The Wraith and the Rose

by C. J. Brightley

  Time had nearly run out.

  Lord Willowvale stepped forward and asked, “Lady Araminta, would you honor me with this dance?”

  The young lady swallowed and said, “Yes, my lord.”

  He danced with her, noting the paleness of her cheeks and the tremor in her hand. She was frightened, but she did not want to show it. He was quite a good dancer, and it was as easy as thought to put a faint glamour over them both and whisk her right off the dance floor and into the garden. She danced all the while with him, her eyes locked on his; he smiled at how easily manipulated humans were. She only heard the music, and felt the rhythm of his movements, and saw his steady silver gaze on hers. She did not notice that the stone beneath her feet had turned to grass, or that they were surrounded by rose bushes no longer blooming rather than other dancers.

  He opened the door to the veil with a gasp of effort and jerked her into the darkness before she had a chance to cry out. The door to the human world snapped shut, and Araminta stood in a stunned silence beside him.

  “Where are we?” she said in blank incomprehension.

  Lord Willowvale said roughly, to cover his breathlessness, “The veil between worlds. Come along.” He caught her wrist and began to tug her along.

  He hated the veil. He hated the squishy damp lichen beneath their feet now and the broken bricks that followed. He hated the sudden buzzing of hornets from a distant cavern. He especially hated the things that lived in the veil, or were of the veil, the silver bull he’d once barely escaped, the tentacled thing that lived down that corridor, and the kelp-like plants that sometimes clung to his feet.

  The darkness only made it more frightening. He could easily conjure a light, but it would only draw the predators more quickly.

  “Where are we going?” Araminta asked tremulously.

  Lord Willowvale did not answer for a moment as his heart thudded raggedly at the effort of keeping the veil open around them. The stone walls had an unnerving tendency to want to close in around him, and he had long suspected it would crush him if given half a chance. All Fair Folk knew the veil was treacherous at best; by its very nature it was changeable, and it often appeared to have something of a personality, if not sentience. It had taken a disliking to Lord Willowvale almost immediately, but it bore no such antipathy for the Marquess Camphor or his brother Aspen, who had been tasked with the actual procurement of the children from Aricht. Lord Willowvale had, as indeed had many others, been forced to conclude that the dangers were simply to be avoided if possible, and opposed if necessary.

  “The Fair Lands,” he said quietly. “It will be safer for us both if you don’t speak.”

  “Why?” Araminta whispered.

  He pulled her forward, his grip bruising her wrist.

  “Ouch!” She yanked her arm futilely.

  “Quiet, human, before something decides to eat us both,” he snarled.

  At that she quieted, partly because of his words, and partly because she heard something large padding quietly behind them.

  “There’s something back there,” she murmured after several minutes.

  “I know. We’ll be out before it reaches us.”

  True to his word, Lord Willowvale opened a door only a few minutes later, while the unknown thing stalking them was quite a bit closer but had not yet reached them.

  He stepped out into his own garden and breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief. Araminta shuddered beside him, then looked around. It was twilight in the Fair Lands, and the garden itself was mostly dark. Only the luminescent fronds of moon grass glowed at ground level. A few bright spark bugs danced among the drooping limbs of a willow. Above them, the pink and turquoise streaks in the sky were faded and dim; Lord Willowvale doubted whether human eyes could even perceive them now, especially if they were not looking for the beautiful colors.

  “Come.” He pulled her forward, still gripping her wrist.

  “Where are we?”

  “My garden.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” She attempted to pull away again, but the strength of a pampered human lady was nothing compared to that of a Fair Lord, superior by nature and refined by training in both the sword and other arts.

  He did not answer. Instead, he tugged her, resisting all the while, to a room on the third floor. Here he pushed her into the middle of the room, closed the door behind himself, and stood against it. He waved a hand and the chandelier high above them brightened.

  Araminta looked around, then stepped to the window to look out over the darkened gardens. There was a bed against one wall and a little water closet visible through an open door on the opposite wall.

  “This shall be your room while we wait for the Wraith.” Lord Willowvale smiled, not entirely cruelly. “You are merely bait. I have no love of humans, but I also have no particular grievance against you personally. The bed is comfortable enough, and you shall have adequate meals three times a day. There is a space for personal needs through that door.”

  Araminta blinked at him, too confused to be angry. “Why should you think the Wraith would come for me?”

  The fairy’s smile grew wider. “Why should he not? If he will come for children he has never met, he should certainly come for his beloved.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “We shall see.” Lord Willowvale added, “you may turn the light on and off by touching this section of wall.” With that, he turned and strode out, closing the door behind himself.

  With a growing sense of impending disaster, Araminta tried to open the door, but she was not surprised when it was impossible. She tried turning the light off and back on, and was relieved to note that the chandelier cooperated as promised. She turned the light off and let her eyes adjust to the darkness, then looked out at the garden. What she could see of the landscape was just alien enough to be disconcerting.

  The concept of a garden was there, but the look of it, even in the darkness, was more frightening than any she had seen before. There were several trees in a bunch that clustered together, their long, drooping fronds like those of a willow, but they seemed to be dancing together, though no other plants seemed to be affected by any wind. Another area had a group of long, spindly trees with spiky needles for leaves, and one of them, quite unexpectedly, exploded silently, sending needles out in all directions. The resulting bare trunk and branches crawled with lights so tiny she almost thought she was imagining it.

  Araminta had infinite faith in Oliver; she had admired his quick mind, handsome visage, and kind heart since she was ten years old. However, she did not believe him to be the Wraith. It had never really crossed her mind, and she wondered that Lord Willowvale had come to that conclusion.

  He was brave, of course; her loyal heart was sure of that. But the Wraith? Surely not.

  Nothing else happened that night from Araminta’s perspective. She was left in solitude, and eventually lay down on the bed. After a while she undressed and slid under the covers.

  Once she was safely and securely imprisoned in one of Lord Willowvale’s more modest guest rooms, the Fair lord made his way back through the veil to Lord Holmwood’s party. He returned scarcely an hour from the time he had left; the hurried passage through the veil left him winded and even more bad-tempered than usual, because the fear that threaded his veins was allowed no other outlet.

  He threw himself morosely into a stone bench near the dance floor with a glass of wine and watched the gathered crowd for fifteen minutes. The Overton idiot and his new wife were dancing again, their eyes locked on each other in adoration. It made him vaguely ill; how could a pretty woman, who appeared reasonably intelligent for a human, tolerate such an empty-headed, frivolous fool?

  He pushed the irritation aside and focused on Oliver Hathaway, who had begun to circle around the dance floor with more purpose in his steps. The youth had apparently realized that he had not seen Lady Araminta for quite some time, and had begun looking for her. Lord Willowvale let him look for a few more minutes, then s
tood and stalked over to where he had positioned himself near the edge of the dance floor.

  “You’re looking for Lady Araminta, aren’t you?” he said quietly.

  Oliver glanced at him. “Yes. I haven’t seen her recently, and was hoping to dance with her again.”

  Lord Willowvale smiled. “Your little admirer is currently my guest in the Fair Lands.”

  “What do you want with Lady Araminta?” Oliver said in shock.

  “You, of course.” Lord Willowvale’s white teeth glinted as his smile widened. “When the Wraith took children from us, we did not know what to look for, and the necessity of the children’s work dictated that they be held in certain locations. Lady Araminta is necessary only as bait. We can hold her in a more secure location.”

  “I’m not the Wraith! I’m not who you want and he has no reason to rescue her.”

  The fairy shrugged. “Be that as it may, the trap will spring at the appropriate time.” His thin lips curled in a small, mirth-filled smile. “I will wait to see what we catch.”

  Oliver gaped at him.

  Lord Willowvale gave him a slight, mocking bow, and stepped back, letting a faint glamour fall over himself. No one would accost him now, with an air of unimportance layered over a general impression of a footman’s garb.

  Oliver stood in shock for a moment, his gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance, before he shook himself and looked back toward Lord Holmwood’s merry guests.

  He went first to his father and pulled the older man aside, whereupon they engaged in an intense, murmured conversation.

  Interesting. Was Sir Jacob involved in the Rose’s work?

  Then Oliver and Sir Jacob together approached Araminta’s father, the Duke Brickelwyte. Lord Poole listened to them without speaking, though his gaze roved over the crowd, looking for the offending fairy.

  Lord Willowvale watched, unnoticed, while Oliver, Sir Jacob, and Lord Poole continued their quiet conversation. He stepped close enough to hear Oliver’s quiet, passionate plea for Lord Poole’s forgiveness, and his assertion that although he had no idea why Lord Willowvale seemed to think he was the Wraith, he would gladly go rescue Araminta, if he could find his way to the Fair Lands.

  Lord Willowvale was not discouraged by this. Humans lied with great regularity, and he did not expect the Rose to announce it, even privately, to reassure someone he did not yet know well. Some time later, Oliver and his parents departed for home. About half the guests had taken their leave by then. Lord Willowvale retrieved his black phaeton and followed them home, staying far enough back that they apparently had no idea anyone was there, much less that it was he.

  He retrieved his satchel from beneath the seat and sent the horses with the phaeton back to his house with a will-o-the-wisp for a guide. The grooms would handle the horses. Lord Willowvale stationed himself near the front door of Hathaway residence beneath an overgrown hedge.

  No one left the house that night, and indeed there was no sign of magic at all. Lord Willowvale ate one of his two pears and half his sausage, and enjoyed a few sips of exquisite Fair brandy as a nightcap near midnight, but otherwise nothing but the birds broke the monotony until morning.

  When the sky began to turn from grey to blue, Lord Willowvale rubbed his eyes tiredly. Still, nothing happened.

  At last, near noon, Oliver emerged from the house. He began walking toward the road where he would be able to hire a carriage. Lord Willowvale jumped up and followed with his satchel over his shoulder.

  Oliver hailed a little phaeton for hire, a worn-out little vehicle driven by a worn-out little man. Lord Willowvale hopped on the back as it drove away, unnoticed.

  The phaeton drove Oliver to the Overton estate. Apparently the boy felt the need to tell his sister of his predicament as well. Lord Willowvale’s scornful assumption of Oliver’s purpose was proven correct, as only a few minutes after Oliver’s arrival, he and Lily were walking in the garden.

  Lord Willowvale followed at a distance. The grounds intrigued him more than Oliver’s conversation with his sister, although he did listen enough to understand that Oliver was telling his sister that he was not the Rose. There was a great deal of fairy magic throughout the grounds; there had been a passage made into the veil, and presumably all the way to the Fair Lands, only a few days before, somewhere nearby.

  His attention snapped back to the conversation when Oliver said, “Please help me, Lily. I need to get there.”

  “What will you do?” Lily’s voice was anguished.

  “I don’t know! Skewer that Lord Willowvale through, I should hope.” Oliver lowered his voice.

  “How will you even find her?”

  “I have no idea. But somehow it’s my fault that he targeted her, and I cannot let that stand.”

  “No, of course not.” Lily sighed. “What of the Wraith? Can we ask him for help?”

  “How can I? I have no idea who it is.”

  Lord Willowvale narrowed his eyes and turned half his attention back to the magic beneath the garden. It threaded through the roses, making them bloom more exuberantly than any others he had seen in the human world. That proved nothing, of course, about Lily, her brother, or the Overtons; there were places with a greater concentration of Fair magic innate in the very soil.

  If Oliver were the Rose, though, why would he be asking his sister for help to get into the veil? The Rose, whatever other qualities or abilities he might have, clearly had an unnaturally strong ability to enter, navigate, and leave the veil. He would not be asking for help from his confused and frightened younger sister.

  Oliver and Lily eventually made their way back toward the house, but not before Lily had entreated Oliver to devise at least an outline of a plan before he ventured into the Fair Lands.

  Chapter 26

  A Growing Distance

  Oliver said to Lily as the door closed behind them, “I should probably speak with Theo about it. There’s a distinct chance that when I enter the veil, it will be the last I see any of you. I should tell him thanks for everything.”

  Lily nodded, then said carefully, “You might find him a little less cheerful than you expect.”

  At Oliver’s surprised look, she added, “I don’t really want to talk about it. Things have been… different… than I expected.”

  “How so?” he said with sudden concern. “He hasn’t been cruel, has he?”

  “No.” Lily shook her head. “I think something happened, something he thinks I was responsible for, but he will not, or cannot, tell me what it was. But it must have been horrible, for the look in his eyes, Oliver.” Her voice shook.

  “I wonder what it was?” Oliver studied her face. “Are you all right, Lily?”

  “I shall have to be, I suppose.” She forced a smile. “As terrible as it is, it does not compare to Araminta’s plight. Let’s not speak of it more now, please.”

  Oliver nodded, then looked around. “I am in awe of this manor, Lily. How do you find your way around?” He glanced at her, apparently unsure how she would receive this attempt to lighten the mood.

  “I have gotten lost at least four times,” she said with a smile. “I just keep wandering about until I find a room I recognize, or Anselm finds me.”

  “Anselm?”

  “Theo’s manservant. He has been quite kind to me, too.” Lily led Oliver toward the patio where she had last seen Theo at lunch, but he was not there. Anselm was disappearing down the hall, and Lily called out, “Anselm, wait, please!”

  He immediately turned and bowed. “Yes, my lady?”

  “My brother would like to speak with Mr. Overton, if he is available.”

  “I am sure he will make himself available. Please wait in the little parlor across the hall and I will let him know you would like to see him.” Anselm bowed again.

  The parlor across the hall was dark and ornate, apparently devoted to displaying a collection of exquisite silk paintings depicting exotic animals. The framed images lined the walls nearly from the floor to
the high ceiling. A desk in one corner was inlaid with light mother of pearl that shone against the dark wood in designs that echoed the pattern in the deep green rug on the floor.

  A few moments later, Anselm appeared. “He is delighted to see you, Mr. Hathaway, and he will be here in a few moments. In the meantime, I will be glad to bring you some tea. Excuse me.”

  He disappeared and returned with a tray bearing a pot of tea, three delicate porcelain cups on matching saucers, and a tray of tiny lavender pastries. The pot emitted the soothing scent of a light mint tea.

  Theo stood in the doorway a moment later. “Oliver! What an unexpected pleasure!”

  Oliver returned Theo’s bow with a wan smile. “It is always a pleasure to see you, but the reason is hardly pleasant.”

  “Sit down and tell me.” Theo allowed Anselm to finish pouring the tea and devoted his full attention to Oliver. His hazel eyes were as warm and kind as always, and he looked away from Oliver only to glance at Lily with a smile.

  Oliver poured out the story, with all the horror of Lord Willowvale’s accusation and his own helpless despair. Theo’s sympathetic murmurs, and Lily’s anguished silence, gave Oliver time anew to consider his plan as he spoke.

  “So, I will try to find a way into the Fair Lands, find Lady Araminta, and bring her out. Anyway, if Lord Willowvale thinks he has caught the Rose, he will probably let her go. Wouldn’t he? He would have no use for her if he believes the Rose captured.” Oliver gave a rueful half-smile. “When I think about it that way, it is nearly a patriotic duty to go and let him capture me, so that the Rose may continue his work.”