by James Fahy
“I’m fourteen today,” he said amiably. “You must be what? Sixteen? Seventeen? It’s hard to tell really. You’d probably look younger if you weren’t scowling all the time. But then I don’t really know how Fae age. You could be a hundred years old for all I know.”
He speared a rasher of bacon on a fork and wafted it tantalisingly under the sleeping boy's nose.
“Bacon today,” he said hopefully. “Everyone likes bacon, right? If anything’s going to guide you back to the land of the living, it’s going to be delicious … crispy … mouth-watering bacon.”
The silver-haired boy slept on silent and unmoving, apparently unenamoured with bacon.
Robin persisted for a moment, listening to the soft wind outside whistling around the lea of the house. Then he sighed and sat back, dropping the bacon back onto the plate.
It had been a month now since he had discovered Jackalope out on the lake. Deposited by a Grimm for reasons unknown and much more alive than when last they had met. A whole month at Erlking, in this bed, in this quiet room, and he hadn’t woken.
It had taken a lot of convincing of the others to allow him into the house at all. Henry had been astonished. He had assumed Jackalope, the errant Fae who had betrayed them all back in the summer, had perished in the flooded tomb beneath the lake. He had been dead set against taking the turncoat in. They should have driven him to the nearest hospital, he’d said, and washed their hands of him.
Karya had been more practical, as was her usual manner. He wasn’t human for a start, and unlike Robin, he couldn’t pass for one. Questions would surely have been raised at any hospital about a snow white teenager, dressed in fur scraps and with sawn off horn stubs growing out of his head.
Woad had been suspicious, certain that it wasn’t Jackalope at all, but a Grimm hiding under a glamour. Aunt Irene had put that theory to bed with a few glam glam drops. It wasn’t an imposter. It wasn’t a trap. It was just a boy, inexpertly dressed from stab wounds and both unconscious and unresponsive.
Irene, to Robin's surprise, had asked him what he wanted to do. It was his decision, as the Scion, she had explained. Everyone had looked to him. Robin had asked immediately for a room to be prepared, and Hestia, whose healing skills were legendary, had set to work patching the boy up properly.
“It’s lucky for you we had Hestia here, you know,” Robin said now to the Fae in the bed, fully aware that he was only really talking to himself. He had fallen into the habit of chatting away to Jackalope in the past month, holding up both sides of the conversation sometimes. “She might not have the best bedside manner, but she’s good at what she does.” Absently he lifted a sausage from the plate. It was going cold but he munched on it anyway. “She healed me last year too. This was long before we met you. I’d had a run in with Strife’s Skrikers. Bit of a skirmish in an airship out over the ocean in the Netherworlde – long story. She’s done wonders with your stab wound. Especially considering that when Peryl stuck the knife in, she gave it a bloody good twist too.” Robin had been present for the treatment, and winced now at the recollection. It had been the first time he’d seen Hestia open a wound. Considering how prissy and fussy she was about little things like house dust, she hadn’t batted an eye about being elbow-deep in blood.
“Look, Sleeping Beauty,” Robin said. “Everyone here thinks you’re a lost cause. You’ve been asleep forever, you know. It’s a good job there are magical ways to get nutrients and things into you otherwise you’d be in a hospital somewhere with a tube down your nose right now. Lucky us Fae are hardy folk, eh?”
Jackalope didn’t argue with this.
“You’re at Erlking,” Robin told him for the hundredth time. “You know that, right? I know you can hear me in there, you stubborn, sulky sod.” He looked around the quiet room. Dust was dancing, caught in the sunbeams from the tall windows, a silent maelstrom of peaceful, suspended gold. The room smelled of beeswax polish. It was calm and comforting. “What I mean to say is, you’re safe here. Safer than anywhere else anyway.” He glanced down, and lowered his voice. “It’s safe to come out. No-one hates you.”
He considered this for a moment. “Well …” he shrugged. “Maybe …”
Henry had told Robin more than a few times over the past few weeks that he was wasting his time. Whatever Peryl had done to Jackalope, he seemed damaged beyond repair. And he’d been pretty damaged when they’d met him already. Living in the wilds, hiding in caves and scraping out a life alone in the snow.
Robin didn’t know if Henry was right or not. All he knew was that whatever bad decisions the older Fae had made, they had been made from fear, not spite. Jackalope had saved his life, when Peryl had been about to kill him out on the snow. It seemed only fair that he return the favour now. They were both Fae after all, and although they didn’t seem to have anything in common, at least they could potentially bond over the fact that the same girl had tried to kill them both at some point.
“Peryl brought you here for a reason,” he said to the comatose boy. “Brought you to me, specifically, I think. It’s hard to explain. I know she’s a Grimm, I know she’s my enemy. But still … something happened with the shard when it broke in two. Something with Peryl and me, and I can’t make sense of it. I could really use someone to talk about it with.”
This had been a circular and one-sided conversation Robin had been having day after day. He was nothing if not persistent.
“Nothing?” he said hopefully. Still no response. “Well then …” he sighed. “I hope you’re dreaming something good at least, wherever you are. Hard to tell from that scowl. I barely know you, that could be your super-happy face for all I know, right?”
Robin stood, stretching. In one last attempt, he leaned in dramatically and whispered. “If you don’t wake up soon, I’m going to have Hestia come back and give you another sponge bath. Do you seriously want that? I’d rather be stabbed again if I were you.”
Even this horrifying prospect didn’t elicit the slightest fluttering of an eyelash from the older boy. He may well have been carved from marble.
Robin stood up straight, trying not to feel deflated. “Have it your way," he said quietly. “In your own time, Jack. I have birthday stuff to do. If you want some cake, we’re all just downstairs.”
FATES AND FOPS
There was indeed cake, a feast and much making of merry later that day, but before the party events, Robin was called to the entrance hall by Mr Drover.
Karya, Woad and Henry were elsewhere, no doubt still in the kitchens trying frantically to repair the chaotic damage before the return of Hestia. Drover was standing by the large doors, hands clasped behind his back. Robin couldn’t help but notice that the portly man had on his smartest tweed jacket, and his hair, the tufty wisps of which were usually wild around his ears below his balding head, had been carefully combed. He seemed to be making a smart effort.
“There you are, lad,” he said as Robin descended the stairs. “How’s the patient? No change?”
Robin shook his head. “Still sleeping like a baby,” he said. He considered this for a moment. “Well, a big, angry-looking baby, that is. Did you need me for something? I was going to find the others and help tidy before Hestia gets back.”
Drover shook his head, beckoning Robin down the stairs fussily. “No, no time for that now. We’ll have to hope the others have done a good job, and the faun and its pet are out of sight," he said. “Your aunt and her guests are back. I saw the car coming up the drive just now. You’re the young master of the house. You need to be here to greet them. That’s proper that is.” He looked over Robin a little critically. Robin was relieved that he had changed out of his pyjamas. He was in dark jeans and a black sweater against the nippy September air.
“You’ll pass muster I suppose,” Drover allowed. “Can you not do anything about that hair though, give it a brush or something? You’re as bad as my Henry. Look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”
Robin self-consciousl
y ran his fingers through his hair, certain it wasn’t stuck up quite as bad as Mr Drover's tone suggested. He had a horrible mental image of the man dragging a comb and hair oil through his head, plastering it down into a blonde, super neat side parting so that he looked like one of those rosy-cheeked singing children from the Sound of Music. He shivered involuntarily at the thought.
“Isn’t this a bit old fashioned?” he asked, worriedly checking himself in the long mirror at the foot of the stairs. “I mean, all the staff lined up outside the house, that’s the sort of thing you read about in Pride and Prejudice.”
Drover grumbled into his moustache. “There ain’t no expiry date on good manners, my lad,” he insisted, ushering Robin towards the great double doors. “And I’ve as much idea as you do as to who’s come calling, so best foot forward and all that. Your aunt will appreciate the effort, she will.”
It was a crisp and clear morning outside. High blue skies dotted with thin wisps of woolly clouds soared over the great grey stone pile of Erlking Hall. The grassy hills before the house led down to the woods and village beyond, the leaves of the trees already beginning ever so slightly to turn. In a week, Robin thought, the woods of Erlking would be a riot of autumn colour, burnished golds and reds. Right now, the only hint that the season had turned was the chill in the bright air as he stood at the foot of the steps beside Mr Drover. They watched a car appear from the tunnel of trees which led up the hill, and crawl its stately way along the gravel to the turning circle in front of the house.
It wasn’t Mr Drovers car, which was a beat up old thing. This car was black and old fashioned, but perfectly preserved, waxed and polished to within an inch of its life. It looked, to Robin’s untrained eye, a little like a funeral car.
“Well blow me,” Drover muttered quietly, giving him a surreptitious nudge in the ribs. “That’s a vintage phantom, that is!” Henry's father had rather a mania for old cars. “A 1929 Brewster Phantom one, Henly Roadster. Good nick too. Whoever it is, they must be pretty lah-di-dah.”
Robin nodded, deciding not to point out the fact that they all spent most of their time in a huge sprawling mansion.
The car came to a halt at the foot of the steps before them, and Drover made to jump down and open the back doors. Before he could though, the driver emerged, slamming the door heartily behind him.
“No no, my good fellow! I wouldn’t hear of it! Too kind! Altogether too kind, but please, the pleasure is mine!”
He was a tall and bright man, all twinkling merry eyes and grinning teeth. His hair was a strange streaky mixture of orange, red and blonde, sweeping foppishly atop his head like a sculpted flame.
“It is my absolute and undying pleasure to be not only the conveyer of these fine ladies, but also the prostrate servant eager to serve in all things!” the driver said with a beaming smile and a wink. He had, Robin noticed with interest, the most dramatic waxed moustache and beard he had ever seen. The beard was carefully shaped into a point, and the long moustache was waxed into flamboyant upward curls. The man came around the front of the car at a trot, giving the bonnet a friendly double-pat, as though it were a horse, and crossed energetically to the door Drover had been aiming for.
His clothing, Robin thought, was as odd and theatrical as his face and hair. He was dressed like a dandy from another time. High riding boots, a waistcoat of cream which was positively drowning in gold swirling embroidery, and over this, an elaborate tailed frock coat of brightest crimson. This too, Robin saw, was trimmed with swirls of gold all over. The man even had great lacy cuffs at his wrists.
He gripped the door and opened it, bowing deeply and theatrically. “My most ardent apologies for the bumpy ride, ladies.” He grinned into the dark interior. “Blasted country roads, you know. One does get so used to driving in town. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.”
Robin's Great Aunt Irene stepped from the back of the car, taking the fop's proffered hand with natural grace.
Irene was an old woman of glacial poise and calm dignity. Her fluid exit from the car made the man seem even more animated and swaggering in comparison. She was wearing a long pale gown and a great grey fur stole, bundled around her shoulders against the air. She shrugged this up on her shoulders as he released her hand. Robin saw she was a good foot taller than the man. He was not short, Irene was a spire of a woman.
“Yes, thank you, Silas,” she said crisply. “One is quite capable of getting out of a vehicle without assistance, although your eager gallantry is, of course, appreciated as always.”
She gave him a respectful nod and glanced to Robin.
“You are awake, my young ward,” she said in greeting. “Many happy returns of the day to you.” She indicated the driver. “This is an associate of mine who will be staying with us for a while, Silas Ffoulkes. And these …are our other guests, the sisters Eumenides.”
A strange and sudden chill ran down Robin’s spine, like an ice cube down the collar, and he whirled. Standing behind him on the steps were three women. Or at least he guessed they were women. The word ‘apparitions’ seemed more suitable in his opinion. He hadn’t seen them step out of the car. In fact, he couldn’t see any way they could have left the car without him noticing them, but there they were all the same.
The three figures were clad head to toe in long, greying robes, every inch covered with tattered lacework like decaying funeral garb. Their heads and faces were entirely covered with similar veils. They were identical. Standing silently on the steps with their hands clasped before them in their long sleeves. They were ghastly. The ghost of Miss Havisham in triplicate.
“Mr Ffoulkes and the sisters are Panthea. Resident here in the mortal world. They have business of their own in the Netherworlde,” Irene explained, speaking lightly as though oblivious to Robin's horrified wide-eyed stare. “The sisters require safe passage, and Mr Ffoulkes has been kind enough to offer to escort them. He is here also at my request for matters we shall come to later. They will be staying with us here at Erlking until Halloween. I trust you will make them all feel welcome.”
“Halloween?” Robin asked anxiously, looking from the ghoulish women to the strange, bright man.
“When the stars align,” said one of the sisters, in a muttered hiss like dry paper, her face invisible beneath the lace.
“And the veil between the worlds is thin,” one of her companions added, though Robin could not readily say which had spoken.
“That is the best time to move between the worlds,” added the third ominously. “Without drawing the unwanted attention …”
A dry autumn wind blew leaves softly across the stone steps, rustling in the silence. Robin noticed the sisters’ clothing didn't stir in the breeze.
“Plus, I hear your lovely aunt puts on a jolly good spread,” the man added, in a much brighter tone. “Wouldn’t want to miss that, would we?” He grinned, his curling moustache bobbing as he wiggled his eyebrows playfully. He stuck out his hand to Robin. “Honour to meet you, Scion of the Arcania. Dashed good of you to have us crash at the old pile.”
Robin shook the hand of the strange Mr Ffoulkes. It was very hot.
“Um … pleasure,” Robin stammered.
Irene closed the car door behind her firmly, and Robin couldn’t tell if it was only his own imagination, but she seemed to be giving the energetic Mr Ffoulkes a slightly disapproving look. “Shall we go inside?” she said lightly. “It’s none too clement and frankly, I, for one, could do with a nice cup of tea.”
Robin thought he must have imagined the glare. Why would Aunt Irene invite someone to stay if she didn’t like them, after all? He glanced a little nervously at the odd silent women. But then again, who in their right mind would invite such creepy women to visit at all? Hestia appeared from the other side of the car, looking very business-like and carrying luggage, which Mr Drover dutifully bounded down the stairs to help her with.
The three ghoulish sisters leaned in to one another, muttering and whispering, then s
traightened up.
“There is a great darkness in this house,” the middle one said, in an ominous rasp. “It seems small, but it grows in secret … There are many secrets here.”
Irene blinked her sharp eyes, looking rather unconcerned. “Well yes … be that as it may, there is also tea. Shall we?”
*
There had been a short but heated argument, conducted in sharp whispers between Drover and Hestia in the inner hallway about who should be carrying bags, after which Mr Drover disappeared upstairs with the luggage, presumably to prepare guest rooms for these strange and incongruous visitors, and Hestia scuttled off to make tea. Irene spirited the strange ghostly sisters and Mr Ffoulkes off to the parlour, instructing Robin to make himself presentable and that dinner would be served at four. As she showed the elaborately-dressed man and his dour companions from the hall into a sitting room, she had turned and leaned down to Robin, a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her voice was very low, so that only he heard what she muttered to him.
“A necessary evil, this man,” she told him. “Not a danger, only a pest, but be on your guard, my boy. And for heaven’s sake, keep your faun out of sight and out of earshot until Halloween. It’s best young Woad’s presence here remain unknown. Magpies do covet so those things that shine.”
She straightened up, giving him a wink so subtle, even Robin himself was unsure he had really seen it.
“Dinner at four,” she repeated, in her normal voice.
Taking this as a cue to get out from under everyone’s feet, he went in search of Henry and the others, to share the news of the new arrivals.
*
“What, like actual ghosts?” Henry said, frowning. Robin had found the older boy in one of the attic rooms, empty of everything but mothballs, with mismatched wooden boards on the floor and ceiling, some of which had been inexplicably painted white, and a lingering smell of pine-needles. The two boys were now sitting on the floor at opposite walls, idly throwing a tennis ball back and forth to one another across the empty space.
