The Lost Island

by Laura Powell

  ‘What madness is this?’

  ‘Not madness, sir. Magic. It is the magic of Lady Hawk.’

  He stared at her, mouth agape. ‘M-magic?’

  ‘Lord Charnly and Reverend Blunt are also trapped, though in different prisons. You will be next, unless you trust me to help you escape.’

  ‘B-b-but –’

  ‘Please, sir, we are already running out of time. I will wait outside the door while you get dressed – quickly now! – and I will endeavour to explain as we make our way out of here.’

  Pattern was rigid with impatience by the time the gentleman emerged, fully dressed, but as dishevelled as he was agitated. Nate met them in the corridor. While Pattern had been persuading Mr Ladlaw of the gravity of his situation, Nate had been collecting some essentials to add to Pattern’s bag: a posy of snowdrops, flasks of water, food, weatherproof clothing . . . and a pistol from the gun room.

  Mr Ladlaw goggled at him. ‘Is that the hall boy? This night gets stranger by the minute. I am to be saved from my magical doom by a confederacy of urchins!’

  ‘We have not saved you yet, sir,’ said Pattern grimly, and took the liberty of taking him by the arm to hustle him along more quickly. They would leave through the back stairs and the servants’ entrance.

  And she was right to be worried, for at the end of the corridor, window-lit by moonshine, the figure of Miss Hawk had appeared.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Delays are dangerous.

  S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant

  Miss Hawk was blocking their way to the stairs. Although her dress and features were as sweetly pretty as ever, she could no longer have passed as an ordinary young woman. The light in her eyes burned with inhuman brightness. Her body was rigid, moving only in jerks. Stiffly, she pointed a finger at the three of them in accusation.

  ‘You,’ she said, in a voice that sounded like the grinding of metal gears. ‘You. Have. Unmade. Me.’

  ‘Heaven preserve us!’ Mr Ladlaw quavered. ‘She . . . It . . . This cannot be . . .’

  The doll moved forward in fits and starts. Its plight was not just that of an instrument that was winding down. When Pattern had jammed the brass key from the clock into the doll’s back, she must have inflicted lasting damage. The rusty creaks and clanking from within spoke of some terrible internal collapse.

  ‘You,’ she said again. ‘You. Have. Unmade. Me. You – un – made – me. Me – un – made – I. Unmake. You. Unmake you – un – make –’

  Mr Ladlaw began to gasp and quake. Pattern tried to be sympathetic: he had received a great many shocks in a very short space of time. He was now faced with his former Heart’s Delight, his Dearest Beloved, in the midst of a mechanical breakdown. Still, Pattern found herself wishing he would be just a little less feeble. Poets were all well and good, but, given the circumstances, a man of action might be more useful.

  Miss Hawk’s hands were outstretched, and from under their pearly nails, metal prongs suddenly sprung. Curls of acrid-smelling smoke rose from her nostrils and her ears. Her teeth clashed. Her eyes spat cold blue sparks. Every joint moved stiffly and slowly, but with horrible purpose.

  The three of them backed away.

  ‘I – un – make – you!’

  They had reached the wall; there was nowhere else to go. Miss Hawk’s pronged nails stretched out towards them. She was only six feet away now. A blue flame crackled in her eyes; she ground her teeth and sparks flew.

  Pattern plunged her hands into the bag of supplies, but Nate got there first. With shaking hands, he drew out the pistol, aimed and fired. Bullets ripped into Miss Hawk’s bodice, and she let out a rusty shriek. More smoke plumed from her body, wire coils and sparking cogs sprang out of her chest, but although she was slowed she did not stop.

  ‘U-u-u-u! N-n-n-n! M-m-m! A-a-a-a!’

  Nate crossed himself. Mr Ladlaw quivered and moaned. Pattern grasped her knitting needles, ready to thrust them into the doll’s mechanics in a last-ditch attempt to jam her workings once and for all.

  ‘Aiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!’

  Something crashed into the back of Miss Hawk’s head with a thunderous clang. Again and again and again. Blue sparks fizzed and flashed. Smoke billowed. Joints shrieked. Finally, the metal woman crumpled to the ground, where she lay twitching and blinking, but otherwise motionless.

  Standing over her prostrate body was Miss Smith, a poker in her hands.

  ‘I’ve been wanting to do that for some time,’ she said, only a little breathlessly.

  Miss Smith followed her heroics by blowing her nose, noisily, on the hem of Miss Hawk’s gown. It transpired that her head cold had performed the same function as Mr Ladlaw’s snowdrops and Nate and Pattern’s wax plugs. Since Miss Smith’s ears had been blocked along with her nose, that evening, for the first time since coming to the island, Lady Hawk’s enchanted music had not been able to fog her brain.

  ‘Tonight I felt so much clearer in my mind. Yet at the same time I began to suffer a mounting sense of dread. Lying in bed, I became convinced that something was terribly wrong with all of us here. Unable to sleep, my head full of strange fancies, I resolved to go outside to take the air. It was on my way downstairs that I found you and that – that – thing. How did you come to be attacked by it? What do you know about this place? Are any of you able to account for these happenings?’

  ‘I will do my best, miss, but first I must ask you to come with us, as quick as you can, to a place of greater safety.’ In truth, Pattern was surprised the sound of gunshots had not roused the house, or brought Lady Hawk storming through the corridors. The night sky was already beginning to lose its inkiness; they were close to running out of time.

  As the four of them hurried down the back stairs and out through the garden, Pattern gave a brief explanation of the Dark Magic of Lady Hawk. ‘I do not know exactly who or what she is,’ Pattern said, ‘but I suspect she came into her powers in the distant past – like the pagan gods and monsters depicted in the art of her house, and the book of myths she took from you.’

  ‘My Tales from Ovid?’ Miss Smith looked a little faint. ‘Then we are in a deal of trouble. None of those stories end well, you know.’

  ‘Have you read them all?’ Pattern was very anxious to learn the history of Glaucus and Scylla.

  ‘No,’ Miss Smith said regretfully. ‘I am familiar with the more famous ones – such as Orpheus and Eurydice, for example – but I had barely started on the volume when Lady Hawk took it from me. I can tell you that they are all tales of betrayed love and transformation.’

  ‘Transformation?’ Pattern echoed.

  ‘Yes, of men and women turned into beasts or plants or monsters for crimes against the gods. Now, of course, I understand why this might appeal to our host.’ She bit her lip. ‘You know, I remember seeing the statue of Lord Charnly in the garden, and thinking there was something uniquely horrid about it. But I could not work out why. Similarly, I have met stupid girls, and sly girls, but none as empty-headed as Miss Hawk. How she irked me! She was like those ninnies in popular romances, existing only as decoration, with no original thought at all and no natural ability except that of pleasing men. So perhaps it is not surprising she is revealed to be an entirely artificial construct.’

  ‘Thankfully, not all gentlemen wish ladies to be merely decorative,’ said Pattern, with a significant glance at Mr Ladlaw, who was stumbling along, pasty-faced and glass-eyed. ‘The heroine of his novel is every bit as commanding and resourceful as a sensible reader could wish.’

  ‘One can only hope,’ said Miss Smith, somewhat tartly, ‘Mr Ladlaw receives the acclaim he deserves.’

  ‘We have to save him from the dangers of this island and its mistress first. She is intent on his destruction.’

  ‘Yes, and what a tragic loss for Literature that would be!’

  Pattern was a little surprised. She detected something sarcastic in Miss Smith’s tone. But it was only natural that Miss Smith was feeling bruised by events
. She would soon come to realize that Mr Ladlaw’s infatuation with Miss Hawk was through no fault of his own. No doubt time would heal the lovers’ rift.

  And, though it would help if Mr Ladlaw had made some romantic gesture or apology, Pattern supposed it was not possible in his current condition. Nate had to keep prodding him in the back to ensure he kept the pace.

  ‘Get a move on,’ Nate said, exasperated. ‘You’re the poor sap Lady Hawk wants to make into mincemeat, but we’ll suffer as well if she catches us helping you. I reckon we’ve got ten minutes left to pile into that boat, or else it will be too late to push off, and then the octopus lady will be eating all of us for breakfast.’

  This speech did not have the stimulating effect he wished, for Mr Ladlaw gave a moan of terror and came to a complete stop. Pattern seized his arm, in an attempt to drag him onwards.

  ‘Sir! You really must get a hold of yourself. Now we have reached the wood, we are really very close. For the beach is just below – look.’

  ‘N-n-not there . . . There.’ With a shaking hand, he pointed to the trees.

  A tiger had slunk out of the wood. It was snarling, teeth bared.

  They moved together instinctively. The tiger, hackles raised, padded closer. It was very different to the poor mangy creature Pattern had seen at the zoological gardens. It was glossy and muscled, rippling with savage beauty and strength.

  Nate took out his posy of snowdrops and brandished them at the beast. It immediately lowered its head and purred as sweetly as a tabby cat, but did not move its position. Next it was joined by a lynx and a wolf. The sound of hooves made the three swing round, only to see their path back to the villa was blocked by an enormous shire horse and a shining black panther.

  ‘Shoot them!’ said Mr Ladlaw. ‘You have a weapon, don’t you? Shoot a way through!’ He dived for the bag.

  Nate snatched it away. ‘Did you never notice how all the animals around this place are male?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ snapped Mr Ladlaw.

  ‘Think about it. What with all the jiggery-pokery going on, I wouldn’t be too surprised if them beasts were once like you or me.’

  ‘Pshaw,’ said Mr Ladlaw.

  At the horizon, the sky was beginning to turn grey.

  ‘Not a chance worth taking, sir,’ said Pattern. She was sure Nate was right.

  ‘No indeed,’ murmured Miss Smith, staring into the impassive yellow eyes of the panther. ‘How could we live with ourselves?’

  In any case, there were now far more animals than bullets. It was the same mix of domestic and wild creatures as the pack that had hunted Lord Charnly to his doom. Above them, a motley flock of birds – parrots and songbirds, as well as birds of prey – swooped and dived. The birds flew so close that beaks snapped in their ears, and talons raked their hair. If any beast got dangerously aggressive, thrusting the snowdrops at the animal turned it docile in an instant. But they did not move out of their way. A milky light had begun to suffuse the sky; dawn was fast approaching, and Scylla would be waking from her rest.

  They were not being harmed, but they were being herded.

  Herded through the olive groves, past the plantations of orange and lemon trees and stands of cypresses . . . Herded over the hills and towards the summer house . . .

  Miss Smith found the walk particularly hard going, since she was in her shabby nightclothes, with only worn-down slippers to protect her feet. Still, she was in better spirits than Mr Ladlaw, who continued to wring his hands and bewail the misery of his lot. ‘If I am to face my doom, then at least I will face it with a sound mind,’ she said. ‘I have had quite enough of thinking in a fog. Moreover, my cold is much better. I am very glad not to have to battle an immortal enchantress whilst my nose is dripping. It puts one at such a disadvantage.’

  Pattern could think of no advantages to their situation whatsoever.

  Nate glanced at her doleful face, and nudged her in the ribs. ‘They say that if tin-mining was to fail, Cornwall could reinvent itself as a place for rich folks to go on their holidays. I can’t see it happening, meself.’

  She did not laugh, but she did feel glad that he was with her.

  As dawn broke, they reached the hill with the summer house overlooking the sea.

  Gilded by the morning light, the building appeared more like a temple than ever. The white marble columns and high domed roof were flushed with the rosy hue of dawn. The sun’s rays flashed from the statue of a nymph on her pedestal and on the golden crown of Lady Hawk, who stood at the foot of the steps with bare arms, flowing white robes and unbound hair.

  ‘What have you done with my darling daughter?’ she asked.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  How preposterous it is to hear a woman say, ‘It shall be done’ – ‘I will have it so!’

  Mrs Taylor, Practical Hints to Young Females

  Under the dome were the ladies from the house party – Honoria Blunt, Alicia and Adele Lane, and the Dowager. Ranged behind them were the female servants of the household.

  All were in their nightclothes. All wore strange smiles on their faces. All were unnaturally still and calm.

  Glaucus Grey, grim-faced as ever and wrapped in his black cloak, stood immediately behind his mistress.

  Far out to sea, Pattern glimpsed six golden heads watching from the waves.

  The throng of animals settled themselves on the grassy slopes around the hill. They did not scratch or sniff or roll about or do any of the things ordinary animals might do. They were as still and silent as the assembled humans.

  ‘Well?’ Lady Hawk demanded in theatrical tones. ‘Where is my sweet Cassandra?’

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  ‘She – she wasn’t your daughter, milady,’ Pattern said bravely, since nobody else seemed inclined to speak. ‘Not unless you’re made of cogs and wires too.’

  Lady Hawk descended the steps.

  ‘Poor Cassandra is one of a kind: the last, and greatest, work of that master craftsman Pygmalion. It will take a great deal of time and trouble to put her back to rights.’

  ‘If you do, then you should find better use for such a miracle of science than luring gentlemen to their doom.’

  Lady Hawk pursed her lips. ‘What a bother you’ve caused me, little Penelope! Glaucus tells me someone has been digging up my moly flowers. I suppose that must be you and your friend too. How did you get around Alasdair, I wonder?’

  ‘Alasdair?’

  ‘A one-time Scottish laird, and a most slippery character.’

  Nate and Pattern exchanged looks. Alasdair had to be the snake that guarded the snowdrops. No wonder it had tartan scales and a taste for Scottish folk tunes! Here was further proof, if proof were needed, that the island animals had been human once.

  The sorceress clicked her fingers and the snowdrops they were carrying flew through the air and into her hands. She wound the flowers into her hair with a complacent smile.

  ‘The original Penelope, you know, also appeared very quiet and dutiful, and useful around the house. Her weaving was remarkable. But then all the while she was picking and pulling at the thread, undoing everything as she went along . . .’ Lady Hawk shook her head regretfully. ‘The difference is, of course, that the first Penelope was spoiling her own work. You, on the other hand, have attempted to unravel mine.’

  Pattern swallowed. ‘I do not much care for your work, milady.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Nate piped up. ‘It ain’t respectable, turning people’s heads to porridge, jinxing gentlemen right and left.’

  ‘Not all gentlemen,’ said Lady Hawk, fixing her gleaming dark eyes on Mr Ladlaw. ‘Not yet.’

  Mr Ladlaw sank to his knees. ‘P-please, I b-beg you – Honourable Madam! Gracious Lady! If I have unwittingly caused offence, or neglect of some kind, then I will do everything, everything, in my power to make it up to you. I swear. I swear!’

  Pattern looked at Miss Smith, expecting her to plead for mercy on her lover’s behal
f. But Miss Smith was watching quite coolly, her arms folded across her chest.

  ‘Do you know why your fellow suitors have been punished?’ Lady Hawk enquired.

  Mr Ladlaw tearfully shook his head.

  ‘Then I think it is time to enlighten you.’

  Mr Grey brought out a high-backed golden chair and set it at the foot of the steps. He followed this with a glass of champagne on a silver platter. Lady Hawk settled into the seat with a sigh of satisfaction, and took a sip from the glass. The blank-eyed women behind her, and the animals spread out before her, continued to look on with rapt attention.

  ‘Lord Charnly wished to knock down an old woman’s cottage so he could build a hunting lodge. He had his henchmen drag the poor lady out from her bed in the dead of night – one of those brutes was his valet Stokes, by the way. Abandoned in the cold, the woman died soon after. No doubt Lord Charnly feels excessively chilly and stiff inside his marble cladding . . . but it is more comfortable than the morgue, wouldn’t you say?

  ‘Captain Vyne broke hearts, destroyed reputations and ruined lives, all because he could not resist the dazzle of his own charm. Now he is a prisoner of his reflected beauty. I suspect he is considerably less proud of it now.

  ‘The Reverend Blunt stole from widows and orphans, under the guise of offering them a helping hand. How fitting, then, that he should whirl round and round, helplessly, with the chance of salvation always just outside his reach . . .

  ‘So there you have it. There are many scoundrels I might have chosen to torment, but I consider those who dishonour women to be the blackest villains of all.’ Here her expression turned dark. ‘Moreover, these gentlemen were particularly suited to my games – for have I not made the punishments fit their crimes in a splendidly neat fashion?’