by Ken Altabef
“I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”
“What if we had a third?”
“Do you mean it?”
“Of course. We can start right now.”
She pulled him closer, unbuttoning his shirt. He leaned in to kiss her again but she pulled back.
“There’s just one thing I’ve been meaning to ask.”
Eric smarted at the interruption. “Anything.”
“Seeing as James is our heir, I think we should give him a special gift for this tenth birthday.”
What? thought Eric. Birthday presents? Now? In the midst of all this?
“Whatever you want.”
“Well, that’s just it. Don’t you think it’s time we entrusted him with the Grayson family heirloom?”
Eric really didn’t know what she was talking about and didn’t much care. He was hardly listening. She began kissing him again, tickling his ear with her tongue.
“The lens,” she whispered in his ear. “The faery-finder. We should give it to James.”
“Griffin’s lens?”
“Yes. Griffin’s lens.”
“I don’t want Griffin to be my son’s legacy. He was a cruel, brutish man.”
“I know,” she said softly, breathing the word in his ear. “Make love to me.”
She didn’t have to ask him twice. He wriggled out of his breeches and was quite ready for action. Still mindful of potential watchers from shore, he hitched Theodora’s skirt up over her hips without revealing anything too much to prying eyes.
“The lens,” she insisted. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, tell me.” She reached between his legs.
“I don’t know,” he said, becoming a little angry. “Now leave off.”
And that was that. He wouldn’t say anything more.
Theodora felt suddenly very guilty. Up to this point it had been such a perfect day.
A perfect day. So why should I feel guilty? Why should I feel as if I’ve committed some sort of infidelity? There was none. She hadn’t made love with any of the faeries at the meeting in the forest. She wasn’t interested in that. A mindless frolic with some pretty faery had had its place in her life once upon a time, of course, but now there were more important things than sexual dalliances in the woods. The feelings she shared with Eric were much more intense, the depth of their bond much more important.
But dangling the prospect of a third child at him like this? It seemed wrong. After all the faeries had gone through to get them the first two, a third baby was not likely. There had been spells and fertility rites out in the woods for months on end in order to make Theodora ripe for conception the last time. Faeries rarely bore children, and never two in the same decade. But the others had supported her and Mother Moon had been generous. But now, with the little time left before the approaching cataclysm, a third would be impossible. But she did want another child. That was no lie.
Seducing her husband wasn’t wrong either. Wasn’t that a wife’s duty too? She wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. There was nothing wrong with any of it, so why did it feel wrong?
If only he would confide in me. If only he would tell me where that damn lens is hidden. Isn’t some of this his fault too? Why keep the artifact secret from his own wife?
“My darling,” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way her voice cracked halfway through, “why won’t you tell me where it is?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, holding her tight as he entered her at last.
I wish I could believe that, she thought.
She drove against him, rocking her hips just as frantically as his own as he thrust into her.
Chapter 23
Amalric rubbed the crick from his neck. How many hours had he been sitting at the guest house window, hunched over the sill, staring through this damned Pritzkin lens?
It was well into the night. He should be asleep like Trask, who lay on his bed of rags in the corner with carefree snoring sounds buzzing from his lips.
But Amalric would not relent. His eyes closing, his attention drifting, he remained seated at the telescope, awaiting the sign.
What if it comes while I’m asleep? What if I miss it?
He struggled to keep his waning attention on Orion’s belt. All color seemed to have been leached from the sky. There was only the black velvet curtain and the silver stars. But he must keep on guard for the red flash. Red.
The orbits of the celestial bodies were lining up, just as the faeries said they would, shifting in a way Kepler’s equations did not predict. But heavenly bodies are supposed to be predictable. It makes one very, very uneasy when they aren’t.
The rhythm of Trask’s labored breathing kept trying to lull him to sleep, but thoughts of relaxation were at war with his growing anxiety. If the faeries were right…
If the faeries were right, the sign of danger that had been foretold would be revealed to him soon. But they were faeries. He couldn’t possibly bring himself to trust them. Faeries and their games. Are they playing some type of joke on me as well?
The faeries pranced and danced, purporting themselves to possess magical powers. Amalric was not impressed. However one decided to describe their abilities, magic need not be invoked. Shape-changing. Hypnotism. Transmutation. It was all simply alchemy.
Still, he wished he knew their secrets. One secret stood above them all in his mind. The fey folk hardly seemed to age. Did they already have mastery of the Universal Medicine? Were they keeping it from him?
To hell with them. He didn’t need their help in any case. He and Trask would find the solution on their own, he was certain of it. With their new patron the Lady Theodora financing their efforts, it was only a matter of time. If only they had enough time. If only the disaster did not actually come. If only they could thwart it as planned.
Lady Theodora was different than the rest. She seemed sincere enough in her dealings with him. She was as bothered by the predictions and dire portents as he was. She tried to hide her anxiety about the coming disaster, rather than play it up and hold it over his head. And she, he knew, was a master manipulator. A perfect fake. If she couldn’t hide her anxiety…
Amalric fumbled with a gilded snuff box, popping it open without moving his face from the telescopic eyepiece. He brought a pinch of tobacco snuff to his nose and snorted it.
He used a special blend, laced with alchemilla vulgaris, gingko and a touch of opium. The mixture went straight to his head, making him dizzy. The herbs sped up his thinking and would help keep him awake. He forced himself to sit perfectly still, his consciousness reeling from the heady snuff.
But staring at an unmoving sky was problematic when his thoughts were racing, racing, racing. There was so much to consider. The stars, the planets hurling through space, the coming of the Chrysalid. The faeries dancing naked in the woods. Men, women, and everything in between. Their grinning faces, their green-tinted skin, yellowed teeth, pointed tongues. He was certain they were laughing at him.
The stars. Concentrate on the stars.
He kept looking for the red flash but there was none.
Something else was happening. The stars. The stars were moving sideways.
The stars were moving sideways at incredible speed, cascading together into a vaguely cylindrical shape at the zenith of the celestial sphere.
Impossible.
The dome of the sky became a swirling maelstrom. The stars were pulsating in unison now, coalescing together into a vaguely human form.
Impossible.
Impossible to look away.
Was it becoming … a woman?
Amalric felt an icy chill. This was the worst possible thing that could happen.
Not a woman. A woman!
Amalric had been orphaned at an early age. He’d never known his father and had only gauzy recollections of his mother. She had abandoned him in the street, or somehow died, perhaps in some dark alleyway, leaving him in the care of
the gutters, to be raised by whatever vagabonds took sympathy on him for a few months here, a few weeks there, throwing a crust of bread at him or a cup of milk as if he were a stray kitten. They offered an encouraging squeeze and then passed him on.
As a boy he didn’t think about her often. He couldn’t. If he thought of his mother late at night it was as if the world swallowed him up. He fell into a deep dark abyss from which it was impossible to extricate himself until the long night ended, the sun shone again and he was released back into the grimy world of the vagabonds having slept not at all. If he chanced to think about her during the light of day, he became paralyzed, almost unable to move, a terrible state that caused others to shun him or beat him senseless. The only time he’d been able to dwell on the memory of his mother was when he was being raped night after night, suffering the vile depredations of the Italian merchant who took him in and raised him. It was safe to think of her only then, to shut out the pain and the horror. He would imagine pleasant conversations with her, perhaps discussing Madame Vermillion’s new flowerbeds or an upcoming visit to the London zoo.
As an adult he had attempted romantic interludes with several women in London—a buxom, middle-aged opera singer; an apothecary’s virgin daughter; and even a young tomboy who had picked his pocket on the street. He hadn’t consummated any of these affairs. He found the opera singer too loud and aggressive, the daughter too child-like, the thief too bold. Instead, he engaged the services of a series of low women— women who were submissive, silent, and would lay motionless when instructed to do so. He had found sexual release only then, alone, atop a willing accomplice who lay as still and quiet as death. He had also acquired a variety of social diseases including cock cankers and the French pox. He’d had syphilis for more than ten years now and feared he’d finally reached the point where it had begun driving him insane.
The stars coalesced into a vision.
Mother?
The woman had no features, just a haze of sparkling light, but her broad outlines seemed matronly enough. She spread her arms. He couldn’t make out any details of her face, which was just a mass of twinkling stars.
She spoke. “Love me!”
Amalric looked away, jerking back so quickly he knocked over the telescope. His heart was galloping like a Turkish war horse. His mind was racing, his hands shaking.
He was very afraid.
Chapter 24
Fitzroy March, Charles Pratt and Reed Bambury returned to Grayson Hall just as dusk was falling.
March sat straight in his saddle despite the long ride, nursing a throbbing pain in his thigh and an utter sense of failure. Failure again. Failure to protect Lady Theodora and failure to recapture Draven Ketch. Three days wasted chasing phantoms along the shore. And on top of all that, he dreaded what he would find at the manor house. How had Eric dealt with their little problem while he was gone?
Griffin Grayson would have slit Theodora’s throat by now. But Griffin was a creature of an earlier time, a grizzled old warrior who had fought his way through the muck of blood and battle. As a young man, Griffin had survived the War of the Spanish Succession when he and the other the British lords along the coast repelled wave after wave of French invaders. Puritan or not, Griffin had killed scores of men. He had become very used to dirtying his sword with blood and entrails. And when it came to faeries…
Eric wouldn’t kill his wife, of course. He would find a more evenhanded way to settle her treachery. But the cost would be dear. Eric couldn’t help but be shattered by Theodora’s betrayal. His own wife! And March had to admit that he too had been taken in, lock stock and barrel. He’d thought very highly of the Lady Theodora, had welcomed her as a good match for his fine young lord, recognizing what appeared to be their mutual affection. But that had all been a dirty lie. At the very least, Eric’s heart must be broken.
March sighed. They had faced hard times before. As always, he would stand with his friend and help him piece his life back together as best he could.
Eric had been apprised of the riders’ approach. He stood in front of the broad courtyard ready to meet them. As March reined up he noted the lord’s confident stance. Not only did he look no worse for wear, he seemed in good spirits to boot. Particularly relaxed. He wore no coat, with shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his elbows as if the riders’ return had interrupted him while doing a bit of casual Sunday gardening.
March swung down from his saddle, wincing as a shoot of hot fire ran up his injured leg.
“Welcome back,” said Eric cordially.
“Thank you, my Lord.”
March was astonished. Eric was clear-eyed and cheerful, his hair combed neatly back, a smile on his face. Maybe he’d underestimated Grayson’s resilience. He was no longer the vulnerable orphan he had once been.
“Did you find Ketch?” Eric asked.
“No.”
“Any sign of him at all?”
“He’s holed up somewhere along the shore, that’s for certain. We found one of his old camp sites. Nothing more. He’s a cagey bastard, that pirate.”
Eric did not seem overly upset. He dismissed the whole thing with a wave of his hand. “No worries. You did your best. We can try again in a few days’ time. Or perhaps I’ll send a messenger to Graysport to alert the Royal Navy. Let them chase him up the coast. He’s no threat to us. You don’t think he’d try coming back here, do you?”
“Absolutely not. He’ll ship out as soon as he’s able.”
“Done, then. You look completely fashed, Fitz. Why don’t you settle in and get a little rest? I’ll have a good hot meal sent up to your quarters.”
“All right,” said March. “But there’s one other matter…”
He glanced around, not wanting to discuss this sensitive topic in front of the stable boys. He took Eric by the elbow and led him away from the others. He could think of no delicate way to raise the question. Best just to come out with it.
“Your wife?”
“Yes? What about her?”
Grayson’s demeanor seemed all wrong. He was still smiling.
March lowered his voice even more. “What have you done with her?”
“I really don’t know what you mean, Fitz.”
The earnest look on his face. It was all wrong.
“It’s been three days. What have you done with her?”
“What are you talking about?”
He didn’t know. But how was that possible? He couldn’t have simply forgotten. Not something like that. There was something much more sinister at play here. “She’s done something to you.”
Eric’s head jerked back in an irritated smirk. “Talk sense, man.”
March forced himself to slow down. “When I followed her family wagon a few days ago, I caught her dancing in the woods.”
“What?”
“With the faeries. She was with the faeries.”
“Dancing in the woods? You never said anything…”
“I did.”
Realization slowly broke across the young lord’s face. His confidence and contentment rolled away, replaced by a grimace of anger and betrayal. It was like a total eclipse of the sun. “Yes. Yes, you did tell me that. How could I have forgotten about something as important as that?”
“How indeed? She did something. She made you forget.”
Eric thought of the past three days, of all the wonderful feelings of love and desire, the exquisite pleasure of her touch. They’d been trying to conceive another child. It was all wrong. All of it. Theodora had manipulated him. She had betrayed him. Again.
“I don’t know what she did. Dancing in the woods with the faeries. You saw her. You told me.”
“I think we’d better go speak to the lady,” suggested March.
Eric nodded his agreement. His hand shot up in a defensive pose, his voice took on a warning tone. “It doesn’t mean she’s a faery. It doesn’t. But I’m going to find out. Right now.”
Eric found his wife in the drawing room exactly where h
e’d left her. She stood by the fireplace, gazing at the empty hearth. Her back was turned to the door.
“Wait here,” he said to March.
“Are you sure? Maybe it’s not the best thing for you to do this alone…”
Eric offered his friend a warm half-smile. “There’s no other way to do it.”
March nodded. “I’ll be right here.”
As the door closed behind Eric, Theodora turned around. She winced when she saw his expression. There was no way to disguise the furious look in his eyes.
The look on her face was one Eric had never seen before. Her mouth was tight, the corners turned down. Her fine cheeks had gone slack and her eyes wide and imploring. He was seeing her as a traitor for the first time.
He swallowed hard. His heart broke. His resolve crumbled.
He knows, she thought. This was the moment she had dreaded all along. She didn’t know how he’d found out. Her glamour had been perfect. She hadn’t slipped. But she must have underestimated him. How much did he know? The house of cards was tottering but hadn’t completely fallen. Could she still save it?
“What’s wrong?” She forced the question out but it didn’t sound sincere even to her own ears.
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare pretend anymore.”
She could hardly stand Eric’s angry growl or the pained look on his face. Tears welled up in her eyes. Though she stood very close to losing everything she held dear, she resolved to fight to save whatever she could. If that meant begging for forgiveness then that was what she’d do. But first she had to hear his side of it. She resolved to listen, to hear the dreaded words, to explain if she possibly could.
“Just tell me,” Eric raged. “Is there anything you’ve said to me that isn’t a lie?”
She returned only silence. There was no fixing this, no apology that would rise to the occasion, no plea that would save the day. She was ruined. Completely ruined. The tears fell.
“I love you,” she said.
His hand rose up. He almost slapped her face. She stood ready for it, looking him straight in the eye. But he wouldn’t. He’d never hit her. He wouldn’t.