Autumn

by Lisa Ann Brown

  “Arabel, can you hear me?” Shelaine whispered to her friend’s inert form from her perch in the chair beside Arabel’s sickbed.

  Arabel stirred. She could hear someone talking to her but it seemed to be too far away to be real. Arabel thought she saw the red of Shelaine’s hair, however, as she peeked out of one eye drowsily.

  “You are real,” she murmured, and Shelaine moved closer, briefly touching Arabel’s shoulder.

  “Yes, dear girl, I’m real, and so are you, but I might start wondering about that as I never see you anymore!”

  Arabel let out a weak laugh. It did feel as if a long time had passed since she’d last seen her friend.

  ”You were ill, when I was at your house,” Arabel managed, noting suddenly how parched her throat was. She reached for the lemon water beside her bed and Shelaine passed it to her. Arabel drank deeply and gratefully.

  “Oh, that was nothing,” Shelaine replied. “Just a headache, it was more of a nuisance really.” She peered at Arabel intently. “What happened with you and Eli?” she whispered.

  Arabel tried to sit up in bed. The pillows were irking her and she was tired of reclining. Her body seemed to have moulded itself into one static repose and was whole-heartedly begging for her to alter it. Arabel wasn’t sure how to respond to her friend. She decided to be truthful. Mostly.

  “I’ve fallen for him,” Arabel said simply.

  Shelaine’s richly freckled face broke out into the widest grin Arabel had ever seen it wear. She laughed and the delighted sound filled the sickroom with brightness and a gaiety that had been missing for the last few days.

  “Finally!” Shelaine squealed, laughing. “Oh, I’m so pleased!”

  Arabel grinned in response, feeling slightly pleased as well, despite the burning up of her body and the headache, and lingering aches and pains that seemed to be plaguing her everywhere there were nerves, muscles or sensation in her body.

  “And to think I had a hand in setting you up with him!”

  “How did you know?” Arabel questioned.

  “I asked him how the two of you had fared on your journey. He turned quite red and stammered some utter nonsense for a reply so I knew something was curious! He’s not the stammering kind.”

  “You mustn’t say anything,” Arabel spoke earnestly. “It’s best not to let my grandmother know.”

  Shelaine sent Arabel an arched look. “As if I would say anything!” she huffed indignantly, and then she smiled, despite herself. “He’s very handsome,” Shelaine continued, amused. “I dare say, though, your grandmother is not going to approve of a Gypsy boy.”

  Arabel had no response. Shelaine was quite right on both counts: Eli was handsome and Grandmother Amelia Bodean would never approve of Arabel’s romantic and physical involvement with a Gypsy boy. Arabel pushed the thought away. She wished she could also push the fever away, as it was so greedy and energy depleting.

  Shelaine could see Arabel tiring and she took her leave, promising to return in a couple of days.

  “Feel better soon, love, and I will keep my eye on your boy,” Shelaine said with a wink and a good natured ribbing.

  Arabel was pleased to see her friend but she wondered why she’d not heard from Eli. Maybe he’d come by and Morna had seen him, she’d have to ask. She was just so incredibly tired, and thirsty. Arabel sipped again at her lemon water and then sank back into the soft pillows, clutching the cold compress to her forehead.

  Arabel slipped quietly back into deep sleep once Shelaine had gone. She dreamed she was floating in the sky, the big, bright, blue sky, but something was behind her, chasing her, and she was losing ground. Panic set her heart to hammering and her hands, which now resembled wings, jutted out to the sides of her body as she flew higher and higher over to a mountaintop and the snow-kissed peak of its highest point. She then dropped down and landed upon the soft turf of green ground, but whatever had been chasing her had landed also. Arabel turned, ready to fight, to defend, to flee, whatever was required, she would offer.

  But the opponent chasing her was Alice-May Marpole. The victim’s long chestnut hair floated out behind her as she ran toward Arabel, uttering a bloodcurdling scream that echoed within Arabel’s head and caused her to feel as if her very skull would crack in two from the pressure.

  Then the dream changed. Danger was now imminent and evil was already flooding the room in search of Arabel.

  Someone was shaking her by the arm, insistently calling her name: Arabel! Arabel Spade!

  A tall figure, a man, wearing a severely cut black suit and sporting a similarly matching severe expression was staring insolently at her scantily clad and feverish body. The man was jostling her by the arm and calling her name. Arabel could feel his green eyes greedily feasting upon her bodice and long, uncovered legs and hopefully peering at where the thin shift ended at the top of her thighs.

  A surge of shame rose up within her and Arabel instinctively fought it back at once. She would feel no shame over her own body. She had not asked for this man’s attentions. She was in the sanctity of her own bedroom, her own sickroom, if you please.

  Arabel returned the man’s intrusive gaze as best as she could, letting him see that despite the fever, she still possessed ownership of her body and he could not claim sovereignty of it by visual force. Arabel felt the chalk in her mouth; the malevolent energy had returned. It stared back at her from the man’s arrogant green eyes.

  Arabel fought to wake up; the dream had her clasped within vicious teeth, it was tugging her skin apart from invisible seams.

  Was that Grandmother Amelia Bodean? Pulling on the stranger’s arm, leading him away from Arabel. Looking scornfully down her nose, through wire-rimmed reading glasses, talking, high-pitched.

  The tall figure, condescending and yet desirous of her; the man reminded Arabel of Chief Constable Bartlin. Then there were pointing fingers. Hazy voices. A door slamming. An empty room.

  Arabel awakened to a pounding headache. The room had grown dark. She must have been sleeping for some time. Arabel felt a slight chill and pulled the blankets from the end of the bed up to cover herself and warm her cool skin. The fire lazily flickered in the grate but no candles relinquished the black corners of the room. Her fever had finally broken.

  Arabel watched the flames, orienting herself to the dark. The flames danced and a face appeared to form within their glowing matter. The flames moved with the flickering image of a man; he reminded Arabel of Jonty Governs, the weasel. The flames ate at and spewed back the image, contorting and distorting it, rendering the face into the ugliest visage Arabel had ever seen. She shivered and looked away, pleased when Morna entered the room with a tray of barley soup and tea.

  “Feeling better now, are you?” Morna clucked, tucking a linen napkin around Arabel’s neck and setting a large wooden tray securely across her lap.

  “Very much so, thanks.” Arabel eyed the soup with enthusiasm; it seemed her appetite had returned and she was eager to sample her meal.

  Morna’s face was worried. Arabel wanted to ignore whatever it was but it didn’t seem like she was going to get the opportunity to choose whether or not to do so.

  “Miss, I’m dreadfully sorry. I must’ a cursed you, what with saying to your granny that you took ill, and then you did just that! And with such a terrible fever!” The maid moaned, looking away from Arabel, guilt and worry adorning her conscientious face.

  Arabel held out her hand to Morna. “You didn’t curse me Morna, you silly girl. I’m fine now.”

  Arabel glanced around the room, checking to see if she would experience any dizziness or pain anywhere. She’d yet to try standing, and frankly, at the moment, the idea was rather unappealing. Arabel wasn’t certain of her balance and equilibrium quite yet. Her headache persisted but it was not at the same vicious tempo as before and the accompanying nausea had abated. She knew the nourishing meal would go a long way toward recovering her strength and facilitating her well-being.

  Arabel resume
d eating the soup and Morna fluffed up the pillows and straightened the bed clothes, replacing some covers with freshly laundered ones that were fragrantly scented of lilacs.

  “There’s more, miss,” Morna trailed off, looking downward, her eyes not quite able to meet Arabel’s inquisitive gaze.

  “Well, what is it?” Arabel questioned, a tentacle of fear dropping out of the sky and into her already weakened body.

  “The Chief was here, miss, asking questions. He was says you was seen with that missing lad, the one who fooled all those Gypsies and such.” Morna paused briefly, her eyes widening as she continued to relay the unfortunate news concerning both Arabel and the strange developments of the on-going murder investigation.

  “I reckon you know the man the Chief is hunting down -”, Morna went on, a grim, fascinated sort of satisfaction coloring her otherwise deferential tone, “the thief that be the target of the Corvids-wide man-hunt!”

  “The Chief was here?” Arabel stammered, suddenly ill to her stomach again. “Chief Constable Bartlin was here, in my room? I didn’t imagine it in a feverish haze?” Arabel closed her eyes in fresh dismay. What did they know? How had she been identified? How horrid to have been leered at by the Chief!

  Arabel’s mind ran through a thousand varied scenarios before she turned her bright blue eyes back to Morna’s defeated looking face.

  “It’s worrisome trouble, miss,” Morna said quietly, looking around as if to make sure no one had heard her warning, and Arabel briefly wished for the incapacitating fever to return full force.

  “Has Eli been by?” Arabel couldn’t resist asking, the answer weighing too heavily in importance upon her. Morna shook her head, her eyes sad and concerned.

  Morna left the room hastily and Arabel stared down at the tray of soup and tea, her appetite lost and her solar plexus rapidly rolling in spinning knots of anxiety. Arabel moved the tray off of her lap, placing the tea on the table beside her and tray on the ledge farther away. She needed the tea, she would make sure she choked it down if she had to, but the soup was now too much for her to eat.

  Arabel felt alone. Dreadfully alone. The way she’d not felt alone in quite some time. But she knew it had been her decision to let the thief go. It had been her solution to follow her intuition. She’d been certain that Jonty’s freedom would set in motion a trail of clues to lead to the real killer.

  But it looked like she’d been mistaken.

  And so Arabel stood now on this unfriendly ground, alone, depleted and uncertain. Her ability to sustain her concerted effort to aid the two dead girls whilst unable to tell hardly anyone the battle she was engaged in, and unable to ask for help, weighed upon her. Arabel reached within her mind for the energy link of Eli, but she could not find him.

  Her cheeks were hot with unshed tears and her chest burned with inflamed thought. Arabel drank her tea quickly, almost scalding herself in her haste to consume the liquid. The cup fell back on the table as she dropped it and she leaned back against the bed frame, dejected, wondering what she could do. Arabel shut her eyes wearily and dark black and blue colors enveloped her. Arabel thought she saw glimmering stars and she gave herself up to dark canvas of the indigo sky.

  When next she awoke, Arabel was surprised to see slanted beams of sunlight forking their way defiantly into her sickroom. The sunlight bespoke of fairer times and Arabel hoped her situation would follow the course of nature and lighten up as well. First, she needed her health. Quite often, she took her health for granted, Arabel realized, stretching, and yawning widely. Arabel rarely encountered any sort of lingering sickness due to her strong constitution, her love of outdoor exploration, exercise, and her general adherence to healthy nutrition.

  One thing Arabel would credit Amelia Bodean for as far as running a household was concerned was her attention to the menus she favoured and the healthful ideals she aspired and ascribed to. The exception, of course, was the ever-present rum beverage, which was not ideal, and definitely on the questionable side of any redemptive value. Other than the liquor over-indulgence, however, Amelia Bodean provided Cook with efficient direction for delicious sustenance for their meals and Arabel knew herself to be lucky in that department.

  Health. Arabel searched throughout her body, checking mentally on the physical symptoms of the previous past few days. Fever? Gone; her forehead felt cool to the touch and she was neither chilled nor warm. Headache? Lingering, but not insistently threatening explosion. Pressure? Oh, yes, there was pressure, in her head, and her sinuses and her chest, and her heart. A sudden pain pierced Arabel’s heart as she questioned herself: Where was Eli? Why could she no longer feel her psychic link to him?

  Arabel’s mind flickered to the Gypsy medium, young Francesca de Lorimar. Would Francesca know where Eli was? Was Eli with Francesca? A fresh spurt of worry and jealousy erupted within Arabel’s heart and mind and she struggled to subdue the negative intentions which wanted to sprout out of the unsettling emotions.

  Why should love bring up emotions so unlike itself? Arabel wondered.

  It was a puzzle Arabel did not have the answer to. She’d not been in remotely familiar terrain since she’d met Eli, and Arabel found that she was discovering new sensations, desires and feelings daily. This new, rotten, feeling of worry and uncertainty, however, she would most happily do without.

  Arabel closed her eyes, willing sleep to rescue her from the demons threatening to overthrow her tranquility. A knock sounded upon her door. Puzzled, Arabel leaned on her elbow and called out for the person to enter. To Arabel’s great surprise, Mireille Frankel, Eli’s beautifully exotic, bird-like mother, entered the room.

  Mireille had both hands full. She magically balanced a large bouquet of bright wildflowers, safely ensconced in water within a clear glass vase, as well as an interesting looking, medium sized beaker, currently filled to the brim with some sort of plum coloured fluid.

  Arabel was certain that even if she were in full possession of her faculties she’d not be able to balance both the glass vase and the beaker simultaneously, and definitely not with the grace and ease with which the Gypsy woman employed. It was mind boggling. Arabel wondered what other amazing tricks and logic-defying feats of gravity and magic the woman could perform.

  Or maybe, Arabel thought somewhat wickedly, she had become once again overly fanciful, and even now, she was probably cabin-fevered from isolation and looking for any sort of drama to relieve the boredom of her seemingly endless illness and time-consuming, currently-ensuing, recovery.

  “Mireille! How lovely!” Arabel stammered hastily as she immediately sat straight up in bed and proceeded to wonder just how horrid she must look, slouching around as she was, in the sickroom, after numerous days of fever and illness.

  It seemed that Eli’s mother did not mind how Arabel looked however, for she put the items she carried down on the desk immediately then embraced the recovering girl straight away in a warm and honest clasp. Mireille smelt of honey and jasmine, Arabel noted, a pleasant combination.

  Mireille retrieved from the desk the bouquet of luscious autumn flowers she had brought with her. Mireille placed the glass vase on the side table close to Arabel’s bed. Arabel breathed in deeply of the various floral scents and thought for a moment she could actually hear the colours of the flowers singing. Arabel smiled at Mireille, and beckoned her to sit down immediately, so Mireille seated herself in the chair next to the bed.

  Arabel took a moment to reflect upon the flowers. The assortment was both seasonal and whimsical; carnations of hot pink with crinkly cut white tips, black and white winter pomfrey stalks and tall, bright, red knoll-bells with white sprigs, and lastly, dainty purple Ocha berries. The richly coloured berries were exquisitely tiny and perfectly formed and they were Arabel’s favourites. The colour, fragrance and vitality the bouquet released brightened Arabel’s senses further.

  Arabel’s eyes alighted on the strange beaker with the plum liquid.

  “For you, sweet Arabel,” Mireille said, passin
g the beaker onto the side table where Arabel could easily examine it. “You’ve been very ill; your body needs strength. This will provide it, quickly, and it will work both physically and energetically. You have been weakened on the astral plane and in the light body.” Mireille frowned slightly. “This will return you to the path to well-being.”

  Mireille ran her hand lightly down Arabel’s arm. “This is ‘mentolona’” she added, naming what Arabel took to be the primary herbal ingredient the strange looking purple tonic was comprised of.

  “Eli-”, Arabel found she could not finish the sentence. She did not want to meet Mireille’s expressive brown eyes, the almond eyes that absorbed and saw so much, so like the eyes of Eli.

  “Is recovering from the fever, much the same as you. He is probably a day ahead in his recovery, however, because I got to him when the fever was as its most powerful.”

  “I couldn’t feel him,” Arabel found herself confessing, without meaning to. “I was worried.”

  “I know,” Mireille replied with a touch of asperity. “Who do you think sent me?” she smiled again, and clasped Arabel’s hand lightly. “You share a bond with my son, I can see that. It might not be an easy path for the two of you, but love is always the best course to pursue, despite any difficulties.”

  Arabel relaxed into the wise comfort of Mireille’s wisdom and her healing energy.

  “Thank you,” Arabel said earnestly, all her doubt and insecurity melting away to some place that she hoped never to encounter again.

  “There is another matter I must speak with you about; it is of grave importance.”

  At this ominous sounding sentence, Mireille leaned in toward Arabel and lowered her voice. “I was also asked to bring to you a missive from the Council of Gypsy Elders. The Council requests your appearance six nights from this one. You are to appear for an interview and hearing in which you will be questioned, and your actions weighed, and then, deliberations rendered.”