Moonlight and Ashes (20 page)

In an old geography book of Mama's, one of the few I'd rescued from Grizelda's rubbish heap, there had been a short article about Pandong. It had mentioned that a hundred years before, some merchants from Faustina had settled in Pandong's capital, Menglu, to trade in just those Green River pearls. Eventually, so many families moved there that their quarter was nicknamed ‘Little Faustina'. It was an exotic story but it was also an obscure community that was hardly known at all.

I would be one of those people. Pacing around the room, I built up the story in my mind. I would be Miss Maria Tarneleit (the surname pinched from another advertisement), only child of an elderly, respected Menglu businessman who had been sent by his community to pay his respects to the palace but who had died before he could finish his journey, which had been continued by his daughter. Before going to the Palace Protocol Office to secure my ticket, I would prepare the following: a quaint but dignified letter from the merchants of ‘Little Faustina', introducing Mr Tarneleit and his daughter and asking the Emperor for an audience; a heartrending note from the sick father, tasking his daughter to continue his mission; a reference in foreign-inflected Faustinian from the Chief Court Adviser of the King of Pandong, vouching for the Tarneleits.

‘Hmm,' I said, thinking aloud, ‘a most useful addition would be some Green River pearls to present as a gift, but that might be easier said than done.'

Before that, though, I would have to engage in a complete makeover – go to the public baths and have myself scrubbed, perfumed and primped within an inch of my life. Then I'd buy some better clothes. That would all have to be done before I found a suitable hotel to establish myself as a young woman of means.

But right now I badly needed a nap. My head was spinning, my eyes felt grainy and my limbs heavy. Exhaustion and tension had caught up with me with a vengeance. Putting the envelope of money under my thin pillow, I lay down and almost instantly fell asleep.

I am back in the forest. It is very dark, I can hardly see the path, but there is a light in the distance. I know I must walk towards that light or I will be lost. There are eyes watching me – unfriendly eyes – and if I take one step off the path I'll be doomed. Then I hear a sound. It is faint but unmistakeable – the sound of someone weeping in the darkness, off the path. Someone weeping inconsolably. The sound lodges in my heart like an arrow and more than anything I want to step off the path and comfort the weeper, but I cannot because if I take one step off that path all will be lost.

So I keep walking. But the sound does not stop; it does not get fainter. In fact, it gets louder and louder and louder the more I go along. It tears at my heart. I put my hands over my ears and keep going. And then I stop. Someone has emerged from the darkness and is standing directly in my path. It is the weeper, and I know now why I was so stricken. My heart knew what my head did not. It is my mother and she is standing in my path, weeping, holding out her cupped
hands to me. In them lies the still body of a dead bird, a little finch, and under its body are the ashes of dead leaves. She weeps and weeps and her grief is so painful to me that I cry out her name and run towards her. But just as I am about to reach her, it is as though a wall of glass has come down between us. I cannot touch her, I cannot get any closer to her, and though I see her lips move, I cannot hear what she says. Then her form begins to waver – like smoke, like mist – and in a moment she has faded away, gone from sight, and I am left alone.

The dream ended as I woke with a jolt. My face was wet with tears, my heart racing. For a little while I could do nothing but lie there, so strong was the impression the dream had left behind. Every other time my mother had come to me in a dream, it had been to make me strong; to give me patience, to help me and to comfort me. This time it was she who had needed comforting and I was powerless to provide it. Not because I didn't understand,
but because I did.

She had never intended for her gift to do anything but bring me happiness – to bring about an end to my ordeal, to bring me a chance of escape, of love, of making a new life for myself. And it had given me that chance. But she did not want me on
this
path, and just as I was powerless to comfort her, she was powerless to stop me. It was my choice.

‘I'm so sorry, Mama,' I whispered. ‘I'm so sorry but I have given my word and if I break it everyone I care about in this life will die.'

There was no sound apart from my own whisper in the air, no feeling of her presence at all. My mother was not there with me and I was seized with grief at the thought she might never be again. For a moment my resolve faltered – and then into my mind clear as day came the memory of the scene in Thalia's book of Max lying dead on the floor and I knew that while there was any chance that might come true, I could do nothing other than what I had sworn to do. And nothing could stop me, not even my mother. I loved her dearly but she was in the afterlife. She was in no danger any more. She was out of harm's reach. Not like my sweetheart. Not like my friends.

It was strange but I felt even stronger now. I'd been tested and had passed the test. Nothing could touch me now, nothing would deflect me from doing what I must.

The public baths were fairly quiet and, after a hot soak followed by a cold rinse, I was soon ensconced in a private cubicle where my hair was washed and trimmed, my fringe curled, and a long switch of hair of the same colour was attached securely to the back of my head. My nails were cut and polished, my skin rubbed with sweet oil, my face lightly powdered, my lips reddened. No questions were asked, either; bathhouse attendants were famously discreet, and the sight of a crisp handful of banknotes was answer enough to any curiosity.

After that I went to scout for a hotel suitable for the daughter of a foreign merchant, that is, one of great comfort but not princely luxury. The Hotel Bella suited
the bill perfectly: a pretty building situated in the centre of town but in a quiet street, and a short hansom-cab ride from the palace precinct. I did not go in to ask for a room, for first I had to be properly attired for that.

Instead, I went back to the boarding house and took the twig out from inside the mattress. There were two more leaves on it now. I carefully picked them and put them in my bag, then wrapped the twig in some brown paper and shoved it down the front of my dress. The rest of the parcel I hid under my shawl and then I went out, closing the door behind me without regret. I would not go back there. I dumped the shirt and coat in a pile of rubbish in a back alley some distance away and then headed for the big department store I'd seen when I'd first arrived. In a large place like that, with crowds of shoppers and shop assistants running around, I'd be less likely to stand out as an object of curiosity than in some fashionable boutique.

That proved to be the case and I was soon the proud owner of a very pretty dress in pale green wool, a cream-coloured coat, a selection of fine underclothes and stockings, an elegant green hat, dark green leather gloves, a lace-trimmed umbrella and a smart pair of cream-coloured boots. Not only that, but I was ushered politely into the plush fitting rooms to put on my new clothes, with the old ones wrapped in paper and put in a large travelling bag I had also bought (the twig I transferred to my new coat pocket). I'd told the shop assistants that I'd just arrived from a far-flung place and, though I had a good deal of money, I did not possess any fashionable clothes. My clodhopper boots and plain dress were rather less than ‘unfashionable' but any suspicions the shop assistants might have had as to
my
bona fides
were soon allayed by the sight of my money. What a smooth path money gives us!

After that I selected a nightgown, a dressing gown, slippers, and a case of what they called ‘necessaries', which included a brush, comb, mirror and a flannel as well as nail scissors, cosmetics, a little bottle of perfume and creams. I got the shop assistants to wrap it all up and instructed them to have it delivered to Miss Maria Tarneleit at the Hotel Bella. That would establish my identity in the eyes of both the store and the hotel.

Well pleased with myself, I hurried to the hotel, where I soon obtained a room, signing myself in under my new name, putting ‘Menglu' in the ‘From' section of the hotel form. I told them my luggage would be following on shortly, and explained that my lack of a maid or other personal servant was due to the fact that it was not the custom in Menglu to pay for the fare of a servant when travelling to foreign parts, but rather to hire one upon arrival. The receptionist clearly thought such ‘customs' were penny-pinching and uncivilised, but only delicately suggested that if I liked, suitable people could be recommended. I thanked him and said that I would not need anyone till the next day.

‘Very good, Miss,' he said. ‘And will you be requiring dinner?'

‘Yes, I would, but in my room,' I replied.

He then called a porter to accompany me to my new quarters.

It was a large room on the first floor, its walls papered with a pretty pattern of cream and blue roses, its polished floors set with pale blue rugs, its window curtained with
blue velvet. And there was everything in it that one could possibly want: a four-poster bed covered by a blue velvet bedspread; a down quilt and pillows; a small washstand complete with blue-patterned china jug and bowl (the actual washroom, with its beautiful deep bath, was just down the hall); a dressing table; an armchair; a wardrobe; a lockable roll-top writing desk and chair.

But there was no time to admire it – I had to go shopping. Hiding the twig deep in the locked roll-top desk, I put on my hat, coat and gloves, and stepped back into the chilly day. My first stop was at a stationer's where I bought elegant, thick writing paper and envelopes, a sheet of the best-quality art paper, white tissue paper, a fine pen, brown and black ink, some red sealing wax and a decorative stamp with an elaborate design of interlaced dragon heads and tails.

I then called in at a haberdasher's and bought some thin red and black silk ribbons. At a milliner's I bought a single, delicate red silk flower, shaped like a lotus bloom, and a satin bag of the sort you use to store bonnets flat. Then I went into a bookshop, hoping I might find a useful book about Pandong. I only found a thin guidebook about the region, which not only took in Pandong but several of its neighbouring countries as well. And in a book on gemstones, I found a long entry on Green River pearls, so I bought that too. The more I knew about my supposed home, the better.

After that, I looked in at a shop that specialised in hiring out evening wear – an unheard-of novelty in Ashberg. Not here, where the middle-class aspired to live like great lords but couldn't always manage the cost so had to settle for
merely appearing so. I looked through the rows of dresses till I found one that resembled the dress I'd seen in Thalia's mirror, though not identical, and certainly not as magnificent. But remembering the experience with Maria's dress, I thought I could rely on magic to improve it. I booked the dress for three days hence, also booking a silver tiara and a gauzy silver scarf that would do well as a wrap.

On my way back, in a street right near the hotel, I happened across a small jewellery shop, which had some Green River pearls set into drop earrings in its window display. I went in, bought a pair, and as the jeweller put them in a little box for me, I said, emphasising my Ashbergian accent and thus my provincial ignorance, ‘These are an unusual sort of pearls, what are they?'

‘Green River pearls, Miss,' said the jeweller. ‘Freshwater pearls from far away. Cheaper than the sea variety as a gemstone but not all that easy to get because people use them in medicines, you see, and so the apothecaries usually snap them up.'

So perhaps an apothecary would be a better person to ask where a supply might be had, I thought, and was going to ask the jeweller where I might find one, when I noticed something in one of his display cabinets. It was a selection of miniature jewelled weapons: a tiny silver revolver with a mother-of-pearl inlay; a delicate gold swordstick, and a fine dagger set in a chased silver scabbard that strangely resembled a closed silver fan.

Catching my breath, I said, demurely, ‘Oh, that's so pretty! How much is it?'

The jeweller named a price much higher than the earrings. I paid up, and he wrapped it and the pearl earrings without surprise.

‘I hope you will have no cause to use this, Miss,' he said, ‘but you are right to make sure of your protection, that is what I always tell the ladies. Too many criminals around these days and you can't always wait for the police to come to your aid.'

I murmured something vague, thanked him and left the shop with my purchases. My heart was beating wildly at the thought of what I carried in the jeweller's neat box. For the first time I thought of what it would be like to plunge that delicate, deadly thing into another human being's heart. Would I truly be able to do it? Could I really look into his eyes and then stab him to death? I pushed the weak thoughts away; of course I could do it – would do it. While Prince Leopold lived, Max was in mortal danger. That was the long and short of it.