He seemed to fall at once into such absorption with his work that he forgot Oriane’s presence on the spot. She hesitated, uncertain. His labours excited a powerful curiosity in her, and she wanted to offer herself as assistant — beg him to teach her — anything, provided she received some further glimpse into his mystifying arts. But he was frowning in concentration, busy about the loom, involved in some endeavour that struck her as delicate and complicated, and she could not bring herself to be so rude as to interrupt him again. So she murmured a polite farewell, offered a curtsey which he did not see, and quietly withdrew, promising herself that she would return to the tower soon. Once the Brightening came in, perhaps; she might very reasonably seek his further counsel upon that topic.
3
The gale outside the tower-top room had not abated at all, though it had altered. What had been a freezing wind had grown balmy in temperature, and smelled of sun upon the sea. Oriane followed its current back the way she had come, only to find, to her immense surprise, that the staircase was not where she had left it. Where there had been a way down, there was now a blank stone wall.
‘I suppose,’ said she, after a moment’s silent astonishment, ‘that if one may catch the winds in this peculiar place and weave the breezes into shawls, then a staircase may grow tired of always being in one spot, and take itself exploring instead.’ All of which might be quite reasonable according to the rules of Laendricourt, but the reflection did not in any way resolve the problem of how to get down, for a quick search of the environs soon confirmed her worst fears: there were no other stairs.
She was still stationed before that disobliging wall, paralysed with indecision, when Walkelin’s voice came drifting down the passage behind her, carried by the sea winds. ‘Have the stairs jaunted off? Only wait a moment, good lady, and they will return.’
Oriane, turning to look, caught a glimpse of his tufted white head vanishing back through the door to his workroom — he had put his face around the door-frame just to speak to her, and immediately gone back again.
And when she turned about, there they were, meekly materialising out of nowhere. There came a grinding of stone upon stone as the wall slunk away — to where, she wondered? Had it, too, abandoned its more regular position in order to take up a station here? Were the various parts of Laendricourt all in the daily habit of taking refreshing holidays in other parts of the house? But there were the stairs, and down them she went — quickly, in case they should prove fickle, and dart off again to somewhere else.
Either they had, or there was some far stranger explanation at work, for upon reaching the foot of the stairs Oriane found herself somewhere unexpected. It was not the simple stone hall she had passed through on the way up, but rather a deliciously warm kitchen, smelling of bread and beer and fruit. She had not felt the stairs move, and began to wonder whether they did so at all. Perhaps it was simply that the top steps sometimes led into different places, and the bottom ones also. Just now the bottom step fancied the kitchen, and she could hardly blame it.
The room was almost deserted, which seemed strange; the heavy mix of aromas upon the air suggested a large staff hard at work. The ovens pumped out a fierce heat, and an enormous fire occupied most of one wall, roaring splendidly even without any obvious attendance. The only person in charge of all this industry and splendour was asleep, however: a large lady, she sat perched atop a tall stool before a great work-table, her cheek pressed to the age-roughened oak boards and her eyes firmly shut. Oriane heard a snore.
She did not trouble to wake the lady but went to the door, suppressing the temptation to go in search of the fresh bread she could smell. Nynevarre’s fruits, however marvellous, could not long sustain her.
Beyond the kitchen was a parlour quite filled with people. It was a fine parlour, hung with silvery drapes, its ceiling carved and painted in glittering splendour. Far too fine a room to be adjacent to all the strong smells and (usually) noisy clatter of a kitchen, she thought; but when she turned her head to glance once again into that room, there was no kitchen at all, only an empty stone hall again.
‘Ah! And there you are,’ came Nynevarre’s voice, and there was Nynevarre herself, bustling up to welcome Oriane. ‘I did come to fetch you, my dear, only I was a trifle late, and then I could not trace you. Whisked away, were you not? Perhaps lost? It can be difficult to find your way about when first you arrive, poor dear, for the changes take some getting used to.’
‘I found my way up to Walkelin’s tower,’ said Oriane, surreptitiously surveying the other occupants of the parlour. ‘He was kind to me, though very busy, I think. And after that the stairs would not immediately agree to bring me down again.’ She received a few curious glances from some few of the people arrayed about in deep, comfortable chairs, or seated around a lace-clad table playing cards, though nobody spoke to her. She noticed, slightly to her discomfort, the man in the plum velvet coat. He did not choose to maintain his earlier indifference, however, for his eyes were fixed upon her with a degree of intense fascination she found both unnerving and intriguing. So eagerly did he now scrutinise her that she wondered whether his previous dismissal of her had been at all sincere, or some kind of act; for when he realised that his notice of her was observed by the other card-players at the table, he quickly withdrew his gaze, and did not look at her again.
Curious.
‘I will show you about, shall I?’ said Nynevarre, and tucked her arm through Oriane’s. ‘After all, since you will be with us for some time, we cannot have you wandering lost and starving to death. Only we will not go too far from the house — no one does, you know, for it is dangerous beyond the walls. We will begin with the dining parlour, that will be best.’ So saying, she swept Oriane towards the door — different from the one Oriane had come through, on the other side of the room — and kept up a congenial flow of good-natured conversation all the while. But they had not got more than halfway across the pretty green-carpeted saloon beyond before the quick steps of someone in a hurry were heard behind them, and a deep voice spoke.
‘My good madame, if I may detain you? I shall not keep her long, Nynevarre.’
Madame? She had not heard that form of address since she had come through the mirror, and the word alone was sufficient to stop her. Politely she disentangled her arm from Nynevarre’s and turned back, to find the man in the plum velvet coat standing there. He carried some knitted woollen garment over one arm.
‘Quickly, Ghislain!’ said Nynevarre. ‘Cannot you see that she is famished?’
Ghislain bowed, and held out his burden to Oriane. It was a shawl, and a familiar one. Taking it with fingers that slightly shook, she was soon confirmed in her suspicion: it was her own shawl, her favourite, knitted by her own hands in her preferred shade of blue. ‘But,’ said she in great confusion, ‘I was not wearing it when I — I had left this at home, I am quite sure that I — how did it come to be here?’ She fixed Ghislain with a swift, penetrating look and said, more coherently, ‘How, sir, did you come to realise that it was mine?’
‘I imagined it must be, Madame Travere. Who else could it possibly belong to?’ With which words he gave a cursory bow, and left again. Oriane could only stare after him, wondering.
‘How nice it is to have one’s own things about one!’ said Nynevarre brightly, and took up Oriane’s arm again. ‘It is fortunate that the thing should have come through after you, though I should like to know who has lost a shawl or a coat or some other such thing today! They will be less happy, I am sure, but no matter. It cannot be held to be any fault of yours. The dining parlour, my dear. Just this way. Through the saloon and over the threshold of the third door, the one behind the quartz pillar there. That’s it. If you should chance to step through and find the scullery instead, or a garret, just go back over once or twice more and you shall be safely delivered. Yes, here we are. The table, dear, always set and ready. Just lift the lids of the dishes, and take whatever you like. The kitchens deliver promptly. There! Trout in
cream! And onions in sugar, and new bread. Very fine.’
The dining room was as splendid as the card parlour, though in a more muted way. Clad in red-toned wood and lit by four vast windows, it was dominated by a table still more enormous even than the one Oriane had passed in the kitchen. This table was spread with an ivory brocade cloth and cluttered up with serving-mats, and every inch of its surface was crowded over with silver serving dishes. Nynevarre had merely investigated the contents of the nearest three, but Oriane amused herself for some little time in exploring further. She found every delicacy that might be supposed to please: stewed chicken in wine, buttered crab, a ham pie, a trifle of quinces and apples and custard, white soup and pease pottage, griddle cakes and buns, pickled mushrooms and a breath-takingly delicate tart filled with fruit jelly and almonds. Each seemed freshly baked, the hot dishes still steaming. She soon learned to restrain her explorations, however, for when she returned to the dish that had held the ham pie she found it now to contain a dish of scallops instead, and the tart had vanished in favour of a currant cheesecake.
‘Changefulness is the way of Laendricourt,’ said Nynevarre peaceably, seating herself at the table with a plate of trout-in-cream. ‘When you find something you like, dear, it’s wise to partake of it at once.’
‘And why is it?’ said Oriane, cheerfully contenting herself with the scallops and the cheesecake. ‘Changeful, I mean.’
Nynevarre did not precisely know, as indicated by a shrug of her shoulders as she applied herself to her food. ‘Some say as there’s been too much magic done here for far too long. It’s seeped into the walls, and will not come out again.’ She chewed a portion of fish, and further remarked, ‘Myself, I would certainly say as there’s too much magic about, one way or another. There’s Rozebaiel, after all, and Mistral, and even Walkelin in his way.’
Oriane thought, all at once, of Pharamond, and wondered what he would make of this odd but marvellous place. His emporium would fit in seamlessly. She wondered with a pang what he thought of her disappearance, and quickly turned her thoughts away again. Rozebaiel. She had heard that name mentioned before. ‘Who is she?’ Oriane said. ‘Rozebaiel, that is.’
‘Oh,’ said Nynevarre with a considering look. ‘No, you wouldn’t have met her, at that. They say she wasn’t born, exactly, though I can’t see as how anybody knows for sure. But that she was found as an infant all swaddled in rose-leaves is beyond doubt. And Mistral sailed into the south-east tower one day, borne by a fine breeze, or so they say. He’s lived there ever since, and the winds, too.’
‘The Wind’s Own Tower,’ said Oriane.
Nynevarre nodded. ‘Tis his magic that gives Walkelin the means to weave as he does, though there’s much credit to be given to his own art, too. Now, with Rozebaiel gone, some say as the roses will wither up and die, and then where will we be? And if Mistral goes, too!’ Nynevarre illustrated this point with a sad shake of her head, and finished with a large bite of trout.
Oriane mused over this in silence, and arrived at one or two conclusions. ‘Is that why I am not given much welcome?’
‘Paltry, to think it your fault that Rozebaiel should be gone! Only it is not quite a random thing, and that’s known. There was a mirror, was there not?’
Oriane nodded.
‘And you approached?’
‘I did. I could not help it. I felt… drawn.’
Nynevarre nodded wisely. ‘No one ever appears without that someone else goes the other way. Tis the way of it. And to the minds of some, since it’s you that must have fallen into the mirror, it is your doing that Rozebaiel is taken from us.’ She spoke sympathetically, but there was a hard glint to her eye that caused Oriane to wonder whether Nynevarre did not, in fact, rather agree with these other people.
Was it really true, that Rozebaiel and Mistral were of such paramount importance? Would Walkelin’s soothing draughts be impossible to make, without Mistral’s winds? Would the roses continue so obliging, under the prolonged absence of Rozebaiel? Perhaps, but perhaps not. Magic has seeped into the walls, Nynevarre had said, and Oriane felt that she was right.
Only not, perhaps, always — or not without softening influence. Oriane’s quick mind grasped another subtlety: that when she had arrived the night before, the house of Laendricourt had been by no means so chaotic. She had wandered its passages and halls largely in peace, without the disruptions of staircases wandering about and doors opening onto the wrong rooms — or tapestries growing bored of their general configurations and resolving themselves into new scenes entirely, as she now saw happening upon the wall of the dining-parlour. The difference was the light: yester eve there had been the Brightening, and now there was not.
Oriane’s musings released her long enough for her to remember her food, and she took a bite of scallops. They tasted of jugged hare.
Noting her look of surprise, Nynevarre eyed the offending dish and suggested: ‘If it’s scallops you were after, you might try the beef.’
Tentatively, Oriane tested the currant cheesecake. It savoured strongly of apples, and had the texture of a baked pudding.
‘I do not know where the cheesecake might be got to,’ said Nynevarre vaguely. ‘I found it in a trifle, once, and another time as a honey tart.’
‘Is that trout you are eating?’ said Oriane.
‘I believe it is pigeon.’ Nynevarre took another bite, chewed slowly, and then said: ‘Or partridge. It is difficult to be sure.’
Nynevarre’s tour was not, in the end, of much use, for by its close Oriane felt more confused than ever. All the doors led to three or four different destinations at least, and it was a mere matter of chance as to which one would be found upon the other side. The stairs were all in the habit of twisting themselves about until top and bottom came out someplace else; one elegant marble staircase had its roots in the great hall in Laendricourt’s west wing, but when Oriane and Nynevarre arrived at the top they found themselves deposited in a small library, which Nynevarre said was quite on the other side of the house. Upon the return journey, they came out in a charming pillared folly situated just off the kitchen garden, and had to forge through freezing winds and a haze of snow to re-enter the house. Oriane quickly concluded that she would just have to accustom herself to being lost.
‘The Light will soon come in,’ said Nynevarre, rather confusing Oriane. A glance at the silver watch that hung from her belt and a nod of satisfaction followed. ‘Half past one. I’ve work about the house, but I will call for you at four?’
She bustled off without much waiting for a reply, leaving Oriane alone in a cool pantry well-stocked with jars.
Oriane did not mind the solitude. Nynevarre was kind, but there was a bustle and a hurry about her which did not suit Oriane’s more measured pace for long, and she talked on at such a speed that Oriane began to feel quite tired by it. She took a moment to breathe and calm her mind, relishing the restful quiet of the pantry, before she ventured to step across the threshold into whatever lay beyond.
It proved to be a storage room, dimly lit, its walls stacked high with boxes of every shape, size and hue. In the centre stood a long-legged table, books piled upon its surface. It could almost be the twin of Pharamond’s; the thought flitted across her mind and was dismissed before it could cause her any pain. Nonetheless, her heart twisted in her breast and she had a moment’s work to dismiss likewise the visage of Pharamond himself, his eyes warm with approval in the way he often looked at her…
She heard voices from an adjacent room, and instantly composed herself to be quiet. The interruption was of use to her; all thoughts fled her mind at once, leaving her focused upon the task of removing herself without disturbing those who, presumably, owned the space. She was on the point of leaving again when a little ruckus reached her ears: a thumping and clattering noise, impossible to identify. She looked around.
One of the boxes was rocking about. It jumped and jumped, striving, apparently, to throw itself off the stack of store-boxes upon which
it rested — a mission it shortly achieved, landing with a smack upon the floor. Whereupon it immediately began to twitch and shuffle and writhe its way towards Oriane, lid rattling.
Oriane did not know how to respond to such an overture, for she had never before been importuned by a store-box. She stood, undecided, and expecting any moment that whoever stood in the adjacent room must hear the noise and come in. This thought almost sent her fleeing out of the room at once, for how could she explain her presence in what appeared to be a private store? But no footsteps approached; there was a hubbub of voices, raised in some manner of disagreement, and they were too absorbed by their conversation to notice much besides.
The box reached her feet and began to hurl itself against her shoe, over and over. Oriane could not ignore such an entreaty. She bent and removed the lid, which action the box greeted with a kind of sigh of relief.
A peculiar array of objects lay inside. There was a mass of gauzy mauve fabric stitched in silver, so airy that it might have been woven from the clouds. It must be Walkelin’s work, thought Oriane. A length of ribbon lay on top, glittering with fresh rain, and with it a puff of glassy cloud — or was it misty glass?
And a neckcloth, amber-bright and made, ostensibly, from rose petals.
The neckcloth leapt into her hands and would not consent to be put down again. Nor did she wish to, for her thoughts flew to the incongruously plain article around Walkelin’s neck, and his obvious astonishment at finding it there. She remembered also the puzzling appearance of her own shawl at Laendricourt, and Nynevarre’s remark. I should like to know who has lost a shawl or a coat or some other such thing. The neckcloth was Walkelin’s, doubtless; but how came it to be here in Laendricourt after all?
She must return it to Walkelin, whatever the circumstances of its residence here, and it certainly seemed most desirous that she should do so. Oriane waited, in case any of the other objects in the box should wish to be taken away likewise. They lay quiescent, however — slightly to her regret, for the ribbon was the most beautiful she had ever set eyes upon — and she replaced the lid upon the box. A moment’s work saw it placed back upon the stack where it lived, and out she went, carrying the neckcloth with her.
Gloaming Page 8
