by Laura Powell
Another streak of fire smashed into the rocks. Devilish laughter echoed all about. They were now utterly exposed, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Madoc and his monster were playing with them like cat and mouse.
The dragon drew back its head, snorted smoke and sparks, and prepared to strike.
The Madoc-creature gave another croaking chuckle.
And Pattern flung the bottle of chemicals at his face.
She did not expect it to disable him for more than a few moments. Her hope – and it was a desperate one – was that the dragon, too, would momentarily be stopped in its tracks, giving Eleri and her one last chance to flee through the pass. And if Madoc had simply dashed the bottle away, or even let it crash upon his person, this hope would have most likely been in vain. Instead, he aimed to shoot the missile down in flames.
The moment the lightning bolt flashed from his scaly palm and hit the bottle, the sky exploded. The force of it flung Eleri and Pattern backwards as broiling flames gobbled through the air, swallowing Madoc in their white heat. At the same instant, the dragon let out an anguished scream that was horribly human in its despair. The world was consumed by choking stink, and bitter smoke, and the crackle of greedy flame.
Dust and ashes. Two corpses.
The remains of a man with the skin of a snake, burnt almost beyond recognition.
A smoking heap of prehistoric bone, already beginning its long decay into the mountainside.
Two friends, walking hand in hand over stones, in the morning light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Go where you will; the character which you have made for yourself will be certain, sooner or later, to follow you.
J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid
Pattern Pendragon, Countess of Annwn, High Commander of the House of Elffin, Dame of the Order of the Purple Daffodil, was having a perplexing morning.
She had arrived in London in a wintry fog, which had now turned to rain. Fog still appeared to hang within the airless offices of the Elffish Consulate off Bedford Square, to which Pattern had come in an effort to discover more about the identity of her parents. The consul, a portly gentleman whose fondness for cigars was the chief reason for the murk that clouded his office, had been roused to great heights of energy and attentiveness by the letter of royal instruction sent ahead of Pattern. But he warned her – between puffs on his cigar – that the likelihood of uncovering reliable information was slim. Although the Grand Duchy’s border authorities kept records of those persons who had ‘unlawfully absconded from Elffinberg’, the file for the year of her family’s departure had been lost in an archive fire.
Pattern had been spurred on her quest by witnessing the release of the stolen children of Elffinberg. Having been hustled away from Prince Leopold’s manufactory, they were found locked in the extensive cellars below his hunting lodge. Amid the rejoicing of their parents, the happy tears and tender embraces, Pattern felt an ache all of her own. Her family could never be reunited in this life; the least she could do was try and learn their names.
The consul had one possible lead. He had unearthed a letter sent to his predecessor by an Elffish clergyman, in which the writer mentioned that his mother’s favourite pastry-cook had lately vanished, along with his wife and infant daughter: ‘. . . I suspect they have taken fright at the notion of the Old Trouble returning, and so have chosen to take their chances in exile instead. If you were to hear of any Elffish arrivals in London, I should be very glad to be notified . . .’
The letter was dated the same year and season as the shipwreck in which Pattern’s mother and father had perished; the surviving crew members had confirmed that she had been the only infant on board. As far as evidence went, it was extremely feeble. But Pattern remembered her stolen holiday in Elffinheim, where the spice of gingerbread had been her first taste of freedom. I should have liked parents who were pastry-cooks, she thought. I hope they exchanged proof of their devotion in frangipane hearts, and wrote their affection in butter frosting. I hope I was born into a cloud of icing sugar and confectioner’s cream.
Since she planned to stay in town a couple of days longer, she resolved to distract herself with sightseeing. She was a lady of leisure, after all. She had taken rooms in one of Mayfair’s grandest hotels. Her stockings were silk and her shoes were of the softest kid. Her coat was of fine-combed wool. But her dress was as simple as it ever was, her demeanour as mousy, and none of the Londoners hurrying to get out of the wet and dirt gave her more than a second’s glance as they jostled past.
However, she was not entirely unobserved. A grandmotherly-looking person was sheltering in the same portico that Pattern had chosen to take cover from the rain, and had watched her keenly as she emerged from the Consulate across the road.
‘Miss Pattern?’
‘Can I help you?’ Pattern replied, trying to conceal her surprise.
‘I hope you will forgive the imposition. I have a slight association with your former tutor, Mrs Minchin, and so thought I would take the liberty of introducing myself. My name is Adele Jervis, and I am the representative of a highly select employment registry.’
Pattern remained perplexed as to how she had been recognized, but she did not wish to appear ungracious. ‘Thank you for your interest, but I am not seeking a position at this particular time.’
In fact, Pattern had no need to work for a living ever again. On her return to Elffinberg, she would have a spacious apartment in the castle, her own retinue of servants and a pension for life. Dilys and Franz had also been generously rewarded for their loyalty.
Mrs Jervis smiled. ‘I am sure life in the Grand Duchy keeps you agreeably occupied. In fact, it is on Elffish matters that I was hoping you would do us the honour of a consultation. One of our new recruits served at the Elffish court, and though her references are uniformly excellent, we know little of employment practices there.’
Pattern looked at her carefully. The woman was respectably dressed, and had a naturally pleasant expression. Why should she not give her the benefit of her advice? She had nothing better to do. What’s more, the rain had suddenly been overtaken by pale December sunshine, which provided her with sufficient encouragement to shake out her umbrella, and follow her new acquaintance down the street.
They stopped outside a narrow stucco-fronted building, whose shining windowpanes and gleaming doorstep bore testimony to the value of good housekeeping. There was no sign on the door. Once inside, Mrs Jervis showed her into a well-appointed and airy office, where a man introduced as Mr Crichton was waiting. He was tall and silvery, with the air of unassailable dignity present in all the best butlers.
‘My dear Miss Pattern,’ he said, warmly taking her by the hand before showing her into a seat. ‘It is a great pleasure – indeed, honour – to meet you at last. We have, as they say, been following your career with interest. Interest and excitement!’
Pattern returned his smile cautiously. ‘I find that hard to believe, for I lead a very quiet life. I am not the kind of person exciting things happen to.’
‘Our sources report otherwise.’
She lifted her brow. ‘They must be extremely well placed.’
‘We flatter ourselves that we have eyes and ears in all the royal courts worth mentioning, as well as in the highest households in the land. Which is how we came to hear of your defeat of Elffin’s Bane. It is not often that one meets a lady’s maid turned dragon-slayer.’
This time, Pattern could not hide her consternation. Although Eleri had been most anxious that Pattern should share in the passionate acclaim that had greeted her, following the death of the monster, Pattern had insisted that nobody should know of the part she had played. Moreover, she could not imagine how news of the dragon had got out, given the Duchy’s closed borders and secretive character. Even its closest neighbours were unaware of recent events.
She endeavoured to keep her voice level. ‘Whatever do you know about that?’
‘No more than the bare bones o
f the matter. We would, of course, be very interested in hearing your own account, Miss Pattern.’ He paused. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to be addressed by your proper name. Miss Pattern Pendragon, is it not?’
Pattern was yet more surprised. This had been Eleri’s idea, and she was still getting accustomed to it. ‘Pattern,’ the Grand Duchess had said, not long before she left for London, ‘you have made your name your own, and I should not like to ever call you anything else. So I have another thought. You remember that Prince Elffin called himself Pendraig, which is Welsh for “Chief Dragon”. Well, I think you are the true chief, since you are the only person who ever bested it. And that is why Pendraig – or Pendragon, in the English form – would be a most excellent surname for you.’
This was not at all what Pattern had imagined when she had first thought to choose her own name. Eleri saw her hesitate.
‘Dearest Pattern, you must recollect that in the ordinary course of things, you would have been given your name by your family. Neither of us has a mama or papa, but in you I have found a sister, as well as a friend. So perhaps you can look on Pendragon as a family name after all.’
Remembering this brought an almost painful warmth to her heart. ‘Plain Pattern is how I generally prefer to be known,’ she managed to say to Mr Crichton, though she was all astonishment.
Mr Crichton regarded her benevolently. ‘Please don’t be alarmed – you may have been brought here on false pretences, but rest assured the cause is a good one. Let me explain myself. We are an employment registry for domestic servants, that is true, but our staff provide a peculiarly specialist service. Elffinberg is not the only country with secrets and burdens. It is not the only corner of the world where strange relics of ancient times still linger, or where people have fallen prey to the Darkest of the Dark Arts.’
Pattern felt like someone who is trying to read a book when the pages are being turned a little too quickly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow . . .’
‘The perfect servant is the invisible one. Invisible, incorruptible. Don’t you agree? A trusted servant has access to their employer’s most intimate areas of life and work. A clever servant can turn this access to great advantage. And so our agency places servants within households for the purposes of discreet investigation. I have here, for example, a letter from a most noble lady, of great rank and wealth, who suspects her stepdaughter of summoning a demon to possess her. She implores our help, and offers ample reward. She may be a crank, of course. But she may not. What then?’
Pattern blinked. ‘You wish me to aid such an investigation?’
‘A girl of your talents and resourcefulness cannot sit idle for long.’
‘The Grand Duchess relies on me.’
‘The Grand Duchess does not need you. She will not be of age for some years to come. In the meantime, she does not lack support or advice. I hear she has already recalled her father’s friends who were exiled or imprisoned by Prince Leopold, and restored them to their former positions on the Council of State. Both you and your former mistress are free to live a life of leisure, in luxury.’
‘You speak as if that’s a bad thing.’
‘I certainly don’t mean it that way. Why bother to earn your own wage, when you have a friend who will pay for your every particular? I am sure you will not want for anything in Elffinberg. Now that it has got over its fright, the Duchy will doubtless be as pleasant, prosperous and dull a backwater as anyone could wish. But – forgive me – perhaps you will indulge my curiosity on this one point. How did you slay your dragon, Miss Pattern?’
‘It is a little complicated. But in essence the beast and its master were consumed by a chemical fire, triggered by a tincture of sal volatile, laudanum and, er, bleach.’
‘Very neat! Very neat indeed.’ Mr Crichton nodded approvingly. ‘Ammonia from the smelling salts . . . chloride in the cleaning fluid . . . mixed together to produce a toxic gas . . . the ethanol in the laudanum provided the flammable element, I presume? And all sourced from innocent domestic supplies! I must be sure to tell Mrs Jervis. Such information could be of great advantage to our operatives.’
‘I had no idea it would be so effective,’ Pattern admitted. ‘And of course I was improvising. Now, if one were to experiment in properly controlled conditions, and allow for . . .’ She caught herself. ‘But that is not my concern.’
He smiled smoothly. ‘Well, well, there it is. I regret that our work holds no appeal, but your reluctance is entirely understandable. Allow me to give you this, at least.’ Mr Crichton passed her a card bearing an address, and the illustration of a feather duster crossed with a toasting fork. Above this was the name The Silver Service. ‘In case you have any further questions, you understand.’
Pattern felt it would be impolite to refuse the card. She bade Mr Crichton and Mrs Jervis good day and went out in the street, where the sun peeped in and out from rain clouds, and jewelled the puddles with a passing sparkle.
The afternoon stretched before her. She was entirely at liberty. She could eat as much gingerbread and lemonade as she liked. She could shop for fur-lined gloves and lace handkerchiefs. She could spend all evening at the theatre and all day at the museums. She could go to the pond in the park, and throw iced buns for the ducks to eat.
Or she could return to a life of drudgery and dirt and danger. Excitement and exhaustion. Trial and challenge.
It was time for her to choose the heroine she wished to be. She could be Countess of Annwn or plain Pattern . . . but not both.
And standing there in the chasing sunshine and shadows, she found herself wondering how one would go about banishing demons, and whether a poker or well-sharpened knitting needle would provide adequate defence.
Turn the page for an exciting extract from Pattern’s next
A Silver Service Mystery . . .
Judge of your employers from your own observation, and their behaviour to you.
Adams, The Complete Servant
The journey from London to Cornwall felt nearly as long and arduous to Pattern as that of London to Elffinberg, not least because she had to make it in public stagecoaches instead of a private carriage, and under the watchful eye of Mrs Robinson. When she and the other maidservants finally arrived at the fishing village from where they were to take the four-mile boat journey to Cull, Pattern was so cramped and stiff she felt she would almost be glad to get back to scrubbing grates and mopping floors.
Elsie had not stopped chattering since they had left London. Everything was new, everything was of interest. Pattern had sympathy for this – she had been just as wide-eyed on her first escape from the city. However, she had kept her astonishment to herself. Elsie could not pass sight of a cow, or a stream, or a picturesque cottage without remarking on it, and the moment she and the other maids caught sight of the sea there was such a hubbub as would deafen even the noisiest gull. Not even Mrs Robinson’s sternest admonishments could silence them.
It was not the best of days for a visit to the coast. The fog seemed to have followed them from London, and everything was dank and dripping, and smelling of fish. Pattern, already somewhat sick from the jolting of the coach, looked at the choppy grey expanse of water and felt queasier still. She reflected that the Service had been advised that Cull was a craggy and desolate place. The two fishermen who were to ferry them over would only shrug in response to Pattern’s enquiries about the island’s history.
‘Loss,’ was all the older one would volunteer.
‘Who is lost?’ she asked. His accent was so thick, and his manner so brusque, she feared she had misheard him.
‘Cull. ’Tis from the Cornish for loss.’
The Isle of Loss . . . This did not bode well. Pattern was not fanciful, but she shivered all the same.
Yet when the shores of Cull first rose out of the mist, Pattern gaped in admiration just like the other girls. Although the island’s cliffs were rocky, they were fringed thickly by trees, and the cove they were approaching glittered wi
th white sand. The waves that lapped the island were a deep blue-green, not grey.
Except, that is, for the sea immediately ahead of their vessel. Pattern thought the black mass beneath the water must be submerged rocks, but then the darkness moved, passing under the boat like an underwater shadow. A few dirty bubbles rose to the surface. Nobody else had noticed it, and Pattern herself could not be sure of what she had seen.
Then all at once the last of the clouds parted and the sun blazed through, so that the scene was bathed in golden light, and the remaining mist that enveloped the isle was transformed into a sparkling, shimmering haze.
The fishermen drew the boat up to a stone pier and helped them disembark on to the landing platform at the end. An old man, swathed in a billowing black cloak, was waiting to receive them at the top of the steps.
‘My name is Glaucus Grey and I am the steward of this isle. On behalf of Lady Hawk, I am pleased to welcome you to Cull.’ He gave a stiff little bow. Some of the more impertinent maids smirked. He had bristly white eyebrows, a wild white mane of hair and a face that was exceedingly knobbly. But he hobbled across the beach very briskly indeed, and as they lugged their baggage up the rough steps cut into the cliff face, it proved quite a struggle to keep up with him.
At the top of the steps, Pattern paused to take a breath. When she glanced back, she saw the boat that had brought them was already swallowed up by mist. Yet the sun continued to shine on Cull as the party followed a path through a wood. On the other side of a narrow though not particularly deep ravine was a sheltered glade dappled with snowdrops.
