Roberta Warner

@robertawarner.bsky.social

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Roberta Warner Fantasy writer of characters who happen to be neurodivergent. Currently querying my debut (historical fantasy + romance) and drafting the next book (contemporary medical fantasy). Writes true stories that didn't actually happen ✨

Glass lanterns were already lit, hanging on hooks on the wall, flickering their magical light onto the foliage below. In the centre, a flagstone seating area, but the table and chairs had been pushed to the edges, creating a large clearing in the centre. The music was floating on the air, clear enough to make out the tune but muted by distance so as to not be abrasive to the ear. Katerina gazed around, mouth open and eyes wide. She touched her hand to the large leaves and then turned back to Rostam, her face alight with joy. 'Mr Al-Rumi, this garden is a wonder!'
Her eye was caught by Mrs Radcliffe's Guide. Without thinking, Katerina moved to pick it up. But halfway there, her gaze flew back to the drawing on her desk. A wild, fiery thought wound its way into her mind. A wooden door, down a dark corridor.
‘Bloods are normal, for a fairy.
'What are you measuring?' she asked. 'Some sort of herb, I think?' Rostam tipped his head an inch. 'Not a herb. A medicinal plant.' He reached behind to show her a branch of white willow. 'We take the leaves of this, and make a powder for tea. It relieves inflammation - that is redness and swelling - and pain.' The corners of his mouth dipped, just for a second. Katerina watched him. 'For Professor Fawntooth's hands,' she said. Rostam nodded. 'She likes it dispensed in accurate aliquots, for consistent effect.'
'Fifty thousand crowns is a large sum to raise,' Rostam said, his voice serious. 'But the festival can be a success even if not every penny needed is found.' He looked over to her. 'Is it to be similar to the recital?' he asked. 'Yes. Well, no,' said Katerina. 'It is to be much…bigger. And outdoors. A festival of family stories, of…truths. I think.' She faced out of the window, fidgeting her fingers as if grasping at disordered words. She flexed her hands and stuffed them under her skirt.
When happy with the result, she wiped the blade free of any dust, and returned to the desk. The first cut of a nib was the most important, so taking her time, Katerina breathed in, and as she exhaled, made an initial, precise diagonal slice across the tip of the feather, creating a long, sloping point. Now, she needed to remove the quick, a small membrane at the end of the hollow shaft. Katerina pushed it out - scraping might damage the delicate writing tip. A slit was cut down the centre of the new nib, after which she rested the quill on her thumbnail, slowly and methodically trimming and shaping the sides. The finished result was a fine point nib, her favoured choice.
Her eye was drawn to a large teardrop of water threatening to fall from his shoulder-length, curly hair. Travelling onto his back, it rolled into the towel, just above a small ink-tattoo. She peered closer. A drum? Swallowing, Katerina tried to focus her mind on Mrs Radcliffe's advice in such a scenario, but she found her mind discomfortingly empty.
His finger moved up and down the stem of the wilted rose bloom. The cut made today would lead to success or disappointment in the future display; it was important to get it right. Choosing a position, Cavendish made a decisive diagonal snip with the sharpened secateurs. He swiftly removed the perpetrator without touching pointed thorns that lay along the branch.
Together, their eyes turned to the single cupboard under the window. Katerina walked to it and raised a hand over the wood. It radiated a quiet warmth under her palm, a sign of life that she could not categorise. She tried the handle. Locked.
Dr Watfield's department housed all forms of storytelling: epic poems, plays, novels and novellas, and fables. Her office smelled vaguely of citrus mixed with the sweet, bright scent of the blooms that covered the shelves behind her desk. Garish red geraniums and an invading purple-flowered vine were the current residents. Katerina averted her eyes.
The title had almost been rubbed off the front, but she could still make out the embossed print of the words: Mrs Radcliffe's Guide to Etiquette for Working Women. Her mother's smile came into view as it always did when she read the Guide. It had been a gift on Katerina's sixteenth birthday. As other daughters may have received family recipes, closely guarded and honed over years, her own mother had given her the secrets of society.
Katerina's face drained of colour. Her voice came out low and rough. 'What happened next?' 'That was the start of the bloody, all-out war,' Billie said. Her mouth tightened into a grimace. 'Hundreds died. All pointlessly. No one is sure what happened at the end, but it is said that the Library was rebuilt overnight. I like to think that the surprise of the people working together to achieve that inspired the end of the battle,' Billie gave a tight smile. 'But I'm an eternal optimist, so probably they just ran out of water or something.'
She was brought rudely back to the present when the laughter from a group of singers on one side of the road cannoned into the mis-timed discord of an amateur bell-ringing group on the other. She tensed her arm. Time up. Billie squeezed her hand and steered them down a side street.
Katerina gazed around the room. Half a dozen other men were present - much younger, dressed in similar attire, although she could tell from her side of the room that the stitching on their jackets was not as high quality as that of the Captain. A thought to keep to oneself.
Any that needed repair retired with Katerina to the clerks' office, where she mended and sewed, reordered pages and tidied the manuscripts, ready for the next person to read. Efficient. Calm. Mrs Gilham liked to say that the books were the clerks' protegees; to be cared for, housed and tended to when hurt. A life's work. The Principal Clerk also said it was the 'only rule in the Library'. Katerina knew full well that this was not the case.
Isola thought of the portrait of her husband on the dresser in her bedroom, the only picture of him that she had, and her heart ached with grief for a sudden moment. 'An embroidery has two sides,’ she said. ‘One is the beautiful image, with the needlework all aligned, and the regular pattern of stitches creating a smooth and interconnected world. But turn it over, and there is a mess of cuts and knots, of the work that went into the creation.' She looked at Katerina. 'The pain is the price of love.’
Katerina smiled at the solitude that the weather promised. The junior clerks were permitted to eat in the tearoom or in the lounge, but both guaranteed noisy conversations and the suffocating pressure of small talk. She wrapped her scarf a little tighter and headed to her favourite spot in the nearby public gardens. Rounding the corner of Longside Avenue, she clung to her decision and pushed aside the fear that even the best-laid plans could not be relied on.
A large mantel stretched over the fireplace, adorned with a variety of items: a pair of etched metalwork candlesticks, a tall, thin vase with black and grey swirls patterned in the glass, and a wooden sculpture, inlaid with a mosaic of green stones. Katerina had never seen such a design before. Next to these stood a large clock, the face of which declared it was Made in Portia. It reminded Katerina of the one that Billie had wound in the Preservation Room, a lifetime ago.
Her arm darted out as she passed a dark green book, mid-row. The label marked it as DoCS - Department of Cartographic Studies. These shelves were designated as Natural Philosophies. She rolled her eyes silently and tucked the book under her arm, veering to exit via the rightful shelf.
Billie's face, however, was cheerful and light, as if it were every day that her friends invited her through secret doors and down unknown passageways. 'Ooh, what's down here, then?' she asked, peering up and around as the vast chamber opened in front of them.
Planet-like Pokémon with a starry purple core and yellow rings surrounding
Billie would surely rather sit on hot coals than hear about the movement of celestial satellites in her spare time. 'Billie, are you..' But Billie pinched her gently and walked them both out of the salon. 'See you on Friday, Mr Al-Rumi. We will meet for the carriage outside the Peaky Phoenix - six o'clock?'
Man in cravatte and blue shirt throwing glitter over himself
'It translates as “May your sons bray to the sky and yet receive no rain.”' Katerina looked between the clock and Rostam. 'Rain would not benefit the clock, and it cannot have sons.' Rostam stilled his smile. 'It is a saying,' he explained. 'What it really means is… something like…“Bloody hell, that hurts!”'
The houses were not up-close and friendly with each other, as in the other parts of Portia, they sat in splendid isolation, surrounded by high, dense yew hedges and the low borders of Portia Pride, with its waxy crimped-edge green leaves and airy sprays of small, star-shaped pinkish flowers.
Distance between her and the crowd was vital. Blind with panic and still covering her ears, she pushed the furthest door with her shoulder. She stumbled through, and it banged closed behind her.
Croft leant towards his friend. 'It wasn't because you were wrong. He saw an opportunity to exploit a green and energetic new councillor because he's not actually a fan of equalisation.' Cavendish gave a wry smile. 'Indeed. The greatest impediment to improving the lot of the “have-nots”, is that some people are too fond of the “having”.'
One hundred and thirty-four steps along the uneven, cobblestone street. Her mind settled at the predictable cadence and counting. Her thoughts arrived less chaotically, and the tension in her stomach lessened.
'Katerina!' Her brother tumbled across the room, pulling her in for a tight embrace. She tensed her arms and creased her eyes shut until it was completed. 'Are you well?' he asked.
Katerina swallowed. This was certainly not the village. With its calming forest and whispers about her habits. Where refusing a suitor's hand could mark a girl as dangerous. Or that other label for that which cannot be understood: witch.
The architect had certainly understood the idea: the perfect conformation of the square building, fronted by three huge arches and a domed roof in the centre. It welcomed her, promising order.
Coming over to her, she peered at Katerina. 'Do you know your name, girl?' 'I am Katerina Feltwick, Junior Library Clerk, citizen of Portia,' she replied, hoarsely. Looking around the room, Katerina recognised nothing. A tremor came into her voice. 'May I ask where I am?'
Sliding her hand into her pocket, she removed a creased, brown book and placed it on the desk. The title had almost been rubbed off the front, but she could still make out the embossed print of the words: Mrs Radcliffe's Guide to Etiquette for Working Women.
Katerina blinked. A quick calculation told her exactly how long she would have before the itching sensation within her chest would cause her to need to leave. One hour.
Rostam took a breath. 'I believe that you can see them. As to what they signify, it is difficult to move away from the first principles: observe and record. With your Colours, neither is possible.' His brow dipped. 'I am sorry.'
A servant pulled out a chair next to young Robert, and she took her place. The son was a younger version of his father, with a matching navy waistcoat and pocket watch, and a hairline that, even at his young age, was clearly destined for the same fate.
From the fourth bar, Katerina loved it. The piano sang under Miss Pfeiffer's fingertips, floating motifs into the air that hung and mingled with the basslines and rapid staccato high notes as the music continued. Each tone winged its way into her mind.
As always, the sight of the books was linked in her mind with the memory of her father. He had been a frequent visitor to Portia, visiting the city in the Great Markets of the spring and autumn seasons to sell his best work.
A yellow note on blue background saying: Writer reflection #27 - today I like the idea of having written a chapter but I do not like writing
‘At the anointed time, a great impulse stirred within The Maker. Its vast energy breathed a whirlwind of hope into the sea; colours merging, intertwining and encircling, reaching into the water and bringing the waves to reach the sky.
Katerina ran her fingers over the inaugural inscription, already inscribed when her mother had given it to her, eight years ago. Rule number one: The world will not understand your Colours. Keep them hidden. Katerina thought about the river she had seen under the Library with the strands of gold and the hum. She recalled her own reaction to the Colours. Surprise, fascination, intrigue, yes. Shock, no. Katerina had seen the Colours before.
The carriage turned into Park Gardens and immediately the air was stilled and the bustle of the city absorbed into the rows of bushy trees on either side of the boulevard. The houses were not up-close and friendly with each other as in the other parts of Portia, they sat in splendid isolation, surrounded by high, dense yew hedges and the low borders of Portia Pride, with its waxy crimped-edge green leaves and airy sprays of small, star-shaped pinkish flowers.
He wondered about his skills in using his ears as eyes, and his ability to command his features to remain peaceful when inside his heart was beating faster than ever. Inherited from his mother, he thought, perfected over years of tiptoeing around his father after five too many pints of cheap ale, the knowledge of judging his mood before he had stepped through the door a requirement if a beating was to be avoided.
A photo of The Emotion Thesaurus surrounded by words that say "perfect for neurodivergent writers", "I have used this every day" and 5 stars
Kat forced her mind to focus on the steps of the dances she had practiced alone in her flat, earlier in the evening. Step right, pause, step left, hop, change, down, skip. Envisioning the regular pattern of the movements eased her thoughts; people acted unexpectedly, but with the dance, she could know the next position to take. And thankfully talking was discouraged, Mrs Radcliffe’s guide was clear on this.
Growing up, other children had been unreadable to her, but inside a story, she had found friends whose expectations were clear, who never laughed or pointed. She devoured volume after volume, learning of faeries and dragons, of pirates and shipwrecked princesses rescued by noble princes. As her understanding and hunger for knowledge grew, she turned to books of the natural world, of science. All of it spoke of the inherent order of things, undeniable and immovable, rules that promised safety.
The bookstalls always seemed calmer than the others; whether this was due to the type of clientele attracted to the rows of silent volumes, or the fact that her mind was drawn so strongly to their titles, the smell of the piles, the categorising of information that lay within them that she no longer noticed the outside world, she was not sure.
First Draft! My first ever first draft
“Katerina?” Billie called from her post at the front desk of the Library. Katerina did not stop, the pull of her home was too strong. Her tears mingled with the brown swirls surrounding the beggars as she tried to close her ears to the indignant shouts of the market stall holders as she failed to stop and purchase any of their wares. She crossed the road to head into her courtyard, her mind too busy with blocking out the world to notice the familiar grey horse, secured to the hitching post directly outside.