Two Socialites and a Sorcerer: Distance Divided by Time (Completed)

[MarianT]

TWO SOCIALITES AND A SORCERER:  Distance Divided by Time

Prologue

   Have you ever fallen in love at first sight? According to my people, pure love, the only kind that leads to your destiny, is the love that has no tangible benefit. Love of God doesn’t count, for you’d have to be stupid not to love God. Love of family – parents, spouse, children – has its benefits. Love of country is your duty. In order for love to be pure, it has to be illicit, unreturned, or otherwise hopeless.   

   On the day when my story begins (or my life changed – they’re the same thing, really), I was in the consignment store, trying to persuade the clerk to take a few more of my paintings. “Sorry, Harry,” she said, “you’re already way over the limit. I could paper my entire apartment with your work if I wanted.”

   “No hard feelings, kiddo,” I said. I turned to leave, and at that moment the queen of my heart, the catalyst for my genius walked into the building. If you’ve ever seen Botticelli’s painting of Aphrodite, you’ll know what she looked like, except that she was wearing more clothing and a hat. Her name was Millicent, and she was absolutely perfect. She had one small flaw – she was in love with someone else. (My Great-aunt Elena would say that wasn’t a flaw, that unrequited love was perfect, but of course, I wanted Millicent to love me. I wanted her to be with me always, to greet me with gladness when I walked in the door, to laugh with me when something funny happened, to share my sorrows, except that I wouldn’t have any sorrows when she was around.)



   At that time I was only a bumbling apprentice in the field of alchemy and having trouble pursuing my studies. Bridgeport was at the far end of rationalism in those years between the two major wars, and ingredients for elixirs – assuming I knew how to concoct elixirs – were hard to come by. Great-aunt Elena, who was about 300 or so, assured me that the pendulum would swing in time, that the residents of the city would return to an interest in all things magical and mystical. In the meantime, however, the one thing I wanted – a really good love potion – just wasn’t available.

   Time…I had spotted something on the consignment list that might prove useful – a time machine. (I could interpose a long digression here on the hypocritical way in which the rational inhabitants of Bridgeport could accept mechanical devices that improved their lives but not magical ones, but I won’t.) “Let me show you something interesting,” I said, motioning Millicent to follow me into the back room. I didn’t dare touch her lest my yearning communicate itself and put her off; even so, she looked to the clerk for reassurance.

   “It’s a time machine,” I said, edging around a dusty stack of books to get closer. I pretended to inspect it, but took the opportunity to make a slight notch under the dial for the future. Whoever used the machine could go anywhere in the past, but only 80 years into the future. My great-aunt could provide me with potions that would keep me alive and young that long, and it was unlikely her “someone else” would still be living. I’d have to make sure I was on hand to keep Millicent from returning to the present, but I’d think of something. The time machine didn’t travel through space at all, so that made things a little easier.

   “I can help with the delivery,” I told the clerk.  Millicent lived in the apartment just up the street, so we trundled the machine on a dolly and wheeled it away. While we walked, we chatted. I let Millicent do most of the talking and learned something intriguing -- her husband Dashiell was a private investigator.

   It was evening by the time we had the machine in place. Millicent suggested I have a drink on the penthouse terrace and enjoy the view. It was foggy, but the fog only made the city lights more mysterious.


 
   The night seemed alive with possibilities. I turned and saw a different view, one that made my heart twist. Millicent’s “someone else” had returned home.



   I’m not ashamed to admit that I spent the next few weeks following him – them – about. I saw them driving around town in a car that would easily cover the cost of a mansion in the hills across the river.



   I observed them flirting in the park after a long night of dancing.



   And one day I saw and photographed something useful – Dashiell Diamond conducting a stake-out at the Banzai Lounge.
 


   When the second-in-command of Striker’s Mob was arrested a few days later, I was able to provide Striker with the name – and address – of the gumshoe who had put the finger on him.

   A few weeks after that, I read in the paper about the mysterious disappearance of a young socialite couple. My contact in the Mob confirmed that Dashiell had been fitted with a pair of cement overshoes and dumped in the river. The girl, he said, had hid in the bedroom, but when they looked in the wardrobe and under the bed, they hadn’t been able to find her. I smiled in satisfaction and tipped the man nearly all my ready cash because the bedroom was where we had placed the time machine.

   The next 80 years passed quickly for Millicent, but plodded along minute by minute for me. Great-aunt Elena suggested we leave Bridgeport for a while and live on the road. It wasn’t intelligent to get too chummy with Striker and his ilk, she advised me. So one day, I joined her in her wagon and left town.



   She insisted that it was time I drop my persona of the struggling art student and begin to work on becoming a Master. She bought me a new outfit. The turban felt odd at first, but soon I got used to it.



   Great-aunt Elena was a merciless task-master. Day and night I pored over ancient, dusty tomes.



I practiced arcane chants and slaved over boiling cauldrons.



Sometimes it was too much for me, and I passed out.



   The day finally came when Great-aunt Elena allowed me to meet with customers. “Never be too specific,” she advised. “Never tell them anything they don’t want to hear. If they have a difficult relationship with someone, suggest it’s because they were enemies in a past life.” As luck would have it, my first client was a journalist. It was a tricky session because I knew she was trying to expose me as a fraud. When I managed to convince her that there might be something in all this hocus-pocus, Great-aunt Elena congratulated me, and told me I was ready to go on the road by myself.



         I left town, but I often returned to Bridgeport. Some fifty years after Millicent’s disappearance, the apartment building where she had lived was condemned and razed to the ground. That was a dark time for me. Millicent and Dashiell had lived in the penthouse, and I had nightmare visions of my darling girl plummeting to the ground when she arrived in the machine.

   Nevertheless, I made a practice of checking the vacant lot every day, and as soon as I could afford it, I bought the lot in order to prevent anything being built there. I could have sold it for a huge profit later, but even though my fortunes fluctuated – the demand for elixirs and readings not being stable – I never relinquished my grip.

   Eighty years to the day after that fateful morning in early summer, my vigil was rewarded. As I drove by the lot, I saw quite clearly the shimmering gray shape of the time machine.



Chapter One

   Millicent Diamond stumbled out of the time machine, pushed out by a purple light.



   To her great astonishment, she was in an open field. Had she gone back in time, rather than forward? She looked around, trying to get her bearings.



   Millicent spotted something on the ground, a cigarette case that someone had dropped. She didn’t usually smoke, but perhaps a cigarette would help her think. She picked it up and tried to open it. Suddenly she found herself looking at a cartoon bunny on a red screen. She almost dropped the thing in surprise.



   It was made out of some kind of celluloid and obviously of future origin. Millicent looked around the lot again. There was a tree growing where the elevator had once been, and it was not a sapling, either, but mature. She sat down on the ground to think.



   Would she be able to return to her own time? It would break her heart if she couldn’t go back to Dashiell. She tried to apply the Coue treatment to lift her spirits, repeating “Every day in every way, I am getting better and better.”  But her thoughts kept coming back to the events of the past hour (“Past hour and 50 to 100 years,” she corrected.)

   She and Dashiell had been walking back to the apartment after lunch when Dashiell had suddenly had a funny feeling. “Let’s go upstairs,” he’d said. “I think someone’s following us.”



   “Should we call the police?” she had asked, once they were in the apartment.

   “That would be a good idea were I not working on a case that involves police corruption. No, we’ll see what they want.”

   The buzzer sounded, unnaturally loud. “Who is it?” asked Dashiell, speaking into the intercom.

   A little girl answered.



   “Well, that’s a relief,” Millicent had said.

        Dashiell had shaken his head. “Anybody can pay a kid a quarter to buzz the intercom. I don’t like this,” he’d said. “I’ll answer the door, but I want you to promise me you’ll get in the time machine if you hear me say the word ‘time.’ Stay in the future a full day before you return. Stay in the apartment, if that’s possible. If not --” He stuffed a hundred simoleon bill in her hand.

        “But—“

        There had been a knock on the door, and Dashiell had jerked his head for her to go upstairs. Millicent had heard him say “Well, if it isn’t Siggsy Bugle. What does Striker want this time?”



   “Wants to see you.”

   “I really don’t have time…”



   Dashiell had practically shouted the last word. Millicent had known she couldn’t stay and listen any more. She had turned the dial forward and jumped in.



   Dashiell wanted her to stay a full day. Well, she couldn’t just sit here in a vacant lot that had obviously become some sort of garbage dump. Millicent got up and decided to go explore. It would be interesting to see how much Bridgeport had changed.

   “Hello!”

   Millicent turned and looked at the woman who had accosted her. Now she knew she was in the future; she’d never seen such an outlandish hairstyle in her life.



   “Johanna King, up-and-coming reporter,” she introduced herself. “You’re new in town?” Millicent suddenly realized that she probably looked as odd to Johanna as Johanna did to her.

       “Yes,” she said, introducing herself. “My grandmother used to live in the building that used to be here,” she added. It was obvious that Johanna required some sort of explanation.
   
   “Yeah, the neighborhood has gone down a bit since then,” Johanna agreed. “Millicent Diamond,” she mused. “I’m sure I’ve seen your name somewhere before.”

       “I can’t imagine where,” said Millicent. “Say, can you tell me where the YWCA is?”

       “I don’t think we have one anymore,” said Johanna, “but there’s a youth hostel just down this street. If they don’t have any room, give me a call.”

       There was an awkward moment, until Millicent realized that Johanna expected her to do something with the “cigarette case” she had just picked up. “I still don’t know how to use this,” she said, handing it over.

      “I know,” Johanna said sympathetically. “As soon as you learn how to use one phone, they come out with another that’s entirely different.” She took the phone from Millicent and fiddled with it. “I put my number on your speed dial 4 – that should be easy to remember. Oh, and watch out for the zombies!”

      The youth hostel wanted $20. “For a week?” asked Millicent. For a night, had been the answer. But she could help herself to whatever was in the fridge. She found a carton of some white stuff with blueberries in it. Yogurt, it was called – a bit sweet, but otherwise good.



   The bed was uncomfortable, but that didn’t stop her from falling asleep immediately. Tomorrow, eighty years ago (Millicent had found a newspaper with the date on it), she would see Dashiell again.

[MarianT]

Chapter Two

   Before she could see Dashiell again, Millicent had to get the time machine to work. She had tried to enter it around noon, giving her sojourn in the future one full day, but the machine had refused to cooperate. The door had opened, the purple light had poured out, but then the machine had shuddered and shut down.



   Millicent knew she shouldn’t be surprised. For all its sturdy appearance, the time machine had some delicate mechanisms, some of which had undoubtedly been jarred by its drop from the penthouse 19 floors above. She was stuck here until she could get it fixed.

   How much time did she have? Millicent decided to go to the cemetery and look for Dashiell’s grave. If she could find that, then she would know the number of years she would have to learn how to repair the thing. She refused to believe that she might never learn how to repair it.

   The Bridgeport cemetery was large and hilly and sprawling. Millicent looked at every headstone, including the ones that were so small they had almost disappeared into the grass, but not one said “Dashiell Diamond.” At the last grave she approached, a handsome obelisk, a small blue spirit emerged to meet her.



   “What you seek is not here,” it said. “The Master came and took it many years ago.”

   “The Master?” Millicent repeated.

   “The Zombie Master,” said the spirit.

   “Do you remember what the stone said?”

   “’Dashiell Diamond, 1901 to 1933, Rest in Peace,’” quoted the spirit.

   Millicent blanched. It had been a lovely day in summer when she entered the machine. She had six months, probably less, in which to get it repaired and return to warn Dashiell. Blindly, she left the cemetery and made her way back to the vacant lot. She felt consumed by grief, and yet she knew that grief was useless. She had to set it aside and concentrate on a plan of action.

   She would need food, clothing, and shelter, all of which would require simoleons, of which she had 80. In her Bridgeport that would be enough for a month or two, but here it would last four nights. She would have to find a job. And – there was no getting around it – she would have to see whether there was anything useful in the dumpster on her lot.



   Poking around, Millicent found a broken-down shower, and a water main that a handy sim could hook it up to. Luckily, she was a handy sim, although she had never been allowed to practice her talent. Her mother considered handiness to be a skill that was highly unsuitable for one of Bridgeport’s leading debutantes.

   With the shower hooked up, Millicent felt ready to tackle the dumpster. Surely it contained a few things that she could either use or sell.



   In her first dive, she struck gold – a toilet and a hunk of mummitomium. She hooked up the toilet to the same water main as the shower and sent the metal off to be smelted, then dove again. This time she brought up some pots and a funny-looking box.



   A final trip yielded some gems. Millicent put them in her pocket (how she wished she’d brought her purse) and went over to the consignment shop.

   The gems netted enough for her to buy a gently used sleeping bag. In the window Millicent spotted a dress that was identical to one she’d worn to a garden party.



She looked at the price tag – “Vintage dress, $650.” She considered asking the clerk what she would pay for her own vintage dress, but decided against the idea. She didn’t have anything else to wear, and besides, the clerk would probably offer considerably less than what she would sell it for.  But on the wall next to the dress was a bulletin board with a sign – “Ghost hunter needed. Apply at Science Center.”

   The Science Center had expanded in the past 80 years. As Millicent entered the lobby, she noticed that they had acquired a large skeleton.  Apparently a dead kraken had washed up on the shore of Isla Paradisa, and the skeleton had been donated. There were worse jobs than hunting ghosts, she reminded herself.



   With a job and some money from the consignment center in her pocket, Millicent decided to splurge and eat at Hogan’s Diner. A few days ago, she would have considered this slumming rather than splurging, but the prices at the bistro were beyond her. And besides – she took a sniff – her dress had not entirely recovered from its immersion in the dumpster. At the bistro, they would probably show her the door.



   As she settled down for the night, Millicent felt a small thrill of satisfaction. Who would guess that the foxtrot queen of the dance clubs could be so content with a greasy cheeseburger and a warm sleeping bag? But then she recollected that the clock was ticking for Dashiell. “Every day in every way,” she muttered, trying to banish the unhappy thought, “I…am…getting…zzzz.”

Chapter Three

   For several weeks I observed my darling covertly, making use of the tools at my disposal.



I saw the pathetic shelter she had erected and considered surprising her one day with a snug little house.



But I couldn’t risk running into her. I might be her landlord, but the landlord is not an appealing character. Perhaps someday I would casually let drop the fact that she owed me something in the way of rent. I did drop off a few items that she might find useful – a chair so she could watch the television she’d found, for example. Her innocent amazement at the miracles of modern technology was payment enough.



And one night when she went to bed hungry, I provided her with a picnic basket to awaken to the next morning.



   I didn’t like the job she had taken. Aside from the fact that it required her to wear a most unbecoming garment, there was the danger, as she encountered more cohesive spirits -- ghosts, in other words – that she would hear some information to my disadvantage. I knew that I would have to act quickly.



   I concentrated my efforts on learning what had become her daily routine. After she finished work, she would deposit the spirits at the Science Center.



   She would then grab a meal from the Food Truck. Burritos seemed to be her preferred meal, as they were the cheapest. Burritos! But soon she would dine on caviar and pate de foie gras, I promised my darling silently.



   After a long nap, she would arise in the middle of the day, investigate the dumpster, and take her find to the consignment center.



   One night she had a scare. It was a full moon – my darling didn’t realize the dangers of the full moon but went to work as blithely as if it were sunshine.



   A zombie appeared, startling her.



I commanded him to go closer so that she could grasp the full measure of his loathsomeness, and then I sent him away, whereupon she scurried home.



   It was time for me to arrange our first encounter. I had a minion at the consignment shop, an experiment, so to speak. Was it possible for someone to work without sleep or food, provided he was hypnotized every few days? I’d chosen Tavares Hanley as my subject, thinking that his plumpness would protect him from any adverse effects, for it was not my intention to kill him but merely to find out the limits of his endurance. The next time we had our session, I inserted the suggestion that he would recommend me to “the pretty red-haired lady in the cloche hat” as an expert medium capable of summoning ghosts.



   After that, I settled back to wait.

[Gogowars329]

Wow! This is looking to be a great story! I can't wait for more.

[saltpastillen]

Oooo so many possibilities. And the Master is delightfully creepy.

[MarianT]

Chapter Four

   One Friday afternoon, when Millicent took her most recent finds to the consignment center (an emerald and a smoky quartz, not worth the misery of diving, really), the clerk accosted her.



   “If you’re interested in finding a particular ghost, I know someone who can help you,” he said. “The Master arrived in his gypsy wagon a few days ago.”

   “The Master?” said Millicent. “Is that the Zombie Master?”

   “I don’t know about zombies,” said the clerk, “but he helped my cousin when she was grieving over her boyfriend.”

   Millicent frowned. The last person she wanted to meet was someone known as a zombie master; on the other hand, that was supposedly the person who had Dashiell’s grave. Probably this “Master” wasn’t the same person at all, but she should at least check him out.

   It took Millicent nearly the whole of Saturday afternoon to reach the gypsy wagon, which was parked up on Bogaard’s Overlook. A taxi took her to the subway station, where the subway was running on half-schedule because it was a weekend. It was getting dark by the time she arrived.



   The Master, she discovered, certainly looked the part.



   “Tell me, my dar-dear, what troubles you?” he asked.

   Millicent drew a deep breath. She hadn’t figured out what to say, and she realized that much of her story would sound very odd, even to a gypsy.

   “Perhaps I can guess,” said the Master. “Many years ago you were parted from someone dear to you, but to you, it seems like only a couple of weeks. And now you want to make contact, perhaps ask a question?”

   “I need to know when he died,” said Millicent. “If I know that, perhaps I can prevent it by going back in time.”

   “A time traveler, are you? Well, well, well. It’s not often I encounter one of those.”

   Millicent decided not to tell him that her time machine wasn’t working. She didn’t like his manner, although she conceded that a certain oiliness was probably necessary for his line of work. She took the crystal ball in her hands and peered into its depths, as he directed.



   “Concentrate, concentrate,” the Master murmured.

   Millicent felt herself relaxing and even getting drowsy. She felt a spurt of fear and then the sudden chill of a ghost’s presence. It was Dashiell.



   “You may ask him how he died,” the Master prompted.

   “How—“ Millicent began. Dashiell’s ghost turned away from her.



   “Some of Striker’s thugs came to the apartment,” he began.



“They forced me into their car and drove me through the city.



“At their lair, they forced my feet into buckets of cement. Late that night they took me to the bridge…the last thing I remember is how cold the water was, even on a warm day.”



   “But when did this happen?” Millicent asked. “I need to know the date.”

Dashiell’s ghost was silent.

   “Was it the same night you made me leave?”

   He nodded and then floated through the wall.

   Her eyes filled with tears, Millicent stumbled out the door and down the short flight of steps.



   “Psst,” a voice hissed behind her.

   “Dashiell?” Millicent said turning around. “Dashiell! You do remember me! I thought –“



   “Not so loud,” he cautioned. “The Master would be angry if he caught me talking to you. He doesn’t like me to display too much initiative.”

   “Does he mistreat you?” Millicent asked, shocked.

   “He yells at me occasionally,” said Dashiell.



“He has me do the gardening…



…and collect insects for his elixirs – that sort of thing,” Dashiell answered.



“And sometimes he sends me out to spy on people. But that’s about the worst of it.”



   “But that’s terrible,” said Millicent. “Can’t you leave him?”

   “Not as long as he has my headstone,” said Dashiell. “Besides, I knew that as long as I stayed with him, I’d have a chance to see you again.”

   “I don’t understand.”

   “I’m the bait for you,” he said. “The Master told me all about it one night when he drank too much nectar. How he fell in love with you at first sight, how he had to get me killed –“

   “He caused your death?” Millicent interrupted.



   “He ratted me out to Striker’s mob,” Dashiell said.

   “But – I could swear I’ve never seen him before.”

   “He’s had plastic surgery since then and pumped some iron to build up his muscles. When you first met him he was a kind of ferrety-looking art student named Harry Marks.”

   “He helped deliver the time machine!” exclaimed Millicent. “But why go to all this trouble?”

   “You’re the love of his life,” said Dashiell. “His grand passion. Look, I’m pretty sure he’s going to suggest that he ‘resurrect’ me for you. If you do go along with that, make sure you settle on a price beforehand, and make sure you have a bottle of potent cure elixir with you. I don’t trust him to use his sunshine charm on me after he turns me into a zombie.”

   “A zombie!” Millicent exclaimed. “Oh, Dashiell, that’s dreadful. Isn’t there any other way you can return to life?”

   “Do you happen to know the recipe for ambrosia?” he asked.

   “No,” said Millicent.

   “Then zombieness it is,” said Dashiell. “By the way, he doesn’t know that I know any of this, so wait for him to make the call. And don’t worry that I’ll get jealous if you have to flirt with him a little.”

   “Flirt with him!” said Millicent. “I’d rather flirt with a toad.”

Chapter Five

   Two days went by, during which time Millicent fretted. She made use of the time to return to the consignment shop, but they never had the potent cure elixir in stock. Not even a regular cure elixir, said the clerk, which usually worked just as well unless you were dealing with a vampire or werewolf.

   Finally, one evening her cigarette case that was really a telephone started making noises. Millicent fumbled with it, terrified that her caller would hang up before she figured out how to answer it. “This is the Master,” she heard. “My preparations for reanimating your boyfriend—“

   “Husband,” corrected Millicent.

   “—are complete. If you would care to join me at –“ he gave her an address on the edge of the city “Dashiell may rejoin the land of the living tomorrow morning.”

   “How much will this cost?” asked Millicent, but she was speaking to a dial tone.

   As soon as she woke up, Millicent took the taxi to the address the Master had given her. When she arrived, she saw Dashiell’s headstone on the ground. The Master’s procedure had already begun.



   “You still haven’t told me what this will cost,” she said.

   “All in good time,” said the Master.

   “No, I want to know now,” Millicent insisted.

   “Ordinarily, I charge 100,000 simoleons for a reanimation,” said the Master, “but for you, my darling, I will make an exception – one kiss, that is all. And incidentally, that is not your husband. The vow usually is ‘till death do us part.’”

   Millicent took a deep breath. “The reanimation and the sunshine charm,” she said.

   The Master looked displeased. “Who told you about the sunshine charm?” he asked.

   “I work with ghosts,” she said. “I can’t remember which one mentioned it.”

   “Very well,” he said, “but I can’t guarantee the sunshine charm will work. Sometimes the reanimation alone is enough to exhaust my powers for a time. Certain restorative methods work better than others – I may require your assistance.”

   “Then again, you may not,” said Millicent.

   “Eenie… meanie…chili beanie,” the Master intoned and pointed his wand at the grave.



   (“Don’t watch when I emerge from the grave,” Dashiell had warned her. “It won’t be a pretty sight.” Millicent remembered the zombie she had once encountered and agreed.)



   “And now, my darling, it is time for your payment,” said the Master.

   Millicent leaned forward to give him a kiss, but he seized her by the arms.



   She drew back, angry.

   “How can you prefer that shambling husk to me?” he asked. “I have loved you for 80 years now. My entire life has been devoted to winning your love and to ensuring I have enough wealth to satisfy your every whim. Do you want to go swimming in Sunlit Tides one morning and watch the Aurora Borealis that night? I can arrange that. Do you want to explore tombs in Egypt and sip nectar in Champs-les-Sims? I can arrange that, too. Can you really choose someone who can’t even remember your name?”

   “You know nothing about love,” responded Millicent. “It’s not about vacations and nectar or even kisses. Dashiell will be normal again as soon as you apply the sunshine charm. I insist that you to do that now.”



   “You’re not being reasonable,” said the Master. “If the sunshine charm fails, I won’t try it again.”

   “I can use a cure elixir.”

   “Do you have one?”

   “No,” she admitted.

   “I didn’t think so,” he said. “Who do you think supplies the store? Now quit being foolish. Move in with me for a day, and once my power has been restored, I’ll be glad to cure your swain.”

   “The sunlight charm. Now,” said Millicent.

   The Master shrugged. “Very well,” he said.



   To Millicent’s relief, Dashiell began to glow golden, and he regained control of his limbs. “Dashiell!” she called out, but already he was heading toward the street where a taxi awaited him.

   “What --?” Millicent turned towards the Master, but he was walking through the front door.

   “Usually they forget everything when they’ve been reanimated,” he said. “Good-bye.”

   Usually, thought Millicent later on that day, but not always.

   “You found me!” she exclaimed in delight when Dashiell turned up at her lot.



   “I knew you would be here,” said Dashiell. “Will you marry me again? Even though I’m 80 years older than you?”



   “Shut up, old man,” said Millicent, “and let’s have our second honeymoon in Isla Paradisa.”



   “You betcha, loveydove,” he said.

Many, many thanks to PeregrineTook for suggesting this! To enjoy the other Distance Divided by Time stories, go to this link:Distance Divided by Time

[MarianT]

Epilogue

     It took me a long time, but I finally found her, living in Barnacle Bay.



     "Great-aunt Elena!" I exclaimed. "With a garden full of life fruit, why have you let yourself grow old?"
     She shrugged. "You didn't travel all this way to ask me that, did you?"
     "No," I admitted. I told her all about my failure with Millicent -- how she had chosen a sap with no skills at all instead of me. "I devoted my life to her," I said. "And now she's gone."



      "So she's gone," said Great-aunt Elena. "Thanks to her, you've reached the pinnacle of witchery and are a pretty good elixir-maker, too. You can go anywhere, do anything. Bah! If you're still feeling sorry for yourself, go talk to my chickens."
     


       "Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?" I asked. "Was it a far, far better thing I did?"
       "What do you think I am?" said the chicken. "Some kind of Victorian writer?"

[Eldridge]

I thought that this story will be long! Thank you for sharing this story with us, MarianT. I really enjoying this! I'm happy to see Millicent reunited again with her beloved

[saltpastillen]

Did he meet the mean chicken?

[MarianT]

No, the evil chicken (or rooster) is white with glowing eyes. The Master just met a chicken with an attitude.

[empow14]

What a great story! I love this.

Do you get the time machine and the gypsy caravan with World Adventures? And this cute dress with hat, and the chickens?!

[MarianT]

No, none of this came with World Adventures.

The time machine comes with Ambitions. Your inventor can make one or you can sometimes buy one at the Consignment shop.
The gypsy wagon comes with Supernatural. I created an interior for it, and the furniture came from the Fortune's Folly compilation in the Sims 3 store (except for the Alchemy cabinet -- that came with Supernatural, too). The crystal ball also comes from the store.

Millicent's dress came from the Stuff Pack, Town Life. Her hat is in the Jazz Age store set.
The chicken coop is also from the Sims 3 store.

Glad you enjoyed the story! I had a great time working on it.

[empow14]

Thanks for the info! The story's really awesome in my opinion.  I also liked the screenshots a lot!

[PeregrineTook]

Fantastic job, Marian!!  It is an honor to work with such a talented writer  :=)

[RaiaDraconis]

Oh wow, that was fantastic! The tale was engaging from the very beginning. Very, very well written with such fantastic characters (and Dash is quite...um...dashing )

[shaunta]

Great Job Marian! I enjoyed reading this.