Rise of the Fey (43 page)

Arthur drops his gaze to the journal.

“You should skip to after his first vanishing,” he says. “That’s when things get interesting.”

“The first vanishing?” I ask, finding it difficult to form the words.

Arthur flips further ahead in the logbook then stops at a page whose corner is deeply earmarked, as if it’s been read many times before.

“Here,” he says. “Talks about how he disappeared during a hunt. The school sent several search parties for him that went on for weeks, but they finally had to give up. That’s when they elected another KORT President.”

“Your father,” I say, finding the passage mentioning Luther’s accession to the position.

Arthur nods, pulling my desk chair to sit in front of me. “You can imagine how happy he was when Sir Tristan finally brought Duke Gorlois back,” he says with a wry smile.

I nod slowly. My father’s return must have shocked everyone, judging by the next entry’s illegible handwriting, dated half a year later. I shake my head, giving up on trying to decipher the text. But as I turn to the next page, a handwritten note falls out. The hairs at the back of my neck raise as I recognize Dr. Cockleburr’s straight, sharp-edged handwriting.

“That’s when he was incarcerated,” I whisper.

“Briefly,” Arthur says, sounding mildly uncomfortable. He clears his throat. “As is customary for anyone who’s spent any length of time in Fey company. You know how some people can get affected.”

Owen’s vacant look and erratic behavior instantly jump to mind and I repress a shiver—surely my father couldn’t have turned out like him, could he?

“It till didn’t stop him from being elected to the Board’s Presidency the year he graduated,” Arthur says. “I think people expected him to resume his previous activities and find ways to exterminate the Fey on a grander scale, not to come up with all of these insane ideas.”

“Insane ideas?” I ask, going still with indignation.

Arthur’s lips quirk up. “Like re-kindling our ties with the Fey, for instance.”

I feel the tension leave my shoulders. “Sounds like someone I know,” I say. “Guess his policies weren’t that popular then?”

“You’d be surprised,” Arthur says. “He did retain his position for another four years, after all. Until his second vanishing.”

“Is that when…” My voice chokes out as I thumb through to the final page and read its last entry—a single line:

Dead—Fey attack; no witness.

It figures they’d omit the most important part; like which Fey killed him, or why, or even that there was a baby on board….

Arthur clears his throat again, loud and long enough to make me look up. He’s playing with something in his hands, one of the last rays of the timid sun playing on his cheek, turning his eyes greener.

“You’re awfully fidgety all of a sudden,” I say, my hand tightening around my father’s logbook in case he wants to snatch it away from me.

But instead, Arthur thrusts his hand towards me. I stare at the red velvet box with a mixture of confusion and pleasure.

“Is that for…for me?” I ask.

Arthur nods. “Merry Christmas.”

I slowly pick the box up, hesitating a moment before opening it.

Lying on a velveteen pillow inside, is a delicate pendant representing the sun and moon, each bearing a stone in its center; one pearlescent white, the other ruby red.

“Do you, uh, like it?” Arthur asks as the silence stretches between us.

I want to tell him it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, that I’m deeply touched by his thoughtful and generous gesture, but instead, all I can utter is a very confused and skeptical, “Why?”

Arthur’s face falls. “I told you, it’s a Christmas present,” he says flatly, before getting back up and crossing the room over to the door.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Arthur’s hand freezes over the handle, and he turns around uncertainly.

I take the necklace out of the box by its thin, golden chain, and put it on. The pendant comes to nestle just beneath my jugular notch, an unfamiliar but pleasant weight against my sternum.

“Do you think Keva will mind?” I ask.

It’s now Arthur’s turn to look confused. “Why should she?” he asks.

“Well, it seems to clash a little with what I’m wearing,” I say.

As if warned by her sixth sense, Keva slams the door open, her bright orange dress making her skin look like it’s glowing.

“Get your buns out here, Morgan,” Keva declares. Only then does she notice Arthur, standing awkwardly by the door, and she dips into a light curtsy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize….”

“Is it time?” Arthur asks.

“Yes, sir,” Keva says. “And your fiancée has already arrived, looking for you.”

My hand automatically reaches for my new necklace as Jennifer’s regal figure emerges from the doorway. Her cool blue measure us both, then drop to my neck.

“How sweet,” she coos, making my blood run cold, “you gave your own oghams to your half-breed.”

Arthur’s face blanches. “She needs keeping an eye on,” he says.

“I do not!” I exclaim, doubly affronted by their insults—hers at my parentage, and his at my mental abilities. My hand clasps the pendant so tightly its edges bite into my palm, but I can’t make myself throw it at them, not when it’s my first present ever.

“The Board is waiting,” Jennifer says, choosing to ignore my outburst as if I were nothing more than another of the servants. “As are…our guests.”

Arthur’s nods curtly, his usual stern mask back on. He readjust the golden sash strapped across his wine-colored uniform jacket, then offers Jennifer his arm. “Let us get a move on, then,” he says.

I hasten to follow them, accidentally knocking my father’s logbook off the bed and sending it clattering to the floor.

“St. George’s balls,” I mutter, struggling to scoop it up without falling forward in my uncomfortably tight dress.

“You’ve done it, haven’t you?” Keva says behind me, sounding exasperated.

“Done what?” I ask, closing the journal before putting it away.

“Messed up your gown!” Keva exclaims. “It looks like you’ve slept in it for days now!”

“Uh-huh,” I say distractedly, for my fingers have notice something odd about the bound report. I draw my finger back down its inner hinge, feeling a wispy-thin, but definitely uneven edge along the lining, confirming my suspicions—someone’s torn the last few pages out of the journal!

“There’s no reason to be as frumpy as your dress,” Keva says with a slight grimace of annoyance as we move towards the ballroom in the middle of a growing throng of people. “And do remember to keep your gloves on.”

But no matter what Keva tells me or how incensed she sounds, I can’t stop thinking about the journal. Why would Arthur rip those pages out and then give me the report? Unless he’s unaware about the fact; after all, I almost didn’t catch it myself. But then, who else could have done it and, most importantly, what was on those pages that they didn’t want anyone else to see?

All thoughts of the missing pages are momentarily shunted aside, however, when we finally manage to push our way inside the ballroom.

“Pretty nice, huh?” Keva asks, noting my open-mouthed stare.

She steers us down a wide, but short room, weaving in between boisterous guests, silent servants, and tablefuls of drinks and
amuse-bouches
³⁹
towards another set of open doors.

I gape as we pass under the large marble arch, wreaths of holly and mistletoe stretched over it in between a pair of tiny dragons puffing fire to light the way.

“OK, now you’re just being embarrassing,” Keva mutters, elbowing me in the ribs. “Can you stop with all the drooling? Makes you look like a total bumpkin.”

“Are those real?” I ask, inhaling a lungful of sulfur as one of the dragons starts coughing, as if it’s gotten a fly stuck in its gullet.

Keva glances sideways at them. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “They’ve got a few saurian oghams around here. Usually like to whip them out for special occasions, to impress first-timers like you.”

We emerge at the top of a grand staircase that leads down to the biggest dancefloor I’ve ever seen. Already, dozens of glittering couples can be seen dancing to the music of the small orchestra ensconced upon the dais at the back of the room. Next to the musicians stands what has to be a ten-foot tall Christmas tree, bedecked with so many candles I’m surprised it hasn’t burned down yet.

“Found them,” Keva says, dragging me behind her.

Our dresses whisper along the carpeted floor as we make our way up another flight of stairs. We land in a darkened gallery, its railing forming small arches like that of an aqueduct to let in spears of dazzling light from the massive chandeliers that hang above the dance floor.

It seems the additional stairs combined with the added weight of food and drinks doesn’t make this a favorite haunt of the guests’, and I have no trouble spotting Jennifer and Arthur standing at the far end of the long balcony.

Both are engrossed in a discussion with a stocky man, Jennifer’s honey yellow dress complimenting the burgundy of Arthur’s uniform. Apparently, the stocky man has said something quite witty for they both burst out laughing, Arthur’s sturdy arm snaking around Jennifer’s shoulders, squeezing her closer.

And for no reason at all, I find myself hating their picture-perfect coupledom, their fraudulent display of affection so irking I want to throw up.

Suddenly, Keva throws an arm out to stop me from joining them. “I think you better stay here,” she says with a significant look at me.

Sheepishly, I realize that I’ve called onto my powers again, and a breeze is now making our dresses snap against our legs angrily.

“Sorry about that,” I say, forcing myself to calm down, and the wind quickly dissipates. “I’ll control myself better.”

But as I make to follow her, Keva stops me again. “I mean it, Morgan,” she says. “That’s Sir Hengist of the Errant Companions over there”—she points towards the stocky man—“he’s notorious for being very aggressive and a born Fey hater. If he sees you, you’ll be impaled on the spot.”

I grimace at the picture, and instinctively pull on my gloves to make sure they’re still in place, hiding the ugly stains that cover my hands and would give me away.

“Right then,” Keva says. “I’ll let them know we’re here and are just gonna hang back. Stay here.”

I nod, sinking onto a plush stool set by one of the pillars, feeling miserable and humiliated. Why bring me to this hell-hole at all if I have to hide who I am and Arthur’s going to ignore me like I’m a leper the whole time?

I hail a passing waiter for a glass of champagne, gulp down the bubbly liquid, before smacking the cup back down onto the servant’s tray and snatching another.

“Morgan!” Keva squeals, rushing back to my side. “Squires are not supposed to drink on duty!”

I down the champagne as quickly as I did the first glass and smile defiantly at Keva’s scowl.

“You’re not supposed to draw attention to yourself, remember?” she says accusingly.

“You think I don’t know that already?” I ask back, failing to repress a burp which only makes Keva look that much more scandalized.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before you make a scene,” she says.

But as we make our way back downstairs, my feet get tangled up in the hem of my dress and I find myself tilting forward, the steps rushing up to meet me. My hands flail about, scrambling for a hold, and I hear a horrible rending sound as I slow down to a stop.

“Morgan!” Keva shrieks, holding her arms protectively over her chest.

I guiltily let go of the torn section of her dress, holding my hands up like I’m at gunpoint. “Sorry about that,” I mumble.

“Sorry my ass,” Keva retorts, angry tears in her eyes. “Oh, this is perfect. And we just got here! Now excuse me while I go change.”

Blushing furiously, I stumble my way down to the arcade that runs along one side of the room, seeking shelter from prying eyes behind one of the seven pillars that form its archway. All seven of them have been carved into representations of the different archangels, their extended wings carrying the gallery above, and, judging by the sword and scales held in his hands, it appears I’ve found refuge beside Saint Michael.

“How’s the party?” I ask in forced mirth, clinking a glass of mulled wine against the statue’s stone sword.

“How is it indeed?” a warm voice answers back.

I stagger back in surprise, spilling half of my new drink onto the highly-polished wooden floor.

“Careful, darling,” Lugh says, moving out of the statue’s shadow to stop me from falling. “This may not be ambrosia, but it can still cloud your brain, if only for a short while.”

“I’m not drunk,” I say defiantly.

“Not for a lack of trying, I can see,” Lugh says. His unfathomable eyes scan the crowd as it ebbs and flows around us to the rhythm of the music. His hold tightens around my waist. “Come away with us, it is still not too late. Can you not see that you do not belong here?”

“Oh, and you think I’ll do well with your lot?” I ask, disentangling myself from him. “You who worked with the forces of evil? I think not.” And I quickly down my fifth glass of alcohol—or is it the sixth?