Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (27 page)

Isabel took her meaning at once. Much of the gown’s
appearance was already naught but Glamour; could she, with a few
moments’ thought and effort, restore it to its former
perfection?

She
could. It was harder to focus, in the present chaos of the dining
parlour, than it had been in the quiet and safety of her own
bedchamber in her aunt’s house, but it was soon done. The dark
splash of sauce shimmered and vanished, leaving her gown
unblemished once more.

Mrs.
Thompson was in the process of making a grave apology to Isabel for
the incompetence of her servants, and assuring her that the damage
would be taken out of the footman’s wages. Isabel heard this with
quiet disapproval, and when she had finished, directly
said:

‘There can be no occasion for that, ma’am. It was but a small
lapse, which may happen to anyone. And I assure you, my gown is
perfectly unharmed. The sauce has narrowly missed me, it
appears.’

Startled, the
footman glanced down at her skirt. Here was the difficulty. He had
certainly been able to observe the damage with his own eyes. How
would he react to its sudden and inexplicable disappearance? She
saw confusion flicker across his face, and he blinked.

‘I am
relieved to hear it,’ Mrs. Thompson said regally. She was seated
opposite to Isabel, and therefore had no opportunity to witness the
fate of the gown with her own eyes. She dismissed the hapless
footman, who whisked himself away — but not without a final,
puzzled glance at Isabel.

Isabel sat quietly, suffering a tumult of emotions. She was
relieved to have saved the poor footman, though she could by no
means feel certain that she had. Her hostess’s anger had seemed out
of all proportion to the offence. Would she punish the poor boy
anyway, for having embarrassed her? Even if Isabel’s gown had,
ostensibly at least, taken no damage?

And
how would her little piece of Glamour be interpreted by the
footman? Would he spread the story among the servants, and if he
did, would it reach the ears of the family? Or was it too late to
conceal what she had done, even if the footman kept silent? For
Miss Matilda was seated next to Isabel, and she, too, had been
close enough to witness everything that had passed. She looked upon
the fine golden lace with a degree of puzzlement which dismayed
Isabel. ‘Why, how fortunate!’ she said. ‘For I could swear I saw a
deal of damage! It is the poor light. Papa, there really must be
more candles next time Miss Ellerby is invited.’

It
was unlikely that the truth would be guessed, Isabel decided. Her
venturing as far as Aylfenhame might be known, but no one would
imagine that she herself bore any of the powers of the Ayliri or
the fae. And she could not regret having done what she could to
protect the young footman from the wrath of his
mistress.

That
wrath was another source of disquiet to Isabel. How could Mrs.
Thompson appear so congenial to Isabel herself, and yet react with
such disproportionate fury to the smallest lapse among her
servants? It bespoke a wholly different personality hidden beneath
the amiable exterior, and one which Isabel had no wish to further
uncover. Miss Helena’s comments had also been ill-judged and
uncharitable, and no one had spoken up for the footman save for
Isabel herself, and the younger Mr. Thompson. He had done better
than the rest of his family, in making some effort to deflect his
mother’s anger from her servant. She respected him for
that.

The
subject passed after some minutes, and banal topics of conversation
once again succeeded. The rest of the dinner passed in peace. When
the ladies rose to remove to the drawing-room, Isabel found her
gown scrutinised much more closely by all of the Thompson
daughters. To her relief, they pronounced it unmarked, but the
tight pinch to their mother’s lips suggested that this did not
pacify her.

Isabel was relieved, later in the evening, to take her leave
and return home. Mrs. Grey felt as Isabel did, and did not conceal
her distaste for Mrs. Thompson’s behaviour.

‘I do
not think we will return to that house in any great haste,’ she
told her niece as they rode home in her carriage. ‘Your mother’s
wishes notwithstanding.’

Isabel could only
agree.

‘But
I congratulate you!’ continued Mrs. Grey. ‘You will be a fine
Glamourist, I have no doubt. I could not have managed the gown any
better myself. Such perfect beauty in these butterflies! And the
stain upon it, so neatly hidden! I hope you are pleased with your
own skill, for I am most impressed.’

Isabel’s immediate reaction was denial. Of course she was not
pleased! Her desire to reject the witch side of herself had not
much diminished. But a moment’s reflection showed her the folly of
such thoughts. The beauty of her gown delighted her, however it had
been arrived at; and she had been relieved to rescue the Thompsons’
footman from the unmerited consequences of a minor accident. Today,
then, she had learned two things about her powers: they may be used
to add many a delight to her own life, and there were times where
they could be of use to others. These were not insignificant
advantages.

She
retired to her bedchamber as soon as they arrived at Mrs. Grey’s
home, and retreated to her bed with a heavy heart. It was a relief
to her to put the puzzling questions of the Thompsons out of her
mind in favour of perusing the first of the scrolls she had taken
from the Chronicler’s Tower. She had given half of them to her
aunt, as per Mrs. Grey’s request, but several large and
densely-scribed scrolls still remained.

The
writing thereupon was tiny and difficult to read, and she suffered
a pang of dismay. Good heavens, but at this rate it could take her
two months to read everything upon these scrolls alone! For she
must read closely and carefully, for fear of missing the very
information she sought.

No
matter. She must persevere, even if it took her six months together
to find the Ferryman’s name. She had promised, and he was waiting.
She spared a thought for his merry dark eyes, fixed upon her with a
glow of regard, and settled to read with renewed determination. She
read far into the night, and did not close her eyes in slumber
until her candle burned low, and at last flickered out.

Chapter Fourteen

Isabel soon mastered the trick of reading the scrolls’ dense,
crowded lettering and the sometimes curious phrasing and syntax the
scribe had used. She and her aunt took to spending some part of
their mornings together in the parlour, poring over a scroll each
and conferring as to the contents. Isabel valued these hours, for
they drew her ever closer to her aunt. Theirs had always been an
amiable relationship, but Isabel felt that a real friendship was
being forged through their shared endeavour.

Further, Mrs. Grey’s enthusiasm — or Eliza’s, as she began to
insist upon being called — was contagious. Isabel had come to view
her promise as rash and naive; how could she hope to discover
something so small as a single name, long lost to time, and of a
different world to her own? But Eliza was energetic and dauntless,
and her optimism and motivation bolstered her niece’s spirits and
built her hopes.

Nonetheless, they were obliged to read a great deal of
material which bore no relevance whatsoever to their quest. For
three days, they read of the Kostigern and his attempts to master
the realm of Aylfenhame. Or her. Isabel was frequently puzzled, for
it seemed that a great deal about the traitor’s identity was
unknown. Sources differed as to the Kostigern’s probable gender;
even the Chronicler did not appear to be able to say for certain.
Further, a question hung over his or her race. Was the Kostigern
Aylir, goblin, or something else? Some even whispered that the he
or she was human, or part human, and had come out of England to
conquer Aylfenhame. The Chronicler noted all such stories, whispers
and tales without judgement, and Isabel was left
mystified.

Nor
was it apparent when this had occurred. The Aylfenhame way of
marking time differed significantly from that of England. Isabel
and Eliza spent more than an hour, one rainy morning, attempting to
determine how the Chronicler’s timelines related to their own, but
without success. They were obliged to conclude merely that the
conflict had taken place some long time ago, but that it was not
ancient history. The Ferryman had estimated the time at
approximately a century, but his reckoning had been vague — and
besides, he had slept most of the time away, and Isabel knew not
whether she could rely upon his judgement.

Of
the Kostigern, the emerging picture was that of a traitor — a
sorcerer — who had materialised from somewhere unknown, had rapidly
mustered a formidable network of supporters among the fae and
Ayliri of the realm, and had come perilously close to taking
Mirramay and the throne. They had been defeated, but narrowly.
Isabel was delighted to find Sir Guntifer mentioned by name, as a
hero of the conflict. He and his fellow tree-giants had been
instrumental in the defence of Mirramay. The Goblin King, however,
had not been. To the confusion of all, he had been recorded as
assisting both sides at different times. Isabel sighed over this,
for it struck her as all too Grunewald.

While
interesting, none of this was of relevance. It was the fourth day
of such studies before Isabel encountered the first mention of the
Ferry-folk. They had been among the first to be corrupted by the
Kostigern, and for good reason; such powers of transport were
highly advantageous. Some had answered the traitor’s call, but some
had not, and for a time battles had raged in the skies over
Aylfenhame as ferry-boats from both sides encountered each other.
Many of the boats had been outright destroyed.

But
the Chronicler had recorded nothing more. Her heart had quickened
as she read this, expecting at any moment to discover a list of the
names of those who had assisted the Kostigern. But there was no
such list. She sighed her disappointment, a sound which attracted
her aunt’s attention.

‘It
is a great shame,’ Eliza agreed, upon hearing the tale. ‘Perhaps
the Chronicler did not know the names.’

‘I
dislike that notion excessively,’ Isabel sighed, ‘for if he does
not, then who ever will?’ She paused, as a notion struck her. ‘I
had not thought. The Ferryman talked of the Kostigern, and as a he.
“He was my Master.” And he implied that this apprenticeship of his
lasted some years. How can it be that this information never
reached the Chronicler?’

Eliza
tapped a fingertip against her lips. ‘That is curious indeed. But
the Ferryman has not been at liberty to talk to anybody very much,
has he? Have we yet discovered how he came to be
cursed?’

‘No,
not yet. I imagine that is to come towards the end of these
scrolls, for it must have followed the end of the conflict, I
believe? But it is becoming clearer why he is the only Ferryman
remaining.’ She tapped the scroll spread before her. ‘It is a
terrible story, aunt. Many of them were slain, and their boats
destroyed. They slew each other. I cannot help imagining our
Ferryman caught up in such a war, forced to fight his own kind.
Perhaps he killed some of them. Perhaps he was badly hurt himself.
And all because he was oath-bound!’

Eliza’s face clouded, and she nodded. ‘I am curious as to how
he became one of the Ferry-folk to begin with. I wonder if the
Kostigern arranged it thus, in order to make use of
him?’

‘It
seems all too likely,’ Isabel agreed. The longer she read, the
harder the task became, for to read of such terrible conflicts tore
at her heart. The more so because she knew that her own friends had
been closely involved. She regretted, now, that she had asked no
further questions of the Ferryman, or of Sir Guntifer — and at the
same time, she did not regret it. Could she bear to hear more, and
from those who had been directly involved? But it was important
that she persevered. She would have to muster her courage, and bear
onward, in spite of the horrific images that formed in her mind
with each new account that she read.

Of
considerable interest, however, were the accounts of the Torpor
that she soon afterwards discovered.

…and they whose
treachery had so near brought the Betrayer to dominion over
Aylfenhame were judged by Her Majesty, the Queen at Mirramay. In
Her Mercy, She condemned them not to Death as her loyal subjects
urged, but instead to the Torpor. Thus were many Lost to Time. And
this marked the beginning of the Diminishing of
Aylfenhame…

The
Torpor. These words swiftly brought to Isabel’s mind the Ferryman’s
words regarding his long absence. Well, in Aylfenhame, those things
which nobody wants or needs can… fade. That fading was the Torpor,
a kind of enchanted slumber, though during the Torpor even the
sleeper’s body somehow faded from existence. The scroll advanced no
information as to what the Torpor was, for that was not the nature
of the discussion. It merely assumed that the reader knew of the
phenomenon. Isabel hoped she was not incorrect to connect it with
the Ferryman’s words, but it made sense.

What
she now learned was twofold: firstly that a denizen of Aylfenhame
may voluntarily go into the Torpor, if they wished it, although
they may also sink into the enchantment involuntarily.