by Ken Altabef
“Threadneedle, you’re back!”
“I am.” He took a half-bow, doffing the hat.
She ran to meet him. “It’s good to see you.” In lieu of an embrace she took both his arms and gave them a friendly squeeze.
“Glad to see you too, Theodora, and all the better without a noose around your neck.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what you did in Sessions House but my neck thanks you very truly.”
“And the skin on your back?”
“Unfurrowed. Abercrombie’s a fair man. He talks a mean game but I don’t think he’d really whip a woman.”
“Or perhaps, not a Grayson. Speaking of which, your daughter sends her regards.”
Theodora’s eyes brightened. “How is she?”
“Absolutely delicious.”
“Oh stop that,” she laughed, urging him to sit at the table. “And the show? I’m a terrible mother. I haven’t yet seen it.”
“I have. Nineteen times. I can perform most of it for you right now if you’d like.” He chuckled. “Though ‘tis really never the same twice. That rogue, Pinky Longbottom improvises half his lines right on the spot every night. But Nora keeps up. She’s happy.”
“It’s good. It’s good what she’s doing. What they’re all doing.”
“You know,” he said, “there are faery prostitutes in Spitalfields. For an extra quid they take on the appearance of anyone their client’s desire. An imaginative man can bed the Queen herself, or his neighbor’s wife, or his little sister…”
Faery prostitutes. She thought again of herself acting as the fifteen-year-old waif and her struggle to repress her true self on her wedding night. “Everyone’s got to do their part, I suppose. But once they get used to us—when they see us on stage or passing openly among them—that’s how real change can happen. Right? Or are we just fuck toys and clowns on a stage? You’re our eyes out there. What do you see?”
“As far as I can tell public sentiment grows in our favor. But as we’ve seen before, things can turn very quickly.”
“And then there’s blood. And we’re left out in the open. Exposed.”
“I’ll keep her safe.”
“I know.”
His look became serious. “Did I just see the Dark Queen lounging on Eccobius’ balcony?”
She sighed. “You did. She showed up with a full entourage this morning. Moonshadow and I already spoke with her. She claims she’s here to stay. She wants to help.”
“I’m confused. Do we suddenly trust her all of a sudden? Wait, I said sudden twice there, didn’t I?”
Indeed, Theodora had rarely heard him speak so ineloquently. The news had got him rattled.
“Moonshadow thinks it’s a good idea,” she said.
Threadneedle winced. “Moonshadow’s very young.”
“She has the support of the people. Lord knows I don’t.”
“You were away a long time. Twenty years living among the humans. Living in the big house on the hill. Perhaps if you stopped calling yourself Lady Theodora...”
“Whatever I call myself, the situation is still the same. Dresdemona is here. What to do about her? Moonshadow wants to accept her, to embrace her.”
“You’re playing with fire. You don’t know her.”
“I know her well enough to know I don’t want to know her any better,” Theodora groaned. “But then again, there’s something to be said for bringing the Summer and Winter Courts together. Moonshadow is very determined on reunification. Diversity is strength and strength in numbers and all that bunk. And there’s something else. Dresdemona claims she’s one of the Effranil. Can that be true?”
“It is true,” he said. “When we first—I should say when she first—took control of the Winter Court, she spoke like that too. Said she wanted to bring the sensibilities of the Effranil back. To return faery to the old ways, something about peace and harmony and music. It was a long time ago. But I think she truly meant it. She even banned the Wild Hunt. It was a good time. A chance for us to change.”
“What happened?”
“Aldebaran happened.”
The name recalled to her the grisly monster she had faced just a few years ago.
“It’s a long story and one I’d rather not tell,” Threadneedle said. “Anyway, you’ve already killed him, so there’s that. The main thing is we can never trust her. She has a way of controlling people, of making them do what she wants. Something she learned from the Nephilim.”
“Meadowlark told me the same thing. But how does she do it?”
“I don’t know exactly, but it depends I think on a sexual attraction.”
Theodora smirked. “Well, I don’t find her the least bit attractive. How about you?”
“I’m immune to her charms, I assure you. And Moonshadow is simply too powerful for her to ever control. Believe that. But the others? We’ll have to watch them, keep track of them.”
“Moonshadow has banned the Winter Court faeries from going down below, so that’s something I guess,” Theodora said. “I couldn’t imagine what would happen if they got their hands on what we’re hiding down there. The weapon.”
“It’s not going to be easy to enforce such a rule.”
“We’ve posted guards. No one is to enter with a glamour on.”
“Do you really think that’s going to work?”
“It’s unwieldy,” Theodora admitted. “Just another thing for us to keep track of.”
Threadneedle sighed. “Serpents in the garden.”
Chapter 31
Meadowlark took Theodora’s hand and pulled her along Seelie Park’s grassy knoll. “It’s a surprise.”
“A good one?” she asked.
“Of course. Why not? Really Clari—I mean Theodora—it seems I’m forever having to cheer you up.”
He seemed to be leading her straight for the little chapel at the far end of the moonlit park. She followed along.
“I don’t see how you can be at all cheery, Meadow. Dresdemona’s back. Didn’t you say she ill-used you? Made you do things. Aren’t you afraid she’ll do it again?”
“I’ll not run and hide, Theodora. That’s not my style. Not when I can just hide and save myself half the trouble, anyway. But don’t worry. Your Meadowlark is fleet of foot and sharp of eye. I don’t intend to give her the chance.”
“If only it were that simple for the rest of us.”
“Let not your heart be troubled. That person and her foul magicks are of little consequence to us today.”
“That attitude may well get you killed, Meadow.”
“It will not. Now come. We are very near to the surprise.”
They had passed behind the chapel and were making straight for the leading edge of a little secluded wood at the eastern limit of the green.
Theodora grumbled. “Why am I always leery every time you suggest a new adventure?”
“Because you know me so well,” he laughed. “But not too well, I hope. I may still surprise you.”
They came upon a grove of small trees, newly planted, that stood only about five or six feet in height. There was something strange about them. Their bark was smooth and glistened in the moonlight. Branches were few but sported long, thin leaves hanging down like fingers ready to caress any passers-by. The finger-leaves shifted slightly against the breeze as if beckoning a languid welcome.
“Are these what I think they are?” Theodora asked.
“Stroiata-arbae,” said Meadowlark. “Emotion trees.”
Theodora was amazed. “I haven’t seen these in ages. Who planted them?”
“I don’t know. Some ambitious little puttering potter-faery, I suppose. Doesn’t matter. Now, I want you to stand there.” He positioned her at the far end of the copse, then gazed up at the half moon, then shifted her slightly, then moved her a few feet to the left. “No. There. That’s better.”
He gazed at the trees, at the Moon and at Theodora, smiling wildly. “Perfect, perfect. Now, I have a song.”
; “But they’re so small. This isn’t going to work.”
“Tish tosh. Such a terrible attitude for my audience. Shall we cancel the performance on account of a grouse-face? Hmmm? I’ve got half a mind not to even bother.”
But Theodora would not have that. If he’d brought her here meaning to perform, she was eager to see what he might do. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m sure whatever you’ve concocted will serve perfectly well.”
He looked back at the grove as if now having doubts of his own. “They are small ones at that. Well, anyway, are you ready for my poem?”
Theodora crossed her arms over her chest and readied herself in an exaggerated pose of concentration. “Absolutely.”
Meadowlark took a long breath, did a few deep-knee bends to limber up and began his song. He began with a forward roll and came up at the first of the trees. A gentle touch of his hand lit its leaves in bright yellow. A wave of emotion poured forth. It was a good place to start; the emotion was anticipation and resonated very well when added to Theodora’s already eager state. Meadowlark weaved his way among the diminutive trees, adding color here and there—red, blue and green—and a series of emotions that built on each other. He had a definitive pattern in mind. And his cumulative efforts began to tell a story, his story. It was a tale Theodora knew fairly well already but these emotional surges painted the details on an intimate level she’d never imagined before. Apprehension, insecurity, alienation. It was the story of a restless soul, who had gone about his early years like so many others, seeking acceptance and searching for identity but making little progress.
As Meadowlark’s efforts increased, he spun and leapt high, touching branches whose leaves were already lit and driving them to newer blends of color and intensity. Theodora realized he was also telling a story about her. Their early interactions shone in dull purple and orange. Friendship, playfulness. She tasted honey and butter fresh from the churn. But Meadowlark also painted his story with feelings of longing and intense desire. A wave of azure blue filled the grove, a bittersweet taste, a mournful sound—unrequited love. Theodora felt the emotion very deeply, almost painfully, as it resonated with her current state, her feelings for Eric. But Eric was not a part of this song—it was about Meadowlark and Clarimonde.
Meadowlark ended his spree with a fireworks display worthy of a Chinese Emperor. Yellow, topaz, emerald green. She tasted lingonberry and roasted candyfruit. Tastes she had long forgotten, but he hadn’t. Hope for the future, endless love.
Theodora wiped a tear from her eye. Meadowlark had composed a painfully beautiful song. A love poem. This was no prank, no trick or whimsy. This was, she knew full well, a true representation of how he felt.
As he bared his feelings to her she saw him, in the last dying eruptions from the emotion trees, as a fine and beautiful person, a true friend and confidant, and perhaps something much more.
Meadowlark ended his dance with a double tumble that left him flopping comically at her feet. He chuckled at himself and stood up.
Theodora, acting on a surge of headstrong emotion, suddenly stepped forward, throwing her arms around him. Before she knew it she pressed her lips against his in a hungry kiss, holding him tight. The contact was surprisingly electric.
She expected, if she’d thought about it at all, that it would be just like the kisses she remembered from their youth—petty, senseless things. But this was no dry husk, no gentle press of the lips. Rather, having cracked the shell, she tasted the sweet meat inside. She was not at all prepared for it. She wanted more. And so did he.
A faery on faery kiss has magical properties, that certain tingle, the fizz of champagne. She held it for a long time, it had been such a long time, a beckoning doorway to the soul, an invitation to merge, right there, right then. She felt his loving spirit so open and exposed, ready for her to commit. It would be so easy. She wanted to. He was so close, ready, willing.
But, no, it didn’t feel right either. She hadn’t kissed anyone but Eric for twenty years. What was she doing, leading him on? She pulled away.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
It crossed her mind that the whole thing might have been just a clever ploy. These strange new feelings had perhaps been brought on by the song, her raging desire an artifact of the experience, residual emotions left over from the dance.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m still…”
“Still what?” he asked. “Still married? Still in love with that English fool?”
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand and turned. She ran away across the field of grass.
“She’s sorry,” mumbled Meadowlark. “Well, that’s not very good is it?”
Pox sneered, baring his sharp teeth. “So that’s the end of the Hunt? Just like that?”
Dresdemona waved him away. “Don’t be ridiculous. Be patient.”
Bluebell, sitting across from Pox at the table, said to him, “Patience never was your strong suit was it?”
They both reached to take the last scone from the platter but Bluebell got there first, leaving him to snatch at empty air. She was a young woman with pale, sky-blue skin and a shock of indigo hair running in a neat line from the center of her forehead down the back of her head. She was as deadly as her namesake poison and as beautiful as she was deadly.
Pox reached across the table, trying to tear the biscuit from her fingers by brute force.
“Leave off!” she said, “or I’ll—”
“Settle down, children,” said Dresdemona. “We’ll have everything we want in time, just as we planned.”
“Until then, what are we supposed to do?” growled Pox. He shoved his chair back and stood up. Agitated, he took one step to the left and then another to the right.
“Sheathe your weapons and play nice,” said Dresdemona. “Better yet, leave them off. You don’t really need them do you?” She stepped over to him and, staring directly into his eyes, took his chin in her hand. “Is there anyone here you can’t kill barehanded if it comes to it?”
He shook off her grip with a flick of his head. “You should’ve left me back at Deepgrave. This is no place for me.”
“Better still to keep my eye on you, Poxy.”
He sneered again. “Come October, the Hunt will ride.”
“Only if I say so,” Dresdemona insisted. “If I tell you to keep the Hunt buttoned up…” She grabbed his crotch and gave it a wicked squeeze but didn’t take her hand away. He moved to take her in his arms but she slapped his hands away. “If I say to keep it ready and willing, but to hold…” She squeezed again and felt him stiffen. “To hold and be ready, perhaps never to burst forth… unless I wish it… then you will hold… and hold… and hold…” When his breeches were full she gave their contents a painful twist that made him grunt, a sound that was indistinguishable as an expression of either pain or pleasure. “Unless I say.” She left off.
Dresdemona stepped around the table and beckoned Bluebell to stand up as well. “Now Poxy, maybe you could make yourself useful and undertake a small hunt of your own. Remember that weasel—”
“He’s set himself up as a cobbler.”
“No, not Weasel. I’m talking about that little weasel Meadowlark. He’s skulking around here somewhere. Find him for me. But don’t kill him. Not until I say.”
She laid a gentle hand on either side of Bluebell’s heart-shaped face. “And you, my poisonous little flower…”
“Who do you want me to kill?”
“You keep those deadly lips wet and ready.”
Dresdemona leaned in and kissed Bluebell on the mouth. The young faery’s lips were hot as flame and Dresdemona could smell the cloying poison as Bluebell strained to hold it back. She kissed her long and deeply, then pulled slowly away.
Dresdemona laughed. “Just keep them ready. I’ll tell you when to use them, and on who.”
Bluebell struggled to catch her breath.
“There’s still one main problem,” said Pox. He sat back down at the table. “
Moonshadow. Your charms won’t work on her. Not with her. She’s too powerful.”
“Keep away from her,” said Dresdemona. “Both of you.”
Chapter 32
James greeted the soldier posted at the front of the barracks. “Good morning. Lieutenant Simms is it?”
The soldier tipped his black mitre cap. “Yes sir. And what brings you to our doorstep this fine morning?”
“I’ve come hoping to visit the prisoner for a while.”
“And what prisoner might that be?”
“Trask. The alchemist.”
“Sorry. We’ve no one here by that name.”
James took a moment to recall. “Leopold Rákóczi. Leopold George Rákóczi is his name.”
Simms smiled. “Oh? The murderer? And bum-brusher too. Is it him you’ve come to see then?”
James sighed. “Yes.”
“S’funny. I never took you for the type. Fancy a wee game of ‘backgammon’ now and again, do you?”
“If you’ll just let me in.”
“No need. No need. The merry murderer is already gone. Shipped him south to Westminster early this morning. He’s got a date with the noose in Belgium don’t you know? The Flemish consul can’t wait to get his paws on him. Those Belgians—real eggsuckers most of the time but they do hold a grudge.”
“I see,” said James.
“Good day, sir.”
With Trask already gone James decided to pay a visit to his laboratory in the caves down below Everbright. The man had been snatched so abruptly, without a chance to set his matters a’right, and perhaps a search of the place might turn up something that could be used to help him.
The alchemist’s work bench was a litter of projects, past and present. Crockery cluttered the long wooden table, cups and crucibles caked with the residue of previous experiments that had bubbled over and trickled down to leave the table covered in colorful stains. A puddle of yellow sulphur, crusts of copper oxidized to a pale green, swirls of a strangely purple orchid juice and glistening quicksilver had splashed a lively mosaic across the pitted surface. An astrolabe, several loose lenses and prisms, a rusty spirit-burner and a gold nugget lay amid all sorts of blown glass piping and beakers. James noticed a large jar that held a handful of tiny fey leeches suspended in some type of dull orange fluid, all dead.
