Plenilune

by Jennifer Freitag

  The evening was washed in a warm rose light damson as Margaret’s palfrey, following after Rupert’s, came up the last stretch of the metalled road through a beech-wood, crossed the stone bridge that spanned the chasm, and came in sight at last of Lookinglass. The light, diffusing over everything—the turf, the numerous sprawling tangles of blackthorn and furze, the steeply descending pine-woods, the cascade in the chasm—hardened along the skyline with the furnace-colour of a flame, but the air cut like cold iron in Margaret’s lungs.

  Rupert had not said a word about her lip. When she had risen in the morning, stiff and hardly rested, she had looked in the mirror and found her lip conspicuously swollen and broken inside. There was no time to do anything about it, and nothing that could be done. She had suffered with cool dignity the dark, almost sadistic, mirthless smile that had been in Rhea’s eyes while she dressed and packed and, as the sun was just rising, met Rupert in the stable yard. The lip had stung so dreadfully for several hours that it took much of Margaret’s will to keep her mind off the pain, but by noon the crisp November air had numbed it, as well as all the other features of her face. Between the cold of the air and the cold of Rupert, who had not tried much to make conversation with her, she had retreated back within herself to a warm place that was, perversely, the fiery colour of a fox’s coat.

  As if waking from his thoughts, Rupert stirred in the saddle. The rings in the reins jinked brightly in the late autumn air as he shifted them, raising his hand to indicate the rocky cliff face ahead.

  “There you are,” he said, almost as if he were presenting it to her. “There is Lookinglass. Don’t mind the precarious visage: she is as sturdy a manor as Marenové House.”

  Through her frosty crust and the swimming golden air Margaret stared up—up—at Lookinglass. Even in that yellow light the walls and buildings, climbing like a square-boned dragon up the steeply sloping fellside, were a hue of pale blue stone. The level rays of the sun struck off dozens—hundreds—of windows, flashing them all back at her with a power that Margaret thought was enough to reach Earth. It stabbed at her as the shepherd’s panpipe had, only more war-like, as if the monstrously delicate construction, growing, it seemed, out of the soil of the fells, was the tip of a spear ready to be dropped from on high. She looked up past its many courts and terraces to the topmost tower, a single octagonal tower rising above everything to etch its powerful figure against the molten November sky. She wished with a strong longing to be up there, and to look out on a landscape hammered out of bronze.

  They left the bridge behind. The roar of the cascade made the air tremble all around them and the spray of it gathered on Margaret’s bare cheeks and turned them pale. The road became gravel and stone corduroys raised out of the floor of the lower terrace; it took them up a gentle slope, past the clusters of limed timber houses, horse-sheds, long-barns, the smithy and the glass-blower and the slight, ever-present reek of the butcher’s to the first gate of Lookinglass. It stood open, and she and Rupert passed through unhindered. The guards on duty must have known Rupert by sight for they straightened at once, grim, eyes level-set, and did not speak a word as their little cavalcade passed by.

  They never turned, but Margaret could feel their eyes on the back of her neck.

  The light seemed to grow stronger the higher they went. Though she kept herself properly still and never turned her head, Margaret was looking all about as they went up through the levels, past the baths and the church and the common meeting hall, through the exquisite court of horses, a block given over entirely to Skander’s mounts. The single tower at the top of all which stabbed upward still and made the heavens bleed a deepening blue, reeled like a compass-point to the pole-star above them, its angle sharper and sharper the closer they came. Margaret was careful not to look at it much now: the sheer stupendous height of the thing made her head swim.

  After all its curtain walls, Margaret had almost expected the House itself to look somewhat small and ridiculous—a small thing couched defensively behind a mind-numbing tonnage of stone. So she caught her breath in spite of herself when they passed up through the last gate—guarded by watchtowers and garlanded in hoarwithy—and came under the light-spangled shadow of the House.

  The late light, caught up here like yellow wine in a glass, struck off the House’s numerous windows and scattered it brokenly all over the courtyard. Here the gold air was embroidered with silver. The House itself was loftier-built than Marenové, which was squat and somewhat sullen of appearance: it had the delicacy and liveability of a working cathedral with its soaring gables and pinnacles, its ramparts decorated in verdigris copper. The front doors were double and immense, the porch semi-circular and spacious. It struck Margaret that, though Skander Rime was unaccustomed to, and did not enjoy, entertaining, he had a happily situated home in which to host his guests.

  As they entered the courtyard there was a fine stir from the low private stable wing; of a sudden it seemed a hundred dogs began to bark from somewhere behind a long colonnade and a row of yews. From out of the stable wing came half a dozen hands, all of them smartly clad in black with polished rubbers on their feet. Crows, dozens of crows, erupted from a garden and scattered dark across the sky. The noise, the commotion, broke on Margaret with a startling violence and she sat rigid in the saddle, by all appearances waiting to be helped down—in reality, waiting for the world to stop reeling.

  Between Livy and the stable hands, the palfreys and Rupert’s champagne were quickly arranged and preparations were swiftly going forward to accommodate the expected guests. Rhea, in her quiet way, busied herself with arranging Margaret’s things. It was Rupert who came for Margaret.

  She had always known he would. He swung off his palfrey, delivered it over to the care of a stable hand, and swung round, fetching a glance over the crowd until he saw her nearby. Like a black heron he stalked through the cheerfully chaotic mess, the only seemingly solid thing about her small, surreal world, and with a cool half-smile reached up to lift her down. Margaret felt her insides crawl and shrink in on themselves as his hands closed around her waist. It was by instinct that she put her hands on his shoulders to keep her own balance; everything else was crawling away from him.

  The late light glinted in his eye as he looked slantwise at her. “There, here we are,” he said in a low tone under the shriek and clatter of horses and the call of men—and she understood him to mean, not merely “Here we are,” but “Here we are, and you will play your part to my satisfaction.”

  She could not have spoken had she wanted to. Her throat was cold and constricted. With a stiff movement she broke her gaze and looked away from him, wearing her chin high.

  Rupert’s hand moved to her wrist and tightened, warningly.

  “Rhea,” she called, a little sharply for his hand hurt.

  The maid straightened from seeing to the latches on a trunk and regarded her, coolly, quietly, the dark hostility just lingering behind her eyes.

  “Rhea, I will want my brown muslin for this evening’s supper. Have it laid out for me.”

  The maid nodded wordlessly and turned away with her characteristically fluid motion which was at once beautiful and insolent.

  It was strange how quiet rage could so compose a spirit. The constant, unspoken insolence of the maid roused the old rage in Margaret, subsuming the fear of Rupert’s presence. It still pulsed inside her, quietly, far down at the base of her being, but for now she thought she could move on in spite of it. With an effort that was almost visible, she composed herself.

  A familiar, disconsolate shriek turned her attention to the House steps. Skander Rime stood on the threshold, hanging for an instant supreme and detached above them, Thairm bating on his wrist. Even at that distance she saw the swift cool look of displeasure lash across his eyes when he saw his cousin, but then his eye fell on her and he smiled—a real, warm smile. With a practiced movement he turned aside to his manservant—who seemed in his big blue tunic to be rather like a massive blue-jay—and
passed the gyrfalcon off on him, then descended the steps toward them.

  He looked a lot more solid and imposing here under the shadow of his own tower than he had in the shadows of Marenové House. His friendly bulk swung toward them, and Margaret noticed for the first time that he showed signs of becoming bow-legged in the future. No matter—she smiled shyly—he would sit a horse to the end of his days and be happy.

  Provided she was careful his days were not cut short.

  “Lady Margaret!” He took her free hand and raised it to his lips. “So, you have come. It is a pleasure to have you.”

  As she made her reply, she could see behind the veil of his eyes that he had not been certain she would come. She wondered if he would rather she had not. “But of course,” she said with affected gaiety, dipping low. “I had no choice.” Rising, she added to soften the blow, “Who would miss a gala thrown by you?”

  But both Rupert and Skander had caught the jab. The former’s pressure on her arm increased a fraction; the latter’s eyes lit up with a serious, mocking light that fetched in Rupert with their glance.

  “Do not count the chickens before they have hatched, Miss Coventry. You are the first to arrive and the punch has yet to be sampled.”

  “Well, if there is one skill that I have, it is sampling punch—and goodness knows I need some thing to wash the dust of the road out of my throat. My lungs are near frozen, too.”

  Skander appeared uncertain what to do with her. He made a little gesture, as if he meant to take her arm, then caught himself and tucked his arms awkwardly at his sides again. “It is a long ride up from Marenové for a lady, especially at this time of year,” he admitted sympathetically. “And now the sun is going down, it will be twice as chilly. I oughtn’t keep you out talking in the wind. Come along inside and tell me if I have made the place cheery enough.”

  But Rupert, in his iron-dark, level tone, protested, “Lady Margaret is in need of a little time to herself to wash and dress for supper. I will go with you.”

  “Will you?” laughed Skander, rather bitingly. “Then we are certain of cheer.” He gestured to Margaret as they began walking toward the doors. “Of course you will want to wash and dress. Only say the word: all I have is at your disposal.”

  “You are very kind,” Margaret replied, with genuine gratitude.

  They went indoors, into a long, lofty hallway like the nave of a cathedral, well-lit and golden. It was lightly but lavishly furnished to allow for traffic. The low side-tables, the columns, the arcades all sported wreaths and garlands of cranberry and bright mistletoe; a sweet scent of cedar-wood burning filled the air.

  “Why,” said Margaret, turning from the servant who took her wrap, “I had no idea you lived in church.”

  Skander’s smile, quick and pleasant, was oddly mirthless. “You think so? Perhaps you’re right. I had always thought it the other way around…Just this way.”

  He took them down the nave, past the groups of servants putting last-minute touches to the garlands, dusting, adjusting, seeing to the perfect angles of the carpet. Carried along on Rupert’s arm, Margaret felt a twinge of embarrassment: it seemed they had arrived early.

  As they approached the foot of a swooping staircase, far grander than Marenové’s and positioned so as to give to any viewers below a perfect image of anyone poised above them, Skander called a maid over and said to Margaret, “I believe your maid has already gone up. Is that so?”

  Rupert nodded wordlessly.

  “Excellent. Aikaterine will show you the way, then. I look forward to your presence at supper.”

  Skander nodded deferentially and took a meaningful step backward away from her. Rupert, on the other hand, set his palm into the small of her back—a very informal gesture—and, bending to her ear, murmured, “I will see you soon, my dear. You should have every comfort. Only ask if you need anything.”

  She resisted shying away. With a curt nod she disengaged herself from the pressure of his hand against her back and glided away with the maid in tow, feeling her heart thumping in her throat with each step and the eyes of both young men burning into the skin on the back of her neck. And she had to walk with that feeling on her up the massive steps and across the walkway that spanned the width of the nave. Then, as she was passing through the arched doorway, she heard the click of boots behind her and Skander, his voice muffled by the distance, say,

  “Well, coz—would you care for a drink?”

  With a smooth motion the maid Aikaterine slipped in front of her and beckoned her on with a jerk of her chin. Margaret was too tired and too cold and too preoccupied to offer even the most gracious comment to the maid; she followed after the girl in the white gown that was more like a nurse’s outfit than a maid’s attire, down the carpeted, well-lit hall, turned a few corners, went up a short stair, and stepped off of another short hallway into a little vaulted room.

  Aikaterine stood aside for Margaret to stoop through the doorway and straighten. She found herself in a not unpleasant place, simple but adequately furnished, high enough for the late light to stream through the single window—the lead lattice made diamond-patterns on the east wall around the little dressing table. Her travelling trunks were arranged on the floor and her fawn-coloured gown, which she had requested, was already laid out on the bed.

  From the second chair in the room, set in the corner, rose Rhea upon her entrance. She broke up the light as she stood, and the sun’s rays made an angry, glorious halo of amber around her hair. For a moment it seemed to Margaret that the careful veil which Rhea kept behind her eyes was pulled back and there was but only one maid in the room. She could not see those eyes through the silhouette’s darkness, but she could feel the genius of the woman more clearly than ever before.

  “Rhea…Thank you for laying out the dress. Now you may go. I am sure you are as tired as I am: I give you leave of the evening’s duties. Aikaterine will see to my needs.”

  With a war-like fierceness, Margaret watched the sting sink into Rhea. That careful expression never flinched, but she felt the barb hit true. Nevertheless, with perfect poise, the maid said, “Of course. As my master’s lady wishes.”

  Without a further glance Margaret turned into the room and stepped up to the bed, looking over the gown prepared for her. She heard, rather than saw, Aikaterine step aside for Rhea to pick up her wrap and depart. She heard, rather than saw, Aikaterine press the door gently shut.

  For several minutes complete silence reigned over the little room. No, not complete—from far off and rather far below came the rhythmic bell-tang notes of a blacksmith working late. Those notes were the only sound around them, and they came to Margaret’s ears thinly, making the room seem hollow. The softness of the gown’s fabric between her fingers felt like a link between her and the real world: a surreal, sleepy emptiness lay in between.

  At last, with a heavy intake of breath, she broke away from the dress and shot a forced smile at the white-clad maid. She spread out her arms and the maid dutifully stepped forward, dismantling her cloak and coat, and working at the buttons of her habit. She was cold, but the cold only increased as the heavy layers of her travelling gear were taken away and laid across the back of the room’s second chair.

  As though it were the room of a little inn, everything seemed low to Margaret; she looked sidewise in the mirror but could only see her hip and abdomen, and the late light breaking up in the windowpanes beyond. It struck her how thin she had grown in the past month. Breakfasts, dinners, suppers came back to her, all the ones she had taken with Rupert, all lacking appetite, all hollow and the hollowness full of a straining against Rupert’s dark presence. The wholesomeness and richness of his table had done no justice to her figure.

  There is a moral in that, I suppose, she thought grimly. Vegetable dishes in peace rather than lavish meals where there is strife, or something like that.

  Even Aikaterine noticed. The maid had a friendly look to her eye, if she was politely silent, but after she had taken off Marg
aret’s boots and began removing the last layer of her dress, the maid said in a swift, soft, husky tone,

  “Lord love you, madam. And here I thought you wore a corset.”

  Margaret put herself quickly into the dressing gown Aikaterine held for her, sliding the warm inside of rabbit-fur over her skin, tucking the outsides of pale blue satin close and tying it off. “Did you so?” she asked, seating herself before the mirror. How haunted and pale her face looked! “I was just thinking much the same thing about myself.”

  “You sound regretful, madam.” Aikaterine began unpinning Margaret’s hair. “I’ve handled dozens of women in their corsets trying to reach a figure like yours. And you come natural.”

  Margaret resisted informing the maid that she suspected her figure was unhealthy.

  Long, waving strands of hair fell out of their braids across her shoulders. Aikaterine drew them through the comb with precise gentleness, her fingers working with perfect deftness to keep the body in the hair. With each loosed strand Margaret could smell the scent of wind and pine-woods.

  “You are having supper with only the master, I think. I will keep the style casual, if it pleases you.”

  “Yes, of course.” Margaret turned her head and held still as Aikaterine caught up a length of hair. Moved to be polite, she added, “You are very good at this. Have you been long a lady’s maid?”

  “Oh, long and long…My mother was lady’s maid to my Lord Skander’s mother and I tend to my lord when it befits the occasion. But I got the knack of it from my mother, and I’ve always been blessed with a good constitution, if I may be so bold to say. I’ve never had a chance to regret being lady’s maid so early.” There was a brief pause. A single hair, straying from the rest, tickled Margaret’s nose unbearably for a moment. “Have you a maid of your own, madam?”

  It was a bold question, almost unforgivably bold, but as the dart of rage ran up into Margaret’s chest she remembered how swiftly news spreads among servants, and guessed that Aikaterine already knew she was a foreigner and only lately come to Plenilune. She breathed low to find her temper again.