by Sophie Jaff
Oh well. “I guess we should call it a night?” She hazards trying not to sound too disappointed.
“Let me make sure I have your number.” Niamh starts digging through her bag, presumably for her phone, and misses the huge relieved grin Katherine can’t quite hold back.
“Let’s,” Katherine agrees casually and begins digging out her own.
Outside, it’s still raining. “Which way are you headed?” Niamh asks. “Shall we spring for a taxi? My call.”
“Really?” Katherine tries to avoid taking the taxis here—the very shape of them seems inefficient. Sael has been extraordinarily generous with her allowance, but she can’t help but dread the expense. She supposes it’s a reflex for all the penny-pinching years in New York.
“C’mon!” Niamh says.
They find a black cab and scramble in. The driver looks at them expectantly.
“Where are you headed?” Niamh prompts again.
Katherine tells her the address of her new home.
“But you can’t be!”
Katherine looks at her. “I can’t?”
“That’s just around the corner from me!”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not!”
The driver coughs. “Ladies?”
“I’m just around the block,” Niamh tells him.
“I love that we’re neighbors.”
“A nightmare, though, really, because you’ll be endlessly borrowing cups of sugar.”
“How did you know?”
The rainy night is no longer forlorn. It may be cold and dark outside, but Katherine is not outside. She’s inside the taxi with a new friend. She’s happy.
The ride is all too quick, and they arrive at Katherine’s front door in what seems to be minutes.
Niamh whistles. “Very posh!”
“Oh, shut up, you can’t talk! You live in the same neighborhood. Besides, Sael’s work found this for us.”
She grins. “True enough, I’m very posh too. How did two hoors like ourselves wind up in such fancy places?”
“God knows. Anyway, I’ll see you soon?” Katherine feels like she’s known her forever.
“Of course!”
“Bye!”
“Bye!”
Katherine gets out of the taxi and stands on her new front doorstep. Niamh, still in the backseat, waves at her, and then the taxi speeds off into the wet night.
She remains on the step for a moment. In a moment, she’ll go inside. In a moment, she’ll go inside and breathe in the perfume of the fresh flowers that Mrs. B will have procured and arranged in a vase on the dining room table. In a moment, she’ll go and check in on Lucas, make sure he’s asleep and all is well with Cordelia, who will be lying under his bed. She’ll pass by the room that’s become Sael’s unofficial office. The door, of course, will be closed. Then she’ll go downstairs and open the fridge to see what Mrs. B has left her to warm up. She’ll collapse with her heated-up leftovers in front of the TV and watch a quiz show. The Brits love their quiz shows. But right now she’ll allow herself just a moment to stand on the damp steps looking out into the darkness, thanking God, or someone or something, for the simple yet unfathomable miracle of making a new friend.
Then she walks inside and closes the door behind her.
19
Margaret
He did not send for me after her body was found. I understood. He needed to be a leader for his people, to comport himself with dignity. But at night, I ached for him. So I drew on what my mother had taught me, and as I brewed my ale I added anise, for desire, and cinnamon, for happiness. I sang a song of kisses sweet and soft nights, and by the by he sent for me again.
He had summoned me and yet seemed troubled when I arrived at his solar, as if he did not know why I was there.
“I cannot shake you.” He would not look at me. “I am drawn to you beyond my own will, as a moth flutters blindly to a flame even though that flame will burn it up.”
“Then fly,” I told him, “and we will burn together.”
And I held open my arms.
He fell into them and then we fell together. I tasted the salt on his skin, felt him upon me and in me. It was all I would ask for.
After a long while, both of us sated, we lay together. My eyes wandered, and in the light of the waning fire I caught the gleam of an ornament that lay upon a wooden chest near the bed. “That’s a pretty thing,” I remarked.
“It has been in the de Villias family for generations.” He seemed proud of it.
I reached out and fingered the brooch, cast silver in the shape of a snake with a gleaming red eye, curving round to swallow its own tail, which glistened with six tiny jewels: blue, green, rose, piercing white, deep purple, and honey. “Sapphire, emerald, topaz, diamond, amethyst, and citrine,” he murmured against my neck.
“And the eye?” It was hard to tear my own away from the winking drop of blood.
“A ruby.” His arms enfolded me and pulled me down to him again, the brooch still in my hand, and at last I was sure that any frost forming between us had melted away.
Soon after that night, a page comes to the cottage with an invitation; a banquet, which is to be held in five days. Try as I may, I can find no other reason for this invitation other than to make public his affection for me. To dine with him openly and sit by his side as his wife would is an honor I crave above all. I can think of nothing else.
The day of the banquet, I am sent an amber-colored cotehardie, sewn with silver thread and silver-threaded buttons. In the evening, a woman arrives to help dress me. She is the well-born wife of one of his most favored knights. She clearly thinks she is beneath such work, but her husband’s fealty is at stake. She sighs heavily as she weaves ribbons until they gleam through my hair.
“That will do,” she sniffs grudgingly once her work is done.
I shine tonight. I glow, not just outwardly but inwardly too. Tonight, I shall tell him my secret.
I have never been to a banquet, although by now I have brewed for many. I enter the Great Hall and swallow. I force myself to walk slowly across the newly laid rushes toward the high table so that I may savor the grandeur. Tonight the room is filled with men of high rank. They sit at long tables that are covered with soft linen cloth, and heavy under their burden of silver plates and silver salt cellars, silver knives and spoons and goblets. There are officials and advisers, the sheriff and the steward, Father Martin and his knights attended by their squires.
A heavy hush descends as I approach Lord August’s table. My limbs have turned to stone, but he half rises and smiles at me, which is all the assurance I need. Father Martin says grace, and once he has finished, a steady stream of servants make their way toward the high table. There are platters of roasted capons and peacock, stewed venison and honeyed meats, sweet fried fritters of swan, spiced pies with thick flaking crusts, jellies colored yellow with saffron and red with sandalwood, and frumenty. I would love to eat well but I am too nervous to take more than a few bites. I must watch my manners, must remember which hand to use when eating and when I must wait to be served.
The oppressive feeling in the air thickens. Conversation is stilted. I try my best to enjoy the feast before me, but there is a tightness in my throat and chest that makes it impossible to swallow. Lord August laughs, hard and defiant. I wince at how forced it sounds. Our companions at the high table return weak chuckles and jests that fall flat as soon as they are uttered. They are uneasy and unhappy.
Excited as I was, now I can hardly wait for the banquet to be over. As the empty platters are removed, leaving only the dishes of fruits and nuts before us I pray that this evening will come to an end. I curse them all. They may have wealth and titles, but their hearts are no different from the villagers’; they are still the same hateful folk. Soon enough, I hope, he and I will be alone so I may tell him my news.
“And what of entertainment?” Lord August bellows. In the expectant silence that follows, something white kisses my ch
eek. I start and look up. Soft petals drift down from above, from the ceiling or from the heavens?
“What trick is this?” he demands. The guests exclaim, amazed.
“May I offer my services, my lord?”
Before us stands a stranger. His hair is snowy, shining white, but his age is impossible to guess. In one instant he appears ancient, and the next almost boyish, depending on the shadows. His bulbous nose overhangs a mouth as thin as a piece of string. He wears not red or yellow, as I have seen many of the entertainers do, but a cloak of deepest black, speckled with shining points of silver thread, as if he has cut down a piece of the night sky and swathed himself in a mantle of stars. He leans upon a wooden staff, which is intricately carved with a snake coiling up its length, much like my lord’s brooch. A large, glossy raven perches upon his shoulder, cocking its black and gleaming head this way and that. The man turns to me, and I see his eyes are silver.
Lord August is laughing now, truly laughing for the first time this evening. “Caradoc!” he cries in delight.
“My lord.” Caradoc bows and then says, “For you, my lady,” as he pulls a branch of white blossoms from thin air and holds them out for me. I accept it and nod, doing my best to appear gracious, but I do not smell the flowers or touch their petals. I am terrified of this man, who stares at me with silver eyes. I look again at Lord August, but he seems not to notice anything amiss.
“When did I last see you, you old rogue?”
“Ah, when you were scarcely taller than my knee, a warrior even then and sorely trying the patience of your father!” Caradoc’s deep voice resonates in the Great Hall.
“Has it been that long? And yet you are just the same. I still remember the last story you told us. We dined on it for years.”
“His lordship speaks with such honeyed words, he does not need my humble skills!”
“Come, you old flatterer, tell us a tale, for I have a hunger to hear one of your stories.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Caradoc half turns so that he faces all the high tables of the Great Hall. No one need strain to hear him. “Long ago in ages past, there lived two beautiful maidens. One was a daughter of the Sun. Her hair shone as golden gossamer, her eyes were blue as the summer sky and her very touch made the flowers bloom. The other was a daughter of the Moon, whose voice was a mournful wind, her dark locks fell like night upon her brow, and her large eyes were filled with woe . . .”
The story is wonderful, but there is something wrong. And then it comes to me. It is the same as when I sing, the strength lies not within his words but in the enchantment behind them. And he is far more powerful than I. His tongue spins a spider’s web, its shining strands drifting down to ensnare us all. It takes everything I have to shut out his voice. I do not know what his intention is in holding his audience so spellbound, but I will not be another helpless fly caught and vulnerable. I glance at Lord August, whose eyes are glazed with wonder, his mouth agape. I look around the Great Hall and see a similar expression on each and every face. Except one.
Landon’s eyes are narrowed; his lips are contorted into a snarl. It is a look so full of loathing that I flinch. At that moment, he seems even more alien than the storyteller.
Finally, Caradoc’s tale is at an end. He bows, and there is a tumultuous roar of applause and stamping of feet as the Great Hall, in its entirety, cheers.
Lord August wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “In truth, I have never heard such a tale before. I swear your words will remain in my heart until the end of my days.”
Caradoc bows again and smiles. “I am pleased, my lord. And now I must be on my way. But before I go, I wish to tell you your fortune.” He steps closer to the table. “Give me your left hand.”
The Great Hall settles into stillness again as all crane to hear what lies in store for their lordship. Caradoc seems untroubled by their scrutiny, and he continues to study Lord August’s palm.
Then he looks up. “This has been a trying time for you, my lord. Your heart and head are pulled in different directions. And there is an evil presence around you too. One that obscures its true self.”
Utter silence. I am crushed by the weight of a hundred eyes upon me.
“But still, be of good cheer, my lord, for soon the slaughter of the innocent will end. The devil among you will flee.”
“Thank God,” Lord August breathes.
“Yes, thanks be to God”—Caradoc’s silver eyes crease up at the corners—“for I see a marriage.” The Hall stirs, rapt. “Even as I speak, a messenger is riding to you with glad tidings. A golden bride will soon stand by your side. Like the daughter of the Sun, her eyes are the color of a summer sky, her mouth is a rose in bloom.”
Everyone’s attention flicks back to me with my dark locks and my dark eyes. As if they needed more proof that I am an imposter whose run of good fortune is about to end.
“Generys,” Lord August murmurs. “Her father must have agreed.” It is as if I do not exist. Then he remembers his present company, for he composes himself again. “I thank you, Caradoc. Your prophecy is a gift.”
Caradoc dips his head. “I am glad my knowledge gives you happiness, my lord, but I have no control nor power over what I see. I am simply passing along a message.”
“Still, you have lightened the weight of my troubles and”—he gestures toward the other guests—“lightened all our hearts!”
“Then on that note, I bid you farewell.” Caradoc gathers the folds of his cloak around him with one hand as he grips his strange staff with the other. I stare at his bent back as he slowly makes his way toward the end of the Great Hall.
The minstrels strike up their instruments and chatter resumes, although now the guests speak more easily and with true levity. I lean over and whisper to Lord August that I am tired and will retire. He does not even look at me, only nods, not breaking his conversation with his neighbor.
I slip away from the table, descend from the dais, and follow the shadowed back wall of the Great Hall until I reach the kitchen passage. But the old man has not paused for supper to which he is surely entitled. So I hurry on into the garden. And there he stands, his twisted back to me, staring up at the evening sky as if gazing at a map.
“Yes?” he asks, his eyes still turned to the heavens.
I have made no noise, and yet he knows I am here. My confusion and fear and disappointment over the evening whirls up and out into a furious shout.
“Who are you?”
He does not answer.
“Who are you?” I cry again, close to losing control, but I have had my fill of icy snubs and haughty silences.
“I am Caradoc, a teller of tales.”
I snort and wave his words away. I am not a child to be toyed with.
“Who are you truly?”
“You ask questions easily enough. Would you really have the answers?”
“I would.” My mouth is dry as a husk and my chest is tight, but whatever the cost, I must know.
“Very well.” He pivots, using his staff, until we are facing each other. His silver eyes shine in the moonlight, but I am too incensed to be frightened. “I am an Other.”
“And what is that?” I hiss, though I half fear I am demanding sense from a madman.
“I am other than Man, other than an angel, other than a demon. I and my kind are here as witnesses to the words and deeds of mankind. We have been here since the Beginning and we shall be here until the End.”
My senses reel, but I cling to my anger—it is the only weapon I can wield. “You accused me of being the devil among them.”
He shakes his head. “I would never accuse you of such a thing. There is true evil here, a devil among men. Deep in the marrow of your bones, you know it too, for you came upon him when you were but a child.”
Moths of red and black swarm before my vision. “The man who stalks me is here?”
His unwavering stare is all the answer I need.
“But how can this be? Is he also an Other?�
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“He is not an Other. He is no mortal assassin, but an Entity disguised as one of you to complete his mission here on earth. A mission that began with the birth of Jesus of Nazareth.”
He studies my uncomprehending face. “For what other man could defy the laws of the universe as he did? Jesus, who healed the sick and walked upon the water and rose from the dead, changed the course of this world forever.” Caradoc sighs, and age seems to settle upon him like dust. It seems he will not speak again, so long does he pause, but at length he continues.
“But his mother, Mary, was a mortal. It was she, the Virgin, who became the first Vessel. She gave birth to Jesus, and when she did the balance was forever shifted, the harmony of the spheres forever altered.
At the very moment Christ was born, the Entity rose up with blade in hand. He travels through the ages to ensure no other mortal woman could succeed as a Vessel, no other mortal woman able to bear children who would again test the foundations of the universe. The Entity hunts you because you are a Vessel. You were chosen as the stars aligned at the moment of your birth.”
As he speaks I remember my mother’s words: Your destiny is writ golden upon the skies, in the night’s song.
A faint strain of melody and a bark of laughter drift out from the Great Hall. The wandering breeze lifts strands of hair from my forehead. A wave of darkness rises up and threatens to engulf me. I bite down hard upon my lip, and the taste of blood brings me back to the present. I open my mouth and force myself to speak. I will have my answer.
“And this . . . this Entity that you speak of, he is the one who killed my mother?” Her arm fell back. Dead. She was dead and he was carving her skin.
“Yes.” Caradoc’s silver eyes do not look away.
“Was she a Vessel?”
He slowly shakes his head. “She was an Anchor.”
