Plenilune

by Jennifer Freitag

  In that light, Rupert’s eyes were so pale as to have no colour at all.

  With a kind of cold iron in her own soul, Margaret forced herself to look back into that hateful gaze. “You owe it to your cousin, then, for bettering your circumstances.”

  “Saddle me a hunter,” he replied, “but I am the one who gives chase.”

  “Rupert,” said Skander in a chilly tone. Then he turned back to Margaret with a pleasant countenance. “How long have you been in Marenové?”

  “Only since yesterday.” Only since yesterday? She felt as if a lifetime had elapsed since she had stood on the station platform at Leeds. It felt like a lifetime, and yet her family would not even begin to guess her whereabouts. They would not begin to guess for…for months. She was a poor letter-writer, and she knew her mother would not expect to hear from her. She had been going to surprise her relatives in Naples; even they would not know where she was. No one would think to worry. No one would miss her.

  I have always been alone.

  If Skander was surprised, he did not show it. His smile, all warmth and confidence, reached across the distance to her. “You will have hardly seen anything, then! Do you ride at all?”

  “Oh, yes. That is one of the few things that I do well.”

  “You do many things well,” said Rupert.

  With a conscious effort not to touch her tongue to her dry lips, she went on. “Did you have a ride in mind?”

  “Well, yes. I thought we might go on a ramble through the countryside tomorrow morning. These autumn mornings are so fine, it seems a crime to coop oneself up when the scent lies low on the mists and there is good sport to be had.”

  From a scroll-worked pewter plate Margaret took a small sandwich and began to politely work, it bite by bite, into her mouth. Between bites, to keep the conversation going which threatened to peter out under Rupert’s silence, she admitted to Skander, “I have never been hunting before. Is it very dangerous?”

  This news seemed to take Skander by surprise. The thoughts flickered swallow-shadowed across his brow. “Well, that depends,” he replied slowly. “The most dangerous hunting I have done is boar, but that is done in winter and I would never dream of taking a lady along. The little red deer of the fells are good to chase, and not too dangerous unless you corner a buck. And there are hare and fox, too.”

  Margaret reached for another sandwich, but Rupert was reaching for one at just that moment and his fingertips brushed her knuckles. She closed her hand, feeling his eyes on her, but managed not to jerk away. “Are there no wolves?” she asked carefully, recalling the awful noise that had awoken her in the night.

  It was Rupert who answered. He slid his right leg over his left and leaned sidewise in his chair, elbow poised on the arm of it, sandwich between his fingers, yet somehow still remaining rigid. “There are few wolves in this part of Plenilune. They keep mostly to the wastes. Even boar are scarce, though you can find them in the woods at the See’s watershed. For the most part, when we hunt, we hunt deer and hare—and fox; I enjoy fox-hunting. So there is precious little sizeable enough in these parts to harm you on a hunt, my dear.”

  She felt a flutter of apprehension at the thought of meeting a wild boar or a wolf and she was not wholly sure how she felt about hunting even a hare. But the sun was peeling back the yellow glow of the lamp and burning the place with a fierce silver colour that somehow stuck in her heart—and perhaps, she thought, a little in her eyes—and she flashed back at him scornfully, “I am sure I would comport myself with honour whatever the quarry.”

  After that even Skander seemed to give up keeping a velvet cloth on the tension in the room. They ate in silence, making noise only with the ancient pewter-ware and the fine travertine. The clouds had burned off from the sky as Rupert finished his last glass and set it down, rising. “I need to fetch down a book from my library,” he said. “Skander, would you take Margaret through to the withdrawing room? I will be there in a moment.”

  Skander got up and stepped out of the way of the table and chairs. Margaret waited for him to come around to her side. “Of course, of course. Would you fetch down Songmartin’s Commentaries while you are at it?”

  Rupert drew up, looking over his shoulder at his cousin. In the same moment, as if waiting for it, Skander, too, had stopped and watched Rupert. Margaret watched the inexplicable tension run like threads of lightning between them before Rupert, still as motionless as ever, said in a low, regretful tone, “I’m afraid I have misplaced that particular collection.”

  And Skander, in just the same voice, said, “That is a shame. I’ll find something in the withdrawing room, then.” And he stepped up to Margaret’s side.

  The wind rushed into their faces as Rupert left the solarium. Margaret, holding onto Skander’s proffered hand, squeezed her eyes narrowly into the knife-slice of that wind, watching the tall, lean figure of her kidnapper vanish within the darker shadows of the colonnade and kitchen wing. She thought she ought to have been glad to have him go, but the feeling of his eyes on her only intensified in his absence. Whatever strong genius he possessed seemed to pervade every inch of Marenové House. She thought of her bath, and shivered.

  “He is a charmer, isn’t he?” asked Skander in a wry tone.

  She cast him a look askance. He could take it blithely, if he liked. He was not being courted against his will.

  He saw her face and fell grave once more. As they stepped out into the wild blowing of the peristyle, the wind catching Margaret’s veil and whipping it up like a wing behind her head, he said apologetically, “I am truly sorry. You don’t like him at all, do you?”

  “Would you?” she retorted.

  His eyes fell a moment to a patch of stone in the middle distance of the floor, but whatever he was thinking in the face of her blistering words, he did not reply. Margaret looked away, balling her fists and feeling suddenly, unaccountably wretched.

  After a moment he made a small gesture toward the door and she moved mechanically with him, allowing him to lead her wordlessly to the northeast wing of the house into a fairly square, high room lined with full bookshelves and two tall windows looking out on the back lawn, and fitted overhead with an exquisitely-carved, dark-stained tray ceiling. An instrument, appearing to be an enormous harp laid flat and on legs, stood under one window. Into the south wall was set a great fireplace which was not made up, and around it clustered sofas and chairs and little end-tables that sported their age in gnawed legs and water-winged surfaces. The whole place was chilly and gold-shot and smelled of old books, and to Margaret, though she knew Rupert would be hard on their heels in a moment, it reminded her of her own drawing room back home, and it seemed almost comforting.

  Skander kindly took Margaret to a sofa and made sure she was settled before strolling about, perusing the literary selection. With her hands folded in her lap, back straight, feet tucked together ankle to ankle, she watched him somewhat blandly. He was a fine figure, tall and strapping, with a touch of unconscious swagger that she found appealing. He was cheerful and pleasant, and though cheerfulness and pleasantries were not to Margaret’s taste at present, she found she could not resent him. He seemed honest, and her soul ached for honesty.

  There was a step and knock at the door, and the maid which Margaret had seen before leaned into the room. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “The master has been detained. He said to bring down this book for the lady to look at.”

  Margaret, quizzical, held out her hand as Skander took the book from the maid and gave it to her. She turned it over, but it seemed to have no title.

  “Thank you, Lilith. Mind you, would you send in someone to build up a fire in here?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  Lilith shut the door behind herself. Over the edge of the book Margaret saw Skander’s boots come up, and the whole sofa shifted ominously as he perched beside her, leaning in to get a look at the book as well. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned back the
first few pages, and started. “Why, they are dress designs. Whatever does he mean by this?”

  “Oh, ha!” said Skander, laughingly. He took the book from her and began thumbing through its pages. Gaily-coloured images flashed by, beautiful gowns and smart men’s wear, all fine and foreign to Margaret. “He means for you to pick out a style. You will have a new gown for the ball I am going to throw.”

  “A ball?” asked Margaret, carefully keeping her gaze on the book.

  He returned it to her hand. “Oh yes, I did mention that, didn’t I? I’m to give a ball at Lookinglass next month. That was really why I came down today, to tell Rupert about it. All the lords and ladies of Plenilune should be there.” He leaned down and smiled, catching her eye encouragingly. “So, of course you must come.”

  To her dismay, she found herself colouring at the cheeks. She wished that the manservant might come in to make up the fire and cause a distraction, but for a long, agonizing moment the awkward silence lay unbroken between them. In a bid to take control, Margaret pointed out a dress.

  “This is rather ghastly,” she said. “There is no form to the dress.”

  “It isn’t very flattering, no,” he admitted. He turned a page and a rather splendid gown in red sprang out. She made a note of it but did not call his attention to it. But though he continued to turn the pages and other gowns flickered across her vision—high-waisted gowns in deep blue, floor-length tunics in whites and off-whites and saffron, gowns that left the back bare and gowns that came wildly off the shoulders—the scarlet dress lingered in her memory. It was rich and full, sitting becomingly close and riding against the collar-bones in a way that could, with the right poise, be cold and uninviting.

  Their perusal and her assessment were interrupted by Rupert’s arrival. She was careful not to look up at him, but a strip of mirror inserted between the fireplace and the mantle allowed her an inconspicuous view of his person. He stepped in with a mottled book, pencil, and ruler under one arm, a compass thrust into the breast-pocket of his tunic.

  “Is that your star-work?” asked Skander. He deposited the gown book in Margaret’s lap and rose. With a little sniff he folded his arms impassively.

  “You might call it that,” Rupert said.

  The two of them drifted apart with Margaret uncomfortably in between. Rupert stationed himself in a chair with an end-table drawn close to support his things; Skander wandered back to the shelves to look at books. Margaret, with nothing else to do, continued to idly turn the pages of her book, looking but barely seeing what passed before her eyes.

  The clock over the mantle showed a quarter to two when at last a big black fellow, dressed trimly in white, emerged from a small second door in the south wall and began wordlessly to build up a fire in the grate. Margaret cast him only a cursory glance before automatically returning to her book, but Rupert broke her concentration by asking in a low, strangely gentle tone,

  “Did you see anything that you liked?”

  Rather perversely she saw, not the red dress, but Rupert’s water-logged travelling outfit leaking on the train-car seat. She kept her countenance with the perfection of an Englishwoman and did not reply.

  Skander banged a book on the shelf and whistled to himself under his breath.

  “Hmm,” said Rupert after a while. He picked up his pencil and began sketching on a paper—she could see him in the mirror—and with a little painful jerk of his brows added, “They are only suggestions. The patterns can be altered and made in any colour and fabric that you like.”

  With a round, mare-ish gesture she lifted her head and regarded him briskly, snapping out the book with it open to the page she wanted. “Since you are being so generous, I will take this dress.”

  She felt Skander turn at the window behind her, but he did not come forward. Rupert put down his pencil and squinted faintly, for the light was in his face, running his eyes over the image. There was a little of the dubious in his tone as he asked, “You are sure this is what you want?”

  “I am sure.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. His pupils had shrunk almost to nothing and, once more, the pale blue was nearly washed out to white. “Well, then. I’ll have Rhea begin at once. You can work on measurements after tea. Livy.”

  He caught the eye of the big black man who nodded without a sound and, having made the fire, came across and took the book from Margaret. The long, powerful dark fingers reaching toward her, powerful enough to snap her neck in half if they liked, made something clench inside her, but she willed herself to offer the book with icy politeness. Big black Livy folded the book shut, his finger among the pages, and withdrew from the room.

  After that the silence that settled was aching. Margaret stared, unseeing, into the new fire, trapped in an odd stillness that was not calming. Why did all the silences of this place sound like the silence before a scream? Why did the stillness of this house feel like the stillness before a storm?

  “Miss Coventry.” Skander slid a book off the shelf, turned it over, and approached her with it. “Here is something you might like. Do you know The Tempest?”

  With a little startled breath she turned, reaching a hand for the book. “The Tempest? By William Shakespeare? Of course I know it!” He placed the book in her hands and she pressed it in her palms, gazing down at the fine, straight, cloth-bound spine. “He is one of our own.”

  She could hear the smile in Skander’s voice. “There! I thought that might bring a smile to your face. I’ve always liked that book. I read it as a boy, and looked at the pictures before I could read.”

  When she looked into the mirror, Margaret caught a swift, dark look on Rupert’s face. It was almost the look of murder, but mirrors could be tricky, and she thought she could be mistaken. She hoped she could be mistaken. She dropped her eyes to the book and began turning back the pages. There was a bit of scrawl on the frontispiece but she could not make out the signature. She turned to the title page and the dramatis personae, with each page pulling in the alluring scent of old book. She had never read The Tempest—truth to tell, she admitted to herself, she was not fond of plays. But it was Shakespeare: it was as English as English could be, and she clutched it desperately for the sake of sheer familiarity. It was touching of Skander to fetch it for her; with a feeling of gratitude mingled with self-loathing, she realized her homesickness must be apparent.

  True to Skander’s word, the book was beautifully illumined. The margins, like the more ancient texts that Britain had produced, were crammed full of fishes and sea-birds, thunder-blasted pines and the narrow trickle of water down sea-worn rocks. The prow of a foundered ship wedged itself in a margin, showing its shivered stern on the opposite. Men in ragged garments knelt on a shore. A man with one arm around a maiden raised his other arm as if to plead with the heavens. But the shackled spirit himself had his own full page. In body he was strangely featureless, but in genius masculine, tall, beautiful, standing legs apart and with his back to her, turned to give her his profile. There must have been a wind in his face for his hair stood wildly on end, and there was a smile on his face that was meek, pleasant, but somehow unnerving. He had about himself more magic than mere ink could bestow. She gazed on his serene, god-like face and felt a strange thrill: Rupert, splendid as a racehorse, might have been like this once. Only the light flicker in the ink eyes was not to be found in the cool, deadly depths of Rupert’s.

  Then she remembered that Skander was hovering nearby and that she was looking at a naked spirit. She hastily turned the page. And for a thankful while the book kept her occupied. She looked at all the marginal illustrations and, that done, returned to the beginning and began to read. The fire rose up in the grate, building as time passed and as Skander threw to it an idle log as one might throw a dog a bone, and she felt it warming her shins through her skirts. The soft scratching and shifting of pages from Rupert’s quarter went on, broken only at intervals by the deep chiming of a clock somewhere in the house. Skander had sunk himself into a chair and
was deep into a book. She glanced up at him once to see his eyelids had fallen shut, though he still held the book upright; she smiled a little secret smile.

  But when she glanced round again she saw Rupert looking at her through the fireplace mirror and she felt a sudden stab of guilt, though for what she did not know. With an effort she held that gaze, arching a brow inquisitively, but because it was like looking at a painting, she did not think to speak. He stared and stared, and she made herself stare back, far longer than was polite, far longer than was reasonable, with the firelight dancing on their faces and the light of daring in their eyes. At last—it made Margaret thrill a little with a red sense of victory—Rupert broke his gaze off and returned to his star-work.

  For a long while after that the only sounds were those of Skander’s book falling to his lap and he was quite asleep and the tinselly rustle of the fire that was slowly putting Margaret to sleep as well. The characters on the pages swam beneath her vision—warm, yellow-coloured pages that were veined with darkness like a kind of marble. A dark, despairing kind of weariness that faded her vision to grey at the edges was slowly overcoming her, but she did not like the thought of sleeping with Rupert about. She fought off the sleepiness, trying to pull each word bodily out of the page and understand what the playwright was trying to say. She had to stay awake…

  4 | The Devil’s Hunting Grounds

  “Did you rest well?”

  Margaret unfolded her napkin on her lap, careful not to meet Rupert’s gaze. She and her captor and his cousin were seated in the dining room over late tea, grouped about one end of the table where the cluster of lit candles sent little koi-coloured flecks of light across the polished tabletop. In the cracks between the closed curtains she could occasionally see the silver gleam of light in the sky that was the earth; all else was quenched in night’s dark.

  “I did,” said Margaret, “well enough,” and passed on the soup tureen.