Surprised beyond all power of speech, Margot stood in thunderstruck silence for some moments, watching the singular woman with something like awe. Her amazement only grew when, with a delicate flicker of her fingers, the woman set the fragile strands of her web shivering; the dewdrops twinkled, moon-bright, and — Margot did not think it was her imagination — the creeping tendrils of the rose-thicket crept a little farther onward, slowly unfurling polished green leaves at their lady’s command.
It occurred to Margot that the ragged throne was the source of the thicket, the central point from which all vines fanned outwards. Who was this woman, that the roses stretched and grew and blossomed at her whim?
Margot realised, with a jolt, that those searing green eyes had focused upon her; she was herself observed. She swallowed a sudden flutter of fear — what was she to be afraid of? No move had this visitor made to harm her, or any of the winemakers, and there had been opportunity enough — and spoke. ‘Who are you?’
Those green eyes flickered. ‘They call me Rozebaiel,’ said the woman, and the web shivered under the soft exhalation of her breath. She added, ‘Sometimes,’ in a softer tone, scarcely more than a whisper. Then her emerald gaze sharpened upon Margot, and she said in a challenging way: ‘And who are you? This is not my Landricourt. What have you done with it?’ The name, Landricourt, Margot recognised, though Rozebaiel had not spoken it in the usual way. There came an unusual inflection; the syllables formed more of a Laendricourt.
‘I—’ Margot stopped, unsure what to say, for of course it was Landricourt. What else could it be supposed to be? ‘I am Margot de Courcey,’ she offered, resolving to let the other matter slide. ‘I am a winemaker here.’
‘Wine?’ said Rozebaiel sharply, and looked wildly about, as though expecting to see the evidence of it materialise at any moment. ‘You make the amberwyne here?’
‘The… the amberwine?’ repeated Margot, nonplussed. ‘I do not think I ever heard it called such—’
As she spoke, Rozebaiel dropped her tangled web of gossamer strands — which vanished, smoke-like, into the air — and snatched the head from a drowsing rose peeping over her left shoulder. This she thrust at Margot, interrupting her. ‘These,’ she said forcefully, though not quite in anger. ‘What are they!’
‘R-roses,’ said Margot, aware as she spoke that the obvious answer was not the one sought, but unable to give any other.
Rozebaiel tenderly stroked the pallid petals of the rose she held, then tossed it negligently onto the floor. It lay there, three petals fallen onto the rotting floorboards and the rest already wilting.
Margot found her voice. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, for it never hurt to be polite, however peculiar the circumstances. ‘How came you to be here?’
Anger — if that was what it was — drained out of Rozebaiel’s delicate face and her extraordinary eyes grew large with distress. ‘I do not know, but I should very much like to go back. At once.’
‘Back to where? Where is it that you are from?’
‘Laendricourt.’
‘But this is Landricourt.’
‘Whatever it may be, it is not my Laendricourt! It is some semblance only, an echo, and what an echo! How can you have let it fall into ruin?’ Rozebaiel looked at Margot with such reproach that she felt shamed, as though she was personally responsible for the house’s state. But that was nonsense. It must have been well on its way to ruin by the time Margot was born.
‘It is a great shame,’ she agreed, staring in familiar sadness at the faded walls; the gaping patch in the middle of the floor where the boards had fallen through; the softly glowing pools of light that filtered through the holes in the ceiling. ‘I have often wondered who owns it, how they can have permitted—’
‘Owns it?’ interrupted Rozebaiel. ‘No one can own Laendricourt.’
Margot blinked. ‘Well, then of course it is a ruin.’
Rozebaiel’s head tilted. ‘How so?’
‘Why, if it is owned by no one then nobody is responsible for its maintenance.’
‘All are responsible,’ said Rozebaiel.
The import of Rozebaiel’s earlier words struck Margot all at once, and she gasped. ‘What do you mean, you do not know how you came to be here?’
‘I mean,’ said Rozebaiel slowly, ‘that a day ago and a half I was there, and now I am here.’
‘A day and a half! Why, that is just when Oriane disappeared — or it may be, she has not been seen since. I wonder—’
There was no point in finishing the sentence, for at mention of the word disappeared, Rozebaiel darted out of her chair and, with a quick, fierce look at Margot, she turned in a swirl of ethereal shawl and flyaway hair and vanished at a run through the far door.
By the time Margot reached the door, there was no further sign of Rozebaiel; the long corridor stretching beyond was empty in both directions.
Margot turned back into the gallery, nonplussed. Lying on the vacated chair was a thin ribbon of cloth, a gauzy thing as cloudy-light as Rozebaiel’s shawl, and as pale as the roses in the midst of which she had sat enthroned. Margot picked it up, handling it with care, for the cloth was so delicate she feared she might break it. It glistened as if with dew, like the web Rozebaiel had been weaving among her fingers; but when Margot touched it, she found the droplets were not water. They had no substance to them at all.
She would go to Florian, she decided, and show him this thing, in proof of a tale that might otherwise seem implausibly wild. But as she turned to leave, she noticed something else curious. Above the threadbare throne, nestled so deep within a tangle of leaves that Margot had almost missed it, was a single blossom out of place among its brethren; for while the petals that ringed the outer edge of the flower were of the customary pallid, moon-pale hue, its heart flushed a deep, harvest gold.
Margot had not much time to wonder at this change, for as she gazed upon the two-toned rose, the great clock chimes began to strike across the Vale; the Gloaming was coming in.
Part Two: Florian
1
Florian had not been entirely honest with Margot. Seigneur Chanteraine did not choose to share all his thoughts with me, he had told her, which was undoubtedly true as far as it went. But the enigmatic master of the emporium had shared one or two more musings with his employee than Florian had imparted to Margot.
Chanteraine had been troubled that morning, and visibly so, which was unlike him; so adept was he at maintaining a consistently calm, composed demeanour, Florian was used to having to guess at his master’s true feelings. But today was different.
Florian always arrived at the emporium very early. By the time the pink light of sunrise spilled across the skies, he was already at work: in the storeroom taking stock of the shop’s supplies, or packing the first orders of the day for later delivery. But this morning, Florian had arrived to find Chanteraine already there; and if much was to be construed from the drawn look about the master’s face, he had been there all night.
‘Florian,’ he’d said in his grave way, ‘I have a different duty for you today.’
‘I am at your service, sir, as always,’ Florian had dutifully replied.
‘There is something gone awry at Landricourt, I fear,’ said the master of the emporium, and held up a hand to forestall the questions which threatened to tumble from Florian’s lips. ‘Do not ask me the nature of the disturbance, for I cannot tell you. I only know that it must be at Landricourt… it must.’ This last was spoken in a lower tone, as though Chanteraine’s mind had wandered from Florian and he spoke more to himself than to his shop boy; the distant look in his wintry-blue eyes rather reinforced this impression.
‘Sir?’ prompted Florian, when some moments passed in silence.
Pharamond Chanteraine recalled himself from wherever it was that he had gone, and contrived to focus upon the countenance of his shop boy. ‘Yes. You must find out the nature of the disturbance. You will find Madame Brionnet amenable to your presence, though you may wish to
conceal your investigations from the winemakers. I would not like for them to be any more alarmed than they are already.’
By the disappearance of Oriane, Florian supplied, finishing the sentence in his own mind, even if his master could not say the words.
And so Florian had found himself dispatched to Landricourt forthwith. On the way there he saw Margot, and paused a moment to admire the picture that she made: her laden basket swinging from one brown arm, holding her skirts out of the way of her feet as she wandered the brightening meadows. She looked so at peace at that hour, alone among the dawn-kissed beauty of the vale, a faint breeze stirring the russet tangle of her hair. He had not wanted to intrude, but she had seen him, and fallen to questioning. His lie she had seen through with embarrassing ease, and he had tried to give her a better, fuller answer.
But Chanteraine had said: I need for you to act secretly for me in this, Florian. I would not like it known that I am minded to interfere in the matter of Landricourt.
This reticence did not make sense to Florian, for Chanteraine’s long friendship with Oriane was widely known, and his deeper fondness for her popularly suspected. But in this, as in all things, Florian had acquiesced, though it chafed him to have to keep secrets from Margot.
It was to his mingled relief and regret that they were parted the moment they stepped into the cool stone hall at Landricourt, for she went away at once to store her harvest and begin afresh, while he was whisked straight down into the cellars by Madame Brionnet, and given a trug like Margot’s. ‘It is so kind of you to help us in the absence of Oriane,’ she said, loudly enough; and then more quietly, too low to be overheard, ‘And kinder still to help us under these strangest of circumstances. Mr. Chanteraine has spoken to you of…?’
Florian waited, but she did not finish the sentence. ‘Yes,’ he said, somewhat uncertainly. ‘I am to search the house for anything… untoward.’ It occurred to him as he said it that his presence there was not much justified. If Madame Brionnet wanted the house searched, why should she not do it herself? She spent all day at Landricourt, every day, and had ample opportunity to search all day today if she so chose. And more successfully, too, for she knew the house far better than he — far better, in all probability, than anybody.
He said some of this, as respectfully as he could, but he did not receive the satisfaction of much response. Madame Brionnet said something about “fresh eyes”, and briskly moved on to the matter of his ostensible duties. ‘You will join the gathering team today, though Margot has the hips well in hand, so it is to be the petals for you. There will not be so many of those left now, so it is a light duty. Just the fresh ones, please. Take the plump ones, the pale velvet ones. Any that are withered or discoloured, you may leave. Empty your trug in the collecting room: down the cellar stairs, and the third door on the left. Have you any questions?’
Florian had a great many, but considering the fate of his earlier enquiries he did not expect that any of them would be answered. So he kept his eyes on the floor, shook his head, and went away with his trug with as good grace as he could manage. He did not much enjoy the sensation of being caught in a web of little mysteries stretching from the Chanteraines at the emporium, to Oriane and Madame Brionnet and Landricourt in general. At least Margot did not seem to be harbouring secrets.
Much of his morning passed thereafter in a haze of activity, though without producing anything of particular note. All across the great, sprawling manor of Landricourt he wandered, first through the kitchens and scullery and the pantries; the boot-room and the cloak-room, the stillrooms, old butler’s pantry and what had once been the housekeeper’s room. He rambled afterwards through the parlours and the drawing-rooms, the morning-room and dining chambers, the grand hall, an amber-clad salon and the long gallery. He vigorously poked his nose into every corner of every room, dutiful in the performance of this nosiest of duties; and when anybody happened to pass by the room in which he was hard at labour, their footsteps ringing helpfully upon the bared wood or stone tiles of the adjoining corridors, he fell to harvesting rose-petals as tenderly as he could, taking great care not to crush the delicate things.
He met Margot once, halfway up her weathered step-ladder in the far corner of the ballroom. She hailed him immediately, abandoning her efforts to strip the nearby vines of their fruits, and hastily clambered down the steps again. Resisting the temptation to rush there and hold the ladder — to wait below, in case she should happen to miss her step and fall — he approached at a more reasonable pace, ready to dart forward had she need. But though she was undoubtedly in a state of some excitement, she was as sure-footed as a goat, and whisked her way down to the ground again without wavering one whit. ‘I did not tell you before,’ she said, her tawny eyes alight; he experienced a brief hope that their sparkling expression owed something to his appearance, but was soon forced to abandon any such sentimental ideas. Her attention was all for her tale. ‘This morning, shortly before I met you on the way, I thought I saw something — a person, maybe a woman, wearing red. I thought little of it, but Adelaide has just said that she has seen something the same. Have you noticed anything like that, Florian? Adelaide thinks it is Oriane, but I cannot agree with her.’
Florian did not agree with Adelaide either. In fact, he thought he had rarely heard so addle-brained a notion. But the news interested him, for was this not exactly the kind of thing he had been instructed to watch for? He pressed Margot for more detail, and was disappointed that she could provide little more — only that Adelaide had described the woman’s garb as “rose-red” — forgetting perhaps, in her use of common parlance, that roses of that colour had not been seen in Argantel in many years.
‘I will watch for this lady,’ Florian readily agreed.
‘And do tell me of it, should you chance to see her!’ requested Margot.
He agreed to this, too, not at all sorry to have a reason to come in search of her again — supposing he had the luck to run into the mysterious lady in the rose-red gown, of course. Did he flatter himself that Margot seemed reluctant to part with him, as he turned away? No — she was only enjoying the interlude his presence provided, revelling in having an excuse to pause her labours for a little while.
Florian took himself off, resolving on searching the ballroom when Margot had finished with it.
Luncheon came, courtesy of one of the winemakers. She did not offer her name, and Florian felt indisposed for conversation. So many hours labouring in the heat had left him in no fit state for company; his cotton shirt clung to his back, soaked through with the sweat that undoubtedly shone upon his face. His hair… he did not want to imagine what had become of his hair. He dispatched his ration of thick seeded bread, strong cheese and honey cordial with gusto, and, feeling much refreshed, he began anew rather higher up in the house than he had ever ventured before. He climbed and climbed up the rickety, rowan-wood staircase that spiralled a tight path up into the south-western tower, following a trail of rose-blooms that seemed especially replete with pale, perfect petals. So absorbed was he in the gathering of these, and in peeping through the tapestry of leaves for signs of anything hidden behind, that he did not notice the rose-red woman until she spoke to him.
‘Why do you strip the flowers of their gowns?’ she said to him, a voice of unusually low registers winding through the sun-blasted air like a trickle of treacle.
He fumbled his trug in his surprise; almost dropped it; saved it at last, though a flurry of velvet petals were cast overboard and sailed, fluttering, onto the dust-thick steps beneath his feet. He had to climb the rest of them before he saw who addressed him, hoping all the while that it was the very lady he sought; one step, two, three, and he came out into a little turret chamber, round-walled and painted white, the high vault of its ceiling liberally hung with ancient cobwebs. The sun shone, full and fierce, through the long windows that lit the walls in every direction, though the light was much dimmed by the tangle of rose-vines; they had crept through the spaces left by
missing panes of glass and run rampant thereafter, claiming most of the walls and half the floor as their own. Only the ceiling was largely untouched, as though the flowers had come to some agreement with the spiders of Landricourt, and left their lofty territory alone.
An arbour had formed among some of these vines, a nook just large enough to accommodate one woman, provided she were not so very tall. And she was not by any means tall, the woman in rose-red. She sat among the roses as though upon a pretty swing, her hands wound about with leafy tendrils and roses blooming at her feet. Her skirts fell in rosy layers all about her, and the rest of her dress was all of velvet. Her wide-set eyes were almost painfully bright green, sunk deep in a pale face flecked with freckles like spatters of gold paint. Her hair was like a tangle of corn silk.
Florian did not know what to say. He gaped at this vision, words forming in his thoughts only to vanish like morning mist when he groped after them.
‘It is very rude,’ added rose-red, and Florian wondered distantly whether she was referring to his harvesting of the petals, or to his silent gawping.
He flushed and averted his eyes, setting his trug down carefully upon the floor. Delicate tendrils curled up and over the edge of the basket at once, as though claiming it for their own; Florian half expected to see it sail away, borne on a tide of rose-leaves, though thankfully it did not.
Gloaming Page 4
