Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (6 page)

‘My
great-grandmother,’ said Isabel.

‘Indeed. Years later, similar things were said of her daughter
— my mother.’

Isabel’s thoughts flew to the Ayliri who had danced at the
Alford Assembly. They, too, had been beautiful and strange; their
faces and bodies were human enough, but their eyes and hair and
colouring were quite unlike.

Mrs.
Grey saw the realisation dawn on Isabel’s face, for her smile grew
wider. ‘You understand,’ she said.

‘The
piper…?’ Isabel said faintly.

‘No,
it was not he. But your great-grandmother’s father was most
certainly Aylir.’ Mrs. Grey paused, allowing Isabel a moment to
absorb this information.

Isabel swallowed. ‘I am part Aylir?’ she said at
last.

‘A
small part, by this time,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘But a little of the
blood of Aylenhame is yours, and it appears to have bred true in
your case. There is one in every generation, you see. It was always
my regret that Mr. Grey and I were not blessed with children. Your
mother never showed the slightest signs of her Aylir heritage. She
is human, body and soul. I feared perhaps that the blood had died
out with us, for it seemed unlikely that she and Mr. Ellerby could
produce such a child. But so they have.’

Isabel’s thoughts whirled. ‘But—’ she said faintly. ‘But I am
not remarkable! My hair is of the most commonplace, merely brown,
and my eyes naught but brown as well, and—’

‘Yes,
yes,’ said Mrs. Grey, cutting short this outburst with a wave of
one elegant hand. ‘But generations have passed, and the blood has
thinned with time. It does not show in your appearance, perhaps,
but it is very apparent in your abilities. And in mine.’

‘What
abilities?’ said Isabel.

‘Aylfenlike,’ said a voice from the carpet.

Isabel looked down. The being who proclaimed herself Isabel’s
new companion stretched out one of her long, slender forelegs,
spreading her paw wide, and yawned hugely. ‘More likely thou
wouldst know it as witchery.’

Isabel silently repeated the word to herself, disturbed at
the way her stomach fluttered in response. Witchery. ‘That cannot
be,’ she said. She spoke impulsively, but from her heart. In her
mind she held two visions: one of herself as she had always been,
the Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane whose duties were clear, and whose
future was all but decided. Whether she married Mr. Thompson or
someone else of similar eligibility, her path in life was settled:
she would marry, she would be mistress of a house and a mother. And
with such a destiny, she was content. There was no room in this
vision for Ayliri heritage, witchery or a fae companion. She
struggled to reconcile the two contrasting ideas, and
failed.

In
this second vision of herself, how would her life progress? Isabel
the witch, part Aylir, and enjoying a close acquaintance with
denizens of Aylfenhame! None of it registered as plausible. She
could not imagine the path of her life under these conditions. Even
remembering Sophy, happily settled in Grenlowe with an Aylir
husband, offered her little comfort. She was delighted for Sophy’s
happiness, but never for an instant had she imagined that any part
of Sophy’s life could be hers as well.

‘It
can be,’ said the creature sleepily. ‘It is.’ This was said in a
bored tone.

‘But—’ Isabel faltered.

The
creature roused herself from slumber with a growl and stood up,
turning on Isabel. ‘How very feeble!’ she said, the growl still
rumbling behind her words. ‘I have walked and walked to find thee,
followed thee all the way to this nethersome backway of a place,
and this is my welcome! Witch! I say that of thee, and it is the
truth. I am thy companion. My name is Tafferty.’

‘I am
sorry,’ said Isabel at once. ‘It is not that I do not appreciate
your efforts. It is merely that I do not understand. How is it that
you came to venture here?’

‘I
felt the call.’ This appeared to conclude Tafferty’s interest in
conversing, for she turned her back on Isabel once more and curled
up with her tail over her nose.

Isabel looked at
her aunt.

‘I
cannot precisely explain it,’ said Mrs. Grey, a hint of amusement
lighting her eyes. ‘Vershibat was the same. He arrived one morning,
out of breath and very weary. He announced that he had been
summoned, and promptly fell asleep. Since then he has scarcely left
my side.’

‘Did
you summon him?’

Mrs.
Grey shook her head. ‘Not intentionally. Whatever brings our
companions to us is involuntary, I believe, but they feel it
powerfully.’

‘How
long ago did Vershibat arrive?’

‘Twenty-three years ago. He is beginning to feel his age a
little, but he is sprightly still.’

Isabel nodded.
She wanted to ask a great many questions, most of them pertaining
to the witchery she was purported to be capable of. But she was
also afraid to delve into this mystery. Her mind clung to the safe,
familiar image of Miss Ellerby of Ferndeane and refused to
relinquish it.

‘Tafferty will sleep until tomorrow,’ predicted Mrs. Grey. She
added in a kindly tone, ‘Perhaps further discussion of this matter
will wait until she wakes?’

Isabel gratefully accepted this offer of deferral, and soon
afterwards excused herself to wander in her aunt’s rose garden. Her
mind turned upon the strange developments in her life, but without
bringing her any nearer to understanding. It was too sudden, and
too surprising. She was numb with shock, and her mind was as often
blank as filled with confused reflection.

She
did not doubt anything that she had been told; her aunt would not
lie to her, and she had received considerable evidence in support.
Nonetheless, her mind shied away from acceptance. How was it that
her mother had never told her of her heritage, or considered the
possibility that Isabel might, in adulthood, come to follow her
great-grandmother’s path?

With
a soft sigh, she resolved to put all thoughts of Aylfenhame,
witchery, the Ayliri or the fae from her mind until Tafferty should
wake, for she was merely distressing herself with her confusion of
ideas. But with the best of intentions behind this praiseworthy
resolution, she failed, for her mind continued to turn upon these
forbidden topics for the whole of the morning, through dinner with
her aunt, and well into the night. It was long indeed before sleep
finally put an end to the turmoil of her thoughts.

Chapter Five

Isabel woke upon the following morning to find herself
somewhat less than alone. She opened her eyes to a blur of brown,
gold-flecked fur filling her vision entirely, and the sound of a
deep, rumbling purr resonating throughout the room. Isabel lay
still for some moments, suffering under considerable confusion
until her sleepy mind recollected the identity of the bundle of fur
upon her pillow. ‘Good morning, Tafferty.’

As
soon as she spoke, the purring abruptly stopped. Tafferty sat bolt
upright, blinking, and proceeded to address — apparently — the
drawn curtains. ‘That it is! Mornin’ entirely, and sunny in the
world, and she lies slugabed!’ Tafferty hooked a claw into the
fabric of Isabel’s blanket and, with a swish of her paw, drew it
back. ‘Whishawist, and up with thee! Time’s a fair grouch, and
she’s waitin’ for none of ye.’ Tafferty stuck her nose into
Isabel’s ear, then whirled about and hurled herself off the bed.
She was gone in the blink of an eye, darting out through the
bedroom door — which Isabel did not remember leaving
open.

‘Whishawist,’ she repeated to herself, blinking, and hastened
to dress.

Upon
her descent of the stairs, she found her aunt already at the
breakfast table. Vershibat sat upon the table-cloth to her right;
he had taken up a station adjacent to Mrs. Grey’s freshly-poured
cup of tea, with a small feast of toast-crumbs laid out upon the
cloth before him. Of Tafferty there was no sign.

‘Good
morning, my dear,’ said Mrs. Grey cheerfully as Isabel took her
seat. ‘I hope you slept well, for there is much to do today! You
must form an acquaintance with Tafferty, as a matter of urgency,
for a good relationship with one’s companion is simply vital. The
art of glamour, or illusion, is to be your initial study, for it is
useful, and the centre of a witch’s arts! I have not kept up the
practice as I ought to have, to my regret, but I have found it
convenient on more than one occasion. There is a great deal one may
accomplish with the subtle use of glamour, from altering the colour
of one’s gown to something considerably more significant. Now, is
that not an alluring prospect!’ Mrs. Grey paused to drink a little
tea. ‘Then there is the matter of boons, and curses. I have never
had cause to employ a curse, myself. I do not advise it, all told,
for it is a dangerous and unpleasant art. But something of it must
be learned, at the very least so that you may protect yourself in
case of any ill-natured attack. And tomorrow—’

Isabel felt a flash of panic, and took a deep breath. ‘Aunt,’
she said. ‘I dare say you are perfectly right, and I shall be
guided by you. But what of my mother’s plans? I had understood
there is to be an assembly this evening, which the Thompsons are
expected to attend. Some portion of the day must, I think, be given
over to preparations for that?’

Mrs.
Grey looked at her niece for a long moment. In the silence, Isabel
became aware of a faint slurping sound emanating from somewhere
underneath the table. Lifting the edge of the snowy table-cloth,
she discovered Tafferty crouched near her aunt’s feet with a vast
platter of fruits, vegetables and sweet delicacies at her disposal.
She was at that moment availing herself of the contents of a bowl
of cream, some of which had become deposited upon her
whiskers.

‘Yes,
of course,’ said Mrs. Grey. ‘The assembly! I had not forgotten, I
assure you. Your mother’s excellent arrangements are every bit as
important as your career in witchery.’

This
was said in a cool tone which caused Isabel some doubt as to its
sincerity, but she nodded. ‘It is important to Mama,’ she said
quietly.

Mrs.
Grey’s mouth twisted, but she said nothing, preferring instead to
devote herself to the fullest appreciation of her tea.

Conscious of an air of disapproval in Mrs. Grey’s manner and
posture, Isabel felt a sinking in her stomach. ‘It is not that I do
not appreciate the importance of — of —’ She could not quite bring
herself to repeat the word witchery, the whole notion still
striking her as strange and ludicrous beyond words.

Mrs.
Grey set down her tea cup once more and gazed at Isabel. ‘Indeed, I
am sure it is not that,’ she said, and then added in a brisk tone,
‘There is an acquaintance I wish you to meet, prior to the
assembly. Perhaps you will drive out with me later this
morning?’

Isabel assented to this graciously, and in the spirit of
compromise she permitted Tafferty to commandeer her company as soon
as breakfast was finished. Four long hours followed, during which
Tafferty endeavoured to explain to her the nature of the art of
Glamour.

‘Glamour,’ said her companion with a pompous air, ‘is the art
of makin’ somethin' seem in the fashion of some other thing, which
it is not.’

Isabel blinked. ‘I see.’

‘Glamour,’ continued Tafferty, ‘is also called the art of
Seemin’. With it, I may adopt the Seemin’ of some other thing,
which I am not. Make it so.’

Tafferty tucked
herself up into a ball, her paws folded beneath herself, and waited
expectantly.

‘I
may make you appear to be another type of creature?’ Isabel
queried, rather hesitantly, for the explanation shed little
light.

Tafferty gave an
affirmative nod, and offered no further comment at all.

‘How
do I accomplish this?’ Isabel said.

Tafferty opened her eyes and fixed them upon Isabel with a
disbelieving air. ‘Why, it is the very clearest thing!’ she said
disgustedly. ‘If thou wert born to it, thou must understand
it.’

‘I am
very sorry,’ said Isabel apologetically, ‘but I do not at all
understand it. How is it done?’

Tafferty sighed, uncurled herself and stretched. ‘I will
explain,’ she pronounced. But this did not proceed very
successfully, for Tafferty’s explanations were as outlandish as the
art she was attempting to convey, and the peculiar patterns of her
speech sometimes confused Isabel still further.

She was to
understand that it was as simple as breathing, and yet the art was
as unfathomable as the stars; a baby could grasp its intricacies,
and yet its complexities knew no bounds. Isabel passed her hands
back and forth over a plump raspberry from the garden, without
succeeding in making it resemble a strawberry in the smallest
degree. Her head began, at last, to ache, and she felt with a hint
of bitterness that the whole exercise had been devised for her
humiliation.

It
was a relief, later in the day, to don her bonnet and spencer and
step into her aunt’s carriage. She felt that she was leaving
witchery and all its attendant absurdities behind her, and
returning to the familiar world of York and its comfortingly
mundane activities. To pay a social call at such an advanced hour
of the day was unusual, to be sure, but she was ready to believe
that some of Mrs. Grey’s acquaintances kept unusual
hours.