by Ian Richards
I hold blood and bone, I am worthless alone …
‘Your ring.’ His voice sounded unusually hoarse. ‘Let me see it.’
Instinctively Silvertongue hid his hands behind his back. ‘Why? Look here, Mr. Martell, I’m not sure the master would want me to be showing you his things …’
‘Show me.’ He grabbed Silvertongue’s arm and held the ring up to the light. It curled around the fairy’s slender finger like a thin snake, small and simple, made of scuffed gold and worn with years of use.
He performed the mental calculations.
Yes … yes, it had to be … it worked, every line …
‘Mr. Martell, what are you—?’
‘The ring.’ His voice was barely a murmur.
‘What about the ring? I already told you, it isn’t mine. It belongs to Lord Firefox.’
‘It fits.’ He couldn’t believe it. ‘The answer to the riddle. It all fits.’
Silvertongue pulled back his hand and looked at Martell in confusion. Slowly, cautiously, a smile began to spread across his face.
‘My word,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve done it, Martell. You really have. You’ve solved the riddle. It’s a ring. The answer to the riddle is a ring.’
27 - Escape
Before they could say anything more there was a vigorous knocking on the door. A pot-bellied fairy blustered in, insisting that Silvertongue’s presence was required in the kitchen. ‘There’s a problem with the turnips, sir. They’ve gone off and Mrs. Dewsley doesn’t know what to do with them.’ Flashing Martell a look—of all the times—Silvertongue threw up his hands and followed the cook back into the corridor.
‘I’ll be back in a moment, Black Magician. Wait there.’
Martell remained in his room, pacing back and forth and trying to focus his thoughts. He had done it. He had solved the riddle of Marshwood. For the first time in too long he could feel the blood singing in his veins—the queasy flush of adrenaline that told him to get out now, to run for it, to fling open the doors of the house and not look back.
He could have kicked himself for not solving the puzzle sooner. In retrospect it was so obvious. A ring. It had to be something that would fit inside the box after all, didn’t it? His mistake had been reading the lines too literally. Many of them referred not to rings themselves, but rather things that rings symbolized: marriage, love, eternity. In that context the solution fit perfectly.
I have no top or bottom,
No beginning or end,
I am a gift, a treasure,
Mankind’s greatest pleasure,
But alas, on me do not depend.
I can wreck lives if I’m callously mistreated,
Inspire hatred and loathing and rage
I hold blood and bone
I am worthless alone
I can be either the key or the cage.
Knowing he had the answer filled Martell with a strange mixture of joy and trepidation. He hadn’t expected the solution to arrive so suddenly. Now it was here he had to decide what to do next. This proved almost as vexing as the riddle itself. Did he tell Firefox outright? Hello, by the way, I solved that riddle that’s been tormenting you, can I go now? That seemed risky. Giving Firefox the answer might secure his freedom, but it might just as easily see him locked away in a dungeon and forgotten about. The fairy was too unstable to second guess. No, the sensible thing to do would be to keep it to himself. He had an advantage now: a slight advantage, but an advantage nonetheless. Play this hand correctly and he could be back home with the boy in a matter of days. Maybe even a matter of hours.
He kept pacing, thinking the matter through from every angle. How long could he afford to hold onto this information? How long before his eyes turned green, his hair turned red, and his mind disintegrated? If Firefox was true to his word—and having won his freedom, why wouldn’t he be? —then he might be worrying for nothing. He might be sent home with the creature’s blessing. Thanks for your help, Black Magician. You’ve done your job admirably. Now, as promised, you’re free to go.
But if the fairy had lied …
A hurried knocking signaled Silvertongue’s return. The servant slipped into the room quietly, his face bright with secret excitement.
‘The dramas in the kitchen have been dealt with, but enough about that nonsense. I’ve just been to check on the master. He’s asleep. Dead to the world.’
The inference was lost on Martell. ‘What does that matter?’ he asked, frowning.
‘It means we can open the doors, Martell. It means the house is ours.’ He crept back out into the corridor, beckoning for Martell to follow him. ‘If you want to get home to your nephew all we have to do is find the door that leads to London.’
Martell stood on the threshold between his room and the corridor, weighing up the decision. To run or not to run. Silvertongue’s plan held a certain logic—get out now, while you still can—but the thought of angering Firefox held him back. He had come too far now to throw away his chance of freedom on a rushed escape attempt.
Martell took a step forward, paused, then headed out into the corridor. Darkness swallowed him. The only light could be seen at the end of a long passageway, a flickering candle held aloft by Silvertongue’s hand. He was trying to force some of the doors open. Pushing against them with all of his weight.
They remained locked.
All of them.
He had solved the riddle and it hadn’t made a single bit of difference.
In a panic, Martell hurried over to where Silvertongue stood grappling with one of the doors. He tried it himself. Locked. He tried another. Locked. To his horror, nothing had changed. Each door remained cold and unforgiving; no matter how hard he pushed, they refused to budge.
‘I don’t understand,’ Silvertongue muttered. ‘We solved the riddle. They should have opened by now.’
‘Let me look at the box again,’ Martell whispered. ‘Perhaps there’s a key inside.’
He reached the box from his pocket and tried the lid. To his surprise, it opened freely, giving up its decades of stubbornness with a gentle click.
But inside there was no key.
Instead, resting on a small square of velvet cloth, were two golden rings.
‘Rings?’ Silvertongue hissed. ‘That’s no good. They won’t open the doors.’
He was right. How could they? Martell felt a great swell of desperation come over him: a panicked, blood-curdling fear. What if it had all been a lie? What if there was no way out? What if he was destined to be a prisoner of this damnable house forever?
He tried the next door along. Nothing. A door on the other side of the corridor. The same. Together he and Silvertongue tried as many doors as they could but each one remained tightly sealed, more impenetrable than the toughest of bank vaults.
‘I don’t understand,’ Silvertongue whispered. ‘The riddle was supposed to open every door in the house. I’ve done my research and it’s absolutely clear. We should be able to open them.’
Suddenly a presence stepped out from the shadows behind them, smooth and slender and grinning with menace. Firefox. How long had he been there? How long had he been watching them?
‘Silvertongue. Black Magician. Having trouble sleeping?’
It took less than a second for Martell’s frustration to transform into dread. Hatred burned in Firefox’s eyes now, an anger that seemed to alter the dimensions of the entire house. The atmosphere felt suddenly poisonous. Dangerously so.
‘Lord Firefox, I—We were just—’
‘You’ve solved the riddle, I see’ Firefox said, plucking the rings from Martell’s hands. ‘Rings. Of course. I should have figured that out myself years ago. And I presume you were just checking to see if the doors had been opened yet, yes?’
‘Yes, Lord Firef—’
‘Don’t lie to me.’ A swift backhand smashed across Silvertongue’s face. The shaken creature touched two trembling fingers to his already-reddening skin. Martell thought he might start to cry. ‘I kn
ow you, Silvertongue, you were looking to use Marshwood for yourself. And you, Black Magician, you seek power, too? I’m disappointed in you.’
‘No,’ Martell shouted. ‘I don’t care about anything like that. I just want to get home.’
‘I promised to release you.’
‘I know, but … I didn’t believe you.’
Firefox held Martell’s gaze for what felt like an eternity. His cruel smirk twitched. His eyes sparkled darkly. Then he exploded in a tremendous roar of laughter. ‘Haroo, haroo! Oh, my dear man, ‘I didn’t believe you.’ Of course you didn’t. Why should you? After all, I am a fairy, am I not? I’m a wicked, devious, spiteful creature. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That I’m a trickster? A liar? That I can’t be trusted to keep my word?’
He paused, waiting for an answer. Martell licked his lips nervously. It felt like a test. It was a test. And whatever answer he gave he suspected that Firefox would use it to damn him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t care either. I need to get back to my nephew.’
‘Go then,’ Firefox snapped. ‘Do you think I care what becomes of an old goat like you? You’ve done what I asked you to. As far as I’m concerned you can go back to England this very minute.’
A trick. It had to be a trick. But the way he seemed so disinterested in him … his preoccupation with the rings, which he now held up to the candlelight, admiring them with a lunatic’s grin …
‘The door under the south staircase,’ Firefox said absentmindedly. ‘It connects Marshwood to London. It’s how Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook are able to travel back and forth so easily. The Rag-and-Bone men, too. Now that the riddle has been solved I have no reason to keep you any longer. Silvertongue, give him the key.’
‘Master—’
‘The key, Silvertongue.’
The servant obliged. He handed over a small rusty key, which Martell clasped tightly in his hand. If it’s a trick, it doesn’t feel like one. It feels real. But can I trust him? He seems distracted—almost as if he isn’t even thinking about me. This could be my only chance to get out of here.
He reasoned he had a matter of moments before Firefox changed his mind.
Go, he told himself. Now.
He went as fast as he could. Back down the corridor, past the deserted ballroom, the kitchens, the bedrooms. When he reached the stairs he saw the door at once—a small, poky thing—it was no surprise he had never noticed it before. Briefly, a question flitted through his mind. If the spell has been broken, why aren’t Silvertongue and the other servants making their escape, too? He provided the answer himself. Because they want the grand prize. They don’t want London, they want the universe. The explanation seemed good enough, and as he fumbled with the lock, his heart thumped with excitement. Home. I’m actually going home. He wondered where Tony and Vanessa would be, what had happened to them during his absence? And how long had it been? Weeks? Months? He had no idea. Time in Marshwood was vague and changeable. The same meal could last seconds on one clock and hours on another. He hoped he hadn’t been away for too long. The children were counting on him. If he could just get home before Krook and Kepler found them …
The door creaked open. He saw only damp stone darkness. A tunnel smelling of moss and rain stretched out before him into blackened nothingness.
Closing the door behind himself, he took a deep breath, reached out his arms and inched his way forwards.
*
Much later—long after midnight, long after the rest of the servants had gone to bed—Firefox sat in his study examining the rings carefully. Such small little things. All this trouble for two measly bands of gold. He could have almost laughed. Tilting his hand from side to side he watched as they slid across his palm, back and forth, back and forth. The way they caught the firelight was strangely hypnotic. At the right angle they looked as if they were swimming with flames and shadows, darkness and smoke.
All this time. All those years.
‘What now?’ Silvertongue said. He stood by his master’s side, a position he hadn’t left since Martell had gone. He kept his eyes locked on the rings, their gleaming, taunting presence. The logs burning in the fireplace crackled and spat, filling the room with the rich smell of smoke. The night felt wild. Primal. Had the magic of the house ever been more visceral, more tangible than that night? It was everywhere—a hum of energy—a tingling anticipation. He felt as if a sweep of his arm would produce a trail of stardust behind it.
Marshwood was already beginning to wake up. Flexing its timbers. Emerging from years of nightmares.
‘Come, come, Silvertongue. You’re an intelligent man. Or at least you pretend to be. Haven’t you worked it out by now? How do you think a couple of gold rings can open all these doors? The clue is right there in the riddle.’
Thomas Silvertongue shook his head in confusion. He began reciting the riddle again, but Firefox cut him off with a wave of his hand. He giggled manically. ‘Marriage, Silvertongue. The rings represent marriage. If I want to open up the doors then I need to find myself a bride. Haroo, haroo!’
‘A bride…’ The smell of woodsmoke seemed stronger now. Firefox’s eyes twinkled brightly in the gloom: sparkling emeralds sunk deep in darkened rock. ‘But master, I don’t understand. Who are you going to marry?’
The reply came out as a cackle. ‘That’s easy, old friend. My one true love, of course. Who else? Haroo!’
Once he had stopped laughing he instructed Silvertongue to summon Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook immediately. ‘I have a proposition to put to them.’
He would say no more on the matter. Silvertongue obediently retreated out into the belly of the house, where the rows of still-locked doors greeted him.
When he looked back he saw Firefox admiring the rings, backlit by the roar of the fire. The visual was frighteningly demonic, and Silvertongue scurried away again as quickly as he could.
Outside, the wind howled.
28 - Martell Returns
When it all went wrong—and it did, there was no getting away from that—it happened in stages, like dominos toppling one after another. Tony used to like playing with his domino set when he was younger. He and Martell enjoyed dramatic games on the table in the kitchen, often building up complex labyrinths of tiles until a hand was exhausted and a winner crowned. He remembered those games fondly. Sometimes, when Martell was busy and Tony had no-one but Pushkin for company, he would make the dominos into rallies—upright processions that looped in great circles around the floor and could be set off by the simplest flick of a finger. There was always something spectacular about this process. The slithery chink of tiny tiles falling one after the other. The speed with which the drama spread, moving like a snake across the floor. It was strange to consider that all this action could be the result of one gentle push. The softest of touches. And then, once the first domino had fallen, nothing could stop the rest of them from going the same way.
When it all went wrong, and it did, it was very much like that.
*
Vanessa returned the following morning. Tony hadn’t thought he would see her again so soon, but when he came down to the kitchen there she was, sitting at the table and working her way through a pile of ominous hardbacks. Though he had expected some reaction when he came in—a smile, a scowl: anything—Vanessa refused to even look at him. She kept her eyes focused on the open pages of the book, trailing her finger down its tightly-packed columns while writing notes on a separate sheet of paper.
‘You came back.’ The words sounded strangely flat. He might have been describing the weather. ‘I’m glad,’ he said. And he was. He really was. He hated the way they had fallen out the night before. He hadn’t meant to be so callous—he knew how dangerous coming back to Dover Street was. But at the time it had made sense. There were books here, there was knowledge, there was familiarity.
Not that it mattered now, though. He had been told that he had to leave after breakfast. Not safe, that was what Ebenezer said. And t
hough he hated to admit it, the thought of Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook actually visiting The Wand yesterday—studying the layout, assessing Trina and Ebenezer like hungry lions eyeing up antelope—that gave him the shivers.
Why had he come back?
Desperation, he supposed.
Because he had nowhere else to go.
He made himself a bowl of cornflakes and joined her at the table. She continued reading, stopping only to cross-reference something in the pages of one of the other books. Tilting his head to one side he tried to read their titles.
A History Of Faerie by Jane Chapman-Wallace.
Instruments Of Dark Purpose by Jack Snapps.
Merlyn’s Runes by Hin-Lon Cho.
‘I didn’t think you’d come back,’ he said eventually.
‘I didn’t either.’ Still no eye contact, but at least she was talking now. He took it as an improvement.
‘You know Trina and Ebenezer won’t let me stay.’
‘I should hope not.’
‘I’ve got to leave again after breakfast. I don’t know where I’ll go.’
Silence again. He sighed. Taking a walk to the doorway he peered out into the shop, where Trina and Ebenezer were preparing to open up. He saw them tidying the shelves, adjusting the displays. The scene was striking in its ordinariness, and gave him a pang of nostalgia for the mornings he used to spend helping his uncle get Martell’s Antiques ready for the coming day. Upon seeing him, Trina hurried over and ushered him out of sight. Out of the way, Tony, love. We don’t want anyone to see you. Ebenezer followed, drawing a velvet drape across the doorway and cutting off access to the shop altogether.
‘When you’re ready, go out the back,’ he whispered. ‘If we see either of the men after you we’ll hold them off for as long as we can.’
Tony nodded numbly. He had hoped to the morning would bring a change of plan—no, stay, you’ll be safe here after all—but if anything the Snouts seemed more determined than ever to get him out of there. He took himself over to the kitchen window. It looked out onto a small courtyard filled with lashing rain. The sky was black and apocalyptic; a dark sea that stretched out overhead for as far as he could see. The violence of the rain bouncing off the glass made the inside of the kitchen feel like a submarine. The whole city could have been underwater, a twenty-first century Atlantis drowning right before his eyes.