Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (23 page)

Aubranael cared nothing for that. All he cared for was Lihyaen, and she was gone.

He was so far buried in his memories that he failed to notice Sophy’s silence for some time. At length he looked up to find that her face was bone-white and she was staring at him with a stricken expression.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘Gracious, you ask a simple question and I tell you the whole tragic tale…’ He talked on in what he hoped was a soothing way, stricken with remorse. What had possessed him to trot out the entire sorry story? No one had ever asked before. Perhaps the thrill of this new closeness—of having someone to confide in—had temporarily disordered his wits.

At length Sophy seemed comfortable again. Her smile wobbled a little, but it held, and she slipped her hand into his in a gratifyingly trusting way.

‘Perhaps you had better tell me your secret another day,’ he suggested. ‘I have shocked both of us enough for one evening.’

Sophy nodded. ‘It will be better if I show you,’ she said cryptically. ‘Come to the parsonage tomorrow, early.’

He nodded. ‘Are we…?’ he began, then hesitated. He couldn’t tell what she really thought of his tale. Finding out that Mr. Stanton and Aubranael were the same person had obviously shocked her, but he couldn’t tell what she really thought about it. Did their engagement stand?

She smiled warmly enough to banish his fears, and nodded. ‘We are,’ she said quietly. ‘I can understand why you lied.’

He felt such a glow of satisfaction, affection and relief, it was as though he was filled with sunshine from head to toe. He had never dared hope that Sophy would be so very understanding; that there would be no interval of dismay and distrust, no misgivings to explain or soothe away. She was perfect, he decided, and made a vow to himself then and there: he would never,
ever
let anything happen to her. He had failed Lihyaen, but he would never fail his Sophy.

These heroic reflections were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps in the passage behind him, and he was abruptly brought back to reality. Here he stood in the Alford Assembly Rooms with his own face! Mr. Stanton’s palatable good looks were gone, and he stood in danger of exposure.

Sophy grasped the situation instantly, and took his hand. Rapidly she led him back through the passages—hurrying past the person whose footsteps had alerted them—and out the front door. When she climbed into his carriage after him, he was too distracted to notice the impropriety of it. He called to the driver from within the coach, hoping that nobody would glance in and see his face.

They did not. The carriage moved off, and he was able to relax for the journey home. Miss Landon’s presence helped, for they had much to say to one another—and a great deal else to share, besides.

It was not until the following morning that Aubranael began to feel really curious about Sophy’s secret. So much had happened the night before that he had hardly taken her announcement seriously.

She had said it was very important, but her manner had not suggested that she was worried or troubled. What could it possibly be? Perhaps it was even a good secret; though he struggled to imagine why anyone would hide something like that.

He was obliged to use Grunewald’s carriage, in spite of the beautiful weather. Hidenory’s enchantment had gone, absolutely gone; not only was his real face restored (nothing like Mr. Stanton’s) but so was his real hair (long, loose and nothing like Mr. Stanton’s) and his real skin (dark brown and nothing like anybody else’s in Tilby). He travelled the short distance to the parsonage with the blinds drawn, amusing himself on the way with speculations as to the nature of Miss Landon’s secret. Perhaps she had discovered that her father had
not
left her entirely penniless after all. That would be a pleasant discovery for her, and it would save his dignity a little, too: she would not be accepting him purely about of desperation.

Or perhaps she wished to tell him about her scheme of settling in Grenlowe and opening a shop. He had learned enough about English society to know that
opening a shop
—even in faraway Aylfenhame—would never be considered a respectable thing to do, and so of course she would keep it secret. This second theory made so much sense that he accepted it as the truth at once, and felt much more comfortable. He would not let on, perhaps, that Mr. Balligumph had already told him about it. Better to let her explain it in her own words.

When the carriage drew up at the parsonage, he paused only to ensure that his hat was pulled low over his face and his coat was buttoned up over his throat, and then he stepped down. He went up to the front door as quickly as possible, hoping that Sophy would be waiting for him.

She was not. He knocked, waited and knocked again, and there was no sign of her. He began to grow concerned. The parsonage was tucked away behind the church in a little nook of its own, with trees lining the walls that separated it from the road; but still, it could not be long before somebody passed this way, and in spite of his excellent disguise they could hardly fail to notice that there was something odd about him.

Just as he began to grow alarmed—had something happened to Sophy?—the door opened. He began to smile; it was immediate on seeing Miss Landon and he couldn’t help it. But the smile faded when he realised it was not Sophy at the door.

An old, old woman stood there instead, stooped over with age. Her brittle white hair all but obscured her wrinkled face, and her clothes were ragged and dirty.

‘I… I am looking for Miss Landon,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Is she here?’

Gripped with a sudden alarm, he cast a long look about himself at the other houses, then back at the one before him. ‘This
is
the parsonage, is it not?’

The woman cackled—actually
cackled
, the way old women tended to do in stories—and opened the door wider. ‘Yes, and yes,’ she said. Her voice did not match her appearance; instead of the feeble, quavering notes he had expected, she spoke in firm, vibrant tones.

Aubranael stepped inside, feeling oddly wary. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell her I am here?’ he asked politely. ‘I am expected, I believe.’

The old woman shut the door behind him, then looked him in the eye and smiled. ‘She knows,’ she said.

She did? Was she here somewhere, watching? Aubranael turned about, but did not see her. The old woman beckoned him into the parlour and he followed her inside, expecting to find Sophy waiting, but she was not there. He stared at the woman, confused.

‘I told you I had a secret,’ she said softly.

Realisation dawned, and horror with it. ‘
Sophy?
’ he said incredulously. ‘Wha—how? Why?’

A spark of irritation flashed in the old woman’s eyes. ‘A curse, of course,’ she snapped. ‘Or did you think that you were the only one?’

Aubranael swallowed his distaste—ashamed that he felt it at all—and met her gaze squarely. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said in a gentle tone.

‘No.’

‘Please,’ he said softly. His reaction had been shock, and nothing more; now that he’d had a few seconds to absorb the truth, his heart broke for poor Sophy. He felt anger begin to simmer somewhere inside. Who could have done this to her? She was sweet and kind-hearted and caring and… and
unthreatening.
What could possibly have happened?

Sophy sighed, chewed one of her old woman’s lips and looked up at him. ‘I have no wish to recount the whole story,’ she said firmly. ‘I am sorry—especially since you were so sharing last night. But I can’t… bear it.’

He made desperate soothing motions, anxious to convey that he had no wish to pressure her at all. He would have spoken but she rushed on.

‘It happens… once a month,’ she said, with some small hesitation. ‘For a few days, and then I am restored to myself.’

‘A few?’ he repeated. ‘How many is that?’

‘A
few
,’ she snapped.

He made another apologetic gesture. It was unlike Sophy to be irritable, he thought distantly; but no doubt it was the pressure of confession, and the prospect of rejection. He had felt awful himself, only a few short hours ago.

There was only one question he would venture to ask, in the face of her obvious reluctance to speak. But he had to know. He could already feel it eating away at him, burning in his mind.

‘Sophy,’ he said. ‘Who did this to you?’

Whoever it was, he wanted to hurt them. He felt the same way he felt whenever he thought of Lihyaen and the white-cloaked person who had disappeared into the night, leaving her silent corpse behind.

Sophy stared up at him, despair in her rheumy green eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, and the hopelessness in her voice convinced him that she spoke the truth.

He opened his arms, inviting her to walk into them. But she straightened her spine, lifted her chin and smiled a weird little smile. ‘I am not in need of affection,’ she said. ‘What I need is a
promise.
’

‘What kind of promise?’

‘That you still want me, in spite of
this.
’ She grabbed handfuls of the revolting rags she wore and shook them in sudden fury.

Aubranael stared at her in surprise. ‘Do you need a promise?’

‘Of
course
I—’ she began.

He held up a hand to cut her off. ‘What I mean to say is: that goes without saying. Does it not? How could I possibly reject
you?
’

Sophy stared at him in amazement, and he realised that her irritation stemmed from despair. In spite of his circumstances, she had been truly afraid that he would forsake her.

‘Are you certain?’ she said.

‘Yes. I promise.’

A smile of pure happiness crossed her face, and for an instant he could almost see his Sophy beneath the veneer of age. But as seconds passed her smile gradually faded, and she looked down at herself, perplexed.

‘Say it again,’ she ordered.

Aubranael took both of her hands and held them between his own. ‘Sophy Landon,’ he said gravely, ‘I promise to love you every day of our two lives,
including
the cursed ones.’

A spasm crossed her face—annoyance? Despair?—and she said: ‘Could you say that again, but leave out my name?’

Puzzled, he nonetheless obliged.

She stared down at herself, at her ragged skirts, withered hands and knotted hair, and something like a suppressed howl of frustration tore from her throat. Pulling her hands free of his, she stared wildly at him. ‘Maybe we need to be married,’ she said feverishly. ‘Yes! That must be it. Merely
saying
that you promise cannot be enough, or anybody could do it. You have to marry me to prove it!’

Aubranael began to feel alarmed. ‘We will be married,’ he said. ‘Soon, if you like—though perhaps you will like to wait until the cursed days are over for the month.’

‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘We must be married as soon as possible! Today!’

‘We cannot be married today. Tilby has no clergyman, remember? And it will take longer than today to make the necessary arrangements.’

To his horror, Sophy began to claw at her face. Her nails were sharp and broken, and they left long, red welts on her skin. ‘Stop!’ he said in horror, grabbing at her hands. ‘Sophy, what is this about?’

‘I am a
korrigan
, you fool!’ she cried. ‘You are supposed to break the curse!’

Korrigan! He knew the tale. How a korrigan had ended up
here
, the daughter of a country clergyman in an out-of-the-way town, he had no notion at all. But he understood her panic.

‘Consider the good!’ he said, making another attempt to capture her clawing hands. ‘You must be right: it is marriage that will break the curse, and we
will
be married. You will be free very soon.’

She began to calm at last, and he was able to smile into her eyes. ‘It gives me so much pleasure to know that I can free you from this,’ he said gently. ‘Do not fear, love.’

She eyed him with suspicion, but to his relief she did not fly into another rage. Instead she patted his hand a little awkwardly, and sighed. ‘I had tea prepared,’ she said. ‘I had hoped to partake of it curse-free, but however.’

She led the way into the parlour and offered him a seat, all trace of her frustration gone. Mindful of her aged hands, he attempted to take over the duty of serving the tea, but she waved him off with a little return of her irritability.

‘I may be ugly but I can still pour tea,’ she said frostily.

‘Of course,’ he murmured, puzzled. He would not have said that irritability was part of Sophy’s character, and she could not still be worried about rejection. Where had she been hiding that trait?

Not that it mattered; nothing could dim his delight in her company. But it wounded him a little, and worried him. Was she concerned about anything else?

He watched absently while she poured the tea, gracefully and without spilling a drop. Accepting the proffered cup with a smile, he said, ‘Where is Mary today? I had fully expected to meet her at the door.’

Sophy cast him a quick, sharp look. He would have sworn she looked…
shifty
, if he didn’t know better. ‘She has the day off today,’ she said quickly. ‘She will be so sorry to have missed you.’

Aubranael nodded and took another sip. ‘And how is Thundigle getting along?’

Sophy looked blank. ‘Oh… very well,’ she said.

‘Yes?’ he said. ‘I shall see for myself soon enough, no doubt! He cannot bear to leave the tea-things uncleared for more than a very little while.’

Sophy gulped tea. ‘He has the day off as well,’ she said in between gulps.

‘Oh! My word, I had not thought they would leave you alone all day, especially at this time.’

Sophy smiled vaguely and muttered something about important errands. He watched her quizzically, unsure how to interpret her behaviour. That she was hiding something from him was obvious, but what could it be? Perhaps there was something amiss with either Mary or Thundigle or both, but she did not like to tell him. Perhaps they had left her! The very thought of it angered him, and he forced himself back to calmness. He could not believe that either of them would desert Sophy, let alone both. There must be some other explanation.