curves of her little breasts, and he could see the
slightly darker shape of her nipples beneath it.
Howell was gaping, he knew,
and he felt little surges of fever-heat radiate throughout his limbs; whether
it was from arousal or embarrassment he wasn't sure. He dragged his eyes up to
her face.
Her cheeks were as rosy as
her nightdress, and she dropped her gaze from his. Still, her words were as
bold as her actions. "I made it. Aren't you going to tell me what you
think?"
"Pretty," Howell
said quite truthfully, and swallowed.
"Thank you," she
replied, and took a step closer until she stood between his dangling, bare
legs. With him sitting and her standing they were comparable in height. Her
hands clasped his shoulders again and she wouldn't look him in the eye but
stared down between their bodies, silent and waiting.
Howell had to still his
hands flat on the bedspread, not allowing himself to touch her, to see what she
might feel like. She was formed just like his Sophie, but she wasn't her and it
wouldn't be fair for Howell to take advantage of their resemblance. Sure, she
was practically throwing herself at him. But that was only because she thought
she was with the man who loved her.
"I'm pretty
tired," he lied, trying to make his tone as soft and apologetic as
possible. He wanted her gone, but found he couldn't bear to hurt her feelings.
"Oh," Sophie
said, and laugh-coughed, embarrassed. "Oh. I'll let you sleep, then."
But she didn't leave right
away, as a woman spurned might. She patted his shoulders once, twice, then
leaned over to kiss him.
She'd kissed him before but
this was different, worse than before because of their situation. It was unique
and endlessly fascinating every time, it seemed. Still, Howell told himself he
couldn't bear to embarrass her further, had to let her down easy; and so he
kissed her back. Just for a moment, he told himself.
Except this time she opened
her mouth, and barely touched his lips with the tip of her tongue. Howell
couldn't resist a taste. And yes, the inside of her mouth was as excitingly
slippery and sweet as Sophie's.
For his Sophie had let him
kiss her this way once, for about half a minute, before she'd slapped him. This
one, however, only made happy little noises and pressed closer, and Howell
realized he'd let his hands roam over her back, and she was pliant and warm and
it had been a very long time since he'd been wrapped around a half-naked woman
in such a way, and it was lovely.
His Sophie was playing by
the old rules, frustrating him with her constant company. This one, in this
world, should have been doing likewise. Yet this world's Howell, despite
apparently being such a nice guy, had managed to get his girl into bed with
him. Howell had to congratulate him for that, at least.
The thought didn't last
long; those delightful breasts he'd so admired earlier were pressed against his
chest, and he found that one of his hands had slipped around her side, and that
his thumb was tracing the curve of her soft, feminine flesh. This only provoked
her to moan and lean into his hand, and gasp little excited breaths into his
mouth.
How often had Howell looked
at Sophie-- even this one-- and imagined holding her this way, getting his
hands on those womanly curves? Here was his chance, half-unwrapped and shoved
into his arms like a gift from the heavens. And yet she didn't know who he was.
As desirable and willing as
she was, what he wanted to do was wrong. If there was a Hell, then Howell would
go to Hell for that, surely.
He didn't want to find out
about Hell. He yanked his hands back to the safety of the bedcovers to keep
from touching her further. He would enchant her, put a spell on her that would
make her back out the door and forget she'd ever been here.
And just then she backed
off and Howell wondered if he'd whispered the spell without knowing. But no,
she was only reaching up to untie one of the straps to her nightdress. They had
ties. He hadn't noticed that earlier. And she was undoing one of them.
Howell stared, transfixed
as a trapped animal once more, as the thin, blush-colored material fell away.
His brain couldn't conjure the words of an appropriate spell. Her breast was as
lovely and round as he'd imagined. One touch wouldn't hurt. Howell was going to
Hell.
He clasped the warm weight
of her flesh in his fingers, feeling the delightful scrape of her taut little
nipple against his sensitive palm. Then before he realized it he was kissing
the other breast, running his tongue around sweet, soap-tasting skin, and she
moaned and called him her love.
And she was so many things
and Howell felt them all; she was his Sophie but not at the same time; what
could be, what could have been, everything all in that moment. Then her gown
had fallen to the floor and she was gloriously naked and trying to crawl into
his lap. Her fingers crept under the collar of his night-shirt at his nape, and
they were enchantment on his skin, the sorcery of the flesh. And he was going
to Hell and he didn't care, because he wanted her, painfully in fact, and she
thought he was the man who loved her. And for the moment he was; he loved her
desperately.
"Sophie," he
said, and rolled her onto the bed under his propped elbows. And she only said
"yes" and wrapped her thighs about his hips and her fingers traced
more of those sorcerous lines up his sides, under his nightshirt.
In that moment she wasn't
any of the things he'd imagined her to be-- not a sensitive girl or a motherly,
housekeeper-sort-- just a passionate woman, unaffected and sensual, a deadly
combination. Howell closed his eyes and let sensation take over, buried his
face in the cool damp of her scented hair, heard her soft voice (Sophie's
voice) encouraging him as he moved inside her, felt the tight grip of her
around his aching, sensitive flesh. It was all just too perfect.
It might have been better
if it had been a little less perfect. If she had just lain there, not tried to
move, not made those lovely little noises-- After only a few minutes of this
blissful activity, Howell felt his gut tighten, that breathless moment, and
then the lovely and yet unavoidable release.
It had indeed been too
long. He was like some green university lad, too quick on the draw. He couldn't
look at her, he couldn't. He collapsed on top of her, breathless, and buried
his face in the covers above her shoulders. And waited. He was sure his cheeks
were flaming.
But there were no
recriminations, nothing awkward, nothing he deserved; only soothing fingers on
his back and the sound of breathing.
After what must have been a
few minutes Sophie's gentle voice broke in on his humiliation.
"Howl, are you all
right?" she whispered.
"Yes. Why?" was
all he could manage.
Another few seconds passed.
She spoke again, and now there was gentle teasing in her voice. "You
hadn't moved a muscle in five minutes, at least. I thought perhaps you'd
died."
Only of shame, Howell thought. He had plenty of
reasons, after all. He didn't say it aloud. But he did roll to his side so she
could move, and he lay facing the general vicinity of her chin. He was a
coward. What would the other guy do? Probably say he was sorry. Howell supposed
he owed her something. "Sophie, I didn't mean to do that," he
said. He hardly choked on the words at all.
"What do you
mean?"
She didn't know? was Howell's first thought. His
second was, well, maybe she was used to it. Maybe the other fellow did this to
her all the time, and she didn't know any better. The thought was enough to
make Howell feel a little bit better, at least. He risked a glance up into her
eyes. They were warm brown in the golden lamplight. She was smiling.
"What a day," he
said, with plenty of feeling.
"My poor love,"
Sophie said, and clasped her fingers around his back, under his nightshirt.
"Was it difficult?"
It had been very difficult,
but he couldn't really tell her why. And now he wanted to die and yet she was
expecting to be held and talked to.
And why shouldn't she? She
didn't realize she'd just given her body to a stranger. And he hadn't even
removed his nightshirt. He couldn't think of anything to say.
Her free hand, the one not
buried underneath him, slid around to pat him on his stomach. "I think
you've gained some weight. I approve."
Howell would swear his
heart stopped. He was mortified. He couldn't even breathe for a few moments. Was
she saying he was FAT? How could she say such a thing? Finally he croaked
out, "What?!"
Sophie gasp-laughed, and to
make it immeasurably, infinitely worse, she squeezed his side.
"Don't look so horrified! I like it. You needed a few pounds."
Howell just stared at her,
mouth agape. He wanted to scream. Was his humiliation never to end? She looked
so earnest, and her caressing fingers were playing merry havoc with the nerves
in his abdomen. How could she look so earnest, and touch him in that way, and
yet say such a thing? "Eh," he meeped.
"Oh, Love, I'm
sorry!" she said then, and squeezed his bottom, and kissed his chin.
"I know you're tired."
Howell knew he was going to
glare at her, so he rolled over onto his back and shut his eyes. He may have
been royally miffed but he couldn't scream at her, not after what he'd
done. "You can't even know the time I've had of it," he told her,
quite truthfully.
"That bad?" She
was kissing his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but it was a bit
tickling and arousing.
"That stupid spell. I
knew it was nothing but trouble. I'll never be able to face the king again.
I'll have to run away."
"Oh, is that who it
was for? I'd wondered." She was running her hand along his hip.
"Uh, yes," Howell
said. He'd almost let something slip, there. She was distracting him with all
her touching and kissing and nakedness.
"Well, you'll figure
something else out."
"I doubt it. That's
the one. What a load of trouble."
"Poor Howl." Her
fingers were running alongside the inside of his thigh. It was more than he
could take.
"Would you stop saying
that?"
His tone was nasty; her
fingers and the kissing stopped all at once. She was silent. Howell opened his
eyes to see an awful, surprised look at on her face, like a child that had been
slapped. Her mouth was slightly open.
"Huh," she said.
"I'm sorry." She rolled over, facing away from him, and lay there for
a minute or so.
Howell felt awful. He was
some kind of monster. Not only was he deceiving her terribly, but he was being
an ass.
Sure, he was frustrated at
being stuck here in the wrong world. And she'd said you were fat, an
evil, inner voice reminded him. Contrite Howell remembered that well, yes, so
the other Howell's pants had been a little tight on him. He was still
getting used to the existence of a contrite Howell. He didn't know why this
woman made him feel so guilty.
But she'd cared for his
injury, given him fluffy towels, made food for him, and had given him her
amazing body sweetly and sensually and without reservation. All he did was
take, take, take, and then snap at her over something that was not her fault.
He was going to Hell.
He owed her another-- something.
"Sophie--" he began.
"Don't," she
said. She sat up and dangled her legs off the edge of the bed, still facing
away from him, then stood. Outrage and hurt showed in every inch of her
expressive little figure. "I should have left you alone. I just
thought--" and here it seemed that her voice cracked a bit. She shook her
head, silver locks flying.
"Sophie--" Howell
began again, reaching out to her.
"Oh, never mind."
Sophie bent over, giving him a lovely view of her rounded backside. He was a
lecher. He was a monster. She was digging around on the floor beside the bed.
"Where's my nightgown? Where's my robe? Argh!"
Howell scrambled over to
the edge of the bed and caught her, wrapping his arms around her, and buried
his forehead in the nape of her neck. Her hair hadn't even dried.
"Sophie. I-- I wasn't
myself." Howell couldn't believe that was the best he could come up with.
At least it was true, in a way. But he was going to make a terrible husband.
Still, he felt some of the tension leave her muscles.
"I knew you were
tired," she said.
And that made Howell feel
even worse. He kissed her shoulder, the salt-sweat-soap-skin-taste of her. The
other Howell was going to kill him. And he deserved it. On top of all his other
sins, he'd made the other fellow's girl cry.
But he found that now,
after making love with her, it had become for him something beyond 'the other
fellow's girl.' Now it was intimate, personal. Between himself and Sophie. Not
just "this Sophie," but Sophie.
"Look at me," he
whispered. Howell turned her around to face him in the circle of his arms. It
was a parody of their earlier position, when she'd first come into the room.
He'd done the wrong thing before, and he sensed he was going to do it again.
But this time, he was bloody well going to do it correctly.
Sophie gave him a little
smile to let him know she might be willing to forgive him. The sun shone;
Howell's entire body tingled with its light. He thought of her wrapped around
him, and of the taste of her skin, and felt a tingling, throbbing ache in his
belly. He wanted her, more than before.
He hadn't even kissed her
properly. And he wanted to. If he was going to be murdered, then at least wanted
to make it all worth it, and to do his best to make her feel better.
"Dear Sophie," he
whispered, and cradled her cheeks in his fingers, admiring her pale, lovely
skin in the lamplight, and the way its warm glow gave her hair the barest sheen
of gold. And this time he kissed her tenderly rather than all in a schoolboy
rush, and savored the feeling of the slow sweep of her tongue against his, and
the silken feel of her flesh under his fingertips. And this time, when he lay
Sophie back onto the top of the gold bedcovers it was not the same at all, just
infinitely more lovely to feel her stomach muscles moving under his and to
taste the sweat on her shoulder. For bits and moments through it all, he was
madly in love with her. He said things, things that meant everything and
nothing, and he forgot them as soon as he'd uttered them. And when he heard her
gasps and cries and felt the tight contraction of her climax around him, he
thought it the most wonderful thing in the world.
And later, as he drifted
off with his arm draped over her naked, sleeping body, he wondered if this was
what it would be like with his own dear Sophie. And he wondered whether or not
he could ever learn to be a good husband. And if there was a Hell.
x x x
End Chapter 2.
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