Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (17 page)

“And you needn’t. We have each other now. Wouldn’t you like to do something more constructive, more appropriately
Aetherial
, than selling guns?”

“Sounds promising. We could start with a gondola ride, then get drunk at the most expensive restaurant in town…”

“I meant a more ambitious, long-term project.”

“Anything. As long as it doesn’t involve tectonic plates.”

“Sorry. It does in a way. How can you not be interested in the Earth’s boundary places? Boundaries are where everything happens. Volcanoes, mountain ranges, mineral formations, rifts, earthquakes…” Her eyes shone pure gold. “Thresholds strain with pent-up energy. Also, they stand between Vaeth and the Otherworld … and what’s the Spiral but an even more complex structure of energy layers and dimensions that we haven’t even begun to understand? Forgive me, I’m ranting. But you’ll understand, Rufus. You will.”

“I don’t want to understand. I want champagne. Shall we throw a party for our spectral neighbors in the Avenue of Beautiful Secrets?”

Aurata rested her head on his shoulder, exhaling. “You’re a hopeless case,” she said affectionately.

Rufus said in a low voice, “Do you know that you talk in your sleep?”

She looked up with a guarded expression. “So I’ve been told, on occasion. What did I say?”

“You were rambling about hiding something from profane human eyes, and being trapped by Sibeylan ice and glaciers. Was it a nightmare? What did you mean?”

“I don’t remember,” she said tightly. Her fingers dug into his arms, then released their hold. “It’s nothing. Just my subconscious reminding me to be careful, because the fact is that when someone has a grand plan, there is always someone else trying to stop them. But I know how to protect my secrets, and, believe me, I am strong.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment. Qesoth herself is on your side. You said so.”

Her expression became a fierce smile. “Oh, you’d better believe it. So, drink in the sights while you can, because I’m only here to collect my precious Felynx artifacts. I’ll be sad to leave, because this place was my sanctuary, but the next stage must happen elsewhere. And so…” With an angled hand, she mimicked a jet taking off.

“What next?” Rufus grinned, loving her spirit. “How long have you been planning whatever it is?”

“Oh. Only since the dawn of time, dear.”

*   *   *

Stevie sat on the edge of a bathtub, swishing the water with her hand. The turbulence was hypnotic. She blocked the overflow with a washcloth and let the cold tap run until water began to slop over the side, pattering onto the floor and soaking her skirt.

She slid into the bath fully clothed, gasping at the cold. She let herself slip under to see how it felt, her hair drifting like weed. Like Ophelia in the painting …

She was drowning, being pushed deeper. Silver bubbles rose from her mouth. Above the rippling surface, a shape held her down and heavy hands were throttling her.

Darkness. She rose from the water as if she’d merely been sleeping. Her hands clawed at pillows of moss. She was in a swamp surrounded by tall thin trees. Silver birches trailed their slender branches on her head. She looked up through the trees and saw a glowing midnight sky with a steep jagged mountain rising black against it.

She could recall no past, no memories at all. Now she was running, terrified.

She climbed on all fours as the mountain became a city around her with streets like deep channels cut into the rock. Statues loomed, watching her from calm, blank orbs. Everything was black yet full of color, flashing with peacock blues and ruby reds that hurt her eyes.

Fleeing for her life, she was tumbling downwards through tunnels. With no more substance than a cobweb she could get no purchase on the stone steps. No one saw her, no one helped.

She emerged deep underground in a cavern. Green light rose from below to make rippling patterns on the ceiling. Water again. Terrified, she tried to crawl away.

No. No,
a voice echoed. You can’t be here now. Go back,
go back!

A silhouette came drifting towards her with one palm held up, showing blood-red slashes inside the dangling sleeve. She shrank away.
The time is wrong,
said the apparition.
Go back!

*   *   *

Stevie woke, blinded in one eye by an incredibly close, bright light.

The light dropped away to reveal a man in blue. Around him was a vague bustle of activity, laced with a musty smell of disinfectant. A hospital ward. Her head was exploding with every possible type of pain. A deep pounding headache, skull bones bruised and aching, soft tissues swollen.

“Miss Silverwood? Stephanie? Are you with us?”

The doctor in blue scrubs was young and dark-skinned with a dazzling smile. Her blurred eyes took a moment to unscramble the name on his ID tag.
DOCTOR R. ARULANANTHAM
, she made out,
SENIOR REGISTRAR.
She was in bed, propped up at an angle with a large pillow at her back.

“Oh, god, my head…”

“Try to stay quiet. You’ve been unconscious for a while.”

“How did I get here?”

“Don’t you remember?” The doctor sat on the edge of her bed, looking concerned yet cheerfully reassuring. “You arrived by taxi and told the receptionist that you’d tripped over your cat and banged your head.”

“Did I?”

“And then you passed out.”

She tried to gather her thoughts between throbs of pain. She’d been about to lock up and then …
Oh god, someone broke in.
Dim recollections returned … Rising to her feet in darkness with her head reeling.

Seeing that Daniel’s triptych was gone.

Yet nothing else was missing. The display cases of jewelry were intact, the office door untouched. No broken glass, no mess. Her attacker must have come in through the back door, which she always unlocked in order to make a quick getaway once she’d set the alarm … only this time, she’d dawdled, checking the workbench and looking at
Aurata’s Promise
.

As in a dream, she recalled making a logical decision not to call the police.
The break-in was my fault, the triptych my responsibility.
If she called the police, she knew the museum bosses would go into a mad flap and there would be days of questions, a huge fuss about security and insurance and all the rest. It would be in the local papers. She might even lose her job.

However, if she said nothing, no one need know. It was her task alone to discover who’d taken Daniel’s artwork … and she had her suspicions.

All these decisions had seemed perfectly rational while she was making them.

So she’d left and locked up as normal—so she thought. Outside, though, she noticed that her ears were ringing and her skull threatening to implode. Hospital might be a good idea after all. Calmly she’d walked into the street and called a taxi. After that, events became blurred.

“Anyone we can contact for you?” asked Dr. Arulanantham.

“No. I live alone.”

“Apart from the cat.”

“Apart from the cat,” she agreed. “It wasn’t her fault, though. Also, I wasn’t drunk. Neither was the cat.”

The doctor chuckled, then asked if she knew the day and date and the name of the prime minister. She answered correctly, starting to feel impatient. “I know where this is going. I’m fine. When can I leave?”

He gave her a firm look. “Your CT scan was clear, but concussion can have nasty delayed symptoms, so we need to keep you in overnight.”

“Oh, my god.” She dropped her head back, wincing as the sore part hit the pillow. “Is that really necessary?”

“A nurse will wake you at regular intervals to make sure you don’t fall unconscious, or develop any new symptoms.” He grinned. “Relax, we aren’t that scary. We’ll take good care of you. You can go home in the morning, but you’ll have to rest for a week.”

“A week! No, that’s impossible. I have a job, I can’t…”

The doctor was kind but intransigent. “I’m sure your employers will understand.”

Reaching up, Stevie found a dressing on her head. She could feel a distinct tender lump beneath it. The pain made her feel sick. Tears of delayed shock flooded her eyes. Anger too. How dare someone stroll in and attack her like that?

Of course I should have called the police
, she thought in despair.
What was I thinking? Not thinking. Concussed. Acting on autopilot.
Yet she was still certain that concealing the truth was her only option.

“Where’s my bag? Can I use my phone in here? I need to call someone.” She would have to ask Fin to open up in the morning.

“No, complete rest for now. We can call them for you.”

“No—no, it’s all right. They might rush here, and I don’t want that. I’ll try first thing tomorrow.”

Stevie realized, now she’d set her fake story in motion, that she would have to lie to Fin. To everyone.

*   *   *

Stevie dozed restlessly, woozy from medication. It didn’t help that a nurse woke her every five minutes: so it felt, anyway. Opening her eyes to a bright and busy ward of white walls and blue bed-curtains, it took her a moment to recall why she was here.

Time was jumbled. The ward clock read nine. Nine! Panic gripped her, until she recalled waking at six-thirty with her mouth dry, her head pounding. She’d called Fin to explain—“I’m fine, no, please don’t come to the hospital, they only kept me in as a precaution,”—then she’d had a cup of tea and fallen asleep again.

To her relief, she now felt better than expected. She began to sit up, reaching for a glass of water. Someone put the glass into her hand and she saw a visitor sitting beside her bed.

Her mouth opened in surprise at a tall, big-boned man in a thick sweater patterned with zigzags of red and green that tortured her eyes. His dark hair was shorn around a large bald pate, his large, handsome features finished by a neat beard.

It was Dr. Gregory, the psychologist whose email she’d deleted before Christmas. She’d been ignoring his emails for over a year, yet he wouldn’t take the hint.

“What are you doing here?” she said, blunt with shock.

“I work here.”

“I know. I meant…”

He gave the fatherly smile she remembered. “The registrar saw in your notes that I’d treated you in the past. You know with a head injury that amnesia can be a problem and, since you’re particularly prone to the condition, you might need to be monitored more closely. Stephanie, I was dreadfully concerned to hear you’ve had this accident.”

Stevie froze inside. A wall of denial sprang up. “There’s no need. I bumped my head, that’s all.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“Not bad at all,” she said, folding her hands on top of the sheet. She noticed that all her silver rings had been removed; she hoped they were in her bag. “It’s good of you to come, but I’m fine.”

He leaned forward, resting one elbow across his knees. “You haven’t been answering my emails.”

“No. I’ve been so busy.”

“A head injury is a worry, because we still don’t know what caused your original memory loss.”

Dr. Gregory’s kind yet probing manner, quiet voice and terrible taste in sweaters took her back ten years, to a consulting room in another wing of the hospital, where he’d tried to tease answers from a confused, introverted teenager—much to the frustration of Stevie’s uncomprehending foster mother. And she did not want to go back there.

“That was an awfully long time ago, so I’d like to forget about it, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

He’d always been supportive. Stevie had liked him, but grown to dread his endless analysis, his “assessments,” his refusal to let go of her case. Yet she could never tell him to get lost because … he was a doctor, and she was intimidated.

Now, though, she was stronger.

“I understand,” he said. “However, I still think it’s important we keep talking. You ran away from the problems before you’d fully confronted them.”

She was silent for a moment. “That’s up to me, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. But…”

“I sorted myself out, Dr. Gregory. I have a job I love and I’m happy; I can’t see how it helps to keep raking up the past. I’m a different person now. That’s why I didn’t answer your emails. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’ve moved on.”

He gave his familiar, understanding sigh. “I respect that. My concern is that you are still burying things. One day they’ll resurface and burn you. All I want to say is that, if you begin to experience problems, I’m still here to help.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling guiltily grateful. “I know we didn’t get to the bottom of my craziness, but our sessions weren’t a waste. You helped me get into art college, and that changed everything. My only real problem now is that a friend of mine’s gone missing.”

“Daniel Manifold?”

A vein in her head throbbed. “How did you know?”

Dr. Gregory looked sheepish. “I know his mother. Academic lives cross quite a bit. Actually, I saw Daniel for a few months when he was much younger—this is confidential, but I know you won’t repeat it—to assess him for possible clinical conditions.”

Stevie focused, forgetting her own problems. “I knew he’d seen a psychologist, but he didn’t tell me it was you.
Was
there something wrong with him?”

“‘Wrong’ is a subjective term. He was highly creative, with obsessive and manic traits towards the high end of normal. His father’s early death exacerbated that, which is understandable. The main issue seemed to be a mismatch between his personality and Professor Manifold’s view of how he
should
behave.”

Stevie gave a pained smile. “That’s exactly what I thought! Can you map out a definition of normal?”

“No such thing,” he acknowledged. “Never in my life have I met anyone without some kind of neurosis, idiosyncrasy or borderline personality disorder—and I’m not talking about patients. As long as we can muddle along without harming ourselves or others, we’re doing okay.”

His words lightened her heart. What a revelation, that they could talk as equals. Quietly she confessed, “I still have the drowning dreams. I even had one last night, while I was out cold. And I still see apparitions—or migraine aura, as the doctors prefer to label it—but I’m all right. Any ghosts, I just say hi and carry on with my day. I think I’m doing quite well, considering.”