The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  Her brain felt about as clear as a bowl of oatmeal. “What are you doing?” she finally thought to ask. She felt weak, too weak to struggle against the hands.

  A tittering of giggles met her query. They had her naked now but quickly dressed her again, this time in a loose, white garment. The others dragged her clothes over to a figure lying nearby and began to dress it.

  Elle gathered her energy and rolled over on the rocky floor, stones pressing into her belly and ribs, to see the figure better. It was a woman lying there, her limbs unnaturally loose. Elle reached out and touched her arm. It was cool and slack.

  “ ’Twas the influenza that got her,” one of the fairy women said.

  “Influenza,” the others repeated, relishing the word.

  “Is she dead?” Elle asked, her mind floating.

  “Dead, yes yes, so dead, so very dead.”

  Elle pulled herself up closer to the dead woman’s head. Her face . . . Elle frowned at the corpse. That was her face there, on the dead body. Her Grecian nose, her mouth, her freckles, her dull red hair.

  Elle reached out, gently touching the woman’s face, not quite believing that it wasn’t herself. The woman looked like she had been very sick, her eyes sunken in purplish circles. Her hair was in a loose braid, like Elle’s, only it was a foot longer. One of the fairies took the braid in his hand and sliced off the extra inches with a small knife, then looked at Elle and smiled a tight, strange little smile.

  “Who is she?” Elle asked.

  “She’s you,” one woman said.

  “Or you’re her,” said another.

  “Or will be, or were,” the others put in, giggling.

  “I don’t understand,” Elle said.

  They laughed. One of the women touched Elle’s forehead with cold, hard little fingertips, and her strength began to drain even further.

  “Wait,” Elle protested. “I don’t understand. . . .” Her eyes drooped shut, and gentle hands lowered her to the ground.

  When she woke again she was lying on a hillside with the dark night sky above, the fairies around her. She felt the way she did when awakened too suddenly from sleep, when the patterns of dreams still held sway over her mind and she could not form a coherent thought.

  The odd people were giggling and whispering among themselves. The small hands helped her to stand, and she felt damp grass beneath her feet. Someone swung a dark hooded cape over her, concealing her white gown that glowed faintly in the night.

  It was very dark: A quarter moon was the only illumination. There was no reflected peach glow from city lights, no street lamps visible in the distance. All she could see was the irregular line where the black horizon met the charcoal sky. She heard the wind, and the noises of night creatures: an owl, frogs, a dog barking somewhere far, far away. She shivered in the breeze, her feet already chilled by the damp ground.

  They took her hands and led her down the hill. She had no sense of time, or of how far they walked in the dark. Eventually the grass and mud beneath her feet changed to smooth, unevenly set stones. When she looked up, a building loomed like a giant shadow against the sky and stretched off to either side in unfathomable dimensions of blackness.

  All but two of the fairies drifted away from Elle, and the remaining pair led her to a door that they opened without touch. They took her inside, up two flights of stairs, and at last onto the thick wool carpeting of a hallway, at the end of which a candle burned in a sconce upon the wall. It illuminated a wide white door, its brass handle glimmering in the candlelight. It opened silently as they approached, revealing a large bedroom.

  A low fire burned in the fireplace, its flames casting flickers of warmth upon the face of the woman who sat slumped in a chair beside it, fast asleep. She wore an apron over her long dress, and a white cloth cap covered most of her hair. Elle could just make out the shapes of the furniture, largest of which was the four-posted, canopied bed, its draperies pulled back and its soft white covers disarranged. A desire for sleep so strong that it weakened her knees swept through her, and she stepped longingly towards the mattress piled high with pillows, her two escorts pulling the hooded cape from her.

  Her companions watched silently as Elle crawled into the bed, never once considering that it was not her own. She nestled down onto her side and watched from half-lowered lids as one of the youths approached her. The boy touched Elle’s forehead, and she sank into sleep.

  The two fairies waited until Elle was deeply asleep, then with soundless steps they left the room, the door closing behind them. They retraced their route to the outside, where their compatriots joined them in the cobbled yard.

  If anyone had been awake, they would have heard a faint, chimelike titter of laughter coming from a group of shadows that circled about each other, as if there were children out playing games in the dark. The shadows disappeared one by one, replaced by will-o’-the-wisps that bobbed and danced their way back across the fields and into the forest, leaving behind a house that had no notion that fairy spells had been upon it, or that a changeling was in its midst.

  Elle woke several hours later, her mind clear. The first thing she saw was the bloated pink and white face of a man bending over her. He looked like the Quaker Oats man, only not so clean and wholesome. He was pressing a long, trumpet-shaped contraption against her chest, between her breasts. She yelped and slapped it away.

  The man jerked away from her, even as a middle-aged woman rushed to the side of the bed. “Eleanor! This is no time to be difficult,” the woman ordered in a pronounced British accent.

  Elle stared at the woman, then took in the posts and draperies of the bed, and the covers that were pushed down to her waist. A rush of panic swept over her, and the dreamlike journey of last night came back to her in frightening, disjointed images. A clammy sweat broke out on her skin, and her heart beat painfully fast in her chest.

  Something told her she was not in Oregon anymore. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. She would imitate a possum and choose quiet and stillness as a defense until she understood what was happening.

  Dr. Simms smiled and patted her hand. “There, there, m’dear. You are allowed a bit of muddleheadedness.”

  “I am? That’s kind of you.”

  “Do you not remember, m’dear? Ah, well, ’tis not unusual. The fever overheats the brain, causing loss of memory. You are a very lucky young woman. It is not everyone who survives the influenza.”

  Elle’s brain clicked on the word. Her double in the cave, dressed in her clothes, dead of the influenza. Those fairies, they had put her in the dead woman’s life. Impossible. She didn’t believe it, and most certainly this doctor would not believe it. She gave him a wavering smile.

  “Much better. Now just let me listen to your heart, so I can reassure your mother that you will still be with us on the big day.”

  Elle allowed him to place his horn on her chest. She stared at his hair as he bent over her, his ear to the end of the horn. It was a wig he was wearing, white and woolly on the sides, and she could smell powder and his body odor.

  He straightened up, and he spoke with the same matter-of-fact tone her own doctor used. “ ’Tis a bit fast for my liking, but strong. I would advise against becoming unduly excited during your recovery.” He frowned down at her.

  “I shall endeavor to be bored.”

  He patted her hand once more, then gathered his things and left the room with the woman. They were talking in subdued tones as the door closed behind them.

  Elle sat up and surveyed the room. It was large and airy, the walls painted white with gold trim around the paneling. There was an enormous mirrored armoire, a writing desk, a couple of gilt-legged chairs, a vanity, and the marble fireplace she had noticed last night.

  She got out of bed and walked over to the windows, her dirty toes sinking into the softness of the thick carpet. She pulled the heavy weight of the curtains all the way to the side.

  The room overlooked a garden. Flowers and small shrubs were arranged in
precise, geometrical designs and lined by neat gravel paths. Beyond the formal arrangements, the gardens turned to lawn, perfectly and evenly green, with a long rectangular pool. Statues were arranged along the edge of the pool, and at the far end sat a small structure with a domed roof supported by columns.

  “Miss Eleanor, you should not be out of bed!”

  Elle jumped at the shrill cry. The woman who had been sleeping by the fire last night stood by the open bedroom door, one hand on the knob, the other carrying a tray tucked against her hip.

  The maid met Elle’s frankly assessing eyes, then looked down. She dipped in an awkward, reluctant curtsy, the tray tilting precariously.

  “Forgive me, Miss Eleanor. I did not mean to correct you.”

  Elle shrugged, at a loss for a proper response. “Is that breakfast you’ve brought with you?”

  “Yes, miss. Dr. Simms suggested broth and toasted bread to be served to you in bed.” The maid was looking at her oddly.

  “Sounds okay to me.” Elle smiled brightly.

  “ ‘Okay,’ miss?”

  “Oh. It’s . . . well, I think it’s a Spanish word, actually. ‘O kay pasa es su casa,’ you know,” she improvised. Elle suddenly realized that she, with her American accent, was the strange-sounding one amongst these English voices. She went back to the bed and crawled in, her lips shut tight.

  The maid put the tray down on a stand over Elle’s legs, then tidied up the room while Elle ate. The broth was bland and the toast was cold and unbuttered. She’d be hungry before she finished.

  There was a soft tapping on the door, then it was pushed open by the middle-aged woman she had seen before, in a frothy pink-and-white-striped dress with a kerchief crossed over the bosom.

  “Clarice, that will be all for now,” the older woman said to the maid.

  “Yes, Mrs. Moore.” Clarice bowed her head and gathered up Elle’s breakfast tray, leaving the room without another word. Mrs. Moore came and perched herself on the edge of the bed, then clasped one of Elle’s hands in her own, looking at her for a long, uncomfortable moment before she spoke, her eyes filling with tears.

  “We were so worried. Your father insisted we carry on as if you would recover, and I do confess, much as it shames me to do so, there were times when I doubted his wisdom. But he was right. Here you are, looking like you have not been ill a day in your life.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “Of course, Dr. Simms says you still need your rest, and we are not to excite you overmuch until you have completed your recovery. Although how a girl could not be excited at such a time, I really cannot imagine.”

  “Yes, it is difficult,” Elle ventured softly, trying to mimic the accent of this woman who could only be Eleanor’s mother.

  Mrs. Moore’s eyes clouded with worry, and Elle knew that her attempt at an English accent had failed miserably. “My throat is very sore,” she croaked. “Could I have some water?”

  With evident relief at this explanation, Mrs. Moore stood and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She handed it to Elle, then gasped with dismay and took ahold of Elle’s messy braid.

  “What lack-wit did this to you?”

  Elle stared at her blankly. She’d braided it herself.

  “Superstitious country simpletons, thinking that long hair saps the strength of the ill. No doubt the culprit did it while you slept. Oh, it is just too horrible. When I find her, I shall dismiss her immediately, and without a reference.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Elle said. She couldn’t get someone fired for no reason. “Whoever did it must have done it for my benefit. She must have cared very much about what happened to me, to take such a risk.”

  “Why, Eleanor, that is a most charitable view of the situation.” She sounded surprised, and almost put out. “I would have thought that you would be more concerned, all considered.”

  “I’m . . . I’m just thankful to be well, that’s all. Surely a little forgiveness can do no harm.”

  Mrs. Moore stared at her for a long moment, surprise smoothing her face into a mask. “Well, if that is the way you want it, then. It is not for me to argue when you have your mind set on something. It will not be my fault, though, if you wake up tomorrow with nothing but a tuft upon your forehead.”

  She took the glass back from Elle and set in on the table. “I shall leave you now. You need your sleep, if you want to look your best. You can wear a wig on Friday.” Her eyes got a little watery once again. “I am so relieved you are well. It would have been such a disappointment to your father if we had had to postpone everything.” She gave a weak smile, patted Elle’s knee, and left.

  Elle heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. It was exhausting, improvising her way through interactions with people who thought they knew her. She hadn’t had a chance to think since she woke up.

  The last logical memory she had was of making that foolish wish for a husband, on the trail in the forest. And then . . . the image of Tatiana being sucked under the landslide filled her vision.

  “Tatiana!” she cried. Oh, God, what had happened to her? She looked frantically around the room, knowing the dog was not there, then took a deep breath and pressed her hands over her eyes, trying to calm down.

  Think, Elle, think, she coaxed herself. If she herself had survived the landslide, then perhaps Tatiana had, too. If she could figure out what had happened, she could find her dog.

  It looked like she was in someone else’s life. Insane as it sounded, people who looked and acted like fairies had brought her here. And where was here? Everyone spoke with an English accent. Most logical conclusion? England. The room and gardens looked like something out of the eighteenth century, as did the clothing. Logical conclusion?

  Well, the most logical conclusion was obviously that she’d hit her head during the landslide, and was even now in a coma in a hospital, having unusually vivid dreams.

  She slid out of bed and went to look at herself in the mirror of the armoire. She looked the same as always, same hazel eyes, same pale freckles. There were no bruises to show if she had been hurt. Everything felt real.

  She became aware that her very real bladder was in need of relief. An unhappy thought niggled at her mind. This house might be completely in keeping with the time period in which it was styled. The closest she might come to a proper toilet could be a porcelain pot beneath the bed. What a disgusting thought.

  She opened the door and poked her head out into the hall. Optimism might not be the most practical course, but she’d go look for a bathroom anyway. There were voices somewhere down the hall, out of sight, but otherwise the corridor was empty. She tiptoed out and tried the next door down. The handle turned beneath her hand, and she slowly inched open the door, her eye to the widening crack.

  The handle was suddenly jerked out of her grasp, the door pulled wide. A grinning young woman with ash-blond hair and sparkling brown eyes stood there.

  “Caught you!” she cried, then saw who it was. “Ellie, what are you doing? Do not let Mother catch you out of your room already, she will have a fit.”

  Elle gaped at the woman, surprised to be called by her name, even as the blonde pulled her quickly into the room and shut the door.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” the blonde said. “I thought it was Clarice, trying to spy on me, the wicked cow. I think she goes through my letters when I am not in my room, then reports to Mother. And what would she have thought of that last one my dear George sent me? Oh, but the row it would have caused!”

  Elle grimaced. Someone new to put on an act for, and this chatterbox was getting her no closer to a bathroom. “Maybe I shouldn’t be up yet,” she mumbled.

  The blonde clapped her hands in delight. “ ’Tis true, what Dr. Simms said, is it not? I was not supposed to know, of course, but you know I had to listen in. They never tell us anything about what is going on—I do not know why, especially when it concerns us most directly. I must say, I rather hope it is a p
ermanent thing, this change to your voice. I did not know a fever could do such a thing, but Dr. Simms said oh yes, a fever could give a person a whole new accent, if it settled in the throat, but that it would most likely dissipate in time. Imagine, you could have woken up sounding like a Scot, and would not that have been just the thing to send Father into a rage?”

  Elle thought that Dr. Simms had proven himself rather creative with his diagnosis. No wonder Eleanor was dead. Maybe she’d been bled, or had leeches stuck on her. The good doctor probably didn’t wash his hands, either.

  “Come, Ellie, sit by my fire and let me read you this latest missive. I have hardly been able to wait to share it with you, but they would not let me disturb you, although any idiot can see that you are as healthy as a horse.” She led Elle over to the soft chair by the fire, which was little more than a few smoking embers. It gave out no warmth, but the blonde didn’t seem to notice. Elle shivered in her nightgown.

  “ ‘Dearest Louise,’ ” the blonde read, “ ‘With each rising of the sun upon the joyous heavens I see in that sky the glorious gold of your hair. . . .’ Oh, Ellie, is he not marvelous?” she sighed, before continuing on. “ ‘The nights with their solitary splendors are not so splendorous as . . .’ ”

  Elle tuned out the execrable prose. Louise must be Eleanor’s sister. Funny, she’d always wanted to have a sister, but somehow she hadn’t imagined having one like this. Still, there was something charming in her enthusiasm, and Elle watched in amusement as Louise fluttered and sighed over the love letter.

  Louise finished the letter, crushed it to her chest, and looked heavenward. “ ’Tis not fair, Ellie, not fair at all. George is so romantic, so heroic. He cannot help it that his father is only a knight and that he has so little property. I have money, do I not? We could live on that and never want for anything. Father will never hear of it, though, will he? No, the Moores must climb to the top of the aristocracy. His grandchildren must be earls and dukes, and he will sell his daughters for it, no matter that true love is within my very grasp. George is the only one I shall ever love, and I will never give myself to another man.”