Blood, Glass and Sugar

by Lyndsay E Gilbert

  “Hello, You’ve re-”. She hung up.

  “Are you on that bloody phone again?” Her mother stood in the doorway, arms folded tight across her pink bathrobe. Her straggly black hair was unwashed and her face was pale and drawn, with large black bags sagging under her eyes. “We aren’t made of money, Patricia.”

  Trix sighed, setting the phone back on her bedside table.

  “Are you listening to me? I should take that phone out of your room.”

  She thought about telling her mom what had happened yesterday. About Evie not being home when she called. But she knew her mother would use it as an excuse to stop Trix going out.

  “Are you listening to me?” Her mother broke into her thoughts.

  “Yes, right mom, whatever,” she answered, rubbing her forehead, trying to think of what she should do.

  Evie’s dress was draped over the bottom of the bed. She had spent the morning adding the finishing touches, trying not to worry about whether Evie had made it home last night. Maybe she’d stopped to grab something to eat on her way, maybe gone to a few more shops. It all didn’t seem likely.

  The conversation with Lou played over in her head. Suddenly Evie was hiding stuff from her. They never kept secrets. They had known each other too long. Since Trix’s family had moved from Louisiana back to London. It had only ever been Trix and Evie, Evie and Trix.

  “Patricia, would you tidy this room?” Her mother was bundling about, looking behind the door and in the wardrobes. Trix hated when she got in one of those moods, she didn’t have the patience for it. Not today.

  “Just because you’ve got five messy pigs for brothers, doesn’t mean you have to take after them.”

  Her second oldest brother was just passing by the room at that time and he snorted like a pig for effect. Her mother continued to hoke through her stuff, ignoring the sound. “You’re always making such a mess with this nonsense.”

  Trix groaned and stood up off the bed. “Mom, it’s not nonsense. I’m fixing Evie’s costume for the school ball tonight.”

  Her mother picked some strips of material off the floor and threw them in the bin. “It’s Christmas Trix, not Halloween. Why couldn’t the two of you have been normal and got some nice dresses. It’s no wonder you’re always getting picked on.” She looked down at the gown as if it smelt bad. “It’s like I always said; people who get picked on for being strange bring it on themselves. That’s how it was when I was at school. You must like the attention.”

  Trix took the materials back out of the bin, and threw them into her scrap box. Her mother wanted an argument, but she wasn’t going to rise to the occasion. Normal. She hated that word. It made her want to ask if it meant she ought to support an alcoholic and live in a shack for the rest of her life, popping out kids that she couldn’t afford, and relying on a cut from her mother’s pension to get by. But she wasn’t cruel.

  Not cruel like the girls that bullied her. They weren’t laughing because she wasn’t normal. They were laughing because they thought she was a tramp, and a nobody. And it scared them that she didn’t seem to know it already.

  “Mom, I don’t have time to tidy, okay? I’ll do it tomorrow. I have to go give Evie her dress.”

  Her mother mumbled some complaints, but gave up and trudged from the room.

  Trix threw on her coat, and folded Evie’s gown into a plastic bag. If she couldn’t get through on the phone, the only other option was to call in person. She slipped on her pumps and left the house as quick and silent as she could. Sometimes her dad watched the door like a guard dog. Today he was probably unconscious in bed. He’d gone through a litre bottle of Bells Whiskey on his own the night before. Trix had lay awake most of the night listening to him argue with her mum.

  * * *

  The inside of the Candle and Rose was warm, and buzzing with energy, even though it could not have been before nine in the morning. Evie stood in the doorway, water leaking out of her freezing socks to be soaked up again by the large welcome mat.

  The place was huge, reminding her of old brothel scenes in Western movies. Wooden railings ran along the hallways of the many floors above, barring the people from falling over the edges and crashing to the ground floor below. In the movies people were usually hanging drunkenly over the banisters, or being thrown over them when a fight broke out. Right now, the same thing was pretty much evident, except it wasn’t people doing the fighting and drunken stumbling.

  Auran guided her through the centre as she gazed around in awe. At the very back of the building a giant grandfather clock stood against the wall. It had a single base but instead of one face it separated off into so many that Evie couldn’t count, so many that its necks were twisted, and the crooked hands of every face were tangled and wrapped around each other.

  Each hand was telling a different time, but the face struggling to break through at the top read three minutes to twelve. A small green creature with a hairy face and a yellow cap was hanging on the end of the second hand as it travelled around.

  He saw her squinting at him, and struggled to bob his cap to her. As he did his baggy blue trousers slipped down, and he let go of the hand completely to try and catch them. He disappeared into a circle of prowling cats waiting below, and Evie went to help him. Auran grabbed her arm and steered her in another direction.

  Someone called his name from up above, and Evie saw the web-footed woman from the shop leaning over the second floor railing. Her cheeks were rosy with drink, and she blew a kiss down to him. He turned to face her as he walked, catching the airborne kiss and winking. He pretended to put it in his pocket.

  Evie looked back up just in time to see a giant hand reach out and circle the woman’s waist, lifting her off the floor and pulling her out of sight. Her crazy laughing was the last of her to disappear. Evie blinked, stumbling back and stepping on something soft and jelly-like.

  “Gerrroff!” a voice grunted.

  Evie jumped back with a shriek. She saw she had stepped on the spongy head of a fat little man lying underneath a table.

  “S-sorry,” she said.

  He sniffed, and then opened his mouth wide so she could see rows and rows of tiny, serrated teeth. A bottle was hanging on the edge of the table, dripping a foul black liquid, which he caught in his mouth with great satisfaction. He closed his eyes as if he was in a peaceful sleep. Then Auran’s leather boot kicked him in the face, knocking him out of his reverie.

  “Disgusting,” Auran said, scraping his boot on the carpet as though he’d stepped on something a dog had done.

  “Snivelling pixie-prick!” the fat man scrambled out from under the table, his chubby hands balled into fists. He rounded on Auran, but came barely to the Unseelie Prince’s waist. Auran kneed him, and he fell onto his back, finally looking up to see who had disturbed him.

  The colour visibly drained from his cheeks, and his eyes widened enough to pop from his head. “Your Highness.” He shuffled forward onto his knees. “Please, I did not see that it was you.”

  Auran turned his face away, lip curling. “Kaius, see this ugly piece of filth out of my presence.”

  One of the knights, a very severe man with pure silver hair, pulled into a tight plait at the nape of his neck obeyed Auran immediately, dragging the tiny man, who Evie was starting to feel sorry for, through the crowd to an exit at the back of the tavern.

  “Was that necessary?” she asked, as a trio of identical girls with pale gossamer wings fluttered in and cleared the table. Evie stared at them, seeing how their wings sprinkled everything with fine silver dust as they went.

  Auran didn’t seem to notice them, clearly being accustomed to service. He settled into a chair behind the table and motioned for her to sit opposite. “It was necessary so I did not have to retch. Besides, I like this table. It is more private than the others.”

  Evie sat in the chair and looked around. They were seated beside a shuttered window, and there was a small space around them empty of any other tables. Auran’s men wer
e busy clearing the sea of strange creatures and cats that covered the rest of the floor like a second carpet, so that no one would hear their conversation.

  At the table closest to them a very odd couple leaned toward each other. They had mostly human form, and were intensely beautiful, but Evie couldn’t look away from the stag-like horns on their heads, which they locked together with all the natural affection of human couples holding hands over a drink.

  “They will definitely not be paying attention to us, if that is what you are worried about,” Auran said, drawing her attention back to him, and to the problem at hand.

  She nodded, not sure exactly what she could say to sum up everything she had witnessed, or partaken of in the past twenty-four hours, not sure exactly what questions she had that needed answering. Nothing sprang to mind, so she nodded mutely again.

  “Where to begin,” he mused, and one of the faerie triplets appeared, this time carrying a tray with two silver mugs on it.

  “Mead, your Highness.” She placed the mugs on the table and bowed her silver-blonde head, backing out of Auran’s presence and going back to the bar in the centre of all the mayhem.

  “Mead?” Evie stared at the thick honey coloured liquid in the mug. “You know I’m underage, right?” She wondered how she could possibly care about that now. She did not imagine Richard Edlin would have approved of his daughter staying the night in fairyland in the house of an unstable boy with schizophrenia. Against that, a sip of mead might be the only thing that wasn’t going to land her in a mental house, writhing about in a white jacket.

  Auran took a small drink from his mug. She could tell by the curious light in his eyes that he didn’t understand what she meant by underage anymore than he had known what plastic was.

  Evie sighed and tasted the mead. It was impossibly sweet and thick, sliding down her throat like syrup, warming her as it went. She thought of the apples when her head became lighter and clearer all at once. She took a gulp this time, and another. Auran snatched the mug off her, and mead spilled out on to the table. She stared at him accusingly. A waste.

  “Slow down!” he cautioned, and rolled his eyes. “Mortals are such fools. It isn’t going to go anywhere, so enjoy it slowly.”

  With a measure of effort Evie pushed the mug away from her, to his side of the table. “I don’t think this faerie stuff is good for me.”

  “It helps make you more aware, a little less feeble and unseeing.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll cope.” Her tongue tingled as she said it, feeling utterly betrayed by its own words.

  “As you wish, there’s no point in bringing you anything else then, even something not fermented.” He ran his fingertip lightly around the rim of his mug. “Once upon a time, that’s how these tales should start, is it not?” He dipped his finger in the mead and touched it to the tip of his tongue, somehow managing to look thoughtful. “Well actually, this one starts once upon six hundred years ago, when upon this earth there lived a very gifted artist.

  “He was named Bran. So, because of his ebony hair, black as the wing of a raven. He was the toast of his village, known for his splendid abilities. No man could paint as he- a wonderful spectrum of colours and scenes that came to life on his canvas. Nor could any carpenter carve the wood as he. Those intricate works that adorned the homes of every member of the village.

  “They adored him, and by and by his fame spread throughout England. He had his sights set upon a fair young lady that lived close to his home. She was the youngest daughter of the village Elder, and though the artist was but a lowly peasant by birth she grew enamoured of him, and implored her father to let them be married.

  “He was glad to rid himself of her, since her mother who he had greatly loved had died bringing her into the world. The day of their wedding was arranged immediately and though they were the happiest persons in all the country, their joy was soon to turn to utmost misery.”

  Evie groaned, interrupting at his pause. “Does this have to be so dramatic?” She asked, trying to make a joke of the question, though the truth was that she was unsettled already. Wouldn’t her own father be happier if he could give her away completely, and never have to think about her again?

  Auran took a quick sip of his mead. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  Evie glared. “After last night I don’t see that I have a choice in the matter. But seriously, cut the crap, Auran- please get to the point.”

  “I’ll tell it how I wish to tell it- just as it was told to me.” He cleared his throat as emphasis. Evie sat forward in her seat, despite herself.

  “The artist was a very proud young man, and shamed by his low birth.”

  Evie thought Auran looked smug as he said that.

  “He wished to give his fiancé a life of riches beyond her imagination. He was not a man content with what he had. One day, not long before they were to be married, a letter arrived at Bran’s home, delivered anonymously in the night. Bran could only feel pride as he read it, the promise of something greater than the life he had already procured for himself.

  “The letter spoke of how his fame had spread, even now to royalty. He was invited to tend to court in London, for the Queen wished to make use of his talents.

  “Immediately he shared his good news with his fiancé, but a terrible foreboding came over her as he told her and she implored him not to go. Insisted that she was content with all they already had together. She begged him, but her words fell on preoccupied ears. He heard only the call of greatness beckoning him to London. Then his fiancé would live like a true lady.

  “He kissed her pleading lips, disregarding her fears as simply the over-sensitive mind of a woman. He saddled his horse, and rode to London, where he was to meet with an unknown guide at the Tower. He arrived with hours to spare, and waited on the appointed day, but no guide showed. Stubborn, he made excuses.

  “The snow began to fall, reminding him of the beautiful white skin of his fiancé, and as he thought of her he thought on her words, and a sense of regret rose in him. Still, for pride, for he would be ashamed to return home after his great insistence that he would make his fortune.

  “He pulled his cloak tighter round his body, and watched the city fall into the darkness of night. When even drunks and beggars had disappeared, Bran waited, impatient and freezing.

  “Just when he believed he might swallow his pride and return home empty handed, a crow landed just a little away from him, ruffled its wings and stared at him curiously. He stared back, unnerved by its yellow, unflinching gaze. As he stepped forward to scare it away it cawed terribly, beating its wings and rising into the air, flying at his face.

  “He shielded himself, but the creature flew above his head and disappeared into the black sky. Bran was so satisfied that he had chased the brazen thing away that he was thoroughly startled when a man spoke from behind him.

  “‘You are the artist?’

  “He spun; coming face to face with a tall, slim man dressed in black from hat to boots. It took him several seconds’ hesitation before he could form words from his frozen lips. ‘I am the artist, yes. You are my escort?’

  “The man nodded once, offered no explanation for his late arrival and motioned for Bran to follow him. His horse was given into the care of another man in dark attire, and Bran was happily obliged to ride the rest of the passage in a warm carriage. A comfortable relief after his long journey, and cold day waiting in the snow. His window was covered, but of course, he could not have seen the way in the black of night even if he could have looked out.

  “They arrived in a very short time, and Bran was more than shocked when he stepped from the carriage and found himself on the edge of a forest. The men had multiplied, and when he looked behind him he counted seven of them, and they forced him to walk into the forest.

  “He was of course afraid, imagining that he had walked into a trap, that some admirer of his fiancé had decided to have him murdered in a remote place. Dawn was breaking up above the thick cano
py of trees, and a small amount of light seeped in to show him that they had reached an oversized weeping willow, standing alone in the centre of a small, circular clearing.

  “Its roots were like the hands of an ancient giant, gnarled and crooked fingers sinking deep into the mud, trying to claw up whatever lay beneath. One of the men parted the curtain of branches that swept to the ground, and Bran was shoved into the dark space beyond.

  “In the centre of the tree trunk there was a doorway, large enough that Bran thought again of giants. His captors pulled him through it and a stone spiral staircase led them down, down and down until he was sure that he was in the very bowels of the earth.

  “Music, wild and raucous filled the air. Bran wondered what instruments could make that sound, who could write a piece of music that made him fill with peace and terror all at once, that made him want to dance in ecstasy, dance into a frenzy until he reached into his chest and tore out his heart, until he ate raw flesh off his own bones.

  “He was glad when the men led him away from the music and through a series of dark tunnels until they reached a grand marble archway. In the centre of the hall beyond stood the most beautiful woman that Bran had ever seen. She was tall, her frame slight, slim, wisp-like. Her hair was a blaze of red curls, her eyes the dangerous blue that is only found in the centre of a flame.

  “If Bran had not suspected already, the amazing ethereal wings that rose from her back told him that this Queen was no ordinary royal, that she was a faerie Queen. Her beauty stunned him, when she laughed at him her voice rang like silver bells through the hall. He wanted nothing more than to please her.

  “She led him through to a grand bedchamber and in the corner stood a glass mirror. He stared, for he had never seen nor heard of such a thing. In his land mirrors were made of polished silver or brass, and certainly they never showed the reflection of a faerie Queen. She told him that she had summoned him to create a beautiful frame of wood for her mirror, and that she would release him then with treasure untold.

  “As Bran worked, the Queen told him stories of Faerie. She told him of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, of how the Queen of Seelie was respected above all in her lands, and yet Unseelie afforded greater power to its King. She spoke of retribution, said that she would seize control of the Court, rid herself of her husband, and rule alone in his stead.