Mr Drake and My Lady Silver

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Pray do,’ said Ilsevel. ‘Though take care, Mr. Balligumph, as to who you ask. We would not like Gilligold to be forewarned.’

  Balligumph tipped his hat, smiled congenially, and ambled off, whistling and singing. ‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner, eating his Christmas pie…’ But he stopped, breaking off his song mid-melody, and threw some small object over his shoulder. Phineas barely caught it. ‘If ye should happen t’ get yerselves lost in them Hollows, that there will get ye out again. Take care not t’ lose it, now.’

  It was a glass sphere, only an inch in width, and perfectly clear — or so it seemed at first. But as Phineas gazed upon its glossy surface, intrigued, a mote of colour sparked in its depths and grew, shifting through all the hues of the rainbow.

  He put the pretty thing carefully into his pocket.

  Ilsevel had scarcely paid heed to this exchange; probably such wonders were commonplace to her. Impatient to begin, she strode off ahead of Phineas, marching up the hill towards the castle with her hair streaming behind her, the folds of her velvet gown whipping about her frame. ‘It is not far, is it?’ she called back, the wind snatching her words away almost as soon as they were uttered.

  Phineas gathered his courage, and hastened after her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I said I was plannin’ t’ enquire with some other folks, I meant, in particular, Oleander Whiteboots. See, Gabriel Winters was right about him — a counterfeiter, an’ a talented one at that. No trace o’ shame about him, either. Happy enough t’ pass off his wares as the genuine article.

  But ye cannot make a convincin’ copy of sommat ye’ve never seen, right? If the wily fellow produced a Herald’s Harp that could deceive even My Lady Silver as t’ its provenance, then Whiteboots has seen a real one. An’ there is that shoe-buckle, too. That chap has been pokin’ about at Mirramay, an’ no mistake. I reckon as that’s what took Tyllanthine off t’ the Goblin Court. If Whiteboots is sellin’ counterfeits, what has he done wi’ the real articles? Mayhap he still has ‘em, someplace.

  Or mayhap he’s the fellow as has been channellin’ all manner o’ valuables t’ Gilligold, in which case… he must know where the rogue is t’ be found.

  Either way, I had a powerful wish t’ talk to him without delay, an’ a sneakin’ suspicion that he weren’t hidin’ at the Court at all…

  I also had a notion that Tyllanthine’s ideas an’ mine may be runnin’ along similar lines. Who would find Whiteboots first, she or me?

  Bix took one look at Ilsevel, and fell upon her face.

  It appeared to be with reverence rather than shock, for she contrived to land in an approximate semblance of courtly obeisance, and she was distantly heard to be gabbling flattering things as she lay there, her tiny face planted in the vibrant grass of Summer’s Hollow. ‘Great Lady of the Court, Princess of all that is Cake — I mean, Good — our humble Hollow is unworthy of your presence but we will be nice to you, I swear, and—’ There was more, but it was too muffled and garbled for Ilsevel to discern any actual words.

  ‘Princess of cake?’ Ilsevel echoed, mystified.

  ‘She is fond of it.’ Phineas, meanwhile, was staring at Ilsevel as though he had never seen her before. ‘I wanted to ask how she recognises you, but you are… different.’

  Ilsevel raised a brow in silent question.

  Phineas said, with a cough, ‘You are… shining. Well — not precisely shining, there is no actual light coming off you, but you have some manner of — of glow about you that I cannot quite…’

  He really could not, quite, for worlds failed him and he returned to gazing in silence.

  Ilsevel considered. The circumstance was promising, all told; it suggested to her that she was, indeed, restored to some semblance of her former power — for a little while, at least.

  Bix looked up, and her bright eyes travelled from Ilsevel’s face to Phineas’s, and back. ‘You travel in high company,’ she said.

  Phineas flushed. ‘I… I do.’

  ‘Oh, no! I meant Milady.’ The look she directed at Phineas held an alarming mixture of hunger, adulation and greed, and Phineas took an involuntary step back.

  Ilsevel did not trouble to suppress her smile. ‘Do I take it you have been baking for her, Phineas?’

  ‘Just once!’

  ‘If I am Princess of all that is Cake, what does that make my friend here?’ said Ilsevel to Bix.

  ‘The High King — the Emperor! Is there higher than an emperor?’ Bix scrambled to her feet, and drifted — perhaps involuntarily — nearer to Phineas.

  ‘Almighty God of Cake,’ said Ilsevel. ‘That is you, Phineas. I am far out-ranked.’

  Phineas, the fool boy, looked more mortified than gratified, and Ilsevel sighed. There would be no making a courtier of him.

  ‘I have need of your aid, Bix,’ said Ilsevel.

  ‘Yes?’ Bix breathed, her eyes still fixed on Phineas’s face.

  ‘We need your help,’ Ilsevel amended. ‘We need a rose, one of those that grows here. The very finest there is.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Bix. ‘Then you will not want one of the ordinary ones. You will want one of the special ones.’

  ‘What is the difference?’ said Ilsevel politely.

  ‘You will know, when you see them.’ She smiled hopefully at Phineas. ‘The special ones are very special.’

  ‘I am sure they are,’ said he.

  ‘You aren’t supposed to take them. The Warders will dislike it.’

  ‘My Lady Silver may have anything she chooses, no?’ said Phineas.

  ‘The Warders won’t be pleased,’ Bix repeated, with emphasis.

  Phineas sighed. ‘Very well. What will it be, and how many?’

  ‘Cloudy starcakes, with jelly pearls,’ said Bix promptly. ‘Six dozen.’

  ‘Six? For shame! Shall you be so greedy before My Lady Silver? When she is in such need of you!’

  Bix lifted her chin. ‘A fair wage for labour! Shall it be five, then?’

  There followed a deal of wrangling back and forth, while Ilsevel wondered, bemused, what a cloudy starcake might be. Phineas, she saw, was not in the least cowed by the pixie’s strident manner, and handled her very cleverly. They settled at last on three dozen cakes, and a triumphant Bix swept Phineas and Ilsevel alike off to a neat, pretty house, of human or Ayliri proportions — a place with which Phineas was clearly familiar, for he went at once into the kitchen and fell to work.

  Ilsevel kept herself out of the way.

  Some little time later, an enormous batch of delicate little cakes was bringing out of the oven, to the obvious enchantment of Bix. No less to Ilsevel’s delight, were the truth told, for she had derived no small degree of pleasure from watching Phineas work. He moved with a confidence not often displayed, and with an obvious joy in the endeavour; Ilsevel could not remember ever enjoying any labour half so much.

  And the results of his efforts were… remarkable. Pale little things, the cakes contrived somehow to appear translucent, cloudy indeed, as though whirled up out of the morning mist. Something twinkled atop, like stars, and what Bix had called jelly pearls resembled real pearls most closely, save that they melted between the teeth. Ilsevel devoured a specimen with almost as much gusto as Bix, and looked upon Phineas with something akin to wonder.

  ‘I’ve seen nothing like this since Mirramay,’ she said. ‘It reminds me…’ Of happy times, she had been going to say: of the days when Anthelaena and Edironal had reigned upon their joint thrones; when she herself and Tyllanthine had held places at Court; when their family had been united and happy, and all the realm of Aylfenhame united and happy likewise… but a swift pain stole her words, and she did not attempt to finish the sentence. Were those days lost for always?

  Phineas had taken Bix’s praise as his due, with a swift nod and the satisfied smile of man who knows he has done his work well. But at Ilsevel’s words, a flush of strong colour suffused his cheeks, and he could not meet her eye. He mumbled some acknowledgeme
nt, too softly to be understood, and busied himself with the tidying of the kitchen.

  Ilsevel removed a tray of the cakes.

  ‘But—!’ Bix, halted mid-gobble, gazed upon Ilsevel in utter woe. ‘But they are mine!’

  ‘So they are, and you shall have them when you have taken us to the roses. Time presses, Miss Bix! We cannot linger here forever.’

  She received the benefit of Phineas’s support, and under their joint admonitions, Bix consented to guide them. But she kept a suspicious eye on the tray in Ilsevel’s hands, with the effect that she scarcely watched where she was going, and had thrice to be rescued from an unhappy tumble by Phineas’s quick hands.

  The neat house with the kitchen was part of a knot of similar buildings, all of them inhabited, for the windows filled with the faces of curious residents as Phineas, Ilsevel and Bix appeared in the square. Some of them recognised Ilsevel’s eminence, for their eyes widened, and they dipped their heads in belated deference. But none of them came out of their houses, and the winding little street was almost deserted.

  Remembering the chill and the rain of England, Ilsevel turned her face up to the sun as she followed in Bix’s train, grateful for its warmth, and the brightness that lifted her spirits. It was easier to believe, in so flourishing and well-lit a Hollow, that some good lay in her future; that all was not destined to be forever lost. Phineas, too, felt its effects, for though he watched both Bix and their environs as carefully as ever, he began to whistle a tune as he walked.

  Bix led them out of the cluster of houses and into a stretch of green-and-golden meadow beyond. A yellow-paved road wound its way through, along which Bix trotted in happy anticipation of her reward. Wild roses and sweetpeas tangled through the hedgerows flanking each side of the road, and cowslips and bluebells and honeysuckle; a mass of summer beauties all flowering at once, filling the air with a hazy perfume and the song of contented bees. The place was intoxicating; Ilsevel, lulled by the sunny peace of the Hollow, felt a lurking sense of regret that she could not stay.

  The merry little road went on for some way, offering several turnings into places unknowable; Bix ignored all of these. At length the pathway flowed like a river into the yellow-paved courtyard of a handsome estate, walled on three sides. A tall house dominated the space, its white stone walls gleaming in the sun. It had oddly coloured windows, a thicket of turrets like an array of hats, and a great pair of doors at the front.

  The gate was flanked by a pair of bronze-wrought statues. Each took the tall, slender shape of a hare seated upon its haunches, ears raised to the sky. The hares wore jackets with braided toggles, and feathered hats.

  As Ilsevel’s little party approached, the statues shimmered like heat on the water, and came alive. ‘Names!’ barked the hare on the left, his bronze hide now white and soft-furred.

  ‘And purpose!’ roared the other, its nose twitching furiously as it inhaled the scents of its visitors.

  ‘They want a rose,’ announced Bix. ‘A special one.’

  ‘Unthinkable!’ barked the first hare.

  ‘Insupportable!’ shouted the other.

  ‘Our names are Phineas Drake,’ said Ilsevel demurely. ‘And Lady Silver.’

  The first hare blinked, and refocused its gaze upon Ilsevel’s face. The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Aye, looks likely,’ said he.

  ‘Seems possible,’ said the other hare.

  ‘My Lady Silver,’ said both hares at once, and bowed.

  ‘I need some of my sister’s roses,’ she said, with a gracious smile. ‘And quickly, please.’

  ‘At once!’ said both, and dashed away.

  They were back in the blink of an eye. Both carried a rose between their lips, though the flowers were not quite the same. One was pure white, absurdly oversized and alight with moonglow. The other was bright gold, similarly enormous, and shining like the sun. The hares bowed low, and laid both blossoms at Ilsevel’s feet.

  Ilsevel stared at the plucked roses, momentarily overcome. Oh, these were they indeed. Well she recalled how they had twined about her sister’s throne in glorious profusion, moonlit and sunlit both… ‘I thank you,’ she managed to say, though the lump in her throat all but stole her words.

  Phineas came a little nearer. She felt his warmth at her side, a surprisingly comforting presence. ‘A question for the Warders,’ he said.

  The hares straightened. ‘Speak!’

  ‘Do either of you know the one called Gilligold?’

  ‘He is dead,’ said one of the hares.

  ‘No, he’s quite alive,’ said the other.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Phineas interjected with a polite cough. ‘If he is indeed alive, where might we find him?’

  Both hares were silent for some time. ‘Not here,’ said one at last.

  The other slowly shook his head. ‘Not here at all. But not far, either.’

  ‘Where, then?’ said Phineas, with admirable patience.

  ‘Follow the road,’ said the hares. ‘The Lady will know.’

  Shielded by Phineas’s opportune questioning, Ilsevel had enjoyed a few moments of peace in which to collect up the roses, unobserved. The tray she had passed off to Bix, and the pixie, oblivious to anything but her repast, was happily engaged in its dispatch. But these words of the hares broke in upon her reflections, for she realised that the Lady in question was meant to be herself.

  She looked up. ‘Shall I, indeed?’

  The white hare thumped upon the road in question with one long foot. ‘Old roads,’ he said. ‘Old ways.’

  Seek the old ways, Wodebean had said. Ilsevel regarded the road with fresh interest.

  ‘Gilligold,’ said the other hare. ‘The oldest.’

  ‘Be careful, Lady Silver,’ said both the hares together.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  The hares nodded, and in the blink of an eye they were bronze again.

  Ilsevel bent, and laid a hand upon the stones. ‘Take us, then,’ she commanded. ‘Farther back.’

  She was obeyed. The world shimmered around her and ran like water; she had time only to grab for Phineas before the road gathered itself in a wave of magic, and obligingly swept her away.

  She emerged in spring. The heat of Summer’s Hollow lessened, and became balmy; a light breeze tugged playfully at Ilsevel’s hair, redolent with the scents of fresh earth and fresh air. The road lay still beneath her feet, but its stones were green and moss-grown. Budding willows arched gracefully over the pathway ahead, and a wide, clear pool of still waters lay behind, its surface scattered with lily-pad leaves.

  Casting about for Phineas, Ilsevel found him a-wander in the grass several feet away, screened from view behind a spray of willow branches. She paused long enough to ensure that he was unharmed by the crossing, then took his arm and swept him relentlessly along the winding green road. ‘In spring,’ said she as she strode along, ‘The throne stood in a carpet of snowdrops, and it bore a mantle of dewberry-roses and blue moonflowers. Somewhere in this Hollow there must be some specimen of these, if Wodebean has done his work well.’

  Phineas fell into step beside her, his ever-present cap restored to his head. He had, it seemed, no comment to offer, and they proceeded in companionable silence for a time. The willow-grove gave way to a grassy valley, and the road dipped smoothly downwards.

  Ilsevel discerned somebody coming towards them from the far side of the valley, a figure shrouded in shapeless, dark-coloured robes. A glimpse of an ancient face revealed the stranger to be an elderly woman, her straw-like grey hair protruding untidily from within her deep cowl. Ilsevel would have contented herself with a polite nod to this unpromising-looking passerby, but as the woman drew near them she stopped, and surveyed Ilsevel with an intent, searching look. Her eyes alighted upon the twin roses tucked into Ilsevel’s sash, and lingered.

  ‘You have them all, I trust?’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Ilsevel.

&
nbsp; ‘You did retrieve the hellebore?’ The voice, exasperated in tone, struck Ilsevel as familiar; the more so when the woman cast a look of withering frustration skywards, and folded her arms with a sigh. ‘Must you be so unreliable?’

  The word korrigan flitted through Ilsevel’s mind. ‘Tylla?’

  ‘The same.’

  Ilsevel felt an obscure flash of irritation. ‘I understand that this particular transformation was not of your own choosing, but really! You term me unreliable? Why will you never consent to be yourself? I have forgotten the face of my own sister.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Tyllanthine.

  Ilsevel blinked. ‘What?’

  The crone, Tyllanthine, waved this away. ‘The hellebore. They were in Winter’s Hollow. You did contrive to collect some?’

  ‘Is that why you sent me there?’

  ‘That, and to keep you out of trouble. You have been causing quite the stir. It was inconvenient.’

  ‘Some instruction would have been useful. Then, you would not have had to dispose of me.’ An ocean of words hovered upon Ilsevel’s lips: questions, as to Tyllanthine’s failure to take Ilsevel into her confidence. Reproaches, for the pain she had inflicted upon both Ilsevel and Anthelaena. Despair, for the endless secretiveness with which Tyllanthine approached everything.

  She uttered none of it.

  ‘Must you have me spell everything out for you?’ said Tyllanthine waspishly.

  Ilsevel could only glower her displeasure.

  Phineas said, in his mild way, ‘An oversight, Highness. We are on our way to find some now.’

  ‘You do know this is not Winter?’ said Tyllanthine tartly.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Phineas.

  Tyllanthine’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is no task to trifle with, baker’s boy.’

  ‘Nor are we,’ said Phineas, unruffled.

  ‘What did you find at the Court?’ asked Ilsevel.

  ‘Grunewald denies all knowledge. According to him, the palace was stripped bare of valuables by the time he and his people arrived.’

  ‘Do you think he spoke the truth?’