by Ken Altabef
One of Meadowlark’s comical backflips had set the girl to laughing. The circle of faeries turned their woodland gaze upon the little intruder. And Swallowtail, hot-headed, high-minded Swallowtail, took offense. In an instant she leapt forward, her naked body turning a livid red color like fresh blood. She slapped the girl in the face. That was all.
The girl ran home in tears. The faeries resumed their dance. It had seemed such a small thing, but it was the beginning of the end. An innocent mistake, an insult, an angry rebuke. But there is magic in a faery slap, a wild enchantment that grew into a terrible price they would all have to pay. The red mark on the girl’s face widened and spread; she took ill with fever. The mother was frightened half to death. She debased herself, tore out her hair and begged the Moon for mercy but it didn’t matter. Within a fortnight the girl was dead. It might have ended there, fodder for yet another cautionary tale for children to hear at bedtime. But Griffin Grayson, lord of the manor, kept several mistresses among the townsfolk. He never admitted to siring this particular child, but he became enraged as his lover watched her daughter wither and die for the sake of faery pride.
Ka-thoom! The heavy iron bell in the clock tower rang loud and long that day, tolling the death knell of the little girl. With its deep sonorous tones, Griffin Grayson called for the Purge.
Theodora didn’t even want to think about it. Not here, not now, on a beautiful summer day watching her two little darlings at play on the great lawn. What if it had been one of her children? If such a thing had happened to one of them…
The death of the girl. Theodora couldn’t condone that. It was a hard thing to forgive and impossible for someone like Griffin Grayson to ignore. The faeries had gone too far. He went after them all. Memories of the Purge were jumbled for Theodora. She recalled those years as a series of scattered images. Of screams in the night, of blue eldritch fire, a flock of faeries running like animals, being driven into the hills. Her friend Katydid, beautiful Katydid, gasping out her last breaths, a gaping hole in her forehead where a musket ball had found its mark. An iron musket ball, certain to kill a faery.
Griffin organized his men and sent them, led by a pack of vicious hunting hounds, out into the woods. At first the fey folk tried to hide, for they were adept at blending into the green. They were at home among creeping ivy and bark and thistle. They might just as easily appear as a sturdy white elm or a clump of tall grass. But the slavering dogs knew faery-scent well enough. There was no way to hide from the torrent of howling hatred and rage that spilled forth from Grayson Hall.
Ka-thoom! Faery mothers were killed in their beds and their children murdered in their sleep. With each faery death the great iron bell tolled anew. Ka-thoom! Now it rang not of mourning but bloody vengeance. Rooted from their mounds and woodland homes, the faeries fought back. Many human men died as well. They met their ends at the point of faery blades, or led by illusion to slaughter each other or carelessly step off a cliff. But still they kept on coming. At their head was Griffin Grayson himself, a fearsome figure astride a heavy gray steed. Instead of a sword this man held high a weapon of another sort. It was a piece of scarlet glass with a strange thread of silver running through it. Its origins were unknown but its effects were undeniably deadly. It focused moonlight, the same mystical power that nurtured the faery folk. It turned this force against them in a fiery beam that sought out and incinerated the faeries.
The Purge went on year after year. The iron bell kept tolling and tolling. With Griffin wielding his deadly lens, the carnage was extreme. Wherever the dogs uncovered them the faery mounds were set aflame with mystical fire. The Fen was burned to the ground. And when the men discovered the Patch, newborn babes were incinerated while still within their host mushrooms. It was too much. The faeries couldn’t hope to stand against the power of the Silvered Lens. They retreated into the caverns that honeycombed the hillside. Away from their glorious moon and sky and into the shadows. Away from green grass and flowering trees and deeper into the earth.
The faeries had lost much on account of one faery’s offhand arrogance. That fateful slap. The bloody red scorn in Swallowtail’s eyes. It was the same look Theodora had seen so many times in recent years mirrored in the expressions of young faeries. It was written large on Redthorne’s face. The strong-willed faery assassin considered mortals inferior to faery folk. To Redthorne’s way of thinking it was time for the townsfolk to get their comeuppance. She tolerated the current plan but made no secret of her lack of faith in Theodora’s ability to succeed.
In that regard she was not so far off the mark, but Theodora’s lack of results was not for lack of trying. She resented Redthorne’s implication that she had somehow jeopardized them by seeking her own comfort and pleasure. That wasn’t true. At least it wasn’t entirely true. No. I am not going to feel guilty for falling in love, for living my life. I’ve never abandoned the cause, I’ve never stopped trying. I never will.
She felt suddenly dizzy and nauseous. It was not surprising, she’d hardly slept at all in the past week, so worried that at any moment her husband might discover her deceptions. And then…
She leaned forward, dabbing a few drops of the fountain’s cool water on her forehead. If she had to sick up, the fountain was the place for it, but she’d rather not have anyone see. A few deep breaths calmed her roiling stomach. As the water stilled in the fountain, she gasped at what she saw.
Her face appeared as that of a hundred-year-old woman, the lips shriveled and drawn tight, teeth yellowed, her eyes staring back at her reflection as pale orbs, milky with cataracts.
No! No, it can’t be!
She pressed her fingertips to her cheeks and found them leathery and wrinkled.
No! This isn’t who I am, she thought. But there was no denying it. It is what I am.
Still she mustn’t let anyone see. And Lucinda and the children were only a few yards away. What if…what if the children saw? Mother Moon, she couldn’t let that happen!
She had to get away, get back inside the manor house without being noticed. With some rest, some sleep, she might still set things right.
“Ma’am?”
Charles Pratt stood before her, dressed in a blue coat with the Grayson insignia on its breast. One of Eric’s men.
Theodora looked up at him, her heart pounding, not knowing what in the world she could possibly say.
“Ma’am, if I may inquire. What is your business here?”
And she realized with great relief that he did not recognize her. Why should he? She appeared now as an old hag; he would not see young Lady Theodora’s features in that withered old face. And he would not recognize her dress. What man pays attention to such things? But Lucinda would know. Theodora glanced back along the garden path. The nanny was still preoccupied with the children and their game of quoits.
“I’m… thank you, sir. I’ve come visiting my brother, Frederick Boothe, the stable master. I felt a bit tired, got turned around…”
She put a confused, old lady look on her face and played it just right. Desperate, ill, and vulnerable. A veritable damsel in distress.
Pratt tipped his tricorn hat back a little bit from his forehead. “I see.” He smiled graciously. “The stable’s back on the east side.” He paused to consider his busy schedule. A damsel in distress. How could he refuse? “I’ll walk you, ma’am, if you like.”
“Oh, very much so. Very much.”
She rose from the bench and turned quickly away from the lawn game. “This way, you said?”
Pratt was not disposed to conversation as he led the old woman around the east wing of the estate. Of course Theodora knew the way but pretended otherwise. The falter in her step, however, was no pretense.
They found Mr. Boothe instructing the stable boys in washing down a pair of tall mares. His method of instruction involved jabbing them in the buttocks with a pointed stick at what appeared to be random intervals completely unrelated to their performance.
“Boothe,” said Pratt,
“You know this woman?”
Boothe turned to face them. He was a tall, thin man with a gaunt face, an unkempt tuft of gray hair and uneven patches white stubble sprouting from his chin. “Ah,” he said with glee. “’Tis my ex-wife.”
“Sister!” Theodora corrected.
Boothe chuckled softly, the tiniest blush darkening his pale and wrinkled cheeks. “Half-sister. It’s complicated.” He winked lasciviously at Pratt. “You know how these things go.”
Pratt didn’t know and didn’t care to hear any more about it. He made no attempt to hide his disgust at thinking of such old folks in that way. “Yeah. Right. I’ll leave you both to it then.”
Boothe gave the stable boys each one more prod with his makeshift spear, then led Theodora around the side of the outbuilding where they could speak in private.
“Your charms are faltering, my dear. I hate to say it but I’m afraid you’ve seen better days.”
“Help me!”
“I live to serve. But time and the tides wait for no one M’lady. How can I help? A little bit of sleep might serve you well.”
She could barely stand up any longer and leaned on his arm for support. “Please…”
He patted her gently on the shoulder. “There, there. I shouldn’t worry too much. You need only last a few more days. They will come for you soon.”
“I have to get back inside.”
“Looking like that?” He rolled his eyes.
“A full-body glamour isn’t meant to be kept, night and day, year after year. This is the best I can do.”
He winced. “I’m afraid old age has addled your wits, Madame. The answer is obvious…to a clever faery.”
Boothe’s back straightened. His old, warty nose narrowed and smoothened. His short gray hair turned a chestnut brown and flowed gracefully down past his shoulders. Still holding his arm, a little flash of the glamour shot into Theodora’s fingertips with a welcome jolt.
“I’ll just be…you!” he said. “Tell me, how do I look?”
He squeezed his newfound breasts, adjusting the cleavage to the ruffle of his pale blue gown. Despite his comical posturing, he had duplicated Lady Theodora’s looks exactly. She didn’t often wear her hair loosely about the shoulders but they had neither the time nor materials to remedy the matter. But on the matter of clothes, he had copied her too perfectly, she realized.
“A different dress…” she said.
“Ah, right.” As Boothe did a little pirouette, the appearance of his dress changed from pale blue to sunflower yellow. He seemed especially pleased with the result and ran the palms of his hands down the curve of his hips with a sensuous flair. “Maybe I should take over your role for a while. Just until you’ve had a little rest. You never know, your husband might actually like it.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Just a little fun…”
“I’m too tired for any more of your nonsense, Meadowlark. Let’s just go.”
Boothe licked his lips. “I tell you, I’d simply make him squeeeal!”
Chapter 7
“It’s a pleasant night for a walk, anyway,” said Eric.
“Yes,” replied Theodora. “Look at that moon. Isn’t she lovely?”
A bright full moon shone above the branches of the ornamental hemlock and sugar maples surrounding the garden path. Its silvery light washed Theodora’s face as she gazed up at the sky with a look of childish fascination. Eric had always thought it charming the way his wife referred to the moon as if it were a woman. He’d never known anyone else to do that.
He reached for her hand as they walked. It was a quiet night, with only a gentle breeze stirring the leaves.
“Well,” said Theodora, “I’ll be grateful for some peace and quiet after all that commotion we had lately. Do you really think that man is Draven Ketch? The Draven Ketch?”
“I don’t know. There’s no way to be sure. March is trying to pry some sense out of him but the man’s a raving lunatic.”
Eric didn’t want to talk about Ketch right now. The identity of the alleged pirate was one problem too many. He was more interested in Theodora’s most recent behavior. She’d been acting so strangely—so skittish—lately. What the hell was she up to? And then there was that weird, half-remembered dream and the suspicions it had roused. Suspicions that would not let him go. “I received a message from your father today.”
“Yes?”
“They expect you to visit.” He tried to look casual as he studied her face out of the corner of his eye. He saw curiosity in her eyes and some slight tension, but not surprise. She’d known they were coming. “They’ll be arriving in two days.”
A hint of a smile curled her lips. But why shouldn’t she smile? She must be eager to see her family again. What would happen, he wondered, if he stirred things up just a little? “I don’t want you to go.”
“What?” Surprise and a flash of fear. Or was that desperation? He felt certain there was something more going on besides a simple visit to the family. He hated distrusting her this way, but he couldn’t help it. What if he was right?
“I don’t want you to go. If they desire the pleasure of your company, they can be our guests here at the manor house.”
“You know that’s not acceptable. My father—”
“Your father refuses to stay under my roof. I know. And I don’t care. I’ve had a strange presentiment these past few days. I feel like something is wrong. Like something dangerous may be about to happen. I don’t know. I just want you to stay here where I’m certain you’ll be safe.”
“I’m safe with my family. Besides, I have to go. It’s his birthday.”
“Birthday,” scoffed Eric.
She squeezed his hand. “It’s silly, I know, but he’s my father. He only asks for once a year. And it does me good to spend some time with them. If you’re so concerned, why don’t you come along?”
“You know that’s not going to happen. I won’t go chasing after Finnegan Stump. He should come here. Here! To our house!”
“He won’t.”
They paused beside the fountain at the heart of the garden. Eric glanced down at King Neptune surrounded by a half dozen bare-breasted naiads. He wondered that his Puritanical grandfather would have left such a blasphemous statue still standing in his garden. Apparently water sprites were just fine with him, but faeries were to be run down and gutted. Eric could hardly see the distinction.
He turned to face Theodora. “It’s an odd thing, isn’t it? Your father not wanting us to marry? I didn’t understand it then and I understand it even less now. After all this time you’d think his attitude would have changed.”
“The years don’t matter. He’s never going to change. He’s the stubbornest man alive. You know how the Irish can be.” She smiled and offered a little laugh. It sounded hollow to Eric. He was growing more concerned than ever. He did not return the laugh.
Her father was an odd little man. Short, wiry and bandy-legged, his shriveled body made his head seem a bit too large. A ragged mop of hair made it seem larger still. Bent-backed but iron-willed, Finnegan Stump had steadfastly opposed any courtship between Eric and Theodora. He’d been dead-set against her marrying the most eligible bachelor in Graystown and becoming lady of the manor. How absurd.
And on what basis? Finnegan Stump had voiced his concerns one August day just before he sent Eric riding away back up the hill. “The Graysons are cursed,” he’d hissed. “The faeries are after them. Everybody knows. They killed Lord Griffin, didn’t they? Right out in the open. And then they sent the Gray Rot to finish the job. I’m sorry about your parents, true, but everybody around them suffered and died right alongside. I won’t have that for my daughter. No, I want no truck with the Grayson family.” Here he had spat on the ground. “The money’s not worth it.”
Eric’s mother had likewise been warned against marrying into the Grayson family. She’d gone ahead with it anyway. And she had suffered and died for faery vengeance. No, that wasn’t right. For lo
ve of a man, a good man—Henry Grayson. A man who had never harmed a faery in his entire life. But that hadn’t mattered in the end. In the end the Creeping Rot had left Henry Grayson broken and mad and ruined, with his wife buried right beside him.
It had happened that way once. But Eric was determined that it would not happen again. He would prove Stump wrong.
Theodora had chosen to defy her father’s superstitious fears, and the young lovers had continued meeting in secret. And that was something. The lord of Grayson Hall forced to carry on like a thief in the night. Dressed in drab cottons and dark rough spun wool, looking over his shoulder, stealing kisses behind the barn. But her family’s continued opposition only made him want Theodora even more. Quite the delicate trap. If trap it was.
“He has his reasons,” Theodora said.
“Yes, I know, I know,” he scoffed. “The curse.”
“Curse. I never believed it either. The Gray Rot was a disease, Eric. Nothing more. Everything that goes wrong isn’t necessarily the work of faeries, you know.”
“I know. But still, so many people died, so horribly. My family lost so much. It’s not hard to believe it might have been some kind of faery revenge.”
“Thirty years after the Purge? Thirty years, and not a single faery harmed in all that time?”
“What’s thirty years to faeries? Some say they live hundreds of years. At this point, I don’t know what to believe. I’ve never even seen one. Have you?”
Theodora’s face betrayed a careful lack of emotion but Eric felt her hand tense between his fingers.
“No.”
One syllable, but she faltered even so. He couldn’t shake the idea that she was hiding something. Something important.
