#when my uncle came to visit us he brought his dachshund with him so that his wife would only have to worry about her jack russell

[chrismcshell]

due to Circumstances, there is a greater-than-zero chance that my sister and i will have a dog soon

[avantegarda]

Wonderful 1000: The Merry Misadventures of Chopin the Pig

@cherepashkadrabbles requested a tale featuring an assortment of Kiraly-von Holstadt family pets and somehow this happened. Enjoy!

--

It was all Anna’s fault, really.

Not Anna Király the elder—that esteemed matriarch had gone to her reward over a decade prior, though Andras insisted that her spirit still kept a watchful eye over the family, particularly around Christmas. The perpetrator this time was Anna Király the younger, aged three, the apple of her mother’s eye: a plump, auburn-haired little elf with strong opinions on absolutely everything. 

The opinions, this time, were regarding the family dachshund.

“Wolfgang is sad,” Anna insisted, with a fervent tug at her mother’s skirts. “Sad sad sad.”

Marta reluctantly put down the letter she was reading—a rare missive from her friend Sophie in New York—and regarded her daughter with surprise. “What on earth do you mean, Anna darling? Wolfgang is the happiest dog in Vienna. He has lots of food and a warm bed and you and Sofia and Zoltan to play with him. He has no reason at all to be sad.”

Anna shook her head firmly. “No, he sad. Lonely. He need ‘nother dog. Or kitty.”

“He’s lo…” Marta paused, her stomach twisting in sudden worry. How exactly did Anna, still practically a baby, know that word? Was Anna lonely? It couldn’t be terribly easy to be the youngest in their family, that much was true. Sofia and Zoltan, while affectionate and kind older siblings, had a tendency to disappear into their own artistic pursuits, just as their father did; Sofia with her singing lessons and Zoltan with his drawing. Leaving little Anna...well, out.

Perhaps it wasn’t Wolfgang who needed another animal around the house. 

“I’ll tell you what, darling,” Marta said slowly. “Your uncle Heini spends most of his time out in the country and he knows all sorts of animals. Perhaps he’ll have a kitten or a puppy who needs a new home.”

Andras might have some objections to another pet being brought in without warning...but at the smile on Anna’s round face Marta really couldn’t bring herself to care.

--

Heini’s reply was swift and enthusiastic.

Dear Marta,

I was wondering when you were going to ask me this very question. Three children and only one old dog around the place to keep them company? It’s obscene.

I have just the beast for you, too. You’re expecting a barn cat or some such, I’m sure, but I have a slightly more unusual suggestion. I’ve convinced Father to let me acquire a new kind of miniature pig from the East (I won’t bore you with all the agricultural details), and one of the sows has just produced an excellent litter of piglets. Would Anna like one? As babies they’re the size of a cat, practically, and they don’t grow to be more than two feet tall. Once he gets older he might have to spend most of his time in the back garden, but I can guarantee the children will love him.

Your affectionate brother,

Heini

“A pig?” Andras said incredulously that night, as he and Marta got into bed. “In the house? I always knew your brother was just as mad as you are but this seems like a bit much.”

“But it’ll be wonderful for the children, darling,” Marta replied. “Think what an educational experience it will be for them to have a new kind of animal to learn to take care of!”

“They’ve already got more animals than I ever had as a child. I had to make do with Erszi the pigeon, while our youngsters have Wolfgang and Nyafi and all the animals at Burg Holstadt…”

“Nyafi is a wonderful cat,” said Marta, “but she spends all her time in Pest and so the children only get to see her about half the year. And Andras, I think that…” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “I think Anna needs this. Yes, she’s still very young, but she needs something that’s hers. Why not a pig?”

Andras sighed, though it was obvious that his resistance was softening. “I still say pigs belong in the barn, not in the house. Is this one of those things that’s so lower-class it’s gone full circle and somehow become fashionable?”

“Undoubtedly.” Marta snuggled closer and planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. “And we’ll be the most fashionable family on the Wipplingerstrasse.”

“Hmm,” said Andras wryly. “If it’s a matter of fashion, I suppose I can’t possibly refuse. Now come over here and give me a proper kiss.”

Marta grinned triumphantly as her husband pulled her into his arms. If anyone ever asked why she’d given up a title and a fortune to marry a musician—as they still occasionally did—it was moments like this that she pointed to. Every single time.

--

The newest member of the family arrived two weeks later, carried in a basket and delivered by a beaming Heini. It was certainly a fetching creature; small and bristly and ivory-colored with dark splotches and shining eyes. And the children, of course, were utterly enchanted by it.

“What should we call him?” six-year-old Zoltan demanded. “Should it be a Hungarian name?”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “No, silly, Nyafi the cat already has a Hungarian name. The pig needs an Austrian one.”

“But Wolfgang already has an Austrian name…”

“Well, Wolfgang is named after a composer,” Marta cut in gently. “So perhaps this little fellow should be too. Andras, what music does he make you think of when you see him?”

“He has rather melancholy eyes, doesn’t he,” said Andras. He scratched his chin thoughtfully and hummed a few bars of something slow and romantic. Both Sofia and Zoltan screwed up their faces, thinking deeply, until finally Sofia clapped her hands in triumph.

“Of course!” she cried. “Chopin! It’s perfect.”

“Well, I certainly like it,” said Marta. “But Anna should have the final say. What do you think, love?”

The entire family looked down at Anna, who was crouched by the basket softly petting the piglet’s bristles. At the sound of her name, the little girl looked up and beamed.

“Chopin,” she said. “My piggie.”

There appeared to be nothing more to say on the subject.

--

“I am going to make that damn creature into kolbasz,” Andras growled. “I mean it, Marta. This is the last straw.”

Marta’s eyebrows went up. “Final straw? What were the first straws?” She had to admit, the last month having Chopin as a pet had been slightly less peaceful than expected, but she hadn’t been aware of anything too terrible. Besides, the children loved him.

“Well, first of all, Anna insists on letting him sleep in her room, and he knocks everything over and chews on all her toys. And then Zoltan put paint on his hooves for some piece of art he wanted to do—is that what art is coming to in this country?—and Chopin tracked it everywhere. And now,” Andras said with bitter triumph, “he has destroyed my work.”

Marta inhaled sharply. “He hasn’t broken Clara, has he?” Though technically an inanimate object, Andras’ beloved violin had been a part of the Király family since 1861, and if something happened to her…

“No, thank God. If Chopin damaged Clara he’d be at the butcher’s shop this very minute. But what he did do isn’t much better. I have a performance in three weeks, at which I am supposed to be debuting my No. 4 in B Minor which I have been working on all week, but that creature,” said Andras grimly, “has gone and defecated on it.”

The snort of laughter that escaped her lips was one Marta immediately regretted, and at Andras’ scowl she quickly apologized. “But how did he get on top of your sheet music, darling? Was it on the floor?”

“I don’t see how it matters where my papers were,” Andras said primly (which translated to “yes, they were on the floor, due to my excessive absentmindedness”). “We need to get that thing properly trained or he’ll be going right back to the country where he belongs.”

“I’ll take care of it. Now get back to work.” Marta wagged a stern finger in her husband’s direction. “If you give a performance that isn’t a success my parents still may find a way to annul our marriage.”

--

It was a generally understood rule in the Király household that when Andras was in his study composing, he was only to be disturbed in the event of an emergency. This was less because it would annoy him and more because when he was focused on music, he was temporarily incapable of thinking about anything else.

All of this was to say that, when Sofia cautiously entered the study shortly before dinner on Saturday, it was clearly a matter of some concern.

“Papa?” she asked. And, when her father neglected to look up, a bit louder: “Pa?”

Andras, whose world for the past two hours had consisted entirely of the concerto he was writing, jolted out of his reverie to find his hands nearly black with ink and a worried-looking eight-year-old staring at him. “What’s the matter, Sofia?”

“Have you seen Zoltan?” Sofia blurted out. 

“Sofia, your brother will be holed up in his bedroom or out in the garden. Is this really…”

“He’s not, though. I’ve looked everywhere, he’s missing.” Sofia sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “And it’s all my fault. The von Braumark twins came for a visit today and Zoltan wanted to play with us but Lottie said he couldn’t because he’s a boy and Liesel and I went along with it and he was so upset, and after the twins left I went to find him to say sorry and he’s gone.”

Having grown up with three temperamental younger sisters, Andras was quite accustomed to children going missing and then reappearing at the oddest of times. Therefore the news of Zoltan’s evident disappearance was no cause to panic.

Not yet, anyway.

--

Two hours later, through concentrated search efforts and several hastily dispatched messages, the Királys had been able to establish a list of places where Zoltan was not.

He wasn’t anywhere in the house or back garden.

He was not at his grandparents’ house (as far as anyone could tell, though the von Holstadt mansion had eighty rooms and it took considerable time to search all of them).

He was not at the homes of any of their family friends, nor was he in the nearby park.

And while all of this information was technically useful, it was not making Marta and Andras any less worried.

“I don’t want to call the police, but I think we might have to,” said Andras, pacing back and forth across the sitting room floor as he had been for the last ten minutes. “How else are we supposed to track the wretched boy down?”

Anna, who was crouched on the floor patting Chopin, looked up eagerly. “Chopin can find him.”

“Anna, darling,” Marta sighed. “Chopin is a very nice pig but I don’t think…”

“No, Mama, she’s right. Pigs have a good sense of smell, even better than dogs,” said Sofia. “And they’re very clever too. If we give him something of Zoltan’s to smell, and then we follow him…” She trailed off, looking up at her parents hopefully. 

Marta and Andras looked at each other for a long moment, until finally Marta sighed and nodded. “I suppose it’s worth a try.”

--

The five (four and a half?) of them made a rather odd sight on the rainy Viennese streets: Andras holding both Anna and a bright red umbrella, Marta clutching Sofia’s hand and Chopin’s lead. A proper traveling circus, that’s what they were. Marta would have found the situation more amusing had she not been scared out of her wits.

Chopin, at least, seemed to have understood his instructions. After getting a good whiff of Zoltan’s nightshirt he appeared to recognize the boy’s scent and was now trotting along briskly, pausing occasionally to snuffle at the ground. If he actually found Zoltan, Marta decided, she would feed him the finest scraps to be found anywhere in the city.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes, Chopin halted in his tracks at the imposing gothic facade of St. Maria’s am Gestade. He snuffled at the ground for a moment as though confirming a suspicion, and then grunted with satisfaction.

“Is it sacrilegious to bring a pig into a church?” Marta inquired.

“If we’re looking for a missing child, then I’d say we’ll be forgiven,” Andras replied. “And this door had better be unlocked.”

It was, thank goodness. And when Marta’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she detected, in one of the front pews, a small dark-haired figure sitting completely still.

“Zoltan!”

The little boy looked up in surprise as his family all but ambushed him. “Mama? Papa? Chopin? What time is it?”

“Past time for you to be home! I am so glad you’re safe.” Marta pulled her son into a tight hug before pulling back with a frown. “But darling, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I like that painting,” Zoltan replied, pointing up at the glorious gold-hued altarpiece. “It always makes me feel better. So I thought I would come and sit here until I stopped being cross with Sofia.” He looked down at his feet and kicked his legs guiltily. “But it was naughty to run away, wasn’t it.”

“Very naughty,” Marta said, with considerably less sternness than she intended. “You’re lucky that we found you.”

“No, Chopin find him,” Anna insisted from Andras’ arms.

“Chopin was brilliant,” gushed Sofia. “Pa, you like him now, don’t you? You won’t have him made into sausages?”

Andras let out an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose so, but I expect you lot to keep him in line. Train him up. No feral pigs in my house, if you please.”

As the children launched into a debate about what tricks, if any, Chopin could be trained to do, Marta reached down and scratched the piglet gently between the ears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I knew you were worth the trouble.”

While none of the other members of the family would believe her, Marta insisted that Chopin replied to this with a very cheeky wink.

[thefaeriereview]

  Taking Stock by A. L. Lester 

Historical Gay Romance

It's 1972. 

Fifteen years ago, teenage Laurie Henshaw came to live at Webber’s Farm with his elderly uncle and settled in to the farming life. Now, age thirty-two, he has a stroke in the middle of working on the farm. As he recovers, he has to come to terms with the fact that some of his new limitations are permanent and he’s never going to be as active as he used to be. Will he be able to accept the helping hands his friends extend to him? 

With twenty successful years in the City behind him, Phil McManus is hiding in the country after his boyfriend set him up to take the fall for an insider trading deal at his London stockbroking firm. There’s not enough evidence to prosecute anyone, but not enough to clear him either. He can’t bear the idea of continuing his old stagnating life in the city, or going back to his job now everyone knows he’s gay. 

Thrown together in a small country village, can Phil and Laurie forge a new life that suits the two of them and the makeshift family that gathers round them? Or are they too tied up in their own shortcomings to recognise what they have? 

A 1970s historical gay romance peripheral to the Lost in Time universe. Stand alone, not paranormal.

A gentle story about two people who are hurt and angry and tired, finding their way toward each other and healing.

4 out of 5 fairies

Taking Stock is sweet. Honestly, I was little worried this was going to be a bit boring and dry. Instead, I kind of felt like I was watching a Lifetime movie unfold. It's sweet, and although I wouldn't say it's very fast-paced, but the way Lester writes, the slow pace feels right. Normally that sort of thing would drive me up the wall, but curled up with a hot cup of tea and a warm blanket on a cool night this was the perfect sweet escape. If you like Lifetime movies and love reading, you'll fall in love with this book.

Excerpt

  Phil found his feet turning up the lane toward Webber’s Farm a couple of days after his meeting with Laurie Henshaw almost without thought. He had got in to the habit of walking regularly early on in his sojourn in the cottage. Some days he took sandwiches in the knapsack he’d bought and just went up the footpath at the top of the lane and headed off into the winter woods. It was quiet and peaceful and he found that if he could get in to a swinging rhythm, one foot in front of the other, the swirl of anger and betrayal that seemed to accompany him like a cloud quieted, gradually draining down in to the earth as he walked. 

Today though, rather than his feet taking him up the hill in to the burgeoning spring, they took him down toward the farm. Henshaw…Laurie…had grabbed his interest in a way that nobody had for months. The man had been on his last legs sitting in the Post Office and his frustration with himself had been obvious. Phil had enjoyed coaxing a smile out of him. Sitting in the farmhouse kitchen with the quiet warmth of the Rayburn at his back, he’d spoken more about his personal life to a complete stranger than he had opened up to anyone since that awful day when Adrian had got him out of the police station.  

It would only be neighbourly to pop in and see if he was all right. That’s what people did in the country, didn’t they? Phil had been here months now, apart from a brief visit to Aunt Mary over Christmas and New Year, and if he was going to be here much longer he should probably make an effort to get to know people properly.  

That made him pause for thought. Was he going to be here much longer?  

He didn’t know. 

He walked through the farmyard cautiously. He knew enough to go to the back door, not the front. The two sheepdogs who had cursorily examined him earlier in the week shot out of the open porch and circled round, barking and wagging cheerfully. No need to knock, then. He did, regardless. And called out “Anyone home?” 

“In here,” Laurie’s voice answered, distantly. “Come in, whoever you are!”

He stepped in to the porch, past a downstairs bathroom and through the scullery with its stone-flagged floor, and pushed the door into the kitchen fully open.  

Laurie was washing up. His stick was hooked on the drainer and he was resting against the sink with one hip. He turned as Phil came in, propping the final plate on the pile beside the soapy water and reaching for the tea-towel flung over his shoulder to dry his hands. 

“Mr McManus! Phil, I mean,” he corrected himself, “what can I do for you?” 

Phil paused. He hadn’t got this far in his head. He had just…walked.  

“Erm. I was just passing?” he tried. His voice lifted at the end, in a question. 

“You were?” Laurie looked at him, one side of his mouth twisted up in a little smile. Or was that the side affected by the stroke? He didn’t know. Didn’t matter, anyway. 

“Yes. I was.” He made his voice firmer. “Sally is at my place this morning, so I thought you might let me hide here.” 

“Only if you’ll let me retreat to your place when she’s cross with me,” Laurie replied. “Although that will probably mean I have to move in, at least for the moment.” He pulled a face. 

“Have you upset her?” 

“No. Yes. Sort of….” He turned toward the Rayburn and dragged the kettle on to the hotplate. “She wasn’t very happy about me over-doing it the other day. Patsy told tales on me.” 

“Ah. Yes, I can see that. She obviously cares about you a great deal. She talks about you all the time when she comes up to do the cottage.” He paused. “Have you been together long?” 

Laurie choked and dropped one of the tea-cups he was moving from the drainer to the table. He fumbled for it and at the same time Phil stooped to catch it. They both missed and it smashed on the stone floor into a thousand tiny pieces. “Shit!” Laurie said, trying stifle his coughing. “That was one of the good ones, too.”  

He bent to pick up the pieces, still choking and Phil said, “Stop it, you bloody fool, let me. It’s everywhere.” He put his hands on Laurie’s shoulders and pushed him upward from his bent position and then back and down, in to one of the kitchen chairs. Laurie’s leg gave as he sat and he made the final descent with an unglamorous wobble. 

He was still coughing. “Sally!” he got out, around between coughs. “Bloody hell!” 

“Where’s the dustpan?” Phil asked, ignoring him. 

Laurie gestured to the cupboard under the sink. “Under there.” 

It was the work of moments to sweep it all up, on his knees at Laurie’s feet. Thankfully it had been empty. He rested back on his heels with with full dustpan. “Where does it go?”  

“Put it in one of the flower-pots on the window-sill,” Laurie said, gesturing. “I’ll stick in the bottom of a pot for drainage when I plant the new ones up.” 

Phil nodded and got to his feet. He lurched as he did so and steadied himself on Laurie’s knee as he rose. Warm, he thought. The man smelled nice. A mixture of soap and fresh air and woodsmoke. “Ooops,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Sorry.” 

Laurie grinned at him as they briefly made eye contact. Something flickered in his eyes. “Not a problem,” he said. He pointed at the window-sill behind the sink. “Knock those dead chives in the middle pot out the window in to the yard.” He grinned again, but it was a different sort of smile this time, with slightly too many teeth. “I can’t really balance to water them properly at the moment anyway.” 

Phil opened the window and emptied the dead plants outside ad then tipped the pieces of crockery in as instructed. He replaced the dustpan under the sink and stood up and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “Doesn’t Sally help with that sort of thing?” he asked, looking down at the other man. 

“No. Yes. Sometimes.” Laurie wouldn’t meet his eye and started to stand. “Sit down, let me get a new cup.” 

Phil put his hand back on his shoulder and gently but firmly pushed him back down on to the chair. “What do you mean?” he asked, in a voice that matched his grip, “No-yes-sometimes covers all the wickets.” He removed his hand and turned round to collect another cup and saucer, moving past Laurie to put it on the table beside him and then reaching to pull the kettle off the Rayburn and put both tea-leaves and the boiling water in the teapot. 

He brought the teapot over and put it on the cork table-mat in the middle of the table before opening the pantry door and rummaging in the fridge for the milk-jug. Laurie sat and let him, watching him slightly warily. 

As Phil sat down and folded his arms again, waiting for the tea to brew, Laurie muttered, “I told her not to do it.” 

“You told her not to do it?” Phil repeated. “Ah, I see.” And he did, in a way. He wouldn’t be in Laurie’s shoes for anything. 

Laurie worked his thumb over and over one of the whorls of wood in the table-top. It was smoothed from long use. “I hate it, Phil,” he said in a low voice. “I hate not being able to do all the simple things. It makes me feel useless, having them all run round after me.” 

“You’d rather let the plants die than accept help?” 

Laurie bit his lip and continued to worry at the knot in the table. “It sounds daft when you put it like that,” he said. 

Phil didn’t say anything. 

“Okay, I know it’s daft.” He looked up and met Phil’s eyes, his own anguished. “But I hate it,” he said, vehemently. “I hate it, Phil.” 

Where to buy: Book2Read

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About the Author: A. L. Lester is a writer of queer, paranormal, historical, and romantic suspense. Lives in the South West of England with Mr AL, two children, a badly behaved dachshund, a terrifying cat and some hens. Likes gardening but doesn't really have time or energy. Not musical. Doesn't much like telly. Non-binary. Chronically disabled. Has tedious fits.

Connect with A. L. here

Review: Taking Stock https://ift.tt/34CX0Cf