Goblin Moon (16 page)

“Here, now . . . you ain’t lost your wits entirely
and gone for to transmute lead into gold again? I thought you put
all that alchemical nonsense—no use scowling at me, for you called
it nonsense yourself!—I thought you put all that behind you a long
time since.”

“Never you mind what we think we’re doing, old
Gottfried Jenk and me. We know what we’re doing, never you fear,”
said Caleb, folding his hands piously and continuing to rock, with
such a smug expression generally that a more violent man than Jed
might have been tempted to use the poker in earnest. “Don’t you
trouble your head at all. Just do your job and please your master,
and leave me to do the same.”

Chapter
13

In which the Duchess entertains Visitors.

The Duke of Zar-Wildungen’s town residence was a
crumbling edifice built of white stone, all but concealed by a
tangle of creeping vines: ivy, owl-flower, and wild rose. Its halls
and corridors were floored with cracked tiles, its windows draped
with faded and fragile velvets and satins, and all its furnishings
were dark, heavy, and out of date. Thus it had stood for many
years, and thus it seemed likely to stand, at least during the
lifetime of the present Duke, who even as a young man had displayed
an absolute passion for the antique—old books, old art, old
buildings—and for manners, customs, and usages hallowed by time,
which as the years passed had grown to the point of obsession.

Only in a handful of stylish rooms done in gold and
ivory could anything new be seen, and in these rooms was everything
new to be seen, for these chambers were allotted to the Duchess,
and there she indulged her own taste for the fashionable, the
faddish, and the fanciful. Perhaps some spark of rebellion against
the mustiness of her mate, the dreary, time-worn splendor of his
house, had first engendered in the Duchess this passion for all
that was fresh and original. Whatever the cause, she, too, had
grown obsessive with the passing years. Her gowns and her
carriages, her hats, gloves, shoes, and fans, were the height of
fashion—and sometimes preceded it. She redecorated her rooms on an
average of twice a year. Any man with a new invention, a new
philosophy, a new cure for the ills that afflict mankind; any poet,
novelist, musician, or painter with a talent so progressive as to
be misunderstood found in the Duchess an eager and generous
patroness. Nor was she any less generous with her personal favors:
her love affairs were various, passionate, and brief, and her
lovers invariably many years her junior.

Like other women of fashion, she habitually slept
until noon, drank chocolate with her breakfast, spent an hour in
the expert hands of her hairdresser, and then—elegantly coiffeured,
perfumed, and powdered, but otherwise in charming
dishabille—repaired to the salon off her bedchamber, to read the
letters, invitations, and calling cards that arrived daily; answer
those that appealed to her; and receive early callers.

So Jarl Skogsrå found her one afternoon, sitting on a
little gilt and satin sofa, sorting through a lapful of invitations
with one hand, while, with the other, she absent-mindedly fed
candied apricots and sugared violets to her tiny indigo ape.

“My dear Jarl,” she said, impulsively rising to greet
him, in a shower of scented note-paper. “I have expected you these
three hours.” This was not strictly true, for it was only half past
two. “How wicked of you to keep me waiting.”

Murmuring his apologies, he helped her gather up her
correspondence, then accepted her invitation to take a seat on the
sofa beside her. He looked exceedingly debonair this afternoon, in
a coat of green velvet and buff smallclothes, with an emerald
brooch in the lace at his throat.

“And so . . .” she said, smoothing the creamy satin
folds of her dressing gown, rearranging the wide collar of blond
lace which was already quite low on her shoulders, “I understand
that you are to see my godchild again today. But you never told me
of your last visit. In what manner did Elsie receive you?”

“She received me rather nervously, I think,” said
Skogsrå. “Yet she is suggestible—oh, but extremely suggestible!—and
she slipped into a trance quite readily.”

The Duchess put a hand on his shoulder, leaned a
little closer. She was suddenly very interested, very eager. “And
when she awoke?”

“She awoke feeling refreshed, expressing her surprise
at finding the treatment so simple and so pleasant. Her gratitude
was touching,” said the Jarl, with considerable satisfaction.

“Excellent,” said the Duchess, no less satisfied.
“For gratitude, you know, may easily turn to love. I am convinced
that she will be yours, sir—so long as you continue to go on
exactly as you have begun.”

The Jarl made a careless gesture, indicating that he
was not so certain. “There is still the matter of the cousin who
has such a strong influence over Elsie. Though I do everything in
my power to ingratiate myself, Miss Sera Vorder does not like
me.

“Oh, she is always so polite,” added Skogsrå, “but
when she looks at me—I think if she were a man I would feel a
little threatened.”

The Duchess removed her hand. “We females can be
dangerous, too, and you are foolish to underestimate us. Though
this one, as you have rightly guessed, is quite young and
powerless—except, of course, as she is able to influence
Elsie.”

The Jarl smiled. “But of course. And that being so, I
cannot help but entertain an apprehension that she may know . . .
something to my disadvantage.”

“Nonsense,” said the Duchess, leaning back against
the cushions. She took the blue ape from his perch on the back of
the sofa and placed him in her lap. “How could she indeed? There is
nothing for her to know, for your behavior since you came to
Thornburg has been entirely respectable. As for any indiscretions
you committed before, I do not think there is a man of your years
living who has not sown a few wild oats in his time.”

Skogsrå made another wide gesture with his hands. He
cleared his throat. “I do not speak of romantic entanglements.
Perhaps I should have mentioned this before. When I was in
Katrinsberg, there were stories; I do not know how they began.
Perhaps because people noticed certain . . . eccentricities of
dress.” He crossed his legs, indicated the polished leather boots
which he wore on even the most formal occasions. “There were tales
of deformity, which, catching the public imagination, and growing
more sensational as these things will, soon made my life so
uncomfortable that I was obliged to leave the city much sooner than
I had planned. Perhaps those stories have followed me here; perhaps
Miss Sera has caught wind of them.”

“Nonsense,” repeated the Duchess. “If they had, I
should certainly have heard of them, too.” She continued,
absent-mindedly, to caress the ape. “But it would not matter even
if these stories of yours were the talk of Thornburg. For I can
assure you that Miss Sera Vorder would be the last to credit them.
She is such a practical girl, she would laugh them to scorn.”

The Jarl knit his darkly penciled eyebrows
thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. Yes, perhaps you are
right.”

He uncrossed his legs, leaned closer to the Duchess.
“But now we come to the purpose of my visit: the medicine which I
have promised to our sweet Elsie.”

“Yes, I am glad that you remind me.” The Duchess
shooed her pet from her lap, rose from the sofa, and pattered
across the room. She disappeared into the next chamber, reappearing
a few minutes later, carrying a crystal flask about the size of her
hand, encased in a delicate ormolu filigree.

“A drop or two, morning and evening, should be
sufficient,” she said, as she handed over the flask.

The Jarl slipped the bottle into an inside pocket of
his coat. “She will not be harmed by this? I would not do anything
to peril her health,” he said very earnestly.

“Harm her—by the Nine Powers, no.” The Duchess
resumed her seat. “I want that no more than you do. If anything it
will strengthen her blood. That, indeed, is the purpose for which
the potion is principally used, and the other effects I mentioned
are of secondary importance. You need not fear, my dear, that your
bride will not be in the very best of health on the day you marry
her.”

The Jarl smiled thinly. “You are somewhat premature.
I must first win the young woman’s heart before I can aspire to her
hand.”

At this point, the Duchess’s butler, a portly dwarf,
came into the room and announced that Baron Skelbrooke was below,
wishing to know if the Duchess would receive him.

“I shall be very glad to see Lord Skelbrooke,” said
the Duchess. “Admit him without delay.”

The Jarl rose gracefully to his feet. “Then it is
time for me to go. You will wish to entertain your . . . lover . .
. in private.”

The Duchess laughed her tinkling laugh. “Now you, my
dear Jarl, are a trifle premature. That delectable young man is not
yet my lover, although I have reason to hope—But you must not leave
so soon. It would look suspicious if you were to leave just as he
arrives. He might imagine there was more between the two of us than
there really is, and that might put an end to our little romance
before it even begins.”

The Jarl smiled sardonically. “That, of course, would
be a great tragedy.”

“It would indeed,” said the Duchess. “Take a seat,
Lord Skogsrå, and attempt to make yourself look more comfortable.
Besides, I have not yet told you—“

She did not finish her sentence, for just then Lord
Skelbrooke entered the room, very smart in primrose-striped satin,
a flowered waistcoat, and a cocked hat with a feather panache,
which he promptly removed and tucked under one arm.

“My dear Francis . . . my very dear . . . how glad I
am to see you,” said the Duchess a little huskily, as she offered
him a dainty hand to kiss. “I was just saying to Jarl Skogsrå—was I
not?—that it has been an age since you called on me.”

Skelbrooke kissed the palm of her hand, then the
wrist, then claimed the other and repeated the process, in a manner
which argued a far greater degree of intimacy between the two of
them than the Duchess had admitted to the Jarl. “It was necessary
for me to leave Thornburg for several days. I only returned this
morning—and as you can see, I hasten to your side. But if you are
determined to be cross, I bring a peace offering with me.”

He took a slender book bound in lilac leather from
his coat pocket and presented it to her with a little flourish. “A
volume of my latest poetry. No one has seen it but you, Marella.
You are the very first.”

“How perfectly delightful,” said the Duchess,
accepting the volume. Her hand trembled as their fingers touched.
She opened the book and leafed through the pages, reading a line or
two from each one aloud. “But this is enchanting . . . Dare I hope
that I was the inspiration for these charming verses?”

“Regrettably no,” said Skelbrooke, laying a hand on
the flowered waistcoat (which was very prettily embroidered with
daisies and marigolds) somewhere in the region of his heart. “It is
a poem in praise of the Art of Alchemy, personified as a beautiful
woman. At the time I composed these verses, I had not the privilege
of your acquaintance. That will account, perhaps, for certain
deficiencies which you are kind enough to overlook.

“Had
you
served as my
inspiration,” he added, very low, very intimate, “I do not doubt
that the poetry would have been far superior.”

During this exchange, Skogsrå remained standing, with
a look of growing discomfort written plain on his face. But at last
he could endure no more. He cleared his throat. “I perceive that I
am an intruder here. It is time for me to be on my way.”

The Duchess dropped her seductive pose and shot him a
fulminating glance. “Must you really?”

The Jarl inclined his head solemnly. “Alas, I must.
With the Gracious Lady’s permission, of course.”

“Well then,” said the Duchess, rising slowly to her
feet. “I will see you out. You will excuse me, Francis?”

“With the greatest reluctance,” said Skelbrooke. “Yet
how can I deny you anything? Return as swiftly as you may, fairest
of charmers, or I shall be desolate.”

Outside in the corridor, the Duchess made sure to
close the door behind her. “I vow you are an impatient fellow!” she
said softly, linking her arm in Skogsrå’s. “But I have not told
you, yet, of the letter I received from Vodni.”

The Jarl scowled at her. “Vodni! It was against my
advice you chose to employ him. He is too fond of his own way, that
one. If he troubles you now, it is no fault of mine.”

“He does not trouble me in the least,” said the
Duchess, as they descended the long curving staircase to the ground
floor. “In his capacity as Secretary to the Duke he is absolutely
invaluable. Moreover, he has recently managed to uncover
information which may prove to be of the greatest use, information
so startling that—well, it may all come to nothing, after all. But
you can aid me in judging the value of this information, by
confirming what Vodni tells me.”

The Jarl’s scowl faded, to be replaced by an
expression of deep interest. “I exist but to serve you,” he
said.

By this time, they had reached the foot of the
stairs, and the Duchess rose up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.
“You may begin,” she said, “by going to a certain bookshop not far
from the river and asking to speak to the proprietor . . .”

Left to his own devices in the Duchess’s sitting
room, Francis Skelbrooke remained where he was, in the same languid
pose, only so long as he heard the voices of the Duchess and
Skogsrå in the corridor outside. But once their voices faded, he
moved swiftly, through the connecting door and into Marella’s
bedchamber beyond.