The books you ought to read, next to those which are calculated to inspire you with pious reflections, are such as may give you instruction in the practical duties of your situation.
J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid
In spite of their newfound intimacy, Pattern saw little of the Grand Duchess over the next two days. It was close to the anniversary of her coronation, and a state banquet was to mark the occasion. One hundred and fifty guests were expected, many of whom came to the court early to pay their respects, and the Grand Duchess’s time was almost entirely taken up by these visitors.
Pattern was glad not to be directly involved with the preparations. It had taken three days just to lay the banqueting table. Under the supervision of the Warden of the Silver Vault and the Curator of the Glass and China Pantry, two thousand pieces of cutlery had to be properly distributed, and six glasses laid out for each guest. A senior steward was responsible for personally folding one hundred and fifty napkins into the shape of daffodils.
The Grand Duchess sent for Pattern the night before the banquet. Pattern had begun to wonder if her mistress had second thoughts about confiding in her, and was surprised by how anxious and unhappy the idea made her feel. She realized how much she would like to trust the Grand Duchess in turn. Being needed was one thing; being wanted was another, and was something Pattern had little experience of. And what if the girl had changed her mind? However, as soon as Pattern came into the room all such doubts were set aside, for the Grand Duchess seized her hands and, even though there was nobody else to hear them, whispered hotly in her ear.
‘Thank heavens we are alone at last! I have been thinking what to do all day – what I may speak of, and how much must stay silent. I am so confused! It is my burden, you see. A secret that no one must ever know. It is for your own sake, Pattern, believe me. And yet . . . yet I am feeling reckless all the same. Come, we are going to the library again!’
Once there, she snatched the oil lamp from Pattern and hastened into the maze of stacks and shelving, examining every corner to check they were alone and unobserved. There was a door concealed in a wall of books that Pattern had never noticed before. She assumed it would take them into one of the rat-runs used by the servants, but instead it led to a stairwell with rough stone walls and crude, uneven steps, whose edges had been worn smooth by the passage of many feet over many years; centuries, perhaps.
‘We are now in all that remains of the Old Castle,’ the Grand Duchess told her, voice low. ‘It has been so completely swallowed up by the new one that most people do not realize that there is any remnant left, or else have forgotten how to reach it. This is part of Prince Elffin’s own fortress.’
The ancient stairway led up to a similarly ancient door, very thick and squat, its wood black with age. ‘Nobody may enter here but me. I have forbidden it. Besides,’ she said, fishing in her pocket, ‘I am the only one who has a key.’
The door opened on to a gallery, with a ceiling of vaulted stone, and panelled walls. Traces of faded gilt clung to the carved wood. The Grand Duchess held up the lamp to show the row of portraits lining either wall. They were all of young girls: each and every one richly dressed, and sad-eyed.
‘Behold,’ the Grand Duchess said. ‘The Hall of Maidens.’
‘Who are they, Your Highness?’
‘They are my ancestors. Royal Princesses of the House of Elffin.’
There were about twenty portraits, spanning a time frame of over five hundred years. As far as Pattern could judge from the style of painting and the subjects’ dress, the greater concentration of portraits dated from the late Middle Ages through to the reign of England’s Elizabeth I. There were considerably fewer portraits for later years. The most recent painting showed a girl wearing the costume of a hundred years before. She looked not much older than twelve.
‘Is there to be a portrait of you, Your Highness?’
It was the wrong question.
The Grand Duchess drew herself up; for a moment Pattern thought she was about to strike her. ‘God forbid,’ she said, crossing herself. ‘God forbid.’
‘I – I am very sorry, Your Highness,’ Pattern stammered. ‘I didn’t mean to offend –’
The Grand Duchess drew a shaky breath. ‘No, it is me who should be sorry. The offence is not yours. For how could you know that every girl on this wall died young, and that these paintings are their funeral monument?’
Pattern looked at the painted faces, the quiet mouths and melancholy eyes, and felt a coldness trickle down her back.
‘A fine collection, is it not?’ This time the Grand Duchess’s voice was bitter and black. ‘Oh yes, there is much to admire in the House of Elffin, and its saintly dead.’
This conversation with the Grand Duchess disturbed Pattern more than she liked to admit. She could not get the sleep-talking interludes out of her mind either. There was something so ominous about them, something unnatural. She herself did not sleep much for what remained of the night and, rising before dawn, she made haste back to the library. There she consulted several learned tomes on the history of Elffinberg. She was surprised to find them as dull as they were brief, for the Grand Duchy’s history appeared to be almost entirely without incident. The country engaged in no wars and suffered no invasions; there had been no struggles for the succession, no civil unrest. An occasional crop failure or outbreak of influenza was as close as the country ever came to crisis.
Only one book diverted from this happy narrative. It was a tattered old thing that Pattern only found by chance, since it had been carelessly shelved between the collected journals of the Royal Elffish Society of Ceramicists and the memoirs of a long-dead Lady of the Bedchamber. The history it recounted was much as she had read before, except for a list of dates at the front of the book. Although these dates chiefly related to the ducal succession, there was a recurring entry that greatly intrigued her, and referred simply to a ‘Great Bane’. The last ‘Great Bane’ occurred just over a hundred years ago. A ‘bane’ was a kind of curse, Pattern believed. She thought back to the Hall of Maidens, and wondered if perhaps it referred to the untimely death of Princesses . . .
‘So you are a reader too.’
She jumped.
‘Mr Madoc, you startled me.’
The valet had emerged from behind a tower of shelving, and was surveying the book in her hand with interest. Though she had done nothing wrong, she somehow felt herself at fault. ‘I, er – that is – Her Royal Highness said I could make use of the library.’
‘How generous of her.’ The valet spoke with an ironical edge. ‘Perhaps she is not aware of how dangerous a book can be. An educated mind may think for itself, and so grow restless.’
‘I merely wished to know a little of the history of the country.’
‘So you are interested in facts? Yes, I can guess the kind of reader you are – you seek to understand the world through its statistics, and have little patience for tales of magic and adventure.’
Pattern resented his condescending tone. ‘Is that what you prefer to read?’
‘Those of us who are alone in the world, and must survive on our wits and our toil, rarely have the luxury of reading for pleasure.’ Madoc ran his finger down a crumbling spine. ‘But don’t give up on the fairy tales entirely, Miss Pattern. The old stories are often more true than one thinks.’
Madoc’s sudden appearances made her uncomfortable. So did his way of looking as if he was enjoying a private joke – and one that was at her expense. She found she did not wish to explain her particular interest in the history of Elffinberg.
Pattern returned to her room, deep in thought, just as Dilys was arriving with her breakfast. Her eye was caught by a locket glinting at the girl’s neck. It reminded her of the stall of amulets in the marketplace, the ones that were supposed to protect people from sorcery.
Feeling a little foolish, and fully expecting a sarcastic reply, she asked Dilys if she believed in magic.
‘I believe in our Good Lord, and that He will defend the innocent from the snares of wickedness,’ Dilys replied virtuously. ‘But the devil works in mysterious ways, and so do his demons.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean I heard of a woman who was bewitched so that whenever she tried to speak, nothing but black slime came out of her mouth. And there was a baby, back in my village, who got stolen by spirits, and replaced with a pile of dead leaves.’
Pattern felt increasingly out of her depth. Still, she pressed on. ‘Then do you know what a “Great Bane” might be?’
At this, the housemaid started violently, and almost dropped the tray.
‘Good gracious, Miss Pattern, why would you ask?’
‘It was . . . something I read.’
‘Well, it’s a deal of nonsense, I’m sure.’ The housemaid unsteadily set down the tray. ‘And nothing that need trouble us now, God willing.’ She crossed herself, and tugged on the amulet for good measure. Then something of her old snap returned. ‘You should keep your twitchy mouse nose out of it, in any event.’
The door slammed behind her.
After the dark hints and sorrowful looks of the night before, Pattern expected to find the Grand Duchess in very low spirits. In fact, her mistress was exceedingly cheerful, and already up and dressed when Pattern went to wake her. First, she made her a present of a pearl brooch – ‘You must wear it always, as a reminder that we are friends.’ And then she announced that she wished Pattern to know her better – ‘So I will begin with my beginnings, and show you my darling papa and mama.’
She led the way to the Throne Room, where a portrait of the late Grand Duke looked down on his former seat. It had been painted in the year of his death, and perhaps he was already sick, for even allowing for the artist’s flattery, his face appeared careworn, and deeply lined. Yet he looked, as Pattern said, a most dignified and kindly man.
From there they went to the ballroom, with its parquet floor as wide and shining as a lake, and chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling like crystal stalactites. Here it was a painting of the Grand Duchess’s mother that dominated the room. She was slim and raven-haired, with sloping white shoulders and laughing eyes.
‘I hope I grow up to be as beautiful as my mama. Everyone expects a princess to look the part. It is not enough for us to be kind and clever, but we must be as decorative as the heroine of any fairy tale.’ The Grand Duchess sighed. ‘And what of your parents, Pattern? For I wish to know you better, too.’
Pattern explained that she knew next to nothing about them, and related the story of the disaster at sea.
‘Oh well,’ said the Grand Duchess carelessly. ‘Immigration is always a risky business. If my guard had caught up with them, they would have been put to death in any case. People are not allowed to leave Elffinberg. They have to ask for my permission. Yes – even my godmama the Baroness.’
Pattern had to sit down abruptly in one of the spindly gold chairs. It felt as if her legs had given way from under her. ‘The state executes those who attempt to leave it, Your Highness?’
‘Well, it’s a fearful shame, and I’m very sorry about it, naturally, but we can’t have people leaving the country willy-nilly and selling secrets to our enemies.’
Pattern was scarcely able to hide her indignation.
‘But, Highness . . . what enemies does Elffinberg have?’
And what secrets?
‘We are a tiny country, surrounded by many large and aggressive ones. If it were not for . . .’ The Grand Duchess stopped confusedly. ‘Well. Never mind. And now you are upset! Oh dear. Perhaps when I am come of age, and have real power at last, I will find another – better – way to stop people leaving.’ She looked at Pattern anxiously. ‘I am very sorry for your parents. I’m sure they were good people, whoever they were. Come, I’ve a notion that will cheer you up.’