Nando shook his head. “Another two nights and I think that Lord Northgalis was going to dig that up.” He jerked his chin toward the barrow.
“Well, tell them that won’t do any good. They won’t find a way into the fairy lands that way.” Charles thought for a minute. “All right, Nando, listen carefully. Tell them that my sister is well—they’re treating her like she’s queen here—but that the fairy lord is going to marry her as soon as his guests have arrived to witness it. Lochinvar and Lorrie have to come up with a plan soon. I’m racking my brains, but it’s uphill work and they keep me busy—”
“Charles?” said a plaintive voice, and Margaret was there, picking her way through the undergrowth. “You’re taking a long time—oh.” She looked at Nando with interest. “Are you another boy?”
“Yes he is, and he’s just leaving.” Charles took her arm and began to steer her back out of the woods. For some reason he didn’t want Nando talking to her—or about her to everyone when he got back to Galiswood.
“I come back tomorrow, but how can I be getting word to you if there’s any news?” Nando called after them.
“I—I’ll try to come back, or something. Go, quick, and tell them what I told you,” Charles said over his shoulder.
“I could come back for you and see if he has news,” Margaret said, when they were back in the clearing.
Charles stopped. “Could you? Really?”
“Well, of course. Why couldn’t I?”
“Er…” Charles looked at her doubtfully. Could she be trusted to help him, when it came right down to it? Would she be willing to cross her very powerful brother, of whom she seemed to be at least somewhat fond and definitely in awe? “Maybe I should have said, would you?”
She had stopped too; now she raised herself on her toes and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “I would—for you.”
And for the rest of the evening, Charles was sure he’d be able to get Persy home. In fact, he felt capable of anything.
Unfortunately, that feeling of invincibility waned in the next hours and days as no plan to rescue Persy occurred to him. Nor had one occurred to Lochinvar and Lorrie; Margaret slipped out as she’d said she would, even telling her brother that she’d left her shawl in the clearing and getting his permission to pass back through the guarded door. Although it was daylight when she arrived, meaning Nando wasn’t there, there was an envelope pinned to the tree next to which he had crouched when they last saw him.
There was no chance for Charles to read it right away; the first of the wedding guests had arrived, and he was busy attending the fairy lord as he welcomed them. He’d had to serve at the welcoming meal that had been laid for them, then hung about in Persy’s rooms, willing encouragement to her when the group of newcomers were brought to be presented to her. Though they were almost exaggeratedly polite to her—Charles got the feeling that they were somehow beholden to the fairy lord and didn’t dare do anything even remotely disrespectful—they still gawked at her like she was an exhibit in a menagerie. Only hours later (it seemed) was he allowed to return to his room to get some sleep, which was a good thing: he’d been close to exploding, wanting to read the note carefully tucked into his tunic but of course not risking it in front of the fairy lord.
The note was from Lochinvar. It expressed the general relief at Galiswood that he was alive and well and free to move about, and assured him that they were doing all they could to think of a way to extricate Persy. Lorrie had even gone down to London to consult with her parents and pore through the books on fairy lore in their bookshop. It ended with Lochinvar sending his love to Persy, in handwriting that bespoke his frustration and longing almost more eloquently than his words.
Charles let the note drop and slumped back against the pillows on his bed, staring morosely at nothing. So they were no closer than he was to finding help for Persy, and wedding guests were already arriving. How much longer before they’d all arrived, and it was time for the ceremony binding Persy to the fairy lord for always? There would be no returning to Galiswood and Lochinvar then—not for Persy, and not for him. After all, how could he just abandon her here?
His abstracted gaze fell on the stool under the window that held his still-folded coat and vest and trousers. It didn’t look like he’d be needing them anymore, did it? Except that Margaret was always asking him to wear them for her. She probably liked them because they made him look more human—and he was her exotic pet human, wasn’t he? What would happen when she grew bored with him? Or when she was married off to some other fairy princeling as part of her brother’s machinations and left him all alone?
Sitting on top of the pile of clothes was his summer reading book from Eton. Ha. Just a couple of weeks ago, the most horrible thing he had to face was reading a lot of dry history over his holiday. Funny how things could change in such a short time.
He got off the bed and picked up the book. History and Policy of the Norman and Angevin Kings…it looked almost pleasant and cozy, now, like a book of bedtime stories. In fact, that was exactly what it had become for him: a reminder that the human world still existed somewhere, a world where history tutors and Lord Chesterfield, Galiswood and Mage’s Tutterow, his mother and father and sister Pen and the new niece he’d never see all went on living their lives under the summer sun.
He opened the book to the place where he’d left off reading last, and dove back into his own world. After several pages his eyes had begun to droop, but they flew open once more when he came to a certain passage:
“Despite his frequent travel across the length and breadth of England to put down rebellions and incursions from Scotland, Wales and Northumbria, William of Normandy’s success in consolidating his hold on his new island possession by treaty and gift as well as by the sword was noteworthy. According to one source, The Chronicle of St. Aelfled of Bermondsey, his confidence in his ability to make a year-long visit to Normandy in 1074, leaving England in the hands of his most trusted supporters, was probably made possible by the treaty he negotiated and signed, after three years of often bloody battle, with the fairy folk of Wessex, whose lord swore him fealty. Though this tale must be taken with all due scepticism, it is yet indicative of William’s ability in the—”
Charles blinked, and read the passage again more slowly. He sat up and stared out his window for several moments, his mind working furiously, and then he clapped the book shut and went to look for pen and paper and Margaret. Maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way to get Persy home.
Chapter Eight
“Was he there?” Charles demanded.
But Margaret was too busy checking him over. “It didn’t hurt you, did it? Did they get it off you quickly enough?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Was he there?”
When Charles had found Margaret and told her his plan, she’d been dubious but agreed to smuggle a letter out to leave for Nando or, if possible, to give it to him in person. He had no idea if Lochinvar would be able to do as he’d asked, but he had to try.
The problem had been getting the letter out. Margaret couldn’t claim another shawl left in the dancing clearing; they’d have to find a way to sneak her past the door guards. The way that Charles had found was for him to stumble toward the guards with strands of carnivorous ivy, plucked from the nearby woods where it grew as happily as it did below Persy’s window, wrapped around his neck; hopefully they would come to the aid of their lord’s feckless human page, and Margaret could slip through the door and back again while they did.
Astonishingly, it worked—almost too well. Charles found a tree on which the ivy grew and let it twine itself around his neck and wrists, and then couldn’t break away from its evil grasp. His shrieks for help were much more authentic than he’d planned, but they did the job: both of the door guards came running to hack at the ivy and pull him away from the tree. But his cries also nearly brought Margaret running, too—Charles saw her emerge from her hiding place and start toward him as well before she paused, watched until the guards
had reached him, and turned toward the door.
Charles managed drag out sputtering and coughing and moaning at the sight of the bites on his wrists left by the ivy’s tiny mouths until he saw Margaret hurrying away from the door, her mission evidently completed. Only then did he let one of the guards help him back to the house while the other returned to his duties. Margaret took charge of him there, pretending to scold him for not paying attention to his surroundings as he’d been warned until they reached his room. Then she set about fussing over him instead of telling him whether or not she’d been able to give the letter to Nando. Girls. He would never understand them.
“Please, tell me before I explode—was Nando there?”
“No. It was daytime again, and it was raining, which was rather horrid.” Margaret wrinkled her nose as she inspected his neck. “Why do you let it do that?
“We don’t have much choice in the matter. What did you do with the letter?”
“I left it where I’d found his, of course. Don’t wiggle—I want to see this better.”
“You’re tickling me!”
But she wouldn’t relent, and made him come down to her mother’s rooms so she could smear his wounds—they were starting to smart and itch—with some sort of greenish paste that made them feel better immediately. He wished it had the same effect on his mind. Hopefully the letter for Lochinvar outlining his plan to rescue Persy wouldn’t (a) become so waterlogged by rain as to be illegible; (b) be found by someone other than Nando, and used to make candle-lighters; (c) be shredded by hedgehogs for nesting material; or (d) some other equally destructive fate which hadn’t yet occurred to him but would over the next several days of waiting and worrying and hoping.
He found a quiet moment to show Persy the letter from Lochinvar, hoping it would make her feel better. For a moment, it seemed to; she snatched the letter from him and read it eagerly, then ran her finger over the signature as if she could touch its owner…and then looked away, her mouth trembling.
Charles took her hand and patted it. “Don’t worry, Persy. I have a plan, and Lochinvar’s working on it. We’ll have you home before you know it.”
She tried to smile and mostly succeeded. “Thank you, Charles. I—whatever happens, thank you. I know you’ve tried, even if—”
“No ifs,” he broke in. “We’re going home, you and I. You’ll see.”
Maintaining such confidence when he was alone was far more difficult. It was almost torture, waiting to see if his plan would work without being able to actually carry any of it out himself. And to make matters worse, preparations for the wedding were picking up pace. More guests continued to arrive, which meant he must be on hand to play the role of the fairy lord’s loyal page at welcoming feasts and audiences, depending on the newcomers’ rank. Sometimes he would find the fairy lord’s eyes on him, watching him with an unreadable expression in their cold gray depths, and he would shiver inwardly, wondering if he knew or suspected that a plan was afoot to deprive him of his bride. Surely Margaret hadn’t told him about that letter…had she?
She too seemed on edge, following him around even more closely than she usually did, as if she didn’t want to let him out of her sight. Was it because she’d been ordered to watch him, or was it something else?
It was almost a relief, then, when the all the guests had arrived and all the preparations completed: from Persy’s dress, green silk with resplendent silver embroidery, to the wedding feast of strange delicacies, to the decorations in the great hall, jarringly adorned with both flowery garlands and the ragged, blood-stained battle standards taken by the fairy lord in the recent wars.
Also arrived was the dancing night the fairy lord had decided would take place before the ceremony, to enjoy the full July moon. Charles felt almost light-headed with nerves: this was it. If Lochinvar had been able to carry out his plan, it would happen tonight. Now all he had to do was keep himself from being sick or passing out at the fairy lord’s feet from sheer anxiety. He had decided not to tell Persy any details of her planned rescue; Charles wasn’t sure she could endure the tension…or the possible disappointment. She was looking almost frighteningly white and thin in her glorious gown; Margaret said that of late she ate barely enough to keep a flitwing alive, whatever a flitwing was.
The line of dancers that followed the fairy lord through the door to the dancing hill was a long one: not only most of his own household had come tonight, but close to two hundred guests as well. The more important of them joined the fairy lord and Persy on green-cushioned chairs and stools at the foot of the barrow, while the others wandered about exclaiming at the beauty of the clearing. The full moon rising above the trees poured glittering light into it so that it looked like a bowl of quicksilver. Torchlight punctuated the darkness at the edge of the trees, which was both a blessing and a curse: it helped conceal anyone who might approach the clearing, but made it impossible for him to keep watch for anyone who might come...oh God, please let them come—
“Let’s dance,” Margaret said, tugging at his hand. Tonight she was—oddly—dressed all in black, in some strange kind of fabric that looked as if it had been woven from shadows. Her pale face and silver-gilt hair were nearly swallowed up by all that darkness.
“I can’t. Not now.” Dancing would have been a relief—the nervous energy within him was fast approaching the boiling point—but he had to be ready in case something happened.
“But you have to!”
“Why?”
“Because…because it might be the last time I can ever dance with you,” she replied, almost whispering.
Oh. Charles looked at her—really looked—and saw that she was almost as tightly wound as he was. He’d told her about his plan to free Persy back when he’d asked her to sneak out the letter to Lochinvar, but hadn’t thought about how it would affect her.
He’d promised Lady Northgalis that he would take Margaret with him if he left the fairy lands, but that had been before. If his plan worked, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep that promise…and it looked as if Margaret had come to the same conclusion. He’d been so preoccupied with rescuing Persy that he hadn’t understood that it might mean never seeing Margaret again.
Without another word, he let her draw him toward the line of dancers. Margaret had at times been baffling, funny, clever, mysterious, and—well, a darling…and sometimes, all of those things at once. He’d never known anyone could be that way. Would he ever meet anyone who was, among the chattering hordes of girls in London’s polite society?
“Margaret,” he began, clasping her hands more tightly as the dance drew them together. “I—”
She shook her head, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. “No. Don’t say anything.”
Charles swallowed hard and made himself concentrate on the dance, because there was nothing else he could do. He—and Persy and Margaret and everyone else in the Fairy Lands and at Galiswood—were paused at a crossroad, waiting for events to send them down one path or another. Only time would tell which path that would be. In the meanwhile, he would hold Margaret’s hands and do his best to memorize her face, just in case.
He was so intent on this task that it wasn’t until the music stopped and the dancers around them abruptly ceased their measured steps and fell into confused knots that he looked up...and saw that Nando had walked into the middle of the crowded clearing. His back was straight and his head high; he met Charles’s eye and nodded slightly, but did not pause to speak to him. Instead, he maintained his measured tread until he came to within hailing distance of the fairy lord and his guests by the barrow.
“Come on,” Charles muttered to Margaret, and pulled her with him till they too were close to the barrow, but off to one side, near to Lady Northgalis. They were just in time to hear Nando speak.
“Hail, Lord of the Biti Foki,” he said in a loud, clear voice. Charles noticed that he no longer wore his hand-me-downs, but was dressed in a handsome new coat and trousers with a red ribbon sash across his
chest, like a diplomatic emissary...and his hopes soared. “I am here to bear you greetings and bring you a message.”
The fairy lord, who had been talking to one of his more important guests, glanced up. A look of mingled annoyance and amusement flitted across his face; amusement won when his eyes fell on Nando.
“Ah, a little Romany has wandered into my dance,” he said lightly. “Greetings to you, chava. Whose messenger are you, and whose greeting do you bear? Do you come to wish me merry on my abiav?” He pulled Persy, whose hand he held clasped in his, against his side.
Nando paused and drew himself up in a beautifully practiced gesture. Someone had been rehearsing with him in front of the mirror, Charles suspected. “I bear the greetings of your overlord, lord.”
The fairy lord’s brow creased. “My overlord?”
“Oh, yes, sir…or should I say, your overlady?” He turned to face the edge of the clearing from where he had come and made a low bow.
At first, Charles couldn’t see anything; the dancing fairies were drawing to the sides of the clearing, blocking his view. Then he heard Persy cry out, even above the murmurs of the guests. He fought his way to the edge of the crowd, followed closely by Margaret…and felt a huge burst of joy. His plan was working!
There, leaning on Lochinvar’s arm and with Lorrie Allardyce in close attendance, was Her Majesty the Queen, walking through the clearing as if it were her garden at Windsor.
She was perhaps slightly plumper than she’d been when Charles had first met her five years ago, but she had married since then and was already the mother of two children. She wore a white lace dress adorned with several impressive-looking, jeweled orders and a gorgeous diamond tiara on her smooth brown hair that flashed reflected fire from the torches flaring around them. Her posture was even more dignified than he remembered; it matched her solemn expression as she came to a halt before the fairy lord and inclined her head regally to him.
Charles Bewitched (Leland Sisters) Page 8
