by B G Denvil
“But locked in a tree house?”
“Do you hate the idea?”
“Oh – I adore the idea,” Maggs exclaimed, her arms in a squeeze back around Rosie’s neck. “What a dream. To be safe. To be private. No Joan knocking and screaming at me from the street. No being terrified waiting for the sheriff. No wondering if Godwin is going to haunt me. To live in the trees amongst the birds with the sun through the windows.” A pause. “Has it got windows?”
“Plenty of them,” said Rosie. “Now, we’d better get moving before Dickon turns up.”
With one tear-stained hand clasping hers, Rosie led the way from the cottage, past the farm, and avoiding the main road, hurried through the tumble of tiny cottages belonging to the villagers, a higgled-piggledy mess of houses, their thatches growing over each other, all cuddled together and separated only by tiny earthen lanes, or simply a few steps of grass. With her cloak over her head in spite of the heat, Maggs was not recognised by anyone, and they were hidden also from the main square, the market on the central green, and the nosey drinkers sitting outside the Juggler and Goat, stretching their legs in the sunshine while sitting on the stools they had carried out themselves.
Onto Kettle Lane, walking faster and thankfully with the cloak removed, Rosie rarely walked, except as a small white cat, but she was more worried than tired when she arrived at The Rookery. “I’d prefer not to introduce you to anyone yet.” Rosie led Maggs around to the back past the privies, and into the beginning of the woods where the tree house sat high in one of the biggest trees.
Alfred Scaramouch’s tree house had not been used since he had abandoned it, but Rosie managed a quick and unseen flick of the fingers on both hands. Now, rather suddenly, there was a very long and sturdy ladder from ground to the underpinning branch and the neat front door. And the inside, smiled Rosie to herself, would now be a special delight.
She showed Maggs the ladder. “Not too high, I hope?”
“Certainly not.” Maggs was enthusiastic. “And it looks simply marvellous. Do the birds sing? Are there owls?”
“The birds sing constantly,” Rosie told her. “Though all the nesting crows have raised their youngsters, and most spend the day exploring elsewhere. And two owls live in our roof.”
“I shall love it,” Maggs assured her.
Rosie very much hoped so. She led Maggs to the ladder and climbed carefully behind her. She held the key to the door, only just invented in the last few minutes. They stood together on the platform and Rosie unlocked the lock she had just put there.
Opening wide, the door revealed the palace within. All very human. A cushioned settle, a table with a small bench and four stools. A chair, well-cushioned, and a central slab with trivet and stone enclosure to protect against sparks wanting to greet the leaves outside.
There were rugs, which had never been there before, but which now seemed to cushion the room. Copper pans hung from the ceiling along one wall, and the other three walls were windowed with views of oaks, weeping willows, beeches, birches, ash trees, apple and walnut spreaders, ivy creepers, old blown nests, holly and lilac bushes, alders, sycamores and a couple of spruce trees, all showing off their lush summer growth.
“And up there,” Rosie pointed to the narrow wooden steps, “is the bedchamber. It’s a good bed, thick feathers and well made with an eiderdown and clean sheets. There’s a good store of candles, wax not tallow, and the stars peep in the windows at night. I think you’ll be warm and comfortable, but don’t light fires unless you have to. All food will be delivered three times a day.”
“That’s more than I ever ate. I couldn’t afford dinner. I had breakfast and supper and water from the well on the green.”
“There’s a well here too,” Rosie said. “I’ll have water delivered, and ale, and wine. But it’s best to wait until I visit if you want anything more.”
“How could I want anything more?”
“And then I’ll walk back to your home in Little Piddleton with you when the danger from Dickon is over with.”
Rosie carefully climbed down the ladder and then flew off directly to Peg’s attic bedchamber. Both Edna and Peg sat by the tiny table, as Rosie had hoped, but they both stared at her with considerable astonishment.
Peg said in a hushed croak, “That was a human.”
And Edna said, “My dear Rosie, have you gone quite bonkers?”
Eight
Rosie had felt the shadows mounting, and the trickle of black ice had been slithering down her back and arms. Even clicking her fingers for quiet magical spells had seemed more blocked than usual.
“I had to bring her,” Rosie said apologetically. “I knew Dickon had been glued to his belief she was guilty. He was going to arrest the poor girl, and probably hang her without trial. He’d put it off for two and a half days, but that was his own inner voice, and that was being silenced from outside. If I hadn’t brought her here, she’d have been dead in less than a week.”
“All humans die,” Edna pointed out.
“And all stupid,” Peg added. “But not so stupid they won’t quickly notice the difference with the wizards. You think this girl is going to look out of the window and not be surprised to see our people flying? She won’t be just a little troubled to see her daily food float through her closed windows and straight to her table? Nor worried when Cabbage and Dodger begin talking to her? Or just perhaps a trifle amazed when she sees you turn into a cat?”
“She won’t see any of that.” Rosie grinned. “I’ve changed the windows so she can only see into the trees. The front window has disappeared, and the door is locked. The bedchamber only has a roof window, and the attic door is blocked. I’ll get one of the maids to fly up unseen with all the food, and unlock the door before putting the platters on the table.”
“And she won’t find it weird to be constantly locked in?”
“Of course not,” said Rosie. “She’s hiding from Dickon, for goodness’ sake. So he can’t be able to open the door and find her. Easy.”
“Easy isn’t the best way,” Peg objected, remembering the advice of the silver cup.
“Pooh,” said Rosie. “None of our residents are going to like it any more than you do. They’ll all think I’m mad, and they may be right. I just found Maggs – incredibly – horribly – sad. And it was so unfair. And she kept crying, and I almost cried too. I just had to help. This was all I could think of.”
“You’d better tell everyone over dinner,” Edna pointed out.
It was not an easy declaration, and Rosie watched every face turn bright pink and then white.
Alfred murmured, “Oh good, my girl. Someone to keep the place clean.”
But Uta Hampton, a normally quiet woman, thumped one fist on the table, spilled her wine and protested, “A human in our midst? What if she cuts down our trees? Hunts our owls? Poisons our lilacs? And spreads human diseases? Humans are a shocking species, you know.”
Before Rosie could answer, both Ermengarde Spank and Inky Jefferson had shrunk back in their seats, staring in horror, both whispering together, “How could you, Rosie, dear?”
Percy Rotten had snapped his knife on the table, pushed back his stool and left the table in disgusted silence. Bertie Cackle, the respected eighty-two, shook his head in shocked wonder, unable to understand such a shocking action. Montague Carp looked around in confusion, muttering, “A human? How did she get here? Who let her in? Really, the owner, it’s Whistle, isn’t it, should put his foot down. I suppose it’s all that silly little girl of Alice’s. She does a lot of stupid things, and her mother should control her better.”
“I wonder if she’ll like chocolate,” said Emmeline to herself, and Dandy Duckett said, “Just as long as the human doesn’t eat all our food.”
But Mandrake, fascinated by the news, threw up both arms and beamed at Rosie. “What fun,” he said. “Someone new to seduce.”
“She’s not open to that,” said Rosie, ignoring everyone else. “She’s horribly frightened,
poor little thing.”
“I’ll certainly cheer her up,” Mandrake declared.
Rosie, Edna and Peg were discussing the problems of humanity and what should be done about the infiltrator, when Mandrake decided to deliver an early supper to the tree house. Easily able to unlock the door, he marched into the little house and was immediately enchanted by the girl who had no magical powers of any kind. She was, however, extremely pretty and that was magic enough.
“Good gracious,” Mandrake said, eyes alight. “Here lives an angel in our tree. The church tells us that angels live only in heaven. Presumably clouds. But this one sits amongst the leaves.”
Looking up and extremely startled, Maggs stood, ready to run. But the words seeped through the fright, and she saw he was nothing like the furious Dickon. She managed to answer, “I thought this was an old people’s care home. I didn’t expect young men. Or do you work here? I see you’ve brought me a glorious supper.”
He had summoned it himself, and a platter of slow roast lamb, tasting far more real than it was, had been presented on a bed of buttered spinach and baked onions, alongside a bowl of grapes in lemon custard and a cup of wine. Maggs gazed in wonder. “I’ve never, ever had a meal like this before in all my life,” she breathed.
Mandrake didn’t tell her that this was inevitable, since this supper had been made entirely by magic. “I hope you enjoy it,” he said, flashing his best smile. “I’ll come back in an hour for the platters. In the meantime, eat in peace. I’ll bring a refill with me for the wine.”
Maggs was feeling reborn and suddenly blessed with the life of a queen. She had been crying and scared all night, even more miserable and frightened that morning, and in a daze of disbelieving gratitude when led from the village to the little house snuggled in the tree, hidden and safe. The afternoon had brought a dozen sudden shifts from peaceful comfort to sudden terror, and from slow hope to immediate hopelessness.
There was little if anything to do except watch the birds from her windows, rest on the wondrously comfortable bed and dream of a life of the happiness to come.
Yet she reminded herself that one day she must return home, and Dickon would still be waiting. So would Joan, her sister-in-law. Not, thank the saints, her husband, Godwin himself, but the accusation of having killed him would certainly haunt her.
What also began to seep into her mind, as a slightly troublesome threat, was the realisation that she was locked in, could speak to no one, could not go out even to walk the woods and had nothing to do, perhaps for days. Maybe for weeks. If it was months, she’d be safe from Dickon, but she’d die anyway.
Eating the small but delightful meal brought to her by Mandrake, she soon realised that the food, at least, would cheer her up. She’d tried to be a good cook herself, but never had the money to buy the ingredients she needed.
Now dinner was even more sumptuous. And she admitted to herself, before banishing the thought, and then realising that it reappeared constantly, that the delightful young man—be he cook, scullery boy, cleaner or son of one of the old people living there—was an addition just as charmingly pleasant as the food.
When Mandrake returned with the refill as promised, he sat on a stool beside her and grinned. “Margaret, is it? Well, beautiful Margaret, lady of courage and grace, if he dares come here in search of you, I shall fight the wretched Dickon and protect you with my life.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”
He clasped her shoulder, but removed his hand before she could complain. “I’ve fought for king and country,” he lied. “So why not for the most deserving and beautiful woman in that country?”
“Do you work here?” Maggs asked, watching him gather the platters. There was not a scrap of food left in any place.
“Umm.” He bent over her and suddenly, almost surreptitiously, kissed her cheek. She looked up, delighted, but thinking she should object.
“That wasn’t – proper,” she murmured.
“I don’t work here,” he told her. “Only to help, as now. I’m a – relative – of the owner. And I cannot always be – proper, you know, when I start to fall in love.”
Maggs blushed. “You mustn’t say things like that. But I thank you for the food, which was wonderful, and the sweet compliments, and I know I’ll sleep better tonight than I have for years. But please – I’ve no time for dalliance. Let me say goodnight before – well – before anything else happens.”
Laughing, Mandrake nodded. “Then a nothing else goodnight to you,” he said. “But I shall see you tomorrow. How could I resist?” And he left the little house, locking the door behind him with a flick, and flew from tree to kitchen. He dumped the platters and strode back to the great hall.
Cuddling beneath sheet, blanket and eiderdown, head against the glorious softness of the pillows, Maggs lay in a bed more snuggly comfortable than anything she had experienced before, and wondered how such a charitable old cottage could afford the luxury of food and furnishings. She could only assume that these old souls, too aged to look after themselves, were wealthy and paid a generous rental for their board. But she reminded herself that she had not even a farthing for herself since Godwin had left her nothing, and if Rosie expected payment, she would have to explain, and leave.
A miserable thought. But the many miserable thoughts disappeared as she closed her eyes against the pearly ooze of moonlight through the little window above. She slept at once, and deeply, dreaming sweet, and naturally unaware that all this was a finger-click gift from the handsome Mandrake, and his own sweet memories.
“I like your human,” Mandrake told Rosie.
“Well, don’t,” Rosie told him back. “Leave the poor girl alone. She’s had enough trouble for a lifetime, and enough tampering from sneaky men after her for just one thing.”
“Actually,” decided Mandrake with sudden realisation, “that’s not what I’m doing at all. I like her. I’d be happy to help her.”
“Then no doubt,” Rosie reminded him, “you’ll be as insulted for it as I have been. Feel deep sympathy for someone, and you’ll become the ogre yourself.”
“Self-pity?”
“Please notice my frown,” Rosie said, “I had the odd jerk of self-pity as a kid. With a mother like Alice, that was inevitable. Now I’m the luckiest person in the universe, so I’m way, way over self-pity. But it’s stupidity for others to blame the one trying to help.”
“Being badly treated teaches you sympathy,” smiled Mandrake.
Which left Rosie wondering what had happened to Mandrake in his youth, since this was a wizard who always seemed to take more notice of his clothes than his companions. She wondered, but she had no intention of asking. “Then you can take her breakfast,” mumbled Rosie. “Meanwhile, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”
She also slept extremely well, and heard nothing of Edna and Peg’s muttering from upstairs as they discussed the changes and risks that had once again leapt into their lives.
In his own spacious room, half bedchamber, half wardrobe, Mandrake undressed, carefully folded the sweeping outer coat of orange velvet lined in orange silk, the doublet of black damask richly embroidered in gold thread, the saffron hose knitted in silk, the white pleated shirt with the fine white lace collar, and slipped out of the soft cream leather shoes tied with black satin beneath a silver buckle. He smiled at himself in the mirrors he stood, hands on hips, admiring his own nakedness, just one proud part barely covered in tightly tied white linen brais. He looked, as he smiled at his smoothly silken muscles, like a human of perhaps thirty years old, instead of a wizard now approaching his one hundred and eighty-seventh birthday.
And yet, he informed his smiling reflection, here he was, who should have known better after those long years of experience, falling in love for the very first time.
What was both worse, and also deliciously ridiculous, he was in love with a human who had learned to be frightened of men, to obey immediately or suffer the conseq
uences, and to say no when she actually meant yes. And yet, as his smile widened, this was exactly what he adored, being determined to teach her to say yes when she meant it, to never obey anyone except her own preferences and never to experience fear again in her life.
Pulling off his brais, Mandrake enjoyed one last brief glimpse at his own remarkably glorious exterior and then curled into bed, thinking more of his hopeful interior.
Everybody woke to rain.
After the golden delight of every August day, the first day of September had decided to play autumn games. The sky was overcast; the rain poured, rattling the windows and ramming the roof of the tree house. It sluiced both thatch and plaster, and collected into puddles so large they resembled ponds.
The birds still sang their various melodies of the morning chorus before dashing back into seclusion, some flapping feathers, enjoying a quick bath, but were then back amongst the leafy consolation of shelter.
As Maggs peeped out, dressing herself while watching the birds, she thought she heard an unexpected voice.
“Can I pop in?” asked the voice. “Just wanting escape, you know, from this nasty wet.”
It sounded nothing like the glorious Mandrake, whom she hoped would soon be bringing her breakfast. His voice was deep and beautiful. The new voice was crackly and shrill. Convinced that no ancient resident of The Rookery would be able to climb the never-ending ladder to her new home, Maggs ignored the voice and concentrated on looking attractive, yet proper. It didn’t take long, since all she owned was a rough linen shift and a simple light blue smock to wear over it. Her shoes were splitting at the sides from the sole, and she owned only a little stiff white band to keep up her hair.
Then the voice more plaintive this time, said, “It be ever so wet, Alfie. Doesn’t you like me no more? Wouldn’t you let me in fer a snooze in the warm?”
Quite sure now that she could not possibly be imagining such a voice, Maggs felt a swathe of guilt. She had been thinking only of herself, waiting for Mandrake and ignoring someone in difficulty. She ran to the door, but of course, it was locked. She peeped through the keyhole and saw no one. Instead she put her lips to the keyhole and said, “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t open the door.”