Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (20 page)

Sophy understood. ‘I am coming,’ she said, and followed. She was unsure precisely who had sent Felebre—if anyone had—but it seemed very likely that this was Balli’s promised help; or if not, perhaps the cat would take her to Aubranael! Privately hoping for the latter more than the former, Sophy followed along as Felebre wove her way through the streets of Grenlowe and out of the north gate.

After walking for an hour or more, she began to feel a little concerned. Felebre had led her through meadows and woods, over bridges and across streams, and at quite a brisk pace; where could she possibly be going? The town of Grenlowe had been left far behind, and Sophy had seen no sign at all of any other settlements. For a while she enjoyed the tour, for Aylfenhame had many beauties to offer: the streams were covered with lily-pads and water-blossoms, the meadows strewn with fragrant grasses and vividly-coloured flowers; the woods were dense with ash and rowan and oak trees, and many more she did not recognise, their varicoloured bark and leaves a delight to the eye.

But as time wore on she began to feel tired, and wondered with rather more urgency where Felebre was bent on taking her. She tried to enquire a few times, but Felebre made no attempt to answer.

At last she stopped, panting for breath, and sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree. Felebre went on for a few moments; then, realising that Sophy had stopped, she came stalking back, her fur rising along the back of her spine and her tail lashing angrily.

‘I know,’ Sophy panted. ‘I am sorry, but I must rest for a moment.’

Felebre continued to bristle and lash her tail for a while, then—with an almost audible sigh—she curled up at Sophy’s feet, tucked her nose beneath her tail and went to sleep.

‘Lovely idea,’ Sophy muttered. She was hungry and thirsty as well as tired, but she could see no way to remedy these complaints. Not that she should, perhaps, even given the opportunity: Thundigle’s warning about food sounded in her mind, loud and alarming, and she tried to persuade herself that she was not in urgent need of water and sustenance. But, she realised, that warning had been given some time ago, when she had been only a visitor; if she planned to settle in Aylfenhame, it need not apply, perhaps?

This realisation cheered her, and she looked around herself in case a handy crop of fruit or a clear stream might conveniently present themselves. They did not, however; it was too early in the year, yet, for fallen fruits, and no amount of wishing could conjure up a steam of water.

‘I hope we are not going very much further,’ she said to Felebre. ‘Not that I am not grateful for your kind assistance, but I am
quite
tired and rather in need of refreshment.’

The cat slept on.

Suddenly and incongruously, a shriek of laughter reached Sophy’s ears. It sounded far away, but another, much nearer laugh followed immediately afterwards. Sophy stood up and turned about in circles until she saw the source: a large table set among the trees some way off, its surface covered in a neat white table-cloth and crowded with tea-things. Chairs were crammed up and down the length of the table, or at least as much of it as Sophy could see, for only one end was visible. The chairs were all occupied, but she had not time to observe who the picnic guests were, for a gust of wind sent the trees into a brief paroxysm, blocking her view. When the wind calmed once more, the table had vanished.

Felebre remained inflexibly asleep, and Sophy sat beside her for some time, pondering what she had seen—or thought she had seen. The whole scene had faded away like a dream upon waking, and she was by no means certain that she had not imagined it. Perhaps hunger and thirst had unbalanced her mind a little.

At length she sighed, and stood up. ‘Very well, let us carry on. The sooner we arrive, the sooner I may rest properly.’

Felebre uncoiled herself, stood up, and stretched luxuriously, curling her back and her tail. Then she padded off, without even the briefest of glances at Sophy.

They walked for another two hours. Sophy managed to quench her thirst, but her hunger remained, eating away at her insides and sapping her strength. When at last Felebre stopped, she felt ready to drop with weariness.

The day had waned, the hour now early in the evening, Sophy judged. The sun hung low and heavy on the horizon, casting a rich golden light over the deep, tree-studded valley Felebre had taken her to. She saw nothing to suggest that her journey was over; no sign of a house, let alone a village or a town.

‘Where are we?’ she said to Felebre.

The cat said nothing.

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ Sophy turned in a few anxious circles, taking in tree after purple-barked tree, shining leaves of silver and gold and shades of green, a luscious carpet of grass and nothing whatsoever to suggest the presence of another living soul.

What had she been doing, following this strange golden-eyed cat? Just because she had seen Aubranael keeping company with the same creature, or a similar one! She deserved her predicament. These reflections did not help her to decide what to do, however, so she banished them, straightened her shoulders and began to think more productively.

Before she had got very far with this, however, a voice split the air. ‘Who is at the door!’ said the voice merrily. It sounded like a woman.

Sophy cleared her dry throat. ‘Um, I… Miss Sophia Landon,’ she answered. ‘And Felebre.’

‘Excellent!’ sang the voice. ‘Come in!’

To Sophy’s surprise, a door opened in the centre of an enormous tree, or what she had taken to be a tree. Light shone from within, and Sophy was glad enough to step inside.

The room beyond was far too large to fit into the trunk of any tree. It was a sumptuous room, luxuriously decorated and furnished, dripping in silver and jewels. The air smelt of herbs and spices and fruit, and she could hear the rippling notes of a harp.

The music stopped abruptly, and someone—the owner of the merry voice, presumably—stepped into the room. Given the beauty of her voice, her music and her home, she was not what Sophy had expected to see. She was an elderly woman, dressed in shrouding layers of homespun fabric in drab colours. Her skin was a map of wrinkles, her hair a mess of rough, tangled grey-and-white strands. Only one of her rheumy eyes focused on Sophy; the other looked off in a different direction, rolling sometimes in its socket. The woman even had warts on her face, three that Sophy could see.

Flustered, Sophy tried to hide her surprise behind a polite curtsey. ‘I am sorry to intrude upon you like this,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Felebre has brought me to you; I hope I was not mistaken in coming.’

‘Ohhh,’ said the crone. ‘No, not at all mistaken. Miss Landon! You are very welcome. I will give you tea.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sophy. The woman’s courtesy made her still more ashamed of her reaction, and she forced herself to meet her hostess’s gaze.

‘And something to eat,’ said the crone. ‘You are famished, I should imagine!’

‘Thank you,’ Sophy said again. ‘I am indeed. We walked for some hours.’

The woman nodded and patted Felebre’s sleek head approvingly. Then she raised her beautiful voice and called: ‘Pharagora!’

A small door opened in the wall and a brownie appeared, her ragged skirts dragging on the floor and her brown hair flying out in a hundred directions. ‘Madam?’ said the brownie.

‘Tea, please, and refreshments! The usual.’

The brownie nodded and began to bustle about. Within minutes a little tea-party was spread upon a low table, and Sophy sat down to take tea with her new friend.

‘I am called Hidenory,’ said the crone, catching Sophy’s inquisitive gaze. ‘You were not expecting to meet me, I think?’

‘No. That is, I knew that Mr. Balligumph had arranged for some kind of assistance, but he did not say who I should expect.’

‘Ah yes! Mr. Balligumph. He speaks very highly of you.’ Hidenory sipped daintily at her tea, her good eye fixed on Sophy’s face. ‘Perhaps you will tell me what you are looking for?’

So Sophy recounted her problems and her hopes. Hidenory listened avidly, interrupting with an occasional question. How had her prospects in England become so limited? Was there no other way to resolve her difficulties? No gentleman in the question?

Blushing, Sophy shook her head “no” to the last question. Mr. Stanton flitted through her thoughts—his height, his athletic build, his handsome face and his kindness—but she pushed the image away. She would
not
fall into the trap of relying on a proposal of marriage to solve all of her problems—and then, when none came, of falling into hysterics or into despair and having no notion what to do with herself. Mr. Stanton and his intentions—if he had any—were entirely irrelevant.

Hidenory appeared to realise that she was not telling the whole truth, for she gave Sophy a long, considering look and smiled a sly smile. ‘Oh, very good! I applaud your resolve. Why should we rely on men, hmm? I enjoy your plan much more.’

Sophy hesitated, suspecting mockery, but Hidenory’s expression was pleasant and apparently sincere. ‘Can you help me?’ Sophy said. ‘Perhaps you may know somebody already in the business—someone who may need an assistant? I only need somewhere to
begin,
you see, and I will see to the rest myself.’

Hidenory nodded wisely. ‘Quite, yes. Oh, I have the very thing for you.’

She lapsed into silence, no longer looking at Sophy. Her reverie seemed to be a thoughtful one, and Sophy did not wish to interrupt, so she turned her attention to the food. It was excellent, of course, beyond anything she had ever taken at home; fruits so rich and full of juice she could scarcely believe they were real, tarts bursting with flavour and colour, and tea heady with a rich, spiced fragrance that was almost intoxicating. So busy was she in sampling and enjoying that, for a time, she forgot about Hidenory and her deliberations. By the time she had finished, the light outside had faded, night had fallen and Pharagora began to light twinkling lamps to lift the gloom.

When Sophy looked up, she received a shock. The chair opposite to her was still taken—she would have sworn that Hidenory had not moved from it for an instant—but it was no longer Hidenory sitting there. The woman sitting opposite to her was younger—
much
younger. She was of Sophy’s age, or thereabouts; her grey-white, tangled hair had been replaced by shining golden locks; her eyes were no longer rheumy, and both were fixed on Sophy’s face, gleaming with amusement. Her features were perfect, her skin was perfect, her clothes were perfect. She sat with perfect grace, sipping from her cup with the same dainty manner as before, only now it suited her.

Sophy blinked, and stared. ‘I…’ she began. She looked around for Hidenory, the crone, but saw no one else in the room—not even Pharagora. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Hidenory?’

The beautiful woman smiled delightedly, and nodded. ‘It is still Hidenory,’ she said, and laughed. ‘I promise.’

‘But how…? Why?’

‘Why indeed?’ said Hidenory, and her face darkened with momentary anger. ‘That is a long tale.’

Sophy considered that for a moment. ‘Which is the real you?’ she asked.

Hidenory cast her a sharp look. ‘A very good question,’ she murmured. ‘Both, and at the same time, neither.’

Sophy frowned. ‘Are you… a witch?’

Hidenory smiled wickedly. ‘One of the best, my dear. What do you think of my handiwork?’

‘But then… why would you…?’ What Sophy wanted to ask was
why
someone with the powers of glamour would suffer the indignities of the crone’s shape, when she could be as beautiful as she desired. But the question was appallingly rude, and in spite of her extreme curiosity she could not bring herself to say it out loud.

She did not have to. Hidenory’s face darkened with anger again, and she set down her tea cup with such a clatter that it broke. ‘Curses,’ she said. At first Sophy thought she was referring to the broken cup, but she repeated the word much more fiercely and Sophy realised she was talking about herself. ‘Curses! I am an expert in the art of Glamour, Miss Landon, but
some
arts remain beyond my ability. I made a mistake, long ago now, and a curse was my reward.’

A curse.
Sophy’s thoughts turned to the stories Mary had told her when she was a child, tales of Aylfenhame and the folk who lived there, and the strange things they did. She distantly remembered something along these lines: the Korrigan’s Curse, it was called. The Korrigans were young and beautiful by night, but haggish by day.

‘Can you not…?’ Sophy enquired. With a vague gesture of her hand, she sought to illustrate her question: could Hidenory not hide her crone’s form behind a glamour?

‘Do you think I would hesitate, if that were within my power?’ said Hidenory, with great indignation. ‘No! That comfort is denied me. No power of mine can alter my shape during the daylight hours.’

Sophy felt desperately uncomfortable. Her own troubles seemed inconsequential beside Hidenory’s, and she pitied the woman terribly; but there was nothing she could do, and little she could say.

‘Is there a cure?’ she said at last.