by Ken Altabef
Think of something else. Anything else.
His eyes settled on a series of carvings etched into the far wall. Two hundred years old. Scratched in extremis by another former inmate—Mister Hew Draper, an innkeeper from Bristol accused of practicing sorcery. The would-be sorcerer had burnt all his books of occult lore upon the eve of his arrest but his engravings, cut into the very stone of the Salt Tower, illustrated with intricate detail his faith in darker forces— incoherent rows of numerals, a spiderweb of interconnected lines strung with runic symbols and astrological notes, and quite a few which Eric recognized as faery symbols as well. As if in counter balance, Draper’s carvings were flanked by Christian symbols produced some time later—crosses and Jesuit monograms—as if to contain their occult magic. What had become of Draper in the end? As far as Eric knew his death had never been recorded in the annals of the Tower. Perhaps he had escaped. Had he used these magical symbols to vanish from this cell in a cloud of magical smoke?
If only he could do the same. But where would he go?
A movement at the window caught his eye. A huge white swallowtail butterfly with shimmering blue-rimmed wings had settled on the ledge. Eric snickered at the perfect taunt, a symbol of unbridled freedom waving at him like a flag of abject surrender. But what could have induced it to fly all the way up here?
He raised the pane a few inches, letting in a blast of cool air. The butterfly passed through the crossbar grate, riding the current into the room to settle atop one of the cot’s bedposts. There was something very odd about it. It fluttered its wings. He felt it reaching out to him in some strange way.
Then he heard its voice. “Eric?”
Theodora struggled to establish the link with her husband. Ordinarily it would have been easy. She had merged with his consciousness many times before during their lovemaking. Such was the way of the faeries. But this feat—using the butterfly as intermediary—was quite extraordinary.
Moonshadow, kneeling beside her in the healing room at Barrow Downes, had the more difficult chore. She must maintain two links simultaneously, having merged with both the butterfly and Theodora. This left Theodora in contact with the butterfly without any effort on her part at all.
Moonshadow’s hand was warm in her own and the physical link bolstered their connection. Theodora felt the joyful psychic embrace of her friend and half-sister as they rode the butterfly’s wings, soaring above the London skyline and into the Salt Tower. Moonshadow was the purest soul Theodora had ever encountered, the perfect vessel for the full power of Mother Moon, and the perfect leader for the faeries at Barrow Downes. As they merged in this way, they shared the most intimate contact two souls could ever know. Theodora thrilled at being so close to her. The contact engendered a mild sexual thrill that could not be denied by either of them. But now was not the time to explore those avenues.
What Theodora had to do now was reach out to Eric. But she found tagging along within the butterfly’s mind very distracting. The butterfly was annoyed by the intrusion and did not enjoy flying so high or so far. Theodora had to keep her eyes closed because the fractured sight through the insect’s multifaceted eyes overwhelmed her. As they entered the window she knew Eric was there without needing to see him. She reached out for him, calling his name.
“Eric? Eric it’s me!”
She sensed her husband’s confusion. He must think he’s gone insane.
“It’s Theodora!” she said.
She felt him relax and things were much easier once she didn’t have to force the message across. He understood. He always understood. She threw herself at him, all thoughts of Moonshadow dissolving away as she embraced the thoughts, desires and inner feelings of her one true love, Eric Grayson.
“How are you doing this?” he asked. “A butterfly?”
“There wasn’t any other way. I couldn’t come in person. They’ve taken special precautions against faeries at the Tower. So, a butterfly! Moonshadow is helping. I don’t think anyone else could have achieved this but it’s quite a strain. We can’t hold it for long. I just had to speak to you. How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“They didn’t hurt you?”
“No, no. Not at all. I’m just… waiting here. Warburton is supposed to be on my case but really I don’t think there’s much he can do. How are things at Grayson Hall?”
“Nora is home, and James. Everything is fine. You don’t need to worry.” She felt foolish trying to lie to him through the link, even in an attempt to allay his fears. He knew her too well.
“They’ve impounded my ships, haven’t they?”
“The ships don’t matter. The house doesn’t matter. I only care about you.”
“A hopeless case, it seems.”
“You mustn’t lose hope, Eric. We’ll find a way through this, I promise.”
“When you say ‘we’ I wonder just who do you mean?”
She felt a chill through the link. This was not the warm embrace of souls she’d been expecting. “You and I. The family.”
“The Grayson family?”
“Yes of course.”
“You have two families, Theodora.”
She felt a disruptive tremor through the link. Moonshadow squeezed her hand gently. They had not much time. She spoke quickly, desperate to get her message across. “I don’t care about anything else, Eric—not anything else—except you. Only you. I told you not to take these risks. I told you.”
“Did you kill Griffin? Tell me the truth.”
What? Now? Why would he dredge up these old ghosts of the past now? Despite the sudden feeling that something had gone terribly wrong, she answered as calmly as she could, “I was there. There were seven of us. We tricked the dogs into attacking him, it’s true. But it was war. You know the types of things he was doing to the faeries. It was the only way to make him stop.”
“Funny, you never mentioned this before.”
“How could I? What good would it do? I’m not proud of it. I didn’t even want to ever think about it again.”
“Did you kill the Hightower girl?”
“Who?”
“Marjorie Hightower. The girl I was supposed to marry. Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“Who did? Meadowlark?”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Yes.” Another lie. She felt Eric try to pull back from the link. Theodora struggled to stay with him. “No. No, it wasn’t Meadowlark. But, Eric, you don’t really want to know.”
“Tell me the truth, damn it!”
There was nothing else for it but to do exactly that. This was definitely not the turn she’d wanted this conversation to take. What had brought these matters up? Jailhouse hours dredge the soul, she supposed.
“You did it, Eric,” she said at last. “It was you.”
Anguish and confusion hit her in a wave. This wasn’t right. She was meant to cheer him up. Why had he brought her to this in his darkest hour?
“That’s… that’s not possible,” he said, though he knew through the mind link that it was no lie.
“Moon Dancer was desperate. She needed a way to get me into the family. So she manipulated you, tricked you, made it so you wouldn’t remember.”
She felt his confusion. He still did not remember, and probably never would. “You made a murderer of me?”
“I didn’t know about it. I swear. I wouldn’t have gone along with it. Not a child. Never. Moon Dancer knew that. That’s why she kept it from me. She only told me later, much later. On her deathbed. She had only one regret in her life. That was it.”
“Regrets,” he repeated. “She had regrets. Tell that to Marjorie Hightower. You’ve made a murderer of me! Now I understand. I belong here. I belong in this cell.”
“Don’t say that, Eric. We’ll find a way. We’ll get you out.”
“I don’t want your help. Leave me alone.” Eric slapped his hand down and smashed the butterfly.
Moonshadow screamed.
Th
eodora’s mind lurched. She was falling, adrift, alone, the world spinning around her. She did not know where she was. Distorted images spiraled all around, bitter emotions assailing her. Betrayal, desperation, death.
Someone, please catch me.
“Clarimonde!”
She opened her eyes to see Moonshadow, bald and beautiful, looking down at her, cradling her in her arms like a child.
“Clarimonde! Are you all right?”
No. No, she wasn’t.
Chapter 46
Perhaps, Nora thought, the carousel is not the best place to be right now. Why had she come here? To recapture fond memories of her childhood?
She shook her head. Her childhood had been haunted by a prolonged sense of dread, by an invisible menace hanging over her night and day, not spoken about, never discussed, but never really gone from her thoughts. A curse. One word. Faery.
She felt like a fool sitting on the wooden horse. The carousel was still, dead, without joy. It was itself a study in contradictions. Half of the horses resembled normal steeds, powerful, elegant, proud. The other half had been painted in wild colors, with manes of green and purple, their tongues hanging from mouths, heads thrown back or off to the side, they seemed to be smiling or even laughing. Laughing at the sky. She saw her mother’s hand in those designs. Under Lady Theodora’s guiding hand, the carousel had become the perfect representation of the woman herself. Sometimes mundane, sometimes faery.
Nora wondered how much she actually knew about her mother. It seemed she’d spent quite a lot of time avoiding her. How much did she understand? Theodora was faery-born but had pretended to be human in order to get rid of an invading menace. Just that thought brought back a fleeting image of the monster, a rip in the sky, an oozing cloud with a thousand eyes, the thing that had claimed to be Nora’s mother. “My children,” the monster had screamed, “You must love me!”
But that thing was not her mother. Not entirely a lie, either. A double meaning. A conundrum. The mother of all faeries supposedly. The creature who had twisted humans into faeries at the outset. Nora had been repulsed by the changes she’d seen in herself that night. The green skin, the pointed ears. But only because she didn’t understand. That’s what adolescence is, she thought. Confusing. A quest to find yourself. She’d tried to hide from herself. That couldn’t be right. Now she knew better.
Nora saw a tall figure cutting toward her across the green sward. She felt embarrassed, sitting on the carousel like a child. Whoever it was, maybe they wouldn’t notice, maybe they’d just pass by. No such luck. She knew who it was and that meant he’d come to see her.
She could hardly fail to recognize him. Though dressed in a fine suit of black silk and an elegant long-tailed greatcoat, his green skin and pointed ears gave him away.
He smiled to see her on the horse. “Well met, Nora.”
“Are you crazy? Coming here? Looking like that?”
Threadneedle shrugged, propped his walking stick into the soft earth and sat on the horse beside her. She noticed he had chosen one of the normal-looking horses. She hadn’t realized before, but she sat atop one of the wild ones.
“The estate is crawling with redcoats,” she said. “What will you do if they see you like that? Fight them? Just cut them down?”
He smiled. She noticed he had chosen to appear to her with his actual appearance, scars and all. He did not do that lightly.
“I can defend myself if necessary. But if you think I couldn’t prevent them from seeing me in the first place, then you don’t know me at all.”
That hurt. She did know him. She certainly knew him better than that.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“What makes you think I want to talk?”
“I don’t think that. But regardless, I have something to say.”
Why was she so angry? True, Threadneedle had brought her into the world of the faeries, of Barrow Downes and changelings and Moonshadow. But it wasn’t evil. It was a different world, no better or worse, and had some truly beautiful things in it. Nature, freedom, unbound love, yes, and mischief. Violence, death. All the same, no different than the point of a redcoat’s bayonet. Just another side of the coin, another way to be.
She had been intrigued by Threadneedle at first. Her repulsion to faeries overcome by his charm and charisma. And as he trained her, she’d come to know him. His winsome ways, his dedication to the cause, his cleverness and sense of humor. An outlook on life she had never known before. She loved all those things. None of this was his fault. Still, she wished he would just leave.
“Your father is in the Tower.”
“I know that, Threadneedle.” Her eyes felt suddenly hot and wet.
“Yes, of course you do. I need you to help me get him out.”
“Oh, please. You tried that one before. Haven’t you got any new tricks?”
He sighed. “It’s no trick.”
“Trick, scheme, whatever. If this is your idea of a way to get back into my good graces it won’t work. I’m done with faeries. No more. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if that hurts you. I am. Truly.”
“My heart’s been broken before,” he admitted. “I’m sure I’ll get over it.”
She thought about that. I will get over it. Future tense. He was hurting. She felt terrible.
He pushed against the ground with his good leg and set the carousel into a slow spin. “About your father…”
“I helped you to help him before, but it only got him deeper. If we hadn’t encouraged him, if we hadn’t helped him in his ill-advised scheme, maybe he’d be here with us right now, not locked up in a cell.”
“My sources tell me that things have changed. The charges against your father have been broadened to treason. The sentence will be death. There is not much time.”
This is no good, she thought. Why is he doing this to me?
She had finally accepted who she was, what she was and then she had killed a man. Not with a pistol or blade but with a cheap faery trick. She’d gone into his soul…
She didn’t want to think about it.
“Go ask my brother for help.”
“I need you,” he said.
It felt strange to hear him say that. I need you too, she thought, but she wouldn’t say it. She remembered all their kisses. Their urgent first kiss on the wharf seemed irrelevant compared to the truly fiery passion they had experienced in the days following his recovery. Threadneedle, master of disguise and deception, had bared himself to her. His feelings were no faery trick. They were genuine, straight from the heart, straight from the soul. The whole thing made Charles Thurston seem totally self-centered, petty, small. But then he’d sent her to London. And caused her to kill.
“I need…” she hesitated, unwilling to commit. “Time. I need time.”
“There is no time. And your brother won’t do. He’s become very skillful in the healing arts, true, but this rescue calls for a changeling. He can’t alter his appearance. But you can. You’re doing it right now.”
Am I? she wondered. She was equally comfortable in her human form as her faery one. Which was real? Too many questions. She needed time to think, time to heal.
“You’re the only one who can do this Nora. You’re someone very special.”
Everything he said seemed to have a double meaning. He needed her. She was special. Was he doing this on purpose? Saying all the beautiful things she really wanted to hear, disguised as mission details?
He pushed off against the ground again and the carousel circled a little bit faster, her colorful horse bobbing gently up and down.
“You don’t read as a faery,” he explained. “They’ve taken special precautions at the Salt Tower. Garlic and St. John’s Wort all around the place. Iron wards nailed to the doorways. A full-blooded faery can’t get near the place. But they don’t affect you. They have dogs—dogs that can sniff out faeries—but they won’t give you so much as a second glance. You can get to him. You can help us get him out. Only you.”
“No,” he said, smiling his enigmatic smile. “You’ve gained everything. Don’t you see? You can go anywhere. Be anyone. You are free to do whatever you want.”
“As a faery…”
“You are a faery! And faeries know that everything can be changed. Life is to be lived and enjoyed. What else is it for?” He laughed and that should have infuriated her even more but it didn’t. His utterly joyful and robust laugh that she had come to love. He wasn’t laughing at her. He was laughing at the whole world.
Chapter 47
King George awoke with a muffled scream.
Oh, Lord, keep and protect me.
It was so dark he wasn’t sure where he was, but the outline of the window spoke to his recollection and the bedposts came slowly into focus. Still abed, still abed. Just dreaming. Oh, Charlotte, Charlotte…
He reached into the blankets beside him but found them empty. Charlotte?
He sat up, still breathing heavily. He felt nauseous. What was happening to him? Where was he? In their bedroom. Of course. In their bedroom at St James’s. Why did everything seem so strange?
He heard an eerie low grunting sound. The noise was coming from Charlotte’s dressing room, just off the Royal bedchamber. The grunting sounded very similar to a wild boar after it had been pierced during a hunt.
He went to the door and jiggled the handle. Locked.
“Charlotte?”
The noise stopped abruptly. He heard some item of glass being knocked over. Then the grunting resumed, having taken on significantly more urgency than before. He jiggled the handle again. “Charlotte?”
