Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (34 page)

In
the centre, a clear space served as the dancing-floor for a great
many Ayliri couples. The dance they performed resembled a lively
cotillion, though the steps were as nothing Isabel had ever seen
before. They danced with abandon, laughing and whirling with
unabashed enjoyment; Isabel felt an instant, inexplicable but
strong desire to join them. Judging from the tightening of Eliza’s
hand upon hers, her aunt suffered from a similar compulsion. Even
Tiltager was beginning to sway in time to the music.

Isabel gasped, as the piercing notes of a pipe rose above the
music. She could not see the Piper, but that must be him.
‘Tiltager!’ she said softly.

The
little fae bobbed one of her funny bows to Isabel.
‘Mistress?’

‘That
pipe! The one who plays it is the one I seek.’

Tiltager brightened. ‘Oh, Lyrriant! Probably he will not be
angry. Wait here.’

Isabel winced inwardly at that probably. She watched as
Tiltager trotted away in the direction of the dancers, Tafferty
following at her heels.

Eliza
sighed softly, and began to sway back and forth. ‘It is very hard,
to be obliged to wait.’

Isabel nodded her agreement. Somehow she knew every note of
the melody, though she was sure she had never heard the tune
before. It hummed through her bones, urging her to abandon caution
and her errand both, and join herself with the music at once. She
gripped her aunt’s arm, fighting hard to resist the allure of the
dance.

Then
the elegant, soaring notes of a fiddle reached her ears, emanating
from somewhere close by. She jumped, and instinctively stepped
backwards and further into the shadows of the trees. A man passed
them only a few feet away; Isabel realised with a start that she
recognised him. He was tall and broad of shoulder, his skin pallid
and his hair even paler. He wore a flamboyant full-sleeved shirt
and knee-breeches, with strangely curled shoes. He played haunting
notes upon a violin with a slender, pearly bow; the instrument
seemed to her wondering eye to be made from spun glass, and mist
curled in its depths.

‘The
Fiddler,’ she whispered to her aunt. ‘I saw him at the
Assembly.’

The
Fiddler disappeared into the throng of dancers and musicians.
Isabel soon lost sight of him, though she could hear the strains of
the music he played. She could not see Tiltager either, nor
Tafferty.

‘Aunt, do you think we should—’ she began, but she came to an
abrupt halt as the Fiddler appeared directly in front of them. He
bowed to them, his bow still drawing a lively melody from the
strings of his violin, and smiled graciously upon them both. But
his smile held a hint of something far less than congenial, as he
said, ‘Tis a rudeness to spectate, and without an invitation! Some
might call it spying.’

Isabel curtseyed at once and curtseyed low, her heart
pounding. ‘Our apologies, sir! We had no intent to spy. We are here
to speak with one of your own — the one who plays the
pipe.’

The
Fiddler smiled a little wider, his pale eyes glinting with all the
warmth of ice. ‘Lyrriant is occupied at present. Perhaps you will
permit me to entertain you.’ He turned his head slightly, and at
this minor gesture two Aylir gentlemen instantly left the dance and
approached. One was as slender and graceful as any woman, his hair
tumbling in silver-grey curls around a pale, elegant face. The
other was dark of skin, his hair a contrastingly pallid cloud, his
black eyes wide-set above high, sharp cheekbones. They were both
attired in an approximation of the court dress of England, at least
that which had been fashionable in the past century: Silken
knee-breeches and stockings, shirts as light as gossamer and as
pale as moonlight; their waistcoats patterned with cobwebs and
leaves; their coats sewn from mist-grey and twilight velvet, and
richly decorated with lace. The two gentlemen bowed to Eliza and
Isabel, and each extended a hand.

‘But—’ Isabel tried to say. The rest of the words she had
intended to speak would not come, for the Fiddler raised one
ice-white eyebrow and played three swift, sharp notes upon the
violin. All thought of anything save the music, the dance and her
partner left Isabel’s head in an instant. Instead of darting away
in search of the Piper, or Tiltager, or Tafferty, she found herself
curtseying low to the gentleman with the silvery curls and
accepting his proffered hand. Moments later she was deep in the
dance, tripping lightly through the steps of the strange cotillion
as though she had danced it all her life. She saw Eliza whirling
close by, laughing with delight, her eyes bright with merriment and
her cheeks pink with exertion.

A
stray wisp of thought intruded itself upon Isabel’s happiness: She
saw Tiltager in her mind’s eye, and the Piper as he had been at the
Alford Assembly, his attention fixed upon her for one brief,
intense moment. Her last thought was of the Ferryman, laughing as
she taught him to dance.

Then the music
engulfed her, and everything else faded.

A
short, sharp, piercing pain abruptly jolted Isabel out of her merry
reverie some immeasurable time later. She gasped, stumbled and
almost fell, for the pain came from her left ankle, and a weight
hung there, dragging her off-balance. She blinked, brought suddenly
back to her own mind. The cotillion whirled on around her, but she
was no longer absorbed by it.

She
knew a pang of regret, which she quickly smothered. Looking down,
she was not surprised to see Tafferty hanging off her leg, the
catterdandy’s jaws clamped tight around her ankle.

‘I
thank you,’ she gasped. ‘But I beg you will release me.’

Tafferty relaxed the grip of her sharp teeth, growling in her
throat. ‘Thou may’st apologise t’ me later,’ she grumbled. ‘Which
part o’ stay there was confusin’ t’ thee?’

‘Oh,
we did! But we were observed, I must assume, and the Fiddler came,
and somehow I lost my senses.’ Isabel looked wildly around for
Eliza, but did not see her.

‘Aye,’ muttered Tafferty. ‘Music went straight t’ thy bubblish
head, an’ away thou didst wander. An’ thy aunt, the same! A
precious pair ye do make. Make haste. Tiltager ‘as got the Piperish
one in speech, an’ she requires thee.’

‘I am
coming this moment, only I cannot find my aunt.’

‘I
will attend t’ that. Off with thee. Thataway.’ Tafferty pointed her
nose off to her left, and then dashed away.

To
her dismay, Isabel realised that her bonnet and shawl were lost and
her hair had come loose from its bindings. Stranger still, her
walking-dress had changed. In place of her staid, practical
garments she now wore an airy dress of gossamer silk bedecked with
ribbons. The fabric was so light as to be near translucent. In this
disreputable state of dress she was obliged to remain, for there
could be no hope of restoring herself to respectability.

She
began to walk, tentatively, in the direction that Tafferty had
indicated. Soon she was able to abandon her care and move with
greater speed and confidence, for the dancers around her did not
seem to notice her at all, though they moved in such a way as to
avoid colliding with her. In a moment, Isabel came upon a dais
secreted behind the dancers, and there the Piper — Lyrriant — was
seated.

He
reclined upon a chair which appeared to have grown from the stump
of an old tree. His indigo hair was swept back from his brow, and
his pale goldish skin shimmered in the lantern-light. His eyes were
fixed upon Tiltager, who stood upon the arm of his chair in a gown
made from rose petals. At first her words were impossible to
discern amidst the tumult of the music, but as Isabel neared the
dais she could hear something of the speech the little fae was
making to Lyrriant.

‘…
and
Miss Isabel, she cries, I shall not rest until I have freed thee,
brave Ferryman, from thy torment! And the Ferryman, he was smitten
with her upon the instant, for she is the most beauteous of ladies
as well as the truest of heart!’ These astonishing proclamations
were accompanied by extravagant gestures and mimes; Tiltager
appeared to enjoy a strong talent for the dramatic. ‘Ever since
that day, my good and kind mistress has striven to fulfil her
promise to the beleaguered Ferryman, and release him from his cruel
fate! And now her quest has brought her here, into the heart of the
Hollow Hills, for you see she is courage itself, and shrinks at
nothing! It is to your court that she has come, seeking aid for one
who cannot aid himself.’ Tiltager bowed deeply, her efforts
rewarded with hearty applause from Lyrriant.

‘A
lively tale!’ he said in a light voice. ‘But I scarcely believe in
the heroine of the story! A lady in possession of quite so many
merits can hardly be a living creature.’ His eyes flicked to Isabel
as he spoke, and his smile widened. ‘This, I perceive, must be the
lady. Is it she?’

Tiltager turned to regard Isabel, beaming. ‘It is she!
Mistress, I have told to kind Lyrriant every part of the tale, and
you see he will not be able to refuse to assist you now that he has
heard it all, and seen you for himself!’

Isabel paused to wonder how Tiltager had come by the story at
all, though she could find no immediate answer. ‘I fear you have
embellished a little, Tiltager, though I thank you for your
efforts. The gentleman is perfectly right. I am not nearly so
sparkling a creature as you have described. Why, I shrink at many
things, and I have no doubt there are ladies far truer of heart,
and far more beautiful, than I!’

Lyrriant’s eyes pinned and held her, their expression
considering. She quailed a little under such scrutiny, for she
felt, oddly, as though every part of her character was laid bare.
‘Beauty she has, though in no extraordinary degree,’ he mused. ‘And
she is correct: she shrinks at many things. But there is heart
there, and plenty.’

Isabel coloured,
and looked down at the ground, unsure how to respond to such frank
appraisal. She felt both shamed and flattered, and in such equal
degree that she knew not where to look.

Lyrriant’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘Do I not? I
have seen you dance before. Though the face has altered, I know the
spirit that lies beneath.’

Isabel inclined her head. ‘You played at an assembly in
England, some weeks ago. I was also in attendance.’

Lyrriant smiled, his lips quirking in an odd way. ‘I have
played at many English assemblies, these past weeks! I remember
you, for you caught my eye. But you are not now as you were
then.’

‘No,
sir. I have undergone changes aplenty since we encountered each
other last.’

‘I
see that you have.’ Lyrriant watched her with a meditative air,
playing idly with the curled pipe he held in his hands. ‘I cannot
help you,’ he finally said. ‘If I knew the name, I might consent to
share it, for it is an affecting tale. But I do not, and it is
unlikely that any here will have the information you seek. A mere
Ferryman, and long in Torpor! His will not be a known
name.’

Isabel had scarcely been aware of the degree of hope she had
nurtured, until these words abruptly extinguished it. She stood
speechless, momentarily bereft of ideas. If Lyrriant did not know,
nor could he direct them to anyone who could… where could she turn?
All that remained was Eliza’s terrifying idea about—

‘The
Kostigern,’ said Eliza, speaking loudly and clearly to be heard
over the music. ‘Do you know where he came from?

Isabel looked up. Eliza stood a few feet away, Tafferty
sitting at her feet. Like Isabel, she had been somehow divested of
the simpler dress she had worn earlier in the evening. Instead she
wore a gauzy ball gown of sea-foam silk and lace; her abundant hair
was swept up in an elaborate arrangement, and secured with jewelled
combs. No trace of Mrs. Grey was discernible in any part of her
appearance, her posture or her manner. Gone was Isabel’s congenial
aunt in all her neat respectability; in her place stood a proud,
strong and uncompromising woman, certain of her right to be here in
this place that was not England. She looked every inch an
Aylir.

Isabel wondered, for a fleeting instant, whether her own
appearance was in any way comparable to her aunt’s. In her borrowed
wisps of fae-silk and her jewels, her gold-threaded hair wild and
loose and her colour high, was she not also a different creature
from Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane? For the first time, she began to
feel that her transformation was not wholly a lamentable one. She
may feel out of place here in the Hollow Hills, but perhaps she was
not. And she could be every bit as strong as Eliza. She stood a
little straighter, lifted her chin, and awaited Lyrriant’s response
with a firmer resolve.