by M. D. Elster
The Young Cwen shakes her head. “There isn’t,” she says.
“THAT IS NOT ENTIRELY TRUE,” a voice suddenly says. We look up to see the High Cwen has made her way down to the lower level of the banquet hall and onto the platform. As for the Unicorn King, I glance around, but it appears he has vanished in the confusion of my stabbing. A coward to the very end.
“That is not entirely true,” the High Cwen repeats. She slips a necklace over her human head. “There is an antidote. It was created long ago, but the tragedy was, it could never be replicated. I have the one remaining dose known to all creature-kind in all the land here.”
The Young Cwen blinks up at her mother, shocked and bewildered. After a few seconds in which she collects her thoughts, she finally tilts her chin to the balcony and says to the harpy, “One dose left in all creation. And will you allow us to give it to this leopard, Mother? It is important to the human that he be healed.”
The High Cwen gazes down at us, her fine-skinned face wrinkled, her watery gray eyes glistening.
“I have held onto this for a very, very long time, my Daughter. I was conserving it, thinking perhaps one of our own family members might need it. But now there are only the two of us left in our line. And today I have made a decision. It was a decision I ought to have made long ago, only I was too blind to see it was so.”
“What decision, Mother?”
“That you are quite capable of ruling the four kingdoms for yourself, my Daughter. You need no king. You have a good heart, and the spirit of a leader: You proved that much by trying to help the commoners even when I forbade you to leave our refuge in the mountains.”
“But I trusted the wrong creature,” the Young Cwen says, ashamed.
“You did, but you also trusted your own instincts when later you grew suspicious about him. And then you did the one thing all leaders need to know when and how to do: You swallowed your pride, and asked for help.”
The Young Cwen is silent, considering this.
The High Cwen continues, “I have but one dose of antidote — that is not a bluff — but I will gladly let you administer it to anyone you deem worthy, dear Daughter. If you wish it, it is yours. For you are our leader now, the only one to rule.”
There is a profound silence. The Young Cwen appears overwhelmed.
“What is your wish, Daughter? Speak now. The human perishes; she indicated she would like to see the leopard restored.”
The Young Cwen shakes herself.
“Yes,” she says, in a loud, decisive voice. “Yes. Let us restore his wits and his free will. It is the least we can do. Amends must be made.”
The High Cwen hands over the necklace, and I watch as the Young Cwen pulls the stopper and tips the vial against Sir Lewin’s lips. The guards are struggling with him, pinning him flat on his back to the ground. What is frightening is that he appears to still be under orders to kill me. Having not fully completed that task, he will not rest. But the Young Cwen pours the vial of liquid down his throat and pinches his wide cat-nose shut.
He sputters, but then, after some thrashing, swallows. His eyes snap shut. His thrashing slows, and then stops altogether. He lays on the platform, absolutely still. The guards holding him down release their grips on his person, and rise. They look down at him, curious and cautious.
For a full minute, he is so still I believe he is dead.
But then he coughs. He coughs and blinks and opens his eyes.
“Slowly, slowly,” the Young Cwen urges, helping him to sit up. When he turns his head and looks in my direction, his eyes are no longer glassy, no longer milky in color.
“Sir Lewin,” I say. But because of the dagger still in my side, my voice comes out in a soft groan; I am surprised to realize my body is deteriorating quickly. “Did it work? Are you… you?” I ask.
“Anaïs!” he says. He moves towards me, but the guards around him point their swords at him to ward him back, leery. “No, no,” Sir Lewin says, holding up his hands to the guards. “I mean her no harm. Anaïs — I am sorry. Forgive me!”
“You weren’t yourself,” I say. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“Please,” he says to the guards, “let me pass…”
“Let him,” I say. The guards stand down, and Sir Lewin comes to my side. He frantically looks my wound over. I feel his hands on me, trying to assess how to administer aid. But I can also tell from his expression that the prognosis is not good. Already I am beginning to feel quite cold.
“I… I’m not certain I can pull the dagger out,” he says, his face crumpled with worry. “You will lose too much blood.”
“I know,” I say. I look at the knife in my side, the staggering amount of blood soaking the wooden planks beneath me. I think of my anatomy books and imagine the various organs that must be irreparably bleeding now as we speak. “It’s too late to do very much of anything at all. You don’t need to lie to me. I understand what is happening.”
I see Sir Lewin’s face light up with fresh worry. Over his shoulder, the Young Cwen, too, looks distraught. But curiously, the pain I feel is beginning to dissipate. As the seconds pass, I feel lighter and lighter — as though I might float away like a balloon.
“If I die in this world…” I wonder aloud, “will I also be dead back home in my own world?”
“I don’t know, Anaïs,” the Young Cwen answers in a whisper.
“Either way, I won’t ever return here again, will I?”
She shakes her head. “It is unlikely.”
“I’m glad then, that at least I helped…” I say. It is getting more difficult to speak; my lips are so chilled and stiff.
“You did help, Anaïs,” the Young Cwen says. “Do not doubt that. You saved our land! The Unicorn King will be found and brought to justice. I will seek a peaceful treaty with the other three kings. I promise to do my best to keep the land in harmony, in honor of all you have sacrificed.”
“You’ll be a good leader,” I say to the Young Cwen, smiling a faint smile at her. It is, I think, the first words of kindness I’ve offered her since meeting her. I was so certain — with her beauty and her boldness — she was up to no good.
“I will do my best to make my mother proud,” she says. “I will do my best to make you proud.”
“Maybe…” I say, thinking aloud again, “…maybe it was meant to be like this. Maybe I was only meant to come to this land to play a part… to uncover the truth about Mr. Fletcher, and to stop the Unicorn King. The murderer… he was in front of me the whole time… my stepfather… the fox…”
“Anaïs,” Sir Lewin says. “Your eyes are closing…”
I am fading, but I feel Sir Lewin take me in his arms, holding my shoulders, cradling my head gently. He holds me like this until I fall into the deepest, darkest sleep.
EPILOGUE.
I wake up from a deliciously dark, lush nap to feel the balmy air on my bare arms and legs. The air carries the sound of seagulls crying to one another. I turn my head to see filmy white curtains swaying in the breeze. The windows are open but covered with screens to keep the mosquitos out. It is so light, and the world within my nap was so dark, I have to think for a moment in order to recall where I am.
“Finally awake, eh, sleepyhead?” Colette says with a smile in her voice. I look over and see her lounging in a white chair, her legs swung over one of the arms, reading a book by the window. “You slept the afternoon away.” She glances at her watch. “I was getting worried you wouldn’t be up in time to dress properly for dinner. We wouldn’t want to be late… or poorly dressed. Remember — I have a surprise for you.”
“Of course I remember,” I say. “Although I can’t think of what it is.”
“You’ll see.” Her lips curl with an impish smile. “Now, get dressed! I’ll call the front desk to have some ice sent up, and maybe some pineapple juice, too.”
I hurry off to the bathroom and draw myself a pleasantly cool bath. It is only our thir
d day at this seaside resort in the Keys, but strangely enough, I already feel quite at home. The gently lapping turquoise water, the palm trees and ferns, the colorful lizards and birds — all of it is quite opposite to the trees and creatures I knew growing up in a northern forest, and yet I love every sight and smell and sound.
The trip was Colette’s idea. She wanted to do something to celebrate, once she’d been awarded my legal guardianship. It’s funny; I recently turned fifteen, and you wouldn’t think it would matter so much to me, as in a few years I’ll be an adult. But it did matter to me — quite a lot, actually. It mattered to me that I be wholly untethered from my stepfather.
My stepfather: The man who murdered my mother and used me as false proof of his innocence. And I shudder to think what he was plotting to do to Colette. There were also letters found in his safe pertaining to his potentially taking an insurance policy out on my own life, as soon as I turned eighteen. I suppose he watched me closely growing up, and knew it was likely only a matter of time before I began to remember things — disturbing things — about that night in London. And if he was going to take steps to silence his only witness, he figured he might as well see if he couldn’t make a profit off it.
I know Colette also planned this holiday to coincide with my stepfather’s sentencing. He was brought up on trial for war crimes. It was the contents of my mother’s safety deposit box that caused the authorities to investigate him in earnest. True to her word, my mother had secreted away his book of names — he’d kept a detailed record of everything in there: What names he’d sold on what dates, amounts of money or other favors received. He’d sold out members of the Resistance, innocent Jews trying to conceal their identities, rich politicians and factory owners who were secretly homosexual, anyone and everyone who was worth anything. And the Germans rewarded him generously. He’d even lied about Monsieur Brisbois’s own predilections and racial roots when he coveted les Quatre Rois nightclub for his own.
But at the time my mother had stolen his black book containing all his incriminating notes, she was right: She hardly knew who to bring it to. All she could do was stow it in that safety deposit box, and leave me instructions how to find it.
After my outburst on the witness stand, I was locked back up in the asylum while detectives and lawyers alike frantically tried to sift through everything to find the truth. Of course, in the beginning, they were most concerned with my admission of guilt. Had I really shot my stepfather? — they all wanted to know. My stepfather himself has been prepared to point the finger at Jules Martin; none of it made sense, they said.
It was Colette who helped solve the only true puzzle left. She visited me in the asylum, and together we parsed my mother’s words in the note she’d left scribbled in my book of fairytales. My mother had written:
The box is in my name and in yours and you will have to bring identification and prove that you are my daughter. Box #413. The name of the bank will remind you of the place you once collected fairy bones.
This was intentionally vague, I know, so that if my stepfather intercepted the note, he would not be able to easily find the security box for himself. But I worried it was too obscure for me to decipher as well.
I was wrong. As soon as Colette brought me a list of all the names of banks located in Central London, one name immediately jumped out: Hallerman Bros. Savings and Trust. “Hallerman Bros.” It sounded ever so slightly like “Hallerbos” — the forest where I once collected owl pellets and made up stories, imagining the bones of mice to be those of fairies. Sure enough, the bank in question contained a Box #413, a box belonging to Adélaïde and Anaïs de Vroom. Our names, coupled with my late father’s last name. Special arrangements were made, and the contents of the box were retrieved. Not long after, my stepfather was charged. And then the tables were very abruptly turned: My stepfather was detained in jail, and I was released from the asylum into Colette’s care.
“Hurry up and dry off, Anaïs!” Colette calls now, from the other room. “I’ve laid out a nice dress for you.”
I do as she says, dry myself off with a towel, and powder my body with pleasantly perfumed talcum powder. Now I feel cool and fresh and clean. When I slip on a robe and walk back into the next room, I see Colette has indeed laid out a dress on the bed.
“Oh! It’s lovely!” I say, admiring the dress. There is something watery about the fabric, both in sheen and in color. It is a purplish-blue that shines almost white in the light. It is a dainty silk evening gown, very simply cut, almost like a slip. It is very grown-up, but at the same time it also looks demure. I can’t help but be reminded of the simple flowing gowns worn by the heroines in my book of fairytales.
“It’s my present to you,” Colette says. “I picked it to match your eyes.”
I am touched. Still marveling at the dress, I thank her.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “But we’ve still got to hurry; the dress isn’t the surprise. The surprise is downstairs. Come — I’ll help you with your hair.”
I oblige her and make haste. Colette pins my hair into waves, and lets me borrow a little bit of her lipstick. Before we leave the room, we stand side-by-side in the mirror.
I am surprised by what I see there. She is, of course, gorgeous in her own green dress and chic coif of ebony hair. But I am surprised that instead of one grown woman, I feel as though I am looking at two. Somewhere in all of this, I have matured. There are the obvious differences, of course, in my height and figure, in the emerging hollows under my cheekbones, giving my formerly plump face a more refined shape. But there is something else, too. Something not quite physical: a hint of knowing, of sharpness and clarity in my eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Ready?” Colette asks.
I nod. I am so very grateful for her, I realize. She saw through my troubled nature. I remember now, our relationship before the night of the hurricane. In the very beginning, we kept each other’s confidences, and I told her about the strange flashbacks I’d been having — the worrisome glimpses of my mother’s death in London, and the odd nightmares I was having about my stepfather. But then we’d begun to bicker, and those confidences were severed. I shut her out, convinced she meant to ruin our family. As her own suspicions about my stepfather grew, Colette was forced to keep them to herself. I can only imagine she felt very lonely and apprehensive. She finally resorted to hiring the private investigator Jules knew. She even guessed that I’d been the one to shoot my stepfather, but did not despise me for it. Colette suspected I’d been the one to shoot him, and the only person to actually witness it — Jules — knew for a fact that I had.
And yet, both Colette and Jules remained silent in the days leading up to his trial, both of them wishing to save me from myself, both of them navigating carefully… worried what I might do, yet still wishing to protect me. My greatest worry these days is that I will prove myself worthy of such loyal protection.
We find our way downstairs and through the lofty lobbies of the resort. It is one of those comprehensive seaside resorts, the historical kind that are rapidly going extinct nowadays. It was built in the Gilded Age and later expanded during the 1920s, and both economic booms are felt in its construction and style. It conveys a bit of an ostentatious air, and yet, it is a charming place, with colorful characters running the front desk and bellhops who remember your name.
There is also live entertainment every night. The dining room is outfitted like a supper club, with a stage and piano, and little glass jars containing a candle on each table. Some of the best musicians in the world have performed here, and I can’t help but wonder if that is why Colette selected this resort in the first place.
“Good evening, ladies,” the maître d’ says, greeting us with a wide smile. His hair is well pomaded, his face glistens in the evening humidity. “I have just the table for you. Right this way.”
We follow him, and he seats us at a table for two right near the foot of the stage. A waiter scurries over without
delay, and discusses the selections available on tonight’s menu. Onstage, a jazz band begins to warm up. The waiter takes our order, and disappears.
“What is this surprise?” I ask Colette.
“You’ll see,” she says. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
But I think I already know. I can’t wipe the foolish grin off my face. There are butterflies in my stomach making me so giddy as to be queasy. I feel a little like laughing and crying at the same time.
Everyone applauds as a tall young man dressed in tuxedo emerges from behind the curtain and takes the stage. He is a colored man with curiously hazel eyes, and a distinct, gangly quality about his walk.
I wonder how long it took him to tie the bowtie. I am glad he finally mastered it. The tuxedo suits him well.
Jules looks down at me with a smile and wink. He introduces himself, and starts into his first song. I recognize it as something he was writing himself; he whistled the tune of it all the time backstage as he worked. I even helped him once put some lyrics to it — a few lines that went:
I’ll admit, my love, it’s true we may bicker lots
but my darling dear, I don’t think you should
even if I could, I don’t think you should
oh why oh why would you want this leopard
to change his spots…
The food comes, but I hardly touch it. I watch, and listen. He is good. His presence here is, of course, my surprise. I look over at Colette, happy.
“How many more days are we staying here at the resort?” I whisper to her, smiling.
“Well…” she says, smiling back at me. “That is entirely up to you, Anaïs.” Colette nods her head and repeats, “Yes. I’ll be your willing chaperone, of course, but for once in your life, the question of how long you stay and where you go next is being left entirely up to you.” She smiles. “It is entirely up to you.”
