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Description
     Few nights went by in that corner of the country without some kind of storm or another. There was rain in the capital, too, but it had been much easier for Eleanor to ignore when there were always so many people and lights and miles of stone between her and the wild. Even though the thunder was louder there, rolling through the tightly-packed houses to build its echo greater than the nightly noises of high and low society, here it didn't have to be: just a low rumble to announce its solitary, dominant presence in the absence of any other competitors for attention.
     When she moved to the house with her new husband, Eleanor had been bothered at first by the damp weather that settled in her lungs, but now she was only troubled by the occasional cough and the occasional need for medicine from the city. But that had also been for the child sleeping in the other room, and her health was much improved since then, she felt.
     On that night, she kept a candle by the window sill and read by its light as she lay reclined against one of the arms of the couch. The periodic lightning was pale in the mist and struck as far away as everything else was from that place, so it was only a small distraction from her reading:
     --and the king's daughter waited by the fountain in her disguise. After some time (FLASH), her stepmother chanced upon her, but did not recognize her. When she asked her what was in the sack, the girl placed it (RUMBLE) on the ground and said it was worth more than all the kingdom's (FLASH) gold and jewels. The greedy stepmother wanted this treasure for herself, but no matter how much she begged to the girl to let her see, the king's daughter refused. "It is far too valuable to take out and risk losing. If you want to see, you must stick your head inside." The stepmother readily agreed, and when she had stuck her ugly head in (RUMBLE), the king's daughter quickly pushed her all the way in and sealed the bag tight. Then, as the sparrow told her, she (CREAK)--
     Eleanor lifted her head and looked at the doorway, where she saw a dark figure shuffle by. "Lotti?" she called quietly, drawing her book closer to her chest.
     The girl came back to the doorway, raising her head to pat down a stray strand of dark hair. "Yes, lady?"
     "Why are you still awake? Is everything alright?" Eleanor asked, sitting up straighter.
     "Aye, I was asleep, but… the baby started fussin', so I wen' to see how things were. Nothing to worry, tho'. Just seemed a bit cold, so here I'd fetch some more blankets, I thought."
     "Ah… thank you. Please, go on, then."
     But Lotti stepped closer, peering at the book in Eleanor's hands. "Might I ask what you're awake for yet?"
     Eleanor closed the book slightly, examining the cover. "I thought I'd wait until the storm gets a little quieter before I try to sleep. These are just some old tales; I've been looking for a few more to add to my repertoire."
     Lotti smiled. "So you'll be telling stories at the master's return dinner, I take? Oh, the girl's'll be joyed! It ha' been awhile."
     Eleanor gave a half-smile and examined the pattern on the rug at her feet. "Yes, I thought I might tell a tale or two. But, Lotti…"
     "Yes?"
     "The blankets?"
     "Ah, aye! Pardon me, then!" The nurse tapped her head and excused herself, her nightgown trailing behind her.
     Eleanor looked at the empty doorframe for a moment, then turned back to her book. But although she tried to pick up where she left off, the brief interruption had broken her concentration, and she found her thoughts turning toward her child. Marking her place with a bookmark, she set it back on the shelf next to some medical tomes, grabbed her candle, and left the room.
     When she reached the nursery, she turned the knob quietly and peered inside. Although she expected the child to be awake, it must have fallen back asleep after Lotti left, for it made no noise now, and the shadow of the blankets in the crib were peacefully still. Eleanor smiled and took a step into the room.
     And then a sound rang throughout the hall--the great bell of the main entrance. Eleanor froze, but turned around when she heard it ring again. Closing the door and gathering her skirt in one hand, holding her candle in the other, she hastened to the foyer. Who would come at this hour and in this weather? Was it some urgent messenger? Was it from her husband? Why would news from him be urgent?
     From the hallway, she could hear the sound of rain intensify as the door was opened by the night butler. "Who is it, Henry?" she called as she turned around the corner into view of the door.
     "Henry!" answered a voice that was half a century too young.
     "That's not your name, hush," snapped a crone's voice.
     The child mumbled something that earned him a smack on the back of the head.
     In the dim light, Eleanor could see an age-bent figure wrapped in bulky clothing next to a child-shaped shadow, and she could see that Henry was not there. She took a nervous step back toward the hall.
     "No, step forward, child. It's hard enough to see you as it is in this light," the old one said.
     Eleanor stayed where she was. "I'm sorry, we don't make a habit of burning many candles when we aren't expecting guests. Did the gatekeeper let you in?"
     "Gatekeeper? …Do you remember a gatekeeper?" the crone asked, looking at the boy.
     "I am the Great Gatekeeper Henry," he laughed.
     "You didn't come through the main gate?" Eleanor asked.
     "We didn't see anyone," replied the woman.
     "They didn't see us," the boy piped up. He squawked when the crone smacked the back of his head again.
     "We were on our way home and got trapped wandering in the storm and thought we might find shelter here until it passes in the morning," she explained. "If you might have room to spare…"
     "Oh, ah…" Eleanor looked around, wondering where Henry possibly could have gone. "Well, I suppose I could… set a few blankets in the corner for you," she offered. She couldn't turn away an old woman and a child and send them out into the storm, not when the city was a decent carriage ride away, but something in her hesitated at offering too much charity.
     "These old bones would be most grateful for your kindness," the crone's voice smiled.
     "What about mine?" the child pouted.
     "Implied," she hissed.
     "Yes, ah," Eleanor interrupted, "I'm afraid, though, I would have to insist you remain only in this hall and leave as soon as the storm is over. My husband is not fond of visitors and would be… most upset if he saw you here when he woke, and he will be hunting early. I'll tell all the servants to stay out of your way, so they won't disturb you…"
     The old woman chuckled. "All the servants?" she repeated. "You seem to have a busy house, here."
     Eleanor glanced at the door where the rain was blowing softly in. Where had Henry gone? "Yes, there are always many people here, but it's late, so they're sleeping now, nearby--"
     "Many people sleeping," the boy echoed quietly.
     "--And, perhaps I should close the door…" Eleanor walked around them and reached out sideways into the night for the door handle with one hand, keeping a firm grip on her candle with the other. She grasped the metal bar and paused, trying to see if she could spot a small light at the gatekeeper's post, but there was nothing. Beneath the sound of the rain, she could barely hear the two visitors hissing at each other behind her.
     "Why's she got her nose yet?"
     "Naught--"
     "You said if I lied, my nose'd fall clean off!"
     "I said I'd snap off your nose, and if you don't be quiet, I'll eat your toes!"
     Eleanor closed the door slowly. "Blankets," she muttered to herself. Walking around the pair with a bit more distance than before, she said aloud, "Please stay here, and I'll return with the…" She stopped. "Oh, but Lotti's taken the extra set for…"
     "Don't trouble yourself," the old woman said. "We need no more than what we carry with us."
     Eleanor couldn't see where, as they had no bags or satchels, but perhaps they meant to use the crone's oversized shawl as cover. She nodded and was about to speak, but the boy interrupted her.
     "Who's took my blanket?"
     "…The nurse, for my child."
     "You're a mother?" the crone asked with a smile.
     Eleanor gave a pale smile in return. "Yes."
     The boy immediately tugged on the old woman's shawl. "Can I have her nose?" She pulled his ear roughly, and he bit his lip, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.
     Eleanor found herself taking a step away, and she turned a wary eye to the old woman. "I'm sorry… is he… quite…"
     "He's Naught."
     "Not…?"
     "Not Henry," he grinned, rubbing his ear.
     The crone clapped her bony hand over his mouth. "Poor boy. Says whatever he thinks, even though he doesn't." She shook his head a little.
     "I see," Eleanor offered without meaning, taking another step back. "But… I should go to bed now, before my husband wonders where I am. I believe it is time for me to say good-bye now… as you won't be staying long in the morning."
     The crone smiled and lowered her hand from Naught's grinning mouth, and Eleanor couldn't help but wish that her husband really was there and had already come looking for her. "Oh, but you won't let us give you a gift before we part? We won't be here long, as you said. This could be your only chance."
     "No, that's quite alright, I need nothing, thank you, really, good-bye…"
     "You don't want to be rid of me, storyteller?" the boy asked, stepping toward Eleanor. "You'll tell my story to anyone who listens?" He cocked his head to the side, eyes wide open in the dim candlelight. "Like Lotti. She's a good listener. Patient, like a nurse should be."
     Eleanor stared at him and tried to speak, but no words came to her. She could only turn to the old woman for some kind of explanation, but there was nothing but silence from her. Naught was also still, waiting for her to respond. At last, she managed weakly, "I think you need to find shelter somewhere else."
     "Oh, I could leave," the crone said. "I only came to deliver him to you. But if he leaves now, nothing will change, and who can say when we might appear again, if we do?"
     "I would think it best if you didn't," Eleanor replied quietly.
     The child gave a soft, high-pitched laugh. "I would think I am forever."
     "What?"
     "My old bones are patient," he said, baring his teeth in a wide grin.
     Eleanor stared at him, eyes wide and fearful. "Leave," was all she managed to say.
     "Not until you choose what I leave behind," the crone said. "I can leave Naught here with you and your house, and don't imagine for a moment you can rid yourself of him… or I can take all of him with me and leave you and Lotti as you were before we came. This is your chance."
     "None of what you're saying makes any sense. Please, just go."
     "With or without Naught?"
     "With."
     Naught blew a raspberry at her.
     The crone bared her teeth in a thin smile. "Then bring me the child."
     "My child…? What?"
     "We'll leave and leave none of ourselves behind. So bring us the child."
     "Bring us our child," the boy said.
     Eleanor clenched her fist. "You'll not go anywhere near my child!"
     The old woman scoffed. "How attached you are to your playthings! You can't even tell me its name, can you?"
     Eleanor worked her mouth, but no sound came out, and she could feel the weight of their eyes pressing down on her. The candlelight flickered against her skin, and she felt none of its heat. "What does… my child have to do with anything?" she asked weakly.
     "I'm everything," said Naught.
     "The child's everything," said Lotti.
     Eleanor gave a start and spun to face the hallway she had come from. A pale figure stood there in a nightgown with a crying bundle of blankets cradled in her arms, and on some level, Eleanor could understand that something was different about her Lotti by the way the nurse drifted toward the old woman, but her child… "Lotti? What are you doing, Lotti?"
     "Nothing will change if it stays," she said, and the old woman began walking forward to meet her. "You don't want that."
     "Don't tell me what I want--I want my child!" Eleanor shouted, about to spring forward and seize her child. But small hands gripped her dress tight, and she saw Naught clinging to her with his face held downward.
     "You want a story," he said, staring at the dust on the floor, "but mine's an old one, isn't it? You don't really want me here, even if you think you do." He sniffed. "And listen, listen. The thunder's gone, the mist's away. Your husband, your servants, your child, all my stories …" Naught looked into her eyes, and Eleanor could see the tears on his face coursing around his farewell smile. "I'm not the Great Gatekeeper Henry, and I am not forever."
     Feeling his grip on her weakening, Eleanor looked up to see Lotti gently placing the child in the crone's arms. Eleanor tried to shout, but a violent gust of wind burst from the door, and when she opened her eyes again, they were gone. The door creaked in the silence that remained in their wake.
     "Lotti?" Eleanor called. "Lotti?" She took a few stumbling steps and looked around the room, but saw no one. "My…" She turned and fled the room.
     Her feet pounded down the corridor, and her shaking hand fumbled with the doorknob of the nursery. She threw open the door and caught herself on the side of the crib. There were no extra blankets, none were missing--everything was just as it was when she had laid her child down to sleep.
     Smiling up at her with vacant, loving eyes, the doll was still tucked safely in.

     Eleanor was wailing and screaming when Lotti and the other nurses found her. Lotti sent one to fetch the poor woman her medicine from the store room, but Eleanor clutched her uniform and shook her head, sobbing, "You were right. I'm awake. Naught's gone. No more stories. I'm awake."

Description
     Few nights went by in that corner of the country without some kind of storm or another. There was rain in the capital, too, but it had been much easier for Eleanor to ignore when there were always so many people and lights and miles of stone between her and the wild. Even though the thunder was louder there, rolling through the tightly-packed houses to build its echo greater than the nightly noises of high and low society, here it didn't have to be: just a low rumble to announce its solitary, dominant presence in the absence of any other competitors for attention.
     When she moved to the house with her new husband, Eleanor had been bothered at first by the damp weather that settled in her lungs, but now she was only troubled by the occasional cough and the occasional need for medicine from the city. But that had also been for the child sleeping in the other room, and her health was much improved since then, she felt.
     On that night, she kept a candle by the window sill and read by its light as she lay reclined against one of the arms of the couch. The periodic lightning was pale in the mist and struck as far away as everything else was from that place, so it was only a small distraction from her reading:
     --and the king's daughter waited by the fountain in her disguise. After some time (FLASH), her stepmother chanced upon her, but did not recognize her. When she asked her what was in the sack, the girl placed it (RUMBLE) on the ground and said it was worth more than all the kingdom's (FLASH) gold and jewels. The greedy stepmother wanted this treasure for herself, but no matter how much she begged to the girl to let her see, the king's daughter refused. "It is far too valuable to take out and risk losing. If you want to see, you must stick your head inside." The stepmother readily agreed, and when she had stuck her ugly head in (RUMBLE), the king's daughter quickly pushed her all the way in and sealed the bag tight. Then, as the sparrow told her, she (CREAK)--
     Eleanor lifted her head and looked at the doorway, where she saw a dark figure shuffle by. "Lotti?" she called quietly, drawing her book closer to her chest.
     The girl came back to the doorway, raising her head to pat down a stray strand of dark hair. "Yes, lady?"
     "Why are you still awake? Is everything alright?" Eleanor asked, sitting up straighter.
     "Aye, I was asleep, but… the baby started fussin', so I wen' to see how things were. Nothing to worry, tho'. Just seemed a bit cold, so here I'd fetch some more blankets, I thought."
     "Ah… thank you. Please, go on, then."
     But Lotti stepped closer, peering at the book in Eleanor's hands. "Might I ask what you're awake for yet?"
     Eleanor closed the book slightly, examining the cover. "I thought I'd wait until the storm gets a little quieter before I try to sleep. These are just some old tales; I've been looking for a few more to add to my repertoire."
     Lotti smiled. "So you'll be telling stories at the master's return dinner, I take? Oh, the girl's'll be joyed! It ha' been awhile."
     Eleanor gave a half-smile and examined the pattern on the rug at her feet. "Yes, I thought I might tell a tale or two. But, Lotti…"
     "Yes?"
     "The blankets?"
     "Ah, aye! Pardon me, then!" The nurse tapped her head and excused herself, her nightgown trailing behind her.
     Eleanor looked at the empty doorframe for a moment, then turned back to her book. But although she tried to pick up where she left off, the brief interruption had broken her concentration, and she found her thoughts turning toward her child. Marking her place with a bookmark, she set it back on the shelf next to some medical tomes, grabbed her candle, and left the room.
     When she reached the nursery, she turned the knob quietly and peered inside. Although she expected the child to be awake, it must have fallen back asleep after Lotti left, for it made no noise now, and the shadow of the blankets in the crib were peacefully still. Eleanor smiled and took a step into the room.
     And then a sound rang throughout the hall--the great bell of the main entrance. Eleanor froze, but turned around when she heard it ring again. Closing the door and gathering her skirt in one hand, holding her candle in the other, she hastened to the foyer. Who would come at this hour and in this weather? Was it some urgent messenger? Was it from her husband? Why would news from him be urgent?
     From the hallway, she could hear the sound of rain intensify as the door was opened by the night butler. "Who is it, Henry?" she called as she turned around the corner into view of the door.
     "Henry!" answered a voice that was half a century too young.
     "That's not your name, hush," snapped a crone's voice.
     The child mumbled something that earned him a smack on the back of the head.
     In the dim light, Eleanor could see an age-bent figure wrapped in bulky clothing next to a child-shaped shadow, and she could see that Henry was not there. She took a nervous step back toward the hall.
     "No, step forward, child. It's hard enough to see you as it is in this light," the old one said.
     Eleanor stayed where she was. "I'm sorry, we don't make a habit of burning many candles when we aren't expecting guests. Did the gatekeeper let you in?"
     "Gatekeeper? …Do you remember a gatekeeper?" the crone asked, looking at the boy.
     "I am the Great Gatekeeper Henry," he laughed.
     "You didn't come through the main gate?" Eleanor asked.
     "We didn't see anyone," replied the woman.
     "They didn't see us," the boy piped up. He squawked when the crone smacked the back of his head again.
     "We were on our way home and got trapped wandering in the storm and thought we might find shelter here until it passes in the morning," she explained. "If you might have room to spare…"
     "Oh, ah…" Eleanor looked around, wondering where Henry possibly could have gone. "Well, I suppose I could… set a few blankets in the corner for you," she offered. She couldn't turn away an old woman and a child and send them out into the storm, not when the city was a decent carriage ride away, but something in her hesitated at offering too much charity.
     "These old bones would be most grateful for your kindness," the crone's voice smiled.
     "What about mine?" the child pouted.
     "Implied," she hissed.
     "Yes, ah," Eleanor interrupted, "I'm afraid, though, I would have to insist you remain only in this hall and leave as soon as the storm is over. My husband is not fond of visitors and would be… most upset if he saw you here when he woke, and he will be hunting early. I'll tell all the servants to stay out of your way, so they won't disturb you…"
     The old woman chuckled. "All the servants?" she repeated. "You seem to have a busy house, here."
     Eleanor glanced at the door where the rain was blowing softly in. Where had Henry gone? "Yes, there are always many people here, but it's late, so they're sleeping now, nearby--"
     "Many people sleeping," the boy echoed quietly.
     "--And, perhaps I should close the door…" Eleanor walked around them and reached out sideways into the night for the door handle with one hand, keeping a firm grip on her candle with the other. She grasped the metal bar and paused, trying to see if she could spot a small light at the gatekeeper's post, but there was nothing. Beneath the sound of the rain, she could barely hear the two visitors hissing at each other behind her.
     "Why's she got her nose yet?"
     "Naught--"
     "You said if I lied, my nose'd fall clean off!"
     "I said I'd snap off your nose, and if you don't be quiet, I'll eat your toes!"
     Eleanor closed the door slowly. "Blankets," she muttered to herself. Walking around the pair with a bit more distance than before, she said aloud, "Please stay here, and I'll return with the…" She stopped. "Oh, but Lotti's taken the extra set for…"
     "Don't trouble yourself," the old woman said. "We need no more than what we carry with us."
     Eleanor couldn't see where, as they had no bags or satchels, but perhaps they meant to use the crone's oversized shawl as cover. She nodded and was about to speak, but the boy interrupted her.
     "Who's took my blanket?"
     "…The nurse, for my child."
     "You're a mother?" the crone asked with a smile.
     Eleanor gave a pale smile in return. "Yes."
     The boy immediately tugged on the old woman's shawl. "Can I have her nose?" She pulled his ear roughly, and he bit his lip, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.
     Eleanor found herself taking a step away, and she turned a wary eye to the old woman. "I'm sorry… is he… quite…"
     "He's Naught."
     "Not…?"
     "Not Henry," he grinned, rubbing his ear.
     The crone clapped her bony hand over his mouth. "Poor boy. Says whatever he thinks, even though he doesn't." She shook his head a little.
     "I see," Eleanor offered without meaning, taking another step back. "But… I should go to bed now, before my husband wonders where I am. I believe it is time for me to say good-bye now… as you won't be staying long in the morning."
     The crone smiled and lowered her hand from Naught's grinning mouth, and Eleanor couldn't help but wish that her husband really was there and had already come looking for her. "Oh, but you won't let us give you a gift before we part? We won't be here long, as you said. This could be your only chance."
     "No, that's quite alright, I need nothing, thank you, really, good-bye…"
     "You don't want to be rid of me, storyteller?" the boy asked, stepping toward Eleanor. "You'll tell my story to anyone who listens?" He cocked his head to the side, eyes wide open in the dim candlelight. "Like Lotti. She's a good listener. Patient, like a nurse should be."
     Eleanor stared at him and tried to speak, but no words came to her. She could only turn to the old woman for some kind of explanation, but there was nothing but silence from her. Naught was also still, waiting for her to respond. At last, she managed weakly, "I think you need to find shelter somewhere else."
     "Oh, I could leave," the crone said. "I only came to deliver him to you. But if he leaves now, nothing will change, and who can say when we might appear again, if we do?"
     "I would think it best if you didn't," Eleanor replied quietly.
     The child gave a soft, high-pitched laugh. "I would think I am forever."
     "What?"
     "My old bones are patient," he said, baring his teeth in a wide grin.
     Eleanor stared at him, eyes wide and fearful. "Leave," was all she managed to say.
     "Not until you choose what I leave behind," the crone said. "I can leave Naught here with you and your house, and don't imagine for a moment you can rid yourself of him… or I can take all of him with me and leave you and Lotti as you were before we came. This is your chance."
     "None of what you're saying makes any sense. Please, just go."
     "With or without Naught?"
     "With."
     Naught blew a raspberry at her.
     The crone bared her teeth in a thin smile. "Then bring me the child."
     "My child…? What?"
     "We'll leave and leave none of ourselves behind. So bring us the child."
     "Bring us our child," the boy said.
     Eleanor clenched her fist. "You'll not go anywhere near my child!"
     The old woman scoffed. "How attached you are to your playthings! You can't even tell me its name, can you?"
     Eleanor worked her mouth, but no sound came out, and she could feel the weight of their eyes pressing down on her. The candlelight flickered against her skin, and she felt none of its heat. "What does… my child have to do with anything?" she asked weakly.
     "I'm everything," said Naught.
     "The child's everything," said Lotti.
     Eleanor gave a start and spun to face the hallway she had come from. A pale figure stood there in a nightgown with a crying bundle of blankets cradled in her arms, and on some level, Eleanor could understand that something was different about her Lotti by the way the nurse drifted toward the old woman, but her child… "Lotti? What are you doing, Lotti?"
     "Nothing will change if it stays," she said, and the old woman began walking forward to meet her. "You don't want that."
     "Don't tell me what I want--I want my child!" Eleanor shouted, about to spring forward and seize her child. But small hands gripped her dress tight, and she saw Naught clinging to her with his face held downward.
     "You want a story," he said, staring at the dust on the floor, "but mine's an old one, isn't it? You don't really want me here, even if you think you do." He sniffed. "And listen, listen. The thunder's gone, the mist's away. Your husband, your servants, your child, all my stories …" Naught looked into her eyes, and Eleanor could see the tears on his face coursing around his farewell smile. "I'm not the Great Gatekeeper Henry, and I am not forever."
     Feeling his grip on her weakening, Eleanor looked up to see Lotti gently placing the child in the crone's arms. Eleanor tried to shout, but a violent gust of wind burst from the door, and when she opened her eyes again, they were gone. The door creaked in the silence that remained in their wake.
     "Lotti?" Eleanor called. "Lotti?" She took a few stumbling steps and looked around the room, but saw no one. "My…" She turned and fled the room.
     Her feet pounded down the corridor, and her shaking hand fumbled with the doorknob of the nursery. She threw open the door and caught herself on the side of the crib. There were no extra blankets, none were missing--everything was just as it was when she had laid her child down to sleep.
     Smiling up at her with vacant, loving eyes, the doll was still tucked safely in.

     Eleanor was wailing and screaming when Lotti and the other nurses found her. Lotti sent one to fetch the poor woman her medicine from the store room, but Eleanor clutched her uniform and shook her head, sobbing, "You were right. I'm awake. Naught's gone. No more stories. I'm awake."