by Ken Altabef
Her thoughts kept returning to Eric as well. The love of her life, lost. The conflicts between the Brits and the faeries had made it impossible for them to be together. But there must be some way to put it back. She’d thought the establishment of Everbright would help, that it would create a better understanding between them. She had no choice but to conclude now that she’d misjudged the situation. Oh, Eric, she thought, is it really impossible? Should she think about moving on? Perhaps she should, but her heart wouldn’t let her. She would find a way back to him.
A brisk rap against the door.
“A visitor.”
A visitor. Was it too much to hope it might be…
The door swung open and a tall, elegantly dressed figure stood in the light. No, not Eric. Of course not.
“Good morning,” said Eccobius.
Theodora squinted into the light. “Is it? Morning, I mean?”
“Yes, of course.” Eccobius took a small bow and entered the room but found no place to sit. The guard, Lieutenant Simms, left the door ajar.
“I bring good news!” said Eccobius.
“You’ve heard from my husband!”
“Erm. No. Not quite. Well, yes I did, but not in the way we had hoped.”
Theodora’s heart sank.
Eccobius frowned compassionately. “He refuses to get involved.”
“Refuses? I’m still his wife. I thought he would have cared. If not for me, then for the Grayson family name. His wife—accused of sedition!”
“You should know, I appealed to Lord Eric on that point directly. Delicately, of course.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the Grayson name is no longer what it once was. It has been…erm… rather tarnished by association with faeries.”
“That’s his grandfather talking, not him.”
“There may be a bit more to it than that. Of course this shan’t happen—especially in light of my news—but if the Lady Grayson—the faery lady—were to fall beneath the heel of the King’s justice and be removed, the Grayson family name, well, much of the tarnish would be considered by some to have been buffed away.”
“He can’t see it that way. I don’t believe it. Did he say that?”
“Not outright.”
“Whatever,” said Theodora. “I’ll settle that score some other day. You said something about good news?”
“Good news indeed,” smiled Eccobius. “Our man Threadneedle, acting through one of his many aliases in London—he is several men of good standing, you know, with contacts in high places in the city. Well, he’s managed to convince the magistrate to reduce the charges against you. Sedition no more!”
Theodora breathed a sigh of relief. “At least I can count on him. And the result?”
“The charge has been reduced to simple rabble-rousing.”
“Rabble? And who are the rabble I am supposed to have roused?”
“Why the faeries of course.”
“Of course.”
Theodora sighed. “All right. What then is the punishment for rabble-rousing these days?”
“Various. It falls under the jurisdiction of the local authority. In other words, the discretion of the Captain.”
Theodora could not help but recall the public whippings Abercrombie had carried out upon his own men. Despite how pleasant Abercrombie had tried to be during her incarceration, she had no doubt about his idea of punishment. Five lashes for even a minor offence. One tail, no barb.
“And standard punishments for rabble-rousing are?”
“Flogging.”
“One tail, no barb.” She smiled. “Good news, then.”
Chapter 18
As unlikely as it may have seemed, Theodora enjoyed a second visitor that same day.
“Visitor!” said Lieutenant Simms.
“I guess rabble-rousers are allowed some small comfort,” muttered Theodora. She did not hazard a guess as to who the caller might be. She knew who it wouldn’t be. Her husband. Eric.
The door swung open. Meadowlark stepped into the room. He appeared as his normal faery self. Tall, dark haired and playfully handsome. He wore a red crushed-velvet jacket over white linen shirt with frilly cuffs, bright red breeches and a swashbuckler’s leather boots.
“Well met, Clarimonde,” he said and then catching his mistake, corrected himself. “Theodora, I mean.”
He glanced around for someplace to sit but found none. Theodora invited him to settle on the far end of the cot. She noticed he was carrying a small wooden box.
“Well met, Meadowlark.”
“Yes, well, I was thinking of changing my name too. Seeing as you’ve gone in for something more palatable to the British, I thought I might go with something less conspicuous as well. How about The Eternally Puissant Tobias Smellysnatch the Third?” He mimed taking a puff on a really long-shafted meerschaum pipe. “Or perhaps Count Cecil Hugh Bumnapper? Insufferably British, eh wot? Or mayhap Percy Basil Shaftslapper?”
Theodora almost hurt herself laughing. “Stop,” she said. “Stop that. Now you know, Theodora isn’t as pretentious as any of that. Moon Dancer chose the name for me.”
“As part of your deception,” Meadowlark pointed out. “And I appreciate a jape against the British as well as anyone else, but methinks its past time for that particular deception to end. Surely its run its course and done.”
Theodora shrugged.
“Unless of course the deception is still ongoing?” asked Meadowlark. “You know what they say: the person who believes their own lies is the worst kind of fool. Are you an English noblewoman pretending to be an evil monster, or are you simply a noble faery clinging desperately to a fading reflection in the looking glass? You no longer wear Theodora Grayson’s face. In fact you look just like someone I used to know, someone I’ve known for a long, long time. Clarimonde.”
“Well, you’re still the same jackass I remember too, but perhaps you do have a point.”
He laughed a braying jackass laugh. “Jackass I must be then, for there is no one, I think, in this whole wide world that knows me so well as Clarimonde. We were wee babes together, playmates, friends, lovers.”
“Friends,” she said. They had never truly been lovers. Yes, decades ago, when they were young and inexperienced they had dallied together, but it had meant little to her and she knew it had meant even less to him. “You may call me Theodora. I think that suits us best.”
“Really? I mean, look where that’s gotten you?” He glanced comically about the little holding cell.
“So, did you come here just to insult me and call me a fool, or was there another reason?”
He laughed again. “I came here to lift your spirits—cheer you up as the British say. Glou-glou, buuuurp, wee-whoo! You know—Cheerio, and all that.” He lifted the oaken box. “To that end, I brought this!”
He set the box down on the cot between them and drew out the contents. They were stroia—paper-thin slices of solidified emotion colored like stained glass. Bright purple meant wonderment and deep scarlet was hatred; jealousy was mustard yellow, rage a dusky orange, kindness and love both held beautiful shades of blue.
“A children’s game?” she asked.
He pressed a hand over his heart. “Lady, you wound me. I’m still a child at heart and glad of it. What about you?”
Theodora was taken aback. Despite all his faults, Meadowlark had such a poetic way about him. And his idea was a good one. This was just what she needed.
“Speaking of wounds,” she said, “weren’t you stabbed?”
“Just a little. And smashed on the head as well.”
“You’re alright?”
He nodded. “James helped.”
“He always does. All right,” she said, turning her attention back to the game. “What shall we make?”
“A pyramid!” He quickly laid the first few tiles without hesitation, balancing them carefully against each other like a house of cards. Theodora got the impression he had practiced this pattern befo
re.
As she picked up one of the stroia, a tiny spark of its particular emotion shot through her fingertips. Bright purple. Wonderment. A pleasant feeling.
Meadowlark handled the next two slices, a molasses-colored panel that felt like scorn and a mustard yellow that was jealousy. Theodora took the next one—a bright blue that evoked a feeling of love. It felt odd to her as she piled the wafer on top, carefully balancing it upon the last. She felt love but not for any specific object, just a loose free feeling. Not for Eric. And that startled her. For a very long time she had only felt such emotion for him and for him alone. The idea that she could feel love again, separate and apart from her husband, disoriented her.
“Hey, wait a moment,” she said. “I recognize this pattern. This exact pyramid. We made this once before.”
Meadowlark bowed his head gracefully. “So you do remember.”
“Quite well, you were pretending to be my friend Katydid. You tricked me into kissing you.”
“S’ funny,” he said. “That’s not quite how I remember it. Katydid was there, but you kissed me because you wanted to. You said there was poetry in my soul.”
Though more than eighty years ago, Theodora recalled the incident well enough. “You pretended to be Katydid to elicit that praise from me. But when I found you out and refused to kiss you, you reacted badly. You caused an owl to crash into our pyramid and injure itself.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “You said I was poetic, aye, and planted me a fine gobsmacker right on the lips.” His expression turned serious. “I remember it well. It meant very much to me.”
“But it didn’t! It didn’t happen that way at all.”
“Didn’t it?”
“No.” She couldn’t tell if he were serious or not. “You were callow and shallow. You didn’t take anything seriously and certainly not me. You can’t just remember things differently and pretend they’ve changed.”
“Can’t I?”
“No. The truth isn’t so malleable. You can’t change the past.”
“I’ve changed,” he said. “And the way I remember it, I cared quite a lot for you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Maybe it wasn’t true then, but it is now. I’ve changed. And if I want the past to be different, why not? Being a faery is all about change. We change our shape, we trick the world all the time. If we can change the present, we can change the past. Why not? Something for you to think about. It appears you’ve plenty of time for it.”
He stood up and brushed down his trousers. “I’ve got to be on my way. I promised myself I’d dance in the rain today and I don’t want to miss the downpour.” He smiled and for a moment she saw the mischievous buck-toothed child she had romped with in her youth. Had he been joking all along?
“You’re a madman,” she quipped.
“Indeed I am. Feel better?”
She could not deny it.
“You want these back?” She indicated the stroia.
“Maybe you should explore them a little more. Anyway, I’ve suddenly realized I’m much too mature for such childish playthings.”
He brushed down his trousers again, though there was not a speck of lint upon them. He turned to go. She didn’t want him to leave. She thought she should say something more, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The stroia, the memories, the talk of love—everything seemed jumbled now.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Welcome. I’ll try to come again tomorrow if I can convince that sneering cross-eyed officer to let me pass again. If not, I’ll untie his boots when he’s not looking.” He rapped on the door.
“Wait a minute,” said Theodora. “I didn’t mean to thank you just for visiting, though I do appreciate it.”
“What then?”
“Thank you for saving my life—or at least trying to do so. Two years ago. In the palace. I should have said it before.”
“It was my pleasure.” And with a sweeping bow, he left the room.
The door clanked shut behind him. Lieutenant Simms turned the key in the lock.
Chapter 19
Supplicants from the Winter Court had been presenting themselves to the main gate every few days, but this was the largest group yet. Seventeen in all, seeking refuge at Everbright. An immigration office had been set up just inside the grounds in order to better assess the refugees and avoid incidents with the British military. Each new arrival was interviewed and their case for asylum heard. Up to this point all had been granted. But among the current batch was a figure who demanded attention at the highest level. When he learned her identity, Eccobius sent for Moonshadow as well. The visitor was ushered into a private room, out of view of the prying eyes of the soldiers stationed at the gate.
“Bekla,” she said. “That’s right. My name is Bekla.”
Moonshadow looked the faery woman up and down. On the surface she seemed harmless enough. Sallow yellow-green skin, subtly pointed ears, her sea-green hair put up in a modest bun. She wore a silk wrap that wound around her ample breasts and delicate waist and a short skirt of cured fern leaves intricately woven into a natural fabric. Moonshadow did not recognize her but knew the name. “The same Bekla who, on the Dark Queen’s orders, impersonated Princess Charlotte’s handmaiden Juliana Schwellenberg?”
Bekla remained perfectly calm. “That’s right.”
“What could you possibly want here?” Eccobius asked.
“The same as the rest of this lot. A place to live, to be free.”
“But this is ridiculous!” objected Eccobius. Having spoken much more loudly than intended, he glanced at the doorway. The redcoat stationed outside did not appear. He lowered his voice considerably. “You can’t be serious. You’re wanted by the Crown. They’ve a standing order for your capture, either dead or alive, which amounts to roughly the same thing as they surely have a noose at Westminster yard ready and waiting to receive your neck.”
“I’m not afraid of the king’s hemp,” she said. “They have no idea who I am. I doubt anyone caught more than a fleeting glimpse of me in the end, there at the masked ball, and in any case we all look the same to them anyway. The Dark Queen could walk right in here and they wouldn’t know her.”
“Perhaps that is true,” Eccobius allowed, “but we do know who you are.”
Bekla scoffed. “I could’ve put on a glamour if I wanted, disguised my appearance, invented a new name—you wouldn’t have known—but I wanted to tell you the truth. I wanted to be honest with you.”
“We appreciate that,” said Moonshadow.
“Your honesty puts us in a very awkward situation,” said Eccobius. “We are expected to turn you in. Immediately.”
“I was told you welcome all faeries here,” said Bekla.
“We do,” said Moonshadow. “Of course we do. Are you saying you’ve broken with Dresdemona? That you need protection? You aren’t still loyal to her?”
Bekla smiled, revealing incisors so large they appeared almost fang-like. “No, not at all. We parted on good terms. I prefer to live here now. I seek asylum not from Deepgrave, but from the British.”
“That we can not provide,” said Eccobius. “If they knew we had you here—it would jeopardize everything.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said Moonshadow. “We are harboring several fugitives already. Trask, for example. And the faeries who killed Griffin Grayson all those years ago.”
“And Meadowlark,” added Bekla. “The king killer. Surely I’m not as dangerous to you as that one.”
“Surely,” said Eccobius, though it seemed clear he was not certain on that point.
“Their justice isn’t our justice,” Moonshadow said. She was thinking of Theodora, locked in the military barracks and awaiting some sort of horrible punishment. “Turning faeries over to the British is not the right thing to do.”
“Just what do you think you owe them?” Bekla asked Eccobius. “Whose land is this, anyway? Whose lovely green meadow? We were here a long time a
go, even before the Danes. This land is ours by right, not by say-so of their Parliament or their idiot King. I’m not a British citizen, not subject to their laws. None of us are.”
Moonshadow could almost hear Gryfflet whispering in her ear, warning her not to trust Bekla. But what would Theodora say? To find out, she’d have to walk over to the military barracks and ask, if they would even be allowed to see each other. They had incarcerated Theodora on a ridiculously trumped-up charge. And they would do with her whatever they liked. And with Bekla it would be even worse. If she delivered Bekla to them, her neck would go directly into the noose. What type of person was this Bekla? Threadneedle might know her, but he was all the way down in London pleading for mercy in Theodora’s case.
What kind of person am I? Moonshadow wondered. That’s the question. What type of leader am I? I can’t just turn her over. There has to be another way.
Moonshadow called for Weasel to be brought to the interview room. In the few weeks he’d been living at Everbright the little faery had made a good name for himself. He possessed a pleasant wit, especially when drunk, which was most of the time, and could cobble a fine pair of shoes when he set his mind to it. As the faeries spent more and more time above ground, decent shoes were in great demand and Weasel worked with a flair, creating works of color and design that distinguished themselves from the otherwise drab human footwear.
Weasel entered the room, already smelling of thistlewine despite the early hour. He bowed to Moonshadow quite unnecessarily and to Eccobius as well, and then to Moonshadow again. He admitted to knowing Bekla well, though not as well as he would’ve liked. Moonshadow thought she caught a lecherous look in his eyes as he said that last bit. But overall, he could vouch for her character with the following dictive—she was no better nor worse than the rest of them.
