All Good Things

by Emma Newman

  Unable to stay still, Cathy started to pace. “Okay. Let’s take a step back. There’s really only one choice, as I see it, anyway. We do nothing, after putting Beatrice in a box or something so she doesn’t kill us. And that’d be hard, thanks to that bloody oath we swore. Or we unsplit the worlds. That’s it. Do nothing or do something, and that something can only be what she suggests, because you can’t change the Elemental Court and I can’t change the Nether.”

  “If we do nothing,” Sam said, “then environmentally, we’re fucked.”

  “And the Nether keeps on going forever,” Cathy said. “Nothing changes. The slavery goes on, the rape, the kidnapping of innocents…” She stopped pacing and they looked at each other. “Shit,” they said, simultaneously.

  “Well, that’s that, then,” Sam said. “We have to do it.”

  “But we do it our way,” Cathy said. “We prepare. We determine when we’re ready. We set stuff up ready to help people.”

  “Agreed,” Sam said. “I’ve got some ideas.”

  “Good.” Cathy stretched. “I’m going to have a nap and then I’m getting back to work. Want to have lunch together?” She could tell he’d been hoping as much.

  “Yeah. We’ll work it out, Cathy. I think that, together, we could do some pretty amazing stuff.”

  For a moment, she almost believed him. But she’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t worth putting her trust in any man. “I’ll see you later.”

  8

  There was a pile of correspondence on Will’s desk, but after reading through the first letter he’d realised he was in no state to handle any of it. He went to the sofa, thinking he would sit nearer the fire and try to rest. There was nothing else to be done that evening. Not that he could face, anyway. He let his head fall back, thinking there was no way sleep could take him, when a knock at the door jolted him awake. Snapping his head round to look at the clock, he realised he’d only been asleep for twenty minutes. He jumped to his feet. “Come in.”

  Morgan entered. “A messenger is here for you, your Grace.”

  “An Arbiter?”

  “No, a delivery boy, one who worked for the Emporium some time ago. He says his delivery is for your eyes only.”

  Had Lord Iron learned of the attempt to get Cathy back? Or was Lord Iris behind this? “Show him in.”

  Morgan bowed, withdrew, and soon returned with a young man, still in his teens. He was carrying a plain wooden box and was dressed in a smart black suit with a red waistcoat and red cravat. Will saw a pin at the boy’s throat glittering. A tiny poppy made of gemstones. The breath caught in his chest. Had Lord Poppy discovered that Cathy was gone?

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the young man said. “I was told I must put this box in your hands and no one else’s.”

  “Show me your marque, boy.”

  “I don’t deliver for the Emporium anymore, sir,” he said sadly. “This is the only marque I can show you.” He lifted his left trouser leg, revealing a glittering band around his ankle.

  Will nodded. “I see.”

  The boy dropped the trouser leg back into place and held the box out towards Will. “Please take it, sir, else I’ll get into terrible trouble.” Will took the box and the boy sagged with relief. “Thank you, sir.” He gave a small bow and left.

  The last thing Will wanted to do was open a box sent by Lord Poppy. There was no possibility of anything good being within. His imagination put all manner of awful things on the other side of the wooden lid and settled upon a knife engraved with cut out thine own heart, as was reputedly delivered to another who had wronged the Fae.

  As tempting as it was to just leave it on the table—or better still, at the bottom of a well in Mundanus—Will knew that Poppy would be waiting for the box to be opened and would know the moment it had been. Better to get it over with than face the contents along with his wrath at having been kept waiting.

  Will returned to the sofa, balanced the box on his knees, and opened it. It was lined with black velvet and the object inside was wrapped in poppy-red silk. Partially unwrapping it revealed a handle made of wood. Resting within the lid of the box was a note that he plucked out and read. Warm the glass with a fearful sigh.

  It wasn’t difficult to muster such an emotion as Will lifted out the ornate scrying glass. He thought of Lord Iris’s dwindling patience, and of what Poppy was about to unleash upon him, and breathed gently on the mirror. As soon as the breath misted on the glass it began to ripple, just as if he’d instructed it to show someone like any other scrying glass.

  He was being shown Exilium. It was too colourful, too beautiful to be anywhere else. He could see trees and a scattering of the red flowers before Poppy’s face came into view, as if he were darting in front of a film camera to get in shot. His grin was the epitome of delighted mischief, but there was something horribly cold about it too.

  “Ahhh, William, the caretaker of my favourite’s heart. I trust you are well?”

  “Yes, Lord Poppy, thank you,” Will said, hoping that the booming of his own heartbeat was audible only to him.

  “And my favourite? How fares she in this difficult time?”

  Difficult time? It took a beat for Will to remember that her father was dead and Poppy thought she knew. Was this a trap to reveal she was missing? Of course; Tom would have been expecting her to join them in Aquae Sulis…

  “Catherine has chosen to keep her feelings private, Lord Poppy. Grief is such a personal thing.”

  Lord Poppy’s eyes widened as if he were about to fly into an appalling rage, but then just as swiftly he flicked a lock of his long black hair from his face and smiled broadly. “Indeed. Grief can do terrible things, can it not? But I wonder if you have ever experienced it, William. Your life has been blessed. Everything you could possibly want, simply handed to you on the proverbial platter. Wealth. Power. Love. A wife more interesting and exciting than the rest of the women of Albion put together. Has she surprised you lately, William?”

  “Yes, Lord Poppy,” he replied with bitter truthfulness. “Very much so.”

  Lord Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve her,” he hissed into the glass. He drew back, staring at him with those horrifying black-on-black eyes. “I hope you are making her happy, William. I would be most displeased if you were not.”

  “It is all I think about, Lord Poppy,” he said. What did the hateful creature want? Had he tried to find Cathy and failed?

  “In times of grief,” Lord Poppy said, starting to stride through the trees, “I find that causing untold misery to the enemies of those one loves does ease the pain somewhat. Don’t you agree?”

  Will felt an awful prickling cold run down his back. Poppy had evidently discovered that his family had lost their share of Aquae Sulis. But why take it out on him? Had he found out that he’d tipped his father off about Cathy’s mother? “I imagine it is most satisfying, Lord Poppy.” There was no choice but to play along.

  The view through the scrying glass seemed to follow him, and Will wondered if the magic was connecting what one of Lord Poppy’s faeries saw with that being shown on the glass. It certainly bobbed about in a way reminiscent of the way those creatures flew. The sound of birdsong and a breeze through the trees was incongruous with the feeling of dread. Poppy was leading him somewhere. Will dared not look away, just in case Poppy looked back over his shoulder and somehow knew. There might be a corresponding glass floating in Exilium, for all he knew, showing the Fae what he was doing.

  Then Will caught a glimpse of colourful gowns through the gaps between branches. Was he being led towards a party? His theory about a corresponding glass in Exilium faded when he saw several Fae come into view as the trees around Poppy opened into a clearing.

  The first that Will recognised was Lord Iris, by virtue of his long white hair. Then Will noticed how he and the other Fae present all smiled and greeted Poppy without even glancing at whatever was sending him the sound and images.

  At the far left of the v
iew through the glass, he saw a tree stump that had been fashioned into some sort of display stand. On it stood something that appeared to be carved of wood. Then he noticed another plinth with what looked like a piece of jewellery upon it.

  An art exhibition? Will had no idea the Fae had them.

  Poppy drifted past some of the displays and whatever was following him turned to take in the exhibits that he passed, as if distracted by them.

  “It’s the best piece my slave has ever created,” Will heard a female voice, light and soft, saying as Poppy passed by one of the sculptures. “He said he can’t possibly do any more, that he’s too sad, and then he carves this.”

  “Sadness is one of the best sources of inspiration,” came a male voice from out of sight. “But it’s hard to strike a balance in their fragile hearts. I told mine that his children had died since I took him from Mundanus, in the hope he’d write something truly moving, but all he does is lie there all day now. I think I broke him. I need another.”

  “But he was so talented.” The source of the female voice came into view as Poppy approached. It belonged to a Fae in a lilac gown embroidered with a familiar motif. Lady Wisteria. Will had never seen her before. Unsurprisingly, her beauty was terrifying. “Why not bring him a new child and make him think it is his? He’ll adore you and be so delighted he won’t be able to stop composing music.”

  “And if he grows dull again I can use the child against him,” her companion said. Lord Buttercup, Will deduced from the tiny bloom tucked behind his ear, bright against his blond hair. He kissed her hand. “Darling Wisteria. A marvellous idea.”

  “Take care to give your little Patroon clear instructions,” Poppy said. “Your pets are the most incompetent in Albion.”

  Lord Buttercup scowled at Poppy. “I’m surprised to see you here. You’ve never been able to extract anything artistic from yours.”

  Pets? Will clenched his teeth. He knew they had little regard for them, but hearing the Fae talk so casually about stealing children made him feel sick. Then what Buttercup said actually sank in. Was that the purpose of this? Had Poppy created an exhibit to torment him?

  Poppy’s voice refocused him. “I simply waited until I had a piece that I knew would win.”

  Lady Wisteria’s eyebrows arched. “The Princess has very particular taste, Poppy.”

  “I am well aware of it. Look as doubtful as you wish, Buttercup. You’ll be the first I’ll look to for congratulations.”

  Poppy moved on until a painting of the Royal Crescent in Aquae Sulis came into view. Will’s sense of impending doom heightened. Why was there a painting of his family home in Exilium? He couldn’t remember any of his family being artists and couldn’t imagine why anyone else would want to paint the home of another family. Was this in fact Iris’s exhibit, painted by someone held in Exilium, like the composer they’d been talking about?

  Lord Iris wasn’t looking at the picture. Instead, he was standing next to one of the sculptures and Will wasn’t sure if he’d even seen it. Surely he would take an interest in a painting of the home of one of his most powerful family lines?

  “Is that your offering today, Iris?” Poppy asked him.

  “No. I haven’t commissioned anything of late,” he replied. “Nothing…artistic, anyway.”

  Poppy laughed, but Iris didn’t seem to think he’d made a joke. “Very witty,” Poppy said. “Have you seen mine?”

  “No,” Iris replied. He seemed bored, but Will wondered if he was in fact distracted. “I thought you found the Princess’s whims too difficult to satisfy.”

  “We shall find out,” Poppy said, gesturing to a place out of sight. “Here she is.”

  Whatever he was watching through turned and Will drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the Princess entering the clearing. She was accompanied by an entourage of beautiful slaves, each one wearing a glittering band around one ankle, and flitting clusters of faeries. As far as he knew, no one other than the Patroons of the Great Families had ever seen any of the Fae royalty.

  He didn’t think it possible for the other Fae to be diminished by another, but the Princess made them look commonplace somehow. Even though her eyes were still inhuman in their appearance, a solid green with no pupil or iris, somehow they weren’t frightening. She wore a crowning circlet of oak leaves and a gown which seemed to be made of the same. Will couldn’t pull his gaze away from her and felt awed to the point that it felt wrong to be sitting on a sofa, even just looking at her through a scrying glass. He knew that if he were there, he’d be on his knees.

  He forced himself to look away and saw that the rest of the Fae, even his own patron, were universally cowed by her presence.

  “Only five pieces today?” Her voice made Will shudder. “Well, let’s see if there is anything worthy of further attention.” She walked past the sculpture and jewellery with barely a glance. Her hair, a deep chestnut brown, rippled down her back in luxuriant waves. Following behind her, Poppy looked back at Will through the mirror with obvious excitement and Will heard a tiny giggle. So he was watching through his faerie’s eyes somehow. At least with her back to him, the impact of the Princess’s Charm was less intense.

  She paused briefly by one of the paintings which elicited a tilt of her head and then a disappointed sigh before she moved on. It was clear that Poppy’s offering was going to be the last.

  “It used to be so different,” the Princess said as the Fae court gazed at her. “There used to be so many for us to inspire and nurture. Now we squeeze meagre offerings from stolen souls and pretend they are impressive. This”—she waved a hand at a painting of the sea that Will could only see a part of—“this is beautiful but so dull. I’m bored.”

  Worry flickered across the faces of everyone there, everyone except Poppy and Iris.

  “The Elemental Court have taken an interest in artists,” Lady Wisteria said. “It’s so hard for our pets to bring them in now.”

  “They’ve always been interested in them,” the Princess said. “Really, Wisteria, you need to find better excuses than that.” She waved a dismissive hand at the seascape. “This doesn’t make me feel anything. And I don’t see any of you weeping or reacting to it in any way. Have you all forgotten what art is?”

  None of them spoke. Will watched Iris more carefully. He didn’t seem as besotted with her as the others, but every time her gaze swept across him he took care to appear to be enraptured by her—at least as much as Iris could ever appear to be so.

  “Poppy, you seem excited,” the Princess said.

  “I have something to offer,” he replied, leading her towards the painting.

  “The Royal Crescent?” The Princess sounded unimpressed. “I have seen so many like this.”

  “Ah…that’s the beauty of this piece,” Poppy said, beckoning to her and Iris, who stood close by, now interested himself. “Look closer, if you will, your Royal Highness.”

  “There are people in the windows,” she said. “The Irises, I presume. Strange one of yours would paint them. Yes, there’s the Patroon. What do you think of it, Iris?”

  Iris took another step closer. He was frowning, his blue eyes moving from one window of the painted building to the next until he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned to Poppy with a piercing glare that made the faerie Will was watching through pull back. “Who painted this?”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” Poppy said, placing his hand on his chest. “It’s part of the art, you see. This painting is called The Secret.”

  Iris looked back at the picture and then at Poppy, his glare sending a sharp spike of terror through Will—even though it wasn’t aimed at him—before turning and leaving without even a bow to the Princess.

  But what had made his patron so angry?

  The rest of the Fae remained silent until Iris left, and then a burst of speculation and blossoming gossip erupted between them. The faerie drew closer to Poppy’s shoulder as he and the Princess turned their backs to the others and
inspected the painting together.

  “I have never seen Iris look so…emotional,” the Princess whispered to Poppy.

  “Neither have I, your Royal Highness. I cannot think of a better indication of good art. If it can stir such a reaction in the coldest of hearts, it’s…”

  He left the sentence incomplete and the Princess took up the thread. “Surely the best piece here. Is there really a secret in the picture?”

  “Yes, but one even I am unaware of,” Poppy replied, unable to stop himself from rubbing his hands together like a gleeful child. “And the not knowing is an exquisite torture.”

  “Oh, it is,” the Princess said, breathlessly. “I think Iris knows the secret, though. Bravo, Lord Poppy. Yours is the best art I have enjoyed in a long, long time.”

  As they spoke, Will studied the painting, focusing on the windows as his patron had. He recognised his mother, father…there was Imogen, Nathaniel… His breath caught in his throat. The face of a small girl peered out from one of the windows. Sophia. She was the secret in the painting! That’s why Iris was angry—he knew his family had hidden a child from him!

  Horrified, Will threw down the scrying glass and it shattered on the table as he jumped to his feet. Lord Iris would come for Sophia. He had to hide her.

  9

  By early afternoon, Max had pulled over, taken a reading, and received his instructions from Kay three times. They were close now, within five miles. The gargoyle had not said a word for hours. Max focused on the road as they crossed the county border and went into Cheshire. The heavy rain that was currently drenching Manchester was turning into snow the further west they drove.

  “What do you think Rupert’s going to do to with that Sorceress?” asked the gargoyle through the gap in the back seat.

  “Imprison her or kill her,” Max replied as they paused at traffic lights. There were so many cars on the road now. “Maybe both. It depends whether he wants to know why she killed them all.”