‘You’re back together, aren’t you? Susie, I remember her now. Susie! Your one great love. The one that got away. That Susie.’
‘Aye, that Susie,’ Annie said with a grin. ‘She offered her spare room and I needed somewhere to stay without much warnin’. I wasnae intendin’ for us to get back together, but I guess the spell worked after all,’ she snapped her fingers. ‘Soon as I arrived, we more or less fell into bed and it’s been like that ever since.’
‘You think it was the spell?’ Faye had cast a spell in the shop with Annie and Aisha. It had brought her two lovers: Finn Beatha and Rav Malik. Finn Beatha was a faerie king, a fact that Faye couldn’t exactly mention in casual conversation: oh, my ex, yeah, he’s the king of the faerie realm of water. Annie and Rav were the only ones that knew, and Rav didn’t want to talk about it. He had asked her what she thought she should tell his friends, his family, about what had happened in Abercolme, and Faye had said, tell the truth. It’s all you can do. As far as she knew, he hadn’t. He was frightened and she didn’t blame him.
But when it came to the realm of faerie, the truth was slippery, and thinking of Finn was like trying to catch a dream between her fingers; she knew how he made her feel – how she still felt, when she dreamed of him – but it was confusing. And there were some things Faye hadn’t told Rav: the bargain with Glitonea, Faerie Queen of Murias, for her as yet unconceived baby, remained her painful secret.
‘Aye. Think aboot it. I asked for a girl just like Susie. Fact is, I probably had her in mind when I asked for someone.’ Annie sighed happily. ‘Not exactly surprisin’ that she’s ma model for all other women.’
‘I guess not,’ Faye grinned. ‘I haven’t seen Susie for years.’
‘So how long’re you down?’ Annie guided Faye over to some folding chairs that were set out by a table. She took two bottles of water and handed Faye one. ‘I’ve got cutaways to do and then that’s it, I think. We can get some lunch in aboot an hour.’
‘Sure, and don’t know exactly. We’re staying at Rav’s flat, so we can stay as long as we like.’ Faye toyed with the label on the bottle. ‘It’s good to get away, if I’m honest. From Abercolme,’
‘I know, sweetheart,’ Annie shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry I wasnae there to help ye.’
‘You can’t always be there.’ Faye smiled as Annie reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s all right. I’m all right, really.’
Annie frowned and took a swig of water.
‘I’ll be the judge o’ that. And you look thin and pale, Faye. Whatever happened, ye aren’t yeself still.’
Faye shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I’ll get there.’
‘Hmmmm,’ Annie answered, still frowning.
The woman with the bright red hair and dungarees who had ended the scene when Faye walked in tapped Annie on the shoulder.
‘Sorry to interrupt, but we’re starting again in five,’ she said before smiling at Faye. ‘Hi, are you a friend of Annie’s?’
‘Keely, this is the friend I was telling ye aboot. With the shop in Abercolme,’ Annie interjected. ‘Faye Morgan, this is Keely Milligan, she’s the director of the show.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Faye shook Keely’s hand.
‘Ah! The witch!’ Keely smiled, and Faye laughed.
‘So I’m told,’
‘Great. What d’you think of our set?’
Faye tried to think of something complimentary to say. ‘It’s very… atmospheric,’ she managed.
‘She’s bein’ tactful.’ Annie laughed.
Faye nudged Annie and gave her a stare, but Keely smiled.
‘Annie’s told me all about you. She said you’d have some good ideas about how we could improve the show. Representation of modern witches, regalia, equipment, that kind of thing. I’m not convinced we’re really getting it right yet.’ Keely had a penetrating gaze, and she gave Faye a long, appraising look. ‘Look at you, for instance. You look quite normal.’
‘Thanks,’ Faye was a little affronted, but Keely blundered on.
‘No, you know, I mean… how would I know you were a witch, by looking at you? But then there are a few little touches, here and there.’ She pointed to Faye’s index finger where she wore Rav’s golden pentagram ring. ‘That ring. Understated but noticeable. And your hair, that’s very Celtic and beautiful.’
Faye felt like a prize cow being assessed by a cattle auctioneer.
‘Hmm,’ she said, noncommittally.
‘The point is, how do witches dress nowadays? What do they look like? I don’t know,’ Keely rattled on. ‘We’ve had some bad press about the first series. I’m trying to give it a bit of a revamp but I need some subject specialists. Annie suggested you.’
‘Well, I doubt many witches are going about their days in a velvet evening gown, for a start,’ Faye said, politely. ‘You can’t assume witches look a particular way. It’s like saying all vegetarians look the same. And many witches don’t advertise what they do. In the past, it was dangerous to be one.’
Especially for some. Faye thought of her ancestor Grainne Morgan who had been tried as a witch by the Scottish inquisitors. Unlike many killed as witches, Grainne actually was a wise and magical woman; most were average villagers that had inspired jealousy or lust. Any perceived wrongdoing on the part of another villager – or even a cow with the pox – could merit an accusation of witchcraft.
Grainne had kept her head down and her magic a secret, but not secret enough; she’d done her job as village wise woman and helped her friends, and she’d paid for it with her life. The Morgan women had always been the healers and helpers in their community: women in stays and bare feet and cloaks, black and red and brown hair flowing free in the strong winds that gusted in off the grey-green seas of Abercolme, their toes in the wet sand. They had summoned the wind for sailors; healed cuts, eased morning sickness, mopped feverish brows, repaired marriages and protected children with hagstone charms hung on plaited string. And they had done it happily, and passed down the knowledge of the old ways to each other.
‘I suppose,’ Keely nodded. ‘The thing is, it all has to look dramatic. It has to be romantic, sexy, magical. That’s what people want. That’s what they’re tuning in for. I’d just like it to have some kind of… I don’t know. A modern relevance, I suppose. Would you be able to help with that? Answer a few questions?’
‘Sure.’ Faye smiled. ‘I can help,’
‘Excellent! Okay, Annie, I’m going to need you in makeup, and then ready for cutaways please.’ Keely shook Faye’s hand and hustled Annie away, who mouthed I won’t be long over her shoulder as Faye turned to the refreshment table to make a cup of tea. Early autumn sun slanted in a gold shaft through the long black curtains surrounding the set. Faye held her hand up to it, watching the dust in the air illuminated gold: it was a sudden seeing of tiny hidden elements of her world, like the old tales about putting faerie ointment on your eyelids that would allow you to see the fae. Yet Faye didn’t need any ointment or special enchantment. She was half-fae and, before she was banned from returning to Murias, she’d begun to learn about the power she could command.
Yet the power of faerie was destructive as well as beautiful: it was shadow and light, one unable to exist without the other. Murias felt a long way away from London. Perhaps here, she and Rav could make a new life for a while, away from the temptation of Finn Beatha.
But the secret she held in her heart, like a grenade or a bomb that could blow at any time, tugged at her conscience. In the light of day, she could persuade herself she didn’t believe she could be under this kind of curse, this strange bargain for a baby with a faerie queen. Standing in the queue at the supermarket, posting a letter in the postbox, walking the London streets hand in hand with Rav, it seemed ridiculous. But at night, when she woke mid-dream and the worlds of faerie hung close, she believed it and terror choked her.
Faye stepped away from the sunlight that sliced through the black curtains and poured hot water into a mug, taking a
biscuit to go with it. As she sat in the shadow and watched Annie pose on her mark in various postures and reactions, she felt regret cover her, and wished she could be free of it all: to walk out of the cavernous studio and find her way back to Black Sands Beach; to feel her toes in the wet sand and the night breeze blow against her naked arms and legs.
Four
Faye woke up with a start and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, panic in her throat like a caught bird. The dream laid heavy on her, hot, even though she lay half out of the covers and a cool breeze played on her bare skin. Finn. She’d dreamt of him again, as before: the same lovemaking, caught in a place between the ordinary and faerie world. In the dreams, she wanted him; but when she woke, the thought filled her with horror.
She breathed in deeply and scrunched the white sheet under her hands against her palms, to remind herself where she was; to pull herself back to reality. It was just a dream, and dreams could be banished.
She sat up in bed and looked around her, reminding herself where she was. Rav’s flat, Rav’s bedroom: plain white walls, a framed black and white poster of The Damned on one side and a psychedelic one, something from a 90s rave, on the other. A large window looked out onto a private garden, shared with the other regency houses that backed onto it; most, if not all, had been made into flats now, with high ceilings, the rose moulding light fittings and fireplaces preserved by most owners.
Rav’s wardrobe was messy, half-full of partially folded t-shirts, shirts on hangers hung on the wooden doors and jeans in a pile on the floor. The bottle of champagne they had drunk in bed the night before sat on a chest of drawers on her side of the bed; on the day they’d arrived, he’d emptied the drawer out for Faye to use. She’d tried not to look too closely at whatever he’d kept there, though she was curious. She and Rav were still so new to each other. She’d realised as she watched him working on his laptop on the train from Edinburgh that she knew very little about him.
She turned onto her right side and nestled into Rav’s shoulder.
Faye and Rav had arrived in London two weeks ago. The first day had been fine: the train from Edinburgh had been quiet, and they’d travelled first class. They’d taken a taxi to Rav’s flat in West Hampstead and when they got there, had ordered a takeaway and gone straight to bed.
After settling in and airing out the flat, they’d spent a couple of days pottering around West Hampstead, which was its own little village, looking at the upmarket shops and stopping for coffee and cake. Faye felt a weight lift from her on the third night as she and Rav walked back from dinner at an intimate Italian restaurant; the street was quieter than she would ever have expected a London street to be. She looked up at the crescent moon in the clear London sky and thought, here, I can rebuild who I am. Perhaps here I can be me again.
‘Penny for them.’ Rav had squeezed her hand as they walked along; the street was deserted, and lit with old, ornate black iron lamp-posts. Their yellow light was soft and gave the street a nostalgic air: it could have been London a hundred years ago.
‘Oh, nothing. I’m just enjoying the quiet. It’s not as busy here as I expected,’ she’d replied.
‘I know. Desirable neighbourhood because of that, and the chi-chi high street. Not like where I grew up, it has to be said.’ Rav hummed a tune under his breath.
‘Where was that again? I knew it was London, but I don’t think you ever said where.’
‘Further out west, near Heathrow airport. This is considerably more refined, darling,’ he mimicked an affected voice, with a smile.
‘What was it like?’ Faye pointed to a city fox padding across the road ahead of them. ‘Look! A fox!’ The shaggy animal slid into an alley, disappearing into shadow. Rav nodded.
‘Oh god, so many foxes. They come for the rubbish. I see way more of them than rats, which I’m guessing is a good thing. Pigeons, obviously,’ he counted the animals off on his fingers. ‘Better class of pigeon this neck of the woods, too. None of those pathetic one-legged ones you see in the West End… feathers missing, one-eyed…’ Rav stood on one leg and made a pathetic-sounding cooing sound. ‘Vermin. I hate pigeons.’
‘First, thanks for the pigeon impression. I mean, that was… remarkable,’ Faye said with a giggle. ‘Second, you were going to tell me what it was like. Growing up.’
Rav continued hopping around on one leg, cooing and pecking at her with his lips, like a beak.
‘You really shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine,’ she laughed, shooing him away. ‘Hey! No more pigeon. I’m serious.’
Rav gave a sad coo then said, ‘Pigeon doesn’t miss the aeroplanes going over. So loud.’ He shrugged. ‘It was all right. But, you know I had my anxiety a lot when I was younger. That kind of ruined my teen years.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugged again. ‘Doc says I self-medicate with the demon drink. I stopped taking the antidepressants a few years back and now I probably drink too much to compensate, but hey. No-one’s perfect. Anyway, I work in music, right? Everyone drinks.’ He rubbed his head; Faye knew he was still suffering from the headaches that had started when he’d been taken unwillingly to Murias.
Faye hadn’t really noticed that he drank a lot, but they had been eating out a lot since they’d got to London, and they usually shared a bottle of wine when they did, and Rav would usually have some aperitif, or a brandy afterwards. It didn’t seem like a lot, but it made her think again still how little she knew him. She resolved to keep an eye on it.
‘But you know. I had Mum and Dad at home. It was all very suburban. Guess it wasn’t quite the same for you, being the village witches and everything.’ He was deflecting, but she understood. She often did the same.
‘Aye. Mixed bag.’ Faye wasn’t sure how much he wanted to know. Did he want to hear that sometimes, after she’d been sent to bed, men and women from the village – people she saw every day, delivering milk, hanging out their washing – would come to the house, wanting miracles? Faye would kneel up on her bed, watching them walk up the path, their body language fearful – slumped shoulders, light steps, like unsure cats on a narrow ledge.
Then there would be the murmur of voices: sometimes crying. There was never laughter at these evening visits: as she got older, Faye supposed that whatever brought the village folk through the Morgans’ door, it was seldom a laughing matter. Now, as the one that opened the door, she knew what people wanted from her: their prophetess, sibyl, seer, wise woman. Spells to heal an unrequited love, curses, protection spells. Divination for debt, for arguments, cures for families fractured by long-simmered hurts.
Rav looked at her keenly.
‘You can tell me. Didn’t you miss… having a dad around?’ he prompted gently, but she didn’t want to talk about Abercolme. She wanted to be silly, to be light, to be just another person that lived here in London. And she certainly didn’t want to talk about her absent father: Lyr of Falias, a faerie king she’d grown up for most of her life believing was some hippie who had bailed on Moddie at the first sign of responsibility. It didn’t make things any easier that now she knew who he was; he’d abandoned them, abandoned Faye. There would always be a father-shaped hole in her heart: she’d accepted it.
‘I don’t really want to talk about that. Do you mind? It’s nice just… being.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I will talk about it, I promise. But it feels as though we’ve spent so long in my world – and with all the strangeness…’ she trailed off, not wanting to broach the subject of faeries or Murias. Especially not with the dreams of Finn Beatha she kept having; she couldn’t stop them, and didn’t know who to ask for help. Worse, the dreams where Glitonea offered her the bloody, blue-lipped heads in return for a baby. She felt as if she was going mad.
‘Sure. But you know I’m here to listen.’ They stopped at the end of Rav’s street, the old street lamp casting a milky glow around them, like a protective circle. Newer, harsh white streetlights hadn’t made it to this part of London, and Faye liked its lit
tle vintage details: the cast iron railings and lamp-posts, the black and white street signs with the postcode in the corner: even the new but retro-designed sleek, curved-edged red double-decker buses were a novelty.
‘I know,’ she said, gazing up at him. Someone who had never lost a parent – never mind both of them – could never understand the feeling of (after Moddie’s death) having lost your childhood, or the deep, enduring lack, the space of a father in Faye’s psyche. When Moddie died, there was no-one left to say to Faye, when you were a baby, you used to do this, or remember your first day at school? Or when you were born, this happened. All that was gone forever.
But what had never been there at all was a raft of other memories: a father to read her bedtime stories, to carry her on his shoulders, to argue with her as the headstrong teenager she might have become if she wasn’t so frightened of being herself. All those things: a lifetime of support, of love, was lost. Instead, there was a compressed shadow that had turned brittle as she’d got older: a crystal, a splintered charcoal that took up space in her heart.
Rav wrapped his arms around her and drew her in for a long kiss. He smelt of a woody aftershave, and the taste of the late coffee they’d had at the restaurant was still on his tongue.
‘I love you,’ he murmured, kissing her forehead where her auburn hair tangled against her milky white skin.
‘I love you too,’ she replied, closing her eyes.
‘You taste of coffee,’ Faye murmured against his lips, in-between kisses. She was determined to forget herself in Rav, and he seemed to feel the same. They were both bruised: perhaps they could heal each other.
‘We’ll be up all night,’ he murmured back; she could feel his smile against her lips.
‘Will we?’ she teased, as he led her by the hand to his front door. ‘You seem very sure.’
‘Eternally hopeful,’ he grinned as he unlocked it. They fell into the dark flat, giggling.
For a brief moment, before Rav flicked on the lights, Finn Beatha stood in the darkness: Faye knew his outline, knew his body so well. It was him, or a shadow of him. Grandmother would have called it a sending, a brief impression, like spectres that warned of accidents on lonely roads. For a moment, she felt gold chains on her wrists, linking her to Finn with a strange, otherworldly fascination. His voice murmured in her mind, Faye, Faye, sidhe-leth, my love…
Queen of Sea and Stars Page 3
