George took a breath, and started playing. He almost stopped at the first sound of the piano. It had a haunting, echoing quality, though perhaps that was just the music itself, which was a soft, quiet, eerie piece reminiscent of church bells and lonely, snow-swept passageways. Colette did not dance at first, but stood swaying with her head bowed, as if she were being gently touched by the wind. And then, very slowly, her movements grew, and she began to dance across the floor.
He had never seen her dance in such a manner. He knew she was a trained ballerina, that’d always been obvious, and while he’d always adored her that same adoration had blinkered him to her talent, which was evidently enormous. For one moment the two of them were involved in a brief, perfect execution, two souls dancing together through music, and George thought it so beautiful and saddening that each note was like a razor.
They finished as they had started: he playing the same soft, repeating notes, and she gently drifting back and forth until she was finally still. A collective sigh ran through the host when they finished. The lady cleared her throat and said, “Good. That was very good. Thank you for that. It was a perfect end to the evening.”
Colette quickly left the stage without looking back. The lady watched her go. “My, my,” she said. “Apparently she was touched just as we were.”
The troupe was invited to the feast, but they all turned down the invitation; eels, roast quetzal, and cocktails made from the poison glands of albino sea snakes did not sound particularly inviting to them. Instead they chose to retreat to their rooms for the night.
Stanley scribbled something out as they climbed the stairs. He showed his blackboard to them: DO NOT SPEAK. LADY HAS WATCHERS.
“You saw them?” asked Silenus quietly.
Stanley erased it, then wrote: DID NOT SEE. BUT I KNOW.
“Then we shouldn’t see each other for the rest of the night,” said Silenus. “We’ll leave early in the morning, as early as we can.” He nodded at George, and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Get some real sleep tonight, will you?”
George managed a nod. Then his father turned and entered his room. George watched him go, feeling ill. As he did, he noticed Stanley was watching him, and his demeanor seemed similar to George’s own: his face was strained, and his cheeks and brow looked gaunter than ever. And yet the warmth was still there behind Stanley’s eyes, that sympathetic quality that made you feel like Stanley knew all your troubles and would forgive everything you did, and for one moment George wanted to go to him and tell him everything: about Colette, and what Silenus had been doing with her, and most of all the truth of their travels and how they had actually betrayed their purpose. But then George remembered that night on the rooftop outside Chicago, and he felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, and he turned and walked into his room, alone.
The room was sumptuous and came with a set of luxurious nightgowns and other lounge wear. For the first time since February he was treated to running hot water, though George was too preoccupied to enjoy it. When he finished his bath he waited half an hour. Then he slipped out of his room to prowl the halls for the second night in a row.
He found Colette’s door and knocked. She opened the door, surprised. “George?”
He held a finger to his lips and walked in. She stared at him and shut the door after him. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “You can’t be roaming around like this! What would happen if these crazy fucking people caught you?”
“I had to come and tell you something,” he said.
“Well for Christ’s sake, what is it?”
He licked his lips, took a breath, and said, “I-I wanted to tell you that I know.”
“Know?” she asked. “Know what?”
“I know what Harry’s … I know what he’s been making you do, Colette.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Making me do? What do you mean?”
“I know he’s been … seeing you. M-making you do things, in exchange for, for keeping you on. And I wanted to let you know that I’m going to help you, Colette. I’m going to figure out a way to make him stop.”
She was still for a moment. “Oh, Jesus,” she said, and sat down on the bed.
“Don’t worry,” he said earnestly. “I’ll make sure you never get hurt. I’ll make everything right.”
“George …”
“I’ll figure something out, tell someone, and we can—”
“Will you shut up for once!” said Colette.
George fell silent, shocked. This was a far cry from the shame and gratitude he’d been expecting.
“Why do you have to be this way, George?” she asked. “Why do you have to get involved in things that don’t concern you? I know you wanted something with me, but I’m not … not interested in that, and I thought I’d made that clear.”
“He’s using you,” insisted George. “He’s got you tricked, somehow, like he’s got everyone tricked—”
“Tricked?” she said. “Tricked! What do you think I am, George? Some weakling who needs to hang on to someone powerful? Some foolish little girl getting conned by an older man? Is that really what you think of me?”
George was quiet. He realized with a sinking heart that this was exactly what he’d thought.
“Christ,” she said, and shook her head. “He never came to me. He never forced me into doing anything. I came to him, George.”
He was so shocked by this he could not breathe, but his heart was beating out a frantic tattoo. “What?” he said.
“I came to him. It was my choice. I was never tricked. I wanted to. Because I … I like him. I like Harry, George. Can you understand that?”
“You don’t really. Do you? You couldn’t …”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said. “He’s your father, you can’t imagine how he seems to others. But I … I admired him from the day I met him.” She crossed her arms and held herself, fingers lightly resting on her rib cage. He wondered then if perhaps she was imagining some past embrace or touch, and was sickened by the idea.
“It’s a … it’s just a ruse, a trick, Colette. Can’t you see?” he asked.
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s not me who’s not seeing things. You’re just seeing what you want to.” She stood up. “I want you to leave, George. I don’t want to talk to you about this ever again. This is enough. Stop bothering me. We’re done. All right?”
He tried to think of something to say. A thousand poetic professions came rushing to his head, any of which should break through to her, he thought. But whenever he glanced up and saw her cold gaze, he knew that in truth each of them was reckless and hollow, no more than dust and ash in his mouth.
“All right,” he said. She opened the door for him, and he shuffled out into the hall.
***
George did not want to return to his room, so instead he sat on a bench in the hall. From somewhere in the house there was the sound of music and laughter, but it seemed very far away to him. He simply sat in the dark, alone in this queer and frightening place, and wondered if he had only imagined that moment on the dance floor, when he’d felt as if they were working in perfect unity.
“I know you,” said a voice over his shoulder.
He leaped up in fright and turned to find Franny standing beside the bench in her nightgown. “Franny?” he gasped. “What are you doing up?”
She cocked her head. There was an unsettling brightness to her eyes. “What was that you called me?” she asked.
“What? What do you mean? Your name?”
“Yes.”
“Well. It’s Franny.” George frowned at her. Franny always behaved strangely, but this time it was different: her eyes did not constantly wander, and her voice had lost its quavering dreaminess.
“Franny …” she said quietly. “Is that so?”
“What’s wrong? Why are you up?”
“You’re his son, aren’t you?” she said. “The little boy who came to find him. I remember that.”
�
�Well … I remember meeting you, too. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “For the first time in a long, long while, I’m fine.” She stared around at the huge dark hall. “It is the strangest thing. For so long I thought I was dreaming, and that the real world around me was just an illusion. But now that I’m here, in this dreamy place, everything seems more real than ever.”
“So … you’re feeling better?”
“Better? No. No, I’m not sure I’d say better. But I am feeling, for once.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Go back to bed, boy. Go back, and in the morning everything will be fine.” Then she turned and padded down the hallway. She’d even shed her loopy, weaving way of walking.
He thought about taking her advice, but her behavior was so queer that he couldn’t help but follow her. When he got to the staircase he stood at the top and listened to her footsteps as she walked down. He followed her down, and after several turns and hallways and yet another staircase George realized she was walking toward the sound of the feast.
She went to the same door from earlier, when he’d peeked through at the dining hall. Franny walked in, and George waited before creeping up and peering after. The dining hall was in a similar state as before: every platter had been ravaged, wineglasses had been overturned, and the large punch bowl in the center of the table was cracked and dribbling something purple and thick. Fairies were slouched in their chairs or lay passed out on the ground, moaning or muttering in their sleep, yet even in these disheveled states they still looked flawless and graceful.
Only a few of the revelers were awake: the lady and her entourage. They were all lounging in their chairs as they looked at a solitary figure standing before them. George did not have to look very closely to guess it was Franny.
“ … Would I ever want from you?” the lady was saying.
“Silenus,” said Franny. “I can give him to you.”
“Give him to me?” said the lady. She cocked her head. “As strange as that sounds, and as much as I’d like that, I’m afraid it’s impossible. Neither I nor my agents are allowed to harm Silenus. Didn’t you hear the agreement we made?”
“I heard,” said Franny. “You promised you would never harm him as a reprisal for what happened to your mother. But you wouldn’t be harming him on your behalf.”
“No?”
“No. It would be on mine.”
“Yours? Why would you want him harmed?” said the lady. “You’re a member of his traveling company, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Franny. “I am not. Not me.”
“You aren’t? What do you mean?”
“He has harmed me,” said Franny. “He has harmed me grievously.”
“Harmed you? How?”
Franny was silent. When she spoke, her voice shook. “Do you not recognize me, my lady?”
Ofelia was quiet. Then she sat up very, very slowly. “Are … are you saying you’re …”
Franny nodded.
For the first time since their arrival, Ofelia’s serene superiority broke. She raised a hand to her masked face and shook her head in shock. “Oh … my God,” said the lady. “I … I thought I recognized you, when I first saw you. And when you made your botkine, I was almost sure it looked like someone I knew. But it was so long ago, even for this place …”
“Yes,” said Franny. “It’s been so, so long.”
“I barely remember you. If what you are suggesting is true, then … well. I can understand why you would wish him ill.” The lady considered it. “What would you have me do to him?”
“I want him to suffer, just as I have,” said Franny. “I want him imprisoned or crazed, I want him to spend decades of his life in the same fog and mist that I’ve been lost in. I want him to know what it is that he’s done to me, how he has cursed me, ruined me. I just want him to know. I want him to know my pain. That is all I want.”
Ofelia was very still upon her throne. Her pale face tipped back and forth as she considered it. Then she nodded. “All right,” she said. “He shall know your pain. I’ve already promised that I would help him obtain the next piece of his silly little song, and that is a bargain that must be fulfilled. But after that I will gladly give you what you wish.”
“Thank you,” said Franny. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me,” said the lady. “You have done me many boons already.”
Franny turned to leave. George crept away from the door and hid behind one of the many statues in the house and watched her walk by. He saw her cheeks were coated in tears, and yet once she dried them she did not look sad at all.
After he returned to his room, George sat on his bed, thinking. He was not sure what he had just witnessed. He’d never known Franny to hold a grudge against anyone. Except, he now recalled, she had seemed angry with Silenus once she’d found out about George. And yet what he’d just seen seemed to reference an older, much more horrifying crime.
He wondered what he should do. He knew he should tell his father; or, more specifically, he should want to tell him. Yet he had come to learn many things about his father recently, very few of them pleasant. He had allowed Kingsley to grow crazed. He had wronged Ofelia, and Franny, and Colette (as George resolutely insisted to himself ), and he had also lied to the entire troupe. For years, they had not been maintaining the boundaries between the light and the dark. If anything, they had allowed those boundaries to collapse. Who knew what else he was keeping from everyone?
George knew that in spite of all this he should want to tell his father. It was what a son should do, help his father. Yet in retrospect Silenus had never behaved much like a father at all. He had shown George little love, and had even arranged to have his child humiliated. He was forever distant, and strange, and often cruel. George realized now that out of everyone who’d ever held him back and barred him from success, Silenus was the one who had always been the greatest obstacle, the greatest disappointment, and George discovered he felt hate in his heart for this man. Silenus had everything George had ever wanted, and yet he refused George even the slightest access.
No, George decided. He would not tell him. He told himself it was a matter of responsibility: he could not allow Harry to continue running the troupe like this. There was too much at stake. Once the lady imprisoned Harry (the thought gave him chills, but his conviction held firm) he would tell the troupe what they’d been doing, really been doing, and then …
And then the song would still need to be collected and performed, performed rightly, but, he realized, the only one who could do that was George himself. Besides Harry, he was the only other who could bear the First Song.
It had all gone on too long, he decided miserably. Someone needed to put right what had gone awry. He would have to take his father’s place. It would be a monumental task, but it was one that had to be done. And maybe he would not have to do it alone.
It would be a great performance, would it not, to sing the song of eternity? There was no greater piece to play. And George had always wanted to dominate the theater. Yet he felt no joy at the idea, only terror.
He lay down on his bed and shut his eyes. He was justified, he told himself. This was warranted. And though he would not admit it to himself, all he saw in the dark was that image of Colette, hands placed upon her rib cage, smiling slightly as she fondly remembered some past moment with his father.
CHAPTER 28
The Little Black Island
George slept very lightly, and awoke long before anyone else. He dressed and wandered down to the front foyer to wait for the rest of the troupe. The lady’s house mirrored his mood: every room was large and empty, and there never seemed to be enough light.
The remainder of the troupe came rumbling down the stairs much sooner than George expected, Silenus charging behind them like a shepherd. He was juggling his hat and his coat, and he kept shouting, “It doesn’t matter! Forget about it! We’re not making any stops, we’ve only got to move!”
“But where are we moving to? I thought we’d practically already be at one of the places!” said Colette. She, too, was half-dressed. Apparently Silenus had roused them well before they’d anticipated.
“There are two pieces of the song we’ve had our eye on,” said Silenus. “We’re getting dropped off at one, and then we’re going to have to run like hell to get to the other. We have to take as much advantage of this opening as we can.” He stopped, spotting George. “Oh, there you are. I thought I’d have to chase you down.” He seemed pleased to find he was packed and ready, and said, “Well, at least someone’s on task today. Thank you, my boy.”
George nodded. Silenus threw his arm around him and shouted, “Now step lively! The lady’s already prepared the way for us, but that’s no excuse to drag your heels.”
As they hurried out the front door George glanced back to look at Franny. As usual, she was ensconced to the nose in her drab coats and fraying scarves. All that was visible were her eyes. But rather than dazed they were extraordinarily sharp, and seemed to gleam with some anguish George could not name.
The lady and her entourage were waiting at the start of the path through the wood. Rather than white, she was now dressed in a deep cherry red, complete with a red parasol. Her mask was still white, and with it fixed atop her red figure she made George think of an insect whose color warned predators not to approach.
“Ah,” said the lady. “There you are. We’ve been waiting. I see you all have put your usual amount of thought into your dress.”
“The path is ready?” asked Silenus. “Everything is set?”
“I have moved the path, yes,” said the lady. “For the moment, it ends in a set of woods outside of what is referred to as Lake Logehrin, right at the start of its dam. It will be night there now. If your conclusions are correct—and I should think they are, being as my mother provided the instruments that produced them—your little song rests in a dell in the center of a very small island just off the coast of where you will arrive.”
The Troupe Page 36
