The Frost Covenant

The fog came in from the east that morning, thick as wool and yellow as old teeth. Thomas Grayson stood at the window of his Bloomsbury lodging and watched it swallow the streetlamp whole, leaving only a bruised halo where the gaslight fought a losing battle. He had been in London three months, and the fog had swallowed two manuscripts and all his savings.

His friend Dr. Felix Berkes found him in the reading room of the British Museum, where Thomas had been conducting his usual search for interesting subjects. Felix was a physician with a kind face and the unfortunate habit of telling the truth.

"Grayson," Felix said, "you owe me five pounds."

"I owe everyone five pounds," Thomas replied, without looking up from the geological survey he was pretending to read.

"I'm serious. I introduced you to the Ashworth family last spring. You said you'd write about them. You never came back."

Thomas looked up. The Ashworth name meant something to him — Yorkshire, scientific establishment, a reclusive family with an estate near Harrogate. But the memory was vague, like a dream he'd half-f forgotten.

"What happened to them?" he asked.

Felix hesitated. "Dr. Ashworth died last winter. Heart failure, they said. But the children are gathering at the estate for the memorial. Lady Margaret, Mr. Edward, and Miss Clara. They're all still there."

"Why should I care?"

"Because," Felix said quietly, "something happened at the Ashworth estate. Something that might be worth writing about."

Thomas packed his notebook. Five pounds was five pounds.

Author Note & Copyright: