by Emma Newman
Max looked from him to the glass. “I understand, sir. I have a lead on the disappearance of the Master of Ceremonies. I’m planning to follow it up tonight.”
“Good,” Ekstrand said. “Leave this to me, I’ll let you know when the cloister is secure. And Maximilian?”
“Yes sir?”
“Be careful. A crippled Arbiter is better than none at all.”
17
When Cathy stepped through the mirror into Exilium the colours were even brighter and for a moment all she could do was take in its beauty. The green of the meadow was the purest one could possibly imagine, as if someone had distilled the essence of green and fashioned individual blades of grass from it. The sky was the deep blue of the most perfect summer’s day in Mundanus.
The space behind her rippled once and then she saw nothing but meadow and sky. She didn’t know a Charm of Openings to get out of Exilium; if Lord Poppy or the faerie didn’t open a Way for her, she’d be trapped there, forever.
She could still remember the day her mother told her about Exilium. She described it as the most beautiful prison that could ever be, reminding Cathy of her mother’s life. Even back then the seeds of rebellion were growing in her gut. The details were vague; the evil Sorcerers split the worlds to keep the wonderful, kind and beautiful Fae away from people, depriving Mundanus of magic and the joy of the Fae. When she’d asked if their family lived in Exilium her mother had laughed and said she was one of the privileged who lived between the Split Worlds, in something they called the Nether. Her mother said they were lucky but the reasons why didn’t stick in Cathy’s memory. After her experience with Lord Poppy she felt more sympathy for the Sorcerers. Mundanus was better off without the Fae.
The faerie was flying ahead, too fast for her to keep up without sprinting. There was no way she was going to arrive in a bath robe and be sweaty and out of breath so she walked, calling to mind the rules of Exilium. All she could remember with certainty was that she shouldn’t eat or drink anything. Less than a second after she recalled the rule, her stomach grumbled and her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. She did her best to ignore them and kept going. The grass was soft and springy beneath her bare feet, the sun gentle. If she hadn’t been walking towards her doom, it would have been quite pleasant.
The faerie was leading her up a gentle hill, and when she reached its crest Cathy could see a small wood straight ahead. The faerie had brought her through mercifully close to Lord Poppy’s domain. She didn’t waste any time. Like a dentist appointment, it was better to get it out of the way as swiftly as possible.
When she reached the trees, a path through them came into sight, made of thousands of poppy petals, which felt blissfully soft underfoot. Soon she was at the edge of a clearing where a cluster of red blooms crowded around Lord Poppy like adoring children. The faerie hovered at his shoulder, conveying a startling amount of hatred with such tiny eyes.
“Ah, my little sunlit one.” He smiled and held out a hand towards her. “Time for your third wish, Catherine Rhoeas-Papaver. I wanted to hear it in person. I like to watch condemning words fall from mortal lips, it amuses me so.”
She went to him, trying not to display her reluctance. “I must confess my Lord, I thought I had a little more time; the ball isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Oh, but my dear, time is a fickle thing, especially when one is here in our beautiful prison. Why, a moment in Exilium can be a year in Mundanus, and a week in the Nether. Sometimes it is but a moment. However, I’m certain the ball has already begun.”
His long fingers clasped around her hand and a pulse of magic passed through her.
I’ve already impressed him.
She looked at him as the thought landed in her mind like a letter on a mat, feeling the effects of her first wish coursing through her, slowing her racing pulse. What better way to impress one’s patron than to defeat the best swordsman of the Great Families without lifting a finger? More than that, she’d humiliated the Rosa. Lord Poppy told Lady Rose that her wish was responsible, leading Horatio to seek her out. Now she understood he’d done that simply to land her in a predicament. He wanted to see how she’d navigate her way out of trouble.
Cathy reined in her elation. It wasn’t over yet, and she was an entire world away from any Arbiter’s protection. It was also possible that if she made a mess of the third wish Lord Poppy would conveniently forget about the Rosa and enslave her anyway.
“I hope my third wish will impress you, Lord Poppy,” she said as steadily as she could, “if I haven’t already.” When he said nothing, she closed her eyes, feeling his grip tighten around her hand. Free of purely trying to impress him, she turned her mind towards what she really wanted, and how to translate that into a wish. It came to her, fully formed, as if it had always been deep down and released to float up to the surface. “I wish I could achieve my full potential,” she said, opening her eyes, “in such a way as to not draw the attention of the Arbiters, nor endanger my life, nor those of the individuals I love and care for – be they Fae, a member of the Great Families or a mundane.” As she spoke the words, she remembered writing it out as a child, learning it by heart when her father had given a gruff nod instead of ripping it apart. The last words were a later addition.
Lord Poppy remained motionless, scrutinising her intensely for a moment before his cold inspection melted into a smile. “How delightful, and how clever of you. For is that not what we all wish for our favourites?”
“I aim to please, Lord Poppy,” she said, trembling as his grip tightened even more.
“I grant you your wish, Catherine Rhoeas-Papaver, though I warn you, the path to one’s fulfilment is never easy for someone such as you.”
“Such as me?”
He licked his lips. “Mortal,” he finally said. “You have surprised me, I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s been such a long time since a mortal was able to do that. Oh, some of your family and distant relations have amused me, some have pleased me, some have disappointed me. But none have ever done anything unexpected.” He pulled her hand closer, pushing the loose sleeve of the robe down to her elbow and leaned forwards. He ran his nose along her arm, sniffing her skin gently, making her rigid with fear. “I’m tempted to keep you here.”
“But…you said if I impressed you I’d–”
“Oh, yes,” he said, dropping her hand. “We made a contract, I recall. How positively tedious. Very well, you shall return to Aquae Sulis.” He took a step back, looking her up and down as the faerie scowled at her. “Do you know the story of Cinderella?”
She nodded, unable to speak, the dread clogging her throat.
“It must have been one of your favourites?”
“It couldn’t have been,” the faerie said before she could reply. “In Cinderella it was her sisters who were ugly.”
Lord Poppy swatted it away. It flew up into one of the trees and stamped its foot on a branch.
“Doesn’t every girl dream of being Cinderella?”
“I didn’t,” Cathy admitted, truth being the best policy in Exilium.
His face fell. “Really? Another surprise. You seem to be woven out of them. I want to keep you. I don’t care about contracts made in the Nether anyway, only those made in Exilium really count for anything.”
“But…but you said I was needed in Aquae Sulis!”
“Oh, yes, that’s true,” he sighed. “Well, that settles it. You will be my Cinderella–”
“I could just miss the ball,” she offered, not liking where he was going.
“No! I won’t hear of it! It’s the first ball of the season, and I want my new favourite to be there, and be the centre of attention.”
“But–”
“Enough!” he said and she shut her mouth. “I have never met a mortal with so many words ready to interrupt! Why are you making such a fuss? Any young woman in the Great Families would give many years of their life to have what I’m about to give you.”
She had to accept tha
t whatever he was going to do, it was going to be awful and inevitable.
“But before you go,” he said, lifting her chin, “let me give you some advice, to help with your third wish. Send a servant into Mundanus to purchase canvases and paints. The rest will become clear.”
“I can’t paint!”
“You should try,” he replied. “I want you to fulfil your potential. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?”
“No, my Lord,” she said, focusing on the grass and poppy flowers instead of his black eyes.
“Excellent. Now…” He stooped to pick one of the poppies at his feet and then blew gently across its petals. “Close your eyes. Good. Now breathe in deeply.”
She felt a petal tickle her chin as she breathed in the scent. In Mundanus the red poppy was scentless, but in Exilium it smelt divine. She felt dizzy, then a tingling on her skin and her shoulders felt bare. Something was tickling her legs and she felt a slight pressure around her waist. With horror she realised the robe had gone, replaced by something much lighter.
“Don’t open your eyes until I tell you,” he whispered in her ear. “Now, as much as I want to stay and play with you, I understand Lady Rose will be at Court today and I wouldn’t want to miss the look on her face when I mention your name.” He sighed like a sated lover. “I will watch your progress with interest, Catherine Rhoeas-Papaver.” She felt his hand on her back, a tingling across her face and chest as something changed in front of her. “Open your eyes!” he said and pushed her forwards.
She felt the gentle brush of the threshold between Exilium and the Nether across her face as she stumbled through. She was at one of the side entrances of the ballroom in the Aquae Sulis Assembly Rooms, usually kept closed during the minuets so that people didn’t stray onto the dance floor and interrupt the dance.
As she just had.
The music stopped and the dancers moved back, startled by the sudden appearance of a young woman staggering into their midst. A dreadful silence filled the room as she stood shivering, every eye upon her.
The faces blurred into a tableau of expressions ranging from shock to amusement. She looked down, seeing a gown made of poppy petals floating out from her waist to mimic the shape of a ball gown. The petals were clinging to her upper body like they were held by a static charge but she was decent at least, and wearing shoes so soft they felt like they’d been stitched out of petals too. Her hair felt strange.
She couldn’t lift her face as she felt the attention upon her, a thousand memories resurfacing: of saying the wrong thing, tripping over skirts, sneezing at exactly the wrong time and all the agonising moments in between. She was eight again, standing next to the piano, her family, the Irises, the Censor and Master of Ceremonies all watching and waiting for her to sing and nothing but the dying croak of a sick bullfrog emerging. Over the years she’d soaked up the disappointed expressions as people saw her plain features after admiring her beautiful sister, the kindest in Society offering a maddening pity instead, none of them wondering whether there was a sharp mind beneath. And, all the while, the awful urge to laugh in the tight, nervous staccato the fear always brought with it.
A steady click of shoes made her look up, fearing it was her father, who must have been somewhere in the crowd, but it was a young man striding confidently across the ballroom, the dancers parting to let him reach her. He wasn’t as tall as Tom but broad in the shoulders, his brown hair streaked in places with sun-kissed strands and long enough to brush his collar. He was tanned, not the usual pale-skinned face of one of the Great Families. His eyes were dark brown and focused very much on her. Something about them was familiar but she couldn’t place him. A blue flower was tucked into his buttonhole, but she was so panicked, she couldn’t remember what it was.
He stopped a couple of paces away and gave a deep bow with a slight click of his heels. He straightened and held out a hand, which she stared at, dumbly. He took a step forward and scooped her hand up to his lips, sending a murmur through the crowd. Still holding it, he looked into her eyes and said, “Catherine Rhoeas-Papaver, may I welcome you back to Aquae Sulis.”
She just blinked, her voice lying dead somewhere in her stomach.
Unfazed, he looked up at the gallery. “If the Censor permits, I feel a waltz would be the only dance that could follow Miss Papaver’s spectacular entrance.”
All of the musicians, and all of the spectators, turned as one to look at the Censor, who gave a slight nod.
The music began and the man pulled her closer. “No greeting for me, Miss Papaver?”
“I can’t dance,” she said, trying to slip her hand out of his, but he didn’t let go and now his other arm was about her waist.
“Don’t worry about that.”
As they started to waltz, Cathy felt light, her steps confident, as if her feet knew where to go even though she didn’t. He guided her around the room as the crowd drew further back, preferring to watch the spectacle rather than join them.
“Don’t watch your feet, look at me.” He looked amused. “Don’t you remember me?”
She could feel the flush rising up her throat. “No.”
“I’m William Reticulata-Iris.”
Somehow she didn’t crush his toes, and his arm tightened around her waist as she gawped at him.
“Smile,” he said through his teeth.
“I didn’t recognise you,” she said. “Sorry.”
“I barely recognised you,” he said, his whisper tickling her ear. “You look divine. You’ve blossomed.”
She pulled a face. “Yeah right.”
His eyebrows shot up. How he kept guiding her around the floor and looking as poised as he did so, she had no idea. “Are you branding me a liar?” When she kept quiet he smirked. “Or do you consider me a fool with poor taste? Either way, surely you should smile for the crowd whilst you insult me.”
“I’m not falling for this,” she whispered back. “I know you don’t want to marry me, as much as I don’t want to marry you, there’s no need to pretend.”
“Careful,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You don’t even know me yet.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “It’s absurd. And if you think that dancing with me and whispering some bobbins into my ear is going to work, think again.”
“What if I was telling the truth?”
She tried to look at him properly, but he held her close. “Shut up,” she said.
“This isn’t the nicest thank-you I’ve ever had for saving someone from social death.”
“Oh, so you think that because you’ve rescued me I should just melt at your feet?”
He laughed. She didn’t like it. “I think you could at least be gracious. Don’t waste this opportunity, Catherine – our families are watching.”
“I don’t care,” she lied.
“Well, I do,” he said, the lightness gone. “And you will not embarrass us. Smile, dance, say the right things in the right places. If you genuinely have a problem with the arrangements made by your parents, then we will discuss that at the appropriate time. But you will not behave like a spoilt brat on the most important night of the season.”
“You speak as though we’re already married,” she said, now wanting to step on his toes but not managing to find them.
“As far as our social fortunes are concerned we are already tied,” he said. “We have to accept it and do our best.”
“I don’t–”
“You take yourself too seriously,” he cut in. “Treat this evening like a game and you’ll enjoy it so much more. I’ll even help you to play it. You don’t want to forfeit. Hell hath no fury like a father disappointed.”
His words chilled her into silence. They swept in circles about the floor as she concentrated on avoiding eye contact with the spectators. It was only as they were coming to the end of the dance that she realised he’d cast a Grace Charm on her. She didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful.
There was a spontaneous burst of applause
as William brought them to an elegant finish. He bowed, she curtsied, he kissed her hand once more. Then the crowd closed in around them.
18
“There’s no hope for you, Catherine,” Elizabeth said in the carriage. “Lord Poppy’s gift was wasted on you. I can’t believe you were dressed in a magical ball gown, put in the middle of the ballroom and just stood there like a…like a…dying fish. Why, in the time it took William Iris to get to you I’d thought of a thousand witty or charming remarks that would have made that entrance perfect.”
“Well, I just happened to think of one intelligent remark when I was with Lord Poppy, and that counted for more,” Cathy snapped.
Her mother climbed into the carriage with the help of the footman, and then her father. It felt like the interior chilled by several degrees as he settled into place. The steps were folded up, the door shut and they were on their way.
“And everyone was looking at you, all evening,” Elizabeth continued. “Did you make any new friends? Did you secure any interesting invitations? No. Nothing. It’s so unfair! Mother, don’t you think so?”
“I think you could have at least pretended to be pleased,” Mother said, and Elizabeth nodded.
“You either looked sour or shell-shocked the whole evening. It was so embarrassing.”
“Yes, I found it very embarrassing,” Cathy said, doing her best to look out of the window so she didn’t have to look at her father. “Though I have no idea why you would find it so. I think the adjective you’re looking for is ‘jealous’.”
