Magic by Daylight

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “What a pity there’s no one to admire the picture I make,” she said.

  The instant she sat down, awkwardly managing her farthingale, harp music began to play. For the first time, Clarice seriously considered whether she were dead. Or perhaps she’d fallen asleep at some amazingly dull London soiree, just as the innocents in their first Season had begun to show off their “accomplishments” for eligible young men and their mothers. Several of those she’d known in her own callow days had been prone to inflict ghastly discords upon her sister schoolroom misses. But no, that could not be true, since assiduous pinching did not awaken her.

  There was nothing to do but accept what was going forward and eat something. She did full justice to everything offered, though, mindful of Dominic’s warning, she touched no wine. If the lemony drink of last night had appeared, she would have smashed the bottle. Everything tasted so good that it would have tempted a far less capricious appetite than hers. She would need to recruit her strength if she was going to search for and find Dominic.

  At the end of her meal, an unnoticed curtain at the far end of the “dining room” parted, showing a door at the end. Thus far, no evil had befallen her. She had bathed, been clothed and fed, in short—all her physical needs had been met. Some quality in the shampoo or the water had healed the cut on her head and so soothed her black eye that she could no longer feel it pull when she smiled. A long sleep had restored her stamina, of that she felt certain.

  Yet despite being physically improved, the closer she came to the farthest door, the more nervous she grew. It was the precise opposite of how she’d felt upon awakening. She would have gladly traded this apprehension for the stiff wrist and black eye of this morning so long as they came with morning’s optimism.

  This door did not open at her approach. Growing fanciful, Clarice thought it looked as though it would like to, but could not. She raised her hand and rapped on the door with the largest and least graceful finger-ring. It made a slight thudding sound, as though someone had flicked a fingernail against a piece of cracked porcelain.

  “Awake at last!” cried the one voice in either world that she could never forget or mistake for any other. “Come in, my dearest love, and greet me!”

  The door flew open. Greatly hesitating, Clarice crossed the threshold into a room painted a sweet peach. Rising from a damask-covered armchair was a little dark-haired lady, slightly plump, dressed with the awe-inspiring gorgeousness of Good Queen Bess. “Mother?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Matilda Stavely said, “Surely they told you that I am alive?”

  “It is still a shock.” Clarice came closer, slowly. “I am happy to see you.”

  “Happy? Yes, but not overjoyed. Not happy as I am happy. Well, I expected that. They have poisoned your mind against me, all of them. It will take time for you to see things as they really are.”

  Clarice said only, “You look very well, Mother.”

  “Thank you, my dearest. No. Do not embrace me.” Matilda shrank from her daughter’s outstretched arms and turned her face away from the kiss Clarice offered. She said, “It is not that I do not wish you to. How I have missed you! But you know, I am one of the People now and you are still a mortal.”

  “Yes, Mother. I hardly know what I am doing.”

  “Sit down, Clarice. Here, at my right hand. There is much to discuss.”

  Another armchair, exactly like the first, slid across the floor. Turning a merry little pirouette on one leg, it stopped next to Matilda. Clarice sat down, looking about her in wonder. Her mother’s room was not like the one she’d awakened in, nor was it darkly paneled with rushes on the floor in keeping with their attire. Rather, this was a simple, modern room with every ornament and furnishing the epitome of neatness, propriety, and fashion. It was not a copy of Lady Stavely’s own sitting room at the Manor, though it had the same feeling. There were no silver goods or mirrors. Clarice wondered how her mother survived without anything shining in which to observe her reflection.

  Matilda turned to her daughter, resting her chin upon two fingers. “I should not have thought it possible that you could grow more lovely than you were at sixteen. Yet I do believe your hair is slightly richer in tone and your figure and complexion are certainly improved.”

  “I don’t eat as many sweets as I did then,” Clarice said, wishing she did not feel so defiant. Why was it enough for her mother to say “white” for Clarice to maintain through thick and thin, whether true or false, that “black” was the only choice?

  “That’s good. You were such a little podge when you were a baby!”

  Clarice dredged up a smile. “Mother, what has happened? How did I come here? And where, by the way, is here?”

  “This is my home and yours too, now. My people brought you here last night. They know how to please me, for they have tasted of my displeasure.”

  “There was a man there, last night. Dominic Knight. What happened to him?”

  Matilda did not seem to hear the question. “We will be together forever now, my love. You have no idea—no one who has not been a mother could know—how much I have longed to have you near me again. You are my reason for living,” Matilda said, smiling misty-eyed.

  “Why, then, did you leave me?”

  “Do you blame me for that? What choice had I? My reputation had been blasted, my husband was dead—he who should have protected me!”

  Clarice felt she must correct her mother’s interpretation of things, no matter what the cost. “Mother, you had taken a lover who robbed you. That was hardly Father’s fault!”

  “I know who has told you these lies. That slut, Felicia. She’s just like her whore of a mother. Has she tried to turn you against me?”

  “No, Mother. You forget. I was there when it all came out.”

  “Ah, but you were a child. You couldn’t understand the loneliness of my heart. I will explain it all to you. But not now. Now, let me look at you. My eyes have been hungry for the sight of you. How beautiful you are in that gown! Do you like it? I created it for you myself.”

  “Yes, Mother. It’s beautiful.”

  “Then you should say ‘thank you,’ don’t you think?”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Charmingly done! I’m so glad you’ve not forgotten your manners without me there to guide you.” She laughed. Clarice could not remember her mother ever laughing before. The most she’d ever done in her mortal life was lift the corners of her thin mouth very slightly and say, “most amusing.”

  Clarice said, “It’s a pity I cannot see myself in it.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “There are no mirrors here.”

  “No, not as mortals know them. But we can see ourselves easily enough. I will show you later when I give you the other gowns I have for you. That will be a delightful way to pass the lime before bed. I have so looked forward to having the dressing of you again. These new fashions—pshaw! No form, no elegance, no art!”

  “You keep up with modern taste?”

  “Of course. I may be a Fay, but I want to remain a la mode, when I can.”

  “But these clothes are surely of an earlier time than ours.”

  “I am not restricted to any one style, my love. Look...”

  She rose to her feet, her magnificent skirt of pale orange satin rustling. Even the back was embroidered and set with flashing opals. The ruff behind her neat dark head was huge, made of transparent net studded with diamonds. Yet Clarice had hardly noticed her ostentatious display, any more than she would have stopped to admire the beauty of a cobra’s rippling scales.

  A blink later, her mother wore an Indian sari of the same orange but in silk, shot through with golden threads. A diamond the size of her fist hung about her neck suspended from a graduated rope of other diamonds, while rings not only covered her hennaed hands but also her painted toes.

  The next instant, she wore the ruffles and furbelows of a Pompadour, still in orange. Then an Egyptian costume of pleated or
ange linen, her eyes brightened by blue shadow, the great white and red double crown of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms of her head, sinuous ornaments of gold twisting around her arms and a great collar, intricately laid with bright enamel, about her neck. Even her sandals were of gold.

  Returning to the dress of the Elizabethan court, she said, “Anything is possible, my dearest one. I will do anything for you now that we are together once more. Nothing will ever separate us again.”

  Matilda looked away from her daughter, her eyes growing slightly glazed as she stared at nothing. In a quiet, steady tone, she said, “I’m quite angry with Forgall and his ilk. How dare they keep you from me!”

  Clarice could not recall a time when that look, that tone hadn’t been a signal that meant “go warily.” Not even ten years without her mother had been enough to overcome her instinctive shrinking away as though by meekness she grew less noticeable. But she was not a child now. She need not be cowed by harsh looks or words.

  “Mother, where is Dominic Knight?”

  “Who? Oh, your guard.”

  “My friend, Mother.”

  “He’s no friend to you! He was a jailer, mewing you up in a prison for no fault of your own. Oh, Forgall shall pay for his wickedness! Come with me, child. You are free now and you must see what the future holds for you.”

  She crossed the floor and threw back some heavy damask curtains. A pair of French windows had been concealed behind it. Dazzling sunlight poured into the room as Matilda opened the doors. “Look out here, my dearest. They are waiting to greet you.”

  “Who are?”

  “Look out.”

  Clarice approached the opening. A semicircular balcony clung to the side of the building. The instant she stepped foot upon it, a great noise of cheering arose. She walked out and grasped the stone railing.

  She looked down into a square courtyard full of cheering people. They were a long way down, for her mother’s balcony was near the top of the tallest tower. The walls were of gray stone, deeply scored, On the topmost blocks, pennons of silk rippled in a sweet mountain breeze. They bore no heraldic marks.

  “Is that your army down there, Mother?”

  “Yes, dear. Wave to them. Let them see you.”

  Clarice acknowledged the cheers of her mother’s troops with a sheepish wave. The shout that went up slapped the walls with an echo that seemed to treble the volume. The glass in the French windows rattled.

  She looked down, trying to distinguish individuals in the crowd. There must have been several hundred people looking back at her. Glancing at her mother, she said, “You have a great many followers.”

  “Not so many as Forgall, but enough. Look . . .” One instant, Matilda’s be-ringed hand was empty; the next it held a round lens in a carved wooden frame. She handed it to Clarice. The wood felt slick in a very ancient way, as though it had been smoothed by the fingers of many.

  Holding it before her eyes, Clarice jumped in surprise when the faces in the crowd became clear. That was astonishing enough but when she looked closely, she saw something else. Where was the astounding beauty of the Fay? She saw pale, pinched faces, dull eyes and hair, and their smiles showed discolored, pointed teeth. Their laughter was full of cruel knives. Some of them were not even Fay but the kind of creatures that filled Morgain’s fantastic maps. She saw claws, fur, feathers, beaks, and red eyes, sometimes all on the same being.

  “Who are they?” she asked again.

  “Fiends, mostly. There are quite a few Fay among them, disenchanted with Forgall's ways. Several of the more powerful Djinn have come to join us, together with their retinues. Wave again, my love. One should never neglect the little attentions that please one’s servants.”

  Clarice concealed her shudder. Her mother’s advice had been the same, years ago, when Clarice had first been waited on by Rose. She waved, even more reluctantly than before.

  “Later,” her mother said, “we shall have a progress through the castle. Many of them have brought gifts for you.”

  “How kind.”

  Matilda chuckled. “Don’t say that until you have seen the gifts! But don’t fret. You needn’t keep any of them. Simply show that you are graciously inclined toward them and they will follow you to the seven corners of the Wilder World.”

  The sun went behind a cloud. Clarice looked up. There were dull, metallic gray clouds sweeping across the sky to the accompaniment of a low, whistling wind. She raised the seeing-lens up and saw with a sick feeling that something horrible was riding in the clouds. They had horses, as bony and desiccated as themselves, and they smiled down on her with bare-toothed approval.

  Her mother reached out and slipped the glass from her hand. “Come in now, my love. The night is falling.”

  Clarice sat quietly while her mother talked about the future. Matilda paced restlessly, her skirt rustling, her hands gliding over each other with tiny tings as her rings met. “Everything will be as it was. We shall he together every day. There will be no Felicia to come between us. You will be all mine as you were when you were little. Only better. You can understand me now. You can rule the Living Lands at my side. Everyone will worship you as they once worshiped and adored Boadach’s daughter.”

  “I thought you were intent on bringing Boadach back.”

  Matilda paused for an instant, as though checked in the mad rush of her thoughts. “I—I have every intention of trying,” she said. “I may fail.”

  Clarice did understand her mother but thought that this was not the moment to say so. “Forgall is afraid you will succeed.”

  “You spoke with him? What did he tell you?”

  “Only that you had barricaded yourself in this fortress and that you were gathering an army to overthrow him.”

  “So he tried to take you away from me and use you against me. Well, I hope he realizes how futile he has been!”

  “Mother ...” Clarice began, then changed her tone. If Matilda wanted to think of her as the pretty innocent she’d once been, conveniently ignoring the last ten years, perhaps it would be wise to humor her. Her mother’s temper had never been even; Clarice doubted whether absolute power had created any softening.

  She made her voice high and infantile. “I don’t know why you don’t like King Forgall. He was ever so nice to you, making you one of his People.”

  “Yes,” Matilda said thoughtfully. “Yes, that was a great kindness. For a time, I was as happy as I had ever been in all my life. To know that no ill can ever touch you, that no harm can ever befall you again is beyond anything any mortal knows.”

  Matilda’s face took on a glow like that Clarice had seen in the eyes of the members of Forgall’s court. Her mother looked no more than seventeen, the harsh lines beneath her eyes fading, her chin losing its hard edge, the corners of her lips turning up instead of being grimly tucked back. Even her hair, sternly controlled in a jeweled net, seemed to soften and curl. Clarice saw her mother as she should be, tender, feminine, and attractive. It did not last.

  Matilda said, “Yet he refused to grant me the one thing my heart most earnestly desired. There’d already been some talk about his bringing me into the Lands of the Living. I asked him if he were a king or a slave in his own kingdom. He told me that he could not act capriciously more than once every thousand years or so. I knew then that he was a weakling. Boadach would be a finer king than Forgall. Boadach will be grateful to me. He will grant my request.”

  “What ‘request’?”

  Matilda studied her daughter for a moment. Clarice found it difficult to keep her wide-eyed expression in place. “Don’t trouble yourself over it, Clarice. You have nothing to do here but enjoy yourself. You have only to ask for whatever you want. Be frivolous. Be extravagant. The more you demand of me, the happier I shall be. I could never give you all I wanted before.”

  “Isn’t there going to be a war?” Clarice asked, still artlessly.

  “No. Forgall will give way to me now that I have you.” Matilda smiled. “Are you happy to b
e with me again, my dearest?”

  “Very happy, Mother. I have missed you.” Clarice realized that this was true. With all her faults, Matilda remained her mother. Though she’d been impossible to please in her mortal life—and seemed no easier now— her approval still meant more to Clarice than that of any other person, with one exception.

  “You’ll never need miss me again. Now come with me. I want to show you those other gowns.”

  As Matilda had promised, after a time, they left the tower to walk among her people. Instead of descending long flights of stairs, Matilda opened a door and escorted Clarice through. When she opened it again, they were standing on the hard-packed earth of the courtyard. A wave of sounds and odors struck Clarice with considerable force after knowing little in the past hours but sweet perfume and the tinkling of fountains. She had pleaded exhaustion and the stress of the night before to avoid trying on the roomful of clothes her mother had created for her.

  As soon as the door opened, two Fay men stepped forward, bowing low in front of Matilda. They had a cold, dusty look about them. Clarice couldn’t tell them apart until the tour was half-over. Then she noticed that Miship always nodded his head when he spoke, while Condigne shook his.

  “Everything is proceeding according to plan, my lady,” Miship said, nodding emphatically.

  “It’s a hard, hard task,” Condigne added, mournfully shaking his head.

  Clarice trailed behind her mother and her two subordinates, despite this tour being nominally for her. She couldn’t help knowing that a great many eyes were upon her. Though the people and creatures they passed bowed to Matilda, their eyes followed Clarice. Some were smirking, others stern, some even leered. Those she passed by with a haughty expression, but for the rest she had a half-smile and a nod.

  Her mother seemed to be in her element. She knew everyone’s name and either knew what position they served in or appeared to know. She entered into everybody’s interest, discussing recipes with the cooks or making a suggestion of the best way to resolve a conflict between a centaur and a satyr. After a glance from her dark eyes, the satyr did not look at Clarice a second time.