Changeling

by Sarah Rayne

  She poured a very large gin and tonic, and banked up the fire in her room, seating herself in the deep armchair near the window. She could manage to get in and out of this chair without too much of an ungainly struggle now, and if he came tonight, he would see her out of the wheelchair for once.

  If he came tonight . . .

  She had not meant to topple into sleep, but she was actually quite tired tonight. It might only be the gin, or it might be reaction from the quarrel, or it might simply be tiredness from all that piano-playing into the cassette. It did not matter which it was, because it was good sleep: soft and alluring. Fael slid down and down, until she was fathoms below the oceans of the world, with smoky green waterlight rippling all about her, stirring her hair, and inhuman, beautiful creatures peering slyly through the cloudy waters, and lyrical music tapping like silver fingers against water-smoothed rocks.

  The music was forming a soft regular rhythm. Tap-tap-tap . . . In another minute it would form into one of Cauldron’s songs. Was it the march that ushered in the royal armies of the Fianna? No, that was much more pulsating and modern. It might be Aillen mac Midha’s beckoning song to Mab or the sidh’s cool, sexy siren-music. They were having trouble casting Aillen, Tod had said. Tod should be here now, because if Aillen was anywhere, he was in this drowned under-sea world, peering through its depths with his compelling eyes and his hidden face . . . No, that was Scathach. It was Scathach, the nameless one, who walked in the dark places and averted his face . . .

  The tapping came again, more insistent now, and Fael blinked and sat bolt upright, abruptly and fully awake. There was someone outside her room. Or was it only Tod blundering back, half-drunk and maybe rushing to the loo to be sick?

  But whoever it was was being very stealthy indeed, and Tod was not even stealthy when he was sober, let alone when he was half-drunk. The sound came again – a light, quick tapping, fingertips against solid oak. Fael’s heart gave a huge bound. He was here. He had found the unlatched garden door, and for the first time he was entering the house without being invited, and he was coming in to her room.

  Her heart began to race. He had never yet approached her physically, and he had certainly never indicated by the slightest gesture that he intended to. But what about those sizzling darts of mental intimacy? thought Fael, frantically. What about all those discussions we had, chock-full of double-meaning and unmistakable signals!

  We shouldn’t be doing this, Fael, he had said, his voice like a silken caress. And, Once Mab submits she’ll be lost . . . Once he’s taken her, she’ll never again be free . . . She’ll be his, body and soul and blood and bone for ever . . .

  You fool! cried Fael in silent anguish. You knew quite well that he didn’t mean Mab’s submission, you knew quite well that you didn’t mean it either! And he never did tell you what he’d do if you reneged on that bargain, but that’s because he didn’t need to! You know what he’ll do, because you struck an unholy alliance, you made a midnight pact, and only the unholy pacts are struck at midnight, Fael . . . And, said her mind, still working at top speed, you’d better face it, girl: once he’s had you, it’s highly likely that you’ll never again be free . . .

  But when he came into the room, the fear dissolved at once, and he was the familiar companion of the secret midnight hours.

  The soft voice said, ‘Not asleep, Fael?’

  ‘No. Come in.’

  He crossed the room and took up his familiar place in the shadowy recess of the chimney breast. ‘Tod’s out, isn’t he? Yes, I thought he was. I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, I wanted to talk to you, as well.’

  ‘About our alliance?’ he said, and this was so horrifyingly in tune with Fael’s panic-stricken thoughts, that for a moment she could not speak.

  And then she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes. They like Cauldron, don’t they?’ he said. ‘Your father and the backers. They’re delighted with it, in fact. And so I think it’s time to remind you about our deal. Acknowledgement on Cauldron’s opening night, remember?’

  ‘I don’t need reminding,’ said Fael. ‘I promised and I’ll keep my promise. There was no need to come creeping in like this in the middle of the night to remind me.’ She nearly said, ‘And frightening me half to death in the process,’ but swallowed this, and said, in a deliberately prosaic voice, ‘Would you like a glass of brandy or a cup of coffee or something?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  It had been a test question, of course, to see if he would trust her enough to remove the mask, and if tonight would be the night when he would venture out of his strange shadowland into the ordinary world of kettles boiling, and coffee percolating or wine being uncorked. But he did not, and it had probably been ridiculous to think otherwise. He refused the casual offer of a drink, or coffee, as he always had done. He sat in his old place in the chimney recess, the cloak falling in black silky pools about his feet.

  After a moment, Fael said, ‘I’ll do my best to keep our bargain. But I think you ought to know it might not be possible.’

  There was no apparent movement from him, but Fael thought he became very still, in the way a hunted animal becomes very still, hoping to escape detection. And then something in the quality of his stillness sent a scrape of fear across her mind, and she thought: No, you fool! He’s not the hunted, he never has been! This is the stillness of the hunter, not the quarry!

  At last, he said, almost to himself, ‘So Tod Miller will cheat us, will he? It doesn’t surprise me so very much.’

  It did not surprise Fael either, but she said, ‘I’m sorry. He’s even making stupid excuses to keep me away from the auditions.’

  ‘Ah yes, the auditions,’ said the soft voice, thoughtfully. ‘But there are ways of manipulating auditions, Fael.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Fael. And then, as he did not respond, she said, ‘But you do see I can’t guarantee that Tod will even acknowledge me, let alone you. But I’ll try to talk to him again.’

  He stood up, and for the first time Fael had the impression that he was not so slight or slender as he appeared. He moved towards her chair, and Fael thought: Here it comes. In another minute he’ll lean over, and maybe he’ll lift me in his arms and carry me over to the bed . . . And maybe he’ll remove the mask and maybe he won’t . . . A fresh tremor of terror went through her, but beneath it was a rising excitement. If I yield, I’ll be his body and soul and blood and bone . . . No, of course I won’t, I’ll never be anybody’s, body and soul. I wasn’t before the accident, and I’m damned if I will be now!

  He was wearing silk gloves tonight, as well as the silk mask. What would it feel like to be caressed by hands wearing silk gloves . . .? What would it feel like to be kissed through a silk mask . . .? But what does the mask hide?

  And then he straightened up and the moment passed. Scathach said, ‘I can deal with Tod, Fael.’

  He stepped back and the shadows twisted about him again. There was a whisper of sound as he went through the bedroom door, and then a soft, sad click as the outer garden door opened and then closed behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  Tod climbed the stairs to the rehearsal rooms and wished he had not agreed to renting the third floor, because the stairs were steep and he was getting out of breath. They were nearly fully cast now, but as he had told Fael, they were having a bit of trouble getting the right person for the sidh prince. There was a young man coming along today – nobody had ever heard of him, but somebody had said that somebody else had said the young man might be exactly right. Somebody had rung up the boy’s agent – Tod did not know all the details, which sounded complicated. Still, if he was a complete unknown they would get away with basic Equity rates, which was worth thinking about.

  Tod had been rather pleased with his cunning device to keep Fael away from auditions; he flattered himself that he had sounded really very convincing, and very plausible. It was as well, however, that Fael could not see the crowd that would be coming al
ong today, because that would have given the lie to his words at once, by God it would!

  Sir Julius Sherry was coming along to the audition, because he wanted to hear the boy sing Aillen mac Midha’s ‘Lodestone Song’, which he liked, and Flynn Deverill was coming as well for some reason which Tod had forgotten. Flynn would probably be late, as usual, and he would probably be rude when he arrived, as usual.

  Tod was not going to take any rudeness from anybody. He had presented Fael’s really remarkable work to the small nucleus that formed the managing board of Mia Productions – an irritating name it was, even a touch twee, but the Makepiece rabbit had insisted, and anyway, what was in a name? But all of them, little Makepiece and Sir Julius, had been lavish with praise. There were two other Harlequin trustees, but they were so ancient they said what Julius told them to say and therefore did not really count, but they had been lavish with praise as well. Really, it was as well that he was keeping Fael at a distance from this entire thing.

  Simkins of the bank had been a bit cautious as bank people always were, but the general atmosphere had been one of unqualified approval. Tod had basked in it, because when you came to think sensibly, Fael had not done so very much work. Tod had given her his own notes to work from and his musical jottings after all, and the ideas had all been there. He was sure of it. Anybody could work up a storyline from someone else’s ideas. You could in fact say that Tod had given Fael the skeleton of the show, well, more than the skeleton. All she had had to do was flesh it out a bit. So much for that fit of temper the other evening!

  Makepiece had already signed several cheques, beaming as if they were all doing something enormously exciting. Everyone knew that he was expecting the appalling Mia to play the part of Mab, and nobody had yet thought of a way to tell him that she could not get within ten miles of it, although Stephen Sherry, good old dependable, unflappable Stephen, would probably end up doing it, and Morrie Camperdown might help him. The trouble was that they were all afraid Gerald might stop signing cheques. Simkins of the bank had even said that he might put a stop on the cheques not yet cleared, but this was ungracious, even of Simkins. Tod had had another uncomfortable meeting with Simkins, who had summoned Tod to his office in the City – as if Tod was no more than some paltry overdrawn client, for goodness’ sake! – and had outlined the bank’s intentions. They would continue to honour the calls on the account, said Simkins, but only the ones relating to what they considered essential items. Mortgage interest payments naturally: both mortgage payments, said Simkins, as if to stress the second charge on the Pimlico house, which Tod had taken out eighteen months earlier.

  ‘Against the bank’s advice, you recall, Mr Miller?’

  Tod did recall, but he would just like to know what a man was supposed to do when his income had dropped to virtually nothing at all, on account of jealous plotters and spiteful vendettas. And if the bank had been a bit more accommodating Tod would not perforce have approached a firm of private lenders who had seemed so gentlemanly at the outset, but had turned out to be nothing of the kind, and had levied the most shocking rate of interest on the loan. It made Tod feel quite ill to think of how much was owed to the company who had seemed so friendly, but who were now sending hectoring letters all because Tod had overlooked a couple of payments, and were even – bloody cheek! – following their letters up with unheralded visits to his house.

  Simkins, working through his nasty little list – as if he was a character from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta for goodness’ sake! – next said the bank would of course honour payments relating to such things as electricity and gas and water rates, and reasonable sums for food and provisions. They were not about to turn him and his daughter homeless and starving onto the streets, said Simkins, with what Tod thought a very ill-timed attempt at black humour. He glared at Simkins and heard with horror that Simkins and his bloodless colleagues had had the temerity to work out for him what they thought a reasonable amount for weekly living. There was even a list – another list! – itemising amounts to be spent on food and tube or bus fares and so on. Tod said, sarcastically, that he saw that a small amount for entertainment had been included, and Simkins said, Oh well, the bank was not wholly without humanity. But until such time as receipts began to come in from the show – and he would remind Mr Miller the bank had a lien on the percentage agreed – he must insist that a degree of restraint was exercised.

  Tod had made as dignified and disdainful an exit as could be achieved under the circumstances, and defiantly took a taxi to the rehearsal rooms for the afternoon’s audition.

  As he climbed puffily up the stairs he was thinking that this audition would have to be decisive. They could not afford to delay the decision about Aillen any longer; the orchestral parts would be delivered next week, and rehearsals were starting in ten days’ time. If today’s contender was no good they would have to settle for somebody they had already auditioned. There was a short list in somebody’s office somewhere.

  Probably this afternoon would be a waste of time, but they might as well go through with it.

  Danilo had told Gilly the whole thing was almost certain to be a waste of time, but they might as well go through with it.

  The trouble was that these huge glitzy West End things were often cast before even the agents got to hear about them. But it was worth a go. It was worth a go for Gilly as well, who was going to try for an understudy: Danilo had said this might be the break she needed to get her off the game. She was a good dancer and her voice was not too dusty either. And she had an up-to-date Equity card, even though it was only up-to-date because of the Christmas thing he had managed to get for her at one of his club gigs.

  Anyway, why not give it a go? he said, and Gilly was going to do just that. If nothing else, it would put a bit of distance between her and Leila, poor silly cow. Gilly was going to take a long time to get over what had happened to Leila, and Lori had told Danilo that she was thinking of taking a job as a night-club check-out girl, because if that was where being on the game led you, you could shove it.

  Danilo said his agent could shove it as well, because not a bloody whisper had there been about this new show, not a solitary murmur from him. Cauldron it was called, and the word was that they’d got the Harlequin for it. A very prestigious house indeed, the Harlequin, ever since James Roscius had made its name for it. Danilo had once sung chorus at the Harlequin, and it was a real gem. But there had not even been a whisper of a hint from Danilo’s agent that it might be worth going along and trying for a part; in fact if it had not been for one of the buskers telling Danilo about it at last Sunday’s Greasepaint meeting he would have been none the wiser now. The busker, who worked the Piccadilly tube, had been surprisingly well-informed. A couple of juicy good parts for young men who weren’t too butch, he had said. Strong singing voices were needed, but nothing too bass. Danilo had not in the least minded being described as not too butch, and his voice was certainly not bass. He had wanted to know where the busker had heard about the new show, but the busker had only said vaguely that it was a friend of a friend of a friend – Danilo knew how these things worked. But worth a go, he thought. In fact, he’d even suggested he and Danilo meet for a drink before next Sunday, just so he could hear how Danilo had got on, which was unusual because the buskers tended to keep to their own little circle as a rule.

  Anyway, here they were. Gilly had come along partly for support and because a few understudies were being tried out straight afterwards. The stage director’s job that would be, said Danilo. Somebody had said it was Stephen Sherry. He was not a ball of fire, Stephen, but he was dependable and approachable.

  Flynn Deverill had come to the rehearsal rooms, partly because he wanted to see if this final audition would turn up someone suitable for the sidh prince, and partly because he had arranged to show Julius and Stephen – and Tod, of course – some of the preliminary set designs. He had not got as far as balsa and plywood mock-ups in small scale yet, but he had sketched a number of colour
-washed ideas, and he wanted to get Julius and Tod’s approval.

  He was going to enjoy designing Cauldron. He had read the script a week ago, and last evening he had listened to the tapes of the music which Fael Miller had apparently recorded. He had been so fired by the music that he had telephoned her this morning to tell her. She had rather a nice voice, Fael, and she had made some intelligent comments about the show. Flynn remembered that she was supposed to be a bit of a stunner, and he found himself thinking it would be interesting to meet her.

  But the music had only coalesced the ideas that were already in his mind. The whole concept of Cauldron had fired him before he had got a quarter of the way through the script, and the images had cascaded through his mind so quickly, that he had barely been able to get them down on paper. He had shut himself away in the studio flat where he lived in North London, moving between the untidy living room and the immaculate workroom, oblivious to the outside world. He had fallen fathoms deep into the curious, fey world that Cauldron embodied, and walked hand-in-hand with the creatures who dwelled in the misty realm of half-human beings and stolen-away princesses and ancient thrones and hazardous quests. Because I’m Irish, is that it? Or simply because I recognise quality without having to think about it?

  And this was the disturbing thing: this was the other reason why he was following the auditions more closely than usual. Cauldron was quality. It was very high, very gold-tipped quality indeed. But Tod Miller was not. The puzzle nagged at Flynn’s mind, shaping itself into a syllogism. Cauldron was quality. Tod Miller was not. Therefore, Tod Miller could not have written Cauldron. Cauldron was a magical, spell-binding play, with marvellous, beautiful music. Tod Miller had never been a spellbinder in his life. Ergo, someone else had spun the enchantment.

  As Flynn went lightly up the stairs to this afternoon’s audition, he was thinking that it might be interesting to probe a little during rehearsals. He did not believe Tod Miller had written Cauldron, and he would give a great deal to know the name of the person who had.