She tiptoed as quietly as she could towards the sound and came to a small clearing. There was not much to see except for the sort of glimmer you get from a candle, coming from the general direction of the noise. In the background she thought she could just make out a hut, but she wasn’t sure.
‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Is anyone there?’
The sobbing and howling stopped instantly; there was a pause and then a rustle of clothes as a hunched figure on the ground rose up in the gloom and approached. A lantern was thrust close to her face. Then there was a loud sniff.
It was Aliena. Rosalind recognised the voice immediately, but she was no longer the confident, self-possessed star of the concert. She was now just an upset girl, even if less upset than Rosalind, who instantly felt sympathetic.
‘What’s the matter?’
Another strangled noise. ‘Rambert. My teacher. I think he’s dead.’
‘Goodness. What happened?’
‘He was furious at me. About my singing.’
‘Why? It was lovely.’
‘It was. Yes, indeed it was. I was expecting congratulations.’ She snorted bitterly. ‘But he didn’t like my intonation at the end of one passage, thought my variation in another wasn’t proper. He never said “well done”, or “that was really good”. Straight into the criticisms. How I’d never be good enough …’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So I hit him. He hasn’t moved since. I think he may be dead.’
‘Don’t you think you should find out?’
‘I’m too frightened.’
‘What did you hit him with?’
‘A frying pan.’
Rosalind began to laugh nervously. Aliena looked at her, then laughed herself. ‘He went down like an old bottle. You should have seen the look on his face.’
‘Still, if you’ve killed him … I mean, that’s serious.’
‘Will you go and have a look? I really don’t want to go back in there.’
Rosalind wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of seeing a dead body either, but she nodded. Aliena led the way, occasionally telling her to be careful, pointing out the steps and the thin wooden door.
‘Do you live here?’ Rosalind asked, trying to disguise her surprise at how bare and primitive it was.
‘Yes,’ Aliena replied. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ She handed over the lamp and pointed. ‘Go on.’
Rosalind cautiously stepped over the threshold and held the lamp high above her head. There, slumped on the ground, was a body, weedy and small, looking very dead indeed. Rosalind glanced back at Aliena, then gingerly approached, kneeling down beside the corpse, which let out a loud belch, exuding a miasma of alcohol fumes into her face. ‘Oh, goodness!’ Rosalind said, leaning backwards so quickly she almost toppled over. ‘You didn’t kill him. He’s blind drunk. He reminds me of Uncle Charlie.’
An emboldened diva walked over, disguising her relief. ‘What a pity. Shall I have another go?’
‘No. It’s not a pity. You know it’s not. You’ve given him a nasty bruise, though.’
‘That’s something for him to remember me by, then. I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.’
‘Where will you go?’
Aliena evidently hadn’t thought of that. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said eventually. ‘What about you? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for someone.’ No point making explanations complicated, she thought.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, really. I danced with him. He’s very – well, he’s very nice.’
‘Very nice?’ Aliena said, mimicking her voice a bit too well. ‘So very nice you chase him into the forest at night wearing your finest clothes? That sort of very nice?’
Rosalind blushed.
‘Ah-ha!’
‘I liked him.’
‘Did he like you?’
Rosalind’s face fell.
‘Where does he come from?’
It fell further. ‘He said he lived over there,’ she gestured vaguely, ‘in the forest.’
‘Nobody lives in the forest. That’s why it’s called the forest. Otherwise it would be a wood. Do you even know his name?’
‘Pamarchon.’
Aliena stopped dead. ‘Pamarchon? You have fallen in love with Pamarchon?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘You don’t know who he is?’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘Then let me tell you. Pamarchon, son of Isenwar, is the most dangerous and wanted criminal in the whole land. He murdered his uncle to steal Willdon, then became a fugitive and now leads a band of cutthroats and murderers.’
‘Surely not!’ Rosalind said. ‘He has such a nice smile. Most of the time. He’s very …’
‘Nice, I know. You said. Don’t start making up romantic ideas about him. If he is really Pamarchon, then he’s dangerous.’
‘He has such kind eyes, and gentle manners.’
‘A man of great contradictions, then. But what if you find him and discover he is really just a short, dumpy little fellow with bad breath and a liking for slitting people’s throats? That all this romance was made by the light and the music and the Festivity? When did you meet him?’
‘The moment I arrived this afternoon, and again at the Festivity. I was terribly rude to him, it seems. Then after you had sung …’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Aliena smugly. ‘It is my doing, then. My singing does indeed make the old seem young, the ugly beautiful and the mean charming. It is a special ability I have,’ she confided.
‘Along with modesty?’
Aliena glared, but not seriously. She was in a remarkably good mood now that she knew she was not a murderer. ‘Along with that, yes. Do you really want to find him?’
Rosalind thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. I can’t possibly have been that wrong. There must be some mistake. Besides, if people mistake him for some murderer, he might be in danger. He needs to be warned and saved …’
Aliena rolled her eyes. ‘Heaven save me!’ she said. ‘This isn’t going to end well. Still, if that’s what you want, we can go together.’
‘Where?’
‘To the forest, dearest Rosalind. You wish to find the man of your dreams, I wish to escape the man of my nightmares.’
‘Just a moment,’ Rosalind said. ‘I don’t know that I should. I mean, it would be rude just to leave without saying goodbye. Besides, I have to get home.’
‘I thought you wanted to find this man?’
‘I do.’
‘Then go and find him. You can come back easily enough when you discover you don’t like him after all. Or he doesn’t like you.’
‘Well …’ Rosalind was astonished by herself. Why was she even listening to this girl?
‘We both need to leave this place, and I was a little worried about being on my own,’ Aliena said. ‘But with my dearest, oldest friend with me, what harm could possibly come to either of us?’
‘You said the forest was full of criminals and outlaws.’
‘Oh, no. Hardly any. Please come with me. We can sleep under the stars, pick fruit from the trees and mushrooms from the ground. “For the land cares for the virtuous, and ever will.”’
‘Is that another one of your quotations?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’ll really help me?’
‘Naturally.’
Rosalind glanced back into the trees to the place where she had seen the light; there was nothing there and, she realised, it hadn’t been in the place where she had arrived anyway. What was the point of staying here? If she really wanted to find her way home, she was as likely to find it in the forest as she was here. In fact, it was better to assume that she wouldn’t find it. That she was, barring a miracle of some sort, stuck. If that was the case, she was, for the first time in her life, not only free to do whatever she wanted, but obliged to look after herself. She wasn’t certain if that was frightening or wonderful, but it was surely diff
erent. On the other hand …
‘I’d love to,’ she said, gesturing at her dress. ‘But I can hardly go wandering through the forest like this.’
‘Of course you can’t! Besides, if you’re wrong about him, then you might not get a friendly welcome. It’s said they kidnap people and hold them to ransom. You don’t want that. Take off the wig and the mask and I will find you something.’
‘You’re a bit short.’
Aliena thought, then smiled and pointed at the now snoring form on the floor. ‘That is true. But Rambert is pretty much the same size as you, I think. His clean clothes are in the corner. I know; I have to wash them. You won’t look elegant, but you’ll be comfortable and by the time I’m done, no one will know who you are, and that’s the important thing.’
29
Lady Catherine had gone to find Henary immediately after delivering Rosalind to the bathhouse. ‘How do your theories stand up, Storyteller?’ she asked him.
‘I am devastated,’ he said. ‘I planned to give cast-iron proof of the foolishness of prophecy, and I have accomplished the opposite.’
‘Oh, poor you,’ she said unsympathetically, ‘you so hate being wrong.’
‘It’s not funny. It is her,’ he said. ‘Her name, or rather names, are as they are in the manuscript. She is a girl of some fifteen years. She is dressed strangely, but the descriptions fit as well. I am overwhelmed by what has happened. I can still scarcely credit it. What do you think?’
‘She seems perfectly sweet.’
Henary grimaced. He had just witnessed a girl reading from the manuscript he had spent several years trying to decipher. She had shown it to be one of the most significant passages in the Story, but far older than the Story itself. How could that be? She had done it perfectly, as though it was nothing. Then she had not only tackled its meaning but even casually pointed out a couple of mistakes and offered corrections.
‘It is impossible,’ he told Catherine. ‘Adults who have studied for years could not do that. I would rate her skill far above mine, for example.’
‘Do you have an explanation?’
Henary spread his hands wide in something approaching despair. ‘She was as astonished at the idea it was difficult as I was at the idea it was easy.’
‘Tomorrow we will sit her down and question her properly. It is not as if she is unwilling to talk. She doesn’t stop once she gets going.’
‘We will find out who she is and where she comes from. Then we will return to Ossenfud and I will take her into the restricted room, show her the Shelf of Perplexities. Can you even begin to imagine what we might learn from her if she can read everything that is in there? What she can tell us? What we are on the brink of discovering? If only you didn’t have your Festivity. Would it really matter if …’
‘Yes, it would. You know that perfectly well. If troops can make her safe, then she will be so.’
‘I hope she will be protected by something much stronger than swords.’
‘What is that?’
‘Her heart,’ Henary said. ‘If this manuscript really is magical, it states it clearly. “Both find themselves breathing through their mouths, almost panting although they are quite unaware of the warmth of the day; each is fascinated by the other …” There is more I cannot decipher, but it is quite plain. The manuscript foretells she falls in love with the young man she meets in the forest. Jay will have his hands full.’
*
It was unendurably hard for Henary to let go and trust the manuscript which he had spent the last few years trying to demonstrate contained nothing but false prophecies. Everything about him wanted not to let her out of his sight until he understood what was happening. He knew that was the wrong course to take, though. Girl and boy meet and fall in love. She cannot be away from him. Thus it was said. As the manuscript had demonstrated its powers so clearly, he had to trust it.
Truly, it was terrifying. It had foretold a girl would appear to a young boy called Jay on a hillside, and the girl had appeared. It had told that she would appear again many years later, and would be exactly the same age – in itself an impossibility. She had done so. That she would speak the language with staggering fluency, and she did. She had glanced at that manuscript he had been struggling with for years, looked at the most unreadable passage and read it without thinking. What could persuade her to assist him? What might he learn and understand?
He had often been tempted to raise the subject of the manuscript at Ossenfud but every time had bitten his tongue. He knew the reaction would be distrust from those who refused to countenance anything which claimed to be before the Story and enthusiastic support from those who believed in magic. He would be condemned by association with the most idiotic and dim-witted.
So tomorrow he would question the girl anew, get her to read that manuscript in its entirety. Find out who she was and where she was from. He would wait until he had the sort of proof that would convince even the most rigid and doctrinaire of traditionalists. He would proceed carefully and build his case.
Until then, he decided to pass the time as best he could. It was a beautiful evening, he had been welcomed with open arms and was to be entertained magnificently, and he had already had the sort of success that most men could only ever dream about. Of course he was nervous; but then, who would not be?
The girl had appeared, and he had calculated that from an old manuscript. Come, my sceptical friends! How do you explain that? he said to himself as he took a glass of cold white wine – a fine vintage from Lady Catherine’s famous vineyard – and sipped appreciatively.
He beamed at an old man who was eyeing him warily, awed, no doubt, by his scholar’s robes. ‘Good evening, sir!’ he said, and was soon lost in a conversation which normally he would have found perfectly tedious but which that particular evening he found curiously comforting.
His carefully tended good humour lasted all evening, until he saw the look on Jay’s face as he came into the courtyard.
*
The emotions which coursed through Jay as he watched Rosalind take the arm of the tall, masked stranger were many and unfamiliar. Had he had greater experience, he would have been more adept at picking them apart. The first was guilt; he knew quite well it wouldn’t have happened had he been able to take his eyes off Aliena, who, he thought, had smiled at him quite encouragingly. The second was surprise; he had not noticed the man standing behind them, and when he did, he had quickly assumed that he would never be so rude as to repeat an invitation which had already been rejected. The third was panic. He had been instructed to keep Rosalind close, implicitly to guard her. She was to be fed and entertained then delivered back to Lady Catherine and Henary for safe-keeping.
It would all be fine, he told himself. No need to raise the alarm unnecessarily. Why court a reprimand for no reason? It was a bad decision, he vaguely knew.
Jay followed carefully after the couple as they walked, but there were so many people milling around. The laughter bore in on him like an insult; the music annoyed him, the sounds of happiness and diversion he wanted to swat away like an annoying plague of flies.
And he lost them.
What was he to do now? Except wait and hope – a reasonable hope, after all. A sensible hope, in fact, that after the hour was up Rosalind would reappear and the masked man would be seen, and spoken of, no more. A frightening dream only.
After nearly an hour and a half had passed, even Jay realised it was no dream and it was time to hand matters over to his betters. Reluctantly he went in search of his master, nervousness mounting as he went from courtyard to courtyard until he heard a familiar voice holding forth. He gathered up the tattered remains of his courage and approached.
‘I did my best, I really did. But she’s gone.’
Henary greeted this with silence: what was there to say, after all?
‘A man bowed to her. She curtsied back and they walked off together. There was nothing I could do to stop that.’
‘I suppose not.
You couldn’t cause a scandal.’
‘I tried to follow them at a reasonable distance, just to make sure everything was all right, but I wasn’t worried. She was under the protection of Willdon, after all.’
‘Keep going.’
‘I can’t find them. I’ve looked everywhere. He was meant to bring her back to the place where they began but he didn’t. The hour was up ages ago.’
The full import of his failure was borne in on Jay by the look on Henary’s face.
‘Ages ago?’
‘At least three quarters of an hour now. I’ve been going around. I’ve asked many people if they have seen them. She’s just vanished.’
‘Was she upset or distressed when she left you? Had you said anything to annoy her? Do you think she decided to get back to this light she was talking about?’
‘We were having a lovely time, I thought.’
‘How was her attitude to you? Please answer carefully. This is of immense importance.’
‘She was perfectly friendly.’
‘Friendly? Only friendly?’
‘Yes. I mean, she was … friendly. I liked her a lot and she seemed to like me. I mean, she didn’t think I was rude to her. Not like the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘The one she met in the forest before me. Kept on telling me how horrid he had been to her. She didn’t like him, and kept on saying how much she didn’t like him.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Henary said. ‘She met someone in the forest before you? Before you saw her?’
‘Yes. I was jumped by the soldiers and arrested, and a short time later she came into the clearing where they’d found me. She’d met this man who ran off when he heard us coming.’