Chalice of Roses

by Jo Beverley

  “There may be trouble, sweet Alice. I’ve come to offer words of wisdom, and to bring you some protection.”

  It was terribly intimate, Alice lying there warm in the bed, flushed and malleable from sleep, William sitting so close that she could smell the cloves on his breath, oranges on his palms. She looked at his mouth, wide and sensual, and wondered how it would be to kiss him. It hardly seemed dangerous, only heady, the possibilities he presented her.

  He took her hand. “Wake up, my sweet. You think you are dreaming, but you are not. Come sit by the fire and listen to my story, and then you may return to your cozy bed.”

  Alice allowed herself to be tugged upright, pleased when he seemed to be the one who was trembling, she who was more in control. She smiled at him. “If this is not a dream, how could you even come into my room?”

  “It is complicated to explain.” From the back of a chair, he grabbed the rose-patterned afghan her grandmother had sent with her and flung it around her shoulders. Safely covering her, she thought. Standing, she took his proffered hand and they settled before the fire. He poured wine into a goblet and gave it to her, then took some for himself.

  “This”—he gestured with his hands to the room around them—“was once my home. Long ago.”

  “Are you a ghost?”

  His expression was almost unbearably sad. “No. I am not mortal nor ghost nor fey. None of them, between all.”

  “But how—”

  “That is not important now,” he said, and took her hand. “I do not mean to be abrupt, but my time is short. You need know only that my sister was the seventh sister, a protector of the Grail, which was highly desired by one who will not be named. We call her only the Lady. My sister ran afoul of her, and I stepped in. The Lady made a bargain—I was cursed but the Grail was safe.”

  Even in her dream, Alice felt the creeping cold of her fear begin to return. “I don’t see what my part is in all of this.”

  He bowed his head for a moment, looked into his cup, then back to her. “It is written that a woman may arrive every score of years to try to find the Grail and break the spell. She must be a seventh daughter. She must be of the old line. She must have a quest of her own, and she must come from a land far away.” He lifted his eyes. “There are other requirements, but that is where it begins. Shall I go on?”

  “Yes.” Alice said the word as if answering a vow.

  “If the Grail is found and carried to the other side, I can drink from it and be free.”

  He seemed so desperately weary that Alice moved closer and put a hand on his cheek. “Every twenty-eight years someone comes?”

  “More or less.”

  “For how long?”

  “Centuries,” he said without inflection. Then again, “Centuries.”

  “And in all that time, no one has carried out the quest?”

  “None.” He clasped her hand to his cheek, turned a little and kissed her wrist. “Most cannot even hold their own for a day against enchantment. You have done better than anyone in two hundred years or more.”

  Alice narrowed her eyes, sliding her hand from his grasp. From her work with legends and ballads, she could guess where this was going. “And you must seduce me, is that it? Make me fall in love with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love in return?”

  “I have not,” he said. “But I am not unwilling.”

  “You don’t have to love me, then, for the spell to be broken? I only have to love you?”

  “No one has asked that before.” He met her eyes without flinching. “But for all I ask, what I can offer is honesty.”

  Alice lifted her eyebrows in question.

  He bowed his head. “I do not have to love you in return. Only seduce you.”

  “Well, I suppose the fey are not exactly known for their commitment.”

  That surprised a laugh from William, a deep and throaty sound that was as alluring as everything else about him. “Truer words were never spoken.”

  As their eyes met, a frisson of desire sparked between them, as if an electric blue arc were hanging in the air. “That was not just me,” Alice said.

  “No,” he said, and leaned closer. “I admit I have been admiring your beautiful mouth since I first spied you in the garden.” His gaze touched her lips, and his hand, braced on the back of the love seat, trailed down to brush over her shoulder.

  “If the goal is to find someone to fall in love with you, why didn’t the Lady curse you with the looks of a troll or something?”

  His face hardened. “She wishes for me to be as I am.” In the words were shame and fury and something Alice couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  “You are her—”

  “Plaything,” he said harshly.

  “I’m sorry.” Again she felt drawn to put her hand on his jaw, her fingertips near his ear.

  He bent his head closer, and she felt his moist breath on her lips, and she swayed closer, feeling him move excruciatingly slowly, his lower lip brushing hers ever so lightly—

  A high-pitched whistle sounded beyond the windows, and William leapt up. “I must go very soon. There are things you must know to stay safe. Do not eat or drink from their hands. If you meet them on your own, turn your coat inside out. And wear this to help you see them, and know when you are in danger.” From his pocket he took a bracelet, carved of wood, and put it on the table. “Now I must flee, and you must sleep, beautiful Alice. I would that I could stay.”

  And he was gone.

  When she awakened on Saturday morning, Alice did not immediately remember her dream. Sunlight, bright and golden, streamed through the multipaned windows, spilling over the wide wooden planks of the floor, touching the bed where she lay. She felt extraordinarily rested, and gazed up at the window, where the reliable yellow rose added splendor to the morning.

  As she rolled over, memory flooded back in: William’s long pale hair, his beautiful hands, his confession that he—

  She scrambled out of bed, remembering the bracelet he’d left. But of course it wasn’t there; nor was there any sign of wine and bread or a fire burning in the hearth. All was just as she’d left it last night, the stacks of research materials, her notes and pens and reading glasses.

  Frowning, she rubbed her face. Clearly she needed to get out and get some fresh air. She washed and dressed, then collected her notebooks and a thick-nubbed pen she had purchased for a hideous twelve pounds at the local stationer’s. She put on her glasses, to make sure she saw everything plainly, and told herself she would go to the library and do some factual research on the location of the Grail throughout history. It would ground her in the purpose she had in coming to England in the first place, and give her some material for class the following week. And she would stop drifting in this silly infatuation with all things fey.

  In the kitchen, she paused for only a moment to have a glass of water. She would buy a tea on the High Street. Elderberry tea, if she wished, just to show she wasn’t afraid of enchantment.

  Taking her coat off the hook by the door, she turned to put her arms in the sleeves, and for the first time saw the table.

  On it sat a carved wooden bracelet, and a bowl of some kind of dark fruit, and a big juicy apple. In a very spidery, old-fashioned handwriting was a note: Things are not always what they appear to be.

  Yrs, W.

  It—he—was real.

  For a long moment, Alice stood there staring down at the offerings with a sense of breathlessness. What was she to do with them? How could they protect her?

  If she was going to have to battle the fey, she ought to at least be prepared. She picked up the bracelet and slid her hand through the opening, put the apple and the dark fruits in her pockets.

  William had told her that she would have to find the Grail and bring it to the fairyland, but he had not told her where to find it, or how to battle the fey when she got there, or any number of other things she really must find out.

  Tugging a sensible hat on
her head, she headed for the library. One could always find answers in a library, no matter what the conundrum.

  Chapter 5

  William awakened in the pasture, curled beneath the foot of the tree, and knew immediately that he was in the mortal realm again. How long had it been this time? He sat up and looked about, but the fields, fallow with autumn, were much the same as ever. Against the horizon, he could see the church tower and a row of trees. In the faint gilded haze of morning, a white horse grazed near a house he remembered.

  His stomach growled, a mortal belly hungry for mortal food, and he knew from experience that he had no money to exchange for it. He would have to scrounge for something, or beg some bread. Or steal. He hated this last, but he had done it more than once.

  This landscape had belonged to him since birth, and he knew it intimately. Even over the long years of enchantment, there were things that tended to remain the same—he knew where to find berries and corn and the lushness of an orchard, according to the season. His own manor garden offered hidden splendors that time had forgotten: walnuts and apples, fresh water running clean from a deep well.

  In the gauzy morning, he wandered toward the manor house, taking pleasure in the imperfections of the day. The haze, smelling faintly of leaves burning; the sharpness of the air, rather too cold for purest comfort, but gloriously welcomed by a man who knew only the perfection of Summerland.

  From the opposite direction came a woman with long dark hair, wearing a sensible garment of dark wool. When she caught sight of William, she plainly started, pausing midstep as if she didn’t know whether to come forward or stay where she was. In the end, she set her foot down and kept walking. He liked the firmness in that step, in the undaunted tilt of her chin. As she came closer, he saw that her face was oval and smooth, with large dark eyes behind spectacles. A woman who was much more beautiful than she knew, he thought, and half smiled. “Good morning, my lady,” he said.

  “It is you,” she said, frowning. “Where is your girlfriend?”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Acacia.”

  Darkly, he said, “She is not my anything, but along with the rest of them she is no doubt abed this morning, sleeping off her drunken revels.”

  “And you are not?”

  “Plainly. Do I stand before you?”

  “You drank with them last night.”

  So she knew him in his other guise, when the monster let him out on his leash, fiercely under her control. A wave of anger licked at his lungs, and he bowed his head to hide it. After a moment, he managed, “I am a moderate man.”

  Studying him with level gaze, she said, “You look different.”

  “Do I? How so?”

  “Modern clothes,” she said. “And you look . . . I’m sorry. You look tired.”

  “You are not from England,” he said, and a little buoyancy crept into his heart.

  “No. From Chicago.” At his blank look she added, “In America?”

  “Ah!” He nodded, though he had no idea what that meant. “Yes, of course.”

  Again she frowned up at him. “Is there something wrong?”

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “And forgive me, but I do not know you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t know me.” She held up her wrist. “Don’t know this bracelet?” She took out the apple, vivid and beautiful. “Don’t remember this?”

  His stomach growled. “I would that I did. I am very hungry.”

  The apple was nearly too big for her hand, and for a moment she only looked at it, then glanced back to him. “I don’t know why you can’t have it. Maybe that’s what it’s for.”

  “I would be very grateful.”

  “Have it, then. And I suppose we should get you some breakfast. I was going to go to town, but maybe not.” She turned and gestured to him. “Come with me.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said, biting into the apple. It was crisp and sweet, and he had to stop for one moment to simply revel in the joy of eating something so fine. Mortal food. He devoured it with a singular lack of grace.

  She stood looking at him, her head tilted sideways, her beautiful hair falling down her arm.

  “It’s Alice,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “My name is Alice. You don’t have to call me ‘my lady.’ ”

  He laughed softly. “Alice, then.” Apple in one hand, he gestured with the other. “Please show me the way.”

  When she reached the bridge he knew so well, made of ancient stones covered with tiny daisies growing in the cracks, he halted. “Where are we going?”

  “To my apartment. Er, flat. Just in that building there.”

  She was pointing at the manor house, his own garden. “You live here?”

  “In part of it.”

  “I once lived here. A long time ago. It was my family’s house.”

  “I’m sure it has changed a great deal. Would you rather not go inside?”

  He bit from the apple. “On the contrary, I’d love it.”

  She gestured him before her, suddenly looking over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. “Go on that way,” she said, frowning.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought I saw—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  William moved through the garden, but as he neared the door, his heart suddenly felt hollow. In memory, he saw his sister’s long blond hair and the embroidered vest she wore, heard her warm laugh. He supposed it had been hundreds of years now, but in his time line it felt like only a few years. He missed her. And his friends who lay now in their crypts, nothing left of them but bones. He had been stolen away from them all, from the natural arc of his own years.

  He stopped. In the quiet, there was the twittering of a bird, far distant. “Perhaps you were correct. I do not think I will go inside.”

  She turned, put her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  William looked at the windows with a vast sorrow. “What is the year?”

  “Two thousand ten.”

  An involuntary sigh came from him. So long! “I don’t think I’ve been out since . . .” He frowned. “There was a war. A lot of explosions. Bombs?”

  “Yes. That would have been World War Two. More than sixty years ago now.”

  Breathless, he sank down to the bench.

  “I think,” she said, “that you need to eat something more solid. If you don’t want to come in, I’ll bring it out.”

  He nodded; then a thought popped into his mind. “You wouldn’t have any cake, by chance?”

  The request startled a merry laugh from her. “I’ll see. If I don’t, I’m sure we can find some for you.”

  “That would be very nice.” In the meantime, he took a big bite of apple, keeping an eye on the edge of the garden for no reason he could particularly name.

  Alice hung by the door, watching him. In the gilded light, she was as lovely as a song.

  “I’m glad to meet you, Alice,” he said. “Will you have a picnic with me? I know some secret places ’round these parts. Or I did.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said with a wink. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the kitchen, Alice searched for things for William to eat. There was a pair of boiled eggs, a few slices of ham, sliced thick, and bread and butter, which was how the English seemed to eat their sandwiches. She stowed it all in her rucksack, added grapes and a green bottle of Italian sparkling water, and a clear one of hard cider. As for cake, it wasn’t something she particularly liked, but there was no lack of them at the market.

  As she put the things into her pack, her body felt airy, as if she were not a being of blood and bone, but constructed from a skeleton of light. Through the kitchen window she could see William, his hair tied back in the same leather thong, his legs clad in ordinary jeans. He wore a white shirt that was more flowing than usual, and it showed the tanned column of his throat and a glimpse of his chest. Looking at him made her giddy.

  How had she fallen i
nto this strange tale? She had no idea, but today she didn’t care. Hoisting the bag onto her shoulder, she went back out to the garden.

  And for the first time, she realized the roses were spent. Not a single bloom remained on the vine climbing her wall. There had been a freeze overnight, obviously. Too bad.

  Tugging her hat down more closely over her ears, she waved to Mrs. Leigh on the other side of the wall.

  “Hello, Alice!” she called. “Where are you off to this bright morning?”

  “We’re going to have a picnic.”

  “We?” the old woman said, and peered around a tree. She grinned. “Oh, ho, I see!”

  “This is William, Mrs. Leigh.”

  He gave a courtly bow. “How do you do?”

  “I’m well, lad, very well indeed.”

  Alice had a little brainstorm. “Mrs. Leigh, you wouldn’t by any chance have any cake? William most particularly wanted cake, and I haven’t got any.”

  “Well, of course I do! Made a jam sponge just last night. Stay right where you are and I’ll fetch it.”

  “Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself, madam. I won’t fade away for lack of cake.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll be back in a trice.”

  Alice grinned up at William. “I had a feeling she might be the kind of woman who keeps cake around.”

  “And you were right.” He moved closer. “In gratitude, I suppose I shall have to show you something secret.”

  “I should beware—what if you are a murderer who leaves my head in the woods?”

  “I suppose you have no guarantees.”

  Mrs. Leigh bustled out, carrying a box tied with string. “There you are! Plenty for both of you!”

  “I’ll bring you another later,” Alice said. “Thanks for not minding my cheekiness.”

  “Go on now, have your picnic.”

  “Shall we?” William clasped her hand and the pair of them dashed across the moat and across a field to a barely discernible path that led away from the open pasture and into a stand of slim white birch trees. Their feet crunched through piles of deep leaves, releasing a fragrance of childhood into the air, and sun dappled down on their shoulders. When they came to the river, William turned smartly to the west and led her up a hill. Faintly came the sound of traffic, and in the distance was a row of back gardens, each house neatly fitted with a conservatory made of white iron. William looked at them silently, but only kept moving with purpose until they reached a tumble of boulders. “The others don’t like it here,” he said. “I’ve never known the reason, but it is as safe as we can be in this county.”