Yet the place was forlorn. It seemed steeped in misery. It was at once intriguing and sad, and unless Rowan felt like breaking and entering, he would never know more.
Without further thought, he wrenched a weathered board from a rusted nail and opened the door.
Chapter Seventy-four
Four Sisters
The shop was enclosed in a velvety dust, and Rowan’s feet were most certainly the first to disturb it. He stood, hesitating on the threshold and then, hearing nothing, went in.
A peculiar thought struck him: he was beginning to wonder if the tree grew the colorful ribbons lying everywhere (and, indeed, this would prove to be true), for they were most definitely the same sort. Vast sacks burst with inventory, and careful hands had sorted the ribbons into piles by color.
Beside the combing station, there was a small spinning wheel, a stool, and rolls and rolls of what appeared to be partially completed tapestries. A discarded harp was forsaken in the corner. Rowan walked by it and absently ran his hands along the silver strings—the notes were remarkably clear. On a table nearby, an abandoned tea set rested plaintively. Tea leaves dried and scattered, tarnish moving in.
There was a shelf of fat spools, silken thread, spun and finished. And what colors! They had been carefully arranged by shade, and Rowan was certain not a one was missing. He blew a layer of dust away from peeling labels beneath each and examined them.
The writing was clear enough, but the names themselves were mysterious. A particular purple-gray was called Eveningsong, while Forgotten Wish was a sad, pale blue. A strange wave of emotion overtook him as he read, and he stood for some time collecting himself.
And then, before him, upon the far wall of the shop, his attention was drawn to what at first he took to be a painting. But not of oil and canvas. This was painted in thread, a tapestry of such artistry and detail that it stole his heart away.
He ran his hands along the woven surface and thought again of Shoo in the panel in Templar. His fingers brushed the intricate weave of four figures—the four sisters—and four of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Each was clad in a gown of colored ribbon—one, Rowan decided, golden as the sun, the next of starlight, followed by evening sky, and finally a stark-white windcloud. It was she, this cloud-clad woman, who made his heart stop. He stared at her.
He recognized her at once.
Axle had said she was the great mystery of the Verdigris tapestries.
Here again was the maiden upon whom Ivy’s crow Shoo stood, back in the tapestries in Caux. Trapped within the magical tapestries of Verdigris, frozen in time, frozen in weave.
Chapter Seventy-five
Six
Rowan emerged from the shop and was so thoroughly absorbed in his shocking discovery that he barely noticed the driving rain and loss of daylight. How had he passed the entire day within the haberdashery? His umbrella was dry and safe, and completely of no use to him, as he had left it inside the Four Sisters’ shop. Thinking only of telling Ivy his strange revelation, he ran past many storefronts that now, evening lights ablaze, seemed to belong to a completely different town.
He was approaching the archway at the town’s entrance when he saw Six.
He skidded to a halt—the sea grit beneath his feet spraying forth, a tinkle of broken eggshells.
The cat appeared to be waiting for him beneath the ribbon tree.
“Six?” Rowan called hesitantly. For all of their travels together, he still did not trust him.
In response, Six merely gazed at him levelly, and blinked. His large eyes were pools of silver and held in them—or so Rowan perceived—the distinct expression of mockery.
“I … uh … I’ve got to find Ivy,” Rowan told Six, regretting at once his need to explain himself to a cat.
The taster skirted the enormous tree—in the low light, the ribbons had given back most of their color and were fiercely flapping in the sea breeze. He found the path after the marshes and began his ascent. The dip in temperature made his climb tedious, while the sleet slashed at his upturned face. He had to fight the urge to look back to see if Six was stalking him. An inner dialogue raged within him—what sort of person was afraid of a cat? And just how—and why—had Six escaped the lighthouse? (And for that matter, tracked them through the catacombs?)
Yet Rowan would soon be very much thankful for the company of Six. As he arrived at the foot of the lighthouse, with the bright beacon’s light spilling forth upon the roiling sea, he was greeted with the stern face of the elder alewife. She explained to him curtly that Ivy was no longer there.
Wilhelmina had taken her, under the cover of nightfall, to see Clothilde.
Chapter Seventy-six
Klair and Lofft
Ivy had napped fretfully until evening, which now found her shivering, wrapped in a borrowed wool coat, upon the uppermost platform of the lighthouse. The jacket was reasonably warm, with a pleasing amount of buttons. But it was too small in the arms, and she folded her hands around her chest to keep them warm.
The night made her uneasy. It was a darkness filled with movement—things seemed to dart about her, causing her to jump in fright. The sea in the distance was a mucky spume, and the few flickering lights of the town below looked weak and unfriendly. As Ivy waited impatiently for the return of the beacon of light—its slow rotation was maddening—she realized Wilhelmina was right. She would never again feel comfortable in the shadows.
The alewife had brought her up here and instructed her to use the gift from Peps that hung about her neck. She placed the birdcall in her hand, and Ivy noticed that there were both sharp and dull edges to the needle-like thing. Wilhelmina introduced Ivy to the blunt side, the side with the opening, and told her to blow. After several unsuccessful tries, Ivy found that what was required was more of a hum and trill—rather than a whistle—and with that, she mastered it.
The song was low and eerie—a ship creaking in a rough sea.
Finally, there it was again—the stark lamp of the old lighthouse, shining through Ivy’s golden hair and out into the ocean. The world of shadow fell away, but Ivy had little time to settle down. For at first there was the emptiness that is light against nothing but night—the slight spray of the waves, the drift of the wind. And then—so unexpectedly—emerging into the illumination, bright and frightful, were two white birds of such magnitude that Ivy opened her mouth to scream, but the sound was lost to the wind. Stepping back on the slick stone face, she would have lost her footing had Wilhelmina not steadied her.
“Hush!” the alewife soothed. “It’s merely Lofft and Klair.”
Ivy nodded, recovering from her fright.
“They’re husband and wife, you know,” the alewife added confidentially.
The birds alighted easily upon the low-slung balustrade and, after a graceful flap of their vast wings, perched together, expectantly. Wilhelmina approached them and spoke quietly to each. The birds appeared to answer the alewife softly and turned their regal necks to examine Ivy.
“We are in luck!” Wilhelmina said. “They will take us!”
Ivy nodded and attempted a smile, but as Wilhelmina busied herself with a pair of silken harnesses, Ivy’s stomach lurched. Wilhelmina had explained that it was best to travel by dark, but somehow Ivy had not understood that meant upon the backs of two giant seabirds.
“Albatrosses,” Wilhelmina corrected, in response to Ivy’s meek protests. “How else do you expect to get around?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my feet,” Ivy pointed out. “And they stay firmly on the ground.”
“Walk?” The alewife snorted. “In these shoes?” And here she laughed the hearty laugh of a sailor. “It’s really quite uplifting to travel by albatross. You’ll see. Just hold on to this, while placing your chest like so.…” She showed Ivy the short reins made from luxurious ribbon. “And put your other arm here. Oh, and don’t let go!”
And with very little else to do, Ivy soon found herself on the back of the larger of
the two birds—and, at the urging of the alewife, she introduced herself to her ride.
“My name is Ivy Manx,” she said, quite loudly, against the rain and wind. And to be polite, she asked, “I wonder, are you Klair or Lofft?”
To her great astonishment, the bird responded.
Chapter Seventy-seven
Thin Air
I know you, Ivy Manx,” Lofft said, after introducing himself.
“You can speak?”
“Of course.” He seemed offended at the question. After a moment of reflection, Ivy asked, “Do all animals speak here?”
“I can only answer for birds. And, yes, all birds speak—although they don’t always understand each other.”
“Do crows speak?”
“Crows most of all! They are always talking. They hold caucuses and chat merrily for days and days. If you want something done, ask a crow.”
“Oh—I so wish I spoke Crow!”
They flew on in silence as she contemplated her inaugural conversation with Shoo, but soon she grew weary of this. He was a prisoner of the tapestries, she remembered desperately. Who knew if she would see him again.
The night air was a mixture of many things—darkness, salt, the crashing of waves below. Ivy began to turn her attention to the flight. Sitting upon Lofft’s back was a bit like gliding on a wave. The albatross soared masterfully, barely even flapping his wings.
“How is it that you know of me?” she finally asked.
“We are very old, we two,” he said, indicating his wife. This seemed to be his answer, as he said no more.
“Where are we going?”
“To the north a little ways. There is a compound.”
“And that is where my mother is?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know my mother?”
“I do.”
Silence.
“But I knew your grandmother, Princess Violet, better.”
“I don’t know my mother very well.”
“That may or may not be fortunate,” he replied.
“And my father … Well …” She shivered.
“You cannot choose your parents any more than you can choose your feathers. They are there when you hatch.”
Indeed, she thought. She certainly had hatched with quite a pair.
She saw the landscape now, beneath her. Pale rocky shores and the occasional cluster of homey lights. The clouds had moved off to sea, and what remained were insistent stars that painted the skies in unfamiliar constellations. Pimcaux smelled of salt and pine, and although she had never before visited, she felt achingly at home, wanting very much for this moment to last forever.
They were nearing the compound. Ahead there must have been a clearing, she guessed, atop a sheer cliff. And quite soon thereafter, they began descending in neat spirals. From her vantage point, she saw many smaller buildings and gardens within the walls of the main structure. The enormous birds finally alighted roughly on the lawn of a large, illuminated manor house. The walls before them gleamed, even in the low light. It was as if the sea and sand had forgotten their eternal quarrel and formed together a perfect polished stone.
“Thank you, Lofft,” Ivy said shyly.
“No.” The bird bowed his stark-white head. “It was my privilege, Noble One.”
Wilhelmina was at the entry, a large iron portal with a great knocker. The knocker was unfortunately placed, and neither Ivy nor the alewife could reach it. As Ivy turned to watch the pair of albatrosses depart with rousing, shrill cries, Wilhelmina commenced rapping her knuckles against the door—and a surprising amount of noise ensued. She knocked and knocked until her knuckles were red and a fair few of her jewels looked the worse for wear.
Finally, distant footsteps approached.
“My dear, there’s one last thing.…” The alewife paused.
Ivy waited as a frown flitted across Wilhelmina’s face.
“Your mother—Your mother is … How shall I put this? … Not quite herself.”
Ivy blinked. What did that mean?
But before she could ask, a rough-looking guard flung open the door, and Ivy jumped into the shadows. Peering out into the gloom and seeing no one, he moved to shut the door—when an afterthought occurred to him. Lowering his gaze, he was startled at the alewife standing before him. Wilhelmina cleared her throat.
“If you please, could you deliver this to your mistress?” She handed the guard a paper-thin starfish.
The man stared for a moment at the star in his hand, small and sea-green, upon which, in tiny dainty script, was Wilhelmina’s name. He looked around again. Shrugging, he turned away on his errand.
Ivy relaxed into what she thought would be a long wait.
Instead, Wilhelmina grabbed her hand, and the twosome quietly followed behind him, breaching the thick walls of the manor. Approaching the vast marble stairs, Ivy thought she understood why Peps was so fond of this particular alewife.
Chapter Seventy-eight
Clothilde
From somewhere above came the tinkling of a piano.
It was not a particularly skillful tune; in fact, it struck Ivy as the product of a student who was not inclined to practice the lessons. Yet it was a melody, which was nice for two reasons. First, it distracted the girl from any escalating fear at seeing her mother and, in turn, the King. And, second, it served to cover their footfalls as they mounted the vast stone steps that were the centerpiece of the grand hall.
It was the only way up, Ivy had noticed, too, and this made her nervous that they might encounter the deceived guard on his way down. This, however, was not a possibility, as the guard had decided not to deliver the message to Clothilde, the King’s granddaughter, but to Mr. Foxglove, who paid his salary. He was waiting politely while the man in question finished up a long trill upon a gilt piano.
Wilhelmina paused before a small stone basin. It was shaped like a seashell, and although it contained a mechanism to propel water into the air in a graceful arc, it had been silenced at Mr. Foxglove’s request. (Mr. Foxglove in general did not like the sound of running water.) There is nothing as sad to an alewife as a stilled fountain, as fountains are a place where the elements of air and water meet—a place of joy for those who inhabit watery arenas. As Wilhelmina ran her hand through the placid water, Ivy noticed that her touch left in its wake an incision—very much as if for the moment the water had ceased being liquid and was instead a clear jelly.
Ahead was a wide door, and peering in, it became clear to Ivy that this was where they were to find both the piano and its player. Something about this encounter made the hairs on the back of Ivy’s neck stand up, and she felt an inexplicable flash of melancholia, which she put down to the improbable tune they were hearing. She thought it very unlikely she would be able to endure much more of this particular music without sobbing.
The alewife had stopped. Ivy marveled at the woman’s pluck. Wilhelmina was quietly motioning to someone inside, waving and jumping about on her delicate black shoes. Then she stepped aside.
A great shadow filled the stone archway as someone advanced upon them quickly. The shadow grew and stretched, and soon fell upon Ivy. As the darkness enveloped the girl, a harrowing chill spread about Ivy’s chest. The image of Vidal Verjouce and his awful Mind Garden lurched before her.
The shadow paused, waiting.
The curtain of darkness pulled away slightly, and her mother’s white face materialized, enormous, like a moon. She wore a dress of such blackness that it sucked the very light out of the air. It was a thrilling thing—the deepest smudge of black velvet that wrapped itself around her white shoulders and encircled her waist before losing itself on the floor below. Her long hair, pulled back in a bun, was now as black as a raven.
She looked at them with an oddly blank expression.
“Yes?”
“Clothilde, I have brought you a visitor.” Wilhelmina smiled. “Look who’s here—it’s Ivy!”
“Hello, Ivy.” Clothilde smiled.
A moment passed, and Ivy frowned. Why was Wilhelmina talking to Clothilde as if she were a child?
“So nice to meet you,” Clothilde added, an afterthought. She looked agreeably from the alewife to the girl.
This was bizarre behavior indeed. Her mother’s character was one of such force and will that this polite and quizzical figure before Ivy seemed like a stranger.
“This is Ivy, Clothilde,” Wilhelmina clarified. “Your daughter.”
“Daughter?” she repeated. “Surely not. I would remember having a daughter!” Her laugh was that of a little girl.
“Ah, but you do remember!” Wilhelmina explained patiently.
“I do?”
Clothilde turned to inspect Ivy, running her pale hand through Ivy’s gold-flecked hair, touching her cheek. A flash of emotion passed across Clothilde’s face.
“A daughter,” she whispered. Her eyes settled on Ivy’s shoulders, and she recoiled as if stung. “Where did you get that dress?” she whispered hoarsely.
Ivy opened her mouth but then snapped it shut. Even if there had been enough time for her to explain, she felt the mysterious urge to quote a recipe for sarsaparilla soda.
“Never mind the dress for now, Clothilde—” Wilhelmina seemed about to deliver instructions when it suddenly became clear that the piano had stopped its playing. And the person who was no longer tickling the ivories had now made his way over to them.
“Ah,” Mr. Foxglove said in a voice like an oozing fungus. “The entertainment has arrived.”
It was a voice Ivy was incapable of forgetting.
A shrill, nasally one, belonging to her onetime taster and general miscreant, Mr. Sorrel Flux.
Chapter Seventy-nine
The Grange
Once, really not that long ago, Rowan Truax had commented that he doubted seriously a cat might do anything useful at all. He had remarked upon this—either to himself or to anyone who happened to be nearby—on at least three separate occasions recently: on the Trindletrip, in the sewers of Rocamadour, and in the chambers of Verjouce, where Six was happy to befriend his enemy. Cats, he was fond of saying, existed merely to please themselves and were given entirely too much credit otherwise.
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