“Cerridwen is my mother. She is Welsh,” says the boy obliquely, wishing himself big enough to hurt this man.
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
Justin lets him go, dropping him as a dog does a bone it suddenly finds boring. “Stay out of my library.”
Finn scrambles to the door, opens it, is stopped by Justin’s next question. “What is your name?”
Finn does not answer, knowing there is power in names, and escapes down the corridor as fast as he can. Justin doesn’t follow. He stands at the window, watching his niece torment her beaux.
“Butterfly wings,” says Aurora. “A dress of butterfly wings, Cerridwen?”
Cerridwen nods slowly, formulates one of her rare sentences. “I will need a net.”
“The housekeeper is to give you whatever you need.” Aurora smiles at Finn as he huddles on the bed, not calmly sitting on the edge this time, but curled against the wall, as if this is safest. “Did he scare you much?”
Finn shakes his head, wonders how she knows.
“You look like us, that’s all,” she says. “It scares him.” She turns again to Cerridwen. “Doesn’t he, Cerridwen? Doesn’t he look like a De Freitas?”
Cerridwen chooses not to answer, opens her box of threads to select the bobbin of her finest silk. She pulls at the loose end, reels it out a little and holds it up, examining the minuscule thread. Aurora contemplates the pale fluff of hair for a moment, then, flicking Finn a strange smile, she mouths little cousin and leaves.
In his short life, Finn has occasionally speculated about his father’s identity, about how Cerridwen came to have a child so young. He doesn’t ask her, so she never tells.
Finn marvels at his mother; he cannot even begin to think how she gathered so many butterflies and persuaded them to give up their wings, let alone how she coaxed them all into the dress that now drapes Aurora’s tall form. It hangs like silk, an empire waist this time, and a foot-long train that seems not to touch the floor, but float above it, carried by still-fluttering wings.
Aurora’s black hair has been piled onto her head, then teased out on either side. Jewelled butterflies from London’s finest jeweller nestle there, catching the light and throwing it back out.
“Thank you, Cerridwen. Once again, it’s perfect. Goodnight. Goodnight, Finn.”
Finn awakes to the sound of a struggle. A figure leans over his mother’s bed and he can make out in the moonlight his tiny mother, fighting fiercely.
“Give it up. Give it up, little whore, you didn’t fight this much last time!” The voice is lustful, frustrated. Finn throws himself at the shadow-man. Justin curses and kicks him aside, but Finn surges forward once again, fiercely determined, ignoring the pain of Justin’s blows.
Justin gives up, shakes the boy off and backs away from the bed, re-buttoning his trousers. He points at Cerridwen, bathed in moonlight and so pale she might be a ghost. “I can take him away any time. Remember that! Any time!”
He slams the door behind him and Finn climbs into his mother’s bed. She holds him tightly, rocking; neither of them falls asleep.
Aurora asks for her final dress, a dress made only of words. Cerridwen shakes, balks, refuses to meet the girl’s eyes. Aurora drops to her knees beside the seamstress. She takes the tiny, needle-scarred hand, and whispers, “They say the Welsh witches are the most dangerous, because it’s so hard to tell who they are.”
She stands. “A dress of words, Cerridwen. Everything hangs on this, for both of us. You know the words but I shall write them down for you, so you do not forget.”
In the deepest part of the Common, far away from the house in Russell Square, Cerridwen sits on the night-damp ground with a piece of parchment beside her. She has collected thistles, spider webs, and a bottle filled with moonlight from a night long ago. She piles the three ingredients onto a small pyre of twigs and kindling, and lights them with a tinderbox. She begins to sing, her voice light, beautiful, fine as the spider webs, bright as the moonlight, and sharp as the thistles. She knows the words by heart, barely looks at the piece of parchment as she sings, conjuring the dress from air and moonlight and words. It forms like a ghost, coalescing above the tiny fire, eddying in the evening breeze.
Finn, having crept out of the house to follow her, watches from behind a tree trunk as she takes a thin knife from her pocket, draws it across her palm and sprinkles blood over the already-dying fire. The dress solidifies, hangs in the air over the smouldering coals as if caught on an invisible hook. It shimmers like gossamer and, if he concentrates, Finn thinks he can see words flying around inside it, whirling like stars being born and dying, creating a universe all within the warp and weft of the dress.
Cerridwen seems smaller; this has cost her much.
The newspaper reports of what happened that night vary, but they agree that Master Justin De Freitas died horribly.
His niece entered the ballroom, all eyes upon her. She wore a strange gown, grey and shimmering, a fabric seemingly alive, but it was hard to tell; the dress defied the eye. Many of the guests had simply wanted to see what she would wear next; tales of her dresses had echoed throughout Society, and they found this one strangely disappointing. All most witnesses could say was that it was grey.
Aurora stood at the top of the great curved staircase, smiling down at the assembly. Master Justin waited at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at his niece in a manner some described as “adoring,” others as “inappropriate.” She began to descend and by the time she was mid-way down the staircase, those nearest him noticed smoke coming from Master Justin’s jacket. At first it seemed to be steam but then the odour of smoke (of sulphur, some said) began to tickle noses. It took Master Justin himself some time to notice, but when the first flames licked from the tongues of his shoes, then up his trousers, shirt, and frock coat and finally reached his cravat, it most certainly had his attention.
His screams were awful, as was the smell, overpoweringly brimstone, and, some said, something even less savoury: the scent of spilled seed.
The immolation happened all too quickly, there was nothing anyone could do. The guests departed rapidly, so there was no one to see the tiny Welsh seamstress and her fragile son creep down the stairs behind Aurora and peer at the smouldering heap of charred humanity and once-fine green velvet frock coat.
“Was he my father?” I asked, but Cerridwen did not answer—she no longer had words. She used them all in the making of Aurora’s dress.
That night, Aurora spirited us away, to the grey stone house in Kent. The same Aurora who came to us ten years later, tired of her travels and eager for a quiet place to rest. Cerridwen, worn out by her spell and spending her final years on endless fancywork and embroidery, succumbed and died soon after. The same Aurora who, although my cousin by some counts, stayed with me and lived as my wife these past seventy years.
The very same Aurora De Freitas who died six months ago and left me alone in the grey stone house with only my memories, a peacock feather, butterfly wings, and a scrap of parchment.
Bluebeard’s Daughter
“Here,” she says, “have an apple.”
Yeah, right. As if I know nothing about stepmothers. As if I know nothing about apples. But I’m polite and I’m not stupid, so I put the green orb in my bag, and thank her.
“Now, don’t forget: you’ll need to be careful and cunning. You’ll need your wits about you. It’s hidden deep, the treasure, and there will be all kinds of obstacles.” Hands on hips, Orienne surveys me critically. “It’s a long journey, but you’ve got the most fat on you of all of us. You’ll be fine; the exercise will do you good. Don’t forget that apple, Rosaline; no cakes or pastries.”
As if I’m likely to forget that bloody apple; I know what she’s done to it. Trust her to manage a dig at my weight—I come from a long line of women who eat their grief, but my father’s fifth wife is of thin stock. Busy, busy, busy all the time, bustling and fidgeting, organising and ordering, burni
ng away everything she eats, hating anyone to be idle; she’s got the energy of a hummingbird and a heart that softens for her own child alone. Gods forbid anyone should spend an afternoon sitting on their arse, reading a good book. That was how I got caught; sitting on my arse, buried in a book, oblivious to the world. The rest of the family had made themselves scarce, knowing she was on a tear about too little food, too many mouths; as if we were poor, as if my father didn’t provide for all the children he’d sired, and all those that had been brought by previous wives and left here when said wives had gone.
As if it wasn’t just an excuse to cull the herd.
As if she hadn’t done it before.
As if a horrifyingly large number of my siblings—full, half, and step—haven’t ended badly.
“Here’s the map, but you won’t need a compass, you’ve got a wonderful sense of direction.” We both know I get lost in the library sometimes, but it’s no use contradicting her; she’ll just raise her voice and talk right over the top of me, pretending this is a serious task. A journey from which I’ll return. “Remember to be polite and biddable to any creature you meet on the way. Try to be home before winter . . . of course, your natural insulation should keep you warm. We’re all counting on you, Rosaline. And don’t forget that apple, if you’re peckish.”
She finishes adjusting the strap of my satchel and stands back, surveying me with the resigned disappointment of a woman who knows she’s done her best with second-rate materials. “Well, that’s you taken care of then.”
Or so she bloody well hopes.
My father likes being married and, despite everything, he’s apparently catnip for women, whether for his fortune, castle, or the great virile bushy beard, who can say.
Matrimony’s never worked out too well for his wives, however, but they all appear to think it’s a good idea at the time. None of them ever seems to think he’ll turn on them. None of them ever seems to consider not entering the locked room, even when he makes it very clear that possession of the key comes with responsibilities and consequences. None of them ever seems to think they’ll get caught. Eventually, they all go—even my own mother—and open the door to take a peek inside.
All of them until her.
I have to give Orienne credit, she’s smart. If she has ever entered that room—whether by witchcraft or dint of the same skill I’ve used: lockpicking—she’s managed to keep it a secret from my father. Whenever he returns from a voyage, she’ll hand him back the keys, and he looks carefully at the smallest one—he always has the wives’ copies made of gold because it’s so soft and there’s no hiding if it’s been used, even once—and without fail, he nods with a kind of satisfied surprise. He’ll give her a resounding kiss, before carrying her up to their bedchamber. Maybe that’s why he’s so wilfully blind to the dwindling number of children in his house.
Dispatched to get water, Zipporah and Judith both met an old woman by a well. The former, sweet-natured, helped her without complaint, and was rewarded with diamonds, pearls, and roses falling from her lips each time she spoke. She vomited such things for three days before she died, spitting blood and spewing slivers of her own torn flesh. Judith, wary of her sister’s fate, let her sharp tongue have rein when the very same old woman asked for assistance—she threw herself from a cliff when toads and vipers began to accompany her words. Ada and Beatrice, Sara and Lizzie, were sent with charity baskets to help the less-fortunate who lived deep in the woods, but none of the girls was ever seen again, although it was observed on several occasions that the wolves looked particularly well-fed that winter. Minette, Anya, and Louise were crushed in an unfortunate mattress-stacking accident whilst setting up a test for a potential bride for Armand, my stepmother’s son; come to think of it, the bride died, too. Leticia, playing with matches, trying to stay warm in the icy attic to which Orienne had banished her, managed to self-immolate. Gabriella was scalded to death when a vat of boiling broth mysteriously tipped from the hob. Susannah was carried away by a kelpie while crossing a river she’d been assured was perfectly safe. And Lucy . . . Lucy, was turned into a hare, somehow, and torn apart by our stepmother’s pack of brachet hounds. After each and every misfortune, Orienne wept cold, glittering tears and proclaimed “How dreadful!” in most convincing tones, at least in Father’s hearing.
Six daughters remain, of whom I am one and, apparently, the next to be shuffled aside in Orienne’s quest to secure her own future: no other heirs will be tolerated. I thought I was safe, and for a long while I was, being Father’s favourite . . . but after Lucy I thought, Enough’s enough. I complained to Father and discovered I’d made a mistake; favourite or no, not a word against his beloved, trusted wife would be tolerated. So I’ve been in the dog house for a few weeks and, with my parent having departed on yet another trip, Orienne’s decided it’s time to move against me. I should have known better. The only one who’s secure is Armand, her very own boy, her sole offspring whom she loves to distraction, and the single good thing she brought into this house.
He looks a little like her, slender and pale, with blackest of black hair and blue eyes, though where hers are ashen-frost, his are summer-sky. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, and beautiful my stepbrother, so beautiful that even I can’t ignore him, no matter how I feel about his mother. And he’s been kind to me, even though Orienne never has been. He likes books and we talk about them, and one time we almost . . . I’ll miss him, talking to him, staring at him, and almost-ing him.
I’d set off from the castle nice and early into a morning that was already puffing out wintry breath, waved off by those who cared or simply wished to make sure I was gone. Orienne watched longer than the others—I kept looking over my shoulder to see if she was still there, and she was so I couldn’t do what I wanted, which was to go left at the fork in the road, not right. But she was still staring, so I gave one last wave and stoically traipsed onwards as if I had every intention of going where she wants me to go. As if I was going to do what she wants me to do, which is die horribly either whilst trying to find objects that probably don’t exist or eating the poisoned apple she’s pressed on me as a snack. And even if the items in question are real, they won’t be where she claims. But there’ll be ogres and trolls and witches—the bad kind—or robber bridegrooms who’ve got more in common with my father than I’d like to think. But the things I’m supposed to look for, specifically a loaf of bread you can never entirely devour and a bottle of wine that never runs out? They’ll not be there.
After hours of walking the path through the forest isn’t too bad. The road is wide and not terribly rutted, and the leafy canopy above isn’t so thick that it blocks the sun, creating a darkness that might encourage predators to come and bid me welcome. My boots are sturdy and comfortable, well-worn; it should be a while before blisters appear, but I can feel my thighs chaffing under my skirts as I walk, oosh, oosh, oosh. I should have insisted on grabbing a pair of trews before I left, no matter how fast she was hustling me out of the castle; I barely had time to pin my long hair back. I’ll find a pair of britches as soon as I can, whether I have to beg, borrow, or steal them from someone’s washing line.
Which may be an opportunity that will present itself sooner rather than later: there’s a little trail winding off the roadway, compressed by soft shoes and leather-padded paws. Through the fat tree trunks I can see where it leads: to a cottage that looks small and neat, but odd. The tones are all wrong, the textures . . . I squint. It should be wood . . . wattle and daub; it should be thatch and glass and stone . . . but all I can make out is a riot of colours that don’t naturally occur in woodland architecture. I can’t resist: I must investigate. If there’s a chance of satisfying my curiosity and need for trousers, I’ll risk it.
I creep along the path, and then pause before stepping into the clearing. The place doesn’t look dangerous. There’s a lot of brown but it’s a cinnamon-sprinkle kind of brown; there’s frosting of blue and green and yellow and rose along the eaves and aroun
d the window frames. I stare a little longer. The garden inside the fence is full of flowers but they don’t move in the breeze like proper ones should; they stay stiff, quite rigid as if made of sterner stuff, like liquorice and marzipan, with leaves of sugared mint. The windowpanes look like clear-blown toffee. It’s one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen and that’s saying something.
I’m about to commit to the glade when a hand grabs my arm and clamps tight. I bite down on a scream purely because it won’t help matters at all, and I remember I put the kitchen knife I stole inside my pack, so there’s no getting to it now. I swing about and see blue, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and pouting lips, hair as black as ebony. My heart, embarrassingly enough, steps up its rhythm, kicks out a little tarantella.
“Hello,” says Armand. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing?” I hiss. “I’m supposed to be here. Your mother sent me away.”
He ignores the tone and says, “Not here, though, you’re meant to be on the main road, heading towards the mountains so you can complete your quest and come back to us.”
“I’ve been walking for hours. I need somewhere to rest. And to find breeches.” I peer at him. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to help.” He shrugs and I can see it’s the truth, plain and simple. Sweet boy just wanted to render assistance in a princely fashion. “Come on, let’s get a move on.”
“No,” I begin, and am interrupted by a weak shriek coming from inside the weird little cottage. Then there’s a cry for help, a woman’s voice cracked with age and fear. “Well, that settles it,” I say, and head off at a run, through the gate in the white picket fence that smells like peppermint, along the path made of humbugs, towards the Turkish Delight window boxes bloom-full of icing-sculpted flowers in a riot of hues.
I knock on the door, which is sturdy yet peculiarly pliant; it thuds nicely beneath my hand, but gives a little too, like a firm sponge. It smells like gingerbread.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 3
