Mr Drake and My Lady Silver

by Charlotte E. English

‘I will leave it here.’

  ‘I will need you shortly.’

  He blinked at that, more consternated than pleased, but she did not have time to explain or to argue. She returned to Tyllanthine, and set the rest of the Queen’s Hoard into airy orbit around Anthelaena’s recumbent person.

  Then came the flowers. The velvet queen parasols she put into Tyllanthine’s hands; the blooms she carried to the throne itself. They required no coaxing whatsoever. When she took up the sunlit rose and held it to the glass, a stem sprouted at once; leaves burst forth, and silver thorns, and within moments a rose-vine was snaking its way around the throne’s clear-glass frame, putting forth golden buds. The moonglow-rose performed the same feat; hellebores twined about the legs and carpeted the ground; the dewberries and moonflowers blanketed the arms and the seat; and soon little of the throne could be seen beneath its viridian mantle.

  Through all of this, Anthelaena continued to bathe herself, oblivious.

  Ilsevel retrieved the jug from Phineas, and poured ice-wine out into the air. It emerged in a glittering, frosty stream and began to whirl, making of itself an icy goblet brim-full of wine. To this Tyllanthine added powders and plants: another wisp of faerie-grass went in, along with the parasol-mushrooms; a fresh, white snowleaf; a dewdrop of water from each of the pools in the palace courtyard; a golden hair, which could only be one of Anthelaena’s own; a sparkling tear, probably Lihyaen’s; and, incongruously, a tiny cake, cloud-like and frosted. Anthelaena’s favourite.

  As each item left Tyllanthine’s fingers it vanished into the icy goblet without trace, as though it had never been. But each added its potency to the brew, for a light grew steadily from the depths of the wine and overflowed, lambent with every colour. ‘It is ready,’ whispered Tyllanthine, but when Ilsevel would have turned at once and delivered the goblet to the sleeping queen, Tyllanthine bid her pause. She raised a hand, and gestured, and Wodebean came forward from his shadowed corner. He had an Aylir man with him: Ilsevel recognised the fellow as Indalon, the Court Physician. Part doctor, part enchanter, he’d had the care of Anthelaena and Tyllanthine and Ilsevel since they were children. When Ilsevel had last seen him, he had been haggard and distraught, unable to cure the poison that ravaged the queen.

  He was serene now, but he had aged more than he ought. His hair, once a lively chestnut-brown, was white through-and-through, and he had the stooped shoulders of a man who had lived long and borne much. He met Ilsevel’s eye as he approached the throne, and dipped his head.

  Not before she had seen a trace of anxiety there.

  That sobered her. When Anthelaena had taken the cat’s shape, she had been near-dead with disease — or, as Ilsevel now knew, with the effects of the poison administered by Wodebean. So many years as a cat, a creature immune to the venom, ought to have cured her; certainly she displayed no signs of illness. But what if it had not?

  ‘My Lady Silver,’ said Wodebean in a low voice — prompted, perhaps, by the darkling look Ilsevel had not been able to help directing at him. ‘Indalon has worked year after year upon the matter of the Queen’s ailment. Upon receiving information from me, he has developed… a possible cure.’

  Possible. Ilsevel’s heart froze at the word. If the transformation had only suspended the progress of the poison, not eradicated it entirely, what were they all about to do to Anthelaena? Would she return to her rightful shape, only to sicken and die? Would Indalon’s cure, if it were such, be enough to save her?

  Courage, she told herself sternly. Would they leave Anthelaena forever a cat, for fear of the consequences of restoring her? No. Unthinkable. It was impossible to do otherwise than to proceed.

  But it was Phineas’s face that steadied her, for he had not gone. He stood, silent and staunch, at the front of the crowd surrounding the throne, and he looked back at her with the kind of calm, steady faith that she needed. What would Phineas do, in her shoes? Why, he would go steadily on, and so must she.

  Lihyaen came forward, and Grunewald. That the Goblin King made so prominent a display of his presence seemed to Ilsevel highly significant; what greater show of loyalty to his fellow monarch could he make? And he was not merely showing his face. With him came all the power of the Goblin Court, and he willingly lent it to Anthelaena now. Proud, wild Grunewald knelt in symbolic fealty before the queen’s throne, and his power wreathed Anthelaena in a mantle of dark fire.

  Lihyaen knelt before her mother — and so, incredibly, did Tyllanthine. There came a rustling and swishing throughout the throne-room as all those gathered went to their knees before their lost queen.

  It fell to Ilsevel to set the goblet of ice before her beleaguered sister, and to coax her to drink. Indalon and Wodebean hovered at her elbow; the physician held three crystal phials in his hands, each filled with a differently coloured liquid. One of them bubbled and frothed.

  Ilsevel wished, desperately and devoutly, that he would not be called upon to use them.

  For a moment it appeared as though Anthelaena would continue in a state of obliviousness, for she barely glanced at the cup set before her. She began, with studious gravity, to wash her left ear.

  ‘Felebre,’ said Tyllanthine, sharply.

  This was a name the cat-that-was-once-Anthelaena recognised as her own, for she looked at Tyllanthine, ears forward, alert.

  ‘Drink,’ ordered Tyllanthine.

  The cat lowered her nose to the goblet, took a cautious sniff, and to Ilsevel’s relief she began to lap at the cold, intoxicating, enchanted wine contained therein. She did not like the flavour; heartily, she sneezed.

  But she continued to drink.

  It began as a low, silvered mist, creeping with catlike stealth over the floor of the throne room. Tendrils of it wound their way up the slender glass legs of Anthelaena’s throne, growing thicker and brighter with light and magic and hope, until it reached the cat’s great paws.

  No one breathed.

  Anthelaena had finished the contents of the goblet and now sat, tall and serene. Did she know what was occurring in that moment? Was she Anthelaena in her mind, or Felebre still? There was no telling; her clear golden eyes were hazy, whether with sleep or enchantment Ilsevel could not have said. She blinked, thrice.

  A heady fragrance enveloped the throne, and it was not just the mingled aromas of the roses and hellebores. Taking a long, slow breath, Ilsevel detected the familiar scent of those cakes Anthelaena so much liked; of the fragrance her sister had so often chosen to wear; the smell of fresh dew on the grass outside the breakfast-parlour window, where she and Ilsevel had so often eaten together; even the achingly familiar scent of her hair.

  Anthelaena recognised these scents, too, for her nose lifted to the air and she inhaled deeply. Her tail began to lash, and she sneezed, three times, so hard as to set her whole body a-shake.

  And then, at last, she began to change. Her body lengthened and grew; the silky purple fur faded and became skin, pale and clear; her tail vanished, her ears shrank and disappeared beneath tousled, pale golden hair. Only the colour of her eyes remained the same: rich, liquid gold, like a summer afternoon.

  She was beloved Anthelaena again, and Ilsevel could barely see her for the tears that blurred her vision and poured down her cheeks.

  ‘Anthela,’ she gasped, and all but hurled herself upon her sister.

  She was not alone in doing so, for Lihyaen had been of the same mind. Even Tyllanthine, losing some part of her customary aloofness, was disposed to embrace her.

  ‘Please,’ came an unfamiliar, male voice, cutting through the growing clamour sweeping across the throne-room. ‘Let me reach Her Majesty.’

  It belonged to Indalon, and Ilsevel felt shamed, for in her joy and relief she had not thought. Of course the physician must see the queen, and at once. But Anthelaena knew her! She had reached for Ilsevel, even as Ilsevel was reaching for her; their hands had touched; and Ilsevel had looked into those golden eyes and seen, at last, clear recognition, and all the love she had so long misse
d. Painful it was, to tear herself away, and cede her place to Indalon and Wodebean. But she must. She stepped back, and felt Lihyaen’s hand creeping into her own instead. This she gripped, for mutual comfort, and waited.

  Anthelaena looked hale. Nothing about her seemed wasted or faded. Her skin held the glow of good health, her pale hair was shining and thick, and her eyes were rapidly losing their cloud of confusion. Nonetheless, Ilsevel held her breath as Indalon made a close examination of the queen, conferring in a low voice with Wodebean all the while.

  Anthelaena bore this patiently, and answered those questions put to her with all the serenity she had always used to display. But the physician lingered rather long, and a glint of mischief crept into her face.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, in her low, measured voice. ‘Be assured I shall not die. I do not feel particularly in the mood, just at present.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ faltered the physician, and exchanged an uncertain glance with Wodebean.

  But the hobgoblin was smiling. ‘When does Your Majesty expect to feel in the mood?’ he enquired.

  ‘Not for a great while!’ pronounced Anthelaena, and got to her feet. Unused to her two legs after so long with four, she was observed to wobble; but being Anthelaena, even this she did with grace. She was splendidly unclad, but this inconvenienced her not one whit, for the dreamy mists which had effected her transformation clung to her still. She stood tall, wreathed in the power of her kingdom and Grunewald’s, her eyes alight with joy and sunshine and her hair anointed with stars.

  Then she laughed, and spun, and rose smoothly into the air. ‘Come, come!’ she called, and with a flick of her fingers sent moonflowers bursting up the walls. ‘Have we not suffered enough? No more a long face! I bid you all be merry, for I am returned, and I shall live!’

  The throne-room erupted into cheers, and mirth, and well-wishes, and the chatter of excited speculation. Ilsevel was no less vocal among them, for she could have sung her heart out with joy.

  Then Anthelaena descended in a whirling rush, and in another moment she was in Ilsevel’s arms, fair squeezing the breath out of her sister’s body with the force of her embrace. ‘I missed you so much,’ she gasped, and Ilsevel, wordless, could only hold her and weep all over again.

  Few sought their beds in Mirramay that night. Tyllanthine and Grunewald’s preparations had not been limited to the transformation of the palace, the preparation of the throne-room, and the gathering of the Court. They had also, with fine optimism, given orders for a grand feast to be held in the great dining-hall. Lyrriant the Piper was in attendance, flanked by fiddlers and drummers and singers and many more. The hall rang with music and merriment; there was feasting and dancing all the night long; and through it all the restored queen scarcely sat still for three minutes together. Her feet would carry her this way and that, and she went darting from sister to daughter to courtier to friend and all around again, delighted by her reunion with them all. Everywhere she trod, pale hellebores sprouted in the wake of her passage.

  She more often returned to Ilsevel than to any other. The bond between them had always been boundless, and it was there still, as strong as ever, as though it had never been severed at all. It felt as though Ilsevel had lost an arm, but had grown so used to its absence that she had ceased to notice it at all — until it was abruptly restored. Now, she could not imagine how she had ever contrived to manage without it.

  Tyllanthine was not forgotten. With the falling of night, Tylla’s hag-visage had dropped away, leaving her in all the glory of her beauteous glamour, and in that guise she took the greatest pride in sitting with her sisters at the head of the Queen’s Table. Between them, there was so much to be said that some hours passed away in conversation.

  It was only much later, when half the Court was dancing waltzes to the tune of Lyrriant’s pipes and the other half engaged in dispatching the ice-wines and honey-meads and other fine beverages afforded by the palace’s pantries (or, more likely, from the stores of the Goblin Court), that Tyllanthine looked about her and said: ‘I see you have shaken off that boy.’

  Ilsevel froze, horror turning her limbs to water. ‘Phineas,’ she muttered, and leapt out of her seat. ‘Where is he? He cannot be gone!’

  ‘He has been gone these two hours at least,’ said Tyllanthine, with splendid indifference. ‘I thought you must have sent him away.’ She expressed the idea with obvious approval, which only heightened llsevel’s dismay.

  Of course she had not dismissed Phineas, but what she had done was almost as bad. Do not forget me, he had pleaded, afraid that he would drown in all the splendour and chaos of the Court. And, for a little while, she had.

  ‘My dear Ilsevellian,’ said Anthelaena, concern underlying the playful mirth of her words. ‘Who, pray, is Phineas? A boy! Is he handsome? I should like to meet him.’

  ‘He is my friend,’ said Ilsevel, and had not time for more, for she had gathered up her skirts and set off at a run. He was nowhere in the banquet-hall, and he was not outside; he was not among the maze of corridors, nor had he lingered in the throne-room. He could not be found in the kitchens or out in the courtyard or, in short, anywhere at all. He was gone.

  ‘Are you looking for Mr. Drake?’ came Wodebean’s voice from somewhere near at hand.

  Ilsevel whirled, and found him concealed, as ever, in a shadowy corner. ‘For Phin— yes, for Mr. Drake. Have you seen him?’

  He had found her in the courtyard, pacing restlessly back and forth between the two frozen pools, consumed with confused self-reproach. How could she have forgotten Phineas? Deplorable. But how could she so soon leave Anthelaena? Impossible.

  ‘He has gone back into England,’ said Wodebean. ‘Mr. Balligumph called the ferry for him.’

  ‘The ferry?’ echoed Ilsevel. ‘Do the ferries fly again?’

  ‘Only one, yet, I believe. But with Her Majesty returned, perhaps others will be commissioned.’

  ‘Very good. I shall go to the bell.’ The bell in question hung by the city gates. Wrought from crystal and wreathed in enchantment, its clear tones pealed across the skies when rung, summoning the nearest ferry-boat.

  ‘The bell has not yet been restored,’ said Wodebean, halting Ilsevel in the process of striding away.

  ‘Oh,’ said she, dismayed. For she must go after Phineas; that fact did not long admit of any doubt. But how was she to get into England? It was not the Solstice, nor any of the Feasting Days, so the gates would all be closed. And if the ferry could not be summoned either, then what was she to do?

  Wodebean regarded her in silence. At length he said: ‘It may not be wise to leave Her Majesty, Lady Silver. She has not yet taken up all her scattered power, and is in a vulnerable state. And news of this night’s work will spread. Enemies will gather about the Court, as they have before.’

  Ilsevel bit her lip. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I cannot neglect Phineas. Anthelaena is presently surrounded by every possible ally, and she is well-guarded. And I will not be away long! She will scarcely have time to notice my absence.’ Ilsevel meant every word, for she would not consent to be long parted from Anthelaena now.

  ‘Shall you not?’ said Wodebean tonelessly. ‘What do you mean to do?’

  ‘I mean only to retrieve Phineas, and come straight back.’

  That these words did not quite find favour with Wodebean was evident from his silence. But he did not choose to argue with her, nor to explain what fault he had to find with her plan. Instead he simply held out his hand. In his palm there rested a delicate whistle, made from the same iridescent crystal as the bell that had once hung at the gates. ‘I will need this back, My Lady Silver.’

  ‘You shall have it.’ Ilsevel snatched up the whistle, paused only to express the depths of her gratitude to Wodebean, and blew a sharp blast upon it.

  Something roiled among the moonlit clouds at once; great billows of air came spiralling down; and then a ship appeared, its single sail flying proudly, and swept airily down to land not far fr
om Ilsevel.

  A gangplank dropped, with a smooth swish, from the boat, and the captain came smartly down it: an Aylir woman clad in trousers and a blue coat, her dark hair bound in braids. ‘Where to?’ she said cheerfully, and only belatedly realised to whom she was talking; then she made Ilsevel a crisp bow. ‘Lady Silver!’

  ‘To England, please!’ said Ilsevel. She strode without hesitation up the gangway, and took up a station near the front of the boat. The captain whistled, the winds gathered and whirled, and the ferry sailed off once more into the skies.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I need hardly tell ye wi’ what joy I witnessed Anthelaena’s return. The realm has sorely felt her absence! Nowt can thrive in Aylfenhame wi’ no Majesty upon the throne, an’ t’ watch it dwindle an’ wither — well, it’s been breakin’ this old troll’s heart fer many a year. Not t’ mention that Anthelaena herself could never have warranted such a fate. Good folk deserve better.

  Speakin’ of good folk, I took Mr. Phineas home right enow. He weren’t happy. Wrung my heart, it did, t’ leave him, wi’ no one t’ welcome him home, an’ no one t’ care fer him. But I had a notion tha’ Her Ladyship Silver was in need of a little thinkin’ time — and mayhap a bit of a kick, so to speak. There’s no worthier heart than that of young Mr. Drake, an’ I thought — I hoped — that she knew it.

  Well, and so. While Aylfenhame rejoiced at the return o’ the Queen, an’ the land itself unfurled t’ welcome her back, My Lady Silver was wingin’ her way back t’ England…

  In the chaos and excitement of his journey through the Hollows, and the Queen’s restoration to Mirramay, Phineas had almost forgotten the fate of his father’s bakery. Brought face-to-face with its boarded-up frontage upon his return, he felt all the impact of its closure anew. Perhaps some part of him had hoped he might find his father waiting for him; that the elder Mr. Drake might have reconsidered, and come back for Phineas after all.

  He had not.

  Dawn was breaking as he stood there, staring in renewed dismay at the remains of his home. He could not, now he thought about it, remember when he had last slept, and his limbs were so heavy he had to exert an extraordinary effort to drag himself around to the back, up the stairs, and in at the back door. He struggled to think.