The Autumn Castle

by Kim Wilkins

  Jude laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “No, no. Look at it, look at where this shape meets this patch of gray. It takes my breath away. It’s so profoundly . . . so sad . . .”

  He was gazing at her very seriously now. “You really mean it.”

  She met his eyes—such beautiful eyes—and had to swallow hard. “Of course I really mean it.”

  “You see it, don’t you?” he said, filling up with tension. “You really see it.”

  Mayfridh nodded. “I really see it.”

  His mouth was open a fraction—surprise. She was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss him, but an instant later he was looking at his painting again. “What else? What else do you see?” He was agitated, alive with what appeared to be a desperate excitement.

  She turned to the painting, feeling the pressure to say the right thing. “I see . . . this swirl of brown . . .” She touched the painting, felt immediately that the paint was still wet. “Oh, oh no!”

  He was laughing, all the sudden intensity gone. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  Her fingers were sticky and brown. “It’s not okay. I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined your painting!”

  “No, really, it’s okay.” He was already picking up a brush, repairing the tiny blob of damage. “Look, it’s fixed already.”

  “I’m so sorry, so very sorry.” She could feel tears prick at her eyes. All she had wanted was for Jude to like her, and now she had smudged his favorite painting.

  “Don’t be sorry, it’s all right. You weren’t to know it was still wet. Besides,” he said, smiling at her with that wicked, knowing smile, “it’s kind of nice that your fingerprints are under there now, seeing as how you love it so much.”

  She smiled back. “Thank you for being so sweet.”

  “All part of the service. Hey, you’ve got paint all over your hand.”

  In her distress she had balled her hand up into a fist and smeared the fingertip of paint everywhere. “Oh, dear,” she said, moving to wipe the paint on Gerda’s overalls.

  He stilled her hand. “No, no, don’t do that. You’ll never get it out.”

  Before she could appreciate the touch of his hand on hers, it had been withdrawn. He went to the rickety table where his paints and brushes were kept, and returned with a dirty piece of cloth that smelled of chemicals. “Here,” he said, “hold out your hand.”

  She did so, and he began to rub the paint off.

  “You’ll have to wash up afterwards. This stuff is toxic.”

  She couldn’t answer, was struck dumb.

  He finished wiping her palm and then turned her hand over, examining it for more paint. “Looks pretty clean.”

  “Thanks,” she said, knowing it sounded forced.

  His fingers lingered on her hand a moment longer, a slow brush of his index finger from the base of her palm, right up her middle finger, then, agonizingly, departing at the tip. A jolt of white heat. Had he done that purposely? So slowly, so sensually, the pad of his fingertip against hers, electricity. A big breath stopped in her lungs.

  “There,” he said softly. “There, that’s better.”

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  “Anyway,” he said brightly, “I might just . . . work a little longer on this.” He wasn’t looking at her now, he was folding the rag, organizing his brushes. “I want to make sure all the shapes are how I feel them.”

  “Certainly. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “I guess I’ll see you at the party tonight,” he said, over his shoulder, not meeting her eye.

  “Yes. Yes, you will.” And then when he said nothing further, “Good-bye, Jude.”

  He didn’t reply. She backed out, closing the door behind her. The electricity was withdrawing now, and she felt mildly foolish. Confused. And besotted.

  Mayfridh could hardly believe how many people had fitted into Mandy’s gallery for the party. They jostled past each other to look at the art, glasses in hands, cigarettes on lips, a bubbling hubbub of conversation swelling the room.

  “I’d bet everything I had on it,” Gerda said, her words slightly slurred from an afternoon’s preparatory drinking. “Mandy’s got a crush on you.”

  Mayfridh turned to her and shook her head. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Every time I look at him, he’s looking at you.” Gerda glanced over her shoulder. “There! He’s looking at you now.”

  Mayfridh cautiously lifted her eyes to find him. Gerda was right, but she denied it anyway. “No, he’s not. He’s talking with Jude and Christine.”

  “What do you think, Fabiyan?” Gerda asked.

  “I think he looks at you, but it is maybe just an artist’s interest.”

  Gerda rolled her eyes.

  Pete slipped an arm around Gerda’s waist. “I’m with you, Gerda. He’s got the hots for Miranda.” He made a growling-dog noise.

  Gerda shrugged him off. “Get off me, you oaf.”

  Pete laughed and lit a cigarette. “She doesn’t like me,” he said. “Gerda, look at the stats. There are too many gay men in Berlin for you to be so picky.”

  Gerda didn’t laugh, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “I wonder what Mandy’s talking to them about.”

  Mayfridh found Jude and Christine again. Jude had his arm tightly around Christine’s waist. She was leaning away from Mandy as he told them a detailed story. Jude swigged from a beer bottle and tried to look interested. Just seeing his fingers wrapped around the bottle brought back the memory of his touch from that afternoon. She shook her head to dispel the feeling. “It doesn’t look like they’re actually interested in whatever he’s saying,” she said.

  “Nobody ever is,” Gerda said with a wry smile. “He’s universally despised.”

  “They’re a good couple,” Pete said, his cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

  “Who? Jude and Christine?” Gerda asked.

  “Yeah, they’re always together. They’re really into each other.”

  Gerda offered Mayfridh a raise of her eyebrows. “I don’t know that they’re such a good couple. It seems unbalanced to me.”

  “What do you mean?” Fabiyan said.

  “Jude’s very good-looking and she’s . . .” She trailed off meaningfully.

  Pete sneered. “What are you talking about? Christine’s all right. And Jude’s not exactly a movie star.”

  “What do you think, Miranda?” Gerda said, turning on her suddenly. “Honestly, do you think they’re well matched?”

  Mayfridh was startled by this question. Gerda was becoming unpredictable. “I don’t know what to say. Christine’s a close friend whom I love very much, so—”

  “Okay, forget I said anything.”

  Fabiyan said in a considered tone, “I think you are too hard on Christine. She is maybe not so glamorous, but she is very kind and very nice.”

  “Okay, okay!” Gerda said, thrusting exasperated hands upward. “I didn’t mean she’s ugly and I’m not denying she’s a nice person. She just doesn’t look like his type.”

  “He obviously loves her, so perhaps you just don’t know what his ‘type’ really is,” Pete said heatedly.

  Gerda gave Mayfridh a tap on the shoulder. “Come on, Miranda, let’s check out the eligible bachelors.” Then she was dragging Mayfridh away from Pete and Fabiyan, farther into the warm crush of bodies. At every step she took, Mayfridh could feel Mandy Z’s eyes on her.

  One moment, Christine was safely settled in the crook of Jude’s arm enduring one of Mandy’s interminable stories of gossip in the art world, the next Jude had been swept away by an American buyer who wanted a painting explained to him. Before she could move off with Jude, Mandy’s hand closed around her wrist and pulled her nearer.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” he said, those small teeth bared in a smile.

  “Um, sure, what is it?”

  “Your friend Miranda . . . where is she from?”

  Christine followed his eyes and realized that his
distracted gaze hadn’t been monitoring attendance, it was checking out Mayfridh. “England,” Christine said warily. “Somewhere in Kent, I think.”

  “Have you known her long?”

  “We were friends in childhood. She lived next door to me for a short time. Why? Is there a problem?”

  Another smile. “No, no problem. You two are close?”

  “We . . . I guess we’re getting that way. But she won’t be around for long.”

  His eyes grew anxious. “No?”

  “No, she has to go home in a month or so. Mandy, is there some reason you’re asking me all this?”

  “I . . . well, yes there is.” He swallowed, it was hard to say. “I wonder if she has a . . . you know . . .”

  Christine felt her skin crawl. “A boyfriend?”

  “Yes, a boyfriend.” He laughed at himself. “Such an old-fashioned word.”

  Christine tried to process this information. Mandy had a crush on Mayfridh? Was that why he looked pale and slightly sick while talking about her? “There is someone,” she said at last, thinking of Eisengrimm. “I would say she’s definitely not available.”

  “I see,” he said, not sounding particularly disappointed. Bravado, maybe. “And this boyfriend . . . is he here in Berlin with her?”

  “No, he’s back in her hometown.”

  “She’s here alone?”

  For indefinable reasons, this question unsettled her. Perhaps it was the almost imperceptible eagerness, the light shine of perspiration on his lip. “She’s here with me,” Christine said, “that’s not alone.”

  “Indeed it isn’t,” Mandy said, nodding. “Indeed it is not.”

  “Look, if you want to talk to her, just go up and talk to her.”

  “No,” he said quickly, “no, I won’t. I’ll leave it a while. She’s very pretty, Christine.”

  Christine sought out her friend again, brightly colored and flawlessly beautiful. Just the kind of girl who would turn up in a painting. She smiled. “Yeah, she sure is. Makes me feel about as attractive as a stick insect.”

  Mandy laughed out loud now, and the tension between them eased. “Beauty is more than surface effect, Christine. Every artist knows that. Jude knows that.” He indicated across the room at Jude, who was being administered a cigar by the American buyer. “I’ll let you join him. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, not sure what he was thanking her for, but glad to escape anyway.

  She weaved through people, narrowly avoiding a collision with a drinks waiter. She tried to skirt around the edges of the crowd, only to trip over one of the iron poles that kept the viewers from getting too close to the paintings. She put her hands out, not believing for a second that she was actually going to fall, and next instant found herself crashing to the ground on her right hip. The streak of pain was instant and intense, setting her back throbbing.

  “Christine, are you all right?” This was Fabiyan, helping her up.

  “I . . . ouch, that really hurts.” Her hands went to her back, and then Jude was there.

  “Christine?”

  “I fell over.” She was as embarrassed as she was sore, seeing how many pairs of eyes were trained on her. “I tripped on the stupid . . .”

  Jude’s hands were on hers. “Are you badly hurt?”

  “No, I’ve just set it off. It’s not too bad.”

  Gerda, Pete, and Mayfridh were all there now, crowding around her solicitously. She waved them all away. “I’m okay, really. Don’t make a fuss. It’s embarrassing me.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Gerda said.

  “Yeah, easy for you to say,” Christine snapped back, regretting it instantly. “Sorry, Gerda, I’m just—”

  “It’s all right,” Gerda said.

  “Do you want me to take you upstairs?” Mayfridh asked.

  “I’ll just see if I can . . .” She tried a few steps; pain jolted into her spine. “Um, yeah. I’m going to have to go lie down.” She turned to Jude. “I’m so sorry, Jude. I’ve ruined your evening.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take you upstairs.”

  “No, Mayfridh can do it. You go back to your buyer. Make us lots of money.” She smiled weakly and patted his arm.

  He gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then Mayfridh was walking her out of the gallery and up the stairs—each step a jarring shudder of pain—and to her apartment. She fetched Christine’s painkillers and put her to bed.

  Once she had turned out the light Mayfridh sat on the bed and leaned over Christine. “Don’t forget the twine,” she said, her breath tickling Christine’s cheek. “You still have it?”

  “Yeah. I keep it in my purse. But I’d better lie still for a while.”

  “If you need somebody to help you out to the Tiergarten . . .”

  “Sure, I’ll come knocking.”

  Mayfridh gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll keep an eye on Jude for you.”

  “Thanks, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  A moment later she was gone. Christine closed her eyes and tried not to feel anything.

  —from the Memoirs of Mandy Z.

  My hands are shaking so much I can barely write. There is one of the filthy things right here in my own building. No wonder I’ve had so many sleepless nights of late. They have been hiding her from me, thinking I might prove to be too stern a landlord and charge her rent. I can’t believe I didn’t know before now.

  So many problems, though. This is the first time I’ve met one who is a friend to others of my acquaintance. It is not like I can march down there to Gerda Ekman’s apartment and drag her screaming into the hallway, cut her up, and dip her in the vat without expecting any consequences. It’s so very tricky. I can’t rightly discern either whether or not Christine Starlight knows her old childhood friend is from another world. She speaks of her returning home soon (not too soon, please), but without a flick of an eyelash that might give away a darker secret.

  But then, Americans are such good liars.

  Still, I know this much. She is here without other faeries, her friends don’t expect her to stay for long, and there will be a moment, an unguarded moment, upon which I can prey. I need only be patient and clever. And I am nothing if not patient.

  I am nothing if not clever.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Christine woke in the night, the pinching and pulling in her back flaring into life. She rolled over and tried to make herself comfortable, but the pain was insistent. In the dark, Jude was fast asleep, his relaxed, regular breathing a mocking reminder that deep, unfettered sleep was never to be hers.

  For a few moments she lay on her side, gazing at the muted streetlight through the curtain. It would be cold out there; she could hear the wind gusting in the elms at the bottom of the street. But there was a place where this pain could no longer find her.

  She checked on Jude again. He didn’t stir, deep under the layers of sleep. In the three a.m. gloom, she slid out of bed and dressed, gathered the ball of twine from her purse, and slipped out into autumn streets. One block from home a blustering wind tore up the road and whipped her scarf from around her neck, sending it fluttering away behind her. She nearly turned back, but the pain was too stubborn and relief was more important than an errant scarf.

  A half-emptied feeling inhabited the city at night. Rows of shop fronts, stoic and mute, were occasionally punctuated by the warm sounds and trickling crowds of nightclubs, or the yellow lights and greasy smells of fast-food restaurants. But as she drew closer to the Tiergarten, the blended scents of damp earth and rotting foliage completed the emptiness. She tramped through piles of fallen leaves to the dark, deserted corner where the passage lay. Leaves skittered around her like tiny insistent footsteps, and she felt very alone.

  Christine spun the ball of twine out in front of her. It glowed faintly in the dark. She checked her watch, determined not to be gone more than an hour or two. Hand over hand, she began to follow the twine, and an eyeblink later
, found herself in the dark twilight of afternoon in the autumn forest.

  A few breaths, first, enjoying the freedom. Then she began to search for the golden twine among the drifts of fallen yellow leaves. She reeled it toward her, gave it a tug, and realized too late that the end was caught on a branch nearby. It sawed over the rough surface and nearly snapped. She gasped, gently released it from the snag, and inspected it. The twine was frayed almost all the way through. Did this mean she wouldn’t be able to get home?

  “Eisengrimm!” she called, carefully winding the twine around her wrist so she could find the fray easily again. She began walking toward the castle gate. “Eisengrimm!”

  A flutter of wings. A crow perched before her on a tree. Christine fought down her first startled reaction and remembered her manners. “Eisengrimm? Is that you?”

  “Of course it is.”

  She held out the twine. “I think I’ve broken it.”

  He hopped down a few branches and peered close. “I can fix it. Bring it inside.” He fluttered to the ground and transformed to Wolf. “Follow me.”

  A gentle breeze moved the forest around her. More and more leaves descended from the branches above them, spinning and diving in random patterns toward the ground. Christine’s eyes were constantly drawn upward to watch the branches shaking themselves bare in the long shadows. She thought about what Mayfridh had told her, about autumn ending and their worlds moving apart.

  “Eisengrimm, what’s the Winter Castle like?”

  Eisengrimm did not look back, but his voice took on a warm fondness. “Ah, the Winter Castle is my favorite. It is gleaming white, and outside the branches are bare and glittering with frost and ice, and the world is buried in snow. We stay inside, and we have games and long dark nights of tale-telling and drinking by the fire and midwinter music.”

  “But I don’t understand why you move from one castle to the other.”

  “Why does one season change to another anywhere? It just is as it is.”

  “So why do you have to forget everything?”

  Eisengrimm stopped and turned to look at her. “We don’t. We remember each other, we remember events that have taken place in Ewigkreis, and everything feels right and fresh and as though it has purpose. We simply don’t remember the Real World and its people, if we have made contact in the season.”