Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1)

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘But I am a very old croaky,’ Sophy said quickly. ‘Old and tough and stringy! My meat would not be at all appealing, I am quite sure.’

  ‘She should’ve sent a juicy young bit o’ dinner, that’s true enough,’ said Tut-Gut, ‘but I makes do.’

  ‘I can sew,’ Sophy said desperately, backing away from Tut-Gut’s fire and swinging stew-pot. ‘I am very skilled with a needle. I can knit, too.’

  ‘That I can do meself,’ said Tut-Gut with a smile, indicating his discarded needles.

  ‘Oh, but together we might accomplish a great deal more!’

  Tut-Gut paused to consider that. ‘Such as?’

  Desperately, Sophy glanced around his odd little house. He had curtains put to the windows, she noticed, but they were crooked and misshapen. A few rugs lay across the rough wooden floors, each one threadbare and falling into holes. She looked back at him. ‘Your clothes are falling into pieces,’ she said. ‘Your curtains do not fit the windows, and they are hanging much amiss. Your rugs are in very poor shape indeed, and that chair you are sitting on has no cushion to comfort you. I can mend all of these problems.’

  Tut-Gut followed her gaze to his curtains, his rugs, his chair and his own self. ‘Tis more than I’m owed,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘That is of no concern to me.’

  He looked back at her with a cunning gleam in his eye. ‘I accept!’ he said. ‘I like you much better than Hidenory.’

  His manner had wholly changed, all trace of suspicion and anger gone in favour of a sudden overflowing goodwill. He beamed at her with his too-wide smile, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

  ‘I have something else to add,’ Sophy said.

  ‘Go on with it, then!’

  ‘It must be, oh, five or six hours until the dawn, am I right?’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘Well, then. I will do all that I have said before the first light hits your windows. If I do, then you will be in my debt.’ She delivered this offer as confidently as she could, hoping that she had not miscalculated. He seemed to her a being who took favours and debts very seriously indeed, and who was likely to enjoy a deal—and a bet.

  Perhaps she was right, for his eyes began to shine. ‘A game! A very good one at that,’ he said in delight. His cunning eyes fixed on her gnarled old hands, and he smiled. ‘But there must be something else. If ye do not do all that ye’ve said in the allotted time, what then?’

  Sophy swallowed and said: ‘Then you may make me into stew.’

  He cackled at that, and beamed again. ‘Very good! Ye may begin.’

  ‘I will need materials,’ Sophy said promptly.

  ‘That was not part o’ the bargain!’

  ‘Of course it was. How do you expect me to make up your home anew without anything to sew with?’

  Tut-Gut grumbled, but he could not deny the logic of her argument. He began to circle the room, opening chests and looking under and behind furniture, pulling all manner of bits and pieces of cloth from each hiding-place he consulted. It was a motley collection, and Sophy stared at the growing heap in some dismay. She saw cotton and linen and silk, some dusty and aged, some bright and shining new; she saw red and green and blue and purple and every other colour besides. What could she do with such a mismatched pile of scraps?

  But she was not designing somebody’s drawing-room, she reminded herself: she was in a hut in the woods, surrounded by rags and fading fabrics. She took a deep, steadying breath, accepted the long bone needle Tut-Gut offered to her, and set to work.

  She had never sewn so much or so quickly in her life. Again and again she blessed Hidenory: the witch had betrayed her, but how fortunate it was that her glamour was only skin-deep! Her hands may look aged and twisted and stiff, but beneath the unpromising appearance, her fingers were as young and strong and supple as ever. It had been an unfair trick to play on Tut-Gut, she supposed; to his eye she was incapable of working at speed, and he had counted on that when he had accepted her game. But since the alternative was to end up in his stew-pot, she was unconcerned.

  It did not take him very long to realise that he had been tricked. She set to with such furious speed, and kept it up for half an hour without faltering in the slightest. He watched her quick, deft movements as she plied the clumsy needle and his face darkened. ‘Old croaky, ehh? Not so, not so at all!’

  Sophy made no reply. She was unconcerned by his discovery: the rules of Aylfenhame were strict, and once a deal had been made, no fae-creature would go back on his or her word. Tut-Gut did not attempt to renegotiate, nor did he waste very much time raging at her duplicity.

  Instead, he began to interfere. When Sophy reached for a new piece of fabric to stitch into the curtain she was sewing, he stabbed her with his knitting-needle.

  ‘Oops!’ he declared. ‘Now, how could I be so clumsy? I beg your pardon, croaky.’

  When she got up to hang the curtain at the window, he stuck out a foot and tripped her. ‘Now! Clumsy again. Must be my advancin’ years.’

  When she turned back from hanging the curtain, half of the pile of fabric had disappeared. ‘Where is the rest of the red cotton?’ she demanded.

  ‘Red cotton? Red cotton?’ said Tut-Gut. ‘I never saw such a thing!’

  But Sophy had been expecting such tricks. Coolly she removed a length of red cotton that she had hidden inside her grubby old robe, and began to sew. Each time Tut-Gut turned his back, she secreted more of the remaining pile of fabric, until she had plenty inside her robe to finish her projects.

  This went on hour after hour. Tut-Gut tried every piece of trickery his wily brain could come up with, and Sophy had to work hard to out-think him. By the end of the night, her hands were covered in little wounds, she had fallen over three times and bruised her knees and legs, and her temper was wearing thin.

  But Tut-Gut’s tricks were in vain. Sophy sewed and sewed until her fingers hurt and began to bleed, and by the time the first rays of morning began to filter into the room, she had completed her labours. New curtains hung at every window, neatly stitched out of coloured patches; the rugs had been mended and renewed; cushions padded not only Tut-Gut’s rocking chair but his bed as well. He had a new shirt, trousers and cloak: they were not at all refined, but they were much better than the rags that he was wearing. She had even made a little patched throw to cover the blankets on his bed.

  Tut-Gut spent a long time going over everything that she had done, looking for anything that would invalidate their agreement. But he found nothing. Sophy waited in the centre of the room, her nerves steady and her temper calm, knowing that she had done well.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Tut-Gut said at last. ‘Same old stew for Tut-Gut.’

  Sophy lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is that all that you have to say to me?’ she demanded. ‘Your house has never looked so wonderful, I would wager, and you will be comfortable for years to come. I have done all that I promised, and more besides.’

  The hobgoblin glowered at her, but then his frown faded away and his disturbing too-wide smile was back. ‘Good with yer hands, yes, you are.’ He picked up the clothes she had made for him and spun about, too fast for Sophy’s eyes to follow. When he stopped, his rags had vanished and he was wearing the new garments. He bowed low, and chuckled. ‘What’s it to be, then? Is it youth yer after? Beauty? Riches? Tis always one o’ those type o’ things.’

  Sophy wondered for a moment whether he was actually able to grant any of the things he had mentioned. He did not look as though he possessed such powers as that. ‘Nothing so difficult,’ she said with a smile. ‘I merely want to find my way to Grenlowe.’

  ‘Well, now!’ he said delighted. ‘Tut-Gut is the one to ask! I can find anything and anybody, don’t you doubt it. But Grenlowe is a long way.’ He eyed her. ‘What business have ye there?’

  ‘My business is my own.’

  Tut-Gut waved a hand and pulled a face. ‘Very well, keep yer secrets! Off we go.’ He galloped to the door, leaving Sophy feeling a litt
le startled at his sudden speed. She was bone-tired, her hands and legs hurt and she was desperate for a little rest, but she would not chance her luck by requesting any delay. Tut-Gut’s moods changed with the winds, it seemed, and she had better capitalise on this sudden good temper. She sighed, and dragged herself after him.

  Sophy walked with Tut-Gut for some time, as the sun rose higher in the sky and its rays began to shine strongly down between gaps in the tree-cover overhead. The day grew warm, and she began to regret the layers of heavy rags she wore. Despite her tiredness and discomfort, the bright sunshine and the delicious scent of summer flowers, flourishing foliage and rain-damp earth refreshed and cheered her. She had always loved being outdoors; there were few complaints which could not be cured by a long walk.

  One of those few was the death of her father. She realised she had not gone for her customary walk ever since she had received the sorry news, and now she regretted that very much. Perhaps her spirits would not have sunk so low, had she taken better care of her own health and taken her exercise.

  She began to think of her father, with less pain but more real regret than she had ever done before. His story had been a sad one, and she was sorry that she had never been able to make him happy after the death of her mother. She saw now how the heart had gone out of him all those years ago, and he had done little since then but mark time, taking little pleasures where he could. If he had done so with no regard for his health, well, that was because he had little use for his remaining days on earth; it was of no moment to him if those days were shortened.

  He had, perhaps, expected that Sophy would marry soon after she came of age. He had been fond of her, in his own way, and could not have predicted that others would not find sufficient value in her person and her company to make her an offer. As such, he had made no provision for her of any kind; he had not expected to need to. It was short-sighted of him, and he had been neglectful when Sophy had needed him desperately. But it was of no use clinging to old regrets; Sophy tried, in the silence of this strange journey, to forgive his shortcomings and remember only the good.

  But Aylfenhame did not smile upon such noble reflections, it appeared, for the sky clouded over and the forest quickly became gloomier than her thoughts. A few cold droplets of rain fell, catching her cheek and forehead, and she sighed. Now she would have to be stoic.

  The atmosphere continued to darken, and soon her disgust with the rain gave way to the first stirrings of fear. The light drained away as though night had fallen, but that could not be! It was not possible. They had walked for only two, perhaps three hours. She would swear it.

  ‘Tut-Gut?’ she said nervously.

  ‘Aye,’ he said grimly. ‘Somethin’s afoot.’ He had acquired a gnarled stick from somewhere, a solid-looking branch almost as tall as he was. He gripped this like a quarterstaff, ready to swing it should something untoward materialise.

  Nothing did, however, and for several long minutes they walked along in silence—not the silence of individual reflection, this time, but an alert silence, ready and wary of trouble.

  ‘Perhaps a light…’ she began to say to Tut-Gut, but she stopped when a light appeared immediately ahead of them. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead.

  But Tut-Gut was shaking his head. ‘Nowt to do wi’ me, that,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t ye know a will-o-the-wyke when ye see one?’

  Sophy had already progressed from gladness to trepidation, for the ball of light did indeed resemble the wisps she had followed on her way to Aylfenhame before. But she knew well that these floating ghost-lights were not usually helpful, the way Balli’s friends were. Those one encountered out in the wilds could be dangerous, and were best avoided.

  She imagined this was even more likely when one was lost in the midst of the Outwoods of Aylfenhame.

  ‘Be off with you!’ said Tut-Gut. He sounded quite fearsome, and Sophy fully expected the wisp to do as he said.

  It did not. Instead, it separated into two distinct wisps which hovered in the air for a few moments, bouncing against each other, and then began to float away in different directions.

  The one nearest her began to change colour, from bright white to yellow to green, and blue, purple, red, pink… her attention was caught in spite of herself, and all her purpose drained away in the face of the wisp’s beautiful, mesmerising colours.

  She had gone some yards in pursuit of the creature before she was aware. A brief surge of alarm brought her back to herself, but only for a moment; then she was captivated again and drifting away after the wisp, feeling a vague but persistent dread that it would get away from her and she would never know what the next hue would be.

  A voice drifted through the trees. It took Sophy several long moments to focus on it, and even then she received only the distant impression of a great show of temper. Someone was very angry about something, she realised vaguely.

  ‘… cap, woman!’

  That did not make sense. It was only part of a sentence, Sophy thought, feeling quite pleased with herself for this very clever realisation. But what could the rest of the sentence have been? She amused herself with a few foggy speculations, none of which entirely satisfied her, before another sentence pierced her reverie.

  ‘…clothes or cap or somethin’ of that kind. Hey! Old croaky! Yer wearin’ stuff, now get it TURNED AROUND!’

  Turn her clothes around? What a peculiar suggestion. She had not realised that Tut-Gut could be so very strange. Staring doubtfully down at herself, she attempted to find some way out of her heavy outer robe. This required a little effort, for her rags were not equipped with anything so sensible as a row of buttons or hooks. Instead they were tied on, with a set of torn lengths of fabric serving as fastenings.

  Gracious, it was far too much work to untie them. They were so tight that she was hurting her damaged fingers in the attempt. A flash of rippling colours caught her attention again, and she was happy enough to give up her unpleasant labour and return to the contemplation of the wisp.

  But then the voice sounded again, uncomfortably close this time. ‘…so intolerably FOOLISH! THRICE-CURSED HUMANS, ye don’t deserve a single shred o’ help from the likes o’ me, an’ why am I puttin’ myself out fer a feeble-witted mushroom like yerself I should like t’ know?’

  Mushroom? Sophy thought vaguely. Now, that did not seem accurate at all. She was not a mushroom! Mushrooms did not wear rags and walk about the forests in the dead of unnatural night. She opened her mouth to say this, but some element of the angry speech she had just heard—perhaps the tone, or its extremely insulting nature—broke through the fog in her brain, and she stopped abruptly. Suddenly, the turning of her clothes began to seem very important indeed, and she fought anew with the clumsy ties to her robe. At last she managed to prise one of them open; she tore her way through the rest, and quickly stripped the revolting thing away. She almost dropped the garment in her haste, but she succeeded in turning it inside-out and slipped it back onto her shoulders.

  All at once, the fog shrouding her thoughts and dulling her alertness slipped away altogether, leaving her in clear possession of her wits. What she saw next frightened her nearly out of her wits, for the wisp had drawn her to the edge of a precipice, and a few more steps would have carried her over it. She could not see how far she would have fallen, but she did not doubt that the distance was considerable.

  She stood for a moment, breathing too quickly as she tried to calm her pounding heart and collect her thoughts. The wisp continued to hover before her, but its presence failed to affect her as it had a few moments ago. She observed its shifting colours with a mixture of distant interest and deep misgivings.

  ‘Poxy Tut-Gut,’ said a voice sharply, and she jumped. ‘Ruined us a merry game, that you have.’

  Tut-Gut came up and stood next to her. His own wisp bobbed at his shoulder in an oddly merry way, dancing about and flashing colours in the jauntiest style.

  ‘Yes, Pinch?’ said Tut-Gut. ‘Was you sayin’ somethin’?�
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  ‘No,’ said the disembodied voice, a trifle sulkily.

  ‘Are ye goin’ to wear tha’ shape all day?’ Tut-Gut said sternly. ‘An’ ye might let a bit o’ light back in, if it ain’t too much trouble.’

  Sophy heard something like a sigh, and then her wisp dissolved. Darkness enveloped her, and she could see nothing save Tut-Gut, illuminated by the weakening glow of the other wisp. Then the darkness began to recede, bit by bit, until the day seemed merely overcast and dull once more.

  ‘I expect an apology,’ said Tut-Gut. ‘An’ t’ my companion here.’

  The day lightened still more as the sun returned, and Sophy realised that somebody stood before her. He was a small somebody—smaller than Tut-Gut, even—and dressed in clothes as green as the fallen leaves he stood upon. He held a pipe in one hand, which he carried to his lips for a deep puff as he stood regarding Sophy.

  Blowing out a stream of thick white smoke, he grinned at her and said: ‘What’s this? A witch?’

  ‘I said sommat about an apology,’ Tut-Gut said. ‘I am almost sure I heard meself sayin’ that.’

  Pinch shrugged his tiny shoulders and pouted. ‘For what? We did no harm.’

  ‘Not for lack of trying!’ Sophy said. ‘You almost walked me over a cliff.’

  Pinch chuckled and stepped back, waving an arm at the cliff in an inviting gesture. ‘Go on, have a look,’ he said.

  Keeping a wary eye on Pinch, Sophy stepped forward and peeked over the edge. The “precipice” fell away a mere two feet, she guessed, ending in a puddle of muddy water. She would have had a shock, a bump and an unpleasant wetting, but that was all. Probably.

  ‘I could have broken an ankle,’ she said severely, staring down at Pinch from her full five-feet-and-nine-inches height. He looked very small indeed when she loomed over him like this.

  ‘All right, sorry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘None of the doom-and-gloom came to pass, so why worry about it?’

  ‘That will not do,’ Sophy said.

  Tut-Gut shook his head in agreement. ‘No, indeed. Ye’ll have t’ make it up t’us, Pinch. You an’ Pinket.’ He nodded at the wisp still bobbing at his shoulder, and the wisp’s colours grew dull and sulky in reply.