by Sarah Rayne
‘Yes. He wrote the music.’
‘It’s a wonderful story,’ said Flynn, and fairness forced him to add, ‘and it’s wonderful music.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And,’ went on Flynn, thoughtfully, ‘it’s almost history repeating itself, isn’t it? Your mother and the professor with the Dwarf Spinner. You and the professor’s son with Cauldron.’
‘Yes. I wonder why Roscius never denounced my father all those years ago.’
‘It would have created publicity,’ said Flynn at once. ‘And publicity was the one thing he had to avoid.’
‘Because of Christian,’ said Fael.
‘Yes. The professor was already starting to surround him with that extraordinary secrecy by then.’
He still hasn’t managed to refer to Professor Roscius as his father, thought Fael. But she said, ‘It all fits, doesn’t it?’ And then, after a moment, ‘Did you know that you were Roscius’s son?’
‘Not until Christian told me just before he left me to die in that accursed well. But the pieces slot into place,’ said Flynn. He leaned back against the curtained window. ‘Did you care for him, Fael?’
‘The professor?’ But Fael knew he had not meant the professor.
‘Christian.’
Fael took a moment to reply. Then she said, carefully, ‘I don’t think anyone could have known him and not been – affected by him. I don’t think anyone who knew him could ever quite forget him, either.’ Forget Scathach, she thought. Forget the mad, helpless agony that streamed from his mind into mine and the eerie shared passion . . . God, no, I’d never forget that.
I might not be allowed to forget, either, she thought suddenly. Because for all your inherited intuition, Flynn Deverill – and I’ll acknowledge that to be formidable – there’s something else, something you don’t know, and something I don’t even know myself yet . . .
The child. The child that he intended for the bargain. The child you cheated me of, Fael . . . You shouldn’t have cheated me, he had said. The tiny speck of life that probably did not exist, but that, if it did exist, might be made up of fire and darkness and torment, but also of light and music . . . The changeling’s son, born of the wild night tempests and flurrying rain, and the shrieking storms that hold the voices of inhuman creatures from Ireland’s ancient past . . . Was that what Christian had seen in those crowded, confused minutes before he flung himself over the cliff? Had he finally seen the leanan-sidhe? I didn’t see them, thought Fael; at least – I don’t think I did. I don’t think Flynn or Gilly did either, although I can’t be sure. But I think Christian saw them, and I think that was why he held out his arms in that last, pitiful, pleading gesture. I can’t bear to think about it, not yet, probably not ever. But I don’t want there to be a child, thought Fael. And then – or do I?
But none of this could be said now, and none of it might need to be said ever. Fael was grateful when Flynn’s voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘for a moment, I thought we were going to find the circle completed a bit—’
‘A bit too neatly? Yes.’
‘You thought your mother and – Professor Roscius might have been lovers?’
‘Yes.’
‘So did I.’
They looked at one another. ‘We were nearly half brother and sister,’ said Fael.
‘We were.’ His eyes began to dance, and Fael thought: He’s enjoying this. Whether it’s a reaction to what we’ve both just been through, or whether it’s something else entirely, I’ve absolutely no idea. I don’t know how reliable his mood is, either. He ought to be exhausted and flaking out on Flaherty’s understuffed sofa, but he’s not. I ought to be exhausted and flaking out on this brass-railed bed with the beautiful quilt, but I’m not either, she thought. And then, with a kind of incredulous delight – I’m enjoying this as much as he is.
‘So, now,’ said Flynn, with an edge to his tone that Fael had never heard before, ‘I’d better be getting to my lonely couch.’
‘So you had,’ agreed Fael. ‘I dare say the Irish whiskey’s already poured out and waiting for you.’
‘Father Mack has a generous hand with the whiskey.’
‘I noticed.’
‘Then,’ said Flynn, ‘I’ll say goodnight.’ He came over to the bed, and bent over to brush her lips with his. Fael at once felt as if an electrical circuit had been completed. Sparks against the darkness, she thought dizzily. Skyrockets and comets. The brief kiss exploded into something very much deeper and very much more intimate. If he keeps kissing me like this I could well be lost, thought Fael.
Flynn drew away at last, but he stayed where he was, half sitting on the bed. He said, ‘You understand that was meant only as a brief goodnight-and-sleep-well kiss.’
‘It got a bit beyond that, didn’t it?’ Fael was sitting up on the bed, her hair tumbled and her eyes brilliant. She said, ‘It’s probably reaction to – to everything that’s happened. I don’t suppose either of us is in a very – normal state of mind at the moment.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Flynn at once. ‘I never felt more normal.’
‘No, but we shouldn’t lose sight of the circumstances.’
‘Oh, I’m not losing sight of them, my darling girl. Come here to me again.’
Some immeasurable time later, Fael said, ‘Listen, normally I wouldn’t dream of— Certainly not on such a very short acquaintance—’
Flynn said, his mouth muffled against her hair, ‘But don’t you think we’ve known each other from the beginning of the world and a bit before that as well?’
Fael leaned against him, and thought: He’s got the Irish trick of suddenly injecting a caress into his voice. Christian would have had it as well, if he hadn’t— She drew away and looked at him. ‘That’s quite a good line. I bet it’s been useful to you a number of times.’
‘It is a good line, isn’t it?’ agreed Flynn. They looked at one another, and then for the first time Flynn smiled properly. Fael felt her heart turn over.
She said, ‘Won’t Father Mack’s whiskey be waiting for you?’
‘It will,’ said Flynn, and bent over her again.
Gilly, helping Flaherty’s daughter and Sinead to wash up, found that she was timing how long Flynn had been upstairs. It was after three a.m. now, and it was more than an hour since he had carried Fael up to the bedroom . . .
Mad to be counting the hours like this. Mad to be so aware of the two of them up there in that warm, safe, firelit bedroom. Insane in the extreme to be feeling anything other than immense gratitude at being safe and at having been rescued, and at knowing this frightening, bizarre episode was finally safely over.
Oh damn, thought Gilly. Of course they’ll be together. They’ll probably stay together as well. She’s absolutely right for him. Suitable. Not like me. She’s from the same background, more or less – no squats in Mornington Crescent there, and no shameful Soho street-walking episodes either! – and if she really wrote Cauldron she’ll certainly match him for talent. She’ll never bore him and he’ll never bore her, and she’ll keep him in check, although not too much so. They’ll probably become quite a famous theatrical family, thought Gilly. They’ll start a dynasty, and in about twenty-five years’ time there’ll be articles in glossy Sunday newspaper supplements about their dazzling children all starting to make a name on their own account. He’ll stay sharp and good-looking and she’ll never fall out of love with him, and he’ll always adore her, and she’ll be beautiful at ninety because she’s got those indestructible kind of looks, and she deserves it anyway, because she’s lovely all the way through. And he’ll certainly be dynamite in bed . . . Oh damn.
I don’t mind at all, she thought, very firmly. I really don’t. There’s a lot of good things in my life already – Cauldron can probably return to London, which will be terrific – well, as long as they let me stay in it, it will. And Soho’s definitely behind me, and all kinds of exciting things are probably ahead. Danilo. Yes, there’s Danilo, tho
ught Gilly, and suddenly and astonishingly found herself wanting very much to talk all this over with Danilo.
All the same, she thought, I won’t go up to the room next to Fael and Flynn just yet. I don’t think I could quite manage to lie in that nice little bed they’ve so kindly made up for me, and know that only a couple of feet away—
I’ll just sit here by the fire for a little while longer.
‘Flynn?’
‘My lady?’
‘That’s the dawn chorus starting outside. Imagine listening to it like this.’
‘Imagine,’ said Flynn, pulling her against him again.
‘You hadn’t noticed the dawn?’
‘I hadn’t noticed it. But,’ said Flynn, softly, ‘by dawnlight and by firelight and by the light of the noon-day sun, and by yonder bless’d moon, lady, and for years and years until we’re both surrounded by dozens of children and scores of grandchildren, and multitudes of great-grandchildren—’
‘How extravagant,’ said Fael. ‘That almost sounds like a proposal.’
‘So it does. This almost feels like an acceptance.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ said Fael.
It was generally agreed amongst the Cauldron company as they prepared for the re-opening at the Harlequin, that they might never have been away. The Irish episode might almost have been a dream, said several people, and then remembered Sir Julius Sherry’s extremely unpleasant death and instantly looked solemn. A bad business, that had been. But still, life went on, and there had been talk of some kind of award within the theatrical profession to commemorate him – someone suggested calling it the Sherry Cup which was either nauseatingly whimsical or unexpectedly adroit – and there was a rumour that Cauldron might be the first recipient which would be exciting, even though the cynics were all saying, Oh dear, not another meaningless trophy.
And here they all were again, with a good run ahead, and the promise of a new show after that. Someone had even said something about a permanent company being formed under the aegis of Fael Miller – soon to be Fael Deverill – with the present players forming the nucleus, although it was not yet known how likely this was.
And so life went on and it looked as if Cauldron would go on as well, which was God’s mercy when you thought about the level of unemployment within the profession. Gilly had secretly taken singing lessons from Danilo’s music teacher in case anyone might look askance at her understudy role, but nobody had done so and it had seemed to be taken for granted that she would continue. She and Danilo had been on a half-working, half-recuperative holiday to Siena, where they had stayed with Danilo’s cousins. They had eaten huge amounts of pasta and delicious Italian bread, and drunk inordinate quantities of wine. They had gone for long walks and talked a lot, and they had begun to discover some quite surprising and rather intriguing things about one another. It had been noticed that their Mab and Aillen mac Midha scenes were beginning to take on an unmistakably sexual slant, which Stephen Sherry thought very good indeed. He told Danilo he would not be surprised if Gilly did not become quite well thought-of and successful, and Danilo told Gilly.
The cauldron-sorceress had given the Fianna captain his marching orders, and bets were already being taken in the sidh dressing room on who would replace him. Several quite sensible, quite likely nominations were put forward, until one of the dancers observed caustically that it was an impossible task, because he happened to know rather particularly that the only qualification the sorceress required for a lover was the ability to keep it up all night.
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ said the dancer, managing to look smug.
The lodge-keeper had rethought his approach to his scenes with the sidh, giving them a bawdy tweak which was worrying Simkins of the bank considerably. It was worrying the lodge-keeper’s wife as well, although for different reasons, but she was keeping a stern eye on the sidh girl who figured so prominently in the scenes in question.
‘Don’t worry, dear, I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole,’ said the sidh, disdainfully. ‘I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’
‘Who?’ demanded half a dozen voices in the sidh dressing room.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’
‘Pass me the calculator somebody. Who’ll offer even money on the identity of the fish . . .’
‘No time now – there’s Beginners being called.’
‘And there’s the overture starting up.’
‘Come on everybody, we’re off!’
Gerald Makepiece and Simkins of the bank had a drink together in the theatre bar before the curtain went up. Both of them were feeling very charitably disposed to the world in general. Both had something to look forward to.
Gerald was going to a nightclub with the little sidh girl who had so astonishingly and so promptly accepted his diffident invitation. Really, it seemed as if he might be more of a success with these dear young creatures than he would have dared imagine a year earlier. A pretty little thing, the sidh girl. A very polished little dancer as well. She had told him all manner of extremely interesting things about the Cauldron company: Gerald would never have believed it to be such a hotbed of intrigue. They would talk some more tonight, partly because it would postpone the bed-thing and also because Gerald loved intrigue, in fact he preferred it to the bed-thing if possible, which he found a bit chancy these days. Also, it aggravated his indigestion.
But he was going to talk to Fael and Flynn about the possibility of a really good part for the sidh girl in the new show which Fael was writing and Flynn was designing, and which was apparently going to be called Stone. Simkins had scoffed at this title, and said people would instantly dub it Stoned and the critics would all write that it sank without trace. It would not sink without trace at all; Gerald had read some of the book and listened to some of the music, and it was beautiful and disturbing and macabre. The music was a kind of mosaic of Christian Roscius’s notes, found in the music room of Maise, and very early stuff written by Professor James Roscius. It was going to be Gerald’s pleasure to back Stone – along with Simkins’s bank, of course; it was odd how that desiccated little man had taken to the raffish world of the theatre.
Simkins of the bank, finishing his whisky, was glad to see that Makepiece seemed to have cut down on his drinking, because the poor little man had gone on quite a binge when his terrible Mia had been killed. Of course, he was a pushover for these greedy young actresses – he was after one of the sidh dancers at the moment. Simkins was very glad to think he himself had more discernment. It was one thing to invite the lively and very talented young lady playing the cauldron-sorceress to a tête-à-tête supper, and it was another to get tangled up with rapacious harpies. Gerald was actually taking the sidh girl to what sounded like a very seedy nightclub after tonight’s performance; he was apparently looking forward to it enormously and had bought a silk shirt especially for the occasion. Simkins was glad to know himself much more prudent, and to think that his own supper with the sorceress was to be a very discreet affair making sensible use of the bank’s service flat near St Katherine’s Docks. All very circumspect, although they might discuss the idea of the sorceress playing a stronger role in the new musical, which she was perfectly capable of doing. Simkins did not see why he should not make one or two minor stipulations, particularly when you remembered how much the bank were investing in the new project, along with Makepiece, of course. He studied Makepiece over the rim of his glass, and thought it was strange how such a dried-up little herring of a creature had become at home in the colourful world of the theatre.
‘Overture and Beginners,’ said Gerald suddenly, his head cocked in the direction of the auditorium. ‘Time to get to our seats if we aren’t to miss the opening.’
‘Oh, we don’t want to miss that,’ said Simkins, and the two rather dried-up, slightly desiccated, and somewhat gullible gentlemen drained their glasses and went happily into the darkened theatre to make sure of not missing anything.
As Fael took her
seat at Flynn’s side, she felt the soaring anticipation of the audience, and as the orchestra, under Maurice Camperdown’s direction, struck up Cauldron’s overture, beneath her own anticipation was a lingering sadness.
This is yours, Christian, she thought, for the moment unnoticing of Flynn’s presence. This is yours as much as it’s mine. You spun it for me out of nothing, and you wove the magic and set the spell working. And if I cheated you. Christian, at least I put your memory to this: ‘Lyrics by Fael Miller; music by Christian Roscius’. We’ve named you at last. Christian, she thought. There wasn’t, after all, anything else to name for you. No child . . . I’m not sorry. Or am I? No, it’s better like this.
As the lights dimmed a shiver of pleasure went through the house, and the first notes of the opening music began to drift through the theatre. There was a moment when Fael could almost see it: coruscating strands of brilliance, laced with silver and gold and so fragilely beautiful that you knew that if you touched it, it would shatter under your hands.
And then the orchestra gathered itself together and the music written by the lonely, tormented creature, who had fought to stay behind his own enigmatic legend to the end, poured out and wove all over again its golden, shining spell.
