Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 64

I hadn’t been to my ancestral home, Newstone
Hill, in years. I last set foot in its grand halls as a
youth of eighteen on a summer holiday, and now, as a
man of thirty five, I didn’t know what to expect.
The grounds were unkempt, and the rolling
leaves from the nearby walnut trees made a mess of
the winding road that led to the front of the estate. As
I carefully stepped out of my carriage, favouring my
left boot due to an old war injury, I was immediately
brought back to my childhood.
How I loved Newstone when I was a child;
its stately grandeur and traditional beauty gave me a
sense of purpose and lineage. Considering how lonely

my upbringing had been, my family estate was all I
had to get me through. I lost my parents at sea when
I was merely an infant and was raised by my ageing
aunt, Agnes, who was a strict, albeit slightly eccentric,
woman. Now that she had passed, the portraits of long
dead family members hanging on the walls were all I
had left to give m e a sense of home.
“Just put my bags by the front door,” I told
the driver as I tipped him with a fiver. “I’ll do the rest
myself.”
“Thank you, Lord Bryant,” said the
carriage driver as he carried my two large bags up
the cobblestone steps. “But are you sure you can

64