‘Beltane,’ Thundigle said when she pointed them out. He offered no further explanation, and his mood being evidently still poor, Sophy asked no further questions.
A few minutes of brisk walking—brisk to Thundigle, at least—brought them to the edge of the village Sophy had seen from a distance. They passed through a stone gate just wide enough for perhaps three humans to walk abreast. Over the gate hung a neatly-painted sign announcing the name ‘Grenlowe’.
‘Grenlowe?’ Sophy wondered aloud. ‘That’s the name of this town?’
‘Yes. I can only imagine that Mr. Balligumph meant for me to bring you here, though I know not why.’
Sophy looked around with great interest. She saw at once why Balli had sent Thundigle with her, instead of accompanying her himself: Grenlowe was far from spacious. Its buildings were small, its streets narrow, its doorways and gates sized with more diminutive folk in mind. This was no home for folk of Balli’s size.
The town was enchanting, and she soon forgot her fears and even her confusion in enjoyment. Nothing was ever planned in Grenlowe, that she could judge; most of the houses she passed appeared to have started out as a single room, and others had been haphazardly piled around and on top as they were needed. They were thatched in erratic patterns, like a head of tumbled curls; most were built from stone or grey wood, with small, paned windows bright with colour.
‘Why are all the windows frosted over?’ she whispered to Thundigle.
‘The people of Grenlowe value their privacy,’ he answered.
Sophy frowned, noting that most of the frosted-glass windows also had shutters and curtains. Privacy was deeply valued, she concluded, and immediately felt uncomfortable for staring. But the curtains were brightly coloured, and the shutters cheerfully painted; the overall effect was more welcoming than otherwise.
When they reached a village square—passing numerous houses, small shops and inns along the way—they encountered a market in full swing. Sophy was delighted; everywhere she looked her eager eye discovered ribbons, fabrics, foods and myriad goods, each more riotously coloured than the last. But Thundigle stopped her.
‘Careful, Miss Sophy,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I advise against looking too closely.’
‘But whyever not?’
‘Things aren’t always as they seem in Aylfenhame, remember? For certain you should not eat anything here, for if it does you no other harm, it may oblige you to stay. It changes you.’
Sophy had not time to answer. As they entered the market, only then had it struck her how few other folk she had seen in the streets of Grenlowe. They were all here, bargaining and buying, jostling and pushing each other, and Sophy along with them. She saw goblins and brownies like Thundigle, stocky gnomes in colourful overalls, nymphs and sprites and many other creatures she did not recognise. Some wore rags; others wore finery more splendid than anything Sophy had seen before.
She noticed many folk who looked human, too, except for a slight point to their ears, shades of blue, green and purple in their hair, and eyes coloured like earth and trees and meadows of flowers. Their skin ranged in hue from palest white through to deep, dark brown. These were the Ayliri, she realised: the ruling class of Aylfenhame by right of beauty, and birth, and power.
All seemed equally eager to acquire the proffered wares, rich and raggity alike. As Sophy fought to keep her feet in the crush and to remain near Thundigle, someone thrust an enchanting little cake under her nose. It was the colour of summer sunshine, and it sparkled with flecks of gold as the vendor turned it for her perusal. She smelled honey and nectar and at least a dozen other heavenly things.
‘Sun cakes!’ bawled a scratchety voice immediately next to her ear. ‘Sun cakes, fresh! Going fast! Hurry!’
Mindful of Thundigle’s warning, Sophy tried to turn away, but the beauty of the little cake held her. She inhaled another lungful of the delicious aroma, wondering if she had money enough in her purse for the treat.
‘Sun cakes!’ bawled the vendor again, and the cake was withdrawn. ‘Fine spirits and good moods for a week; that’s a guarantee!’
Dismayed, Sophy looked around for the seller, already reaching into her reticule for her purse.
‘Miss Sophy!’ Thundigle hissed. ‘Remember what I said!’
‘I know, I do truly remember; only it is so very—’ her attention was caught by an array of ribbons fluttering from the awnings of a stall opposite. They were decked with flowers and bells and tiny butterflies with fluttering gossamer wings, and Sophy was enchanted anew. ‘Oh, but look! I must have that lavender ribbon—you must allow me that much, Thundigle, for I assure you I have no intention of eating it.’
‘We need to get away from this market,’ the brownie muttered. With that he took hold of Sophy’s skirt in one small but insistent hand and began to haul her away. He was surprisingly strong for one so small; off-balance as she was, Sophy found herself propelled some distance from the mesmerising ribbons before she could muster any objection.
‘This is too bad of you,’ she protested, really feeling disappointed. ‘I cannot believe a single ribbon could do me any harm.’
Thundigle marched on, implacable. ‘It begins with a ribbon…’ he said grimly.
‘And ends, perhaps, with an entire gown, and a pair of boots to match! I can see no probable outcome any worse than that, so do please be reasonable.’ She finally managed to halt Thundigle’s march, wresting her gown free of his tight grip.
Barely had she caught her breath, however, before someone large and heavy barrelled into her, sending her spinning away. She collided with a disagreeably solid wall, narrowly avoiding knocking her head against the unyielding stone.
‘Well, really!’ she gasped, clutching at her bonnet and reticule. ‘People in Aylfenhame have fully the most disagreeable manners I have ever—’
She broke off, her eye fixed upon the fleeing figure who had almost knocked her over. He was unmistakeably Ayliri, tall and lithe, dressed in pale trousers, a dark blue tunic and a wide-brimmed hat. All she could see was his fleeing back; his dark brown hair was long and loose, flying in the wind.
He was chasing after an enormous purple cat.
The creature was magnificent; easily three times the size of a typical house cat. Its fur was quite, quite purple—the hue of lilacs in bloom—and highlighted with a sheen of silver. Sophy stared until the cat and the man had disappeared around a corner.
Intrigued and outraged by turns, and with confused notions in mind of admiring the cat and berating its pursuer, Sophy started down the street after them. She soon left the market crush behind and found her way clear; breaking into a run, she hastened to catch up.
The corner gave way to another, and another. Turning a third time, Sophy encountered a dead end. Her quarry stood at the end of it, man and cat facing each other in some kind of stand-off. They were both crouched low, ready to spring; were they going to attack each other?
‘Stop!’ she called, hurrying down the narrow street towards them.
The cat flashed golden eyes at her in the briefest of glances. The man chose that moment to pounce; but, even distracted, the cat evaded him with ease and tore away back down the lane towards Sophy.
She had no time to move out of the way before it was upon her. But instead of colliding with her, the cat leaped up into the air and began to run along the side of the building, with as much ease as though it ran on level ground. It missed her by a whisker; as it passed, Sophy had just time to observe that it was carrying something in its mouth.
She watched, astonished, as it ran the full length of the street sideways to the road, and finally vanished from sight.
Her attention was caught by the sound of laughter coming from behind her. Turning, she saw the stranger doubled over with mirth.
‘Very well; you have earned your dinner!’ he called, straightening. His gaze fell on Sophy, and he stopped laughing.
Sophy regarded him in silence, keeping a wary distance. His skin was dark brown;
he was much browner than any person she had ever seen before. She could discern little else, for the wide brim of his hat and his unruly hair covered much of his face. Only a single bright brown eye was visible, twinkling with merriment and fixed upon her.
‘Well, madam, you have made a mess of my contest, and given the victory against me. To what do I owe the honour of your interruption?’
His accent was unlike anything she had heard before, either, and very pleasant, full of lilting musicality. He did not sound cross, but Sophy—as the injured party—bridled. ‘A pretty comment, sir, when it is you who has interrupted me! You almost knocked me down a few moments ago.’
‘Ah! I had thought it was a wall I had connected with, but thinking on it, I did find it a little softer than one might expect of a stone structure.’ His one visible eye twinkled at her more merrily than ever, and his tone was full of laughter.
Sophy lifted her chin and stared him down. To be mistaken for a wall! She was taller than most women, this was true, and she was not especially blessed with physical endowments; but still! A wall!
‘An apology is considered customary, under the circumstances!’ she said.
‘And have you really followed me for such a purpose as that?’ he marvelled. ‘Hey! Well, an apology costs nothing. You may have several, madam, if that will please you.’ He proceeded to sweep her a low bow, and said, ‘Apologies once, twice and thrice, and I am delighted to see that I have done you no lasting injury.’
Sophy could hear his smile, even if she couldn’t see it. His peculiar manner began to strike her as charming, and she smiled in return. ‘No injury indeed, though perhaps I had better ascertain the health of the wall. You may not have collided with it, but I did, and rather hard at that.’ Hard enough to bruise, she judged, for she could feel a dull ache in her shoulder and back.
He laughed at that, and held out a hand. ‘Walls are exceptionally good at taking care of themselves, I do find. May I know your name?’
Sophy advanced with a little caution. What manner of introduction was this? No proper one, certainly, for she ought to be introduced by a respectable third party. Moreover, she found he did actually mean to shake her hand, for he continued to hold it out to her.
‘Miss Landon, of Tilby,’ she said, curtseying. Evidently the customs of Grenlowe differed from those of her home town, but still she could not bring herself to actually shake his hand.
‘Miss Landon of Tilby,’ he repeated, withdrawing his hand. To her amusement he mimicked her gesture, and curtseyed very prettily to her. ‘I am Aubranael!’
‘Very well, Mr. Aubranael,’ she began, but he cut her off.
‘Not “Mister”. Just Aubranael.’
Sophy frowned. Proper etiquette required that a lady address a gentleman by his title and his family name; did he really expect her to call him by his first name?
But, she remembered, this was Aylfenhame. Perhaps people here did not have family names. Or titles.
‘Aubranael,’ she repeated, trying it out. The name was so odd that the lack of title did not seem so peculiar after all; but she felt compelled to make up for the deficit in politeness by making another curtsey, which drew a laugh from him.
‘You do not reside in Grenlowe, I think,’ he said. ‘Or even in Aylfenhame, I would judge. This Tilby of yours is situated in…?’
‘England.’
‘Ah! Distant shores! And how came you to be travelling here, Miss Landon of Tilby?’
‘It was not a plan of my own making,’ she replied, and explained the circumstances behind her arrival. To her surprise he appeared to have heard of Balligumph, and on the mention of the troll’s name his manner towards her (already thoroughly friendly) warmed even further. This civil exchange culminated in an invitation to take tea with him: ‘For,’ he said gravely, ‘your kind is famed for love of that particular beverage.’
His offer posed a dilemma, and she paused to consider. It was one thing to converse briefly with a gentleman one had happened to bump into (or vice versa); it was quite another to accept an invitation to tea, and without any other companion! Sophy found that she dearly wished to accept, for there was something about him that charmed her enormously; but she could not bring herself to be so bold.
She was saved by a slight cough from behind her. Turning, she found Thundigle glaring up at her.
‘Oh! True, indeed, I had forgot. I must not eat or drink anything here, my friend assures me,’ she said, turning back to Aubranael. ‘Which is a shame, for I am rather thirsty.’
‘No matter: you may watch me drink tea, and I will endeavour to make it every bit as entertaining an experience as drinking it yourself.’
With Thundigle to go with her, Sophy could see no further objections to this plan, and she smiled her approbation of it.
But then something strange happened.
The great purple cat came leaping back, sailing past Sophy’s head without warning and making her jump with fright. The cat leapt straight at Aubranael’s face, but instead of attacking him—as Sophy’s startled mind expected—the creature collided with his great hat, and sent it tumbling to the floor. At the same time a cloud slipped over the sun and a great gust of wind came howling down the street, blowing back Aubranael’s long hair. For the first time since their meeting, Sophy was afforded a clear view of his face, and she could not help but stare.
He might once have been handsome, but some accident had wrested from him forever the power of being considered even tolerably pleasing. His face was a mess of twisted, scarred flesh; only his eyes, velvet brown and suddenly sad, had escaped unscathed.
His expression changed as hers did. All his sunny merriment drained away, and he looked stricken.
‘Apologies,’ he said quietly, bowing his head to hide his face, once more, behind his hair. ‘I should not have asked; now I have made you uncomfortable.’ He spoke without a trace of bitterness or resentment, or even self-pity, and he made no attempt to chastise the cat. His apology seemed sincere, and Sophy cursed herself for her reaction. What could it possibly matter, when he was such congenial company?
‘In England,’ she said, summoning back her smile, ‘it is considered impolite to withdraw an invitation once given, especially to a lady. Here I had taken you for a gentleman!’
Aubranael studied her for a moment, perhaps weighing the sincerity of her words. At last, his smile returned; faint, but growing stronger.
‘And you, Miss Landon of Tilby, are every inch a lady, I am sure,’ he said. He offered her his arm, and without hesitation, she took it.
‘Will your companion be joining us?’ he enquired, looking down at Thundigle.
The brownie drew himself up to his full, diminutive height and looked down his nose at Aubranael’s knees. ‘Miss Landon requires a chaperon, sir, as you would know if you were indeed a gentleman.’
Aubranael’s face lit up in a delighted grin. ‘Does she? Excellent! By all means, do come along and protect the lady from unwanted attentions. Who knows but what I may do, if left unspied-upon?’
Thundigle eyed him, very ready to take offence.
‘Do please come along,’ Sophy begged him. ‘I am in need of your company rather more than your chaperonage, I assure you.’
Mollified, the brownie nodded stiffly and bowed. ‘It would be my pleasure,’ he pronounced.
The whole party set off under Aubranael’s direction. He chatted easily as they walked, and joked often; Sophy found herself perfectly at ease with him. She thought, though, that some part of his mood had not recovered from the unveiling of his face. His merriment was, perhaps, a little forced. She felt she had much to make up for, and worked harder to be agreeable because of it.
The tea-room he selected was called The Golden Queen, and it was thoroughly enchanting to Sophy. The aromas of strange teas and untasted beverages tormented Sophy’s nose, and she was sorely tempted to ignore Thundigle’s advice. She persisted, however, her good sense winning over her curiosity; and besides, Aubranael was such
an agreeable companion that she had no cause to repine.
She was touched to note that Aubranael was served with only a glass of water, no doubt on her account. He may not know the customs of England, she thought, but he had the spirit of a gentleman as far as courtesy and consideration went.
At last, the sun began to sink and the shadows lengthened. Late afternoon arrived, and Sophy began to talk of returning home.
‘Though I do not know quite how,’ she admitted. The matter ought to give her more concern, but she felt serene and at ease in a way she had rarely experienced before.
‘But it is Beltane, and therefore the simplest thing to achieve,’ Aubranael assured her. ‘I do not know if I wish to tell you any more, however.’
Sophy blinked in surprise. ‘Whyever not?’
‘Perhaps… because I do not wish you to leave.’
Sophy smiled, but shook her head. ‘We have only just become acquainted. I cannot believe you are so very pleased with my company as all that.’
‘From this I judge that you are by no means so enchanted with me. But you are a little bit pleased; that is more than I tend to hope.’ He stood up before Sophy had chance to reply, and offered her his arm once more. ‘I will show you a little more of Grenlowe, if you’ve no objection, and then I will send you home.’
Sophy accepted readily enough, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, she was delighted with him and did not at all enjoy the prospect of her imminent departure; she may never see him again. He had been far more agreeable than the other young men she knew, who saw only her lack of fortune, her lack of connections or her faults of face and figure, and offered her politeness as a mere matter of form.
But it would not be at all proper to say so, and besides, she could not find the words. So she walked along in distracted silence as Aubranael toured her back through the market square—now much more peaceful than before—and showed her street after street of eccentric, jumbled up houses, shops and gardens.
Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) Page 3
