The travelling girl extended a hand across the stretch of concrete. Beyond it, through the arches, Fay could see down into a kind of decline of junction boxes, and signals, and points, and above it all a network of lines and cables like a spider’s web, with carriages tumbled like children’s toys, all tangled with bindweed and clematis and briar rose and Russian vine. Surely no trains could be running now. And yet she had heard the Night Train’s horn. It must be down there, somewhere.
‘The Train leaves from Nethermost London,’ said the tiger in its purring voice. ‘The path there is dark, and the price is high. Obstacles and dangers abound. Beware false friends, and false promises. Most of all, beware the Silken Folk, and their hospitality. For if you take as much as a mouthful of the food of World Below, you will never leave again, or hope to find your daughter.’
Fay moved towards the arches that marked the descent into the station. ‘Which platform does the train leave from?’ she said. ‘And do I need a ticket?’
But when she turned back, the travelling girl and her tiger had already vanished.
Four
There was a flight of red-brick steps leading down into the station. Like everything else they were broken and overgrown and tangled with weeds, and there was more graffiti on the wall running alongside the banister. Among the many faded tags and graffiti, one in particular caught her eye. It was a faint, almost fey sky-blue, and read: SHE SLEEPS IN TIR NA NOG. Another, in the same faded blue, simply read YOUR DAISY.
Fay paused to touch the inscription: the paint was old, beginning to flake, and there were small white crystals growing out of the damp stone. She proceeded down the steps, taking care to avoid the tumbling coils of creeper, and finally reached the heart of the overgrown station.
Looking up, she could see the sky through a roof of broken glass; a sky unmarred by vapour trails or blurred by air pollution. The platforms and rail tracks were overrun with weeds; yellow ragwort and buddleia and great umbrels of giant hogweed that loomed over the leaf canopy. Fay noticed that the leaves were still green and the buddleia still in flower down here, as if she had left the autumn behind and was moving back towards summer, but all the trains left on the tracks were clearly long-abandoned. Some of the carriages had been knocked onto their sides, and some were filled with briars and vines, but nowhere could she see a sign of a working locomotive. On the concrete at her feet, someone had sprayed the familiar words: MY PLAID SHALL NOT BE BLOWN AWAY, in faded, silver spray. On one of the tumbled carriages, someone had scrawled the word: XANADU.
But Fay was not alone here. A sound from the buddleia bushes that grew around the platform suggested the presence of animals. Something large, by the sound of it – Fay thought of the tiger, and shivered.
‘Who’s there?’ she said.
The sound – a furtive rustling – came once more from the undergrowth. Fay approached, and saw a face peering out of the bushes. It was one of Alberon’s folk; the one with the eyepatch and the tattoos, Moth.
Another face appeared alongside: it was the girl, Cobweb.
‘Were you following me?’ said Fay.
The two figures parted the undergrowth and moved into the open. Fay saw that Moth was wearing a strapless dress and a pair of Dr Martens boots; Cobweb, without her wheelchair now, was wearing pink legwarmers and a hooded sweatshirt, bearing the slogan: 4 EVA FAE.
She smiled. ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’
Moth bowed. ‘Well met, Queen Orfeia. King Alberon sends his compliments, and begs the delight of your company.’
Last night they had looked like homeless folk, but here by day in London Beyond, the pair seemed altogether different. It was not simply the change of clothes, or the absence of Cobweb’s wheelchair; it was something more than that. A luminous quality to their skin, which was smooth and acorn-brown; a fleeting shimmer around them, like midges in the sunlight. Like the girl and her tiger, Fay saw, the pair of them cast no shadow.
‘King Alberon?’ Fay repeated, remembering the madcap smoke, and how they had danced together. That seemed so far away to her now, and so very long ago. And yet – that he should be a king here was no more surprising than anything else. After all, she told herself, this world was like a pack of cards; it seemed to be filled with kings and queens. But the tiger had warned her: beware false friends. And hadn’t the travelling girl told her Alberon was nothing but trouble?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t have time. I have to take the Night Train.’
Moth and Cobweb exchanged glances. ‘That train is not for the living,’ said Moth. ‘The price of a ticket is death, and those who take it only travel one way.’
‘I have to,’ said Fay. ‘The Hallowe’en King has my daughter.’
‘Then come to the court of King Alberon,’ urged Cobweb. ‘He knows the way to the Night Train. And there will be banqueting, and song, and company befitting the occasion. And His Majesty would have you bedecked in raiment fit for your station.’ And at these words, the unlikely pair gestured towards the undergrowth, and a luminous cloud of insects emerged, descending onto Fay’s shoulders and arms. Some of them looked like bright green bees, others like tiny lacewings; and as they settled on her like a veil, Fay felt her clothing fall away, to be replaced almost instantly by something that felt like gossamer.
‘Tailor bees, Your Majesty,’ said Moth.
‘Lacemakers,’ said Cobweb. ‘Don’t be afraid, Your Majesty. Just let your servants do their work.’
Fay, who had never been fearful of any kind of insect, watched the creatures with interest. The tailor bees and the lacemakers seemed to be weaving at incredible speed; creating a delicate webwork of silk, draped like the finest crêpe de Chine. Moth made another gesture, and now a third kind of insect swarmed to join the lacemakers and the tailor bees. They looked like shiny beetles, gleaming in the sunlight, and as Fay watched, she saw that they were fixing particles of something that looked like tiny flecks of mica between the strands of woven silk.
‘Sequin bugs,’ said Cobweb. ‘To make a gown befitting a queen.’
Fay tried to protest as the tailor bees severed the straps of her backpack; cut away her running clothes, her leggings and her laces. She had no time for adornments. She had to find the Night Train. Anything else, she told herself, was a dangerous distraction. But as the silken gown took shape, she was unable to stop herself from watching in fascination. Woven to fit her perfectly; artfully draped in its many layers; in spite of its gossamer lightness, the fabric was deceptively strong. It shone like iridescent moiré, and now she saw that in the silk there were patterns of flowers and leaves, frosted into the warp and weft of the fabric like flowers on winter glass.
It took only minutes to create, the tailor bees humming imperiously, and the sequin bugs trundling busily around the neckline and the sleeves. Fay could feel them in her hair, moving and adjusting the strands, weaving them into an intricate coronet of jewelled braids. Then, when their work was complete, the creatures all took wing and dispersed, illuminating the air with their wings so that everything was rainbow.
Cobweb and Moth had averted their eyes. Now they watched again as Fay moved towards one of the abandoned railway carriages and tried to look at herself in the glass. Even in dusty reflection, she thought, the result was astonishing.
‘And now, your carriage awaits,’ said Moth.
Fay tore herself away from the sight of her transformation.
‘My carriage?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I told you, I’m taking the Night Train.’
Moth smiled. ‘Of course, Your Majesty. But King Alberon knows the Night Train. He himself has taken it, all the way to Tír na nÓg and over the sea to Norrowa. Few living men can say the same. He can help, Your Majesty.’
Fay thought for a moment. She needed a friend. This world was too full of mysteries and dangerous transformations. And besides, it had been Alberon who had led her here in the first place. He owed her an explanation.
She looked down once more at her s
ilken gown, so artfully draped and richly adorned; looked into the dusty window-glass at her crown of braided hair. A banquet, she thought; with music, and company fit for the occasion. It sounded both lovely and dangerous, and yet, perhaps, if she went along, she might learn the secret to Daisy’s return…
She looked at Cobweb and Moth. ‘Very well,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Take me to King Alberon.’
Five
The carriage Moth had promised her was precisely that: an abandoned rail car, windows smashed, and draped with bindweed and spider’s webs. Someone, decades ago, had scrawled HE PLAYED DA GABBER REEL in rose-coloured spray paint over one dull and dusty flank.
Moth smiled at Fay and beckoned her in. ‘Your carriage, Your Majesty.’
Fay picked up her pack and cautiously looked inside the carriage. It smelt of age, and dust, and weeds, and cracked and ancient leather. How could it travel anywhere? There wasn’t even an engine, she thought. And yet things were not as they seemed in this place, where tigers talked, and bees wove silken fabrics more intricate than the most exquisite brocade. Holding the skirts of her gown away from the clutching briars, she chose the seat that seemed least damaged, and sat there, with her pack on her knees. Moth and Cobweb joined her, taking their places by the door. Cobweb pulled out a silver cigarette case and lit a small, brown cigarette, using an old-fashioned lighter almost as large as the case itself. The smoke coiled into the air like vines. Fay caught the scent of madcap.
She opened her mouth to comment, but already something was happening. As the madcap filled the space, the inside of the carriage seemed to shift and shimmer. At first Fay thought that maybe the smoke was affecting her eyes, but it seemed as if the carriage had been transformed, to become a lavish interior. The cracked and faded leather seats had changed to elegant armchairs with cushions of midnight-blue velvet. The ceiling was painted in the same rich colour, and gilded with thousands of silver stars. The dangling briars had become chandeliers filled with lighted candles, and there was a scent of patchouli and rose and sandalwood and spices.
‘Glamours, Your Majesty,’ said Cobweb, whose pink sweatshirt and legwarmers had now become a brightly coloured tunic of something that looked like feathers. ‘Even here, in London Beyond, our people like to go unseen.’
‘Too many enemies,’ said Moth. ‘Too many spies and predators.’
Moth, too, had changed, Fay noticed. Gone were the eyepatch and the tattoos. Gone too, was the illusion of something more or less human. Now a row of gleaming eyes shone out from a mask of feathers, and the intricate designs that Fay had taken for tattoos now seemed to be natural markings, grey and brown and russet against the downy, luminous skin.
The carriage was moving, she realized; almost soundlessly, on the rails. How this could be, with no engine, she had no idea, and yet through the windows she could see the sooty arches of King’s Cross. The carriage entered a tunnel; for a moment Fay saw light reflected against the seeping stone. Through an arch she saw a glimpse of torches burning, then darkness fell like a velvet curtain over the scene. The carriage was moving so silently that Fay had no idea of its speed, and so when it emerged into sunlight she was startled to see the scenery passing in a blur of fitful colours. They had somehow left the rails, and were moving through a stretch of unfamiliar countryside. Trees flashed past, their trailing branches slapping against the glass, and Fay could see that their leaves were young and green, as if in springtime.
She barely had time to take in the view when they entered another tunnel. This time, when they emerged, it was into a scene of unfamiliar streets, with a sky like faded roses reflected in towers of grasshopper glass. Then another tunnel, and they emerged into a soft grey mist, in which great, delicate structures, like cranes, seemed to stride on endless legs.
Leaning forward, she tried to see what kind of engine was pulling the carriage. But when she put her face to the glass, she saw, not a locomotive, but something that made her pull back with a gasp. The carriage was being pulled by a quartet of creatures that looked to be something between a flying horse and a giant hummingbird moth. All were a curious silver-grey, with great wings blurring furiously, and powerful flanks, and narrow heads, topped with plume-like antennae. A complicated harness kept the strange creatures under control, and as Fay watched she saw that there was someone holding the reins, perching high above the team in a tiny, precarious seat. Purple hair flew angrily. Lightning cracked from their fingers. It was Peronelle.
‘Have no fear, Your Majesty,’ said Cobweb. ‘The hellride is nearly over.’
Hellride, thought Fay. An apt term, having seen their driver. The carriage was entering another of those tunnels. Darkness, now stitched with tiny lights, surrounded the railway carriage. There was no sensation of movement; no sense of how much time had passed. Only the glow from the candles illuminated the carriage. And then the door opened, and she saw someone in the doorway; a tall, pale man with long hair, richly dressed in dark velvet and wearing a crown of white gems that shone like the light of the full moon on ice.
For a moment Fay was unsure of the tall, pale man’s identity. He looked somewhat familiar, and yet she did not know him until he smiled; a warm and familiar smile that seemed born of a lifetime’s acquaintance.
‘Queen Orfeia. Well met,’ he said. ‘Welcome to London Beneath.’
It was Alberon.
Six
Alighting from the carriage, Fay found herself in a passageway lined with tiny, stuttering lights. They looked like strings of fairy lights, but closer observation showed them to be clusters of glowing insects.
‘Torchflies, Your Majesty,’ said Moth, who was already busy unharnessing the moth-horse creatures that had drawn the carriage. Peronelle was hard at work, brushing down their dusty flanks, sending great clouds of luminescence into the air. The creatures were restless, their fluttering wings making a dry and thunderous sound, their plume-like feelers turning to Fay in eager curiosity. Now that she saw them more closely, Fay could see the death’s-head pattern behind their heads, etched in soot on the dappled pelt that was neither fur nor feathers, but some hybrid of both.
Alberon took her hand and guided her down the passageway. ‘I hope your journey was comfortable.’
Fay nodded. ‘As hellrides go.’
He laughed, and she was struck by his charm, which was both warm and effortless. In London, his charm had already been clear; but here in London Beneath, it shone from him like a searchlight.
‘You must be exhausted. Let me carry your purse.’ He reached out to take her backpack. But Fay did not want to abandon her pack, which was all that remained of her previous life. Clinging to the broken strap, she shook her head. ‘I’ll keep it, thanks.’
The King’s smile broadened. ‘Of course, my Queen. If anyone can carry off a nylon backpack with an evening gown, you can. But at least let me offer you a drink.’ He made a summoning gesture, and a crystal goblet appeared in his hand, containing a sparkling liquid that looked a little like champagne, but which glowed with a slight luminescence.
‘Wine,’ he said, ‘from the nectar of a cactus flower that blooms only once, grown in the mountains of the Moon, filtered through crystal, and served on ice from beyond the land of the Northlights.’
Fay began to reach for the glass. But then she remembered the tiger’s words, and its warning not to eat or drink of anything in London Beneath. And so she shook her head – with regret, for the wine smelt of sparklers and Bonfire Night, and shone like a jar of fireflies.
‘Thanks. But I prefer to keep a clear head.’
Alberon dismissed the goblet with a casual wave of the hand. ‘No matter,’ he said, and, with a gesture into the dark, opened up the passageway into a magnificent hall, lit by a thousand chandeliers of filigree and grasshopper glass, from which a million torchflies glowed and gleamed and flickered.
The ceiling was unimaginably high, disappearing into the dark, and the walls were illuminated with veins of some kind of shining mineral, which sparkled
as it caught the light, casting reflections over a floor of butterflies’ wings in amber. Silver incense burners were scattered at intervals around the hall, releasing a scent of musk-rose, and green patchouli, and ambergris. All around there were delicate chairs of sandalwood and ebony and teak and coromandel, with cushions of silken brocade, moth’s wing, and gleaming dragonfly leather.
And in the centre of the hall there was a table, broad and long, covered with damask and silverware and goblets of fine crystal, and set with innumerable dishes of the most exquisite kind.
There were great towers of gleaming fruit, and frosted grapes, and persimmons, and silver platters of venison, and roast fowl stuffed with chestnuts, and fishes with their tails in their mouths, and sea urchins on beds of dill weed. There were dishes of roast asparagus and artichokes and truffles, and bowls of delicate summer greens mixed with edible flowers. There were bowls of nuts and seeds, and marchpane, candied roses, and cakes of all kinds, laden with fruit or gilded, or iced, and delicate as honeycomb. Then there were strange, exotic things: honeyed earwigs and grasshopper legs, and roasted silkworms served on a bed of caterpillar marshmallow. And all around there were noble guests, and servants, bearing silver trays of canapés and drinks of all kinds in glasses adorned with butterflies’ wings and multicoloured flowers.
The King beckoned a servant – a feathered creature with many eyes and a long proboscis, a little like Moth – who was bearing a silver tray of tiny canapés.
‘My Queen, you must be hungry,’ he said. ‘I have collected together the best the Nine Worlds have to offer: fruits from the southernmost islands; abalones from the One Sea; nectar from the shores of Dream; spices from the Outlands. Or perhaps you would prefer to try the heart of a lovebird, a nightingale’s tongue, or the flesh of the very last dodo?’
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