Shadow Girl

by Mael d'Armor

  ‘We?’

  ‘Well, I, to be precise. But I need you close by, so I’ll drop you off in Vannes. That’s next door to Karnag. I know a place where you can stay.’

  Dropped off? She would like to think she has misheard but she suspects there is little chance of that.

  ‘Wot hairpinned to “you’re free as a dicky birdie after I’m finalised with you”?’

  ‘Still holds. But I am not finished with you. Your English needs some work.’

  ‘So then, why don’t you jist give me that last pokey-bang-bang and be done-deal with it?’

  ‘I’m afraid there is no time for this. We have to leave right now.’

  ‘Riot now?’ She looks at him, startled. ‘What the hickatee heck are you clucking about?’

  ‘I suspect foul play in Karnag. My investigation cannot wait.’

  ‘Then why can’t you peep off on your lonesome and come back when you’re done-deal?’

  ‘I don’t know how long it’ll take. I don’t want to leave you in the lurch.’ He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘You know, stuck here in limbo, unable to go back to work.’

  Stuck in limbo. This is indeed where she is. She feels like crying. Somehow she knew it. She knew he would screw her all the way and leave her life in tatters. She puts up a last show of resistance, though she knows she is beaten.

  ‘I don’t want to be dripped off anywhere. Espeshally not in some country pothole I’ve never even heard of. Why cunt I stay in Paris? That’s where the statute is, isn’t it?’

  ‘The statue is just the end product. I need to go to the source.’ He pauses, then adds, placatingly, ‘You’ll see, Sandra, Vannes is a delightful place. Reeking with history, packed with restaurants and creperies. You’ll love it. And Jenny will be your guide. She knows the place like the back of her pretty hand.’

  16

  It is early evening. Under a deep turquoise sky, the Opera House is sheened in the glow of its spotlights.

  ‘A little beauty, don’t you think?’

  Hands on hips, Yaouen is gazing at the jagged outline across the water. Sandra is not quite sure if he was speaking to her or Jenny, so she nods silently.

  ‘Impeccable crest. Perfect girth. The wings have exceptional symmetry.’

  She is wondering why they left Le Triskel in a hurry and rushed down to Circular Quay to praise the Sydney landmark.

  ‘Look at that line. A perfect arch.’

  Well, she does like the look of those arches too but cannot see why Yaouen should be so taken with them right this minute.

  ‘Look how it flows so neatly into the croup.’

  The croup? She looks at him, puzzled. His expression is unreadable. And Jenny is just smiling by her side.

  ‘Good jowl clearance, moderate back, well-muscled loins,’ continues Yaouen.

  She suddenly has the feeling he is not just talking architecture.

  He snaps his fingers.

  Oh no. Not the finger-snapping thing. She has learned it is not a good sign.

  Jenny squeezes her hand. ‘Look.’

  The contours of the Opera House are quivering. No, the finger thing was definitely not a good sign. Before she has time to steel herself to whatever weird phenomenon is about to be unleashed upon the world, two large wings have extracted themselves from the arched roofs, unfolded to their full length and begun to beat over the harbour and its host of crafts.

  Sandra’s jaw has dropped — again — to the vicinity of her chest, though to her credit, it only takes her a few seconds to recover. She stares on bravely. If her senses are to be believed, a white horse’s head has grown out of the two smaller arches near the water’s edge. The creature stretches its neck and the air quakes with its powerful neigh. Then it pulls away from the building and rises into the dusk.

  Well, she’ll be damned. It’s just like those daydreams she’s been having. Or close enough. She swallows hard and watches the apparition veering high in the sky, its wings spread out gracefully. Its turn complete, the horse goes into a swoop.

  It is heading straight for them, with dizzying speed. She fights the urge to cover her eyes.

  The colossus is almost upon them before it throws its wings into reverse. She gets a free blow wave and might have been sent tumbling if Yaouen had not spun round and clapped both arms around her. His touch is electrifying.

  On impulse, she buries her face into his neck and as she does so has a vision of a wooded lakeside teeming with deer and birds of all kinds. Her heart is warmed unexpectedly. She wraps herself in this glow and the comfort of his strength and, for a few precious instants, forgets about the turmoil of her life.

  But he is already breaking his hold. The animal has landed next to them and is waiting with flared nostrils, head held high, mane flicking and tail swishing. A shiver courses over its skin and it gives a muffled snort. Although it stands tall over her and exudes formidable strength, it has scaled down its opera stature to a more human-friendly size.

  ‘Meet Morvarc’h,’ says Yaouen. ‘Don’t worry, no one will be staring. He is only visible to us, though some around here might be wondering what the hell they’ve just heard.’

  He checks the surroundings. Behind them, the Campbell Storehouses are glowing in the twilight, their restaurants home to the first evening clients. A few strollers are ambling past their manicured terraces.

  ‘Why cunt they see the gee-gee?’ asks Sandra.

  ‘Simple. They’re not like us,’ says Jenny.

  ‘Like us?’

  ‘They’re not fae.’

  Sandra eyes her curiously.

  ‘Wot the picklecock do you signify, fae-fie-fo-fum? Are you implicating that you and my own self . . .’

  ‘All aboard!’ presses Yaouen. ‘No time for chitchat.’ He scowls at Jenny. ‘Remind me to have a word with you later. You’re too free with your tongue.’

  He gives Morvarc’h a gentle pat on his chest and the horse lowers himself, bending one front leg, stretching out the other, in a manner evocative of a curtsy. Yaouen steps onto the salient limb and, grabbing the mane, vaults smoothly onto his back. Then he reaches down and picks up Sandra without apparent effort. Jenny too is pulled up, and once in position, she slips her arms around Sandra’s waist.

  ‘I would advise you to do the same,’ she tells Sandra.

  There is ample room on the horse, even for three — though the women have to rest their feet on the roots of his wings.

  To the uninitiated eye, the trio are sitting six feet above the ground, in curious defiance of the rules of physics. A handful of people are casting nonplussed looks their way. A fellow with a floppy tourist hat flips a smartphone out of his pocket but Yaouen mumbles something and the device flies out of his hand before shattering into fragments on the ground.

  ‘Can’t a man ride a perfectly invisible magic horse without being filmed nowadays?’ he grumbles. ‘Whatever happened to privacy?’

  Morvarc’h has unfolded his wings to give the first powerful flaps. He rises gently above the cove, then banks and glides towards the Harbour Bridge.

  ‘Everyone hang on tight!’

  The stallion tucks in his wings and accelerates like an arrow. He skims up the arch of the bridge at breakneck speed and, on reaching the apex, shoots off into the night sky as if propelled by an unseen sling.

  Sandra’s heart also seems to have been flung somewhere — right down to her heels — and she hangs on to Yaouen’s waist for all she is worth. Below her, the harbour spreads out its light-rimmed inlets all the way to the ocean. She thinks briefly of her apartment, of the life she is leaving behind. What the hell is she embarking on?

  She hears a noise like fabric ripping and ventures a look over Yaouen’s shoulder. A rim of fire has popped out of nowhere some way ahead of them. The sky appears darker inside the circle, almost ink black. Are they heading for this? Really? She does not like the look of that hole. Not one bit.

  But Morvarc’h is blithely impervious to her misgivings and powers on. Wings sti
ll hugging his flanks, the horse shoots through the hoop and disappears with a whoosh, taking his riders with him.

  17

  ‘You know what to do,’ says Yaouen to Jenny. ‘And whatever happens, stay put and wait for me. I shouldn’t be longer than a day or two.’

  He climbs back on Morvarc’h.

  ‘If I have news, we’ll talk by hawk.’

  Sandra is looking around her in quiet awe. They burst out of the air not five minutes ago, right above the old city wall, and landed at the top of an old tower. No one saw them arrive, she guesses — for no one is up and about at this time of the morning.

  The place has a quiet beauty about it. The careful symmetry of the Jardins des Remparts unfolds below her, girt by a sluggish river. Behind her, the old city unpacks its jumble of roofs, glazed by the rays of a timid sun. The contrast with the bustle of downtown Sydney could not be more striking.

  ‘The tower is protected by a charm, so Sandra will be safe here. As long as she does not leave the place. Make sure you keep an eye on her.’

  He takes something from his pocket. ‘And this’ — he throws over a silver necklace to Jenny — ‘should give you time to warn me if you come against anything unexpected. Wear it at all times. There is a small opal set in the pendant. Press it twice and I’ll be here before you know it.’

  Morvarc’h gives an impatient little neigh.

  ‘One last thing. Wait for my return before opening your big mouth.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ agrees Jenny reluctantly. She puts on the necklace. ‘You can be so controlling sometimes, d’you know that?’

  Sandra pulls herself away from the city view to look at Yaouen. She gets a shock.

  ‘Your skin . . .’ she begins. ‘Your skin has goon all pastel-cream.’

  ‘Yes. Easier to blend in in this part of the world.’ He smiles at her. ‘This is also how I was born.’

  ‘How you were porn? So wot about your Creolish poppaman?’

  He remains silent.

  ‘You’re not from Morish-us, are you?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. I was being poetically licentious.’

  She knew it. The guy is a talented freak and a compulsive liar.

  ‘If you prefer, I’ll slip the olive mask back on when I return. Easy as home-made pie.’

  ‘That’s . . . That’s all right-ho I guess. I can get accustomated to your new stylish.’

  ‘I can also grow a beard.’

  ‘That won’t be necessarous,’ she replies hastily, already visualising the scratch marks on her inner thighs.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back. I always honour my contracts.’

  He gives Morvarc’h a pat on the neck. The horse stretches his wings and dives over the parapet. A moment later, both are far beyond the river on a rising curve.

  ‘Yes, your cuntracts,’ she echoes. Her voice is tinged with sadness. He left without a touch. Without the semblance of a kiss. Without even looking back.

  The guy is a compulsive liar. And a jerk. And she is hooked on him.

  Just her luck.

  18

  ‘Now wot?’

  ‘Now we make ourselves comfortable,’ says Jenny.

  ‘I couldn’t yes-yes more. A hootel pillow-bed would be great at this pinpoint. I’m exhausticated.’

  ‘We’re not going to a hotel.’

  ‘Whereto then?’

  ‘Yaouen was quite specific. We’re staying here.’

  Sandra looks around her suspiciously.

  ‘You mean on topple of this tower?’

  ‘Of course not, silly,’ laughs Jenny. ‘Not on top. Inside. Come with me.’

  They follow the parapet walk that skirts the main pinnacle turret. There is a narrow door at the end, leading in.

  ‘Welcome to the Connétable Tower establishment,’ she says, gesturing at the door.

  ‘Wet is this? Some sort of fancy Pet & Prickfast?’

  Jenny holds back a laugh.

  ‘More like Yaouen’s private digs when he is in town.’

  ‘Wholesale of this is Yaouen’s?’ Sandra makes a vague gesture at the tower.

  ‘Not quite. The municipality owns most of this fifteenth-century baby. But Yaouen was keen to get a pied-à-terre here and negotiated a deal with the mayor. You can guess how he wangled that.’

  Jenny puts her hand on the ornate door handle.

  ‘A pied-à-terre,’ she repeats with a smile. ‘Don’t you think that’s a lovely expression? A place to dismount, to put your foot on the ground, as country folks used to say in the days of horse travel. Which is precisely what we did today, by the way. We dismounted.’

  Sandra is staring doubtfully at the door. Some of the paint has flaked off its wooden panels.

  ‘The phrase tends to refer to a delightful cottage by the sea these days. Or a mansion, depending on the size of your pay packet.’

  ‘Or a mid-devil tower.’

  ‘Medieval. Yes, I guess so.’

  Jenny pushes open the door.

  ‘It’s not locked by the way. Not too many rock-climbing thieves around here.’

  They step inside a small vestibule. Jenny weaves a path through a clutter of boots, coats, horse equipment and boxes of all shapes.

  ‘It’s a bachelor’s pad,’ she explains. ‘So don’t expect too much.’

  She draws aside a curtain.

  Going by the state of the vestibule, Sandra was expecting the worst. Jackets spilling out of cupboards, unwashed underwear hanging from broomsticks, capsized mugs on coffee-stained rugs, books with abstruse-sounding titles poised at perilous angles on rickety chairs. The sort of shambles one might even find laced with cat and pigeon poop.

  But the large hexagonal room before her is nothing like that.

  On one side of the central fireplace, a couch and some chairs hug a low table. On the other, an ample bed lies framed between honeycomb shelves the colour of hazelnut. Thick beams of dark timber etched with swirling grainlines run along the ceiling on either side of the mantelpiece. On the walls, interspersed with lamps shaped like flaming torches, are dotted a few paintings. Coastal landscapes, spectacular mountain vistas. A few portraits too, of nameless kings and queens in refined clothing. And a picture of a robed lady blessing a knight with a sword. In the lounge area, three oval windows filter the morning sun, bathing the room in a mellow glow.

  Sandra blows an appreciative little raspberry. Although erring on the quaint side, the place has taste and charm. It feels cosy even, with no sign of medieval dampness. She turns to Jenny.

  ‘I have no problemo dismounting here and putting not jist one footsie on the ground, but two, as well as the remnant of my total-pooped bod. Preferably in a horizontalese position.’

  ‘Exactly what I was going to suggest. Have a snooze to get over jetlag while I pop out to get some groceries. There is a shower upstairs if you want one.’ She points at a narrow spiral staircase tucked behind the fireplace. ‘Fresh towels are in the cupboard by the bed. When I come back, we feast.’

  ‘Wot aboot you? Don’t you need to nap-crash?’

  ‘Nah. I’m an old hand at this. I weather warp-travel better than most.’ She pauses. ‘If you rummage in the cabinet near the shelves, you’ll find something more comfy to sleep in.’

  Jenny seems very familiar with the place. Too familiar. The nagging question at the back of Sandra’s mind finds its way to her lips.

  ‘Have you nooky-snoozed with Youyouen? At any time in the gone-by? Are you smooch-lovers?’

  Jenny stares at her noncommittally.

  ‘Can I use my joker card on this one?’

  ‘Please Jenny.’

  ‘You heard the man. I’m not supposed to open my big mouth.’

  ‘So you did smoothy-smooch then.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re not going to explanate exactickly how complicational.’

  ‘Perhaps he can tell you himself, when he comes back.’

  ‘You’re scar
edy-cat of him? Of wot he will say?’

  ‘Yaouen is not someone you want to antagonise.’

  Sandra does not know what to think. She moves to the couch and sits down, wearily.

  ‘You’re worrying too much, you know. Put your feet up. Relax.’

  Jenny moves across the room and draws another curtain to reveal a panelled door in the wall. Then presses a small lever. With a near-silent swish, the door slides up into the ceiling.

  ‘A lift,’ she explains. ‘The official way in and out of here. Takes you right down to the bottom of the rampart, on the town side. Very convenient.’

  She steps inside the cubicle.

  ‘Be back soon.’

  The lift door swishes shut.

  Once outside, Jenny pauses. Then takes a deep breath, perhaps to inhale the scents of spring. She looks up to the sky.

  Above her, the azure is barely streaked by cirrus clouds and there is a nip in the air. She zips up the light jacket she is wearing then makes her way leisurely up the street. The covered market to her side is quiet and deserted, as it is every Sunday.

  She saunters past a string of half-timbered facades, stopping now and again before a shop window to admire a display. Behind her tower the spires of the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre.

  As she turns a corner, she almost bumps into a frail old lady wrapped in a shawl.

  ‘Vous savez où je peux trouver une épicerie ouverte?’ she enquires. Finding a food shop open at this hour on a Sunday might be a challenge.

  The old woman gives her a toothless smile and points her in the right direction. Jenny thanks her and ambles on. She does not look back and therefore does not see her informant step into a doorway. Does not see her do a quick scan of the surroundings, morph into a lizard and vanish down a crack. But she does spot the narrow cobbled lane she was directed to — one which, as it happens, she has walked down before.

  The house fronts on either side of her rise up so high they almost block out the sky. There is no one around, save for a solitary dog sniffing at a stain on a doorjamb. Halfway down the alley, she stops by a small window brimming with food items.