The Changeling (32 page)

But Niamh had already turned and slipped the thin wire over Caitlin’s neck and settled the pearl in the hollow of her strong throat. Caitlin turned back to the mirror and sighed in pleasure. ‘Have you got any more of these?’

‘Oh no, that is very rare. It was stolen from the largest living oyster, by a selkie.’

‘Selkie?’

‘A seal wife. They take human husbands and coax them down beneath the waves.’

Caitlin laughed loudly. ‘I’d say the lads don’t last long.’

‘No.’

‘Well, if you haven’t any more of these yokes, how about those rubies?’

Again the two girls looked at Aoife anxiously. Aoife gave a slightly despairing wave of her hand. ‘Sure, go ahead.’ Who was she to stand between Caitlin and her long-thwarted desire to adorn herself? Besides, she had had a thought. Eva looked very shabby herself in her grubby pink dressing gown and slippers. It would be nice to send her home looking as if she’d been well-cared for.

The queen’s dresses were too big, but in one large wooden chest lying against the back wall she found some soft jackets of rabbit fur. She called the little girl over to try them on, but they kept slipping off her shoulders. A smaller darker casket, banded by copper, stood directly under one of the blue-curtained windows. She lifted the lid and found heaps of children’s dresses.

‘Oh, Eva, look at these!’ She pulled out armfuls. Like the flower dresses, they were extremely soft and scented, but tougher, as if the flowers had been dried before being woven into flax. ‘Which one would you like to wear?’

‘Pink.’

‘OK, hang on . . .’ Near the very bottom of the chest, Aoife finally unearthed a short dress made of old-fashioned cottage roses. She pressed it to her face; it still carried that summery scent. She helped Eva off with her dressing gown. Underneath was the Sleeping Beauty nightie she had been wearing in one of the photographs. She took it off, then fetched the wet cloth and wiped all the mud from the child’s pale skin, and combed her hair, then pulled the rose dress over her head. Eva gazed back at her with her round ice-blue eyes, her blonde hair curling down almost to her shoulders. Aoife said, ‘Ah, you look so pretty, sweetie.’

The child’s mouth tightened; quivered. ‘Only my mam calls me sweetie.’

‘Sorry, honey. Now, come and show the others how lovely you look.’ She took Eva by the hand and led her back through the racks of dresses. ‘Look at our little sheóg now! Isn’t she lovely?’

‘Very nice,’ said Caitlin, still focused entirely on her own image in the copper mirror.

But the other girls, Niamh and Saoirse, turned to look and their eyes filled with tears, as if the sight of the little girl in the pink dress were very moving.

Aoife asked, ‘Is everything all right?’

‘It’s just strange . . .’

‘Strange?’

Saoirse said, ‘To see a different child in that rose-petal dress.’

‘Was it not all right to borrow it?’

Niamh said hastily, ‘Oh, no, you can do whatever you want with it! It’s just, it seems so strange – I mean, how much you’ve grown in such a short time . . .’

Aoife stared blankly at her. And then at Saoirse. ‘I’m sorry. Did I know you two when I was here before?’

‘Oh, Aoibheal—’

‘My name’s
Aoife
.’

‘That’s your human name.’

‘But it’s what I’m used to being called.’

‘Ah, darling, you’ve changed so much in every way – and even more beautiful than before you left! But I’m still Niamh and this is Saoirse, and we haven’t changed at all – don’t you remember us even a little bit?’

It was the same as when she’d met Dorocha in the stables, when he seemed hurt that she had no idea who he was. ‘I’m sorry, no.’

‘But it’s such a short time since you were sent away! We loved playing with you. I remember when we used to dress you in that very dress, the one the sheóg is wearing now.’

‘That was
mine
?’

‘Of course. All these dresses, all these jewels – they’re all yours. Everything here belongs to you now.’

‘What?
How?
’

‘The Beloved said we have to dress you for the temple. Please let us help you to choose something more suitable, Aoibheal.’

‘
Aoife.
’

‘But don’t you remember your mother calling you Aoibheal?’

An image of Maeve rushed into her mind, sitting at her computer in the same old green cardigan she always wore. ‘My mother called me Aoife.’

‘No, she called you Aoibheal. Do you really not remember the queen?’

‘Why would I remember the queen?’

‘Ah, Aoibheal, how could you forget your own mother? She loved you so much.’

‘My . . . mother?’ Aoife’s legs felt like water. She moved towards the mirror, and sank down on the low wooden stool. Caitlin stood staring at her with her mouth open. The two girls in purple dresses hovered over her anxiously, as if not sure what to do to help.

‘We’re so sorry.’

‘We thought you knew your mother was the queen. Now can we dress you?’

She closed her eyes and pressed her hands hard to her face. This was crazy – impossible. This was a dream. A nightmare. The daughter of a murdered queen . . .

‘Aoife?’

‘It’s OK, Caitlin, just give me a moment.’

‘Aoife?’

‘
What?
’

‘If all this stuff is yours, can I keep the dress?’

‘What? Oh . . . Yes.’

‘I mean, it fits me perfectly, so it’s got to be way too big for you.’

‘Keep it.’

‘And the pearl?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t suppose the rubies—’

‘Yes!
Yes!
’

‘OK. Thanks.’

Aoife took her hands from her face, opening her eyes. ‘No, wait!’

‘Oh, for . . . It doesn’t take long, does it, before people who come into money get all selfish and greedy?’

‘I’m not talking to you . . . Niamh! Saoirse!’

The two changelings in purple dresses came back towards her, holding up the dress of white lace and pearls that Caitlin had been unable to wear. ‘How about this beautiful dress, Aoibheal? And you could wear the white diamonds and the crown of white-gold hawthorn with rubies for berries, and a train of swan feathers—’

‘If I’m her daughter, why didn’t he tell me right away? Where is he?’

‘Waiting for you to dress yourself, Aoibheal.’

She jumped to her feet. ‘If you won’t tell me, I’ll find him myself.’

The two girls cried despairingly after her as she ran, ‘No, no, you can’t go to him yet, not until you’re ready . . .’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She raced up the twisting crystal staircase.

A door made of amber was set in the turn of the stairs; it glowed a deep orange-gold from a low light behind it, and in the amber were the shadows of hundreds of bees, perfectly preserved as if drowned in solid honey. A memory flickered – she placed her right hand over the silver lock; it clicked open and the door swung back, revealing another circular room where the walls were draped in black velvet. The only light came from a fat yellow wax taper, over a metre tall, burning in a stone candlestick set between the door and a small four-poster bed. The bed had its black curtains closed. Aoife darted across the room to drag them aside. Inside, the black drapes and covers were splashed across with streaks of silver.

Back out and on up the stairs, and another door, of gold. She could hear voices within – Ultan crying out in alarm, and Dorocha shouting: ‘
Back! Back!
’ She threw the door open. Bronze-bound caskets brimmed with treasure: gold rings, silver chains studded with amber, gold cups set with lapis lazuli, amber collars large enough to slip over a man’s head. Fur cloaks were stacked up against the sunlit walls. In the centre of the chamber was a huge copper cauldron, upturned, and Dorocha was standing on top of it, laughing and stabbing down at Ultan with a three-metre spear – a flint head lashed to a wooden shaft. Breathing hard, the changeling youth was blocking the man’s blows with a wide-bladed bronze sword almost as long as he was tall.

Aoife forgot her rage in horror. ‘
Stop!
’

Dorocha cast aside the spear, leaped down to the floor and came striding across the room towards her with his hands held out. Behind him the spear remained suspended in the air, darting back and forward like a shark, twisting and turning, still parrying the blows of Ultan’s sword with ease. Half delighted, half panicking, Ultan cried, ‘Help, they won’t stop fighting each other! They just keep going!’

Dorocha clicked his fingers in the air, without even looking back; both weapons clattered to the floor. He barked over his shoulder, ‘The game is over, Ultan McNeal. Leave us.’

‘Oh, is it? Right . . . Us? Oh, it’s Aoife. Hey, Aoife, what’s the matter? Is everything all right?’

Dorocha had come to a halt before her, his hands still extended. She looked into his pale, fine-boned face; his midnight-blue eyes.

‘Aoife, is everything—?’

She said hoarsely, ‘
Ultan, go.
’

As the boy left the room, closing the door behind him, Dorocha raised his eyebrows and said, ‘It seems you can command the changelings of this world. Now, command
me.
Ask me anything you wish.’

But Aoife found herself unable to speak. It felt suddenly absurd to ask if she was the daughter of a queen. Dorocha’s gaze slipped over her from head to foot – from the rough, sweet lavender tie in her red-gold hair to the sunrise dress, to the soft red slippers. Clearly disappointed, he murmured, ‘You have chosen very plainly. Did my girls not come to you? You need a dress more suitable for this moment.’

She found her voice. ‘The girls did come, and they said something strange.’

‘And you want to know if it is true?’

She sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘It is.’

‘That I am—’

‘The queen’s daughter.’

‘Oh God. This is such crap.’ She needed to sit down again, but there was nowhere except the floor. She turned and walked to the sunlit, glowing wall; leaned her hands against it; bowed her head and closed her eyes. Dorocha touched her shoulder. Without looking at him, Aoife said in a trembling voice, ‘If it’s true, why didn’t you
tell
me?’

‘I couldn’t believe you’d forgotten, after such a short time.’

‘A short—?’ She slapped the wall with both hands, hurting them. ‘My whole life!’

‘Still the same impatient Aoibheal—’

‘Aoife! I’m Aoife! This isn’t me being impatient, this is about everything being crazy!’

‘Aoibheal—’

‘Aoife.
Aoife.
I can’t change names overnight, not after being called that name all my life.’

‘All your life?’

‘I’ve been away since I was four – that’s eleven years!’

‘Only forty days.’

‘
Forty days?
’ She jammed the heels of her palms against her temples, strode away from him across the room, and leaned her elbows on a chest of scented cedar, gazing down into a sea of misshapen golden coins.

Dorocha came to stand beside her. ‘Aoibheal.’

‘Aoife.’

‘Aoife. There, see, I am following your wishes. Aoife, listen to me. You are not what you think you are. You were away in the human world for only a short time – only enough for you to grow older and come back to me.’

‘Come back to you?’ She straightened up to face him. ‘Are you my father?’ Her ribs were uncomfortably tight around her heart. She was certain he would say
Yes
.

Instead, he looked amazed. ‘Why would you think I was your father?’

‘But you said, to come back to you—’

‘I am the Beloved, Aoibheal.’

Aoife’s heart, released, gave a single heavy thump. ‘Then who is my father?’

‘Was.’

‘Ah . . . Is he dead as well?’

Dorocha took the small ring from his pocket, and spun it into the air, watching it. ‘Of course he is dead. He was a man.’

‘But who . . .?’

‘Who can tell?’ The ring glimmered above their heads, rainbow coloured. Then fell into his hand. ‘Even after the Tuatha Dé Danann were driven from the surface of reality, your mother retained a passion for its heroes. The blue-painted Firbolgs. The dark Milesians. The tall, broad-shouldered Fianna . . . There was a young warrior of their company once, whom she met by a pool beneath the hawthorns. Then there were the golden kings of Tara. Which of them was your father? Even the greatest of heroes is at the mercy of death. Every one of them slipped through her fingers like dry sand, until she had outlived them all.’

Aoife sighed. ‘And that was when you became her Beloved?’

Dorocha pulled a cynical face – amused, self-deprecating – and tossed up the ring again, higher, his eyes fixed on it. An unbidden thought came to her – how beautiful this man was, with his dark red hair and blue-black eyes, and high, tilted cheekbones. Agelessly beautiful, like the banshee. ‘I was always your mother’s Beloved, Aoibheal. When she found me in paradise, I was a wild dangerous beast, but she tamed me. She pampered me and trained me to bring her any human man of her desire, fetching him down beneath the earth to be reborn in her arms. I watched and waited for her to forget these passing fancies, and turn to me. She was the queen of rebirth, as I was the king of death. Together, we could be all-powerful. But she did not want to ally herself with me. I was too forcible for her liking. Your mother had a love of weak and fragile creatures.’ He shot Aoife a slight smile from under his lashes. ‘Maybe that’s why she kept her fondness for you, when so many fairy mothers neglect their children. She brought you everywhere with her, even when she went to walk in the surface world to wash her hair in the soft water of the bog pools – and there you would age a little every time. In the end she stopped bringing you to the surface. She was right. She was immortal. Why would paradise need a second queen? It would only make trouble. But all children need to grow up, even the daughters of queens. So I brought you to the surface myself, after your mother’s death.’

Another memory: a breath of night air – so damp and grassy. The elderflowers of the lane. ‘It was you in the carriage at my parents’ gate.’

‘It was. I found it hard to part with you. I had kept you by me for a while, watching you play, dressing you in flower dresses. I missed your mother. I can still see her heart beating, spraying its silver fountain across the bed.’