Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) (24 page)

He opened his mouth to talk of something else, but there came a rattling from some other part of the house, and the sound of footsteps.

‘Ah, here is Mary back again,’ he said with a relieved smile.

Sophy, however, looked horrified. She jumped up, paused only long enough to set her teacup neatly down upon the tray, and all but ran to the door. ‘I must not be seen!’ she hissed.

Aubranael was surprised that so loyal a servant as Mary knew nothing of Sophy’s condition, but he could not blame her for keeping it a secret. He would have done the same, given the chance. He jumped up, too, and followed her; he had forgotten for an instant that he, too, was a stranger to Mary in his current form, and a potentially horrific one at that! It gave him pain to have to creep from the house like a thief, but he did so. There would be time later to break the news to Mary; for now, he was happy to escape her notice.

Sophy had preceded him out of the parlour, but when he reached the corridor beyond there was no sign of her. He dared not call her name in case of attracting Mary’s attention, but her sudden disappearance bothered him. Where could she possibly have gone?

No time to consider the matter; here was Mary coming back again! He made his way to the front door with extreme haste and slipped outside. He had better hurry: he had a wedding to arrange, and no time at all to lose.

***

Hiding in a parlour drawer would not rank among Thundigle’s favourite pastimes, he decided. It had taken him less than two minutes to grow tired of it; his neck was twisted at a strange angle in order to fit his head inside, and the rest of his body was curled into an uncomfortable ball. But the discomfort had been worth it.

He had not been able to discover exactly
who
was the person currently occupying the parsonage, but that it was
not
Miss Landon was abundantly clear. But where was the real Sophy? What had this woman done with her? He did not know.

His confusion was increased by the appearance of Aubranael in Miss Landon’s parlour. He had not known that Sophy had remained in contact with him since her return from Grenlowe, nor that matters between them had advanced to such a degree as to warrant a proposal of marriage. Perhaps that was why she had not encouraged Mr. Stanton—and where was Mr. Stanton anyway? The neighbourhood gossip reported that he had vanished, but no one seemed to know where he had gone.

Either way, something had happened to Miss Landon and Aubranael was mistakenly preparing to commit himself to someone else entirely. Having liberated himself from the drawer, Thundigle spent several minutes in frantic contemplation. What could he do? How could he find Miss Landon, or warn Aubranael? How could he discover the identity of the imposter?

Nothing came to mind. Badly out of his depth, Thundigle did the only thing he could think of.

He went to see Mr. Balligumph.

Chapter Fourteen

Sophy wandered for a time, hoping that she might encounter some manner of village or town, or a landmark that would help her find her way back to Grenlowe, or even some helpful soul who could set her on the right path. An hour or two passed in this fruitless endeavour, during which time the deep blue twilight darkened into night lit only by the waxing moon.

The nervous flutter in her stomach grew stronger and stronger, in spite of her attempts to quieten her alarm. When her foot caught something ropy and solid in the dark—a tree root, perhaps, or a fallen branch—and she almost went tumbling to the ground, she was forced to stop. An injury would turn a difficult situation into a catastrophe; if she was hurt, she would be entirely helpless.

She stood for a few minutes, catching her breath and considering her options. Dearly she wished for another of Balligumph’s guides; local wisdom insisted that to follow a will-o-the-wyke was fatal, but Balli’s friends had always done well by her.

Any guide at all would be welcome, she thought bitterly, even a treacherous one. At least it would give her some kind of direction.

Abruptly she remembered Hidenory’s words—before the witch’s theft of Sophy’s face and form had driven all other thoughts from her mind.
Tut-Gut,
she had said. He would be willing to ‘put her to work’, had those not been her words?

Sophy considered that. The comment had seemed innocent enough at the time, but in light of Hidenory’s later actions it began to sound far more sinister. Who was Tut-Gut really, and how would he put Sophy to work? Had this piece of advice been sound, or was Hidenory seeking to lead her ever further astray?

It was impossible to know, of course, without seeking him out. Sophy wavered for some time, assailed by misgivings, but at length she gave in. She had no other options; none except to continue wandering in this dark and lonely forest until she either fatally injured herself, starved to death, or found her way out.

Taking a deep breath, Sophy opened her lips and called, ‘Tut-Gut! I am in need of your assistance, if you are at leisure to come to me.’

There; that was polite. He could hardly be offended by so courteous a request, surely? But no answer came and no one appeared, and Sophy’s fledgling hopes died away.

‘Tut-Gut?’ she called.

Nothing.

But in the stories—the ones her mother had told her as a child—one had to call a fae-being’s name three times to attract his or her attention. Perhaps there was some truth to be found in tales.

‘Tut-Gut!’ she called once more.

‘What is it, now?’ said a creaking voice, and Sophy jumped.

A light appeared in the darkness, so bright that Sophy’s night-blind eyes shut tight against the glare. When she could open them again, she found that the forest had gone and she stood inside a wooden hut.

It was fairly large, and around the room were arrayed the paraphernalia of a simple lifestyle. A little wooden bed stood in one corner, a rough-cut table and chairs stood on the opposite side of the room, and a small bookcase proudly bore three worn-looking bound leather volumes of miniature size. A strong fire burned in the centre of the floor, over which an iron pot hung. Sophy could smell something delicious cooking, and her stomach tightened with hunger.

In a tiny rocking-chair before the fire sat a hobgoblin. He looked a little like Thundigle, though his skin was even darker, almost black. He was two or three feet tall, with spindly limbs, a pronounced belly and a smile that looked far too big for his face. His clothes were ragged and much-mended. He held a pair of wooden knitting needles in his hands and he was knitting at terrific speed. He fixed his dark green eyes on Sophy and stared, but his knitting did not pause, or even slow, for a second.

‘Are you Mr. Tut-Gut?’ Sophy said, offering a hasty curtsey.

‘Who else am I like to be?’ he said grumpily. ‘When ye’ve been bandyin’ me name about like it was a toy or some such.’

Sophy blushed and hastened to apologise. ‘I am sorry, only your name was given to me by someone who thought you may be able to help me, and I am in a terrible situation and I was quite, quite desperate.’

Tut-Gut raised shaggy black brows at her, still knitting furiously. ‘Oh? An’ who is it as advised the likes o’
ye
to bother me?’

This was not the welcome Sophy had been hoping for; but nor had he made any move to harm her. Her confidence growing a little, she said: ‘Her name is Hidenory.’

Tut-Gut’s face darkened and he muttered something.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Sophy said politely.

‘Witch-woman!’ he said loudly. ‘Owes me a favour, and instead o’ repayin’ me like any person of honour she sends me a beggar! An old croaky! A hag!’ He threw his knitting aside, jumped out of his chair and began to pace in circles, tugging at handfuls of his wild black hair and pounding himself on the forehead with his fists. ‘It’s a slight, that’s what it is! An offence! An insult of the very lowest kind! I have a good mind to put this old croaky in my dinner, that I do.’ This last was directed at Sophy, delivered in a dark voice as he glowered at her from beneath thunderously lowered brows.

Sophy did not like being referred to as an old croaky, and she certainly did not enjoy the suggestion that she might be turned into dinner. ‘A moment,’ she said hastily. ‘I had no idea that Hidenory was in your debt, but perhaps I may be able to repay it somehow.’

That brought him up short. He stared at her, and his anger turned to calculation. ‘Oh?’ he said slowly. ‘Have ye any idea
what
the witch-lady owes me?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Tis a dangerous offer to make, then, old croaky! Could be years you’d be slavin’ away in the home o’ good old Tut-Gut. Years!’

Sophy’s heart sank. Slaving away in Tut-Gut’s house for years was a better prospect than being made into stew, but not very much better. Careful to keep her dismay from showing on her face, she said calmly: ‘Very well, if so.’

Tut-Gut’s glee abruptly faded and his shoulders slumped. ‘Twas not so great a favour as all that,’ he admitted. ‘A mere triflin’ business, if I
must
tell the truth.’ He glared at Sophy again, as if it was her fault that he felt compelled to be honest. ‘Can you cook?’ he demanded.

Sophy shook her head. ‘I always burn the food.’

‘Can you clean?’

Sophy shook her head again. ‘I am certain to break something.’ He did not appear to possess many breakable objects, but still she was hesitant to risk it.

‘Hmph. Useless old croaky. It will have to be dinner.’ He gave a firm, decisive nod, and patted his stomach. ‘Same old stew, day in, day out!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not today, no, not today!’

‘But I am a very
old
croaky,’ Sophy said quickly. ‘Old and tough and stringy! My meat would not be at all appealing, I am quite sure.’

‘She should’ve sent a juicy young bit o’ dinner, that’s true enough,’ said Tut-Gut, ‘but I makes do.’

‘I can sew,’ Sophy said desperately, backing away from Tut-Gut’s fire and swinging stew-pot. ‘I am very skilled with a needle. I can knit, too.’

‘That I can do meself,’ said Tut-Gut with a smile, indicating his discarded needles.

‘Oh, but together we might accomplish a great deal more!’

Tut-Gut paused to consider that. ‘Such as?’

Desperately, Sophy glanced around his odd little house. He had curtains put to the windows, she noticed, but they were crooked and misshapen. A few rugs lay across the rough wooden floors, each one threadbare and falling into holes. She looked back at him. ‘Your clothes are falling into pieces,’ she said. ‘Your curtains do not fit the windows, and they are hanging much amiss. Your rugs are in very poor shape indeed, and that chair you are sitting on has no cushion to comfort you. I can mend all of these problems.’

Tut-Gut followed her gaze to his curtains, his rugs, his chair and his own self. ‘Tis more than I’m owed,’ he said doubtfully.

‘That is of no concern to me.’

He looked back at her with a cunning gleam in his eye. ‘I accept!’ he said. ‘I like you
much
better than Hidenory.’

His manner had wholly changed, all trace of suspicion and anger gone in favour of a sudden overflowing goodwill. He beamed at her with his too-wide smile, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

‘I have something else to add,’ Sophy said.

‘Go on with it, then!’

‘It must be, oh, five or six hours until the dawn, am I right?’

‘I reckon so.’

‘Well, then. I will do all that I have said before the first light hits your windows. If I do, then you will be in
my
debt.’ She delivered this offer as confidently as she could, hoping that she had not miscalculated. He seemed to her a being who took favours and debts very seriously indeed, and who was likely to enjoy a deal—and a bet.

Perhaps she was right, for his eyes began to shine. ‘A game! A very good one at that,’ he said in delight. His cunning eyes fixed on her gnarled old hands, and he smiled. ‘But there must be something else. If ye do not do all that ye’ve said in the allotted time, what then?’

Sophy swallowed and said: ‘Then you may make me into stew.’

He cackled at that, and beamed again. ‘Very good! Ye may begin.’

‘I will need materials,’ Sophy said promptly.

‘That was not part o’ the bargain!’

‘Of course it was. How do you expect me to make up your home anew without anything to sew with?’

Tut-Gut grumbled, but he could not deny the logic of her argument. He began to circle the room, opening chests and looking under and behind furniture, pulling all manner of bits and pieces of cloth from each hiding-place he consulted. It was a motley collection, and Sophy stared at the growing heap in some dismay. She saw cotton and linen and silk, some dusty and aged, some bright and shining new; she saw red and green and blue and purple and every other colour besides. What could she do with such a mismatched pile of scraps?

But she was not designing somebody’s drawing-room, she reminded herself: she was in a hut in the woods, surrounded by rags and fading fabrics. She took a deep, steadying breath, accepted the long bone needle Tut-Gut offered to her, and set to work.