Solstice at Stonewylde (39 page)

Magus poured her another crystal goblet of mead. She didn’t want it but maybe she’d need to be dead to the world. She began to force it down, feeling slightly sick. Her face both stung and felt numb where he’d slapped her so hard, and her arms were agonising where he’d dug into the livid bruises.

‘Right then, Sylvie, shall I enlighten you and explain fully why I’m so adamant that this relationship with Yul finishes? I’d hoped that everything I’d told you already about Yul – his killer instinct and his use of Earth Magic to trick you – would be enough to put you off, but clearly it wasn’t. I know he’s kissed you, and presumably it’s happened on several occasions?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, remembering Yul’s presence only that morning.

‘Has it gone any further than that?’

‘No!’

‘But judging from the way you’re so obsessed with the damned boy, doubtless it would sooner or later. He’ll be sixteen soon, and so will you next summer. And you and he must never, ever have a sexual relationship.’

He turned on the sofa so he faced her, staring straight at her. She tried to look away but he reached across and grasped her chin in his hand. He examined the bright red slap mark on her cheek and shook his head sadly.

‘Why do you make me do it?’ he asked. ‘I really don’t want to hurt you. When will you learn not to anger me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her eyes lowered. Her breathing was quick and shallow and her lips trembled; she was terrified of him.

‘Listen to me, Sylvie. And look at me – I want to see your eyes.
It’s a sad and sorry tale and one that I’d hoped to spare you, but it seems I shall have to tell you the truth after all.’

His hand gripped her chin tightly as he spoke, telling her of a romantic encounter he’d enjoyed in some woods one autumn, many years ago. He was at a big charity ball but soon became bored networking and talking business, and wished he were back at Stonewylde watching the Harvest Moon rise at Mooncliffe. He danced with a young, pretty red-haired girl in a fairy costume who’d caught his eye, and before he knew it they were heading for the woods together. She was a little tipsy and all over him, eager and giggly. One thing led to another and they made love in the woods on a carpet of fallen leaves under the red September moon. It was a bit of naughty fun for both of them but especially for her, whose old-fashioned parents were at the party and had no idea what their wayward daughter was getting up to outside. Afterwards they went back into the party and joined in the dancing again, little guessing the consequences of their union.

Magus watched Sylvie’s soft grey eyes closely. He knew that the alcohol he’d given her had made her slow. He also knew she was cold and frightened and not really thinking straight. But he was delighted to witness the exact moment when Sylvie fully understood the implications of what he was saying.

He was her father; that was shock enough. He saw that fact registering and being accepted with horror and surprise. But the next realisation – that was the one he enjoyed the most. It hit her, more powerful and devastating than any physical punishment he could inflict on her. He watched the intense pain and sorrow blossom into a bloom of utter despair, and savoured every moment of her grief.

If Magus was her father, then Yul must be her half-brother.

Sylvie woke very late the next day, having been awake for much of the night. The afternoon passed in a haze of misery. She was numb inside, unable to cry any more although she’d shed enough tears during the night. At dinner that evening she found it hard to swallow even the meagre portion of food Magus served her.
He was so solicitous, constantly enquiring if she were alright, patting her gently and smiling sadly. He revelled in every second of her suffering and she felt a sharp desire to stab him with her dinner knife. The mead and her unhappiness made her much bolder than she’d been of late. She really didn’t care if he chose to hurt her – nothing could hurt more than this, and nothing mattered any more.

‘If you knew you were my father, why didn’t you say so from the beginning?’

‘I only knew when Miranda finally told me the circumstances of your conception. You know how she always refused to talk about it at all. But recently I persuaded her to tell me and that’s when I realised. It was a huge shock to me of course – I had no idea.’

‘But you must’ve recognised her!’

‘No, not at all. It took place many years ago, remember, and she was only a girl herself, just sixteen. And it was a brief encounter, very dark in the woods, and of course she was in fancy dress wearing a mask. Why on earth would I recognise her now?’

‘Does Mum know it was you?’

‘No, not yet, but she’ll have to be told.’

‘What about Yul?’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘He must be told too.’

Sylvie knew what this news would do to him. Yul loved her as fiercely and deeply as she loved him, maybe even more so. He couldn’t be her brother; it was too cruel. And yet it made sense – why she had the silver Stonewylde hair, why she looked so much like Raven and why she was moongazy. Everyone had said her father must be Hallfolk. Who’d have thought it was the magus himself?

She found that she hated him. Discovering her father’s identity after all these years brought no rush of love or happiness, and the revelation strengthened her determination that the plan to overthrow Magus would go ahead regardless. If she and Yul had no future together, they must still rid Stonewylde of this evil man and send him off to the Outside World. Yul would still be
the new magus and the only difference was now he’d have to stand alone, without her as his partner.

‘I want to be the one to tell Yul, not you,’ she said, imagining how Magus would relish Yul’s distress at the devastating news.

‘That’s a good idea,’ he said gently and she frowned at his easy capitulation. ‘I’ll arrange it for tomorrow and he can come here to see you. And now, my lovely daughter, I have another beautiful present for you, arrived today.’

Sylvie shut her eyes and groaned; she’d come to loathe his presents. A whole mountain of boxes had been delivered earlier containing the latest clothes he’d ordered. Magus had insisted she try some of them on and was pleased that they fitted her. She was now stick thin and he’d forced her to parade around the room for him, saying she was his gorgeous catwalk girl. He’d obviously settle for her as a trophy daughter if he could have nothing else.

He brought out another Bond Street jeweller’s box and opened it to reveal two heavy bracelets to match the choker, very wide and studded with diamonds. He clipped them round her slender wrists and they snapped shut exactly as the collar had. Once again he locked them using his gold key. They felt like handcuffs, which she supposed was the idea. A collar and cuffs; his property and his prisoner.

‘Do you like them, Sylvie?’ he said, stroking her arm.

‘No I hate them!’ she cried, jerking her arm away from him. ‘And don’t touch me! You make my skin crawl – if you’re my father you shouldn’t be touching me like that!’

He laughed and the sound made her shudder.

‘Touching you like what, exactly? I’ve never behaved inappropriately towards you, Sylvie, not once. Think about it. If you’ve misinterpreted my actions, maybe the fault lies with you; maybe it’s you who thought of me in that way? If you did, you must quell those feelings, however difficult that may be, and never think of me like that again.’

He laughed at her look of disgust and slid his arm around her, pulling her close to him and ignoring her tight-lipped resistance.

‘I’m so proud to have such a beautiful daughter,’ he murmured. ‘My sparkling princess.’

Sylvie drank mead until she could no longer sit upright, but sleep still eluded her. The room was spinning and she felt nauseous. Magus was a blur, a noise in the corner of her consciousness, and nothing was real any more. She realised suddenly she was going to be sick and lurched to his bathroom, stumbling into furniture on the way. She just made it and retched violently into the toilet bowl. Magus was there, holding her hair back, his arm around her waist as she heaved and heaved. Because the contents of her stomach were almost totally liquid the experience was fairly brief, but all the more painful for it. Eventually she swayed upright, clammy and deathly white.

‘Please let me go back to my mother,’ she begged.

‘Absolutely not – you stay with me.’

‘Then can I sleep in my room down the corridor?’ she groaned. ‘I just want to lie down on a proper bed.’

‘No, my darling,’ he said. ‘I like you on the sofa where I can sit with you. Come on, back we go.’

He picked her up and carried her to the sofa where the fire still blazed. He laid her down and sat next to her, his hand on her hair. Sylvie looked up at him, her face ashen and her eyes dull with grief.

‘Why do you treat me like this?’ she said softly. ‘Why are you so cruel to me?’

He chuckled, his fingers still playing with her hair. His eyes were hard as he gazed at her, burning with that darkness she’d grown to dread.

‘Cruel? You’re the one who’s cruel. Look how you’ve treated me since I rescued you from your hardships. Twice now I’ve changed your life at a stroke, taken away all the bad things that caused you suffering, wanting only to make things perfect for you. I’ve bought you gifts, given you every single thing I could think of that might please you. At the Dark Moon I asked you specifically not to let my son – your brother – touch you, yet you
ignored me and upset me terribly. When you had that nightmare last night and I came running in to comfort you, you rejected me so cruelly. You said you hated me, and you punched me and pushed me away. Can you imagine how that felt?’

He paused, gazing into the crackling flames in the hearth. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost wistful.

‘I could’ve loved you, Sylvie. It’s been a long time since I loved a woman, and that was only a brief, impossible interlude which came to a bitter end. Apart from that I’ve never loved anyone, not one single person – parent, child, sibling or lover. But I thought I loved you and I wanted to make your life so special.’

‘Why can’t—’

‘No! You’ve thrown it back in my face, all of it. You’re ungrateful and heartless and you’ll pay dearly for that, believe me. I could’ve given you the earth, you know.’

‘No, Magus,’ she whispered. ‘You couldn’t have. The earth isn’t yours to give.’

M
agus woke her up at midmorning the following day – not with kisses but a rough shake of her shoulder. Sylvie felt even worse than usual, her throat scratchy as sandpaper and head pounding relentlessly like a pneumatic drill. Her stomach hurt badly and she’d pulled muscles with that awful retching the night before. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, the diamond collar and bracelets heavy and uncomfortable against her skin, but glinting brightly in the sunlight that streamed in. Magus sat at the other end of the large sofa watching her struggle to regain consciousness.

‘Yul has been sent for,’ he informed her. ‘He’ll be arriving at the Hall in a little while so I want you up, showered and dressed straight away. You must look your most beautiful when you tell him that you’re his sister. I’ve put out the clothes you’re to wear and you’ll love the dress. It’s one from that mediaeval collection we admired from Milan, and very appropriate, given the setting.’

‘Can I have some breakfast please? After last night I feel—’

‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘Too late for that, and anyway, if you’re going to deliberately make yourself sick then you don’t deserve any food. Now go and get ready – Yul will be here soon.’

Sylvie did as she was told and after showering, went to her room. The servants had cleared all the mess a while ago and the room was now immaculate, the wardrobes and chests full of expensive outfits, her perfume and cosmetics arranged neatly on the large dressing table. The dress she must wear lay spread on
the four-poster bed and despite her resentment, she was over-awed at its beauty.

It was of heavy brocade silk, a deep rich purple with a sweetheart neckline and long pointed sleeves. Tiny seed pearls and amethyst beads were embroidered into the full, flowing skirts. The boned bodice was smooth and silky, with a long line of hooks that must be laced up with thick satin ribbons from the back. Sylvie slipped on the gossamer-fine shift first, then stepped into the heavy dress, pulling it up around her. She froze as Magus opened the door, his expression inscrutable.

‘Go away! I’m getting dressed and I want some privacy.’

‘Mediaeval clothes weren’t designed to be put on unaided,’ he replied with a smile, his earlier coldness now replaced by friendliness. ‘And neither are the modern replicas. It’ll be my pleasure to assist you, my lady.’

Sylvie slid her arms into the long tight sleeves, her heavy bracelets catching in the material. The points came down over the tops of her hands, but the slashes in the sides of the sleeves revealed the diamonds as she moved her arms. The dress was the ideal foil for the diamond choker around her throat. The neckline sat low on her milky white chest, revealing her delicate collar bones and the heavy, priceless collar.

‘Turn around and I’ll lace you up,’ said Magus softly. He began to tug hard on the laces, firmly and methodically pulling the material tighter and tighter as she breathed in. Gradually the dress was fastened to skin-tight, unyielding perfection. Sylvie could barely breathe and she certainly couldn’t bend, but when she saw her reflection in the full-length mirror she knew the effect was stunning.