by Nina Clare
The early dusk of October was falling when Master Knightley reached Mother Goodword’s school. The everlasting lamps hanging either side of the entrance porch burst into light at his approach, but the lamp on the left fizzled and sputtered and its flame was a purplish hue. Another evidence of the household charms failing. He rapped on the door, and it was opened, seemingly, by an invisible hand. He looked down and just made out the form of the household brownie holding back the door. ‘Permission to enter and visit the library for important information,’ he announced. He would never be so rude as to walk past a brownie without a polite word.
The brownie, silent as most brownies are, opened the door a little wider, and he took that as an invitation to step inside. A pair of golden eyes gleamed at him in the darkening hallway, and he heard a soft thud as the creature with the gold eyes jumped down from its perch and followed him across the hall and down the corridors to the library.
It was unusually quiet. At this time of the day there ought to be the clattering of plates from the dining hall and the busy chatter of a room full of girls, but there was only the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the hallways.
He walked on, not seeing anyone, save an inquisitive sprite who peeped out from a pot of autumn crocuses; he’d never understood Mother Goodword’s pleasure in sprites, they were everywhere in her school; mischievous little things they were in his experience. But the flower sprite threw nothing at him nor attempted to beguile him. Perhaps the large cat padding behind him like a watchful shadow kept the little fairy in check; cats and sprites were not generally a friendly mix.
The library lamps were lit, as was the fire. He roamed the shelves, casting his eye over the alphabetically ordered volumes and murmuring aloud the titles tooled upon the spines: ‘Tales of… Terrible… Thomas the… True Testaments of… where is the book on trolls?’
‘It is not under T,’ said a voice from somewhere in the room. Master Knightley turned to see the speaker. The silver tabby remained watching him through slit eyes. ‘Did you speak?’ He had never met a talking cat, but they were not unheard of. The cat blinked again, but remained mute.
There was a rustle of skirts as though someone were getting up, then a short series of sneezes.
‘Sorry,’ said the sneezing speaker, coming into view. It was one of the Godmothering students. ‘I have a dreadful cold. Are you looking for your encyclopaedia of Trolls?’
‘I am.’
‘It is not under T.’ She moved to another bookcase. ‘It is under J.’ She pulled out the hefty tome he had been searching for. ‘Jotnar, Skogs, Tusser, Huldres, Trows, and other Trolls: A Fulsome Encyclopaedia.’
‘Much obliged to you,’ said Master Knightley, taking the book. ‘I should have recalled its title. But I have never read it till now.’
‘I have read it twice,’ said the young woman. She sniffed into a large handkerchief. Now that he could see her by the lamplight, she looked dreadfully red-nosed and bleary-eyed.
‘Have you no healing tisane or potion, or whatever it is you Godmothers make, for that cold of yours?’
She shook her head, and strands of her dark hair escaped from what looked like a knitting needle holding it up in a coil. ‘All used up. Half the junior class had a cold this month.’
‘Perhaps Perry could be of help,’ Master Knightley said as he moved to a nearby table and placed the heavy book down. A little wind, like a sylph, passed through the room, ruffling his hair, and bearing the scent of roses. ‘Did you feel that?’ he asked.
‘Felt like a sylph,’ she agreed.
‘Did you smell it?’
She shook her head and sniffed. ‘I can’t smell anything at present.’ She took up a lamp and brought it to his table.
‘Thank you,’ he said, as the pool of golden light illuminated the book. He sat down and turned to the list of contents, looking for the entry on Woodland Trolls.
‘What do you wish to know?’ He did not reply. ‘About trolls,’ she pressed. ‘I have studied them. I can likely tell you what you wish to know.’
‘You have dealt with trolls?’ he looked up in surprise.
‘Not in the flesh.’ She sounded strangely disappointed. ‘But I’ve read everything I can find about them. Have you met one?’
He turned to the page he wanted. ‘Not yet. And I hope not ever.’
‘Woodland trolls are smaller than their forest counterparts,’ she informed him. ‘They feed on small animals. Their claws and teeth are not able to manage anything bigger than a hare, so they are not dangerous to humans, except…’
He looked up in expectation, but she had paused to sneeze; she blew her nose, and continued. ‘Except to their livestock. If they can access human habitations, they will eat up every fowl they can find. They will even eat cats.’ She threw a glance at the pair of yellow eyes watching lazily from the shadows. There was a soft growl in reply. ‘They’re also very playful. People think of them as all gruff and food-obsessed, but they enjoy their pranks almost as much as sprites do.’
‘I am sure their sport would not correlate to my idea of fun,’ said Master Knightley.
‘They will tease a human, pretend they are going to eat them or do all kinds of horrible things to them. But they rarely do.’
‘Rarely?’
‘Some trolls have less of a sense of humour than others. Apparently.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘So many apparentlys. So many theories. I wish to really know what’s true or not.’
‘One must be careful what one wishes for,’ was Master Knightley’s reply. He leafed through the pages, pausing to examine the drawings of the woodland trolls with their stocky body, short legs, long arms, and hideous faces. ‘It says here,’ he said, pointing at a line of text beneath a drawing, ‘that they dislike fire, lantern-light, and anything bright.’
‘Of course. That’s why they only come out at night. Sunlight turns them to stone. That was the curse put upon their race by King Deadnettle the Third back in the first Dragon Age.’
‘You really are knowledgeable,’ said Master Knightley, somewhat impressed.
Why do you want to know about woodland trolls?’ the young lady asked, eyeing him closely. ‘Have you seen one? Strange things are happening of late.’
Master Knightley wrestled in his mind whether to admit his suspicions. He did not wish to arouse alarm and cause panic, but neither did he wish to fail to warn people if his suspicions were correct. What a nuisance it was that Mother Goodword was away from home. Apart from Master Woodhouse, she was the only person who had any authority in such matters.
‘You have seen one,’ said the young woman. She had been watching the thoughts show themselves upon his face. ‘Where?’ she sounded eager. She leaned forward, and he instinctively leaned away, not wishing to be sneezed over and catch cold.
‘At Donwell?’ she pressed. ‘At the border? Near the river where the Wild Wood begins?’
The silver tabby had emerged from the shadows to sit close by, its ears pointing in Master Knightley’s direction, as though listening intently.
‘I have not seen one, but I believe I have seen evidence of one. Trampled hedges, footprints in the riverbank.’ He turned back a few pages and pointed at a drawing of a troll footprint, easily distinguished by its four scale-like toenails. ‘Exactly like this.’
Strange that the girl should look so pleased. These Godmother students were odd girls.
‘I am going to write my own book on darklings,’ she said, seeing his look. ‘That’s why I want to see them for myself. For study purposes. I have a theory that we could learn to negotiate with darklings. It would save a lot of unnecessary bloodshed and foolish behaviour by knights and would-be-heroes.’
‘Perhaps it would,’ said Master Knightley doubtfully. ‘Though I’d be more inclined to trust to a sword than a negotiation if faced with a darkling.’ On saying this, he got up and moved to the fireplace. A suit of armour stood against the wall. Above the fireplace hung a sword and shield. He ran a finger lightly
over the raised design on the shield ‘I do not advise you venturing near the site of trolls,’ he said firmly, turning back round to face the young Godmother. You’ve told me of the danger they pose. You would not wish to be captured and tormented by them for their sport?’
‘I would not let them capture me,’ she said with a look of scorn. ‘I am not ignorant of their ways. I should use a charm.’ Her face fell again. ‘At least, I would if I had Dust. But I would be sure to cover my ears so I cannot hear their lures, and I would carry a lantern. The brightest one I can find.’
‘It would be difficult to open negotiations with a creature you cannot hear,’ said Master Knightley dryly. ‘All the same, I strongly warn you against courting such danger. What would your mistress say if she were here? Mother Goodword would never permit you to go seeking after trolls.’
‘But she is not here.’
‘By the by,’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Was it here that the North Wind alighted recently?’
Now it was her turn to look as though she did not wish to answer.
‘She did,’ she said curtly, as though unpleasant thoughts were recollected.
‘Was it regarding a theft? Was it a theft of magic?”
Did her eyes widen with surprise at his words, or only because she was about to sneeze again? Either way, she did not wish to answer the question, which only confirmed his thoughts. She had buried her face in her handkerchief evasively. Something had been stolen from the school, he was now certain of it. Perhaps something belonging to Mother Goodword. He had thought an item of Lady Stormont’s armoury might have been the stolen object; they had some magic in them, being fae-made. But all the pieces of armour, and the sword and shield were in their rightful place.
‘We ought to work together,’ he suggested. ‘To see Highbury safe again.’
She frowned and stared at the drawing of the troll on the table, as though she were thinking hard. ‘I am not at liberty to share certain things,’ was her considered reply. ‘It’s not as though you have any authority to do anything, is it?’ It was not said accusingly, only in a matter-of-fact way. ‘You are not the Wild Man Guardian of Highbury. You cannot call upon the Green Man for aid.’
‘No. I am not. But I will do aught I can to protect my neighbours. If I knew what exactly was stolen, I might be better able to find the thief.’
She was silent, and he had no desire to waste time trying to coerce information from a naive girl. He closed the book on the table.
‘Where did you say you saw the footprints?’
‘I did not say. I am not at liberty to share certain things. I will not be party to you endangering yourself. In fact, I forbid you from entering my land.’ He stood up, his shadow falling over her.
‘Forbid me? But I am a Godmother! We have the right to go wherever we choose when about Godmothering business.’
‘Pardon me, madam, but you are but a Godmother in training. And until you are qualified, you do not hold such rights.’
She stood up, glowering at him, and would have said more, but a sudden fit of sneezes overtook her, and he made a swift departure from the room before she had recovered.
19
Quarrels
Master Knightley found Emma on her morning walk in the grounds of Hartfield. The first thing he noticed were the shadows under her eyes, as though she had not slept well.
‘Papa is not in good health this morning,’ was her greeting, anticipating the purpose of his visit. ‘How bad is it, Master Knightley? Did you check the bridge last night?’
‘I did. And I did not see it.’
‘So the miller’s boy was mistaken. I thought as much!’
‘Not necessarily. I believe it was the use of stolen magic that opened the bridge yesterday. If so, the bridge will grow stronger the more magic is used.’
‘I wish I could persuade Papa to do something,’ Emma said wearily. ‘I have thought it over all night, but the harder I press him, the more agitated he grows. I fear for his health, I fear for his mind, and I fear he will speak the binding and shut me up in the tower for my safety.’ She gave a little shiver.
‘I hardly know what to do for the best,’ Master Knightley admitted. ‘Your father is the only man with any authority in this matter.’
‘Are things really so bad? I do not call burnt cakes and skittish horses truly serious. They are inconveniences, but surely not serious enough for Papa to be made so anxious over.’
‘It will get a little worse day by day,’ Master Knightley replied. ‘It may be minor things now, but if the bridge is opening, all manner of mischief may ensue. Loss of livestock, possessions, even people’s lives, if they are lured away into Faerie. I have not seen the bridge myself, but there’s a definite shift in the air at that part of the river. It’s heavier and darker. Like a gloom has settled over the water.’
‘Gloom has settled over us,’ said Emma. ‘Papa cannot bear it when the Green Man is displeased, he takes it very personally. He feels he has failed as the Guardian of Highbury.’
‘But he has, my dear Emma,’ said Master Knightley gently. ‘If he could but exert himself to action, I’m sure we could find the source of the unlawful magic quickly. With his staff of authority, he could demand any stolen magic show itself, and we should soon trace the culprit. But he would need to leave the grounds of Hartfield and go among the people to do so.’
‘I will speak to him again,’ said Emma. ‘When he is stronger.’ She cast her eyes upon the dark yew hedge that bordered one end of the shrubbery. ‘It is no easy thing to keep his spirits up. And if he falls into depression again, I have not the heart for another long winter trying to coax him out of it. This winter seems to stretch out too long as it is, now that Mistress Weston is with me no more. She was so good at helping with Papa.’
‘I do understand. I will watch the border, and I think we ought not to rouse anxiety in the village by talking of this until there is something substantial to speak of.’
‘Then I hope that nothing further is seen of the bridge,’ said Emma. ‘And I shall exert myself about the village. Harriet and I are trying to sense anything unusual. May I tell her of what we know? It may be helpful if the Godmothering students were to aid in finding any clue to the stolen magic.’
‘I suspect they already know more than they care to say,’ said Master Knightley. ‘They’re very secretive about their work. I don’t think you will get much compliance from them.’
‘I think I may,’ argued Emma. ‘I am learning of their ways. Harriet is teaching me.’
‘What, are you training to be a Godmother?’
‘Have you not heard? I thought I told you I was considering such a vocation.’
‘Perhaps you did. I recollect something. I confess I thought it another of your passing schemes. I didn’t realise you were actually applying yourself.’
‘Well, I am,’ said Emma firmly.
They fell silent for some minutes as they walked with enough briskness to keep the morning chill at bay. When Master Knightley spoke again, his voice was lighter, as though he wished to change the subject.
‘I see your young Godmother friend has successfully replaced Mistress Weston’s company.’
‘No one could ever replace Mistress Weston. But Harriet is a sweet girl, and I’m glad of her company. And Papa likes her.’
‘She is not your equal, Emma. I could wish to see you with a companion worthy of you, rather than some silly student.’
‘Harriet is as good-hearted a person as any I could find in all of Highbury, and she is not a silly student. She is educated, and is clearly the daughter of someone of excellent standing.’
‘Excellent standing? What gives you that fanciful notion?’
‘They placed her in a Godmothering school, an excellent school, a very special school, there are but two in all the kingdom.’
‘Very well, she was placed in an especial school, but she has shown no especial aptitude for being a Godmother herself, or she would have been grante
d an acolyte title by this time.’
‘That is because she is not yet eighteen,’ argued Emma, not entirely sure if this were true or not, but it suited her purpose to believe it. ‘She is too young to choose her future path, as Godmother or otherwise. And whoever put her there,’ she continued, ‘wanted the best for her, and knew she would receive the utmost care and attention. That tells me she is valued, and not from some coarse farmer or shopkeeper’s family.’
‘Do you say that farmers and shopkeepers do not value their children?’
‘Oh, very well, I have used a weak argument. but I am convinced that Harriet is above all commonality, one only has to look at her features to see that. She has not the peasant-like round face and chin of a commoner. You must have observed the shape of her eyes and the line of her cheekbone. And consider her nose!’
Master Knightley shook his head. ‘I observe that she has been left to shift for herself. And that incessant giggling of hers!’
Emma was well used to disagreeing with Master Knightley, so she did not trouble herself to be really annoyed, but her voice grew a little warmer.
‘I wholly disagree. Harriet has too much natural grace and elegance about her to be anything other than the daughter of somebody refined. And she does not giggle incessantly.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Master Knightley, swishing his walking cane through the air before them to remove a dew-laden spider web that hung across the path. ‘Keep to your romantic notions, Emma, if you choose. But she certainly does giggle incessantly.’
‘There are worse habits than laughter,’ replied Emma archly, never liking to not have the last word in one of her debates with Master Knightley. ‘Seeing fault in everyone is a more unpleasant habit to live with.’
‘Never seeing fault in oneself is far worse,’ parried Master Knightley.
‘I know you love to find fault with me, but I assure you I shall prove you wrong regarding Harriet. She only wants a little improvement in manners, it is not her fault she lives surrounded by schoolgirls. I shall introduce her to good society, and you shall see her true worth before long.’