by Tad Williams
She was not waiting for him in the parlor. Her absence startled him, an unexpected thing that made the whole strange ritual suddenly seem as mad as he had thought it to be in his first weeks on the job. He checked the glass and ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. A minute after nine, but no Ava. He wondered if she might be ill, and was surprised by the stab of worry that came with the thought.
One of the downstairs maids, capped and aproned in white, silent as a ghost, slid past the hall doorway with her arms full of folded tablecloth.
"Excuse me," he called. "Is Miss Jongleur still in bed? She's late for her lessons."
The maid looked at him, startled, as though merely by speaking he had broken some ancient tradition. She shook her head before disappearing.
After half a year, Paul still had no idea whether the household help were trained actors or simply very strange.
He knocked at her bedroom door, then knocked again, louder. When no one answered, he cautiously pushed open the unlatched door. The room, half-boudoir, half-nursery, was empty. A row of porcelain-faced dolls stared at him dumbly from the mantelpiece, glassy eyes wide beneath the long lashes.
On his way back across the parlor he caught a glimpse of himself in the framed mirror above the mantel: an unexceptional man dressed in clothes far more than a century out of date, in the middle of an over-ornamented parlor room that might have come straight out of a Tenniel illustration. Something only a hair more subtle than a shudder passed through him. For just a moment, but in a most unsettling way, he felt that he was trapped in someone else's dream.
It was bizarre, of course, even a little frightening, but he still could never quite get over how much cleverness had gone into it. From the house's front door his view across the formal garden and its maze of paths, past the hedges and over the woods beyond, was exactly what he would have expected to see surrounding the country house of a reasonably well-to-do French family of the late nineteenth century. The fact that the sky overhead was not real, that rains and morning mists came from a sophisticated sprinkler system, that the shifting of daylight into evening or the Bo Peep wandering of clouds were created by lighting and holographic illusion, almost added to the charm. But the idea that this entire house and grounds had been built on the top floor of a skyscraper largely for one person, a sealed time capsule in which the past was simulated if not actually returned, was more disturbing.
It's like something from a story, he thought—and not for the first time, by any means. The way they keep her up here. Like the giant's wife in that beanstalk story, or . . . who was the princess with the hair? Rapunzel?
He spent a short while exploring the garden, whose formal, old-fashioned French design was softened by what he could only think of as that woody, overgrown English influence that was almost indistinguishable from neglect. There were several places where the high hedges hid benches, and Ava had told him that sometimes she liked to bring her sewing out and work on it while she listened to the birds sing.
At least the birds are real, he thought as he watched a few of them flitting from branch to branch above his head.
The winding paths were all empty. Paul was beginning to feel a quiet rising of panic, despite all good sense. If there was ever anyone less likely to stumble into danger than Avialle Jongleur, it was hard to imagine: she was watched by the most sophisticated surveillance equipment available and surrounded by her father's private army. But she had never simply missed a morning's session, never even been late. Her time with Paul seemed to be the highlight of her day, although he didn't flatter himself that it was due to any overwhelming qualities of his own. The poor child had precious few chances to see other human beings.
He turned off the gravel-strewn paths onto the narrow track that led into the overgrown orchard Ava called "the wood." Here the ground became as uneven as real terrain, and the plums and crab apples that ringed the garden gave way to stands of silver birch and an increasing tangle of oaks and alders, which were thick enough to hide the house when he looked back and provide at least the illusion of privacy, although Paul knew from one of Finney's very pointed lectures that the surveillance extended everywhere. Still, he could not help feeling he had crossed over some invisible line: this far from the house the trees shouldered together closely and the false sky could only be seen through chinks in the foliage far above. Even the birds kept to the highest branches. The spot seemed strangely isolated. Paul found it hard to keep his earlier folktale impressions out of his head.
He found her sitting on the grass beside the stream. She looked up at his approach, smiling her secretive smile, but said nothing.
"Ava? Are you all right?"
She nodded. "Come here. I want to show you something."
"It's time for your lessons. I worried when you weren't waiting for me at the house."
"That was very kind of you, Mr. Jonas. Please, come here." She patted the grass beside her. He saw that she was at the center of a wide ring of mushrooms—a fairy ring, as his Grammer Jonas had called them—and the sense of being in some sort of unfolding tale crept over him again. Ava's eyes were wide and full of . . . something. Excitement? Anticipation?
"You'll get your dress wet, sitting on the grass," he said as he reluctantly moved forward.
"The trees kept the rain off. It's quite dry here." She pulled her hem aside and tucked it beneath her leg, making a space for him to sit, and accidentally—or was it?—revealing a bit of the petticoat beneath, as well as a pale gleam of ankle above her shoe. He found himself struggling not to react. He had discovered the first day of lessons that Ava was a flirt, although it was hard to tell how much was genuine and how much was simply her anachronistic manners, which dictated perfect decorum on the surface, but by doing so made every exchange even more loaded. A female friend of his back in London had once spent a drunken evening telling him why Regency novels were so much sexier than anything written in the less-inhibited centuries since: "It's all about the tight focus," she had insisted.
Paul was beginning to agree with her.
Seeing his discomfiture, Ava grinned broadly, an expression of unmeasured enjoyment which reminded Paul again that she was little more than a child, and which paradoxically made him even more uncomfortable. "We really should be getting back," he began. "If I had known you wanted your lessons outside today, I would have prepared. . . ."
"All is well." She patted his knee. "It is a surprise."
Paul shook his head. She clearly had something planned, but he was angry with himself for losing control of the situation. It would have been difficult enough, being private tutor to an attractive, lonely, and very young woman, but in the bizarre circumstances of the Jongleur fortress the whole thing became even more of a strain. "This isn't appropriate, Ava. Someone will see us. . . ."
"No one will see. No one."
"That's not true." Paul wasn't sure how much she knew about the surveillance. "In any case, we have work to do today. . . ."
"No one will see us," she said again, this time with surprising firmness. She lifted a finger to her lips, smiled, then touched her ear. "And no one will hear us, either. You see, Mr. Jonas, I have a . . . friend."
"Ava, I hope we are friends, but that's not. . . ."
She giggled. The waves of black hair, confined today by pins and a straw hat, framed her amused expression. "Dear, dear Mr. Jonas—I'm not talking about you."
Puzzled, more worried than ever, Paul stood. He extended a hand for Ava. "Come with me. We can talk about this later, but we must get back to the house." When she did not accept his help, he shook his head and turned to leave.
"No!" she cried. "Don't step out of the circle!"
"What are you talking about?"
"The circle—the ring. Don't step out. My friend won't be able to protect us."
"What are you talking about, Ava? Are you talking about fairies? Protect us how?"
She pouted, but it was reflexive. Paul thought he saw a real concern there as well—something almost like fear
. "Sit down, Mr. Jonas. I will tell you everything, but please don't step outside the ring. As long as you stay here with me, we are both safe from prying eyes and listening ears."
Overwhelmed, and with the distinct impression that things were going in a very bad direction, Paul nevertheless sat back down. Ava's relief was obvious.
"Good. Thank you."
"Just tell me what's going on."
She picked at a dandelion. "I know my father watches me. That he can see me even when I do not know he's there." She looked up at him. "It's been true all my life. And the world I read about in books—I know I will never see it, not if he has his way."
Paul squirmed. He had only recently begun to realize that he himself was more of a jailer than a teacher.
"Even in the harems of the Middle East, the women have each other for company," she went on. "But who do I have? A tutor—although I am very fond of you, Mr. Jonas, and my other tutors and nannies were also kind—and a doctor, a most dry and unpleasant old fellow. Not to mention maids who are almost too frightened even to speak to me. And those abhorrent men who work for my father."
Paul's discomfort was rising again. What would Finney or the brutal Mudd think of him sitting here listening to Jongleur's daughter talking this way? "The fact is," he said as calmly as he could, "people do watch you, Ava. Listen to you. And they're doing it right now. . . ."
"No, they are not." Her tight smile was defiant. "Not now. Because at last I have a friend—a friend who can do things."
"What are you talking about?"
"You will think me mad," she said, "but it's true. It's all true!"
"What is?"
"My friend." She suddenly fell silent and could not meet his eye. When she did, something strange smoldered there. "He is a ghost."
"A what? Ava, that's impossible."
Tears bloomed. "I thought you of all people would hear me out." She turned away.
"I'm sorry, Ava." He reached out and touched her shoulder, only inches from her smooth, soft neck and the straggling dark curls where her hair had pulled free of the pins. The gurgling of the stream seemed quite loud. He jerked his hand back. "Look, please tell me what's going on. I can't promise I'll believe in ghosts, but just tell me, will you?"
Still with her face turned from him, her voice very low, she said, "I didn't believe it myself. Not at first. I thought it was one of Nickelplate's little tricks."
"Nickelplate?"
"Finney. It's my name for him. Those glasses, the way they gleam—and haven't you heard him when he walks? His pockets are full of something metal. He jingles." She scowled. "I call the fat one Butterball. They are monstrous, both of them. I hate them."
Paul closed his eyes. If she was wrong about being overheard, as he felt sure she must be if she thought her protection came from a ghost, then it wouldn't be long before he would be hearing this conversation replayed, probably as part of his exit interview.
I wonder if I'll get severance. . . .
"The voice whispered in my ear," Ava was saying. "At night, while I lay in bed. As I said, I thought it was one of their tricks and I did not reply. Not at first."
"You heard a voice in your sleep. . . ?"
"It was not a dream, Mr. Jonas. Dear Paul." She smiled shyly. "I am not so foolish. It spoke to me very softly, but I was quite awake. I pinched myself to make sure!" She held up her pale forearm to show him where she had done it. "But I thought it a trick. My father's employees are always saying vile things to me. If he knew, he would surely have them discharged, wouldn't he?" She almost seemed to be pleading. "But I never tell him, because I am afraid he would not believe me—would think it merely girlish spite. Then they would make it even more difficult for me, perhaps discharge you and bring in some horrible old woman or cruel old man to be my tutor, who knows?" She scowled. "That fat one, Mudd, he told me once that he would love to get me into the Yellow Room one day." She shivered. "I do not even know what that is, but it sounds dreadful. Do you know?"
Paul shrugged uncomfortably. "Can't say that I do. But what are you telling me? A voice spoke to you? And said that we're safe to speak here?"
"He is a lonely ghost, if that's what he is—a little boy, I think, perhaps a foreigner. He speaks that way, very seriously, very strangely. He told me he had been watching me and he was sorry I was so lonely. He said he wanted to be my friend." She shook her head in slow wonder. "It was so odd! It was more than just a voice—it was as though he stood right by me! But although it was dark, there was enough light to see the room was empty."
Paul was more than ever convinced that something was gravely wrong, but had not the slightest idea of what to do about it. "I know you don't think it was a dream, Ava, but . . . but it must have been. I just can't believe in ghosts."
"He hid me. He told me to go out for a walk in the evening, and that he would show me how he could keep me safe from being found. And he did! I went for a walk here in the wood and soon there were maids all over the garden and tramping through the trees. Even Finney came and joined in the search—he was very angry when they finally discovered me sitting on a stone doing my sewing. 'I frequently go for walks in the late afternoon, Mr. Finney,' I told him. 'Why are you so upset?' He could not admit that whatever methods they used for spying on me had failed, of course—he merely made an excuse, something urgent that he needed to speak to me about, but it was transparently a ruse."
"But is that enough. . . ?" Paul began.
"And last night my friend showed me the rooms where you live," she said hurriedly. "I know, it is a most terrible incursion on your privacy. I apologize. They are much less grand than I had suspected, I must say. And your furniture is all very smooth and plain—nothing like what I have in my house at all."
"What do you mean, showed you?"
"The mirror through which my father speaks to me, when he bothers to do so—it has never been of any other use, but last night my friend used it to show me you, dear Mr. Jonas." She gave him a girlishly wicked little flash of her teeth. "I am grateful, for my modesty and yours, that you were fully dressed the entire time."
"You saw me?" Paul was dumbfounded. She had stumbled on some way to use the one-way wallscreen in her study to connect to the general house surveillance.
"You were watching something on the wall—a moving picture of your own. It had animals in it. You were wearing a gray robe. Drinking a glass of something—wine, perhaps?"
Paul had a dim recollection of having half-watched some kind of nature documentary. The other details were correct, too. His earlier worry was growing into something far larger and more frightening. Had someone hacked into the house system? Could it be some elaborate precursor to a kidnapping attempt? "This . . . this friend of yours . . . Did he tell you his name? Did he tell you what . . . what he wanted?"
"He has told me no name. I am not sure he remembers his name, if he had one." Her face grew solemn. "He is so lonely, Paul. So lonely!"
He was dimly aware that she was using his first name now, that some crucial barrier had been breached between them, but at this moment it seemed the smallest of his worries. "I don't like it, Ava." Another thought occurred to him. "You talk to your father? In the mirror?"
She nodded slowly, her eyes now focused on the slow-swaying branches high above. "He is such a busy man. He always says he wishes he could come to see me, it is only that there are so many demands on his time." She tried to smile. "But he speaks to me often. I'm sure that if he knew how his employees treat me, he really would be quite angry."
Paul sat back, trying to make sense of it all. He himself had only once had a face-to-face interview with Jongleur—or face-to-screen, to be more accurate—and had felt fairly sure that the dapper, sixtyish man who had quizzed him sharply about his daughter's habits and behavior was not a true image: no anti-aging technology in the world could make more than a century and a half look like that. Still, it was one thing for the man to keep up a facade for employees—but his own daughter?
"Has
he ever come to see you? Ever? In person?" She shook her head, still staring at the light bleeding through the leaves.
This is too bizarre. Ghosts. A father who only appears in a mirror. What in the bloody hell am I doing in a madhouse like this?
"We have to get back," he said aloud. "I don't care if anyone can see us or not—it's too long for us to be missing, out of the house."
"Whatever they use to spy on us," she said blithely, "they will only see us having a lesson here outside, you reading and me making notes." She grinned. "My friend promised me."
"Even so." He stood up. "This is all a bit too strange for me, Ava."
"But I want to talk to you," she said, her wide-eyed face suddenly anxious again. "Truly talk. Don't leave, Paul! I . . . I am lonely, too."
Her hand, he suddenly realized, was gripping his. Helplessly, he allowed himself to be tugged back into a sitting position once more. "Talk about what, Ava? I know you're lonely—I know this is a terrible life for you, in some ways. But there's nothing I can do. I'm just an employee myself, and your father is a very powerful man." But was it true, he wondered? Were there not laws of some kind? Even a rich man's child had rights—was there not some parental responsibility to allow one's offspring to live in the century into which she had been born? It was hard to think: the noise of the stream was so insistent, the light beneath the trees so oddly diffuse, as though he labored under some kind of supernatural glamour.
What should I do? Quit and file, a lawsuit? Take it to UN Human Rights? Wasn't Finney pretty much warning me about that when he hired me? A sudden thought, like a splash of icy water—What really happened to the last tutor? They were displeased with her, they said. Very displeased.