How is 100-year-old Professor Wendowleen spending Christmas?

An exclusive new chapter of 'The Finery' by Rachel Grosvenor

Dear Scribblers,

I do hope you are looking forward to a good rest and many a good book by a fire with a Bailey’s Hot chocolate! I know I am haha! I had the pleasure of hearing Rachel Grosvenor read a new chapter of feminist fantasy The Finery this month, and hearing how Professor Wendowleen and her carer Wolf spent Glaciem Gaudeo - no Christmas in the land of Rytter! She’s very kindly said I could share it with you all to get you in the cosy mood!

‘The Finery’ has been described as an ‘amusing and quirky book where we follow an elderly former professor and her wolf companion as she tries to get by in a world where an oppressive, strange and quite terrifying organisation called The Finery are whittling away at peoples’ rights. The Finery seem to have taken particular aim at Wendowleen our main character and early in the book she finds her entire home demolished and rebuilt and new housemates installed against her will.’ - thecaseofbooks

I love how people and books can be full of wonderful contradictions, don’t you? So ‘The Finery’ is a book of oppression and uprising, but also cosiness and companionship and lots of chestnut broth!

Without further ado, here is the Christmas chapter of The Finery - and I do hope you enjoy. If you do, here is 10% off the book with code Xmas10 at the checkout!

The Finery

A Christmas Chapter

It was the night before Glaciem Gaudeo, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring except for Wolf, who was lying unceremoniously on his back in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, eyes half closed. If you left Wendowleen and Wolf at the end of the great show of democracy that took down the Director, you would be forgiven for thinking that Wendowleen might still reside in the strange new build that The Finery had created. But, that would be incorrect. Wendowleen had since left that place, where the new and old created nothing but confusion and befuddlement. Now, she lived in the farmhouse that lay before Towen, beyond the lake that introduced her to the partisans, and where she met a kind man called Frick, and his horse, Tengwar.

            To say a relationship had formed would be an exaggeration. After all, what time did Wendowleen have for romance? Arthur was, and always would be, the love of her life. Frick was a good friend, and so together, along with Wolf, they shared the house his family had owned for generations, where the golden awatoprams grew in the garden, tended by Wendowleen’s careful hand.

            But back to Wolf, who, for reasons best known to himself, had just eaten the entire contents of the fridge. The fridge, in a happy circumstance, had happened to break that morning, much to Wendowleen’s annoyance. Tomorrow, the first day of the great frost, celebrated across the land of Rytter, was supposed to be a real celebration. She had invited Auri and Seneca, she had swept the floors, cleaned the house from top to bottom, and even brushed Wolf’s fur (a situation which both delighted and disgusted him, as wolves are both proud and itchy beasts).

            “Oh, will you look at this,” Wendowleen’s voice flickered across Wolf’s ears, and he blinked softly in the evening light. She stood above him, staring at the mess. “I did not remove the – oh, you’ve eaten the potatoes. You’ve not…” her voice trickled into silence as she checked the bag of chestnuts she had prepared with sugar, a small gift for Auri, who was used to the sweeter broth. They were fine. Wendowleen’s eyes shifted across the counter, and fell upon the duck that had been carefully plucked, roasted, and stuffed that very morning. In actual fact, her eyes fell upon the bones of the duck. “You-“ Wendowleen began, trying to find the words.

            “Ah, he’s had the duck, has he?” Frick’s voice stumbled into the room, Frick coming in after it. “And the rest. Right.”

            Wendowleen found that her hands were on her cheeks, the age-old symbol of despair. This was the first Glaciem Gaudeo since the fall of The Finery. She had even invited the mayor, who, of course, wouldn’t come, being far too busy to deign to visit the area. At least he had sent a card, a strange stilted photo of he and his wife on the front, wearing awful jumpers. Inside, he had written, “What a year!” as though they had been celebrating and dancing through the seasons, as opposed to bringing down a totalitarian government. Still, Wendowleen couldn’t blame him. His job now had stretched well beyond the one he originally applied for.

            “You’ll have to go and get a duck,” Wendowleen whispered, noticing that Wolf’s ears flicked at the last word. Had she not a great fondness for him, she might have sent him back to the Caring Carer’s Society that very moment.

            “From where?” Frick asked, the addition of ‘At this late hour’ spinning into the air, despite remaining unsaid.

            “Towen, I suppose. What’ll we feed Auri and Seneca otherwise? Glaciem Gaudeo is supposed to be a feast, a celebration of food…” Wendowleen’s words trailed off as she watched Wolf stand slowly, his legs wobbling beneath the weight of his stomach. She pulled up a chair beside the kitchen table and sighed, listening to the sounds Frick made as he put his outdoor clothing on, and then hearing the click of the front door as he left. In reality, she was grateful. Grateful for all of this before her. Regaining her memory had been a painful event, as was everything that followed, but now she had something that she lacked before, besides the memories and much larger wolf. She had company. The world post Finery was a strange one, unknown to most. They had been in charge since before Wendowleen was…well, not born, she reminded herself, though the cliché was tempting. Something about childhood flitted about in her mind, and she yawned widely, watching the sun dip in the sky outside. Where would Frick find a duck at this late hour, save for stealing one from a farm? That’s one thing that the disbandment of The Finery had done – increased theft in rural areas. Wolf groaned, pushing his nose against Wendowleen’s leg.

            A knock pulled her from her thoughts. She looked at Wolf expectantly, and he at her, performing the mouth lick of an anxious pup. There was a knock again. Wendowleen sighed, muttering about Frick and his inability to remember a key to the house he himself owned, and shuffled to the door. She pulled it open, and for a heart stopping moment, stared into the past.

            It was the uniform she saw first. The boots didn’t shine as brightly as they had done only a year before, standing smartly on her gravel path. It was as though she was transported, her mind flickering to her awatoprams, waiting to be crushed beneath rubber.

            “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wendowleen muttered, eyes rising to the face of the man. Though a part of her expected it to be Ayin, she knew, even as she squinted in the dim porch light, that it could not be. One did not escape from jail so easily, especially not the Director, as was. His features were burned into the mind of every resident of Rytter.

            “Professor Cripcot,” the voice said, a recognisable voice, a stern voice. Wolf began to growl. “And her wolf.”