A Tangle of Gold
Page 41
They caught each other’s eyes. The spark and reflection of eyes, the hint of silhouettes, shoulders, arms, under faltering, distant light, softer than moonlight.
They let the strands fall from their hands, and reached for each other. Elliot’s fingertips touched Madeleine’s wrist, the touch sliding down and then away. Golden glow of dragon fire swooping overhead. His arms found their way around her body, and she reached her arms around his. She felt the seams of his shirt, the buckle of his belt, the smooth and muscle of him. His hand slid to the back of her head. That was Elliot’s hand on the back of her head, Madeleine thought. It felt warm. It was the palm of his hand on her hair. The pressure and the warmth of Elliot’s hand, just there, perfectly still, not moving, just there, holding her head—that was the best thing that anyone, anywhere, in all time, had ever felt or would ever feel. She was clear about that, but then Elliot leaned closer and kissed her.
13
Across the Kingdom, people watched TVs, screens, visual parchments and projections of Princess Ko, while the warning bells jangled and the Colour storms raged. Princess Ko stared out and said, ‘Any moment now.’
In Bonfire, the Farms, a crowd had gathered in the living room of Gabe’s farmhouse. It was a hot summer night, and a fan stood and spun in a corner. The TV was turned up loud over the noise of the Colours that crashed around outside like an angry person stumbling among trash cans.
The room was crowded with chairs that had been dragged here from all over the house. Gabe had found a pack of raspberry popsicles in his deep freeze and handed them around, so people were sucking or biting at these, turning lips vibrant pink, catching pieces that broke away and slipped towards the floor.
There were the Farm kids—Shelby, Nikki, Cody—strewn about on the floor. Abel and Petra Baranski shared an armchair, their hands intertwined. Agents Tovey and Kim, who always wore suits, had loosened their ties and undone their top buttons. The Sheriff and Jimmy sat on kitchen chairs, alongside Isabella Tamborlaine, who kept breaking into tears. She was the only one not watching the TV: She was gazing at her long-lost son, Jack, who himself kept glancing sideways at his mother uncertainly. Belle, on Jack’s other side, spun slowly in an office chair, her eyes roaming the room.
On the couch, Gabe and Keira sat side by side.
‘If it does happen,’ Gabe said in a low voice. ‘If she’s right and the all-clear’s about to sound—’
‘Seems unlikely.’
They listened to the thuds and screeches of the Colours outside.
‘It does. But if it happens, you know what the first thing we’ll do is?’
‘Well,’ Keira said. ‘We’re supposed to run outside and throw our arms in the air for Princess Ko.’
‘Yeah, okay, but after that.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll take me for a spin on your bike.’
*
Behind them, Jack had turned to Isabella and was also speaking in a low voice. ‘I’m just wondering,’ he said, ‘if you could tell me who my father was?’
‘Of course!’ Isabella said, her eyes filling with tears again.
There was a beat.
‘Well?’
She considered him. ‘He was not a good father. But I think, somehow, he could have been. He was a poet. I believe he is still famous in the World. George Gordon—’
Belle skidded her spinning office chair to a halt. ‘You have got to be kidding!’ she shouted. ‘Not Byron! Don’t tell me that Jack’s the son of Byron! This Kingdom gets better all the time!’
‘Byron. Yes, he was trouble. Byron.’ Isabella’s narrow eyes turned dreamy. She twirled the pendant she always wore on a chain around her neck. Beside her, Jimmy’s brow furrowed.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Belle told Jimmy. ‘He’s not a serious competitor. Been dead a couple of hundred years.’
*
Agent Kim was sketching as usual. Tovey watched over his shoulder.
‘Like another popsicle?’ the Sheriff asked, holding up his empty stick. ‘I’m going to get me another. It’s so darn hot in here.’
Agent Kim shook his head, eyes still on the sketchpad.
‘This is a very good likeness of you, he’s drawing,’ Agent Tovey told the Sheriff. ‘You’re a fine-looking man, Sheriff Samuels.’
‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself, Agent Tovey.’
Agent Kim smiled almost imperceptibly, adding shading to his sketch.
*
On the couch, Gabe murmured, ‘We can take it to Sugarloaf Dam.’
‘You’re still on about my bike,’ Keira said.
‘I am. We can take it to Sugarloaf Dam—there’s a full moon tonight. You can teach me some about your bike, and I’ll teach you how to swim.’
Keira looked towards the Farm kids. ‘Shelby told you I can’t swim?’
‘Nope. Figured it out myself.’
‘In the Crimson?’
Gabe smiled. ‘In my head.’
She reached up with both hands, touched his ears, and loved them.
*
On the screen, Princess Ko whispered, ‘Any moment now.’
14
In the Conference Room, almost everyone, including the camera operators, was standing at the windows. Foreheads and hands were pressed to the glass.
At the table, the King and Princess Ko remained seated. The King still sat back in his chair, arms hanging loose, staring vacantly. The paper and pen lay at angles on the table before him.
‘How did you do all this?’ he said, not turning. ‘All this . . . paperwork?’
‘I’ve been having secret meetings with people since we got to Gabe’s farmhouse,’ she said, flicking her fingernail down the pile of papers. ‘Those two agents—Tovey and Kim—were helpful at getting me in touch with lawyers and so on. I finalised everything today, once I knew about the Circle and the Gold.’
‘And they’re all valid? Legitimate?’
‘A sparkleshine of whirldust.’
The King glanced at her.
‘That means yes. Yes, they are.’
He looked down at the stack of papers. ‘Impressive.’
‘There are more,’ the Princess said, sliding a document in his direction. ‘This one provides for the regular feeding of the dragons at the Bay of Munting.’
The King cleared his throat. ‘The Bay of Munting,’ he said. ‘That’s where dragons go when they’ve lost their hunting eyes.’
Princess Ko closed her eyes.
Outside, the Colour storm continued.
15
In the strange glow, they could see that most of the strands had now formed braided ropes. There was only a handful of loose ones left.
‘I guess we just finish working on these last ones?’
Elliot followed her gaze. ‘I guess.’
The kiss was still there, touching their skin, filling the ether.
‘And when we’re done with this weaving,’ Madeleine said, ‘I guess we’ll be able to go back.’
‘I guess. But how?’
‘Well, I have this intuition that, eventually, light will surround us and we’ll walk right through it back to Cello.’
Elliot smiled. ‘You’re the magic-weaver. I trust your intuition.’
‘But I don’t know what will happen to us once we’re back.’
‘We’ll be people.’
‘Like, I’m not a princess or a runaway girl, and you’re not a farmboy or a hero? We’re not talking through a crack between worlds? We’re just us?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Kind of scary,’ Madeleine said. Then she thought about it. ‘Ah, we can drink coffee, and listen to music, and walk through fallen leaves.’
‘Not scary in the slightest.’
‘I want to find the girl I was writing to in Berlin—the wrong Princess Jupiter. And the wrong Queen. See if they’re okay. Keep in touch.’
‘I want to check on Chime and Ming-Sun too,’ Elliot agreed.
‘And I want you to meet Belle and
Jack properly. You’ve forgotten meeting them in the World, haven’t you?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, I want to visit the World all the time, and show you around.’
They braided silently, hands trembling with leftover glints of the kiss.
‘The ends of the braids are sort of frayed,’ Madeleine said. Elliot looked.
As they watched, a tiny piece, the size of a whisper, an illuminated speck, broke away from a frayed end. It drifted into the darkness. Another piece loosened, and darted.
‘How long has that been happening for?’ Elliot asked. ‘Is that where that pale light is coming from?’
More pieces broke away, one at a time, and then a cluster, a spray of sparks.
‘Do you think it’s Gold?’ Elliot said.
‘I have no clue, but I like it. It’s kind of like we’re weaving stars.’
They continued.
16
In the Kingdom of Cello, the night-sky was clamour and discord. Warning bells clanked madly. The loudest Colours tore and ripped at the air. Tumbling Colours careened down streets and pounded buildings. Shutters rattled, voices rose in shouts or shrieks, animals howled, children cried.
Darts of Gold began to drift high. Nobody saw these. They drifted low. They sank, spinning, fell at a twirl and touched grass, snow, brick, bark, cement. They dusted play equipment and tractors. On the Cat Walk, the animals strode through swarms of it. The darts soared high again, tangling with stars. Moonlight caught them. They dashed away.
Muffled bristles and snappings sounded. A sound like paper tearing, neat and sharp, over and over. Across the Kingdom, invisibly, the cracks were opening like swift, sharp zips. Nobody heard this.
The Colours began a slow roll like waves. Some faded, or wilted. Colours rose like steam on tea. Some turned in languid circles, picked themselves up and sailed away. One by one, then in clusters then crowds, the Colours dissolved, dissipated, disappeared.
Pieces of noise began to lift away in turn. Large slices of noise left behind smaller noises, then fragments of noises, a briefly clanking bell, a gate slammed, wheels turning.
The crumbs of noise ceased.
The moon breathed silence. The specks and touches and blinks of Gold dust drifted with the stars, blew like pollen or like seeds, slid down window glass like hints of dew.
In one fine moment, the Kingdom waited. The silence stole about, exploring.
It was an unknown silence, majestic, and then abruptly it capsized as, all across Cello, the bells sounded a vigorous all-clear. From town to village to city, along rivers and inside ravines, the bells sounded. They met one another. Their echoes met their echoes. A great weave of echoes patterned the land.
Right across the Kingdom, shutters shot high and doors flew open. Along canals, on beaches, in university dormitories, hotel corridors, apartment high-rises, farmhouses and barns, doors opened and opened. People poured out onto the streets and laneways in their dressing gowns or ball gowns. The bells sang and sang, the people waved their hands and laughed so the waving and the laughter tangled with the chiming.
Something ruffled collars, skirts and hair like a summer breeze. Nobody knew it yet but, in a moment, the bells would dim and quiet, and all across Cello, the first notes of the Cello Wind would sound.
17
In the World, meanwhile, time drifts oddly, so some places were night, and some day. The globe spun as usual, but now a sprinkling of light and colour infiltrated. Those who were sleeping and those who were awake, and those who were drifting, or drowsing, or staring, or watching TV, or tapping on their phones, or switching on the kettle, and those who were bright and alert—all of them, every one, awoke.
18
Elliot and Madeleine watched their own hands, and each other’s hands, working in the pale, reflected light.
They were almost done: There were only a few strands to go.
Now and then they glanced at the flying, breaking pieces, the fraying ends, the darts of light.
‘You think this is making a single bit of difference in the Kingdom?’ Elliot asked.
Madeleine shrugged. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Ah well. It’s kinda fun.’
‘It is.’
‘In fact, it’s a sparkleshine of—what was it again? That expression of your sister’s? Anyhow, that’s what it is.’
Madeleine smiled.
At every twist and turn, the light grew stronger. And they carried on weaving.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have exceptionally bright, brilliant and beautiful publishers, and have been amazed by their talent and patience throughout the writing of this trilogy. To everyone at Pan Macmillan (especially Claire Craig, Samantha Sainsbury, Danielle Walker, Susin Chow and Charlotte Ree) and at Scholastic (Arthur A. Levine, Emily Clement, Weslie Turner, Elizabeth B. Parisi, Elizabeth Krych and Lizette Serrano), my heartfelt thanks. I have the same enthusiasm and gratitude for my marvellous agents, Tara Wynne and Jill Grinberg.
Many books were helpful, inspiring or entertaining-yet-completely-irrelevant, as I researched and wrote this trilogy. Some of my favourites were: James Gleick, Isaac Newton (Fourth Estate, 2003); Michael White, Isaac Newton: The Last Sorcerer (Fourth Estate, 1997); Edna O’Brien, Byron in Love (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2009); Johannes Itten, The Elements of Colour (Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1970, trans by Ernst Van Hagen); John Gage, Colour and Meaning: Art, Science and Symbolism (Thames & Hudson, 1999); and Carlos Prieto, The Adventures of a Cello (University of Texas Press, 1998).
For answering questions and for thoughts, ideas and expertise (on motocross, farming, England, aeroplanes, physics, and many other topics), thank you so much to Nigel Wood, Michael Kalesniko, Oliver Sellers, Patrick Nielsen, Darryl Fain, Adam Gatenby, Alistair Baillie, Steve Menasse, and Bernard Moriarty.
For reading drafts and/or for suggestions, inspiration, conversation, emails, music, visits or helping out with Charlie, thank you so much to my mum and dad, to Liane Moriarty, Kati Harrington, Fiona Ostric, Nicola Moriarty, Suzy McEvoy, Joanne Webb, Melita Smilovic, Stephen Powter, Elizabeth Pulie, Laura Bloom, David Levithan, Justine Larbalestier, Michael McCabe, Katherine Mair, Rachel Cohn, Corrie Stepan, Erin Shields, Jane Ecccleston, Lesley Kelly,Gaynor Armstrong, Libby Choo, Henry Choo, Hannah Kelly, and Henry Stabback.
Much of this trilogy was planned, researched or written in the Kirribilli Village Cafe, and in Coco Chocolate Kirribilli, and I have a powerful sense that I could never have done it without the welcome, the warmth and the cinnamon and cardamom hot chocolate.
Thank you to all the readers who have sent such delightful messages, and a special thank you to those who have followed or written Colours of Thursday blogs on Tumblr.
For his patience when my mind drifts far away, and for his imagination, enthusiasm and lively conversation, thank you so much to Charlie; for exactly the same things, and also for suggestions and encouragement, thank you to Nigel Wood.
This book is dedicated to my father, Bernard Moriarty, who, amongst many other accomplishments, has fixed my shelves and bathroom taps, taught my boy how to ride a bike, and understands the value of chocolate.
ABOUT JACLYN MORIARTY
Jaclyn Moriarty is the author of bestselling novels for young adults and adults, including the ‘Ashbury-Brookfield’ books. Her books have been named Best Books for Young Adults by the American Librarian Association and translated into several languages. A Tangle of Gold is the third in The Colours of Madeleine trilogy. The first and second books in the trilogy, A Corner of White and The Cracks in the Kingdom, won the NSW Premier’s Literary Award and the Queensland Literary Award, and both were nominated for a number of other prizes. The Cracks in the Kingdom won the Aurealis Award for Best Young Adult Novel. Jaclyn grew up in Sydney, lived in the US, England and Canada, and now lives in Sydney again.
ALSO BY JACLYN MORIARTY
Feeling Sorry for Celia
Finding Cassie Crazy
I Have a Bed Made of Buttermilk Pancakes
The Spell Book of Listen Taylor
Dreaming of Amelia
A Corner of White
The Cracks in the Kingdom
First published 2016 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © Jaclyn Moriarty 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available
from the National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781743548929
Typeset by Midland Typesetters
Cover photograph by Matt Molloy. Used by permission of Scholastic Inc.
Lettering by Tammy Ann Tam
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
Internal text design by Sandy Cull
Map by Elizabeth Pulie, adapted by Darian Causby
The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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