Hunter's Moon (12 page)

‘Nellia's Spring?' I echoed.

‘Isn't that what I said?' she snapped. ‘Not foreign water called goodness-knows-what-ridiculous-name that she wanted to purchase at great expense from –'

‘You are from near Nellia's Spring?' I hurriedly interposed. ‘I have heard the lords thereabouts are called Montresor? Is that right?'

‘Of course it is,' she said. ‘It is Montresor land. As everyone knows. ‘

‘I have heard of the name,' I said, ‘but not much else, except that some say they are the rightful rulers of Noricia. Is that true?'

‘Of course it is true,' she snapped. ‘If there were any justice, it is they who would be in the ducal palace in Lepmest, as the ruling family of Noricia. But the Montresors were done out of their true place by a witch's curse. Every fool should know that.' She shot me a piercing glance.

‘But in the city it is true to say they talk all kinds of nonsense about it,' she added. ‘They say Hector Montresor killed the witch, and that in her dying breath she cursed
him and his descendants. What they do not say is that in those days, the throne of Noricia was to pass to the Montresors, as the duke at that time was ailing, was without descendants, and had anointed Hector Montresor as his heir. What they do not say is that the witch was in the pay of another family, a family that on the duke's death seized the throne of Noricia.' She looked at me. ‘The same family that has held the throne since then.'

I stared at her. ‘You mean … You mean the duke's family arranged to …'

‘Arranged to dispose permanently of their rivals, yes. But in a much cleverer way than mere killing would have done. For they knew that if it became known the Montresors were cursed, and that any future Montresors would be cursed for generations and generations to come, it would be a more effective way of ending any claim to the throne they might have. No-one in Noricia would want to be ruled by a cursed family. Not ever.'

‘But … if the family isn't really cursed …'

She gave me a pitying look. ‘Of course they're cursed! The witch had great powers. The curse is all too real.'

Throughout our conversation, I had noticed the man I had shared a seat with had abandoned his pretence of sleep and was listening as hard as I was.

I said, ‘But what exactly
happens
–'

‘You really don't know anything, do you, girl?' she said, not unkindly despite the words. ‘It is no ordinary curse, for that was no ordinary witch. Ordinary curses are fixed. They always operate in the same way. If you have been cursed to die in a fire, for instance, that's what will happen. If the curse is carried down the generations, then each
generation will always die in a fire. But such ordinary curses can be reversed. Not so with the kind of curse that afflicts the Montresors. This is a very rare kind, a quicksilver curse. It changes with each generation, each person. It uses a flaw within each person and turns it into something monstrous. So Hector Montresor, who had a bad temper, was cursed with the werewolf affliction and killed several people; his daughter Maldan, who was a soft, gentle young woman, started having terrible waking nightmares and in a fit of madness walked off a cliff;
her
son Marcus, who was a good hunter, killed his own cousin by mistake, thinking him to be a bear; and so on. It is a most terrible thing, for no-one can predict how or when it will show itself. Sometimes it happens in youth, sometimes much later. There have even been cases when it only happened in old age. But when it does strike, it never goes away, except with death.'

‘Goodness me,' said the gentleman, speaking for the first time. He had a slight foreign accent which I couldn't place. ‘I have never heard of such a thing.'

‘I do not expect that you would have,' said Mistress Tomzin, ‘for it is a very rare curse indeed.'

She said this in a tone of great self-satisfaction and I could not help but exchange an amused glance with the gentleman which, unfortunately, she saw.

‘Of course, there are those fools who scoff at any such notion,' she said sniffing, ‘but then, they are ignorant people who do not know the old ways.'

‘Quite, quite,' I said, hurriedly placating her. ‘It just seems such a terrible thing, to create such a curse.'

‘Of course it is. But that is the way it is,' she said, with a glare at the gentleman, as if daring him to argue.

‘This curse,' I said, ‘is it still … is it still affecting the family?'

‘Oh yes. It strikes the family every generation but you never know who it's going to hit.'

‘And in this generation?' I asked, holding my breath.

‘There is only one child. Lucian Montresor. And so far he has shown no sign of the curse. But …' For the first time she hesitated.

‘Yes?' I tried not to sound too eager.

‘Well, there are rumours. He disappears for days on end. No-one knows where he is. But some say that … well, they say that Lucian Montresor suffers the same fate as Hector Montresor. That he is a werewolf.'

Light burst in on my mind. If I'd harboured doubts of the Prince's true identity, I had none now. If Mistress Tomzin was right – if Lucian was a werewolf like his ancestor – it explained so much about his identity as Prince of Outlaws. It explained his strange costume, and the way he made sure that all his skin was covered at the time of hunter's moon, when the wolf-nature is strongest in them, and hardest to resist. Werewolves are rare in Noricia these days. But they still exist, and they are just as feared and hated as in the old days. It was why poor Verakina had been persecuted and almost killed. No wonder Lucian wanted to keep it secret. Even in his own home, his own territory where people knew the sad story of his family, people would be afraid. He must have imagined I'd turn away from him in disgust, too, if I knew. Oh Lucian, I thought, if only I could tell you how I admire and respect you! If only I could tell you that the curse does not alter my feelings for you!

‘What's the matter with you, girl?' growled Mistress Tomzin, startling me out of my thoughts. ‘You look like you've seen a ghost!' She shot the gentleman a hard glance, as if to imply that it was all his fault.

‘It just … it seems so … so hard on the Montresors. Can't anything be done? Isn't there another witch capable of reversing the spell?'

‘Not one,' she said, ‘for not even Nellia herself could do anything about it, and her powers are great.'

‘You mean, the feya Nellia tried to reverse the spell?'

‘Yes. Back in Hector's day. But she couldn't. No, the curse is something the family has always had to live with and always will. That is the way of the world.'

It was an unexpected echo of what the Prince – Lucian – had said, that one mustn't change the way of the world. Again, I responded in the same way.

‘Well, then it is high time the world changed.'

She snorted. ‘Only the young and silly think the world will change for them. It is you, my dear, who will be changed by the world, not the other way around. Now if you don't mind, I am very tired and wish to have some rest. Too much chatter is most fatiguing.'

And with that, the rude lady closed her eyes and within a few minutes was snoring like a trooper.

‘Well, well,' said the lanky gentleman, when she was safely asleep, ‘that was quite a story, wasn't it?'

‘I do not think it just a story,' I replied.

He smiled. ‘Ah, you are so right, for a story is never just a story, is it?'

‘Er … I suppose so,' I said, hesitantly.

‘Do you mind?' he asked, producing a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and quickly scribbling something. ‘Just so I don't forget. I'm a collector of such things,' he added, seeing my puzzlement. ‘Observations, stories, customs – I use them in my work. My readers enjoy the local colour.'

‘You are a journalist?' I asked.

‘No. I'm an author. I am originally from Viklandia, but I travel the world collecting traditional stories as inspiration for my own. I heard that in Noricia the stories are particularly good, and in the mountains, especially.' He looked at me. ‘Do you know of any others, my dear?'

‘Me?' I thought of all that had happened to me, and wondered what he'd say if he knew. ‘Not really. Nothing interesting, that is to say.'

‘Oh,' he said, looking a little disappointed. He took a card from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘If you think of any, or if you have any friends who know any, here's where I'll be.'

I looked at the card. It had the address of one of Lepmest's best hotels, the Villa Valverd.

‘Ask for Dr Nord,' he said. ‘That's the name I always travel under, to avoid the nuisances of fame.' And he smiled a rather self-important smile.

I was saved from having to respond with more than a ‘Thank you' by the coach coming to a stop. We had arrived in Lepmest.

I said farewell to my fellow passengers and quickly made my way through the alleys to the address of the safe house. One of the things my father had taught me was to know my city well – not just the fine areas where our mansion was, but all of it, and he'd accompanied me on many a walk through the less salubrious districts. I wasn't afraid of being recognised because I knew my disguise hid my identity well, but I still could not help scuttling along with my head down, just in case.

I soon found the safe house, which turned out to be a little flat hidden within a tailor's shop, in a narrow alley sandwiched between some tall buildings. The tailor, the man the Prince had called Master Kinberg, was a thin little man with a stooped back, thick glasses and an even thicker Almainian accent. He gave me a quick glance but asked me no questions: he was clearly already well briefed as to my coming.

The flat was hidden from sight of anyone who came into the tailor's workshop because its entrance door was
concealed behind some swivelling shelves at the far end of the room. I soon found out that the tailor himself did not live on the premises but in a street a couple of blocks away. He shut up shop early and once he was gone, I had the place completely to myself.

Perhaps he has left early to give me some time to settle into my new surroundings in peace, I thought. But exploring those surroundings didn't take much time. The flat was very small, with only one room. In the room was a bed, a table, a chair, a chest of drawers, and a kitchen corner with a single gas ring to cook on, two or three pots, a tiny sink, and a small cupboard containing two plates, cutlery, a couple of mugs, some pots of jam and dried meat, herbs, tea, rice, sugar and salt. A door at the end opened onto some stairs leading down into a kind of wash area, which included a toilet and a small tub.

The whole thing was very clean and neat, if a little shabby. I wondered how many people had used it before, who they'd been, and what had happened to them. Was it a staging place before admittance to a haven? Or did it fulfill some other function? I did not know and did not really need to know, of course – but it was another extraordinary aspect of that hidden world, the world of the outcasts and the Prince of Outlaws, whose existence I had never suspected before my life had changed.

But I did not spend much time thinking about it, for I had a good deal of work to do. Leaving the flat, I made my first purchase of the day: a pad of blank paper, envelopes, a pen and some ink. Retiring, then, to a busy coffee shop, I made a fair copy of the first instalment of my illustrated story, which I had called ‘The Queen and the Magic Mirror:
A Modern Fairytale'. I then wrote a letter in accompaniment, disguising my handwriting and signing it ‘Syrena', and addressed the package to the editor of the
Ladies' Journal
, giving my return address as care of the post office closest to the premises of the
Ladies' Journal
. As there were three deliveries a day to the surrounding area, my letter would certainly reach the
Ladies' Journal
before the end of business hours. And then I'd only have to wait. Maybe the editor wouldn't take it, and then my plan would have to change. But I would think of that when the time came.

The first step of my plan complete, I turned my attention to the next: a job at Ladies' Fair, for I needed money and to better keep an eye on how Belladonna was using her new-found queendom. As I trundled through the streets on a tram heading for the city centre and the department store, my skin prickled with nerves and my heart beat fast at the thought of returning to the place that had been the heart of my father's kingdom. Also in my mind was the thought that I'd never gone for a job in my life. I'd never had to. I tried to calm my thoughts by reassuring myself that I knew a good deal about the store. I even had an idea of the kind of work a little country mouse like my alter ego, Jana Maria Sebastian, might be offered: definitely not in any of the front-of-house areas.

Front of house. It was a term Father used to use. It was a term that came from the theatre because, as Father used to say, our store was like a great theatre, with everyone having their role to play.

‘Front of house is what the public sees,' he'd say, ‘but without what goes on backstage, there would be no theatre.'

He always respected the people who worked behind the scenes – the packers and clerks and typists, the tailors and seamstresses and caterers, the cleaners and messengers and drivers – the dozens, even hundreds of people whose work was not seen by the public but without whom the business would soon grind to a halt. And because he thought I should know how things were run, in the days before Belladonna came into our lives (for she'd soon put a stop to my lessons in business as they were ‘not suitable for a young lady'), Father had taken me several times to the back rooms to see how the business worked.

‘One day, Bianca, this will be yours,' he'd told me. ‘But I want you to understand that a great store like ours does not just belong to one person, or even to a single family. It belongs to all of the people who work here. You must never ever forget that. Everyone has their part to play. True success rests on the shoulders of all of us.' And he'd looked at me and smiled and said, ‘Remember that and you won't go wrong, my darling girl.'

The words were so clear in my memory that it was as though he were actually speaking them in my ear. I felt as though if I turned my head slightly, I'd see him there on the tram seat next to me, smiling his sweet smile. My eyes filled with tears but through the wave of grief, I felt stronger. Suddenly, I did not feel nervous anymore. Father was with me. He was keeping watch over me. He would help me. I have no reason to be afraid, I thought, for he will guide my words, my steps, my plans, in the place that had been his kingdom and his creation.

And so, armed with new confidence, I got off at the stop outside Ladies' Fair. There it was, the graceful building my
father had built which, as a child, I had thought looked like a palace. It was four storeys high, took up half a city block, and was built of light-coloured stone with decorated cupola roofs and huge windows with stained-glass inserts and gilt carvings. Through the windows at ground level I could see, as usual, all the latest fashions. But I saw as well that something had changed. In the central window there was a fine oil portrait of my father, framed by mourning ribbons of silver and black. In the portrait he was smiling, and though the sight of it brought the prickle of tears to my eyes, it also somehow made me even more confident in the knowledge that he was there with me. ‘I love you, Father, and I won't let you down,' I murmured, looking into his painted eyes.

Beside his portrait was a smaller portrait of me, but it was less prominently displayed. The strange manner of my supposed death – the suspicion of suicide – must make people uncomfortable. It would suit Belladonna well. She'd managed to make my disappearance seem both sad and shameful and the portrait, which I'd never seen before but which must have been painted from a photograph, was not a good picture of me and somehow managed to convey a sort of strangeness about me. It doesn't matter, I told myself, it's nothing. But the rush of rage through my veins told me otherwise. It was a small thing but a telling one: not content with killing me, Belladonna has set out to stain my memory as well. Whereas she would laud her late husband to the skies for as long as it worked to her advantage, she needed to destroy my image and memory since I was a rival both for my father's kingdom of Ladies' Fair, and for the title of Fairest Lady. In time, people would be glad
that my death left my stepmother in charge of my father's legacy, for she was clearly so much better suited to it than I.

I took a deep breath. Enough of these profitless thoughts! Turning away determinedly from the front of the store, I made my way to the side entrance used by staff and tradesmen and almost immediately happened upon a glass display case in the hallway which held in-house job notices. Two jobs were available right now. One was for a typist; one was for a messenger delivering parcels. Though I wasn't very fast, I could use a typewriter, and knowing that it was men who were usually employed as messengers, it seemed as if the typist job was the one I would go for.

Rehearsing my spiel in my head, I went up the stairs to the recruitment offices. In the past, I had been introduced to three or four of the people there and I could only hope they'd not see through my disguise or recognise my voice. But I did not have to worry – there was not a hint of recognition from anyone. I did notice, however, that there was a subdued air about the offices. Quite a few people were wearing black armbands and an edition of the
Lepmest Daily News
, with a front page featuring a large photograph from my father's funeral yesterday, showed just how much the workers at Ladies' Fair respected my father. Still, despite the sense of understated sorrow, it was clear that my father's motto, ‘The show must go on,' had been very much absorbed by the staff, who went about their business with a quiet efficiency. He would have been proud of them, I thought.

‘I've come in response to the job advertisement,' I said to Miss Geldpen, the whip-thin lady in charge of the typing pool. ‘I've been working as a clerk in a draper's shop in Mormest and I –'

‘Stop right there,' she said, looking up from the files she'd been studying when I came in. ‘I'm afraid the job has just been filled.'

Crestfallen, I babbled, ‘Oh … I … I … Is there no other similar … I mean … I was so … so eager to work for you … I have heard that despite the recent sad happenings, this is still the best workplace in Lepmest, and I did so hope …'

She nodded, looking pleased. ‘You heard correctly, my dear. This is a good place to work. We all pull together, just as our dear Sir Anton would have wanted. Unfortunately, I have no further jobs available in my section. But you may leave your details at the front desk and if something comes up, we'll be sure to let you know.'

‘Thank you,' I said sadly.

I was getting up to leave when she said, ‘Wait a moment. You might also ask Master Philipi; he's still looking for a messenger, and I happen to know it's for light jobs only, so all right for you. If you're not afraid of a bit of running around, that is.'

‘Oh no, not at all,' I said, fervently. ‘I'm happy to do whatever is required.'

‘Good. Tell him Miss Geldpen recommended you,' she said.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much,' I said, and she flashed me a smile.

‘I was once young and eager like you. Good luck, my dear.' And so saying, she turned back to her files once more.

Master Philipi was as large and nervy as Miss Geldpen was small and calm, and he hardly even stopped to ask my name before saying, ‘I need someone straightaway,
I mean this instant, not in an hour, not tomorrow. Last-minute order. Can you do that?'

‘Absolutely. Of course. I can start whenever you like,' I said, overjoyed.

‘Good. I like right now.' He scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it to me. ‘Take this down to dispatch and tell them you've come for the Eglantine perfume parcel.'

‘Certainly, sir.'

For the first time he seemed to look at me properly, and what he saw didn't seem to be to his satisfaction, for he said, ‘But that won't do. Won't do at all for you to go out like that. Here,' he called to someone outside the office, ‘take this girl to uniforms right now. And don't linger there,' he said, turning back to me. ‘Time is of the essence, the parcel was delayed once already and the customer won't be pleased if she doesn't get it within the hour.'

I did as I was told and was given a uniform – a jacket in blue and white with the store's motif embroidered on the top pocket in dark blue thread, a plain blue skirt and a blue felt hat – and thus newly attired headed down to dispatch where on production of Master Philipi's note I was handed a small parcel wrapped in magnificent white silk paper, tied up with silver lace ribbons. They gave me an address, which was several blocks away and, like Master Philipi, repeated to me that time was of the essence.

Instead of walking there, I caught a cab. They had not given me any money for that, so I'd have to use what little left I had, but I reasoned that because this was my first job, it was very important that I work to impress from the start.

I was outside the address in just under five minutes, about a quarter of the time it would have taken me to go
on foot. There had been no name on the parcel dispatch note, just the name of the house – Willow Lodge – and the address, so that when the maid answered the front door, I said, ‘I have a parcel here for the lady of the house. Special delivery from Ladies' Fair.'

‘Oh! Right! The perfume Mistress Jemans was waiting for! At last!' said the maid, in a rush, and as I wondered why I felt as if there was something familiar about what she'd said, a voice called out from another room, ‘Is that Mama's parcel, Horatia? She will be so pleased!'

In the next instant, a young woman with red hair came bursting into the hall. It was Emilia.

I could not help taking a step back, and nearly dropped the precious parcel.

‘Watch out!' cried Emilia, rushing towards me. ‘If that breaks, Mama will be livid!'

‘I'm … I'm sorry,' I mumbled, holding it out to her, trying to hide the shock I felt at seeing her again. ‘I must have tripped on something.'

‘Don't worry, anyone can be clumsy sometimes!' Emilia had not really looked at me, only at the parcel. ‘Thanks so much for getting it here so quickly. Mama was so worried because my aunt is such a pernickety sort and we know she only likes Eglantine, and she's coming over, and it was unexpected, so we had to find her a gift all in a hurry. Perfume always goes down well, Mama says. But it had to be the right one! And I nearly forgot to order it!' As she spoke, she tore open the parcel, the silk paper in tatters on the floor, the ribbon flung off pell-mell to reveal an elegant silver cardboard box. ‘Just checking it is the right one, before you go, just in case,' she added, opening the box
and pulling out a lovely flask in the shape of a stemmed rose, filled with a pale pink liquid. ‘Perfect!' Unstopping it, she smelt it. ‘Phew! Bit strong for me, but that's what she wants. All good!' She beamed at me. ‘Thanks again, you've saved our skins!'