by Lily Silver
“No visitors, I should hope?” He directed the odd question at George.
“No. Just your fair sister and her man dropped in last night.” George reported.
“Do you need anything?” Mick stepped into the studio to glance around. “Riley’s on an errand. He’ll stop in when he gets back. Have ye enough paint, old man?”
“I’ve paint enough to color the moon, thank you. Will you be posing again soon?”
“Aye, but not today. I’ve business to attend to. Perhaps after dinner.” Mick scrutinized the room, his eyes sweeping from corner to corner as he spoke. Tara watched him. He seemed to be searching for something very precise. He paused just below the streaked windows above their heads and then did an acrobatic spinning jump up ten feet into the air to land on the horizontal wooden cross beam running just below the tent of glass planes. “Paint, George, mind the paint.”
George muttered something unintelligible as he went back to working on his canvas. He made sweeping strokes with his wide brush, seeming to forget they were still there.
Tara moved to stand under Mick. “What are you looking for?” She craned her head up to the rafter beam above where Mick was perched like an angel, a handsome wingless angel. He crouched with his knees bent and was peering up at the sky.
“Evidence of unwanted guests.” Mick touched the vertical beam to his left that was rising to the ceiling and traced his finger over it.
Tara’s eyes widened as she saw sparkly purple dust emerge from his forefinger and float in the air before attaching itself to the wooden beam like a tattoo. It was a symbol, one she didn’t recognize. “What’s that you’re doing?”
“Come up and see,” Mick taunted, grinning down at her playfully.
Tara extended her arms out from her sides. “I can’t.”
He sighed in exasperation, his long white-blonde hair hanging about his face like a halo of silver as he continued to look down at her. “Well, if you put it that way, then I guess you can’t. Tis a pity. If you tried, you might be surprised at what you could do.”
She was wearing a long skirt and blouse. Not only a skirt, but a petticoat, pantalets and a bustle cage. Add to that her corset, and it was safe to say she was stitched up fairly tight. There was no way Tara could make the same gliding, twirling long-beam gymnastics jump her brother had and land on a beam ten feet in the air.
Mick extended his hand to her, as if he expected her to float up and meet him. “As you wish, but I’m only helping you this once. ‘Tis time you learn to do this on your own.”
Tara was instantly standing on the beam next to him. George was blissfully painting ten feet below them, muttering to himself. Mick’s warm hand held Tara’s, and the grin he gave her was as bright as the morning star. “This, is a protection seal. A ward to keep us from being discovered by our enemies.” He pointed to the purple squiggly mark on the wood that was shaped like a crescent moon with a diagonal line crossed over it. “This symbol makes our lair invisible to the others of our kind. It’s like a lock on a human door, so to speak. It’s always placed on a high point, and shields the place from unwanted eyes.”
He took her finger in his hand and showed Tara how to make the symbol. First, the crescent moon was drawn, arched down like a circle to the left, up to the right to form the hook and then back left and up to close the moon outline. Then, he made a quick cut through the moon like the backlash symbol on the computer, going from top right to lower left, diagonally. The last gesture was to place curling squiggly lines on either side of the backlash. He made three of them.
“You make one for each of us Fey born residing within. And then you must chant the verse to seal the house; None but Light may enter in, and none but Light invited. Darkling hearts feel naught but peace, and pass this abode unsighted.’ We put them on the doors, too, and the windows of our apartments. It is like a cloak, concealing us from the dark ones.”
“My finger doesn’t have sparkly things coming out of it,” she observed, disappointed. “And why would we need to hide ourselves? Surely there are no dark Fey here?”
“They are everywhere, sister. They lurk in dark places, but like insects, they are attracted to light.” He pointed upward with his forefinger, and the glass panels above their heads parted like doors. Holding her hand, Mick rose and took them both through the doors to the roof.
“What’s the story on George? Is he one of us, or one of those beings that serves fairies?”
Mick set them down on the rooftop patio, near the little round table and the plants. He seemed perturbed by her questions, but honestly, Tara couldn’t help asking, as all this was new to her. “He is a friend, a human ally. A sentinel who can see us as we truly are instead of the human form we appear to be for others. He’s happy, as long as we keep feeding him and bring him paint and canvas so he can devote himself to his work. He’s having an exhibition in a few months, at the Louvre, no less. It is his reward for helping us since our arrival. We reward our allies with good fortune, whether they give us food, or perform some other service to us when asked.”
Okay, Tara thought. So, George was sort of a fairy watchdog? A watcher on the rooftop? Could this day become any more bizarre?
“You don’t just have a textbook I could read about this stuff, do you?” Her tone was hopeful. A book about fairy rules and habits she could handle, but all this weird floating about and sparkly dust was starting to make Tara feel as if she were lost in some twisted dream.
“No, we do not write down our ways, lest the mortal men find them. We teach our own. Now, enough random questions, let us begin your transport lessons.”
Tara was a little afraid of this new business of transportation, as she feared that any inaccuracy on her part would cost her life.
“How it is done is through the will.” Mick tapped his brow, “and the power of thought. Last night, you thought about home, willed yourself here, and your own magic brought you here. The magical wards we set up on the rooftops guided you here.”
“Adrian was with me. Don’t forget I also transported him. George came out here to greet us, and Adrian was distracted with getting around your guard dog, so, I still have to explain this to him. When we got back to the apartment I passed out. We haven’t talked about it yet.”
“You talk a great deal,” Mick’s eyes narrowed. “Are you as ready to listen and learn?”
“Yes,” Tara was piqued at his terse remark. This was an awful lot to take in for one morning. “But what do I tell Adrian? ‘Sorry honey, I sometimes just pop from one place to another if I think too hard, hope you didn’t get sick. Would you like an in-flight barf bag?’”
“He is not like other humans. He will adjust to all your talents with ease. You waste time with idle chatter. Are you afraid?”
Tara rolled her eyes. Mick’s patience was not his strong point. She looked about them, at the sky, and at the city far below. “Yeah, a little. I don’t exactly have wings. Hey,” she pushed at his shoulder playfully, “what did George mean about my wings coming in any day?”
“Now don’t be changin’ the subject again, young Fey,” Mick chastened in a cross tone. “You hop about from one subject to the next like a bee floating from flower to flower. I’m trying to help you master the gift of simple geographic teleportation, without moving through time, so listen and learn.”
As they stood on the roof overlooking the city of Paris, he spoke of using the mind to think about a place and imagine actually being at that place. The trick was to choose an open space such as a flat rooftop, a courtyard or a field. It was important in the beginning to not transport oneself inside a sealed structure like a crypt or a hollow stone column, as it could trap a young Fey new to the gift of teleportation. Some stone columns had iron spikes inside them for added support. Iron could trap a fey and keep them bound in the same place forever.
“What about the pyramids? If I willed myself inside one, would I be trapped?”
His lips wiggled back and forth, sort of like a rabbit. “
I am not sure. Did they use iron supports that far back?” His eyes fixed her with reproof. “Iron can trap us. Mind what I say. Your life can depend upon it.”
Concentration was key. He suggested she visualize an open space within the city, like a park, and take them there. He took her hand firmly and sandwiched it between his own, waiting for her to do as he instructed.
Tara closed her eyes, and thought of the roof beneath her feet. The solid roof. Her heart was hammering in her chest at the thought of actually flying somewhere, or thinking herself somewhere. She didn’t want to do it. Last night, she’d been exhausted, too exhausted to climb the hill to their home. It had been a natural occurrence, not a forced one.
“Why are you hesitating?”
She opened one eye. “Is this necessary? I mean, I don’t have to do this, really, do I?”
“You did it without intention last night.” His arched eyebrow challenged her. “Wouldn’t it be prudent to learn to control this talent lest you get your dear husband killed by hurtling into a stone wall with him in tow, simply because you would not take the time to learn the correct process?”
“Oh, you’re worried that I could kill him,” Tara jerked her hand free of his warm cocoon of flesh. “Thanks. What about me? What if I panic and fall while I’m trying to learn this stunt?”
“I won’t allow you to fall. Trust me, that’s why I’m here, to guide you.”
Tara tilted her head slightly to look at him with incredulity. He was asking her to jump off a roof with him. And yet, the thought of harming Adrian, inadvertently, by trying this unschooled, that was too much to bear. She relinquished her hand to Mick again.
“Do not let fear cloud your perceptions. Focus on a place you wish to be. Not a place in time, leave time out of this, no dates in your mind. Just a place you wish you could be right now in the city of Paris. An open space, easy to see clearly. Think of it, and take me there.”
Tara squeezed her eyes tight and thought of a place that was not high in the sky, but rather, close to earth, safe. She thought of the Pont-Neuf bridge stretching over the Seine. The moment she saw the picture in her mind and wished herself there, the ground disappeared beneath her feet. Her heart seized and her breath left her lungs as she clawed the air and then clung to Mick’s sturdy form as they took off from the roof.
A sudden crunch beneath her heels made her gasp and open her eyes.
She and Mick stood at the bridge, unharmed as people walked past them without concern, as if they had not just appeared out of thin air. She leaned over the stone wall. The serene waters of the Seine were flowing below them. The steady clip-clop-clop of horses pulling an omnibus full of people past them drowned out the wild drum beat of her heart.
“An easy mark,” Mick commented. “And it took little effort to transport me with you.”
“You helped me.”
“No. You achieved this on your own.”
“I moved you? All by myself?”
“Yes. Now think of how that can work as a weapon. You are seized by a darkling Fey. You think of a place and leave your adversary there, stranding them in another country or another continent, removing the threat for a time. If they have wings, and most will, they can fly back, but if you can send them across the globe they will not return easily. They would need to use human transportation to return to the fight, and that could take weeks.”
“What about time?” Her heartbeat stilled. “I did it once, when I was a child. I stranded the Fey who kidnapped me in another time, far from his family and those of his clan.”
“No, you will never do that again!” Mick’s caution had the appeal of a parental restriction, making Tara long to break it. “You stranded yourself in the process. You were lost to us for centuries.”
“I was four years old, or four decades old,” she waved her hands open before her in a futile gesture. “However you measure time in Fey development. I am not a child now.”
His sharp rush of breath mirrored a cat’s warning hiss. “The constant need to remind me you are not a child contradicts your claim. Learn to control your gift. Do not argue with me, your elder. Learn first, then use the gift successfully, and we will see how much you can accomplish.”
“Prove it,” she muttered, annoyed with him for his arrogance. “You want me to prove it.”
“Do not attempt time travel, not on your own.” He grasped her wrist in an iron grip. “Hear me, Tara. You must learn to traverse through the physical plane with success before you attempt to move through dimensions of time. What if you were separated from Adrian forever because you couldn’t return to his place in time? Time Travel is not easy or precise.”
What an awful point to make! The thought was crushing, living in another time, unable to come back to Adrian here, that would be a horrible punishment for both of them. It would be worse than death, knowing the other was alive in another time and you couldn’t reach them.
“Choose another spot. Across the city.” Mick surveyed the landscape with his hand shielding his eyes from the mid-day sun. “Over there, the cathedral. Move us to that south bell tower. Do you see it?” he pointed, “see the ledge just there, a walkway, focus on that.”
“Yes.” Tara took his hand. He placed his arm about her waist for security. She focused her mind on being on that stone walkway he pointed out. A swift whoosh of air made her grasp Mick more tightly, as she feared falling out of the sky. That sensation was over as quickly as it came, like dreams of falling where you woke suddenly to find you were in a safe bed.
They were standing outside the south tower on a little walkway, right next to a gargoyle.
“Oh, my God!” Tara let go of her brother and touched the cool stone of the ledge hemming them in. She gazed at the breath-stealing architecture. The steeply slanted green roof of the cathedral below would be impossible to land on, as they would slide right off. Not to mention that sharp gothic spikes pointing up into the sky along the ridge pole. Being impaled on one of those would be a gruesome way to go.
As she studied the magnificent building, Tara realized it was no easy task to land precisely on the walkway as he’d directed and not the spire, or the steep slanted roof.
“I did this?” She glanced at her brother and then back at the life-sized pale green saint statues ascending diagonally to the spiked gothic tower in the center of the building. Uncertainty grew as she looked to the bridge across the city where they had been just moments before. “You didn’t help me?” She turned to her brother to study his features, hoping there was no guile in his crystal blue eyes.
“I did not interfere,” Mick answered. “Practice is the key. Think of a place and go there, but remain in the city. Try again. Move to a place and return here to me. Five minutes. Go.”
His self assured tone and the fact that he had his arms crossed about his chest again screamed domineering older brother. And yet, Tara found his challenge fun, and his willingness to let her move without him bolstered her confidence. It was like training for softball, to compare it to a normal childhood experience. Her older brother was in the back yard of Paris, training her to use her gift of teleportation.
Tara thought of the Louvre. She focused her mind on the stairway leading inside the museum. Instantly, she was there. Alone. Mick was not with her. That was creepy. She looked about at the swelling crowds as people moved past and she felt a little scared, like a little kid on a school field trip who suddenly realizes the bus has left without them.
Okay, you made it here alone. You did it. Now, go back to the bell tower at Notre Dame.
Tara wobbled as the stones beneath her feet disappeared. She staggered forward again when the ground solidified beneath her feet.
Notre Dame Cathedral loomed before her. She was on the ground, not up on the south tower terrace. Mick waved down at her from high above.
Point taken. Practice.
*
Adrian walked out of the bank with his jaw clenched tight. The bank officer was an arse
Sure, the
fellow agreed amicably, he might be Lord Dillon’s grandson, but until he provided some paperwork, be it birth certificate, a deposit receipt, or a letter of introduction from someone in the city of Paris—a French citizen who could vouch for his identity, the funds could not be touched.
As it was, they were in a closed account that had become marked as inactive after decades of no one responding to their letters on his grandfather’s end. The bank manager had brought Adrian into his office, and they had a long, but futile discussion on the matter.
He was stuck, sunk, nearly dead broke.
His meager purse, plus the extra Dan contributed to their family coffers now and again did not promise a long and prosperous life in ahead of them. They would be solvent for a short time but food cost money, and so did lodging, coal to heat the apartment, and so on.
He still would buy a modern pistol. That would be worth the sacrifice. Worth the investment. Perhaps just one, not a matched pair. One gun capable of shooting six rounds before reloading was still a better than an old one shot pistol from his day.
He crossed the boulevard, and headed home. Instead of taking the omnibus back he decided to save the two sous fare and walk the three miles back to Montmartre.
It wasn’t fair to Tara, this penury existence. She was fey born. She deserved to be kept in style. It was an insult to her, in his mind, to not be able to give her the lovely things she deserved as his wife.
Beneath his rationalization, fear lingered.
Would she tire of him, now that he’d fallen so low?
Would she seek another mate, one capable of giving her the things she desired?
He married an enchanted being. He had to keep her well, or risk losing her.
Chapter Sixteen
“Come on, Artie, wake up!” Dan shook the fellow, to no avail.
Arthur wasn’t dead, he knew that much. He was barely conscious. He stared up at the ceiling with wonder, as if seeing things that were not there. It looked as if he were in a trance. This wasn’t natural. It wasn’t like the quick witted man he knew.