“You’re taking the easy way out,” she said. “You’re using your mother as an excuse to make the hard decisions for you. You don’t have to face up to your difficulties with Robin because you have to focus all your energy on Sylvia. You’re not to blame for your drinking because there might be something wrong inside your head. Isn’t it convenient? Isn’t it a handy way out for you? You forget I grew up in Blashy Cove. I’ve seen your mother around the village from the day I was born. I’ve seen the nastiness, the spite, the vitriol. I’ve seen what she’s really like, what she’s capable of, and you’re nothing like her. If you were, we couldn’t be friends. I think you’re scared, Edwin. Like the rest of us. You’re scared of losing everything, so you’re letting it go on your terms. It’s easier if you control it, isn’t it? It doesn’t hurt quite the same if it doesn’t come out of the blue. Poor Edwin, they’ll say, he couldn’t possibly have been expected to keep his relationship going, given the circumstances. It wasn’t his fault. Well, let me tell you this, Edwin Farriner—if you don’t talk to Robin, if you lose him, if you don’t face this fear inside of you, it will be your fault. And you’ll regret it every single day of your life.”
She could see her words had landed exactly as she’d wished. Edwin’s eyes were wet, and the room was silent. She softened her tone.
“I know, deep down, there’s a strength inside you, Edwin. There’s still time to fight, but you don’t have to do it alone. You have family. You have friends. You have us. We love you and we want to help you. Lean on us and, together, it’s a fight I know we can win.”
EVA WALKED ALONG a frost-crusted path, past the hedge maze and the palm house and the old groundskeeper’s cottage, and through the gardens of Chase Manor. Iris had stormed out hours earlier, and once Eva had calmed down, she went searching for her. She was wrapped in a hazel coloured fur cape and hood, her hands clasped in a mink muff. Her way was lit by the cloud-blind full moon and dozens of lamps hanging from curled iron poles. A wraith of moths fluttered around them, their inelegantly-patterned wings beating, furious but noiseless. Ahead was a small, white, domed folly overlooking the then-frozen lake. The door was slightly ajar, but before she entered, she ran a gloved hand over one of its columns. The little six-sided building held a special place in her heart, for it was there she and Iris had shared their first kiss. She found Iris inside, sitting on one of the window seats. With one finger she drew shapes in the condensation collecting on the glass. Eva shut the door behind her and lowered her hood, grateful to be in the relative warmth.
“Father collapsed after you left. He’s been taken to the medical suite. The doctor says she can make him comfortable, for now, at least. I feel responsible.”
“You feel guilty, you mean. For coming here to purposefully upset him with our news.”
Her tone was sharp and it cut Eva to the bone.
“I wondered if perhaps we should have waited until you were actually with child, but I’m not sure he’ll live to see it.”
“And wouldn’t that be just a crime—for him to pass away before you achieve your victory.”
“It’s not about getting one over on him.”
“Well it’s starting to feel that way,” Iris said. “But it doesn’t matter now. Edwin said no.”
Chapter Twenty-One
BACK IN BLASHY Cove, the snow was falling in thick clumps, covering the roof of the Moth & Moon. Inside the great tavern, George Reed sat a tankard of scrumpy in front of Nathaniel Farriner. Beside him sat young May Bell, apprentice at Farriner’s Bakery. She had turned eleven years old a few months earlier and was treating both her new position and age with the seriousness they were due. It was agreed both of them would run a limited service at the bakery in Edwin’s absence. Due to the deterioration of his hands, Nathaniel was of little practical help, but his experience made up for May’s lack of same. She spoke to Nathaniel of preparing the dough from the next few days’ worth of bread and how they would need to prepare in case Edwin didn’t return before New Year.
“Steady on!” Nathaniel said. “He’s only going for a few days, he’ll be back any time now.”
May pointed to one of the many-paned windows becoming clogged with snow. “Not if the weather gets any worse, he won’t.”
Not for the first time George was struck by May’s precocious shrewdness.
“She’s got a point, Nathaniel!” George said, before carrying on with his duties.
The tavern was busy with village folk milling about, grateful to be in out of the cold. By the enormous fireplace, a table of older women sat nattering about the day’s events. Right in the centre of the venerable quorum, as usual, was Mrs. Morwenna Whitewater.
“And how is your Robin getting along on Blackrabbit?” one of the women asked.
“I haven’t heard,” Mrs. Whitewater replied. “Though I’m sure it’s going splendidly.”
“I do wish he’d hurry home,” George said as he cleared empty glasses from the table. “This place isn’t the same without him.”
“No,” said Mrs. Hannity Kind without looking up from her knitting. “There’s more room, for a start.”
Arminell Pinch, his heavily-pregnant barmaid, tapped George on his shoulder.
“It’s time, Mr. Reed,” she said.
“Ah, yes, of course!” George replied.
He walked to the inglenook and stood in front of the noisy fire, banging a tin tankard against the stonework. The crowd quietened down and turned their attention toward him.
Now,” he said, his voice deep and soft and clear, “I know we were looking forward to crowning Robin Shipp as this year’s Father Winter, and you all did a wonderful job of keeping it a secret from him, but as I’m sure you’ve heard, he’s been called away to Blackrabbit.
A great chorus of “aww” erupted from the crowd.
“I know, I know, so instead we need to find another Father-or-Mother Winter! Well, the honour instead falls to someone who has been a pillar of this community for the longest time. Someone upon whom we have all relied in one way or another, and someone who, I think it’s fair to say, has been through a very tough time in recent months. So, this year, I have the pleasure of presenting the holly crown to…Mr. Nathaniel Farriner!”
Amid many cries of “Merry solstice!”, and to raucous applause, Nathaniel was led to a chair in the centre of the room. On his head was placed a crown made of mistletoe and holly chosen from the highest point of the tree, where it was softest. Mrs. Whitewater approached, carrying a coat of the most verdant green and trimmed with dazzling gold thread woven into the shape of leaves.
“Congratulations, Nathaniel!” she said as two villagers took the coat and draped it about his shoulders. It swamped his stooped frame and spilled to the floor in great waves like an emerald waterfall.
“Well, I made it for Robin, remember,” Mrs. Whitewater said.
“Thank you all so much, but why me?”
Mrs. Whitewater smiled kindly at him and took his hand.
“We know how difficult it’s been for you since Sylvia left. And how difficult it was for you when she was here, come to think of it. Your bakery has been a vital part of the community forever. If you ask me, this is long overdue.”
The village’s musicians began to play an old song and children started to dance around Nathaniel’s chair as trays of fruit and bread were brought before him, along with goblets of wine. The tradition was an old one, said to appease the spirit of the season and ensure a mild winter. Although nobody believed in the supernatural element, it was considered a fine and worthy thing to honour one member of the community, and if it could be done in a way that was theatrical and enjoyable, and brought a little joy and colour to the drabness of the season, then why not continue it?
Once Nathaniel had finished his first drink of the wine, the music stopped and the crowd was silent again. George again took his place by the fire and gestured toward the covered object Duncan Hunger had delivered days earlier.
“Mr. Hunger has kindl
y donated something special for this year’s Midwinter. I know he was excited about unveiling it himself, but he has left us with strict instructions, so, if you please.”
He waved to his staff and they removed the cover, revealing a gleaming tower of glass and copper. It looked like someone had smashed a dozen windows and arranged the shards around a maypole. George bent down and turned a key in the base. Thirteen times, and no more, as per his instructions, then he stood back.
Nothing happened.
“I think you broke it, Mr. Reed!”
“But I…”
Suddenly the thing started to shiver and quake as the mechanism inside whirred to life. The glass began to turn slowly, deliberately. The ticking from within grew louder as hidden arms lifted, splaying the shards outwards. As it did so, the entire device grew in height, as though a crystal tree was growing from the floorboards of the ancient tavern. The crowd were awestruck by the sight and babbled with appreciative noises, but it had one last surprise in store. As each “branch” turned and hit a particular point, a striker ignited the wick of a candle embedded within and before long the entire apparatus was a dazzling, glowing, sparkling beacon, whirling with light and life. The crowd rose to their feet and applauded the spectacle. George had never seen anything like it. He knew Duncan Hunger had only begun working with clockworks in recent years, and to have created such an astonishing piece spoke to his talent, his creative soul.
Just as he was thinking of what to say, a fierce gust of wind blew through the heavy main doors, extinguishing almost all of the candles in the bar. Only the crystal tree and a handful of storm lanterns escaped. Even the candelabra overhead, in reality a huge ship’s wheel turned on its side and hoisted to the gallery above, went dark. Lighting those candles meant lowering the entire chandelier to the ground by means of the winch and pulley system controlled by a lever behind the bar. It would involve first clearing a space and moving customers and tables about, and George didn’t feel it was worthwhile at that time of night. And so the bar of the Moth & Moon was plunged into an eerie twilight, lit only by a few candles and the moon-splashed snow outside.
The crowd whooped and laughed as the most mischievous amongst them pinched at the unsuspecting, making them jump in the dim light. Others made queer noises like fearsome ghouls, issuing spooky laughs from dark corners.
“Perfect time for a ghost story, this is!” said one patron.
“Aye, go on, Mr. Reed!” yelled another. “Midwinter is a time for stories. Tell us one of yours!”
George rubbed his hand over his short, grey beard as he tried to think of a tale to tell. He eyed the wall behind him, covered not just in shelves filled with various exotic drinks, but also an eclectic collection of items such as an old rum bottle with a scrap of parchment inside, a glass box filled with moth specimens, a brass trumpet with a musket hole and a mask made from silver and grey pigeon feathers. It had a crooked seam running down the middle of it, where it had been diligently repaired.
“I do have one in mind, been thinking about it a lot lately, as it happens.”
He lifted the mask and turned it over and over in his hands.
“But I worry about the younger children present.”
Youngest of all gathered was May Bell, who stood up, put her hands on her hips and said:
“Mr. Reed. We have spoken about this in the past. I was old enough to hear your stories during the hurricane, and I’m even older now. Please, continue.”
There was laughter from the crowd as George held up his hands in defeat. As he started talking, he affected a low growl in his normally soft, warm voice. The crowd grew hushed as he started to speak.
“I’ll tell you the story of a particular inn on a particular island. An unusually old inn. Tall and narrow, it is, and damp, and dark. Made from scores of buildings strung together by stairs open to the elements. Many’s a man was lost on those stairs on a stormy night. When the wind howls, it blows through gaps in the walls. When it rains, it pours through the ceiling. When winter comes, thick frost gathers inside the windows. Nonetheless, this decrepit inn was home to a man, a woman, and their young daughter.
“The man had his heart set of running his own business, and when he heard of a dilapidated inn had need of new owners, he bought it and presented it as a gift to his new wife. She was aghast, at first. She never wanted to run an inn. She’d been born into a family of innkeepers and ran away to escape that life. But she loved him, and he loved her, and together they decided to make a go of it.
“Soon after, the woman became pregnant and late one winter’s night, in a room on the topmost floor of the inn, as the thunder boomed and lightning flashed during one of the worst storms the islanders had ever seen, she gave birth to a daughter with hair as black as coal and eyes to match.”
May Bell squirmed in her seat. The only sound was the soft clicking of Duncan’s glass tree. George suppressed a grin and continued.
“At first, they thought she had been born lifeless, so quiet and pale was the baby, but when they looked closely, they saw she was breathing, and watching them with her big, dark eyes. She simply wasn’t crying the way a newborn should. In fact, the child never cried at all. Nor, as she grew, did she ever speak a single word. But the child was happy in her own way. The inn was her entire world and she would throw terrible tantrums if her parents ever tried to take her outside, so they grew content to let her play and wander its halls as she wished. She was an odd child, there was no denying it. At nights, she could be found staring at the moon for hours on end. In the day, she’d make masks for herself and her parents. Paper masks she would decorate with whatever she found in the inn—ribbons and lace she’d take from her mother’s clothes or from garments left behind by guests, sometimes seashells, or flowers, or chicken bones taken from the kitchen.
“One day, a pigeon flew in through a window and smacked against the wall, killing it instantly. Her father fetched a coal scuttle to lift the bird with, but when he returned, he found the girl, fascinated by what she’d seen, was carefully plucking each and every feather from its lifeless body. When night fell, she set about fixing the feathers to a mask under the light of a full moon. This became her most treasured possession. When she wore it—which she did most of the time—she would cock her head in an unusual way, bobbing it as she walked.”
George held the mask to his face for a moment and tilted his head.
“She could occasionally be seen flapping her arms as if trying to fly. Her parents, worried by this new behaviour, tried to take the mask off her but she scratched and bit and pecked at them, so they thought it best to let her keep it. Over time, the man and woman began to grow apart. The woman felt trapped by work she had never wanted to do in the first place, and the man was resentful of the time and money wasted on the inn. He thought he’d have made his fortune years ago, owned ten more inns and retired to a life of luxury by now.
“As it was, their inn was just successful enough for them to be able to hire people to work for them—a wizened old crone who acted as cook, and a pretty young man who became their housekeeper. So pretty was he, soon the woman’s head was turned by him. As they passed in the halls, she would compliment him on his work. Then on his hair, then on his looks. In time, they had made love on the freshly lain sheets of every room of the inn.
“The woman and her husband began to row more and more frequently, and the atmosphere of the inn was becoming intolerable to them both. And so, one day, when the snow was falling and the air was sharp, the woman went to talk to her daughter. Fearing she wouldn’t listen, the woman first asked to see her pigeon mask, to better admire her amazing craft. She gave it to the woman and she placed it high on a shelf, well out of her reach. She promised she would return it if the girl was good and listened to what she had to say.
“The woman told her daughter she was running away with the young housekeeper. They would go to the mainland to start a new life for themselves. She also told her daughter they would be taking her with them.
How exciting it would be for her! A new life! A new home! She instructed the girl to begin packing anything she wished to take, as they would be leaving before the sun rose the next morning.
“The girl, who had never voluntarily left the inn, began to fret. She paced the floor, back and forth, back and forth. The woman, trying to calm her down, took the pigeon mask from the high shelf and handed it to her. The girl quickly tied it on, and in an instant, a kind of serenity washed over her. She tilted her head to one side, like a bird would, and looked at her mother. How black her eyes were. How lifeless.
“Silently, the girl stood up and stretched her arms as though they were wings. She flexed them as far, and then as high, as she could, stretching her little fingers out and splaying them as wide as they would go. With one last look at her mother’s confused face, she ran to the topmost room of the inn, opened the window and leapt out, arms outspread. She fell six stories to the ground. The snow turned red when she lay.
“The girl’s father, driven mad by the sight of his child lying dead, ran away, never to be heard from again. Her mother removed the housekeeper from her employ and banished him from her life entirely. She, who years before had come to hate the inn, vowed never to leave it again, for it was there, she said, the spirit of her daughter resided, and it was only there she could ever hope to see her again. She blamed herself for her daughter’s death and no one—not her friends, not her neighbours, not even her own brother—could convince her otherwise.
“The inn remains in business to this very day. Guests who stay there have spoken of seeing a masked girl, dressed all in white and dropping feathers, walk up the stairs in the dead of night, into the room on the top floor and jumping from the window with her arms spread as if trying to fly. It’s said she’ll never rest until her parents come together in love once again and tell her she can stay in the only home she’d ever known.”
The crowd, still shrouded in sallow candlelight, remained silent for a few moments, until one man started to clap, followed by more and more. George gave a bright smile, showing his little white teeth, then returned behind the heavy counter of the bar.
The Lion Lies Waiting Page 17
