by Sarah Rayne
Flynn made a mock salute and vanished through the rear curtain, and Fael turned to the stage.
The curtain was going up on the magical twilight world of the sidh and there was a spontaneous burst of applause at this the first sight of Aillen mac Midha’s eerie domain. Fael caught her breath at the soaring rock formations that might simply have been coral reefs, but that could as easily be shimmering palaces, drowned in ancient enchantments. There were silvery swathes of cobweb-fine mesh that might have been nets to catch fish, or even nets to snare human souls. Or, look again, and they might be fifteenth-century chain mail, or even the computerised circuit boards studded with silver pin-points that you saw inside a television when it went wrong. But the entire stage was bathed in a rippling twilight, so that you could not be entirely sure what was intended and what was only hinted, and what was in your own mind. Clever, thought Fael, delighted. Oh God yes, Flynn Deverill, you’re clever!
The triumphant, sumptuously sexual music that Fael had visualised and Scathach had created poured into the auditorium, and Aillen mac Midha entered, arrogant and imperious and sizzlingly charismatic. He was followed by the sidh, in joyful procession, carrying aloft the captive Mab. Fael registered that Mab was small and thin with a pointed face like a cat’s and wide-apart eyes. She’s not quite what I visualised, thought Fael, studying Gilly critically. But if she can belt out the music she’s near enough.
And she’s almost lost, thought Fael, her eyes on the stage. He’s lured her away from her own world, and he’s about to possess her – he’ll do it now, in front of the audience. And once he’s done that she’ll be his, body and soul and blood and bone.
As the exultant march soared up to its jubilant zenith, Aillen began to walk slowly towards Mab, casting aside the iridescent cloak as he did so, and unbuckling the immense silver belt. His eyes – huge, inhuman eyes, black and opaque and very nearly insectile – never left her. Good, thought Fael, leaning forward and resting her chin absorbedly in her cupped hands. Oh yes, very good. Slow and measured and exciting beyond words. That’s a clever piece of casting – he’s giving off a sexuality that’s neither quite male nor female. There’s a link between them as well, it’s unmistakable. I wonder are they lovers in real life?
As the sidh prince stood over the mesmerised Mab, a shiver of delighted anticipation went through the theatre, and Fael felt herself tumbling at last into the world she and Scathach had created.
The world she had never, until tonight, seen.
Chapter Fourteen
Tod had not stayed to watch the seduction scene between Aillen and Mab, because it made him feel a bit uncomfortable. So much naked lust – there was no other word for it! – and so much raw emotion flashing across the stage. He had thrashed the matter of this scene out with Stephen Sherry, saying that they should take a responsible attitude: they did not want to find themselves labelled voyeurs by the tabloids, or Cauldron dubbed ‘pornographic’ by the tourists; they did not want to find that the Harlequin had become the butt of nasty sniggers and elbow-diggings by furtive-eyed men, and the subject of shrieking amusement by giggling females.
Stephen, rather unexpectedly, had disagreed; in fact he had argued quite vehemently against diluting the scene. He said it was a powerful and very moving part of the story; it was beautiful and evocative and although it would certainly lift a few eyebrows, it was not in the least bit offensive. They had planned it carefully and with great tact, he said, and it did not come within a million light years of being pornographic or snigger-worthy.
‘And surely,’ Stephen had said, studying Tod rather curiously, ‘you of all people wouldn’t want to cut any of Cauldron, Toddy?’ and Tod had remembered just in time that if he really had written Cauldron he would not have borne to have a single syllable altered.
But still, watching Danilo slowly take off his cloak and unbuckle the huge silver belt made him feel hot under the collar, and when Danilo parted Mab’s robes and slid between her legs, he felt downright uncomfortable. The music did not help either: pounding swelling music it was – you might very nearly say the music was indecent on its own. Tod did say it, although not out loud, and it occurred to him to think that a parent never really knew his own child. Imagine Fael conjuring up all this!
And to top it all, Flynn Deverill must needs create a throbbing, beating light-effect, a kind of strobe disco-lighting that pulsated and shivered all around the stage, until it exploded in what was quite obviously intended to depict a sexual climax.
Tod could not cope with watching folk have sexual climaxes (all right, simulated sexual climaxes!) on stage in front of several hundred people, and he shut himself away in his office and poured a very large brandy and soda. He was joined for a while by little Gerald Makepiece, who could not cope with watching this scene either – who in fact could not really cope with watching any of the show at all and was only here because it was less lonely than his hotel, and also it would look bad to stay away on the first night.
Tod poured Gerald a nip of brandy – just a nip, because the little man had already had more than was good for him, and also it was Tod’s private supply and he was not handing it out to all and sundry. Gerald said, disconsolatery, that he was pleased that things were going so well, blew his nose and mopped his eyes, and thought that Mia would have been so happy at the show’s success. Of course, she had not really cared for one or two of the scenes, said Gerald; the close scene with Aillen mac Midha had been particularly difficult for her. But that was not to say that the scene was not well written, said Gerald, suddenly remembering his company; it was a beautiful scene. Tod, who thought the scene was anything but beautiful but could not say so, stared awkwardly into his brandy, and when Gerald said with a sigh that Mia had been a very sensitive and fastidious lady, Tod murmured, ah yes, that was very true indeed, because he could hardly say what he and the rest of the Harlequin company really thought, which was that Mia Makepiece had been a tough old bird with the sensitivity of a harpy and the fastidiousness of Messalina.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Gerald eventually took himself off, and went back to the drinks cabinet to refill his glass. He was just thinking that they would have reached the discovery of the magical cauldron by the Fianna captain, and that the noisy battle between the captain and the cauldron’s sorceress-guardian might be a good time to slip into the audience, when the door was pushed open and someone came quietly in.
It was a very peculiar moment. Tod had had his back to the door, and he was in the act of reaching for the soda siphon. Any one of the company might have come in to his office for any number of reasons, although it was to be hoped they would have had the good manners to tap on the door first. But there was a disquieting sensation of being watched and of being coldly assessed and it was a sensation that drew icy shivers down a man’s spine. Tod turned round sharply, prepared to see Julius or Stephen, or somebody from front of house with a message.
Standing against the closed door was a slender figure wearing a long black cloak, a deep-brimmed hat, and a dark face-mask with narrow slits, through which eyes glittered coldly. Tod started to say something, and the figure reached down to turn the key in the lock.
‘We don’t want to be disturbed,’ said the stranger, coming forward into the room.
Tod said, blusteringly, ‘Look here, who are you? What the devil do you want?’
‘Do you really not know who I am?’ said Christian. ‘I’m Cauldron’s creator, Tod.’ And, as Tod opened his mouth to protest, he said, ‘Its real creator. Your daughter and I wrote Cauldron between us. And I’m here for justice.’
Christian had not intended to beard Tod Miller in his den quite so soon. He had intended to see what happened at the curtain-fall, to see whether Miller would acknowledge Fael, and whether Fael would acknowledge Christian himself.
They had never actually talked about the precise form the acknowledgement should take, but there were a number of ways it could be done. In ordinary circumstances Tod could have called Fae
l onto the stage and introduced her as the writer and librettist and Fael could then have called upon Christian as the composer. But the circumstances were not ordinary; Christian would certainly not have gone out onto the lit stage, and he thought Fael, more or less tied to the wheelchair, would not have wanted to do so, either. He thought they had both been assuming that some kind of announcement would be made without either of them needing to make an appearance, certainly without Christian being named. The idea of being the anonymous composer of Cauldron was immensely alluring. He thought that Fael had found it so as well, and he thought she had been attracted by the idea of telling people she had had a secret collaborator. And on a purely cynical, materialistic level, the publicity would have given Cauldron the boost of a ten-million-volt charge.
But he knew now that none of it was going to happen. He did not trust Tod Miller, and he was not sure that he trusted Fael any more, either.
Christian had been watching from the shadows when Tod met Fael outside the theatre, and he had heard Miller telling Fael that he was taking her to one of the boxes. His heart had given a sudden leap at this unexpected sight of Fael; he had been visualising her in the stalls, surrounded by people, but plainly something had gone wrong with the arrangements and she had arrived late. And if she was being taken to a box to watch the show, that meant that if Christian himself was very stealthy and very careful, it might be possible for him to slip into the box, and watch the remainder of the show with her.
Fael and himself in the privacy of one of the Harlequin’s velvet-lined boxes, shut away from the rest of the house . . . Close together, sharing the sight of the marvellous world they had created; watching it unfold in front of them. The thought of the physical and mental intimacy sent sensuous ripples of pleasure across Christian’s skin, and a little warm flame of anticipation burned up.
The rear of the boxes gave onto a small, more or less private, foyer: Christian thought they had probably been used specifically for royalty, or for notable figures who wanted to visit the theatre unrecognised, or who wanted to be private with female companions. There was a small washroom and lavatory, and a narrow room with a sink and cupboards, that had probably once been used to prepare drinks or even an entr’acte supper. He had stolen up to the deserted foyer, and slipped unseen into the old kitchen, leaving the door open a chink so that he could see almost all of the foyer. Once Act Three started he would be safe to cross to the box.
And then a dark-haired young man wearing a well-cut dinner jacket had come lightly up the stairs, and gone into the curtained alcove. He’d been carrying an uncorked bottle of wine and two glasses and at the sight of him, Christian had sprung back from the door and leaned against the wall of the narrow room, his eyes narrowed to glittering slits, and his fingers curling into angry claws. Black, hating rage had coursed through him like scalding acid. I should have stayed to complete the job of strangling him earlier on! Christian had thought. I should have torn his heart out and flung it onto the floor, and left it there for people to see!
For Rossani’s a-prowl and he’s looking for fools;
He’ll cut out your heart and he’ll weave it to gold.
And then Flynn, who was good-looking and clever and who could move freely in the world and talk to whoever he liked, would not have been able to scoop up a bottle of wine and two glasses, and walk through the Harlequin as if he owned it. He would not have sat with Fael in the exciting closeness of the velvet alcove. Did Flynn intend to seduce her afterwards? It was inconceivable that someone should see Fael and not want to take her to bed. It was unimaginable to Christian that a man like Flynn should not be able to get any woman he wanted.
Except that it could not be allowed to happen. Fael was his, Christian had made her his through all those firelit hours and through all those midnight meetings when the thoughts and the understanding had flowed effortlessly and seamlessly between them, when pagan Ireland had lain all around them like a cool, misty tapestry. Fael was his, body and soul and blood and bone, and the thought of Flynn Deverill having her was bleak, bitter agony.
Christian had run from Flynn earlier, because there had seemed to be nothing else to be done. But he had felt, like an electrical charge, the moment of appalled intimacy that had flared between them when Flynn ripped the mask aside. Flynn knew what Christian was, he had seen and he had shared the terrible secret. And Flynn had known Professor Roscius better than most people: he might have known there was a son and he might have known there was some secret about that son. Could Flynn have guessed Christian’s identity tonight? Could he have told Fael about it as they sat together? If so, it could not be allowed, any more than Fael could be allowed into Flynn’s bed. Christian would have to move very fast indeed, and he would start with Tod Miller. After that he would consider what to do about Fael and Flynn.
Tod was extremely angry. He did not remember when he had last been so angry. He was certainly not going to be spoken to like this in his own theatre, with his own show – yes, his own show, dammit! – two thirds of the way through its opening night and bidding to be a knock-out success. He said so at some length, gesticulating furiously at the ridiculous young man who was dressed like something from an old-fashioned masquerade, and who had come bursting into his private office without so much as a by-your-leave.
Christian stayed where he was, his arms folded across his chest, his head slightly inclined as if waiting for Tod to run down. At last Tod did run down. He stuttered and spluttered and lost the thread of what he had been saying, and then quite suddenly he discovered that he was just the smallest bit afraid. This was ridiculous, this bizarre figure was a whole lot slighter than Tod; you could even say he was puny. Tod might be approaching fifty, well, all right he might have passed fifty – just! – but he could still beat a stripling like this if it came to a fight. Not that it would come to a fight, because at the first suggestion of violence Tod would simply call for help. He would do it calmly and in a dignified manner, and the intruder would be escorted from the theatre. Intruder! The word smacked against his mind, and he realised that this must be Flynn’s intruder from earlier on. Well, so much for Flynn having routed the creature!
Christian said, in his soft voice, ‘You don’t need to know who I am, Miller,’ and Tod felt a spurt of fresh anger at the arrogance in the young man’s voice. Miller indeed, as if they were equals! How dare some tramp address him like this?
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, loftily, ‘but I think I do need to know. I think our security people need to know as well.’ He reached for the phone on his desk, and a gloved hand came down at once, dealing him a sharp, painful blow on the thin, sensitive tendon at the inner side of his wrist.
‘You had really much better listen to me,’ said the soft voice. ‘If it comes to blows, Tod, I will knock you out before you can so much as draw breath to defend yourself. Now, you don’t need to know my name, but what you do need to know is that Fael and I wrote your show for you.’
Tod said, ‘Rubbish,’ very loudly, and then added, ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ for good measure.
‘I promise you we did. I can prove it. There are notes, scene drafts, tape recordings of the music. It’s incontrovertible, Miller.’
‘I suppose,’ said Tod, after a moment, ‘that you have some absurd idea of blackmail, or extortion. Well, blackmail away, my friend; it won’t do you a scrap of good.’ He remembered the famous line about ‘publish and be damned’, and repeated it, only to remember almost immediately after he had said it, that it did not perhaps quite fit the situation as aptly as he would have wished. To cover this up, he said, in a pitying tone, that every successful creator encountered his quota of attention-seekers: poor failed writers or artists or musicians who laid claim to having written somebody else’s work.
‘You think me an attention-seeker?’ said Christian.
‘Yes, I do. I think you’re one of those freaks who pretend they’ve written the last Booker Prize winner, or the next Pulitzer, or committed the latest murder!’
Tod sat back in his seat, pleased with himself. That would show this discourteous young man where he got off.
The two words, ‘freak’ and ‘murder’ came together in Christian’s mind with an almost audible snap. He stood up, and without quite knowing why, Tod found himself shrinking back in his chair. Christian moved round the desk until he was standing over Tod. It was an uncomfortably smothering sensation; Tod looked wildly towards the door, even though he knew it was locked. The phone was out of reach, but surely someone would call him at any minute. They must be halfway through Act Three – surely someone would come to see where he was!
Christian said, ‘You refuse to acknowledge Fael as Cauldron’s creator?’
‘She made one or two helpful suggestions—’
‘You refuse to acknowledge me as well?’
‘Now look here, my friend—’
‘I’m no friend of yours, Tod Miller,’ said Christian, and moved again, so that Tod was virtually pinned in his seat.
‘I know that,’ said Tod. ‘I suppose,’ he added, in an attempt to recapture some of his lost authority, ‘that you’re the intruder Flynn Deverill discovered earlier on.’
The stranger’s laugh was the eeriest sound Tod had ever heard. He shivered and to cover this up, said loudly, ‘We have a very strict policy on intruders here, you know.’
Christian said, ‘You still don’t know who I am, do you?’ And paused, and then with slow deliberation, reached up to peel away the mask.
There was a moment of hideous silence, and Tod felt the breath stop in his throat. Dreadful. Quite quite dreadful. At last, he managed to say in a half-whisper, ‘Who – are you?’
‘Don’t you know, Tod?’ said Christian. He paused, and then said, very softly, ‘I’m your dwarf-magician. I’m the creature you conjured up twenty years ago.’
For a moment neither of them spoke, and then Tod said, in a frightened whisper, ‘Rossani— Oh, but that’s—’
