Silver Hollow

by Jennifer Silverwood

Tipping his hat again to her, he draped his cape round his shoulders securely and said, “Aye, suppose so, miss! But a Lady such as you shouldn’t handle so heavy a burden. Eddie! Ye fool lad, get round and do your job!”

  Amie bit back a grin as the carriage shook slightly and from behind stepped a fancily dressed boy who seemed ten years her junior. A cap constrained the thick ruddy hair falling over his brow. When he lifted his chin, his eyes flittered to meet her bold stare. He bowed his head low, before she could get a better look. Stretching out his gloved hands, the boy only seemed to relax the moment she proffered her luggage.

  “Aye, there’s a good lad,” the driver said. “You’ll have to forgive him, miss. Had an accident when he was a wee scant thing he did. Never been the same since.” He smiled good-naturedly. Eddie moved to stand beside the open carriage door, though she hadn’t heard him load anything in the few seconds she checked her saddlebag.

  “Sure, thanks,” she said. She began to step down from the platform, yet paused when she realized the old driver was still watching her closely and frowned. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  His surprise was quickly washed away by a toothy grin before he answered, “Slaine Cutterworthy at your humble service, Lady Wenderdowne. And might I say ’tis indeed an honor to finally meet the Emerald Eyes again.”

  “Um, thanks. And the name’s Wentworth, by the way.”

  Slaine winked and said, “As you wish, Lady Wenderdowne.”

  Despite the overall oddness of the situation Amie found herself in, something warmed in her chest at the old man’s words. So what if he had lost all his marbles and got her last name confused with the name of their destination? With this thought in mind Amie shifted her saddlebag over her shoulder and realized the earth was still soggy from the recent rains. Evidence of it was glued to her Converse now. Should she take her shoes off first?

  She paused to grin at Eddie, who still refused to meet her eyes, and blinked stupidly down at the silvery step leading up into the shadowed box of the carriage. All thought of muddy sneakers was furiously wiped away. Stamped plainly before her eyes was the same interweaving knot as on the lost key and her father’s ring.

  …

  Slaine Cutterworthy loved his job. Though with a name like Slaine Cutterworthy she was amazed he was able to enjoy much of anything at all. She could tell he loved his job because he had taken to singing loud songs most of the journey through the hilly North Country. And though his musical talent didn’t exceed more than a handful of G clef notes, Amie soon found she didn’t mind it so much.

  The horses were oddly silent and the tread of the carriage wheels soft as dancing on cotton. The journey might have lasted an hour or maybe twenty minutes. Either way she was certain they had passed through some dark tunnel and the land ever since then refused to make geographical sense. Rather than seeing the beginnings of endless heather-swept moors, stout trees hugged the road instead. What seemed to be fireflies occasionally danced in and out of the inky blackness of the forest beyond. Amie could have sworn they were trotting faster than this snail’s pace her vision granted. Her cold fingers gripped the dark leather seat, feet braced against the fine panel wood, and for a moment the carriage tipped to the left before rocking back onto its four wheels in a sudden halt. They were turned so Amie’s window faced the long straight road, the strange blinking forest banking either side.

  “Hurry along, ye mangy waif!” Slaine grumbled.

  Amie edged to the other end of her seat, near to the carriage door, and reached out for the handle, only to realize there was none on her side. “What kind of—Ah!” She jumped back when Eddie’s face filled the window. While she got a handle on her nerves, the carriage door opened and a white hand waited in front of it palm up. Hand still clutching her scar, right above the cool metal of her ring, Amie shook her head and murmured, “Like a frigging haunted house…” To Eddie’s downturned face she remarked, “You people ought to check your creeper meter, you know.”

  He made no move to answer, only released her hand as soon as her shoes met solid ground. She could already tell he didn’t like her very much.

  Eddie had disappeared around the end of the buggy and was now carrying her luggage into the misty shadows ahead.

  “Told ye not to mind the waif,” Slaine offered overhead.

  Amie twisted round and found her driver sitting at ease with his reins, a small lantern held up to his face. The fog clouded everything until only his pale eyes and generous grin were visible among his ghostly features. “Never will be right in the head, that one,” he added.

  Amie smiled, relieved to find at least one friendly face. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Cutterworthy.”

  He bowed low, edge of his top hat sliding forward as he said, “Always a servant of the Wenderdownes. ’Tis an especial wonder to serve ye.” After a brief pause he gestured with his free hand and called, “Eh! Boy! Get on with you! What have I told ye about dallying in your duty?” Slaine held the lantern forward, edges of the gold halo denting the fog.

  When she turned the black mist came suddenly to life, unveiling the scene before them. She stood at the base of an earthen path meeting the high stair and open doors of the largest house she had ever seen. Candles winked alive from many of the high windows. A set of columns held up the stone arch braced above the high doorframe and flowered vines clung to everything from tower to parapet.

  “Where’s the moat?” she breathed aloud in wonder.

  “Oh, that old thing?” Slain remarked with a chuckle. “Wasn’t much use really after the new order took charge. Master thought of a better way to shun interlopers, if ye take my meaning.” With another low chuckle and slap of his reins the wheels creaked as they turned.

  Amie couldn’t tear her gaze from the great house. The manor doors were slowly parting to reveal an endless candelabra-lit hall. She twisted her head once more to catch a glimpse of Slaine’s retreating eye. “You’re leaving?” she asked in a small voice.

  Slaine threw his head back with a laugh. “Oh aye! Don’t expect us to be setting foot in there, carriage and all, do ye? Ha! I told you, Eddie, lad, didn’t I? She’s sharp as a stick and twice as bendy!” Another snap of the reins and the carriage lantern faded back into the fog. Eddie clung to the back end, watching her with steely eyes. Yet his cap hid his features once more and all Amie caught was what looked like the gleam of flames in darkness.

  Facing the light of her path, she gasped to find a tall silhouette of a man waiting for her at the head of the worn marble stair. As she took the steps to meet him she couldn’t shake the sudden leap in her pulse, the rush of all she had just done to be standing here, or the odd impression of homecoming rather than the rational fear she should have felt.

  At last they stood facing one another. With his back to the candlelight and his grin gleaming white, he was the opposite of her preconceived notions. She had expected some white-haired older man. Instead he stood a head and a half taller than she, his frame youthful and defined as he spread his arms wide to welcome her. For a long moment he said nothing, until she wondered if they were at the right place.

  “Uncle Henry?” she dared to ask.

  “Jessamiene!” the tall man exclaimed.

  She was lifted up in the warmest, strongest embrace she’d known. Clearly this was not the decrepit older brother Amie had imagined. His laugh was young and he swept her off her feet with ease before setting her to rights again. Before she knew it she was ushered into the landing and held before him at arm’s length. Behind them, the castle-sized doors closed with a faint hiss.

  Amie was struck in the moment her uncle studied her and she him. His black hair, darker than hers, was cropped short to avoid the curl and without the slightest hint of gray. Apart from the strange knee-length overcoat and Edwardian shirttail and breeches and boots, Uncle Henry, who was older than her father would have been, could pass easily for his mid-thirties. His furrowed brow smoothed and as though shaken from a trance, he said, “Good Sidhe, you
’re huge! Never did I dare hope to see those eyes again!” He shook his head, gray eyes gleaming with unshed tears. On bated breath he finished, “And yet here you stand, dear one…”

  “Uncle Henry,” she said with a weary grin.

  “Ah, forgive me, my dear. I forget the hour is late. You must be exhausted from your journey. Come, I had Rachel prepare your rooms.”

  “Rooms?”

  “Well, you didn’t expect to sleep in the stables, did you now?” He grabbed hold of a nearby candelabrum as they passed its oak perch and turned to hold out a proffered arm. “You did, eh? Well, I suppose the animals would welcome you.”

  Amie stared blankly at him, too tired and emotionally strung out at this point to catch on.

  With a roll of his eyes which eerily resembled her own favorite expression, he took another step back to meet her. Smiling, he said, “Come along, my dear. Forgive my shenanigans but I’m quite ready to forget my fears now you’re here. I’ve had my people watching over you for some time, and your way has not been without its dangers. Believe it or not, you’ll never be safer than you are under this roof.”

  One by one the lights winked out behind them. This house was older than any plantation she had visited in the South, from its dark wood paneling and obscure tapestries to the occasional marble columns. With only Uncle Henry’s candlelight to guide their way, she could only see bits and pieces. Past the luminous glow circling round them everything was gray and shadowed. Gargoyles occasionally gaped at her amid stranger sculpted creatures etched in the rafters above. No other sound marred the mansion’s disconcerting silence, other than the shuffle of her Converse on carpet. Even Uncle Henry moved silently, lost to his thoughts, his dark gray eyes fixed ahead in concentration.

  They could have walked for an hour or a minute. Time and space felt strange here, like it had in the carriage, because after only a couple of twists and turns they had arrived. Her suite door was made of ash wood, with a glass knocker bolted in below the tarnished nameplate. She narrowed her eyes to read it but the letters jumbled together, flipped upside down and wiggled. Amie blamed the illusion on jetlag. Uncle Henry’s softer tone startled her thoughts.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Everything has been made up. If you have need of anything, call for Rachel and she will see to it.” He paused only to light the candle stick beside her door post, and then looked over her one last time. His face filled with warmth, yet his luminous eyes were strained with faint sorrow. Henry looked at her as if to reassure himself of her existence, then smiled. “Good night, Jessamiene,” he said before leaving the way they had come.

  “Where are you going?” she called back, eyes darting either way down the empty passage. Besides a few freaky wardrobes and a dingy attic, this was not at all how she had envisioned Uncle Henry’s country estate. She had pictured something more akin to a bed-and-breakfast and a barn filled with animals, not a mansion…castle…thing.

  Stiffening, he craned his neck, eyes wide as if startled by her voice, an unreadable expression on his face. Against the play of light and shadows he suddenly seemed much older. “Are you not tired, my dear?”

  “Um…yeah, a little bit. But I only just—”

  “Dear Jessamiene, you have journeyed far. And I have not slept a wink since I first received word of your coming. Believe me when I say a good night’s rest would do us both some good.” A slow, worn smile emphasized his point, the sort that made others want to share in whatever secret it held.

  Amie found herself placated at once as she replied, “Okay, sounds good.”

  “Then I shall bid thee good night, my dear. Sweet pixies watch over the dusty moonlight of your dreams, Jessamiene.” He moved slowly, dark eyes burning brightly with the same joy he had shown her at the top of the stairs.

  Amie bit her lip as she watched him shuffle away. She hadn’t heard those strange familiar words in over ten years. Henry’s slow smile, his deep voice…so much of him was too similar to her father for her to not miss him.

  She turned the glass knob and without taking in her surroundings, fell face first on the canopy bed and went to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Lady Wenderdowne

  In her dreams she had always been small, smaller than she could remember in the waking world. She was silent as the grave when she wanted to be. People were so used to her making a ruckus wherever she went, they forgot to notice if she came quietly. So she chased the small brownie through the many long halls and hidden passages of the house.

  Nature had made its home here long ago, grew in and around as if it intended on swallowing the house whole again. Flowers bloomed from vines wrapped around the many columns that supported its ground floor. Roots crisscrossed over the marble floors, but she was too quick to let them trip her.

  “Can’t catch me!” the brownie cried out ahead of her with a tiny giggle.

  Amie grinned and pressed herself to be faster, then paused outside the sunlit parlor. Voices came from within, both man and woman’s familiar to her as her own face. She knew it was rude to listen to the private matters of others. But the man’s visits were so rare she couldn’t help herself.

  He pleaded, “Please don’t do this, Dameri. I’ve waited long enough and I’m weary of living alone. He grows more unstable every day. I can nay get through to him anymore. All he talks about is what’s out there and he’s already passed his title to her.”

  The woman sighed and Amie watched her kiss the man on the lips. “He does listen to you, Iudicael, whether you believe or not. My love, this is only for a short while. You know how I long to return with you.”

  Breaking from her hold, the man crossed the room and Amie ducked so he wouldn’t see her peeking from behind the doorway. “No! Dameri, I want to believe you. But it’s not so simple anymore. I’ve loved ye all my life. You chose me. Jessie needs to be with her father.”

  “Iudicael—”

  Amie gasped in disbelief and shock over what she had just learned. His eyes found her then, crossed the room to fixate on her own.

  “Jessie,” he called, but she was already running, away from the man who was her father. His cry haunted her as she ran through the orchard and into the forest.

  Amie shivered as she woke from her troubled sleep. Nothing but the too-realistic terror could have driven her from her much-needed sleep. She groaned and stretched and felt like she had slept in the same position all night. She made quite the lovely picture really, with drool on the side of her face, curls a bushy nest around her head. A foul stench filled her nose which could only be her own unwashed stink and made her twist to lie flat on her back. At least the mattress was comfy enough she didn’t have a backache as well.

  Dreams were funny things. Amie had heard some people thought of them as the fleshing out of one’s subconscious. In the past they were thought to be gateways into the future, windows to your inner desires. Nowadays their magic had been dumbed down to be synonymous with a bad stomachache or compilation of collected thoughts. Sort of took the mystery out of the whole affair.

  Yet she had never had such dreams as these. Mugged in an alley and brought back to life by a kooky Brit? Flying all the way to Northern England, riding the Hogwarts Express and traveling by carriage? A forest filled with strange lights and a strange manor and a very strange foreshadowing event that had set this whole plot bunny in motion?

  Blinking past the haze of confusion, she stared hard at the green canopy hangings draped over her bed. And a symbol was set at its center, some kind of interweaving Celtic knot…

  “Oh crap!” Amie sat upright in bed with a shout and took in her new surroundings.

  She was wearing the same clothes she had left America in days before. Her chest ached where her father’s ring had imprinted against her scarred skin. A play-by-play of flashbacks flooded her mind. For some reason, Uncle Henry’s welcome at the door stayed with her longest.

  Rushing to find the toilet, Amie first found two other doors on either side of the room locked and t
he need to upturn her stomach overpowered all reasonable thinking.

  “Come on, don’t you people use toilets?” She froze, chilled, shook her head and murmured, “Surely they wouldn’t…” Amie had had her fair share of outhouses while on the AJSS ranch back home. Catching sight of a third door hidden in a nook the firelight didn’t reveal, she found it. All modern conveniences had been properly set into place here, even if they were a century behind the times and lit by a dozen of candles.

  Once she got rid of an empty stomach, an overwhelming need to be clean gave her a new mission. She set to filling the giant claw-footed tub. Before removing her clothes she reached for her wristwatch and frowned. She had worn it every day since college, never being very good with time. Filing this detail away for later in her mind, she peeled away her dirty clothes.

  The water was stubbornly cold no matter which small wheel she turned. Her body was still too tired to care, so tired she barely noticed the moment she sank into the tub the water instantly warmed and foamed. Eyes clamped shut, she tried to fight her way back to reality.

  “Okay, Wentworth…” She began to talk herself through the madness. “You’re perfectly capable of telling the difference between fact and fiction. Why shouldn’t Uncle Henry live in a castle? Plenty of people still live in their ancestral homes, don’t they?” Opening her eyes she giggled, the sound echoing against the rounded walls of her bath. “Yeah, right.”

  The room did not look as gloomy as it had when she first entered it. Things had begun to take shape during the hour she pruned. The walls were carved and gleaming, as pearly as the inside of a hollow oyster shell. A single mirror and washstand-like sink stood on the opposite end beside the toilet. Painted against the shimmering stone from the edge of her bath to the ceiling was a silvery-gray ocean studded with pearls instead of bubbles. Fish were painted so realistically Amie wouldn’t have been surprised if they jumped from the wall and into her tub. Through a wall of seaweed, a shy mermaid dug through her hidden treasures. When Amie blinked she could have sworn the emerald eyes of the mermaid fixed on hers.