“One moment,” Cross said. “Julian will remain here.”
“But Lord Cross—” Julian caught himself. Arguing with Lord Cross was a definite no.
“You’ve had a very taxing few days,” Cross said in the tone of voice that brooked no disagreements. “I know your father would not want you to overtire yourself. I want you to remain behind and rest.”
Julian said nothing. To rest, as if he were a child!
Cross indicated the door. “Shall we go, Dawson?”
“At once.” Dawson was as good as his word, grabbing his coat and pulling it on as he strode through the door.
Cross pulled on his scarf—Pip’s scarf, Julian noticed dully—and coat deliberately, taking his hat and cane in hand before making any attempt to follow. “I’m sure I can trust you to be discreet.”
Julian looked up, startled, but Cross had already shut the door behind him. He made his way to the window. Very soon, he saw both men set off down the road, stopping to talk to a street cleaner. They seemed to get a definite answer, setting off down the road with haste.
On the chase. Julian suppressed a whine. Waiting behind, knowing that the hunt was on, was unbearable. And what sort of advice was ‘be discreet?’ Did Cross imagine he was going to bring his other self out to read books?
Julian felt the key tied around his neck. You only needed to be discreet when you were doing something you shouldn’t…
His nose twitched. The hunt was on.
17
An entire day had passed since the strange people had left the hotel. Julian lingered in the street, but any traces they’d left behind were obscured by the stench of manure, the smoke from the chestnut sellers, and the myriad other scents of Paris.
Would his other self have more luck? Julian looked around for a suitable place to change. His eyes lighted on a distinctive set of gates. He’d somehow made his way back to the scene of his aborted sketching lesson. The last place he’d seen the boy—and where Dawson had seen the man from his nightmare.
The boy… Julian looked down the street in the direction the boy had sauntered away. Did he still remember the way to the abandoned house?
One way to find out. Julian sized up the plodding horses of an approaching carriage and made a quick decision. He leaped, alighting on the passing carriage.
It was no less thrilling the second time, even without the boy’s wild grin as encouragement. Julian tightened his grip on the carriage, peering out at the streets. The streetlamps illuminated only the area around them. Their light dazzled his eyes, throwing the rest of the city into greater darkness.
He was a fool to think he’d find his way in the dark. Hadn’t he got completely lost only a few days ago? Had he learned nothing? Better to turn around now.
And give up the hunt? His other self quickened with excitement. His nose caught a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla mixed with the sweetness of dried leaves.
He jumped at the next corner and walked down the road. The house was there, not quite as he remembered it. The garden was still wild, but the house no longer abandoned. Every window was lit, and the air filled with the buzz of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter or music.
Julian stood a long moment listening to the music. He did not recognise the song, but it was one he’d like to hear again. One of Scott’s?
Glass shattered, interrupting the playing. A raucous cheer went up within. Evidently a party. Julian lifted the latch and walked through the gate.
Lanterns dotted the garden where he’d played hide and seek with the boy. Despite the coolness of the evening, several people reclined on the lawn. Men and women in strange clothing, long flowing silk robes decorated with feathers and pearls and fresh flowers. A man with the antlers of a stag protruding from his curly hair had his arms around two buxom women, telling them a story. A lady whose blonde hair reached all the way to her feet coaxed a young man in the uniform of the gendarme further into the garden with her. Two other young women grappled on the lawn.
Wrestling, Julian decided. And doing a terrible job of it. Neither were trying to win.
He shut the gate behind him and walked up the path to the house. No one challenged him. The man with antlers studied him a moment, then turned his attention back to the women.
No servant answered his knock. Julian pushed the door open. He smelled dried leaves, the house thick with the heavy scent of spices. Baking and roasting smells rose from the kitchen regions. There was noise too, more voices than he could distinguish.
A shriek behind him made him jump. A grubby child dashed past, into the house pursued by another urchin. The second child screeched at the top of her lungs, but no one in the house seemed to even register the noise.
A well-brought up young gentleman would never enter a house uninvited…
Julian took a deep breath. Cross was right. He was not a well-brought up young gentleman. He stepped into the house.
The drawing room thronged with people. He scanned the faces of the people he passed—young, old, bespectacled, bearded, merry, grim, mysterious, and everything in between—but saw nobody he recognised.
Most activity centred around the ballroom. Chandeliers lit with candles and decorated with glittering jewels hung from the lofty ceiling, while an assortment of people whirled on the dance floor. A man in a naval uniform straight out of a history book bowed to a woman in an elaborately folded toga.
A girl in an ivory silk dress seeded with pearls and wearing a powdered wig took Julian’s hand. “Come on.”
“I don’t know how to dance,” Julian said.
She looked at him with eyes the green of oak leaves in summer. “You’re going to learn.” She guided Julian’s hand to her waist, put her hand on his shoulder, and took his free hand. “Now.”
At first, he listened carefully to her instructions, but as the dance continued, music changing style and rhythm at the whim of the musicians, he realised that it didn’t matter what he did. None of the people looking on judged the dancers. They only laughed, nodding with the music, or applauding a particularly daring move.
He whirled his partner as he’d seen another pair do and was rewarded with a smile so dazzling, he was momentarily blinded. “Told you,” she said with a smugness that reminded him of the boy.
The boy! Julian looked around. Nowhere in the room did he see the silver-haired boy. Instead, the doors to the ballroom flung open to the sound of horns. The room hushed, the dancers sinking into deep bows or curtsies, the watchers scrambling to their feet and removing their hats.
The people who entered did not wear crowns but Julian, kneeling with the rest, knew they were royalty. A man, his long black hair as dark as night, sporting a pair of antlers that would have been the envy of any huntsman, meandered into the room. A woman with hair that gleamed like sunset and eyes that flashed floated behind him. She wore a robe of gauze, a rope of pearls and very little else.
Not a woman with whom his fathers would care for him to associate with, Julian thought, noting the curve of her exposed thigh. He froze as he saw the next member of the procession.
Wearing a vest of midnight blue was a man whose silver hair did not match the sheer vitality of his face or energy with which he moved. The fierceness in his expression gave Julian a curious sensation of cold, even though the man smiled, regarding the gathered dancers with satisfaction. He saw Julian. His jaw tightened, smile vanishing. He took a half step forward before collecting himself, turning to murmur something to his companions that made them laugh.
More people followed, the procession making its way deeper into the house. Julian saw the rest of the court pass before him, but their appearances didn’t register. The silver-haired man’s reaction meant one thing: he’d been recognised as an intruder.
Calm! Julian ignored the urgings of his other self to run. He could not leave now, not without drawing attention to himself. As soon as the procession came to an end, he would slip away.
The last member of the court passed by. The dan
cers filed after them. Julian’s exit was blocked by members of the crowd, shuffling after the court. He had no choice but to follow them into a large room, where table after table was heaped with every kind of food.
There did not seem to be any kind of order to who sat where. Julian slipped into a seat that put his back to a window. If things got serious, he could escape through the window.
The fairy court sat at a table at the head of the room, the man and woman who had led the procession at opposite ends of the table, and their court taking up the remaining seats. The silver-haired man sat to the left of the woman, apparently in deep conversation.
The last of the revellers seated themselves. The antlered man raised a glass. “Let us acknowledge the man to whom we owe this occasion.” He turned to the silver-haired man. “Lord Dian, back in our midst—and ourselves too, back where we thought we should never set foot again.” A cheer drowned out the rest of his words.
Julian’s nose twitched, registering pigeon pie (his favourite), amongst smells both familiar and new. Fear of discovery had effectively removed any appetite. As soon as he judged his companions occupied, Julian slipped off his chair. He collided with a servant in the act of filling his wineglass. Wine slopped onto the table.
“I’m terribly sorry.” Julian pulled out his handkerchief and began to mop up the mess. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I—” The woman stared at him, brown eyes perplexed. She was older than Julian by only a handful of years, but while her face was youthful, there was a grey streak in her brown hair. “Are you English?”
“Yes.”
The woman pursed her lips, casting a quick look around the room. “Come with me.”
The revellers were too interested in their meal to care what Julian and the woman did. They were stopped only once, by a man who appeared to be part goat, demanding that his glass be refilled.
Julian studied his hooves with interest. A satyr? He opened his mouth, wondering how to frame the question politely.
“Come on.” The woman took his arm. She led him down a long, dark passage, into the kitchen. The decorations and glamour of the rest of the house were noticeably absent. Decades of dust coated the walls, and cobwebs were thick on the rusted pots and pans still hanging on the walls. Only the hearth showed any signs of recent care. A fire was lit, and a cauldron bubbled away on it. A woman in a tired looking apron ladled a helping of whatever was in the cauldron onto the tray a man held out to her. The instant it hit the tray, it became a jelly cast from an elaborate mould. The next woman stepped up with her tray. This time, the liquid from the ladle became a whole roast suckling pig.
“Don’t stare. You stand out.” The woman set her jug down and led the way across the kitchen towards the back door.
None of the people waiting with trays showed any interest in the proceedings. Their expressions were resigned, their eyes empty. Julian felt their dull gazes, even when the woman shut the door behind them, and they were alone in the garden.
“Have you eaten the food? Drunk anything?” she demanded.
“No.”
She exhaled. “There’s still time. Leave. Now—or you will never leave.”
18
Julian stared at the woman.
Her brown hair was tied back out of her face. Her clothing was likewise practical, an apron worn over the type of long dress popular in rural communities. She did not seem the type to exaggerate. “Go,” she repeated. “Don’t risk another minute here.”
“You’re not one of them?” Julian asked.
She shook her head. “I’m bound to serve them. I can’t leave, but you can.” She glanced over her shoulder then stepped closer to Julian. “Whatever they’ve promised you, it isn’t worth it. Trust me.”
Her low tone spoke straight to his other self’s protective instincts. Julian swallowed a growl. “I’m looking for a friend. My tutor, Mr Scott.”
Her brown eyes widened. “Scott. Is he a boy?”
“A man. Brown haired, this tall, wearing a tweed suit.”
“I haven’t seen him. If he’s here, he’s not at the party.”
“Where else would he be?”
She hesitated. “I can’t explain exactly, but there’s another place, their place—”
A dark shadow detached from the roof and landed between them. Julian jerked backwards.
The silver-haired boy stared coldly at the woman. “You should be inside, not bothering our guests.”
“I’m not bothered,” Julian started, but the woman was already hurrying back into the kitchen. “And I’m not exactly a guest.”
The boy put a hand over his face. “Of all the times for you to discover your rebellious streak.”
“So, it’s all right when you encourage me to run off by myself, but not when I decide to do so myself?”
“This isn’t a joke.” The boy caught Julian’s arm. “There are some very dangerous people in this house. People who don’t take lightly to trespassers.” The door behind them creaked open. The boy spun around. “I told you—” He stopped short, dropping into a hasty bow. “Your Majesty.”
The flame-haired woman stood behind them. Her simple presence enriched the plain kitchen doorway with all the unreality and excitement of a theatre backdrop. “Dian,” she said, voice rich as mulled wine. “Is this the child you mentioned?”
Julian had knelt when the boy did. He took this as permission to stand, bowing low. “Julian Westaway at your service, Your Highness.”
She smiled, holding out her hand to him. “What charming manners.” Her skin was soft, but colder than the chilly winter air. “Why keep such a nice surprise to yourself? Bring him inside.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude—” Julian started, as Dian cut in.
“He was just leaving.”
“Nonsense,” the woman said. “He would love to stay.” She looked Julian full in his eyes, the green in them dancing like emeralds. “Say you’ll stay.”
Run, said his other self. Hackles that weren’t there raised. She is not of the natural world. Run far, far away.
Julian swallowed, his throat dry. Even as every instinct he possessed strained to move, he was frozen. He could not even blink. The woman had him caught.
Was this what had happened to Scott? Think! “I’d be delighted to join your party,” he said carefully.
Dian shifted beside him. The woman’s blood-red lips curved. “Come with me.” She placed Julian’s arm on her own and walked back into the house.
The smell of roses that enveloped her muddied Julian’s senses. Did he walk or float? Julian shook his head. Was this what it felt like to be drunk? He would have to ask his fathers later—
He sucked in a sharp breath. Neither father would approve of this. How to extricate himself from this situation?
They’d reached the improbably large dining hall. The lady led the way to her end of the table where seats had been set ready for them. She waved to the seat to her left. “Sit, Master Westaway. I would hear of the world as it is today.”
“He is a mere schoolboy,” Dian said. “And a poor one at that. You’ll learn nothing I have not already told you.”
“Jealous?” The woman leaned over, stroking Dian’s cheek.
“Of a child?” Dian sounded far too scornful for someone not that much taller than Julian. “It is far too long since I have had the pleasure of Your Majesty’s company. I do not wish to share it.”
Julian cocked an eyebrow. Dian shared her with at least a hundred people, maybe more. It was hard to tell, with the room so sporadically lit and the smell of the woman’s perfume so strong it made thinking hard.
“Sweet Dian.” The woman’s mouth curved. “How we have missed you.” She turned her attention to Julian. “Tell me, child, has the world missed us?”
Julian did not need Dian tensing beside him to know everything rested on his answer. “Very much so. Your doings are legend. Books have been written about you, enough to fill libraries.”
“And the
songs?” she asked. “Do the pipers still tell of our ways?”
“Not just pipers. All manner of musicians.”
Her smile deepened. “Tell me more.”
Julian racked his brains. If only he’d paid more attention in school. Why had no one told him his future might depend on his knowledge of A Midsummer Night’s Dream? “Our most famous playwright wrote about you. That play is studied and performed all across Britain. It’s even been made into an opera.”
“An opera?” She looked to Dian.
He pulled a face. “A play staged entirely in song and not good song, either. You’d hate it.”
“I shall be the judge of that.” She looked over their gathered assembly. “Do we have any here capable of performing an opera?”
Julian followed her gaze. Visible among the crowd were people wearing modern clothing: a footman in livery, a woman of the night in the latest fashion in gowns, the gendarme in his uniform. Citizens unknowingly swept up in the fair folk’s party?
Dian snorted. “I doubt it.”
“Fetch me an opera,” she commanded. “The best in all of France.”
Dian bowed low. “Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.” He stood, jolting Julian’s chair as he passed.
“You must have help.” She stood, a hush immediately falling over the assemblage. “We are to have an opera,” she announced. “Who will accompany Dian in his task?”
Half the room apparently. Julian watched as they vied for the position. Dian made his selection, and they set off.
Julian watched them go. He did not entirely trust Dian, but he was at least familiar, which was more than he could say for the rest of the room.
He cast a look at his companion. Would she continue to quiz him? He must be careful. Mentioning the Blue Book of Fairy Tales did not seem likely to please her.
He was given an unexpected reprieve. The man with stag antlers sauntered over. “What exactly is an opera?”
She smirked. “Some mortal occupation. Dian considers it tiresome.”
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 10