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‘Do you want me to come round or not?’ Gaynor interjected.
‘Yes, I do. Something’s happening, and I need to talk it over. You’re nearer than Ragginbone—’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘—and you don’t wear a smelly coat. Come round now?’
Gaynor came. Fern had already made coffee and they sat down amidst a scattering of candles while she explained about her meeting with Lucas Walgrim and the information she had received from Skuldunder.
‘You think there’s a connection?’ Gaynor asked.
‘Maybe. In magic, there are no coincidences. It’s very difficult for someone to separate another human soul from its body. I’ve been doing some reading in the last couple of years—Ragginbone gave me a load of stuff—and even the spells for it are obscure. It takes a lot of power. The Old Spirit has done it, and he still had to have the consent of his victim. He seems to be able to bend the rules sometimes; after all, I didn’t actually consent the night I was taken, but I had called him, and I was unconscious, and vulnerable. But when Morgus sent the owl for me I should have been able to return to myself, instead of being wrenched into another dimension. She took you once, too: remember?—only you were the wrong person so she sent you back again. Apparently, she used to collect souls. She would seal them in djinn-bottles.’
‘Gin-bottles?’ Gaynor queried.
‘D-J-I-N-N. The point is, she was very powerful. There is no record of Zohrâne managing spirit-body separation, though the evidence suggests Merlin could, and maybe Medea. It’s impossible to be sure when there’s so little contemporary documentation. Mostly, people wrote about what magicians did centuries afterwards, basing it on legend and hearsay.’
‘I didn’t know there was anything contemporary to Merlin or Medea,’ Gaynor said. Her job was the study and restoration of old books and manuscripts—the older the better—and a glimmer of professional enthusiasm had come into her eye.
Her friend reverted firmly to the original subject. ‘As far as I can tell, it takes a special kind of concentration to split someone from their physical body. I couldn’t begin to do it, though I can separate myself—that’s quite simple, many people do it in dreams, with no spell involved. You only need to be a little Gifted. The majority of people have some magic in them, even if they never use it. But Morgus’ power was exceptional. It looks as if Dana Walgrim’s spirit was stolen, like mine—only Morgus is dead. So we’re looking for someone with the same kind of power, which is not a nice thought. And Skuldunder has already come to me with a story of a new witch who may be both powerful and evil…’
‘Are you sure Morgus is dead?’
‘Of course I am. I saw her burn.’ Fern’s expression assumed a certain fixity, concealing unknown emotion. ‘I killed her.’
Gaynor knew she was trespassing in private territory. ‘She deserved it,’ she offered, aware it was no consolation.
‘“Many who die deserve life. Can you give it to them?”’ Fern retorted, paraphrasing Tolkien, and there was a sharp edge to her voice. She leaned forward too quickly, reaching for the coffee pot, knocking a candle from its holder and crying out in pain as the flame seared her left hand.
‘Put it under the tap,’ said Gaynor, fielding the candle with rather more caution.
‘It doesn’t hurt much.’
‘Yes, but you know it will. Why have you got all these candles? The place looks like a fire hazard.’
‘Atmosphere,’ said Fern on her way to the kitchen. ‘Atmosphere is very important to werefolk. And Mabb is royalty, of a sort. I thought I should make an effort.’
‘She’s late,’ said Gaynor, glancing at the clock. ‘You said she would come at midnight.’
‘Of course she is,’ Fern responded from the next room, over the sound of the tap running. ‘Punctuality may be the politeness of kings, but she’s a queen. Ragginbone told me all about her. Outside her own kind, her prestige is limited, so she exercises caprice whenever she can. She’s behaving like any Hollywood superstar, keeping the audience waiting.’
Gaynor was staring fixedly at the curtains over the central window. The unstable candleflames made the shadows move; creases that should have been motionless seemed to twitch into life. She tried to picture a shape or shapes there, developing slowly. She was sure she could see something—the crook of an elbow, the point of an ear—when the smell reached her. It was a smell both animal and vegetable, a rank, hot, stoaty smell mingled with the green stink of an overripe bog. It invaded her nostrils from somewhere just to the left of her chair, making her gorge rise. She gasped: ‘Fern—!’ even as she looked round.
The goblin was standing barely a yard away. Her appearance was almost as vivid as her odour, the large head swivelling curiously on a worm-supple neck, the stick-thin limbs dressed in some garment made from dying flowers and spidersilk, with a rag of fawnskin over one shoulder. Wings plucked from a swallowtail butterfly fluttered in vain behind her. Another butterfly, in blue and green brilliants, secured the fawnskin; her nails were painted gold; the lids of her slanting eyes were zebra-striped in cream and bronze. A crown of leaves, set with the wing-cases of beetles, adorned hair as short and colourless as mouse-fur, and by way of a sceptre she held a peeled switch as tall as herself, topped with a bunch of feathers and the skull of a small bird. Gaynor found herself thinking irresistibly that the queen resembled a nightmare version of a flower fairy who had recently raided a children’s makeup counter. She made a desperate attempt to rearrange her expression into something polite.
‘You must be the witch,’ said the goblin, lifting her chin in order to look down her nose. ‘I honour you with my presence.’
‘Thank you, but…I’m not a witch,’ Gaynor stammered. ‘I’m just her friend.’
‘Councillor,’ said Fern, resuming her place on the sofa. ‘We are indeed honoured.’ Her tone was courteous but not fulsome. She’s a natural diplomat, Gaynor thought. It must be the years in PR. ‘May I offer your Highness some refreshment?’
The queen gave a brief nod and Fern mixed her a concoction of vodka, sugar, and strawberry coulis which seemed to meet with the royal approval. Gaynor, remembering Skuldunder’s reaction to the wine, wondered secretly if she had any previous experience of alcohol. Having accepted the drink Mabb seated herself in a chair opposite, leaning her switch against it. Her eyes, black from edge to edge, gleamed in the candlelight like jet beads.
‘It is well that you have come,’ Fern went on. ‘This new witch, if she is indeed powerful, could be a threat to both werefolk and Men. In time of danger it is necessary that those of us with wisdom and knowledge should take council together.’
‘What wisdom does she have?’ Mabb demanded, flashing a glare at Gaynor. ‘I have not talked to a witch in many a hundred year. I do not talk to ordinary mortals at all.’
‘She is not ordinary,’ said Fern. ‘She may be young, but she is learned in the ancient histories, and wiser than I. She stood at my side in a time of great peril, and did not flinch.’
Yes I did, I flinched frequently, Gaynor said, but only to herself.
Mabb evidently decided she would condescend to approve the extra councillor. ‘Loyalty to one another is a human thing,’ she said. ‘I am told it is important to you. Goblins are loyal only to me.’
‘We may have different customs,’ said Fern, ‘but we can still be allies. I am gratified to see your Highness wears my gifts.’
‘They please me,’ said the queen, scanning her gilded nails. ‘More gifts would be acceptable, and would confirm our alliance.’
‘Of course,’ said Fern. ‘When our meeting is concluded, I have other gifts for you. But first, I need to know more of this witch.’
Mabb made a strange gesture, like a parody of one Fern had learnt to use in summoning. ‘Skuldunder!’
The burglar materialized hesitantly.
‘Bring the exile,’ ordered the queen.
Skuldunder duly vanished, reappearing presently with another goblin in tow. He looked as brown and wrinkled as a dried apple, and there was the stamp of past terror on his face, but now he seemed in the grip of a lassitude that exceeded even fear. ‘He was a house-goblin,’ the queen explained with a flicker of contempt, ‘but he was forced to flee his house. He withers from loss and shame.’ She turned to her subjects. ‘This witch is my friend, our ally. She is not like the rest of witchkind. You must tell her about the sorceress who drove you from your house. I command you!’
The old goblin shivered a little and blinked, but said nothing.
‘What is his name?’ asked Fern.
‘Dibbuck,’ said Skuldunder.
‘Dibbuck,’ Fern dropped to the floor, bringing herself on a level with his vacant gaze, ‘I need your help. I have to learn all I can about this woman, in case I have to dispose of her. I know it’s hard for you to talk about it, especially to someone like me, but please try. It may be vital.’ And, after a pause: ‘Is she young or old?’
‘Young,’ said Dibbuck at last. His voice was not soft but faint, as if it had already begun to fade. ‘Young-looking. Old inside.’
‘Could you describe her?’
But this Dibbuck did not seem able to do. Goblins, Fern realised, see humans differently, not feature for feature but more as we see animals. ‘Green dress,’ he volunteered, and then: ‘White dress.’ For some reason he shuddered. ‘Much hair.’
This was hardly unique, Fern reflected. Most witches favoured long hair. Perhaps that was why she kept hers so short.
She groped for the right questions to ask. ‘Do you know when she came to the house?’
Dibbuck was largely oblivious to dates. ‘The party,’ he said. ‘Big party.’ A faraway echo of remembered mischief brightened his face. ‘I added things to the drinks. Salt. Red pepper. There were many people in many clothes. Long clothes, short clothes. Masks.’
‘Fancy dress?’ Fern said quickly.
Dibbuck looked bewildered.
‘Never mind. So the witch was there?’
‘Didn’t see her. Too many people. But she was there after.’ He added: ‘The hag came later, and the cat, and the gypsy.’
Fern tried to elicit further details, with limited success. The hag appeared to be some kind of servant, the gypsy maybe a temporary worker. ‘Tell me about the cat.’
‘It was a goblin-cat,’ interrupted the queen. ‘A sallowfang. He was afraid of it.’
‘What’s a goblin-cat?’
‘They were the cats of the king of the Underworld,’ Mabb explained, with the complacency of a child who has access to privileged information. ‘They have no fur, and their skin is black or white, sometimes striped or piebald. They are bigger than normal cats, and very cunning.’ She concluded, with a narrowing of the eyes: ‘They used to hunt goblins.’
‘A sphinx-cat,’ suggested Gaynor. ‘I’ve never seen one, but I know they’re hairless.’
‘These sound as if they’re magical, or part magical,’ said Fern. ‘Could be a relative.’
‘This one chased him,’ said Mabb, indicating Dibbuck. ‘He was lucky to escape. A sallowfang can smell a spider in a rainstorm.’
‘What about the household ghosts?’ said Fern. ‘Skuldunder said something about an exorcism.’
‘She made the circle,’ Dibbuck said, ‘in the spellchamber. I saw them all streaming in—they couldn’t resist—Sir William—the kitchen imp—little memories like insects, buzzing. I pinned myself to the floor with a splinter, so I couldn’t go. They were trapped in the circle, spinning round and round. Then she…’ His voice ran down like a clockwork toy, into silence.
‘She opened the abyss,’ Mabb finished for him. ‘I thought my servant told you.’
‘You mean—Limbo?’ hazarded Gaynor.
‘Limbo is a place of sleep and dreams,’ Mabb responded impatiently. ‘It is a part of this world. The abyss is between worlds. It is—emptiness. They say those who are cast into it may be swallowed up forever. When mortals die they pass the Gate. We go to Limbo, until this world is remade. But no one may return from the abyss until all worlds are changed. I thought even humans would know that.’
‘We have our own lore,’ said Fern. ‘It must take a great deal of power, to open a gap between worlds…’
‘And for what?’ Mabb sounded savage with indignation. ‘A few ragged phantoms—an imp or two—a handful of degenerates. So much power—for so little. She is mad, this witch, mad and dangerous. She might do anything.’
For all her eccentric appearance and freakish temperament, thought Fern, the goblin-queen showed a vein of common sense. ‘Can you recall her name?’ she asked Dibbuck, but he shook his head. ‘The name of the house, then?’
‘Wrokeby.’ His face twisted in sudden pain.
‘Is there anything else I should know?’
Dibbuck looked confused. ‘The prisoner,’ he said eventually. ‘In the attic.’
‘What kind of prisoner? Was it a girl?’
‘No…Couldn’t see. Something—huge, hideous…A monster.’
Not Dana Walgrim, Fern concluded. ‘What else?’
Dibbuck mumbled inaudibly, gazing into corners, seeking inspiration or merely a germ of hope. ‘She had a tree,’ he said. ‘In the cellar.’
‘A tree in the cellar?’ Fern was baffled. ‘How could a tree grow in the dark?’
‘Seeds grow in the dark,’ said Mabb. ‘Plant-magic is very old; maybe the witchkind do not use it now. You take a seed, a fortune-seed, or a love-seed, and as it germinates so your fortune waxes, or your lover’s affection increases. They used to be popular: mortals are always obsessed with wealth or love. If the seed does not sprout, then you have no fortune, no love.’
‘Not a seed,’ said Dibbuck. ‘It was a tree, a young tree. It was uprooted, but it was alive. I smelt the forest, I saw the leaves move. She wrapped it in silk, and fed it, and sang to it.’
‘Does this ritual mean anything to you?’ Fern asked Mabb, inadvertently forgetting to give her her royal title.
But Mabb, too, had forgotten her dignity. Possibly the vodka had affected her. ‘I have never heard of such a thing,’ she said. ‘A woman who wraps a tree in swaddling clothes, and lullabyes it to sleep, sounds to me more foolish than magical. Perhaps, if she is besotted with these fancies, she may not be dangerous after all. When I wanted to play at motherhood, I would steal a babe from a rabbit’s burrow, or a woodman’s cradle, not pluck a bunch of dead twigs. Of course,’ she added with an eye on Fern, ‘that was long ago. I have outgrown such folly. Besides, human babies scream all the time. It becomes tiresome.’
‘So I’m told,’ said Fern. ‘I need to think about all this. Your Highness, may I have some means of calling on you and your servants again, should it be necessary? This witch may indeed be mad or foolish, but I fear otherwise. I must make a spell of farsight, and then I may know what further questions to ask your subject.’
‘I will have the royal burglar pass by here othernights,’ Mabb decreed, magnanimously. ‘If you wish to speak with him, pin a mistletoe-sprig to your door.’
‘It’s out of season,’ Fern pointed out.
‘Well,’ Mabb shrugged, ‘any leaves will do.’ She waited a minute, beginning to tap her foot. ‘You mentioned gifts…’
Fern went into her bedroom for a hasty trawl through makeup drawer and jewel-box.
‘Can you make a spell of farsight?’ Gaynor asked when they were alone.
‘I could light the spellfire,’ Fern said, ‘if I had any crystals. That might tell me something. Do you want a G and T?’
‘Actually,’ said Gaynor, ‘just tea would be good. I’ll make it.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Fern headed for the kitchen.
‘Are you—are you going to tell Will about this?’
‘Probably.’ There was a pause filled with the noise of gurgling water, and the click of a switch on the kettle. ‘Why?’
Gaynor stiffened her sinews, screwing her courage, such as it was, to the sticking point. ‘I just think you should. Because he’s your brother. Because three heads are better than two. Because we’re a team.’
‘Are we?’
‘You said so.’
‘I think that was your idea.’ Fern came to the kitchen doorway, propping herself against the frame. ‘Last time you both nearly got killed. That’s not going to happen again. I can protect myself, but I can’t always protect you, so you must—you must promise—to do exactly what I say, and stay out of trouble. I don’t like the sound of this witch. I didn’t fully understand what he meant when Skuldunder said she opened the abyss, but I do now. You must promise me—’
‘No,’ said Gaynor, baldly. ‘I mean, I could say it, but it wouldn’t be true, and anyway, you haven’t the right. I may not be Gifted like you but that doesn’t mean you can control me, or exclude me. Or Will. I got involved last time because you were in denial, and now I’m involved for good. You can’t change that.’ She spoke in a hurry, determined to get the words out before Fern could interrupt or she lost her nerve.
After a minute the set look that was becoming habitual to Fern relaxed. ‘Sorry,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I’ve been a control freak from childhood. Years of managing Dad. Just…be careful this time. No rushing off into the dragon’s den. Please.’
‘No fear,’ said Gaynor with an uncertain smile.
Fern returned to the kettle, reemerging presently with two mugs of tea, both overfull. As she set them down the contents of the left one splashed over the rim. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘Not again.’ She sucked at the injury, then lowered her hand, extending it until it was directly under the lamplight. ‘Gaynor…’ The scald-mark faded even as she watched, leaving her skin unblemished. There was no other burn to be seen.
‘What did you do?’ Gaynor demanded. ‘Is it more magic?’
