by Robin Trent
"Noooooo expossssure to the hhhhhhummans. You knowwwww thhhhhhe rulesssss."
"What's the queen going to do? You think her royal highness is going to come down off that throne of hers and track me here? I'm not significant enough for her to bother. I'm repaying a debt I owe her, but that's as far as it goes. I'm me own person, and I'll do what I want."
The nightmare's dark shadowy form shifted in disapproval.
"And don't be getting all high and mighty on me. I know why you are here. You're driving the woman mad. So what if I help? What's the big deal? Am I stepping on your toes?"
A hissy Hmph! was all that could be heard as the nightmare swirled in on itself and disappeared.
Behind the chair, Titwell silently stood by as Helen put Elizabeth to bed. The woman was hysterical, and Titwell seethed with anger. Enough was enough. He didn't understand the queen's plans, but he had seen the young mother suffer terribly at the hands of his fellow sprites, and he was ashamed. It was time to redouble the wards. He might not be able to keep them out completely, but he could certainly slow them down.
"There, Elizabeth. You try and get some rest. I will send Rebecca up with a warm glass of milk to calm your nerves." Helen said as she left the room. Titwell fingered the vial of passionflower tincture he had made earlier, as he spied the vial of laudanum on the nightstand. Was that the reason for Elizabeth's disoriented state? He decided to dump the laudanum out of the vial and replace it with his own concoction. Then he would slip that into the milk after Rebecca left. It would increase the sedative effect of the milk several fold and knock Elizabeth out. She needed sleep. She needed to descend to depths where the nightmare could not reach her; otherwise, her fragile state would only grow worse.
Elizabeth mumbled and rolled her head around on her pillow. Her mind felt broken, and reality was something she desperately craved. Where was Nikki? She needed her husband to come home. She called out his name as she tossed and turned. Rebecca slipped into the room with the warm milk. "Here's your milk, mistress. Now you drink that up and you'll feel much better, I promise."
Elizabeth's hand shot out to grab Rebecca's wrist, and she held on violently as she pleaded desperately with her servant. "I'm not crazy. I know I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. Rebecca, you must believe me. I need someone to believe me." Rebecca patted her mistress's hand as she tried to extricate herself from the powerfully strong grip of the other woman.
"Mistress Elizabeth, stop fretting. I believe ye. But you need to let go now. Please, mistress." Rebecca managed to wring her wrist free and stood there rubbing it. "Drink your milk, mum, and get some sleep." Rebecca moved the milk a little closer to Elizabeth so she would take the hint and quietly backed out of the room.
After the door closed, Titwell came out from behind the chair. He slipped the tincture into Elizabeth's milk while her eyes were still closed. Then he dumped out the vial of laudanum and put the passionflower in its stead. Satisfied, he turned to leave.
"I know you're there," Elizabeth murmured.
Titwell stopped dead in his tracks and pivoted on one foot to face the bed. Elizabeth slowly opened her eyes and stared right through him. "I may not be able to see you, but I can sense you. I know what I saw, and I know I am not crazy. I just wish someone would tell me why. Why did you take my baby? Why did you leave that awful thing in its place? Where is she? Where did Euphemia go? Why won't you help me?" Tears started to run down Elizabeth's cheeks as she let the emotional release come and actually began mourning her child.
Titwell could take no more and made it as far as the door when he heard, "Is she alive?" That single solitary question drove home all the pain and anguish Elizabeth was feeling, and Titwell felt something he hadn't felt in a long time for someone of the human race. He felt compassion. "Drink the milk. You need it," was his only reply. Instead of acting startled or afraid, Elizabeth just seemed to accept what she was hearing, and she sat up in bed and drank the milk.
It was the dark of the moon, and the stars lit up the sky like a diamond blanket. The air had a metallic smell signifying an oncoming thunderstorm, and except for the breeze blowing through the trees, it was quiet. In spite of the lack of light, Titwell had no trouble seeing. The dark made it easier to see the energy of the wards. He could see the energy waning in places where it had been attacked repeatedly by the nightmare. Titwell picked up the stones around the house that were the anchors for the energy field. He brought them together and weaved a spell around them, linking them together to form a net of protection. Then he replaced them at the four corners of the house and began to concentrate on spinning the spell.
"Won't do no good."
The voice bounced off the house and seemed to echo in the empty yard. Titwell jumped. Concentration broken, he turned exasperated to face Groz.
"Don't you have something better to do?" He peered warily at Groz.
"I was just trying to be helpful. It won't do no good. They're too strong and too wily." Groz squinted at Titwell as if he had something in his one eye.
"I have to do something. And while it might not stop them, it will at least slow them down."
"Aye, it might at that. Still yer better off just lettin' things progress as they will. It's going to 'appen whether ye want it to or not."
"I don't understand. Queen Oonagh has what she wants. Why not just leave the poor mother alone?"
"Well, who knows what the queen's a thinkin'? Besides, I don't think this is the queen, there, Titwell."
Titwell stopped what he was doing and stood up straight to stare at Groz's beady eye. "If it isn't the queen, then who could it be?"
"Well, ye know about as much as I do about that, there, uhm, you know."
"Groz?"
"There are those that are with the queen, and there are those that are opposed. Plenty going on behind the scenes." Groz spoke as he waved his fingers in the air to emphasize his words.
"Court intrigue. That's nothing new. Again Groz, don't you have something better to do?"
Groz stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the starry sky. "Well, I suppose I do. But you're wasting your time." Groz placed significant emphasis on the last word.
Titwell turned back to his task and began working the spell again until he felt Groz's keen interest. "Well, I suppose it is a waste of time if you're going to be peering over my shoulder to see what I am doing so you can report it. Get out of here, Groz! Now!"
Groz leered a toothy grin at Titwell that was half jest, half threat. Titwell resisted the urge to pummel Groz into the ground. Not normally a violent sprite, Titwell had had about all he could take. He was ready to take his anger and frustration out on someone, anyone. Groz began to catch on that Titwell wasn't playing and took a few steps back. "No skin off my nose whatcha do." He turned to go. "One of these days, hob, one of these days," Groz muttered as he retreated.
Titwell could have retorted, but decided to err on the side of wisdom even though his temper was flaring. He had remarkable control that way. He stood his ground, however, and watched the redcap retreat. Once Groz had disappeared into the surrounding woods, Titwell resumed his work. He didn't think Groz meant to let it slip that there was opposition to Queen Oonagh, not that it was news. But Groz seemed to mean something else other than the usual commotion. But that his wards weren't going to work? That was news. Titwell's wards always worked.
He reconnected to the stones and raised the ward. Blue electric light rose from the ground, climbing the outer walls of the house, arching over the eaves of the roof, and meeting at the peak. Titwell snapped his fingers, and the ward locked fully into place, creating a metaphysical seal preventing entry into the house. Titwell nodded in satisfaction and smiled. Let's see them get through that!
Titwell entered the house through the back door and silently let himself into the kitchen. The house felt quieter, more settled, and more comfortable. He felt himself literally sigh in relief and his shoulders relax. He took another deep breath, and a tantalizing smell entered his
nostrils. Hmmm, what was this? Titwell spied a piping hot strudel on the table. He looked around the kitchen tentatively.
"It's for you." Titwell jumped and then let out an exasperated snort. He was tired of the voice-from-behind scenario. Rebecca had managed to sneak up on him.
"So, you can see me." Titwell was not surprised.
"Yes," Rebecca replied.
"Well, that solves that. I had an inkling you could. How long have you known?"
"Since I tested the changeling. My mistress is losing her grip on reality. Changelings are bad business." Rebecca was quiet and subdued.
"And your husband?" Titwell asked.
"Blind as a bat when it comes to the Sight. He don't know about the old ways. That's why I made you a meal. Don't want you to get upset and become a bogart. I respect the Good Folk." Rebecca stopped shy of saying thank you. She did not want to give offense. "There's strange doin's here, and my mistress and her little ones are a part of it."
"Aye, they are. And you best steer clear of the whole mess, Rebecca."
"I take care of my mistress, I do. And I won't just be idle while you torment her and make her mad."
"Rebecca, you are warned. You could become a casualty in all this if you're not careful." Titwell wasn't sure why he was even bothering to warn the woman. Humans make mistakes all the time with the fae and pay for it, whether they've earned it or not. Maybe it was because she had kept to the old ways and had paid him the proper due as humans of old did. "And I'm not tormenting her. I am trying to protect her."
15
Most of the Unseelie court looked like a grey on black painting, except for shots of fall color here and there. Dead branches in large pots lined the court decorated with dried seed pods and dangling drips of moss. Leaves of yellow and red pocked the dark background as moss and algae grew on the fountain in the rock wall. Centered in the middle of the court was Queen Maeve herself, gowned in a long dress of rust and gold, a shot of color on an otherwise bleak landscape. Her skin was palest white, and her eyes were a dark contrast that gave her face a haunted look.
Maeve rarely smiled. She was as morose as the duties of her court, handling the side of life with which no one wanted to deal. Grey wolves, large and beautiful, sat on either side of her. The throne room was full of members of the court standing about, waiting for news that could possibly affect their lives. They parted like the sea to allow Groz to pass as he steadily walked forward to stand before the throne.
"Well?" Maeve's voice made the room shudder as it cut through the silence like a knife. Her question was as pointed as her stare, and she quietly drummed her fingers on the arm of her throne.
Groz was practiced in the art of not moving as he had stood before the Unseelie queen many times. "Your Majesty. I am here to give me report."
"Yes, I can see that. Get on with it," hissed the queen.
"The nightmare is doing his job; the hob is trying to prevent it with very little success. Word is Oonagh's changeling is helping things along."
"Oh?" Maeve's interest was slightly piqued as she raised an eyebrow in response.
"Yes. It got up and danced a jig right there in the crib in front of the mistress.”
Maeve laughed. It was not a joyous laugh, but one that felt more manic and deeply disturbed. "Isn't that precious." Her voice dripped with disdain.
Groz nodded in reply as he stared at the queen, missing the signal of the queen's growing annoyance. He thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, but he wouldn't dare show the queen he was enamored. As he remembered himself, Groz lowered his eyes and spoke again. "Titwell is there guarding her, and he has been warding the house and acting as house brownie. I cannot cross the ward lines; it would be too painful."
"And yet, the nightmare crosses."
"He is more insubstantial, my queen, he has no..." Groz stopped in horror as he witnessed the speed with which the queen moved.
She grabbed her staff made from a dead oak tree turned upside down. It's gnarled roots wove together to form a cage that housed a piece of amber encasing dead insects. Currently, that amber was a mere inch from Groz's nose. One wrong move and he could lose an eye on one of the roots. Maeve stood on the dais as she leaned forward and carefully enunciated each word. "I want more than just torturing some silly mortal. I want to know what Oonagh is up to. Why is she so interested in that house? Why is she so interested in that family? Find out the information, Groz, or I'll put your head on a spike! You. Are. Dismissed!" And with that, she snatched her staff back and pounded it on the dais in final proclamation.
A murmuring spread across the throne room like the sound of bees humming as all eyes were focused on Groz and his precarious situation. No one envied him. Groz nodded emphatically and bowed as he quickly moved out of the court, being ever so careful not to expose his backside to the queen as he left.
Even though they were enemies, Maeve considered Oonagh her sister, a sister in the way members of a sorority are sisters. They were both queens, therefore they were both to be respected. Maeve wasn't interested in bringing Oonagh down. The other side of life, all that birth and sunshine must exist even though Maeve had an extreme distaste for it. Remove Oonagh, and Maeve would have to take on her duties. There is no death without nothing to die, so there must be life.
But humans, humans which Oonagh seemed so interested in, that was another story. Maeve hated humans and considered them beneath her. They were mangy, grubby thieves who stole from the natural world without returning anything to it. If Oonagh was interested in humans, then she was up to something, and Maeve was going to find out what it was and put an end to it.
Nikolai had painstakingly shown Rhys how to crate the museum items. Straw lined the crate's sides and bottom, and then the pieces were wrapped and boxed and floated in the bed of straw. Everything was to be handled with care, for they were precious, irreplaceable items that needed preserving for all of history. Meticulous records were kept of what was in which crate, as each box was numbered and labeled. The size, color, material, year, and room in the museum that the objects came from all recorded.
When Nikolai finally left Rhys to his own devices, his disdain for mortals came to the forefront. Nikolai was, in his opinion, an ass. Why on earth did they treasure this stuff? It all lacked the quality of elven work. Cheap in comparison from his point of view. Rhys opened a crate and tossed a cat statue through the opening. He could not care less when he heard the ping signaling the object now had a dent or worse yet, a crack. Well, if the stuff wasn't so poorly made, it could withstand a little tossing, couldn't it?
Rhys resisted the temptation to sidestep through to the otherworld and straight back into England. He wanted to leave all this boring work behind. With a sigh, he got up and walked over to the crate, picked up the statue, and placed it back in the straw with more care. If he had to repack everything, he could be there all night, and that wouldn't do.
Maeve was alone in her chambers removed from prying eyes. Her rooms were cut out of rough stone, but the floor had a design in it depicting scenes of death and dying. Tall sconces hung on the wall at intervals providing light to the otherwise gloomy atmosphere. A bed made of ebony wood and swan's down took up residence in the immediate corner of the room. A fountain trickled from the far wall pooling below in a circular depression in the rock. Beside the fountain stood a tree that was perpetually dying. Red and gold leaves fell from the tree, floating in the water and across the floor.
In the center of the room stood a brazier, four feet high. The stand and bowl were made of carved obsidian with rune markings along the bowl's rim etched in gold. Wood coals glowed from the bowl, lending heat to the otherwise cold room. Maeve carried a small bundle of herbs made up of Broom, Cinquefoil, Club Moss, Lungwort, and Primrose, specially picked for her particular need. She threw the herbs in the brazier, and blue-grey smoke billowed and coalesced as the fire consumed them.
Maeve stretched forth her hands and spoke the words. The air elemental took shape
as wispy tendrils arched and undulated to form the figure of a girl with long flowing hair. "There you are, my many-shaped friend," whispered Maeve. In response, the elemental reshaped itself into a rose for the queen. Maeve smiled her feral grin. "I have a job for you." She leaned in close, and her breath disturbed the smoke causing it to reshape back into the girl.
"I need to know what is happening in the Seelie court. Oonagh is up to something, and Groz is too clumsy for this task." Maeve stuck her fingers into the smoke as the elemental twisted about her fingers and glided sensuously over her hand. "But you are special. You can find a way in. Oonagh has the court guarded, but you are smoke and shadow. She'll never see you. Return to me as soon as you discover her secret, my pet." Smoke glided off Maeve's hand and billowed in front of her in a cloud that quickly dissipated as the air elemental left to do her bidding.
Helen stood in the doorway to the nursery, looking at the twins. Both were beautiful, healthy babies. Why should her daughter focus on one and not the other? How could a mother believe one of her beautiful daughters was evil? Was living with Nikolai warping the way she saw things? Helen didn't raise her daughter to be like this, so it must be something else. When Elizabeth started to display possible mental illness as a child, Helen had it dealt with immediately. She was not willing to risk her child being taken away through hysterics.
The doctor had said it was all for attention, that Elizabeth had admitted as much. What could it be now? Is it because her husband left for Egypt, and she is hoping to bring him back by being crazy? No man wants a wife that will take him away from his work. Oh, that would be likely to backfire. Nikolai didn't make that much money, especially given that his "profession" was considered more of a hobby by most people, including herself.
Helen could see where this was going. A nervous breakdown, maudlin crying, hysterics which her daughter had already acted out. She was being made to feel the monster because they could no longer afford to keep the country house and needed to move. Of course, Helen would end up being the monster, being the cruel one. For her own children's sake, Elizabeth needed to stop this right now. Certainly, they could find accommodations in London which would be more suitable for them both? Helen steeled herself. She was not going to be manipulated in this fashion even it was her child who was doing it.