Mortal Love (31 page)

“Yes, all right.” Radborne nodded. “I'll make sure I do.”

* * *

He felt, leaving
the manor house, that he had somehow shed his skin as a snake does, a sudden sloughing off of something as large as himself but scarred, scales falling behind him and the glitter about his eyes exploding into sky. In the courtyard he looked up into a brilliance terrible and minatory, stared down and saw in the furze myriad moving things among twisted spikes of grass and thorny green.

It did not frighten him. On the contrary he laughed, then turned from side to side as if acknowledging others there unseen: making certain that they registered his recognition, that they knew he had not been taken by surprise. He had gone only a few steps before he abruptly dropped to the grass, as though he had taken an arrow in his back. Immediately he sat up, his sketchbook open and his hand fumbling for the pencil in his breast pocket. Then he settled back and began to draw.

He drew the woman on the bridge, the span behind her like a rocket's fiery wake. He had in mind a poem. Not Swinburne but Keats—

It was not Fair Madeline he drew upon the Eve of St. Agnes but Evienne Upstone. And she was not in a bedroom with her lover hiding inside a cupboard, but floating above Blackfriars Bridge. He sketched quickly, struggling to keep the paper from flapping in the wind; more than once his hasty fingers smudged the page.

At last it was done. For a long time he sat and stared, seeing both the image on the page and the one behind his eyes, and somewhere behind both of them, the woman herself, her eyes like windblown leaves and her smell—grass, salt, crushed green apples.

“Where are you?” he said. He blinked, and small things scattered in the grass. “I'm not blind, you know.”

He closed his sketchbook and put away his pencil, stood and began to walk to the cottage.

Once crofters must
have lived in it. The deeply recessed windows still held shreds of lace curtain. Broken stalks of daisy and bracken spilled across the granite doorsill. From the chimney rose a white skein of smoke. The turf in front had been recently tilled, and a few late-blooming flowers straggled toward the sunlight, white-petaled, their leaves freckled with earth. Radborne hesitated, then rapped tentatively, his sketchbook tucked beneath his arm. From inside he heard the scrape of a chair. He waited, had just decided to turn away when the door opened.

“Oh—sir—”

It was Breaghan. Her eyes glittered bird-bright as she turned to someone in the room. “Miss, please, it's the new doctor from manor house.”

“Yes, yes, please, come in,” said Evienne Upstone, and Radborne stepped inside.

She was standing beside a faded green velvet armchair on the far side of the tiny room. Whitewashed walls, exposed beams blackened with smoke above a stone hearth where a peat fire burned. There were homespun rugs on the floor, a table and chairs, a canvas cot that must be Breaghan's, another bed made up with a white coverlet embroidered with poppies. In one corner loomed a painted Welsh cupboard, filled with china and bric-a-brac—teacups, a pottery dog. In front of the window was an easel with a canvas, and beside it the same desk Radborne had last seen in Evienne's room with paints and pencils and brushes and sketchbooks scattered across it.

“You are painting,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. I'm still waiting for the canvas to dry—I primed it yesterday, in my other room. Won't you sit, please, Mr.—”

“Comstock,” prompted Radborne. “Radborne Comstock.”

“Yes. Please.”

She gestured at one of the plain chairs. Radborne sat, placing his sketchbook on the table. Evienne Upstone turned to Breaghan.

“Would you make tea for us, Breaghan? And perhaps you might go back to the house and see if there is anything to eat?” She smiled apologetically at Radborne, then sank into the green armchair. “I have just moved into this cottage. I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you.”

“That's all right. I've had my breakfast.”

“Well, I haven't,” Evienne Upstone said, and laughed. Radborne could see that she had grown flushed.

“Dr. Learmont does not arrange for your meals?”

“He does. But I had little appetite this morning. I awoke in the night feeling ill, and Dr. Learmont gave me an injection to help me sleep. My appetite has suffered since I came here. I think it is the wind.”

She turned to gaze out the small window. “I cannot sleep at night for hearing it.” She glanced at him and smiled. “But perhaps you are not as restless as I am in the night.”

Around them Breaghan gathered the tea things. She poured water from a pitcher into a heavy iron kettle and hung it above the peat fire, then began to assemble cups and saucers. Now and then Radborne caught her glancing at him. He straightened in his chair and cleared his throat.

“Well. Dr. Learmont asked me to look in and see that you have settled here satisfactorily. I see that you have.”

He stopped. On the other side of the room, Evienne Upstone sat bolt upright, staring at him. The faint glow from the fire gave her eyes a sheen, like beech leaves with the sun behind them; they seemed to have no pupil. Her hair had been pinned up on the nape of her neck in a loose chignon, but as he gazed at her, it all at once unraveled, so that a spray of chestnut brown fell about her shoulders.

Autumn leaves,
he thought. His throat grew tight.

“Miss Upstone,” he began.

“Look.” She continued to gaze at him, a strange blank stare like a child's. Her voice was low. “Breaghan has brought us tea.”

“Yes, miss.” Breaghan carried the tray to the table. She dipped her knees in a half curtsy, turning her head so that the unravaged side of her face showed a stealthy smile. “I'll go up to the house now and bring your breakfast.”

She left the cottage, a waft of cold, clean air filling the room as the door closed after her. Radborne sat, waiting for Evienne Upstone to make a move to pour the tea. She only looked at him and, after a moment, inclined her head toward the table.

“Please,” she said, and smiled.

He stood awkwardly. This was women's work, but Miss Upstone seemed to be accustomed to having people wait on her.

“Umm … Miss Upstone? Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please,” she replied.

He poured, spilling tea and tea leaves onto the table. Evienne did not seem to care, or notice. There was neither cream nor sugar; the tea itself had a strong bitter smell, like raw almonds. She remained in her chair as he brought the cup and saucer to her. She drank her cupful in one long swallow.

“Oh!” Radborne exclaimed. “Don't! You'll burn yourself!”

“No I won't.” A tiny breath of steam escaped her mouth. “It's not that hot. But it doesn't taste very good.”

“I'm sorry.” He fumbled with his own cup and took a tentative sip. “Ugh! It tastes awful!” He made a face. “I must have done something wrong. When I poured it.”

“It doesn't matter.” She stood and joined him at the table and poured herself a second cup. “It's warm. That's all that matters.”

She drank slowly this time, giving Radborne a complicit smile. He smiled back, relieved, and finished his own cup. When Evienne poured him more, he laughed but drank it.

“Now.” She pushed away her cup and saucer and reached for his sketchbook. “May I?”

“Certainly. But you'll have to return the favor. May I?” He pointed to her watercolors on the desk.

“Please do.” She gestured languidly. A green flare ran along the veins on the back of her hand, shimmering into bronze between her fingers. The back of his tongue burned and tasted faintly of bice. He recalled Breaghan's sly look, her hand moving between teapot and table.

“The tea,” he said in a thick voice. “Poison. She poisoned us.”

Evienne looked up from the pages of his sketchbook and smiled. “It's not poison. It's medicine.”

“But—” He stopped, struggling for the words. Around him, the room seemed to recede. “But I'm not sick.”

“You see things.” She held up the drawing of a man with bees streaming from his eyes, a wasp clogging his mouth like a swollen tongue. “So do I.”

Her smile widened. “Come,” she said, and stood. “Let's walk.”

“Is it … allowed?”

She took his hand and pressed it to her lips. “No.” Her mouth parted, her lips closed over his fingertips. “But come anyway.”

She turned and walked away, out the door and into a world of gray and green and silver. Radborne stumbled after her, heart racing. His body shook as though from tetanus, waves of nausea following each tremor. He thought desperately of fetching Dr. Learmont.

But the manor house was impossibly far away. He could barely see it. And now, now it was gone.

“Wait … Miss Upstone, please, wait … !”

A long way in front of him, a woman strode quickly up a gray hill. Her dark skirt billowed around her; her long, loose hair was tangled by the wind. He pursued her, calling out for her to turn back, stop, stop.

“… please,
stop.”
He drew up, panting. His nausea had receded, though it took him a moment to catch his breath. “Miss Upstone?”

He was on the open moor. Evienne Upstone was nowhere to be seen. In the distance, perhaps half a mile away, Sarsinmoor's jagged headland bit into the sea, a few gulls wheeling above the manor house. A tiny cottage was silhouetted against the sky. As he watched, a figure crossed the turf and headed toward it. The sun hung low and red upon the horizon.

“Miss Upstone?” he called.

How had he come here?

He could recall nothing. When he licked his lips, they tasted of salt. There was an ashy residue on his tongue. Whatever had been in the tea seemed to have made him sleep, or otherwise lose track of time, so that he was here now with the wind growing bitter and night falling. He ran his hand across his face, feeling a smear of sweat and something sticky.

Blood, he thought. But when he looked at his hand, there was no blood. He glanced at his feet: his shoes were encrusted with mud and sand, a few black strings of seaweed. He bent and pulled the kelp from his soles, then straightened. The figure he had seen heading toward the cottage would have no doubt been Dr. Learmont. Guilt and fear cut through Radborne's daze; for the second time, he had failed in his duties. Quickly he turned and began to walk back toward Sarsinmoor. The wind blew chill from the west, carrying sea wrack and the bacony scent of peat smoke. He shivered uncontrollably, flapping his arms to warm himself. Bracken snapped and crunched where he stepped.

He walked and walked but seemed to come no closer to his destination. The cliffs of Sarsinmoor were much farther off than they looked. He was beginning to feel a slight feverishness; his head seemed to pulse and swell like a flaccid balloon. The relentless wind made his ears ache so that he walked with his hands pressed against them, like a man awakened from a nightmare. His fingers grew numb with cold, and he shoved them into his pockets.

That was when he heard the music.

Someone was playing a pipe. A few high, clear notes, warbling up and down like birdsong. There was no real melody, just the same sweet notes, like a running scale.

But after a few minutes, the notes grew more plangent, even melancholy. Radborne knew of no bird that sang like that.

He stopped, listening, looked about the moor but saw no one. The figure he'd glimpsed on the headland had long since disappeared. At his feet dead grass kept up a steady hissing as the wind flattened it. The light from the failing sun was harsh and without warmth. The shadows that snaked along the ground were black as the withered briars that hung above them. In the near distance, a line of standing stones seemed to hover above yellow gorse.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Radborne.

The landscape was suddenly, wretchedly familiar. With a stab of fear, Radborne recalled the drawing Dr. Learmont had shown him—Evienne Upstone's sketch of black columns floating above a wasteland. He began to run toward the promontory, stumbling over rocks and thorn brake.

The piping did not stop. And now he heard voices singing in counterpoint to the rippling notes. The voices were high and without affect and seemed wordless. He looked around but saw no one; yet the music was unmistakable, he was not imagining it. If anything it was louder now. Radborne ran zigzag, hoping to lose his pursuers, but to no avail. The music continued, just behind him. He whirled but saw no one there.

Sarsinmoor was now behind him; he was staring at the village of Trevenna. Was it possible the sound came from there, from a church or schoolyard? It was late afternoon, evening almost. It could be evensong.

Yet the wind was from the west, and the music was all around him, ringing in his ears like a tocsin. It was so loud now he could hear nothing else, not the wind or the sea or his own breath. With a cry Radborne turned and ran toward Sarsinmoor.

He had not gone fifty feet when he saw them. The dog came first, panting as it loped up a long slope to Radborne's left, until they were running side by side. He had never seen a dog so huge—if it stood on its hind legs, it would be taller he was. Its longish hair was black and white. It had a sharp, pointed muzzle; its mouth was open so that it seemed to grin. When it raised its head to gaze at Radborne, he saw huge round eyes with irises the color of water wrung from peat; the whites shone palely brilliant in contrast. It was laughing at him.

Radborne gasped. The creature was so close he could feel its flank against his arm. Then the dog outpaced him, its stride neither quickening nor slowing, its legs slashing through the gorse like shears.