Comet Weather

by Liz Williams

  Comet Weather

  Also by Liz Williams

  from NewCon Press

  A Glass of Shadow (2011)

  The Light Warden (2015)

  With Trevor Jones:

  Diary of a Witchcraft Shop (2011)

  Diary of a Witchcraft Shop 2 (2013)

  Comet Weather

  Liz Williams

  NewCon Press

  England

  First published in March 2020 by NewCon Press,

  41 Wheatsheaf Road, Alconbury Weston, Cambs, PE28 4LF

  NCP220 (limited edition hardback)

  NCP221 (softback)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ‘Comet Weather’ copyright © 2020 by Liz Williams

  Cover Art copyright © 2020 by

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN:

  978-1-912950-45-4 (hardback)

  978-1-912950-46-1 (softback)

  Cover by Ian Whates

  Text edited by Ian Whates

  Book interior layout by Storm Constantine

  Part One

  When the Comet Comes

  Bee

  Beatrice Fallow was in the orchard, waiting for Dark, when she heard the voice in the tree. It was an evening in early October, with the windfalls scattered among the blown leaves. The orchard smelled of cider and of rot. Above Bee’s head, there were stars in the branches of the apple trees; Orion climbing high to the east with the blue dog at his heels, the bright handle of the Plough. Bee watched the clouds scudding over the thin rind of the moon, and that was when the voice came from the elder tree.

  She’ll soon be home. It was a cold voice, as small and hard as the moon itself.

  Bee was more surprised at the content of the message than by the nature of its delivery.

  “What? Who?”

  Why, your far sister.

  “Are you talking about Nell?” Bee frowned. The trees were prone to speak in metaphor. “She’s my cousin, not my sister. From America. I spoke to her this evening, on the phone.” A more reliable method of communication, she almost said.

  Not the one from over-water. The starry one.

  “Stella?” Her heart leaped, beat, subsided. “But Stella –”

  Stella had said she was never coming home again. Not after what had happened last time. Bee thought that her heart had adjusted to the rhythm of loss: first her mother, then Stella. But now it leaped painfully in her chest.

  She’ll soon be here.

  Bee did not know exactly what this meant. To the trees, time was a fluid thing, stretchy as elastic. They did their best and she did her best, too, to help them.

  “What phase of the moon? Can you tell me that?”

  The new moon. Before the comet comes.

  Bee had read about this in the paper: Lerninsky’s Comet, coming round to the world again after a handful of thousand years. She tried to keep up with astronomical news, to keep her grandfather’s professorial legacy alive. None of the girls had followed in his footsteps, but Bee felt someone ought to take an interest. Just in case Abraham did not already know about these things, but might want to be informed. And this would be a winter star, visible until the end of the year, so the papers said. Like the one that had heralded the birth of the winter child, at Christmas, at Solstice. It did not surprise Bee that the elder tree seemed to know all about this, but it did make her sorry to know that neither her grandfather nor his daughter would be here to see it. Abraham would have had a professional fascination; Alys would have seen the romance.

  “About Stella. Do you know why she’s coming?”

  But the elder tree was silent. Bee could see it in the light of the moon, a collection of spindly twigs, stripped down beneath the remaining leaves. In spring, the tree was a frothy mass of sea-foam blossom; in early autumn it had been laden with sticky black berries that looked as though they should have been poisonous, but which had already been picked for jelly. Soon the elder would be withied and bare, prone to spurts of sudden temper.

  “All right,” Bee said, in resignation. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to wait.”

  The elder lapsed into silence. Bee kicked aside windfalls, sending them rolling into the long grass and trailing the smell of ferment. She listened, for the sound of Dark’s footstep among the trees, and soon enough, she heard it.

  Serena

  Serena had a mouthful of pins when her mobile rang. She spat them into the palm of her hand and scattered them across the table. Under the needle of the sewing machine, the dress was as pink and folded as a woman’s flesh.

  “Sorry,” Serena said, indistinctly. “Didn’t catch that, Bee. Everything okay?”

  “I said – have you heard from Stella lately?”

  “Yes.” Serena wasn’t surprised by the question; it was like Bee, the mother hen, to check up on them all. But since Alys wasn’t here any more… Bee had taken on the role, as the eldest daughter. On the family frontline at thirty four, if you didn’t count a small bevy of ancient great-aunts, which Serena did not. Cards at Christmas and, if you were lucky, a handknitted object, all the way from Inverness. How old was Cousin Nell, though? Bee said something unintelligible, interrupting Serena’s familial calculations. In the background, Charlie’s machine hummed and whirred; Charlie was bent over it, her face frowning with concentration. “Hang on a minute, love. It’s a bit noisy in here.”

  Picking up the phone, she wandered down the stairs to the first floor. A chilly light fell in through the long windows, casting shadows across the floorboards. Serena shivered, though the room itself was not cold: decorated in shades of eggshell pink, its walls were scarcely visible between the mass of pictures. Gilded wooded letters spelled out her initials and Bella’s on the mantelpiece, between incense holders and carved spheres and goddesses and photos and flowers. Above the fire, her own face, a long beaky-nosed oval like an Italian portrait, gazed down, serene indeed.

  But sometimes Serena thought that her mother must have had a very poor sense of humour, to give her the name that she bore. ‘Serene,’ indeed! ‘Panic’ might have served her better. Chaos?

  “Serena, are you there?” Her sister’s voice was tinny over the phone.

  Distracta? Dishevel? “Sorry, Bee, what did you say?” She decided to lie. “Honestly, this is a dreadful line. Builders next door – the whole place is like a warzone.”

  She’d apologise to the house later, she thought.

  “I said, when you saw Stella, did she say anything about coming down to Somerset?”

  This time, Serena was genuinely startled. She perched on the arm of the sofa and fumbled one-handed for a cigarette. “No. God! Frankly that’s the last thing I’d have expected her to do. She said something about a gig in Ibiza, but that’s all. Mind you, you never know with Stella. She’s not staying with me, anyway.”

  “Because someone said she might be coming down here. Implied she might be abroad, which would account for Ibiza, I suppose.”

  Serena frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “One of her friends.” There was the tiniest pause before ‘friends.’

  “I wouldn’t put much store in anything one of Stella’s mates said. You know what they’re like. Half of them are my friends, too and honestly, Bee, if some of them wished me good afternoon I’d look out of the window to see if it was dark. Loads of fun, but… Anyway, what was one of that crowd doing down your way out of festival time? Did they get lost?” Another, more pertinent, thought struck her. “Why don’t you just ask her?”

  “Actually, I tried. I texted her. Despite – well, in spite of that. But she’s not answering her phone. Maybe she is out of the country?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. If she’s changed
her mind she’ll let you know soon enough. And I wouldn’t worry about the row, either. It wasn’t your fault. Stella knows when she’s being unreasonable. You just have to give her a bit of time to get over herself and then she’ll apologise. If she was wrong, anyway. And on this occasion, she was. You did all you could, Bee. And Stella didn’t have any more luck with the police than anyone else did.”

  “I suppose so.” Bee sounded dubious and changed the subject. “So how are you?”

  Even though her sister could not see her, Serena grimaced. What, you mean apart from Mum? But they’d stopped talking about Alys, by unspoken consent, and Bee had just dodged that very subject. “Oh, you know. Getting on with it. Business is okay. I’ve got a big show booked up for London Fashion Week – I’m really pleased about that.”

  “That’s great! When is that?”

  “Not till February.”

  “And how about you? Are you still with Ben?”

  “Yeah, as far as I know.” Bee had always been one for the direct question, but to Serena’s irritation, her answer had sounded more snappy than she’d intended. It caught her by surprise and made her snag her breath, like pricking yourself with a pin. “He’s off doing a gig in Liverpool at the moment, though. Coming back in a day or so’s time. We’ll have to see how the land lies then.”

  She was grateful that Beatrice, sometimes, had learned not to push. Instead, her sister said, “Well, I hope it goes well.”

  “Thanks. How are things with you? Are you still coming up to London next week?” That had been almost as surprising as the idea of Stella going back home. When Bee had told her, by text a few days before, she’d said, before she could stop herself, “But you never go anywhere!” Nul points when it came to sisterly tact.

  Now, Bee said, “We’re planning to. Nell gets in tomorrow – I’m picking her up at Bristol. She wants to spend a few days here going through stuff and recovering from jetlag.”

  “But she doesn’t want to spend the whole trip holed up in Abraham’s study.”

  “Well, she won’t. She’s planning to go down to Cornwall for a day or two to see a friend, and then we’ll come up to town on the Wednesday, if that’s still all right with you. Maybe I could see Stella then…” Her voice faded doubtfully away.

  “Maybe.” Serena hadn’t meant to sound so dubious, either. “Why don’t you text Stel again? She doesn’t seem to be answering her Facebook messages at the moment, either. But it would be great to see you.” She meant that, anyway. “Let me know what time you and Nell arrive and we can meet up for lunch. Or you can come here straight away and dump your bags.”

  When Bee had put the phone down, Serena remained on the arm of the chair and lit the cigarette. She couldn’t smoke upstairs: Charlie didn’t like it and there was too much fabric around for safety. With the cigarette in hand, feeling the familiar guilty pang – she really should think about giving up – she went back to the window and looked out. It was now dusk, with the streetlights showing in dim misty globes through the murk. More like November than October… Serena shivered. She tried to turn her thoughts back to the dress, to the new collection, but somehow her mind had become stuck in a spiral, circling around Bee and Stella and Nell, whom Serena had met once in New York, for lunch, and once at a wedding in Connecticut. She wished the family could be closer, but they were all so different – Bee the home body, looking after the house down in Somerset; Serena with her fashion; Stella with – well, whatever Stella happened to be doing to eke out a living – and finally Luna, going off to live in that bloody van and now who knew where? Four sisters, like the four winds, the four corners of the Earth: all scattered now.

  And Alys, mother to them all. Gone gone gone.

  Outside, it was now completely dark. Serena took her mobile out of her pocket and checked it; there was nothing. More to the point, nothing from Ben. Sighing, she made her way back upstairs to the light and the clatter of the sewing machine.

  Ben did not call. Serena stayed up until midnight, working on a new frock. Charlie had long since gone, heading out for a night in the Bellnote, then the Soundhouse. She’d suggested that Serena go with her, but the thought of all those hyped-up people, hellbent on enjoying themselves, made Serena feel old.

  “Oh come on,” Charlie said, when Serena told her this. “You’re only thirty-one, for God’s sake. It’s not like you’re totally ancient.”

  “I feel ancient.” She spoke sepulchrally, to make Charlie laugh, and succeeded. “I just want a quiet night in for a change. With my zimmer frame.”

  Charlie giggled again. “With your cocoa and your slippers.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Years ago, her mother’s voice: I hope you’re not staying in because some boy might call, Serena. That had been in the days of the single landline, just on the cusp of every teenager having their own mobile, but reception at Mooncote hadn’t been good then and still wasn’t. Now, with all these choices, there was no excuse. No excuse at all, only the ache of your heart. Well, what did you expect, going out with a musician? This time the voice in memory was Beatrice’s, exasperated. Serena had bit back a sharp reply, because of family lore, the part of it that said that all they’d ever wanted for Bee was for her to find someone of her own and not moulder away down in the country, still living with her mother and granddad, before that all changed, seemingly content and yet…

  Yeah, I know, she told herself, looking at her reflection in the mirror. What did you expect? For answer, she held up the frock: a black froth, its hem dangling with hundreds of tiny rosebuds. Goth was back, again, but it had to be pretty. Against the black lace, Serena’s flicks of blonde hair looked even paler. The black would wash her out, too severe. Lucky it wasn’t for her, then. And the dress would dominate her too much if she put it on; she didn’t have the height of the models.

  You, she told herself, want to start making dresses for real women again. The whole point of the new collection was the exposure: drama and flash, but alongside that had to come the clothes for people who weren’t professional clothes horses, her regular customers.

  At nine, the phone did ring and she bolted for it, to find that it was Bella.

  “Mum? Sorry. Didn’t know if you’d still be up.”

  “It’s only nine.”

  “Yes. But –” Old people go to bed early, Serena mentally supplied.

  “You okay, Bells?”

  “Yeah. Tired. School.”

  “Is your dad there? Do you still want to come back here tomorrow?”

  “I suppose. Yeah. Is that still all right?”

  “Of course,” Serena said, and her daughter hung up. She looked out of the window again, into the north-east dark to Highgate, where Bella had just put down a phone.

  Stella

  The Mediterranean light fell hard on the coast, slamming down onto blue sea and black rock. Around the tables and chairs of the café, the shadows pooled like ink. Stella shuffled bare feet against hot stone and tapped yet another text message into her mobile. Why did things have to get so complicated?

  Do the gig. Come back home, flying into Luton on Easyjet. Take the train to Somerset, from Paddington. It wasn’t rocket science. It would be a quick trip and when she returned from Somerset she would stay with Serena and figure out her next move. Goa or Amsterdam, perhaps: wherever Liam wasn’t. But this trip was straightforward.

  Except nobody else seemed to agree with her. Especially the railway booking service.

  I know I said I’d never go home again. But that was then and this is now. It wasn’t so raw any more and she never thought she’d say that. With a sigh, Stella put the phone back into her backpack and rose.

  The route from the café took her through bright white streets, narrowing into pools of shadow. It was late afternoon, with the sun deepening down from midday. The air smelled of thyme from the hillsides and a nose-wrinkling tang of exhaust and fried food from the town below. Stella walked past closed shop fronts, admiring printed dresses and ornate jewell
ery: expensive, rich-boho gear of the kind her sister made. Maybe Serena’s stuff was even sold here; Stella did not know. She didn’t shop in places like that. Her reflection – white vest, azure sarong – flitted alongside in the mirrors of windows and her flip-flops slapped against the stone. Her reflection wasn’t entirely disappointing, she thought: she still had a swimmer’s strong calves, the broad shoulders. Not too bad, even if she was just about to hit thirty. Perhaps thirty would hit back? She’d never got into the habit of siesta but she liked the fact that the town was so quiet, settling into somnolence before the evening, when the bars and the shops and the clubs re-opened into mayhem.

  When she came to Nightside, she slipped around the back of the building rather than through the front doors and stepped into the small makeshift kitchen that lay behind the bulk of the club. Someone had not washed up, again. Stella ignored the mess and went through into the huge echoing space in front of the stage that, later, would be filled with thrashing bodies and strobe lights. Her deck stood on the far side of the stage. Stella did a quick equipment check, but she knew what she was planning for the evening. Something a little bit different tonight, before she had to head back to London. Something for them to remember her by.

  Her nerves were on edge in case Liam showed up and wanted a re-hash of the discussion – she was determined to keep thinking of it as a discussion – of the night before. Stella gave an exasperated sigh. She didn’t think she could cope with more tears. In theory it was great to be in favour of men showing their more sensitive side, just not right now, and especially not when she thought she had made it clear all along that it was just a seasonal thing. Anyway, best to be brisk now and not keep the poor bloke dangling. But she didn’t like having to be cruel to be kind. She did not feel good about the whole thing.