Long ago, in the quiet lanes of Yorkshire, there lived a man named William Thornea fellow of simple tastes but grand expectations. One chilly evening, as the fog rolled in over the cobblestones, he found himself muttering to the empty air.
“You see,” he began, though no one seemed to listen at first, “I’ve tried those blasted matchmaking pamphlets, and what a waste of time its been! Writing letters, feigning interest in their dull chatter about bonnets and teatime gossip. If only there were a way to skip all thatno effort, no pretence, no memorising jests from *The Tattler* just to earn a smile!”
A figure wreathed in grey, sulphurous smoke coalesced before him, its voice like crackling embers. “You called upon me, William. Speak your desire plainly.”
“Right then,” William huffed. “I want a woman who chooses *me*no courting, no exchanging pleasantries, none of this silly business about impressing her. And absolutely no spending! Not a farthing on her, mind. No posh teas at The Ritz, no trinkets from Bond Streetnone of that nonsense. She ought to take me straight to her cottage without a fuss. Can that be done?”
The smoky figure produced a ledger and quill, jotting down the request with the efficiency of a clerk. “Easily arranged. Anything else?”
“Well,” William rubbed his chin, “she mustnt ask for a single thingno jewels, no silk gowns, no talk of carriages. None of that grasping London sort, always after a mans purse. Ive heard tales of Continental women who work whilst their husbands loaf about, and no one bats an eye. But here? A man does the same, and they call him a ‘kept fellow’ behind his back. I wont have it!”
“Consider it done,” the figure replied, though its tone carried a hint of amusement. “But William, you ask for what half the men in England already havewives who toil without complaint. Surely youd like something grander?”
Williams eyes gleamed. “Ah, yes! She must keep housescrubbing, cooking, never once nagging me to lift a finger. Always cheerful, always doting. And no talk of children! Everyone knows women are the ones who want them. Ive no use for the little blighters. Thats all.”
The smoky creature sighed. “Modest, truly. But what of her looks? A comely lass, perhaps? A rosy-cheeked maiden from the village, soft as milk and sweet as honey?”
“Yes, precisely!” William nearly tripped over his own boots in excitement. “Young, fair, slenderskin like fresh cream! But kind-hearted, mind. None of these modern girls, all sharp tongues and sharper wits.”
“Of course,” the figure murmured, and for a fleeting moment, William thought he saw its smoke twist into something like a grin.
Thennothing.
William awoke face-down in a rubbish heap behind a tavern, his ribs aching fiercely. The world loomed strangely large, and his limbs felt all wrong. A fish skeleton lay nearby, and the stench of rotten ale clung to the air.
Thenlaughter. Light and girlish, like church bells on a Sunday.
“Annie, look! Poor little thinghalf-starved, he is. Ill take him home, give him a proper hearth.”
“Soft-hearted as ever,” came a sharper voice. “What if he yowls all night? Or fathers kittens come spring?”
“Oh, hush. A trip to the vet will settle that.” Gentle hands scooped him up, pressing him against a warm apron. “There, there, sweeting”
William tried to protest, but all that escaped was a pitiful *mew*.
