Copyright
J.B. Norman
When not out on his adventures, Van spends most of his time helping manage the waifish horde of orphans and foundlings living the halls of Porthaven’s venerable Lockcroft House orphanage. The very same orphanage where Van spend the first sixteen years of his own life.
He figures he owes the orphanage for being the only real home he’s ever had, so he always makes sure to send some of the money he earns back and comes by to lend a hand whenever he’s back in Porthaven.
As Van makes his way through the halls of the orphanage, one of the orphans grabs his sleeve and cautiously points to one of the rooms.
“That’s Weasel Girl’s room,” the kid informs him.
“Weasel Girl?” Van repeats incredulously.
The kid nods. “She likes weasels. Like, a lot. She’s weird.”
Van peers into the room. A girl in a red dress is seated on her bed, reading a book. A large wooden hutch, presumably a home for weasels is set against the room’s far wall.
“There is a chicken on your head,” the girl notes.
“Yeah. She’s keeping me warm. She likes me,” Van explains. A chicken had been a gift from a grateful farmer and has subsequently proven rather stubbornly insistent in regards to roosting on Van’s head.
“You may call me Addie,” the girl declares.
“Is that short for Adele?” he asks.
“No.”
“Adeline?”
“No.”
“Uh… Adrianne?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. It is short for Adelgundis,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ah,” Van says.
“And you are Finn. We were told to expect you,” the girl continues. “A pleasure. Now, with such formalities out of the way, I shall show you my collection.”
“Your collection… of weasels?” Van asks.
Weasel Girl nods. “Indeed, for they are the most wonderful creatures in the world.”
“If you weasels try to eat my chicken, we’re going to have problems, Van notes.
“The very notion is absurd,” Weasel Girl says as he goes over to the hutch. “My darlings are exceedingly well-trained. Your chicken will come to no harm.”
She undoes the latch and reaches in, turning back towards Van with a weasel that Van doesn’t think looks any different in any meaningful way from any of the other weasels.
“This is Sebastian,” Weasel Girl informs him, proffering the weasel in question. “He is my favourite. You may hold him, if you wish, but be gentle. I could not bear it if he came to harm.”
“Uh,” says Van, transfixed to the spot staring down at the weasel girl, and not really knowing how to respond.
“Clearly, you are in awe,” the girl continues, gently stroking Sebastian’s head. “And how could you not be? Truly, Sebastian is the finest of weasels.”
Awe isn’t exactly the word Van would use for it.
“He’s definitely… cute?” he offers.
“No,” the girl answers bluntly. “ No, he is not. Sebastian is majestic. And perfect. And fit to be king of all weasels.”
“I’m sorry?” Van offers.
“I forgive you,” the girl decides.
The rest of my writing exercises are here. This scene was written in February 2022.
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