Mr Drake and My Lady Silver

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘No.’

  That took Ilsevel aback, for she had confidently expected a yes. ‘Oh. Then— then how came you to be here? Who brought you?’

  ‘I do not know. I fell through the road one night, and awoke in a snow drift. This cottage was vacant, and Peech and her family made it habitable for me. Then came the flowers in the chest. I kept them at first, to brighten the house, for by then I knew it would always be winter here. But one that I touched turned all to frost, and I sent it back with the chest, as ruined. The next day, I found thirteen more in there exactly like the original: pink roses. I frosted them all, and…’ she shrugged. ‘That is what I do here.’

  Ilsevel looked meaningfully at her clothes. ‘Have you always worn garments like that?’

  Gloswise frowned down at her dress — a blue cotton caraco jacket and a wide skirt to match, both printed with sprigs — as though she did not understand the question. ‘Why, yes, always.’

  She had been stranded in Winter’s Hollow for some years, then. Ilsevel’s feeble hopes sank. If Gloswise had not found a way out in so long a time, what chance did Ilsevel have of escape?

  Her thoughts flew to the chest in a sudden flash of inspiration. Gloswise’s was prominently placed beneath a large window, a gnarled oaken box of considerable size. Ilsevel strode over to it and lifted the lid, examining the interior.

  It was empty.

  ‘What happens when you put something inside?’ she asked.

  ‘It is taken,’ said Gloswise, exchanging a puzzled look with Peech.

  ‘By what? How?’

  ‘By what, we do not know. It simply goes.’

  ‘Vanishes,’ prompted Ilsevel.

  ‘Aye,’ said Peech, watching Ilsevel suspiciously. ‘What is in yer head, Lady Silver?’

  Ilsevel rested the lid against the windowsill, and smiled at Peech and Gloswise. ‘Has anybody ever got in?’

  ‘Got into the chest?’ repeated Peech in horror. ‘Why, and whatever would we do that for? There is no knowing what would happen!’

  ‘You might go somewhere else,’ said Ilsevel. ‘Somewhere you would rather be.’ She set one foot on the edge of the chest, preparing to climb in.

  ‘My Lady Silver!’ said Gloswise, and darted to catch at her arm. ‘Pray, do not. I do not know that the flowers I put in there actually go somewhere else. They might simply be destroyed, and what if such were to happen to you?’

  ‘It would make no sense for them to be destroyed. What would be the use of these chests, if that were the case? And I fancy I have some idea as to where they are going.’

  Gloswise cast an agonised look at the chest. ‘Then let someone else go,’ she pleaded. ‘Aylfenhame has too much need of you. You cannot gamble like that with your life.’

  ‘Clearly no one else is prepared to make the attempt,’ retorted Ilsevel. Without awaiting further interference, she stepped into the chest and planted both feet firmly on the bottom.

  Nothing happened.

  Several seconds passed, then Gloswise and Peech grabbed an arm each and hauled Ilsevel out of the chest again. ‘Thank goodness,’ said Gloswise.

  ‘Reckless,’ scolded Peech.

  Ilsevel extracted herself from their grip, and smoothed her gown. ‘Nothing untoward occurred, however, so I trust I may be forgiven.’ She was disappointed.

  Puzzled, she sat down before the chest and stared at it. Something was tickling at the back of her mind, some feeling that this was not the first time she had encountered an enchantment of this approximate sort. Oh, the spells themselves were none too difficult, nor too rare; it was not unusual for a skilled practitioner of those arts to arrange ways to move articles quickly from one place to another. But these chests were an unusually potent example of them, and that there existed an entire network of such things in so odd, and apparently isolated, a place intrigued Ilsevel considerably.

  The primary question in her mind was: where were those articles placed in the chests being delivered to? And whence came those things that appeared within? It occurred to her that the two places in question were not necessarily the same.

  ‘You do not, I suppose, happen to possess some scrap or other of paper, and an article to write with?’ said Ilsevel at length to Gloswise.

  Gloswise began to fuss about in search of such tools, and Ilsevel returned to her examination of the chest. This one was different from the one at Peech’s house: it looked more ancient, its hoary old wood contorted with age. Despite this, it also seemed more ornate, and more skilfully constructed: Peech’s was a mere plain affair, but Gloswise’s had handsome bronze hinges and, more interestingly, a stout, engraved lock. It was also lined inside with grass-green silk.

  ‘And was this chest already here when you took this house?’ Ilsevel said to Gloswise.

  ‘That it was,’ said Gloswise. ‘All of the furniture was already here.’ She put a ragged-edged piece of parchment into Ilsevel’s hands, and a marvellous golden plume of a quill.

  Using the chest’s top as a desk, Ilsevel began to write.

  Lady Silver, Ilsevellian, of the Royal House-at-Mirramay, has been involuntarily transported to the place known as Winter’s Hollow and demands immediate release. Her confinement is unlawful and improper and the consequences of its prolonged continuance shall be dire indeed.

  She signed it with her name in a flourish of ink, and looked up. ‘You do not happen to have sealing wax as well?’

  Gloswise shook her head.

  Ilsevel glanced with regret at the ring she wore on her right little finger, the royal seal that would prove her status. ‘Ah, well,’ she said. ‘This will have to do.’ She folded up the note. ‘May I now have one of your winterfied roses?’ Upon being given one, she secured the note to the rose’s stem and opened the chest.

  When she herself had stepped in, nothing whatsoever had happened. But when she dropped the rose, it did not even hit the bottom of the chest before it vanished.

  That rather confirmed one suspicion of hers: that the chests would transport only those things they recognised as required. That, too, interested her greatly, for it was a sophisticated refinement, one she had never before encountered. Most such articles gaily whisked away anything that happened to find its way inside, including, in one vividly remembered instance, a live kitten. Tyllanthine had been inconsolable until the creature had been retrieved.

  She sat waiting in hope for a few minutes, but nothing happened, so she turned back to the other two women. ‘Peech,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It was you who arranged for this house to be made over to Gloswise, did you not? How came it to be empty in the first place? Who used to live here?’ For if there was already an enchanted chest and a houseful of furniture here when Gloswise arrived, it stood to reason that the cottage had once had another occupant. And probably not a trow, either, since they preferred their semi-underground knowes.

  Peech returned Ilsevel’s inquisitive look with a dubious stare. ‘Twas a feller,’ she said. ‘Name of Pandigorth. Used to make poisons from things as grows out in the woods — berries an’ the like. Nasty stuff, but he were high-favoured. Got all kinds of good things out of that there chest, fer his venoms.’

  ‘He was human?’ Ilsevel prompted. ‘Aylfish?’

  ‘Aylir. Handsome sort, not too old. Disappeared one day.’ Peech shrugged.

  Ilsevel sat up, excited. ‘Vanished! How came he to do that?’

  ‘No one knows. Day came an’ he weren’t here no more. Some said he had finally got hisself lost in them woods and froze to death. Some say he found a way out of the Hollow. Others say he got to be so high-favoured he were taken out, somehow. No way of knowing now.’

  This lack of information was disappointing, but Ilsevel was nonetheless encouraged. Did she dare hope that this Pandigorth had, one way or another, effected his own release? She did. She had seen the nonchalant way with which Peech navigated those maze-like woods; surely Pandigorth, accustomed as he must have been to traversing the woodlands, must have known them just as well,
and walked them just as confidently. Why would he suddenly lose himself somewhere within, and die? And how could he have done that without someone like Peech eventually discovering his remains?

  She sat taller, feeling somewhat reassured. There was a way out, somehow, and she would find it — even if it meant having to work her way into a position of “high favour” with the mysterious operators of the chests.

  Which gave her an idea. There having been no response yet to her note, she requested another page of Gloswise, and bent to pen a second missive.

  Lady Silver, Ilsevellian of the Royal House-at-Mirramay, offers the following bargain, which may be of interest to the recipient of this note.

  She is in possession of information regarding the whereabouts of a large number of royal heirlooms, artefacts and jewels, and will consider sharing some portion of these with the recipient if her demands are met.

  That would do. The word consider committed her to nothing, but the note would indicate that she was a person worth bargaining with. She fixed it to another rose, dropped the whole lot into the chest, and sat down to wait again.

  Some time passed.

  ‘Perhaps some tea?’ said Gloswise at last. She glanced at a handsome silver clock upon the wall and said: ‘Supper is usually delivered in about one hour from now. Perhaps you shall receive your reply then, Lady Silver.’

  The light had faded, and the cottage grown dim. Ilsevel had scarcely noticed, but Gloswise had lit lamps and candles, and Peech had placed herself in charge of boiling water for tea. Soon all three women were seated around Gloswise’s pretty little tea-table, partaking of a fragrant brew. Conversation between Gloswise and Peech was desultory, and Ilsevel hardly participated at all. Her attention shifted between the chest and the clock, and the minutes dragged slowly by.

  At last the clock chimed the hour, and Gloswise got up directly from the table. The chest had filled itself nicely. Ilsevel helped to remove a hearty array of pies, tartlets, roast meats, vegetables fricasseed and stewed, candied fruits, sweet puddings and a jug of wine. That this was far beyond Gloswise’s usual allotment was evident from her wide-eyed amazement as she conveyed dish after dish to table.

  Ilsevel noticed with interest that the pies, puddings and tarts came in exactly three portions of each. She also recalled that Peech had seemingly found no difficulty in providing extra food for Ilsevel earlier in the day. Her presence here was being accounted for — but how came it to be known who she had first fallen in with, or to whom she had gone later? They were, she was persuaded, somehow under observation, and she began to look around at the articles in the cottage with a new interest. She did not immediately notice any mirrors, but it did not have to be that. It might be anything.

  She began to despair of there being any answer to her notes, when dish after dish was unpacked from the chest without any sign of a reply. But there at last, at the very bottom, was a silver salver upon which a letter sat in solitary splendour. It was a beautiful, delicate thing, made from sugar-paper and wrapped up in a purple bow.

  Ilsevel unfastened the ribbon with trembling fingers, and smoothed out the paper.

  Welcome, Lady Silver, it said.

  And that was all.

  Ilsevel screwed up the pretty thing, and hurled it away. Welcome, Lady Silver? Was that it?

  Those three words were unusually communicative for so abbreviated a letter. They told her unequivocally that she had not been conveyed here by mistake; her captors knew exactly who she was, and had deliberately sought to imprison her. Nor were they inclined to bargain with her, or to offer any information whatsoever as to the reasons for her capture. She was not, then, to expect release.

  Was it her determined pursuit of Wodebean that had brought her such calamity? But why? He had shown ample skill at evading her, and need only continue to do so, if he did not wish to speak with her. She was not aware of having uncovered anything to his detriment that was not already widely known about. And what else had she done, or threatened to do, of late?

  Save for retrieving Anthelaena. She had made no secret of that resolution, though she had not communicated it to many. Tyllanthine? It could not be Tyllanthine. Surely it could not. What reason could she have for obstructing Ilsevellian’s attempts to extract their sister, the Queen-at-Mirramay, from her own form of imprisonment? Why would she lie to Ilsevel, and pretend to help her, only to betray her?

  But if it was not Tyllanthine’s doing, and it did not especially make sense for it to be Wodebean’s, who had buried My Lady Silver in the heart of Winter?

  Chapter Twelve

  Ah, Tyllanthine — or Hidenory, as she is most often called nowadays. Tricksy woman. Tricksiest woman I ever encountered, no word of a lie. There’s never any tellin’ whas really goin’ on in her head. Changin’ her face, changin’ her name, changin’ her plans! She is one big secret, an’ she likes it that way.

  She ain’t above tellin’ a bit of a lie, if it suits her purposes. That I know. But she ain’t in a hurry to deceive them as she cares for, neither, an’ if I know one thing about Tyllanthine it’s this: she cares about her family, whatever else appearances might suggest. I didn’t believe she’d ha’ harmed Ilsevel, nor Anthelaena neither. But what, then, was she doin’? Sendin’ me to Mr. Tibs, rather than just tellin’ me what she knows. Keepin’ secrets from her sister, too.

  She’s got somethin’ t’ hide, thas clear enough, but I ain’t sure as to whether it’s anythin’ nefarious. More’n likely her years of bein’ six people all at once have landed her in such a tangle, she don’t know which way she’s goin’ anymore.

  Well, there was nowt to be done about it just then. Me an’ Phineas had no choice but t’ follow the trail Tibs set us on, an’ thas what we did.

  Phineas got down from the coach with a feeling of having strayed so far out of the pattern of his regular life that he had no idea how to get back again. He could not remember ever having left Lincoln before, for one thing; now here he was on the edge of a quiet little town somewhere out in the Wolds, accompanied by an enormous troll, and on the trail of a faded old mystery which had nothing whatsoever to do with anything he was qualified for.

  He had mixed feelings about the whole business. Part of him felt out of his depth, and pined to be back in the kitchens he knew, baking the familiar breads and cakes, and chatting with Mrs. Batts about the progress of the new pastry-shop. However troubling a topic the latter was, he was got into far deeper waters now.

  But some part of him was beginning to enjoy this new existence. This part remembered the drudgery of his job, the poor relationship he suffered with his father, and his general poverty, and found the change highly agreeable. He tried to suppress those feelings, knowing full well that the interlude would come to an end soon enough, and back to the kitchen he would go. But it refused to be entirely done away with.

  He greeted the town of Tilby with bright attention, noting with eager interest its jumble of houses in all manner of fashions and styles, the sleepy air of tranquillity it possessed beneath its blanket of deep snow, the rolling landscape of hills in the midst of which it was tucked like an egg in a nest.

  He soon noted a fair number of differences between Tilby and Lincoln. For one thing, Mr. Balligumph attracted every bit as much attention here as he had in the city, but it was of a different character. Fewer responded to him with amazement or alarm; instead he was greeted with great cordiality by those few they passed in the quiet streets, and they expressed surprise only at seeing him away from his customary bridge.

  The town possessed rather more than its share of fae residents, at that. Walking down what seemed to be the town’s central street, Phineas and Mr. Balligumph passed no less than three household brownies bustling along upon some errand or another, clad in the same fashions which their taller human counterparts wore. He saw others, too, creatures to whom he could put no name, wandering the streets as comfortably as though this were Aylfenhame.

  ‘This is in Lincolnshire, is it not?’ Phineas sai
d after a time. ‘We have not travelled out of England?’

  Balligumph chuckled. ‘Aye, ‘tis England right enough. ‘Tis a popular spot for those choosin’ t’ move out of Aylfenhame, though, and becomin’ more so all the time.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  The troll shrugged his great shoulders. ‘There’s always been somethin’ about Tilby which speaks t’ them as was born and raised in Aylfenhame, though ‘tis hard t’ say what it is. Now we have Mr. and Mrs. Aylfendeane livin’ not far away, too — Miss Ellerby as was, an’ her Ayliri husband out o’ Aylfenhame. They’ve made it their business t’ serve as somethin’ of a sanctuary t’ those with real pressin’ reasons to leave their old lives behind, an’ that alone has increased the population o’ fae here quite a bit.’

  ‘Is that why Miss Phelps was sent here?’ Phineas guessed. ‘You think she is not mad, don’t you sir? She had somehow got into Aylfenhame, and her family did not believe her.’

  Mr. Balligumph did not immediately reply. He seemed to be thinking. ‘Mayhap,’ he allowed. ‘But while the existence of Aylfenhame ain’t such common knowledge in the city as it is here, it’s not unknown. Folk don’t take against it so much as to label a woman mad fer claimin’ t’ have had anythin’ t’ do with it. An’ there’s some other things that don’t make sense about it, like them clothes. No, I think it’s the Hollows she went into, an’ no doubt a mighty strange tale she came back with.’ He paused to give a great, windy sigh, and added: ‘Now if only I knew how t’ find her. It’s puzzlin’ me a great deal. How can two such ladies have been livin’ here a while, an’ me knowin’ nothin’ about it? Best I can think of is t’ ask around, an’ thas what we’re goin’ t’ do.’

  ‘Are you so well-acquainted with everyone here as to know all the residents’ names?’ asked Phineas.

  ‘Aye. I’ve made it me business to know.’