by Emma Newman
Once they were in the house Elizabeth stamped up the stairs and disappeared behind a slammed bedroom door before her mother had even taken off her shoulder cape. Cathy looked down at the dress, still there, wondering how she was to take it off.
“Once you have changed, Catherine, come to my study,” her father said.
Her teeth started to chatter so she clamped her jaw tightly shut and went up the stairs, a maid she didn’t recognise following her silently.
Her room hadn’t been touched since the day she left, aside from being dusted. She glanced at the dolls on the shelves, the jewellery boxes, the attempts to give her a pretty girl’s bedroom, perhaps in the hope that the twee delicacy of it all would somehow rub off onto her.
It felt like it belonged to someone else.
The maid began to lay out the underwear and Cathy gazed at it in dismay. It looked like fancy-dress costume now, something for a re-enactors’ fair rather than everyday life. She’d got used to the ease of modern clothing and its practicality. She liked the fact that women could dress like men in Mundanus and no one batted an eyelid.
“It’s a marvellous dress, Miss Papaver,” the maid said once she was done. “However did you get into it?”
“Dresses like this are conjured up,” Cathy said, looking at the mirror. It was beautiful and really didn’t suit her. It made her look like a paper doll dressed incorrectly, as her head didn’t match the rest of her. She could see now why her hair felt strange; it was swept up and arranged in an elegant chignon held in place by tiny sprites. “I have no idea how to take it off,” she said, tugging experimentally at one of the petals and then all of them fell off, as if they’d never been a dress at all. The sprites disappeared and her hair tumbled about her shoulders as she covered herself as best she could.
The maid simply dropped the chemise over her head. Cathy remembered she needed to get used to being dressed instead of just chucking on the first thing she saw in the drawer. She resisted the urge to send the girl away, not wanting to make a fuss so soon after getting back home.
By the time they got to the corset she already felt fully dressed. She steeled herself for the constriction, knowing her waist had thickened thanks to the fast food she’d discovered in Mundanus. The maid was very polite about the fact that she broke into a sweat getting the back to close. Cathy’s ribs were already starting to ache.
“I’ll speak to Mother about it,” she said, wanting to spare the girl the embarrassment. She was helped into the simple gown that she used to wear before she went up to Cambridge and stared at herself as the maid did up the hooks and eyes at the back. Looking at herself neck downwards it was like nothing had changed, and if she wasn’t careful she’d think her time in Mundanus with Josh was just a fantasy. But when she looked herself in the eye, she could hold on to the fact that she’d escaped once. Everything had changed, regardless of whether they laced her up into clothes that barely fit any more.
Her back was aching too by the time she reached the door of her father’s study. She felt lightheaded; whether it was the adrenalin or the fact she was trying to remember how to breathe differently she wasn’t sure, but she took a moment to ready herself before she knocked.
“Come in.”
She went inside, and that one step over the threshold reduced her to the terrified thing she’d been in her adolescence. He was standing instead of sitting at his desk, never a good sign, and still dressed in his black tie from the ball. There was just as much grey at his temples as before and his black moustache still dominated his face. She couldn’t look him in the eye so she glanced at the glass cabinets in the corners of the room, still full of military regalia from the First World War. Then her gaze fell on the silver-topped swagger stick held in its own display rack in pride of place on top of the desk. Within his reach.
“That was an impressive entrance this evening, Catherine,” he finally said. “But it seems you still have a yen for putting your family through unnecessary anxiety, even after Thomas managed to bring you back to Aquae Sulis.”
“I had no idea that was going to happen. I was waiting for the bath to be filled at Tom’s house and then Lord Poppy summoned me into Exilium. I swear it, Father.”
“That was yesterday evening.”
“Lord Poppy made it so I missed a night and a day and I don’t know how. He said time works differently there; it only seemed like half an hour to me.”
His pale-blue eyes scrutinised her closely and she looked down at the rug, knowing its pattern all too well. The room still smelt of wood panelling and the dusty books on the shelves filling three walls of the room. “It seems you have won his favour.”
“Yes, Father.”
“How?”
“It was the way I handled three wishes he gave me.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Because he’d heard about my coming-of-age request and was curious.”
“You have a lot of explaining to do. How did he find you?”
In a wavering voice, she told him about being found at the Emporium, doing her best to cover for the Shopkeeper by not explaining the arrangement with him. But once she’d started, he wanted to know what she’d wished for and her heart was banging so loud she feared he would hear it.
He tutted in disappointment when he heard how the first wish had fared, then she faltered as she came to the second, opting to say only that she’d lost her temper and a mundane had been caught in the wish magic by accident.
“Why were you making wishes on a street in Mundanus?” he asked, his right index finger tapping the corner of the desk.
“It got… complicated,” she managed to say. Then she had to explain what happened with the Rosa – neglecting to name him, having seen him in the ballroom earlier that evening – and how arguing her way out of responsibility had resulted in going to Londinium to save the mundane.
Then she realised she never should have started.
“Who was this mundane? Why did you care what happened to him when you knew you were required here?”
“He was my friend.”
“More than that, I fear,” he growled and went to one of the drawers of his desk. She gripped her dress, clenching the fabric in sweating fists as he took out a small velvet pouch. “Thomas has vouched personally for your virtue but I need to be certain.” He tipped an oval stone onto his palm; it looked like a milky opal. “This is what you have reduced me to, Catherine. I never thought I would have need of this. Now stand still.”
It took all of her self-control not to flinch from him as he pressed the stone against her breastbone. She had nothing to fear from any test of her virginity; his curse had done its job well enough. He watched the stone, which felt icy cold, and then removed it with obvious relief. It looked no different.
“What happened to the Rosa?” he asked, dropping it back into the pouch and returning it to the desk drawer.
“He was humiliated. That’s what impressed Lord Poppy and why I’m his favourite now.” She wanted to remind him; it was her only defence.
“And the third wish?”
She told him and he nodded. “I remember that one. Then he dressed you and pushed you through into the ballroom?”
“Yes, Father, that’s why I was so shocked. One minute I was in a bathrobe in Tom’s house, the next I was in a dress at the ball.”
His grim scrutiny continued. “I have no idea why you ran away, and I do not care to know. Needless to say, I am disgusted with your behaviour and will never trust you again. This is how it will be from now until your wedding day: you will not leave this house without my explicit permission and only then with a chaperone I have personally approved. You will not go into Mundanus. You will attend the social functions we deem necessary and you will behave impeccably. You will not discuss your time in Mundanus. As far as anyone is concerned you have been in Switzerland as was established to cover your time in Cambridge.”
As he spoke, she realised how little she cared about what he thought of her.
Living in Mundanus and seeing the way their society had evolved without being under the control of the Fae had opened her eyes. He was a monstrous man, living in a monstrous society. She was determined not to forget that.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Thankfully your engagement has not been damaged by your frightful behaviour and I want to keep it that way. I will not discuss your history with the Irises and I expect you to follow my example. I’m pressing for the wedding to take place at the end of the season.”
“But that’s only six months!” she cried, horrified. How could she find a way out in such a short time?
“It would be six days if I had my way,” he said. “And you, ungrateful wretch, should be thankful that I have secured such a prestigious match considering how poorly you conducted yourself before you ran away, let alone in light of it.”
She choked back angry words, instead digging her fingernails into her palms. “I’m so sorry I have never lived up to your expectations.” She struggled to rein in the sarcasm. “At least I made our patron happy.”
“That is the only reason we are having this conversation,” he said through his teeth. “It was the only excuse that could have satisfied me. But it doesn’t undo the dreadful disregard you have demonstrated for your family, and it most certainly does not change my opinion of your character. Were this marriage to the Iris boy not critical, I would be tempted to disown you.” He let that hang between them for a moment. “Now, we must move forward.” He breathed out slowly, and she could see him trying to manage his temper as he paced back towards his desk. “In light of your success with Lord Poppy, I am willing to put your disgusting behaviour behind us, but only if you apologise.”
“Apologise?” She could feel him trying to push her back into an old role, one she was determined not to be trapped in again. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that your disgusting behaviour might have had something to do with why I ran away?”
“What did you say?” he roared.
“You know it isn’t right to beat your child just because she can’t sing a bloody song! I should have stuck up for myself a long time ago, then maybe–”
He swiped the stick off the desk so swiftly that its display rack was swept off, too. She brought her hands up instinctively. The first blow knocked her to the floor; the second, across her shoulder, made her screech and scrabble away from him, the full skirts of her dress tangling around her ankles. Her back hit a bookcase and he leant into the next blow, hitting her shoulders as she tried to curl into a ball.
There were two more blows to her arms that made her cry out and then the door banged open.
“Charles! You fool, stop that at once!”
Cathy still had her arms wrapped around her head, but through the gap between her elbows she could see the hem of her mother’s dress.
“This wilful brat needs discipline,” he shouted.
“This ‘wilful brat’ needs to be presentable in Society, not black and blue, you idiot. What would the Irises say if they saw a mark on her?”
She watched his feet move back, heard the clatter of the stick as it hit the desk. “Get her out of my sight,” he said, and she felt her mother’s arms working their way under hers, trying to get her onto her feet.
“Get up!” she hissed in her ear and Cathy struggled to comply, the pain making her whimper despite her efforts to hold it in.
She was steered out of the study and up the stairs. It was the first time her mother had intervened, and, whilst she was still reeling from the violence, a part of her was elated that not only had she stood up to her father at last, but her mother had too. Perhaps she had changed also, perhaps she’d thought about why her daughter had resorted to fleeing the family home and wished she’d protected her when she’d had the chance.
Her mother was silent all the way up to her room. She helped Cathy to the bed and turned to leave. “Thank you,” Cathy said, and her mother paused in the doorway.
“I didn’t do that for you,” she said, not turning around. “You deserve every one of those bruises for what you did to us. Just don’t let anyone else see them, or next time I won’t stop him.”
The door was slammed shut and then locked. Just like after he’d beaten her for reading the wrong kinds of books and admiring the wrong kinds of ideas. Then she realised that nothing had changed and there was no escape and, just like before, she sobbed into the pillow as the welts burned their way to bruises.
19
Sam slapped his hand against his forehead.
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
Leanne’s hands were on her hips, her head tilted. It was her favourite position when she was about to launch into a prize rant.
“Sorry, love, I ran out of cash and the new cards haven’t arrived yet.”
“Did you chase the bank?”
“…No.”
“Why didn’t you ask me for some more?”
He shrugged and didn’t feel like he could say it was because he’d been trying to keep out of her way. She’d been prickly since she came home on the Friday night and he wasn’t certain he could do or say anything that wouldn’t make it worse.
“Oh, bloody hell, Sam! I ask you to get one thing – and it was alcoholic – and you still forgot!”
“It was this bump on the head!” he said, following his wife out of the dining room and into the kitchen. “I’ve been all over the place this week.”
“Give it a rest. You’ve only got that bump because you were off your face with Dave.”
“I was only at the pub because you were out. Again.”
“So it’s my fault you had so much you can’t even remember where you left your wallet?”
He backed off, not wanting the special night in to be ruined by another row. “We’ve got beer in the fridge,” he said, trying to slip his hands around her waist as she stirred something on the stove.
She shoved his hands away and went to the sink. “Oh, we’re saved. I’m sure some cheap pilsner will really bring out the subtle flavours.”
He winced. She was getting sarcastic and that was a step up the danger scale from just being annoyed. After sarcastic was shouting, then it was tearful, then it was sleeping-on-the-sofa time.
“I’ll go to the shop now. I’ll be back before it’s ready, OK?” When she nodded he approached her cautiously and kissed the back of her neck. “Can I have a tenner?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She dried her hands and got out her handbag.
Sam looked up at the ceiling as she rummaged, feeling like a boy waiting for his pocket money. He hated it when they were like this.
He took the note silently, a twenty, and she went back to the cooker. “Get red, and not some cheap crap, OK?”
He saluted her. Bad move. He left the kitchen.
In the hallway, as he slipped his shoes on, he looked at the framed picture that used to be his favourite. It was a photograph of them together at university, when her hair was long and her clothes loose and floaty. His hair was tied back in a ponytail that was long gone. Now he had the short hair of a grown-up with the mortgage and nine-to-five job they both swore they’d never have. Leanne’s job was more than nine-to-five though, and since she’d swapped the bohemian look for the crisp suits and high heels of the corporate life, she’d tightened up, got thinner, less fun. He’d done his best to keep up by getting a challenging coding job at a start-up with prospects but he just couldn’t bring himself to go the whole hog and sell out completely like she had.
It was hard to believe the photo had been taken nine years ago and the friend who took it was now dead. That day had been perfect; they were slightly pissed and laughing their arses off about Pete not knowing what a douchebag was. It was puerile but it still made him smile all these years later. The picture captured them holding onto each other, laughing so hard they could barely stand up. It reminded him that there was a time when they didn’t fight constantly, a time when they seemed to be walking in step w
ith each other, instead of in different directions.
He grabbed his keys and the phone rang. Please don’t be Dave, he thought as he picked up. “Hello?”
“Oh. Is that Samuel?”
Sam banged his forehead against the door. “Yeah, is that Mr Neugent?”
“Yes.” There was a long pause. “Is Leanne there?”
She came out of the kitchen. “Who is it?”
He slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. “Dave.”
“It’s Marcus, isn’t it?”
“It’s Saturday evening, for Christ’s sake,” Sam said as she took the phone.
“Hi, Marcus,” she said in her phone voice. “Oh, it’s charging, sorry. No, it’s no problem, go ahead.”
“Bollocks,” Sam muttered and chucked his keys back in the pot on the hallway table. He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer and opened it.
“I need to go out.” Leanne said from the door a minute later. “There’s a big function on tonight and Marcus had someone else lined up to go but they’ve called in sick–”
“So he wants some other bird to hang off his arm?”
“I happen to be the assistant director of the EMEA region,” Leanne said, storming over to the oven to switch off the hob. “Not just some bit of skirt to wheel out for the clients. Bloody hell, you just can’t accept that I have a career, can you?”
“Bollocks! What I can’t accept is how that arsehole runs your life. It’s Saturday night! This was supposed to be a special night in and now you’re just going to drop everything to go and laugh at his jokes and look pretty for the fat businessmen there who don’t give a shit about how clever you are.”
“‘Special night in’? Says the man who couldn’t even be bothered to buy a bottle of wine?”
“I forgot!”
She pushed past him, heading for the stairs. “That says it all, doesn’t it? And now when I have to go to work, you get on the high horse. You can’t have it both ways.”
