Elfland

Auberon paced around the kitchen, phone in one hand, the other dancing on the air to hush Jessica’s insistent questions. “Yes, obviously he’s got the right to do that, but… he wouldn’t, without telling us… Obviously against your advice… Well, where’s he gone? No, of course he’s not here, or I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

Rosie and her mother exchanged glances. By the time Auberon ended the call, they knew the essence; Lucas had signed himself out of hospital early that morning and apparently taken a taxi.

Auberon stood shaking his head. “They assumed he was coming home. So now they phone to suggest we take him back in, and it’s the first we’ve heard of it!”

“Of course, but he wasn’t a prisoner. He signed a disclaimer that he left against medical advice, and that was that.”

Rosie remembered how moody Lucas had been the previous day. Sam’s presence and graceful apology this morning had earned no more from Auberon than a caustic remark, “I see the period of reflection lasted as long as the snow did.” After that, her parents had been fine with him. Then, about an hour ago, he’d headed to Stonegate to see his father. When the doorbell sounded, she rushed to answer it, hoping it would be Lucas safe on the step with a damned convincing explanation.

Instead, Sam was there, holding a bouquet of crimson roses. In his black leather jacket he looked luminously sexy. “You’re back,” she said. “Are these for me?”

“No, they’re for Matt,” he said dryly. “Of course they’re for you, Foxy Rose.”

She took the roses from him, put her face among them and inhaled their delicate, dewy fragrance. “They’re gorgeous. Thank you. Wow, they smell amazing.” She kept her face there for a few seconds to hide the fact that this simple gesture had made her cry. Sam looked pleased and a touch embarrassed.

“Hoped you’d like them,” he said softly. “Dark red and passionate, like you. By the way, what on earth is Lucas doing at Stonegate?”

“I couldn’t get in. Lawrence had bolted the doors from the inside, which is odd, considering he’s usually pretty careless about security. So I’m on the front drive, shouting at him to let me in, and the next I know, an upstairs window opens and my bag comes hurtling out and lands on the drive beside me. Dad repeats that he won’t see or speak to anyone. I start arguing but the window slams shut. And then—in the next window along, I see another face behind the glass. It’s Lucas.”

“Positive. I called to him, but he only moved away from the window and vanished. Is he supposed to be out of hospital?”

Rosie and Sam stood with Jessica and Auberon, looking up at the walls of Stonegate. They’d tried phoning, but there had been no answer.

“Well, we’re not going until we’ve seen him,” said Auberon, hands thrust in his overcoat pockets. They had rung the bell, pounded on the door, shouted Luc’s name; nothing.

“Let me try,” said Rosie. She slipped around the broad walls of the house into the back garden. The sloping lawn with its islands of rock and rhododendrons reminded her of the time she, Matthew and Luc had broken in. It had been like entering a castle of ice. The snow clung, here on the heights.

Rosie tapped gently and insistently at the kitchen door. Something moved inside. “Lucas?” she called. “Are you in there? It’s me. Come on, speak to me.”

To her surprise, the door opened a sliver and Lucas stood, looking gaunt and sheepish, in the gap. From the corner of her eye she saw Sam and her parents at the corner of the house. She waved them to keep their distance. “What?” he said.

“I’m absolutely fine.” His dark hair hung in his eyes. “Don’t let Mum and Dad start on me. If you do, I’ll shut the door.”

“Don’t,” she said quickly. “They’ll stay put, honestly. No lecture about leaving hospital, either. I just want to know why you’re here.”

“Come on, Rosie.” He folded his arms. The sleeves of his overlarge white shirt were rolled up and his long pale forearms bristled with goose bumps. “You understand about the Gates. No one can help me except Lawrence.”

“No,” Lucas sighed. “He wouldn’t even let me in at first. I need to be with him for a while, that’s all.”

Rosie longed to put her arms around him, as a prelude to dragging him physically out of the house. She restrained herself. “You look frozen and underfed. This is not the best way to convalesce. Why don’t you come home and get warm? You can see Lawrence anytime.”

His face set. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Rosie, you may think I’m still thirteen, but I’m an adult. If I want to stay here, I will. Please. All I’m asking is to be left alone to make sense of things.”

She drew back. One more exchange and the conversation would deteriorate into begging and door-slamming. “Promise me that if you don’t feel well, you’ll make Lawrence call the doctor and call us, too.”

He looked startled. “Would you mind?” He lowered his voice. “If I come myself, Mum will be at me to stay and I can’t face it.”

“You know, if you want to be treated like an adult, you’ll have to face difficulties like that eventually,” she said aridly.

“Yeah.” He lowered his head, hair flopping forwards. “Give me a few days, Ro. I’m fine, really. I’ll come home when I’m ready. Just keep Mum and Dad away from me, okay? I’m sorry.” He raised one hand in a vague wave as he closed the door. She heard bolts slide into place. Stepping away, she went to her family.

“I take it you heard all that?” They nodded. Jessica was pale. “He’s right, we can’t force him to leave. Let’s go home.”

What is love, anyway? Rosie read in Faith’s diary. I know Rosie doesn’t love Alastair. He loves her, I think, but it’s not what she wanted. Yet she drifts along as if it’s all she can expect, making the best of it. I love Matthew but he doesn’t love me. It’s all I ever dreamed of except for that one little fact, he doesn’t love me, and it’s like walking through every day with your feet hobbled and one hand tied behind your back. It hurts so much you can’t move properly but you still have to pretend. Now Heather—she is love.

I wonder if my parents loved each other? No, their souls were dead. They were part-Aetherial and didn’t know it. They would go into the Dusklands, even Dumannios, and change into scaly demons and fight each other, without even being aware! How is that possible? Could they have become fully Aetherial if they hadn’t lost themselves in the human world and killed their own souls with drink and bitterness? When I think about them I want to cry and cry. I don’t want Matthew and me to be like that but I see it happening.

Had a lucky escape tonight. M. walked in while I was bathing Heather. The bubbles were almost gone and she was green in the water, pale green, shimmery like a butterfly wing. Suddenly he appeared, and I thought he must see her—she was sitting in plain view. I panicked and threw a towel over her, only I was clumsy and it landed on her head. He stared at me and said, “What on earth are you doing?” and I said, “She has soap in her eyes,” and I couldn’t believe he didn’t see anything because her tummy was clearly visible—but he didn’t. He only shook his head and walked out. And then I was furious because she is so beautiful and he couldn’t see it and I couldn’t share it with him. And Heather kept asking why I was crying.

Rosie bit the end of her thumb. Faith’s sadness pervaded every line. She felt guilty reading it but couldn’t stop. Had a lovely talk with Jessica today, said a typical entry. She is so nice. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably just go.

What does it mean, that I’m not human? I thought I felt human, but maybe I don’t, because this is all I’ve ever known. Realizing you’re Aetherial shouldn’t mean being ashamed and trying to hide it from the one person who should understand. Never mind M—what does it mean to me? I see images of silver-blue lakes that go on forever. I swim and swim. There are marvellous underwater caves. When I climb out on the far shore, I see—oh, it’s so clear—

The kitchen door opened. Rosie looked up from the diary and saw her mother standing there disconsolate. She was wearing a khaki walking jacket and her hair was tangled from wind and rain. “Mum?” she said, hardly needing to ask. “What’s up?”

Jessica stirred, shouldering off the damp jacket. “I’ve been up to Stonegate.”

“Oh, Mum.” Rosie hung the garment on a chair and hugged her. It was painful to see the shadows around her eyes. “We talked about this.”

“I didn’t try to see Luc,” Jess said stiffly. “I went to Freya’s Crown. I meant to go and find Faith. To see she’s all right and bring her back. Only the Lychgate’s closed.” She held up an unfastened bracelet of white gold and albinite, which sparkled faintly purple in response to her. “I was looking for the flash of green that indicates an open portal. Nothing.”

“Well, it’s academic now. There’s a sort of silver freckling where it was, but it’s firmly shut again.”

“Oh?” Rosie leaned against the table, arms folded. “Would it close without help?”

“No. Either Lawrence has done it, or he’s forced Luc to. Faith’s trapped. I miss her so much.”

“So do I,” said Rosie. Fear crept through her, a feeling she’d been trying to deny because she’d already had enough. Faith beyond reach—that was unthinkable, but what did Lawrence care? Jessica’s face held a bleak, angry look Rosie had never seen before. “My biggest fear was always that Lawrence would get his claws into Lucas, and now he has. I’m close to thinking that Phyll and Comyn are right. There’s nothing to do with Lawrence but bring him down.”

Rosie stood before the Crone Oak and looked up into the naked branches. Winter was fading, snowdrops shining, daffodil shoots pushing up. It was the first time she’d brought herself to visit the site. The debris was long since cleared, but evidence of the crash was still apparent in tire marks on the road, newly sawn stumps shining white where fractured branches had been amputated. Glass fragments glinted on the tarmac.

People had left bunches of flowers. Most were from colleagues at Fox Homes. That floral shrine, more than anything, gave her a visceral shock. She hadn’t expected the scene to affect her so badly, but a horrible, hot feeling crept over her and she could hardly breathe.

She wondered about the dryad who had insistently warned about blood. There was no whisper of her. “Greenlady?” Rosie spoke quietly. “You must have foreseen this. You asked me to prevent it, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

When spring came, Rosie began to create a garden. She’d started it some time ago in the neglected rose arbor where Oakholme bordered the Stonegate estate; the place where, years ago, she’d found Matthew hiding after he’d fought with Sam. Then she hadn’t quite known what form the garden should take, but now it was clear. A restless spirit possessed her. Despite slaving all day at Fox Homes, she spent the remaining hours of daylight constructing this special, secret bower.

She designed a path that spiraled inwards and surfaced it with flakes of silvery slate. The curves were delineated by granite-edged beds that she filled with silver foliage and black flowers; tulips, pansies, iris, hyacinth; every variety she could find with near-black petals. Against the silver, they bloomed like waxy ebony brushed with the merest hint of purple.

The middle of her garden was slightly sunken, so it drew you down as it spiraled in. At the very center she placed an egg of black and grey polished marble, two feet in height. It was so heavy that she needed Sam’s help to position it. For the past few weeks he’d been living with college friends in Ashvale, and she at Oakholme, but they saw each other every day. Often she would stay with him, but they were still treading very cautiously towards a future together. In front of her family, they downplayed their relationship and acted with tactful decorum. Somehow that made the private intensity between them stronger than ever, a spellbinding fire.

“It’s my ambition to design a garden for the Chelsea Flower Show,” she answered. “This is my tryout.”

“The secret, which you can’t see until you walk it, is that where the path reaches the egg, it curls back on itself and brings you out again. Like death and rebirth.”

He gave her a candid look. “Other people write poems or paint pictures. My Foxy expresses herself in a medium that involves backbreaking hunks of rock.”

“Thank goodness I’ve got you to massage my strained muscles.” She slipped close to him, her arms folding around his waist. There was nothing sweeter than the radiant pleasure of holding each other, with no prison guards to stop them.

“I’d love to, Sam, but I can’t, not yet.” She dug her fingers into his ribs. “How can you think of it?”

“Easy. I’d cheerfully walk away and leave them all to it. If we wait for everyone to get their lives into perfect shape, we could wait for bleeding eternity!” He sighed, rested his cheek on her hair. “Really, we have to stick around to the bitter end, don’t we?”

What is love, anyway? Faith asked in her diary. Seated on the marble egg in the center of the spiral, Rosie pondered the question. The evenings were lengthening, the sun glimmering low to bathe her in cool golden light. She was finally beginning to grope towards an answer. Love wasn’t one thing. It had many faces, many moods. It wasn’t being infatuated with Jon’s pretty face and flowing hair, that was for sure.

Alone, she sat and read the journal again, hoping her friend would forgive her. She realized that she’d never known Faith at all.

Matt thinks I’m a mouse. Even Rosie thinks it, albeit one to be loved and protected. They think I’m sad and fragile. That I only care about cooking, cleaning and mothering. If they knew what I really think about, they’d call me mad.

Rosie heard footsteps crunching behind her; someone taking a naughty shortcut across the beds. “It’s beautiful,” said Auberon. “Very unusual. I tried not to peek while you were working.”

“I’m glad you like it. You’re supposed to walk around, but I’ll let you off.”

“Walking a spiral is like treading a magical path,” Auberon said dryly. “It invokes the Otherworld. I suppose you know that, or you wouldn’t have built it.”

“In that case, jumping over the flowerbeds is bound to annoy the Spiral Court,” she retorted. “There’s no causeway, it would have spoiled the lines.”

“Quite.” He perched himself on a small hunk of granite nearby, forearms resting on his knees. “It’s very peaceful. Like a Zen garden.”

I see a city of gleaming black stone that shines with jewel-colors; crimson, royal purple and blue. I see labyrinthine passages and rooms where you can lose yourself for days, months.

Lofty pillars. Balconies onto a crystal-clear night full of stars, great sparkling white galaxies like flowers. Statues of winged men looking down with timeless eyes. I want to stand on those balconies and taste the breeze and hear the stars sing and be washed in the light of the moon. There will be ringed planets, and below—the tops of feathery trees blowing gently. An undiscovered land full of streams, with birch trees in spring green, and oak and hazel—and their elemental guardians, slender birch-white ladies with soft hazel-brown hair—and mossy banks folding into water.

And through this citadel walk graceful men and women with lovely elongated faces and calm, knowing eyes—with a glint of mischief—and they are perfect and know it and they are imperfect and know it. They have seen too much. They might wear robes of medieval tapestry or jeans and a shirt but you would never mistake them for human. It’s so much more than beauty. Look at them once and you can’t look away. These are Aetherials in their oldest city, Tyrynaia.

They have been building the citadel for thousands of years and it will never be finished. Upwards it spreads, and outwards, and down into the rock below. Their seat of power. Their home.

They take the names of gods, on occasion.

And sometimes they are heroic and help the world.

And sometimes they are malicious and turn it upside down.

Some might be vampires. It’s hard to tell.

In the deepest depths of the citadel, a ceiling of rock hangs over an underground lake and here is Persephone’s chamber. She welcomes and cares for those who come, soul-sick with despair, seeking solace, rest and sleep. Here they need not speak, only sit on the black marble lip with their feet on the thick glass, and watch the lake and the luminous fish beneath, which is like a reflection of the sky far above. If you lie down in despair, Persephone will lie down with you.

Rosie stopped. “Can you believe that Faith could write something like that?” she said.

Auberon shook his head. “How does she know about it? That’s the question.”

“There are said to be cities, Tyrynaia and Celadon… What would the ancient Aetherials, the Estalyr, be without a fabled city?” He looked down and tapped his foot, preoccupied.

“No, not really. I’m contemplating failure. I’ve always tried to be the father figure who sorts out everyone’s problems. Then you come to something you simply can’t put right, and it makes you admit you’re as hopeless as anyone.”

“Ah, it’s all an act. I suspected for years that Matthew had problems, but because he didn’t ask for help, I thought he was coping. Now, when I finally get to the root of it—I realize I can’t help him. No one actually can. I’m not omnipotent after all. Not that I ever thought I was, but you know, one tries to maintain the illusion.”

“I thought I could tame Lawrence, but no. Couldn’t even keep Jess happy. Work took me over and I was too busy building my little empire to remember that she had the spirit of a wild Aetherial, and if I wasn’t there, she would run to the forests with someone like Lawrence, instead.”

“Yes, she did. And never sang another note, as if to say, look, I’ve clipped my own wings. I never wanted that. I wouldn’t be without Lucas for anything. She had no need to punish herself.”

Auberon laughed softly. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs. “When Lawrence first locked the Gates, I was horrified and dismayed, as you’d expect of any pure-blood Aetherial. However, part of me was glad. I love the Earth, Rosie. My roots are deep in it. This guilty side of me thought that if Elysion were out of bounds, perhaps my wife and children wouldn’t feel its pull, or vanish into the wilds of the Spiral. That’s partly why I didn’t fight Lawrence too hard.”

“Partly?” Rosie watched her father intently. His eyes were dark under lowered lashes; a hint of sweat dewed the black curls of his beard. She held her breath as if the faintest sound might derail his confession.

“The initiation of a young Aetherial can be an ordeal. For as long as the Gates stayed shut, I thought I’d never have to worry about my children facing it.”

He gave a resigned laugh. “I was wrong to overprotect you, but I’ve seen how raw it can be. Lawrence… Although he was born in Sibeyla, his grandmother brought him to Earth quite young and that means, when you go back, the Aelyr will treat you like a Vaethyr initiate and brand you anyway. It’s a small revenge on those who have the cheek to leave. His father Albin was particularly difficult about his leaving, I understand. Lawrence didn’t actually have to come with me when my initiation fell due; but he did, because we were friends.”

“That’s the thing; it’s so unpredictable. When it was my turn, yes, it hurt, and yes, it was terrifying, but I survived, obviously. What Lawrence saw, however, drove him mad.”

“I don’t think he could explain, even to himself. He confronted whatever it is that has always haunted him. I came out of my own trance, there in the meadows of Elysion, and saw him. We were alone—the initiates are left to their own devices, as you know—and he was some way ahead of me, running blindly and tearing at his skin as he ran. I ran after him. He paused on the edge of a gully and I shouted, but he didn’t hear. Then he threw himself over.

“When I reached him, he’d gone over a twenty-foot drop and landed on rocks in the edge of a river. There was blood. He was unconscious in the water. So I scrambled down and pulled him out, gave him the kiss of life, stopped the flow of blood from his side until he came back to himself.”

Auberon sighed. “This one, anyway. And he was distraught. He raved about a shadow beast and said he couldn’t live with it; why hadn’t I let him die? What was I supposed to say to that? I reassured him it was only a vision—but initiatory visions can be a distorted picture of reality, which he knew full well. Anyway, he picked himself up and we went back and never spoke of it again.”

“Ah,” Rosie breathed. “So he’s never forgiven you for saving his life, is that it?”

“Exactly.” Auberon gave a sour smile. “I could never confront him or hate him—not when Comyn urged me, not even about Jessica—all because of that. I’d saved him. That made his life forever of special value to me, so that whatever he did, I could never hurt him back. As if, by that action, I’d signed up to safeguard him forever.”

“Oh, it was always very personal, private. Apart from Jess, I told no one. Lawrence and I never spoke of it, but it was always there between us. Comyn accuses me of being too much of Earth, and he’s right.”

“I’ve colluded in trying to keep you from your heritage, because I couldn’t rise above being a protective father and treat you as independent adults.”

“For all you did to prevent it, we got hunted down and branded anyway. It happened to Lucas even before he opened the Lychgate. We survived.”

Auberon lifted his hands. “And the plots and schemes of possessive old codgers are ultimately, utterly futile.”

“Codger? You?” Rosie gasped. “I’ll keep that to tease you with. But if Lawrence had died… if Luc had… you know what I’m trying to ask.”

“It’s said we can go on indefinitely, in one form or another. No return from the Abyss, they say—but we can’t even be sure of that, since it’s also the Source. The Mirror Pool, on the other hand, is about accepting transformation. Elysion may heal the physical body, but if that fails, we may revert to an elemental state for a few years or centuries. It’s hard when someone close does that, because it’s like touching a ghost; you have to accept that they aren’t the same person, but in a state of transition.”

“She always used to leap out and utter dire warnings about the crash, which I didn’t understand until it was too late. But she would be kind, too. She was strange and wonderful. And now she’s gone.”

Auberon let out a heavy sigh, his expression so dark she wondered what she’d said. “Rosie, the Greenlady—when she was in her human shape—she was my grandmother. I’m quite sure she would have known you were her great-granddaughter. And, in whatever distant way elementals are still capable of caring, that she cared about you.”

After a time, when Rosie had let the knowledge sink in, she said, “And what now? Lawrence can’t keep Lucas at Stonegate forever. It feels as if the world’s holding its breath.”

She felt her father’s hand on her shoulder. “I also didn’t fight Lawrence about the Gates because I always sensed that he is right. He has been protecting us from destruction.”

“Luc and I saw something in the Abyss,” Rosie whispered. She shivered, remembering. “It looked like a colossal statue, but it was more—like a living creature, petrified or frozen to black ice. I don’t know. But I remember thinking, it only stays quiet while Lawrence is vigilant. And it looked at Lucas. Turned its head and stared right at him.”

“Our imaginations spin solid realities in the Spiral.” Auberon exhaled. “How useless were my schemes to shield you from all this. So if Lawrence is training Lucas in the same vigilance… that’s understandable… but what kind of life is that for Luc? I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It needs to end, Rosie, but I don’t know how.”

The white walls of the farm house were covered by ivy and vines. Behind it stood a long modern barn like an industrial unit; in front was a glorious view of fields folding down into the valley of Cloudcroft, rising again on the far side to High Warrens. The farmyard to the side of the house was rutted with reeking green mud that clung to Sam’s boots as he approached.

He was trying to remove the worst of it on a boot-scraper when Dr. Meadowcroft—he could never think of Rosie’s aunt as Phyll—answered the door. “Jon’s in the kitchen,” she said briskly. “His turn to wash up; a little something to help earn his keep.” She gave her friendly-but-formal smile. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Jon was leaning against a big oblong sink, lethargically drying plates on a red and white tea towel. He was dressed in his usual grunge style, and the strapping was off his leg and his wrist. Sam glanced around. The room was large, unpretentious and shabby, filled with the earthy smell of animals and damp coats. Cooking pots hung from a ceiling rack. There was a confidence about the place that made him feel strangely nostalgic.

“Well, good.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. Just wondering how long you plan on hiding away here?”

Jon sighed, slinging the towel over his shoulder. “Got nowhere else to go, have I?”

“I’m amazed she’s still here at all.” Sam jumped up to sit on a counter.

“I suppose she’s waiting to see what she can get out of him. She’s hired this solicitor… I’m sure she’s screwing him.”

“Hardly.” Jon looked disgusted. “I told you, that’s long over. I wish to god it had never happened. We’ve got rooms at opposite ends of the house—I’ll show you if you don’t believe me!”

“All right, don’t have a fit. I believe you. Did you know Lucas is at Stonegate?”

“I’m sure he will,” said Sam. “There’s nothing else to do at Stonegate.”

“I can’t believe it. I thought her parents would drive you out of town with shotguns. I thought you and I might go on the run together.”

Sam exhaled. “You could too, if you put your mind to it. It’s not bleeding quantum physics.”

“You think it’s that easy? Our mother couldn’t leave fast enough, Father hates me, best friend turns on me, nutcase jealous husband tries to kill me—I thought Sapphire gave a damn, until I realized I’m only useful as a thing to torment Lawrence with. Yet that’s all I’ve got left—her.”

“You’ve got me.” Sam was more sharp than sympathetic. “But you won’t let anyone near you. Have you spoken to Father since you left?”

Jon frowned at him. “No. What am I supposed to say? ‘Oops, sorry about doing unspeakable things with my stepmother—the very memory disgusts me, if that’s any consolation?’ I can never speak to him again, Sam. I can never be anything, or do anything, with Lawrence hanging over me like a death vulture.”

Jon’s hollow tone shocked Sam. “Don’t talk about him like that. I think he’s ill.”

Jon threw knives into a drawer with some force. “The only way we’re going to see our mother again is if we take Lucas away from Lawrence and make him reopen the Gates.”

Sam groaned. “How? Burst in with a hand grenade? Don’t be daft. You won’t do anything, Jon; you never do. You’re just angry. We need to be patient until Lawrence relents and starts talking. Shit, I sound like Auberon.”

“There are no sides.” Sometimes, Sam thought, the temptation to slap Jon was practically irresistible. “I’m pretty furious with him, but still, if anyone attacked him, I’d defend him to the death.”

Jon’s eyelids fell. His mouth was grim, his body rigid. “Auberon never did a thing to help the Vaethyr. At least Comyn’s heart is in the right place, even if he is like a bull at a gate.”

“Anyway, just wanted to be sure you’re all right,” said Sam, jumping down off the counter. “I’ll go. So you’ll be here for a while, will you?”

“Looks like it.” Jon shook his hair back and gave a defiant smile. “Give my love to Rosie.”

“Sure.” Sam pursed his lips. “D’you realize, this is the most work I’ve ever seen you do? You want to be careful. Comyn will have you outside feeding cows and shoveling shit next.”

Sapphire liked the farm house. She appreciated its solid honesty. She’d spent a great deal of effort with new fittings and decor, trying to brighten Stonegate’s atmosphere, but nothing had worked. Its chilly, sour nature always bled through, like a stain that could not be painted over. Phyll and Comyn’s house might be plain, but it had no secrets.

Their kindness to her had restored her faith in Aetherial nature, to some extent. They’d taken her in because Lawrence had hurt her; they trusted her, and she appreciated that. They had little in common but hatred of Lawrence, yet it was a surprisingly strong and motivating bond.

Jon was in a bad mood at supper. Apparently Sam had visited, but Jon was tight-lipped.

Comyn had called a meeting for that evening. Dissatisfied Aetherials were coming from other parts of the country, even from overseas. It was to be held late, in secret, as if they were rebels in a police state. Just before it was due to begin, the kitchen lightbulb blew. It seemed an omen. Phyllida made a fruitless search for a spare, voicing exasperation that she and Comyn might work all hours but surely one of them could remember to stock up on such a basic item? With visitors beginning to arrive, she set a monster of an oil lamp on the table instead.

Should Aetherials be slaving like humans, as doctors, farmers, builders? Sapphire wondered. Didn’t they have the charisma and wealth to let others slave for them? Why did they do it? Even Lawrence, with a team of workers to command, was only truly happy shut in his workshop cutting gems with his own hands. Strange people.

Soon the oily glow lapped the faces of thirty Aetherials, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. Sapphire felt out of place. She was the only human here yet she’d won their trust because she wanted what they did: to destroy Lawrence. That knowledge gave her confidence. She could match their poise and purpose—and anything she couldn’t match, she could certainly fake.

Jon, seated next to her, looked drawn and shaky. Comyn’s eyes sparked like hot iron. Phyllida was unemotional and deathly serious.

The others, Sapphire barely knew. She remembered some from the ill-fated Christmas party long ago; they’d all been among the crowd that had heckled Lawrence. Flame-haired Peta Lyon and her sisters, the Tullivers, the Staggs and others. Lamplight drew out their otherworldly sheen, a mother-of-pearl glow. They wore no masks, yet she faintly perceived their animal affinities, which startled her. A feline tilt to an eyebrow, a bird-of-paradise flounce to the hair. Something of Stonegate, the energy of albinite perhaps, had penetrated her after all.

The table seated eight. The rest stood around in the shadows. Some stood behind her, which made her skin prickle.

Comyn folded his hands and sat in pointed silence for a minute. Then he said, “Most of you have been with me from the beginning. We welcome Sapphire since, in her commitment to our cause, she’s proved a truer Aetherial than some I could name.”

Sapphire felt a small glow of pride, but suppressed it. This was… a strange kind of treason. Like planning the assassination of Caesar. “Do you all understand that, from this moment, you cannot back out?” He continued, “We require your vow not to speak a word of this to those we can’t trust, specifically Sam Wilder, any member of Auberon Fox’s family, and Lawrence himself. If anyone objects, let them speak now.” No one did. “It is an ancient ritual, not enacted for centuries. It will take Lawrence completely off guard, but he’ll know precisely what it means. Every Vaethyr will know.”

Phyllida said, “At Cloudcroft Show on the fifth of May there will be hundreds of people gathered in the village. The Beast Parade, which Comyn and I have organized for years, will provide the perfect cover.”

“Once it begins, it cannot be stopped,” Comyn went on. “Others will be drawn into the wake, like a flood.”

Phyllida added, “Every Vaethyr here has a dozen others who, although they won’t be told our precise objective for security reasons, will be poised to join in.”

“Lawrence must surrender,” said Comyn. “He will have no choice. And Lucas will be in friendly hands again. According to Jon, he is the solution to this stalemate.”

Jon seemed to glow pale in the spotlight of their attention. His shoulders were raised, his head bowed. “It’s true. Luc is the new Gatekeeper.”

“And you’re certain you wish to take part?” Phyll asked carefully. “Lawrence is still your father. After this moment, you can’t withdraw.”

“I’m certain! I’m no longer his son.” Jon spoke with animal fierceness. Sapphire imagined them all as a wolf pack, sighting their prey with moon-yellow eyes and focused intent. She quivered with grim excitement.

Comyn caught her gaze for a split second. “Now’s the time for us to make our vows.” He folded his weathered hands on the table. “Every person present will swear secrecy and fidelity. Not to breathe a word to any who would oppose us. To follow the ritual through to its bitter end. Any who betray their vow will face bitter punishment.”

Phyllida had a pretty green-glazed rice bowl and a scalpel. With medical efficiency she went around the circle, making a small cut in each left wrist and catching the drops. Once the blood was mixed, Comyn rose and made the second circuit, dipping his thumb to paint each forehead with a smudged red spiral.

Sapphire felt sick as she submitted. The blood was cold and sticky. She wondered, Does this make me one of them? No going back now. It felt, irrationally, like a horrible betrayal. How much worse it felt for Jon, she couldn’t imagine.

“Oh—Jon dear, are you sure?” Sapphire said, before she could stop herself. She shouldn’t have spoken. Of course it must be Jon.

He responded to her concern with a look of sullenly blazing anger. “Yes, who else but me?”

“He’s your father,” she said quietly. “It will be on your conscience for the rest of your life.”

“Yes, and so it should be! Who should bring him down, but his own son? It’s poetic justice,” he said bitterly. “Who can do it, but me?”

Twenty-Two

Persephone’s Chamber