Chalice of Roses

by Jo Beverley

  Urgently, she ran upstairs and flung the window open. “You’ll be all right,” she said, as if it were some being that could hear her, and brushed the snow from the petals. The edges were marked, as if something had hit them, leaving behind thin brown stripes.

  If it continued to snow, the rose would be dead by morning, and Alice couldn’t bear it. For a moment she considered finally clipping it, but that would certainly end the magic.

  Instead, from her desk, she took a sheet of paper and some string, and constructed a makeshift shelter for it, securing it to the vine.

  That should keep it safe. For one more night, anyway.

  When the clock—the clock that had narrated his own childhood and still rang out the hours in the manor hall—struck midnight, William found himself at the window of the bedroom once more. Within, a lamp burned, and he could see the top of Alice’s dark head, bent over her books. She had fallen asleep, her cheek against the page. Vast tenderness filled him. He opened the window quietly and entered, bringing with him a trail of snow.

  Tonight her hair was loose, falling in thick tumbles over her arm and back. In contrast, her skin was as thin and white as milk. Her black lashes and brows and the scarlet of her rose-shaped mouth gave the only color.

  He felt he knew her. Only a taste of her mouth and she had roused a vivid hunger in him, a hunger to hold her in his arms and listen to her laughter. And yet he was reluctant to disturb her.

  Over her shoulder he saw the diagrams and notes she made to herself, a plan to steal into the fairy realm and rescue him. With approval, he noted the protective measures she had written down, and next to the list, there sat the rue and the bracelet of yew he’d given her, and a bowl of untouched berries. But where was the apple? He would procure another.

  In dark letters she’d written, Grail?

  He was not allowed to tell her directly, but she had given him the means to assist her. Moving quietly, he stepped closer and picked up her pen. A wave of scent rose from her, and William longed to bend and press a kiss to the smooth white flesh of her nape. He steeled himself against temptation and drew her a map of sorts.

  Then he backed away in the silence. Perhaps this would be the last time he would see her. Perhaps she would fail, or lose heart, or be unable to find the Grail. Another chance lost to him, and a sentence of another two score years in the realm of fairy.

  Dear God, he could not bear it.

  And perhaps for that reason, he could not seem to depart. He sank to his knees beside her and took her fingers in his own and kissed the very tips, feeling her stir slightly, then jolt upright. “William!” she said. “I have been worried about you! Where did you go?”

  Her warm human fingers, small and kind, touched a bruise on his cheekbone that he had acquired on his last foray into the mortal realm, and his heart ached with the tenderness. “There is some enchantment on me when I walk in the world,” he said. “I must drink from the Grail, or I will die on this side of the world.” In sudden emotion he bent his head to her lap, wordless and hungry.

  “I will not fail, William,” she whispered, putting her hands on his hair, and for the first time in more centuries than he cared to recall, he wanted to weep. Instead he straightened and, with a fierceness that burned him, took her face in his hands and kissed her with all the hunger of his desire to escape, the longing for the mortal realm, the endless loneliness of the world he could escape, only rarely, like this.

  “Do not,” he said fiercely, feeling her arms around his waist. “Dear Alice, do not fail, and I vow I will never fail you.” And then he gave himself up to her, tasting her mortal lips and mortal breasts, and feeling her human skin sliding against his, hearing her very human cries as they joined, feeling the very human spilling of his own seed into her waiting womb.

  Grateful, he departed before dawn, leaving her fast asleep. “Do not fail,” he whispered against her forehead, and pressed a kiss to her brow.

  Chapter 7

  Alice stirred as morning crept, pale and bluish with snow, into her bedroom. Beneath her heavy duvet and the cro cheted afghan of roses she moved her limbs and felt—Naked!

  She sat upright, memory flooding in—William’s grace and elegance, his fierceness when he kissed her, his hunger as he took her, the force of his loneliness and longing a thing she burned to assuage.

  He was gone, but on the pillow next to her own was a single yellow rose. Horrified, Alice was afraid she had cut the rose by her window, but when she gathered the afghan around herself and dashed into the cold to see, it was still there in its temporary housing of paper and string, blooming anew. Unable to resist, she opened the casement and removed the shelter, then bent her head into its petals, drinking in the bright lemon fragrance. The petals had lost their battered look overnight and even seemed to be edged with a line of vivid pink she had never noticed before.

  Beyond the window was a vast winter landscape painted in shades of white and gray and diamond frost, smoke steaming up from roofs and chimneys. She could see the tree in the center of the field, and it merely looked like a tree. Absently, she bent to smell the rose one more time, thinking—

  The rose! William and the rose.

  Lightly she touched the petals with the tip of one finger, her memory tumbling with images of him last night—his ripe mouth and tender hands, his heart-wrenching sigh of completion, the way he collapsed against her.

  Do not fail.

  The words came back to her, and with firmness she closed the window and went back to the table where she had left her notes. She must find the Grail!

  And there, on her notes, was an arrow, pointing from the circle she had drawn around the word Grail to the window.

  The window.

  The rose.

  The rue, planted at the doorway in a long line beneath the window, to protect the Grail from the fey.

  She scrambled through her ablutions, donning a heavy sweater, and thick socks beneath her jeans. Further protected with coat and gloves, she headed out to the garden to examine the earth beneath her window.

  The snow was only a few powdery inches deep, nothing like what she was used to back in Chicago, but she was smart enough to know that the ground would be too hard to dig. If the Grail was in the earth, how would she ever get it out?

  Frowning, she folded her arms. That didn’t even make sense. If it were buried, someone would have found it by now, and England being the land of gardeners, anyone who hid it would not have risked discovery in such a fashion. Stepping back as far as the wall, she looked at the outside of the manor house for possible clues.

  Made of gray stone, the house rose three stories. Her portion was entered through a door that had obviously once been a side door into an anteroom of some sort, perhaps a cloakroom. That had been transformed into her kitchen, and then were the stairs into the main portion, where her beautiful bedroom/sitting room overlooked the garden from the window seat.

  Alice narrowed her eyes, thinking of the pillows and the bench there. Surely after all these years, someone would have found it if it were beneath the window seat. . . .

  But not if no one had ever been looking.

  She went back inside and dashed up the stairs and pulled all the pillows from the bench seat. It appeared to be solid, with no hinges or betraying hardware, the top carved of a single thick plank of oak. She ran her hands over it end to end, feeling for an irregularity or indentation that might be a clue to a secret panel, but found nothing. Undaunted, she carefully examined the grain of the wood, looking for variation in color or whorl or anything at all.

  That was how she found the star. It was a natural occurrence in the grain of the wood, but very clearly a four-pointed star. When she glanced up at the window, she saw that the rose bloomed directly over it.

  With a cry of glee, she took the lamp from the desk and brought it over to the bench to see if there were some answer to how to open it. She pressed and poked at anything that seemed as if it might hold a lever, but nothing happened.


  There had to be an answer. She looked around the room for clues, and examined the rowan walking stick for carvings, and thought back over everything in the ballad. Nothing.

  Which left William’s arrow. Had it been pointing to the window seat? Or—

  She reached over and unlatched the window, feeling along the wall where the rose was growing—fully open now in the freezing cold—and found a latch. Stiff with disuse, it wouldn’t move, but when Alice found a wrench and pulled, there was a distinct click. Stepping away, she gently felt along the window seat. The section beneath the star creaked when she pulled it upward, and finally opened to reveal a very dusty hole.

  And there was an object wrapped in fragile silk that seemed untouched by time. Brushing away the cobwebs, she reached inside with shaking hands. Her fingers curled around the body of the object, a stem and a bowl, a goblet.

  Could it really be the Grail?

  With a pounding heart, she untwined the silk covering it, and revealed a simple gold cup, the only detail a carving of roses around the lip. It seemed extraordinarily warm, and she knew that it was what she had hoped to find.

  Do not fail.

  “I will not fail,” she said aloud. “I will not.”

  A woman who was going to do battle with the fey would need a good breakfast, and Alice took the time to boil a pair of eggs and prepare a nice thick slice of toast with butter, along with a hefty pot of tea. One didn’t want to go into Summerland with an empty stomach, after all; that much seemed plain. As she ate, she reviewed her plan and the things she would need to carry with her. The only thing she lacked was an apple. She had fed it to William when he was so hungry.

  So again she called on Mrs. Leigh. Knocking on the door next to her own in the hallway, she hoped the old woman was warm enough. The hall was drafty.

  “Good morning, dear!” Mrs. Leigh said, opening the door. Although it was not yet eight, her hair was neatly pinned back in a bun, and she wore a uniform of gray skirt and white blouse and dark blue cardigan. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I have a rather pressing errand and I need an apple. I remembered that you had some the other day when we met in the field. Any chance you have one left?”

  “I do. Come in, girl.” As she headed for the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, “Come have a cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you,” Alice said, but found herself drawn more deeply into the room. It smelled of cinnamon and something more exotic, sweet and sultry. “I really should be going.”

  “You’ll need tea,” she said firmly.

  Alice acquiesced. “All right,” she said, sitting primly at the chrome-and-Formica table stuck into a corner of the rather large kitchen. “Thank you, that’s very nice.”

  Mrs. Leigh brought over a cup that smelled of thyme. “It won’t be the most pleasing tea, but it will fortify you for . . . the cold.”

  “Oh.” Alice narrowed her eyes, thinking of all the ways the old woman had protected and helped her since she had arrived. Like a guardian angel, or a magic protector.

  “And here is the apple you will need.” Mrs. Leigh put down a giant red apple, as big as the one Alice had before.

  “Is it you who has been leaving things for me?” Alice said, finally understanding.

  “Some of it. Not all. Only little things to keep you safe. It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”

  “Is there a way to defend myself physically? Can a fairy be wounded? Or killed?”

  “Not exactly, and not at your level of understanding, lass.” From a closet she brought out a cloak of green wool. “But I’ve made this for you to help keep you safe and accomplish your desire.”

  “Who are—”

  Mrs. Leigh tapped her index finger against her lips. “Shh-shh. None of that now.” Bustling around the kitchen, she produced a tidy cake wrapped in waxed paper and tied with string. “You’ll need this, as well.”

  “Cake?”

  “I am very good with cake, you know.”

  Alice laughed. “So you are.”

  “Drink up now,” the old woman said. “Be on your way.”

  In the cold, still morning, Alice set out with her rucksack. She wore the green cloak that was remarkably warm and boasted pockets into which she could slip the sloan fruits William had left for her in case of hunger, and the apple as an offering if she should need it. She carried the walking stick of rowan to protect her, and wore a rose in her hair and forget-me-nots in a posy tied around her neck. The bracelet of yew would help her see the fey.

  Everything according to legend.

  As she walked across the snowy field, its sparkly crispness unbroken beneath a gray sky, she had to admit to a slight feeling of ridiculousness. She was dressed for a play, billowing along with her heavy pockets and walking stick. The snow soaked her feet and ankles, and her breath hung in clouds. In the distance, the church bell rang the hour.

  And for a moment, Alice felt transported not to another land, but another time. William’s time, a less complicated, less hurried era. The horse in the distance wore a blanket over his shoulders today, and the birds twittered everywhere but in the queen’s tree.

  She didn’t know what to do. Now that she was so close to it, it looked like any other elm tree in the world. She walked around it, noticing that the snow had melted beneath it, but there was no door to the other side that she could see, no marking.

  And then, startling her, she saw a young man, beautiful and glossy, like a young lion. “Good morrow,” he said with a slight ironic tip of his head. “Do you have a gift for me?”

  “I do.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the apple, offering it from the center of her palm as one would make an offering to a horse. Was she afraid of teeth?

  He plucked it from her hand. “Very pretty,” he said, biting into it even as he looked Alice over. Then he bowed. “You may pass.”

  And in front of her was another world. Right next to the elm tree glowed the exact landscape she stood in on this side, but it was summer there. The horse in the distance flicked his tail lazily, and on the horizon gleamed . . .

  She stepped through the portal, drawn by the promise of a beautiful town in the distance.

  Immediately everything shifted. The smell of flowers and honey scented the air, and a blaze of summer sunlight cascaded through the full bloom of the trees, so thickly yellow it almost seemed a liquid. In the distance were the same rooftops and spires that she saw from the same vantage point on the other side, but the roofs were thatched, the spires glittery, as if made of crystal. Trees hung heavy with fruit: apples and peaches and cherries in such abundance they fell in ripe splendor to the earth. From somewhere came a piercingly sweet song.

  Alice found herself falling into the sound of those notes, her feet setting out all on their own to find the source, in a direction that led to a deep green wood. She imagined pausing to gather peaches, and taking a long drink of the chuckling water and stretching out in the grass for a wee nap—

  From the corner of her eye, she spied a flock of birds, feathers flashing turquoise and emerald, and when she turned, just fast enough, they morphed into bats that flew away with nasty sharp noises.

  Gripping her stick, she swallowed and tapped it against the ground to remind herself that it was all illusory, the perfection and the seduction. The fey—or perhaps only the queen—wanted the Grail she carried, wanted William for their own nefarious ends.

  The thought of William steadied her. His piercing loneliness, his deep hunger for all things human, made her want to help. She had fallen under his spell, it was true, and perhaps he did not love her in return. The thought gave her a twisting sensation in her belly, but even that would not distract her just now.

  Later. There was time enough for that later.

  Where would she find him?

  Turning in a little circle, she realized this seemed to be simply a replication of the other world, a more beautiful, more sensual version, one
that showed no wear and tear, but the same world nonetheless. If she were to find William, where would he be?

  At the manor house, of course.

  She set out walking, taking from her pocket a couple of the sloan fruits to nibble, just in case. The peaches, lying in rosy temptation in the long green grass, were still difficult to resist, and it seemed her throat was parched to the deepest level a person could be thirsty.

  And yet, she had only just had her tea, hadn’t she? Illusion. All illusion to tempt her. The bracelet of yew helped her see the truth.

  There was no one about, and the lack of confrontation began to make Alice nervous. Was she simply to walk in, pour wine into the Grail cup for William to drink, then walk away again?

  An elegant Siamese cat slid from the hedgerow as she approached the bridge over the moat. He had a long nose and a black tail and jeweled sapphire eyes. “Hello, mortal,” he said in a surprisingly attractive voice. “Where are you bound?”

  As if it were perfectly normal for cats to speak, Alice said, “Only to the manor house. What is your name?”

  “I have no name to tell a mortal,” he said, and nimbly leapt to the stone railing, ran ahead of her and turned into a lithe and elegantly dark-skinned fairy with stunning blue eyes. “Would you like to come have a meal with me?” From his pockets or the air or some magical envelope in the summery day, he produced a golden bottle of mead.

  A dizziness overtook her, longing and thirst, and she imagined the mead that William had brought, honey wine flavored with the long afternoons of a good season. And the fairy with his silky hair and long blue eyes and smooth skin was a temptation, too, the way he cocked his head, and the promise on his lips.

  She closed her eyes, gripped her rowan stick, thought of William. From her pocket she took Mrs. Leigh’s cake. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said respectfully, “but I am on an errand. Might I trade this cake for your fine bottle?”

  “I might be persuaded.”

  She held out her hand, and then the fairy grabbed the cake, turned back into a cat with a long tail and dashed away. The wine was perched on the stone bridge, and Alice reached for it. Then she hesitated. What if even this was enchanted?