The Queen's Necklace

by Teresa Edgerton

  “But not just yet. Even if I conceived tomorrow—I could easily put off marrying Jarred for another six months.” Ys left her seat, wandered across the room, and stopped before a large looking-glass in a silver frame, where she was caught and held fascinated by her own reflection.

  As with all the other mirrors in the house, the surface had been painted by a Padfoot sorcerer with a spell of confusion, meant to put any Human who entered the room at a distinct disadvantage, a spell to which the Maglore were entirely immune. Again like every other mirror in the house, the frame was ancient; the old dark silver had been cast in an elaborate design of skulls and imps, hearts, and lizards. It made an interesting contrast to her own gilded prettiness.

  Pinning a stray curl back into place, Ys was pleased to note that her face was still flawless: the delicate skin firm, the clean-cut bone structure only a little more prominent than it had been ten years ago. By Human standards she looked perhaps seventeen—though in fact she was more than twice that age. As with all her race, she knew that from this point on she would age more and more slowly, until the first deep lines began to appear at or about the age of two hundred. After which, if she chose to live, she would deteriorate faster and faster, and in the space of a few short decades grow so withered and haggard that even her closest friends would fail to recognize her. But many of the Maglore, unwilling to face that rapid descent into old age, chose suicide instead, and made away with themselves, discreetly and quietly, while youth and beauty still remained. Even those who could withstand a few wrinkles, a few grey hairs, rarely waited for a natural death to claim them. All but a very few poisoned themselves with salt, or else swallowed ground glass, before the process of decay was far advanced.

  But I may decide that I don’t want to do it. The thought came unbidden, rendering Ys almost breathless with her own daring. I may decide to be like the great Sophronispa, live to three hundred and die in my bed.

  It was a bold idea, not only because it defied custom, but because it involved thinking so many years ahead. Which proved that she was more like Madame Solange than she was like the others. And perhaps someday I shall even surpass her.

  “And what do you suppose you would accomplish by waiting six months? There is more at stake here than whether or not Jarred imagines he has fathered your child.” As Madame spoke she crossed the room and came up behind Ys; their eyes met inside the mirror, between the imps, hearts, and skulls. For a moment, Ys froze, wondering if her governess had guessed what she was thinking.

  “And once you have married him, you may have to live with him for months or even years. You’d best learn not to be so squeamish where he is concerned. I really don’t know why you should be squeamish. Surely his appearance is not repulsive?”

  “His appearance, no.” Ys came back to life with a shudder. “But you’ve never made love, you’ve never been mauled by one of these Human creatures. His hands are so hot, and his lips and tongue taste of salt; I grow dizzy and nauseated whenever he kisses me.”

  Sophie interceded again. “Val, you have only succeeded in frightening poor Ys. Let us leave her alone to think things out for herself. I am sure if we give her the opportunity, she will eventually see how—needful it is that she should do exactly as you say.”

  Turning away from Ys and the mirror, Madame made a wide, dismissive gesture. “I am weary of trying to reason with her. Either she will do as she is told because she knows it is right—or else I’ll be forced to resort to sterner measures.”

  The Grant was by far the oldest Goblin in the neighborhood. He had been dispensing his quaint old-fashioned cures from a dank basement shop on the outskirts of Tarnburgh for much, much longer than anyone could remember. The skull of a cat was nailed up over his door, and though the faded sign below read: APOTHECARY * Pills * Potions * Powders & Unguents, he was the only physician to whom the Padfoots and the Ouphs had access. And indeed, so vast was his knowledge, so practical his advice on every occasion, they wanted no other.

  One chilly spring morning, he ushered a visitor into a dark little room at the back of his shop—the room he reserved for his private consultations—and he bade her be seated on a high stool. She was a very young lady, very well dressed, but the Goblin was not deceived. Like all of the Grants and Wrynecks, he possessed a singularly penetrating eye. He possessed, too, information that few Men shared: he not only knew what to look for, he knew there was reason to look.

  He took a seat for himself on an elaborately carved sandlewood chair. Lighting a stub of candle inside a green glass bottle, setting it down on the damp stone floor near his feet, he listened most attentively while she described her symptoms: the backache, the nausea, the dizziness.

  When Ys had finished, he nodded his head wisely. “I should say, madam, that you are certainly increasing. Pray accept my congratulations. However, you may not wish to announce the fact—to the father or any other interested party—for some little time.”

  “But why not?” Ys gave him an uneasy glance across the room. There was something about the place that made her skin prickle: dusty bunches of herbs hung drying from the low beamed ceiling; the air was very close and filled with complex odors.

  At the same time, she felt a glow of excitement. Madame had told her the Maglore were notoriously infertile, had declared it would take a great many attempts with many different lovers before she conceived, and yet she had accomplished it in three short months.

  “I am sorry to say that nine times out of ten nothing comes of this. Excuse me for being so frank, but I must suppose that like most—young ladies, you have been denied certain details regarding conception. No doubt you believe it occurs in Goblins much as it does in Men and the lower animals—but nothing could be farther from the truth!” The Goblin rubbed his hard old hands together as he spoke. “What is growing inside you now is nothing more than a vegetable mass, highly dissimilar to a Human infant. This thing has life, it grows, but it has not yet been—animated—it has not yet quickened. That must occur at a later stage, with another insemination. If and when it does quicken, the fifteen months gestation will truly begin.”

  Ys felt crushed, and also confused. She struggled to make sense of what he had just told her. “You said—another insemination. But then—is it possible for my child to have two fathers?”

  The Grant rose from his seat, hobbled across the room to a tall bookshelf, where he took down a large speckled volume bound in toad-skin. “It is entirely possible for the child you carry to have two fathers. The principle of Telegony is well-established in the Goblin races—at least among those who bear their children in the usual way.

  “Indeed,” he added, gesturing toward a large wooden vat near the back of the room, where he appeared to be growing some infant mandrakes, “many believe that it is even to the child’s advantage to have more than one father, citing the defects of creatures like myself as evidence that a multiple parentage is eminently desirable.”

  Ys felt her spirits sink even further. It was possible, then, that Madame was right, that it was actually her duty to take several lovers. She shuddered inwardly—she was in love with Zmaj, and the idea of sleeping with anyone else was simply distasteful.

  “But Grants and Wryneck—they don’t have mothers.” Ys brightened at the thought. “Surely that is why they are less than perfect.”

  As the Grant returned to his seat, carrying the book with him, the odd articulations of his long limbs were very evident. “As you say.” He eased himself down into the low chair again. “While the Padfoots and the Ouphs, enjoying all the supposed benefits of two or more parents, remain inferior. It seems evident that physical beauty is inherited from the mother, and that all other gifts—of intellect, stamina, courage, and so forth—are purely a matter of chance.”

  Ys felt a rush of relief. “So, if I desire there should be one father, one father only?”

  “I do not think your child would suffer.” The Grant opened the book and began leafing through the pages, which exhaled a strong
odor of mildew into the room. “I am firmly convinced that two parents are quite as good as three—and perhaps even better. It is possible, you know, to carry a good thing to excess.”

  Ys sat staring down at her locked hands for a long time. There was another question that she wanted to ask, but she was finding it extremely difficult. “Is it—is it even remotely possible—that a Human male, if he were included in the process—might play some part in fathering my child?”

  A faint smile appeared on the Grant’s withered face. “Again you will pardon me for being so frank. You had as well ask if an oak or a rose or a cabbage could impregnate you. Indeed, the chances are slightly better. The organization of the Human animal bears no resemblance to that of a Goblin, whereas a cabbage—”

  Turning the volume over, he held it open so that Ys might see the curious old woodcut: The Anatomy of the Gobline in Cross-Section. The internal organs did bear a certain resemblance to tough old roots, and the child curled up inside the womb appeared to be wrapped in broad, fibrous leaves.

  “I should warn you, however, that if you plan to be intimate with a Human male just at this time, there is some slight risk to you and your child.”

  Ys drew in her breath sharply. Did Madame know? Did she even care? Most likely she did know and had dismissed the risk as inconsequential—since it was a risk to Ys and not to herself.

  “For which reason,” the old Grant continued, as he closed the book, “I would recommend the following precautions—”

  With glowing cheeks and a bounding heartbeat, Ys listened carefully to what he proceeded to tell her. It was nasty, it was humiliating—but it was also, she realized, going to be necessary. “Yes,” she said breathlessly, when it was finally over, when he had described in full all the degrading details. “I quite comprehend what I must do. But do you tell me he will not know the difference?”

  The Grant considered. “That will depend, in part, on whether or not he has a wide experience of the female sex.”

  Ys began to breathe more naturally. “I think he has not. He is widely known as a man of delicate principles and—and temperate habits.” And she hoped, desperately, that this was true, that the boring Jarred was just as noble and upright as everyone thought him.

  “Then I do not foresee a problem. And even if he does notice something, he will hardly know what to make of it.”

  Half an hour later, Ys left the apothecary shop with a small package wrapped up in brown paper and sealed with red wax tucked into the bodice of her gown. As she climbed the short flight of steps to the street, as she entered the hackney coach she had left waiting outside, she was feeling particularly pleased with herself.

  Nevertheless, she decided, there was no great hurry to take Jarred of the hot hands and the tedious principles into her bed. That can wait until my child quickens. And Madame can do and say what she likes in the meantime.

  22

  Brakebum Hall—13 Pluviôse, 6538

  Lili woke in the middle of the night to a flicker of golden candlelight and her great-aunt’s voice urging her to exert herself. “A message has come. Arise and dress at once.”

  With an effort—for her limbs felt heavy and her mind was still drugged with sleep—Lili sat up. Though the hour was late, Allora stood by the bed fully clothed, with a waxen taper burning in her hand. “Is somebody ill?”

  “Not ill, no. But certain arrangements have been made, and it would be awkward to remake them.” Allora spoke in a low, urgent voice. “If we wait until your father wakes, until the whole house is stirring, there could be a delay. Make haste, Lilliana.”

  Reluctantly, Lili left her warm bed, put her bare feet down on the icy floor. “Before Papa wakes? But we can’t take the—”

  “Our friends have sent the same coach and driver that we used before. Dress now, and we’ll speak of this later. It would be shocking to keep the horses standing on a night like this.”

  “Yes, very well.” Lili crossed the floor to the wash-stand, tipped cold water into the basin. While she washed her hands and face, drew a comb through her tangled chestnut curls, her aunt played lady’s maid, laying out clothes on the bed.

  With Allora’s assistance, Lili dressed swiftly, then followed the old woman downstairs to the waiting coach. As soon as they took their seats inside and closed the door, the berlin lurched into motion.

  Lili swallowed hard. This early rising, followed by what promised to be a long ride on an empty stomach—already she felt queasy. “You promised to explain.”

  “So I did.” Allora was busy for a moment, lighting a brass lantern and placing it on the floor at her feet. She drew the black moiré silk curtains over the windows, shutting out the light of the carriage lamps. “Something has happened. Although we are not yet certain, you may be called on to play an important rôle. For that reason, you are to enter into your full initiation as a Specularii magician tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Lili frowned at her aunt across the coach. “But—do you think I am ready?”

  “My dear child, you are far, far beyond what I was when I was first initiated. We have only delayed this long because I, as your preceptor, hoped you might eventually come to this with heart and loyalties less divided than they are now.”

  Which of course meant Wilrowan, Lili thought miserably as she settled back in her seat. All of Allora’s doubts, all of her fears for Lili’s future, always revolved around Will. That was why Lili had yet to mention his plan, to tell her aunt she had agreed to visit him in the spring. Keeping the truth from Allora was a new and uncomfortable thing—though she was certainly practiced enough at lying to Will.

  A life of conscious duplicity, that’s what I lead, Lili thought guiltily, as she slid her icy cold hands into her squirrel-skin muff.

  Even in a marriage of convenience, there ought to be trust between a husband and wife. Yet the secrets kept piling up like a wall between them. More than a month had passed since Will’s hasty departure, and not a word of explanation had arrived, though he had sent her a bottle of scent and a pretty ivory fan. It was an apology for something, as she was able to gather from his nearly illegible note, but an apology for what? It was not like Will to makes excuses for his infidelities.

  She remembered one of his most notorious misdeeds, in his days as a City Guardsman: how he had dressed up as a highwayman and abducted one of his mistresses out of her own carriage, right under the nose of her rich and elderly spouse. And how the scheme had succeeded, allowing Will to spend a few days alone with the lady—except that he was later found out, when one of the footmen identified him. The scandal had been enormous. Yet Will had arrived one day at Brakeburn Hall, long before the talk died down, and never a shamefaced look or a hint of contrition.

  Well, why should there be? Wilrowan had never deceived her about the life he led, had never pretended he would allow their marriage to curtail his amusements. And still Lili had consented to be his wife. She sighed and closed her eyes, picturing in her mind that day more than six years ago.

  “I begin to think perhaps I should marry you, Mr. Blackheart,” Lili had said. “Indeed, my father assures me I must either do so, or else resign myself to utter disgrace. But you—can you really bear the idea of marrying so young?,”

  “So young?” Will laughed softly. “I am, I believe, some twelve or thirteen months older than you are. If you can sustain the shock of so early a marriage, I feel tolerably certain I can do the same.”

  “But I am a woman,” she answered with a faint smile. “Girls do sometimes marry at my age or a little older. Though indeed, I’ve often wondered if I would marry at all. That is, I wondered if I would have the opportunity. You understand, I have no objection to the idea of matrimony, and have often thought I should like to be the mother of a large family. But for you—you are still a student. I don’t see how a wife could possibly add to your comfort; on the contrary, I think she would prove a dreadful inconvenience.”

  “Believe me, Miss Brakeburn, despite any chivalrous inclinations I
might have—based oh the insupportable position I seem to have placed you in—I couldn’t possibly be induced to sue for your hand if I thought you would inconvenience me in any way. I’m not in the habit of allowing myself to be inconvenienced, and I have no intention, after we are married, of altering my behavior in the least.”

  Lili drew in her breath. “That’s honest, anyway!”

  “It’s as well to be honest,” said Will, little suspecting the irony, for he and Lili were both very far at that time from guessing Lord Brakeburn’s deception. “It could hardly lead to your happiness or my own if our marriage were based on a lie.

  “I don’t mean,” he added earnestly, “that I would treat you with anything less than respect, or allow others to regard you as a scorned or neglected wife. It’s not possible for us to live together now, but I would visit you, you would visit me—as soon as I move into quarters where you could visit. And I would certainly hope our—meetings would be friendly enough that a family would eventually result.”

  He took her hand in both of his and clasped it warmly. “I believe you are, in all respects, exactly the sort of woman I would wish to be the mother of my children. Much better than I deserve, really. And though the idea of marrying, just at this time, was not immediately appealing, I can assure you our situation is one to which I am now entirely reconciled—providing, that is, you do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  Lili sighed. “I wish my Aunt Allora were here to advise me.” All the stress and all the pressure of the last few days was beginning to tell on her. She was tired of listening to Lord Brakeburn rant, and she had not slept at all the night before. If she said “yes” now, it would all be settled and she could be comfortable again.

  “Then—yes, Mr. Blackheart,” Lili had finally agreed. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  There was a dip in the road and a violent jolt of the coach, bringing Lili back to a sudden sense of her present surroundings. Had she been sleeping? Or merely absorbed in memories of the past? How long had it been since they left home? It felt like hours.