Lady Changeling

by Ken Altabef

  He looked through the lens again. Over the past few hours his vision had blurred considerably from eyestrain and fatigue. He hadn’t slept at all last night and he’d been pacing nervously most of the day, waiting for the sky to get dark again, for the stars to come out and play.

  Where is she?

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her. All night looking. All day unable to look. All night looking. The starry woman’s shimmering silhouette had both repulsed and intrigued him. It had been a feminine form, completely indistinct, with no detail, no face. And yet he sensed a tremendous aura of power around her. She was a strong woman, demanding, controlling. If she beckoned, he would have no choice. If she wanted him, he must come. At first sight, he’d felt as if he might fall helplessly into the sky. He’d been frightened. He’d looked away. Oh, why had he looked away?

  “See anything?”

  “What?” Amalric looked up from the lens. Trask had snuck up beside him. “Mind your own business, Trask.”

  Trask glanced out the window. “Something’s wound you up. What’s happened?”

  Amalric had had enough of his assistant’s interference. “Why do you ask me? You can see it for yourself. It’s the same sky for all of us, isn’t it? The universe is an immense book, open for anyone to see, its secrets written in the sky. You know its language— mathematics, geometry, astronomy. But like stray ink marks on paper, do you understand it? Does the song make sense to anyone? Or are we wandering blind through a meaningless labyrinth?”

  “You’re talking strangely today.”

  “Am I? Or maybe I’ve just stopped pretending. Perhaps I’ve realized there is something out there much bigger than you or I can know.”

  Trask grinned. He was amused. Amused! “Have you turned all of a sudden from physics and astronomy to some unnatural theology?”

  Amalric resumed his pacing about the room. “What do you expect of me? I’ve had enough of beakers and chemicals, acids, salts. Oh, I could laugh. It’s all meaningless. Are you blind, man? The planets have gone off their orbits!”

  “A little bit of common sense might help, perhaps. There must be some rational explanation even if none comes readily to hand.”

  “How about—” Realizing he had abandoned his post, Amalric darted back to the telescope. He dare not miss the flash. The flash. Why won’t she appear?

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said.

  “Of course not. Though, you have to admit, it sounds very much as if it is you who doesn’t understand. Stray ink marks on paper? Meaningless labyrinth?”

  Amalric remembered what he’d begun to say just a moment ago. “You want an explanation? How about this? The dome of the heavens is in fact nothing but a gigantic clock counting down to the end of the universe. The end of everything. God brings down the curtain at last!”

  “Ah,” said Trask, “that old canard. The end of the world. And how do you justify such a wild claim? I haven’t seen mention of any such prophesy. Not for this year. 1750 is such a nice, round number, I’ll give you that. The last apocalypse—the one predicted by Nostradamus--that was 1666, wasn’t it? Now that was a number of great portent! I’m interested, on what do you base this dire prediction of doom? A couple of meteors? A red flash that never comes?”

  Amalric saw no need to enlighten him. “I just know!”

  “Ha!” said Trask. “So you’ve finally found religion at last, Amalric. I don’t quite understand it. All your notes are written in equations and measurements, not Greek and Latin.”

  Insufferable bastard! Amalric turned from the telescope. “You’ve looked through my notes?”

  “I could hardly have missed them. They’re littered all about the place.”

  Amalric pushed Trask aside, and then flew about the room scooping up all the odd papers he could find. Some of them, so stained with alchemical droppings as to be illegible, were sticky in his hand. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed Trask free run of the cottage. The man was most likely a spy for the French. After all, hadn’t he been convicted of treason once before? And he’s seen all of my most sensitive notes, the metallurgic experiments, the doll.

  “What is the red flash?” asked Trask. “What does it mean? Don’t keep me in the dark. We’ve shared everything else.”

  “Everything?” Amalric’s gaze shot to the lifeless manikin draped over the couch, one leg hanging lasciviously over the edge. “What do you mean everything? What have you been doing to my wife while I’ve been gone?”

  He rushed over to the couch and gently adjusted the manikin’s leg so that it wasn’t dangling over the edge in such an unladylike attitude.

  “Wife,” spat Trask. “Incroyable!”

  “What? What is so unbelievable that you must spout your astonishment in French, that poisoned tongue of scoundrels and spies?”

  “That doll is not your wife! It’s merely an apparatus for testing the Elixir Vitae, a tool just like any other beaker or glass stem or crucible on the desk. What you choose to do with it…” He snickered. “Disgusting.”

  Amalric was beside himself with rage. “If you look at her again, I’ll kill you! Do you hear?”

  “My God, Amalric. I do believe the French pox has finally worked its way into your brain. Or have the quicksilver fumes finally gotten to you? You’re not making any sense at all.”

  “You’re the one!” Amalric shrieked, shaking a pejorative finger at Trask. “You’re the one whose release I had to purchase from Blackthorn Asylum. You!”

  To Amalric’s horror, Trask turned to gaze into the telescope. He rushed across the room and yanked his assistant backward by the collar of his shirt. “Not you! You are forbidden from using the telescope, until further notice. Do you hear?”

  Amalric fumbled with the lens. Trask had moved it from its earlier position. He was suddenly certain that this was the moment the red flash would choose to appear, just when his tormentor had messed things up. “Confine yourself to the chemistry or I’ll have you put out, Trask, and by put out I mean sent back to face capital charges of treason at the High Court.”

  Amalric frantically adjusted the lens. He didn’t want to miss the flash, or anything else. Why won’t she appear?

  A sharp knock rang against the cottage door and it flew open without further warning. Lady Grayson strode into the room even before Trask had a chance to hide.

  “Who is this man? Why is he here?” she demanded.

  “An associate,” said Amalric. “Well, no one, really. A student. I use him to assist my work, clean up the place, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, send him away.”

  “Of course.” Amalric jerked a thumb toward the door.

  Trask scurried out.

  The lady stared menacingly at Amalric. Everything she did was menacing, as far as he was concerned. She was a hundred years old and yet a beautiful, almost enthralling woman. Amalric was so intimidated he couldn’t dare look her in the eye.

  And ever since she’d returned from her family jaunt a few days ago the situation had grown even worse. Now she seemed to be absolutely crackling with confidence and power. He could only cringe and peer at her from the corner of his eye, his head bowed.

  “If you’re paying him to clean up, he could do a better job of it,” she said.

  Of course she noticed the life-sized doll reclining on the couch. She regarded it with look of disbelief and repulsion.

  Amalric pushed it guiltily aside. “An apparatus. It’s part of my research.”

  “I couldn’t care less about that…thing… or your research. Our situation has changed. My husband has found out about me.”

  “By found out, I suppose you mean he knows what you are?”

  She slapped him across the face. Amalric nearly fell to his knees. He didn’t think a man could have hit him any harder.

  He stumbled a few steps backward, the room swaying dizzily, and plopped down on the corner of the couch not occupied by his wife.

  Lady Grayson stepped forward to tower ov
er him like an angry monolith. Amalric was certain she was going to rip his tongue out.

  “When is it coming?”

  “I… I’m not sure. There’s been no flash. Nothing.” He yanked his wig back into place.

  “I heard your ranting from halfway across the garden. You said the stars were moving, the planets out of orbit. I need to know. How much time?”

  “Impossible to say. It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it won’t come at all.” Amalric hoped that telling her what she most wanted to hear might get him off the hook. He couldn't possibly explain his recent experiences, even if he were willing to share them with anyone, which he certainly was not.

  “All for nothing?” she said. There was a distinct note of pain in the lady’s voice. “That can’t be. That’s not what you said before.”

  “It’s definitely coming,” Amalric added quickly, “within the week.”

  “Get ahold of yourself, alchemist. Once I find the artifact, I expect you to be able to use it.”

  “I will not let you down.” He bowed his head dutifully. The front of the wig, still out of place, flopped in front of his eyes.

  “You had better not.”

  The lady’s eyes were so intense, Amalric felt them almost burning his skin. He dared not look up at them. He was perfectly happy to remain where he was, safe under the curly fringe of the wig. He listened intently for the lady’s footstep, hoping only that she would leave.

  “And one other thing,” she said.

  “Yes, M’lady?”

  “If it comes to it, will you be able to get the information I need?”

  “From him?”

  “Yes, of course from him.”

  Amalric chanced a look at the lady’s face. He saw a monstrosity of pity, pain and desperation. He looked quickly away. She didn’t know about his interview with the pirate. She didn’t know everything. “I have methods that can not fail. A half hour alone with him, that’s all I need. I can find out anything.”

  “What type of methods?”

  “Perhaps better you don’t know, M’lady.”

  “Perhaps,” she returned in a low voice. “And what if he really doesn’t know?”

  “I’ll find that out, too,” said Amalric, “but I can not vouchsafe the condition of his mind afterwards.”

  Chapter 27

  His mind? Theodora didn’t like the sound of that. She’d hurt Eric so much already. How much more, she wondered, must he be made to sacrifice before this was done?

  Despite all her bluster with the alchemist, she was still off-balance from her confrontation with her husband. She felt the sting of his anger all the way through to her soul like the lingering pain of a serious burn. The way he had spoken to her, the way he’d looked at her. Everything had changed. It had all finally come crashing down. Betrayal. Her betrayal. Her fault.

  But what was the happiness of one man, or one faery, in the face of an otherworldly menace that stood poised to rain its destruction down upon them all?

  Amalric was her last hope. Perhaps through his alchemy he might discover the information she had failed to obtain through seduction. No, not seduction. Through love. She had offered trust and love and companionship. But those things hadn’t been enough. Maybe a mortal man could never really trust a faery, no matter how perfect her disguise. And without trust, how could there be love?

  Perhaps she should have known better. But honesty would not have achieved the desired result in any case. Now it would be left to either Redthorne or the alchemist. She dreaded the things the assassin might do.

  But Amalric could not guarantee his interrogation would leave Eric whole of body or mind, or even sane at all.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she returned. “Whatever preparations you need to make, whatever witch’s brew you must manufacture, I suggest you get started.”

  Amalric nodded his head, but she noticed he still had difficulty looking her in the eye. How far could she trust him? She hadn’t chosen him. Threadneedle, a faery spy in London, had sent Amalric to her. Threadneedle was their most capable agent, able to blend into the soot-stained cityscape and pass seamlessly among human beings. He lived with them, knew how to imitate their customs and judge their character. Under Moon Dancer’s direction he had found Amalric and decided to approach him. As it turned out the alchemist didn’t share the deep-rooted animosity that so many of the humans held for the fey folk. His desire for knowledge prevented such offhand prejudice.

  The alchemist seemed well-suited to the task; he had long been comfortable with ideas that existed outside the norm of human science. In addition to his astronomical knowledge, Amalric was the only man she knew who might look the Chrysalid in the eye and wield the Silvered Lens against it. He had an open mind in regard to realities that might differ from our own, and she hoped his intellectual curiosity would give him a kind of strength. At least he was a better bet than any other mortal man available. And it must be a mortal. No faery could touch that device and live.

  Amalric had always been a strange sort of a bird, but he seemed even more unstable today than usual. Theodora had the distinct impression that the alchemist was hiding something from her. But she hadn’t the time nor inclination to press the issue. For better or worse, she needed his cooperation.

  The door banged open. The alchemist’s assistant lurched through the entrance, stumbling and off-balance. He was immediately followed by the man who had propelled him into the room. Fitzroy March.

  March was accompanied by two men from the Grayson house guard. He stood for a moment in the center of the room, taking it all in—the telescope in the window, the lab table with its jumble of scientific equipment, the lady, the alchemist. His eyes fixed on the manikin on the couch. A puzzled but disdainful look crossed his face.

  “It’s for my research,” said Amalric.

  Theodora ignored March entirely. Instead she exchanged wide-eyed glances with the two men.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “Don’t bother to act innocent, Theodora,” said March. “We know you’re a faery spy.”

  “A faery?” Theodora did her best to act shocked. She ran a hand down along the front of her dress as if to point out the obvious—that she was a human woman.

  “Come now,” growled March. “You’ve admitted as much to your husband just a few minutes ago.”

  “My husband? Oh dear. That’s the real problem, isn’t it? That’s precisely what I came here for.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My husband.” She paused as if embarrassed, looking from March to each of the two men. “My husband, I’m sorry to say, has the Creeping Rot. I came here seeking help from the alchemist, to see if anything can be done to help him.”

  “No more lies, Theodora. You’re coming with us.”

  “No, you must listen to me. You can’t believe anything my husband says. Suddenly he thinks I’m a faery? After ten years of marriage? You know what happens with the Rot. The delusions, the insanity. It’s too horrible. We have to help him.”

  She could tell the men were beginning to waver. March saw it too.

  “It’s not just your husband saying it, Theodora. I’m saying it! I saw you in the woods.”

  “You did not. Is this what happens? Is this how the wealthy discard their wives? Accuse them of being faeries? Obviously it isn’t true. What next? Burn me at the stake?”

  March held up a pair of wrist shackles. Theodora could smell them. Iron. She had a strong urge to take a half step backward but held her ground.

  She adopted a conciliatory tone. “I understand what you’re trying to do, Fitzroy. You’re loyal to my husband. I appreciate that. And maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything about his condition. No one else has to know. We can keep the secret between us, between all of us in this room.”

  She gave each of the men a reassuring nod as if to say that she trusted them to do the right thing.

  “You’re a good friend, t
rying to protect him. But not like this. Discrediting me won’t help anything. We have to work together. We have to help him.”

  “No more talk. Hold out your wrists.” He reached for her arm but she was too quick and pulled away.

  “What torture chamber did you dig those filthy things out of?”

  March glanced down at them. “From the old days, to be sure. They might still have a little faery blood on them…”

  “Griffin would be so proud.”

  “Now see here,” said Amalric. He tried to sound authentically menacing but his lisp ruined the effect. “I’m not going to—”

  His sentiment was cut short by March, who clamped his fingers around the front of the alchemist’s throat.

  “What was that?” he asked. He got no reply. Amalric had been rendered fully incapable of answering. March held the man at the length of one outstretched arm. “Say again? I can’t hear you.” He leaned in close as if pretending to listen but all the while his eyes never left Theodora and Trask.

  When Amalric had turned suitably purple, March tossed him aside.

  “Now Theodora,” he said. “I’m going to put these bracelets on, one way or another.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I have faith in my husband. We’ll clear this all up in time. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  She wished she could believe that.

  March snapped the shackles in place. They were not tight around Theodora’s wrists but were quite painful just the same. Her hands felt as if they were on fire as the iron slowly sapped her strength.

  “They aren’t hurting,” she said, holding up her manacled wrists. “See?”

  The pain was in fact extreme, but she was careful not to show it. If this had happened a week ago, before her sojourn among the faeries, she would already have been brought to her knees. But the power of Mother Moon had been placed strong within her and it served her well.

  “Let’s go,” said March.