“Because it’s gone on so long, and we need to visit our home realms,” said Auberon.
“Then they should have gone through when I gave them the chance!” Lawrence’s gleaming eyes narrowed. “Does no one believe me? Not even you?”
“Strangely . . . yes, I do,” Auberon said heavily. “I don’t know why. Intuition tells me that you would not do such a bizarre thing, except for a genuine reason.”
“Thank you for that, at least.”
“And I hope I’m wrong! God knows, Lawrence, I’ve supported you—but this isn’t the answer they’ll want to hear out there. They’ll be clamoring for different news. They think it’s why you’ve invited them tonight!”
Lawrence Wilder spoke in the same remote tone, unmoved. “And they’ll swiftly find out that no, in fact, they were invited because they deserve the courtesy of an apology.”
“And I suppose I must be the one to deliver it. Again.” Her father’s anger startled Rosie; it was so rare. “They won’t easily forgive what you did that night. It caused outrage.”
“It was the only thing that would make them leave. If a child puts its hand near a fire, you shout at it first and explain afterwards.”
The two men glared at each other. “This explanation has been a long time coming,” said Auberon. “So I get all the flak, while you retreat behind castle walls. You really presume a lot on friendship.”
“I know.” Lawrence dropped his gaze. “And I’m grateful, Auberon, but you’ve done enough. This time I’m going to speak to them myself. Support me, please. Trust me. It’s all I ask.”
Auberon looked down at his own tapping foot. “Of course,” he said at last. “Out of respect for Liliana—what choice do I have?”
They finished their drinks and left. Weak with relief, Rosie waited a few seconds before following, but when she reached the corridor, she found it deserted. She came to another bedroom, this one overflowing with posters of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, with framed photographs and books everywhere.
Jon’s room.
Rosie stepped into the doorway, aware that she was trespassing, not to mention being insufferably nosy. The room felt warm; it drew her like an oasis of sanity in a hostile land. She longed to go in, to touch the satin of the bedspread and the peacock feathers in a vase beside the bed.
Terrified of getting caught, she dragged herself away and went on.
Next she found an odd little turning staircase of eight stone steps, and at the top, a gothic-arched doorway into another bedroom. She glimpsed the shapes of bed, wardrobe, a poster of some wild-haired rock band. This could only be Sam’s room.
A perverse impulse made her step over the threshold. Somewhere in this room might be . . .
“Looking for something?”
The voice, casually menacing, made her jump violently. She turned. Sam stood blocking her escape. His face seemed older than his seventeen years, all severe chiseled lines. He leaned casually across the narrow stairwell with one hand braced on the opposite wall, the lean muscular angles of his shoulders and arm forming a barrier. He was so close she could smell the faint spice of his sweat, and some patchouli-scented soap or shampoo he’d used. His hair was short, disheveled, dark at the roots and tipped with bleach at the ends. He leaned down, his face almost touching hers, staring hard into her eyes.
Rosie stepped back. Sam’s glare broke into a mocking smile. She wouldn’t have been greatly surprised to see the white teeth turn into vampire fangs. Her heart was stumbling over itself, but she was too proud to let him see her fear.
“Yes, I am, actually,” she said, folding her arms. Her attempt at authority came out sounding, at least to her, like the bravado of a twelve-year-old.
“And what is that, actually?” said Sam.
She raised herself to her full five-foot-two and tilted her chin. “You stole something from me.”
“What?” He had the nerve to be affronted.
“You do know who I am, don’t you?”
“Yes, Rosie Fox, I know exactly who you are.”
“So don’t pretend you’ve forgotten!” She was vibrating with anger and emotion that had built up for years to this moment. “You took a chain with a heart on it. You ripped it right off my neck. Maybe you’ve stolen so much stuff in your time that you really don’t remember!”
“Oh, bloody hell,” he said. He folded his arms, turned his face away from her. “That was years ago!”
“That doesn’t make it all right! I was nine!”
“Right.” His eyes narrowed, gleaming with amusement. “And that’s all you’ve done since you were nine, is it? Thought about me and plotted revenge?”
“No,” Rosie said through her teeth. “I’ve had much better things and people to think about than you.”
“I bet.”
She glared at Sam, her whole being whirling with visceral hatred of him, hating him even more for the reaction he stirred so easily in her. Suddenly he sighed. “Okay, look, I’m sorry. It was a stupid, nasty thing to do. I’m sorry.”
Trapped between him and the dark room, she was certain he was mocking her. “Well?” she said.
“Well what?”
“I want it back.”
“Bossy, aren’t you?” Sam pushed himself off the wall and edged past her. She moved quickly out of his way, considered fleeing, decided it would look idiotic. He prowled to a chest of drawers and halfheartedly opened the top drawer. She followed him.
“So,” he said, rummaging in a heap of socks, “your folks told you the facts of life yet?”
“Excuse me?” Rosie gasped. “I’m fourteen, not ten.”
In the semidarkness, his teeth glinted with sadistic amusement. “I don’t mean biology lessons. I mean the facts of our lives.” He opened another drawer. She saw books, a box of dark carved wood and what looked suspiciously like a large knife in a black leather sheath.
“What, Aetherial traditions?” Rosie spoke coolly. “Of course. We’ve always been part of it.”
He gave a knowing laugh that made her angrier. “Oh, so you don’t know, then. They’ll tell you when you hit sixteen. It’s like a coming-of-age thing. It can be a bit nasty, I’ve heard. Or not, since my father’s put the whole thing on hold.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’ll find out.”
“My parents don’t keep secrets from us. They treat us like grown-ups. I don’t suppose your family is as close as ours, though.”
That struck a nerve in him. He glared at her, eyes full of coldly furious hatred. “You don’t know anything about us.”
“And I don’t want to. Just give me my property back.”
“I don’t know,” he said, making a show of searching the drawer. “It was a long time ago. God knows what happened to it.”
“What the hell did you do with it?” she exclaimed. She’d never hit anyone in her life, but it was all she could do not to take a swing at him. For Matthew, if not for herself.
He shrugged. His eyes glittered. “Probably gave it to some girlfriend. Or just threw it out as a piece of tat.”
“You bastard,” Rosie said viciously. “You absolute bastard!”
“Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” He raised his right hand in the air and she saw silver links glistening between his fingers. He lifted the hand out of her reach, letting the chain drop into a loop, and down the loop slid the crystal heart, blinking with shards of white fire. It hung above her head, pulsating.
“Hey!” She made a grab for it but he swung it out of her reach.
“Real Austrian crystal, that,” he said. “Nice. Worth at least a tenner.”
“Give it to me!”
Sam seized her upper arm. Her rage almost burned away her fear of him, but he was so much taller and stronger than her. “You have to give me something in return.”
“No.”
“Only a kiss.”
“No! You’re off your head! Let me go!”
“Just a kiss, Rosie,” he said reasonably.
“It won’t hurt. I’ll be gentle. You might enjoy it.”
For a moment his mouth hovered near hers, coming closer. Then she jerked free. Her palm smacked into his face and he stepped back, shocked.
“Ow. Karate lessons? That stung.”
“Good. I wouldn’t kiss you if you were the last boy alive.”
“No kiss, no necklace,” he said, closing his fist around the crystal. “Shame, though.”
“Go to hell.” She backed towards the door, rubbing her bruised arm, terrified he would make a sudden rush and stop her.
Sam spoke, his voice low with menace. “You know why I hate you and your stupid family? Because you think you’re better than us. All smug in your cozy house with your perfect picture-book life. You think you’re above us.”
Rosie glared back. Confusion and rage warred in her. Without answering, she turned and skittered down the eight steps, found the corridor even longer and more sepulchral than it had seemed a few moments ago. A misty blue light seeped through the windows like frost vapor.
Just as in her dreams, Rosie ran for her life.
Lucas found the party dull. There was hardly anyone of his age there. He wandered around, ate some cheese, chatted with a couple of younger boys from the village. Then there seemed nothing to do but go in search of Rosie. When he couldn’t find her, the thrill of exploration drew him on.
Upstairs, the gallery brought him to a set of tall double doors with a sort of dining room beyond, and on the far side a rooftop conservatory. A glimmer of light drew him and he slipped through the doors into a glass-domed space with fairy lights winking among potted ferns.
There were some Aetherials in there, cloaked in blue-grey with sea-serpent masks. He wasn’t sure who they were. One noticed him and said, “Off you go. No children allowed at the meeting.”
Lucas froze, but more Aetherials came in and distracted the first group. He took his chance. He lost himself behind foliage, slipped through an outer door and found himself on a small roof terrace.
The rain had stopped and stars appeared. Crouching, he watched through the window as Vaethyr guests streamed in, a mass of color and finery amid tiny sparkling lights. He felt the magic of the Dusklands charge the air around him, clearly heard their voices through open vents above the windows. He saw his parents come in with his aunt and uncle, masked. He was effectively trapped now. Cold air needled through his shirt. Whatever was happening that he was not supposed to see, he had no choice now but to watch and wait until it ended.
At the far end of the corridor, Rosie came to high double doors standing ajar. A soft alluring light and a murmur of sound fell through the gap. She caught her breath, checked that Sam wasn’t following her and entered. Inside, she found a high-ceilinged room with a dining table, unlit Tiffany lamps on a sideboard, leaded windows. The light came through a pair of glass doors at the far end. Cautiously she walked towards them, listening intently as the sound resolved into the chanting of a young male voice.
No one looked round as Rosie slipped into the rooftop conservatory; a bower of light, walled and roofed with glass. All the Aetherials were gathered here; no humans. They wore their masks pushed back on their heads like crowns, a strange congregation of animal-headed deities. Their faces glowed, eyes ashimmer with the jewel fire of their nonhuman heritage.
Palms and ferns threw shadows in the enchanted light. Hundreds of tiny white fairy lights had been strung through their foliage and the air was thick with incense. Rosie was spellbound. She had walked into a dream.
Their attention was held by a dais that stood against one wall, bathed in sparkling light, where Jonathan Wilder was reciting a poem.
I am a stag of seven tines
I am a wild flood on a plain
I am a wind on the deep waters
I am a hawk on a cliff . . .
It was the most haunting thing she’d ever heard. With the hawk mask rearing above his head Jon looked unearthly. His lovely face and intense brown eyes shone in a transport of passion. His long wavy hair, the brown of burnished hazelnuts, moved beautifully on his shoulders.
Rosie felt dizzy. This was more than a dream. She’d stepped into the Dusklands and become someone else. How had everyone known to come here—had they all known but her?
It didn’t matter; there was only Jon. His face and brown eyes were captivating, framed by the softly moving hair. He must be fifteen or sixteen now and there was a youthful softness about his face, the look of an androgynous saint from a Renaissance painting.
Rosie fell in love.
She watched his long agile fingers moving for emphasis and wondered what they would feel like touching her. She remembered the look that had passed between them as children. Sam had menaced her, but Jon had wanted to help, and would have done so if he’d been older. Finally she knew what the look meant.
The recognition of souls.
If Sam had torn her to pieces, Jon now healed her. She trembled and her heart raced. As the chant ended, Jon glanced straight at her through the crowd and gave a slight smile, enough to heat her with embarrassment and hope. She was dying to tell Faith and Mel, but they weren’t here, and there was a delicious ache in hugging the secret to herself. Her whole being tingled with red fire.
“Now my father wishes to address you,” he said quietly, and slipped to one side of the dais.
Rosie wondered if she dared speak to him. It would look so obvious to push through the crowd. No, it would be like trying to chat to a prince in the middle of a solemn royal ceremony. Impossible.
Lawrence stepped up to the dais. The crowd fell silent. Rosie moved to see better and there, at the front, stood her own parents. She’d never realized before that they could appear magnificent.
As Lawrence began to speak, the air shimmered and she saw him differently. He was taller, sleek and black and silver with a streaming feathered cloak—or wings. Truly unmasked. It seemed to Rosie that everyone into the room had changed, turning into the true, essential self of which the mask was only a symbol.
“Beloved siblings of the old blood.” His tone was stilted. “My family and I welcome you to Stonegate Manor and we wish you blessings of the newborn Yuletide sun. I regret that it has still not been possible to throw open the portals for the celebrations we enjoyed in the past. However, we hope you appreciate our intent this year to carry on in the spirit of our heritage.”
There was some stirring among the Aetherials at the front. Lawrence went on, “You are aware that for the past five years or so, it has been impossible for me to open the Gates.”
“Impossible?” called out a male voice. “No, all we know is that you refuse to do it!”
Rosie recognized the voice as Comyn’s. She heard the menace of his anger.
“And for good reasons, which I’ll explain, given the chance.” Lawrence’s gaze went over their heads. Rosie shifted, afraid he would see her. “There is still a dangerous disturbance behind the Great Gates. Until it abates, I dare not reopen even a Lychgate.”
“Lawrence, you’ve had five years to cobble together a better press statement than this!” shouted Comyn.
There were grumbles of agreement. Rosie felt the spiky tension of the room. Lawrence’s mouth hardened. “It is all I can tell you,” he said harshly.
“It’s not good enough!” rang Phyllida’s voice. “Your grandmother Liliana never treated us with such disdain!”
“Please.” It was Auberon; Rosie could just see him, facing the gathering with his hands spread to calm them. “Lawrence is the appointed Gatekeeper. He would not take this action without good reason.”
“You still support him?” said Comyn. “Do you know something we don’t?”
“No,” said Auberon, “but I believe he’s telling the truth. Don’t leap to rash judgments. Be patient.” His words had a solid, calming quality, but the atmosphere continued to seethe.
“I swear on Liliana’s life, I swear on the Mirror Pool itself, the peril behind the Gates is genuine,” said Lawrence, voice g
rowing ragged. “I do this for your protection. The danger is too great.”
“Well, damn the danger!” Comyn shouted back. “Let us through and we’ll deal with it!”
“Impossible,” said Lawrence over the rising voices. Even those at the back near Rosie, who had been quiet, began to shout.
“Be careful, Gatekeeper,” Comyn said sharply. “We have already been patient for five years. Danger? What about the potential disaster to us if the Gates stay closed? We could take you down and open the Gates for ourselves.”
Auberon began to speak again, but Lawrence stepped forward and leaned like a figurehead over Comyn, Phyllida and their supporters. “No, you cannot,” he said. “The power of the Gatekeeper resides only in me, as it resided in Liliana before me. You know it. Harm me and no one will open the Gates again, ever. Have you such short memories? I opened the Lychgate and I gave you a choice: Go through now, or trust me. You stayed. You made your choice!”
Even Comyn seemed unable to answer that. The protestors seethed, defeated.
“Now I hold you to that decision,” Lawrence went on, his voice calm, his authority regained. “Yes, in easy times I am your doorkeeper. In difficult times, I am your protector. Let the man or woman who knows better step up here and relieve me of the burden—if any can. No? Then trust me.”
Silence. Rosie sensed a shift in mood, a grudging acceptance
“You know he’s right,” said Auberon. “Let’s not say anything we may regret. Let us all keep calm and enjoy the rest of the evening.”
“Please,” Lawrence added, opening one hand to gesture at the doors. “Eat, drink and dance. It is the season of goodwill, after all.”
He turned away. It was over.
As the grumbling audience began to break up, Rosie was caught in the stream of people. Outside in the corridor again, she felt a distinct jolt and a wash of cold reality. She was desperate to speak to her father, but couldn’t see him. She craned for a glimpse of Jon and suddenly saw him go past—but he didn’t notice her, and when she tried to follow, she lost him in the throng. Bewildered, she was carried along with jostling strangers until a hand gripped her arm and pulled her out of the flow.
Elfland Page 5
