by Ken Altabef
“Well, the company must meet the fevered expectations of the masses you know. You seem to have survived it with your virtue intact. I suppose that’s why you’re the star.”
“Longbottom is the star. It was bad enough when I had to compete against human actors but faeries are all so… overly dramatic. He has such a natural flair for whimsey. I wind up stuck playing the boring human roles.”
“It’s a topsy-turvy world,” said Threadneedle dryly.
Nora sighed with relief as she abandoned her human glamour and relaxed into her normal appearance.
“Oh wait a minute!” Threadneedle exclaimed. “I wanted to have a ‘word’ with that lusty milk maid.” He pulled her close and kissed her as the milk maid transformed into his faery love. Nora’s skin blossomed to a deep forest green, her hair a dark green bordering on black, her ears sharply pointed. Her eyes shimmered like diamonds. Still in character, she pushed him away and gave him a slap below the waist with the back of her hand.
“Ow!” he said. “I’m not wearing a codpiece, you know.”
She giggled. “Oops. Sorry.”
She glanced in the long stage mirror against the wall, adjusting the glamour of her clothing. She had chosen to wear a pale yellow day dress with lace frills at the edges of the corset but no hoop. The color complemented her green skin. “That’s better,” she said. “I still can’t believe I can walk the streets like this—in my real form. For so many years I had to hide it, Thread. For so many years I didn’t even know what my true form was. Say, do you think this dress is too much for a casual night on the Strand? I could tone down the lace a bit…”
“It’s perfect.”
And now she finally approached her lover, took his face in her hands and kissed him. Nora was always incredibly passionate in the changing closet, releasing the pent-up emotions of a performance on stage. He answered back in kind.
When she came up for air she asked, “And tell me, how are things in Everbright?”
“The fields are rich, the buildings go up. The mood is bright.”
“And my mother?”
“Lady Theodora endures. She made a recent attempt at reconciliation with your father.”
“Since you employ the word ‘attempt’, I suppose she failed...” A sad look crossed her face.
Threadneedle took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Shall we go? Covent Garden awaits. A night on the town will do you good, I think.”
Nora nodded energetically. “And will you remain Richard Templeton or change into someone more comfortable?”
She noted Threadneedle’s hesitation. “Come on,” she added. “I want to walk hand in hand with you, as faeries both. Let them all see.”
Richard Templeton shook his head.
“Can’t do it, can you?” she asked. She understood his reluctance even though she wished he could share in her newfound freedom. But Threadneedle the faery spy had lived too long in the shadows to let anyone see his real faery form. Well, at least he had let his guard down with her.
“He was there in the audience again tonight,” Threadneedle said.
“The King’s agent? Doakes? How did he like the play?”
“He did not seem pleased.”
Nora harrumphed. “There’s no accounting for taste, I guess. Who was he spying on? You or me?”
Threadneedle adjusted his tall shirt collar. “His carriage trailed me here from Pennington Street. He has his eye on Templeton, but has no proof.”
“Oh all right,” she huffed. “Who should I be?”
“Anne Meadows is still employed by this establishment, I think. It’s been a long while since I took the air with her.”
Nora shook her head and long curls of chestnut hair fell free. Her features melted into the rather ordinary and completely unassuming countenance of Anne Meadows. She was reasonably pretty but flawed, with eyes set just a little too far apart and a nose too wide for her face. The lacy frill disappeared from her bodice as the neckline stretched upward to conceal any trace of cleavage and the material grew coarser and more worn, and faded to a dull gray. Anne Meadows, the Menagerie’s costume seamstress, could ill afford such expensive clothes.
Nora sighed. This character reminded her too much of all the years she’d spent denying her faery heritage.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Beautiful.” Threadneedle took her face in his hands and kissed her as if she were the only woman on the earth. Nora fell into his embrace and pressed right back against him, their tongues meeting playfully in the middle of the kiss. His strong hands fumbled at the back of her dress—somewhere under the glamour she wore a comfortable calico shift that did have actual straps that needed unhitching. He drove her forward and Nora backed onto an old careworn divan set against the wall.
“I thought we were going out on the Strand,” she said when he came up for air.
“After.”
Chapter 6
Theodora looked down at the face of the withered old woman who lay on the cot in the healing chamber beneath Barrow Downes. Each wall of the room was lined by plaited screens grown from creeping vines and dotted with bright flowers—yellow kerria and ripe honeysuckle in orange and pink and a swath of Morning Glory in vibrantly glowing purple. Theodora took a moment to steady herself, breathing in their sweet perfume. The old woman was barely breathing.
“Can you reach her?” she asked Moonshadow.
Moonshadow knelt beside the cot, her eyes closed, her hairless head lowered. Her arms stretched toward the pallet, one hand resting on either cheek of the pale face. “Almost there,” she whispered.
As much as Theodora wanted to jump in herself, she held back. The old woman was in no condition to maintain two connections. It was up to Moonshadow.
“There,” whispered Moonshadow.
The old woman’s face softened as she slowly came back to awareness. Her pale cheeks flushed with a hint of life to them, her eyelids fluttered and then opened. And then Theodora knew.
It was Gryfflet.
Theodora felt simultaneously relieved and horribly crushed. She had known Gryfflet all her life, starting when they were childhood friends a hundred years ago. They had romped together in the Fen, giggled and cuddled through their formative years. Once when Gryfflet had experimented with being a male, they had made love. But above all else they had been friends. For the past half century Gryfflet had maintained the form of a prepubescent child. She had waltzed gaily among the fronds and flowers wearing the glamour of a ten-year-old body with a whimsical personality to match. Two years ago, while searching out a traitor among the faeries at Barrow Downes, Gryfflet had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
“Can you speak?”
Gryfflet nodded slowly. She took a deep breath as if it was to be her last. “The air tastes strange,” she said weakly.
“It’s fine,” Moonshadow said. “Just go slow.”
“The traitor…”
“Yes, we know,” Theodora replied. “It was Arabelle. She tried to murder Moonshadow. It’s all right. Everything’s okay now.”
“Not Arabelle…”
James held a cup of honey and water to Gryfflet’s lips and tipped it slowly upward. “Have some of this. Drink slowly.”
Gryfflet swallowed a few gulps of the fortifying brew. She was finally able to smile, though it was a sad, helpless smile. She passed her gaze from James to Moonshadow to Theodora.
“I looked everywhere for you,” Theodora explained. “As did Moonshadow and Threadneedle. We all did. We feared the worst. Can you tell us what happened? Don’t speak if it’s too difficult.”
“Arabelle.”
“Yes, we know. We thought she might have killed you.”
“Arabelle wasn’t Arabelle.”
James leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“Not our Arabelle. A Winter Court faery. Her name is Willowvine.”
James’ eyes nearly popped from their sockets. “Someone took her place? When?”
“All this time?”
Gryfflet looked puzzled. “A very long time. How long? I don’t know where. All alone. No Moon, no sky.”
“How horrible.” Theodora kissed Gryfflet’s withered forehead. The worst thing one could do to a faery was to separate her from the power of the Moon. No wonder Gryfflet had deteriorated to this pathetic state. We’re lucky she isn’t dead, Theodora thought. I can’t believe anyone could be so cruel. “Well, don’t you worry now,” she said. “You’re back home with us. Everything will be alright again. And when you see all that we’re building here, your spirits will rise. I guarantee it. Rest now. Take heart. You are among family again. All will be well.”
Theodora couldn’t keep the tears from flowing. She was glad Gryfflet’s had dozed off again so she needn’t see. To find her friend of so many years, whom she’d gotten so used to thinking of as a carefree child, reduced to this. Another casualty of Dresdemona’s power-mad schemes. She wondered if Gryfflet would ever take that youthful form again and romp among the daisies. She did not think it likely.
As might be expected, Sunday services in the little chapel in Seelie Park were always poorly attended. James knelt, as usual, in the first pew. To his right, along his row and the next, sat all ten men from the King’s army regiment stationed at Everbright. Captain Abercrombie sat closest to James with an empty space between them. The men sat for the most part in solemn silence, some with eyes closed and possibly asleep, others gazing absently around the chapel’s undistinguished interior, fidgeting with the various loops and tassels about their uniforms. On the left side, a few faeries inhabited random pews. To James’ amazement they were less fidgety than the soldiers. They were more engaged and listening carefully to the vicar’s sermon.
Vicar Albert Desmos wore a black cassock, single-breasted and buttoned high at the neck, covered by a broad white gown with balloon sleeves. The gown lay open at the front, revealing a large wooden cross slung around his neck. Atop his head sat a Canterbury cap, a square hat of black cloth with sharp corners and a small tuft of cotton at the top.
The Vicar spoke energetically, delivering a sermon on his favorite topic—unity and cooperation between all of God’s creatures, both human and faery. He had begun with a familiar quote from the 133rd psalm: “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!”
And now he was in full swing:
“I say to you, if our eyes were suddenly opened to allow us to see into the inner workings of nature, we would find ourselves lost in amazement and wonder. Everywhere we would discover active forces of the wild taking part eagerly and conscientiously to bring about the Will of the Lord. And among those forces are living beings of the wood, faithful servants of God, who carry out His Will and Commandments most accurately in all things.”
This talk encouraged the faeries, who saw themselves mirrored in the Vicar’s words. But the redcoats, those who happened to be still paying attention, bristled at the idea.
“Where there is injury, let us sow pardon,” said the vicar.
“Where there is injury, let us sow pardon,” James repeated. The soldiers murmured indistinctly. The faeries were silent.
“Where there is discord, let us sow union,” said the vicar.
“Where there is discord, let us sow union,” repeated James.
“Where there is hatred, let us sow love.”
“Where there is hatred, let us sow love.”
Desmos smiled at James and nodded. He aimed his next remarks at the soldiers.
“It is obvious these nature-beings still exist even today, in full activity. Right before our eyes they tend and protect, foster and nourish, form and unite. Verily, it will be a blessed and peaceful time when men are again able to take up the connection with these venerable and great beings of Nature.”
One of the men sniggered and Abercrombie jabbed him in the ribs.
The Vicar scowled at the Captain, and went on, “Yes, it will be a blessed and peaceful time when men are again able to take up the connection with these venerable and fine beings of Nature. It is God’s will that his human children—through constant, genuine effort—awaken in themselves the ability to discern, and in their inner hearts try to draw near to the faery folk. Trust and a pure heart are what is needed for this connection.”
James had heard these sentiments, variously pitched, many times before. His thoughts drifted to the startling revelation about Arabelle he had heard earlier in the day. The traitor Arabelle was not Arabelle. But who was Willowvine? An agent of the Winter Court faeries, apparently. She’d returned what she’d stolen but it hadn’t been his heart. She’d returned poor Gryfflet.
Willowvine had been sent to replace his girlfriend Arabelle, like a changeling child among changelings. But when had the switch taken place? James had known Arabelle for more than three years. Now his entire relationship with her was shadowed by ominous new overtones. When he’d first come to Barrow Downes to explore life among the faeries he’d been so young and inexperienced, little more than an adolescent. Wide-eyed and green, as they say. The world of the faeries had seemed marvelous and exciting. It still did. And when he’d first met Arabelle she’d seemed the most beautiful and exotic woman he could ever have imagined. Her lovely face as pale as milk, her skin almost a pure white except for a half-moon of purple on each rounded cheek. Her lips were full and shone an enticing peach color. Her hair was spun wheat, her eyes a deep blue. She wore a fine gown of spider silk that clung so closely to her curves she appeared naked just the same, except for a necklace of yellow flowers and a loincloth of glowing fireflies.
He had been stunned beyond belief when she had approached him. But yes, she had approached him. Their romance developed quite naturally and very rapidly. At the time he hadn’t thought anything of it; he’d fallen head over heels for the girl. He’d had no reason to think she might’ve been a spy—that she might have been targeting him. But now he considered that maybe she was actually Willowvine all along, pursuing the favorite pastime of the faeries—spying on the Grayson family.
When they had made love in the fashion of the faeries, a spiritual merging of souls, a baring of all secrets and desires, he had detected no trace of duplicity. He had found a beautiful soul, fun-loving and free, and totally accepting of him. But then again, he was so new to the merging, so unskilled in the sharing of souls, he couldn’t be sure now that he hadn’t been manipulated, shown only what she wanted him to see. He wouldn’t have known the difference. And then once his confidence was established the deception would have been easy. Had she been this spy—this Willowvine—all along?
If so his feelings of love were surely misplaced. But the alternative was even more devastating. What if Willowvine had replaced Arabelle midway in their affair? Certainly she had used him badly either way, but this second scenario implicated that Arabelle lay captive somewhere, possibly suffering under the depredations of the Winter Court just like Gryfflet had suffered. James could not countenance that possibility. He would have to go after her. Some way, any way. He must find her. His feelings for her had been very deep, very real. He could not leave her to such a fate.
James looked up, realizing that the soldiers were all on their feet. The vicar had already given the dismissal and was greeting the celebrants as they departed. The faeries left without further interaction but the King’s men paused to shake hands with Desmos on the way out. After a brief word, even the Captain was quick to leave.
“James?” said the parson. His round cheeks glistened with a subtle sheen of sweat, worked up during the exertions of his sermon. He extended his hand.
James took it warmly. “A fine sermon, pastor.”
“Did you really think so?”
James thought the Vicar’s gaze held a sharply inquisitive note and wondered whether th
e man had realized his attention had wavered. He hoped the vicar had not suspected his romantic thoughts, improper as they were for this setting. He tried not to blush.
“I confess,” he said. “My attention did waver a bit toward the end. Some personal problems.”
“May I possibly be of help?”
“I appreciate the effort, pastor, but no.”
“You’re a good man, James. And,” he smiled warmly and spread his arms to encompass the entirety of the little chapel, “my staunchest supporter. I’d hate to lose you, even for a moment.”
“You shall not, Father.”
“Good. And if I can’t assist you, perhaps you could help me.”
“Father?”
“It’s about the so-called Changed Men.”
“Oh?” The Changed Men were a handful of Grayson servants, caught up in the battle against the faery monster his mother had called the Chrysalid ten years ago. The faery energies released that night had changed the men in mostly grotesque ways and had damaged their minds as well.
“I am concerned for their spiritual welfare,” continued Desmos. He paused in a moment of easy familiarity to lift both his hat and the formal wig that was standard for clergy. He mopped his bald pate with a white silk handkerchief. “If they choose to remain underground, that’s their decision of course. But they are part of God’s plan too—a bridge between men and faeries. The best way to help them cope is to remind them of that. They must not hide from the light of the Lord. I want you to bring them to Sunday mass next week and every week. Is that possible? Between the two of us, we might do them an important service.”
“I understand, Father. I’ll look into it, I promise.”
Chapter 7
Twelve faeries danced beneath the great ash tree of Everbright. They moved in unison on the great lawn at Greene Meadow. Meadowlark watched from his perch a few feet away, high up in one of the willow trees. The faeries were a mixed group, male and female, short and tall, but he only had eyes for one of them. She was tall and sleek, fit and trim, her honey-blonde hair swirling as she moved. Clarimonde. Though she ridiculously insisted on being called Theodora—Lady Theodora Grayson, for heaven’s sake—he would not do it. The English lord’s wife—that was simply a role she had been chosen to play, a stage act, a bit part, a hiccup, a fart. Problem was, she had taken the masquerade too seriously. Like some crazed stage actor, the role had consumed her, warping her sense of reality. Even now, after the marriage was all but over, she still acted the part of the bereaved widow, clinging to name and title that had never really been hers, refusing to take part in the erotic dances the faeries held belowground.