Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1)

by Charlotte E. English

  Pinch looked briefly consternated, but then he shrugged again. ‘We have nothing much else to do.’

  ‘Boredom, is it?’ said Tut-Gut with strong disapproval. ‘Ye merry folk ought t’get yerselves some manner o’ respectable occupation.’

  Pinch rolled his eyes. ‘That is the very definition of boring, Gutty. What is it that you want from us?’

  ‘Not sure yet,’ said the hobgoblin. ‘So ye’ll come along with us for a time, an’ make sure no more mischief afalls us.’

  ‘Are you going a very long way?’ said Pinch in dismay.

  ‘All the way to Grenlowe.’

  Pinch sighed and took another long drag of his pipe. ‘Very well, off we go,’ he said. ‘But really, Gutty, you must tell me how you came to be off to Grenlowe—on foot!—with such unusual company.’ He eyed Sophy as he spoke, then gave her a thoroughly insincere smile when he noticed the dark look on her face.

  ‘If ye’re good,’ said Tut-Gut.

  Pinch sighed again.

  The next hour or so of Sophy’s journey was not so peaceful as the first two or three. Silence was not to be had, for Pinch insisted on bickering with Tut-Gut and teasing herself, almost without interruption. When he had heard the tale of how Tut-Gut came to be her escort, he began to mock “Gutty” rather cruelly, because ‘Anyone can see this one’s no old croaky at all.’ But nothing either Tut-Gut or Sophy said could convince him to explain what he meant by that, or how he came to see through the glamour she wore.

  Further interruptions occurred, interludes which led to the augmenting of their little party. When a very brown little creature stepped out of a tree ahead of them, peeling itself away from the bark in a manner that made Sophy’s skin crawl, they were obliged to stop again. The newcomer was nut-brown like Tut-Gut, with a head of tightly-curled hair the colour of chocolate, and a pair of twinkling black eyes. This proved to be Tara-Tat, a friend (of sorts) of Tut-Gut’s, and Tara soon decided to come along with them.

  Then along came a slender purple-gowned being with pale silver skin and hair. Her dress looked like an upturned flower, and she was utterly beautiful—until she smiled, revealing bright green teeth. Graen was a flower-fae, Pinch explained gravely, and she seemed to be in the grip of a wild admiration for him, for she insisted on trailing along behind him, wearing an expression of long-suffering adoration.

  Their company thus increased to six altogether, with every sign that they might yet pick up further followers, it occurred to her to wonder how she had contrived to journey to Hidenory’s cottage before without being interfered with. That had been a journey of many hours, but she had hardly seen or heard another soul—there had been only that glimpse of the tea-party beneath the trees, where no one had seen or acknowledged her. Was it Tut-Gut who attracted all this notice? Perhaps that was explanation enough; passing humans might excite little interest. But she remembered that she had not been quite alone, after all.

  ‘Are any of you acquainted with Felebre?’ she asked, as soon as she could make herself heard over the chattering conversation of her companions.

  All conversation ceased abruptly. Everyone stopped, in fact, and stared up at Sophy with almost identical expressions of awe. ‘Felebre?’ said Pinch at last. ‘Are you acquainted with her?’

  Sophy’s brows rose in surprise at this peculiar reaction. ‘Not precisely acquainted,’ she answered, ‘but I have met her a time or two. She was my guide when I passed through the Outwoods before.’

  ‘Your guide?’ said Tara-Tat in disbelief. ‘Felebre consented to guide you?’

  Sophy blinked. ‘Well; she did not say anything about it—or anything at all, in fact—but she appeared when I came through from England and brought me to Hidenory. Balligumph sent her.’

  Nobody asked her who Balligumph was; she was growing used to the fact that his name seemed to be universally known in Aylfenhame. But there was a stirring of something like unease among her companions, and they all shook their heads.

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ said Tut-Gut. ‘Felebre is not sent by anybody. Always goin’ her own way, that one.’

  Not sent by Balligumph? Then how had the cat come to be in Sophy’s way when she arrived—and why did she take her to Hidenory? She was a little relieved to learn that her visit to Hidenory had not been planned by Balli after all, but then why had she been taken there at all?

  ‘Felebre appears to do Hidenory’s bidding,’ she said.

  That caused another stir. ‘Hidenory the witch?’ said Graen.

  ‘Ye’ve fallen into dangerous company,’ said Tut-Gut, eyeing her. ‘Then ye’re not an old croaky at all, just like Pinch said. No wonder ye tricked me! Fair play t’ you.’ He doffed his cap, but in spite of the jaunty tone of his voice, his face was grave.

  ‘But then… who is Felebre?’ Sophy said, confused.

  Heads were shaken, shoulders were shrugged, and everyone made a show of knowing nothing. ‘No one knows for sure,’ Graen said at last. She crept closer to Sophy’s leg and leaned in to speak in a low voice. ‘Some say she is no cat at all, but something else. Under an enchantment, like you.’ Her voice fell even lower. ‘She is very powerful. Royalty is in her blood, some day. No one can keep her against her will, or persuade her to do anything she does not wish to do. No one would dare try.’

  Sophy felt more and more confused. An image flashed across her thoughts: Aubranael as she had first seen him, tearing after Felebre down the streets of Grenlowe, laughing and merry with enjoyment of the game. And Felebre had given every appearance of enjoying it, too, darting this way and that to keep just out of Aubranael’s reach before finally making her triumphant escape. How did this fit with Graen’s description?

  ‘So if she is helping Hidenory in some way, she does so of her own accord,’ Sophy said thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Pinch. ‘Hidenory is powerful, but she is no match for Felebre. Not at all.’

  Sophy wondered whether Aubranael knew any of this. Then she wondered, yet again, where he might be. ‘Another question,’ she said. ‘Do any of you know Aubranael?’

  She hoped to observe another unanimous round of recognition—preferably a more positive one than before—but she was disappointed. The replies came back, all negative: no one had ever heard the name before.

  ‘Very well; never mind it,’ said Sophy, concealing her disappointment with an effort. It seemed she was not destined to enjoy a repeat of her time with Aubranael. Blind chance had thrown them in each other’s way before; apparently only blind chance would bring them together again.

  She sighed.

  Everyone stared at Sophy, agog for some salacious story, but she did not feel inclined to satisfy their curiosity. An awkward moment passed before Tut-Gut said: ‘Onward!’ He marched off with a fine show of purpose, and Tara-Tat instantly stepped after him. Pinch and Graen followed, leaving Sophy to bring up the rear with Pinket. Curiously, the wisp drifted down to settle almost on her shoulder, its colours muted as if to avoid hurting her eyes. There was something oddly comforting in the gesture, as if the wisp sensed her sadness.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and the wisp bobbed an acknowledgement.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Well now, a fine mess was goin’ on there! How long do ye think it took for word to spread in Tilby that sommat weren’t right? Not long, no! Not long at all. An’ they all came to find me, Mr. Balligumph. Expected me to have all the answers, they did. Course, I had no answers at all for ‘em—not then, not yet. But we had a merry little band put together in a trice, an’ then there was no stoppin’ us!

  The first thing we had to do was warn Mr. Aubranael. Good soul, he is—like him very much. Couldn’t leave him labourin’ under a misapprehension, like, could we?

  Aubranael was in the midst of an argument with Grunewald when the note arrived.

  ‘Just for a few days!’ he was saying imploringly.

  ‘Not even for five minutes!’ Grunewald snapped in reply.

  ‘Why not?’

 
; ‘Because there has been quite enough masquerading going on already.’

  Aubranael scorned that. ‘I cannot believe that you would advise sense and caution instead of drama and adventure and chaos. Do not try to fool me!’

  Grunewald gave a cat-like grin. ‘Quite true; I cannot deny that I am hugely enjoying this mess we have made. It is thoroughly diverting. I have not felt bored for at least twenty-four hours.’

  ‘So!’ said Aubranael. ‘By all means, help me to prolong the charade. With this face, I will soon be forced to give up the adventure and return to Aylfenhame, and everything will be over.’

  Grunewald examined him with pursed lips and calculating eyes, but still shook his head. ‘You do not realise, perhaps, that you have already enjoyed far more of my favour than I am in the habit of giving out. You are already a very long way in debt to me.’ He smiled again.

  That smile combined with the word “debt” worried Aubranael somewhat, especially if he was a being of considerable eminence. Abruptly the uncertainty about Grunewald’s true nature and position began to irritate him enormously, and he could not help himself from saying:

  ‘Are you then the Goblin King? I wish you would tell me the truth.’

  ‘I am sure you do,’ said Grunewald comfortably. ‘But I do not see why you require repeated confirmation when your own eyes, ears and wits have given you plenty already.’

  That was as close to a straight ‘yes’ as he was likely to receive, Aubranael thought with some sourness. But it was enough. His insides thrilled with a stab of fear: he was in debt to the Goblin King. Deeply in debt.

  Somebody ought to have warned him! He had entered into this peculiar arrangement of theirs without any expectation of how deeply and dangerously he was involving himself. What might so eminent a personage as the Goblin King require of him in future?

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he said with an admirable attempt at calm, ‘I must still entreat this one further boon of you.’

  Grunewald’s face hardened, all trace of friendliness disappearing. ‘No. And it is not out of a mere contrary determination to be disobliging, as you may feel; nor do I speak out of any desire to shield you from further entanglement with me and my affairs. It is a matter of instinct.’

  ‘Instinct?’ Aubranael repeated faintly.

  ‘Yes, and my instincts are without flaw. Naturally.’

  ‘So your instincts direct you to deny my request?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Obviously growing bored with the conversation, Grunewald threw himself into the most comfortable chair in the room, lay back, and closed his eyes.

  Aubranael sighed. He recognised a flat refusal when he saw one; he had no real illusions that he could persuade Grunewald around to his way of thinking. But he was desperate. How could he fulfil his promise to Sophy when he had lost the persona of Mr. Stanton? If he could not be restored to his borrowed face and name, then he could not marry her as he had promised.

  At least, he could not do so in England. They could remove to Grenlowe, perhaps, and enter into the equivalent arrangement in Aylfenhame; but would that suffice for an Englishwoman like Sophy? Would it be enough to dissolve the curse upon her? He would be far happier if he were able to wed her in both realms; just to make absolutely certain.

  His only option besides Grunewald was to go in search of Hidenory once more, but he did not feel inspired by this idea. Her dwelling was excessively well hidden; without Felebre’s guidance he doubted very much whether he would be able to find it again. And would Felebre consent to take him a second time? He did not know. He had seen nothing at all of Felebre since his last visit to the Witch of the Outwoods, and he had no idea where the mysterious cat could be found.

  He had almost made up his mind to another round of remonstrating with Grunewald, out of pure desperation if nothing else, when a knock came at the library door.

  ‘Come in!’ called Grunewald in a cheery tone.

  The door swung open to reveal a young footman—at least ostensibly. He was, of course, one of Grunewald’s goblin entourage, under a glamour like the rest of the household.

  The footman hesitated on the threshold, looking from Grunewald to Aubranael and back in some confusion. ‘Er, Sire? A note for Mr. Stanton.’

  Grunewald flicked his fingers in Aubranael’s direction, and the footman’s face cleared of confusion. He approached Aubranael, bowed and handed over a neatly folded paper note on a silver tray.

  ‘Thank you,’ Aubranael remembered to say. He snatched up the note and opened it with extreme haste; what if it was from Sophy?

  A mere few seconds was sufficient to read it through. It was from Mr. Balligumph, and it was unmistakeably a summons.

  Might be a fine idea to come by and see me, it said. Quick as you can.

  It was signed with the troll’s name and a jaunty sketch of a hat rendered with a few quick pen-strokes. Aubranael stared at it in confusion. What could possibly be on Balligumph’s mind?

  When he arrived at the Tilby Toll Bridge, his confusion deepened. He had expected a private audience, but a large group was gathered at the bridge, all talking animatedly with Balligumph. He recognised Isabel Ellerby standing with her brother, and Anne Daverill. Thundigle was there, along with—to his surprise—the brownie who had been caught spying upon Grunewald. And Mary, Sophy’s loyal servant, was also present.

  He had got into the carriage to go to the bridge; not because it was very far to walk, but because he could not expect to wander through the village of Tilby with impunity while wearing his real face. But now he was obliged to reveal his true visage to a group of friends—people who had, previously, accepted him with alacrity and treated him with respect. Now they would learn how very unworthy of their regard he was.

  It was a sore trial to him to open the carriage door and step down into the road, but he found that he had the courage if he just kept Miss Landon’s beloved face in mind. If she had forgiven him, perhaps others would as well. And if they did not, he had Sophy’s regard, and that was far more important.

  ‘Ah! Mr. Stanton! How good of ye t’ come.’ Balligumph beckoned him over with one enormous hand. There was no trace of a smile on his face, but he did not look angry. If anything, he looked concerned. Even anxious.

  Aubranael approached, trying to look confident. He felt the stares of his friends, their palpable puzzlement, and quailed inside.

  But when he reached the group, Miss Ellerby put out her hand, smiled at him very kindly and said: ‘Good morning, Mr. Stanton. We were very sorry to hear that you were gone from the neighbourhood, and very glad indeed to find that the truth is a little more complex.’ She looked fully into his face without any trace of disgust. Probably she had been forewarned, so there was no shocked surprise; only compassion.

  To his embarrassment, Aubranael’s eyes filled with tears as he shook her hand. He had expected anger, disbelief, rejection and accusations; he had not expected kindness. He had certainly not expected to feel welcome. But each member of the little party shook his hand in turn and repeated Isabel’s kind words, and by the end of it he felt more truly welcome than he ever had before.

  ‘Well, well, very good,’ said Balligumph. ‘Capital. Now, to pressing matters. Mr. Aubranael, have you any notion at all where our Sophy is?’

  Aubranael looked at him in confusion. ‘At the parsonage, is she not?’

  Balligumph shook his head grimly, and Aubranael felt a sudden surge of fear. Something had happened to Sophy?

  ‘Thundigle,’ said Balligumph. ‘Tell all, if you please.’

  The brownie drew himself up, straightened his waistcoat and stared up at Aubranael, his expression grave. ‘Before I begin, Mr. Aubranael, allow me to apologise for my next words. It is not my intention to cause you any degree of disquiet.’

  Aubranael stared, his alarm growing. What could Thundigle possibly have to tell him that required a formal apology first?

  ‘Perhaps a seat,’ Balligumph said kindly, and pulled Aubranael down to sit on the bridge behind him. T
he great troll nodded his head at Thundigle, and the brownie began his story.

  He was not the speediest of narrators, and Aubranael soon began to long for him to adopt a more economical narrative style. But he got everything out in the end—a confusing tale involving a fair amount of hiding-in-drawers and accidentally-overhearing, and quite a lot of noticing-various-things and gradually-realising-the-truth.

  And the truth, he eventually heard, was that the Sophy to whom he had just successfully proposed marriage was not Sophy at all. A flood of realisations came upon him all at once as he put together the various oddities about Sophy’s behaviour in the last few days; the sudden revelation of the curse she lived under; her brief flashes of irritable temper. She had poured tea for him without spilling a drop.

  And then there was the way she had kissed him.

  It took him a while to realise that he was on his feet, making a great deal of noise. Balli’s companions were gathered around him, trying with a variety of soothing gestures and well-meant words to calm him down. But Aubranael did not wish to calm down! He was engaged to an imposter, whose identity remained as mysterious as her (or his) intentions, and his Sophy was abroad somewhere in the world, possibly in danger, and quite alone! Nobody even knew for certain that she was in England. She could be in Aylfenhame. Anywhere in Aylfenhame.

  At length he wore himself out and began to calm out of pure exhaustion. He had slept poorly ever since the loss of Hidenory’s enchantment, and he could not remember the last time he had eaten. It must have been today… must it not?

  ‘Now, now, have a seat again,’ said Balli. He pressed Aubranael’s shoulder surprisingly lightly for a creature of his size, but it was more than enough to send Aubranael spinning dizzily downwards to the ground. He sat for a few long moments, trying to breathe, his mind working furiously.