by Ken Altabef
He banged on the door. “Why is this door locked? Charlotte!”
The grunting grew to a crescendo then abated again. “Yes George,” she whispered from the other side. “I’ll be out presently.”
“What are you doing in there? That noise…”
“Just my morning exercises, that’s all dear.”
“But it’s not yet dawn. This is highly irregular.”
The door opened and his beloved wife, her hair perfectly quaffed, stepped into the bedroom. George felt a wave of relief at seeing her face. Everything would be a’right now, he was certain of it. “Charlotte…”
“Whyever are you up so early?” she asked.
“Oh, Charlotte. I can hardly say. Such a nightmare I had. Such a fright. Terrible. It defies description.”
“Come to bed dear, and you may tell me all about it. Come to bed.” She licked her lower lip and if the gesture had meant to be suggestive George did not fully appreciate the appeal. He felt nauseous again. There seemed to be the stench of brimstone.
Charlotte led him to the bed and helped him crawl beneath the warm covers.
“Frightful,” he said, “frightful.”
“I’ve always been told that talking about a bad dream will make its horror go away. What was it? Tell me.”
“God help me, I dreamt our child is a monster!”
“No. No, surely not.” She wiped his brow with her warm hand and planted a soft kiss.
“I saw it. I saw him born. He was a ghoul. He had the face of an old man, shriveled limbs, sharp pointed teeth.”
“Shush now. That’s enough.” She cuddled him close and he did begin to feel better.
“His skin… the child was green!”
“That is silly, isn’t it dear? You know our child will be blond and beautiful. The heir to the throne! A wonderful boy. No more bad dreams. I won’t allow them!” She laughed. Charlotte had a cautious laugh but hearing it did sooth his inner turmoil.
“Don’t worry about this dream any more, George. In a few days we are to host our grand costume ball. That will surely lift your spirits, won’t it? Of course it will.”
“Yes, dear. Of course it will.”
Theodora had been helping Moonshadow prepare her mid-day meal when Threadneedle burst into the kitchen to tell them the news. Moonshadow had inherited her house from Moon Dancer. The entire building was sculpted into one of the giant petrified mushrooms off of Barrow Downes’ central forum. From the kitchen’s second floor window, one could look out across the whole faery settlement.
“The Dark Queen?” asked Moonshadow. “Are you certain?”
“Dead certain,” replied Threadneedle. “I couldn’t see through her glamour, not directly. But I know her. I know the look in her eye.”
“You knew Dresdemona well…” Theodora said.
“That was a long time ago, but yes. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s her. Her retinue is mostly faeries too. Impersonating her hand maids, and her elder brother…” He blew out a long, frustrated sigh. “I know him too. Aldebaran. He’s Nephilim. Son of a demon and a faery.”
Theodora laid down the knife she’d been using to chop carrots. “Nephilim? I’ve never met one.”
“There aren’t many of them, as far as I know. Aldebaran’s a particularly nasty one too. I’ve tangled with him before. He doesn’t just put on a glamour, he actually transforms. He leads the Wild Hunt. I’ve seen him turn himself into some horrible sort of a beast, part wolf, part wild stallion.” Threadneedle let out a hollow chuckle. “I think that might be his natural state. I don’t know.”
“You mean to say that a faery has married the King of England and Ireland?” Moonshadow asked.
“Just that.”
“What did they do with the real ones, do you think?” Theodora asked. “Killed them?”
“I couldn’t say about the brother or the handmaids,” Threadneedle conjectured. “But I doubt Dresdemona would have disposed of the princess. Not yet. She could still be useful as a bargaining chip if their plan goes suddenly wrong.”
“If true for her, then also for us.” Theodora remarked.
“Yes. If we might find her…” said Moonshadow. “But where?”
“She can’t be in the city,” said Threadneedle. “I’d know already.”
Theodora clicked her teeth. “Could be anywhere.”
They stood silent for a moment until Moonshadow added, “She has a spy among us.”
“How so?” asked Threadneedle.
“All of her actions,” she continued. “They fit a pattern, don’t they? We were getting close to King George—Theodora, you announced it at the Festival of Lights, remember?”
I remember, thought Theodora. I was bluffing about the King, but it turned out to be true.
Moonshadow continued, “Everyone in Barrow Downes knew. So Dresdemona murdered the King, or had him murdered, with a faery stroke.”
“But why do that?” Theodora asked. “We were so close. Why not have a place of our own? Why wouldn’t Dresdemona want that too?”
“Because she doesn’t care about some petty fiefdom for the faeries,” said Threadneedle, picking up on Moonshadow’s theory. “She’s playing for a bigger prize. A much bigger prize. She’s sitting on the throne of England and Ireland, and who knows what else is in the bargain? There’s a war on with France, you know.”
“The Wild Hunt,” Moonshadow said. “Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Meant to ruin Eric’s chances at court.”
Theodora groaned. It made her sick to think all their plans had been thwarted by one of their own.
Threadneedle said, “She’s been two steps ahead of us at every turn.”
“And so there must be a spy among us.”
Threadneedle grinned. “Besides me?”
“A false face among false faces?” said Theodora. “Of course.”
“Well,” offered Threadneedle, “she’s had the advantage thus far, but there’s still the three of us. If we keep our plans close…”
Moonshadow slammed her fist down on the counter. This had really gotten under her skin. Theodora had never seen her so angry before. She’d never seen Moonshadow angry at all. “I will find this spy.”
And then what? Theodora wondered. She had little idea what Moonshadow was capable of doing to a traitor. She thought it best to change the subject. “We need to find the German princess—Charlotte. If she’s still alive. They must have waylaid her on her way from Mecklenburg. She landed at Dartmouth?”
“No. There was some foul weather asea. The Lady Charlotte put in at Witham,” corrected Threadneedle. “An overnight stay with Lord Abercorn. A royal escort from Witham to London. An ambush somewhere along that route? Too many witnesses. No, they must have made the switch somewhere in Germany.”
“That leaves us high and dry,” Theodora said. “They could have taken the princess anywhere.”
Threadneedle massaged his short beard. “Not anywhere. They’d want to have her close at hand, in case something goes wrong for them. I have a general area to work on, and plenty of contacts all along the Portobello road. I’ll press my sources.”
“As to the traitor in our midst,” said Moonshadow. “I will press mine.”
Chapter 48
Eric forced himself to remember Marjorie Hightower. The grand-daughter of the Earl of Kent, they had met only two times—or perhaps three—as children. She had been a pretty girl, wide-eyed and full of life. Eric had sent her some few letters, though they’d been written in large part by his father’s steward. Over the years he’d thought little about her. It was only in seeing her ghost, that sad and lonely shade moldering at the bottom of the lake, that he’d come to think of her at all.
Had he grieved when she’d drowned? Had he cried? He couldn’t remember. But he must have.
Had he pushed her in? He couldn’t remember. Held her face down? Murdered an innocent, trusting child?
He tried to remember any of it but couldn’t.
Did he doubt it? No. Theodora co
uld not lie to him while they shared the mind link. She’d tried, naming that rascal Meadowlark as the killer. A convenient lie. But that lie had been meant only to spare his feelings. She’d said she hadn’t known and that was the truth. She wouldn’t have gone along. That was true too.
Eric was left with no one to blame. Moon Dancer had died a decade ago. She could not answer for herself; she could never pay for her sins. Was it fair to condemn them all, for the actions of one?
What did it matter anyway? He was unlikely to ever see a faery again. He was never getting out of this cell, except on his way to Hangman’s Hill. It’s all over. I’ve nothing left. Nothing.
A sturdy tapping came at the door.
“Visitor,” said a husky voice. “Stand clear!”
“I don’t want any—”
The key rattled in the lock and the door swung open revealing a heavy-set man in a powdered wig. Garrick Warburton.
“Step inside, sir.”
Warburton shuffled forward. “Yewh! Terrible drafty place.”
“Ten minutes,” said the Yeoman Warder. He stepped back and shut the door.
The lawyer held out a pudgy hand. “Eric, my dear. I trust you are well?”
Eric neither rose from the cot nor extended his hand. He attempted to indicate he was fine but a wet, phlegmy cough interrupted his assurances.
“Nasty, drafty place,” said Warburton.
“It doesn’t matter.” Eric’s hand went unconsciously to his neck.
“Ah, but I bring good news!” The lawyer smiled, but there was something strange about it. Eric had never seen the man smile that way before.
“You’ve been pardoned,” Warburton said.
Eric scoffed. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s no joke. It’s just… an unofficial sort of pardon.”
The lawyer’s face transformed. The thick doughy lines sharpened into a smooth, lean face. The bulbous nose shrank down into a smaller, much prettier, one. It was his daughter Nora!
Strange to see her face atop the burly frame of the lawyer, but she’d been careful to alter only the part of her that faced inside the cell, so that only Eric could see.
Eric shrank back. He knew Nora could alter her appearance by putting on a glamour but he had never actually seen her do it before, except on stage and that hadn’t seemed real. In his current frame of mind, the sight was not at all welcome.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
She eased herself down on the cot. “We’ve arranged an escape,” she whispered excitedly. “Only one chance. Today. Otherwise, well, you know what will happen.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Father!” she whispered. “You know what will happen.”
“I belong here,” he said.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Guess again.” He couldn’t bear to tell her about Marjorie Hightower. He wouldn’t.
“You only tried to help them.”
“Yes, there’s that too. And I’m not sure in the end that helping them was the right thing to do.” A rattling cough interrupted their conversation.
“The faeries should be free,” she said. “How many times have you told me that? Oppression is wrong.”
“And so is deception, the hallmark of the faery folk.”
“Everyone deceives, father, in their own way.”
He wanted to tell her. Heaven help me, he thought, I do want to tell her. “They tricked me. They made me do things.” That was as far as he could go.
A pained look crossed her face. He saw it, for an instant, just before she resumed the image of Warburton.
“What was that?” he asked. “What did they do to you? What did they make you do?”
“We’ll sort all that out later. First, we have to get you out of here.”
“I won’t have you putting yourself in danger for me. And what about Warburton? It’s all very well and good for you to impersonate the man but the way you’re going you’ll get him hanged as well.”
“He won’t. He’s at the House of Parliament right now, in full view of everybody. And they’ll never know it was me, either. It’s all arranged.”
“Arranged by whom?”
“Mother. Threadneedle. Your friends.”
He waved her off. “It’s just not a good idea. I don’t know what’s right any more.”
“What can I do to convince you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re not well,” she said. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
He said nothing more.
“Fine. Rot in here, then.” Warburton hauled himself up from the cot and gave the door a couple of fierce knocks.
“Stand aside,” said the Warder.
The door creaked open and Warburton, noticing the iron horseshoe hung on the outside, gave the trinket a little tap. “Keeps the blights away, does it?”
“Yes sir.”
The door creaked closed, but Eric heard the rest of their conversation. “It’s good stuff. From Panama. It’ll wake you up.”
“Well…”
“Take a pinch. It’s the least I can do.”
Eric rushed to the door just in time to see Warburton emptying some snuff from a pouch. He pretended to stumble forward a step, holding his hand out to the Warder and blew a cloud of the stuff into the man’s face. The yeoman stumbled backward, blinded and coughing. Warburton plucked the baton from his waist and smacked him on the back of the head with it. The man crumpled to the floor.
“Nora!” Eric hissed.
Warburton pushed open the door, which had not yet been locked. She struggled to drag the unconscious man into the room but despite her bulky appearance, she was not strong enough to succeed.
“Help me!” she said, using her own, natural voice. Hearing his daughter speak those words, Eric was helpless to resist. She had endangered herself already and showed no signs of backing off. He had no choice. They dragged the guard inside.
“Take his sword,” she said.
Eric hesitated.
“There’s no point in you dying, father. Dying in disgrace.”
“Alright,” he allowed.
“We’ll sort this out later,” they both said in unison.
Eric picked up the sword, a light, military-style saber. “Only to parry blows,” he said. “I will not harm an officer of the courts. They have wives and families too, you know.”
“As you wish, father.”
Nora put on a new glamour, taking the shape of the guard. “Hands behind your back, father, as if they’re tied. Here we go.”
She glanced around the room, then finally said, “No, that isn’t quite right. Give me back the sword.”
She put a fierce look on the guard’s pilfered face. “Now,” she said in a gruff voice, “I don’t expect any trouble out of the likes of you. Move along!” Eric was impressed. Nora had become quite an accomplished actress.
He stepped out into the hall and she gave him a gentle shove.
“This ruse might pass the other warders,” he whispered, “They mostly stick to their own business but the block warden will know. And we must pass him to get down the stairs.”
“Quiet, you scurvy dog,” she said. She couldn’t help a chuckle.
“It’s not at all funny.”
“I said quiet!”
She propelled him down the hall. Luckily there were no other guards in evidence but the Yeoman Sergeant was indeed seated at a small desk near the stair.
“What’s this?” he said, hauling himself to his feet. He was a large man stuffed into a too-small uniform. “Jenkins? What are you doing with that visitor?”
“Escorting him to the gardens for his exercise, sir.”
“What are you playing at, you idiot? That man does not have garden privileges. No one in this tower does.”
Nora stepped right up to the man, putting a bewildered look on Jenkins’ face.
“Take this man back to his cell. Immediately.”
>
“I have the papers right here.” She held up her hand. Though it was obviously empty, the Sergeant’s eyes were drawn to it nonetheless. Nora did not have the ability to project faery lights but she employed a trick that Threadneedle had shown her some months before. She altered the glamour on her hand to make it seem as if made of bright flashing light. The yeoman Sergeant squawked and jerked his head away, but it was clear he had been temporarily blinded.
Eric swept the yeoman’s feet out from under and he toppled backward. Eric stomped on his hand as he reached for his blade.
They rushed for the stairs.
“Faeries!” shouted the Sergeant. “Faeries!”
Even in his blindness he managed to reach his hand out the window and give the bell rope a few sturdy tugs. The alarm echoed down the stairwell.
Eric and Nora rushed down the circular stair, the alarm bells ringing in their ears and shouts rising all around. When they reached the first floor landing a guard called down at them from the second. Below, a squad of three men came charging up the stair from the ground floor.
“It’s no good,” Eric said. “We aren’t going to make it.”
Chapter 49
“Moonshadow leads us because she is wise and gentle.” That’s what she’d heard Gryfflet say at the Festival of Lights. But Moonshadow wondered if it was actually true.
She was young for a faery, only thirty-five. Almost still a child. And yet she had been put in charge. How had it happened? Moon Dancer had several other children in Barrow Downes and some, like Theodora, her senior by a hundred years or more.
So what makes me so different? she wondered. A legend, I suppose. A legend is a powerful thing. In Moonshadow, Moon Dancer had specifically set out to create an heir. It being almost impossible for a faery at such an extreme age to conceive a child, drastic measures had been taken. No one in the Summer Court knew who had been the father. The prevailing rumor had it that Moon Dancer had conceived Moonshadow with Mother Moon, and considering Moonshadow’s intense affinity for the moon’s silver light, the source of power that embodied all the fey folk, it was easy to believe. She felt such a closeness to Mother Moon, a much stronger bond, she thought, than the others could claim.
