The Second Bell

by Gabriela Houston

  I attempted a laugh, but faltered. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

  “That is rather the point,” she retorted. “That’s where the humour comes from.”

  After a silence, Miss Davenport filled the empty space of the carriage with amiable, effortless chatter. She described to me the properties of the pendulum sun and the fish moon. Much of what she said was familiar to me from my reading, but it was good to be distracted by her voice. Too long have I spent alone with my own thoughts aboard The Quiet.

  I found myself staring and studying her mannerisms more than her words, trying to detect her fae origins. At first glance she seemed as human as me with that scatter of freckles and lopsided smile. Still, she had that awkwardness I heard rumoured of changelings, a certain deficiency in their simulation of humanity. Tessie once told me to stop my tantrum and to behave so as to prove myself not a changeling.

  “You could look outside, if you want, Miss Helstone. The window does open.”

  After excessive fumbling, I unlatched the window and leaned out. Mist closed around the spiny sprawl that was Sesame, like layers of gauzy curtains. We were alone on the road as it stretched into dense fog. Frowning, I could make out the hunched canopies of bearded trees. Above us, a cloud-bruised sky was heavy with rain.

  “The weather isn’t always like this,” said Miss Davenport. “But at least you’ll feel at home. You could pretend that it’s moors behind the fog. It’ll chase away all those feelings of homesickness you feel.”

  “I’m not homesick.”

  “Not yet.”

  Her eyes darted to the window and she hesitated, her gregariousness stemmed by some unspoken emotion. Studying her gloved hands, in a voice quite quiet and quite different to her earlier demeanour, she said, “I was raised in London. Spitalfields.”

  I waited, unwilling to intrude upon her vulnerability. I realised after a moment that I was holding my breath. I tried not to stare, but glancing over at the now silent Miss Davenport and her features, I noticed there was something odd about her, though if this was to do with something unsettled rather than unsettling about her aspect, I could not say.

  She seemed to gather herself as she smoothed her skirts and disguised the brushing away of tears as the tucking of stray locks behind her ears.

  “I’m not crying,” she said, quietly. “I can’t. This is just a force of habit.”

  “I’ve only been to London once,” I said.

  “It’s rather splendid,” she enthused, animation returning to her face. “There’s no place quite like it. Even here. Sort of.”

  It was impossible to tell if the clouds burst open or if we drove into the storm, but at the first droplets of rain splattering into the carriage Miss Davenport urged me to close the window. The rain was sickeningly warm against my hand. Before I could marvel at the sheer strangeness of hot rain, a gasp of wind chilled the splashed raindrop.

  Our vehicle slowed to a squelching walk, mired by the mud underfoot. Our coachman clambered from his seat on the roof to lead his horse by hand.

  It was some hours before the rain lightened enough that I could again open the window to look out. An admittedly futile effort, given how my eyes failed utterly at penetrating the murky, roiling fog. Half curious, I clicked open the compass. I had expected to see its needle spinning indecisively but it pointed more or less ahead.

  So there was a North.

  The fog was a shroud, seeming to muffle everything beyond the ghoulishly yellow lamplight. There was a curious emptiness as many of the natural sounds of birds or the rustling of trees that I so often took for granted were simply absent. I told myself this was no different than any other isolating storm, that the silence was but a mundane illusion cast by the wind and rain tormenting the carriage.

  Unearthly shadows shifted in the swirling eddies. Harsh lines pushed against the sky, implying severe cliffs and narrow valleys. Hulking shapes darted behind one another and I tried not to give them faces but, unbidden, my imagination began filling in the grey landscape before me. Half-remembered etchings from The Voyages of Captain James Cook and exotic phantasms from Sketches of a New World populated the space.

  And so in the thick swirling eddies of the fog, I found ethereal sylph faces staring out at me and picked out gnome forms playing, imagining their gait like that of a strutting Lancashire moonie.

  “There, you can see it now!” Miss Davenport’s voice summoned me from my reverie as she pointed out my brother’s home to me.

  I blinked. At her voice, the fog parted like a curtain.

  Laon had always referred to it in his few letters as his lodgings. Despite the name, I had not imagined anything particularly grandiose.

  But the house defied such expectations as it coalesced from the sheets of rain before me. It was more castle than manor, a knot of spires and flying buttresses atop a jagged hill. Stone leaned against stone in a bizarre edifice, with nothing but scorn to the very concept of aesthetic consistency and structural purpose. Though silent and lonely, it was far too skeletal to be termed picturesque.

  The vast edifice disappeared again behind dense fog and foliage.

  “Gethsemane,” I murmured.

  The gatehouse was flanked by two angular towers of dark grey stone, overlooking what appeared to be an endless chasm.

  We stopped. There was no whisper of footsteps, no voices, no sound but for a loud undrawing of heavy iron bolts. I saw how overgrown the walls were, veiled in moss and nightshade. At the rattling of chains the portcullis gave way and we progressed ever so slowly under it. Further gates creaked open and we were delivered into a courtyard.

  When I finally stepped out of the carriage, I looked back to see the shattered outline of the embattled walls and I could not shake the sense of unease that welled up inside me.

  Of all the places to grant him, why had the fae chosen this one?

  CHAPTER 2

  The Sister in the Tower

  There may indeed be countless worlds revolving around countless suns, as Lady Cavendish described in her poems. These wandering worlds may indeed be hidden from us due to the brightness of their stars.

  But Arcadia is not one of those worlds.

  The Faelands do not possess a sun in the way we would understand a sun to be. The cycle of a sun rising from the east and setting in the west is a sight wholly alien to this place for it does not orbit a burning star.

  If you would imagine a bright lantern hanging at the end of a long cord. Then imagine that it swings as a pendulum over a surface, bringing each part in turn into its light.

  That surface is Arcadia and that lantern is their sun. Thus at the edges of the Faelands, the sun reaches the pinnacle of its upswing before falling back the way it came. The equilibrium position of the pendulum sun is near the centre of the Faelands, directly above the city of Pivot. There, it is almost never night, as the sun is always close enough to impart at least a hazy twilight of illumination.

  Thus, periods of light and dark – I hesitate at using the word “day” – are very different along the length of the Faelands, depending on where under the swing of the pendulum sun one is. For those in the city of Pivot would experience two periods of light and relative darkness for every one experienced at the far reaches. Those in between would experience a long “day” followed by a short “day.”

  This makes the reckoning of days in Arcadia rather complex, to say the least. It has been proposed that regardless of periods of light and dark experienced by those beneath the pendulum sun, one should term one full oscillation a “day.” Inconsistent adoption of this has only caused further confusion.

  The Faelands do possess something approximating seasons. As their year progresses, the arc of the pendulum sun grows smaller, but the duration of the oscillation, as with any pendulum, is independent of the arc and thus remains constant. The edges of the Faelands thus have less heat and light, giving them a recognisable winter.

  The sun is also, I am reliably told, literally a lantern.

/>   Adriaen Huygens, ON THE HOROLOGICAL NATURE OF THE FAELANDS SKIES, as translated by Sir Thomas Rhymer & Coppelius Warner, 1839

  A wide, maw-like arch and worn steps led me into the keep. A red door opened into darkness.

  “We seem to have caught them rather unprepared,” said Miss Davenport dryly as she strode over to the far side of the room and pulled open the thick dust-coloured drapes. A stark, surprising light pierced in, through the startled moths and dancing dust.

  Partially panelled in dark woods and edged by lacy balconies, the foyer was a grand affair. Ornate pendants of painted wood dripped from the intersection of each arched rib, holding up the ceiling. The tight weave of the elegant curves reminded me of a birdcage.

  Gloomy faced lords and ladies stared out at me from rows of portraits in mismatched frames. Though long-faced and vacant-eyed, they seemed so very human. Threadbare tapestries and faded carpets amassed from several lifetimes cloaked many of the surfaces.

  This was a storied dwelling, its vast history written in a language I only half understood, though the seams of where ancient masonry met newer brickwork were visible even to my eyes. The patchwork of different styles alluded to a long succession of prior owners, each with their own eccentricities of taste. Each mark in the mortar, each old window placed into older walls, each revision and addition to the stone told of some greater past.

  A short goblinoid being with speckled, silver birch skin introduced himself as Mr Benjamin Goodfellow. He bowed low and awkward.

  “I- I was not expecting you so soon,” he said haltingly, squinting at me through his wire-framed spectacles. “The Reverend is away.”

  “Laon is away?” I tried to suppress a flash of worry, remembering the letters I had received. “I thought–”

  “Away-away,” he said, nodding. “Very away. Away for so long. Back soon. And we does what we must. We does what we cans. Does and the doings. The tower room is always ready for guests.” He paused in his mutterings, face crumbling in thought. “You are the sister, are you not?”

  “I am,” I said. “But where is Laon?”

  “Away?” he said, voice lilting upwards.

  “Do you not know where he is?”

  “The tower room,” he said resolutely. I was confused for a moment before I realised he had just ignored my question. “Yes, the sister in the tower. And the changeling in the green quarters. Yes, yes. That makes sense. I will lead you to it.”

  “Then I thank you for your pains, Mr Goodfellow.”

  “Mr Benjamin, if you please.” His accent assumed the affectations of the Oxford voice. “Just as the Reverend named me.”

  Miss Davenport was by my side, curtsying at the creature. “Charmed, Mr Benjamin.”

  He brightened at her display and so I mirrored her action. Miss Davenport gave me a solicitous smile and wink, though I was not certain entirely what she meant by them.

  “You should get settled, Miss Helstone,” said Miss Davenport. “Or at least see your room. I’ll pay the coachman, take care of the luggage and see you at dinner. I can’t wait for dinner. I am very hungry.”

  Tucking my carpet bag under his arm, Mr Benjamin led the way to the tower room. He gave his history as we walked. He identified himself as a gnome, which I understood from Paracelsus to mean an elemental of the earth. He had been the first and only convert of the prior missionary in residence, Reverend Jacob Roche.

  “The Reverend always said Mr Benjamin seemed the littlest of the biblical brothers,” he said. “Little name for little gnome.”

  “Do you mean Roche or my brother?” I asked.

  “The first but not the last.”

  There was also, apparently, a housekeeper somewhere in the castle, whom Mr Benjamin termed “the Salamander.”

  As we wound through the keep, I felt as though we were coiling back in time, through the layers of the castle’s history. The comparatively modern foyer joined onto a corridor lined in dark flock paper that was the height of fashion just under a hundred years ago. The lush floral designs in dark green and gold gave way to tapestries hung over crisp walls and then finally a spiral staircase of worn, naked stone.

  At the top of that tight twist was a single wooden door. Once unlocked, I stooped into the chamber.

  “Here is room,” announced Mr Benjamin brightly. “Use water, throw out of window after.”

  I thanked the gnome as he set down my carpet bag. He bowed ornately, dragging a gnarled hand into the ground as he did so.

  As he turned to leave, he started as though remembering something important. In the most solemn tones he told me, “Almost almost forgot. Remember, no walking down the silver corridor when it’s dark. No looking behind the emerald curtain. No staring portraits in the eye. No eating things without salt. And no trusting the Salamander.”

  And then he was gone, the door bolting shut before I could ask him how I might recognise the Salamander, what food he had thought I would be encountering or, rather more practically, when I could expect dinner.

  The room was round. All the furniture, from wardrobe to bookcase to bureau, curved with the wall. A window had been cut into the thick, ancient stone, but very little light filtered in through the lattice of lead and glass. A number of cushions made the recess into a window seat. Slivers of light from the knife-thin arrow slits cut through the shadows of the room.

  A narrow door with an oversized knocker stood opposite me. Three pairs of brass eyes looked out at me from the foliage-wreathed face that held the heavy ring in its mouth. It was green with age but for where the hand would rest on the ring. There the brass had been polished by wear to a gleaming brightness. It reminded me of a hagoday, the enormous knockers affixed on cathedral doors that used to grant sanctuary to any who touched them.

  Wondering what part of the castle I was in and what purpose this round room could have served, I unlatched the door. It opened silently.

  The rush of cold air engulfed me; colder hands clawed at my heart. Hands still gripping the knocker, I shrieked and threw myself backwards. I was glad that I had not unthinkingly stepped through.

  The door led to nothing but thin air. Perhaps there had once been a balcony or even a bridge of sorts. For all of Mr Benjamin’s warnings, he had not thought to warn me of this particular danger.

  Heart still thundering, I bolted the door with shaking hands.

  It was a moment before my breathing settled and I was able to stagger to my feet.

  I poured myself some lukewarm water from a pitcher on the sideboard and washed myself in the basin. Finally, I could lick my lips and not taste a shadow of the sea.

  The majority of my belongings were still downstairs. But my writing case was in the carpet bag and so was a change of clothes, which I made use of. The gown was not clean per se after my seven weeks on The Quiet. But it and my last clean chemise were still a welcome reprieve from my woollen travelling dress.

  The wardrobe was latched shut with a pair of interlocking wooden hands. I approached it to throw my carpet bag inside, but it was not empty as I expected. My hands found buttery soft wool, rippling silk, and velvet as thick and luscious as ermine. As I examined the wealth of stiff dresses, a flurry of moths spiralled out from the depths.

  Some of the long trailing dresses seemed to be as old as the castle, belonging in a world of tapestries and paladins and courtly romance. A few of them I recognised as being no more than sixty or so years old; I had cut up similar brocade gowns when I had briefly been a companion to Miss Lousia March. The gowns had mouldered in their attic for decades but as the fashion began to favour again thick, rich fabrics over light muslins, they had raided the splendour of the past. They were things of such impractical beauty and it had saddened me to tear them apart even if it was to remake them for new use.

  Of the dresses, only one bore any resemblance to recent fashions and it was ivory in shade. Wide necked and layered in lace, it reminded me of the etchings of the queen’s wedding dress and the subsequent efforts to imitate it in the s
even years since.

  Opening my writing case, I found the letter from the London Missionary Society. Sitting on the bed, I read it again, though I had already committed its contents to memory. The preamble was mostly concerned with assurances that for all the numerical success of the Catholics in other lands, it was but built on a rotten foundation of formalism and thus we should not envy their cause.

  After a barbed allusion to the work of the Society for Missions to Africa and the East, Rev Joseph Hale echoed my concerns for my brother. After two years of near silence, I had written to the Society asking after Laon. The Reverend had few answers for me and though he never outright stated what he thought had happened in the Faelands, his worry was evident in his circling of the issue, apologising for not having sufficiently prepared Laon for his post and making dark reference to others who had perished.

  It also included a request that I recover the journals and notes of the previous missionary, Rev Jacob Roche.

  In youth, I had shared Laon’s restlessness. University had only nourished and nurtured his ambitions, but education had stifled mine. I had been taught to tame my wild impulses and desires that had agitated me to pain. I had folded it with my soul and learnt to drink contentment like you would a poison. Drop by drop, day by day. Until it became tolerable.

  Laon disdained tranquillity. He could not learn my glacial stillness, for all that I had tried to teach him. When I had just turned nineteen and had no position of my own, I watched as he chafed under the surplice of priesthood. His parishioners desired a mild-mannered curate, but he had the soul of a soldier, a statesman and an orator. He longed for all that lay beyond the petty concerns of his parish. He grew sullen and silent, withdrawing into himself.