Felicia tried to think of a tactful answer. “You’re still a child, Clarice.”
“Then when I’m grown up, Collie will work in my stables and I’ll marry him.”
Since Clarice had wanted to marry at least five wholly ineligible men in the last several months, Felicia did not take this declaration too seriously. After drawing in some loose dirt with her finger, Clarice said, “I think it would be better all around if you were the viscountess. I don’t think I’d like it. You do it. I’m going to be an explorer and track the Amazon to its start!”
“I can’t be.”
“Why not? You are older than me.”
Impossible to explain that she was not legitimate. Lady Stavely had tried again and again to explain the distinction, but Clarice paid no mind. Felicia was her sister and that was all.
When Felicia didn’t answer, Clarice changed the subject with one of her lightning alterations of mood. “I saw a pixie today.”
“A what?”
“A little man. He was with the rabbits. The others didn’t notice him, but I did. I’m cleverer than they are.”
“Yes, dear,” Felicia said absently.
“Nurse says there used to be pixies all over this part of England. She says there aren’t anymore but I saw one.” She yawned without troubling to cover it up. “Is it time for tea yet?”
“Not yet. We should be returning for luncheon, though.”
Clarice put her head down on her arms. “Watching rabbits is tiring, isn’t it?”
Felicia reached out and stroked the tumbled golden hair. “Yes, dear, very tiring.”
Had she seen something out of the ordinary? When in these hills, Felicia always felt as though someone or something was observing her. Perhaps it was no more than the wary eyes of the creatures that dwelt here, watching this human to see what damage it would do. Perhaps it was no more than her own awareness that this place had been populated for longer than anywhere else in England.
The collapsed and broken stones alone remained, teasing modern man with their meaning and purpose. Some of these hills wore timeworn stone forts like crowns of honor, while others kept the memory of the ancient dead beneath supports and lintels of the native stone. Illegitimate, she always felt unwelcome here, as though the dead knew she was not really one of their breed. Clarice belonged. This moor was her heritage. She never seemed to feel like an interloper.
His shadow fell over her. She knew at once whose it was. He said, “It isn’t like that. You do belong here.”
“Can you read my mind?” she asked.
“No, not unless you want me to. I knew that at once. Only those with fay blood can keep me out, no matter how dim or diluted it may have become.”
“Are you saying...”
“She has it too. I cannot read her mind either. You both carry your father’s blood. Somewhere in your family the line runs true, right back to Sira, my ... the princess of my People.”
“She who married a mortal?”
Felicia looked up at him, squinting a little against the sunshine. He stood with his hands on his narrow hips, staring out at the landscape. She could have reached out and traced the ridges of his muscular thighs. He wore clothing that almost looked as though anyone might wear it—fawn-colored breeches over plain stockings and buckled shoes, a brown frock coat buttoned up so that only his stock showed above the lapels, and a simple tricorne hat. He did not wear a wig, but had changed his leather thong for a black silk tieback.
Yet he wore these plain clothes with that air of charisma that she’d noticed from the first moment she’d seen him. He seemed to be the only thing she could look at. This troubled her deeply. She had never felt so drawn to another person. To feel so toward a man she could not trust seemed almost sinful.
“How did you do it?” she asked quietly.
“Do what?”
“Make that feast appear in my room? You should be on the stage in London or Paris as the world’s greatest magician!”
“What do you mean?” He dropped to one knee in the grass, fixing her with his intent eyes. “Do you think I counterfeited all that?”
“Yes, I do. Oh, you are clever, but I do not know why I should be honored with such a trick! Now that you’ve had your joke, I wish you would go away.”
Even without deigning to glance at him again, Felicia knew his rich green eyes studied her intently. She felt color come into her cheeks, already pink from the lashing of the wind, but she kept her gaze focused on the distant hills. Had she hurt him? She hoped she had, for he had hurt her.
To her surprise, he chuckled, a sound so unexpected that she turned her head to glare at him. “You are the most difficult mortal I have ever heard of. Others of your breed would be chasing me all over this moor, trying to tag me so I would be forced to grant their desires. But you— you!—sit there prim as a prune and tell me roundly you think me a mountebank in disguise. What shall I do now to prove myself?”
“For me, I want nothing.”
“For you? What then of your sister? Was not that proof enough for you?”
“Proof of what? That I am a credulous fool, willing to believe any tale a plausible liar tells me?’’
“I have never learned to lie, Felicia.”
She rounded on him sharply. “Then why is she exactly the same as she was yesterday? No different than she’s been for the last three years. You said...you said you would help her! I don’t despise you half as much as I do myself!”
“Isn’t she changed back to what she was?”
“Of course not! No one can help her, least of all a mountebank like you. I only want to know why you raised my hopes like that. Did you want to prove me a fool? It wasn’t very difficult, was it?”
Ignoring her cutting question, he moved closer and said in a commanding voice, “Clarice, awaken!”
Immediately, Felicia saw her sister stir. She sat up, yawning and stretching. When she caught sight of Blaic, she held her pose in surprise. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m a friend of Felicia’s. How do you do, my lady?”
Clarice blurted out, “You’re handsome,” then giggled and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she laughed at her own boldness.
“Thank you; you’re very kind.” Blaic ignored the stern signals Felicia gave him and said, “Clarice, I’m a kind of doctor. May I see your hands?”
Giggling, Clarice held out her dirty palms.
He said, “Put them together, flat like that, the smallest finger on one hand lying alongside the smallest finger of the other. That’s right; hold them out so I can see.”
Blaic seemed to stare deeply into Clarice’s hands. Felicia had the queerest feeling that he wasn’t looking so much at her flesh and blood but at something else, something hidden more deeply than the mere lines of palm and finger.
“Thank you. Now, can you put your right hand on your left ear—not like that. Reach over the top of your head and do it.”
Felicia saw that the girl’s fingers did not quite touch her ear. Frowning, she tried it herself and had no trouble except for her tight sleeves. Yet Clarice’s arms looked as long and were as much in proportion as anyone’s. She should have been able to perform this task effortlessly.
“One more thing and then we’ll be finished,” Blaic said.
“I don’t mind. You’re much more fun than my other doctors.”
The girl was not too far off the mark. This incident, except that it took place under the broad sky and not in some stuffy examining room, bore a great resemblance to a more orthodox examination. Felicia wanted both to stop it and to let Blaic run his length. Would he actually try again to make her his dupe?
“Thank you. This is a very simple task too. Can you kiss your elbow?’’
Felicia was on the point of protesting that no one could do that. Blaic held up his hand to her and shook his head, even while concentrating on Clarice. Clarice herself had lifted her elbow, but stopped before going on. She had the strangest look on he
r face. Felicia couldn’t place it for a moment.
For three years, Clarice had seemed to live only in the present. Yesterday was forgotten as soon as she fell asleep; today consisted only of this instant and tomorrow was not even a dream. Yet now, she seemed to be thinking very hard, as if she were trying to coax a memory forward.
She said slowly, “My papa used to play that game with me when I was quite a little girl. I could never do it. He said it was impossible. Papa knew about things like that.”
A tear brimmed over from her eye and rolled down her cheek, leaving behind it a clean trail on Clarice’s smudged face. “Papa’s dead, isn’t he? He’s really dead.”
Felicia reached put to comfort her sister but Blaic waved her off, refusing to be distracted. “Can you kiss your elbow, Clarice? It’s very important that you try.”
So quickly that Felicia almost missed it, Clarice turned her arm upward and swiftly kissed the joint. “There! Can I go play now?”
Chapter Six
“She’s under an enchantment?”
Blaic nodded, watching Clarice chase birds with a spirit of hope in no way impaired by her past inability to catch one. “The signs are unmistakable. Someone of my People placed a binding spell on her. In all likelihood, she witnessed one of our ceremonials. What time of year was it?’’
“Spring. Late May, I think. The last day of it, perhaps?”
He nodded as though she’d confirmed a suspicion. “A night of portent. You say she was late back from her ride? She may well have stumbled upon a sacred rite. We are not kind to those who disturb us at our revels. In a way, she is fortunate....”
“Fortunate? To be a child for all eternity? I can think of nothing worse.”
“No? They could have killed her outright or, if shrinking from that, they could have blinded her, maimed her, ruined her mind beyond all aid.”
“Stop!”
“Someone took pity on her, young as she was, and only put her back a few years.” He held his palm out as though slowly pushing something away. “Other than this, she is as healthy, as strong, and as lovely as the day she went out. It’s not so terrible to remain a child. She will be saved much worry and heartbreak.”
“She’ll be saved from just as much joy and pleasure.”
“Is your life so joyful then, Felicia?”
“We are not discussing me.”
“No. We are not. Not yet.”
He folded his arms across his chest and eased his stance. Felicia had risen when Clarice had gone running off. The sun struck golden sparks from his hair. In this strong light, she could distinguish tiny lines at the corners of his green eyes, radiating out like a sunburst. These alone kept him from seeming too perfect. In aspect, he looked like a man of approximately thirty mortal years. His waist was slim, his muscles taut, his hair untouched by gray. She wondered how old he really was.
Felicia forcibly disciplined her eyes’ new tendency to sample the artistic lines of his body the way a gourmand tasted food at a banquet. She said, “Why would ‘they’ do such a thing to an innocent girl?”
“There are those among my People who think there is not one mortal who is innocent. Too often we have been your victims.”
“Victims? You seem so powerful; how can you be a victim?”
He shrugged. “I would have to reveal all of our history to you since the Long-Ago Before, when Boadach the Eternal first peered through the tangled leaves of earliest time. Believe me, we of the People have cause to hate and fear you mortals.”
“You don’t seem afraid of me. Do you hate me?”
Now why had she asked that? Hurriedly, she said in a sharp tone, “This is pointless! I don’t even believe you are what you say. All this could be some madman’s fantasy.”
“When will you believe? What can I do to make you believe?’’
“I’ve told you. Cure Clarice. But as you cannot do that.. .”
“Who says so? Did I say I could not vanquish the spell?”
“But last night—you said ...”
He waved her objection away as though it were a bothersome fly. “My words last night would have cured her of any mortal ill. Had her brain gone soft, or been damaged in some way, I should have removed the difficulty and you would believe. That she is enchanted only makes the task more complex. But I can, and I will, remove the spell so that she will be free to live out her mortal destiny. Whatever that may prove to be.”
He looked full into her eyes. “It may not prove a happy future. Have you thought of that?”
“But it will be hers. The life she was meant to have. That means so much ... I can’t tell you all it means.”
He nodded slowly. “Very well. I will do what I have promised.”
Entirely against her better judgment, hope rekindled from the ashes in Felicia’s heart. “If you do this,” she said in a low, fervent tone, “I’ll believe you no matter what madness you suggest. Declare yourself the true Queen of England or a butterfly and I will be your staunchest supporter. I swear it!”
She wanted to grab him by the wrist for emphasis. Remembering just in time his peculiar dislike of being touched, she drew her hands back in a marked manner. Had he started to unfold his arms as though to reach out to her? At that moment, she knew she was mistaken, but later, the possibility would come back to haunt her dreams.
She asked, “What kind of rites?”
“I beg your—
“You said she might have disturbed a rite. What sort of rite?”
“What lurid things are you imagining, Felicia?” He laughed as she fumbled for the words to deny that she had ever thought of any activity more scandalous than a rubber of whist. His charming open-mouthed laugh changed his entire expression from elegant and rather cool to that of a man with a profound sense of humor and no self-consciousness about letting the world know it.
More kindly, he said, “My People love a celebration! To dance under the moonlight, to raise our eyes to the lights of the stars and sing the ancient lays—this is our chief delight. Every season brings its holiday. The wyrcan labor day and night to prepare.”
“The working? What does that mean?”
“We are not all princes. Those of us with talent to work are called wyrcan. Some labor to bring forth the wooden utensils we use in place of iron. Others make beer or wine or raise bees for the honey. Some keep watch over animals, especially those who would otherwise be too aggressively hunted by wolves and foxes.”
“Such as the rabbits? Clarice said that she saw a little man by the warren earlier today. Was that...was that you?”
He turned to stare with hawklike intensity at the warren, which lay as though asleep in the brown grass. The rabbits had all gone underground again. “No, it was not I.”
Felicia forced a chuckle. “It was a friend, no doubt.”
“No.” More slowly, he said, “Since you freed me from the stone, Felicia, I have returned to the Wilder World, only to find...” His voice trailed off as though he’d thought the better of what he’d begun to say.
Although Felicia felt as if she were lost in a maze of mirrors, she repeated the name. “The Wilder World? What a curious name. Is there really such a place?”
“The Living Lands, the World Beyond—have you never heard of these things? A long time ago, it was known among your people as Mag Mell.”
Unnoticed, Clarice had come up behind them, brushing her hands on her apron. She began to chant, “In Mag Mell, the king does dwell; On his silver throne, he sighs alone; heigh-ho the day-oh!”
Blaic laughed with surprise and delight. “But it isn’t ‘silver throne,’ little one.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, it’s made of cedar, cunningly carved with ten thousand runes for wisdom and mirth. Both are necessary if a king is to rule with honor.”
“How do you know?” Clarice asked, plainly torn between wonder and skepticism.
“I have seen it many times.” His eyes seemed to darken as he looked deep into the distance. “It s
its at the far end of the Great Hall, half-hidden by tapestries of wonderful artistry. There we listen as our songwrights blend a thousand melodies as though they were the fragrances of flowers to ravish both heart and mind. The greatest of these is Cuar, First Singer and the voice of the People.”
Clarice said, “You can’t be a pixie. You’re too big.”
“I can change my size and my shape.”
“Oh, that’s all right then.” The girl-woman yawned. “I’m frightfully hungry, Felicia. Let’s go home.”
“Very well, dear.”
“You can come too, Mr. Pixie,” Clarice said.
“I shall accompany you for a few steps,” Blaic said, falling into step beside Felicia. She looked up at him with the shadow of doubt on her brow. In a voice too low to carry to Clarice, who was running on ahead while singing the catch “In Mag Mell,” he said, “Bring her tonight to the cave of the ornamental hermit. Together we will seek to break the spell that binds her.”
“What is that?”
“You don’t know?” She saw his mouth quiver with a smile. “Well, it was a long time ago. Your grandfather’s time, I believe. He had a grotto built at the edge of the garden, rather handsome.”
“Yes, there’s a grotto, but no hermit! How could a hermit be ‘ornamental’?”
“His name was Ol’ Calm, or at least that’s how he spoke of himself. He lived in the cave at your grandfather’s expense, dressed with great picturesqueness in ragged clothing. He wore a straggling beard. When visitors would come, he would make prophetic speeches to them, having been carefully primed in advance with the details of their lives by your grandfather.”
“How do you know all this? You couldn’t have seen it!” She realized she’d accepted his story that he had been stone. If that were true, might not the rest of his tale—of dark thrones and other domains—also be true?
“Because I was a statue? Ol’ Calm was a strange man, no more than half-sane. He’d been well educated but had filled his head with thoughts of alchemy and the search for the Philosopher’s Stone. It turned his brain. His family was glad to have him dwell in the bottom of a rich man’s garden.”
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