Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1)

by Charlotte E. English

‘I… I am looking for Miss Landon,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Is she here?’

  Gripped with a sudden alarm, he cast a long look about himself at the other houses, then back at the one before him. ‘This is the parsonage, is it not?’

  The woman cackled—actually cackled, the way old women tended to do in stories—and opened the door wider. ‘Yes, and yes,’ she said. Her voice did not match her appearance; instead of the feeble, quavering notes he had expected, she spoke in firm, vibrant tones.

  Aubranael stepped inside, feeling oddly wary. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell her I am here?’ he asked politely. ‘I am expected, I believe.’

  The old woman shut the door behind him, then looked him in the eye and smiled. ‘She knows,’ she said.

  She did? Was she here somewhere, watching? Aubranael turned about, but did not see her. The old woman beckoned him into the parlour and he followed her inside, expecting to find Sophy waiting, but she was not there. He stared at the woman, confused.

  ‘I told you I had a secret,’ she said softly.

  Realisation dawned, and horror with it. ‘Sophy?’ he said incredulously. ‘Wha—how? Why?’

  A spark of irritation flashed in the old woman’s eyes. ‘A curse, of course,’ she snapped. ‘Or did you think that you were the only one?’

  Aubranael swallowed his distaste—ashamed that he felt it at all—and met her gaze squarely. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said in a gentle tone.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please,’ he said softly. His reaction had been shock, and nothing more; now that he’d had a few seconds to absorb the truth, his heart broke for poor Sophy. He felt anger begin to simmer somewhere inside. Who could have done this to her? She was sweet and kind-hearted and caring and… and unthreatening. What could possibly have happened?

  Sophy sighed, chewed one of her old woman’s lips and looked up at him. ‘I have no wish to recount the whole story,’ she said firmly. ‘I am sorry—especially since you were so sharing last night. But I can’t… bear it.’

  He made desperate soothing motions, anxious to convey that he had no wish to pressure her at all. He would have spoken but she rushed on.

  ‘It happens… once a month,’ she said, with some small hesitation. ‘For a few days, and then I am restored to myself.’

  ‘A few?’ he repeated. ‘How many is that?’

  ‘A few,’ she snapped.

  He made another apologetic gesture. It was unlike Sophy to be irritable, he thought distantly; but no doubt it was the pressure of confession, and the prospect of rejection. He had felt awful himself, only a few short hours ago.

  There was only one question he would venture to ask, in the face of her obvious reluctance to speak. But he had to know. He could already feel it eating away at him, burning in his mind.

  ‘Sophy,’ he said. ‘Who did this to you?’

  Whoever it was, he wanted to hurt them. He felt the same way he felt whenever he thought of Lihyaen and the white-cloaked person who had disappeared into the night, leaving her silent corpse behind.

  Sophy stared up at him, despair in her rheumy green eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, and the hopelessness in her voice convinced him that she spoke the truth.

  He opened his arms, inviting her to walk into them. But she straightened her spine, lifted her chin and smiled a weird little smile. ‘I am not in need of affection,’ she said. ‘What I need is a promise.’

  ‘What kind of promise?’

  ‘That you still want me, in spite of this.’ She grabbed handfuls of the revolting rags she wore and shook them in sudden fury.

  Aubranael stared at her in surprise. ‘Do you need a promise?’

  ‘Of course I—’ she began.

  He held up a hand to cut her off. ‘What I mean to say is: that goes without saying. Does it not? How could I possibly reject you?’

  Sophy stared at him in amazement, and he realised that her irritation stemmed from despair. In spite of his circumstances, she had been truly afraid that he would forsake her.

  ‘Are you certain?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I promise.’

  A smile of pure happiness crossed her face, and for an instant he could almost see his Sophy beneath the veneer of age. But as seconds passed her smile gradually faded, and she looked down at herself, perplexed.

  ‘Say it again,’ she ordered.

  Aubranael took both of her hands and held them between his own. ‘Sophy Landon,’ he said gravely, ‘I promise to love you every day of our two lives, including the cursed ones.’

  A spasm crossed her face—annoyance? Despair?—and she said: ‘Could you say that again, but leave out my name?’

  Puzzled, he nonetheless obliged.

  She stared down at herself, at her ragged skirts, withered hands and knotted hair, and something like a suppressed howl of frustration tore from her throat. Pulling her hands free of his, she stared wildly at him. ‘Maybe we need to be married,’ she said feverishly. ‘Yes! That must be it. Merely saying that you promise cannot be enough, or anybody could do it. You have to marry me to prove it!’

  Aubranael began to feel alarmed. ‘We will be married,’ he said. ‘Soon, if you like—though perhaps you will like to wait until the cursed days are over for the month.’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘We must be married as soon as possible! Today!’

  ‘We cannot be married today. Tilby has no clergyman, remember? And it will take longer than today to make the necessary arrangements.’

  To his horror, Sophy began to claw at her face. Her nails were sharp and broken, and they left long, red welts on her skin. ‘Stop!’ he said in horror, grabbing at her hands. ‘Sophy, what is this about?’

  ‘I am a korrigan, you fool!’ she cried. ‘You are supposed to break the curse!’

  Korrigan! He knew the tale. How a korrigan had ended up here, the daughter of a country clergyman in an out-of-the-way town, he had no notion at all. But he understood her panic.

  ‘Consider the good!’ he said, making another attempt to capture her clawing hands. ‘You must be right: it is marriage that will break the curse, and we will be married. You will be free very soon.’

  She began to calm at last, and he was able to smile into her eyes. ‘It gives me so much pleasure to know that I can free you from this,’ he said gently. ‘Do not fear, love.’

  She eyed him with suspicion, but to his relief she did not fly into another rage. Instead she patted his hand a little awkwardly, and sighed. ‘I had tea prepared,’ she said. ‘I had hoped to partake of it curse-free, but however.’

  She led the way into the parlour and offered him a seat, all trace of her frustration gone. Mindful of her aged hands, he attempted to take over the duty of serving the tea, but she waved him off with a little return of her irritability.

  ‘I may be ugly but I can still pour tea,’ she said frostily.

  ‘Of course,’ he murmured, puzzled. He would not have said that irritability was part of Sophy’s character, and she could not still be worried about rejection. Where had she been hiding that trait?

  Not that it mattered; nothing could dim his delight in her company. But it wounded him a little, and worried him. Was she concerned about anything else?

  He watched absently while she poured the tea, gracefully and without spilling a drop. Accepting the proffered cup with a smile, he said, ‘Where is Mary today? I had fully expected to meet her at the door.’

  Sophy cast him a quick, sharp look. He would have sworn she looked… shifty, if he didn’t know better. ‘She has the day off today,’ she said quickly. ‘She will be so sorry to have missed you.’

  Aubranael nodded and took another sip. ‘And how is Thundigle getting along?’

  Sophy looked blank. ‘Oh… very well,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘I shall see for myself soon enough, no doubt! He cannot bear to leave the tea-things uncleared for more than a very little while.’

  Sophy gulped tea. ‘He has the day off as well,’ she s
aid in between gulps.

  ‘Oh! My word, I had not thought they would leave you alone all day, especially at this time.’

  Sophy smiled vaguely and muttered something about important errands. He watched her quizzically, unsure how to interpret her behaviour. That she was hiding something from him was obvious, but what could it be? Perhaps there was something amiss with either Mary or Thundigle or both, but she did not like to tell him. Perhaps they had left her! The very thought of it angered him, and he forced himself back to calmness. He could not believe that either of them would desert Sophy, let alone both. There must be some other explanation.

  He opened his mouth to talk of something else, but there came a rattling from some other part of the house, and the sound of footsteps.

  ‘Ah, here is Mary back again,’ he said with a relieved smile.

  Sophy, however, looked horrified. She jumped up, paused only long enough to set her teacup neatly down upon the tray, and all but ran to the door. ‘I must not be seen!’ she hissed.

  Aubranael was surprised that so loyal a servant as Mary knew nothing of Sophy’s condition, but he could not blame her for keeping it a secret. He would have done the same, given the chance. He jumped up, too, and followed her; he had forgotten for an instant that he, too, was a stranger to Mary in his current form, and a potentially horrific one at that! It gave him pain to have to creep from the house like a thief, but he did so. There would be time later to break the news to Mary; for now, he was happy to escape her notice.

  Sophy had preceded him out of the parlour, but when he reached the corridor beyond there was no sign of her. He dared not call her name in case of attracting Mary’s attention, but her sudden disappearance bothered him. Where could she possibly have gone?

  No time to consider the matter; here was Mary coming back again! He made his way to the front door with extreme haste and slipped outside. He had better hurry: he had a wedding to arrange, and no time at all to lose.

  ***

  Hiding in a parlour drawer would not rank among Thundigle’s favourite pastimes, he decided. It had taken him less than two minutes to grow tired of it; his neck was twisted at a strange angle in order to fit his head inside, and the rest of his body was curled into an uncomfortable ball. But the discomfort had been worth it.

  He had not been able to discover exactly who was the person currently occupying the parsonage, but that it was not Miss Landon was abundantly clear. But where was the real Sophy? What had this woman done with her? He did not know.

  His confusion was increased by the appearance of Aubranael in Miss Landon’s parlour. He had not known that Sophy had remained in contact with him since her return from Grenlowe, nor that matters between them had advanced to such a degree as to warrant a proposal of marriage. Perhaps that was why she had not encouraged Mr. Stanton—and where was Mr. Stanton anyway? The neighbourhood gossip reported that he had vanished, but no one seemed to know where he had gone.

  Either way, something had happened to Miss Landon and Aubranael was mistakenly preparing to commit himself to someone else entirely. Having liberated himself from the drawer, Thundigle spent several minutes in frantic contemplation. What could he do? How could he find Miss Landon, or warn Aubranael? How could he discover the identity of the imposter?

  Nothing came to mind. Badly out of his depth, Thundigle did the only thing he could think of.

  He went to see Mr. Balligumph.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sophy wandered for a time, hoping that she might encounter some manner of village or town, or a landmark that would help her find her way back to Grenlowe, or even some helpful soul who could set her on the right path. An hour or two passed in this fruitless endeavour, during which time the deep blue twilight darkened into night lit only by the waxing moon.

  The nervous flutter in her stomach grew stronger and stronger, in spite of her attempts to quieten her alarm. When her foot caught something ropy and solid in the dark—a tree root, perhaps, or a fallen branch—and she almost went tumbling to the ground, she was forced to stop. An injury would turn a difficult situation into a catastrophe; if she was hurt, she would be entirely helpless.

  She stood for a few minutes, catching her breath and considering her options. Dearly she wished for another of Balligumph’s guides; local wisdom insisted that to follow a will-o-the-wyke was fatal, but Balli’s friends had always done well by her.

  Any guide at all would be welcome, she thought bitterly, even a treacherous one. At least it would give her some kind of direction.

  Abruptly she remembered Hidenory’s words—before the witch’s theft of Sophy’s face and form had driven all other thoughts from her mind. Tut-Gut, she had said. He would be willing to ‘put her to work’, had those not been her words?

  Sophy considered that. The comment had seemed innocent enough at the time, but in light of Hidenory’s later actions it began to sound far more sinister. Who was Tut-Gut really, and how would he put Sophy to work? Had this piece of advice been sound, or was Hidenory seeking to lead her ever further astray?

  It was impossible to know, of course, without seeking him out. Sophy wavered for some time, assailed by misgivings, but at length she gave in. She had no other options; none except to continue wandering in this dark and lonely forest until she either fatally injured herself, starved to death, or found her way out.

  Taking a deep breath, Sophy opened her lips and called, ‘Tut-Gut! I am in need of your assistance, if you are at leisure to come to me.’

  There; that was polite. He could hardly be offended by so courteous a request, surely? But no answer came and no one appeared, and Sophy’s fledgling hopes died away.

  ‘Tut-Gut?’ she called.

  Nothing.

  But in the stories—the ones her mother had told her as a child—one had to call a fae-being’s name three times to attract his or her attention. Perhaps there was some truth to be found in tales.

  ‘Tut-Gut!’ she called once more.

  ‘What is it, now?’ said a creaking voice, and Sophy jumped.

  A light appeared in the darkness, so bright that Sophy’s night-blind eyes shut tight against the glare. When she could open them again, she found that the forest had gone and she stood inside a wooden hut.

  It was fairly large, and around the room were arrayed the paraphernalia of a simple lifestyle. A little wooden bed stood in one corner, a rough-cut table and chairs stood on the opposite side of the room, and a small bookcase proudly bore three worn-looking bound leather volumes of miniature size. A strong fire burned in the centre of the floor, over which an iron pot hung. Sophy could smell something delicious cooking, and her stomach tightened with hunger.

  In a tiny rocking-chair before the fire sat a hobgoblin. He looked a little like Thundigle, though his skin was even darker, almost black. He was two or three feet tall, with spindly limbs, a pronounced belly and a smile that looked far too big for his face. His clothes were ragged and much-mended. He held a pair of wooden knitting needles in his hands and he was knitting at terrific speed. He fixed his dark green eyes on Sophy and stared, but his knitting did not pause, or even slow, for a second.

  ‘Are you Mr. Tut-Gut?’ Sophy said, offering a hasty curtsey.

  ‘Who else am I like to be?’ he said grumpily. ‘When ye’ve been bandyin’ me name about like it was a toy or some such.’

  Sophy blushed and hastened to apologise. ‘I am sorry, only your name was given to me by someone who thought you may be able to help me, and I am in a terrible situation and I was quite, quite desperate.’

  Tut-Gut raised shaggy black brows at her, still knitting furiously. ‘Oh? An’ who is it as advised the likes o’ ye to bother me?’

  This was not the welcome Sophy had been hoping for; but nor had he made any move to harm her. Her confidence growing a little, she said: ‘Her name is Hidenory.’

  Tut-Gut’s face darkened and he muttered something.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Sophy said politely.

  ‘Witch-wo
man!’ he said loudly. ‘Owes me a favour, and instead o’ repayin’ me like any person of honour she sends me a beggar! An old croaky! A hag!’ He threw his knitting aside, jumped out of his chair and began to pace in circles, tugging at handfuls of his wild black hair and pounding himself on the forehead with his fists. ‘It’s a slight, that’s what it is! An offence! An insult of the very lowest kind! I have a good mind to put this old croaky in my dinner, that I do.’ This last was directed at Sophy, delivered in a dark voice as he glowered at her from beneath thunderously lowered brows.

  Sophy did not like being referred to as an old croaky, and she certainly did not enjoy the suggestion that she might be turned into dinner. ‘A moment,’ she said hastily. ‘I had no idea that Hidenory was in your debt, but perhaps I may be able to repay it somehow.’

  That brought him up short. He stared at her, and his anger turned to calculation. ‘Oh?’ he said slowly. ‘Have ye any idea what the witch-lady owes me?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Tis a dangerous offer to make, then, old croaky! Could be years you’d be slavin’ away in the home o’ good old Tut-Gut. Years!’

  Sophy’s heart sank. Slaving away in Tut-Gut’s house for years was a better prospect than being made into stew, but not very much better. Careful to keep her dismay from showing on her face, she said calmly: ‘Very well, if so.’

  Tut-Gut’s glee abruptly faded and his shoulders slumped. ‘Twas not so great a favour as all that,’ he admitted. ‘A mere triflin’ business, if I must tell the truth.’ He glared at Sophy again, as if it was her fault that he felt compelled to be honest. ‘Can you cook?’ he demanded.

  Sophy shook her head. ‘I always burn the food.’

  ‘Can you clean?’

  Sophy shook her head again. ‘I am certain to break something.’ He did not appear to possess many breakable objects, but still she was hesitant to risk it.

  ‘Hmph. Useless old croaky. It will have to be dinner.’ He gave a firm, decisive nod, and patted his stomach. ‘Same old stew, day in, day out!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not today, no, not today!’