Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Love, of course it won’t.” Jessica bit her lip. The only spirits that got inside Faith’s mother at Stonegate, she thought, were vodka and whiskey. “Is that what’s worrying you? Has Matt been frightening you with stories?”

  “No. Sorry. Blame it on my hormones.” Alastair was coming towards them with a tray of drinks as Faith went on. “I’m looking for reasons for them being like they were but there aren’t any—they were just horrible people with an alcohol problem. I want to be a good parent, not a useless one.”

  “Hey, if you’re talking useless parents, can I join in?” Alastair said amiably, settling on the grass on Jessica’s left. “You’re so sweet and quiet, Faith, I thought your folks would be the same.”

  “No, they were loud—always drunk and rowing. They called me a freak, because I worked hard at school and made friends with Rosie. They thought I was getting above myself. I’ll never go back to that life, thank goodness.”

  “So that’s why you’re quiet—always getting shouted down, eh?” said Alastair. “Mine just shouldn’t have been together. Dad was a miserable devil and mother always threatening to leave. I thought it was my fault and if only I was better behaved, she’d stay.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought, too!” Faith exclaimed. Matthew strolled up with beer in hand and leaned on a nearby tree, nodding as if he’d heard his friend’s story before.

  “It didn’t matter how good I tried to be,” said Alastair. “She went anyway. She had all these other men on the go and she didn’t seem to give a damn about anyone but herself.” He sighed, adding cheerfully, “I got my own back, though. I squashed her wee dog.”

  Faith and Jess both stared at him.

  “Not on purpose!” he added hurriedly. “I was about eleven—I went to the house where she was living with this low-life. The low-life had a motorbike and he let me mess with it—only it was too heavy for me to handle and it fell over. Landed straight on this wretched little terrier she had and killed it stone-dead. God, she was absolutely wailing like I’d had murdered her baby. Afterwards I realized it was the only time I’d ever seen her truly in pain. I looked at her and I thought, Finally, lady, you know how I felt when you walked out. I swear, she loved that dog more than she ever did me. She never let me forget it, either. I decided to leave her to it. After my dad died, that was it—I moved to England, never saw her again.”

  “Alastair, what a sad story.” Faith blinked tears away.

  “It cracks me up,” said Matthew, grinning. “Okay, I know it’s not supposed to be funny, but when you think of the terrier’s face as a ton of motorbike descends towards it—oh come on, it’s hilarious. That’s Alastair—looks harmless, but he’s lethal to family pets.”

  “Keep him away from our cat,” Jessica said dryly.

  The dancers were returning, the parade over. Two of the Lyon sisters strutted past, dressed in flimsy, flowing scarlet and obviously loving the attention. Matthew watched them, sneering. “God, are we ever going to give up these cheesy old traditions?”

  Even as a young boy, Matthew had expressed an aversion to Aetherial matters. I wonder if we did something to scare him, thought Jessica, without even realizing it. “Those cheesy traditions are part of our heritage, thank you,” she said, sipping the white wine Alastair had brought her. “Something to keep our identity alive.”

  Matthew shook his head. He’d been in the real ale tent all afternoon, which made him even more forthright than usual. “But you only ever look at the pretty side, Mum. Dad never wanted us to go through the Gates in case all sorts of horrors happened to us on the other side. And you know what? I agree with him. Look what it does to people; you end up nuts like Lawrence, or locked up like Samuel.”

  “Oh, as if that never happens to humans?” Jessica arched her eyebrows at him. “We can also end up perfectly grounded and adorable, like your father and Rosie and Luc.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry, but nobody sane hangs around with Jon Wilder. And not content with having a crush on him, what’s with Rosie and this prison visiting lark?” Matthew caught Alastair’s eye and suddenly seemed to realize that deprecating Rosie was not the best idea. “Yeah, I know she’s adorable, but she shouldn’t be acting like a social worker for that crowd. She’s too kindhearted for her own good.”

  “I don’t like her going either, but she won’t listen to me,” said Alastair in the background.

  “All I’m suggesting is that every time you criticize Aetherials, you’re criticizing your own family,” said Jessica.

  Matthew kneeled behind them on the grass, putting one arm around his mother and one around Faith. “No, I’m not. I don’t mean it like that, Mum. You’re gorgeous and glamorous and so is Rosie. You’re faerie princesses and that’s fine. But it’s not for me and Faith. Is it?” He stroked his wife’s bump with an affectionate hand; she smiled. “The surface world is enough for us.”

  Rosie came running up in her firebird costume, out of breath and exhilarated, oblivious of their conversation. Jessica smiled at the affectionate ease with which she and Alastair put their arms around each other. Sensible girl, recognizing at twenty-one the advantages of stability over heart-tearing passion.

  “Strange, how we always want what we haven’t got, isn’t it?” It was Sapphire who spoke. Drifting elegantly past them, she stopped and fixed Jessica with a thoughtful look. “I would love to dance in the Beast Parade. It gets the blood flowing, like a hunt, doesn’t it?” She gave a broad smile. “But I’m not allowed, so don’t worry, Faith—marrying an Aetherial doesn’t make you one.”

  An icy wind whipped up from nowhere, blowing grit into Jessica’s eyes. Grey cloud smothered the soft golden light, and then came the sting of hail. People around them began groaning and running for the shelter of the pub. Sapphire didn’t move and the moment stayed in Jessica’s mind afterwards like a cameo: Sapphire’s words, and the way she stood alone and lost in thought, oblivious of the white ice swirling around her. And Jessica thought in sudden sympathy, Lawrence is killing her.

  Sam pleaded guilty to manslaughter and received five years, as he’d predicted. Rosie watched him grow thinner, quieter, harder. He observed the other inmates with eyes of steel. There were men here twice his size, with far worse crimes to their names, and she knew he survived only by playing tougher than them. Between them and Dumannios, she wondered what would be left of him when he came out.

  Faith gave birth to a girl, a perfect blond cherub they named Heather. Rosie was so caught up in the glow of aunthood that she even forgave Matthew everything. He and Faith seemed content. The baby had a touch of eczema, Faith complained, but Rosie could see no soreness on Heather’s chubby arms, only a faint iridescence, like butterfly scales.

  Over the next two years, Rosie graduated from college with honors and began work as a landscape designer for Fox Homes. Auberon had been persuasive, insisting he needed her talent. She created gardens with an enchanting faerie quality that helped to entice his home buyers.

  Alastair was renting a small apartment in Ashvale but she stayed at Oakholme, refusing to move in with him. She was deeply fond of him, and almost couldn’t imagine her life without him. They’d been together for two and half years—yet still, annoyingly, the residue of her yearning for Jon held her back, like an acid fire in her heart. Yes, heartburn, literally, she thought with a grimace. When Alastair started hinting about marriage, she would cheerfully evade the subject. Then the war would start inside her: He’s not feckless and uncaring like Jon. He’s reliable, he’s kind, he wants me. Life with him would be simple. Stop being a child! Stop dreaming about dancing barefoot in the wildwoods of Elysion. Yes, yes, I will grow up . . . but not yet. Not yet.

  Her visits to Sam were only a small part of her life but each one haunted her; strange, artificial yet so intense. Separated by the table, she and Sam would look into each other’s eyes, talking endlessly. However unflattering the baggy jeans and sweaters she wore as armor, she would sense his gaze sliding over her, hot and speculat
ive. His attention never failed to make her uncomfortable. And that, obviously, was why he made no attempt to disguise it.

  “How’s Ginger?” he asked sardonically, meaning Alastair. “How’s Captain Normal and his spawn?”

  “If you mean Matthew and Heather, they are fine.”

  “I hope he realizes that he can wed humans until he’s blue in the beard; it won’t make his children human.”

  Rosie felt heat in her face. “No one would dare say that to him. Heather’s one hundred percent human as far as he’s concerned.”

  “And Faith buys it?”

  “Faith would buy any policy of Matthew’s, even if he decided the sky was yellow.”

  Sam tilted his head, looking serious. “You ever talk to her about what we are?”

  “Kind of,” Rosie said with a half-grin. “I told her things when we were younger. Then I’d remember I wasn’t supposed to, and try to cover it up. Faith so wanted to believe it, but now she’s married to her Aetherial prince, she has to pretend none of it’s real.”

  “What is Matthew’s problem?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed. “He’s always been full of opinions. He takes no interest in our nonhuman side, but he has a right to feel like that if he wants. What about you?”

  “Whatever we are, I can take it or leave it.” Sam leaned closer, resting on folded arms. “Don’t you ever wonder what we are, Rosie?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said softly. “Did your parents ever talk to you?”

  Sam uttered a soft huh and looked down. “My father’s never talked much at all, except to express disappointment with us.”

  “Did you ever go through the Gates?”

  She was ready to be envious of Sam’s answer, certain he must have sneaked through illicitly, but he said, “No. Dusklands or Dumannios, that’s all. I quite like Dumannios.” He glanced around at fungal darkness punctuated by glowing reptilian eyes. “It suits me.”

  Rosie didn’t even try to make a joke. Pale and gaunt, Sam looked part of it.

  He went on, “It’s said that we’re born knowing everything. Our history, all about the Spiral and our elemental natures. But we forget and have to learn it again. That’s why we’re all so screwed up.”

  “I can see it in Heather’s eyes,” said Rosie. “Two serene blue pools. Sometimes I expect her to speak like an adult.”

  “As long as she keeps her mouth shut in front of her daddy.” A corner of his mouth curved up. “Problem is, we’ll never understand the Otherworld until we go there. Reading all the travel guides in the world is no substitute for the moment you step off the plane.”

  Rosie had expected this to be a point-scoring, “I know more than you do” conversation, but it wasn’t that at all. She asked, “Do you know why your father closed the Gates?”

  He chewed at his lower lip and was silent for a moment. “You’re expecting the big revelation?”

  “Hoping,” she replied with a ghost smile.

  “Something happened to him on the other side that completely freaked him out. He won’t talk about it. He drinks, and has nightmares, and thinks no one knows.”

  “Couldn’t your mother shed any light? Your real one, I mean?”

  A cold glitter flashed into his eyes, startling her. She felt his anger physically, like a mass of cold air between them. “Don’t even start down that road,” he said.

  “Why not?” Rosie exclaimed. “I refuse to tread on eggshells with you, Sam. Why won’t you talk about her?”

  “Because she’s dead.”

  Rosie was taken aback. “I’m sorry. No one told us.”

  “If she isn’t, she might as well be.”

  “She isn’t, then.”

  “We don’t know! That’s the point! She vanished one day while Lawrence was taking Jon and me back to school. Not a word since. I can understand her not wanting to speak to Dad, but her own sons?” She saw his arm muscles tensing to cords.

  “Maybe she went into the Spiral.”

  “Maybe. That’s what Jon hopes, but I still think she would have found a way to contact us. We only have Lawrence’s word that she walked out. He may have murdered her and buried her in the shrubbery for all we know.”

  “But she did walk out,” said Rosie.

  The blue fire grew fiercer. “How the hell would you know?”

  “Because I saw her leaving.” She described the raid she, Lucas and Matthew had made on Stonegate, years ago.

  Sam sat very still. Eventually words stumbled out. “Thing is, as long as I believe she’s dead, I can forgive her. But if she’s alive and never . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” Rosie said faintly. “That was meant to help, not make things worse. It never occurred to me you didn’t know.”

  “No,” he said, swallowing. “I never seriously believed she was dead, not in my heart. I needed to believe it wasn’t her decision to ignore us. I mean, what did we do to . . . ?”

  She almost reached to touch his hand, curbed the gesture. “D’you know why she left?”

  “Endless arguments. My father wanted to live in Ecuador near his mine. Mother insisted they come home. Lawrence never forgave her for . . . forcing him to face his responsibilities.”

  “That must have been horrible for you and Jon.”

  “If I ever find out he was seeing Sapphire before Mum left, she is dead meat.”

  “She said not,” Rosie said quickly. “Like I told you, she’s as foxed by Lawrence as anyone. And she thought the gems would be a key to unlocking him, but they’re not.”

  Sam’s lowered gaze swept up to meet hers. “Albinite originates in Naamon, according to my father. The mine was an interface, a minor portal.”

  “The realm of fire. Volcanoes, massive pressures, hence fabulous crystals,” said Rosie.

  “As soon as I break out of this hellhole, I’ll take you there, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve heard it’s a bit warm at this time of year.”

  He smiled thinly at her. “My father had this enemy called Barada who reckoned he owned the land the mine was on. They fought about it for years. It crossed my mind that my father closed the Gates purely to keep Barada out of his mine.”

  “He told me that the mine was exhausted.” Rosie frowned. “Isn’t that like cutting off your nose to spite your face?”

  “Like I say, my father is unfathomable.”

  “Then why tell lies about storms?”

  “Telling the truth makes him break out in a rash, apparently.”

  Rosie felt strange being in this sinister, whispering dungeon with a trickster who’d tangled her in nebulous rumors of conspiracy. When she went home—when Dumannios released its tendrils—she would go to the pub with Alastair and everything would be cozy and normal again. “Why can’t he simply secure the mine, open the Gates and get on with life?” she asked.

  “Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Sam exclaimed. “Pop up to the manor and tell him, will you? Then everything will be fine.”

  “I’m only asking. There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “Sorry, love.” Sam rubbed his face. The sculptural lines were gouged deep with weariness. “He can’t. He’s paralyzed. Psychologically, I mean. What I’m trying to say is that the struggle over the mine was only a symptom of something much worse. A while ago he stopped talking of Barada as a human nuisance, and started referring to him as some kind of cosmic enemy . . . like people refer to the devil. What does that sound like?”

  “Paranoia.”

  “Exactly. When I stabbed that intruder, my father was convinced that some dark supernatural enemy had sent him.”

  Rosie was puzzled. “That’s not possible . . . Is it?”

  He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was a near-whisper. “No. It was a druggie who tried to rob us because he knew my father was loaded. I warned Jon about hanging around with garbage like that but he’d never listen.”

  “I know, Sam,” Rosie answered. “Jon told me. He was absolutely cut up with guilt. He attract
ed some dodgy people but he can’t have realized they were dealing drugs or wished him harm.”

  “Not realized?” Sam blinked eloquently. “Why d’you think they hung around? Jon was the one selling god-knows-what to them. He thinks I don’t know, but I have sources.” His expression turned hard and angry.

  “Jon was selling . . .” Her mouth fell open.

  “What? You don’t still think he’s some perfect Botticelli angel, do you? He is pretty naive, though. Too precious for this world. Didn’t occur to him that some low-life might see him as no more than a dumb rich kid with a big house: an easy target.”

  “You’re saying this is all Jon’s fault?”

  “No,” said Sam. “I would never blame Jon. It was just a chain of events. But that’s how I know it was nothing supernatural.” He opened one hand, indicating the eerie morphing of their surroundings. “Whatever’s going on with my father is only getting worse. I can feel it here. Dumannios, getting dirtier and really outstaying its welcome.”

  His words sent chills crawling over her. As difficult as she found roguish, sniping Sam, this troubled side of him was even harder to handle. “Lawrence is so hard to talk to. One moment he’s rational; the next he lets something slip that makes you think he’s lost his mind.”

  “I know. God knows what I’m going to find when I get out of here.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  His gaze, resting on her, softened. “You’ve done enough. Just talking to you helps. The anger’s not aimed at you, sweetie.”

  “I think it was, a bit,” she replied tartly.

  “And still you want to help me.” He paused. “Hey, I almost forgot to wish you happy birthday.”

  “How did you know it was my . . .”

  “I’ve always known. Just turned twenty-three, haven’t you? If age means anything to Aetherials. And if I could, babe, I would give you the biggest bloody birthday present you’ve ever had in your life.”

  His grin turned her hot all over. “Shut up,” she groaned. “We were discussing if there’s a way I can help you.”