by Laura Powell
At once, the women assembled behind her, servants and ladies alike, broke into polite applause.
‘Will the gents be fixed like that forever?’ Nate asked. He looked a little queasy.
‘Oh no,’ came the reply. ‘Only for as long as it amuses me. Then I shall set them free – save for one, who I will keep for my collection of pets. I have not yet decided who it shall be. Lord Charnly would make a splendid bull, with that lowered black brow of his. But then I am also tempted by the idea of doleful Mr Ladlaw as a raven. I’m sure his cawing would be highly poetical.’
‘But – but what crime has Mr Ladlaw committed?’ Pattern asked.
‘Like the others, a crime against womankind. Perhaps Miss Smith would care to enlighten you.’
‘Miss Smith? But she is in love with him!’
Miss Smith snorted. ‘Not in a hundred years. Not in a hundred thousand.’
Pattern felt quite confounded. Foolish too. How could she have got this so wrong?
‘We were friends,’ Miss Smith conceded. ‘I was a governess for his younger brothers and sisters, you see. I wanted to write, to make an independent life for myself, and he encouraged me. Such wonderful letters he sent me, full of praise and promises! He told me I would have a far better chance of publication if he took my writing to his editor friends and presented it as being the work of a gentleman. I believed him. I trusted him. First with the poetry, but then with my novel – even though I particularly wanted it to be published under my own name.’
‘You wrote the Towers of Whatsit?’ Nate was saucer-eyed. ‘I’d never have guessed it was by a lady, it were that good.’
‘And there we have it,’ said Miss Smith sharply. ‘The ignorant prejudice of men laid bare.’ She sighed. ‘Anyhow, Mr Ladlaw said the publisher told him my book would do much less well if people believed it to be by a lady novelist. We should wait, and only reveal its true author once it was a success. So I waited, and I waited, and watched as my book became a minor sensation. Yet my authorship was never revealed. Instead, Mr Ladlaw took all the money, and all the acclaim, and told anyone who heard my claims that I was soft in the head, and madly in love with him to boot. I lost my position as a governess, and was thrown on the charity of my cousins Frederick and Honoria Blunt. They do not like me, and treat me like a servant – but it is them or the workhouse, so what else can I do?’
‘Precisely!’ said Lady Hawk. ‘Such gross injustice must not be allowed to stand.’
‘That may be so,’ said Miss Smith with spirit, ‘but I do not see why it should be up to you to correct it. I am the injured party after all.’
‘Yes, and you are poor and powerless. I am not. I have lived for a great many years, and over time all sorts of men have washed up on this island, making great claims and promises, all of which have proved false. What a tedious mess men have made of running the world! Why should I not amuse myself by redressing the balance, just a little? Wouldn’t you agree, ladies?’
The assembled women clapped their hands with vigorous enthusiasm.
‘Quite right,’ murmured Miss Lane.
‘So true,’ said the Dowager Duchess.
‘Very instructive,’ said Mrs Robinson.
‘Hear, hear,’ said Jane.
Pattern frowned. It seemed to her that Lady Hawk’s claims to advance the female cause were somewhat undermined by magicking a group of women into agreeing with her every word.
Judging by Miss Smith’s expression, she thought the same. ‘When all’s said and done,’ the novelist said, ‘I am inclined to think that Mr Ladlaw has suffered enough.’
‘How do we know any of them have?’ Lady Hawk indicated the menagerie before her. ‘Dumb animals can hardly tell us how their morals and manners have improved.’
‘Then turn one of them back so he can speak for himself,’ said Pattern, with new boldness. ‘Let us hear from one of your former victims. Let us hear from Mr Henry Whitby.’
‘Who?’ asked Lady Hawk, wrinkling her brow. Nate and Miss Smith also looked at Pattern in confusion. (Mr Ladlaw was far too busy wringing his hands to do anything much.)
‘Henry Whitby. He was at your island party in Italy, but never came home. He is the reason I joined your household. I am looking for him on behalf of his guardian, who is exceedingly upset at his loss.’ Pattern hardly knew where the authority in her voice came from. She was feeling very small and shaky inside. ‘A rather plump young gentleman . . . with a habit of losing at cards?’
‘Ah yes, I remember now. I believe he defrauded an elderly spinster out of her life savings, all so he could pay a gambling debt. He was in every way lazy, greedy and deceitful.’
‘But capable of change, I am sure. Won’t you please restore him to his human form so he can plead his case and prove how well he has learned his lesson?’
‘Hmm. After a certain amount of time spent living as animals, I am afraid my guests are apt to forget their human selves. As such, there is no way of turning them back. But I suppose Mr Whitby was my most recent acquisition, so it may not be too late . . . I tell you what, little Penelope – if you can find Mr Whitby, you can have him. But you will have only one chance to choose. If you get it wrong, then Mr Whitby must stay as he is.’
‘Thank you, milady.’
Pattern smoothed down her skirts and surveyed the assembled birds and beasts, thoughts racing. She concentrated on keeping her breathing slow and steady, so to concentrate better. She had everything to play for and much to prove.
Lazy . . . greedy . . . deceitful.
Lady Hawk assigned animal identities according to both character and looks, if her musings on Lord Charnly as a bull and Mr Ladlaw as a raven were a guide.
Pattern walked among the animals. Such an abundance of furs and scales and feathers! She had toured London’s zoological gardens not long before joining Lady Hawk’s household, but this was an entirely different experience, for the creatures were so silent and still that they might as well have been stuffed and sitting in glass cases in a museum.
‘Please, might I have a closer look at the sloth?’
Lady Hawk clicked her fingers, and the sloth ambled forward. It was shaggy and grey with squinty black eyes.
‘Now the pig with the spots.’
Another click of the fingers and the black-and-white-patched pig trotted to join the sloth. Pattern remembered batting away its snout in the dining room.
‘Finally, the snake – not the one who lives by the snowdrops, but that one there. The green one, please.’
She surveyed her three candidates: lazy sloth, greedy pig, deceitful snake.
What did she know about Henry Whitby? That he was small and stout, with bulging eyes. That he lost money on gambling, and lied about it. That he drank too much. That his favourite food was oysters . . .
‘I don’t suppose it would be possible,’ she asked, ‘to procure some oysters?’
It was. A wave of Lady Hawk’s hand, and Mr Grey produced another silver platter, this time with a dish of oysters on it. Pattern put the oysters down on the grass. The sloth and the snake regarded them blankly. But the pig eagerly trotted forward and began slurping them up from their shells.
‘That one,’ Pattern said, and she could not quite keep the tremble from her voice. ‘That is Henry Whitby.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Consider your business as a pleasurable amusement and you will make it so.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
There was a long and anxious wait. Then Lady Hawk began to applaud. So did the spellbound ladies. Nate and Miss Smith whooped. Even Mr Ladlaw managed a sickly smile.
‘Very good, little Penelope. Very good! You have caused me a deal of trouble, yet I cannot help but be amused by you. It has been many years – centuries – since anyone has been so wise to my tricks.’
‘Thank you, milady.’
‘Oh, call me Circe, do. We need not stand on ceremony any longer. You know, I am half tempted to keep you on this island. I think I shou
ld quite enjoy having a maid as quick-witted as you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Circe, ma’am – but I am not in need of employment.’ Pattern licked her dry lips. ‘I only need to return Mr Whitby to his relations.’
‘How tiresome of you. Very well – let us see what the young man has to say for himself.’
The woman who had been Lady Cecily Hawk and the Contessa Cecilia di Falco, and was now simply Circe, rose from her chair and came to where the pig was still gobbling its treats. She rapped it three times on its bristly snout.
A plump and anxious-looking young man, in muddy clothes that had once been exceedingly fine, was suddenly crouched, snuffling, on the grass.
‘Oink!’ he squealed. ‘Grumph!’ he grunted.
He rubbed his snub nose and snuffled some more. His eyes darted about as he rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Gr – umph – oink – where is she? Where is my love? My – umph – darling Cassiphone?’
‘She goes by the name of Cassandra these days,’ said Circe. ‘And I’m afraid she’s indisposed.’
His eyes filled with tears. ‘Alas! All my suffering would be worth it, if I could only win a smile from her lips!’
‘What makes you think you are worthy of her? You cheated a poor spinster to pay a gambling debt. You have frittered away your fortune, wasted your education, disappointed your relatives and betrayed your friends.’
Henry Whitby hung his head. ‘I know. All this is true. I can only say that I was determined to be a better man for your daughter’s sake. Her goodness made me ashamed of myself. Her sweetness inspired me to better things.’
‘And what if I were to say that all this goodness and sweetness and the rest was merely a masquerade? Your love for Cassandra is not real, because Cassandra is not real. She is little more than a moving, talking statue. The feelings she arouses in you are as much of an enchantment as that piggy skin you have been wearing this past year. If you were to leave my island, you would forget her charms in an instant.’
‘Then – then I will search and search until I find someone who is real, and worthy of my love. Someone to inspire truly noble thoughts and feelings. Someone to help transform me into my best self. I shall not rest until I become worthy of such a woman.’
‘Hmm,’ said Circe, settling back down on her golden chair. ‘I am not convinced. Beauty withers; charm dwindles; love fades. I think you would soon go back to your old ways without the fear of magical punishment, or hope of magical love.’
‘Real love is not magical,’ said Pattern, ‘but it is powerful nonetheless.’
‘Ah! So you are a romantic, then, little Penelope!’
No, thought Pattern, I am not romantic. I am practical. But love and romance are not the same thing. Love had made her parents give up everything they had to embark on a dangerous sea voyage in order to give their daughter the chance of a better life. Love had compelled Pattern to rush up a mountain and fight a dragon to save her dearest friend. Love had brought Nate’s parents together, in spite of the ‘rumpus’ it caused.
Circe shook her head, smiling. ‘I should warn you that true love is even more dangerous than the magical kind. It is as likely to turn people into monsters as angels, I fear. It certainly never did me any good.’ And here, Pattern was interested to see, she looked sidelong at Glaucus Grey.
‘Mostly, however, it just makes people dull. There was a man from my past, a travelling man; Odysseus was his name. He was the first but not the last to abandon me. You can read all about it in Homer, if you are so minded, though bear in mind that Homer was a man, so his account of the affair is very partial, and not entirely to be trusted. Anyhow, Odysseus was exceedingly clever (if not as clever as me) and a great storyteller. So entertaining! Alas, rather than choose to spend a merry immortality with me, he went back to his wife – the dreary and dutiful Penelope – and thus ended his adventures. She was his true love, apparently. I still find it surprising.’
Pattern was shocked into silence. Although she had guessed Circe was much older than she appeared, it was still quite a thing to hear she was immortal. It was clear she had been exacting vengeance on men for centuries. And what was this vengeance for – the betrayal of abandonment? Odysseus, she said, was the first. But were there others? And what had become of them? She looked between Mr Grey, who stood there with his head hung low, and Circe, brooding on her throne.
Finally, the enchantress stretched and sighed. ‘Dear me – time does drag when you have limitless supplies of it! Perhaps we would all benefit from a new form of entertainment. A wager to keep us on our toes.
‘Somewhere on my island, little Penelope, there is a token of true love that once belonged to me. If you can find it, then I will release Mr Whitby along with the other gentlemen and everyone else on this island. If not, then Mr Whitby will return to his porcine form, Mr Ladlaw will receive the punishment I planned for him and everyone else will be compelled to spend the next few decades or so on Cull, providing me with all the amusement and distraction I could wish for.
‘Do you accept the challenge?’
Of course Pattern accepted the challenge. There was no other choice.
The idea of spending the next few decades a prisoner on Cull struck fear into her bones. Thus far, Circe had been a liberal mistress to her servants, but it was easy to see that once boredom and irritation set in she would resort to all sorts of unpleasant tricks. Who knows what fresh humiliations and entrapments were in store? They might spend whole weeks fighting pointless duels, entire months chasing phantoms through the mist . . .
In the meantime, Circe seemed much invigorated by her latest scheme. She clapped her hands and remarked, repeatedly, how much fun they would all have.
‘I’m helping Pattern,’ Nate announced.
‘Are you indeed? So chivalry is not yet dead. Well, I suppose I’ll allow it. The more the merrier, after all! What about you, Mr Ladlaw? Would you like to stay here and keep me company, or gad about with these urchins?’
Mr Ladlaw blinked. Neither prospect was an enticing one. ‘I, um, would like to assist with the, er, quest, my lady. To be, um, useful. And helpful. And make amends.’ He attempted an ingratiating smile.
‘Well, mind that you are helpful – if you are not, there will be consequences. Mr Grey will be there to keep an eye on you all, and provide any little thing you might need. You see how reasonable I am: I wish the wager to be a fair one.’
Mr Grey did not look at all happy about this, and even opened his mouth as if to object, but after a look from Circe he lapsed into silence. Pattern had hoped that he might intervene at some point, or give some sign that he was ready to oppose his mistress, but it seemed he’d spoken the truth when he’d said that he would never actively defy her. She wondered again why he might have been doomed to serve the enchantress for all eternity.
‘What about me?’ Miss Smith asked.
‘You, my dear, can entertain us by reading from your novel while we wait. Mr Whitby can read out the gentlemen’s parts, and it will all be highly diverting. A literary salon! I have, after all, known a deal of poets and writers over the course of my life. My critical opinion will be invaluable.’
Circe gave them until noon to complete the challenge.
Pattern hoped this was a good sign. The enchantress was not, after all, entirely unreasonable. She clung to Mr Grey’s words. I cannot help but think of the snowdrops. They have always flourished here, despite her efforts to uproot them. Perhaps it is a sign. Some things cannot be changed. Some things – some goodness – can never be entirely cut out.
Could it be true? Her games with the gentlemen were surely every bit as despicable as her victims’ crimes. But if Pattern entertained Circe sufficiently, would she pardon them?
Pattern began proceedings by drawing Nate away for a private conference.
‘You know what Circe’s token of love is, don’t you?’ Nate said. ‘I can tell by the glint in your eye.’
‘Identifying it is one thing; getting it is quite another.
But, yes, I think I do. I am fairly certain it is a ring.’
‘Like a wedding band? Lord. Who’d ever be daft enough to marry a witch? One cross word over breakfast and she’d turn you into a toast rack! But something that small could be anywhere. Why, we could search all year and hardly cover half the nooks and crannies on this island.’
‘It is not on the island proper, though. It is in its waters.’ Pattern described her encounter with Scylla more fully. ‘I am sure it is Scylla’s ring.’
‘But Circe said the love-token belonged to her. Did Scylla steal it, then – reach out of the water and grab it off her with one of them tentacles?’
‘Either way, Circe is testing us.’
‘Ho, you don’t say! Fighting a monster-octopus-lady ain’t no joke.’
Pattern looked out to sea. Scylla’s six heads had been visible throughout their encounter with Circe, but she had now sunk below the waves again. Her underwater shadow was moving back and forth restlessly. Pattern pictured her pacing about on the ocean floor.
‘I have an idea.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Never trust entirely to your own fortitude.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
They made their preparations back at the house. A drowsy calm hung in the air, and when Nate went to check on the staff quarters, he found the rest of the menservants deep in an enchanted sleep. The building had always seemed like a Mediterranean villa masquerading as an English country house, but now the last of its disguise was gone. The only remainder of its former incarnation was the grandfather clock in the hall, where the miniature figures of Miss Jenks and Mr Stokes continued to mark the hour.
Pattern began by visiting the gallery. The ‘Home, Sweet Home’ tapestry had vanished, but all the antiquities were still in place. She was chiefly interested in the red-and-black vase that had caught her eye on their first morning on the island. There was Scylla, all heads and tentacles on the front panel. But by turning the vase around, Pattern saw more of the story. Another panel showed a man embracing a young woman, while another lady looked on, a scowl upon her face. The next scene depicted a bird with lightning in its beak, and a towering wave that came between the lovers.
