Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “He’s in the library. I’ll go and ask if he’ll see you,” Sapphire said when Lucas made his nervous request. “Don’t hold out any hope, dear. He may not even speak to me, in this mood.”

  They waited in silence. The musty weight and ice of the atmosphere fell heavily on her, darker and more warped than ever. She looked at Sam, but he only gave her a cynical, speaking glance, as if to say, Lovely, isn’t it?

  Sapphire came back, all brisk poise, and said, “He’ll see you.”

  Rosie went upstairs with Lucas, aware of every footstep echoing through the vault of the great hall. When they reached the door to the library, Lucas turned to her, his face so bloodless it shone. He looked fragile but certain of himself. “Have to do this alone,” he said. “I’ll be fine, Ro.”

  The door was ajar, leaving a tall narrow chasm of semidarkness. He slipped through and the door closed. She hovered outside for a few minutes, couldn’t hear anything. By the time she decided to go downstairs again, Sam was nowhere to be seen.

  The house was oppressive. Rosie went out into the garden and made her way down the sloped lawn to a bower of rhododendron bushes. She wasn’t consciously looking for Sam, but instinct led her and when she found him, it felt inevitable. There was a clearing like a leafy cave, with yellow birch leaves scattered on the earth and a large flat boulder in the center. Sam was sitting on it, resting his elbows on his knees.

  Rosie cleared her throat. “There you are,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, “this family gets better and better.”

  Softly, Rosie went and sat beside him. “You’re really worried about Jon, aren’t you?”

  Sam exhaled. He didn’t react to her sitting there; didn’t turn towards her or move the braced arm that made a barrier between them. She wondered if he’d got over her after all. It was what she’d asked, but now it seemed to have happened—she felt awful, as if she’d been dropped in midair.

  “I am and I’m not, love. He puts on this aura of being a pathetic mess and yet he’s the one who always bounces back like some pouf in a shampoo advert, while I end up with the split lip, black eye, blood all over the pavement and handcuffs.”

  “Poor you,” said Rosie, with the gentlest hint of mockery. “Hang on, I’ll get my violin out.”

  “I’m much more worried about Dad. He’s holding himself together by a cobweb and no one seems to see it but me.”

  “We see it, but he won’t let anyone near him, will he? No wonder Jon’s a mess.”

  “I don’t know to do about Jon,” Sam said wearily. “It’s like talking to a brick wall. It’s one thing derailing himself, but taking Lucas with him . . .” He dipped his head and ran his hands over his hair. “Where did I go wrong, Rosie? Is it my fault for protecting him too much? Not telling him to stop?”

  “Sam,” she said gently. “You’re his brother, not his parent. People have minds of their own and they do stupid things, whatever you say to them. You can’t control him or Lawrence. Matthew can’t control me, no matter how hard he tries.”

  “Is that right?” He looked sideways at her. “So, how’s married life, Mrs. Bob-the-Builder?”

  “He’s an architect. There’s a difference. It’s fine.”

  “Lots of mad passion and romantic gestures?”

  “It’s peaceful. Which is nice.”

  “Good. I never wanted you to be unhappy, Rosie.”

  “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on that.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. The inch of space between them became charged with their body heat. Sam always smelled good and now his scent was redolent of long intense conversations and heated arguments and delicious lust. She only had to catch that spiced fragrance and it bypassed her common sense altogether. Warmth crept over her. She was all too aware of the lean firmness of his shoulders and arms and hands so close to her, the heavy ache of desire that she’d never felt for Alastair. Her breath was unsteady.

  She tried not to think of the other women, all the dozens of other women sighing and convulsing underneath him. They didn’t exist.

  “Sam,” she said, “do you think that the locking of the Gates makes Aetherials go mad?”

  He turned a little, his arm falling to his side. Their knees touched lightly. “I’m damn sure it does. Why?”

  “Because I think that either I’m mad, or people around me are. I feel like I’m in being kept in chains somehow. Soft chains. By Matt, Alastair, even my father. Bounced between work, home, marriage like I’m in a little padded cell. I didn’t expect Alastair to be so . . . possessive. Is it them or me? What do they think is going to happen to me?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned, his eyes dark aquamarines. “Me, perhaps?”

  “But they don’t know about us. They don’t even suspect.”

  “There’s an us?” he said, mouth softening.

  She ignored that comment. “No, I mean it’s as if there’s a conspiracy to keep us from even thinking about the Spiral. Like if we only think about the surface world, eventually the Otherworld will fade to nothing and we won’t even remember. I expected that from Matthew, but not from Auberon . . .”

  “I don’t think you’re mad.” He turned more towards her, so that his thigh pressed hers along its length. “I don’t know what it means, but we’ve got a duty to find out, don’t you reckon? They can only make you feel trapped if you let them.”

  “I know, but . . . Oh look,” she said with a nervous laugh. “We can have a conversation without arguing. That’s a relief.”

  “Let’s write the other one off, then, shall we? At least it broke the ice.”

  “With a sledgehammer,” Rosie said, raising her eyebrows.

  “By the way, about what I said before . . .”

  “You said a lot before.”

  “About sleeping with every woman I could get my hands on?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “It wasn’t true. It was total bullshit. For what it’s worth, I’ve not been able to look at another girl. I did try, but it was only window shopping. Nothing happened.”

  Rosie felt a ridiculous wave of relief. I’m definitely not thinking straight, she told herself. If he’s still obsessed with me I should be concerned, not glad . . . Her body, however, was not listening.

  “Oh,” she said unsteadily. “Didn’t meet anyone you liked?”

  “That’s the trouble.” His hand slid onto her knee. “I’ve already met her. As you know damned well.”

  “Sam,” she groaned. “Oh god, don’t . . .”

  He moved towards her and whispered in her ear. The tickling heat dissolved her. “When we were in the woods, I know it was wrong, it was wicked and I’m sorry, but wasn’t it the best thing you ever felt? How can you think that once was enough, Rosie? It was only the first taste . . .”

  Their mouths came together and here they were again, devouring each other, hands everywhere. She sensed the Dusklands at last, shimmering around them like flame. His body was so slim and hard, his clean scent so warmly enticing, she wanted to seize and consume him with her mouth and with every other part of her . . .

  “No, no, stop,” she said, pushing him to arm’s length and holding him there. “I can’t. I’m not doing this again.”

  He held on to her forearms, gently struggling to stop her pulling free. His face was radiant and intent. “You know what this is, Rosie. It’s the Otherworld calling you. This is what happens when you try to deny it.”

  “No. This is lust. Don’t try and dignify it.”

  “And whatever insipid thing you have with Alastair, that’s love, is it?”

  “We made vows.”

  “Since when do human vows hold us?”

  “You’ve got no morals,” Rosie said vehemently. “That’s what’s wrong with you, Sam.”

  “You still want me inside you, though.” His velvety, urgent whisper unraveled her. “We can’t go through the Gates, but can we reconnect to our Aetherial nature through each other. You could say we ha
ve a duty . . .”

  “God, you’re unbelievable!”

  “Tell me you’re enjoying incredible passionate ecstasy with Ginger and I’ll walk away. But if you are, why are you here with me?”

  She tried to sit very still, to cool her own arousal so that Sam wouldn’t sense the warm musky waves flowing towards him. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have let it happen. We can’t keep doing this.”

  His hands moved gently over her. He touched her hair. “You’ve got me, Rosie. You know I love you.”

  “I don’t know any such thing. I know you say it, to wind me up.”

  “It’s such fun winding you up, though.”

  She stood abruptly. The molten pull of desire was so strong, it was almost impossible to walk, let alone walk away from him, but she must. “Sam, I’m sorry. I don’t know why this keeps happening. I never meant to lead you on. I’m married and I don’t love you; it’s as simple as that. I think we should just keep apart from now on and get on with our own lives.”

  “Fine.” He rose and faced her, panther-lean. “So why are you crying?”

  “I’m not.” Quickly she swept moisture out of her eyelashes.

  “Don’t go, Rosie. Stay and talk, I won’t lay a finger on you.”

  “No, I’m going to find Lucas. Don’t try to see me again,” she said helplessly, beginning to walk away.

  “Oh, all right.” Arms folded, he stood at the entrance to the bower and looked at his watch. “So you won’t be wanting a lift home in a few minutes, then?”

  “Always with the smart answer,” she said over her shoulder.

  He smiled. “Don’t forget, you invited me over the threshold.”

  14

  In the Garden

  The library was dim, dusty and apparently without boundaries. Light diffusing through white nets made a tall, blurred silhouette of Lawrence standing at the far window. Luc’s heart stumbled as he crossed the room. He reached the edge of a polished walnut table and halted beside it for support, ten feet from Lawrence. He had no idea what to say.

  “I am amazed you have the nerve to come back here again,” came Lawrence’s voice out of the heart of shadow, infinitely scornful. “What do you want? A pat on the head? Absolution?”

  His face was gaunt and implacable. Lucas felt an inch tall. He’d been mad to think he could do this. “No, sir,” he said, stiff and formal. “I’ve come back to tell you what I saw.”

  Lawrence was silent, breathing in and out. Then he said, “Go on.”

  Lucas looked him in the eyes and told him everything. “This dead-white, frosty, cruel face was staring down at me . . . warning me . . .”

  “Albin,” Lawrence whispered.

  “At the end, a great shadow rising out of the Abyss . . . It saw me, too. I don’t know what it was—I can’t describe it—but it’s there now, waiting for us.” His heartbeat quickened as he spoke. “I understand—that is, I don’t understand, but—I saw it.”

  “Yes.” Lawrence—his real father—loomed slowly towards him. Lucas held his ground. Whatever happened now, he was beyond fear.

  “I see why you closed the Gates, sir,” he said. “I didn’t know and I’m sorry.”

  “You saw it.” Lawrence’s eyes shone with an alarming light. It struck Lucas that he, too, was intimate with terror but keeping it under stern, practiced control. “You saw Brawth, the enemy. You believe me. At last, someone else has seen it!” One hand came up and gripped Lucas’s shoulder, his head tilting as he studied him more closely. “You did something stupid, dangerous beyond reason, yet you survived. What am I missing? Who are you?”

  “No one.” Lucas drew back, trying to shake off his scrutiny. He’d delivered his apology, but had no idea how to leave. “I should go now.”

  “Must you?” said Lawrence. “It would mean everything to have someone who knows what this means, who is on my side. How would it be if you stayed in Jon’s place?”

  Lucas floundered, alarmed. “No, I could never take Jon’s place. And he’s not against you, no one is, they’re just . . . confused.”

  The grip tightened. Pain lanced through his neck. “If only things were different . . .” He was like a vulture, looming above Lucas with fierce eyes and talons. Then the grip loosened. Lawrence seemed diminished to normal height again. “No, Lucas, you’re right. I’m no fit company.” He ran one thumb along the edge of the table. “I can’t forgive Jon. He knew the rules and defied me. You, however, were easily led. I wish I could give you more, but I can’t. I daren’t. Look at my sons; I don’t want you to become like them, aimless, empty and destructive. You’re my one hope, Lucas, and you’ll only remain safe if you keep away from me. Stay with Auberon and Jessica, but know that . . . that I would love you, if any part of me were still capable of love.”

  Lucas was stunned, confused. Lawrence fascinated as much as frightened him. “Can’t anything be done about . . . Brawth?”

  “Can humans stop a tornado? No. The barrier keeps us safe for now. The danger is to all of us—to Jon and Sam, to you, to everyone, but it is my enemy, so the further I stay from you, the less I draw Brawth’s attention to you. You’d better leave now, Lucas.”

  Last night’s fear woke and slithered horribly down his spine. Brawth’s attention. The words were out before he knew they were coming, “Will the Gates ever be opened again?”

  “Never.” The word fell like a tombstone. Lawrence trembled as he whispered it. “Never.”

  The storm passed, but days later Jon and Lucas were still camping out in Rosie’s spare bedroom. For the first three days, Jon barely emerged. Then on the fourth morning she found him alone in the kitchen, dressed in cargo pants and a khaki shirt that were clean, if un-ironed. She frowned to see him smoking a roll-up but she could hear her own voice in her head, “No drugs. No smoking,” like a clucking landlady, so she sealed her lips.

  “I suppose we should pay you some rent,” he said.

  “Why?” Rosie couldn’t look him in the eye. He looked far better than he’d any right to; tangled hair flowing over his shoulders, pseudo-military clothes flattering his lean body, shapely forearms like Sam’s. The bruising around his eyes only enhanced his pallid beauty. “Rent is paid by tenants, not emergency guests. How long are you planning to stay?”

  “I don’t know. Even if my father relents, I won’t go back to Stonegate.”

  “What about Nottingham?”

  “Father stopped paying for my room there, so I can’t.”

  Rosie busied herself washing mugs, trying very hard not to lose her temper. “I hardly dare suggest it, but how about finding a job?”

  He gave a flat laugh. “You’ve really bought it, haven’t you? The human world. Marrying a human, working, pretending the Spiral never existed.”

  She turned on him, stared into his narrowed eyes. “It’s where we live. Maybe if you got used to the idea, you wouldn’t be so discontented.”

  Jon was silent, blowing smoke. Then he said, “You don’t like me, do you?”

  He seemed baffled, to her amazement. “At this moment, no, I don’t very much. It’s nothing to do with my feelings, but everything to do with the way you’ve treated Lucas.”

  “Lucas never did a damned thing he didn’t want to,” Jon retorted. Stubbing his roll-up on the draining board, he walked out, leaving Rosie on the verge of throwing a heavy object at his head.

  Two months later, the refugees were still there. Lucas got a job in a music shop; Jon came and went like a stray. Sometimes Rosie would hear them arguing through the bedroom wall, voices murmuring until the early hours. She knew she should make them leave—but to go where? Jon wouldn’t consider living at Oakholme, and Lucas wouldn’t leave him. At least being under her roof kept them out of trouble.

  Alastair expressed regular irritation with them, but Rosie soothed him by ignoring his complaints and rewarding him with affection when he mellowed. Rather like training a child, she thought, disliking herself for being so manipulative. Christmas was difficult, w
ith Jon refusing invitations, Lucas restless without him, awkward questions from Jessica and Auberon. Rosie and Luc gave a carefully edited version of the truth: that Lawrence had overreacted to an innocent situation. No one who knew Lawrence would disbelieve it.

  Lucas gave Jon a guitar for Christmas. A few days later, she found Jon in the kitchen complaining bitterly that the guitar was broken and it could not have happened by accident. He accused Alastair, who cheerfully denied it and called him paranoid.

  She knew Jon and Luc had to go, but how and where?

  Winter was damp, grey and mild. During the dark days of January, Alastair went to a weekend conference with Matthew, and Rosie found herself relieved at his absence. Three days in which to relax, and not be constantly policing her guests and soothing tensions. She hadn’t realized how exhausting it was.

  On the Friday evening, she made a date with Faith. “Jessica and Auberon are going out,” Faith told her, “and I don’t want to spend the evening on my own. Can you come over, please?”

  _______

  About seven, Rosie arrived at Oakholme with a bottle of wine. Under a long jacket of umber velvet, she wore an autumn-hued patchwork skirt and a russet sweater, with a long turquoise-blue scarf for extra warmth. Faith, letting her in, was dressed for invisibility; flowery dress, enveloping blue cardigan. She was nervous, hands bunched inside the overlong sleeves. Her face, with her glasses perched slightly askew, was so sweet that Rosie seized and hugged her, overwhelmed with love.

  Faith burst into tears.

  “What on earth is wrong, babe?” Rosie asked, embracing her ever harder.

  “Nothing.” Faith pulled back, wiping her face on her sleeve.

  “Drink,” said Rosie, raising the bottle. “Talk. Is it Matt?”

  Faith took the wine from her and put it on a table. “Will you help me bathe Heather and put her to bed first?”