Lost Acre

by Andrew Caldecott

  ‘There’s nothing more for us here,’ Gabriel declared, ‘other than to note the stillness. Everything is underground, waiting.’

  The return journey repeated the eerie out-of-body experience.

  Oblong felt an urge to impress Gabriel, to show he had been part of this drama, but his companion’s gravitas prevailed until the front door, when he could resist no longer.

  ‘Orelia mentioned a Darkness Rose. It seems to have gone, but I remember Salt had one.’

  Gabriel chuckled. ‘One and the same – Salt gave it to Bill Ferdy, who gave it to Ferensen, who entrusted it to me.’

  Oblong had his way in. ‘I’ve seen another.’

  Gabriel’s face changed as if this was serious news.

  ‘Where, pray?’

  ‘There’s an earth-coloured tile, deep underground below the town catacombs. It leads to a quarry.’

  ‘The quarry,’ murmured Gabriel, ‘not that I’ve been there.’

  ‘Well, there’s an identical rose where the tunnel ends, right by the tile.’

  ‘Is there indeed?’ His host sounded pleased. He unlocked the door and ushered Oblong in.

  They checked on Aggs, whose breathing had a steady, contented rumble.

  ‘Now we can indulge a little,’ said Gabriel. ‘You light the fire, I’ll do the necessaries.’

  ‘Necessaries’ meant beer, large flat cheese biscuits like thick poppadoms, and St Elmo’s to finish.

  Gabriel restocked the stove with peat before resuming their conversation by the fireside. ‘Legend has it, there were three Darkness Roses. One found Salt and two were lost. They’re to be treasured for their benevolence. But legend also says they have an opposite.’

  Oblong worked through the implications. ‘You mean it chose to be by the underground tile?’

  ‘More importantly, Mr Oblong, it chose to let you through.’

  So it had: the canes had hugged the ceiling as he and Valourhand crawled past.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘We’ve lived here for more than four hundred years. “Guardians” would be overstating our role, but I’d accept “observers”. After Wynter’s fall, there had to be an early-warning system. More people come than you might expect, and not all come back. But some liked to talk. So you could say they’re family legends, gleaned from Lost Acre’s visitors over the years and handed down through the generations.’

  ‘Any Clauds?’ asked Oblong.

  ‘Lots of Clauds! Mostly good, but with the occasional bad apple.’

  ‘And Morval Seer?’

  ‘I found Morval here last summer. I gave her clothes and I mentioned her to Bolitho.’

  ‘Fortemain?’

  ‘Yes, although I had no idea then. He was just a professor with a gift for exploration, cocktails and kindness. But when they met . . .’ Gabriel stopped, unable to find the words. ‘He brought her pencils and paints and she was transformed. I guess that talent kept her human side alive.’

  Conversation drifted to the mundane, until Gabriel collected the glasses and turned practical. ‘Tomorrow you can teach me how to fly that contraption. Then I’ll drop you both off by the Island Field bridge. Take a bedroom at the back.’ He smiled. ‘Almost all your friends have used it.’

  9

  A Trap to Lay

  Scry’s six-card deal from her Tarot pack reflected both the evening’s events and a tantalising but uncertain future. The four open cards spoke of the already occurred: The Fool, for her mistaken attack on the town historian; The Wheel of Fortune, for an unexpected discovery, and Justice and The Hanged Man for the assumed execution of Tyke, ever a thorn in the Eleusians’ side.

  The two hidden cards were more challenging. She took the High Priestess to refer to her imminent fight with Nona. The winner would be Wynter’s lead acolyte. As for the other, The World – be realistic, Wynter would never return for less. But which world? He had secured the valley already.

  Lost Acre’s auras varied in strength, fading over time, and were hard to pin down, but she had caught a tell-tale trace from the knight’s visor. Oblong had been to the other place, and not so long ago. Why?

  Fellow guests had helped the absurd man shed most of his carapace, but a single armoured foot still rang on the cobbles, enabling her to follow him discreetly to Artery Lane. He had stayed only minutes and once gone, the pitiful lock on his door yielded with ease, as had the conspicuously loose floorboard which concealed the velvet bag. Scry might peddle arcane tat in The Clairvoyancy, but she recognised fine silver and exquisite craftsmanship when she saw it – and that tell-tale aura. This was not an instrument to blow until you knew what it did.

  She shook the bag, releasing a tiny card inscribed with the single word Escharion, and squealed with pleasure – the name on the last prophecy coin. Now she could bait her line.

  She reached for pen and ink. The invitation would require subtle drafting and her gift for forgery.

  10

  The Fanguins Have a Dilemma It had been a hard day in the Manor kitchens, with Sly forever diverting waiters to his back office, but supply had largely kept pace with demand. At ten o’clock, Bomber sent the remaining staff home. She had only the wine glasses to box up.

  She had embarked on this task when Fennel Finch, now dressed in a clinging shift of green silk with her hair tied back, appeared. ‘I’ll finish off,’ she said with a glacial smile.

  ‘It’s late, and I’m almost done.’

  ‘You’ve earned your shut-eye.’

  The bonhomie rang false, but Bomber felt outranked. ‘That’s very thoughtful, Mrs Finch.’

  ‘A joy to help.’

  Joy: language as false as the smile, but Bomber conceded, gathered her coat and left.

  In the Great Hall, she encountered Wynter, lounging by the fire with a superior bottle of wine. He poured a glass and offered it, asking, ‘Do you ever feel unappreciated, Mrs Fanguin?’

  ‘Often,’ she said truthfully.

  ‘I offered that countrysider reconciliation – yet he refused me.’

  Bomber had witnessed the destruction wrought by the mantoleon and the deformities lurking in the New Year mechanicals. ‘Why do they hate us so?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re achievers; they’re not.’ He swirled his glass, raised it to his nose and inhaled.

  ‘But they create monsters, Mr Wynter. We can’t.’

  He looked oddly amused. ‘Don’t doesn’t mean can’t, Mrs Fanguin. Maybe they stole the skill from us – and maybe we should retrieve it. Imagine riding a griffin or a flying horse.’

  Surely he’s teasing.

  Wynter nibbled one of her elaborate canapés. ‘Work for me. I pay most generously.’

  ‘I’m contracted to the Apothecaries—’

  ‘You’re not, you’re employed by Master Thomes. Run-of-the-mill Apothecaries don’t have taste buds. Let’s weigh our respective merits. Thomes doesn’t do gratitude or humour. Thomes wouldn’t offer you a drink by the fire.’

  Too true, thought Bomber. How perceptive, but . . . ‘We were on our uppers, Mr Fanguin and I. We owe him.’

  ‘That explains why you took the job. It’s no reason for not moving on. I offer half as much again.’

  ‘Sentiment, I suppose.’

  Wynter’s manner flipped like a coin. His tone hardened. ‘Sentiment! You’re with me or against me, Mrs Fanguin. It’s Master or Mayor. Sleep on it.’

  ‘I’ll lie awake on it,’ replied Bomber diplomatically. She drained her glass, curtsied and left.

  *

  Fanguin’s house key fumbled for the lock like an inexperienced lover. Once inside, his crook found the umbrella stand, the bonnet the hat-stand and his mask the bannister. Fanguin rated champagne an effervescent sonata, but Vlad’s twelve-years-in-the-cask whisky was the full symphony, the real McCoy. Favourite crystal tumbler in hand, he bounded upstairs to his study, where he waved a lighted match around the nozzle of the gas-lamp with such vigour that it failed.

  A feminine form la
unched from the darkness. ‘Bloody hell, Fanguin, do you want to blow us all up?’ Valourhand seized the matches and did the needful. Her eyebrows rose as his appearance registered. ‘You’re better in trousers, believe me.’

  ‘Best in show,’ exclaimed Fanguin, pirouetting with the bottle aloft, ‘and a prize which waits for no man.’ He poured a triple into the tumbler for himself and a single into a toothmug for Valourhand. ‘Speaking for myself, excess fizz dries you out.’

  ‘Which is what you need. Just tell me, yes or no, was Oblong there?’

  Fanguin was not in a yes-or-no mood. He stuck several pencils in his mouth and lurched forward like Frankenstein, arms and legs stiff as spade handles.

  Through pursed lips he mumbled, ‘For pencils, read straws; I’m in full armour and my name begins with O.’

  Valourhand did not smile. ‘He was meant to be protecting Orelia.’

  ‘Orelia?’ Fanguin stumbled. ‘Our Orelia? Orelia Roc?’ He had last seen her on Election Day, heading upriver on skates with Gregorius Jones into a maze of heaving ice. He had reluctantly accepted the town’s verdict of missing, presumed dead when the thaw yielded no bodies.

  ‘Sit. Listen.’

  As Valourhand delivered a condensed narrative of Orelia’s adventures, Fanguin felt an irresistible surge of joy.

  ‘I gave her my lucky charm – a female St Christopher wading with Christ on her back. And she made it!’ As happens with the inebriated, his mood swung abruptly from ecstatic to disconsolate. ‘I’ve fucked up, haven’t I. I’ve been sleeping with the enemy. I’ve lost my moral compass. I’ve been an arsehole – go on, say it.’

  ‘You’ve been an arsehole.’

  ‘I’ll going to give that Madge Brown what-for.’

  ‘Too late. She’s vamoosed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She sent her sister to deputise.’ Valourhand paused. ‘Was there a nun at the party?’

  ‘Nuns everywhere, half a convent’s worth. There was a kerfuffle with one of them, but I didn’t see much. I was admiring this magnificent label. But I think she escaped. Tell me it was Orelia.’

  A click – the front door latch – escaped Fanguin, but not Valourhand.

  ‘She’s back.’

  ‘Orelia? Where—?’

  ‘Your missus.’

  Bomber’s voice boomed from below, ‘Fanguin, I know you’re up there. Rumour has it you won a prize. I need a swig and I need advice.’

  Valourhand whispered under her breath, ‘Stay with Wynter, work on the inside. That’s your penance.’

  Clump, clump. Bomber had a gaoler’s heavy tread. She had brought her own glass and as Fanguin poured, she displayed her gift for treating all visitors, however unexpected, as welcome guests.

  ‘Miss Valourhand – don’t tell me. You helped the old fool home.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘God knows why he dragged you up here. We’ve a perfectly presentable sitting room.’

  ‘She likes the view,’ stammered Fanguin.

  Bomber could not suppress her true concern any longer. ‘It’s Master Thomes or the Mayor,’ she blurted out, ‘and I have to choose tonight.’

  ‘Do elaborate, dear,’ said Fanguin, topping up her glass.

  ‘I must cook for one or the other – Mr Wynter won’t allow two masters.’

  ‘No contest,’ said Valourhand. ‘The Mayor.’

  ‘But I’m contracted to Master Thomes, and he does so like his sweetmeats.’

  ‘In Lent?’ said Fanguin.

  Valourhand ran with the idea. ‘There you are – on a plate: you say you’re embarrassed by his slippage into sin. Apothecaries take vows, don’t they? Say there’ve been whispers and you’re afraid of exposing him to punitive action.’

  Bomber appraised Valourhand with a mix of admiration and mild suspicion. ‘You’re a devious one,’ she said.

  ‘And say you’re joining me at the Town Hall,’ added Fanguin, ‘because I need watching.’

  Bull’s eye! Bomber visibly relaxed. ‘Now that is true.’

  11

  The Pool of Mixed Intentions

  Strimmer could barely contain himself. Persephone’s dance had been for him: every curve of the faun’s back, every languid stretch of arm and leg had exuded allure and erotic energy. He returned to his rooms and replaced his costume with warm clothes. Unease at her choice of venue succumbed to the prospect of a feral coupling beneath the stars, their bodies illuminated by firelight.

  A leopard skin, suggestive of potency, dominated his study wall, bought from Baubles & Relics at exorbitant cost during Mrs Banter’s reign. He folded it under his arm and set off. She, of course, must wait for him, not vice versa.

  At the Island Field, he wrapped the skin around his shoulder like a classical hero, crossed the southern footbridge and followed the towpath. Persephone had kept her word. About half a mile from the Pool, he came across her head-piece. He took the vestigial antlers as a trophy. He smirked. He would be savage with her.

  At the Pool the river plunged underground. Steep banks descended to reedbeds fringing a near-circular sheet of water. To the southeast lay treacherous marshland. Keen to surprise her, rather than be surprised, Strimmer skirted the rising ground before descending.

  No fire greeted him, but Persephone’s naked form did. She stood in the shallows, combing her hair, apparently impervious to the cold.

  ‘Make me immortal with a kiss, and more than that,’ he whispered to himself. He would not be bested. He removed the leopard skin, his coat, jacket and shirt.

  Persephone was still wearing the bow. The string bisected her breasts. A noise drew Strimmer’s eyes upwards. A small pack of agile silver-haired dogs were easing their way down the scree above her.

  Persephone’s voice rang across the water. ‘How dare you gaze at me?’

  Fragments of legend came to Strimmer: Actaeon the hunter, stumbling on Diana, goddess of the hunt, naked at her pool – and the terrible consequences.

  He scrambled back up the bank as the dogs, lips curled and fangs bared, broke into a trot.

  Strimmer ran like a stag, zigzagging, antlers in hand to ward off his pursuers. He ran until he could run no longer. He sawed the air with the points of bone, but the pack had been starved. They wanted blood.

  They tore the tottering figure down.

  ‘The pack had been starved’

  12

  After the Hunt

  Persephone had been seized by the unfamiliar power of music twice now, and music had infiltrated her decision-making too – why otherwise ask the Precentor to rehearse the Debussy? She had found these spontaneous moments of dance exciting, but disturbing. She had an intruder in her head.

  And later that same night, back in her bed, she dreamt music . . .

  A vast theatre lies open to the night sky. An apron stage is lit by braziers. Basalt columns glimmer. Before her a thousand faces exude the warmth of rapt attention: mankind, in all its rich variety, in thrall to her.

  A young man with Strimmer’s face glides on stage, head jagging left and right. He pirouettes and somersaults with predatory grace: the dance of a hunter. Low to the ground come his dogs, striped like hyenas.

  Movement and music are rhythmic, beyond classical. String and woodwind flow, then judder, then flow again.

  Crouched in a sheath of gauze, she is all but naked. Bulrushes with plush tawny heads obstruct her view, but she knows that the watching faces wait for her.

  A single clarinet uncoils her, sinuous as the stream she bathes in. The hunter is transfixed. His dogs caress her calves as they lollop to and fro. She dances as if he were not there.

  Slowly old loyalties sunder; roles reverse. The hunter is hunted.

  The pursuit and mauling death take time. She continues to bathe, not deigning to look. Retribution is a given.

  *

  Persephone awoke, her body spangled in sweat despite the season. She reached for a mirror for reassurance. She cocked an eyebrow, flicked a finger –
her body was still hers to command, but an alien message lingered.

  Art can isolate the beauty in violence and deliver it without harm.

  ‘Begone,’ she said to this squeamish intruding voice. ‘You have no business here.’

  *

  Wynter lay in his four-poster bed, equally unsettled. Why should Tyke come so meekly to his doom? And why had Nona tried to save him?

  He caught the shuffle of bare feet moving from the stairs to the landing outside. The door opened to admit Fennel Finch, carrying a salver with two mugs.

  ‘They say you favour drinks from long ago. This is heated white wine laced with ground ginger, almonds and a pinch of salt. One for me and one for you.’ She sat on the edge of the bed.

  He sniffed it cautiously and she smiled. ‘Oh yes, they had poisons too. Choose your mug.’ He did, and she took a generous gulp from the other. ‘You do not have forgiving eyes,’ she added.

  ‘Tell me what they are, not what they’re not.’

  She edged closer, examined his face. ‘Ascetic, but poised on the edge of excess,’ she said.

  ‘Never excess,’ replied Wynter.

  ‘I said on the edge. Anyway, eyes are given. You make the furrows in the face.’ She ran a finger along his cheekbone to his mouth. ‘When did you last smile? Or cry out in pleasure?’

  The silk of Fennel’s dress tightened across her body as she twisted around to sip her drink. She ran Wynter’s hand up from her hip to her breasts. He did not object.

  ‘You smiled for Mr Snorkel too,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I gushed for Mr Snorkel. But I never did this for Mr Snorkel.’ She paused. ‘Your eyes are widening, bluer than blue.’

  Protest from Wynter’s inner voice only fuelled his desire. He was Master and Bole had no place here. He would decide.

  He made room for her.

  *

  Later, in the darkness, Fennel Finch unwittingly parroted Mrs Fanguin’s question. ‘Tell me, Geryon—’

  Wynter put a finger to her lips. ‘Mr Wynter, always.’