Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) (3 page)

“My name is Drover,” the man said to Robin. “I work for Miss Fellows, look after the place for her, me and my lad, Henry. You’ll like him. He’s about your age.” He grabbed Robin’s hand and pumped it with both of his in a warm handshake that nearly dislocated the boy’s shoulder.

“I’m—” Robin began, but the man cut in. “Oh, no time for that, no time. We’re late as it is and had better get moving. If there’s one thing your Great Aunt doesn’t like, it’s lateness. I should know.” He reached past Robin, picking up the boy’s case in one hand.

Mr Moros suddenly laid an icy hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Excuse me, good sir,” he said, finally speaking. “We were barely introduced. This young man was kind enough to pass the time of day with me, most polite you know.”

“Is that so?” said Mr Drover, quite rudely, Robin thought.

“It is,” replied Mr Moros smoothly, still clamping Robin’s shoulder. He could feel a chill seeping through his coat. “It is indeed … so. However, due to your most entertaining and lively entrance, I was unfortunate enough not to catch his name, though he of course has mine.”

Robin opened his mouth to speak, but Mr Drover cut in again.

“Catch a name?” he said. “Whoever heard of such a thing?” He laughed gruffly and began to turn away, suitcase in hand. “Come along, boy. Time flies, as I’ve already noticed once today.”

Mr Moros’ fingers dug tighter into Robin’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him, now quite sure that of the two men, he would rather cast his lot with the short noisy one. Mr Moros’ face was very calm and very serious. He was no longer smiling.

“I have a claim here,” he said quietly to Mr Drover.

The red-faced man stopped and turned. He looked from Mr Moros to Robin and back again. His eyes were suddenly wary.

“You have no claim here, sir,” he replied darkly.

As if suddenly remembering something, he dropped the suitcase and reached into his coat pocket. After a moment’s fumbling with his thick gloves he pulled something out and approached Robin. The object in his hand glittered, catching the light.

“Hah!” he said, suddenly loud and cheerful again. “Almost forgot! Never late, but always forgetful.” He slipped something over Robin’s head. “A welcome gift from your Great Aunt,” he proclaimed. “She said I was to give it to you straight away and see you wore it!”

Mr Moros’ hand suddenly released his shoulder. It practically flew off him. The white-skinned man hissed, as though he had cut himself on paper.

Robin looked down. Mr Drover had just slipped a slim silver chain around his neck. The centrepiece, to Robin’s surprise, was a tiny silver horseshoe.

“A necklace?” he asked, trying not to sound ungrateful. It was more than a bit girly.

Mr Moros took several steps backward and stopped, staring at the two.

Drover waggled his eyebrows, evidently noticing Robin’s opinion of the jewellery. “I know, I know,” he said. “Well, what do old women know about boys, eh? Best just tuck it in under your shirt? Don’t want to hurt her feelings. Keep it on, at least till we get to Erlking.”

“Right, no, it’s … lovely,” Robin lied politely.

“Come on, come on,” Mr Drover said good-naturedly. “Best be getting off. No doubt you’ll be wanting to see your new home, eh? Get settled in?”

Robin looked back over his shoulder. Mr Moros was standing with his arms folded, as still as a thin white statue, watching them go and looking rather sour.

“Bye,” Robin called back, feeling it would be rude not to.

“Until we meet again,” the man replied in a smooth clear voice. He touched the brim of his hat in a gentlemanly way, though he did not smile.

Mr Drover didn’t look back at all. He hurried Robin along, bristling slightly at the sound of the other man’s voice.

On the other side of Barrowood’s train station, he bundled Robin into an ancient car. “Careful who you talk to, son,” he said. “It’s not just your big cities full of dangerous folk, you know.” He climbed in and started the engine.

That was the second time that day he had been given that same advice, but Robin didn’t say anything. He glanced back at the station as the car pulled away, but from what he could see the platform was now empty.

“You don’t want to go throwing your name about to just anyone,” Drover continued, though his voice was good-natured. “Did you have a good trip up?”

“Yes,” Robin replied, watching the wooded hills and fields pass by as they drove out of the village. He fiddled with the horseshoe charm through the fabric of his t-shirt, wondering vaguely if it was just a coincidence. “… Interesting anyway.”

Chapter Three –
The Locked Room At Erlking Hall

The village was tiny and they were soon out of it, driving through tiny country lanes. The car slowed as it approached a set of tall iron gates, each mounted by a strange type of gargoyle. Beyond, a long curving avenue climbed a steep slope. The tall trees lining the road were huge and gnarled, the branches interlocking above, making a sun-dappled tunnel of autumn leaves.

At the very top of the hill, the Hall itself.

It was huge.

Robin, who was used to living in a small bungalow, found it hard to believe that anyone could live alone in such a large house. It had four vast floors of leaded glass windows, a steep slate roof dotted with attic windows. An expanse of pedimented wings sprawled to the side. It even had a stubby tower. Columns flanked the dark double doors, in front of which Mr Drover’s old car lurched to a halt, wheels crunching gravel.

“There she is, lad,” Mr Drover said proprietarily. “Erlking Hall, in all her glory.” He gave a gruff chuckle and climbed out of the car. Robin followed, peering up.

“Does all of this belong to Aunt Irene?” he wondered.

“Erlking belongs to itself. But your great aunt watches over, aye.”

This had to be some kind of a joke. He couldn’t really be coming to live in a stately home like this. Any minute now, Gran was going to jump out of a bush, crying “I got you! Snakes and ashes!”, and they would go home again.

But of course, being dead, she didn’t do that.

Robin felt bad then, about feeling excited about this place, and guilty as if it was his fault Gran had died, when secretly he knew Dolly Parton was to blame.

Mostly though, he just felt confused.

When he approached the doors though, confusion disappeared.
This
is
where
you
belong
, Erlking seemed to say. He shivered as the odd feeling washed over him.

“Well,” said Drover, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get you inside, lad. Then, if nothing else, at least you’ll be home.”

The door knocker was an eagle’s talon gripping an egg. Above the huge oak doors was a carved stone circle, where a man’s cheerful face sat amidst swirling leaves.

Drover noticed Robin peering up at the sculpture as he looked for his keys.

“That there’s the green man,” he said, by way of explanation. “Oak king, nice fella.”

“Okay,” Robin replied, without understanding. “It’s … weird.”

Drover chuckled.

“Good though,” Robin said hastily, in case he’d said the wrong thing. “Weird in a good way.”

“Well, he’s good enough I suppose, when the mood takes him,” Drover shrugged, slotting a large key in the lock. “You wouldn’t want to run into t’other one though. Holly king, he’s a bugger.”

Before Robin could question this, Drover opened the door and stood aside so he could enter. He pointed Robin through a set of double doors to the right.

“Best go in, lad. Don’t keep a lady waiting.” He patted Robin roughly on the shoulder. “I’ll take your stuff up to your room for you. But don’t you go getting used to it! I’ve a lot to do around here, and there’s not enough polish in the world to make me into a butler.” He laughed gruffly again and set off towards the stairs, lugging Robin’s case.

“Thanks,” Robin called after him. Then, taking a deep breath, he went through the doors to meet the only living person who claimed him as family.

Inside, there was a large open fireplace crackling away merrily, in front of which sat his Great Aunt Irene.

She didn’t look anything like Gran. Gran had been tiny, in typical grandmother tradition. She’d had a tight barnet of curly blue-grey hair and had worn large, old-fashioned cardigans and questionable slippers.

The woman sitting before him was nothing like that. She was, in fact, almost the Anti-Gran.

“Well?” she said imperiously from the chair. “Are you coming in or not, child? Don’t stand there in the door. Come in or go out. That’s what doors are for.”

Robin, feeling a little foolish, shut the door behind him.

Great Aunt Irene was tall and willow thin. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned dress in pale ivory and her silver hair was pulled back from her head in an elaborate bun. Everything about her seemed sharp. She had sharp cheekbones, sharp eyebrows, and her eyes were as sharp as glass. Even her voice cut through the air.

She raised her hands and beckoned him forward. “Well, come forward then and let me have a look at you. If I’m to have you living under my roof and in between my walls and over my floor I want to be able to recognise you.”

“Hello, Aunt Irene,” Robin said. “Nice to meet you.” He had a speech half practised in his head, but it withered like a deflated balloon under her piercing glare.

Tiny dangling earrings glittered in the firelight as she turned her head this way and that. Dark silvery droplets which glittered as she looked him over. Robin thought she must have been very beautiful when she was younger.

“Just Irene will do,” she said. “None of this ‘Aunt’ business, if you please. I have no time for honorifics and I don’t wholly approve of familial relations. I have spent a great deal of energy ensuring I have never been a mother or a grandmother or a niece or a sister. I see no reason to start now, even if the Fates have decided it would amuse them to furnish me with a nephew at my time of life, great or not.”

She stood gracefully. Her back was very straight. “I shall be Irene,” she announced. “And you shall be Robin.”

Robin couldn’t tell if she was serious or trying to be funny. He settled for a kind of awkward half-smile and nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“Do you like your name?” she asked him in a very direct kind of way, peering at him over her spectacles.

“Um … I suppose. I’ve never really thought about it before. It’s just my name.”

She pursed her lips. “You could have another if you wish. Some people can’t abide their names, and then they go through life complaining about it, and trying to convince others to call them by some or other tiresome nickname. It’s most annoying. I say just change it and have done with it, or like what you’ve been given.”

This made a kind of sense to Robin. He nodded in agreement.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are certain, then? There will be no ‘Robby’ in a few months, no ‘Rob’ or ‘Bob’ or ‘Bobby?’ I have neither time nor the inclination to go chasing a hatful of names all over this house. My duties keep me busier than you can imagine and young boys are notorious for having minds as whole as broken mirrors.”

“No, really,” Robin insisted, unable to suppress a smile. “Robin’s good. I like Robin.”

She peered at him a moment longer, and then smiled herself, ever so slightly. It was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“Good. Then we are of one mind and are well met, Robin.”

He had the terrible fear that she was going to hug him then as old ladies are wont to do, but instead, she shook his hand firmly, her hand warm and dry.

She looked him over curiously. “Hmm, blonde hair, I see. Rather unkempt as well. Blue eyes, eh? Well that’s something of a relief at least. Could be green, then you’d be a handful,” she muttered dismissively.

She looked him up and down

“You are very thin, Robin,” she said, rather challengingly.

“Sorry,” said Robin. He didn’t really know what else to say.

“Hmm,” she said again. “Well, again … it could be worse. You don’t have a tail, do you? No horns?”

Robin knew she was being silly now. He grinned lopsidedly. “No, not that I’ve noticed.”

She peered at him with her cool blue eyes.

A moment of silence passed between them, while the old lady seemed to consider him on the whole. A small golden clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly in the opulent room.

Eventually she seemed to reach some silent decision. She nodded, ever so slightly, as though reluctantly approving of him.

“Welcome to Erlking Hall,” she said. “This is your home, for as long as you wish it. It is old and rambling and draughty, but then so am I, and the two of us go well together. You’ll have to get used to my ways, Robin. I am too old and too stubborn to start changing now.”

“I won’t be any trouble,” he insisted.

She raised an eyebrow, smiling her tiny smile again. “You are a twelve year old boy,” she told him. “Trouble is your nature.”

She waved a hand, dismissing her own comment. “And I am an old woman, and complaining is mine.” She turned again in a swish of silks. “I think the best thing for you to do now is to find your room, which I believe Mr Drover should have made ready for you. Wash, unpack, find your feet, and then … we shall have lunch I think.”

Robin thought this was a very good idea. He hadn’t eaten all day.

She sat down again. “You’ll find your room on the top floor, in the east wing, at the back of the house. You can’t miss it. It’s the tower room.”

Robin’s eyes widened.

“Don’t panic,” she said, catching his expression. “You’re not nearly pretty enough to be Rapunzel, and there are stairs in and out.”

Robin grinned and made for the door.

“Off with you. Be down here in an hour,” she called after him. “And be punctual this time.”

Robin got as far as the doors to the hallway before he remembered. He turned and looked back at his Great-Aunt. “Oh, thank you for the chain. The lucky charm,” he said.

She nodded at him from the fireplace. “You don’t have to wear it now. It’s a hideous old thing. Pop it in a drawer or something.”

“No … I think it’s really nice,” Robin lied politely.

Irene raised one eyebrow again. “Then you have terrible taste,” she remarked. “Do what you will with it, it’s served its purpose now. You don’t need it in here.”

Robin was halfway up the stairs before he even wondered why she thought he needed it outside.

* * *

Robin had a hard time finding his room. The house seemed somehow larger on the inside. There were corridors and stairs. And then more corridors with doors leading onto seemingly countless rooms filled with old furniture and books. There were statues of continental marble people wearing next to nothing and looking very unhappy about the British weather. Robin found a room with a dusty grand piano which looked as though it had never been played. Other rooms were completely empty with nothing but bare floorboards and sunny windows, where a faint smell of turpentine hung in the air. He found another room with a large harp and a lot of ancient-looking sofas. Next, a chamber large enough to hold a ball in. And of course there were rooms with beds, quite a few of these, but none of them seemed to be in a tower.

Robin was lost in an endless labyrinth of corridors. Some had windows, or little steps up and down. Some with rugs and runners, some without. There were busts of old emperors and statues of strange figures everywhere. Paintings adorned the walls, as well as tapestries and clocks of every size and shape.

Consequently, it was quite some time later that Robin finally arrived at a door on the third floor near the back of the house which opened onto a tight spiral stone staircase.

This at last seemed promising. At the top of the curling stairwell lay a good sized circular room, with a high-peaked roof and windows set in four places around the wall at the compass points.

This was definitely the tower. The room was sparsely furnished. A large king-sized bed, covered in many white sheets, an ottoman of dark oak, an old-fashioned writing bureau and a huge looming wardrobe, all in dark wood. His battered old suitcase was laid at the foot of the bed.

Robin crossed quickly to the wardrobe and opened it. Things had been so odd lately it wouldn’t have surprised him to have seen a lamppost lurking behind fur coats. He threw his own coat inside and opened all the windows, peering out in every direction at the rolling green landscape.

He was above the roofs here in the tower and the views were excellent. Behind the house, the land sloped off, disappearing into dense forest. There was a faint twinkle amongst the trees, sunlight on water.

He was hanging out of the window, enjoying the cold air on his face, when he heard a noise behind him.

He pulled his head back in and looked around.

There was a scruffy-looking boy leaning in the doorframe. He was taller than Robin and looked a little older, with longish messy brown hair that looked as though it would defy any attempts to comb it. He was smiling in a friendly way and wearing old jeans and a brown jumper. It was possibly the most unremarkable sight Robin had seen all day.

“Hello,” Robin said.

“Alright?” the boy replied in greeting, coming into the room. “Robin, is it?”

“Yeah,” said Robin.

“I’m Henry,” the boy said amiably. He sat on Robin’s bed, which squeaked alarmingly, running his fingers through his unruly hair. “My dad said you were coming today. He picked you up from the train station in our rubbish old banger, didn’t he?” He was looking around the room with unashamed curiosity. “I’ve never been in here before. Been nearly everywhere else in Erlking. Always figured Irene must keep all her dead husbands up here or something like that.”