Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (10 page)

‘How
could I have done otherwise?’ Isabel protested. ‘I could not
consent to leave anyone in such an intolerable
situation!’

Tafferty’s tail whipped with irritation. ‘Cease thy
protestin’, an’ keep up.’

Isabel subsided, and hurried after. Tafferty’s pace was not
designed to cater to her convenience, and she risked being left
behind if she lingered too long to look about herself. Her
companion — the catterdandy, as the Ferryman had called her —
navigated the twisting streets without an instant’s hesitation, and
so Isabel trusted and followed along.

Chapter Seven

Now,
I’m not sayin’ as I had owt to do wi’ the callin’ o’ the Ferry. An’
I’m not sayin’ as I didn’t, neitherwise. I’ll only say as I’ve
known Eliza Grey fer many years, an’ she’s a woman wi’ a head on
‘er shoulders.

Poor
Miss Ellerby! I felt fer ‘er. Such a deal o’ strangeness t’ fall
upon ‘er all together-like, an’ she not at all prepared. It’s
perhaps a help tha’ she was never the excitable kind, or she might
‘ave lost her good sense there awhile. But not Miss Isabel! Oh, no!
Took it in ‘er stride, she did, more or less, an’ it’s very much t’
her credit tha’ she did.

The
Ferryman, now. There’s a strange tale, an’ no mistake. I knew a
thing or two about him, an’ the Kostigern besides, as ye’ll soon
hear. Isabel’ s meetin’ wi’ that gentleman — if I may call ‘im
such, I’m not rightly certain — was important in more ways than she
knew, or he either. The tale grows stranger and darker from here;
do ye wish t’ hear more? Are ye certain? Then I will
continue.

Sophy’s shop, Silverling, was housed in an odd building near
the centre of Grenlowe. It stood alone, surrounded on all sides by
circling roads of haphazardly-placed cobblestones. It was three
storeys high, built from the same dreamy-grey, silver-touched wood
as many other buildings in Grenlowe, and its roof was a spectacular
riot of sloping corners and sharp angles all covered over in sleek,
dark thatch. The shop occupied much of the ground floor, though on
Isabel’s previous visits she had seen a kitchen at the back. Sophy,
her husband Aubranael and the princess Lihyaen lived in rooms
above-stairs; Sophy’s friend and erstwhile servant, Mary, resided
on the third floor, together with the brownie, Thundigle. It was a
snug establishment, and a happy one. Isabel had always cherished
the brief, sparse visits she had been able to make before, when the
barriers between England and Aylfenhame fell on the solstice
days.

On
such days she was always expected, and welcomed promptly. But to
arrive unannounced, with no warning given of her visit, was the
very height of rudeness. A dear friend Sophy may be, but Isabel
would never have presumed so far if she had been given any choice.
She followed Tafferty until the streets began to look familiar to
her, and she realised she was within a minute or two of Sophy’s
house and shop. Despite her pleasure at the prospect of seeing her
friends, she also suffered some feelings of dismay.

She
paused for a moment at Silverling’s front door, looking up at the
sign with some indecision. Ought she to repair to an inn, if such a
thing existed here, and send word ahead of her arrival? It would be
the courteous thing to do. But she knew of no such establishment,
and when she ventured to suggest the idea to Tafferty, she received
only a growl of irritation in response. To her horror, Tafferty
turned her back on Isabel and trotted through the open door of the
shop. Isabel could only follow, clutching nervously at her
reticule.

Sophy
was engaged with a customer. A young goblin, with lank black hair
and features not wholly repellent, stood near the window, attired
in a gown which, Isabel assumed, had just been completed for her.
Reams of the lightest, airiest gauze floated around her in a
silvery cloud, winking with wisp-lit gems and fluttering with
rose-hued ribbons of pure fae silk. The effect of these luscious
hues set against the goblin’s yellow complexion could only be
termed unfortunate. The lady herself was blissfully unaware of
this, however, and twisted and turned on the spot in pure delight,
her crooked teeth bared in a smile as she observed the drape of the
gown.

‘My
informants did not exaggerate,’ said the goblin. ‘Are all
Englishwomen so talented with a needle?’

Sophy, on her knees as she adjusted some small detail near
the hem of the gown, laughed and shook her head. ‘You flatter me,
Miss Tramble. The materials of Aylfenhame are of a quality far
beyond those of England. Only here could I produce such fantastic
creations.’

Miss
Tramble’s grin broadened alarmingly. ‘Then it was a good day for
Aylfenhame fashion when you came to Grenlowe, Mrs.
Sophy.’

Tafferty stalked
into the midst of this exchange without ceremony, her tasselled
tail raised like a flag. She strolled up to the goblin, sniffed the
hem of her luscious gown in a desultory fashion, and sat
down.

‘Good
morning!’ said Sophy brightly to the catterdandy. Finished with her
adjustments, she stood up; her back was turned, so she did not see
Isabel standing diffidently in the doorway. ‘If you are satisfied,
Miss Tramble, then I will fetch your bonnet and shoes. Perhaps you
will wish to wear your new ensemble home?’

Miss
Tramble’s eyes flicked over Isabel with faint curiosity, but she
said nothing, and directed another wide smile at Sophy. ‘To be
sure!’ she said promptly, and handed over a bulging pouch of coins.
Sophy took this, and after a little discussion with her customer on
the topic of overpayment, disappeared into the back.

‘A
fine confection t’ be stompin’ about the countryside in,’ observed
Tafferty to the goblin.

Miss
Tramble sniffed. ‘Mind your business, catterdandy, and I will mind
mine.’

Tafferty’s tail twitched with derision. She leapt up onto the
shop’s counter and began to wash one tufted paw.

Sophy
reappeared an instant later, her hands full of shoes, bonnet,
reticules and other fripperies, and at once noticed Isabel standing
in the doorway. Her face lit up. ‘Isabel! And in excellent time,
too. Just the briefest of moments, my dear, and I will show you to
your room. I am sure you are very tired after such an unusual
journey!’

She
turned at once to Miss Tramble, leaving Isabel to blink in
confusion at this speech. Had her aunt sent word of Isabel’s visit?
How had she contrived it? Isabel was grateful to discover that her
concerns had been misplaced, but she was puzzled as well — and a
little awed. The aunt she had known her whole life through — the
pleasant, courteous, respectable Mrs. Grey with whom she had always
enjoyed a friendship — receded further and further. In her place
stood a new Mrs. Grey, one who wielded powers Isabel could not
begin to imagine or to understand, and whose connections with the
once-distant and mythical land of Aylfenhame were inexplicably
close. How had she contrived to hide all this from the placid,
conventional social world of York? From her family?

Miss Tramble took
her leave, tripping on the hem of her gown as she did so. This
fazed her not at all, for she recovered herself in an instant and
disappeared into the bright sun of the afternoon.

Sophy
smiled after her. ‘I find her humbling,’ she said to Isabel. ‘In
England, you know, a young lady would spend hours agonising over
precisely the right shade of lavender to complement her complexion.
Miss Tramble, on the other hand, merely revels in the beauty of the
fabrics, and thinks nothing of how she appears in them. I think she
has no vanity at all.’

Isabel smiled in response, and went to kiss her friend. Sophy
looked as she ever did, since her move to Grenlowe: cheerful,
blooming with good health, and just a little untidy. Her blonde
curls were escaping from beneath the wispy lace cap she wore, and
her simple, unpretentious blue gown was covered in stray, clinging
lengths of threads snipped from some creation of hers. ‘She is a
model for us all, perhaps,’ Isabel agreed. ‘Though she appears to
have adopted one or two of the customs of England. Is she truly
called Miss Tramble?’

Sophy
laughed. ‘She chooses to be. I do not know if it reflects her true
name. She questioned me closely on the topic of English titles, and
insisted upon begin given a suitable one of her own.’

‘In
that case,’ said Isabel, laughing, ‘I am surprised she did not
choose something a little more prestigious. Why not Lady
Tramble?’

‘She
was taken with it,’ Sophy conceded, ‘but when she understood its
true meaning, she would not choose it. It would be unbecoming, to
pretend to a station she does not possess. That is what she
said.’

‘A
very honest goblin,’ Isabel said gravely.

Sophy
agreed to it. ‘But come, let us settle you upstairs. You will want
to rest, I should imagine, and perhaps arrange your
dress?’

Isabel put a hand up to her hair, suddenly self-conscious.
‘Oh dear, yes. I must look a fright. I am sure the winds have
caused much disorder. Oh, but I have brought no luggage! I was not
aware I was to travel, until the moment of departure.’

‘The
day has yet to come when you could manage to look a fright,’ Sophy
said with a warm smile. ‘But you are, perhaps, slightly less
beautifully turned-out than usual. You need not concern yourself
about a lack of clothing, for I at least was given warning of your
visit, and I have prepared a few things for you.’

Isabel allowed herself to be led upstairs, where a small but
beautiful and comfortable room had been prepared for her. She had
never before spent more than a few scant hours at Silverling, as
the nature of travel between England and Aylfenhame did not allow
for it. She took possession of the room with quiet satisfaction,
delighted at the prospect of paying a longer visit to her dearest
friend. Thoughts of the abandoned York assembly, of Mr. Thompson
and her mother’s expectations would intrude, but she pushed them
away for the present. Her aunt had promised to manage all of these
problems, and Isabel could no longer doubt her perfect capability
to do so.

The
wardrobe of garments Sophy had provided was delightful, of course,
and she had displayed both a clear knowledge of Isabel’s tastes and
a desire to please her friend. There were three gowns hanging in
her closet, together with two spencers and a pelisse, and matching
shoes. All were fairly simple in style and without the fussy
adornments which Isabel found repellent. They were also in her
favourite shades of blue and green. Touched, Isabel thanked her
friend sincerely, and received an affectionate smile in
return.

Sophy left her to
tend to her appearance, and to rest, but Isabel took advantage of
only one of these offers. She was tired, but not terribly so, and
other feelings took precedence over her desire to refresh herself
with slumber or repose. She wished to see a great deal more of
Sophy, without delay; and besides, her curiosity had yet to be
assuaged. Within half an hour, she left her little room and made
her way downstairs once more.

The
shop was empty, so she stepped into the back. Sophy’s workroom lay
directly behind the shop-floor, and beyond lay the kitchens of
Silverling. To her surprise, Isabel found both full of people. She
could hear the voices of Mary and Thundigle coming from the
kitchen, while Sophy had retired to her workroom. Isabel went into
the latter, and found two others present: Sophy’s husband,
Aubranael, and the princess Lihyaen.

The
two Aylir were remarkably similar in appearance; so much so that
Isabel might assume them to be related, if she did not already know
to the contrary. Aubranael was tall and lithe, with brown skin,
long dark hair falling in a tumbled mess around his face, and brown
eyes which typically twinkled with good humour. He had left off the
wide-brimmed hat he used to wear indoors or out, which Isabel
considered to be a good sign. His face was disfigured, an
affliction which he had used to bear with considerable pain, and
hid any way he could. Now he looked back at Isabel with no trace of
self-consciousness, and smiled a genuine welcome.

Lihyaen was much shorter than he, though significantly taller
than she had been upon Isabel’s last visit. Her skin and hair were
almost as dark as Aubranael’s, though the latter curled delicately,
and bore goldish streaks mixed in with the chocolate hue. Her eyes,
though, were quite different: large and gold, a colour Isabel never
saw in England. Her face was very pretty, and young. She looked to
be perhaps eighteen years old, though Isabel knew her to be as old
as Aubranael in truth.
The lost princess
of Aylfenhame, long supposed dead, Lihyaen had been a childhood
companion of Aubranael’s. She had been discovered, alive (if not
entirely well), imprisoned in the Outwoods by a strange and
unbreakable enchantment. Hidenory, witch of the Outwoods, had made
the sacrifice of taking Lihyaen’s place, and the princess had been
free to resume her life.

Her growth, both
mentally and physically, had been severely retarded during her
long, long sojourn in the Outwoods. She had emerged with the
appearance of a girl of perhaps fifteen, when she should have been
of an age with Aubranael. Months of tranquillity and care had
restored much of her shattered peace of mind, and she was growing
and maturing very quickly. Still, Sophy thought she was often
troubled, and suspected that the princess suffered much more in the
aftermath of her ordeal than she would admit. These concerns had
been confided to Isabel more than once, and she felt all the
anxiety for Lihyaen’s recovery that Sophy could do; the girl had
suffered terribly under the curse, and the loss of her parents
besides. But she appeared calm and content, and smiled readily at
Isabel’s appearance.