Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  Jed heaved another sigh. Sera had such a decided way of making a request, it was difficult to resist her. He opened the door of the carriage and helped her to alight. But he could not resist a sidelong glance at her companion. Catching Elsie looking back at him, he blushed to the roots of his hair.

  "I hope you know I don't put her up to this, Miss Elsie."

  Elsie smiled at him. To Jed's mind, she was the prettiest girl in Thornburg, with her fair, almost translucent skin, and her soft golden curls, but there was always a tentative quality to her beauty, a kind of delicate expectancy in her smile, that brought a lump to Jed's throat.

  "I know you don't, Jed," said Elsie. "But when did Sera require encouragement to stand by old friends?"

  Sera took his arm and shook it impatiently. "Come along, Jed, before Cousin Clothilde returns. I'm in no temper for another lecture on the impropriety of being seen in low company—either from her or from you. I've heard it all too many times before."

  Even as she spoke, the shop door opened, and Mistress Vorder stepped out into the street, accompanied by a limping, foreign-looking dandy in high boots. From the grim look on Clothilde Vorder's face as she approached the carriage, it was plain that Sera was in for a scolding and that Jed himself would likely come in for more than his share of the blame. Wishing to avoid a scene (and reckoning that Mistress Vorder, in her grotesque curled wig and her outsized hoop, was a sight too unwieldy to effectively pursue them), he turned tail and ran, dragging Sera with him: around a corner, down a long alley, and into another open square.

  When he thought it was safe, he released her arm. Pulling off his cap, he used his sleeve to wipe his forehead. "I ain't accustomed to all this running about in the heat of the day," he said, leaning up against a cool brick wall.

  "Really, Jedidiah." Sera righted her straw hat, smoothed her skirts, and readjusted the drape of her flowered silk shawl. "Cousin Clothilde will suspect the worst now. And what of Jarl Skogsrå? They will imagine an elopement at the very least. I hope you are prepared to do the honorable thing and make an honest woman of me."

  Jedidiah glared at her. "When I do marry, she won't be a sharp-tongued piece like you, that I promise you. She'll be someone sweet and gentle, someone like . . ."

  But now Sera was laughing at him again, which brought such an irresistible alteration to her dark-browed face that Jed could not help laughing along with her. And over her shoulder he spotted a canted signpost whose weathered lettering read: Cairngorm Court/Antimony Lane. If Sera had led him astray in one sense, she had at least set him straight in another.

  "Anyways," he said, replacing his cap and adjusting it with a pull and a tug, "your Cousin Clothilde don't suppose nothing of the sort, nor Jarl what-you-may-call-'im, I'll wager. But you don't tell me what this is all about, I might begin to suspect sommat of the sort myself."

  Sera's smile faded. She was an attractive girl with a pink and white complexion and a head of thick dark curls like a Gyptian, and Jed thought she might have been prettier still were it not for the lowering brows and a habitual look of discontent, as though she could never quite forget all she had lost through her grandfather's folly and her father's wickedness.

  "I called at the bookshop last week, and I heard—I heard that Caleb Braun has abandoned his old occupation, to spend his days minding shop and running errands for my grandfather. As for Grandfather, he is so secretive about his activities, I can't help but wonder if the two of them have embarked on something ill-considered . . . even dangerous. What does it all mean, do you know?"

  Jed shifted from one foot to the other, cleared his throat, tugged at his cap, and tried to think of a way to save himself. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for his promise to Uncle Caleb. "All for the young lady's sake, not to go aworrying her for naught," the old man had said, swearing him to silence and extracting a particular promise not to mention the coffin or the books to Sera. Without thinking the matter over carefully (for that was before his granduncle announced his decision to abandon the river) Jed had agreed.

  "Ask Walther Burgen or Matthias Vogel—I've reason to suppose they might know sommat about it," Jed temporized.

  Sera regarded him with patent disbelief. "I? Ask Walther Burgen or Matthias Vogel? What an idea!"

  Jed heaved a profound sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward; he had not really expected any other reply. "You know your own business best—or always say you do, anyways. I tell you what I can do," he said, wiping his sweating hands on his coat and trying another tack. "I'Il keep a close eye on Uncle Caleb—and your grandfather, too. I see or hear anything different from what I already . . . that is . . . I see or hear anything I reckon you ought to know about, I'll send word."

  From the way Sera bit her lip and tapped her slippered foot on the cobblestone street, it was ominously evident that she suspected him of withholding information. She looked like a young woman who was going to speak her mind in no uncertain terms. Jed braced himself to weather the storm.

  But an unexpected diversion rescued him: a little gilded carriage, so small it might have been meant to carry a child, which came down the street at a sedate, not to say dignified pace, pulled by six fat beribboned sheep. The passenger was a dainty blonde woman, as exquisitely formed as a fairy, in a gown of pearl-grey satin and fluttering cobweb lace, and her coachman was a rotund gnome, no more than three feet high, with exceptionally large taloned feet and a fine pair of curving horns. Chained to the seat beside him was a sad-faced miniature indigo ape with a jeweled collar. As she passed by, the lady in the carriage nodded at Sera and raised a tiny hand in greeting.

  "Better than a circus," said Jed, goggling appreciatively.

  "Don't be impertinent," replied Sera. "That is the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen, if you please, and a most particular friend of Cousin Clothilde's. Her tastes are somewhat eccentric, I grant you, but she is known for her wit and intelligence as much as her fashionable affectations, and is equally well known, I should tell you, as the patron of many prominent doctors and philosophers.

  "Which reminds me," Sera added, with a sigh, "that I really ought to go back to poor Elsie. She is to see Dr. Mirabolo this afternoon—the Duchess's current favorite—and I am determined to support her during that ordeal."

  Jed drew his breath in sharply. "Has Miss Elsie been ill again?"

  "Oh, Jed, she is practically never well." Sera's expression turned suddenly tragic, and she made a little convulsive movement with one hand, clutching her shawl. "Her symptoms are so many and so varied, you would almost suppose she was shamming—though I am convinced she is not—and with every new physician who attends her, poor Elsie develops a new complaint."

  Jed stuck his hands back into his pockets and made a rude but expressive noise at the back of his throat. "Every new quack, it sounds like to me."

  Sera nodded sadly. "Yes, I fear you are right. And I have tried to convince Cousin Clothilde—however, you know how stubborn she can be! She says . . . well, she says a good many cruel and condescending things about my birth and my prospects which do not seem to address the subject at all. I haven't convinced her yet, Jedidiah, but I assure you that I mean to keep on trying until I do."

  Jed took his hands out of his pockets, folded his arms, and scowled most horribly. "Seems to me your Cousin Clothilde takes a considerable pleasure in quacking Miss Elsie. Seems to me there must be some doctors in Thornburg who know what they're about.

  "I believe there must be, but Cousin Clothilde will have nothing to do with them," Sera admitted. "She only seems to care for stupid fads and promised miracles. And the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen encourages her.

  "I can only suppose that the Duchess means well—so sweet and generous as she is," Sera added, with another sigh. "But from what I have heard of him, I can't help thinking that this new doctor of hers—this Dr. Mirabolo—is bound to be immeasurably worse than any of the rest."

  CHAPTER 5

  In which Elsie Vorder suffers in Mind and Body.

  Dr. Mirabol
o was a fashionable physician who had gained a reputation treating fashionable women for fashionable complaints, by soaking them in tubs of saltwater, applying leeches to the soles of their feet, and by exposing them to the "healing influences" of large chunks of magnetized iron. In order to receive those treatments, it was necessary to seek the doctor at his consulting rooms in a narrow building on Venary Lane, an establishment he had modestly dubbed the Temple of the Healing Arts. The "temple," as Sera soon discovered, was really a second-story suite, sandwiched in between a music school and a fencing academy. It could only be reached by climbing a long flight of steep stairs.

  "If Dr. Mirabolo were in the habit of treating the truly ill and not an assortment of hypochondriacs and hysterics—it seems likely he would rent other rooms, no matter what the expense," Sera whispered in Elsie's ear, as she supported her up the stairs.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, at Elsie's mother, who, huffing and puffing and leaning heavily on Jarl Skogsrå's arm, followed behind them. "As it is, I suppose many of his patients derive considerable benefit from the exercise."

  Elsie giggled a little breathlessly. "Poor Mama. I don't think she had any idea what was in store for her."

  By the time they reached the doctor's gilded reception room, Elsie and her mother were both on the point of collapse, and Jarl Skogsrå's limp was more pronounced than ever. Nevertheless (and with an elaborate show of courtesy), he found a fragile-looking chair for Elsie to sit on, sent a servant after a sturdier seat to accommodate Mistress Vorder, and pulled up another frail, gold-painted chair and offered it to Sera.

  This unexpected attention on the part of the Jarl, Sera barely noticed. She was too occupied with Elsie's fan and vial of hartshorn as well as trying to attract the eye of a somber-looking serving man, who was offering tea in shell-like china cups to a sallow matron in plum-colored satin and her three spindly, blue-haired daughters.

  I wonder if I might be of assistance?" said a quiet voice behind her, and Sera turned. The voice belonged to a slender gallant in lilac taffeta with foaming white lace at his throat and wrists and knots of silver ribbon on either shoulder.

  "Lord Skelbrooke," she said, and suddenly discovered she was as breathless as Elsie.

  "How do you do, Miss Vorder?" Lord Skelbrooke removed a dove-colored tricorn liberally decorated with ostrich plumes and silver braid, and bowed over Sera's limply extended hand.

  Francis Skelbrooke did not paint his face as some of the other dandies did, for he had a fine fresh color of his own. He elected to wear his own hair, immaculately curled and powdered at the front, tied back in loose white curls at the back. But he always wore a tiny black satin patch in the shape of a five-pointed star high on one cheek, and he made liberal use of the scent bottle. I despise effeminate men, thought Sera. Though much to her annoyance, she felt her heartbeat accelerate and the palms of her hands grow damp.

  Cousin Clothilde spared her the necessity of a coherent reply. "We've been here this age," said Mistress Vorder, "and that dreadful serving man has not offered us any tea."

  "Allow me to rectify his neglect." The young Imbrian nobleman bowed once more, tucked his hat under his arm, and strolled off to speak to the servant. Sera sank down into the chair which the Jarl was still holding for her, and waved her fan frantically in a futile attempt to cool her face.

  Strong tea and dainty white sugar cakes did much to revive Elsie. "And if you had eaten a decent breakfast as I begged you to," Sera whispered over the teacups, "I am convinced you could have made the climb easily. Dear me . . . I don't doubt that I should have dizzy spells and swooning fits myself, if I started the day with a half a biscuit and a draught of vinegar!

  "But you know that Mama doesn't like me to eat before noon," replied Elsie. "Dr. Gustenhover told her that a large breakfast would overheat my blood."

  Sera sniffed disdainfully. "Overheat your blood indeed! When your hands and your feet are always cold as ice." She resolved to smuggle some sausages or boiled eggs up from the kitchen tomorrow morning and coax Elsie into eating them. What Cousin Clothilde does not suspect, she cannot forbid, and if she asks no questions, I shan't be obliged to lie.

  "You dislike Lord Skelbrooke—I can't imagine why," Elsie was saying. "He is not either kind of man that you described to me before: neither condescendingly haughty nor insultingly familiar. There is not a more courteous man in Thornburg."

  Sera herself did not understand it. Proud men and dissolute men did nothing to ruffle her composure; she could ignore the discourtesies of the one sort just as coolly as she crushed the pretensions of the other; therefore, it was a mystery to her (and the cause of great resentment) why Francis Skelbrooke, with his soft voice, his faint Imbrian accent, his speaking grey eyes, and his gravely respectful manner, never failed to discompose her. This did not, however, prevent her from inventing an excuse for Elsie's benefit.

  "Francis Love Skelbrooke is a poet . . . and what is more he is a visionary. To be one or the other is to be no more foolish than most young men, but the combination of 'visionary poet' is one that any rational being must find positively intolerable."

  Far from being shocked by her cousin's vehemence, Elsie stifled a giggle. "Dear Sera, I do believe that I love you best when you are being completely unreasonable."

  Lord Skelbrooke reappeared a short time later, this time escorting the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen. They made a pretty pastel pair, the Duchess and Francis Skelbrooke: she in grey satin and cobweb lace, he in lilac and silver, and both of them so small and neatly made. Sera felt uncomfortably conscious of her extra inches and her matronly bottle-green gown.

  "You see I arrive in good time to accompany you," the Duchess said, in her clear, childlike voice, as everyone rose to greet her. "I cannot conceive how I have gained a reputation for always arriving late." And she smiled so irresistibly, gave them such mischievous, piquant glances, that no one gainsaid her, for all she had kept them waiting for nearly an hour.

  Standing on tiptoe, the Duchess kissed Elsie on the cheek. "And how fares my godchild today?"

  It was another of the Duchess's affectations to address Elsie as her godchild—though this, Sera was convinced, could hardly be true. The usual number of godparents was twelve: twelve sponsors to appear in church the day an infant was named, twelve godmothers and godfathers to send gifts every year on her birthday. Sera could name every one of Elsie's twelve, and the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen was not among them—nor had she, as far as Sera remembered, ever sent any birthday gifts. Still, it seemed a harmless fiction, and afforded both the Duchess and Elsie considerable pleasure.

  The Duchess had just seated herself, in the chair Sera vacated, when a servant came to usher their party into the inner precincts of the temple.

  The matron and her three cadaverous daughters preceded them into the treatment room, and there were other fashionably attired visitors as well: the men in bag-wigs, sausage curls, and enormous pigeon-wings, the ladies in large, picturesque hats. Dr. Mirabolo catered to an exclusive clientele.

  The inner sanctum was decorated in a rich foreign style, with potted palm trees in every corner and brass statues of sphinxes, griffons, and winged lions to either side of the door and between the floor-length windows. In the center of the room stood a large covered vat, oval in shape, encircled by more of the gilded chairs.

  The doctor was a short, spidery, lively little fellow in a curly dark wig, a black suit, and a pair of gold-rimmed blue spectacles. He greeted the Duchess with effusive deference. "Always a pleasure, Gracious Lady, always a pleasure and an honor. And so you have brought this precious child to see me?"

  He took Elsie's soft, cold hand in his dry parchmenty one and eyed her sharply through the tinted glass. "Yes, yes, I see by looking at her. A distemper of the blood, there is no doubt, and magnetic treatments are the only cure."

  "But we have already tried magnetic treatments," said Mistress Vorder. "Dr. Lully prescribed them for Elsie, along with a diet of barley biscuits and vinegar, and under
Dr. Gustenhover's care she consumed so many iron filings that I vow and declare 'tis a wonder to me the poor child did not grow as heavy as lead."

  "Drs. Lully and Gustenhover are admirable men—indeed, I have the highest regard for them both. But sadly behind the times, madam, sadly outdated in their techniques." The doctor spoke solemnly, shaking his head. "The magnetic tub is the latest, the very latest medical advance, and as you shall see, extremely efficacious."

  "Mama," said Elsie, in a stifled voice. "You said that we had only come to consult with the doctor."

  "Of course, of course," murmured the doctor, rubbing his hands together and shifting about from one foot to the other in so lively a fashion that his resemblance to a scuttling black spider was more pronounced than ever. "I shall explain the technique to you in detail, and you shall see these others experience the benefits. I make no doubt you will be so delighted with the demonstration, you will be impatient to begin your own course of treatments." He skipped over to the vat in the center of the room and lifted the lid. Sera moved forward along with the others, to see what the tub contained. Corked bottles filled with a clouded fluid covered the floor of the vat.

  "They contain magnetized saltwater," said the doctor proudly, "and the medium surrounding them is fresh water treated with the most efficacious and salutary minerals, along with a judicious mixture of ground glass and iron filings."

  Cousin Clothilde appeared suitably impressed. "And how do you administer the benefits of this device?"

  "Through a human agency." The doctor replaced the lid of the vat, reached into a coat pocket, and produced a short iron rod. "I have many trained assistants—men and women of the first quality, I can assure you—who, possessing the required gift, donate their services to relieve the sufferings of their fellow beings." He bowed in the direction of Jarl Skogsrå. "Perhaps you were not aware that your gallant escort is among them."