Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (14 page)

‘I
thank you,’ she said softly. ‘But I… cannot.’

‘You
are afraid, I think?’ said Sophy.

Isabel bit her lip, and nodded. ‘I do not know how I am to
manage,’ she confessed. ‘And it does not seem that we are likely to
find this Chronicler in Mirramay.’

Sophy
tucked her arm through Isabel’s. ‘It is remarkable what we can
manage, when we are compelled to make the attempt,’ she said. ‘Or
when we compel ourselves.’

Remembering Sophy’s accounts of her own adventures in
Aylfenhame, Isabel blushed. Sophy had been beset by trials of one
sort or another, but she had weathered them all, and done so with
cheerful good-humour. For Isabel herself to object to a mere bit of
travelling seemed hopelessly feeble.

‘Perhaps you will wish to take Lihyaen?’ Isabel suggested,
mindful of the princess’s obvious interest in the plan.

Sophy
shook her head. ‘In time, but not now. She is… that is, we are
still keeping her close. It is by no means certain that she could
return to the Court without endangering herself.’

‘Then
may you safely leave her?’ Isabel said — aware as she spoke that
she was reaching for excuses, but unable to help
herself.

‘Yes,’ said Sophy firmly. ‘She will have Aubranael, and Mary,
and Thundigle to keep her safe, and there are others set to watch
over her. Balli makes sure of that.’

Isabel fell silent, her thoughts turned inwards. If she
accepted her friends’ rationale, was there any true reason why she
could not go? She was easily tired, it was true, and the journey
would be demanding; but tiredness could not harm her. The errand
might prove futile, but nothing could be gained if she did not go
at all.

Her
mother would be disappointed in her. Her father… angry. These
considerations weighed rather more with Isabel than any other, and
she hesitated.

‘Bah!’ said Tafferty in disgust. Isabel looked down, startled,
to find the catterdandy sitting close by her feet. Her companion
butted her head against Isabel’s legs, not ungently, and rubbed her
thick-furred body against her gown. ‘A lily-liver, an’ a sorry one!
Sit in thy fancy-fine chair all the days o’ thy life, wilt thou,
an’ let thy Older Ones do all thy thinkin’ for thee! Whose life is
it, I ask thee?’

My
father’s, Isabel wanted to reply, for it often seemed as though his
decisions ruled not only her own life but her mother’s as well. But
she did not, for Tafferty was right. She saw at last why her aunt
had been so eager to convey her into Aylfenhame: it represented a
chance for her to change the course of her life, and make choices
of her own.

The
prospect terrified her, for she had rarely in her life been
permitted to make the smallest decision for herself — not even as
to the colour of her gowns. But a glance at Sophy’s serene,
cheerful face calmed her nerves. Sophy had strayed far from the
path of convention, and thrived upon it. Perhaps she would thrive,
too.

‘I
will go,’ she said, and managed to speak without a tell-tale tremor
in her voice. ‘Who will go with me?’

‘I
will!’ said Lihyaen at once.

Sophy exchanged a
look with Aubranael, but before either of them could speak,
Balligumph drew the princess aside and began to speak in a voice
pitched so low that Isabel could hear nothing of his
speech.

Aubranael approached Isabel and Sophy. ‘I will take care of
her,’ he said to Sophy, who nodded. Isabel marvelled at the degree
of openness and understanding between the two: they had not needed
to discuss what they would do or how it would be managed, each
seeming to know the other’s intentions and thoughts without asking.
It was vastly different from the relationship between her mother
and her father.

Sophy
smiled and clasped her husband’s hand in thanks. ‘I think we will
take Pinket,’ she mused. ‘And Pinch.’

‘Pinch!’ repeated Aubranael. ‘Anyone but! You will have not an
instant’s peace.’

Sophy
laughed. ‘True, but I want Pinket with us very much, and you cannot
believe that Pinch would consent to remain behind
alone.’

Aubranael rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Take something soft
with which to stuff up your ears,’ he recommended.

Isabel smiled. She was not very much acquainted with Pinket
and Pinch, but she knew them a little. Pinket was a
will-o-the-wyke, a wisp of fae-light with more of a mind and
personality than she would ever have thought possible. Pinch was a
particularly diminutive pixie fae who sometimes took the form of a
wisp — usually when he wanted to perform some manner of mischief.
The two were staunch friends, and inseparable.

Balligumph’s voice, raised above a murmur, reached Isabel’s
ears. ‘Ye are a good lass,’ he said in a kindly tone to Lihyaen.
‘Yer time will come, mark my words, but ye’ve a deal o’ growin’ to
be done yet. Aylfenhame cannot bear to lose ye a second
time.’

Lihyaen sighed and drifted forlornly towards Sophy and
Aubranael. ‘I wish I could go with you,’ she said to Isabel, with a
hint of bitterness. ‘This waiting is intolerable.’

Isabel sympathised. It was hard on the girl, but she saw the
sense of Balligumph’s words. Lihyaen was not yet ready to take the
throne, and until she was, her survival and her location must
remain a secret — for her own safety.

‘I
have a request,’ said Lihyaen to Isabel. She hesitated, frowning.
‘It is Hidenory,’ she continued in a rush. ‘My old nurse. The
witch? You remember her?’

Isabel
nodded.

‘Mr.
Balligumph says that she is gone from the tea-table,’ said Lihyaen.
‘But I can scarcely believe it to be true! I would like dearly to
know, but I cannot bear to go near to the place…’

‘We
will look,’ Isabel promised.

Lihyaen smiled with relief. ‘Will you indeed? It is so kind
of you! I know you will not be able to approach very nearly, but
you may perhaps be able to tell whether she is still… there.’ The
last word was spoken doubtfully, and accompanied by a fierce frown.
Hidenory had volunteered herself in Lihyaen’s place, and had duly
taken over as the hostess of the strange Teapot Society party. And
there she must stay until someone else took her place — or until
the enchantment was broken by some other means. If Hidenory was
free, then someone else must be occupying the host’s seat. Isabel
did not welcome such a thought. If they arrived at the tea-table to
find someone else doomed to such a fate, Isabel did not think she
could again walk away and leave them there.

She could not but
promise, and the promise was duly made.

‘But
who shall be yer guide?’ said Balligumph with a twinkle. ‘Let me
think, now. Who could possibly know enough about the wilds, an’ the
Outwoods, an’ Mirramay itself, to take ye safely there an’ back?’
His eyes strayed towards Sir Guntifer as he spoke, who reacted by
drawing himself up to his full height and staring down upon the
troll with strong disapproval.

‘Methinks thou art insinuating something,’ he said.

Balligumph beamed at him. ‘Will ye, old friend? There’s none
better’n ye.’

Sir
Guntifer shook himself mightily, sending a cloud of leaves flying
into the air from — apparently — nowhere. ‘Thou art a miscreant,’
he informed Balligumph. ‘There is naught of rest or slumber to be
had with such friends as thee.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Balligumph. ‘That’s the idea.’

Sir
Guntifer grumbled something inaudible. ‘Very well. I will guide the
maid and her band of friends.’ He glared at Balligumph. ‘But I
shall do it because she is a fair maid, and kindly! Not because of
thy meddling.’

‘I
don’t care why ye do it, so long as ye do,’ Balligumph said with a
chuckle. ‘Aye, very good! A fine day’s work. Off wi’ ye, then. The
sooner ye get goin’, the sooner ye may return.’

An’ so
it was tha’ two fine English ladies set off to journey from
Grenlowe to the city o’ Mirramay, across many leagues o’ the wilds
of Aylfenhame, an’ attended only by a wisp, a pixie an’ a
tree-giant. Mighty gumptious o’ them, was it not, now? An’ a merry
adventure! I am proud to know the pair o’ them. An’ they managed
very well wi’ the demands o’ the journey, ye’ll no be surprised to
hear. But it weren’t entirely a smooth-like journey. Such a party
as that cannot fail of attractin’ a mite o’ notice…

Chapter Nine

‘The
trick to it,’ said Pinch, removing his pipe from his mouth, ‘is to
be a natural genius, like me. Then you will find everything easy.’
He stuck the pipe back into his mouth, took a long drag upon it,
and grinned.

Isabel eyed the little wretch, and wondered in the privacy of
her own mind whether it would be acceptable for her to smack him.
He sorely deserved it, and she felt tolerably certain that Sophy
would agree. They had been two days upon the road, and Pinch had
scarcely stopped talking — which would not be so very bad, had he
been more amusing a companion. As it was, such self-aggrandising
witticisms as he had just shared were all that could be expected
from him.

‘Pinch,’ said Sophy gravely. ‘If you cannot mind your tongue,
there will be consequences.’

Pinch’s grin merely grew wider. He was sitting on Sir
Guntifer’s shoulder, facing backwards so that he could see Sophy
and Isabel riding behind. He looked the picture of comfort and
contentment from this vantage point, and since his steed had long
ago adopted the policy of ignoring everything that was going on
behind him, he suffered no consequences for the crime of filling
the tree-giant’s ears with his nonsense. Isabel wondered whether
Sir Guntifer had somehow arrived at a state where he genuinely did
not hear the wretched little pixie, and envied him.

‘Consequences!’ carolled Pinch. ‘The lady is severe! Pray,
what could you find to do to me?’

‘I
will take your pipe.’ Sophy’s voice was deceptively serene. ‘And
then, Pinch, I will probably drop it. I will not be able to help
myself. I am very clumsy, you know.’

Pinch’s smile faded and his eyes grew wide. ‘Aye, yes!
Clumsiest wench I ever saw! That’s a threat.’ He sucked furiously
upon the pipe as though to reassure himself.

Isabel privately thought it would be a shame to smash such a
thing. The pipe appeared to be made from glass, though in all
likelihood it was wrought from some Aylfish thing of a different
character. It was a delicate object, too big for the pixie who
carried it, and intriguingly coiled. A constant stream of smoke
curled lazily through the long, twisting tube, and by some magic it
ever changed its hue. As Isabel watched, somewhat mesmerised — a
pursuit she had been engaging in a great deal in the past days —
the smoke drifted from a sea-blue colour into a delicate
violet.

‘It
is no empty threat, Mr. Pinch!’ said Sophy. ‘I am a danger to all
delicately-made things, and I will not hesitate to exercise my
talents upon your treasure!’

To
Isabel’s surprise, Pinch actually fell silent for a little
while.

Tafferty shifted and turned about. She was enthroned once
again on the neck of Isabel’s mare, and had passed most of the
journey so far in a sound sleep. Isabel envied that, too. But now
the catterdandy woke and directed a considering look at
Isabel.

‘Happen it be time fer thy first lesson,’ said Tafferty. Her
voice was pitched so low, Isabel imagined no one heard it but
herself. ‘The pixie needs teachin’, an’ he is meant t’ be teachin’
thee. Happen thou must teach him a lesson first, an’ then his mind
will be brought t’ a proper way o’ thinkin’.’

Isabel nodded, for she was not at all averse to the notion of
teaching the smug pixie a lesson. ‘But what could I do? I do not
share Sophy’s talent for breaking things by chance, and I could not
destroy such a pretty pipe deliberately.’

Tafferty’s tail twitched. ‘Thou takest a distressin’ delight
in bein’ obtuse,’ she said with deep dissatisfaction.

Isabel coloured. ‘What, then, do you wish me to
do?’

‘Thou
hast shown an extraordinary lack of interest in yer witchin’
powers, up till now,’ said Tafferty with a growl. ‘A more
lack-a-dais-i-cal apprentice I could scarce have asked fer.’ She
drew the word “lackadaisical” out long and thin, with great relish,
and Isabel felt a twinge of guilt.

‘I am
sorry,’ she said; aware, as she spoke, that those three words had
passed her lips a great many times in the past few days of her
life. ‘So much has happened! I can scarce keep up. And besides
that, I…’ she fell silent as a wave of shame engulfed
her.

‘What?’ Tafferty prompted.

‘I am
unsure if I… wish to be a witch at all,’ said Isabel in a miserable
half-whisper. ‘It is very inconvenient. I do not at all think I
will be able to be a witch in York, when I am married to Mr.
Thompson — or someone else like him. It will not be thought
respectable. And so I will have to hide it, as does my aunt Grey,
and if that is all I am destined to do, there is little purpose in
learning. Is there not?’

Tafferty’s growl deepened. ‘I will set tha’ piece o’
fatuosity firmly t’ one side. What dost thou think thy aunt had in
mind in sendin’ thee here if not t’ learn thee somethin’ o’ use? If
thou wert a wittier bean o’ humanity thou wouldst consider that thy
aunt Grey maybe bears a regret or two in ‘er mind.’