Skyhearth Manor

The door to the Old Man's study was broken. The latch was ruined, the wood around it splintered where someone had kicked it open. Tom wasn't sure which was weirder, the apparent vandalism or the fact that this door was actually open and had a real room behind it. The rumour among the staff at Skyhearth Manor was that Old Man Pevensey's door would only ever open for Death himself. Which now appeared to be true, although it was unlikely the Reaper would have kicked it in.

As a gardener, Tom had never even been up into this wing. If you weren't of the hoi-polloi you couldn't get the time from a Pevensey. On a normal day, Tom wouldn't even be in the house right now, certainly wouldn't have gotten to use the big flash loo on the upper floor like he just had. But then today wasn't a normal day.

He found himself wandering to the window that overlooked the courtyard, his eyes drawn to the commotion below. Staff more important than gardeners fluttered here and there, housekeepers mostly, and Christchurch the Butler. On the other side of the courtyard by the gate to the gardens, a news van sat waiting patiently for a glimpse at the old wolf's departure. The funeral staff had prepared the grave, and the family were gathered in small pockets, all apparently trying to look more convincingly sad than one another. No one really cared. Pevensey had been an evil old despot and there wasn't a soul sorry to see him go.

Which made it all the weirder that Luke Pevensey, his eldest son and heir, was sitting apart from the other false mourners, with a look of genuine... sadness? Was that sadness? Tom had never seen him display a single emotion in four years, and here he was now. Not crying, not weeping, but deeply... disturbed? Little toff had probably killed the Old Man for the money. Tom felt immediately guilty for the thought. His wife, Claire, would have clipped his ear for it, especially if he said it in front of Molly or Spencer. His children hung on his every word.

Contrite, Tom adjusted himself and turned to leave, but the study door caught his eye again. Who had broken in and why? Had Luke done it? Was the infamous will in there? He glanced furtively about the place. There was no one around. Everyone was downstairs. He wandered nonchalantly to the door, went inside, resisting the urge to brace for a booby trap.

There was a hum of old brandy on the air, fusty books. It was a cluttered mess of a room, like someone had picked the whole lot up by the outside walls and shaken it – at least, to the casual observer. A more perceptive man like Tom could see order in the chaos; reference books alphabetised in their respective piles, pens potted with pens, pencils with pencils. Bookcases stuffed with tomes, and the tomes stuffed with fins of paper that revealed a rudimentary filing system that Old Man Pevensey probably knew inside out and backwards. But it was this apparent organised mayhem that made the little black book in the middle of the desk stand out.

Ha. Old Man Pevensey's Little Black Book, Tom corrected himself. Imagine the famous names and faces in that one. As a younger man his antics had been legendary. He once had a penchant for Bond Girls, or so they said. Tom sidled forward. A peek probably wouldn't hurt. He picked up the book and immediately dropped it again. The leather cover was cold to the touch, and thrummed like a plucked guitar string. He stared at it then shrugged it off as imagination, and tried again. The leather felt unpleasant against his hand, but a book longs to be read.

A book longs to be read. Where did that thought come from? he wondered as he flicked open the cover. Yellowed pages, each one scrawled with single sentences, almost like a hotel guest log. One sentence, each signed by a different person. Names he didn't recognise to begin with, and then finally, one he did: Arthur Pevensey, the Old Man's father. Tom peered closer at the words, but before he read them he spotted a common theme in all of the entries. Each one started with two words: "I wish..."

I wish to be famous, one read. I wish to live forever. I wish for father to return from the war. And for each wish a single red mark, a tick. But the tick caught his eye more than the words, for each was identical, written almost in calligraphy, a single flourishing check mark. Tom scoffed. There was no way this was what it seemed. It must be a silly tradition of some kind, nothing more—

Luke Pevensey. Luke had made a wish.

I wish for you to take my father.

And something had. The old man was being interred that day. Dead. Gone. Taken? Tom dropped the book, stepped back. For a moment he felt cold, and then suddenly foolish. It was coincidence. It had to be. But then he remembered Luke's eyes. While everyone else mourned like they'd rehearsed for days, Luke sat apart, his eyes haunted, hollow. Guilty. He'd made a wish in this book and it had come to pass. Even as a coincidence, that'd knock you for six.

Imagine that, though. Imagine that this family, who for generations had dominated the front page of every tabloid for their debaucheries and liberties, had gotten to where they were not through hard work and business sense but by simply making a wish. A wish to be above men like Tom, to live like kings and emperors while those below simply served. How was that fair? That men like Tom worked their fingers to the bone to support their families and these just wished wealth into existence. It had to be rubbish. Had to be.

But he picked up a pen anyway.

Flicked to the first blank page. Put ink to paper. Shared his wish. Made his demand. The door behind opened and Tom blinked.

It was Christchurch, the Butler. "Will you be coming down, Lord Abigail? The guests are arriving."

Tom looked around. The study was ordered now, books that had stood in ramshackle piles were now neater. A computer, brand new, sleek, stood on the desk. The air was clear, clean, and plants decorated the window ledges.

Lord Abigail... That was him. Thomas James Abigail, of Skyhearth Manor. He knew that. But it felt... wrong. He was just a gardener... but a Lord as well, somehow. He looked around at Christchurch.

"Er... guests?" was all he could manage.

The Butler looked crestfallen. "For the funeral, sir."

"Oh yes. The old man."

"Old man? Are you quite well, sir? Would you like me to turn them away?"

"What? No. Not at all. They've come to pay their respects to the old bastard. Let them."

He spoke the words but barely understood them. He wasn't himself. Well he was. But he was someone else at the same time. He needed to call Claire, give her the good news. Get her and the kids over here as soon as possible. He'd worry about magic books and wishes later.

"You're grieving, sir," Christchurch told him. "I'll give you a moment."

Tom ignored him, thumbing his phone and dialling Claire's number. The line was dead. Number no longer available. Above the study door was a crest, proclaiming him the Lord of Skyhearth Manor. He remembered having it made, while he also remembered his three-bedroom house in Billericay. His vision swam, and he sat in the desk chair before he could fall. He must have knocked the mouse, because the PC woke up to whatever page he'd been on before Christchurch disturbed him.

It was a news report. Front page of the Standard. Some lord's family had been involved in a car accident. More rich meat for the grinder... Oh wait. No, that wasn't fair. There were casualties. Kids involved. Tom felt instantly contrite, and leaned forward, finger scrolling the mouse wheel to the name of the victim.

He froze.

Lady Claire Abigail... What? His eyes skimmed back and forth, barely registering the words as English, seeking names, details. Claire Abigail... Killed in a car accident, motorway pile-up. Two children, Molly, Spencer, Jesus bloody Christ. The world slipped away around him, as surely as someone pulling a sheet off a bed, leaving him cold, alone, groping in the dark. This had to be a mistake. This had to be—

The book. The wish book. Frantically he cleared the desk, tossing aside papers and ledgers, until he found the little black book. He tore it open, scrambling to his page. His wish.

He'd asked for everything Luke Pevensey had.

Beside it, still glistening like fresh blood, was the tick. He grabbed a pen, turned the page, scribbled a reversal, but the ink was dry. He tried another pen. Nothing. Another. The same. Scribbled on a random piece of paper and the ink flowed; tried the wish book again. Nothing.

Tom flicked through the pages, looking for answers that weren't there, clues, anything. Someone was applying the ticks, so there had to be criteria, and criteria meant someone was reviewing the wishes, didn't it? He reached the back page, and there, sure enough, in the same red calligraphy that spoke of – what? Antiquity? Authority? – there were rules.

DO NOT USE LIGHTLY

ONE WISH EACH

PAYMENT SHALL BE TAKEN ON RECEIPT

SHOW THE BOOK TO NO ONE

ALL REQUESTS ARE FINAL

Tom collapsed, sliding from the chair to kneel before the PC monitor. The fingers of his left hand clawed at the screen as the right clutched the book tight to his chest. Could he destroy it? Of course. Burn it. Reverse what had happened. Undo his words. All the words. He searched the desk for a lighter, matches, anything, finally finding a gas-powered candle lighter. After three attempts the flame ignited and he held it to the page. The flame guttered and died.

"It won't work, sir, " said Christchurch from the doorway. "Took me a moment to catch up, but I see you found that infernal diary. I thought it was buried. Though now I can't remember by whom."

Tom looked up, eyes red and raw. "This is real?"

"I've seen that look all too often. I'm afraid so, sir. And soon whatever came before today will utterly cease to be. Some of us on the staff, the old timers, we remember for a while, until it fades, and Skyhearth claims another greedy soul."

"What have I done?"

"You have asked and received, Lord Abigail. You're rich beyond your wildest dreams, free to live life unfettered. The old man! He buried it. I remember, but only just. And someone dug it up. I would hide it, were I you."

"Where?"

Christchurch blinked. "Come again, sir?"

"The book! Where should I hide it?"

The Butler took a step back from the doorway, his grey eyes heavy with concern. "I'm afraid you've lost me, sir. I will send the housekeeper to attend you. Help you prepare for the, ah, service."

Alone, Tom found himself sinking to the floor, curling into a ball, and wishing, over and over, for the life he had, the family he had. He would die to take it back, to hold his children and his wife. He'd give up these riches in a heartbeat. But he couldn't. There was no going back. All requests were final.

Thomas Abigail had gotten what he wished for.