‘Then perhaps they are not known by the names we were given?’
Balligumph sucked upon a tooth. ‘To take a false name, now, thas the kind of thing ye only do if ye’re hidin’. An’ I dunnot know why two such ladies as we are lookin’ fer would hide theirselves like that. But yer right. T’would be an explanation.’
‘Two ladies, one of whom must be somewhat Mrs. Batts’s junior, by the descriptions she gave. The other could be of any age, but in all likelihood is somewhat older, if she has her own establishment, and was in a position to take in a cousin in trouble. The Phelps family is unlikely to be gentry, if they are friends with Mrs. Batts, but if they live in Drury Lane then they are not poor either.’ Phineas considered a moment. ‘It is my guess, sir, that Marjorie Bamber is a woman of middle age, either unmarried or a widow, and of modest but not straitened means. If she is using a name that is not her own, then perhaps she moved to Tilby with Miss Phelps, both ladies being wishful of concealment, or perhaps just privacy, if Miss Phelps’ circumstances were so troubled. Miss Phelps herself must also be a spinster, since Mrs. Batts mentioned no husband, though she may be posing as a widow.’
Mr. Balligumph stopped, and regarded Phineas with some surprise — and approval. ‘Ye’re good at this, lad,’ he said.
‘And Mrs. Batts mentioned that the cousin, Marjorie Bamber, lives on the edge of Tilby,’ added Phineas.
Balligumph spent two minutes more in deep rumination, and then his face lit up. ‘Edge o’ the town!’ he proclaimed. ‘Two ladies livin’ quiet-like, in a smallish way, wi’ no husbands or children, and some distance in age between the two. Why, Phineas me lad, I think ye’ve cracked it. If them two ain’t Mrs. Willis an’ Miss Walker, then I’ll be blowed.’ He grinned. ‘Moved here nigh on a year ago, but ye don’t hear much of the two of ‘em. They don’t hardly set foot out o’ their house, an’ keep theirselves to theirselves. I seen Miss Walker only once or twice, an’ I’ll tell ye: she don’t seem mad t’ me.’ He looked around, getting his bearings. ‘This way,’ he announced, and set off at a great, rolling stride which Phineas struggled to keep pace with. ‘T’ain’t a large town, Tilby,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Won’t take long t’ reach the Willis an’ Walker place.’
Phineas pulled down the brim of his hat against the icy wind, shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his coat, and hurried after the troll.
Mrs. Willis’s cottage stood by itself at a little distance from the rest of the town, with nothing but dark, frosty fields spreading behind it. It was as Phineas had imagined: neither a mean dwelling nor a handsome one, but unassumingly respectable, with pale stuccoed walls and large Georgian windows.
‘Ye should knock,’ Balligumph instructed. ‘Ye’ll cause a deal less consternation when they open the door.’
The residents of Tilby seemed little concerned by Balligumph’s size or unusual appearance, but Phineas yielded to the request without complaint, and stepped up to the door. He rapped the plain iron knocker three times, and waited.
It was swiftly opened by a maid-of-all-work, younger than Phineas, a girl with a timid demeanour. ‘Aye?’ she whispered.
‘Is this the home of Mrs. Willis?’ Phineas asked, Balligumph having stepped away out of immediate sight.
‘Aye,’ said the maid again.
‘Are either of your mistresses at home? My name is Ph— Mr. Drake, and I would be glad to speak with them.’
The maid glanced behind herself into the dark hallway, clearly uncertain. ‘Step in, Mr. Drake,’ she said, and held the door for him. ‘I will ask.’
Phineas was not left to wait long in the hall. A dark-haired lady about the age his mother would now have been came out of a snug parlour to greet him, though her manner was not welcoming. She eyed him with a touch of wariness, and looked him over carefully before she spoke. His apparel announcing his lack of status clearly enough, she did not curtsey. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘I am Mrs. Willis. What may I do for you, Mr. Drake?’
Phineas hesitated, and decided to abandon caution. He could think of no way to make his enquiries that would not alarm her, so he simply said: ‘Good morning, Mrs. Willis, I am sorry to interrupt. I am looking for Miss Eleanor Phelps. Do you know anyone of that name?’
‘No,’ she said at once, though she noticeably stiffened. ‘There is no one of that name here.’
‘Are you certain?’ said Phineas. ‘Please think carefully, Mrs. Willis. We are not here to cause the least harm or distress to Miss Phelps. Rather, we are in need of her help.’
‘You are, are you?’ The words were spoken pugnaciously, but Mrs. Willis could not conceal a degree of curiosity.
‘We are trying to get into the Hollows,’ said Phineas. ‘It’s urgent.’
Mrs. Willis took a step back towards the parlour. ‘I think you had better go,’ she said coldly.
The front door opened, revealing Mr. Balligumph. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Willis. ‘Ma’am,’ he said affably. ‘Ye may know o’ me, I hope? I’m Mr. Balligumph, keeper o’ the Tilby toll bridge. Are ye sure we can’t persuade you t’ help us?’
Mrs. Willis looked upon Balligumph with decided distrust, bordering upon alarm, and backed away another step. ‘We have nothing to—’ she began.
But then a younger woman appeared behind her, and gently clasped her shoulders, cutting her off mid-sentence. ‘Marjorie,’ she said softly. ‘It is all right. If they were here to create trouble for us, they have had ample opportunity to do so.’
Mrs. Willis, or Marjorie Bamber, gave a great sigh, and visibly capitulated. ‘Very well,’ she said ungraciously. ‘Will you come into the parlour?’
They went gratefully, for a fire made the parlour toasty warm, and the walk from Tilby’s main street had left Phineas with a chill in his face. He was happy enough to sit near the blaze, accept a cup of tea from Miss Phelps, and let Balligumph take over the conversation.
Miss Phelps appeared to be approximately of an age with Phineas himself, perhaps two or three-and-twenty. But he remembered what Mrs. Batts had said about her long absence, and her failure to age. What was she truly, then? Three-and-thirty? She wore her pale brown hair neatly coiled up, and had on a plain dress: no display or vanity about her at all. She seemed composed enough, but Phineas thought he saw signs of a troubled mind in her dark eyes, which were not at all as tranquil as her outward demeanour. She poured tea and sat down, giving her attention primarily to Mr. Balligumph. Unlike her cousin, she seemed in no way disquieted by having the troll toll-keeper appear in her parlour for tea, which rather bore out her story of having spent some years in a place very different from England.
‘The Hollows are not like England, Mr. Balligumph,’ she began. ‘Nor are they like Aylfenhame, I understand. I met denizens of both countries Beneath. Time moves differently there. You may imagine my dismay when I returned to find I had been gone for more than a decade, and was long since given up for dead.’
‘Tis not a fixed characteristic of all the Hollows,’ said Balligumph. ‘Ye were unlucky indeed, Miss Phelps, if that was the way of it. An’ it weren’t random. Someone must’ve done that on purpose.’
‘To me personally, or to the place I was in?’ said she.
Balligumph shrugged. ‘I cannot yet say as t’ which it was. Tell me, though. How did ye end up Hollows-side?’
‘I had gone out for a walk that evening,’ answered Miss Phelps. ‘It was a daily habit. I used to walk around the castle walls, it was pleasant at that hour. Nothing untoward had ever happened to me there before, but on that day I saw something unusual. I was passing the gates, and I thought I heard a creature crying for help, or perhaps a child. Something was certainly in distress, so I went nearer. But there was nothing there that could explain the sound. Instead I saw a dancing light, like a will-o-the-wyke, and an odd, stooped man in a red cloak. He did not seem to see me. He spoke a strange word, and to my amazement he disappeared. Well, Mr. Balligumph, I had been hastening towards him, convinced that he was somehow responsible for tormen
ting a creature, and intent upon putting a stop to it. Perhaps I came too near to the spot in which he’d been standing, for I fell somehow, and never hit the ground until some time later. And then I was not in the city anymore.’
‘Unlucky,’ murmured Balligumph. ‘He had just opened a gate through, an’ ye got caught in it. I cannot say as to how ye heard them sounds, but wi’ Wodebean one never knows. I will ask, though,’ and here he sat forward, intent upon Miss Phelps. ‘What was the word that ye heard the stooped man speak?’
‘It is difficult to remember,’ she said apologetically. ‘It was a long time ago, and it was certainly spoken in no language I know.’
‘Twasn’t “Mirramay”, by chance?’
‘No, that was not it.’ She sipped tea, thinking, while Phineas sat unable to help holding his breath. Mr. Balligumph sat likewise, frozen with his tea cup halfway to his mouth, waiting in hope.
‘I cannot remember the whole word,’ she said finally. ‘It was a long word. But it began with something like anthem.’
Balligumph stiffened. ‘Anthelaena? Might that ha’ been it?’
‘Yes!’ said Miss Phelps. ‘That must be the very word, sir, I am quite persuaded. But how did you know of it?’
Balligumph did not directly answer her. ‘Interestin’,’ he murmured. ‘Very interestin’. Whas a fellow known fer playin’ both sides doin’ usin’ Her Majesty’s name fer a password? An’ the royal city, too, fer Thieves’ Hollow!’ He shook himself, apparently recalling his company, and smiled at Miss Phelps. ‘Ye’ve been a vast help, Miss. Our thanks.’
She smiled equally upon Phineas and Balligumph, and said to the latter: ‘If I had known you were such a charming fellow, I would have called upon you before now, Mr. Balligumph.’
The troll winked. ‘Yer always welcome t’ visit my bridge, Miss Phelps. An’ you, Mrs Bamber.’
Marjorie smiled faintly. ‘It is Miss Bamber.’
Balligumph rose from his chair and made her a deep bow, and then another to Miss Phelps. ‘Ye’re both grand ladies in my book. If’n ye’ll excuse us now, we have a deal t’ do.’
Phineas, though, was not quite ready to leave. ‘Um, a moment,’ he said diffidently. ‘If it is not too much to ask, Miss Phelps, may I enquire what you did during your month in the Hollows? We heard something of its always being summer there?’
She nodded, frowning. ‘Perhaps that does not seem remarkable, since to my understanding I was not there long. But the conditions were peculiarly unvarying; to one used to England’s changeable weather, it could not but strike me as unusual. I asked those I met if it was always thus, and they said it was.’
‘Did it never rain?’ Phineas could not imagine such a place. How could anything survive long without rain? And there had been talk of flowers.
Miss Phelps gave a wry quirk of a smile. ‘Oh, it did, but only ever at night. Almost everyone there was primarily employed in growing flowers, you know. Every imaginable kind, but most especially roses. And there were many kinds of folk there, too. One or two humans like me, and others who looked nearly like me but with odd curls to their ears, and a way about them like… like they were something other. Brownies, goblins… many others I could not put a name to.’
‘A populous place, then? Was it large?’
‘Oh, no. Scarcely larger than Tilby, I would say, and if there were as many as a hundred people there I should say I was surprised.’
Phineas did not immediately know what to do with this information, but he committed it carefully to memory nonetheless.
‘One last thing,’ he said, as another thought struck him. ‘How was it that you came to get out again?’
‘It was that same fellow,’ said Miss Phelps. ‘The one I followed, that evening. He came on purpose to fetch me away, he said, though he would not explain why. And I do not know how he contrived it, either, for there were no words spoken that time. He bid me step into a great chest, and I almost refused, for how absurd it seemed! But then I was back in England.’
Wodebean had made a point of rescuing Miss Phelps? Phineas exchanged a puzzled look with Balligumph, and saw in the troll’s face that he had no more explanation for this development than did Phineas. A brief mental review of everything they knew about Wodebean revealed no clear pattern of behaviour whatsoever; the fellow was a muddle from start to finish.
He wondered, not for the first time, why Ilsevel was so angry with him. He had cheated her, she’d said. How?
Phineas made his bow, with a murmured thanks, and he and Balligumph shortly afterwards took their leave.
‘What line o’ questioning were ye on, lad?’ said Balligumph as they regained the street.
‘Oh, I do not know,’ answered Phineas. ‘Not precisely. But this is all quite the puzzle, and I fear we will have to unravel it piece by piece. I thought it best, then, to secure a few more pieces, while I had the opportunity.’
Mr. Balligumph doffed his hat to Phineas, and said with a rumbling chuckle, ‘Like I said, lad. Ye’re good at this.’
Phineas blushed, and hoped the troll would not notice.
He did not seem to, for he had transferred his attention to the sky, grown night-dark while they were drinking tea with the two ladies. ‘I would like nothin’ better than t’ go back to Lincoln right away, an’ see if My Lady Gold’s name works fer gettin’ into that Hollows spot. But it’s late, an’ I fancy ye are tired. No?’
‘I can go on, sir,’ said Phineas, trying to look like a man who was game for anything, and not like a very young man who was indeed growing weary, besides being hungry and cold as well.
‘I dare say ye can, but I would rather not. If we are to hazard them Hollows, best t’ do it on a full stomach an’ a night’s rest, would ye not agree?’
Phineas agreed.
‘Well, then,’ said the troll cheerfully. ‘Permit me t’ extend to ye the hospitality of my home. It ain’t much, an’ it is stuffed under a bridge an’ all, but it has all the things a feller needs.’
And so Phineas Drake, baker’s boy, found himself entertained for the night in surprisingly commodious accommodation beneath the Tilby toll-bridge. The troll had somehow contrived to stuff an entire house under there, as he put it: a smallish house, to be sure, with only four rooms, but they were airy and spacious and very comfortable. Whitewashed walls and sturdy oak furniture he had, with a snug kitchen in one room and an equally cosy parlour in the other. The third room was the troll’s bedchamber, and the fourth… well, when he first opened the door it appeared to be some kind of studio, for three easels dominated the space and there were pots of paints littered everywhere. He had apparently been painting landscapes, though the third contained a sketch of a lady.
‘Ahem,’ said the troll, and quickly closed the door. ‘No, that won’t do. Here.’ He rapped thrice upon the door and said clearly: ‘The second bedchamber, please.’
When he opened the door again, the studio was gone, and the room instead held a bed sized perfectly for Phineas, liberally supplied with blankets and pillows; a closet; a chest-of-drawers, with a ceramic washbasin set atop; and a window seat piled with cushions. In the darkness, Phineas could not see the view out of those improbable windows.
‘Will that do?’ said the troll — with, to Phineas’s befuddlement, a discernible trace of anxiety.
‘Oh, goodness,’ said Phineas. ‘Of course, sir. It is the nicest room I ever was offered.’
Mr. Balligumph gave him an odd look. ‘Is it, now? Thas a shame, lad. Tis nothin’ much.’
Phineas shrugged, unwilling to try to explain. The room was filled with comforts, that was what made the difference. Pillows and soft things and a fireplace, with a fire in it. He could not remember the last time such an array had been placed at his disposal, and some part of him felt that he did not merit such luxury. But he squashed that part, thanked his host most sincerely, and retired to his unexpectedly wonderful bedchamber at once.
In the end, it was some time before he went to sleep. He sat a long tim
e in the deep armchair before the fire, toasting his toes in the blazing warmth and thinking very deeply indeed. He saw nothing of the flames, for Ilsevel’s face hovered in his mind’s eye, her hazy silver eyes bright and lively, her pale hair tossing in the chill winter wind. Where was she?
Chapter Thirteen
Whatever the manoeuvrings of her captors, Ilsevel had not the smallest intention of waiting quietly for them to consent to release her. If there was a way in, she reasoned, there must be a way out, and nothing would prevent her from finding it.
But she was destined to endure a deal of disappointment, for her determination was not much shared by her fellow residents of Winter’s Hollow. Gloswise talked as though she wished for nothing more than to be liberated from the place, but Ilsevel could not find out that she had ever made much effort to secure her own release. A very little exploration upon her first arrival had apparently satisfied her that there was no way out, and she had settled down to a life of comfortable captivity ever since. Ilsevel could not but suspect that Gloswise was much more pleased with her life than she was disposed to admit to, and she could not altogether blame the other woman for it. She lacked for nothing but summer weather, after all, and lived an unusually carefree existence, supposing she could overlook the lack of choice she had been given in the matter — and it seemed that she could. Her response to Ilsevel’s questions was largely useless. ‘It is of no use tramping about in the snow,’ she said more than once. ‘There is only this valley, walled in with snow all around, and no way of going beyond.’
Very well, then: she would abandon all thought of walking to freedom. But what of magical means? She and Gloswise had both been transported to the Hollow by some magical force, and it stood to reason that some magical force might take them out of it again. But here, Gloswise proved wholly incurious. ‘I do not know,’ she said, when Ilsevel enquired as to the mode of her arrival. ‘I fell through the road.’
‘Did you perhaps endure the sensation of something — or someone — clutching at your ankle?’ said Ilsevel.
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