by Jeannette Ng
A carriage of horn and ivory rolled into the courtyard. It was pulled by creatures of leftover parts. Each was a chimera in the classical sense, obviously composed of different animals: a tiger’s striped leg ended in the hooves of an ox; an elephant’s trunk reached out from the face of a lion; a knot of snakes reared out from the haunches of a goat.
A man of sand reached into her carriage and drew her out by her shining white hand. She unfurled from it like the sticky fronds of the sundew, like an octopus blossoming from a dark corner of a rock pool, like the slices on a peeled orange.
It was her.
The woman from my dream.
She had the same snow-pale skin and round, amber eyes. I could still see my brother’s long, beautiful fingers on that skin, stroking her cheek and following the curve of her chin. Each shadow that brushed against her reminded me of the dappling from the willow trees.
Her brown hair had the same white-gold streak in it that stretched from the peak in the middle of her forehead. No red ribbon had been braided into it but I still saw it tangling in Laon’s hand as he combed it through her hair.
My mouth was as dry as if I had swallowed sand and my blood was running cold.
She looked straight at me, and again I saw myself reflected in her yellow eyes. Small and pathetic I still was, though this time I did not see myself as a moth to her butterfly. Her flat, wide nose and heart-shaped face put me in mind of an owl.
I was grateful when she looked away.
“My!” She spoke and her voice was at once a whisper and long, piercing avian screech. It defied human throats and human ears. “How this place hasn’t changed.”
Laon bowed, and I mirrored his actions instinctively before fumbling towards a brisk bob of a curtsy.
“This cannot be your entire household, Laon?” said Mab. Winglike sleeves draped from the shoulder of her dress and dragged along the floor. Her skirts flowed from her waist in feathery layers of white and brown. “Though I see your hound is faithful to the last.”
“Benjamin Goodfellow was tending to your arrival. He is in the gatehouse. The Salamander is–”
“Here.” A drop of fire streaked across the courtyard, trailing black soot and smoke. It flared like a splash of whisky over a fire and coalesced into a humanoid shape that ended in a single, serpentine tail. She seemed at first a black wick within the flames, but as the fire dimmed her skin turned ash-white. “I am here.”
“It has been a long time, my child,” said the Pale Queen.
The Salamander bowed deep, her wet-seeming scales glistening. “It has been as long as it takes to tell a tale, neither long nor short.”
“Time is as I count it,” said the Pale Queen. “And changeling?”
“Yes, majesty.” Miss Davenport did not curtsy, merely granting her a deep nod.
“I trust you have been carrying out your duties.”
“Yes, majesty.”
“Excellent,” she said. Mab then cast another surveying look about the courtyard. “But where is the last human?”
“There is no one else,” said Laon, his brows furrowing. “It’s just my sister and myself.”
“Oh, the sister?” Mab turned her attention to me.
Nervously, I curtsied again. “I am Catherine Helstone, your majesty.”
“So I see,” she said, appraising me up and down.
I tried to meet her eyes, to stand straighter, to hold high my chin in defiance. But I could not. I withered under her gaze and that knot of pain in my chest grew heavier and tighter.
She smiled, and I could see again those lips brushing against my brother’s ears. She pursed her lips in a beaklike expression and said, “As expected.”
“Expected?” said my brother, a restrained suspicion crossing his tone.
“You speak of her, and as such, I must have expectations.”
“Rarely.”
“You should know by now I hear more than just your spoken words.”
Her courtiers were speaking silently among themselves. Even though I could not hear their voices, I could see their lips, crooked like the beaks of owls, snapping and spitting. They turned their heads in sharp movements, looking and leering.
“I have been waiting to meet you, Catherine Helstone. I am glad you are lost so that we might find you,” said the Pale Queen. Her eyes glinted with predatory menace. “But I wonder why.”
“I come to take care of my brother.”
“It is rather plain that he is very dear to you.” Her smile seemed sharper. “I trust you will prove a Balm of Gilead to your brother’s wounds.”
PART TWO
Gilead
Chapter 14
The Balm of the Soul
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore —
“Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven
The castle came alive as the court of the Pale Queen descended.
Gethsemane had been slumbering beneath its dust sheets and drapes, all shuttered and locked away. Now, it bustled with action.
Where before the corridors languished empty, their shadows were now swarming with Mab’s courtiers. They cared little for the concept of up or down, so they seemed as keen to walk upon the walls and ceiling as they were the floor. They gathered around the portraits, pushing their faces against the canvas and whispering into the painted ears of the depicted.
Our fae guests danced and played amongst themselves and yet there was not a single footstep to be heard. They moved to music that only they could hear and clapped soundlessly their hands when they sang. They spoke silently to one another, their beaks and lips and muzzles moving animatedly without trace of voice.
Given our absent housekeeper, it had fallen upon me as sister to my brother, and thus mistress of the house, to conduct the visitors to their rooms. I had been given no warning as to who would arrive or how to apportion them, but I had done what I could. I could not shake off the feeling of unease when with them, especially as they remained completely silent. Still, my familiarity with the extensive castle had grown and I had been able to place each of the fae that arrived within a room of their own.
Mab had been directed, of course, to the grand suite, newly vacated of my brother’s possessions. His relinquishment of the rooms had not been particularly reluctant, but it did serve as a reminder of who was the new mistress of Gethsemane.
The first of the Pale Queen’s entertainments was to be a moment of fashionable domesticity in the English style. Before she withdrew into her rooms, she had announced to us that she desired to sew and take tea in the solar, as was the London way.
It took some orchestration as I found the various materials for needlework. The tea, however, I was urged to leave to Mab’s retinue. She brought with her a great surfeit of inhuman servants, all shadowy hands and sandy footprints. Still, for all their esoteric appearances, they busied in familiar ways.
“Just leave it to them,” Mr Benjamin said, tugging on the hems of my skirt to stop me from interfering. “I wouldn’t get in their way.”
“It seems inhospitable to do nothing,” I worried at him.
“Maybe, maybe.”
“I am mistress of this house.”
“Then is not your duty,” said the gnome with a triumphant grin. “It’s the Salamander’s job. This house has a keeper.”
“You’re just trying to stay out of the way.”
“True, true.” He straightened his waistcoat and dusted more dirt onto the lapel. “I am scared of the Pale Queen. And you should be too.” He suppressed an involuntary shudder at saying her name.
“I’m not scared,” I lied.
“Don’t deal with the court, Miss Helstone. Geas of blood cannot keep you safe in all ways.”
I spent far too long getting dressed, worrying about my gown. I found my hands lingering on the dresses that were left in my wardrobe, wondering if I should indulge the vanity that urged me to wear them.
There was very little fanfare as Miss Davenport herded me into the solar, muttering indistinctly about the Queen’s commands.
“I present Miss Catherine Helstone, your majesty.” Miss Davenport curtsied her greeting and followed suit.
“Do sit down,” said Mab. She sat upon a divan by one of the largest windows. A wide black belt clasped inhumanly tight around her tiny waist. Myriad pairs of insectoid wings, impossibly thin and veined in black, stretched from her waist and overlapped to form what could be termed a skirt.
“I read that a wasp waist is the very height of fashion,” said Mab, noticing me stare at her clothing.
“I… I see.” Not for the first time in Arcadia, I found myself taken aback. The bodice she wore was banded in black and gold, like the colouring of a wasp. “It is indeed.”
“Fashionable, that is,” added Miss Davenport, keen to smooth our conversation. “I was just telling Cathy about how much I coveted the wasp-waist gown in that etching–”
“I wish to hear from the other…” the Pale Queen paused, not taking her eyes off me, “Changeling.”
Miss Davenport bowed her head and mouthing an apology she dared not voice, she slunk into one of the chairs and pulled out her knitting.
“Come sit by me,” said the Pale Queen.
I obeyed.
“So how does this… sewing work?” asked the Pale Queen. “I hear needles are involved.”
I nodded, forcing a nervous smile. “Yes, they are.”
This close, I could see the rustle of each of the pairs of wings, like the twitching of a swatted wasp during that moment when one is unsure if it will fly again.
“Oh good,” she said with exaggerated relief. She sat back slightly, smoothing the wings of her skirt, and a sly smile crept over the corner of her mouth.
I pulled out the handkerchief I had been half-heartedly embroidering for the last four years. I had intended it as a present for my brother before he left, but I had never finished. Most of the progress on it had been made in the solar with Miss Davenport.
“So, I have here most of a rose,” I said, showing the Pale Queen my handiwork. With a threaded needle, I began adding stitches to it. Her eyes darted, following the pull of each needle. “And I’m just about to finish it.”
“It’s red. Is it meant to be special?”
“It was just the thread I had to hand.”
“They grow in my garden.”
“Red roses?”
“When I remind them to be.”
Drawing the needle through the last stitch, I finished the rose on the handkerchief.
“Ah, you will need, at this point, a pair of scissors!” exclaimed Mab. “I have one of those.”
With her long, spidery fingers, she drew from the folds of her skirt a pair of ornate scissors.
“Th- thank you,” I said. The Pale Queen opened the scissors before dropping them into my outstretched hand. They felt heavier than I expected, more solid.
“I should thank you for them, shouldn’t I?” said the Pale Queen. “They are a present, after all, and it is good to thank people for presents. I remember.”
“Present?” I said, trying not to sound too surprised.
“It was most thoughtfully left in my bed. I was very pleased with them. That is a present, is it not?”
“I- I’m afraid not from myself,” I said.
“Well, I should thank someone,” reasoned the Pale Queen. “And I would like to thank you. That is only polite.”
Curious, I held the cold scissors to the light. There was no reflection in the dull steel. Tangled, flowering vines made up the handles, with tiny butterflies perched on each flower. Squinting, I could make out the words William Whiteley & Sons of Sheffield etched on one of the blades, the other bore initials.
E C
“How very strange to be left a… a present that way,” I said. The scissors lay open in my hands, forming the crudest of crosses. Her opening of them before giving them to me was a pointed action. She wanted me to know that the steel scissors could not hurt her, that she was more powerful than folk superstitions on faeries would have me believe. It was a show of strength, like the baring of a predator’s teeth.
“I did think so,” said the Pale Queen. “But I cannot say I entirely understand the ways of people. I am told they can be taught, though. Even if it does take a lifetime.” She glanced over at Miss Davenport, who had been knitting wordlessly. “For some, anyway.”
I snipped the yarn with the scissors and passed them back to the Pale Queen.
“Do you understand the basic principle?” I asked.
“Principles are of the world of man. Things which you and I will never entirely understand, being what we are.” The fae gave me a long, meaningful look.
Her eyes were disconcertingly large, reflecting in them a thousand points of light. Constellations that would never be lived in the reflection of her eyes. I averted my gaze.
“Still,” said Mab, her laughter like silver bells. She clapped her hands. “I do think I can attempt an approximation.”
Dozens of spiders crawled from the corners and cracks of the room and swarmed onto her lap. One scrambled onto her finger, leaving pale blue dots upon her skin where it trod. She gestured for me to lean closer and I saw that the spiders had glinting, needle-like legs that each ended in an empty eye. Each blue point upon the Pale Queen’s skin was a pinprick of blue blood as the creature danced its sharp course upon her.
“Its legs… You’re bleeding,” I said, alarmed. “Are you–”
“It hardly matters.” She shrugged. “It will be upon the cloth soon enough.”
Gingerly, the spiders crept over the linen stretched taut over the embroidery frame. One of the spiders spat out shimmering silk so fine I could barely see it but for when it caught the light. Another spider threaded the silk through its own legs and danced it delicately over the fabric. A shadow scuttled on the other side of the fabric and I could see tiny needlepoints break the surface.
I watched, half fascinated and half horrified, as spiders joined the effort. Soon there was but a huddle of jostling arachnids visible.
Tea arrived on clinking silver trays. I should not have worried as on the trays were perfect reproductions of that found on the society pages. Minute cakes and tiny cucumber sandwiches were artfully arranged on tiered dishes.
We fussed for a moment over sugar and milk and tea. I asked the Pale Queen how she would take hers with care, and she delighted in the ritualistic answers. I added milk to mine and remembered Miss Davenport’s aversion to it. I was also careful to salt plenty of sandwiches for Miss Davenport, though the presence of Mab had somewhat stemmed her usual hunger. It was very odd to see her so quiet and hesitant.
Even as we ate, the spiders continued their bustling work. It was only after the last crumb was dusted away that the Pale Queen commanded them aside, “Let me see it. My rose.”
The spiders gave way, skittering to the side of the embroidery frame.
The picture they left was not a rose. It took me a moment to recognise it: the distended jaws of a beast wrapped around naked fleeing souls, the flames of hell around them and the red robes of the Risen Christ. Each of the figures was picked out in black thread but for Christ, from whom gold thread radiated. Their faces all had that doe-eyed squint so common in medieval illumination, especially the beast of hell who but for its teeth and flaming jaw had an almost cute air.
“Th- that’s the Harrowing of Hell.” I touched a finger to each of the elaborate stitches. Christ’s hands and feet had little red knots to symbolise His wounds. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”
“This is how one embroiders, right? Needle and thread? Is it not?”
“It is not the only reason I am surprised,” I said. “The subject matter is…”
“Well chosen,” said Miss Davenport, before I could finish. She matched the Pale Queen’s laugh, a sound that only made me more uneasy.
“Then we should continue,” said The Pale Queen, her smile only getting wider.
Chapter 15
The Light in the Glass
I have but one candle of life to burn, and I would rather burn it out in a land filled with darkness than in a land flooded with light.
Rev Jacob Roche, personal correspondence, dated March 1843
I teeter on the brink of eternity.
Among these degraded, despised yet beloved shadows, I am the last vestige of the real.
At the moment I put the bread and wine into those hands, once stained with the chthonic magics, now outstretched to receive the emblems and seals of the Redeemer's love, I had a foretaste of heavenly glory that shattered my heart like glass. I shall never taste a deeper bliss till I behold the glorified face of GOD, when the dark earth here swallows me and I earn my martyr’s crown.
Rev Jacob Roche, private journals, dated November 1843
They wish to cast my fate in blood but they say the stars are silent. That Within cannot bind me even as the truth binds them. I think I understand.
They would never lie if the truth can hurt more. And the truth can always hurt more.
Rev Jacob Roche, private journals, undated
It was just before dinner, that most unfashionable of meals, that my brother found me descending from my tower. Upon Miss Davenport’s recommendation and Mab’s pointed remarks, I had changed for dinner. I was in my best dress. Made for Miss Lousia March’s wedding, it had not been worn since. I had once thought the world of it, but now its silver-grey taffeta rather reminded me of cobwebs and the blotchy underside of the moon fish.