by Gaie Sebold
His heart was, in fact, jittering along at some speed; he wondered if he had laid it on too thick. Her eyes were opaque as she gazed at him, then she blinked, like a lizard, and they were clear as the sky of a perfect June day, even to the tiny fluttering speck of a rising lark, in each.
He managed a smile at this little conceit, and its message. He was, for now, in her good books. She released her grip.
“Then by all means let us talk of more pleasant things. I shall introduce you to my latest pet; stand up, Pearl my jewel, and show my Little Fox how well you curtsey.”
The girl did, neatly and calmly, though Liu could see the hem of her dress tremble as she held it out. It seemed she had learned something of what manner of place she now dwelt in. Already her eyes followed the Queen constantly. Or perhaps she was just young, and fascinated to find herself living in a tale.
He hoped it ended better for her than it did for most of the Queen’s pets.
“I think her a great deal prettier than Aiden’s, though of course, that one is grown now,” the Queen said, patting the girl on the head.
Liu, listening with great care, detected a note, like struck metal, when she mentioned her son; something sharp and unpleasant to bite on.
“Soon,” the Queen went on, “his pet will become all crumpled, and bent, and I wonder how he will like her then?”
“Surely he will barely notice,” Liu said. “After all, when he must compare every human woman to you, Lady, such minor differences between them must seem trivial. What is one star a little duller than another, when they are all overshadowed by the brilliance of the moon?”
“I see that life among the humans has not dulled your tongue, at least. If you visit my son, you may see her, and make the comparison for yourself. He will certainly ask you for news of the Lower World.” Oh, there was definitely something there. Liu’s mind raced. Aiden had offended somehow; the two were on outs. Of course, the Prince would be reaching his majority. Perhaps he was already testing his strength against her.
Yes. He tucked the knowledge away.
“Lady?” The girl said. Her voice struck Liu immediately – it was unusually deep for such a young girl, with a resonance to it like a violin. “May I ask a question?”
The Queen smiled. “What a curious child it is! Go on, then.”
“Why do you call him your Little Fox?”
“Oh, he can explain it to you. Run along, the pair of you, I have webs to weave.”
THE GIRL LOOKED up at Liu with a kind of clear curiosity. He shrugged. “She calls me her Little Fox because I am a fox-spirit. Not completely. My father is one. My mother was human.”
“Sir, what is a fox-spirit?”
“Someone who can be human sometimes, and a fox other times. Part of me is a fox all the time.” He lifted his robe a little, to show her the tuft of his tail.
“Oh! How pretty!”
He bowed. “Thank you, that is most kind. I am fond of my tail, but it makes it troublesome to pass for human, sometimes. Though I have some other talents, which help.”
“Can you do magic?”
“A little. I can do some things a fox can when I am human and some things a human can when I am a fox. And some other things. I don’t always have to look like this.” I can deceive and persuade and steal and lie and hide and sneak and hunt. Better than most humans, better than most foxes. But he didn’t want to say those things to this small, vulnerable girl. “How did you come here?”
“I was brought by a man, sir. Because Papa has no work and they can’t pay the rent.”
“Oh... and how are you finding it?”
She looked up at him with those clear eyes, and he could see her calculating what would be safe to say, and what would not. “It is very beautiful,” she said. “And I have plenty to eat, and no-one is allowed to hurt me, because the Queen would not like it.”
Except the Queen herself. That truth hung in the air, unspoken.
“Tell me, have you met Charlotte?”
“Aiden’s pet? Yes.”
“And do you like her?”
“She has been very kind to me,” Pearl said. “But I think...” She glanced away, and pointed. “Look, apples!” She ran towards a grove of trees, where rich red fruit hung gleaming among thick drifts of pink and white blossom.
Liu considered telling her that she was safe saying what she wished to him, but was it true? If he showed too great an interest in her the Queen might question whether he was as bored with humans as he claimed. Sending them off together this way could have been a ploy; in this place there were always a dozen eyes and ears ready to collect titbits for the Queen.
The girl came back with an apple in each hand, and held one up to Liu. “Would you like one?”
“Thank you,” he said. “I will save it for later.” He knew the Queen’s tricks, or some of them, at least. He wouldn’t eat the apple, not here. For the girl... but she had already bitten into it, with loud relish. “You must please the Queen very much,” he said. “She used to have another pet, but I did not see him. Perhaps she has tired of his music.”
“Oh, the Harp?” Pearl said, around a mouthful of apple, and shook her head. She swallowed. “She sent him away, sir.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t mean for her to,” Pearl said, looking down at the remains of the apple. Its flesh was very white, like frost. “It was just I couldn’t help it, he sang so sad, and it made me cry. She didn’t like that.”
“Well, no, who wants to see little girls cry?”
“She might.” Pearl looked up at him with those clear green eyes. “She might if I displeased her.”
“Then I hope you will not,” Liu said. His tone was light, but he knew his eyes were telling a different story. Oh, he did not need this, to worry about this stray scrap of humanity. She was a bright girl, and already, it seemed, had found her feet as best she could in the ever-shifting dance of the Queen’s favour. She must make her own fate. He had enough to worry about keeping Eveline from the Queen’s notice. And rescuing his father.
He had never been sure what exactly had set Min on such a vengeful course. Min, it seemed, being very traditional, had never approved of Chen Shun’s rise to Ao Guang’s favour – but they were hardly rivals. Min’s rank and status were so long-established as to be carved in granite.
Perhaps he was just of a vengeful nature. It was not something Liu himself much understood – if one was bested, one was bested. Better, surely, to move on, and find something more amusing to occupy oneself with.
Such as getting Eveline what she wanted, saving his father’s skin and, preferably, his own.
He looked at the girl again. “Do you know where he was sent?”
“Somewhere called the Valley of Sighs, sir.”
Liu sighed himself. “Of course he was. You need not call me sir, you know. I’m not of so much consequence as all that!”
“Oh. May I ask you something?”
“By all means.”
“Will you be going ho...” She corrected herself. “Back to the Lower World?”
“Oh, yes, I fear I must.”
The child looked around. From a nearby waterfall came the sound of laughter, chilly and clear. Some small, glimmering creature, about the length of Liu’s hand, flew past the girl, circled them both briefly, and paused, its wings a blur of rainbow mist, its small pointed face with glittering faceted eyes atilt as it watched them.
“Nothing,” the girl said. “I am glad not to be there any more.”
Liu nodded. “I am not surprised,” he said. “I expect where you come from is much less charming than this. Where was it, exactly?”
“Limehouse.”
“Oh, I know of it, a most unpleasant place. I am sure you were glad to leave.”
“Yes,” the girl said, watching him carefully. “Yes, it was ugly and smelled bad. I did not know then, that I could be so very lucky.”
“I would not be surprised if you had changed your name,” he said, with gre
at casualness. “Human names are so ugly and odd!”
“Oh, the Queen was pleased to like my name,” Pearl said. “It is Huntridge. The sound makes her laugh.”
“I’m sure! It is most amusing,” Liu said, “and even in Limehouse, perhaps quite unusual. I am sure there cannot be very many people of that name, should one check. I might even do so. Perhaps I shall become a scholar of human names, and write a treatise, and bore everybody...”
The glittering creature flew off.
“I think if you checked,” the girl said, “you might find that the name is mostly found about Hind Street.”
“And the man who brought you here, did he have an amusing name?”
“Oh, yes, it was Stug. Is it not ridiculous?”
Stug. Stug. He had heard that name before... oh.
“Yes,” he said. “A most foolish name.”
IN THE VALLEY of Sighs, the wind moans in the bare branches. Here, indeed, the sedge is withered from the lake, and no birds sing. This is the place of exile, where those banished from the Queen’s regard drift like ghosts among the empty trees.
Some drift no longer. They stand, or sit, or lie, unmoving. A faint shimmer, a gleam like mica or moonlight, encrusts their skin, flickers in their eyes; but they are gone, lost. These have been too long banished. It pleases the Queen, and those who would avoid the same fate, to assume that, too long out of her notice, they have succumbed to despair. But despair has less to do with it than the air of this place, imbued with a magic older even than the Queen’s, that will fold into its everlasting embrace any who stay too long.
The still-moving avoid the stilled, seldom even glance at them, except unwillingly, from averted eyes. Are they alive, trapped in their chilled, glimmering, immobile flesh? The rest try not to think of it, and cover their ears, or sing loudly, whenever they think they might hear lost voices, wailing among the trees.
Oh, yes, the banished sing. They make songs for the Queen, of their loyalty and love. They create, as best they can, entertainments for her averted ears and eyes, hoping that the guards or one of her hundreds of little spies will report back to her, will plead their case for return to the Court; or that she, on one of her rare visits, may be pleased to... be pleased. The faintest rumour of such a visit runs through the place like plague, sending them all into a fever, rattling the trees with songs and dances and demonstrations of wit.
In this grey place, all falls flat, echoless and thin. But sometimes, the Queen will deign to notice their efforts, may, even, take one or another back into her favour. Their desperation feeds her. She requires, lives upon, their longing.
Liu, feeling his mouth stiffen with loathing and nerves, steps lively and bright-eyed among the whimpering trees. He knows dozens of eyes are on him. Visitors are positively encouraged by the Queen – she feels it does no harm for her people to remind themselves of what happens to those who fail in their worship.
The guards glance at him, and turn away, pretending unconcern. His presence will be the source of bitter, anxious gossip and speculation within moments. The guards are members of the court whose exile is temporary – theirs are lesser offenses, their punishment is to see every day the fate that awaits them should they fail again. Or should the Queen’s whim change, or some rival whisper successfully in her ear that they have transgressed against perfect adoration.
They make very good guards.
He listens, fox-eared, fine hairs aquiver. There.
Faint and melancholy, the low moan of a breeze that is not quite the breeze in the branches, not quite a voice.
The Harp.
He is alone, in a clearing. His base rests in grass that nods with heavy silvery seed-heads, dancing to the music he cannot help but make.
He is not playing. His hands are limp at his sides. His eyes are shut. His gilded skin, still perfect and youthful, glimmers smooth and still. But his strings shiver in the faint constant breeze, a sigh of notes. The breeze plays him, denying him even the stubbornness of silence.
A harp. A harp whose frame is a young man’s body, its strings woven of his flowing hair and living nerves.
Liu must be very careful. He has calculated as best he can, but there are still so many things that could go wrong, through spite or sheer bad luck. And as he looks at what was once a man, a young harpist skilled enough, handsome enough, unfortunate enough to catch the Queen’s attention, Liu shudders all the way to the bottom of his soul.
He could still run.
But if he fails, his father will suffer for it.
It is so quiet here, apart from the hum of the wind in the Harp’s strings. There are no birds to sing, not in these bare and melancholy trees.
Liu looks at the Harp for a long time, trying to work out his best approach.
The Harp’s eyes open.
They are dark brown eyes, dreadfully weary, painfully human in that perfect, gilded, unageing face. Liu realises with a terrible, mortal tug, as though he too had strings, that the Harp’s eyes are the same colour as Eveline’s.
“Am I summoned?” The Harp’s voice is beautiful, too; or it should be. Its harmonies are arranged in a way that should be pleasing. But weariness soaks every word.
“No,” Liu says.
The Harp’s eyes close again, in something that looks a great deal like relief.
“I have... a thought,” Liu said.
The Harp does not answer.
“Tell me, what do you wish for?”
The Harp remains silent, though the corners of his mouth tighten the merest fraction.
“I can help you,” Liu says.
“No,” the Harp says. “No, you can’t.”
Liu detects a footstep behind him, and a scent he knows. Surprised, he turns.
“Well,” Charlotte says. “I hope you’re learning as you’re supposed to.”
“ME OR THE Harp?” Liu says, keeping his tone light. What is Eveline’s little sister doing here? She looks much the same; she has grown only as far as is pleasing to her master, and will, if he wills it, be fourteen for long ages – though even he cannot make her as long-lived as himself. Glossy curls cascade to her waist; her skin is palely perfect, her face and figure unmarked by the hardships Eveline has known.
“Both of you,” she says.
“Is that why you are here?” Liu says. “To remind yourself what becomes of those who... upset the Queen?”
“Why else would I be here?” Charlotte gives an exaggerated sigh.
“Why else indeed.” Liu forces back his exasperation; he is getting nowhere with the Harp, and although Eveline did not ask for news of her sister, he knows she longs for it, as does her mother.
Is Charlotte here on purpose to see him? He hopes she would not be so foolish as to make it obvious, especially here.
Not that the Harp would betray such a thing, or, probably, even notice; his lack of interest in the petty intrigues of the Court is one reason he has been banished to the Valley.
“I suppose she’s cross with you, and you’re hoping to get back in her favour. Though I can’t see why talking to him will be the least use.” Charlotte avoids looking directly at the Harp.
“Oh, one may learn from others’ mistakes, you know. Isn’t that the purpose of the Valley?”
“And what do you think you may learn from me?” The Harp says. He turns his gaze to Charlotte. “What but despair? That will not please your Queen.”
“Well, I don’t know why I should talk to you, if you’re only going to be miserable,” she says.
“That is now my function, I believe. Easy enough to fulfil.”
“I could help you,” Liu says.
“Leave me be,” the Harp says. “Let me...”
He falls silent, closes his eyes, as though he could make them go away.
“Let you what?” Liu says. “Become like these others? A statue to your own memory?”
“What can you offer me that is better?”
“A chance.”
“At what? Home? What do
you think they would make of me there?” He laughs, a terrible, wrenching sound. “Can you make me a man again, instead of this thing, this grotesquerie, this wretched, gilded nightmare?” The Harp writhes in his own frame. “You cannot,” he says. “Only the Queen has such power, and she will not do it. But even were I a man again, and could escape to the Lower World... what is there for me there? Everything I knew, everyone I loved, is dead a hundred years and more, dust on the wind. My home, if it is standing, houses strangers. The fine folk I played for, they have died, their velvets and satins shat out by moths. Leave me. Let me crumble away. All I have left to share with the world I knew is my own decay. Leave me that much. Go away.”
“Are you sure?” Liu says. He knows he is being cruel. But what he offers, surely, is better than this, he tells himself. “Are you sure you will crumble? Some of those who have stilled here, they are very old, they have been here a hundred mortal lifetimes and more, and have not crumbled. And none knows, if what is within them is fled... or not.”
“Better that,” the Harp whispers. “Better that than she use me as she has before.”
“Surely a luxurious captivity is better than such a cold fate.”
“Don’t!” Charlotte claps her hands to her ears. “Stop talking about it.”
“Yes,” the Harp says. “Stop.” He looks at Charlotte. “Poor child. I at least came willingly to my fate, although I did it in all ignorance. Poor child.”
“Don’t call me that!”
The Harp closes his eyes.
“So you came to see the Harp,” Liu says, “despite the fact that he obviously upsets you.”
“Why else?” Charlotte says. “Don’t think I wanted to see you.”