by James Fahy
“Hmm,” Ffoulkes allowed a tiny nod of his head. “Dressing up is fun, I’ll allow. Clothes …” He indicated his own pristine appearance with a flourish. “… maketh the man, yes? A-ha-ha. I am rather looking forward to the Halloween feast here. You must have all manner of parties and events.” He leaned forward a little secretively, dropping his voice low. “Tell me, have you ever enjoyed a masked ball?”
Robin shook his head. “No, not really.”
“Oh they are dashed good fun, really they are,” the man said with a fresh grin. “Everyone dressed up, faces hidden. Such mystery, such larks. Erlking must be bursting at the seams! There must be plenty of masks knocking around the place you could all use, yes?”
“… I guess.”
“Do you know of any?” the man pressed. “Masks, that is? As I say, you know this place better than I. Inquisitive and resourceful young boy like you. Filled with the fire of youth. You would know where these things may be hidden, or stored, as it were. Come across anything of that kind during your time here, have you?”
“Masks? No, not really,” Robin thought carefully. “But I could always ask Aunt Irene if–”
“No need to trouble the old girl,” the man chuckled, suddenly standing up straight and waving his hands dismissively, his large cuffs flapping like sails. He was still smiling, but Robin couldn’t help feeling he had slightly annoyed the foppish man somehow. “Just a thought, that’s all, my boy, just a thought. Such diversions are always good fun, yes? A-ha. Might be something you could occupy yourself with on a rainy afternoon. Bit of a challenge for you. Find some masks for old Ffoulkes, eh?” He winked and beckoned Robin to continue, clopping out of the ornate hall without further ado and along the corridor to Irene’s study.
“As I’ve said more than once since I arrived here,” he continued, making Robin wonder if he talked incessantly simply because he loved the sound of his own voice. “Such a wonderful place for a child to live. Erlking! In every shadowed nook a mystery, around every dark corner …”
They turned a corner and suddenly, to Robin's horror, were faced with a very surprised-looking faun. Woad, arms laden with what looked very much to Robin like apples recently ‘liberated’ from Hestia’s storerooms, stopped in his tracks, looking guilty, his yellow eyes wide. One apple dropped from his armload and fell to the floor with a sonorous thunk.
“… surprising treasures!” Ffoulkes finished in a whisper, his own eyes wide as he took in the sight of the startled, frozen faun.
Several seconds of silence reigned in the corridor. Nobody moved. Robin winced internally. They had tried so hard to keep Woad out of the way while the visitors were here, on Irene’s orders. Now, seeing the greedy light which came blazing into Ffoulkes' face, he understood why.
“Um,” said Woad. His eyes flicking guiltily from the man to Robin and back several times.
“You … have a … faun?” the man said, still staring with great interest. “There is a faun here at Erlking!”
“Erm, yes, there is,” Robin admitted. There seemed little point denying it now. Woad was standing there with an armful of apples, blue as a sailor’s curse and large as life. “This is Woad. He–”
“I’m his faun.” Woad finished, glaring at the man defiantly. “You’re not supposed to see me. I’m very good at not being seen. I’ve been excellent at not being seen for weeks.” He shot Robin a guilty look. “But Inky is hungry and I couldn’t find any raw meat in the larder and I thought I would try him with apples.”
“His faun?” the man blinked, his hands clasped as he towered over Woad in the narrow corridor.
“My faun,” Robin explained. “Well, that is, my friend. Woad lives with us here and–”
“And is usually good at not being seen,” Woad insisted. He was staring at the man’s face. “The hair on your face is very pointy,” he observed with caution. “It's as though it wants to arrive everywhere just before you do.”
“Why, thank you,” Ffoulkes replied, very absently, as though he hadn’t heard a word Woad had said. He was inspecting Woad carefully, as one might appraise a priceless antique clock or a perfect diamond. “Such a wonderful specimen. That colouring, so light! Must be a young one. Yes! Ahaha. And look, hardly any of the markings have come through yet, this pelt is astonishingly pure. Astonishingly!”
“Pelt?” Woad said with narrowed eyes, shuffling the apples a little in his arms.
Ffoulkes ignored him again, looking back to Robin. “Have you any idea, my boy, any idea at all, how much a pelt like this would fetch at the Netherworlde Agora? Fauns are highly prized. And one of this immaturity! So supple and soft. The mind boggles, it truly does.”
“Woad isn’t for sale,” Robin frowned, a little aghast.
“I am using my pelt.” Woad agreed eagerly with a nod. “I use it to keep all my skeleton in place, otherwise it would roll around all over the floor. I would never get anything done. It would be terribly messy.”
The man grinned. “Yes, yes, of course. How rude of me,” he said to Robin. “Not for sale. Of course! Why that’s perfectly understandable. Who would part … with such a treasure?”
Robin was fairly sure that most people at Erlking would, and did, have other, more inventive names for Woad than ‘treasure’. He had heard Hestia mutter more than a few when she thought no one was listening. Henry had written some of them down as well.
Ffoulkes loomed over, as though inspecting a prize horse. Woad leaned backwards away from him, arms still full of apples, his long blue tail swishing for balance and his eyes rather wide. “Not a single tribal marking. How unique. Not a one! Fauns, as you know, are all about scarification and decoration. This one is such a blank canvas. Tribal outcast, perhaps? How rare! How wonderful. Tell me, has it even matured into its skyfire yet?”
Robin had no idea what this meant, but he was getting more and more irritated with the man.
“He has not,” a cool voice came from further down the corridor, before he could answer. Robin glanced past Ffoulkes and Woad, who was now backed up completely against the wall, with the glittering eyes of the Panthea roaming critically over the condition of his tail and claws.
Aunt Irene, to Robin's great relief, had emerged from her study, a few doors down the corridor. She was looking at the three of them coolly.
“Robin,” she said to him. “Your faun must run along now, and do whatever things fauns do, the details of which I would rather remain a mystery to me, especially if they are to include the cultivation of skyfire.” She gave Woad a sharp look. The small blue boy blinked back innocently and grinned. “Mr Ffoulkes has business with myself. You should also come along.”
She disappeared back into her study, not waiting to see if they would follow. They would, of course. Irene was that kind of person.
Robin gave Woad a pointed ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look and cocked his head meaningfully. The faun grinned and scarpered, ducking under the looming figure of Ffoulkes and dashing off with his apple bounty, bare feet slapping on the floors.
“Close the door please, Robin,” Irene said politely as he and the Fire Panthea entered the cosy study. The heavy curtains were drawn against the wild weather outside, and a fire crackled merrily in the grate. Irene always had a fire lit in her study, Robin had noticed. Old people were always cold. Gran had kept the three-bar fire on in the bungalow non-stop, even in the height of summer. It had always smelled faintly of burning dust, a smell which even now he found oddly comforting.
Irene’s fireplace was not a modest council bungalow affair, of course. It was a vast black marble grate, ornately carved with twining leaves and peeping faces.
“As you are aware, Robin,” Irene said, indicating him to sit as she took her own chair behind her extremely orderly desk. “I asked Mr Ffoulkes to Erlking for a reason. Yes, he is travelling to the Netherworlde accompanying the sisters, whose safe passage I have agreed to for my own reasons.” She pushed something across the desk toward the seated boy. It was a folded piece
of paper. “But I also wished to see if he could use his expertise in the unusual and arcane to help me identify this.”
Robin took the paper, aware that Ffoulkes, who was standing behind him, was leaning over his shoulder to peer down. The man smelled strongly of a peppery cologne. Rather too much of it.
The folded paper was a list of four names. Wolfsbane the Bold, Peasblossom the Architect, Matthias the Illusioner and Hemlock the Sly. Four Fae. Four members of the Sidhe-Nobilitas, including his own father. It was a list written in the elaborate hand of Lady Titania, lost Queen of the Fae. Robin had discovered it earlier in the year, safely hidden in the tomb of Nightshade.
There was another small square of card resting with the list, an old and yellowed library book frontispiece. The little card which got stamped each time someone checked out a book. The dates and names were all smeared and blurred with age and wear. This ‘relic’ was a mystery to all of them.
“This is about the cubiculu-argentum?” Robin asked, looking up. He didn’t know what that was. He only knew what Lady Titania had written on the list of names. That its construction must be secret, and that only the four named here would be privy to its meaning and location.
“Indeed it is," Irene nodded. “As you already know, the cubiculu-argentum is an unknown factor. We don’t know what it is, where it is, or what it even means. Indeed, from Titania’s own words, even these four Fae, who were in some way connected to it, each only knew their own part in it. Whatever it was, or is however …” She spread her hands. “It was important enough to hide the very names of those who knew about it.” She tapped the square of yellowed card. “And important enough to bury this scrap of an old book somewhere Eris would never find it.”
She looked up to Ffoulkes. “The reason I have called you both here together,” she said. “Is that my eyes and ears in the Netherworlde are telling me odd things. There are strange happenings and rumours. Things which may very shortly take us all away from this leisurely investigation of ours. We only have until Halloween before you leave us as it is. You have been here some time, and have so far told me nothing.”
Ffoulkes grinned his most disarming grin.
“There is very little to go on, my lady,” he explained. “I have been in your library, and I have made my own investigations, and I am still in the process of tracing which library this card has come from, let alone which book. These things are not simple.”
“Simple or not, they are why you are here, Mr Ffoulkes,” Irene said crisply. “Indeed, they are the only reason why, after many years of our association, I have finally relented and acceded to your often-repeated request to have access inside Erlking Hall. So far, for my part, I see very little return on my investment.”
“Dis was not built in a day,” Ffoulkes shrugged. “Tell me, what whispers are these which you have heard from the Netherworlde, which are so urgent?”
It’s the bees, Robin found himself thinking, quite unexpectedly, suddenly remembering the odd dream he had had. It’s the bees and the leaves, that’s the problem.
“They are my concern, not yours,” Irene replied smoothly. “My point is. I need to know, sooner rather than later, what it is you can tell me about the artefact you were brought here to inspect.”
Ffoulkes seemed agitated. He twirled his moustache a little. “Aha-ha. Well, of course. And I have been able to discern a little, a very little, mind you, during my time here.”
Irene raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“There is, of course, the question of a professional fee,” Ffoulkes said quietly. “You have, after all, given me an extraordinarily small amount of information to go on, and my services are rather–”
“Your ‘fee,’ Mr Ffoulkes …” Irene cut in, rather sharply, “… as we discussed before you came here, was admission to Erlking. The leisure to walk the halls of the Fae King and Queen and, as you put it at the time, ‘appreciate’ the many wonders the place holds. Your fee, sir, has already been paid.”
Ffoulkes face darkened. “A cosy getaway in a big old house is all well and good, my lady,” he purred. “But something of this importance, I think I could name my own price for any sliver of information. Perhaps one item of my choosing? As a memento? Nothing which would be missed, of course.”
“Certainly not,” Irene replied flatly. “Do not imagine that I am unaware that you have been exploring this house since your arrival in September, weighing up the value of all and any goods you have seen. I do not take offence at this, please understand. It is your nature … to covet. But nothing here is mine. I am Steward only of Erlking, not owner.”
A dangerous glint came into Ffoulkes’ eyes. “Then one might say that you are in no position to refuse my request. If the items are not yours to keep. As you say, Irene, nothing here is … ahahah … yours.”
Irene did not look away from Ffoulkes, nor did she blink. Her calm blue eyes were clear as ice.
“Indeed not,” she agreed. She nodded in Robin's direction. “Everything is his.”
Robin, who was already feeling uncomfortable being in the middle of this exchange, felt even more sheepish, sinking into his leather chair deeper with a creak.
Ffoulkes laughed, a merry bark. “Him? But he is just a boy.”
“He is the last of the line of the House Fellows, and a Fae, direct descendant of one of the Sidhe-Nobilitas, and the Scion of the Arcania.” Irene steepled her fingers on the desk. “And even if he were not all of these things, only a fool thinks there is any such thing as ‘just a boy’, sir.”
Ffoulkes spluttered at being indirectly accused of being a fool. The man’s ego was tender at the best of times. He leaned on his side of the desk, his fingers splayed on the wood.
“I am at a loss, to be honest, as to why he is even here, in this meeting,” he said to Irene. “Surely matters of such importance should be between you and I. What have they to do with a young changeling?”
“This young changeling,” Irene replied, “has everything to do with this. The cubiculu-argentum, whatever it may be, is tied to his father, and others. It was the last great mystery of Titania and Oberon before they disappeared. It may explain where they went, why the war was lost. Why Eris won. And why they had to die.”
She flicked her eyes to Robin. “I think any son deserves to know that.”
Ffoulkes still bristled.
“So your payment, Mr Ffoulkes, shall continue to be nothing more or less than my continued hospitality here. The extent of that hospitality, and the duration of it, depends entirely upon what information, if any, you are able to give me. Right now.”
Ffoulkes straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back as he sized up the old lady.
The atmosphere had grown ever more sour in the room.
“I think, Lady Irene … aha.” he began, in a quiet tone. “You should realise that you have lived in the mortal world a long time. You have, in fact, become a fussy old woman. A perfectly charming one of course, but you are not what you once were, to be making threats or giving orders.” A corner of his mouth turned up. “You would do well to take note of what you are reduced to. Your light, my fellow Panthea, has grown very dim and weak.”
Irene stood, very slowly. Her expression could have frozen water. Tall as she was, she towered over the foppish man, staring down with cool unblinking eyes. The silence dragged on and Robin, mortified in his chair, glanced from his aunt to Ffoulkes, hardly daring to breathe. The man began to fidget, wilting under the relentless gaze. He puffed and cleared his throat. “Ahem … um … well … yes … aha …” His aunt remained impassive, a statue of regal disdain. Ffoulkes glanced away, fussing with his lacy cuffs. “Yes … well, that is … I mean …”
The door to the study swung open slowly, breaking off the man's babble. .
“Would you care to leave Erlking now? Or have you information which is useful to us?” Irene asked calmly.
Ffoulkes, recovering himself, twirled his moustache and cleared his throat again. “Ahem … of course.
Yes, of course. Such larks. You always were impressive old gal, back in the day … and still now it seems. All is forgotten.”
The door to the study closed itself quietly, and Irene sat down, awfully business-like, and adjusted her spectacles.
“Excellent,” Irene said pleasantly, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “How very helpful of you. Do go on.”
“I have no idea what this ‘thing’ is, of which Titania speaks in her letter, or what its purpose is,” Ffoulkes admitted. “It could be anything. Something secret, naturally. A weapon, perhaps? Maybe even something that could wipe out all of the Panthea and end the war forever. A genocide machine. It’s a dangerous thing to look into.”
“My parents wouldn’t have been involved with anything like that,” Robin said hotly. The man peered down at him.
“You never knew your parents, my boy,” he observed. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I just do," Robin replied, anxiety over the adults’ spat turning into anger. “My dad’s name is on that list. He wouldn’t have anything to do with genocide, you’re talking rubbish.”
“Your family, Scion, are capable of more than you know,” Ffoulkes replied. “Considering you didn’t even know until a year ago that they existed, or that you belonged to them, I hardly think you are best placed to judge their moral character. Indeed, certain branches of the Fellows tree–”
“Enough,” Irene said. “Robin. Let Ffoulkes continue please. And Ffoulkes …” She looked at the man darkly. “Let us keep to the subject in hand, if you don’t mind.”
Robin seethed quietly, and Ffoulkes smoothed his lapels.
“My point …” he said. “Before I was passionately interrupted by this admirably forthright young man … is that although we don’t know what it is, or what part each of these individuals have to play in it, we can safely assume that it is in some way tied to this card.” He tapped the faded square of card on the table top. “And more specifically to the book it came from. A human world book, it seems, which the King and Queen of the Fae, for whatever reason, seemed to think was important.”