Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  He exhaled. “Okay. There is one thing that would help, love. A photo of my mother.”

  It would mean another visit to Stonegate. “You want to be careful, Sam. You’ll have me thinking you’re not as tough as you make out.”

  “No chance.” He began to smile, blue-green irises glinting with mischief. “Hey, bring me one of yourself while you’re at it. A lingerie shot will be fine.”

  The next day, Rosie was climbing steadily towards Stonegate Manor with Lucas at her side. The stone battlements reared up in front of them, awakening memories. “The sight of it still gives me shivers,” she said. “Doesn’t it do that to you?”

  “No, of course not.” Lucas tossed back his long dark hair.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said teasingly. “I think that, no matter how many times you come here, you still get a little frisson of dread.”

  “Shut up,” he said, between a sigh and a laugh. The view unfolded as they climbed. Rugged hills with swaths of spring-green forest and, above them, the tilted rocks of Freya’s Crown. “What are you going to say?” he asked.

  “Simply that Sam wants a photo of Virginia. I’ll keep it brief. I don’t want to get involved in any more weird conversations. Sapphire doesn’t give a damn about Sam, and I don’t think Jon does, either.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Lucas. “He’s just really bad at handling it.”

  A little farther on, Rosie asked, “How is Lawrence with you?”

  “All right,” said Lucas. “I don’t see him much. He’s friendly, but very formal. Tells me about gem-cutting or the history of Stonegate, things like that. Nothing personal.”

  “Do you like him?”

  Lucas seemed to find the scenery fascinating as they entered the rear gardens. Eventually he answered, “Yes, I do. He’s not approachable like Dad. He can be incredibly intimidating. But I do sort of like him, anyway.”

  Reaching the kitchen door, Rosie knocked. When no one answered after a few seconds, Lucas tried the door and opened it. “I usually walk straight in,” he said. “Come on.”

  There was no one in the kitchen or the great hall. The house was silent and cavernous, impassively watching them. Lucas stood in the middle, looking up at the galleries. “Hello, anyone home? Jon?”

  “Looks like there’s no one here,” said Rosie, deflated. “What sort of family has a break-in, then still leaves doors unlocked?”

  “I’ll try the library,” said Lucas, sprinting up the broad staircase.

  “If you find a photo, just grab it,” she called after him. She went into a living room off the hall, where leaded French windows held a glimmering view of the wide lawn sloping into tangled green bowers of rhododendron and birch. Feeling like a thief, she went to a cabinet and opened a couple of drawers. There were notebooks, pens, paper clips; the normal detritus of any house. In the second drawer she found a small framed photo of Lawrence with a dark-haired woman; hearing a noise she guiltily stuffed it into a pocket, and went to the glass doors. She exhaled, her breath clouding the diamond panes.

  She saw someone moving in the garden. Figures, half-hidden by greenery . . . Jon and Sapphire. She was about to call, “Luc!,” but the word died in her throat.

  Jon was leaning back against a birch tree. Sapphire stood facing him, talking intently. She was too close, crowding him; Jon’s arms were folded against her. The conversation went on, intimate and intense, as if Sapphire were delivering a lecture. Her right hand came up to rest on a branch beside Jon’s head. Then her left, to stroke the hair over his ear.

  Rosie was caught there, staring, as if watching a film. Time ran slowly. She saw Sapphire moving in, giving what might been a motherly kiss on the cheek . . . until her right hand moved to cup the back of his head and his folded arms fell to his sides . . . no, no . . .

  They were plainly, unmistakably kissing.

  Sapphire pressed against him. Jon’s hands rested lightly on her hips.

  Rosie stood behind the veil of glass and watched as if transfixed by the climax of a horror film. She thought she might be sick. When she heard Lucas breathe in and out by her shoulder, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said succinctly.

  Rosie’s head swiveled and she found her brother staring back at her, eyes stretched wide to reflect her visceral shock. Neither could speak. Eventually he made a feeble effort to pull her arm and said, “Don’t look, Ro.”

  “Right, because that will make it not have happened?” She turned her back to the window. Her heartbeat was heavy. “Please tell me they’re not doing anything else.”

  “They’re not.” Lucas released his breath in a rush. “They’re coming this way.”

  “Did you know?” she asked tightly.

  “What?” His face turned the color of porcelain. “Of course I didn’t! Do I look as if I knew?”

  “All the time you spend with him, and he’s never mentioned it?” She took a shuddering breath, laughed. “That’s great, that is. Can this family get any more dysfunctional?”

  “I swear, I had no idea. Maybe it’s just a . . . one-off.”

  “Oh yes, because who hasn’t French-kissed a stepparent in their time? Body language, Luc. That wasn’t the first time.”

  Lucas looked helplessly at her. “What are we going to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Rosie. “Let’s go.”

  Like thieves, they retraced their steps. They were too late; as they entered the kitchen, Jon was coming through the back door. Seeing them, he started like a nervous colt. “Oh, hi,” he said. “Didn’t know you were here. Hi, Rosie.”

  In the passage behind him, Rosie saw Sapphire dragging off her gardening boots. “Hello, my dears,” she said brightly over Jon’s shoulder. “What a lovely surprise. Tea?” She moved Jon out of her way—Rosie cringed at the sight of her hands on him—and crossed the room towards the kettle.

  “No, it’s okay, we’re not stopping,” she said quickly.

  “Oh? You can’t leave so soon.”

  “We didn’t think there was anyone in,” said Lucas.

  “We were just doing a few things in the garden,” Sapphire said breezily. “It’s so rare I manage to drag Jon outside.”

  “I bet it is,” Rosie said under her breath. “Actually, I need to see Mr. Wilder. Is he here?”

  Sapphire looked taken aback at her brusque tone. “No, he’s in London. Can I help?”

  “Yes, Sam asked me for a photograph of Virginia,” Rosie said evenly.

  The way they both stared and blanched seemed to give Rosie the upper hand, which she hadn’t expected. “Er, yeah, no problem,” said Jon. He went to a kitchen drawer and produced one almost immediately; a six-by-four of a smiling woman with gothic-pale skin, raven hair, ropes of turquoise at her throat.

  “Thank you,” said Rosie. She tried not to notice his finger brushing hers as she took it. Jon’s face was pallid, pupils dilated, hair disheveled but as deliciously autumn-colored, thick and silky as ever. Knowledge lay congealed inside her of him sleeping with Mel, and all the rest. How was it fair that he could look so unhealthy and still so heartbreakingly beautiful? “I thought you might like to hear how Sam is, if you’re even interested.”

  Her words came out flat with scorn. For the first time, Rosie felt her disappointment with him turning to anger. For the first time she looked at Jon and felt not love, but hatred.

  “That’s not fair,” he said, forehead creasing. “Of course I’m interested.”

  “Is that right?” She folded her arms, wouldn’t let him escape her eyes. “You care so much that you can’t even phone or walk a few hundred yards down the hill to ask after him?”

  He looked shocked, completely floored by this new, furious Rosie. “But I see Lucas all the time.”

  “Lucas isn’t the one who sits with him in that horrible place for two hours every month. Lucas isn’t the one who knows him!”

  His expression clouded. “Hang on. Where’s this come from?”

  Rosie
caught her breath. “You’re right. I should have said something before. I was too busy trying to be nice and obliging.”

  Sapphire put in, “But Rosie, you know full well that Sam refuses to let us visit him. We’d go if he let us, of course, but he won’t.”

  Jon’s eyes turned hard. “You know, if you’ve got a problem making those visits, fine. We thought you didn’t mind. All you had to do was tell us, not come in here out of the blue ranting at us.”

  “I do not have a problem visiting Sam!” Rosie flared. “I’m happy to go and I’ll do it to the bitter end! All I want is for you to give a flying rat’s ass about him!”

  There was a frozen, very English silence.

  Jon and Lucas were both apparently struck dumb. Sapphire came forward and leaned on the central isle. Her mouth looked red from kissing. “Rosie,” she said in a pained tone, “you have no idea what we’ve been through or what we feel. To come in here suggesting that we don’t care about Sam is preposterous. Why don’t we sit down over tea and have a civilized discussion?”

  “No,” said Rosie, feeling warmth in her cheeks and water stinging her eyes. “Thank you. It’s a bit of a poisoned chalice, isn’t it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Excuse me. I’d better go. I hope you realize that Sam won’t be in prison forever. I hope you’re ready for how much he’s changed.”

  She took in Sapphire’s outraged expression as she walked towards the back door, not even glancing at Jon. A few seconds later, as she crossed the lawn on her way downhill, Lucas caught up with her. “Wait for me,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “No, of course I’m not. This isn’t a tantrum about seeing Sapphire with her tongue down Jon’s throat. There’s other stuff. Did you know he’s been supplying drugs?”

  Hidden behind bushes, they stopped and faced each other. She saw from Lucas’s guilty expression that he knew, all right. “Rosie—I swear—it’s nothing serious. It’s only herbal stuff, not even illegal.”

  “Herbal? And cannabis isn’t? It must have some pharmacological effect, or why would people buy it? Luc, you should have been two years into a music degree by now! Instead you’ve been doing what with Jon? Selling drugs and playing in a not very good band? Fucking hell, Luc. I never thought I’d feel ashamed of you, but I do.”

  She started to walk away again. She didn’t expect him to follow, but he did, almost on her heels. “I was so in love with him,” she said. “All he’s done is make my little brother waste his life. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

  “Rosie, I’m sorry.” Lucas sounded distraught. “It’s not like that.”

  “Are you blind, or is it me? Luc, I’m not going to lay down the law or forbid you to see him. You wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”

  He was quiet for a few steps, then said, “He’s my brother, my friend—I know he’s difficult, but he’s not a bad person. He gets too focused on things . . .”

  “Like his stepmother?”

  “I can’t explain that.” Lucas put his hand through her arm.

  A few paces on, she asked, “Luc, has Sapphire ever questioned you about being Aetherial?”

  “Er, yeah, she has,” he said, looking troubled. “I told her how the Dusklands can manifest anywhere but the Spiral is a separate dimension, that sort of thing . . . She nodded and said that was what Lawrence and Jon had told her.”

  “So she was checking that they hadn’t lied to her? Why wouldn’t she trust them?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no idea. We’ve got nothing to hide, have we? I only told her the truth.”

  “And did she seem satisfied with that?”

  “Not really, but I don’t know what else she wanted me to say. Surely Lawrence could tell her everything she needs to know?”

  “Quite,” said Rosie. “So what’s she up to? Asking questions . . . messing around behind Lawrence’s back with her own stepson . . .”

  She fell quiet, and several steps further on, Lucas said, “Ro, I can’t bear seeing you hurt like this. I’d rather never see Jon again in my life than see you upset. You’re right, I need to keep away from him for a while. I will, I promise.”

  In the midst of her misery, she felt a thrill of relief. She turned and hugged him. But this was sweet, loyal Lucas; she should not have been amazed for a moment.

  “The fantasy of unconditional love,” Rosie said to her reflection, “the lie of unconditional love is that you can love someone from afar, someone who never even looks at you in return, and it’s okay; it’s pure and virtuous and noble. But it’s not okay. Fuck the fantasy!”

  She was twenty-three; a perfect age to grow up, at last.

  Rosie thought she’d taken it quite well, in the end. After all, where Jon was concerned, she’d had a lot of practice. She sat at her mirror, looking at the scar Sam had left on her neck, knowing it was time to leave beloved Oakholme and dreams of Elysion behind.

  “What am I waiting for?” she asked herself.

  She was absently painting her fingernails with the dark rainbow of Zeitgeist nail polish when Lucas came in, anxious to know if she’d forgiven him. They talked about the past, about Jon and Sam and Lawrence, but the talk was all about letting go, about giving Matthew’s outlook a chance instead.

  “The Wilders . . .” she said softly. “Do you think we’ll ever be finally, completely free of them?”

  And Lucas said, “Do you want to be?”

  Yes, yes I do, she thought, after Luc had gone. It’s time. I’m at the crossroads and I need to choose the best way forward—using my head this time, not my stupid heart.

  She would continue visiting Sam, of course—but once he was released, she could leave the last of it behind and fully embrace the human world instead.

  The small framed photo she’d pocketed, which she’d hoped was a picture of Lawrence with Virginia, turned out to be a wedding shot of Lawrence and Sapphire. Sam would definitely not want to see that. Taking the back off, she found another, passport-sized image of a much younger Sapphire with an older man—some sugar daddy, no doubt. Sighing, she reassembled the frame and threw it in the back of a drawer. Wedded bliss, indeed.

  Then she turned her thoughts to Alastair. There was no pain when she thought about him, only warmth. His kind nature and steadiness . . . that would be nice to come home to. She’d grown to appreciate his stocky, rugby-player physique, and sex with him was good. True, he wasn’t wildly passionate or imaginative, but that was okay; it wasn’t his nature. Their love life was gentle, companionable and satisfying, and that was all she could ask. Temperamentally, he had his grumpy moments, like anyone, but he was slow to anger and his rare explosions of temper were over quickly. In short, he was wonderfully normal. If Jon was a tortuous, thorny path, the broad clear road of Alastair looked increasingly desirable. In fact, he’d become such a fixture in her life, it was impossible to imagine a future without him.

  The next day, Rosie opened her bedroom window and leaned out to bask in the shimmering fresh greens of spring. She felt strange; numb, emotionless, abandoned. Yet there was no pain. That was good. It was almost a pleasant feeling, letting go, not caring anymore, floating free.

  It was time for a new start.

  Still, it was hard to forget the image she’d fallen in love with; Jon’s soulful eyes, shy smile and flowing hair. The vision of him in the early morning sun, head back, hair streaming.

  Doesn’t matter what Jon’s done, she told herself. There’s only one thing you need to know, which is that he doesn’t want you. Not because there’s anything wrong with you, or with him, but because he sees the world differently; doesn’t see the soul-light in you, the gleaming other half of himself.

  Jon did not break my heart.

  Fantasies broke it.

  Matthew was right. The Otherworld was dead. The Gates were locked, derelict, the key rusted and thrown away. Vaethyr were beautiful shells; cold, mad and empty inside. Humans were warm and safe. She would pack away her fantasies and go with Sa
fe.

  The next time Alastair asked the question, he would be in for a shock.

  One evening in July—some three months since Rosie had quietly confided her engagement to her human boyfriend, news to which he was largely indifferent—Lawrence was driving home in the summer dusk, thinking painfully about his visit to London. It was hard to put on a confident mask for his staff and explain that the supply of albinite had come to an end. Their morale was low. There were other gems—but if the one that made Wilder Jewels unique was gone, what was the point of continuing?

  As he rounded the last bend he braked, startled by a mass of people all over the lane at the entrance to Stonegate’s drive. He pipped his horn, but they only looked at him. Losing patience, Lawrence climbed out to remonstrate and saw that they were Vaethyr.

  Striding among them, he entered the Dusklands without intention. They carried it with them like an aura that revealed their Otherworld forms; elegant, jewel-eyed, some with a hint of tendrils or gossamer wings. Their hair was living light. As he approached, their piercing eyes turned to him and a ripple of intense emotional pressure passed over them.

  Rigid, Lawrence halted and surveyed them. Some had masks and others were bare-faced but he knew them all. Not just locals, but some he hadn’t seen for years. In the middle of the drive between the two granite sentinels stood the ringleader, Comyn. A black and white sheepdog sat wrapped around his legs, nose pointed up at its master.

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” said Lawrence.

  “A peaceful protest,” Comyn answered mildly. “It’s the seventh day of the seventh month of the sixth year. A reminder that in the seventh year, the Night of the Summer Stars falls.”

  “I am well aware of that. As you are well aware that I will open the Gates only when it is safe to do so.”

  “Then make it safe.”

  “Remove yourselves from my land, before I summon my dysir.”

  “We’re not on your land,” Comyn replied. “We’re on the public highway.”