Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  And then her dream strolled in.

  Jon was in the doorway. He was coming towards her, ignoring everyone else, hair flaring around his shoulders, his face serious and radiant in the semidarkness.

  “Rosie, could you come with me? I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure,” she answered, affecting nonchalance.

  In silence, he led her along the passages where she always got lost. Her heart was lurching. Jon’s presence beside her was so vivid, warm and silken, it was all she could do not to grab him. This tactic usually worked for Mel, but Rosie was too nervous to risk the utter hash she knew she’d make of it.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked lightly, to break the silence.

  “Lucas was taken ill,” said Jon. “He threw up and sort of passed out. He seems okay now, but he’s asking for you.”

  Rosie’s heart plunged. Her dream shattered; fear filled the void. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Too much cider, he says.”

  “The stupid idiot!”

  Jon brought her to a staircase she’d never found before and led her to the top floor. The scent of flowers and candles wreathed the landing. Everything was ivory with touches of green, and Japanese calligraphy on the walls.

  “He’s in here,” said Jon, smiling apologetically as he opened a door to a Chinese-style red sitting room with two sofas.

  She was furious, but when she saw Lucas, bone-white and shivering, with Sapphire tending to him, her heart melted. “What’s all this?” she said, sitting beside him. “You can’t start knocking drink back like a Norse god, you know. You’re not even old enough.”

  He gave a wan smile. “I know. Promise you won’t tell the parents.”

  “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Wilder,” Rosie said, feeling awkwardly responsible. “He usually knows how to behave.”

  “Not your fault, dear. All part of growing up, unfortunately.”

  Jon said, “Is it all right if I go, Sapphire? I should get back to the others.”

  Sapphire turned coolly to him and said, “Your guests might want to think about going home or to bed. Sort them out and I’ll look after these two.”

  “Thanks.” Jon sidled out, to Rosie’s dismay. He was obviously relieved to escape, and not remotely interested in spending time in her company. Nothing had changed. Something died a little inside her.

  “I could phone my father and ask him to collect us,” she said.

  As Sapphire leaned forward, all gloss and serenity, Rosie had a strange mixed feeling of being cosseted and trapped. Her creamy voice was enchanting. “No need for that. We don’t want Lucas to land in trouble, do we?”

  “Dad’s not an ogre,” Rosie said sharply. “He’d tut a bit, then it would be forgotten.”

  “Still be embarrassing,” said Lucas. “I’d rather stay, Rosie, honest. I’m fine.”

  She sighed, her nerves wavering at the thought of a long, haunted night in the manor. If she were pressed close against Jon all night, of course, that would be different—she suppressed the thought. “As long as you’re feeling better.”

  “I’ve made camomile tea,” said Sapphire, pouring from a bamboo-handled teapot. “It’s so nice, having this chance to know you better. We’ve never really talked, have we?”

  “No, not really,” Rosie said guardedly. Sapphire was so charismatic and confident. Her presence filled the room like the fragrance of jasmine, and Rosie still wasn’t convinced she was human. With some Aetherials, as Auberon had said, it was hard to tell. They held their aura in so tight you couldn’t sense it. Why would someone like Lawrence marry a human?

  “It’s lovely to see such a happy, close family as yours,” Sapphire went on, handing Rosie a cup and saucer. “I’m afraid Jon and Sam have suffered from the absence of a mother or a proper home life. I’m trying to make it up to them.”

  “Um—yes. I can’t imagine life without our mum.” She sipped the scalding honeyed tea to cover her awkwardness.

  “You’re a cautious soul, aren’t you, Rosie?” Sapphire smiled. “You don’t give much away. I hope you’ll open up once we know each other. Unfortunately, Lawrence and I have been too busy with the jewelry business to socialize as we planned, but I’d like that to change.”

  “Oh . . . I know my dad and Mr. Wilder are acquainted, but we’ve never seen much of him—I mean, we don’t know what our parents get up to, it’s like a different world.” Rosie smiled weakly.

  “But you’re quite close to Jon and Sam?”

  “No, we never had the chance. They were away at boarding school and . . .”

  “Yes, it’s such a shame. Sam’s a law unto himself, of course, but you and Jon seem to get on well, don’t you, Lucas?”

  “Yeah, he’s great,” said Lucas, looking startled.

  “He really likes you too, dear. I think Jon and Lucas are like peas in a pod, don’t you, Rosie?” Sapphire smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “A pair of truly fine-looking young men.”

  Lucas squirmed, coloring. In other circumstances it would have made Rosie laugh. She said, “I hadn’t noticed, but I suppose they are.”

  Sapphire’s smile became knowing, confidential. “Of course you’ve noticed. Women do. We understand, at a deeper lever, things that aren’t apparent on the surface.”

  There was a strange moment in which Sapphire’s gaze hung on Rosie’s; probing, implying, watching her reaction. Puzzled, Rosie frowned. Sapphire caught the look and the probing abruptly stopped.

  “You know, dears,” she said, smoothing over the moment, “if there’s one thing I’d advise young people to do, it’s to talk to their parents. Honest communication is the key to happiness.”

  “We do talk to them,” said Rosie, concerned that Sapphire was implying a problem where none existed. “They’re great.”

  Sapphire’s perfect eyebrows twitched. Her full pink lips parted. “Good,” she smiled. “We’ll talk again. Now, you should sleep. We have spare rooms, but not many with actual beds in them; Lawrence’s ex-wife wasn’t much for homemaking, as you’ve probably gathered. Will you be all right on the sofas here? I’ll bring duvets and pillows. That way you can keep an eye on your brother.”

  “Thanks so much,” said Rosie. “It’s really kind of you.”

  “My pleasure, dears.” Sapphire blew them a kiss.

  _______

  Lucas was in the attic with Jon. The winged being was there in front of them—not a painting, but alive and hiding its face in its hands. Now and then it uttered a faint, anguished sob.

  Sapphire was there too, bending over the angel’s head. She was barely visible among the heaped shadows. “This is your father’s business,” she said.

  “We have to let it go,” said Lucas, distraught. “You can’t keep it prisoner here, it’s wrong, it’s cruel!”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” said Sapphire. She put her hand beneath the being’s face and caught a large, shining tear. When she held it up, Lucas saw that she was holding a tear-shaped Elfstone. “This is where albinite comes from. It’s the tears of the caged god.”

  “Why’s it crying?” said Jon.

  “For all the unrequited love, dear,” said Sapphire.

  Lucas woke violently, his heart racing from the horrible, haunting dream. It took him moments to work out where he was. He looked up at the ceiling and wondered if the attic was above him, the angel in the painting still up there weeping?

  He tried to sleep, but the room spun and he was falling into the stone jaws of the Gates again. His sister was fast asleep. Thirsty and starving, Lucas decided to go in search of the kitchen.

  Rosie didn’t stir as he slipped from the room. He tiptoed into the corridor, barefoot in pajamas, and felt his way down to the middle floor, where chill moonlight lit the long gallery. Rosie always complained that the house shifted and played tricks, but to him it felt all too solid, like a fortress.

  Carpets prickled his feet; the stair treads were cold and waxy, then came the flagstones of the great hall, like walking o
n ice. The drug was still working through his system, making every sense too vivid. Perhaps he was still dreaming.

  The kitchen had been expensively refitted and smelled of new wood—Sapphire’s touch. Lozenges of moonlight fell on blond wood and black marble. He found the sink under a window, put his mouth under the tap and took a long cold drink of water. Then he groped his way along a countertop until his hands found a china cookie jar.

  As he removed the lid, he had a sudden impression that the jar was mounded to the rim with human brains—or mushroom caps. He recoiled. No, only oat cookies. He took one and it tasted incredible.

  He ate and wondered about Jon—what he’d truly intended by handing out magic mushrooms—but he couldn’t think straight. The moonlight was solid like crystal, and the darkness had a furry texture against his skin. Nothing felt right. Only the mealy warmth of oats on his tongue anchored him to reality.

  Then something touched him in the dark.

  There was a shadow by his thighs, nosing for the crumbs he was dropping. He pushed forward with one knee but it went through thin air. The shadow had no weight and no scent, yet it was there. Not animal, but something sinuous and hungry, with a touch like damp leather.

  Lucas was petrified. His arm flattened along the wall and found a light switch. A blaze of light dazzled him, but through it he saw there was no demon at his feet.

  There was, however, a man in the room with him.

  An island unit stood in the center, and the man was on the far side, staring at him. Pallid skin molded over harsh bones, black hair swept back, narrow eyes colorless. The face from his drug nightmare. “Turn out the light,” he hissed.

  Terrified, Lucas obeyed. Now he was blind in the darkness. “I—I—I’m sorry, Mr. Wilder,” he choked out. “I didn’t know you were—I’ll go.”

  “No.” A hand fell on Lucas’s left shoulder, making him jump as if a live electric cable had lashed him. “It’s all right, Lucas.” Lawrence’s deep, quiet voice rolled out of the velvety darkness. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’m sorry.”

  “ ’Sokay.” He knew Lawrence could feel him trembling but he couldn’t stop.

  Another hand came behind him to grip the right shoulder as well. “Are you all right? Take deep breaths. I think that’s the advice.”

  Lucas shuddered, mortified. He felt his heart slowing as the wave of shock faded.

  “Couldn’t sleep either, eh?” Lawrence asked. He sounded friendly.

  “No, sir,” Lucas mumbled. “I was hungry.”

  “Absolutely. Help yourself. I was about to make tea.”

  The massive hands fell away. Silhouetted against the window, Lawrence filled a kettle and switched it on. Then he leaned on the countertop beside Lucas, in darkness in the weirdest silence Lucas had ever experienced. He didn’t know how to escape. Again he sensed a gryphon shape moving around the room. He daren’t say anything, but he stared, trying to see it.

  “It’s only a dysir,” said Lawrence. “One of my household guardians. Trouble is, they’re of dark Aetheric substance from Asru, so how can one be sure they’re not fragments of Brawth? I suspect they’re the same thing.”

  Lucas had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Making no sense, am I?” said Lawrence. “They’re like guard dogs but only there to warn, not to hurt. I command them, since the official dysir keeper deserted me, but that’s not to say I want them here, these compulsory trappings of office. Guardians or spies?”

  If Lucas had been human, he would have been convinced that Lawrence was utterly mad. Since they were both Aetherial, Lawrence seemed only three-quarters mad. “I’ve never seen anything like that in our house,” he said. “Not even in the Dusklands.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t,” Lawrence said softly. “Your family are happy and wholesome and they live as creatures of Aether should, with their roots in the earth and their branches in the light. Such haunts don’t plague your household.”

  “I—I should go back to bed.”

  “No, stay. Have some tea and talk to me.” Lawrence’s tone was impossible to disobey. He poured boiling water into mugs. “I’ll take a little whiskey in mine. Would you like some? For the fright?”

  Lucas coughed. “No—no thank you.”

  “Just a drop. You’re not a child.”

  “Oh, oh—all right then, sir, thanks.” Lucas began, rather innocently, to suspect that this was not Lawrence’s first drink of the evening.

  “You’re sixteen, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” The tea was black, sweet and fiery. If Rosie smelled it on his breath in the morning, she would have a fit. At this moment, though, he felt that morning would never come. Lawrence Wilder would surely drink his blood, or smother him.

  “Sixteen. Old enough for initiation rites. Old enough for knowledge. I suppose your father has painted a very grim picture of me?”

  “No, not at all,” he said. “I always got the impression he admires you—grudgingly, sort of, but he does.”

  Lawrence gave a bark of laughter. “Extraordinary. Ever the diplomat, the philanthropist, the backbone of our community, your father. I say your father . . .”

  Another silence. The laced tea was floating Lucas even further from reality. He watched the slithering dysir and waited for Wilder to continue.

  “Of course, the thing you should have been told, which you’re now old enough to be told, which no doubt your lovely family hoped to sweep under the carpet forever, is the fact that I am your father.”

  “You’re what?” Lucas laughed involuntarily. Lawrence laughed too, his barely visible face contorted with mirth.

  “You are my son, dear boy. Not Auberon’s. Mine.”

  6

  Battle of the Demons

  The next morning Lucas was quiet as they walked home; not companionably so, but deathly, lip-bitingly quiet. He’d insisted on leaving before anyone else got up. Rosie had to say everything twice to get his attention and then he looked through her with cloudy eyes.

  “What’s up with you?” she said. “Still nursing your hangover?”

  “No,” he retorted. He scowled, pushed his hands in his pockets. “I’m fine.”

  “So what did you get up to with Jon?” She couldn’t quite keep the envy out of her tone. “How special d’you have to be to join his secret clique?”

  “God, Rosie, are you obsessed? There are more important things than whether you can get off with Jon!” His outburst startled her. Then out of the blue he asked, “Do you think I look like him?”

  “Like Jon?” she said, thrown. “Not really.”

  “Do I look like Lawrence at all?”

  “No. Why would you?”

  “Because . . . last night I . . .” Lucas stopped in his tracks, sat down on a rock and rubbed his face with both hands. He sighed and stammered, and then the story came spilling out. Rosie absorbed it in disbelief. “I’ve got to ask Mum if it’s true,” he finished, agonized.

  She was staring at him, her mind reeling. “No, it can’t possibly be.”

  “Then why would Lawrence tell me such a massive lie?”

  “I don’t know! But think—you can’t ask Mum if she had an affair!”

  Lucas raised pained eyes to hers. “No, you’re right, I can’t. It’s too horrible.”

  After a moment of heavy silence, Rosie said, “All those strange hints Sapphire was dropping last night . . .” They stared at each other.

  “No. How could Sapphire know before me? That’s not fair. That would make it real and it’s not.”

  “Come on,” she said gently. “It’s probably a misunderstanding.”

  They pushed through the hawthorns into Oakholme’s garden and Jessica was there, throwing scraps to the birds in the soft morning sunshine. She was graceful and barefoot in a long skirt, her hair a messy golden veil. She waved, called them into the kitchen and poured coffee.

  As they sat at the big pine table, Lucas sat close to Rosie, silent as if waiting for someone to slap an expl
anation out of him. Jessica looked inquiringly at her daughter, who looked back without expression. “Are you both okay?” asked Jessica. “Good party, was it? Late night?”

  “It was odd,” Rosie answered when Lucas didn’t. “Which I suppose is normal for the Wilders.”

  Lucas went on gazing at his fingers wrapped around his coffee mug. “Has someone upset you?” Jessica asked more firmly. She touched his wrist but he pulled away.

  “No.” He chewed his lower lip, sighed and said, “I had the weirdest dream.”

  Rosie’s heart lurched into her throat. She shook her head, but he took no notice. “Yeah.” He looked his mother in the eye. “I dreamed I met Lawrence Wilder and he told me that he was my father. What sort of a dream was that?”

  “A completely ridiculous one,” said Rosie.

  Jessica didn’t laugh. Dismay shadowed her face. “Oh, my god,” she breathed.

  “It was a dream, though, wasn’t it, Mum?” Lucas focused intently on her. “Why would he lie about a thing like that?”

  “Oh my god,” Jessica said again. “Tell me what happened.”

  Lucas described his descent into the kitchen, a man in the darkness, a surreal conversation. Color came back to his face and he was almost gabbling with the relief of confession. “I tell you, it was like Star Wars, ‘I am your father, Luke,’ only without the costumes and heavy breathing. But why would he say that? I don’t get it.”

  “Bastard,” Jessica whispered. “He had no right. This wasn’t meant to happen.”

  “Mum?” said Rosie, alarmed.

  “Oh, god.” Jessica pushed her chair away and stood with her back to them. She put her hand to her mouth, let it drop. She walked about, hugging herself.

  Hard flakes of disbelief settled in Rosie’s heart as she watched her mother pacing and struggling. “He had no business . . . Lucas, I always meant to tell you, but the time was never right. This is wrong, you should have heard it from me, not him.”