“I’m pleased to meet you, Professor Manifold,” he said, low and polite.
The professor pinned him with a sharp stare. “So, I understand you don’t actually know Daniel? You can’t shed any light?”
Before he could answer, she stepped back to beckon them in. “I’m sorry, I’m not giving you a chance, am I? It’s so difficult … Do come in. It’s not much warmer inside, but I’ll get the fire going.”
“So you’ve still heard nothing from him?” Stevie asked.
“Obviously not.”
The house felt even gloomier and colder than Stevie recalled. Darkness massed in the stairwell, seeming to watch and move like an observant predator. It gave off a faint, unpleasant scent, like cold metal. She felt the shift of reality that presaged one of her episodes, as if a vast serpent was circling the space above their heads … With all her will, she shook it off.
The only spark of life was Humphrey, running around the big living room with a ball in his mouth. Frances kneeled down by the fire grate. Her hands shook as she tried to light matches, swearing under her breath as they broke or sputtered out. Mist crouched beside her and rebuilt the bird’s nest of crumpled newspaper and firewood into a neat stack. He took the matches and soon the paper was lit, flames licking the wood. He began to add coal.
Frances let him take over. “You have the magic touch,” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Stevie hung up their coats and followed her into the kitchen. Frances had known she was bringing her son’s belongings, but when she saw the bag, her face turned grey.
“This is horrible.” She took the burden and placed it on the kitchen table, resting both hands on top. “Like receiving someone’s possessions after they’ve died. It’s too real.”
“It’s only a few old clothes,” said Stevie. “It can’t be everything he owned. There’s no wallet or passport.”
Frances snorted. “That appalling landlord probably took anything of value.” Slowly she undid the zipper and took out a stack of paint-blotched shirts and jeans, using both hands as if lifting a small child. The look on her face was ghastly. Behind her, the kettle began to hiss and rattle on the stove.
“I felt the pockets from the outside, but didn’t stick my hand in. I thought you should do that, not me. Oh, there’s an old sketchbook in there, too, from the studio.”
Frances Manifold said nothing, only stood with the clothes in her arms, eyes closed. Stevie felt a dangerous surge of tears. She hurried to rescue the kettle and busied herself assembling teapot, cups and milk on a tray. She had to hunt for sugar. There seemed to be almost no food in the cupboards.
Finally Frances spoke, her voice hoarse. “Who’s the man with you? Boyfriend? I didn’t take in a word you said on the phone. My fault, but it’s hard to concentrate these days. Please, tell me again.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” It was agony to witness Frances’s pain and suppressed anger, but Stevie had no idea how to soothe her.
She’d worked up a plausible story in her head, but now couldn’t get the words out. Telling the full truth was impossible, especially about the theft of the triptych.
“I bumped into him at the empty studio. Mist had wanted to see Daniel’s work. We got talking, and he agreed to help me look for him.”
All true, but unconvincing.
Frances placed her son’s clothes on the table and was feeling gingerly into pockets as if expecting to find wraps of cocaine, or worse. All that came out was a piece of lined paper, folded in four. Frances looked at it, frowning.
“A shopping list,” she said. “Milk, bread, tinned tuna … No fruit or veg. Typical.”
“He always ate healthily at college,” said Stevie, only to fill the silence. “He loved vegan stuff, like tabbouleh. No wonder he was as thin as a pole.”
The professor stared straight through her. The look was hostile, almost unhinged. Stevie withered inwardly. No. Steady and calm. I can handle this.
“One thing I found out,” she said. “Daniel apparently knew a guy called Oliver?”
“Oh, him.” Frances’s mouth pulled down as if reacting to a foul taste. “He’s the one Daniel brought here once. A sleazy-looking specimen with bleached hair. He didn’t look like any kind of art lover to me.”
“Who do you think he was?” Stevie asked.
“I believe he was providing Daniel with the illegal substances he stupidly thought he needed in order to work harder. Yes, Oliver was the subject of our most spectacular argument. The last argument, in fact. But the police can’t trace him. They thought Daniel might have gone abroad, but there’s no record of him leaving the country.”
“Unless he got a fake passport,” Stevie murmured.
“That’s speculation,” Frances said through her teeth. “I need facts. Facts.”
“Can I ask you something?” Stevie kept her tone quiet but firm. “Do you automatically think the worst of Danny’s friends?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Frances turned away, as if to dismiss her question as childish. Stevie was determined not to back down.
“Please. You never liked me, either. Was I rude? Badly dressed?”
“I didn’t dislike you.” Frances folded her arms, cleared her lungs with a low, rattly cough. Color crept into her gaunt cheeks. Embarrassment, or annoyance. “You were too polite, if anything. Too eager to please.”
“I was nervous.”
“Of what? You weren’t right for Daniel. I was hardly going to encourage you.”
“Maybe that’s true, seeing as we broke up, but all the same—what made me not right? This is all connected,” Stevie persisted. She found a packet of chocolate-chip cookies and arranged some on a plate. “Frances, I can’t help unless you’re straight with me.”
“Very well, if you insist.” Her arms were folded tightly around herself and her expression was barren. “As with Oliver, there was something dishonest about you.”
“Dishonest?” All her breath rushed out.
“Evasive, then. Disingenuous.”
“I—I never told you any lies. Why would I?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Frances said in a tone of exasperation. “It’s more what you omitted to say. Don’t forget, I’ve worked with students for many years and I’ve seen every shade of fakery; nothing gets past me. My son had problems, and the last thing he needed was an equally damaged girlfriend.”
“What?”
“You did ask.” Frances sighed through her teeth. “Since you won’t come clean, I will. When Daniel was about sixteen, I took him to a psychologist, Dr. Gregory. I know you were seeing him, too.”
Stevie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “How? Dr. Gregory can’t have told you! That’s a breach of trust. He wouldn’t!”
“He didn’t,” Frances cut her off. “It was your then-foster-mother. On one occasion, I happened to sit beside her in the waiting area; she seemed a decent type, harassed, not terribly bright and enormously indiscreet. She regaled me with her concerns. You were the most difficult charge she’d ever had; you’d been found wandering the streets, you were virtually feral, no one could identify you, and you were severely disturbed, to the point of destructive behavior such as flooding the bathroom—not to mention physically attacking her son.” Frances’s face tightened. “I saw you emerge from the consulting room. Daniel was skulking in the hospital shop at the time, so he didn’t see you. I thought no more of it until a couple of years later, when he brought you home.”
Stevie fought for words. “But that—that was private. You don’t know…”
“Two people with psychiatric issues hardly made a healthy combination. Perhaps I judged you unfairly, but I had to put my son first.”
“So you wrote me off as damaged? I cared about Daniel. All I care about now is helping you find him. You don’t actually know anything about me!”
“That’s rather the point,” Frances said frigidly.
Dumbstruck by a mixture of fury and shame, Stevie slammed the plate o
f cookies down on the tray, and walked out.
* * *
Outside, Stevie leaned against the side wall of the house, staring at the frosted garden. Trees and shrubs sparkled like a magic forest. Within seconds she was shivering. The cold made her head ache. She folded her arms around herself and blew out a stream of condensed breath.
After a minute, she heard the crunch of footsteps and Mist appeared. He leaned on the wall beside her and said, “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” she said tersely. “I just can’t talk to her.”
“I overheard your conversation.” His tone was mild and apologetic.
“Oh, great. Now you both think I’m some kind of delinquent nutcase. I shouldn’t have stormed out, but she’s impossible. We’re trying to help her, yet all she can do is drag up horrors from ten years ago? She condemns me for not telling her stuff that she knew all along?”
“She’s upset,” said Mist. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But she’s right. I have been dishonest by trying to cover up my past. I thought I had a right to keep my problems to myself, but the prof doesn’t see it like that. She has a mind like a scalpel. She labeled me as broken and deceitful, and that really stings. But you know what? I pushed her to tell me why I wasn’t good enough for Daniel. If I couldn’t take the answer, I shouldn’t have asked the question.”
Mist leaned on the wall beside her, listening so intently that he might have been Dr. Gregory. She hugged herself a little harder. His coat hung open like a dark wing and his warmth shielded her left side. His irises were pale, reflecting the frosted world in miniature.
“Please come back inside. You’re frozen.”
She didn’t move. “Mist, I need to understand what’s happening. It’s not just her. It’s you, too. All the strange things you’ve told me … it’s making my head hurt.”
He blinked, his long eyelashes coal-black against the pale eyes. He was all contrasts: soft sooty blackness and ice, warmth and remoteness.
“I’m as confused as you, Stevie. If this is connected to Rufus, maybe he’s already watching me and I’ve led his followers to you, which is why you were attacked. My fault.” He briefly closed his eyes. “And if that’s the case, I’m so sorry.”
“Rufus has followers? Like a rock star, you mean?”
Mist grimaced. “He attracts people, and uses them. They worship him, run around doing his bidding, and the more he abuses them the more they love him. But what can he want with Daniel?” His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure Professor Manifold is hiding something. Stevie, there’s a bad presence in the house. Didn’t you feel it?”
“Oh.” The ground swayed beneath her. “Yes, I noticed a shadowy shape in the stairwell above the hall, but I see apparitions all the time. I assume it’s my brain playing tricks.”
“No. I think that when you see things, you’re probably seeing into the Dusklands.”
“Am I?”
“Whatever’s in the house is real, and menacing. It’s some kind of malign elemental that’s been drawn here for a reason. Whether it’s followed us, or was already here, I’m not sure. Finding out is more important than tiptoeing around Professor Manifold’s grief.”
“Mist, you sound a bit crazy. And possibly, underneath your friendly act, as ruthless as your brother.”
That made him pause. “I’m trying to put things right,” he said tightly. “All Rufus can do is destroy.”
“And for you, this is all about Rufus,” she stated. “For me, it’s about Frances and Daniel. I don’t care how eccentric he was, I loved him. I still do.”
He gave a slight smile. “Oh, I thought you were in love with the wonderful Sri Lankan doctor?”
He was teasing her. The nerve. “Shut up. That was wishful thinking.”
Mist moved closer to her, slid one arm around her shoulders so she was inside his coat. “What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Trying to stop you shivering.”
His warmth felt wonderful. She could feel the lean strong lines of his body through his thick sweater and dark trousers, and he smelled subtly delicious, like clean cotton and shampoo. She kept still, trying to uncouple her mind from her body’s pleasurable reaction.
He said, “There’s only one way to persuade Frances to open up, and that is honesty. We need to place all our cards on the table, or whatever the saying is.”
“I’m not even sure what our cards are.”
“You go first, Stevie. Explain why you were secretive in the past and try to make peace. If you speak plainly, then we both can.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Is it so bad?”
“No, but it’s private.”
“I need to know what it is she’s not telling us. For her own sake, as much as ours,” he went on. “You don’t want to leave her alone with that shadow presence, do you?”
“Good god, no, of course not, but what can we do?” She stood back in shock, using the movement to free herself from the all-too-pleasant embrace of his coat. “You aren’t seriously going to tell her what you told me in the car, are you? How will that help?”
Mist looked thoughtful and somber. “It’s a risk. Either she’ll think I’m mad and throw us out, or she’ll admit she knows something. I don’t know if she’ll listen, or if I can trust her. Or if you’re ever going to stop glaring at me.”
“Am I glaring?” She lowered her gaze. “Sorry.”
“I promise I won’t overwhelm her. If she has a question, I’ll answer it. I know everything I’ve told you sounds incredible, and I feel I’m trying to rush you into believing me before you’re ready. You don’t have to accept what I say, even on Dame Juliana’s word. Just … bear with me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” With all her heart she wanted to believe him. His fluent, undramatic narrative had sounded true, but there was still no guarantee that he wasn’t the most charmingly smooth con man she’d ever met. She inhaled, letting the wintry air cool her emotions. Her anger at Frances and her feelings for Mist fell away. “The way you talk about Aetherials and suchlike is highly plausible, even to an average skeptic like me. But I’m warning you, you’ll find Frances an infinitely tougher audience. Still, nothing ventured…” She smiled, and was gratified to receive a warm, bright smile in response. “Are you ready? Come on, Mist, let’s do this.”
* * *
Humphrey came running to meet them, his tail wagging so hard that his whole body was in sinuous motion. Frances Manifold was poking listlessly at the fire. The living room felt warmer, the drab walls mellow with creamy-orange firelight. Humphrey sat down at Mist’s feet, gazing upward and making tiny jerks as if to plead in vain, Let’s play!
Frances straightened up and said, to Stevie’s surprise, “Are you all right, my dear? I don’t blame you for walking out: I deserved it. I’m so sorry. Please come and have some tea while it’s still hot. It’s all my fault.”
“What is?” asked Stevie.
“That Daniel went. I should have kept my opinions to myself. He was fragile. He must have felt I was suffocating him.”
That, Stevie suspected, was close to the truth.
Awkwardly, she and Mist sat on a sagging couch with the professor facing them across a low table. Frances was like a wraith haunting the deserted shell of a house. Her spaniel pushed his tawny head into her hand as if to anchor her to life.
Stevie poured tea, trying to regain her poise. Her hands, by a miracle, were steady. “Can I explain why I was seeing Dr. Gregory?”
“You needn’t.”
“I’d really like to. Frances, I couldn’t tell you about my background because I don’t remember.” Stevie took a breath. “I was found wandering in the countryside on the outskirts of Birmingham. Even that’s a blur.”
Frances’s forehead wrinkled with doubt. “Stephanie, I know Dr. Gregory. He’s a decent, professional man. He told me true amnesia is a myth. You must have memories, but you’ve blocked them out, for some rea
son.”
“That’s what he told me, too, but the effect is the same. It’s called psychogenic memory loss. They estimated me to be about fifteen. The police took me to a psychiatric ward, where an array of doctors and social workers spent months trying to discover my identity. Nothing. So I was put with various foster families, who couldn’t cope with me because I kept doing unhelpful things like flooding the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t mean to be troublesome, but I had a fixation with water that I can’t explain. It’s blurry. I was frightened. In the foster homes, I often got pestered by older boys. I avoided being assaulted or raped, only because I fought back so hard I left bruises. Then they’d turn on a crybaby act, and I’d get the blame and labeled as aggressive. I don’t want pity,” she added sharply. “I’m stating facts. They sent me to school, but I felt too old to be there, out of place. Eventually I ran away, and found a job waitressing, earning enough to rent a tiny room. It was like … relearning how to live, I suppose. That was when I met Daniel. I must have been seventeen by then and I wanted … to be a normal person.”
As she spoke, Mist was turning the pages of Daniel’s sketchbook. He even studied the old shopping list, smoothing it flat on the coffee table.
“You remembered your name, though?” Frances put in.
“No, I chose my name. Stephanie, after a policewoman who was kind to me, and Silverwood because my first memory was of silver birch trees around me. That was my new identity.”
“It’s not easy to function without a birth certificate.”
“I know, but not impossible. They sorted new documents for me.”
Stevie described meeting Daniel, and how they’d started talking. “He was so happy about going to art college, absolutely glowing. He helped me produce some tolerable artwork, and Dr. Gregory wrote a persuasive reference. I was awarded a sort of vocational, give-her-a-chance place, thanks to my tough start in life. The first year was hard. Then I switched to the jewelry and metalwork course, and never looked back.”
Frances made a hmph noise of acceptance. “Well, I’m glad they were more charitable than me.”
Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) Page 16