Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (30 page)

‘Mary, I think perhaps you had better take care,’ Sophy said, darting after her old friend. When a teacup fell from Mary’s overloaded arms and smashed upon the floor, a tide of angry muttering swept over the table and Sophy’s fear for Mary grew.

But then she noticed something else. The owner of the broken cup—a little flower-fae who resembled Graen—began to blink and yawn, as though waking up from a long sleep. She stared around herself with confusion, her face registering complete surprise at her situation. The effect lasted for only a few moments, but to Sophy it was highly significant.

Experimentally, she picked up one of Pinch’s tea-cups and began to ostentatiously polish the tea-stained exterior. It was not long before the cup fell through her fingers and fell upon the table. It broke into four pieces.

‘Oh, gracious,’ she murmured. ‘How very clumsy of me.’

Pinch blinked at her in complete astonishment, his expression dazed.

‘Ha!’ Sophy cried, delighted. ‘Very well: breaking things is, after all, one of my
particular
talents.’

She began to smash tea cups with enthusiasm, even sending a few of the precious teapots onto the floor. Mary quickly caught on to her plan and began to follow suit: it evidently pained her immensely to destroy such beautiful tableware, but she did not hesitate. They worked their way down the table, smashing everything they could reach, and behind them they left a trail of dazed and blinking party guests.

Then Sophy heard Balli’s heavy tread behind her. She turned just in time to see him forcing his way through to the table; once he reached it he swept out his great arms and sent at least twenty tea-things crashing to the floor. ‘Sometimes,’ he winked, ‘size is a great boon.’

Sophy grinned at him. She turned back to her work, making her way rapidly towards the head of the table and Aubranael. He had left off speaking to the girl and was now hurling crockery into the trees with quick, efficient movements. Most of the items he threw collided directly with the slender trunks and broke on impact.

All at once, the tea-drinkers seemed to awaken en masse from the weird enchantment that had held them in thrall. Observing the destruction in progress, they immediately began to participate, and for a full minute the clearing resounded with a terrific din of splintering porcelain, and the cackling laughter of the erstwhile cake-eaters.

At last, every single item of crockery lay in pieces along the table or the floor or between the trees, and a heavy silence descended. There must be hundreds of creatures gathered around the table, Sophy thought, and for a long, heavy moment not one of them spoke.

Then they all began to talk at once.

There was much angry gesticulating and excitable waving-of-arms, a great many scowling faces, almost as many highly confused ones, and so many opinions expressed altogether that Sophy could distinguish nothing sensible at all. After a few minutes of this, a few of the tea-drinkers retreated from the table and disappeared into the trees. Many others followed, and the throng quickly depleted itself.

As soon as Sophy had room to move and breathe, she hastened to find Anne, Isabel and Charles and ensure that they were restored to themselves.

‘I am so sorry,’ she said breathlessly, pressing each of their hands in turn and staring anxiously into their faces. The confusion was clearing from their eyes and they began to look much more like their usual selves.

‘That was the oddest thing,’ Isabel said thoughtfully. ‘I can hardly remember what I was thinking, but it was absolutely imperative to drink as much tea as possible. I had an intense fear that it would run out before I had drunk my fill, and then something terrible would happen.’ She paused, and then said in a low voice, ‘Though it is awfully shocking to mention such things before company, I cannot help asking… do you imagine there is a commode somewhere here abouts?’

Sophy laughed with relief to find such a commonplace concern on Isabel’s mind, but before she had chance to reply she noticed something odd.

Pieces of broken porcelain were creeping across the table-cloth and pressing their edges together. As she watched, several splintered chunks reformed themselves into a perfect tea cup, which wobbled upright and then sat there with—she could have sworn—an air of smugness.

All across the table and the floor, the same thing was happening. The Teapot Society was reforming itself before Sophy’s eyes, and it was all coming together
very
quickly indeed.

‘Back from the table!’ roared Balligumph. His great, deep voice easily carried across the clearing, and no doubt far beyond. As one, all of the remaining goblins and tea-drinkers jumped backwards. Sophy and her friends backed away, too, eyeing the inexplicable crockery warily.

Sophy noticed that Hidenory had given up her silent vigil and was now making her way towards the head of the table, where Aubranael still sat. A nameless fear seized her heart and she began to push her way towards him. If Hidenory intended him some form of harm, she had little idea how she would intervene; but she knew she must at least
try.

‘All right, that’s quite enough!’ roared Balligumph. ‘I will be makin’ an end t’ this unnatural business an’ no mistake. Who among the lot of ye can tell me what this nonsense is about?’

His gaze was fixed on the sleeping girl who, Sophy now saw, was no longer sleeping at all. She was sitting up, her thin body trembling with the effort and her eyes fixed on Aubranael’s face. He was sitting with one arm around her shoulders and his free hand at her waist, lending her his strength.

Their faces wore identical expressions of stricken horror and wonder, and they were so lost in the contemplation of each other that they patently did not hear Balligumph’s shout.

Sophy felt a small, unpleasant sensation growing somewhere inside of her as she watched this display. Aubranael’s every gesture, every movement, was full of a heart-breaking tenderness, and he stared at her as though he never wished to release her ever again.

‘OI!’ roared Balligumph, so loudly that Sophy could feel the trees shake. ‘AUBRANAEL! CRAZY LADY! I’M WANTIN’ AN ANSWER HERE!’

Aubranael and the lady both turned to stare unseeingly at Balligumph, incomprehension written on both their faces. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Aubranael.

Balligumph glowered at him, and took a deep breath. ‘I said,’ he repeated in a more reasonable tone, ‘does one of ye two crazies have any notion at all what in the blazes is goin’ on here?’

Aubranael stared down the long, long table: at the tea-cups and teapots still gluing themselves back together; at the crowd of goblins and elves and flower-fae and hobs and brownies and humans staying as close to the trees as possible; and finally at Sophy herself.

‘Yes,’ he said in a heartbroken voice. ‘I—that is—some of it.’

‘Yes,’ said Balligumph in a knowing way. ‘I had a feelin’ ye might. Would ye be plannin’ t’ explain? Or shall we ask the lady Lihyaen?’

Chapter Seventeen

Aubranael was a child again.

He had gone to the aid of the sleeping girl because something in her hopeless, helpless posture had touched him deeply. As he approached he had noticed something odd about the thin brown arms that lay splayed across the table top: the sleeves of her dress barely extended past her elbows, and their cuffs were frayed to ribbons. The dress itself had once been white, he judged, with roses or some other bloom printed across it; now it was grey with age and dirt. In places, the fabric appeared to be rotting away.

As he had helped her to sit—instinctively lending her an arm of support when she wavered—he had found himself looking into large, sad golden eyes.

He had seen those eyes before.

At once, a flood of memory bore him away from the scene of the mad tea-party and back more than twenty years. He saw the soaring white walls of the Royal Palace once more in his mind’s eye, and the heavily fragranced gardens he had run through as a boy. He had been no one of any eminence, merely the son of one of the many gardeners; but the little princess, Lihyaen, was similar in age and temperament and they had long been the greatest of friends.

Until the day she had vanished during a game of hide-and-seek. He had spent hours searching the gardens for her, running through the low-hanging trees and fragrant bushes until he was tired and footsore—and increasingly frightened. At last he had gone indoors and crept up the long, long flights of stairs to her nursery—a room he was never allowed to go into. But he found no guards at the door to prevent him, and none of her nurses waited there to shoo him away. Lihyaen’s pretty chamber was silent and empty, and something about the circumstance felt mightily
wrong
to him in a way he would have been hard-put to describe.

Heart pounding, he had crept into every corner of her room, searching through cupboards and chests and under chairs in case she had hidden herself away in any one of them.

She had not; but the door to her bedchamber stood ajar…

The little princess lay in her bed, her dark hair strewn across her pale silken pillows and her face turned towards the window. Had she grown tired, and returned to rest without informing him? But a glance at her face had told him that she was not resting. Her eyes—large and golden like her mother’s—were wide open, staring sightlessly at the failing daylight beyond the cool glass panes. She made no movement of any kind; not even when, sobbing with fright, he had shaken her arms and touched her face and put his cheek against hers.

So absorbed was he that he failed to notice the other person in the room. A soft footstep alerted him, and a faint
swish
of fabric. He looked up to see a tall, white-cloaked figure disappearing through the open door into Lihyaen’s nursery.

He had felt rage for the first time in his young life. Shaking with it, he had torn through the doorway in pursuit, with no clear idea in mind as to what he intended to do with the mysterious intruder should be succeed in catching them. His young brain only wished to
rend
and
claw
and
howl his fury
until the cloaked one reversed whatever he had done to Lihyaen.

He did not receive the opportunity, of course. He had hurled himself, howling, at the intruder’s legs—and received a face-full of something that
burned
as his reward. The memory of that blinding agony could still make him shudder, more than twenty years later.

His face had never been the same, and of course Lihyaen had never come back. The princess was given a ceremonious burial; a mere few months later her mother, Queen Anthelaena, had died—of grief for her daughter, many said.

And then King Edironal had disappeared; walked out of his palace one day, and never returned. So the kingdom of Aylfenhame had drifted on, year after year, with no liege lords and no one with a clear claim to the throne.

Except, perhaps, his daughter. And as Aubranael stared into the strange girl’s face, a wild hope built in his heart. She looked young; too young. But perhaps—perhaps she had
not
died. Perhaps the dearest friend of his youth and heart had survived after all…

‘Lihyaen?’ he whispered.

And her dreamy, vacant eyes had sharpened and fixed full upon his face, her own full of wonder. ‘How is it that you know my name?’ she said.

He could have wept. He
was
weeping, he realised, as a warm tear ran down his cheek. ‘Because I am Aubranael,’ he said softly.

At first, she could not see it. Her eyes tracked over his face, pull of puzzlement and doubt. ‘But you… your face?’

He smiled sadly. ‘Since the night you died,’ he said.

She lifted one spindly arm, shaky with the effort, and touched the soft skin beneath his left eye. She stared into his eyes for a long time, and at length a dawning recognition swept over her face.

‘It
is
you,’ she whispered.

Then she began to cry. He held her while she wept, aghast at her skeletal frame, the way her thin, weak body shook with the effort.

‘But how…?’ he said at last, when the storm of weeping had abated a little.

‘A changeling,’ she sobbed. ‘Fairy stock. It was not
me
that you saw.’

Aubranael began, inwardly, to curse himself. There had been rumours at the time; some had whispered that the princess was
not
dead, that the corpse left behind was a mere seeming fabricated from ill wishes and nightmares. But mere common wisdom told him that no stock could be so perfect; there was always some little detail amiss, something to tell the observant onlooker that this seeming was
not
their loved one.

Lihyaen’s had been perfect.

He did not realise he was whispering broken apologies, over and over, until Lihyaen silenced him with a hand to his lips. ‘It is not of your doing,’ she said wearily.

‘But how came you to be here?’ he asked, his awareness returning at last to the peculiar tea-party going on around them.

‘This was my
reward
,’ she said, her weariness giving way to a momentary bitterness. ‘Because I had been such a good girl, I was to receive a party all of my own.’

Aubranael stared, aghast, at the rotting dress she wore; at her too-thin frame, her lack of strength even to hold herself upright. ‘Have you been here
ever since
?’ he cried.

‘It is such a lovely party,’ she said expressionlessly. ‘Twould be such a pity to break it up, do you not think?’

She spoke in a wooden tone, and he realised she was quoting somebody. ‘Who did this?’ he hissed. ‘They will pay for it!’

She shook her head, swaying slightly in her seat. ‘I do not know who it is, so you cannot make him pay.’

He became aware of a tumultuous crashing sound. It bore in upon his rage-filled reflections with inexorable determination, and he looked down the length of the table for the first time in some half-an-hour.

All the tea-party guests—and Sophy, and Mary, and Thundigle and even Balligumph—were smashing crockery. They were doing so with gusto and every appearance of high enjoyment.