by Ken Altabef
“What about Meadowlark?” her friend eventually asked, her golden blonde hair shimmering in the sun.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Theodora. “He’s so…”
“Handsome?”
“Not really.”
“What then?” pressed Katydid. Her expression seemed especially curious, almost too intense.
“I don’t know…” said Theodora.
“He plays the pipes so beautifully, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” she admitted, “There’s so much poetry in his soul and, well, I can’t help but like him, but then again he’s so very mischievous… and I don’t know... he just seems… false.”
“But you would kiss him?” insisted Katy.
Theodora sighed. “Yes.”
Katydid began to laugh and Theodora didn’t think that very nice. She soon realized the laugh wasn’t her friend’s laugh at all. It was a wild sort of braying with a deep bottom, a horse laugh. Katy’s hair shimmered and was gone, and the sides bulged in the middle, and her ears stood up, and her entire face changed. Meadowlark, having dropped his glamour spell, was revealed in her place. His lips puckered over bucked teeth. “I’m ready for my kiss, my darling…”
Theodora’s heart sank, thinking of all the tender secrets she’d revealed to this imposter and all the mayhem he could cause with them. “Meadowlark! You’re a toad! A slimy, disgusting toad!”
Meadowlark puckered further. “You still want to kiss me.”
“I will not!”
The boy’s pucker faded to a frown. Now it was his turn to feel surprised and insulted. “But you said––”
“I was joking,” she insisted.
“No, no. You said so, and I won’t forget it.”
“Fine.”
His eyes blazed for a moment but then his mouth turned upward at the corners, the buck teeth sparkled and he blinked ferociously at her. “It was just a joke. A fine joke, too.” He mimicked Katydid’s expression of humility, though retaining his own coarser features to do it. His eyes were a perfect blue sky, his unruly hair tumbled from his forehead in fine black curls. His ears were gently pointed and stood slightly back, a little bit like a wolf’s.
Theodora hid her smile, thinking it best to ignore him. Of course she would soon forgive him, but she must at least make him wait a short while. And the kiss was not entirely out of the question. She reached for another panel of faery glass.
“I’ll help you,” offered Meadowlark.
Theodora’s fingertips brushed against a molasses-colored panel. Scorn. She slapped Meadowlark’s hand away. “If you really want to help, just go away!”
The boy scowled. “Fine.”
Deep down at the bottom of the pyramid, beneath several layers of tinted glass, she thought she saw the image of a baby owl trapped inside. But how? How could there be a baby owl there?
A tortured screech rang out and a large brown owl descended on the mushroom table. With a wild flapping of its wings the mother owl smashed into the pile of faery glass. She flopped frantically for a moment, besieged by all the conflicting emotions, before realizing she had been deceived. There was no baby there at all.
Meadowlark laughed merrily at his jest.
“That's not funny,” said Theodora.
“It’s just faery glass. Here I’ll help you make another one.”
“But she's hurt.” The owl had cut the top of her wing on the glass.
Meadowlark snickered. “It's just a scratch.”
Theodora snatched up the frightened bird. She kissed its wing softly, pressing the palm of her hand against the torn flesh. She took the tiny wound unto herself before letting it fly away.
The house of cards had fallen to a jumbled ruin, the pretty panels of glass all shattered. A tiny drop of purple blood fell from Theodora’s palm.
“People too often glorify the past,” Redthorne said. “I don’t believe half of what I’ve heard.”
Theodora drew in a deep breath, half expecting to smell the exotic aromas of the Patch that lived now only in her memory.
“It was the most wonderful place on earth,” she said. “I can’t hardly describe how it felt. Late at night, all of the children in a row inside our friend mushrooms, safe under the canopy. The leaves above would part to let the moonlight pass and we would drink it in. And, all together, we would sing.”
Redthorne’s face softened. “The friend mushroom…”
“My nursemaid, my teacher, my confidant. Mine had a… sort of whimsical personality, I guess you’d say. It sang me such wonderful songs. I named my friend Eobard. It showed me things I could never have imagined, wonders that I’m not even sure exist—not on this world. It taught me the kindness of nature. Patience and persistence, forbearance. So many things.”
Redthorne’s smile snapped down into a grim sneer. “Nothing too useful, then.”
“I disagree.”
“You only see what you want to see. When you stand in this place you hear the laughter of children. I hear their dying screams as the humans burned them.”
Theodora felt sorry for the young assassin. Her own childhood had been one of endless summer, of sunshine and starlight, and perpetual revelry and pleasure. But what must it have been like for Redthorne? She had been incubated down below, hidden in a cave with gloomy mushrooms that lived in the dark, out of sight of flower and vine, untouched by a summer breeze or an early-morning birdsong. Nowadays faery children hardly knew Mother Moon at all; they were fed secondhand moonlight gathered by the feeder faeries. Not the same. Definitely not the same.
“Don’t pity me,” snapped Redthorne. “I don’t want your pity.”
Theodora shook her head. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
“At least I’m a real faery. Not like you. You’re human now aren’t you, heart and soul? You’re no longer one of us.”
“I am.”
“Prove it.”
Theodora understood. Redthorne wanted to see her change. She had been unwilling to risk it yesterday but now it wasn’t a problem. She had enough power to let the illusion go and then take it back up again like an old coat. She would lose nothing in doing so.
Redthorne’s sneer faded as she saw Theodora’s true face.
“I am.” Theodora repeated.
Redthorne stepped closer and took her hand as if to make sure it was real. Her hand was warm in Theodora’s. Redthorne caressed the ball of Theodora’s palm and ran the tip of a finger up her wrist rather lovingly. She seemed so vulnerable in that moment. Like a child. Theodora reached out to touch her cheek, but the assassin knocked her hand away, breaking the contact. “Moon Dancer is gone. But she gave me orders. I’m to follow you back.”
“What else did she tell you to do?”
Redthorne turned back toward Barrow Downes. “Now. that would be telling.”
Theodora resumed her human shape. “Stay away from my family.”
“We’ve a job to do, you and I.” The faery assassin smiled wickedly. “One of us is going to finish this… you or me.”
Chapter 19
March kicked his horse hard in the ribs. Damn, he’d wasted so much time.
After his duel with the two faery swordsmen, he'd been unable to rouse either of the Bambury brothers to anything more than a dull, drowsy state. To make matters worse, Quentin’s horse had run off. March had strapped Quentin across the neck of Reed’s mare like a sack of barley, with his brother wobbling in the saddle behind him. Leading the second horse at a slow walk through the woods had wasted half a day. And he didn't like leaving Lady Grayson behind either, no matter how secure her circumstances might seem.
It wasn’t until late the following morning that the Bamburys began to show any signs of life at all. When they had wakened enough, March left them to ride alone and made for Grayson Hall at speed.
His wounded leg had finally stopped bleeding but his torn shoulder had left his right arm locked across his chest in a painful spasm. Neither wound would threaten his life but the two in co
mbination made riding difficult. He galloped toward the front courtyard of the manor house, frustrated, bloodied and bedraggled. And the worst, he thought, was yet to come.
He reined up on the cobbles. Both stable boys ran out to meet him. March ignored their questions as he swung down from the saddle.
"Where is Lord Eric?"
"Haven’t seen him," replied one boy. "He’s not been riding yet today."
March pushed past them, straightening his wounded leg painfully. It was just past midday. The best place to look would be the shooting range.
“That’s right,” Eric said. “Hold it straight out. Steady as you can.”
He adjusted James’ arm accordingly.
“Stare straight down the barrel. Don’t squint one eye like that. Keep them both open.”
James squeezed the trigger. The little French cavalry pistol kicked wildly. The boy’s hand sailed upward but he kept his grip on the gun. The target, a green glass bottle at thirty yards, burst into shards.
“Well done!” Eric said. James had a remarkable eye for shooting. Almost too remarkable. His vision was the keenest of anyone Eric had ever met, especially at night, and his hand-eye coordination seemed effortless.
“Remember how to re-pack the barrel?” he asked. James nodded eagerly and set to the task.
“There’s a squirrel on that branch there. Do you see it?”
“Of course, father.”
“Let’s see if you can knock it off the branch.”
James took aim. It was a remarkable thing. Most gunmen Eric had known would have first extended their arm and then reposition according to the tilt of the barrel, but James simply laid the barrel exactly where he wanted it with no hesitation. He squinted one eye.
“Don’t squint!”
James fired the shot, snapping the branch just an inch in front of the squirrel. The animal leapt from its perch, caught the bole of the tree and scrambled to the opposite side of the trunk, out of sight.
“You missed.”
“No, I didn’t. I knocked him from the branch. I just didn’t want to hurt him. He was only stopping to enjoy the view, watching us. He smelled the gunpowder and was curious. He has a family to provide for. Three little ones.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know.”
“I see.” Eric ruffled his son’s hair. He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know what to make of anything these days. If James claimed to know what a squirrel was thinking, who was he to doubt it? Maybe he should send James in to interrogate their prisoner. The boy would find out if he was a pirate in no time.
Eric caught sight of Fitzroy March walking stiffly toward them.
“All right. Put your gun away like I showed you, James. And bring it inside. It’s time for lunch.”
“Fitz!” he called out as March approached. “What’s happened to you?”
March glanced down at his jacket, apparently giving his first thought to how he must look. His clothes were a mess, his trousers clotted with blood and he was bleeding again from the shoulder.
“You’re wounded…”
“It’s nothing. Just a point through the muscle. I let them do it.”
“Let them do it? Who?”
“Faeries.”
The word dropped like a cannonball, leaving a stony silence hanging between them.
Eric had the sense his worst fears were about to be realized in the next moment. His heart was beating with a rapid, heavy thump. There was nothing he could do about it.
“Tell me everything that happened,” he said. “Exactly.”
“Well for starters they didn't go to Trentham.”
“Hold on,” Eric interrupted. He stepped across the garden to a low marble bench near the fountain. “If it's going to be a long story, you could at least sit down. I'll call the physician up from town to see to your leg.” He glanced around but there was no one within earshot for him to call. But of course it was better that way. The gurgle of the fountain was good cover for what March was likely to tell him. He was not eager to hear it.
“I'll be fine,” said March. “A warm bath and a battlefield dressing's all I'll be needing.”
Eric knew his man was right. Suddenly there seemed too many things to worry about at once. Theodora. Was she all right? March would surely have told him straight out if she'd come to any harm. What had happened? Where were the Bamburys? Finnegan Stump? Eric forced himself to calm down. Better to hear it all in some sort of order. “Didn't go to Trentham?”
“No. They led me a merry chase through the woods instead and then across a couple small towns up the coast. And then I found the Bamburys in the woods, asleep.”
“Asleep?”
“Poisoned.”
Eric glanced reflexively around but there was nothing to see. No villains lurking in the hedgerows or maze bushes. Damn, he felt so helpless. “Are they dead?”
“No, just well rested. They slept for two days, give or take. As far as I can tell it wasn't entirely their fault. They didn't drink the wine Finnegan Stump offered them but they fell dead asleep anyway.”
“Stump.”
“I’m not exactly sure where he fits into all this.”
“No place good, that’s for sure. That’s why I sent the men in the first place. To watch him.”
“Well, they didn’t do such a very good job watching him with their eyes closed. I’ll give them an earful once they get back to the estate. They aren’t far behind me. We lost a horse—”
“I don’t care about the horses. What happened to Theodora? What’s happened to my wife?”
March looked away. He grumbled softly. “Last I saw, she was dancing naked in the woods.”
Eric's heart nearly stopped in his chest. “What?”
“There were a couple dozen faeries. Dancing around.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Green skin, pointy ears and all.”
“Is that what they look like? I’ve never even seen one.”
“They can look any way they want.”
Eric didn’t want to hear that. Surely March couldn’t be talking about his wife. “But Theodora… was she one of them? Or just with them?”
“I don’t know. Does it really matter? She was with them.”
“Of course it matters. Maybe they drugged her too? Did you ever think of that?”
Dancing naked in the woods. It was impossible to believe.
“I’m sorry, Eric. She didn’t seem drugged. She was enjoying herself too much.”
Eric’s stomach tightened into a painful knot. He couldn’t doubt March’s word, nor could he possibly believe it. “She’ll be home later this evening. I’ll straighten all this out.”
His eye settled on the fountain. At its center a half dozen naiads, pointed ears, bare breasts and all, rose from the water to dance naked around the figure of Neptune. Although he’d looked at the fountain many times before, he’d never noticed the deranged, rapturous look on their faces.
“She may not be coming back,” March said.
“She’ll be back.”
“In that case she may not come alone. They might attack. We should be ready.”
“They won’t.”
“We don’t know that. We have to ask ourselves, what does she want? What are they after?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“We need to know,” said March.
“I’ll handle it,” said Eric. “But you have to promise me one thing. Promise not to tell anyone. Not until I’ve spoken to Theodora. There are the children to think about.”
March cocked his head reproachfully. “Henry was soft on them. I watched him die…”
“So did I,” snapped Eric. More than anything, he needed time to think. He didn’t care how Griffin Grayson would’ve handled this, or his father. They were two very different men. “I’m not soft on anyone, but we’re talking about my wife. The mother of my children. And you didn’t see her change.”<
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“No.”
“I’ll handle her. I don’t need your help. Not for this.”
“Right.”
March stomped down the hallway, his injured leg screaming with every step. He really had to get his wounds cleaned and dressed without further delay. But there was something he needed to check on before he did anything else. And he’d always been able to think better while in motion. Doing something.
He wondered if Eric was fully equipped to handle this situation. Years ago, March had been tasked with educating Hake in the affairs of the estate, getting him ready for his role to assume control of the family assets. It was always supposed to have been Hake. March drilled him with the sword and pistol, and taught him how to ride. It was his belief that training in the martial ways was the best training for business affairs as well. The master of the estate had to be a hard man, almost cruel, or else he would soon lose his hold over the lands and control over the people. Henry understood that. And Hake was much better suited to the task than his younger brother, Eric. Hake was the stronger of the two by far.
But then came the Creeping Rot. Eric had to face the loss of his parents and his elder brother all in short order. He was totally unprepared for his duties. March had provided the boy a crash course in the business side of things. Eric was clever with sums and figures but not so good at maintaining authority and making hard decisions. March had slipped gracefully and effortlessly into the role of counselor and strong arm. He was built for that. But the boy was prone to capitulation and making deals that included self-sacrifice rather than an iron hand. How well would he handle this crisis?
We’ll see. We’ll just have to see. I’ll do whatever I have to do to help him, whether he likes it or not.
March plodded down the stairs, wincing at every step.
