‘Glamour,’ said her companion with a pompous air, ‘is the art of makin’ somethin' seem in the fashion of some other thing, which it is not.’
Isabel blinked. ‘I see.’
‘Glamour,’ continued Tafferty, ‘is also called the art of Seemin’. With it, I may adopt the Seemin’ of some other thing, which I am not. Make it so.’
Tafferty tucked herself up into a ball, her paws folded beneath herself, and waited expectantly.
‘I may make you appear to be another type of creature?’ Isabel queried, rather hesitantly, for the explanation shed little light.
Tafferty gave an affirmative nod, and offered no further comment at all.
‘How do I accomplish this?’ Isabel said.
Tafferty opened her eyes and fixed them upon Isabel with a disbelieving air. ‘Why, it is the very clearest thing!’ she said disgustedly. ‘If thou wert born to it, thou must understand it.’
‘I am very sorry,’ said Isabel apologetically, ‘but I do not at all understand it. How is it done?’
Tafferty sighed, uncurled herself and stretched. ‘I will explain,’ she pronounced. But this did not proceed very successfully, for Tafferty’s explanations were as outlandish as the art she was attempting to convey, and the peculiar patterns of her speech sometimes confused Isabel still further.
She was to understand that it was as simple as breathing, and yet the art was as unfathomable as the stars; a baby could grasp its intricacies, and yet its complexities knew no bounds. Isabel passed her hands back and forth over a plump raspberry from the garden, without succeeding in making it resemble a strawberry in the smallest degree. Her head began, at last, to ache, and she felt with a hint of bitterness that the whole exercise had been devised for her humiliation.
It was a relief, later in the day, to don her bonnet and spencer and step into her aunt’s carriage. She felt that she was leaving witchery and all its attendant absurdities behind her, and returning to the familiar world of York and its comfortingly mundane activities. To pay a social call at such an advanced hour of the day was unusual, to be sure, but she was ready to believe that some of Mrs. Grey’s acquaintances kept unusual hours.
She was more perplexed when the carriage bowled out of York and into the fields, leaving the town far behind, yet without delivering her to any of the villages she had expected they were to visit. Half an hour’s journey passed away and still they did not stop. Isabel began to glance at her aunt, uncertain of whether she should raise a question. Mrs. Grey did not look at her; her attention was directed out of the window.
Isabel contented herself with silence. Fully an hour had passed by the time the carriage at last began to slow, and finally stopped.
‘Quickly, now,’ said Mrs. Grey as they stepped down. She consulted a pocket-watch, a slight frown creasing her brow.
Isabel looked around in utter confusion. They had stopped in the midst of an expanse of fields. Tall rows of flourishing wheat met her gaze in every direction, with nothing else to be observed save for the strip of narrow, uneven road running through the middle. Besides herself, her aunt, and her aunt’s coachman and footmen, not another soul did she see.
Tafferty jumped down from the carriage behind Isabel and took up a station near her feet. This surprised Isabel, as she had been unaware of her companion’s presence upon the journey. Where had Tafferty hidden herself? She, too, appeared to feel no disorientation at the peculiarity of their excursion, for she sat down and began, in the calmest fashion, to wash her paws.
‘Five minutes, perhaps?’ murmured Mrs. Grey.
Tafferty made an assenting noise, and continued to groom her toes.
Isabel began to feel a sensation of mild pique at this treatment. Was she not to be informed as to the nature of their errand out here in this remote place? She pushed such feelings away, for they were unworthy, and stood her ground. Her aunt and Tafferty were both facing the same way, out into the fields, and watched the horizon with an expectant air. Isabel could understand nothing of this behaviour, but she followed the line of their gaze and waited alongside them, fiddling with the ribbon of her reticule.
It seemed to her, after some minutes, that the sky was growing fractionally lighter. She blinked, and looked a little closer. Was she, in her impatience, imagining the almost imperceptible fading of the azure sky into a paler hue? No; for there followed an unmistakeable brightening of the light, until it grew so dazzling Isabel was obliged, briefly, to close her eyes.
When she opened them, a dark shape had appeared in the sky, starkly outlined against the blazing light. It began as a small object barely larger than her fist, but grew rapidly. Isabel realised that it was something airborne, and coming closer.
It was a boat. It was shaped like one, at least, with a mast and a sail and all the usual features; the fact that it was sailing through the sky instead of the sea appeared not to matter one whit. The boat soared out of nothing and descended until it landed atop a low rise some distance away.
‘Quickly, now!’ said Mrs. Grey, and to Isabel’s amazement, her aunt began to run.
‘Whishawist!’ bawled Tafferty, and sprang after Mrs. Grey.
Isabel stood stock still, dumbfounded.
Tafferty turned and galloped back. ‘Hurry, foolish little witch! The Ferryman will not wait for such as thee, mark my words!’ She barrelled into Isabel’s legs and propelled her forward. Isabel dutifully set off at a fast walk, but at Tafferty’s renewed cries of “Wist, whishawist!’ and the sight of her aunt running at speed towards the boat, a sense of urgency took hold of her and she, too, began to run.
If she had expected the boat to be made out of something familiar — wood, for example — she was destined to be further surprised. As she neared the strange craft, she discerned that it shone in odd colours. The body of the boat was constructed from a substance resembling wood mingled, in some odd fashion, with clouds; the sail was bright with colour and looked painted upon the sky. The boat rose up high in the front and at the back, forming graceful, curled-over points at each end, and the mast was silvery-pale and deeply graven with complex images Isabel could not make out.
In the prow stood a man Isabel had never before seen. He was tall and lean, and dressed in the fashions of the previous century: tall boots, a frock coat and waistcoat, and a cocked hat with three corners. The style of the clothing was familiar, but its materials and colours were not. His frock coat was rich blue and sewn from velvet as soft and plush as moss; his waistcoat was as light as insect’s wings and glimmered with silvery iridescence.
He was golden-skinned, bronze-eyed and dark-haired, his features human but with that faint, odd cast which proclaimed him Other. He was, in short, Aylir.
Mrs. Grey reached the boat some way ahead of her niece. Isabel drew level with her aunt, somewhat out of breath and, she feared, unbecomingly flushed in the face. She took a moment to regain her breath, averting her gaze from the dazzling vision of the boatman.
‘You wish to embark?’ said the Ferryman. His voice was deep and melodic. He would sing well, Isabel thought irrelevantly.
‘This lady wishes to embark,’ said Mrs. Grey, gently pushing Isabel forward.
Alarmed, Isabel cried, ‘No! I do not wish to embark! My dear aunt, what can be the meaning of this?’
Mrs. Grey clutched Isabel’s hand. All trace of the playful attitude she sometimes adopted had vanished; her face, her manner, her tone were all serious as she said: ‘You have some notion, I think, that you may live as I have done; choose the life of an Englishwoman and manage your abilities alongside it. I wish you will not! For I have long regretted the choice that I made.’
Isabel’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘But — my uncle — were you not happy?’
Mrs. Grey’s mouth twisted with some emotion Isabel could not name. ‘I chose safety,’ she said. ‘If that is the choice you, too, wish to make, then you shall. But I beg you: please, explore the alternative! I have arranged everything. The Ferryman will take you to your Miss
Landon, and she will help you.’
‘But—’ said Isabel, shocked. ‘But the assembly — Mr. Thompson —’
‘Think nothing of them,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘Assemblies, and such men as Mr. Thompson, are easily come by!’
‘My mother—’
‘Your mother shall know nothing of this,’ said Mrs. Grey earnestly. ‘Trust me to manage my sister, and do as I ask. Please.’
Isabel glanced at the boat and the Aylir man who stood, silent and impassive, in its prow. A knot of fear had taken root in her stomach and she felt its effects in every part of her being. To step into this boat and allow it to bear her away to Aylfenhame seemed an irreversible step. ‘I cannot,’ she said softly.
‘You can,’ said Mrs. Grey with quiet confidence. ‘Tafferty will be with you. You are not alone.’ She squeezed Isabel’s hand and added, ‘It is not forever.’
Not forever. Isabel looked again at the boat, and, to her infinite surprise, a tiny spark of excitement unfurled somewhere inside. It was feeble, and almost drowned by the weight of her doubt, her uncertainty and her fear; but it lived, and she felt it. To see Aylfenhame as Sophy did! Not as a brief, and wholly other, visitor, but as one who enjoyed some right to be there; who might, in some small way, belong.
She squeezed her aunt’s hand in return. ‘Thank you,’ she said. A vision of Mr. Thompson at the coming assembly flashed through her mind. Would he notice her absence? Would it be any source of regret to him? Perhaps he would withdraw his interest in her. Her mother’s dismay — her father’s disappointment — the loss to her family. All this passed through her mind in an instant, and her steps faltered.
But she looked again at the Ferryman, and her resolve hardened.
‘I cannot wait,’ said he. He spoke gravely, but Isabel thought she detected a twinkle in his dark eyes.
‘I am coming,’ Isabel replied. He held out his hand to her; she took it, and with his help climbed aboard the boat. Tafferty leapt in after her with a flick of her tasselled tail.
She had no time to bid her aunt farewell, for the boat began immediately to rise. All she could do was wave to her aunt’s rapidly shrinking figure as she was borne upwards, conscious of a forlorn feeling.
Chapter Six
Isabel had expected the ascent to be alarming, perhaps even dangerous, but it was not. The boat’s progress was steady and smooth, and though the rising winds buffeted her with growing ferocity as they climbed into the skies, she never felt in danger of being blown out of the boat.
The vision of England she was thus afforded staggered and thrilled her. Vast expanses of fields lay spread before her, painted in various colours and fitted edge-to-edge like scraps of fabric in a blanket. Here and there she saw a village or a town, mere clusters of blocky protrusions in grey or red or white; they were tiny and toy-like from her vantage point aloft. At length her view was obscured as white mist billowed into being around her, thickening rapidly until she could see nothing beyond the edges of the boat. With a small sigh of regret, she turned her back upon the vanished panorama and sought some place where she could seat herself.
The Ferryman sat three feet away, his eyes upon her. She jumped at seeing him, for in her wonder at the view she had all but forgotten him. She swallowed her surprise, smitten abruptly with remorse.
‘I am very sorry,’ she said with a smile. ‘I was so enchanted with our ascent, I have sent courtesy to the winds. How do you do? My aunt ought, perhaps, to have introduced us, but there was not time. I am Miss Ellerby.’ She made him a curtsey. He ought to have stood to receive this honour, and it felt strange to her to curtsey to a seated gentleman. But things were different in Aylfenhame, no doubt.
The Ferryman’s answering smile was crooked; twisted, she suspected, with some form of hidden amusement, though the expression of his eyes was congenial enough. ‘Missellerby,’ he mused. ‘No name I ever heard before. ‘Tis a privilege to be unique, and I hope ye make fine use of it.’ He got to his feet and bowed fluidly to her in return, sweeping his three-cornered hat from his head. She saw that his hair was black and long, and tied back with a plain red ribbon. He soon regained his seat, and indicated that she should avail herself of one opposite. They were chairs in truth, soft and comfortable, and upholstered in a shimmering silk Isabel eyed with covetous envy, so beautiful a gown would it make.
She reposed herself gracefully upon the indicated chair, and smiled. ‘No indeed, I am not at all unique. It is two words: Miss — Ellerby — the first being a title, you see.’
His smile widened, and the twinkle in his eyes grew more pronounced. ‘I thank ye for yer explanation,’ he said gravely.
Isabel laughed, her cheeks warming. ‘Oh, I see. You are teasing me.’
‘An’ I should not, I know,’ he said with a note of apology. ‘It’s the matter o’ having company that’s done the mischief. Goes to my ‘ead more’n a little.’
His manner of speaking reminded Isabel of Balligumph, the bridge-keeper, though his accent was neither so thick nor so pronounced as his; more of a lilt. ‘Are you so short of company?’ said she. ‘I would think a Ferryman would meet a great many people.’
‘The Ferry,’ he said, ‘is not often used, for few seek passage between my world an’ yours.’
Isabel felt a creeping sensation of discomfort, for it did not do to be alone with a gentleman like this. Did Tafferty qualify as chaperone? Her companion had taken up a station on one of the other chairs, and sat there straight-backed and wholly inattentive. Isabel looked down at her hands. ‘I did not precisely seek passage,’ she admitted.
‘I saw that.’ The Ferryman lounged against the side of the boat, idly flipping his hat in his hands.
Isabel flushed with embarrassment. ‘My aunt had given me no warning,’ she said. ‘It was not discussed between us.’
‘An’ ye were reluctant t’ trade the delights of England fer the stiflin’ mundanity of Aylfenhame,’ said he wisely, with an affirmative nod. ‘Tis natural enough.’
‘No, indeed!’ Isabel protested. ‘It is only that—’ She stopped, uncertain. It was absurd to imagine that this Aylir would feel in the smallest degree interested in her turmoil. ‘You have not told me your name,’ she said instead. ‘May I know whom I am addressing?’
‘Ye are addressin’ the Ferryman,’ he said with a lazy smile. ‘Tis the only name ye need know.’
Isabel nodded, a little stung by the rebuff. After a moment, she asked: ‘Are we among the clouds?’
The Ferryman laughed at that. ‘Not nearly so high. What ye’re seein’ is but mist, not clouds. We are somewhere In Between.’
He spoke the latter two words with a peculiar emphasis, which aroused Isabel’s curiosity. ‘In Between?’ she repeated.
‘Betwixt my world an’ yours. We will be sailin’ that road a while yet, so I hope ye are comfortable.’
Isabel was very comfortable, somewhat to her own surprise. The air was cool, but not cold; a pleasure after the summer heat she had left behind below. The wind was mild, the light moderate. Her only discomfort came from within, for the gnawing sensation of doubt had not left her. What madness had seized her, to send her sailing away from everything she knew in pursuit of an unfathomable adventure? She would be outright petrified, were it not for the promise of Sophy’s guidance once she reached Aylfenhame.
A sudden stab of trepidation led her to ask, ‘Where are we to alight?’ If she was to be deposited at some unknown ferry-point in the Aylir world, how was she to find her way to Grenlowe, and Sophy? Would Tafferty’s guidance be sufficient? Would they be obliged to travel a long way?
The Ferryman grinned. ‘Fear not, for ye are to be set down in the town o’ Grenlowe, an’ with all the care I might bestow upon some tender, newborn thing.’
‘Oh.’ Isabel considered that.
‘Someone ‘as paid a great deal fer it,’ he added, tossing up his hat once more before settling it back on his head. ‘Ye are a woman o’ privilege.’
Paid? To her shame, it
had not occurred to Isabel that passage between England and Grenlowe most likely incurred a fee. But it had been paid already. By whom? Her aunt? What manner of currency might the Ferryman require for his services? She had no notion, and felt too much embarrassment to ask.
‘Whither in Grenlowe are ye bound?’ he said.
‘I am to visit a friend, Miss Landon,’ said Isabel. Then she stopped, frowning. ‘At least, Miss Landon is what she was called, in England. She has married since, after the fashion of your kind, and I do not know how she is now addressed.’
‘Married an Aylir, did she?’ said the Ferryman, one of his dark brows lifting. ‘Uncommon.’
‘Is it?’ faltered Isabel, conscious of her own ignorance. ‘Perhaps it is. It came about in a strange way.’
That grin flashed again, and Isabel once more received the impression that he was laughing at her. ‘Such an oddity could hardly come about in any normal kind o’ way,’ he said. ‘In point o’ fact, I cannot remember it ever happenin’ before. To my knowledge, that is.’
Isabel’s thoughts flew to the Aylir ancestor her aunt had spoken of. ‘Sometimes it happens the other way around, I think?’ she ventured.
His brows snapped down. ‘Ye mean an Aylir marryin’ one o’ your kind, an’ settlin’ in your world. I’ve heard o’ such a time or two, but it’s no common thing either.’ For a moment his thoughts seemed turned inwards, as though he had forgotten her presence entirely. Then his attention shifted to focus upon her, and his gaze grew intent. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘You see… what?’ Isabel said, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
‘What it is about ye that had me wonderin’.’ The twinkle was back in his eyes. ‘Human — an’ yet not, entirely. There’s a flicker o’ somethin’ else there.’
Isabel nodded. ‘That is why I am bound for Grenlowe,’ she said. ‘Sophy — Miss Landon, I mean — will assist me.’
Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Page 5
