Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (7 page)

What is a neck-cloth?
Aubranael wondered dazedly. He supposed the person must mean the complicated white fabric construction which adorned his neck, the folds of which looked impossibly complex to Aubranael’s eye. It struck him of a sudden that he, too, might have to manage this aspect of his wardrobe henceforth.

‘Are you Grunewald?’ Aubranael enquired.

The man’s eyes—a bright, leafy spring green in hue—sharpened, and his expression turned wary. ‘I am known as Frederick Green,’ he said with a polite smile.

Aubranael nodded, satisfied that he had found the right person. His host’s face had shown no trace of confusion or puzzlement whatsoever. ‘My name is Aubranael,’ he said, and bowed—this time without losing his hat. ‘Hidenory has sent me to you.’

‘Ah!’ said Grunewald, or Green, and his eyes brightened. ‘A project! This is tremendous. I was growing awfully bored.’ To Aubranael’s surprise, he took a tiny painted box from some concealed spot within his clothes, opened it up, and took a pinch of something from inside. Then he put his fingers to his nose and inhaled.

Aubranael blinked at him.

‘Snuff,’ said Grunewald. ‘It is quite pleasant; you’ll try it sometime. But where was I?’ He hid the box again, watching Aubranael’s face through lazily narrowed eyes—an expression which, Aubranael felt sure, concealed a tremendous alertness and sharpness of mind. ‘Why did Hidenory send you?’

Feeling desperately awkward, Aubranael tried to explain his circumstances in the briefest and most impersonal manner he could manage. He felt that he carried it off fairly creditably, and to his relief Grunewald did not appear to take against him for knowing that his handsome face hid a decidedly less attractive reality.

‘Ah, yes—poor fellow—quite understand,’ said Grunewald. ‘Isn’t Hidenory marvellous? Very skilled, she is—very skilled. Now then, you must have a powerful reason for adopting this amusing facade—am I right? I wish you to tell me
all
about it.’

Aubranael began the story. As he spoke, Grunewald guided him to a small parlour which was as madly decorated as the hallway, and waved Aubranael to a chair. A tray of tea things was already set out, somehow, and it had not been there long, for the cup that Grunewald presently handed to him contained steaming hot tea. Aubranael sipped gratefully at it as he told his tale; the day had been long and eventful, he appeared to have skipped the night altogether, and he was quite tired.

Grunewald nodded along enthusiastically, devouring several small cakes and tarts as he listened. He handed over a small plate piled high with more treats, still warm from the oven. ‘Eat them all,’ he advised. ‘I should think you’ll need to, after all that.’

Aubranael, being ravenous as well as tired, was happy to follow these instructions. The cakes tasted marvellous, and he polished off three in quick succession as Grunewald ruminated on his story.

‘So!’ said his host said at last, ‘there is a lady in the case! I might have guessed. There usually is.’ He beamed at Aubranael. ‘Well! Then you will be needing—let’s see—clothes, carriages, a good house—all the necessaries for impressing a lady. Nothing could be simpler. Where did you say she is living? Tilby?’

‘Yes,’ Aubranael said around a mouthful of cake. He swallowed quickly, and as Grunewald continued to look at him blankly he added: ‘It is in a place called Lincolnshire.’

‘Ah! Lincolnshire. A fine county, not too far off.’ He paused, thinking, as Aubranael ate two more tarts. ‘Yes! Absolutely. No question about it. I shall go with you.’

‘Oh, no!’ Aubranael demurred. ‘Such a deal of trouble for you—I couldn’t possibly—’

‘Not at all,’ Grunewald interrupted. ‘It will be an adventure! I am, as I think I already said,
quite
bored.’

Aubranael began to smile, charmed by his new friend’s enthusiasm and irrepressible good cheer. He was secretly relieved to know that he would have a companion through the coming weeks, and Grunewald’s calm acceptance of his true face heartened him as well. They were two of a kind, Grunewald and Hidenory; neither had made any bones about his lack of beauty. Perhaps because they dealt so freely in glamour themselves, they felt that mere reality was unimportant.

But then, both had chosen handsome faces for themselves… perhaps it wasn’t quite that simple.

Grunewald sprang up from his seat in a fine show of energy and clapped his hands together. ‘Good! Capital! Best get on. We have a great deal to do.’

‘I—thank you—’ Aubranael began, realising that he had failed to respond to his host’s offer of accompaniment.

‘Not at all,’ Grunewald said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I ask only that it be
entertaining
, this projected adventure. No doubt Tilby will be a lively place, with plenty to do.’ He smiled hopefully at Aubranael, who spread his hands.

‘I know nothing about it,’ he admitted.

‘Well, we shall see. Now, your name. It is perfectly excellent, but it will not do in these parts. You will need something more English, and preferably unremarkable.’

‘Like Frederick Green,’ Aubranael noted.

Grunewald beamed. ‘Precisely. Let me think a moment.’ He did so rather visibly, staring into space and scrunching his brow. ‘I have it! Aubrey! Ha, ha! It is perfect.’

Aubranael frowned. ‘It is perhaps too similar?’

‘It is to be complete concealment of your identity, is it? Even from the lady? Very well. It shall stand as your first name; no one ever uses those.’ He thought some more. ‘Aubrey Stanton. How do you like that?’

Aubrey Stanton. Mr. Aubrey Stanton. Mr. Stanton. Aubranael turned it over in his mind, and found that he liked the sound of it. It was, as Grunewald had said, very English, and quite unremarkable. ‘It is excellent,’ he said with a shy smile.

‘Capital!’ said Grunewald. ‘Well then, Mr. Stanton. Let us see to the matter of your wardrobe.’

If Aubranael had expected to be taken to a tailor’s shop for his new garments, he was mistaken. Instead, Grunewald conducted him up the grand staircase in the hall, up another flight directly after, and then up two more increasingly narrow and winding staircases before he finally stopped before a bright red door and knocked upon it. He went inside without waiting for a response, and Aubranael followed.

Beyond the door was a large room, and inside the room were several goblins. They were all furiously busy with piles and piles of fabric, thread and assorted tools. Aubranael could not determine precisely what they were making, but the fact that they all wore exquisitely tailored coats like Grunewald’s seemed to offer a clue. The coats sat oddly on their spindly frames, looking completely incongruous with their knobbly elbows and knees and their greenish-brown skin.

As Grunewald entered, they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him—and then at Aubranael as he followed his host inside.

‘Hey! We are busy!’ said one, waving a half-finished coat in illustration of his point.

‘Lovely work,’ said another, eyeing Aubranael’s coat. ‘Yours, sir?’

Grunewald shook his head. ‘Hidenory’s.’

‘Ahhh! May I touch it?’

‘No.’

The goblin’s shoulders drooped, and Aubranael felt rather sorry for the creature. Grunewald forged briskly ahead, however, allowing him no opportunity to intervene. ‘My guest is in need of your assistance! Two or three coats, please, at the least. The usual range. Quickly, quickly! We have much to do.’

The goblin tailors chorused an assent and instantly swarmed over Aubranael. Knotted ropes borne by nimble goblin hands circled his waist, chest, shoulders, arms and neck—even his legs and head. Rough goblin voices shouted out measurements, and a scriber chalked everything up on a blackboard.

Then there was a flurry of activity as fabrics were sought for, offered for approval, chosen and discarded. Grunewald asked Aubranael’s opinion on a variety of hues and shades, but all he could do was nod dumbly at them all. What did he know of the differences between dark blue and dark red with his (borrowed) colouring? What did he know of wool or cotton or superfine or whatever else? Grunewald soon stopped asking, and settled the decisions himself.

Choices made, the goblins leapt into activity, swarming over the long tables set up throughout the room and throwing fabrics around with terrific energy. Grunewald quickly shepherded Aubranael out of the room and shut the door on the goblin tailors. ‘Better leave them to it,’ he said wisely.

Aubranael blinked. ‘Why are they here?’

‘No idea at all,’ Grunewald replied cheerfully. ‘They turned up at the house—oh, a long time ago. I gave them this room and they’ve been here ever since.’

‘Making coats?’

‘Yes. They love it above anything.’

‘Do you pay them?’

‘Pay them? My dear fellow, do you have any idea how much they cost me in food, not to mention cloth and so on? No idea at all what they do with most of the things they make—sell them, for all I know. Making a few for me and mine is the
least
they can do in return.’

Aubranael had the feeling that Grunewald was not being entirely honest with him; that he was holding back some important piece of information that would have clarified the situation considerably. He had to be satisfied with this, however, as Grunewald had already opened the next door in the long passageway—a blue one—and gone inside. Aubranael hastily followed.

He was greeted by a scene remarkably similar to the first, only these goblins were all wearing voluminous, snowy-white shirts over their patched knee-britches. Aubranael had to submit to another episode of frenzied measuring as Grunewald ordered shirts for him—‘Ten at least, please, and quick about it!’—and then they were moving on once more through a yellow door, and then a green one, a brown one, a purple one and an orange, behind each of which lay another team of tailors. This mad procession continued until Grunewald had ordered trousers, waistcoats, boots and shoes, hats, neck-cloths and nightshirts. At last he turned to Aubranael and said, with unimpaired cheer, ‘Those will be ready by morning, I should think! Shall we see about the carriage next?’

Aubranael, who felt completely drained, would have preferred a few minutes’ pause in this whirlwind of activity, but he could not think of a way of saying so without displaying an intolerable degree of ingratitude. So he said nothing, and followed in silence.

Grunewald chattered chummily about commonplace things as he led his guest back through his enormous and complicated house and out into a coach-yard, but Aubranael’s thoughts were too busy to pay much attention. Ready by morning, he’d said? Which morning? For the windows in the goblin tailors’ sequence of rooms had all appeared to display a different time of day, from dawn to the depths of night.

And why did Grunewald have such an astonishing quantity of goblins living in his peculiar house, all delighted to do his bidding? Had they been calling him “sir” or “sire”? Aubranael eyed his new friend, wondering whether the true form hidden behind his handsome facade might prove to be somewhat shorter, knobblier and greener.

Grunewald caught him at this covert surveillance, and smiled. ‘Don’t overthink it,’ he recommended, and winked. ‘Now, then: we shan’t need anything new, I shouldn’t think. Just a few alterations!’ He set about delivering instructions to yet another crew of goblins, these armed with the tools of blacksmiths, upholsterers and engineers. As they leapt to do as he asked, Aubranael merely sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes.

Aubranael’s tireless host kept up this ruthless routine for most of the day, pausing only for meals (to Aubranael’s immense relief). The food was always excellent; he pictured to himself a kitchen full of pies, syllabubs and flummeries, cakes, breads and all manner of good things, probably prepared by a small horde of goblin chefs.

Night had fallen, and remained for some hours, by the time Grunewald’s limitless energy finally began to flag. ‘Sleep a little!’ he said, clapping Aubranael on the shoulder. ‘We’re almost ready to depart. Capital day’s work. Only need to collect your wardrobe in the morning, and off we’ll go. See you bright and early!’ He pointed Aubranael in the direction of a closed door—a plain white one, this time—and disappeared behind the one opposite before Aubranael had chance to reply.

‘Good night,’ he said belatedly. Venturing into his assigned room, Aubranael paused only long enough to take note of the enormous bed—large, soft and deliciously comfortable-looking. He would have fallen straight into it, but a pair of goblins approached.

‘Let us help you with that, sir,’ said one. They each took hold of his coat and began to drag it off him; it was a tight-fitting garment and it took considerable effort from both of them to prise it away from his shoulders. He wondered vaguely how he would ever get it on again.

The rest of his attire came away rather more easily, and his goblin attendants speedily replaced them with a nightshirt and cap. Aubranael was as unused to the process of being dressed and undressed as he was to the garments themselves, but he was far too tired to object. The moment the night-cap had been twitched into place on his head, he turned back the covers of his glorious new bed, collapsed into it, and instantly fell asleep.