Two small hairy things exploded through the inner door and ran around and around the kitchen at speed, calling excitedly to each other in high-pitched voices as they chased a brightly colored bouncing ball. They shot under the kitchen table at such speed that Peter and Jubilee barely had time to get their feet out of the way, just two hairy little blurs.
“Hey!” said Jubilee, trying hard to sound annoyed but unable to keep the fondness out of her voice. “No running in the House! And no ball games in the kitchen.”
The two small hairy things stopped abruptly, revealing themselves to be barely three feet in height, most of it fur. Two sets of wide eyes blinked guiltily from the head region, while the ball bounced up and down between them.
“I don’t mind,” said the ball. “Really. I’m quite enjoying it.”
“Then go enjoy it somewhere else,” said Peter. “I have a lot of breakfast to get through, and I don’t want my concentration interrupted. My digestion is a finely balanced thing and a wonder of nature.”
“And stay out of the study,” said Jubilee. “Remember: you break it, and your progenitors will pay for it.”
“We’ll be careful!” said a high, piping voice from somewhere under one set of fur.
The brightly colored ball bounced off out of the kitchen, followed by excitedly shouting hairy things. A blessed peace descended upon the kitchen as Peter and Jubilee breakfasted in their own accustomed ways and enjoyed each other’s company. Outside the open window, birds were singing, the occasional traffic noise was comfortably far away, and all seemed well with the world. Eventually, Peter decided he’d enjoyed about as much of his breakfast as he could stand and got up to scrape the last vestiges off his plate and into the sink disposal. Which shouted, Feed me! Feed me, Seymour! until Peter threatened to shove another teaspoon down it. He washed his plate and cutlery with usual thoroughness, put them out to dry, and stretched unhurriedly.
“Big day ahead, princess,” Peter said finally. “I have to fix the hot water system, clean out the gutters, make all the beds, and sort out the laundry.”
“I have to redraw the protective wardings, recharge the enchantments in the night garden, clean up after the gargoyles, and refurbish the rainbow.”
“I have to mow the lawns and rake the leaves.”
“I have to clean out the moat.”
Peter laughed. “All right, princess. You win. Want to swap?”
“Each to their own, sweetie. Be a dear and wash my mug.”
“What did your last slave die of?”
“Not washing my mug properly. Be a dear, and there will be snuggles later.”
“Ooh . . . Sweaty snuggles?”
“In this weather, almost certainly.”
And that should have been it. Just another day begun, in the House on the border. But that . . . was when the front door bell rang. A loud, ominous ring. Peter and Jubilee looked at each other.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” said Jubilee. “Are you?”
“No,” said Peter. “I’m not.”
The doorbell rang again, very firmly. One of those I’m not going to go away so there’s no point hiding behind the furniture pretending to be out kind of rings. Peter went to answer it. He opened the front door and immediately stepped outside, forcing the visitor to step back a few paces. Peter shut the door very firmly behind him and had a quick look around, just to make sure that everything was as it should be. In the real world, the House was just an ordinary detached residence, a bit old-fashioned looking, set back a comfortable distance from the main road, with a neatly raked gravel path running between carefully maintained lawns. Flowers, here and there. The House was almost defiantly ordinary, with doors and windows in the right places and in the right proportions, tiles on the roof, and gutters that worked as often as they didn’t. Nothing to look at, keep moving, forgetting you already.
Standing before Peter was a rather uptight middle-aged person in a tight-fitting suit, whose largely undistinguished features held the kind of tight-assed expression clearly designed to indicate that he was a man with an unpleasant duty to perform, which he intended to carry out with all the personal pleasure at his command.
“Is this number thirteen Daemon Street?” said the person, in the kind of voice used by people who already have the answer to their question but are hoping you’re going to be stupid enough to argue about it.
“Yes,” said Peter, firmly. He felt he was on safe enough ground there.
“I am Mr. Cuthbert. I represent the local Council.” He paused a moment, so that Peter could be properly impressed.
“Damn,” said Peter. “The move along nothing to see here avoidance field must be on the blink.”
“What?”
“Nothing!” said Peter. “Do carry on. The local Council, eh? How interesting. Is it an interesting job? Why are you here, Mr. Cuthbert? I’ve been good. Mostly.”
“It has come to our attention,” said Mr. Cuthbert, just a little doggedly, “That you have not been maintaining the proper amenities of this residence to the required standards.”
“But . . . it’s our house,” said Peter. “Not the Council’s.”
“There are still standards! Standards have to be met! All parts and parcels of every house in the district must come up to the required criteria. Regulations apply to everyone; it’s a matter of Health and Safety.” And having unleashed that unstoppable trump card, Mr. Cuthbert allowed himself a small smile. “I will have to make . . . an inspection.”
“What?” said Peter. “Now?”
“Yes, now! I have all the necessary paperwork with me. . . .”
“I felt sure you would, Mr. Cuthbert,” said Peter. “You look the type. Well, you’d better come on in and take a look around. You’ll have to take us as you find us, though.”
While Peter was having his close encounter with a supremely up its own ass denizen of the local Council, there was a hard, heavy, and even aristocratic knock at the back door. Jubilee went to answer it, frowning thoughtfully. Visitors to the House were rare enough, from either world. Two at once were almost unheard of. The back door to the House was a massive slab of ancient oak, deeply carved with long lines of runes and sigils. Jubilee snapped her fingers at the door as she approached, and the heavy door swung smoothly open before her. She stepped forcefully out into the cool moonlight of late evening, and her visitor was forced to retreat a few steps, despite himself. The door slammed very firmly shut behind her. Jubilee ostentatiously ignored her visitor for a few moments, glancing quickly around her to reassure herself that everything on the night side of the House was where it should be.
Here, the House was a sprawling Gothic mansion, with grotesquely carved stone and woodwork, latticed windows, cupolas, garrets, leering gargoyles peering down from the roof, and a tangle of twisted chimneys. Set out before the House, a delicate wicker bridge crossing the dark and murky waters of the moat, leading to a small zoo of animal shapes in greenery and deep purple lawns. Ancient trees with long, gnarled branches like clutching fingers stood guard over a garden whose flowers were famously as ferocious as they were stunning. The night sky was full of stars, spinning like Catherine wheels, and the full moon was a promising shade of blue.
Jubilee finally deigned to notice the personage standing before her. He didn’t need to announce he was an Elven Prince of the Unseeli Court. He couldn’t have been anything else. Tall and supernaturally slender, in silver-filigreed brass armor, he had pale colorless skin, cat-pupiled eyes, and pointed ears. Inhumanly handsome, insufferably graceful, and almost unbearably arrogant. Not because he was a Prince, you understand, but because he was an Elf. He bowed to Jubilee.
“Don’t,” Jubilee said immediately. “Just . . . don’t. What do you want here, Prince Airgedlamh?”
“I come on moonfleet heels, faster than the winter winds or summer tides, walking the hidden ways to bear you words
of great import and urgency. . . .”
“And you can cut that out, too. I don’t have the patience,” said Jubilee. “What do you want?”
“It has been made known to us,” the Elven Prince said stiffly, “that many of the old magics, the pacts and agreements laid down when this House was first agreed on, are not being properly maintained. As required in that Place where all that matters is decided. I must make an inspection.”
“Now?”
“Yes. I have the proper authority.”
“Buttocks,” said Jubilee, with more than ordinary force. “All right, you’d better come in. And wipe those armored boots properly. The floor gets very bad-tempered if you track mud over it.”
Peter led Mr. Cuthbert around the House. Because the man from the local Council had entered the House from the everyday world, that was the aspect of the House he should see. So it always had been, and so it must always be, in the House that links the worlds, if only because most people can’t cope with more than one world at a time. Mr. Cuthbert took his own sweet time looking around the kitchen, sniffing loudly to demonstrate his disapproval of absolutely everything, and then allowed Peter to lead him out into the main hall.
“How many rooms in this residence, Mr. Caine?” Mr. Cuthbert demanded, peering suspiciously about him.
Peter didn’t like to say It depends, so he just guessed. “Nine?”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Cuthbert said smugly, shaking his head happily. “Oh dear, oh dear, Mr. Caine . . . That doesn’t agree with our information at all! I will have to make a note.”
And he got out a notepad and pen, and took his own sweet time about making the note. Peter tried to lean in to see what he was writing, but Mr. Cuthbert immediately turned away so he couldn’t.
“I haven’t been here that long,” said Peter. “The wife and I only moved in three years ago.”
“You haven’t got around to counting the number of rooms in your house in three years, Mr. Caine?”
“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” said Peter.
“So, you don’t actually own this desirable residence?” said Mr. Cuthbert.
“We hold it in trust,” said Peter. “It’s like the National Trust. Only more so. You’ll find all the proper paperwork was submitted to the Council long ago. . . .”
Mr. Cuthbert sniffed loudly, to indicate he didn’t believe that for one moment but would let it go for now. He was so busy with this little performance that he didn’t notice all the faces in the portraits on the walls turning to look at him. Disapprovingly. Mr. Cuthbert wasn’t supposed to notice anything of that nature, but with the avoidance spells malfunctioning, God alone knew what else might go wrong in the House. . . .
Two small hairy things chased their ball down the hall and then slammed to an abrupt halt to stare at Mr. Cuthbert.
“My nephews,” Peter said quickly. “They’re visiting.”
“What a charming young boy and girl,” said Mr. Cuthbert, just a bit vaguely. And to him, they probably were. Though given his expression, charming was probably pushing it a bit. He reached out to pat them on the head, but some last-minute self-preservation instinct made him realize this wasn’t a good idea, and he pulled his hand back again. Peter hurried him past the hairy things and showed him the downstairs rooms. Mr. Cuthbert was, if anything, even less impressed than before, and made a number of notes in his little book. Finally, they went upstairs.
“We have two Guests staying with us at the moment,” Peter said carefully. There were others, but none of them the kind that Mr. Cuthbert could usefully be introduced to. “In the first room we have a young lady called Lee, visiting from the Isle of Man. Next door is Johnny, a young man just down from London, for a while. Do we really need to disturb them this early in the day?”
“Early?” said Mr. Cuthbert. “I myself have been up for hours. I am not the sort to let the day pass me by when there is important work to be done. Oh no, I must see everything while I’m here. And everyone. My job requires it.” He stopped suddenly and looked around. “What the hell was that?”
“The hot water boiler, up in the attic,” Peter said quickly. “It’s temperamental. Though you’ll have to bring your own ladder, if you want to inspect it. We don’t go up there.”
“The boiler can be inspected on a future visit,” Mr. Cuthbert conceded. “There must be something seriously wrong with it if it can make noises like that. Sounded very much like something . . . growling.”
“Oh, you are such a joker, Mr. Cuthbert,” said Peter. “Such a sense of humor.”
Mr. Cuthbert headed for the Guest rooms. Peter glared up at the attic. “Keep a lid on it, Grandfather Grendel! We’ve got a visitor!”
He hurried after Mr. Cuthbert, who had stopped outside the first Guest door. Peter moved quickly in and knocked very politely on the door.
“Lee? This is Peter. We have a caller from the local Council. Are you decent?”
“Close as I ever get, darling,” said a rich sultry voice from inside the room. “Come on in, boys. The more the merrier, that’s what I always say.”
Peter swallowed hard, smiled meaninglessly at Mr. Cuthbert, and put all his trust in the House’s special nature. Fortunately, when he and Mr. Cuthbert entered the room, it all seemed perfectly normal, if a bit gloomy. A slim and very pale teenage Goth girl was reclining on an unmade bed, dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the legend I’m only wearing this till they come up with a darker color. She also wore steel-studded black leather bracelets around her wrists and throat. Her unhealthily pale face boasted more dark eye makeup than a panda on the pull, and blood-red lips. The bedroom walls were covered with posters featuring The Cure, The Mission, and Fields of the Nephilim. The girl rose unhurriedly to her feet, every movement smooth and elegant and just that little bit disturbing, and then she smiled slowly at Mr. Cuthbert. Peter moved instinctively to put himself between Lee and the man from the Council.
“Just introducing Mr. Cuthbert to the Guests, Lee,” he said quickly. “He can’t stay long. He has to get back. Because people might notice if he went missing.”
Lee pouted. “I don’t know why you keep going on about that. It was just the one time.”
“Are you . . . comfortable here?” said Mr. Cuthbert, apparently because he felt he should be saying something.
“Oh yes,” said Lee. “Very comfortable.” She smiled widely at Mr. Cuthbert, and there was a flash of very sharp teeth behind the dark lips.
Peter quickly manoeuvred Mr. Cuthbert back out into the corridor. The man from the Council was flustered enough that he let Peter do it, even if he didn’t quite understand why.
“Does she pay rent?” he said vaguely.
“No,” said Peter. “She’s a Guest.”
“I’ll have to make a note,” said Mr. Cuthbert. And he did.
The next door along opened as they approached it, and out stepped a quiet, nervous young man, in a blank white T-shirt and distressed blue jeans. He was handsome enough, in an unfinished sort of way. He put his hands in his pockets, because he didn’t know what else to do with them, and looked mournfully at Mr. Cuthbert.
“Hello. You’re not from the tabloids, are you?”
“No, Johnny,” Peter said quickly. “He’s from the local Council.”
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” said Mr. Cuthbert, doubtfully. “I’m almost sure I’ve seen you somewhere before. . . .”
“I was on a television talent show,” Johnny said reluctantly. “It all got a bit much, so I came here to . . . get away from it all for a while.”
“Oh, I never watch those shows,” Mr. Cuthbert said immediately, in much the same kind of voice as one might say I never watch bear baiting. He insisted on a good look around Johnny’s room, found nothing of any interest whatsoever, made a note about that, and then trudged back down the stairs again. Peter hurried after him. Mr. Cuthbert
strode back through the House, into the kitchen, and then stopped abruptly at the front door. He gave Peter a stern look, the kind meant to indicate I am a man to be reckoned with and don’t you forget it.
“I can see there are a great many things that will have to be dealt with, to bring this property up to scratch, Mr. Caine. I will of course be sending in a full investigative team. Have all the floorboards up, to inspect the wiring. Might have to open up all the walls, rewire the entire House. And a residence this size, with Guests, should have proper central heating, not just some noisy old boiler in the attic. That will definitely have to be replaced. I’m sure I saw rising damp, the whole of the outside needs rendering, and what I can see of your roof is a disgrace! We’ll have to put up scaffolding all around the property.” He smiled thinly, his eyes full of quiet satisfaction. “I’m afraid this is all going to prove rather expensive for you, Mr. Caine, but regulations are regulations, and standards must be maintained. Good day to you. You’ll be hearing from me again, very soon.”
He left the house as importantly as he’d arrived, slamming the door behind him. Up in the attic, Grandfather Grendel made a very rude noise, and the House smelled briefly of rotting petunias.
Jubilee led the Elven Prince Airgedlamh around the House, though of course he saw a very different establishment. He strolled arrogantly down the hall, refusing to be hurried, remarking loudly on the substandard nature of the ambience, and the lack of proper protective magics. He did notice the portrait faces on the walls glaring at him with open disdain and met them all glare for glare. He was used to general disapproval. He was an Elf. Jubilee let him wander around the downstairs rooms, making haughty and occasionally downright rude remarks as the mood took him, before Jubilee was finally able to lead him upstairs to the Guest rooms. Grandfather Grendel made some more extremely rude noises.
“Be still, old creation,” said the Elven Prince, without even looking up at the attic. “Don’t make me have to come up there.”
Tales of the Hidden World Page 9
