The Bell at Sealey Head

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  Ysabo touched a bird the color of dawn, perched among the golden leaves of an immense tree.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered. “All this time I never saw it. I turned empty page after empty page, never knowing... Why, Ridley?” She stared at him, her eyes wide, burning again, as though he might have an answer to her life. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered softly. He turned a page, looking for answers there, maybe, then another. And then she stopped him, touching something familiar: a feast in a great hall, tables filled with knights and ladies, bright banners hanging above their heads. “Is that us?” she wondered. But no: the hall doors were open to reveal a meadow full of wildflowers, birds flying across a cloudless sky. And a crowned figure sat at the center of the table, an old man with hair like gray tree moss beside her. She turned another page, lingered there again, gazing at the dark water, sky the color of silver, trees loosing their last leaves. Upon a tiny island in the middle of the water, a silver shield lay like something lost, a torn pennant beside it.

  “I know this,” she whispered. “Why do I know it?”

  “How could you?” Ridley asked with wonder. She lifted her eyes, looked at him, but saw Maeve and Aveline instead, embroidering the air with memories as they sewed.

  “It’s a place they described, Maeve and Aveline. As though they’d been there.”

  “How could they have?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned another page, her fingers trembling. “I don’t know. Here.” She stopped at another image, of huge, worn stones in a wild wood, ancient trees around them tangled together like brambles. Queen Hydria was there, too, with an entourage of knights and nobles, and the strange old man in his long robe. “It was a place full of magic, Maeve said.” Her voice shook. “She said she could feel it.”

  “But how?” Ridley’s own voice vanished for a moment. “How could they have left this house?”

  “I don’t know, Ridley. When we sew together in the mornings, they talk about other times, other places, as though they remember them. As though they had other lives beyond Aislinn House. Or in this book, somehow ... But if they are part of the ritual, they must have been born here, like I was.”

  Ridley’s voice returned abruptly. “Can you ask them?”

  “They wouldn’t answer anything. They would only be furious with me for taking the book out of the tower, disrupting the ritual. That’s all they would see. Not the strangeness of their lives, their memories, but the ritual.”

  “They may know who made the book.”

  “Never ask. That’s what they have told me all my life. They don’t answer even if they know.”

  Ridley was silent, his eyes on the painted stones, his mind elsewhere, Ysabo guessed. He said finally, “Princess Ysabo, is there a place you can stay safe and out of sight in this house while I work?”

  “I don’t know where to go to be safe,” she answered, taking a bleak look at her life. “Can you raise the grate in the river at the wall, so that I could leave Aislinn House in this boat? I could wait for you beside the sea. The knights and the crows might not find me there.”

  “I doubt that you would find the sea through those woods,” Ridley said grimly. “They’re part of the magic. When the knights leave the house at midday, where do they really go? I’ve watched them. Wherever they go, it’s into a different wood. Or a different time. They vanish the moment they ride away from the house.”

  She stared at him, chilled. “Then there truly is no way out of this house?”

  “Unless you go through the stillroom pantry door into Emma’s world. But I have no idea what would happen to you, even if you could. From this side, that door might just as easily open to nowhere as well.”

  She was silent, her thoughts threading their way through the maze of her life, coming up again and again against solid walls, locked doors, passages that spiraled endlessly and went nowhere. “Well, then,” she whispered. “Well, then, Ridley Dow, we must find our own way out. You must undo what Nemos Moore did. You must unbind the spell.”

  “Yes.”

  “But what—Where do we begin?”

  He was gazing at her, his lips parted, his eyes invisible behind reflections of light in his lenses. “You’re sure,” he said finally. “I could unlock the tower door, you could feed the crows, you could wait for me safely within your life.”

  She shook her head wearily, looking down at the shadowy stream flowing silently out, away, into. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. Not even to the crows. Where should we go from here?”

  “That bell,” he said slowly, “has enough power in it to disturb perfectly comfortable lives as far away as Landringham. It is the single strangest, oldest, and most consistent link between two worlds. I want to find it. Do you have any idea where it is?”

  “No.”

  “Who rings it?”

  “No,” she said again. “I never wondered about it. It’s part of the ritual, part of our lives, a piece of the pattern of someone’s day. Light this candle, lock that door, ring this bell.”

  He nodded. “I watched many pieces of the ritual. Most of them, like yours, were either absurd or hauntingly evocative, like the midday ceremony of the knights. I followed everyone I could, including Maeve and Aveline. No one led me to the bell. I spent much of yesterday trying to find that bell in books. Nemos Moore heard it; it’s what drew him here. But if he saw it, he kept it hidden between the lines.”

  “How can we find between the lines?” she asked, her red brows crooked. “It isn’t part of the ritual.”

  “No. It’s not. That’s the point...” His voice faded; he stared at her with absolute intensity, and without seeing her at all. When he spoke again, his voice had no sound. “That’s where you are now. Between the lines.”

  “What?”

  He saw her again, but slowly, as though he were struggling to waken from a powerful dream. “And that’s where the bell is. Between the lines. It isn’t part of the ritual at all. That’s why I didn’t see anyone ring it.”

  “But, Ridley, it is,” she protested. “The bell calls me to the great hall to arrange the chairs, fill the cups. It summons others to the table. It is what we listen for, at the end of every day. It rings the sun down.”

  “It is hidden, disguised within the ritual. But it is not part of the ritual. It’s like the book. When you see it as part of your ritual, it is blank. But if you look at it as it truly is—”

  “It is full of treasures,” she breathed. “Outside of the ritual, it is itself.”

  “And that’s where the bell is. Outside of the ritual.”

  “Nobody in this house is outside of the ritual but you, Ridley Dow. And even if we could look for it, how would we find such a place?”

  “You found it,” he told her, “when you turned your back on the crows and came down here instead. It’s the place where you are Ysabo. Where you live your life as you choose, where you ask questions and search for answers. Right now, you are outside. Between the lines of your daily patterns.”

  “Yes,” she said, glancing again at the silken flow of water in the light, the stone arching above them. “I shouldn’t be here at this time. But I still don’t see a bell, inside or outside of the ritual, and if it truly is outside, then who outside is ringing it?”

  He was silent again, staring at her again, as though if he looked hard enough, waited long enough, she might come up with an answer for him. But it was himself he searched.

  “Oh,” he whispered; she watched his eyes filling with wordless answers. “Oh, Ysabo, I think I know where it might be. What we might be looking for, trapped within the lines ... Those were never blank pages you saw in this book. They were closed doors. And now, look: every one of them is open.”

  “Ridley—”

  “Don’t be afraid. Now we know where to begin.”

  “Ridley,” she whispered, for her voice was gone, drained by the shape of whatever it was watching them in the dark just on the edge of their circle
of light.

  “You don’t die easily, Mr. Dow,” a dry, sinewy voice commented, and Ridley stood up so fast that the boat tipped wildly in the water, sent up a splash between wood and the stone it was chained to.

  The man who stepped into the light was tall, lean, fair-haired, with eyes of a dark, brilliant blue; their alertness and attentiveness reminded Ysabo of Ridley. The stranger was also fashionably dressed, with the same rich and subtle details. His face, pale and lightly lined, was scarcely middle-aged. His eyes said differently. Ysabo, staring into them, thought they must be as old as the dark, still water beneath her feet.

  He smiled briefly, aimed a bow her direction.

  “Princess Ysabo. Surely you should not be down here at this time of the morning. I thought Maeve and Aveline had trained you better than this. You know that the moon will fall out of the sky and the sea run dry if you do not attend to the ritual.”

  “How do you know such things?” she demanded, prickling with wonder and sudden fear.

  Ridley answered her abruptly. “Mr. Moren,” he said, rocking with the boat. “Or should I call you Mr. Pilchard? Or are you finally admitting to the name of Nemos Moore?”

  “Call me what you like,” Nemos Moore said, shrugging. “You’ll not need any of them much longer, Mr. Dow. You are truly the last person I would have expected to find here. The mild and scholarly and rather gormless young man adrift in the wake of Miranda Beryl’s circle, hopelessly endeavoring to interest her, in the rare moments she found herself with nothing better to do than to speak to you, in the life cycle of toads. Yet here you are. I am forced to wonder why. I am forced to adjust my ideas of you. Clever enough to find your way here, fearless enough to breach these dangerous walls, powerful enough to stay alive this long . . . Why, Mr. Dow? What possessed you to come here?”

  “The bell.” He was quite still now; so was the boat, as motionless in the water as though something had seized it from beneath.

  “Ah. A wonderful mystery for those willing to brave centuries of dusty tales.”

  “Your book.”

  “My book. Of course you would have run across it eventually in your studies. But how did you know it was mine?”

  “You.”

  Nemos Moore’s brows leaped up. “What could I possibly have done in Landringham that caught your myopic attention and persuaded you that Mr. Moren is Nemos Moore?”

  “You reminded me of me.” The sorcerer, rendered speechless, stared at him. Ysabo, her hands over her mouth, glimpsed a rippling, glittering, amorphous thing he wore like a shadow over his skin. “I was curious,” Ridley went on, “about Nemos Moore’s antecedents. Imagine my surprise when I found I recognized them in my own. Ancient relatives should have the grace and good manners to depart this life in an appropriate fashion, not make trouble across the centuries and leave cruel, spiteful distortions of magic for their descendants to clean up.”

  Nemos Moore found his voice finally. “Ah, I’ve had too much fun at it to give it up. Are we really related?”

  “My great-great-great-great—”

  “Surely not so many greats.”

  “Far too many,” Ridley agreed.

  “So that’s where you got your gifts . . . And how you kept them hidden from me.” He was silent again, briefly, his eyes narrowed, seeing things in the air between them. “Is that what you really want, Mr. Dow? A chance to possess this ancient labyrinth of power and wealth? Surely you can’t imagine you would win Miss Beryl’s extremely flighty regard simply because you have solved the mystery of the house she is about to inherit? I doubt that she would understand anything at all about it, even if you opened a door and showed her what marvels exist in Aislinn House. She would assume it’s all part of her own house party, her guests entertaining themselves.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. Besides, I have my own plans for this house, as well as for Miss Beryl. I don’t like to be thwarted, Mr. Dow. It makes me mean-spirited and spiteful. As you have seen. Haven’t you?”

  “Amply.”

  “So you should just go away. Leave Sealey Head, leave Landringham, leave the country. Will you do that, Mr. Dow?”

  “You didn’t offer me that option yesterday,” Ridley said with a touch of asperity, “when you tried to kill me with your cooking.”

  “I didn’t know we were related then, did I? For the sake of family ties, I might consider offering you some recompense to go away. Money? A share in my long and extraordinary experience of the magical arts? Perhaps, if I can learn to trust you, we might form some kind of a partnership. Such gifts you inherited from me shouldn’t be wasted. And perhaps, over time, I could teach you to think like me.” He paused. Ridley said nothing, did not move, did not, to Ysabo’s eyes, seem even to be breathing. The sorcerer shrugged. “I could never understand a man who would not compromise when there is no other option. Good day, Mr. Dow.”

  Ridley flung up his hand instantly, murmuring. But the strange, darkly gleaming shadow around Nemos Moore had already flared. Light flashed through the chamber, turned the water to molten silver. Half-blinded, Ysabo threw her arm over her eyes. She heard Ridley cry out. The air rustled around her like satin, like dry leaves, like paper. She felt a hand clamp around her wrist just before she fell out of the world.

  Twenty

  Gwyneth wrote:

  The feast offered to the men of Sealey Head, Lord Aislinn, Sir Magnus Sproule, Mr. Blair, Mr. Cauley, their wives, and Lord Aislinn’s daughter by the captain of the visiting ship was every bit as elegant as the strangers themselves. There were swans and peacocks stuffed with rice flavored with cinnamon and rose water and colored gold with saffron; there was roast boar stuffed with onions and chestnuts; there was a great roast of beef, bloody, peppered, and served with a sauce of its own juices. There were delicate bisques of wild mushrooms, of asparagus in cream; there were dishes of vegetables of every kind, even those like potatoes fried with apples, and colorful steamed squashes, that were not yet in season. There were cheeses that melted to cream in the mouth, and pungent cheeses that bit back; there was such an extravagance of fruit, such color and variety that must bring a blush to the cheek of the modest reader were we to describe it. And the array of cakes interspersed among the fruits seemed wondrous works of art more suitable for worship than for eating, especially the great sculpted tower of chocolate, cream, meringue, and raspberry sauce that rose majestically in the midst of them.

  In all, a stupendous and gratifying supper for the long-suffering inhabitants of Sealey Head, who fell upon it with great gusto and cries of delight. And is it any wonder if, consuming such magnificent fare, they did not notice that not one dish contained any of the fruits of the sea? Not a fish, an oyster, a lobster was to be seen on the groaning board. Not the least shrimp, the humblest whelk. Can we blame them for their oversight in the midst of what they considered the epitome of plenty?

  And, of course, all was served with unstinted and unending bottles of wine, champagne, port, and brandy. At the end of the meal, when surfeited ladies reached for one more grape or sweetmeat, and men cracked nuts together between their fingers, even then, no one wanted to leave. The visitors spoke so cordially, so eloquently of the far-flung ports, strange customs, astounding animals they had seen that they fairly mesmerized their guests. They, too, seemed reluctant to signal an end to the evening.

  No one, later, remembered who made the first, idle mention of cards.

  The idea was seized upon by all. No one knew how late it was; no one cared. What was there to get up for in the morning but the drudgery of daily life in Sealey Head? Even the captain admitted to a willingness to allow a certain slackness to the tasks of the morning. There was no tide they had to catch immediately. They had all been confined to the ship. Let the crew have the morning hours to swim, tend to their gear, entertain themselves.

  The tables were cleared except for such necessities as nuts, chocolates, sugared ginger, grapes, and, of course, bottles. The ladies declined, sat together
on silken cushions, reveling in their indolence, nibbling and gossiping. Lord Aislinn’s daughter, Eloise, lay back in silence and watched the wonderful faces of the visitors, their bright eyes, and long, glossy hair. She was in love with all of them.

  Her father dealt the first hand.

  “Gwyneth!”

  She started, her pen making a little lightning stroke of her last word. Aunt Phoebe’s voice sounded a trifle high, even tense. And fairly loud as well: she must have come to the bottom of the attic stairs. Gwyneth put her pen down, blinking; she glanced out the gable window and was surprised by all the light. It should have been the middle of the night.

  “Coming,” she called, opening the door. It was still morning, she remembered, and wondered if she had forgotten to do something for her aunt. Phoebe waited for her to descend. She had something in her hand: a little bundle tied up in a ribbon. She did not look happy with it. She wore the particular expression, a mingling of disapprobation, regret, and resolution, that the twins had named her Duty Face.

  “This came from Judd Cauley,” she said, when Gwyneth reached the bottom of the stairs. She dangled the bundle by the ribbon with her fingertips. “To you.”

  “A book!” Gwyneth exclaimed with delight. “I wonder if it’s that one of Mr. Dow’s we talked about. The Secret Education of Nemos Moore. That sounds like it. Let me see what the note says.” She tucked the book under her arm, and tried to ignore the wild iris that had been slipped beneath the ribbon.

  “He sent you a flower,” Aunt Phoebe pointed out.

  “So he did,” Gwyneth said, opening the note.

  “I noticed at the party that there was a certain familiarity between you.”

  “Was there?” Gwyneth murmured, skimming the paragraph.

  “He called you Gwyneth.”

  “Did he?”

  “You called him Judd.”

  “Aunt Phoebe, we’ve known each other since we were born.”