by Kim Wilkins
One’s senses grow curiously sharp when one is waiting. I heard every sound around me: the scurryings and skitterings of seagulls in the roof, the crackle and breath of the most fragile breeze, the faraway beat and suck of the sea. And I heard her coming. I heard a gathering of air that hadn’t been there before, a ringing underlying everything else, white and hot and strange. I knew she was nearby.
I moaned. “Help me,” I said.
“I will take care of you, Immanuel,” she said.
She approached, her footsteps delicate on the moss and stone. Her toes came into my view, dainty and pale and ringed with jewels. I must have twitched, the excitement overcoming me, because the toes paused, hesitant, then began to pull back.
I had no time to lose. In a flash I grabbed her by the toe. She screamed and tried to pull away. I seized her ankle with an iron grip. Still she screamed. By now I was on my knees, the faery caught in my right hand. She was small and fragile, as Irish faeries are, with sharp eyes and nose and mouth. Oh, I could smell her, the foul smell of the foulest of all races, and my other hand shot out and pulled her down, pinned her by her throat and her knees, and her scream gurgled and died but I didn’t let go, because faeries are tricksters and her head would have to be detached from her body before I’d really believe she was dead.
When I had killed her, I took her down to the stony sea to bone her. It was very messy, much messier than I had anticipated, but I let the sea wash the blood and flesh away, and I returned home many hours later with a sack full of faery bones and an idea to start a grand sculpture.
You must understand: my Bone Wife does not look like a skeleton. I cut the bones and shave the bones and glue the bones together. I make a solid block of gleaming material, and then I begin to carve, saving my offcuts to be glued and polished and used later. It is a remarkable material to work with and one of the rarest, which explains in part why I am still only halfway finished with that sculpture nearly thirty years later. I do not consider myself unlucky though. The secret, diffused through all the bones and making them enchanted, was my greatest stroke of luck. Only one material bears such enchantment.
Royal faery bones.
Mayfridh decided that she liked traffic. She liked the rhythms of its currents, liked the ponderous metal dance of its turns and the hectic weaving of its flow. She even liked the noise. Sometimes Ewigkreis was so silent that she could believe herself completely alone in the universe, but here, in a big city in the Real World, she felt a sense of belonging, of never-alone-ness. She was so busy watching the traffic that she almost walked out in front of it. At the crossing of Unter- den-Linden and Friedrichstrasse, a young woman grabbed her by the shoulder just as she was about to step in front of a van.
“Oh!” Mayfridh cried.
The young woman said something to her in German, but Mayfridh didn’t notice. She was staring at the woman’s hair. It was brilliant blue.
“Your hair is beautiful,” Mayfridh breathed.
The young woman smiled and shrugged, and Mayfridh realized that just because Christine spoke English didn’t mean everybody else in Berlin did. She struggled for her childhood German, came up with a clunking sentence that translated to, “Where is your hair from?”
“DC’s,” the woman answered, and indicated the other end of Friedrichstrasse. “Galeries Lafayette.”
Mayfridh turned in the direction she pointed, then turned back to see the young woman crossing the road away from her. She wore a shiny black bodice and skirt, and a long red coat. Mayfridh felt a pang of jealousy for how she looked, striding along in her beautiful colors. In her own world, Mayfridh was a queen, considered the most beautiful, catching the eye of everyone who passed her. Here, she was an unknown woman in a pale brown dress. Perhaps it was time to try this shopping.
She walked up to Galeries Lafayette, a shiny gallery of stores, and went in search of DC’s. Down the escalator and she found it. She tortured her mind for the German word for color and entered the salon. A deeply tanned hairdresser looked up from his appointment book and asked her a question in German.
“Hello . . . um . . .” Mayfridh tugged her hair and said, “Farbe?”
“Of course,” the hairdresser replied in heavily accented English. He reached behind him and pulled out a book, bristling with hair samples in every color of the rainbow.
Mayfridh caught her breath.
The hairdresser smiled. “Which one?”
By seven o’clock that evening, Christine found herself pacing. Jude was in the studio, but would almost certainly be upstairs shortly looking for his dinner. She didn’t want Jude and Mayfridh to cross paths ever again. She had expected Mayfridh hours ago, assuming she would arrive at the same time as yesterday. But Ewigkreis’s time probably didn’t accord with time here in Berlin. Christine’s visit there had taken place in the space of three minutes.
Christine didn’t know what she would do with Mayfridh once she was here, except get her out of the apartment quickly. Maybe take her to a cafe, satisfy her curiosity, and send her home for good. That was the plan.
Voices on the stairs. Christine ran to the door and threw it open. No, that was Gerda’s voice. But who was with her?
“You should come,” Gerda was saying, “you’d love it.”
“Will Christine be there?”
It was Mayfridh. Gerda must have let her in downstairs and now they were chatting and, oh no, it sounded like Gerda had invited her out somewhere.
“I’m sure she will be, why don’t we ask her?”
They appeared on the landing below. Gerda smiled up at her and waved. “Hi, Christine, I met Miranda outside.”
And then Mayfridh came into view, only she looked totally different. Gone were the medieval clothes and in their place was a dress of layered black lace and velvet, lace-up chunky-heeled boots, and a long purple and gold brocade coat. Her beautiful face and fine skin were unchanged, but somebody had given her a loving makeover. Her eyelids were painted with glitter and dark kohl, her lips outlined and filled in sheer ruby. Her hair had been cut to her shoulders where it curled in loose ringlets, the coppery red now dyed deep crimson, with fine fuchsia streaks.
“Do you like my new look?” Mayfridh said, bounding up the stairs and grabbing Christine by the hand. “I’ve been shopping.”
“Wow. You certainly have.”
Gerda joined them. “I’ve invited Miranda out to Super Jazz tonight. Is that okay?”
“I guess so.” It was anything but okay. How was she supposed to keep Jude away from Mayfridh now?
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
Gerda turned and headed back down the stairs. Christine pulled Mayfridh inside.
“I love all these colors,” Mayfridh said, considering a curl between her fingers.
“It’s stunning. In every sense of the word,” Christine said as she fetched her shoulder bag and checked for her keys. “Come on.”
“Come where?”
“Let’s go for a coffee.”
“Now? I thought we’d stay here a while. Where’s Jude?”
Christine already had the door open. “He’s working. Ever drink espresso?”
“I don’t know. It sounds wonderful.”
“It is. Come on.”
Mayfridh looked around reluctantly, then followed Christine to the door.
As they walked down to Georgenstrasse, Christine felt like a pale dull shadow next to Mayfridh, who drew glances from everywhere. She pushed her hair behind her ears and tried to walk very erect, and not hunched into her coat like she always was. She led Mayfridh to Cafe Sofie, under the train line near Friedrichstrasse Station. The decor was old and scuzzy, but they made better coffee than so many of the brightly lit, stainless-steel places. Christine ordered two coffees and sat down in a back corner with Mayfridh.
“Okay,” she said, leaning forward, “did you put some kind of spell on Jude, or on our bathroom mirror?”
“What do you mean?” Mayfridh asked, her innocence so obviously feig
ned that Christine felt a pang of pity for her. How was she going to function in this world if she couldn’t lie effectively?
“I know you did, Mayfridh. I just want you to tell me why.”
“It was the mirror,” Mayfridh blurted. “I wanted to see you when I wasn’t there. That’s all.”
Christine was touched by Mayfridh’s childlike vulnerability, and tempered the anger in her voice. “Don’t do it again, okay? Jude couldn’t see himself. He thought he was going crazy.”
“I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again. Did you tell Jude I’m the queen of the faeries?”
“No, of course not. I didn’t tell anyone, and you won’t tell anyone either.”
“But—”
Christine spoke gently but firmly. “If you want to be my friend, you have to respect my wishes. You’ll go back home to faeryland and then I want things here to return to normal. I’m determined.”
Mayfridh’s eyebrows lowered in annoyance, but she said nothing. The coffees arrived and Mayfridh sipped hers and then pulled a face. “Ick.”
“It’s an acquired taste. Stick with it,” Christine said. “Do you want something to eat?”
Mayfridh shook her head. “Maybe later. I could have dinner with you and Jude.”
Christine hid a smile and watched Mayfridh for a few moments. “How come you didn’t tell Jude and Gerda your real name?” she asked.
Mayfridh glanced up over her coffee cup. “Superstition. Some faeries swear it’s bad luck to tell your real name. It can be stolen from you by witches, your identity with it.”
“So witches are real?”
“In Ewigkreis they are. Hexebart’s a witch, remember?”
Christine winced, remembering the experience she had tried to convince herself was a dream. “Mayfridh,” she said, “why did I feel no pain in your world?”
“What do you mean?”
Christine realized that Mayfridh didn’t know about her accident or about her ongoing pain. It had all happened well after their childhood years together. She felt tears spring to her eyes, but blinked them back. “I should explain. My mother and father—”
“Finn and Alfa? I loved them.”
“They both died. In a car accident.”
Mayfridh pressed her fingers against her bottom lip, her eyes welling with tears. “Oh, oh. That’s so sad.”
“I was with them. I injured my back and it aches; pretty much all the time. Sometimes real bad. But in your world I didn’t feel it.”
“Oh, that’s simple. The injury is in your bones?”
“In my spine, yes.”
“Your bones change. That’s how you become a faery.”
“I’m not following.”
“That’s why I’m a faery now, though I was born a human girl. The essence of the world in Ewigkreis is different. It affects the body. Eyes and bones and skin. Say you had been blind, in Ewigkreis you would have seen. It’s miraculous.”
“So, in the short time I was there—?”
“Your body had already started to change.”
“But when I woke up back here, nothing was different.”
“You weren’t there long enough. After a few years the changes would be more lasting.”
“Permanent?”
Mayfridh shook her head. “Not permanent if you come back here. The Real World eventually turns faeries into humans. If I stayed here now, I would become human again. Of course I never would stay, as much as I like it here. I’d lose about three centuries of life. We faeries live for four hundred years and don’t age for the first two hundred.”
Christine wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about the land of painlessness. “Can I go back there?” she asked quietly.
Mayfridh smiled. “Of course, of course. I can take you back with me, we’ll have a lovely time, we’ll—”
Christine put her hands up. “No, no. Let me think about it. Coming back to the Real World after being there . . . it’s hard. Especially if I have to knock myself out like last time to get there.”
“But you wouldn’t. I could give you a spell.”
Movement near the door of the cafe. Christine’s eyes flicked up. Jude, Gerda, Pete, and Fabiyan. “Okay, Mayfridh,” Christine said quietly, “all my friends are here now, so no more faery talk.”
“Whatever you say,” Mayfridh whispered, then turned to the door, beaming widely.
“Knew I’d find you here,” Gerda said, beckoning from the door. “Come on, we’re all going out to dinner.”
Mayfridh shot out of her chair and joined them while Christine paid the bill. Mayfridh was already slipping in next to Jude, touching his elbow and asking about his painting. As sweet as Mayfridh was, Christine was going to have to keep a close eye on her new friend.
Mayfridh coughed for ten minutes upon entering Super Jazz.
“Are you okay?” This was Gerda, the friendly blond woman.
“I’m not used to the smoke,” Mayfridh said. “Where I come from, the air is very clear.”
“Where do you come from?” Gerda asked.
Mayfridh saw Christine shoot her a warning glance. “A village with lots of trees,” Mayfridh said, casting her eyes around for Jude. He was at the bar buying drinks. Oh, he was beautiful. He wore dark pants and a white shirt buttoned down the front. The skin on his throat looked very warm. “The music is loud.”
“It gets louder as the night goes on,” Christine said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”
Gerda elbowed Christine. “Come on, Miss Starlight, it’s not that bad. Miranda’s going to have a great time. She’s certainly dressed to kill.”
Mayfridh felt herself glow proudly. She loved her new clothes so much, and the color of her hair was beautiful. She pulled a curl in front of her face to admire it. How could Jude fail to fall in love with her? She checked herself. Eisengrimm would no doubt have stern words for her if he knew how fast her imagination was galloping. Jude returned and sat opposite her. She stole glances at him while she talked to Gerda. Christine had disappeared with Fabiyan, perhaps translating for him over by the bar. Mayfridh smiled at Jude. His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile back. He looked away, started talking to Pete. Mayfridh leaned forward, trying to listen to their conversation. She caught the tail end of a joke, didn’t understand it but laughed anyway. She inched her head close to Jude’s on the tabletop, trying to feel some of the reflected heat of his body. He withdrew his fingers, searching instead for a cigarette.
Gerda leaned over and spoke very close to her ear. “Give up, Miranda.”
Mayfridh turned puzzled eyes on her. “What do you mean?”
Gerda stubbed out her cigarette and grabbed Mayfridh by the wrist. “Come on, we need a girl talk.”
“But I’m—”
“Trust me.”
Mayfridh could hardly bear to turn her eyes away from Jude, but Gerda had gently pulled her up and was walking her toward the toilets. Inside, surrounded by grimy tiles and a flickering light, Gerda leaned back against the basins, shaking her head.
“What is it?” Mayfridh asked.
“Okay, two things. Number one, you’ve got to learn to hide it better.”
“Hide what?”
“Your interest in Jude.”
“I’m not—”
“Miranda, the only thing that’s missing from your expression when you look at him is your tongue hanging out.” Gerda hung her own tongue out and made a panting noise.
Mayfridh felt embarrassment creeping through her limbs. “Oh no, am I so obvious?”
“Yes. Very, very obvious.”
“Then what’s number two?”
“You’ll never get him.”
Mayfridh narrowed her eyes. Was Gerda suggesting she wasn’t beautiful enough for Jude? “How do you know?”
“Because he and Christine are inseparable.” Gerda shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking how beautiful and glamorous you are, and how plain Christine is. I thought that too. I thought that
because I’m an artist and she’s not, Jude was bound to like me better. I went through exactly what you’re going through right now. And I got nowhere. If you try to make eye contact, he’ll look away. If you throw your arm around him, pretending to be friendly, trying to get a feel of his body, he’ll smile at you coolly and shrug you off quickly. He holds it all back. He’s got nothing for girls like you and me. It’s all for Christine.”
Mayfridh felt her heart slide. “Then he really loves her?” she asked. “Jude really loves Christine?”
Gerda smiled, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Now I didn’t say that.”
“Then why? Why won’t he look anywhere else unless he loves her?”
“You don’t know then?”
“No. Do you?” Mayfridh was thinking about Jude’s secret. Did Gerda know it?
“I think I do.”
“Then tell me.”
Gerda dropped her voice to a whisper. “What’s the one thing that a struggling artist never really has, but always needs?”
Mayfridh shook her head. “I don’t know. What?”
Gerda rubbed her forefinger and thumb together, smiling. “Money,” she said, “lots and lots of money.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the following morning, Christine found she had started to relax around Mayfridh. It was clear her friend was happy playing the part of Miranda, was deft at sidestepping Gerda’s questions, and had stopped ogling Jude at every opportunity. When they had left Super Jazz, Mayfridh had asked to sleep over in Gerda’s apartment rather than Christine’s, taking her out of Jude’s way. In fact, she found Mayfridh’s manner amusing and sweet as the faery queen determinedly attempted to adjust to a social setting where she wasn’t in charge: biting her lip when a drunk spilled beer on her, putting up with Pete’s constant stream of trivia, and good-naturedly trying every toxic substance Gerda offered her. Jude himself was profoundly unaffected by the gorgeous new interloper, and that was comforting if not unexpected. He’d never betrayed her, not even when Gerda had turned all her charms on him in their first few weeks at Hotel Mandy-Z.