A Branch of Silver, a Branch of Gold

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  What’s more, he knew exactly how much it bothered her. He didn’t guess. He knew. She could see it in the gleam of his eye.

  “So tell me, O melodious one,” said he, and she would have smacked him had she dared, “have you come to break the curse?”

  “What curse?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  Once again he laughed. It was the most self-satisfied laugh that ever was, and he still managed to make it both beautiful and frightening. “Ah, it is almost too easy!” said he. “The pleasure is almost worth the pain you have caused me and mine. The pleasure of watching you struggle and struggle and struggle some more . . . and then fail. Always.”

  Not always, you great oaf! You forget who you’re dealing with! There was a time I could make you turn tail and run like a cub, and don’t think I’ve forgotten!

  Heloise held her breath as the voice in her head shouted the angry words. But the shouting gave her courage, and when it was over, she braced herself and asked, “Where is my sister? You know where she is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Tell me!”

  He took a step toward her. She felt the ground shake again, though the form he wore was nowhere near as massive as the one she had first glimpsed. But he took another step, and since his legs were so very long, he was now directly in front of her, leaning down so that his face was mere inches from her own.

  In the depths of his eyes, the black pupils in the center of the vivid blue, she saw something she could not name. The only word she could summon from the depths of her quivering mind was . . . wildness.

  “Why should I tell you anything?” said he. “You are my enemy. You have always been my enemy. Since long before you were born. Besides, you’ve already asked your questions.”

  Heloise did not see him walk away. He was gone by the time she’d blinked and realized he no longer stood in front of her. But the ground vibrated with the heavy tread of his feet, and she thought she saw the shimmer of trees and branches withdrawing to make way for him as he passed into the silver forest.

  “Wait,” Heloise whispered. Then, summoning what little courage remained to her, she shouted. “Wait! Where is my sister?”

  She might have shouted in a chapel, so intense was the sensation of disapproval raining down upon her from every tree, leaf, blossom, and branch. Heloise didn’t care. Her hands clenched into fists, she took a stumbling step forward, then another. Then she was running up a forest trail that was simultaneously a stone stairwell. But she ignored the stairs and focused instead upon the forest, pursuing the shivering, shuddering branches, pursuing the mighty lion.

  Stop, you fool! Can you not heed a word I say?

  He knew where Evette was. She knew that he knew, and just then she thought she’d rather let him eat her in a few quick bites than let him get away from her.

  The trees murmured. Then they growled.

  Something grabbed Heloise by the ankle. She fell and landed hard upon the moonbright grasses, which stabbed at her hands like the tiny blades they looked to be. She screamed in frustration, little caring how offensive this noise might be in this silver place, and pushed herself upright. But her foot was still caught, and she saw that it was held in the twirling coil of a tree root.

  She pulled hard, struggling, and managed to get herself free. Then she was up and running again, uphill now. She felt the ripple of roots in the ground behind her but refused to look back. She pushed her way through thick-grown branches only to find that the branches were pushing back, resisting her, refusing to allow her passage. All the silvery moonlight twigs caught in her hair, caught at her dress, caught at her skin, and pulled viciously.

  Stop struggling! Take the silver branch!

  She opened her mouth but couldn’t scream again, for vines had wrapped around her chest and stomach and squeezed so hard that she couldn’t draw breath to make a sound. The trunks of several trees suddenly pressed toward her. She could see every crevice of the bark, could see the strange, moving patterns of life and death.

  What a pathetic effort this had been! What a stupid, pointless endeavor! How furious Grandmem would be when she learned Heloise had died so soon upon starting this venture!

  A silver branch appeared before her face, its wicked, pointed ends aiming at her eye. With a last gasp she reached out and snapped the branch off . . .

  Then she found that she was wrapped up not in vines but in the grasp of a long arm, and her face was not crushed against the trunk of a tree but smashed into the rough embroidery of a rich jacket. A button pressed hard into her cheek, leaving an indentation that wouldn’t fade for hours.

  “Are you done screaming yet?” Benedict whispered fiercely into the hair on top of her head.

  NINETEEN

  Heloise pushed so violently against him that Benedict let her go—but then caught her by the arm in time to prevent her from tumbling down the narrow stone steps of the Tower. Her stomach lurched at the impending fall that did not happen, and this was enough to shock her into a more reasonable frame of mind.

  She realized that she was holding the mirror in one hand.

  “What happened?” she gasped, shaking off his grasp. She could barely discern the pale contours of his face in the wavering candle glow.

  “You snatched the mirror and ran, that’s what happened,” he growled. “Then . . . I don’t know. You started to bleed.”

  Heloise looked down at her arms and hands, realizing that they hurt. Tiny burning cuts criss-crossed her skin, a hundred little wounds from that sharp-bladed grass she had fallen upon. Where the trunks and branches had wrapped around her limbs, she saw red bruises.

  “Oh!” she gasped, the pain finally catching up with her. She wobbled on her feet.

  “Steady!” Benedict cried, catching her by the arm with one hand. He held onto her as her head whirled, as her blood pulsed pain through her veins. His eyes looked hollow and frightened by the light of his candle. Then he gasped, “Lumé above!”

  At the sound of that exclamation Heloise opened her eyes, braving the dizzy world. Following his gaze, she looked down at her lacerated arms once more. Almost more horrifying than the wounds themselves was the sight she now beheld. For the cuts were closing. One cut at a time, yet swiftly, her skin pieced itself together, forming scars. A thousand white hairline scars. After a few breaths, even these faded.

  The pain lingered a little longer. She hoped it wouldn’t stay forever.

  “Are you steady on your feet?” Benedict asked at last.

  She nodded, and he let go of her arm. Suddenly not as steady as she’d thought, Heloise leaned her back against the cold wall of the stairwell and, pressing the mirror to her chest, sank down to sit on a step.

  Benedict grunted, irritated. “What were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice a whisper so tight and tense in his throat, his vocal cords might snap at any moment.

  Heloise shook her head. She couldn’t talk yet. Her mind was too full even now of silver forest and strange moonlight and the sapphire eyes of a fantastically enormous wildcat. When Benedict reached out to take the mirror, her arms tightened around it instinctively and her eyes flashed a warning.

  He drew his hand back. “You know you can’t keep that. It’s not yours.”

  “Oh,” said Heloise, dully. She looked down then, allowing the mirror to rest upon her drawn-up knees. Her reflected face stared up at her, mostly shadows.

  She shuddered. When Benedict reached out a second time, she did not resist. Indeed, it was a relief to see the wretched glass disappear under his jacket.

  “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?” he asked as soon as the treasure was secured.

  Heloise shook her head. She didn’t know.

  But Benedict wasn’t about to be put off. “Come, now. You dragged me up the passage then suddenly started shouting, grabbed the mirror from my hand, and ran to the Tower stair. Do you have any idea the kind of mess I’ll be in if I’m caught wandering about in the dead of nigh
t with a mad girl? Because personally I can’t begin to imagine it!”

  Heloise put her hands up to her bowed head and buried them in her mane of hair. One hand was closed in a tight fist, and this she rubbed on her temple, which throbbed. She shut her eyes, willing herself not to see all that she had seen. The fingers of her open hand tightened against her scalp, and she half wondered if it were possible to physically pull thoughts out of one’s brain. Doctor Dupont probably had tools with which to extract unwanted memories . . .

  Suddenly she realized that her tightly closed fist hurt. “Ow,” she said, rather after the fact. Lowering it to her lap, she tried to make her fingers uncurl, but they resisted. She was obliged to use her other hand to pry her own fingers open.

  Lying on her palm was a tiny silver branch. A leaf gleaming like the moon itself curled out from one end, unfurling even as she watched.

  “Are you listening to me?” Benedict said. “I’m telling you, you’ve got to go. And never come back. I’ve had enough of this nonsense, and really it’s not my business. You belong in a madhouse, I’m quite sure of it, and . . .”

  His voice trailed off. The candle seemed suddenly to offer no light at all. By comparison to the branch in Heloise’s hand, the little flame struggling on its wick might just as well have been a shadow, so insignificant did it become. For as the branch and the leaf began to shine, the narrow stairway filled with a brilliant nimbus surrounding Heloise and Benedict. Pure, silvery moonlight.

  A breathless hush filled the air, broken only when Benedict whispered, “Where did you get that?”

  I can hear them without, through the door. It is a heavy old door, a door which has served its duty for so long now that it is as much a part of the surrounding landscape of this estate as the earth and bogs and trees of Oakwood. It was built of an Oakwood oak and fastened with brass rather than iron fixtures. Thus I can lean against it without pain. I might even touch the latch, open the door a merest crack, and gaze into the narrow stairwell beyond . . .

  I hear the mortal lad. His voice rises up the spiral stair to touch my ear. “A lion?” he says, his voice brimming with disbelief. “In Centrecœur?”

  “No!” says the mortal child. What a sharp-tongued mite she is! Rufus himself would be proud, if he only could know. “No, in the silver forest, like I told you!”

  “Which . . . is in Centrecœur?”

  Rufus would be less proud of the lad. His lineage has been diluted over the years into something elegant and refined, scarcely worthy of the Cœur name, I fear. It is difficult to believe these two spring from the same source, though it has been centuries now.

  “Not in Centrecœur,” Heloise persists. Heloise Oakwoman. The sister. My sister. My daughter. My kin. “I don’t know what else to tell you! The forest was in the mirror, and the . . . the lion was in the forest, and all of it was in the house.”

  “And this . . . magical twig of yours. It came from this forest?”

  The girl grunts. “Yes. Someone told me to take it. And the forest was squashing me, and if I didn’t grab it, it was going to poke out my eye. Only it was you squashing me, not the forest . . .” A pause. Then, “Why were you squashing me, by the way?”

  “You were screaming. I tried putting my hand over your mouth, but it didn’t do much good. Besides it was a bit damp.”

  The silence lingers between them, an embarrassed silence, I think. At length the girl, determined to change the subject, asks that which I knew she must. “Where does this stair lead?”

  “The top chamber of the Tower,” says the lad. The next moment I hear him exclaim, “Where are you going?”

  “I want to see this chamber.”

  But she cannot. Not yet. I see her shadow cast by the candlelight rounding the bend. She herself will follow soon after. But she does not yet have the three-part key. I know the law. I know what will happen if I am caught breaking the law . . .

  So I shut the door and lean against it, my ear pressed to the wood, listening.

  “You can’t,” says the boy. Good boy that he is. “No one goes into that room. It’s locked.”

  “You mean you’ve never tried to get inside?”

  The mortal girl’s voice is much nearer now. So close to me, separated only by a few inches of wood. Yet she is worlds away.

  “No,” says the lad. “It’s been locked for ages. I told you.”

  The silence that follows could be interpreted any number of ways. But I suspect the mortal girl is giving the boy a certain look. A look of extreme annoyance. A look that would be as comfortable on my own face as it is on hers.

  “You mean . . . you’ve never tried?” she asks. “Just to get a peek?”

  “Um. Well.”

  “Oh, please! Aren’t you even curious?”

  “Well, I mean, I’ve thought about—”

  “But you’ve never tried?”

  The lad growls. In that moment he sounds more like his great ancestor than I have yet heard him. “The room is locked,” he says again.

  “Where’s the key?”

  “No one knows.”

  “No one?”

  So they begin an argument that will prove useless. At least for now. Although I admire the girl’s determination, the lad is right. They haven’t a key, and they will not gain access to this chamber until they do. She has only the first part of the three-fold branch.

  I step away from the door, step back into the chamber which has become my whole world. Let them pursue their plots and plans. I can do nothing more until moonrise tomorrow.

  I turn.

  I pass through the heavy branches of flower-laden trees.

  I sit at a window that isn’t a window so much as a break in the trees. Around me all is green and gold and lavender. But my view is of the moonlit landscape of Canneberges. So far away . . .

  The power of mortal magic increases around me.

  TWENTY

  Never before had Heloise walked to and from Canneberges so many times in such a short span of days. As a rule, her life only brought her within sight of the Great House once a year, during Le Sacre. Otherwise, work on the broad grounds of the estate filled her hours, and she scarcely had time to think about the family for whom she labored or the mighty comfort in which they lived.

  But once more she found herself scrambling out of the shallow moat and bounding away from solemn, inward-looking Centrecœur and off across the fields and bogs. On most any other night she would have thought the world around her looked strange, even frightening, unfamiliar as it was by solitary moonlight.

  After what she’d seen tonight . . . no, nothing to be found on the grounds of Canneberges could scare her.

  She felt spring in the night around her. The air was as cold as late winter, the ground as hard beneath her feet. But the night birds were home from their southern travels, and she heard them singing soulfully to one another through the darkness. Yes, spring had certainly come. A deadly spring.

  It wasn’t fear so much as trepidation that slowed her pace when, at long last, she drew within sight of her family’s cottage. How sore were her feet, how tired her eyes! She had slept but little the afternoon before. It had been difficult to sleep with the memory of Evette in that starlight gown so vivid and awful in her mind.

  Now she knew she must sleep. She must, or she would drop dead to the ground and never move again, and what would become of her sister then? What would become of her Meme, mourning the loss of three daughters even if she did not know it was three she had lost?

  So, though she dreaded climbing up into her empty loft and seeing the even more empty place where Evette should be, Heloise crept across the cottage yard, tiptoed through the door, past the low beds upon which her brothers slept around the hearth, and slipped light-footed up the ladder.

  There it was—that awful empty place.

  Heloise shuddered. She curled up, not in her own pile of straw but in Evette’s. She drew Evette’s blanket over her head and pressed its woolen scratchiness to her nose, bre
athing deeply. Was that her sister’s scent? No. Just the scent of sheep. Heloise wept.

  She woke in the morning with dried tears crusting her face and nose, and her brother Clovis perched at the top of the ladder, pounding the loft floor with his fists so that it vibrated.

  “Wake up! Wake up, Heloise!” he shouted cheerfully, grinning like a fiend when her head appeared out of the straw and her fierce eyes shot daggers his way. “Meme says you’re to go up to Oakwood again today and not return until you’ve carried three full baskets to the south-end dye house.”

  “Rrrrumph!” Heloise kicked the blanket from her legs, scattering straw as she did so. “Got to feed Gutrund,” she muttered.

  “Nope. Meme says you’re to go right away. I’m to feed Gutrund.” Clovis made this declaration with such delight, Heloise thought he must be a natural-born Pigman.

  “Is Meme gone to the spinning shed?” she asked, pulling bits of straw from her hair and attempting a braid. She’d never learned how to properly tame her own hair. Why bother? Evette had always been on hand to see to such things. Not that Evette had ever had much success with Heloise’s mad curls either.

  “Yes, and she’s got Clive with her,” Clovis said. He slid down the ladder before her and indicated the stewpot over the coals. “We left some breakfast for you.”

  So Heloise’s day passed. She ate; she gathered her basket and paring knife; she made her way up to Oakwood and stepped into the shadows beneath the leaves, thinking suddenly how tame this forest felt compared to the one in which she had walked the night before. How friendly were her oaks as well, welcoming and even generous as she harvested their bark. They wouldn’t crush a girl just for trying to walk between them. They wouldn’t snatch at her feet with their roots.

  Heloise sat on one high limb with her legs swinging and gazed through a break in the foliage out across the expanse of Canneberges. From here she thought she could catch just a glimpse of the Tower’s rooftop. From that high, unoccupied chamber, someone could probably survey all the estate grounds with ease.