‘He did tell you he’d a wife, though?’ Henry asked, then wished he could have amputated his tongue. It was the sort of thing that sounded really, really mean; and if Dad hadn’t told her, then Henry could have blown his nice new romance with the very first question he asked. He was fairly sure this was Dad’s nice new romance, and even though the girl was way too young, Henry couldn’t blame him. Not after what Mum did.
‘Yes, of course,’ the girl said, frowning, but not at all put out. ‘But I thought his wife was a lesbian. I didn’t know lesbians had children.’
It had thrown Henry a bit the first time it came up. ‘Yes, they do,’ he said earnestly. ‘At least, Mum did. But maybe she wasn’t lesbian when she had us – that happens sometimes.’ It came out so miserably he saw the girl’s expression soften.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is awful – I don’t even know your name.’
‘Henry,’ Henry told her. He wished he’d foregone the Brownie points and headed straight for Mr Fogarty’s house. ‘What’s yours?’
‘You mustn’t laugh – it’s Laura Croft.’
Henry looked at her blankly.
‘You know, like the computer game. And the movie. Except she’s Lara.’
‘Oh, yes …’ Henry said uncertainly. He didn’t play computer games and never seemed to have time to go to movies. ‘Nice to meet you, Laura.’ He held out his hand, then wished he hadn’t because he was seriously worried what might happen if she lost her grip on the towel.
But she shook hands without mishap, then, either reading his mind or possibly just following his gaze, said, ‘Look, let me get dressed. I was in the shower – that’s why I didn’t hear you. Your dad should be back in a minute. Make yourself a cup of tea or something –’ She glanced at the mug in his hand. ‘Oh, you have – that’s good. Won’t be a sec.’ He noticed she went through the door to the master bedroom, not up the spiral staircase.
Henry sat back down on the couch, wondering how he was going to escape before his dad came back. What had happened was bad enough. The thought of a three-way conversation with his dad and his dad’s new girlfriend was just too awful to contemplate. He sipped his tea and found it had gone cold, which didn’t matter because it tasted foul anyway. But he decided against making himself a fresh mug. He also decided against mentioning any of this to his mother, even the fact he’d called to see his dad.
The girl came back wearing a mustard-yellow suit that would have been mad on most people, but somehow went with her colouring. Her hair was still wet, but she’d brushed it back off her face. She grinned suddenly.
‘Know how I knew you really were Tim’s son and not some axe-murderer just pretending?’
Henry shook his head.
‘You’re the image of him,’ Laura said. Then added seriously, ‘You have such sensitive eyes.’
‘Look,’ Henry said, embarrassed, ‘I have to be going.’ He nearly added, I have to feed a cat, but decided that sounded stupid.
‘You can’t go yet,’ Laura told him firmly. ‘Tim would kill me. Let me make you another cup of tea.’ She glanced into his mug with its yoghurt globules. ‘That one looks peculiar.’
Henry sat down again. He didn’t see how he could just walk out, however much he wanted to. Laura went into the kitchen. He watched her through the open door, bustling about with the ease that comes when you live in a place.
‘Do you take milk and sugar?’ she called.
‘There isn’t any milk,’ Henry said.
‘Yes, there is.’ And there was. She came back with a nice cup of tea in a proper cup, although he couldn’t think where she’d found it. Or the milk.
He took a sip. ‘Are you and Dad … you know …?’
She watched him for a moment, grinning slightly, then helped him out by saying, ‘An item? Yes. Yes, we are. He’s not that much older than me.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Henry said, even though he didn’t suppose that at all.
Laura said, ‘I’m not a gold-digger.’
Henry looked at her in surprise. It had never occurred to him his dad had enough gold to be worth digging. But now he thought about it, Tim Atherton was a successful company executive – he drove a Merc, for heaven’s sake – which must mean he was pretty well off. And he had an expense account for entertaining clients, so he knew the best restaurants. For somebody who wasn’t family, he probably looked rich.
Henry said, truthfully this time, ‘I didn’t think you were.’
Laura sat down beside him on the couch. She’d made herself a cup of tea as well. ‘Just so you know,’ she said. She hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t tell me about you, Henry – I suppose it’s the age thing: he’s very sensitive about it – but I want you to know I love your father. I mean, I don’t expect you to approve of me, or even like me – you love your mother, I know that. But I didn’t break up their marriage: I had nothing to do with that. And it’s important for you to know I’m not just some little floozy on the make.’
This was hideously embarrassing, but despite his discomfort, all he could think of was that he’d never heard anybody use the word ‘floozy’ outside of a black-and-white movie.
‘I didn’t think you were,’ he said again. Maybe if he allowed her to get it off her chest, she’d let him go before his father came back. Henry didn’t think he could cope if his father came back. To encourage her, he asked hesitantly, ‘How did you two meet – you and Dad?’
‘At a club,’ Laura said.
For a moment he thought she must be making fun of him, then saw from her face she wasn’t. His dad went to clubs? Oldest swinger in town? He opened his mouth to say something, couldn’t think of anything to say and closed it again. Fortunately Laura was burbling on.
‘I don’t usually go to clubs, but my sister dragged me to this one. Said it would cheer me up, but actually she just wanted company. It was just as dreadful as they usually are. I don’t really go for men my own age – they’re always on the pull and the only thing they can talk about is football. I’d decided to stay half an hour just to please Sheila – that’s my sister – then go home. But then I saw Tim on his own in the bar. He was drinking wine; all the other men – boys, really – were drinking beer. He looked so Byronic: you know, a tragic figure.’
That would be Dad all right – a tragic figure. Just lost his wife to his secretary, just lost his kids to his wife, just lost his home to a waterside apartment with a fancy prospectus. Not sure you’d call that Byronic, though. Henry set his cup down on the floor.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really do have to go. Got something to do. It was – it was very nice to meet you and I’m sorry I frightened you when, you know, when you came out of the shower and everything. And thanks for the tea: it was great. Anyway, maybe you’d tell Dad I called –’
A door slammed shut somewhere. Laura said brightly, ‘You can tell him yourself. That must be him now.’ Henry looked around, frantically searching for some means of escape, but then his father walked into the room and she smiled and said, ‘Look, Tim. Look who’s here!’
Six
As the Spicemaster reached the centre of the spiral, his whole appearance changed. His back straightened. He seemed taller. The feathered cloak expanded, giving him the illusion of fearsome bulk. But far more impressive was the way he moved. The hesitant, sickly steps of the old man were gone and he strode like a warrior. He spun round to look at Blue and hissed. His eyes burned.
With a chill, Blue saw his face had changed as well. He was still recognisable – if only just – but his features were florid and swollen, his lips thickened, with a bluish tinge. Worst of all were the teeth which had, incredibly, enlarged so that they seemed almost like those of an animal. He hissed again, a long drawn-out sibilant that cut through the air like a knife. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. He began to tremble violently.
‘Spicemaster –’ Blue murmured in alarm. The dragonskin drum slipped from her fingers and rolled across t
he floor.
The Spicemaster’s trembling turned to something more violent, a sort of convulsion, like someone preparing to have a full-scale fit. His head began to snap back rhythmically with increasing force.
‘Spicemaster!’ Blue exclaimed again. He was dropping on all fours now, like an animal, but the convulsions were, if anything, more violent. It was the head-jerking that really worried her – the man could break his own neck. Despite a sudden eruption of fear, she started forward. Whatever was happening, he needed help.
‘Back!’ hissed the Spicemaster. His fierce eyes held hers for a moment, then the head resumed its jerking. He howled like a wolf and gripped his skull with both hands. ‘Stay … back …’ he gasped with enormous effort. ‘You … are not … safe … within the spiral!’
Blue halted, one foot just short of the entrance. Her mind was a turmoil. The spiral was nothing more than markings on the floor. Inside or outside surely made no difference. Besides, he needed help. She couldn’t let him injure himself, no matter how important this consultation was to her. All the same, she hesitated.
But then, impossibly, the Spicemaster was on his feet again and he was no longer the Spicemaster. All vestige of the old man had disappeared. In his place towered a creature of gigantic proportions. For a moment it seemed as though it might be eight feet tall and vastly bulky. The thought of an illusion spell passed through her mind, but this was no illusion; or at least no magical illusion she had ever seen. Despite everything, the Spicemaster hadn’t really changed. She could still make out the wreckage of his features, the poor distorted body. But it was as if some alien entity had got inside him and blown him up like a balloon. She half expected to see his skin crack and something huge emerge.
The creature that had been the Spicemaster began to dance.
It was a rough, raw dance, a stamping, shuffling dance that conjured scenes of swampland and evoked the rage of beasts. From somewhere on the edges of her mind, Blue imagined she could hear the savage rhythms of primeval music: click-sticks, toma and mercomba, growling voices.
The creature whirled to look at her …
And smiled.
The voice that echoed through the chamber should never have emerged from the Spicemaster’s throat. It reverberated like the dragonskin, but carried with it the infinite chill of deep space, a voice so alien, so other that she shuddered.
‘I see thee, Faerie Queen,’ it said.
Seven
Pyrgus whirled, one hand reaching instinctively for his blade. Then he saw the sweep of long black hair.
‘What the Hael are you doing here?’ Gela asked crossly. ‘I told you the boathouse!’ She had a gorgeous voice but a peculiar accent, probably due to the fact that the Ogyris family came originally from Haleklind.
‘Got lost,’ Pyrgus told her quickly. Which wasn’t strictly true since he’d only been sidetracked while looking for the boathouse, but he’d discovered you had to be careful with Gela otherwise she buried you under a whole heap of questions. His heart was still pounding furiously, but now it had nothing to do with the shock of the hand on his shoulder.
‘How could you get lost?’ Gela asked. ‘I gave you very detailed instructions. Don’t you know you could get killed getting lost?’
It was happening again. Pyrgus decided to answer the first question and ignore the second.
‘I couldn’t read your instructions,’ he said.
‘Why not? You wrote them down. You can’t complain about my writing.’
‘No, I can’t. And I’m not. I’m just saying I couldn’t read the instructions – the instructions I wrote down.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Because I –’ He was going to say Because I couldn’t see them, but realised that would just lead to another question and changed it to, ‘Because I didn’t bring a light with me.’
‘You didn’t bring a light with you?’ Gela asked incredulously. She tossed her head in disbelief.
Pyrgus decided to stop this nonsense by asking a question of his own. ‘What are those things in the glasshouse?’
Gela was a girl about his own age, but there any resemblance ended. Pyrgus was a prince who looked like a peasant, short and sturdy. No one would take Gela for a peasant in a thousand years. The clothes she was wearing had the understated stamp of designer flair. Her hair had the cut and sheen of expert styling and her face was finely featured. Her eyes were large for a Faerie of the Night, large and liquid. She was, quite simply, the most exotic creature he’d ever seen.
‘Ah,’ she said.
Pyrgus waited. ‘Ah?’
‘Those are something you shouldn’t have seen.’
Pyrgus glanced through the glass. ‘Why not?’ he asked curiously.
‘Oh, you know …’ Gela shrugged. She said casually, ‘You haven’t touched the glass, have you?’
‘No …’ Or perhaps he had. Hadn’t he pressed his nose against it? With Gela standing so close Pyrgus couldn’t remember. He looked at her suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Daddy has it alarmed. Lethal force and all that.’
‘Lethal force and all what?’
Gela shrugged again. ‘You know. It would kill you.’
‘Just touching the glass?’ He couldn’t believe it. This was worse than Chalkhill and Brimstone’s cobblestone minefield.
‘I’m not sure,’ Gela said. ‘Maybe not just touching it. But if you tried to get in –’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Or touch the glass.’ He frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit … extreme? I mean I know the sculptures must be very valuable, but –’
‘Oh, it’s not that. It’s just stupid politics.’
Politics? This was getting more confusing.
‘What’s a glasshouse got to do with politics?’
Gela sighed deeply. ‘I’m not supposed to know this, but Father’s growing them for somebody.’
‘Growing what?’ Pyrgus asked, utterly bewildered.
She nodded in the direction of the glasshouse. ‘The flowers.’
‘Those aren’t flowers,’ Pyrgus said. ‘They’re sculptures.’
Gela tilted her head to give him a supercilious look. ‘If they aren’t flowers,’ she sniffed, ‘why do you think the lights are on?’
Pyrgus looked at her blankly.
Gela said with exaggerated patience, ‘If they were just sculptures, why would Father set the growlights to come on in the middle of the night? Why would he want the place all lit up and attracting attention when he didn’t have to? Why would he keep them in a glasshouse in the first place? Why wouldn’t all his boring guards be beating you up this very minute?’
The only one of Gela’s questions that really made sense was the last one. ‘Why aren’t his boring guards beating me up this very minute?’ he asked. He didn’t believe what she said about the flowers, but there were hundreds of crystal sculptures in there, each one worth a fortune. Why didn’t Gela’s father have a whole army of guards around them? He could certainly afford it.
Gela’s face took on that dangerous look she got when she was impatient. ‘Because guards attract attention. None of this is supposed to be happening, you know. You put guards around something and everybody knows it’s important. Father just wants to grow his flowers quietly at night when there’s nobody around. He makes the glass opaque during the day so you can’t see what’s inside.’ She blinked slowly, covering and uncovering those magnificent eyes. ‘Besides, he has some really dangerous spells on that building.’
‘Why doesn’t he opaque it at night? The growglobes are inside.’
‘Something to do with starlight,’ Gela said vaguely. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Look, are we going to stand here all night discussing horticulture?’
‘Who’s he growing them for?’ Pyrgus asked. He still wasn’t sure he believed they really were flowers, but it might be useful to play along with the story.
‘That’s a secret,’ Gela told him severely.
‘Do you know?’
‘Of course I know – I�
��m Daddy’s pet, aren’t I?’ She sniffed. ‘But I’ve told you far too much already.’ Her head went up again. ‘Now, are we going to the boathouse for our meeting, or have you forgotten all the fuss you made about it?’
‘We’re going to the boathouse,’ Pyrgus said.
It turned out the boathouse wasn’t all that far – he’d remembered his instructions well enough before he’d sidetracked to the glasshouse. He followed her along the lakeside, then up a short path to a smallish jetty. There was a wooden building to one side of it. Gela pushed the door and disappeared inside. Pyrgus hesitated for a moment, then followed her.
It was pitch black inside. Gela’s voice floated imperiously out of the darkness ahead.
‘Close the door.’
Pyrgus closed the door behind him and at once a glowglobe illuminated overhead. It had the low light setting Faeries of the Night preferred, but he was able to see well enough. Gela was standing a few feet away beside two rowing boats and some fishing tackle. She looked stunning.
‘Well,’ she asked, ‘are you going to tell me why we’re here?’
Pyrgus walked across and kissed her.
Eight
Henry escaped eventually, slightly consoled by the fact that his dad was even more embarrassed than he was.
Henry could understand perfectly well why his father had neglected to mention his children to a girlfriend who was young enough to be his daughter. It was no big deal. But Dad went on a guilt trip – you could see it in his eyes. He saw his new squeeze sitting on the couch and Henry sitting uncomfortably beside her and you’d have thought he’d been caught with his hand in the till.
‘Ah, Henry, old man. Wasn’t expecting you today. I see you’ve met my – my – see you’ve met Laura. She’s, ah, staying over for a couple …’
And as he’d trailed off, Laura said mischievously, ‘You never told me you had a son, Tim.’ Then blinked and added, ‘Or a daughter.’
Ruler of the Realm Page 3
