For a brief moment her heart lifted. If she could look as beautiful as they . . . But then, why fool herself? ‘You don’t have to go lending me a dress; just a wash will do.’
‘Aoibheal—’
‘Aoife.’
‘He is with the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. He promised to return to you last night, and he did not. He has no desire to return to the surface world. If you want to win even the slightest part of his attention, I strongly advise you to accept my offer.’
The fragile crystal staircase that rose through the wall of the minaret was narrow and twisting; they climbed in single file.
Caitlin had insisted on coming too, despite repeatedly declaring that she had no interest in dressing up. ‘I’m a changeling soldier, I don’t want to look like the bloody Rose of Tralee.’
Bringing up the rear, Ultan said, ‘Don’t worry – it’d take more than a dress to do that to you, state of you.’
She snarled, ‘Shut your mouth, Fat Boy.’
When they reached the next floor of the minaret, double doors of bronze appeared before them. Dorocha thrust them open, and stood aside with a mockingly dramatic sweep of his arm. ‘The treasures of the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann! Take anything you wish, all of you.’
Moving past him into the chamber, Aoife stared around in amazement. Dresses of all colours spilled from copper-bound wooden chests; were heaped in corners; hung from silver poles. They were soft rose pinks and poppy reds; brilliant dandelion; sage green; the rich lilac of bluebells in evening light.
Sliding to the floor from Aoife’s arms and running in among them, Eva cried, ‘So pretty!’
Caitlin said nothing – but she let out a breath that trembled with desire. Ultan, who had perked up at the word ‘treasure’, was clearly disappointed. ‘Just girls’ clothes?’
Dorocha laughed. ‘You, Ultan McNeal, follow me. I have other treasures that might amuse you.’
‘Gold and jewels?’
‘You have lived too long among humans. Try not to think of every wealth as mineral.’
‘Then what—?’
‘Come with me and see.’
The doors swung closed, leaving Aoife, Caitlin and Eva alone in the vaulted chamber. The windows high in the wall were curtained in deep blue, but fat wax candles burned brightly in brackets, supplementing the sunlight that glowed pinkly through the crystal walls.
‘Pretty,’ said Eva again, in an awed voice.
‘They are.’ Aoife walked along one of the rows of dresses, stroking them with her hand. They seemed to have been woven from actual living flowers – still soft and sweet-smelling and beautiful. She thought of the heart-stoppingly beautiful lenanshee girls in their floating lace dresses. Dorocha was right – these dresses were even more wonderful.
Leaning against a central pillar was a huge sheet of copper, burnished so brightly it served as a mirror. She paused as she passed it; she did look awful. Her face was splodged with mud and her hair was like a bramble bush. A large wooden comb lay on a marble block beside the mirror, along with a basin of water and a linen cloth. A small wooden stool stood beside the block. Taking the cloth, she dipped it in the water – it was warm and scented – and washed her face and arms. With a glance towards Caitlin, who was wandering around looking stunned, she stripped off her trackies, sat on the stool and washed her long legs and narrow feet. It felt good, getting off all the mud. She dragged the comb through her long, tangled hair, and studied herself in the mirror. Better. At least her hair wasn’t greasy – in the last twenty-four hours it had been soaked in the sea, a lake and a waterfall, and bleached by hot sun. Gold threads glittered in the rich dark red. Her pale, oval face had caught the sun, bringing out the strong colour of her blue-green eyes.
‘Oh my God – I mean, Danu – Aoife, look at this . . .’ The tall, muscular changeling girl appeared from between the rows, holding out an item of silvery lace, very similar to the beautiful lenanshee dresses but thickly embroidered with pearls. She seemed to have completely forgotten her earlier contempt for dressing up. Her freckled face was alight with joy. ‘I’ve never, ever, ever seen anything like this. I never even had a dress, ’cos my mam said I was way too ugly, not like her stupid human baby would have been. It’s gorgeous, don’t you think? Do you think it would it fit me?’
It was heart-stoppingly gorgeous, and it was obvious that it wouldn’t fit. ‘I don’t like it, Caitlin. See, there’s so many pearls sewn onto it – the bodice looks way too uncomfortable and the skirts must be much too heavy. Let me find you a different one.’
‘No, I want this one.’ And she glared at Aoife, like she suspected her of wanting it for herself. But when Caitlin tried it on, it wouldn’t even fit over her shoulders. Her stone-green eyes dampened, like pebbles washed by a wave; she stuck out her chin, and held the dress out to Aoife. ‘Go on then, you have it. It’s bound to fit you perfectly.’
‘No, I’m serious, I don’t like it at all. How about this one on you?’ The dress Aoife had pulled off the silver pole was as light as air: created of feathers, the sleeves had the fluorescent beauty of a kingfisher, and the full high-waisted skirts spread out in the glowing greens and blues of a peacock’s tail. When she held it up against Caitlin, it swept the floor – another gown not made for action. But the changeling girl’s eyes were starry at the beauty of it.
‘Oh . . . Do you think I could . . .?’
‘Sure you could, it’s perfect for you. Let me comb your hair and help you on with it.’
She re-braided Caitlin’s bright red hair, and helped her on with the floating dress. Although it was designed as a full, loose gown, it was a struggle getting it on over her broad, strong body and Aoife had to stretch it across her muscular back, and realign the feathers to cover the gap between the silver wire fasteners, which she had to unfold and re-bend to get them to meet. But Caitlin couldn’t see behind her – all she could see was herself in the mirror, and her face was no longer the face of an angry murderer of priests, but that of a little girl wearing a new dress to her own birthday party. Her pale green eyes softened, and without the scowl she was suddenly almost as pretty as Sinead – and far less cat-like. ‘I never . . . If my mam— I mean, if Mary McGreevey could see me now . . .’
‘She would say how beautiful you were.’
‘Yes,’ breathed Caitlin. She picked up the wet cloth and rubbed her cheeks. ‘I am.’ And when Eva plucked at the feathers and said, ‘Caitlin looks like Big Bird!’ she smiled fondly at her, wide enough to show her missing tooth.
Caitlin’s enthusiasm was infectious. There were hundreds of dresses, so beautiful . . . But Aoife had her pride. She didn’t want to look like she was deliberately dressing up to impress Shay; she just wanted not to look laughable. She took down the simplest dress she could find, and pulled it over her head. It hung straight to her knees. The hem had been dipped in dark blue dye, and from this rays of gold shot up to the paler rose-pink of the shoulders – the sun rising from the sea. There was a pair of red leather shoes under the rail, no more than slippers with no heel. She tried them on and they fitted perfectly, as soft as butter to her feet.
She went to stand beside Caitlin at the mirror. Good enough – no point in pretending she could be as gorgeous as a lenanshee. At least now she could go to find Shay without feeling like a complete fool.
The bronze doors creaked and she turned eagerly, thinking it was Dorocha come to bring her to the lenanshee quarter. But it was two changelings of maybe twelve and thirteen, one with an auburn bob and the other with such pale gold-red hair it was like liquid sunshine. They were wearing purple dresses and had bare feet.
Aoife said, ‘Can I help you? Did Dorocha send you to bring us to him?’
‘Oh no, not yet,’ said the taller girl with the darker bob. ‘Not until everything’s ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
Instead of answering, the girl went to take down a small gold casket from a niche in the wall. And then stood and whispered to the other g
irl, both of them staring at Caitlin, who was still wafting around in front of the mirror admiring herself in the splendid feathered gown. After a few seconds the big changeling spun round to face them, arms folded and feet squarely planted apart.
‘All right, what are ye two staring at? I was told I could take any dress I wanted and I did. Have ye got a problem with that?’
‘No, no, sorry—’
‘Are ye taking the mick?’
‘No, no! We were just wondering—’
‘What were ye wondering, hey?’
‘Please, does the little sheóg belong to you?’
‘Not me.’ Caitlin jerked her head at Aoife. ‘That one keeps dragging the kid around with us everywhere. We had the dullahans after us because of it. Banshee wants her back, hey? Fine by me.’
But the two girls were no longer paying any attention to her or to Eva; instead they were staring at Aoife, and going pink and pale by turns. Then the one with the pure gold hair nudged the older, who came to herself and advanced slowly towards Aoife, opening and holding out the small casket.
In it lay a single pearl, threaded on a fine copper wire. ‘The Beloved says you might like to put this on.’
Aoife caught her breath. The iridescence of the pearl reminded her of the rainbows that spanned the wilderness around Gorias. ‘No, really – I can’t wear that. Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Niamh.’
‘I need to find Dorocha. He said he’d take me to find my friend.’
‘I’ll wear it,’ said Caitlin, taking off her hippy beads.
‘Is there something else you would prefer?’ Niamh asked Aoife. She said over her shoulder to the younger, ‘Fetch the ruby flowers, Saoirse. And the ruby circlet for her hair. And a more suitable dress than this. The bodice of rubies, with the train of poppy petals to match. And take the pearl away—’
Caitlin made a strangled noise.
Aoife said with a sigh, ‘My friend here would like to try this on.’
The two girls glanced at each other in surprise, and Niamh said, ‘You want to make your friend a gift of this pearl?’
‘Not that it’s mine to give away . . .’
But Niamh had already turned and slipped the thin wire over Caitlin’s neck and settled the pearl in the hollow of her strong throat. Caitlin turned back to the mirror and sighed in pleasure. ‘Have you got any more of these?’
‘Oh no, that is very rare. It was stolen from the largest living oyster, by a selkie.’
‘Selkie?’
‘A seal wife. They take human husbands and coax them down beneath the waves.’
Caitlin laughed loudly. ‘I’d say the lads don’t last long.’
‘No.’
‘Well, if you haven’t any more of these yokes, how about those rubies?’
Again the two girls looked at Aoife anxiously. Aoife gave a slightly despairing wave of her hand. ‘Sure, go ahead.’ Who was she to stand between Caitlin and her long-thwarted desire to adorn herself? Besides, she had had a thought. Eva looked very shabby herself in her grubby pink dressing gown and slippers. It would be nice to send her home looking as if she’d been well-cared for.
The queen’s dresses were too big, but in one large wooden chest lying against the back wall she found some soft jackets of rabbit fur. She called the little girl over to try them on, but they kept slipping off her shoulders. A smaller darker casket, banded by copper, stood directly under one of the blue-curtained windows. She lifted the lid and found heaps of children’s dresses.
‘Oh, Eva, look at these!’ She pulled out armfuls. Like the flower dresses, they were extremely soft and scented, but tougher, as if the flowers had been dried before being woven into flax. ‘Which one would you like to wear?’
‘Pink.’
‘OK, hang on . . .’ Near the very bottom of the chest, Aoife finally unearthed a short dress made of old-fashioned cottage roses. She pressed it to her face; it still carried that summery scent. She helped Eva off with her dressing gown. Underneath was the Sleeping Beauty nightie she had been wearing in one of the photographs. She took it off, then fetched the wet cloth and wiped all the mud from the child’s pale skin, and combed her hair, then pulled the rose dress over her head. Eva gazed back at her with her round ice-blue eyes, her blonde hair curling down almost to her shoulders. Aoife said, ‘Ah, you look so pretty, sweetie.’
The child’s mouth tightened; quivered. ‘Only my mam calls me sweetie.’
‘Sorry, honey. Now, come and show the others how lovely you look.’ She took Eva by the hand and led her back through the racks of dresses. ‘Look at our little sheóg now! Isn’t she lovely?’
‘Very nice,’ said Caitlin, still focused entirely on her own image in the copper mirror.
But the other girls, Niamh and Saoirse, turned to look and their eyes filled with tears, as if the sight of the little girl in the pink dress were very moving.
Aoife asked, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s just strange . . .’
‘Strange?’
Saoirse said, ‘To see a different child in that rose-petal dress.’
‘Was it not all right to borrow it?’
Niamh said hastily, ‘Oh, no, you can do whatever you want with it! It’s just, it seems so strange – I mean, how much you’ve grown in such a short time . . .’
Aoife stared blankly at her. And then at Saoirse. ‘I’m sorry. Did I know you two when I was here before?’
‘Oh, Aoibheal—’
‘My name’s Aoife.’
‘That’s your human name.’
‘But it’s what I’m used to being called.’
‘Ah, darling, you’ve changed so much in every way – and even more beautiful than before you left! But I’m still Niamh and this is Saoirse, and we haven’t changed at all – don’t you remember us even a little bit?’
It was the same as when she’d met Dorocha in the stables, when he seemed hurt that she had no idea who he was. ‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘But it’s such a short time since you were sent away! We loved playing with you. I remember when we used to dress you in that very dress, the one the sheóg is wearing now.’
‘That was mine?’
‘Of course. All these dresses, all these jewels – they’re all yours. Everything here belongs to you now.’
‘What? How?’
‘The Beloved said we have to dress you for the temple. Please let us help you to choose something more suitable, Aoibheal.’
‘Aoife.’
‘But don’t you remember your mother calling you Aoibheal?’
An image of Maeve rushed into her mind, sitting at her computer in the same old green cardigan she always wore. ‘My mother called me Aoife.’
‘No, she called you Aoibheal. Do you really not remember the queen?’
‘Why would I remember the queen?’
‘Ah, Aoibheal, how could you forget your own mother? She loved you so much.’
‘My . . . mother?’ Aoife’s legs felt like water. She moved towards the mirror, and sank down on the low wooden stool. Caitlin stood staring at her with her mouth open. The two girls in purple dresses hovered over her anxiously, as if not sure what to do to help.
‘We’re so sorry.’
‘We thought you knew your mother was the queen. Now can we dress you?’
She closed her eyes and pressed her hands hard to her face. This was crazy – impossible. This was a dream. A nightmare. The daughter of a murdered queen . . .
‘Aoife?’
‘It’s OK, Caitlin, just give me a moment.’
‘Aoife?’
‘What?’
‘If all this stuff is yours, can I keep the dress?’
‘What? Oh . . . Yes.’
‘I mean, it fits me perfectly, so it’s got to be way too big for you.’
‘Keep it.’
‘And the pearl?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t suppose the rubies—’
‘Yes! Yes!’
‘OK. Thanks.’
Aoife took her hands from her face, opening her eyes. ‘No, wait!’
‘Oh, for . . . It doesn’t take long, does it, before people who come into money get all selfish and greedy?’
‘I’m not talking to you . . . Niamh! Saoirse!’
The two changelings in purple dresses came back towards her, holding up the dress of white lace and pearls that Caitlin had been unable to wear. ‘How about this beautiful dress, Aoibheal? And you could wear the white diamonds and the crown of white-gold hawthorn with rubies for berries, and a train of swan feathers—’
‘If I’m her daughter, why didn’t he tell me right away? Where is he?’
‘Waiting for you to dress yourself, Aoibheal.’
She jumped to her feet. ‘If you won’t tell me, I’ll find him myself.’
The two girls cried despairingly after her as she ran, ‘No, no, you can’t go to him yet, not until you’re ready . . .’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She raced up the twisting crystal staircase.
A door made of amber was set in the turn of the stairs; it glowed a deep orange-gold from a low light behind it, and in the amber were the shadows of hundreds of bees, perfectly preserved as if drowned in solid honey. A memory flickered – she placed her right hand over the silver lock; it clicked open and the door swung back, revealing another circular room where the walls were draped in black velvet. The only light came from a fat yellow wax taper, over a metre tall, burning in a stone candlestick set between the door and a small four-poster bed. The bed had its black curtains closed. Aoife darted across the room to drag them aside. Inside, the black drapes and covers were splashed across with streaks of silver.
Back out and on up the stairs, and another door, of gold. She could hear voices within – Ultan crying out in alarm, and Dorocha shouting: ‘Back! Back!’ She threw the door open. Bronze-bound caskets brimmed with treasure: gold rings, silver chains studded with amber, gold cups set with lapis lazuli, amber collars large enough to slip over a man’s head. Fur cloaks were stacked up against the sunlit walls. In the centre of the chamber was a huge copper cauldron, upturned, and Dorocha was standing on top of it, laughing and stabbing down at Ultan with a three-metre spear – a flint head lashed to a wooden shaft. Breathing hard, the changeling youth was blocking the man’s blows with a wide-bladed bronze sword almost as long as he was tall.
The Changeling Page 24
