by Robin Trent
Helen couldn't believe the impertinence of this woman, but then again, it was a small parish.
"Yes, I am. And you are?" Helen extended her hand in a formal greeting.
"Oh, forgive me, where are my manners?" The woman chuckled. "I'm Estrid Langdon, wife of Phineas Langdon, head of the parish council." Estrid raised herself practically on her tippy toes as she preened over her position.
"I see. Please to meet you, Estrid," Helen said.
"You are staying with your daughter I believe?" Estrid inquired.
"Yes. I'm staying with my daughter Elizabeth." Helen felt remiss at giving away even that bit of information as Estrid's eyes lit up, obviously seeing an opening Helen didn't mean to give.
"Elizabeth? You mean Elizabeth Merkova?"
"Why yes, I suppose I do mean that." Helen was finding it challenging to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. A perfectly lovely shopping trip was about to get ruined.
"How is she? I've heard, well, the rumors." Estrid stopped short of what she was going to say as Helen turned on her to face her fully, shopping basket placed firmly between the two women to provide distance.
"My daughter is fine, Mrs. Langdon. She fell ill after giving birth, that is true. But she is now much recovered. Thank you for inquiring."
Helen smiled again, although this time it was more strained, and she moved past Estrid to the counter to make her purchases.
"Well, it's good to hear Elizabeth is doing so much better." Estrid spoke to Helen's retreating back.
Helen did not respond as she did not want to encourage this woman to speak again. The mere mention of rumor set her teeth on edge, and this woman, whose husband was the head of the parish council, was in a position to spread gossip to her heart's content. That realization drew Helen up short. She stopped, pivoted back toward Estrid and said, "Yes, it is. Thank you for asking."
Helen made her purchases and then moved swiftly for the door. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Barker," Estrid called out. Helen tipped her head towards the woman as she gripped the door handle and made her way outside. As the door closed behind her, she heard Estrid say, "She's just as cold and unapproachable as Abigail said she was."
John Barlow decided to get an early start on his chores. The first thing he wanted to tackle was fixing the leaking roof he found in the attic. He took his tar and paper, nails, a hammer, and a saw just in case, all tucked neatly in his belt, and he climbed the ladder to the top of the roof. It didn't take long to figure out why there was a leak. He discovered a hole in the seam between the roof and the eave just big enough for a rodent to slip through. "Ah, ha! Here's how the little buggers are getting in," he said to himself. John was certain after he patched this hole and sealed it up, there should be no more disturbances in the attic.
Finished with the roof, John visited the attic once more to view his handiwork from inside. Satisfied he fixed the leak, he turned to leave but came up short. He could swear the rocking chair had been over on the other side of the room the day before. A sitting bench was now under the window. And once again, it looked like everything had been cleaned and polished. John shook his head as he headed back down to the kitchen. "Rebecca, where are you?" he asked as he entered the empty room. He checked the servant's quarters, and there she was sitting on the edge of the bed, donning a pair of socks. "Woman, don't you have enough to do already without cleaning the attic too? And why all the rearranging of the furniture up there? What are you about?"
Rebecca looked up from her needlework. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Barlow. I haven't been anywhere near the attic."
"Now, I know you have. Who else would have cleaned it up? Surely not the mistress? It had to be you." John looked flabbergasted that his wife would lie so.
"Get on with ye. I haven't been near the attic. I told you. You're just imagining things." Rebecca resumed her needlework, summarily dismissing her husband's inquiries.
"Fine. Have it your way." John stuffed his hat back on his head and stomped through the kitchen and back outside. He didn't imagine anything; he knew the attic didn't clean itself. His wife was having a go at him, and he was not going to let it get to him. Whatever she was up to, it was probably some women's business, so what did he care? But she didn't have to lie about it. That is what bothered him. His wife never lied. She was a constant in his life, like a rock he could always lean on, and they had been together almost their whole lives. He was sure she had her reasons, but it rattled him to think his wife wasn't honest with him. John continued out to the shed to return his tools and get his hoe. Time to tackle weeding the garden.
Queen Oonagh sat in her chambers. She played absentmindedly with the baby, creating snowflakes in the air for her to catch. Callidora was lying in a bed that looked more like a large bird's nest, gurgling and cooing happily. Twigs wove in and around the baby, creating a snug place for her to sleep, and its lining was moss and soft rabbit down. The baby reached for a particularly fat snowflake that floated in the air, slowly turning, refracting the light into rainbow colors that danced on the walls. The queen wasn't paying attention. Instead, she was lost in thought. Her servant, Oswald, was feather dusting the furniture and, occasionally, feather dusting the baby as well. The baby sneezed.
Human babies take a while to grow up, and while it had taken centuries to test this particular lineage and find the Emissary, she felt a little bored with actually raising the child. She was beginning to think that this was a job better left to somebody else, but there really wasn't anyone she could trust to raise the child and stay quiet about it. Not only that, but she needed to keep the baby away from the prying eyes of the court.
Oonagh knew that it wasn't exactly a secret that she took a human child, but if she kept it out of sight, no one was going to say anything to her. Better out of sight, out of mind. Soon the human child would walk, and then keeping it under control would become harder. The more exposure the child had to the Sidhe world, the more in danger it was in from the opposition. And yet Oonagh wanted the human child to love the fae so that it would be willing to help.
Oonagh sat with an elbow resting on the arm of the chair and her chin resting in her hand. She stared off in space as Oswald walked into her line of sight. "Oswald, you are fond of humans and human knowledge."
Oswald merely bowed slightly to the side in response and then continued feather dusting.
"Conventionally, they take their first strides between nine and fifteen months, Your Illustriousness."
"That doesn't leave me much time."
"Forgive me, my liege, but I said conventionally."
"What are you on about Oswald? What do you mean by conventionally?"
"My queen, we are not in the mortal world. A baby would begin its first steps in nine to fifteen human months. Here in Elphame, it will be more like ninety months." Oswald delivered this information as if he thought it unremarkable.
Oonagh, however, sat up straight in her chair. "That's right. Oh, Oswald, the baby will be a baby for a very long time at that rate."
"Yes, Your Greatness."
"But the other child will age normally," Oonagh said, more to herself than anyone.
"Other child, Your Majesty?" Oswald stopped dusting.
"Uhm." Oonagh met eyes with her servant and quickly diverted away from her slip up. "This child must age normally, normal in human years, not our years. The baby cannot stay here."
"Are we to return it then, milady?" Oswald asked.
"Return it? No. That will not do. We need a different solution." The queen sat in silence. She needed the children to be the same age, and she never thought about the fact that the child in Elphame would age so slowly. Oh no, no, no, the baby needed to leave immediately. Oonagh wasn't listening, so wrapped up in this realization, she could think of nothing else. Oswald seemed to be saying something, but the queen barely heard him.
"Your Most High, I may have an elucidation."
If she didn't fix this problem, it would all come to ruin. The child in
the human world would be an old woman by the time this child was ten years old. Then everything she had been working for would all turn to dust. No, she would find a solution; she had to find a solution.
"Your Majesty?" Oswald spoke gently to Oonagh. He could see his queen was distressed.
Oonagh realized that Oswald had repeatedly been calling her over and over again. She shook her head as she snapped out of it. "Yes. Yes?"
"Your Majesty, I may have an elucidation," Oswald repeated.
"And what would that be?"
"The In-Between, Your Eminence. If I correctly discern how it works, the In-Between is close enough to the mortal world that the child would mature normally. The only dilemma is the In-Between is boundless. It would be effortless to misplace the infant in there," Oswald said.
"Not if I made a space just for the child." Oonagh looked excited. "I could make a space; there is magic for it. I haven't done it in so long, but you are right, Oswald. I could make the child a room in the In-Between for her to grow up in."
"One room? Won't the child live a rather dull existence?" Oswald wrinkled up his nose at the thought.
"All right, then. A space with multiple rooms. This will take some planning, but Oswald, you're a genius," said Oonagh. She then realized as queen she needed to be a little more dignified. "I mean, you have been very helpful, Oswald. We thank you for your assistance."
"Yes, Your Magnificence," Oswald said in a very bland voice.
10
The ethereal music was like nothing she had ever heard before. It seemed to come from somewhere far off, and yet it was clear as a bell, and she could make out every note. It was comforting somehow as if she were listening to a long-forgotten lullaby. The landscape was rich in color, so vibrant and deep it made her eyes hurt. It was all so real, and then it wasn't. She was dreamy and confused and moved slowly, as if she were moving through water. Somewhere a baby was crying.
Disembodied hands gave her a baby girl to hold, so sweet and charming with her little round cheeks and her delicate mouth. Erna tore her gaze away from the child to ask what she was supposed to do. But she could find no one. Her motherly instinct began to take over as she worried the child might be abandoned and all alone. Someone needed to take care of this precious little one. She had children of her own, but none were as sweet or vulnerable as this one.
The baby shoved its fist into its mouth in frustration and suckled on it. And then came the crying. She shook and flailed and cried, demanding to be fed. Erna recognized what the child needed, and slowly she unbuttoned her blouse. She had more than enough milk for the baby, and her breasts required emptying. As she put the baby to her chest, the child latched on with ferocity. How long had it been since this poor babe had nursed? Erna ignored the initial pain. She knew it was only because the baby was so hungry.
The music swelled, and it brought a smile to Erna's lips as she gazed adoringly at the baby. She then raised her head to look about and stare at her beautiful surroundings. She still seemed to be alone, and yet she could swear there was another presence here.
The pond spread out from a central fountain, and there was a stone platform with Greek columns situated in the water on the other side. There were statues of baby cherubs, just like the cherub she was holding, and lights emanated from the water. Erna was situated near the pond, close enough that she could reach out and touch it. Beautiful, strange fish with large fantails and all sorts of bright colors swam by. Lights twinkled in the leaves of the surrounding foliage like fireflies on a summer night, and it was so peaceful it made Erna want to cry.
She let the baby feed until she fell asleep. There was a blanket on the soft moss, and gently she lowered the babe onto the downy resting place. Erna herself was feeling rather sleepy. She was so tired there was no way she could fight it. The music lulled on, and Erna lowered herself down onto the moss to fall asleep beside the baby. She remembered thinking she would have a hard time explaining to her husband where the pretty baby came from. He might not want another mouth to feed, but she could probably convince him to take her, especially after he saw how beautiful and delicate she was. Before long, Erna was sound asleep and dreaming of enchanted music, rippling waters, and fireflies.
Titwell settled into his new home. He cleaned the attic and made it hospitable. He had found enough items to make himself a makeshift bed and to give himself a small reading area with a chair, footstool, and a small table to hold his candle and candle holder. The attic had been quite a mess, but it was a treasure trove of unused items, and he had quite a bit of fun looking through everything.
Tonight, however, he was going to make his rounds and further acquaint himself with the rest of the house. He left the attic, making sure not to disturb anyone, and made his way to the nursery. First things first, he checked on the baby and the changeling. Both were fine, not that he cared one whit about the changeling. Then he went into Elizabeth's room and was immediately hit by the smell of medicine and stale air. He walked over and opened a window.
It was a pleasant evening, good sleeping weather, and the moon was on its way to full again. He fussed around the room a bit, tidying up. He came across the medicine sitting on the nightstand, and he knew what it was by the smell. Laudanum. Nasty stuff. Titwell never understood why humans took it when you could make yourself a nice cup of passionflower tea. To Titwell, it worked much better, had a healing effect on the mind, and didn't have such nasty side effects as nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. He knew just where he could get some passionflower. He would find it and make the mistress a cup to drink. Then he could leave the plant on the kitchen table downstairs. He was sure the cook would know what to do with it.
Titwell left the room and ventured downstairs. He went into the kitchen to find some cleaning supplies and to see what needed to be done. It was here that Titwell became aware that his presence in the house was known. There, beside the hearth, was a stool. It was typical for homes that had house brownies to provide a seat by the fireplace for the brownie to rest. On the table, the cook had set out a small bowl of cream, some lovely biscuits with butter and honey, and an apple with some cheese. Titwell couldn't have been more pleased. He was famished, and this would do just the trick. He sat down at the table and happily began feasting.
It was so lovely to be part of a home again, even if it was under such dire circumstances. This treatment made him want to help out even more, and he vowed to himself to take care of a few necessary things. He noticed that the flower boxes outside the windows needed tending to, and the ceiling had cobwebs. He was pretty sure he should sweep the chimney, and he had seen a vegetable garden outside that could use a little help as well. Titwell didn't just help out with the housework; he loved gardening too. The fact that this place had plenty of both suited him. He knew he was going to be happy here.
After polishing off his food, Titwell began cleaning. It didn't take him long to do his chores. The housekeeper did a fair job of keeping the house clean, but with so much to do, Titwell could see how things could be overlooked. Before long, he was outside fixing up the flower boxes and watering them. Then he went on to tend to the vegetable garden. He was happy outside, tending the garden, when he began to grow uneasy. Titwell looked up from his work to see someone standing in the shadows near the greenhouse. He froze, and a tingling sensation went up his spine. "Who's there?" Titwell called out.
The figure moved into the light from the half-moon, and Titwell recognized Groz. "I see yer making yerself at home."
"I belong here. The queen commanded that this was to be my new home. So I suggest you move on, Groz. You're not welcome here."
Groz balled up his fists and then slowly flexed his fingers. "You little snot. The queen, the queen! That's all I ever hear from you, like yer somethin special."
"Why are you hanging around here? You've got no business being here, and yet this is the second time I've seen you." Titwell's uneasiness grew.
"That's for me ta know. I can roam where ever I please. I'm not b
ound to no house like a bloomin' brownie." Groz's feral grin showed uneven teeth with sharp pointy ends.
"Then roam. Go. Leave. You are free, so off with you!" Titwell stood, spade in hand, ready to defend his home. He noticed Groz's gaze kept drifting to the upper floors of the house.
"What are you looking at..." Titwell turned around. There it was -- one of those blasted nightmares scaling the house walls and aiming for Elizabeth's open window. Groz had obviously kept Titwell busy so the nightmare could say foul things in Elizabeth's ear as she slept.
"Oh, no you don’t.” Titwell threw down the spade and ran for the house. He could hear Groz snickering at his back as he flew to the door.
The trees were bare white against a completely black background. There didn't seem to be actual ground beneath her, and if she looked down, Elizabeth felt fear as she started to fall. Staring straight ahead so as not to experience vertigo again, she looked all around her. She could see glowing eyes staring at her out of the dark, but nothing else, and could hear her baby crying in the distance, but could not get close enough to locate her. Elizabeth moved, but it was in slow motion, and she could not make any real progress. She felt stuck, hopeless, and full of despair. She was alone again, always isolated, so alone. Why didn't anyone believe her? Why didn't anyone listen to her?
There was a noise that sounded like it was inside her ear. A low rumbling and then a sharp intake of breath as the rumbling continued. She turned to find the source of the sound but could find nothing as she turned and turned and turned. And then she saw it up close, white fangs dripping saliva. A long string of drool extending between the upper and lower jaws. Blood dripping from the fangs. Elizabeth heard screaming. Tormented, almost animalistic screaming.
Elizabeth was sitting up in bed, and the animal sounds were issuing from her own throat. Her mother had her by the arms shaking her. "Elizabeth! Wake up!" Elizabeth's eyes finally held focus, and she could see her mother before her. She had her arms raised defensively in front of her face, and then she slowly lowered them to place her hands on her cheeks. Her face was hot. Her mother placed a cool hand on her forehead and made tut-tut noises as she calmed her daughter and checked for fever.
