by Emma Newman
“I’ve had enough.”
“Of what?”
“This. Us, the marriage. You’re not committed, you—”
“I’m not committed? You’re the one who moved to London at the drop of a hat!”
“I want a separation. This hasn’t been working for a long time and we’ve both been deluding ourselves. You don’t want to live with me anymore, otherwise you’d have jumped at the chance to move up here sooner.”
“Bloody hell, it’s been two days! I needed to come to terms with it.”
“What’s there to come to terms with? You were going to hand your notice in anyway, weren’t you?”
He paused. He hadn’t planned to do that. He hadn’t planned any of it, not the Fae, not the Fool’s Charm, not the kidnapping or the weird wedding-ring business, none of it. The sharp pitch of her voice reminded him of the new Leanne, the skinny, driven, joyless woman he’d barely recognised at the flat. Why bother to fight for the marriage anymore?
“If that’s what you want,” he said and she ended the call. He listened to the silence for a moment, then let his hand drop to his lap and the phone slide to the floor.
The wedding band tingled as Cathy approached the mirror. William watched from the doorway to their bedroom. She looked at him as she spoke Lord Iris’s name three times, making the glass ripple, and then Exilium was revealed in its hyper-coloured glory.
“Good luck,” he mouthed silently.
The worry in his eyes made her hesitate and the tingling strengthened until it became uncomfortable. She stepped through, taking the hint. The trees of Lord Iris’s domain were straight in front of her, which reduced the risk of running into Lord Poppy. She breathed in through her nose, released the breath slowly out of her mouth to steady herself, and then walked forwards.
Just like Poppy’s domain there was a path leading deeper into the copse. The trees were more densely packed the further in she went, making it feel more like a tunnel. Soon she caught sight of splashes of iris blue, then some of the flowers edged the path. As she passed, the blooms turned as if they were watching her. She tried not to think about that.
She expected to reach a clearing, but instead the path led to a structure made of saplings. They’d been woven into a complex latticework half-dome, its apex twice the height of her. Lord Iris was seated within it on a chair carved out of a large tree stump. His long white hair was perfectly straight and his eyes the same blue as the flowers surrounding them, freakish in their lack of pupil, iris and humour, just a solid blue. He wore a black frock coat and trousers, very similar in cut to what William had been wearing that evening. His waistcoat was embroidered with golden thread, each tiny iris flower beaded and sparkling with the small amount of sunlight that reached them.
Cathy shivered under his gaze, dropped into a deep curtsy immediately and waited to be invited closer. Again, all of the flowers were turned towards her and she felt as if she were being watched by dozens of creatures, not one Fae lord.
“Come here.” It was the first time she’d heard his voice and there was no warmth in it. At the wedding, he’d spoken only with Lord Poppy and the Patroons.
She straightened herself and walked forwards. He watched her with a terrible intensity. When she was a few feet away she slowed, now beneath the half-dome, but he pointed to a spot just in front of him. She clenched her chattering teeth and moved closer until she was mere inches from his hand. It felt too close. He looked down at the ground beneath his finger most deliberately and she realised he expected her to kneel. She planted her left knee exactly where he pointed and knelt on ground soft with fallen leaves.
Now she would have to look up to his face, which was of course what he wanted. There was none of the chaotic danger she felt around Poppy—instead she felt chilled to her core. If he carried on staring at her like that he would bleach the colour from her hair as well as her cheeks.
“Your hand,” he said, pointing to her left.
She extended it towards him, trying to stop it from quivering. He mimed turning it palm up, which she did and he slid his hand beneath it until her wrist rested on his palm. His cold fingers curled around it. All of the tiny hairs on her body stood on end as he touched her and her heartbeat went from fast to frantic. His thumb curled until it was a couple of inches above her pulse point, then the nail elongated and sharpened into a talon. She gasped and reflexively pulled her hand away but his grip tightened just as quickly, his fingers holding her fast.
“Look at me.” She forced herself to look into the intense blue, feeling the deep primal fear of being exposed to something so alien. “You are one of mine now,” he said. “Poppy no longer holds dominion over your blood and bones.”
She was certain he could feel her shivering. “Yes, my lord,” she stammered. What else could she say?
“In all the time I have known Poppy, one as plain as you has never caught his eye, let alone stolen his affection. Never have I seen him so enthralled by such an unremarkable creature. There’s only one conclusion to be reached: you’re not as unremarkable as you appear to be.”
“Or…” Cathy ventured, “he could be mistaken, and his affection misplaced.”
“I did not invite you to speak,” he said. “Poppy may have delighted in your opinion, but I am not he. You are here to answer my questions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my Lord.” She spoke with as much deference as she could but it had never come easily to her.
“Why did Poppy value you so highly?”
The last thing Cathy wanted to do was tell the truth, but she didn’t know if she could bear to lie under his scrutiny. “I impressed him, my Lord. And amused him.”
“How did you impress him?”
“I…I managed to humiliate a Rosa.”
A tiny movement at her wrist tore her eyes from his; the thumbnail was closer to her skin. “How?”
“By helping a mundane man beat him in a duel.”
“A Rosa duelling a mundane? What precipitated this?”
She hesitated, and the talon moved closer. “A wish I made, my Lord. It resulted in the Rosa losing a mundane woman he’d been promised. But it wasn’t my fault.”
“Who granted you a wish?”
“Lord Poppy.”
“Only one?”
She could hear the shortness of her breath as the nail moved closer. “Three, my Lord. I was tasked to impress him with my choices, which I did.”
“You told me humiliating the Rosa impressed him.”
“It…it was complicated.” She struggled to speak, the fear tightening her throat as the nail hovered above the vein. It was dark blue and she could see her pulse making the skin quiver up and down.
“Poppy was never complicated. He hasn’t granted any of his pets three wishes for five generations. Why give them to you?”
“A whim?” She didn’t want to reveal what had really caught Poppy’s eye.
The nail touched the skin, as sharp as a pin, making her jolt and the breath fly from her lungs. She couldn’t take her eyes off it and felt his intense focus on the top of her head. As the seconds passed the pressure increased, so slight she thought she was imagining it, then she saw the skin being pushed inwards and the pain increased.
“I asked to go to university at my coming of age,” she blurted, but the pressure didn’t ease. “And then I ran away from my family and lived in Mundanus.” She felt the skin break. “I hid from them for over a year,” she cried as a deep-red bead rose and started to trickle up the nail in a most unnatural way. “I hid from Poppy too until he found me, I don’t know how!”
The blood ran back down the nail, pooling where its sharp tip was still pressed. Her heartbeat was roaring in her ears, she could feel sweat rolling down her back and she shook violently. It was hardly a wound, yet she felt as much distress as if it had been a knife driven deep.
“Always better to tell me the truth as soon as you speak.” He tilted his head, studying her discomfort. “Such fragile reluctance…” The
nail drove deeper and the bead of blood elongated into a narrow rivulet, sliding down the side of her wrist onto his fingers. “There is something you cling to, a vain hope perhaps.”
He squeezed and she cried out in pain, frustrated by her impotence and enraged by his casual cruelty.
“That’s better,” he said. “I can hear your secret now. Did you really think that learning of your little rebellion would concern me? Did your family lock you away once you were returned?”
She nodded, watching the blood and wanting to run.
“And you think that now I know your plan to do it again, I’ll do the same?”
She looked up from the nail to his eyes, closer than they were before. How did he know? A good guess?
“A mortal says so much when in crisis, and they rarely use words,” he whispered, answering her silent question. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” she said, doing everything she could to hold in the gathering tears.
“And that hope endures even after I summoned you. I have no concern about your fantasy, for that’s all it can be now. You felt my summons. There is no magic in the Split Worlds that can hide you from me, should I discover you’ve disobeyed your new family.” The fingers holding her wrist curled and she saw their nails growing too, felt them prickle her skin but not pierce it yet. “But now we have met, I’m sure you are more keen to please my family.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said and screamed when the four other points drew blood.
“Not very intelligent. Lie to me again and I will write this lesson into your flesh with scars only you can see.”
Tears splattered on the leaves in front of her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“There’s something Lord Poppy holds over you. He mentions it when we see each other. He seems to think he still has some claim to you. Is there a contract between you?”
“He…he made me promise to paint him the best picture of my generation.”
“You’re an artist?”
“No, my Lord, but my third wish was to reach my full potential. After I made it, he told me to find paints and canvasses.” She didn’t mention the new deadline, fearing she’d suck Sam into Lord Iris’s schemes as well as Poppy’s.
He looked at her, into her. She shut her eyes, the urge to withdraw too strong for a moment, but she could still see them, like twin blue suns burnt into her retina. When she looked again his left hand was reaching towards her head and she twitched fearfully.
Lord Iris plucked out a hair—the brief sting barely registered above the pain in her wrist—and then tipped his head back and dangled the hair into his mouth like a length of spaghetti. He closed his lips around it and pulled it back up and out as if he was sucking something off it. As the strand emerged, no hint of the natural brown remained. He let go when the entire white length was free of his lips and the strand became a powdery dust that drifted to the forest floor.
“Lord Poppy may be mercurial, but he’s no fool,” he said, taking her chin and directing her attention back to him. “Now I know what it was he saw in you, and it was not artistic talent. There’s no capacity for art within you. Even if you struggled for years you would produce nothing more than the mediocre.” His thin lips formed a smile. “Very clever. I won’t underestimate him again.” Still holding her chin, he tipped her head back slightly, exposing her throat, then moved her from side to side, taking in every detail of her face.
As his words penetrated her fear, she wanted to ask questions and demand to know what her potential was if not artistic in nature. Why had Poppy lied? But she didn’t dare open her mouth, especially with her wrist still skewered.
“How many days have passed in Mundanus since the wedding?”
“Four, my lord.” And she still hadn’t had a chance to find someone to teach her how to paint. If the Shopkeeper’s special Charm didn’t arrive in time—
“Instead of hankering for a life that’s not yours to lead, obey your husband and focus on how to serve me to the best of your ability. As for this painting nonsense, your loyalty is to me now, not Poppy. Now it’s time for you to go back and be a good wife.” He punctuated the last words with a slight squeeze of the nails into her skin, before releasing her.
She swayed, the blood tickling her wrist as it flowed from the puncture wounds. Fearing he would be angry if she soiled her dress, she struggled to her feet, holding her arm out at the side. She curtsied inelegantly and then backed away, head still bowed, like a medieval courtier knowing better than to turn her back on the King.
When Lord Iris looked away it felt so different to be free of his intense stare. She reached the edge of the clearing, turned and hurried along the path, grateful to see a Way open before she even got to the edge of the copse. She could see the bedroom and staggered through, lightheaded and clumsy.
“Catherine!” William had waited the whole time, out of sight from Exilium. “My God.” He paled as he took in the blood, grabbed a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and rushed to her side.
“Go away.” She glanced back to see the Way closing. She sank to her knees, her legs too watery to stand. William knelt in front of her, wrapped the silk around her wrist and pressed tight.
“What happened?” he asked, but she couldn’t speak. He drew her into an embrace and she pushed at his chest briefly then accepted the comfort. She sobbed into his frock coat, the two of them kneeling on the floor of the bedroom.
After a few minutes the worst of it was over. Her wrist throbbed dreadfully beneath his makeshift bandage and the hand that was still wrapped tightly around it. His other hand was rubbing her back gently as he reassured her she was safe.
She pulled back until she could see his face, ashamed to be snivelling like a child. He wiped away a tear with a thumb and stroked the back of her neck before kissing her on the forehead. “You need tea, and a rest,” he said, in such a gentle voice she started to weep again. “And we should put a proper bandage on this.”
“God, what is wrong with me?” She sniffed. “Honestly, William, I’m not like this.”
“Shush, I don’t mind, it must have been terrifying. Did Lord Iris do this?”
She nodded. “To make me talk about Poppy.” The words unravelled as her chest heaved and the memory brought fresh tears with it.
“You’re home now,” he said, kissing her forehead again. “Let me take care of you. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
“I don’t want to—”
“For God’s sake, Cathy,” he said, standing and picking her up to carry her to the bed. “Stop fighting for just five minutes, will you?”
She rolled onto her side and curled as much as she could in her evening gown. She cradled her injury as he pulled the bell cord and then slipped her shoes off her feet. It felt too intimate and too demeaning to be cared for like this, like a wife. She should be keeping him at arm’s length and the barriers up but she was so tired and wrung out she said nothing.
“Can you tell me what he said?”
“I don’t want to think about it.” She started to shiver again.
He sat next to her, stroking the wayward strands of hair away from her face. Where did he learn this compassion? How could he be capable of kindness, coming from a family so rigidly controlled and so cold?
He let her eyes search his, seeming happy for the moment to stretch. He gave the butler instructions for tea and the medical box to be brought, his hand never leaving her hair.
“I promised you I’d find a way to make this life bearable,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten that.”
She thought of ten different ways to shoot his words down but spoke none of them. She could feel herself drawing inwards, no fight left. Iris had made it clear he could summon her back even if she did find a way back to her mundane life. There was no hope of escape any more, and, without that, what was there to push against? “You called me Cathy,” she whispered.
“Do you mind if I do?”
“No. Only the people I hate most in the Worlds
call me Catherine.”
His smile was beautiful. “Then call me Will.” The butler returned with a box and a maid set tea out on a nearby table. Will sent them both away. “I shall now impress you with my bandaging skills,” he announced, opening the box. “All you need to do is watch with admiration and be thankful that Oliver Peonia is one of the clumsiest companions one could ever have on a Grand Tour.”
She managed a smile, even though she could see his false cheeriness was just a means of covering up his fear. But wasn’t that what they were all condemned to do with patrons such as theirs?
15
The Way closed behind them and Max shivered in the cold air of Mundanus. They were standing at the bottom of a hill and the lights of Stirling cast an orange glow on the distant cloud base. The bitter wind blasted through his coat, and he fastened the top button and pulled the compass out of his pocket. As his eyes adapted to the darkness he could just make out the needle’s gentle glow.
“The Tracker should be at the top of the hill,” he said to the gargoyle.
They both looked up and saw nothing but different shades of black. “I’ll go and have a look,” the gargoyle offered and Max nodded. He didn’t want to struggle up a grassy slope with his walking stick unless absolutely necessary.
The gargoyle bounded off like an eager dog that had been shut indoors all day. Max quickly lost sight of it so he turned his collar up against the wind and looked at the town’s lights. The gargoyle returned swiftly.
“We got a problem.”
“Guards? Magical defences?”
“No. There’s nothing there.”
He checked the compass needle again. “The Tracker is up there somewhere. Are you sure?”
“Come up and see for yourself.”
It was slow going and the gargoyle got more and more frustrated as the climb went on but Max went as fast as his aching leg would allow. At the summit there was nothing but a strengthening of the wind. Leaning on the stick as the gargoyle snuffled about, Max examined the needle and slowly closed in on the Tracker’s location.
