by Paul Crilley
“What did you say to him?” William asked Corrigan.
“Nothing. He ran ahead of me. When I caught up, he was stuffing one of those things into his mouth. The question is”— Corrigan glanced up at William—“what did you say to him?”
The nostalgae started to flicker and glow, an image forming inside the creature’s body. William leaned closer to try to make it out. The picture was that of a dark corridor lit only by a hand holding a candle. The owner of the hand moved along the hallway, passing heavy, forbidding doors. As the image moved and flickered before them, Thomas stood up and started talking in a soft, low voice: “All you that in the condemned hole do lie, Prepare you for tomorrow you shall die; Watch all and pray: the hour is drawing near, That you before the Almighty must appear.”
Every now and then, William caught a glimpse of something moving in the person’s other hand. It took him a while to realize it was a bell. The owner of the memory was ringing a bell as he moved along the darkened corridor.
Thomas carried on: “Examine well yourselves in time repent, That you may not to eternal flames be sent. And when St. Sepulchre’s Bell in the morning tolls, The Lord above have mercy on your soul.”
The image stopped before one of the doors. The number 40 had been painted onto it in a neat hand.
The image froze, then restarted again.
“Is that it?” asked Corrigan.
“What does it mean?” asked William, confused.
“I know,” said Katerina in a low voice.
William and Corrigan turned to face her.
“Every criminal in London knows that verse. It’s the death chant. The night before a prisoner is executed at Newgate Prison, the Bellman of St. Sepulchre walks past his cell ringing the execution bell and speaking the verse. It’s how you know your time is up.”
“Oranges and lemons,” said William suddenly, looking at Thomas.
“What?” said Corrigan.
“Oranges and lemons. He’s been saying that over and over since you left the wine cellar. I didn’t realize until just now, but it’s another rhyme. You know the one. Oranges and lemons go the bells of St. Clements?”
“So?”
“So the last lines are of the rhyme are: ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.’” He nodded at the nostalgae. “It could be about this Bellman of St. Sepulchre. Maybe Thomas is telling us to go to Newgate.”
They all turned their gaze to Thomas. He stared back at them, nodding. “Oranges and lemons,” he said. He held up a hand and waved it gently, then turned and stepped out of the alley. He turned away from the direction of the flames and started walking.
“Should we stop him?” asked Corrigan.
“No,” said William. “He’s had enough of people forcing him to do things. Besides, he’s already given us an answer.”
They all turned their attention to the nostalgae. The image had arrived at the point where the bellman was standing outside the door with the number 40 painted on it.
“We need to get inside Newgate Prison,” said Will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In which Emily, Jack, and Christopher Wren infiltrate the Faerie Tree. A nasty surprise arrives.
The little shop that housed the hoist that had taken Emily and Corrigan down to the Faerie Tree looked slightly less run-down than when Emily had come here last. But not by much. Two hundred years didn’t seem to change much in the fey world.
“Just follow my lead,” Emily said to Jack and Wren. “I’ve been here before, so there’s less chance of us getting caught out if I do the talking.”
“No arguments from me,” said Jack. “Stealing and sneaking is my thing. In all else I bow to you.” Jack sketched an elaborate bow to illustrate his point.
“Be serious,” said Emily.
“Why?” asked Jack.
Emily hesitated. “What?”
“Why do we have to be so serious? You’re always too serious, Snow. You’re old before your time. You need to relax a bit. Have fun.”
Emily was amazed. The words Have fun? were posed incredulously on her lips, but before she could utter them, Jack raised a hand to stop her.
“All right. Maybe ‘have fun’ isn’t quite appropriate. But you do need to relax a bit. Stop and smell the flowers.” Jack spread his arms wide and turned in a circle. “Look at us, Snow. Look where we are. Look who we are. Could you ever in your wildest dreams have imagined something like this happening to us? It’s adventure. It’s escape from the freezing streets. Escape from a life that … that was nothing but work and sickness and hunger.” He stepped closer to Emily. “No matter what happens to us in the future, even if we go back to our old lives, we’ll always have this to look back on. We’re different now. Special. Things have happened that can never be taken away. You should appreciate that. I know I do.”
Emily was rather taken aback by Jack’s outburst. She always thought of him as a bit silly, really. Nice enough, but not really capable of deep thought. But now she would have to rethink that. There was a lot more going on inside his head than she had given him credit for.
Even Wren was looking at Jack with some admiration in his eyes.
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. I’ll consider your words, Jack Doyle. But later on, when I actually have time, and not when we’re about to sneak into the home of the Faerie Queen magically disguised as the fey! If that’s all right with you?”
Jack grinned. “But of course.”
A tiny smile tugged at Emily’s mouth. She quickly turned away before he could see it and knocked on the door.
“Come in then!” snapped a voice from inside the shop.
Emily pushed the door open and entered. Wren and Jack followed her, and Jack closed the door quietly behind them. Emily looked around the small room. It was exactly the same as when she had come here with Corrigan.
Mr. and Mrs. Stintle still sat propped up in their bed, their wizened faces peering toward them.
“Who is it?” asked Mr. Stintle.
“Open your eyes, you old fool.”
“They are open! I just don’t know who they are.”
“Well, neither do I!”
“Have they closed the door? It’s freezing in here.”
“Have you closed the door?” asked Mrs. Stintle. “It’s freezing in here.”
“We’ve closed the door,” said Emily. “Um …” She stepped forward with the small sack she had been carrying since they left the tavern. “I brought this for you.”
Mrs. Stintle straightened up in bed. She fished around the threadbare sheets until she found a massive horn that was almost as big as she was. She held it to Mr. Stintle’s ear and spoke into it.
“Did she just say what I thought she said?” she bellowed.
“Bones! No need to shout, woman!”
“Never mind that. Did she say what I thought she said?”
“I don’t know, do I? What do you think she said?”
“That she brought us something.”
Mr. Stintle almost choked in surprise. “What? When? Never.” He glared at Emily suspiciously. “Did you?”
Emily nodded. “Yes. It’s … not much, I’m afraid. And you might need to give it a wash. But I was here before. I remembered how cold you were.” Emily opened the sack and pulled out the thick (but rather musty) quilt she had asked Beezle to get from Lady Steele. She placed it over the bed. Mr. and Mrs. Stintle stared at it in amazement for a few moments. They prodded it hesitantly, as if afraid it was about to burst into flames. But when it didn’t, they pulled it closer with ancient fingers and ooh’ed and aah’ed over the material.
Emily smiled. She looked at Jack. He was staring at her with an odd expression on his face. He shook his head wryly.
“Uh … can we use the hoist?” Emily asked, turning back to find Mr. Stintle had put the quilt over his head. Mrs.
Stintle ignored Emily.
“What’s it like? Any drafts?”
The
quilt was whipped away. “None! No drafts. No holes. It’s warm, Muggins. Warm.” He looked at Emily, and she was rather shocked to find tears in his eyes. “No one’s ever brought us anything before. We’re always cold—”
“We’re from the southern fey tribes, you see,” interrupted Mrs. Stintle. “Very hot. Can’t seem to get used to the chill up here.”
“You’re the first,” said Mr. Stintle. “Thank you.”
“It was nothing,” said Emily awkwardly. “Honestly. It’s just a blanket.”
“Not to us,” said Mrs. Stintle. “Not to us. Thank you—” she stopped suddenly, staring at them suspiciously. “You didn’t bring it because you thought you had to pay, did you? You know the hoist is free to use?”
“I know,” said Emily. “As I said, I’ve been here before. I just thought you’d like it.”
Mrs. Stintle nodded. “We do. Don’t we, Muggins?”
“We do, indeed, Muggins.”
“Now get you away. So we can snuggle and get warm.”
Mrs. Stintle pulled the blanket up so that only her head was poking out the top. Mr. Stintle did the same. They both let out contented sighs.
Emily led Jack and Wren to the back wall. “You’d better hold on,” she said. She frowned at Jack. “Why are you grinning like that?”
“You’re just a big softy,” he said.
Emily moved like lightning and punched him as hard as she could on his arm.
“Ow!” he said. “What—?”
That was when Mrs. Stintle pulled the lever. There was an explosion of steam, a horrendous shrieking of gears, and then a circle of floor dropped downward.
Jack and Wren were both thrown onto their backsides. But Jack quickly scrambled to his knees and stared in awe at the earthen walls rushing past them, lit by soft globes of golden light. Wren reached out to touch the wall. Soft earth pattered onto the wood. He smiled at Emily, although the effect was rather discomfiting when seen on the face of the goblin; then they settled down to wait.
Ten minutes later, the lift slipped out of the shaft and entered the vast underground space that housed the Faerie Tree. Both Jack and Wren straightened up, their eyes wide with amazement.
Emily knew how they felt. It was only a few days since she had been here, but that didn’t make the sight any less impressive. The sheer size of the tree overwhelmed her, bigger than anything she had ever seen. The lights on the huge branches lit up the cavern with a glow as bright as the afternoon sun. The tree dominated everything, spreading its branches up toward the cavern roof as if supporting it, protecting and sheltering those beneath. There were other platforms rising and descending through shafts in the roof, fey coming and going. Faeries flitted through the air, the glow of their wings washed out by the light from the tree.
As they dropped lower, the details of the tree grew sharper. Emily could make out the small window openings in the branches and trunk. Fey moved around in the rooms beyond, going about their daily business.
The platform slowed down, then came to a standstill at the same branch she and Corrigan had stopped at. Emily hopped onto the wide branch, then turned back to Jack and Wren. Their heads were craned back, mouths hanging open as they tried to take everything in.
“What do you think?” Emily asked.
Jack reluctantly tore his gaze away from the tree. “I think that’s a very big tree, that’s what I think.”
She shifted her gaze to Wren. He swallowed.
“Uh … what he said.”
They left the platform and headed toward an opening in the tree trunk. As they arrived, a long line of tiny fey riding on the backs of mice streamed outside. Emily, Jack, and Wren stepped aside while the procession passed them by.
“There must be a hundred of them,” whispered Jack, watching the mice hop up onto the platform that Emily and the others had just vacated.
“Come on, you,” said Emily, waking Jack out of his reverie. “We should go.”
Jack nodded, and he and Wren followed Emily into the tree. Emily paused and took a deep breath, smelling the warm, comforting scent of leaves and rain. A rich golden light suffused the air, striking highlights against the dark wood. It reminded Emily of a time she’d been in Hyde Park. It was autumn, and the late-afternoon sun had peeked out from behind the clouds, throwing hazy streamers of gold into the trees and fallen leaves.
“So what’s the plan?” asked Jack.
Emily blinked. “Sorry?”
“The plan? You do have one, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. You think we came all this way and I didn’t have a plan?”
“I’m just asking. So what is it?”
Emily caught the attention of a tall fey who was walking along the corridor with a bored look on his face. “Excuse me. Where’s Nimue? I have a message for her.”
The fey waved his hand vaguely back along the corridor. “Probably with the Queen, watching the entertainment,” he said. “Although why anyone bothers, I don’t know. It’s the same thing, all the time. Wretched, if you ask me.”
“Thank you,” said Emily, and she moved along the corridor. Jack and Wren quickly caught up with her.
“That’s your plan? ‘Excuse me. Where’s Nimue?’”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“But if she’s with the Queen, how are we supposed to find out where Merlin is?”
“I’m not sure,” said Emily. “But we’re getting closer. That’s all I care about right now.”
It took them a bit longer to find the throne room than it had when Emily was with Corrigan. She hadn’t been paying too much attention to their route when the piskie had brought her here, so they ended up taking a few wrong turns before they eventually found the corridor leading to the right room. They approached the double doors, taking in the carving of the hill with the seven trees on the top. Emily could hear laughter from the room beyond. Her stomach twisted with fear. The last time she was here, she had been tricked into stealing the seeing stone for Kelindria, something that had started off all these events. She wondered what was going to happen this time.
She paused at the doors. “Are you ready?”
Jack nodded. “Course I am,” he said nervously. “I’m Spring-Heeled Jack, remember? I’m ready for anything.”
Emily put her hands against the doors. They swung silently open at her touch, revealing the Faerie Queen’s throne room to Emily for the second time in her life.
The room was packed tight with fey. They sprawled on the floor, sat at beautifully carved tables, stood around the walls. Some of the smaller fey even hung from small branches that weaved along the ceiling. All their attention was fixed on a small stage that had been set up along the right wall, where a play of some sorts was being acted out.
But Emily didn’t care about the play. She moved along the left wall until she found a gap in the crowds. The throne was in the same place, on a raised dais at the opposite end of the room. And on the throne was Queen Titania.
Like Kelindria, she was beautiful. But whereas Kelindria’s beauty was fierce and radiant, threatening to burn anyone who came close, Titania’s beauty was somehow … calmer, less demanding. Her skin was so pure it was almost translucent, and her black hair fell down past her shoulders. She was very thin, with wide eyes that, even from this distance, Emily could see were a startling blue in color.
She sat on the throne, resting her chin on one hand as she watched the play. She looked bored.
There was a familiar-looking fey seated next to her on a second throne. He looked older than Titania, dressed in robes of white and gold. He was eating nuts from a bowl, taking up huge handfuls and stuffing them in his mouth. It took Emily a while to remember where she had seen him. It was back in Oberon’s Court, the alley where she had met Corrigan after she retrieved the key. He was the massively fat fey who was pushed around on the wooden contraption. This was King Oberon, before … well, before he fell out of favor, she supposed.
Another fey moved up the steps of the dais to
whisper something in Oberon’s ear. The King nodded, and the fey turned around to descend the steps again. Emily’s heart leapt in her chest.
It was the Dagda.
She watched him as he took his seat at the table directly beneath the King and Queen’s dais. He looked exactly the same as he would two hundred years from now.
Emily finally turned her attention to the play. The actors were humans, but not one of them looked worried about the fact that they were performing a play before such strange creatures. And these humans didn’t have the blank, halfasleep look of the actors she had seen on London Bridge. These performers seemed perfectly aware of who they were and what they were doing. Curious, thought Emily, studying them. The play they were performing seemed familiar to her.
One of Shakespeare’s she thought, half remembering it from
when she attended school.
“Which one is Nimue?” asked Jack.
Emily leaned in to the fey closest to her, a squat dwarf with long mustaches thrown over his shoulder. “Excuse me, where’s Nimue? I’ve got a message for her.”
“Shhh.” The dwarf glared at her for a second, then turned his attention back to the play.
“I only asked…,” she began, but this time the dwarf’s hand moved to grip the handle of a bronze dagger that was stuck through his belt. He turned his eyes slowly in Emily’s direction. “Fine,” she said. “Don’t let me disturb you, I’m sure.” She moved around the wall, seeking someone who didn’t look like he or she would stab her with a knife if she interrupted them.
She spotted a likely candidate. A young boy, watching the play. He looked harmless enough.
“Excuse me,” she said politely. The boy turned to face her, and Emily had to fight the desire to step backward. The boy had yellow-and-black eyes, like a snake’s. And when he opened his mouth to respond, Emily could see fangs and a forked tongue inside his mouth. She should have known not to make assumptions based on looks. Not when the fey were involved.