by Kate Elliott
“Madame.” Julian offered Chryse his arm. She looked around to see that Sanjay and Kate were already wandering up the street, peering into dark openings.
But they could find no alleyway, no narrow corridor between the close buildings that would lead to an old, rickety door hiding behind it a cathedral that could not possibly be disguised amongst these tenements. They found alleys, certainly, but much too far in either direction from those few landmarks Chryse and Sanjay recalled and Julian and Kate could second.
At last they found themselves back across the street from Master Bitterbrew’s and Mistress Penty’s and the solitary lamppost.
“There,” said Chryse with a sudden decisiveness that caused her companions to look first at her and then to follow her fixed gaze. “There’s that child again. I know he was there last night.” She stepped out onto the street.
“Chryse—”
The child’s brilliant eyes fixed on hers. Chryse slipped around a wagon and pony and came up beside the lamppost. Crouching, her slender skirts caught and curled under her bent legs.
The child stood no higher than she crouched. This close, the unnatural shine of its eyes gave it a feral look, but one compounded by a child’s intelligence. It was not a human face, yet neither animal—the mouth and nose came forward snoutlike, but above the tufting of fur that arched over dark eyes rose a high, broad forehead.
“I know where you be looking for.” The child regarded Chryse with a street-urchin’s calculation. “But I got to have coin ’fore I tell.”
Chryse looked up. Sanjay had arrived, both concerned and wondering. Behind him stood Julian.
“Do you have a penny?” Chryse asked Julian. His eyebrows rose, surprise.
“Tuppence,” squeaked the child.
Julian chuckled, fished in a pocket, and brought out a silver coin.
The child’s mouth—or was it snout—wrinkled up in an almost doglike fashion. “Lady!” it swore. A tiny hand, four-fingered with the suggestion of claws, grabbed the coin out of Chryse’s hand. “You be looking for St. Crist’bell. But she’s gone now. You can’t get back in there.”
“Where has she gone?” asked Chryse.
The child shrugged. Its eyes left off scrutinizing Chryse’s yellow hair for a moment to squint at the silver in its hand. It hissed something inaudible, looked up again. “You only come out o’ St. Cee’s,” it said. Chryse wondered abruptly whether it was a boy or a girl, or as indeterminate as it seemed. “You can’t go back in, not by that gate.” The bright gaze shifted from Chryse to her companions, quick and measuring. With the speed given hunted animals, the child darted suddenly away and before Chryse could do more than call out in surprise and rise, it had vanished in the constant flow of traffic.
Two women brushed by them. Chryse felt Sanjay’s hand on her back, a warm, comforting presence. She turned.
“Did you hear what the child said?” she asked.
He nodded. His face was grave. Behind, Julian and Kate reappeared from the direction in which the child had run. They were alone.
Sanjay’s face was still, hiding his feelings, but Chryse’s eyes held the brilliance that presaged tears. She sniffed and made a disparaging face.
“Look at me—this won’t get us anywhere,” she said. “I guess we’re left with Madame Sosostris.”
“We should have gone back that night,” said Sanjay in a fierce undertone.
“How could we have?” she replied. “We did look for it. We can’t blame ourselves.”
For a moment he said nothing. “At least we have two weeks,” he said at last, quiet. “Come on.” He took her hand and looked at Julian and Kate. “Shall we go back?”
No one spoke much on the return trip, although Kate pointed out a few more sights.
Aunt Laetitia greeted them at the entryway to Vole House and directed them into the parlour. Tea and warm cakes awaited them on the sidetable.
“I see,” said Aunt Laetitia once a decent interval had passed for them to warm themselves and drink and eat, “that your expedition met with little success. I have better news.”
Chryse and Sanjay both looked up.
“Usually Madame Sosostris only grants appointments months in advance,” continued Aunt Laetitia, looking pleased by the hopeful and attentive expressions on her guests’ faces. “But in this case, she writes that seeing the importance of a visit connected with such a rare deck, and given the delicate and urgent nature of the request, she has agreed to see you in only five weeks.” She smiled, benignly aware of their great good fortune.
“Five weeks!” cried Chryse. “We can’t possibly wait that long.” She turned to Sanjay, grasped his hands. “They’ll think we’re dead.”
“Surely if we went to this woman’s house she would agree to see us right away,” said Sanjay.
Aunt Laetitia frowned. “It would not do to offend her. Indeed not. No, you have been given every consideration. You must not ask too much or she won’t see you at all.”
“But then—” Chryse began. “You mentioned some others.” She met Kate’s sympathetic but unhopeful eye, and gave a little laugh. “No, I don’t suppose the earl would be a good choice.”
“And frankly,” added Kate, “you can’t possibly get an audience to see the Regent. She isn’t very—ah—open to petitions. It would be easier, in a manner of speaking, to see the heir, but she can’t help you.”
“Wasn’t there another one? Anyone else?” Chryse asked, feeling now as if she were grasping at straws.
“Chryse,” said Sanjay softly. “Maybe we’re just stuck.”
“I know,” she said, lowering her voice to match his, “but we’ve got to make sure we’ve tried every avenue. Otherwise we’ll keep feeling as if we might have done more.”
“There are other mages, to be sure,” said Aunt Laetitia. “But none others of sufficient power who live in or near Heffield.”
“If you meant Master Cardspinner,” said Kate, “I’m afraid that that was a bit of a joke. And in any case, he’s left town, as I found out last night.”
For a long moment Chryse and Sanjay simply gazed at each other. The others turned their attention elsewhere. Finally Sanjay shrugged and Chryse gave him a rueful smile and released his hands.
“It seems Madame Sosostris is the only choice left,” said Sanjay.
“But we haven’t any money,” Chryse said to him. “Or suitable clothing. Or a place to stay. How can we wait five weeks?”
There was a moment of silence. Aunt Laetitia regarded first Kate and then Julian. “Yours are reasonable concerns, Madame Lissagaray,” she replied finally. “But it appears to me that the matter of clothing has already been settled. And as chatelaine of my bachelor nephew’s establishment, I see no reason why you cannot continue to stay with us. It must be obvious to you both that we have ample room and staff and little enough occupation.”
“But we couldn’t impose—” began Sanjay.
“Why not?” said Kate. “I do.” She laughed at his stricken expression. “Don’t worry about insulting me,” she continued. “My parents disinherited me years ago in favor of my cousin Miranda. I’ve lived on my wits and charm and my aptitude for gambling ever since. But mostly on Julian’s charity.”
“Yes, and a damned nuisance you are, too,” said Julian, helping himself to a biscuit from the tea tray. “And have been since I’ve known you.”
“Which since we were born only five days and two miles apart has been a bloody long time.”
“And in any case,” added Julian, looking now at Sanjay, “I think I may have a solution, if it is acceptable to you. My acquaintance Professor Farr needs a secretary, as I mentioned before. He could employ you, and you could continue to stay at Vole House.”
“Of course,” said Aunt Laetitia. “That will serve very well.”
“But what am I to do?” asked Chryse. “I suppose I could take in sewing.”
“Certainly not. No gentlewoman would stoop to such an occupation.”
Chry
se shrugged. “There must be a school of music in this city. I can teach piano, voice, and recorder, and perform.”
Aunt Laetitia raised one finger. “A gentlewoman may perform for the pleasure of others, but never for money. She may, however, teach—there is no shame in instruction. And there is a pleasant and neglected music room here. You will of course teach privately. I will tell my wide acquaintance that you are a noted musician from Vesputia who is willing in her short stay here to accept a few select students. That should be enough to send them thundering to your door. But both of you must realize—” Here she examined them with a stern glance. “—that although you will be treated as family in this house, the fact that you are employed for pay means you will not be able to go out in society.”
Chryse laughed. “We’re overwhelmed already. I can’t imagine we’ll want to venture into society.”
Sanjay shook his head, looking somber. “How can we possibly thank you? Under our circumstances, your generosity is—” He broke off, unable to find words.
“If they can’t throw me out,” said Kate, “they certainly can’t throw you out.”
“Don’t fool yourself into thinking that it is generosity,” scolded Aunt Laetitia. “It is pure selfishness. I find Julian’s youngest siblings tiresome and callow. His sisters Lucy and Emily, with whom I remain in charity, are married and live elsewhere. It is obvious to me that you will enliven this house. Therefore, you will stay.”
Julian smiled, waving one hand negligently. “And obedient nephew that I am, I would never dare oppose my aunt’s wishes.”
“Great-aunt, Julian. I’ll have you give my age the respect it is due.”
Chapter 5:
The Hunter
“CHARITY,” SAID MARETHA Farr from her desk, where she carefully rewrote her father’s scrawled notes into a readable and coherent form, “when you’re done fixing your hair, could you walk with me down to the booksellers? There’s a package come in I need to pick up for Papa.”
“Of course, Maretha.” The young woman who turned from the dressing table bore a striking resemblance to the soft-eyed Queen of Heaven who sat holding her ruddy-cheeked baby Son in the painting above the fireplace. “But I hope you mean to change and do something to your hair before we go out. It is possible for you to look quite presentable, Maretha, even though we don’t have a maid. If only you’d try.”
“Is it?” asked Maretha, not looking up from a list of the evidence compiled by her father, written here in his crabbed handwriting, supporting his theory of the existence of Pariam, the city of the labyrinth.
“You know I will help you whenever you wish. You and Uncle Raymond have been so good—”
A light chime sounded from the corner of the room. Maretha sighed and set down her pen.
“Shall I go down?” asked Charity quickly, setting down a ribbon she had been about to braid into her hair.
“No,” said Maretha. “You should finish dressing. It can’t be Papa ringing, since he’s in the study with the new secretary, so it must be Molly to say there’s a visitor. I’d have to see them in any case.” She examined her inkstained fingers with some dismay, cast a brief glance at herself in the mirror, sighed again, and left the room.
As she walked down the narrow stairs, she considered Charity. She was fond of her, as sweet and good-natured an impoverished cousin in an already impoverished house as anyone could wish. But Maretha, who had never been brought up to think about her looks, had in the last three years gained a vivid impression from Charity: that though, with a little more effort, she, Maretha, might be pretty, could in fact be desirable and attractive, underneath was that constant, unspoken assumption that beauty like Charity’s could never be hers.
And why should it? she thought in anger. You never thought twice about it before she came, because you were too busy with your father’s scholarship and with maintaining a house on no income. And now—
But Molly stood at the bottom of the stairs. The housekeeper’s face was ashen with fright.
“Why, Molly,” Maretha began. “Whatever—”
“Hush, mistress,” hissed the woman. “I didn’t know what to do, so I put him in the library. And I daren’t go bother Professor Farr. He’s that put out if I disturb him with the new secretary, seeing as they’re setting all in order finally. But I daren’t turn him away.”
“Never mind, Molly.” Maretha walked past the woman to the library door. “I’ll see the visitor.”
Molly’s face flushed red and she reached forward like a drowning person grasping for line. “No, miss. You mustn’t—”
But Maretha had opened the door. With a warning glance for Molly, she stepped inside.
And halted, struck motionless from surprise and sheer, instantaneous horror.
Of course she knew who he was, though she had never met him, had only had him pointed out to her once from a great distance. Impossible to forget.
“You are Miss Farr,” he said.
He was beautiful, of course. Any human with so much sorcerous power, gained by foul means or fair, must surely choose to be handsome. But behind that beauty—a chill. Deep and unfeelingly cold. She felt it immediately, even as she stared at him: hair so rich a yellow that it seemed unnatural, especially set against skin almost as pale and fine as Charity’s—though this paleness suggested that cast of skin touched by night and moon’s glow more than by sun. He looked younger than his reputation. Surely a man so inured to unspeakable diversions should look as dissipated as those rakes who merely drank themselves to death, or at least be not as slender and well-formed as the perfect fit of his conservatively dark coat and trousers showed him to be.
But it was impossible to be taken in by his fairness. “My lord,” she said at last, knowing she was staring and that he was scornful of her inability not to stare. She met his eyes now, steeling herself, knowing what she would see: eyes so dark as to be black. Enchanter’s eyes—all color lost, drained away.
He took off his gloves, a careful, deliberate process that revealed white hands. She waited, sure he did it to test her; it took her full complement of courage to stand quietly until he finished. He examined her, his expression unreadable, and at last placed his gloves at a precise angle on the high booktable.
“Well, Miss Farr,” he said, his voice as cold as his face, “are you finding it difficult to believe that I murder infants and violate girls and boys whom I buy off the streets from their destitute parents?”
“No,” she said.
His smile was as chilling as his eyes. Now she saw clearly that he was amused, but for a reason she could not possibly fathom. “Very good,” he said softly. “I see I came to the right place.”
“My lord,” she said, more deliberate now, or perhaps made rash by a combination of plain fear and, worse, admiration for his beauty. “I cannot imagine you came here simply to mock me. Whatever business you might conceivably have with my father or myself could not possibly interest us.”
“It will.” His conviction silenced her. “In any case, has it not occurred to you that by angering me you might be endangering yourself?”
“No.” It had indeed not occurred to her. “Even you could not harm or enchant a respectable young woman of good birth with impunity.”
“It is true,” he said, “that it is more difficult to meddle with those whose birth and wealth in some measure protect them. That does not mean it is impossible. Now I suggest you call your father, since my business is primarily with him.”
For a moment she wanted to refuse, but she knew it would be both futile and foolish. “My lord,” she said stiffly, acquiescing; but the door opened before she could move, and her father and the new secretary entered.
“Maretha.” Professor Farr’s voice was slightly peevish, a tone Maretha recognized—he hated to be interrupted. “Molly says there is a visitor—” He paused, blinking in his absentminded way at their guest.
“My lord,” she said, surprised at the calm in her voice. “May I present my father,
Professor Farr. And Monsieur Mukerji. His lordship the Earl of Elen.”
Professor Farr bowed, but it was obvious that he was not quite sure who this personage was and why he should recognize him. “My lord,” he said.
Mr. Mukerji bowed as well, but said nothing. His eyes met Maretha’s briefly, a questioning look, and she saw from his expression that although he recognized the name and reputation, he, too, was at a loss to explain the earl’s presence.
The earl inclined his head to acknowledge the two men, but his gaze lingered longer on Mr. Mukerji: whether because of his foreign looks or because of some other quality he saw with whatever sorcerous sight he possessed, Maretha could not tell.
“Please sit down,” said Professor Farr.
The earl glanced at Maretha, eyebrows lifted, and as soon as she sat, seated himself. There was a moment of silence.
“I see you own a Gobella,” said the earl finally, nodding towards the wall next to the window, which bore, not bookshelves, but a magnificent old tapestry.
“Yes, yes,” said the professor, “a fine original. I identified it immediately when I saw it. You see that it gives the ten scenes of the Life of Saint Maretha, but it can be dated to the troubador period by the rendering of scene four—of course historically she rejected the Prince of Fronsai’s offer of marriage, but due to the romanticism of the period she is seen here accepting it. He then dies, in some versions while defending her brother when he was martyred, as is depicted here in scene five, but as is appropriate leaving Saint Maretha free to dedicate herself to the Knights Guardian in the service of the Queen of Heaven—scene six of course is always constant in all depictions.”
