Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  Jed drummed his fingers on the table. "Well there, I reckon, you've put your finger on it. She never takes advice, not Sera—not my advice, anyway. Or so seldom, it doesn't hardly matter. More likely, if I warned her against him, she'd fall in love with the fellow out of sheer perversity. I guess I won't write again at all."

  "No," said Mr. Budge. "You ought not to send her any more letters by way of Francis Skelbrooke. You must not do anything more to encourage their friendship."

  CHAPTER 25

  Which promises to be Brief.

  The day was hot, sticky, and oppressive, with a taste of thunder in the air. Throughout the town, along the dirty meandering lanes and alleys down by the river, along the wide, well-paved streets where the wealthy lived in mansions on the heights, the people of Thornburg cast open their doors and window casements, in the hope of attracting any vagrant breeze, any breath of cooler air rising up from the water.

  Sera left the Vorder mansion at noon and set off on foot to visit her grandfather at the bookshop. Despite the dark clouds piling up on the horizon, the sky overhead was a clear eggshell blue. Surely, she told herself, she had ample time to walk to the bookshop, have a good long visit with her grandfather, and walk home again before the storm struck.

  But when she arrived at the shop, her grandfather and Caleb Braun both looked so old, dusty, and frail, the little suite of rooms up in the attic was so cluttered and disorganized Sera spent the entire afternoon cooking, cleaning, and mending, fussing over the two elderly men. It was little wonder that she overstayed her time. She was just putting on her hat and her gloves when she heard the first scattered drops of rain hitting the roof.

  "I shall send Caleb to hire you a chair," said Jenk.

  "You must do nothing of the kind," said Sera adamantly. She knew there were no sedan chairs to be hailed in this part of the town and that Caleb would have to walk a long way in the rain before he spotted one. She was of no mind to send the old man out into the wet simply because she had lacked the foresight to hire a chair in advance.

  "Only lend me an umbrella, Grandfather, and I shall set out at once. If I walk swiftly, I can reach the Cathedral very quickly, and there I should have no difficulty hailing a chair."

  Jenk protested, but Sera was adamant. In the end, he did as she requested, and lent her his rusty black umbrella. Sera dropped a kiss on his forehead, picked up her reticule, and ran downstairs. Out on the street, she unfurled the umbrella and set out at a brisk pace.

  She did very well at first. The rain was light and seemed to evaporate the moment it hit the steaming cobblestones. But then it began to pour, and the streets became slick and dangerous. Nevertheless, she continued on hopefully for another half a mile until she reached Church Street. There, she stopped and looked around hopelessly.

  The street was all but deserted, save for a few improvident foot travelers like herself; there was not a sedan chair or a goat cart in sight. A gust of wind spattered the bottle-green gown with rain, and she knew that the big black umbrella would offer scant protection if the wind continued to rise.

  "Miss Vorder, your servant," said a soft, familiar voice. Sera tipped up the umbrella to see who had addressed her. A slight figure in a voluminous coat with many capes and a hat with a wide piratical brim peered back at her.

  "Pray do not take offense," said Francis Skelbrooke, "if I tell you that you seem to be getting very wet. Please allow me to procure for you some suitable conveyance.

  Sera scowled at him. "If there were any suitable conveyance to be had between here and the river, be sure, my lord, that I should have hailed it myself!"

  Lord Skelbrooke made her a very pretty bow (though he did not, Sera noticed, imperil his exquisite powdered curls by removing his hat). "But of course . . . how dull of me to imagine otherwise. Allow me, then, to escort you to a place of shelter. It happens that I know a house not far from here . . ."

  And before Sera could either consent or refuse, he had taken her by the arm and was leading her, gently but firmly, around a corner, down a broad street, and through the narrow door of a little shop with a blue slate roof.

  The interior of this shop was crowded with tables and chairs and men of all ages: talking, smoking long pipes, or sipping a steaming brown liquid out of brittle white cups. There were only two women present so far as Sera could see: an overdressed young beauty surrounded by a circle of admiring youths, and an elderly dwarf sharing a plate of sugared biscuits with a small boy.

  Sera hesitated by the door. "This is a respectable house," said Lord Skelbrooke, with a reassuring smile, "and it is entirely proper for you to come here with me."

  Sera bit her lip. Was there something just the least bit patronizing in his tone? Contempt for her obvious lack of sophistication? She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, and followed him through the maze of tables and chairs.

  A rotund gnome woman in a clean white apron came to meet them, her claws clicking on the planks of the floor.

  "I wonder," said Lord Skelbrooke, "if we might have a room upstairs?"

  Sera opened her mouth to protest. "Trust me, Miss Vorder," said Skelbrooke. The brim of his flamboyant hat shaded his face, so that it was impossible to guess his expression, but there was an unaccustomed edge to his voice. "If the day ever comes that I attempt a seduction, I shall not conduct the affair in a Chocolate House." Sera blushed, closed her mouth, and meekly followed him up the stairs and down a short corridor.

  The gnome ushered them into a cozy room at the end of the hall. This room, Sera saw, was built like a box at the theatre, open on one side to the floor below, offering the illusion of privacy but no real concealment. The walls were paneled in dark oak, and there was a round window made of wavy panes of glass overlooking the rainy street. An oil lamp fashioned in the shape of a spouting whale hung by a brass chain. There were two chairs and a table covered with a flowered cloth. Lord Skelbrooke ordered a pot of chocolate and a plate of gingerbread, and the gnome withdrew.

  Offering Sera a chair facing the round window, he hung his oversized hat on a peg by the door, and removed his dashing caped overcoat. In apricot velvet and cream lace he looked more like the man she knew; small, neat, and delicately scented. Why had he seemed so threatening, only a moment before?

  "You are very kind," said Sera, as he took a seat on the other side of the table. She folded her hands primly in her lap. "But the storm will only grow worse, and if I do not return home by nightfall my cousins will be dreadfully upset."

  "The storm is likely to continue for some time," agreed Skelbrooke. "But once you have had the opportunity to dry off and to drink a cup of chocolate I shall send a boy to hire you a chair.

  "You have nothing to fear," he added, with a smile. "I am aware that you never accept invitations to ride or to dine—that you do not allow gentlemen to escort you to the play or to the museum. Though you make an exception in the present instance, it is not a circumstance which I am likely to allow to go to my head."

  This speech, far from offering reassurance, only served to disturb Sera. How had he learned so much about her? "Lord Skelbrooke," she said with a frown. "Lord Skelbrooke, is it the custom among the gentlemen of Thornburg—Mr. Hakluyt and Lord Krogan in particular—to discuss my habits."

  "Not when I am present. They are not so foolish as that," said Skelbrooke, and continued to smile so amiably that she did not immediately take his meaning.

  Then she blushed and looked away. "I see," she said in a stifled voice. "Then I believe that I ought to thank you."

  "Why is that, Miss Vorder?" he asked politely.

  "For—for defending my good name, as I suppose," she said, and forced herself to meet his eyes.

  The smile faded from his face, and he leaned forward in his chair, suddenly very serious. "Your name and your honor require no defense. It is merely a matter of personal distaste, an aversion on my part to hearing your name mentioned by those unworthy to speak it."

  The room was quiet, save for the drumming of rai
n on the window and her own irregular breathing. Lord Skelbrooke sat back in his seat; he crossed one leg over the other and tipped back his chair. "Mr. Hakluyt and Lord Krogan—I thank you for bringing their names to my attention."

  The rosy-cheeked little gnome woman came in then, bearing a pot of steaming chocolate, two cups, and a dish of ginger cakes. By the time the gnome departed Sera had not only composed herself but had remembered what she carried in her reticule. She unfastened the drawstrings, drew out a tiny glass vial, and placed it on the table between them.

  "Miss Elsie's medication?" said Skelbrooke.

  "I have carried it with me everywhere, these last three days," said Sera, fastening her gaze on the little star-shaped patch on his left cheek, rather than look him directly in the eye. "As I told you earlier in the week, when you were so obliging as to deliver Jedidiah's letter, the bottle disappeared after Count Xebo's ball, though I had reason to suppose Elsie continued to take the medication. It appears now that Elsie did not hide the bottle—which, to be sure, seemed like very odd behavior on her part—but had turned the medicine over to her mother for safekeeping. It was only by good fortune that I discovered the bottle in Cousin Clothilde's sitting room when no one else was there.

  "I was beginning to fear," she added, "that I would not have the opportunity to give you this, before we leave for Zar-Wildungen."

  Lord Skelbrooke put down his cup of chocolate. "I beg your pardon, I knew nothing of this. To Zar-Wildungen, you say? You will be traveling with the Duchess to her country house?"

  "With the Duchess, yes," said Sera, in some confusion. "I hoped—that is—are you not also to be a member of the party?"

  "No," said Skelbrooke. "I was not invited. I had assumed the Duke's poor health was the reason for her visit. And now I discover she is taking a party with her . . ."

  He made a steeple of his hands, rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. "I begin to fear that I have fallen from favor."

  He spoke the words lightly, but a frown creased his forehead, and the grey eyes went dark as if in pain. He does care for her. She has hurt him deeply, Sera thought, with a sinking sensation. It is the Duchess he loves, and not the woman he mentioned at Count Xebo's ball.

  "Miss Vorder," said his lordship, continuing to frown. "I wonder if this journey is really advisable? We are not, after all, entirely certain as to the state of your cousin's health."

  "The decision was not mine to make," said Sera. "Elsie and her mother are both determined that she should go. I tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen. All that remained for me was to decide whether I should accompany Elsie or not. Naturally, I could not allow her to make the journey without me."

  Skelbrooke unfolded his hands. "In that case, there is nothing more to be said." He picked up the vial containing Elsie's medication and slipped it into a pocket. "I shall deliver this to my friend the apothecary on the morrow, but we can hardly expect to learn anything immediately."

  He picked up his cup, took another sip of chocolate. "If I do learn anything of particular interest, I shall write to you at once. But perhaps—perhaps, as the letter will pass through so many hands—With your permission, Miss Vorder, I shall write to you under an assumed name, the name of some friend, unknown to the Duchess."

  But Sera did not like this suggestion at all. Surely, she thought, there was something dishonorable about staying in the Duchess's house and accepting clandestine messages from the Duchess's lover, whether he currently stood high in her favor or not. And what an odd, unpredictable man Lord Skelbrooke was! Only a moment ago, it had seemed that he was totally devoted to the Duchess—a few weeks past, he had spoken wistfully of another woman—and now he seemed bent on initiating an intrigue (no matter how unromantic) with Sera herself.

  "Lord Skelbrooke," she said aloud. "I think that I should tell you that I despise subterfuge."

  "Who could know you and believe otherwise?" said Skelbrooke. He reached into a waistcoat pocket and brought out a gilded snuffbox. "But if I may say so, you have already been guilty of an innocent deception, when you secretly obtained a sample of Elsie's medicine."

  Sera felt herself blushing, remembering other actions she had taken in order to circumvent Cousin Clothilde.

  "For your cousin's sake," said Lord Skelbrooke, "I beg you to accept my word that concealment of my part in this matter is absolutely necessary."

  Sera knotted the drawstrings on her reticule. She was hardly in a position to impose conditions. "Very well, Lord Skelbrooke. I shall expect a letter, ostensibly from this friend of yours. What name shall I look for?"

  Lord Skelbrooke shook back a lace ruffle, dropped a pinch of snuff on the back of his wrist. "Carstares," he said, over his hand. He inhaled, and sneezed delicately. "I shall write to you under the name of Robin Carstares."

  CHAPTER 26

  In which Gottfried Jenk grows discouraged.

  The storm continued through the night, passing on in the early morning. The cobbles were still wet when Jenk opened the shutters in his attic sitting room and looked down the street. Water dripped from the eaves of the slope-roofed old houses and shops.

  Near the foot of the hill, a familiar stoop-shouldered form began the short climb. He cut an odd hobgoblin sort of figure these days, did Caleb Braun, his back so crooked and his movements so stiff, and his clothes all mismatched bits and pieces. Very fine he was as to his striped satin waistcoat, brass shoe buckles, and shiny new tricorn; very shabby as to his faded blue coat and scarlet breeches, his patched stockings, and the knotted kerchief he wore in place of a neckcloth. Jed had provided him with a new suit of clothes, had outfitted him properly from head to toe, but Caleb steadfastly refused to wear everything at once, preferring to eke out his new wardrobe two or three pieces at a time.

  Jenk drew in his head. He put on his snuff-colored coat and sidled down the stairs to the bookshop. He unlocked the door and opened it just as Caleb arrived, and stood on the threshold, a figure nearly as bent as Caleb himself, impatiently waving his henchman inside.

  "You have interrupted my breakfast. There was no need for you to come so early. I told you—did I not?—that I did not intend to open the shop before mid-morning."

  "Aye, you told me," said Caleb, limping in through the door. "But I had a hankering for to see her. Now, if I had a set of keys: one for the bookshop and one for the laboratory, it would set my mind at rest, Gottfried, it would ease my heart. I can't bear to be locked away from her, you know that."

  Yes, Jenk knew that. These last few weeks had wrought a terrible change in Caleb. His skin was grey and hung loose on his bones; his eyes had a hollow, sunken look. Jenk gave him a weary little pat on the shoulder as he passed. But when he spoke, the bookseller's voice was stern.

  "I begin to regret that I ever yielded to your pleas, that I ever allowed you to play so important a role in creating the little creature. This obsession you have developed: I fear it is not a healthy one, my old friend. "

  "That may be," said Caleb, bristling up. "But who are you to say so? Least I got my heart set on something I can see."

  "I cannot deny it," said Jenk, with a heavy sigh. "If you are obsessed with the growing homunculus, am I not equally obsessed by my search for the Stone?"

  He made a fumbling search of his coat pockets, at last produced the key to the room at the back. "I do not suppose there is any use asking you to join me upstairs? Very well, then. I shall meet you in the laboratory, very shortly. We have much to discuss, Caleb. It is time that we took some thought for the future."

  Only the stubby candle incubating the crystal egg and a pale silvery glow issuing from the vessel itself illuminated the inner room. Caleb limped across the laboratory and peered eagerly into the clouded fluid.

  The tiny creature at the center of the egg had not shifted position since the night before; she was still huddled in a tight little ball, with her knees drawn up to her narrow chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. But her pale green eyes were wide open, and her gaze c
uriously intent.

  Caleb pulled up a stool and sat down, with his elbows on the table, and his face close to the crystal egg. Only when Jenk came into the room, almost an hour later, did he shift his position, slowly and stiffly.

  "She's awake, Gottfried. Just you come here and look at her. She's awake again, and staring at me with them big tragic eyes."

  Jenk hardly spared a glance; he was too occupied lighting the lanthorn suspended from the ceiling. "I see that her eyes are open, but whether she is awake and conscious remains to be seen . . . I believe that we allowed ourselves to be fooled by an appearance of intelligence in the first one." He closed the glass door of the lanthorn. "In any case, she will soon go dormant again."

  Caleb glanced back over his shoulder. "She were awake for a long time yesterday, moving about. She beat her tiny little fists against the glass, like she wanted out. I don't reckon she's happy in there no more."

  "Nonsense," said Jenk. "Her movements are random; you deceive yourself if you attach any meaning to them. And your 'long time,' as I recall, was not above twenty minutes—if as much. Then she closed her eyes, and the gills on the side of her neck ceased to flutter. She immediately lost color, as though her heart had ceased to beat and circulate her blood. We have seen this happen a dozen times—she is still more dead than alive."

  Caleb shifted impatiently on his stool. "She's bigger nor the other one was . . . bigger and livelier. She wants to get born, I know she does."

  "Nonsense," Jenk repeated, moving toward the other table. "She will lose whatever degree of animation she has attained if we decant her too soon—just as the first one did. We must not allow our impatience (nor our misplaced compassion) to get the better of us a second time. We must wait another three or four days."

  Jenk lifted the lid of the coffin. Even after so many seasons it still came as a shock to him, each time that he looked inside. The perfect preservation of the body, the lifelike color beneath the clear, waxy skin, the half-smile on the face of the sorcerer—as though he were only sleeping, and his dreams were sweet.