It will only render you an unprofitable servant if you set your mind on holiday-making, and look upon your duty as drudgery . . . Fun is a thing that does not always lead to the best consequences; and it is possible to be very happy and cheerful without it.
J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid
An hour or two on Sundays was the most free time granted at Mrs Minchin’s Academy, and to take a whole afternoon for herself was an unimagined liberty. Pattern did not know whether to be impressed or appalled by her daring.
She made her escape on a footpath that ran parallel to the grand avenue through the wood. It was a walk of two miles, but the further she got from the castle the lighter her step became.
The path emerged a short distance away from the avenue’s gatehouse. There Pattern found another gate in the iron railings that enclosed the park, though unlike the ornate main entrance, it was small and rusting – and locked. Pattern took out the set of keys she had found in her bedroom desk, and was gratified to find one that fitted. Leaving the pine wood, she crossed a wide meadow and then a bridge, whereupon she found herself only a little way from the centre of town.
For a capital city, Elffinheim was exceedingly small. Yet Pattern, who had seen many of London’s dingy backstreets and few of its famous monuments, was quite ready to be impressed. She wandered through narrow streets of high overhanging houses, across sunny cobbled squares, and along the banks of a shallow brown river lined with lime trees. She admired the little Gothic cathedral and the parliament building with its high domed roof, and spent a pleasant half-hour in the market, where women sat chattering by their stalls of Welsh cakes and pickled cabbage, smoked sausage and bara brith.
One of the stalls sold curious lockets that were open to display bits of feather, coloured beads and what looked like splinters of bone. Pattern bent to look closer. She thought they might be religious relics of some kind.
‘A charm to keep you safe, my love,’ croaked the aged stallholder. ‘No sorcery can get past it, nor monster neither.’
‘Sorcery?’ Pattern repeated, bewildered.
‘Not with one of these beauties around your neck. Cast-iron protection against demons and shape-shifters, and all manner of magical muck! Come, my little dear, I can do you a special price . . .’
But Pattern had already turned away, anxious to lose herself in the crowd. Quaint local customs were all very well, but it seemed Elffinberg harboured some more unsavoury superstitions. Or perhaps the populace was unduly influenced by those romances which Mrs Minchin so despised – the ones full of dangerous ideas and fantastical happenings.
From the general chatter, Pattern heard that the Grand Duchess rarely showed herself to the people, and thus had a reputation for being very proud. Her Uncle Leopold was more popular, but the ‘Old Duke’, the Grand Duchess’s late father, was more beloved than both of them, and widely regarded as a saint. In addition to this, she learned that the price of sugar was criminally high, and that the fishmonger on Denbigh Street was suspected of improper relations with the Captain of the Guard’s wife.
This last piece of information was vigorously debated by two women standing in line ahead of her in the cathedral, where she was waiting to view Prince Elffin Pendraig’s shrine. ‘But did you hear,’ said the elder, ‘about the little girl down at the mill?’
Her companion sucked in her cheeks, and looked grave. ‘A tragic business,’ she agreed. ‘Particularly if the rumours are to be believed. The ground round about was scorched black.’
‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘They say all they found of her was . . .’ And here she glanced at Pattern, and lowered her voice.
Pattern’s curiosity was piqued, but it was, after all, none of her concern. She should only be interested in information that would be of help in waiting on the Grand Duchess. And so as well as seeing the sights, she took care to seek out the most respectable-looking milliner’s, draper’s and stationer’s, and make a note of their address.
Next to the milliner’s and its window full of bonnets was a pastry-cook’s, with an even more tempting window full of cakes. Pattern could not take her eyes off them. As well as the present of the black satin dress, the kindly Baroness had also given her a small advance on her wages. Fingering the unfamiliar coins – the Grand Duchess’s profile on one side, a dragon on the other – Pattern felt a surge of recklessness. She had already stolen a holiday. Spending wages she hadn’t yet earned was a small crime in comparison.
Before she could think better of it, she went into the shop and purchased a square of gingerbread and a glass of lemonade. The dark spices, and the tang of lemons, were the savour of freedom. She had never tasted anything so rich or sweet. Behind the counter, a sign advertised for the position of kitchen assistant. Pattern’s head filled with visions of herself in a baker’s hat and apron, surrounded by intricate confections of spun sugar and whipped cream . . .
She sighed. The gingerbread was nearly finished, and so was her holiday. She was not a pastry-cook but a lady’s maid, and thus far not a very successful one. She must get back before she was missed.
So she brushed the crumbs off her skirts and set off to the castle. But at some point she must have taken a wrong turn, for after rounding several corners, she found herself in a quiet lane that followed the river out of town in the opposite direction to the one she wanted. A row of cottages faced the water, with chickens and children running about, and women taking in washing. A young farmer walking up from the fields completed the peaceful scene.
Pattern was just turning round to retrace her steps when an anguished scream ripped the air.
One of the women had collapsed on the ground. She was clutching a child’s shoe to her breast. The farmer was standing to one side, twisting his cap in his hands, his head bowed.
The woman’s companions hurried to her side. More people came out of neighbouring houses, forming a fearful huddle at the top of the lane. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Pattern asked.
An old lady answered. ‘It’s her little boy . . . He went missing, out in the hills. And now it looks as if they’ve found . . . as if all that is left . . . ’ She shook her head, unable to go on.
‘How terrible! Are there wild animals in these parts?’
A man turned to stare at her. ‘And where might you be from, miss?’
Pattern supposed her accent must have given her away. ‘I am newly come from England.’
He frowned, and the others in the crowd drew back. ‘Then you’d best go back there, quick as you can,’ he said. ‘These are matters no stranger could hope to understand. Leave Elffish troubles to Elffish folk.’
As Pattern reached the top of the lane, the bereaved mother cried out again, and Pattern saw that shoe she was clutching was blackened and charred, leaving a sooty smear upon her apron. She was glad to leave a scene of such grief, yet she could not get it out of her head. She was wondering, too, about the conversation she had overheard in the cathedral, about the little girl from the mill.
The gingerbread lay heavy in her belly; the lemonade had left a sour taste in her mouth. As she crossed the bridge out of Elffinheim and saw the castle’s rooftops rise above the trees, she was sure she had been found out, and would have Mrs Parry to answer to. The golden afternoon light was fading, and the wood looked very black.
She struggled to fit the key in the gate.
‘Allow me, miss.’
A man had come up behind her and taken the key. He was tall, and almost entirely in shadow. Her heart jumped in her chest. Then, bowing his head a little, the gentleman pushed open the gate and she saw he was dressed in the fine dark cloth that marked him as an upper servant. He was an altogether elegant figure: wintry-blond and aquiline, and scented faintly with aniseed.
‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance. May I ask the nature of your business at the castle?’
With a sinking heart, Pattern explained her situation; yet the gentleman smiled. ‘Then you are most welcome. I hope you find everything to your liking, and that you will be content in your work.’
She was so surprised she could only stammer her thanks.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Madoc and I am valet to His Royal Highness Prince Leopold.’
The Prince’s valet! Pattern eyed him with new interest and respect. He, too, seemed young for his position, for in spite of his stately air, he looked to be still in his twenties. Her respect only increased as they walked together through the wood, for Madoc answered all her questions very civilly, and was generous with his advice. In return, he asked a deal of questions about herself, and what she thought of Elffinberg thus far.
‘You should be careful,’ he told her, ‘walking alone out here when the light is fading.’
‘Yes, I heard in town that the countryside has it dangers.’
‘Oh, indeed?’
‘There was talk – that some little children had been taken. I thought it must be wild animals, but . . .’ She faltered, for Madoc had come to a halt, and was staring at her with a strange intensity. ‘Well, I am sure such rumours spring up everywhere, and become exaggerated in the telling.’
They began to walk on, and his sigh was like the whisper of the pines. ‘Elffinberg is so small and so quiet, much of the world has forgotten about us. Yet you may find that we are not quite as sleepy as we appear.’ His eyes gleamed in the shadows. ‘We have our secrets, and our burdens too. Pray that you do not have to share them.’