Changelings at Court

by Ken Altabef

  She danced as a proper Englishwoman, not some faery out in the woods. She wanted nothing to do with them. Faeries had caused her family nothing but trouble. They had damned near ruined her life.

  There had been a night when she’d been eight years old, the night her childhood ended abruptly. She awoke from sleep to strange noises, a commotion outside the window, strange lights. James, impetuous James, rushed to the window, but Nora hung back, wrapped in the bedclothes as if they might protect her. Still, she saw it. Beyond her brother’s tussled head, through the window frame, she saw the Chrysalid tear open the sky.

  She’d screamed. Such a hideous sight. It looked like a writhing mass of snakes, with a thousand eyes, slithering and juttering with disjointed movements that flickered and seethed. It was horrible. Too horrible. But that hadn’t the worst of it. Not by far.

  She heard the thing speak. “Come to me, my children. My children.”

  And then it happened. Looking down at her hand, she saw it change color and shape. Her skin turned a bright green, her fingers elongated and became slender, the nails grew longer, more elegant and sharper. But the physical changes were not the worst of it. Her entire mind changed. She was suddenly assaulted by a dozen contradictory sensations at the same time. Wild emotions, strange smells and feelings. All at once. She wasn’t herself anymore; she was someone else. She couldn’t process so much strange new input all at once. This must be what it’s like to be a faery, she thought. It was insanity incarnate.

  Luckily her parents beat back the monster and the changes reverted almost instantaneously. Both James and herself went back to normal. They never talked much about what happened that night. They both knew what it meant for them. Deep inside they knew. But children’s minds are flexible and nimble in the face of terror. Children are skilled at denial too. They pretended it had never happened, layer by layer building up a false narrative they could live with. A dream, a nightmare. And as it never happened again over the years they almost really did forget about it. Almost. Once in a while on a clear night, when she looked up into the sky at the full moon, Nora remembered. But that was all. Easily ignored, wrapped up and put away, and denied.

  Until one day when she was fifteen. She’d gotten into a terrible row with her brother. He’d found her diary hidden beneath the bedpost and she’d caught him reading it. This invasion of privacy was an outrage, especially since the most recent entries included her musings about Sidney Barnes, the boy who worked sometimes in her father’s stables. Perhaps she’d been stupid to write them down, but the things in that book were not meant for anyone else to see. James began quoting them chapter and verse.

  Nora nearly died of embarrassment. She flew into a rage and tried to yank the diary from his hand, as if that would erase what he’d already seen, but he wouldn’t let it go. A wrestling match ensued but she was two years younger and much weaker than her brother. James easily held her down on the floor, helpless. She couldn’t stand it. The shame and the anger took her over. And she changed.

  She saw herself for a moment reflected in James’ widening eye—green-skinned, pointy-eared, with hair the color and texture of damp seaweed. He drew back, startled, and let her go. The horror on his face cooled her anger, and as she rolled away from him, she felt herself revert back to normal.

  “Holy mother!” he said. He grabbed her shoulder and turned her toward him again.

  “Stop it!” She saw disappointment in his eyes at finding her normal once more.

  “Can you do it again?” he asked.

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Try!”

  “I don’t want to.”

  A deep look of concentration came over her brother’s face just then and she knew what he was trying to do. His cheeks bulged with the effort and he held his breath until his face almost turned blue, but not green. Finally he left off, panting with the effort. “That’s not fair. I’m older than you. How come I can’t change?”

  He was so stupid sometimes. “You’re older, yes, but we’re not quite the same, are we?”

  James’ gaze flicked to the front of her blouse, which had come askew and barely contained her newly developed breasts. He looked quickly away and they both flushed with embarrassment.

  “Well,” he insisted, “that’s still not fair.”

  She agreed with him, but thought he had the whole thing backward. It wasn’t fair for her to be cursed with this and not him. The change was horrifying and she knew with a sudden certainty that it would happen again and again. She couldn’t control it. What if it happened when she was with a boy? What if it happened next time she saw Sidney Barnes?

  The next few years were a horror for her. She became known as a moody and disturbed girl. Whenever she felt the change coming, she dashed away to her room or somewhere out of sight, where she struggled to control what was happening to her body. And mind. She had no one to turn to. She wasn’t even comfortable telling her mother about this. But she could not fool Theodora for long.

  Things began to change very quickly then. Theodora took her children aside and revealed to them that she was, and had always been, a faery herself. When Nora saw her mother’s true form, she thought it hideous and repulsive. She could never look at her mother in the same way again. But what of herself? She was half fae. She could deny it no longer.

  Her mother made it clear to them that it was their choice. They could come and visit the faeries and learn their ways or not. It was entirely up to them. For Nora, the decision was an easy one. She didn’t want to be different. She didn’t want anyone to know. She stayed far away from Barrow Downes, even as James embraced and explored this mysterious newfound heritage. For all his efforts, he had little success. He had never been able to change his appearance. Nora spent the next few years lonely and sad and struggling to control these sudden changes. She didn’t want to trick a man into loving a faery, as her mother had done. She didn’t want to trick Thurston.

  He smiled at her as their dance wound down. She smiled back. She smiled back with the face of Anne Meadows, which was the true face of Nora Grayson. Her true face, not that horrible green-skinned thing she had fought so long to suppress. She wanted nothing to do with faeries and she didn’t want to be involved with a faery, not someone like Threadneedle. No way.

  Faeries were all false. All of them. Threadneedle had put on an attractive face to lure her to his cause, to cajole and convince her to help him. If her thoughts turned to him at odd hours, when she lay alone in bed drifting off to sleep, when she should be thinking about Thurston, it was only because Threadneedle had constructed an illusion which he knew would be pleasing to her, to entice her. He was, after all, a spy.

  It occurred to her that Threadneedle might be here in this very room wearing some sort of a false face. He was, after all, a master of disguise. Nora searched the faces of the other couples as she spun and whirled the form of the contradanza. She caught only glimpses as the couples turned and turned, but of course no face was similar to that of the faery spy. Expecting him to appear sporting the visage of Richard Templeton was silliness. He could wear any face. Several partygoers wore festive masks salvaged from the theatre’s storeroom and their faces could not even be seen. Would Threadneedle bother to wear a mask? Any face to him was a mask. She’d never find him. It was hopeless. But if he were near, she might feel the tingle. That strange tingle. But at what range?

  Is he here? What was that tingle? She remembered the joke Threadneedle had made about it being sexual attraction. As they danced, Thurston noticed her embarrassed little laugh at the thought.

  He probably just thinks I’m enjoying the dance. She wasn’t even paying attention, just performing the steps by rote, and that wasn’t fair to him. But she had the feeling that Threadneedle was here. That was silly, just imagination.

  Or was it? She looked again.

  She noticed a tall, thin gentleman standing off to the side, talking to—who was it?—the manager of the Barge. There was something about him, vi
ewed through the shifting bodies of the dancers. Something familiar about the way he carried himself, a more subtle, tell-tale sign—his movements, his bearing, his walk. Those characteristics were what spies looked for. Faces were easy but it was not so simple to disguise a walk, a habitual mannerism. Could it be him?

  The song ended and the crowd broke up before she could be sure. As the next circle formed, the man was gone. The dancers were preparing for a minuet. An art form in itself, only a few couples could perform the intricate steps of that dance, even in such a talented company as this. A distinguished-looking pair took their place at the center of attention, surrounded by the rest of the company in a circle. Nora followed Thurston to the far edge of the room. She found herself still absently searching for Threadneedle. Had he been here? Was he watching her or someone else? She knew so little about him.

  “Who do you think he is?”

  “Who?” asked Nora, startled by Thurston’s sudden inquiry. “Threadneedle?”

  “Who?”

  “You asked me who he is. Who did you mean?”

  Thurston gazed suspiciously at her, but smiled just the same. “Why, the Green Man of course. We were just talking about him.”

  “Of course. Yes. Well, he could be anyone I suppose.”

  “I disagree. Not just anyone. A terrific swordsman, an agile fighter. The way he moves his body, I’ve never seen anything like it. I think he must have been in the military. Posted some place exotic I’d imagine, perhaps India or Bengal. Perhaps the Mughal wars? But he can’t be that old. He doesn’t seem a day over twenty-five.”

  “I’d wager he’s a fair bit older than that.”

  “Could be, but I tend to doubt it. Say, do you think he’s somebody famous? Wearing a disguise like that? So we won’t know who he really is. It’s the only explanation.”

  “Not the only one. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be bothered by the King’s justice.”

  “Hmmm. Redcoats with heavy hands. Maybe. Maybe not. Oh, who can say? But he certainly has a heroic nature and that’s a refreshing thing these days. Whoever he is, I wish I could thank him for saving my life from that maniac Chinese. The whole thing must have thrown you quite a scare.”

  She squeezed his hand gently, then let go. “It did. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “You know—something like that—it makes a man think.”

  “I’m sure. About what?”

  “The future. Life. Death. Immortality. Children, for God’s sake.”

  “Children?”

  Thurston scowled slightly. “Is that such a silly notion? It’s all well and good to strut back and forth upon the stage repeating someone else’s lines, living someone else’s life. But what about mine?” He caught himself. “And yours? There has to be something more—a lot more—important. A man’s got to think of the future sometime.”

  “Mr. Thurston, are you proposing a marriage?”

  This was all so sudden, he had even shocked himself. “I dunno. I—I might be.”

  The earnest, vulnerable look in his eyes surprised Nora. He had always been so flippant and aloof about their relationship and that had always annoyed her a little. But the near-death situation had affected her view of him as well. She held him more dear of late, it was true. She could imagine living a life with him, finding for herself something along the lines of what her mother and father enjoyed, the love they shared, the family they had created together.

  She did not know how to answer him.

  She had received a proposal of another sort earlier in the week. From Threadneedle. And she had not yet answered that one, either. Not a proposal of marriage, of course. A plea for help, as they’d walked along the Stand.

  “I need your help,” he’d said.

  “My help?”

  “I want you to work with me in gathering information for the faeries.”

  “No,” said Nora firmly. “No, no, no. I want nothing to do with that.”

  “It’s important work. Moonshadow depends upon me. I’m her eyes and ears in London. And I think you’d fit in very well. You have great talent for acting, Nora.”

  “I’m not going to do it. I’m very sorry, Mister Threadneedle, but you are suffering under a misapprehension. I want nothing to do with faeries, nothing at all.”

  “It’s not for the faeries, Nora. It’s for your father.”

  Framed that way, she paused to reconsider. In the end she had put Threadneedle off. And she must do the same with Thurston. If only she had someone close at hand from whom she could ask advice. Someone other than Fazzino Spagnelli. Maybe the big city life was too complicated for her after all. A commitment such as marriage? She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t met the right man yet.

  Or maybe she had.

  Chapter 11

  It’s over. It’s finally over.

  There was no hope left. The look of hatred on Sir William Pitt’s face had said it all. Eric had seen that look too many times.

  It was time to go. In fact, he should have set off already, for he had much work to do in trying to patch up what little remained of his holdings and estates. What little remained of his life. There was nothing more to do here.

  But Eric felt he couldn’t leave. Not yet. First he would have one last walk along the London Bridge.

  The bridge had changed considerably since the last time he’d crossed it two years ago. All the houses, some of them centuries old, had been removed. In their place a teeming village of new shops and storefronts had sprung up, some with rooftop gardens and broad, sprawling awnings. The colorful canvas panels were already clotted with soot and smoke-stains. Even the Chapel of Thomas of Canterbury had been packed up and carted away somewhere. Progress marches on, he thought. The new must always devour the old.

  The west side of the bridge was clogged with all manner of carts, coaches and other carriages coming out of Southwark into the City, but at this early hour traffic on his side was only sparse and meandering. He paused at the railing to gaze upon the river traffic. The docks along the bank were clogged with masts and even the narrow avenue in mid-channel was blocked by a huge whaler, a thousand-ton ship of the East India Company. A ragged crew of heavily tanned lightermen, mostly lascars, clambered nimbly about the deck, busily unloading into a pair of smaller vessels that aimed to make port in the smaller berths along the wharf.

  Eric noted only two of his family’s ships in the que, hopelessly caught up in the congestion. He might’ve gone to speak with the captains but to get aboard he would have to climb across a series of decks belonging to other ships in the line and greet their captains and rival traders. He had no heart for it today.

  A medley of faces ran through his mind, each earl and duke, every member of parliament and highborn noble he had begged and beseeched in the past few years. Members of parliament, domestic judges, ministers of state, lord mayors and any other public functionaries who would lend an ear. The look on the face of Lord Atten at mention of the faeries. The coughing fit his entreaties had caused poor Richard Eddington, master of Maidstone and Dover. The scorn written across the face of the Duke of Newcastle, a perfect match to the hateful expression of William Pitt.

  His gaze settled on the garrison of stationed near the Tower. A squadron of army troops running maneuvers in the green field below the prison. He’d made a terrible mistake in underestimating the degree of prejudice that ran throughout the House of Lords. He’d been sure they would see reason. He was wrong. A parade of faces, consumed with fear and hate. With each rejection, the plight of the faeries worsened. He should never have rung so many bells, confronted so many highborn bigots. He worried for the faeries now more than ever.

  As if to underscore the threat, the squad the army troops fired off their muskets in a coordinated practice barrage.

  It had all been for nothing and worse than nothing. After the incident with the Chrysalid, he should have swept all notions of the faeries back under the rug. That’s precisely what his fat
her would have done. The faeries should have remained hidden as Moonshadow had advised. But he and Theodora had seen an opportunity for them to come out into the light and had only succeeded in exposing them to the darkness of men’s souls. What retribution might they now face? The risk to them, the risk to Theodora, was immense. All for nothing. His fault.

  Eric felt utterly defeated. His personal losses were nothing compared to what the faeries had suffered or might yet be made to suffer. He thought of his old friend and master-of-arms Fitzroy March. He could picture his old friend’s stern countenance as he said, “You must keep your eyes clear. Blind alleys will kill you quick and lost causes will do it slowly.”

  Eric took a deep breath. Lost causes. Time to go.

  He smelled fish.

  “Fresh catch of the day,” announced a grizzled fishmonger as he pushed his rickety handcart directly in Eric’s way.

  “No. Thank you.”

  Eric moved to sidestep the cart, but the merchant swerved toward him.

  “Codfish, bass and sprats. Fresh today.”

  “It doesn’t smell very fresh,” remarked Eric. “I said no thank you.”

  The merchant wrapped a whole fish in crepe paper and thrust it under Eric’s nose. “Have a carp, Lord Grayson, on the house.”

  The stink of the thing nearly turned his stomach. “Really, you’d better just leave off,” he warned. “I’ve not much patience today…”

  He squinted down at the man. Beneath his oily brown cap the merchant gazed back with a pair of beady little eyes. His nose was sharply hooked and bent crookedly to the left, his cheeks riddled by pock-marks. He seemed to be missing most of his teeth except two on the bottom which stuck out at cruel angles. Overall his face was both nauseating and unfamiliar but there was something about the voice.