Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (35 page)

Lyrriant was not so impressed with Eliza as Isabel was. As
the word Kostigern left her mouth, he sat up straighter on his
curious throne, his brow darkening in a foreboding frown. ‘That
name should never be mentioned here, madam.’

‘Then
I will not mention it again,’ said Eliza with a smile, and a
slight, apologetic inclination of her head. ‘But my question
stands.’

Lyrriant stood. At his full height, his was an imposing
figure; all the more so given that he stood upon a dais before
them. He towered above the two supplicant ladies, and his manner
was not conciliatory. ‘And why,’ he said in a dangerously quiet
voice, ‘would you ask such a thing?’

Isabel became abruptly aware that the music had stopped. Only
the violin continued to play, and that soon petered out, leaving
the company in a hushed silence.

Eliza
was not cowed. Isabel would not be, either. ‘If anyone is like to
remember the Ferryman’s name, it must be his former master and the
one who laid the curse,’ she said. ‘We hope to find some record
that will give us the information we seek.’

Lyrriant stared down at her, icily cold where he had been
congenial enough moments before. ‘You do not know what you ask. I
will not help you venture into the heart of that one’s territory.
Nor will any of mine. Such things should be left undisturbed, for
none can know the consequences of meddling.’

‘Please,’ Isabel said, beginning to feel desperate. ‘It is so
small a thing we seek!’

‘Great and terrible consequences may come of the smallest of
actions. I will not help you, and you should not have come
here.’

The
atmosphere in the starlit vale had changed, all merriment vanished
in favour of a subtle, but growing, menace. Lyrriant’s displeasure
spelled the end of their welcome, such as it had been. The Fiddler
appeared upon the dais before them, and made a mocking bow to
Isabel and her aunt.

‘Allow me to escort you out,’ he said. His pale eyes glinted
with a cruel light, and Isabel knew that the seeming courtesy of
his offer disguised an uncompromising intent.

She
exchanged a despairing look with her aunt, who had no more idea of
how to proceed than Isabel did. They could do nothing but curtsey
to Lyrriant, and follow the Fiddler away from the dais. The crowd
of dancers parted smoothly to allow him passage, and he strode
through without a backward glance, his posture erect with anger and
disdain.

Isabel paused only long enough to ensure that Tafferty and
Tiltager were safe and following along. The journey from the dais
back to the trees from which they had emerged was short, but it
felt long indeed. She was conscious every moment of the anger of
the Ayliri behind her, and the threat they posed should any of them
decide to express their disapprobation by more direct means. She
walked with her head high, unwilling to permit them to see how her
skin prickled under their hostile gaze — or how her heart quailed
in the knowledge of her own helplessness, should such a company of
Ayliri choose to be overtly hostile.

No
one did, though the heavy silence which attended their departure
was terrible enough, contrasted as it was with the lively merriment
which had prevailed only moments before. The Fiddler stopped when
he reached the knot of trees at the edge of the valley, and stood
staring coldly at Isabel and Eliza until they caught up with him.
He smiled with all the warmth of a frozen lake and whispered
something which Isabel barely heard. ‘Whishawist.’

Isabel was conscious of an abrupt, sickening sensation and
dizzying, intolerably rapid movement. Bile rose in her throat and
she retched, falling to her hands and knees and then onto the
earth. When she opened her eyes some time later, she saw the
familiar trees of Tilton Wood swaying peacefully in the breeze
above her, and beyond them, a night sky glittering with stars that
she knew.

‘Eliza?’ she gasped. ‘Tafferty and Tiltager?’

‘I am
here,’ said Eliza, in a voice as strained as Isabel’s own. Tafferty
growled and spat, then pressed herself up against Isabel’s side.
She was shivering violently, and Isabel tried as best she could to
comfort her companion.

‘Tiltager?’ she repeated, when moments passed with no response
from the tiny fae.

‘He
was not supposed to be angry,’ said Tiltager forlornly. ‘I told him
he should not be.’

Isabel sighed, and picked herself up off the ground. Her legs
shook, and for a moment she felt a strong desire to be ill for the
second time. She gritted her teeth and waited until the feeling
passed. ‘It is none of your doing,’ she said to Tiltager, when she
was certain she could speak without embarrassing herself. ‘And we
are grateful to you for guiding us, however unsatisfactory the
result.’

Tiltager peeped
miserably by way of reply. Isabel caught but a brief glimpse of her
in the moonlight, head bowed, before she faded into the darkness
and disappeared.

‘If
we hurry,’ said Eliza, ‘We may contrive to arrive at Ferndeane
before the sun rises.’

Startled, Isabel glanced at the eastern sky. A pale glow was
indeed beginning to glimmer somewhere behind the clouds, and she
sighed. ‘Then let us hurry.’

Chapter Seventeen

I’ll
admit, I was surprised at Lyrriant. ‘Twasn’t like him t’ be so
unhelpful-like, ‘specially to a pair o’ pretty young ladies. But
the Kostigern, thas a thorny topic. Gets people mighty worked
up.

I ‘ad
all my best folk out lookin’ fer some way to help Miss Isabel, as
ye may readily imagine. Nobody remembered the poor Ferryman, let
alone his name, an’ no one knew where to go lookin’ fer the
Kostigern’s hidey-hole neither. Aye well, he was always well tucked
away, that one. But wi’ the Ferryman rememberin’ next to nothin’
himself, the Chronicler missin’ an’ Lyrriant unwillin’ to speak,
where did that leave us? Wi’ a mighty ole mess.

It
worried Miss Isabel, I’ll no deny. But somethin’ odd came to pass
soon after — an’ in the midst of a grand ball, at that! ‘Twas a
confusin’ day fer our young lady, an’ she ‘ad some hard decisions
to make…

The
failure of the expedition into the Hollows left Isabel at a loss to
know where next to direct her attention. Nor was she much at
leisure to consider the question, for the ball at Ferndeane was
almost upon them, and the house descended into all the flurry and
chaos of the preparations her mother deemed necessary before her
friends and neighbours could be permitted to cross the threshold.
Isabel quickly saw that her mother’s aspirations had outpaced her
resources; the house was by no means large enough to accommodate
everyone to whom she had extended an invitation. There was no
ballroom at Ferndeane, either, and they were obliged to throw open
the doors in between two other rooms in order to create a makeshift
dancing space.

The
Thompson family were to be the guests of honour, of course, and it
fell to Isabel to ensure that their stay at Ferndeane would be
perfect in every conceivable way. All her mother’s anxious care of
Isabel’s appearance, largely forgotten since the Alford Assembly,
returned as well. In the midst of these various and burdensome
demands on her time, Isabel found barely a moment to reflect on the
problem of the Ferryman, or indeed to think of anything else at
all. Eliza gave as much assistance as she could, but Tafferty’s
notion of helping was more of a hindrance.

‘Thou
couldst enchant their closets,’ she suggested, wandering along
behind as Isabel surveyed the room that was to be assigned to Miss
Thompson. ‘A self-tidyin’ closet, where nothin’ is ever creased an’
messy. Or thou couldst encourage it t’ change all the colours o’
their gowns.’ Tafferty snickered under her breath as she pronounced
this second suggestion, and Isabel could not help smiling a little,
too, as she pictured Miss Thompson’s confusion upon opening her
closet to dress for the ball.

‘I
will do no such thing,’ she chided, but gently. ‘I cannot deny that
a self-tidying closet would prove useful, but it would be
impossible to explain. And besides, how can one expect a closet to
appreciate precisely the way in which one would like one’s gown’s
arranged?’

‘Then
yonder chamber-pot. Tell it t’ keep itself empty, no matter what
may be put into it.’

Isabel blinked, strongly tempted by the notion. ‘How
convenient that would be, to be sure! But again, I do not know how
I could explain it to our guests.’

Tafferty sighed. ‘Thou’rt too gullible. In truth, I am not
certain any o’ those things would be possible. But would it not be
entertainin’ t’ try?’

‘Perhaps, but now is not the time.’ Isabel spoke firmly, and
Tafferty sighed and slunk away. Isabel did not see her for the
remainder of the day.

The
ball was set for the morrow. Isabel retired to bed late, and was
obliged to rise early, for nothing would do for Mama but to spend
half the day fussing over Isabel’s hair, and her gown, and all the
rest. She had received favourable reports from her sister regarding
their interactions with the Thompsons while in York, and her hopes
were high indeed.

Isabel could not care about any of it; not when her failure
of the Ferryman weighed so heavily upon her conscience. She was
content to permit her mother to determine everything just as she
liked — with one exception. She would not consent to wear anything
other than the beautiful gown Sophy had made for her, and no
remonstrance of her mother’s could detract in the smallest degree
from her resolve. Mrs. Ellerby was obliged, though with ill grace,
to relent. Her distaste for the gown puzzled Isabel, until it
struck her how unmistakeably fae the garment looked. But her
accounts of the Misses Thompson’s eagerness for all things
Aylfenhame did nothing to mollify her mother’s doubts as to its
probable appeal for that family. Mrs. Ellerby had always
disapproved of Isabel’s occasional excursions to Grenlowe to visit
Sophy, though she had not outright forbidden her daughter’s going.
Her clear dislike for Isabel’s bringing any part of it back with
her brought all Eliza’s words to mind, and Isabel was saddened. Why
was difference so easily equated with inferiority, or
danger?

The
Thompson family arrived before two o’ clock. All was a whirl of
noise and obligation as they were settled at Ferndeane, and
subsequently entertained, until the hour to dress arrived. Isabel
retreated to her own room with a sense of relief, for the Misses
Thompson were a little overpowering when encountered all together.
Furthermore, she had been showered with more attention from young
Mr. Thompson than she had expected, and the meaningful looks
exchanged between her parents and his were unwelcome to her. She
closed her door upon all of this with a sigh, and submitted to the
efforts of her mother’s abigail in dressing her hair.

Eliza
entered when this process was almost complete, and stayed to assist
Isabel into her gown. She contrived, with a few deft touches of
Glamour, to enhance the otherness of the garment. Fully dressed,
Isabel seemed garbed in magic itself. Her gown was woven twilight,
her ribbons shining like moonlight upon water. The simple necklace
at her throat was no longer a sapphire; instead a living butterfly,
or its semblance, had alighted at the hollow of her throat as
though she were a flower in summer. Fireflies dreamed amongst the
coils of her hair.

Isabel gazed at this magnificence, torn between wonder and
dread. ‘But shall not—’ she began.

Eliza
cut her off. ‘If you are going to say that your mother will be
displeased, then I beg you not to speak at all. Harriet wishes for
her daughter to look her best, and so you do. It is not for anybody
to dictate how you choose to appear.’

It
occurred to Isabel that her aunt had not sought her permission
before transforming her simple jewellery and hair ornaments into
the marvels they now appeared to be, but she held her peace. If she
was becoming some manner of battleground in the ongoing conflict
between her mother and her mother’s sister, this could not please
her. But the butterfly did, very much.

Her
remaining qualm related to the other young ladies due to attend the
ball. They could not like being outshone by such arts as were
available to her, and it was perhaps unfair of Isabel to employ
them. Further, she would be no less at a loss to explain the
magical beauty of her garments and jewellery now than she had been
before. Would the three Thompson girls permit her to evade their
questions yet again?

She
opened her mouth to give voice to some of this, but a glance at her
aunt’s raised eyebrow silenced her.

‘It
is well,’ said Eliza firmly. ‘You appear as you should — and as you
have every right to be seen.’

But
not necessarily the desire, Isabel thought. She swiftly packed that
thought away, for it was not strictly the truth. It wasn’t that she
didn’t wish to make her appearance in such attire; merely that she
feared the possible consequences of doing so. And that, she could
now recognise as a fear inherited from her mother.

Upon
descending the stairs, she swiftly found herself subjected to all
the close questioning and enthusiastic examination that she
expected, most of it from the Misses Thompson — though their mother
was more forward in her interest than she had ever been before.
Eliza was of assistance in deflecting some of these, though Isabel
did not feel that they were fooling anybody. She caught Mrs.
Thompson’s eye more than once, and found that lady’s gaze fixed
upon her with an air of consideration.