The Swan Kingdom

by Zoe Marriott

  “Good morning, Alexandra.”

  I looked back at her – or rather, at the point just above her left shoulder – as I responded formally, “Good morning, Aunt.”

  Her teacup clinked gently as she placed it in the saucer.

  There was silence as I dubiously tasted the fluffy eggs and found them tolerable.

  “How old are you?” she asked abruptly.

  I kept my eyes on the plate. “I am fifteen.”

  “You look older.” There was another moment of quiet. “But no matter. Your clothes are dreadful. I have sent for my personal dressmaker from the village; she will outfit you appropriately.”

  My fingers tightened on my knife and fork, but I held my tongue. It wasn’t important. If she wanted to waste her gold on clothes, I could hardly stay her; I would simply leave them behind when my brothers came.

  “And that hair … it will have to be cut.”

  Now I did look up. Her tone had not been bland enough to disguise the faint tinge of satisfaction at the idea. What possible happiness cutting off my hair would give her, I did not know – but I did know that I wouldn’t allow it to happen. Mama had loved my hair.

  I let my eyes rest on her face, and saw her jaw clench.

  “No.” I was startled by the calmness of the word. I didn’t feel calm – I could feel my heart speeding. But my voice was steady, and so were my hands as I scooped up another bite of egg.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was as cold as cracking ice.

  I shifted my gaze again, allowing my eyes to meet hers for a split second, no more, before I returned it to the eggs.

  “My hair will stay as it is.”

  There was a long, terrible pause, in which the silence purred ominously. When Eirian’s voice finally came, it was quiet and surprisingly shaky.

  “You will allow us to plait and pin it.”

  I thought about it. There was no reason to argue. Pins and braiding were not permanent. But I didn’t believe she had admitted defeat – nor did I want her to think that I would take orders from her. In the end, I only sighed. “Perhaps.”

  I was glad of the tiny noises that eating made. I had never met such suffocating silence as that which filled this house.

  Eirian reached one small white hand out and picked up a little silver bell that sat at her elbow. The quiet tinkle had barely pierced the quiet when the dark-suited man appeared again. I watched in silence as he drew back her chair and helped her out of it. Her gait was stiff and awkward; she leaned heavily on his arm, her free hand clutching a silver-topped cane which made soft thudding noises on the carpet as she passed me.

  I looked away, made uncomfortable by this evidence of weakness, though I sensed no emotion from her about it. At the door she paused, saying nothing, until I looked up.

  “I will call for you when the seamstress arrives. Anne will take you back to your room.” She kept her eyes on my collar as she spoke, then turned and limped slowly down the corridor.

  I looked down at my plate, somehow ashamed, though I was unsure why. My aunt was bitter and unkind, yet her will had bent before me. This morning she had seemed almost frightened of me. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the complicated thoughts. None of it mattered anyway. I wouldn’t be here long.

  I put my knife and fork down, and stood, pushing the chair back myself. I could find my own way to my room; I might as well learn to find my way about while I was here. I opened the heavy door and went into the corridor.

  I spent a little time exploring the house, but despite the abundance of trinkets and baubles that littered every available surface, there was not much of interest. Every room was so stuffed with things that the eye soon tired of searching through them. I wandered aimlessly about, building a map of the house in my head; but finally, bored, I returned to my room. I almost expected to find Anne there waiting for me, but the room was as empty and tranquil as I had left it.

  I crossed to the window and looked at the faint line of the path disappearing into the grasses. My eyes followed it longingly but I suppressed the urge to throw up the window and escape into the fresh air again. Anne would come for me soon. And anyway, Gabriel wouldn’t be there until tonight.

  So I sat on the bed to wait. I wondered what had happened to John. I hoped my aunt’s servants had treated him well, and that he would come to see me before he left. Despite his susceptibility to the devious witch and his hostility towards my brothers, I had grown fond of him on our journey. He was a good man. I let my thoughts dwell on him because otherwise they might return home. To Zella and my father and all the other thoughts that made me feel cold and frightened.

  It wasn’t long before I heard the quiet knock at the door. As I left the room I asked Anne, “Has John been looked after?”

  “Your groom, Lady? He slept well in the kitchen last night and ate a good breakfast before he left this morning.”

  “Left? He’s gone?”

  “Yes, Lady. At first light. He was anxious to get home.”

  I sighed. Well, what had I expected? He had discharged his obligation to bring me safely here, and he was just as much under Zella’s spell as anyone in the Household.

  “Lady?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Anne.” I realized I had been stood silently for too long, and began to move again.

  The session with my aunt’s plump dressmaker was long and very tedious. My aunt sat in another of her throne-like chairs, issuing orders while they more or less ignored me. The dressmaker measured and remeasured me and pinned pieces of fabric to my limbs and torso. My aunt’s voice droned on. The patterns must be plain, even severe. No lace or ornamentation. Some muslin, silk, and wool, of course – at least one good velvet. The materials must be dark. Dove grey, black, deep blue at the very brightest. She waved away the village woman’s suggestion of any green or white.

  “My niece,” she said grandly, “is in mourning.”

  I stood through it uncomplainingly, but as soon as the last sleeve was unpinned I fled, and vowed never to put up with such nonsense again.

  That evening, after an almost silent meal with my aunt, I threw open the bedroom window again and climbed out into the garden. I made my way eagerly through the tall whispering grasses along the dunes and down to the sea.

  The sea was far away tonight, lying around the headland like a giant sleeping creature. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, so I stood with my bare toes curling in the slowly drying sand and watched the sun fall alone. The horizon was heaped with clouds, their drifting underbellies snowy white. For a split second I thought I could make out shapes in those clouds, like pale birds in flight…

  I sensed Gabriel’s arrival at my shoulder but neither of us spoke until the last flicker of sunlight had been doused in the sea, and the sky darkened to twilight. I sighed as I turned to look at him. His expression held traces of the same awe and melancholy I felt.

  “I wonder what lies beyond the sea,” he said quietly. “Does it all end where the sun goes down? Or could there be other lands and other people there?”

  “My mother taught me that birds – wild geese and swans – migrate over the ocean when the winter snows come, and fly back again in the spring,” I said, smiling. “So there must be something out there, where the sun sets. The place where wild swans fly.”

  He smiled back, and reached out to take my hand. “Come on,” he said, his cheerful tone banishing sadness as he tugged me towards the cliff. “I’ve found a rock pool I want to show you. There’s some creatures in it that I want to see if I can charm.”

  We explored together until yawns punctured our conversation so badly we could no longer speak, and parted with the promise of meeting again the following night.

  Each morning I breakfasted with my aunt – though usually neither of us spoke above two words – and then wandered around the house, seeing no one but servants, who always hurried away, until supper. In the evening I would climb out of the window and run down to the sea to meet Gabriel. There I would stay until da
wn. The sleepiness this caused made the uneventful days easier to cope with and I was doubly grateful to Gabriel for that.

  I think I would have gone mad in those first weeks without him. No matter how bored or lonely I felt in the day, my nights were alive. When I was with him, there was laughter, exhilaration … joy. If I sometimes felt a twinge of guilt about the strength of the happiness Gabriel made me feel, when by rights I should have been worrying day and night for my brothers, I pushed it down. Why shouldn’t I value this unexpected gift of friendship? It was all I had; Gabriel was all I had.

  He was … everything.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t spend all my time with him. So I tried to make myself more comfortable in my aunt’s home. The one room I was fond of was the library, at the very top of the house. It had a window seat overlooking the sea, and the quiet there seemed peaceful rather than dead. Though the room was meticulously dusted, I was sure that no one but me ever used it, so I decided to make it properly mine. One wall of the room was covered from ceiling to floor with books, and I started at the top left-hand corner and began reading every book there, intending to work my way through the whole lot. In the periods when reading bored me I practised the balancing tricks and tumbling that my brothers had taught me, or performed small workings like changing the colour of the carpets, or charming spiders from nooks and crannies. I reported my success and my failures – like the time all the spiders ended up hiding in my hair – to Gabriel, and we laughed about them together. Thinking of new ways to make him laugh became my main occupation in life.

  The weeks passed slowly, but they did pass, and every day, I was sure, brought my brothers closer to me.

  One evening I went to meet Gabriel on the beach as normal, with a story from one of my books to tell him. But though he listened with interest, his usual enthusiasm was missing.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked him eventually. I saw hesitation in his face and urged, “Please tell me.”

  He traced a pattern in the sand with his finger, and then looked at me, his eyes unhappy. “How long do you think you will stay here?”

  I was startled by the question and blinked at him. “I – I don’t know.” It couldn’t be much longer, could it? I had been here … Ancestors, over two months now. My brothers would be on their way. “Not long. Why?” I finished enquiringly.

  “My father’s affairs need his attention. I think we will have to leave soon.” He shrugged. “Normally we stay longer.”

  “But—” I stopped myself before I could say more. He had to leave sooner or later. So did I. I’d always known that.

  He met my eyes again. “I think we may stay a few days more – a week even. But when we go we will not be able to return until next year, spring at the earliest.”

  “Spring?” The word leaped from my lips, but again I could not continue. It didn’t matter. It didn’t. I would be gone soon anyway. I looked away from him. Don’t you dare cry, Alexandra!

  I cleared my throat and said, “I thought your family only came here for the summer.”

  “I can persuade my father to bring us back early. In the autumn and winter we are needed. But we will be able to return in the spring.” He paused. We both looked away.

  Then he grabbed my hands. My fingers curled tightly around his as he asked, “Alexandra, do you think you will be here in the spring?”

  I took a deep breath, ashamed of the way it shuddered in my chest. “No. I don’t think so.” I could not wish it otherwise. I did not wish it otherwise.

  “But if you are still here then, will you meet me? At the first new moon after the thaw?”

  I closed my eyes. It’s stupid to make promises. I’ll be gone by then.

  Then I felt the warmth of his breath on my face and the moistness of his mouth pressed against mine. I gasped a little in surprise, and as my lips parted his did too – and suddenly I was kissing him back, clutching at him as his fingers buried themselves in the heavy curls of my hair.

  “Alexandra…” he said as he eased back. His breath was ragged, and there was despair in his voice. “Promise me. Promise you’ll meet me after the thaw.”

  I leaned weakly against his shoulder, blinking to dry my eyes. You won’t be here. He’s lying to himself. You’re lying to each other. You won’t be here.

  Finally I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “I promise,” I whispered. “If … I can, I will meet you.”

  His face lit with a smile that made my heart pulse wildly, and he kissed me again. I was breathing hard when he let me go, but I tried once more to prepare him. “Gabriel, if I am not here—”

  “Then I will know that you have returned home and … and I will be happy for you.” He finished rapidly as though the words were painful, rising to his feet and pulling me with him. “Don’t worry. Come on – it’ll be too dark to walk soon.”

  I went with him, trying to convince myself that it would be all right. Gabriel would have long forgotten me by spring anyway. It would all be for the best.

  My brothers would be here soon.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was a long time before I admitted to myself that my brothers were not coming for me.

  I think I had always known it, somewhere inside – known that Zella’s malevolence could not be so easily shrugged off. Although there were things about that night which I could not remember, I knew that something terrible must have happened. Why would my memories have been so blurred, otherwise? Perhaps then, in those first days following the loss of all I had known, I had needed hope more than truth. We all do, at times.

  Gabriel left. The weeks passed into months, late summer became autumn and autumn slipped away into winter. Snow fell; I outgrew my clothes and the seamstress had to be called in again. And still they did not come. The cold of that winter was more bitter than any I had known at home. For much of the time I was confined to the house. I did not have the comfort of the earth under my feet. All I could do was sit on what I had come to think of as my window seat and watch the world freeze into white.

  The hard, colourless days passed slowly. I grew adept at twisting and pinning up the long curls of my hair, until I no longer needed Anne’s help. I grew used to the weight of the petticoats that my aunt deemed necessary. I began to find taste in even the blandest of the foods presented to me. I worked my way through half of the library and managed a faultless backflip. Still they did not come.

  And so, slowly, I sank.

  It was black hopelessness, a kind of numb despair, that waited to claim me. I was swallowed up until I seemed to lose myself in it. I can only describe this feeling as something like the shock that can overtake the body in the wake of a serious injury and which can be fatal in its own right. Too much loss had injured my mind and heart. Without a friend to talk to, and with weeks passing without my exchanging more conversation than “please” and “thank you” with the servants – everything turned inwards. I succumbed.

  Day after day, I sat on the window seat overlooking the frozen garden, alone. In my mind I dwelled on each separate pain until those memories seemed to engulf me. My mother’s death. My father’s betrayal. My failure to protect my family. My brothers’ disappearance. Though I was still convinced that David, Robin and Hugh were alive, I could no longer fool myself that they would arrive at any moment to rescue me. What would they rescue me from? For all I knew they were worse off than I. With my face pressed against the icy cold of the window, I cried my last tears for my family, and the life I had left behind.

  I grew used to stillness and solitude that winter. Eventually, as the new shoots braved the frost, something descended on me – if not contentment, then at least acceptance. The very helplessness that bound me also brought me something like peace. At length, despair relinquished its hold. I tucked away memories of home and my brothers; instead I thought of Gabriel, and looked forward to the thaw and the first new moon. My feelings were echoed by the slow change I had felt in the land as the end of winter approached. With the ri
sing of sap came a surge of new life – the lethargic currents of natural energy gathered strength from some unknown source until they seemed to swirl and well around the house. Perhaps the country was at last recovering from the devastation of war.

  As the strength of the enaid grew, so did my own.

  One day I wrapped up warmly against the chill of the wind and went out to walk in the garden. I had wandered about alone for some minutes, when I heard a noise behind me and turned to see, most unexpectedly, Aunt Eirian leaving the house. I stared at her as she stumped awkwardly across the grass towards me.

  “Good day,” she said stiffly.

  “Good day, Aunt,” I replied with equal graciousness, wishing she would go back in and leave me alone.

  “I … I am glad to see you looking better.” She looked away from me, uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said coldly.

  “Don’t take that tone with me,” she snapped, abandoning her attempt at manners. “I’m not such a fool that I don’t recognize despair when I see it.”

  I stared at her again, wordless. She tapped her fingernails against the silver top of her walking stick.

  “Let me tell you a story, Alexandra. Once there were two sisters. The eldest was a skilled cunning woman, and thought very lovely. At an early age she was betrothed to a young man who was the heir to the throne. This older sister thought herself very lucky, because she truly loved the man she was to marry, and believed he cared for her too. Unbeknown to her, the man she was betrothed to was actually falling in love with her younger sister, who was more beautiful still, and acknowledged as a great wise woman. And the younger sister encouraged this, because she believed that with her greater powers she would do more good as the queen. Eventually the young king broke his engagement and married the younger sister instead. The discarded girl thought that her heart was broken. She couldn’t stand to see her sister any more, or the man she had loved; but she had nowhere else to go. She thought it would drive her mad to see them both day after day, to pretend that she did not care when really she wanted to die. Eventually she eloped with a lord of Midland, hoping to escape the pain and humiliation. But her bitterness over the betrayal turned all her strengths – her patience, and her intelligence – inward, twisted and broke them, so that she could never be happy. Her healing gifts went so wrong that she was unable even to heal herself when she was badly hurt in the carriage accident that killed her poor husband. And her new home became barren and cold, and the roses never bloomed there.” She sighed. “So you see, I know much of despair.”