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had to do this. She had to jump off the top
of the burning tower and meet death and the fool on her way down to
solid ground.
    Adventure
doesn't pick you, Ms Crowthy would say, it shanghais you – punching
you firmly in the gut and dragging you away by your collar.
    Now Abby could
feel it, and she could not pretend it did not exist anymore. She
was being swept up in an Adventure – her, Abigail Gail the Witch of
Bridgestock.
    What a
bother.

Chapter 3
    ~~~Pembrake
Hunter~~~
    Bridgestock, the
morning of the Storm of the Century….
    Pembrake
Hunter sighed once more. It was becoming a habit, a bitter,
gut-twisting habit. Bridgestock was killing him and all he could do
was sigh.
    Pembrake
climbed the stairs, his feet pounding heavily against the rough
stone. It was disconcerting being on solid land, not feeling the
slightest sway of the ocean underneath. But the unnerving solidity
couldn't distract his mind too long. Noticing the change of a
familiar shop front, or how a street had been renamed to celebrate
the Colonel – these things weren't enough to distract him
forever.
    As Pembrake
climbed the final stair he pinched the bridge of his nose. At least
the end was in sight. If he played his cards right, he would never
have to come back to this place again.
    Pembrake
always felt strange when he came back to Bridgestock. In a way it
was quite different to the other places he'd visited. And no, it
wasn't the buildings, the unique layout of the city built into the
hill as it were, or even the way it smelt - it was the way
it  felt . Oppressive was the only word that came to
mind, like the sky was going to fall in on him.
    Pembrake
always wore his uniform in Bridgestock. It had a dual purpose – it
would serve to impress and it would serve to protect. The women of
Bridgestock were the finest in all the lands, except perhaps for
the leggy wonders of the South Islands, or the long-lashed
dark-eyed beauties of Elogia. Nevertheless, Bridgestockian women
weren't all that bad, and they always fell for a man in uniform.
But Pembrake had a much keener, much less roguish need to keep the
white uniform of the Royal Navy visible at all times – to stop the
stares, the snake-like comments, and the barely-concealed
hostility. It was the colour of his skin; and coming back to
Bridgestock, his hometown, was the only place it ever seemed to
matter.
    Pembrake had
sailed the world with the Navy and nowhere did his appearance seem
to matter so completely as it did in Bridgestock. Even in Elogia
they did not care so much about the colour of his skin as his
allegiance to the Westlands. He was their enemy, not because of
what he looked like, because of something he had no power to
change, but because of the simple fact they were soon to be at war.
Grievances that begin conflict – border disputes, assassinations,
resource grabs – these are all matters that can be resolved. But it
is impossible to 'resolve' appearance because it cannot be
changed.
    So coming back
to Bridgestock, hearing his feet pound sullenly along the saturated
beams of the dock – always saw an empty ache settle in Pembrake's
stomach. There was something wrong about Bridgestock, something you
couldn't notice until you'd been away for a long time.
    And whatever
it was that made Bridgestock so claustrophobic and unwelcoming,
well, it was only getting worse. Every time the Royal Blue docked
at Bridgestock, Pembrake found his chest constricting a touch
tighter, his jaw setting a touch squarer, and his mind becoming a
touch harder.
    It was
destroying him to even step foot in this town. Nowhere else did the
destiny of one city seem so doomed and wrapped up in bitterness.
Nowhere else were divisions and bigotry so pronounced and
celebrated.
    More and more,
Pembrake grew to hate this place, to hate its people, its history,
its very existence.
    So he flicked
his eyes along the street that had opened up before him for the
tenth time and receded further under the protection of his