Chapter Three

Grunewald left Somerdale before dawn on the following morning, having enjoyed but a few hours of slumber. He barely felt the effects of his lost sleep, for he was enjoying a mixture of intrigue and alarm which kept his brain lively and his steps energetic. The theft of Tatterfoal could be no good news, but in the face of this emergency, he felt more alive than he had in years. Mr. Green of Hyde Place, and the dissipated life that he led under the disguise, seemed far away indeed.

Grunewald bent his lively mind to the problem with alacrity. Anyone who knew of Tatterfoal must know of the horse’s advantages. The fog which attended upon his every step cloaked the actions of both horse and rider from prying eyes; Tatterfoal’s terrifying appearance, combined with the legends of ill-luck and horror which had grown up around him, kept interfering parties at bay; and he was, besides all this, the fastest mount ever known – when he chose to run. The question of how somebody had contrived to make off with the horse may prove difficult to answer, but Grunewald had no difficulty imagining why somebody would go to the lengths and risks of stealing the creature; he was the perfect accomplice for dark deeds.

And uncatchable. Grunewald harboured no hopes whatsoever of being able to run down whoever had stolen the horse; not if they caught wind of his pursuit, and urged Tatterfoal into flight. His only hope was to position himself cleverly, choosing somewhere the creature was likely to pass through, and by this means contrive to catch sight of whoever had taken possession of his prize mount. The fog was an obstacle, to be sure, but he had retainers aplenty at his command.

He did not judge that Tatterfoal would emerge until after sunset, which gave him some hours in which to make his arrangements. He embarked at once for that area of the countryside in which he had encountered the horse the night before, and set about summoning assistance. Placing himself in, as near as he could judge, the very spot in which he had previously intercepted Tatterfoal, he dismounted from the sadly ordinary mare he had borrowed from the Aylfendeanes’ stables and uttered a string of words rarely heard in England before.

The sun had yet to fully rise, and he stood cloaked in shadow but barely touched by the sluggish, grey light of dawn. His breath steamed in the cold air, and he felt the creeping chill of October seeping through the layers of his coat. He felt a flicker of impatience, then, when minutes passed with no response, and no sound save the faint creaking of the trees in the rising winds.

Then a tiny ball of cold, greenish-pale light winked into being near his face and bobbed a greeting.

‘About time,’ Grunewald growled.

Three others soon joined the first, and then half a dozen more. Grunewald waited until each of the dark, looming trees around him had sprouted lights like bunches of grapes, and the clearing was aglow with wisp-light. Then, still speaking the ancient Darkling tongue, he issued his instructions. When he had finished, the wisps flickered their compliance and streamed away. Soon, Grunewald was left in near darkness once more.

The wisps would spread out across Tilton Wood, dampen their lights to almost nothing, and wait for a glimpse of Tatterfoal. That such subterfuge was necessary was not in question; Grunewald’s pursuit of the goblin horse the night before had ended in disappointment. He had caught up with Tatterfoal, to be sure, but lost him again; and whoever had taken possession of him had abandoned the horse and disappeared. If he wished to catch sight of the rider as well, he would need all the assistance his wisps could give him, and their light alone could reliably penetrate the thick, drifting fog which clung to Tatterfoal’s heels.

The sun rose, though its light was feeble and hidden behind a thick blanket of grey cloud. Grunewald spent the daylight hours recruiting further assistance from the shy leafling fae that populated Tilton Wood, and an occasional hob or hob-goblin tucked into underground burrows beneath the trees. By the end of the day, he was hungry, cold and tired, but he had achieved his goal: the woods and hills surrounding Tilby were alive with watchers, and he had taken care to position some few near to Hapworth Manor.

He had but one task left, that being to hope that Tatterfoal would return this evening.

 

In this, he was not disappointed. Drenching fog seeped up from the ground almost as soon as the sun disappeared, and the chill night grew colder still. Grunewald did not move from his appointed position. He did not think it coincidence that he had encountered Tatterfoal in the depths of Tilton Wood, and there he intended to stay.

Time drifted past. His hair grew wet and dripping beneath the chill fingers of the fog, and his coat and boots soaked through. After some hours of vigil, he felt frozen to his core and began to shiver.

This hardship he ignored. He stood, immoveable and still, in a cocoon of thick white fog, unable to see more than two feet around him. With nothing to fix his attention upon and naught to do, his mind drifted, turning over myriad notions as to the meaning of Tatterfoal’s theft.

That it had something to do with the Adairs, he could not help but wonder, for Hapworth Manor was situated but a mile from his present position. He had entered the environs of Tilby by chance, the year before, in company with another: an Aylir of Aylfenhame named Aubranael, disguised at the time as a human gentleman. The ensuing caper had amused him, but he had been particularly intrigued by the town of Tilby. Its enveloping woods, called Tilton by the residents, struck him as beyond the ordinary; some quality to its trees and carpeting mosses and its filtering green lights, some note to its verdant aromas, seemed to him unusually primeval — even fae. The town was blessed with an unusually thriving population of fae creatures, though he did not imagine that the townsfolk were aware of it beyond the brownies which took up residence with them.

And then there was the bridge-keeper, Balligumph. Grunewald had travelled widely throughout England, and he knew well how unusual the toll-keeper was. A troll, come out of Aylfenhame to keep the Tilby bridge? It was but a modest crossing at that, too small to warrant any kind of toll. And the price asked for passage was strange, too: not coin, but information.

Oh, Tilby was certainly unusual. Intrigued, Grunewald had remained even after Aubranael had left, and sought to discover more. His enquiries had led him all the way to the Chronicler’s Library in the royal city of Mirramay, in Aylfenhame; and there he had learned… a few things.

The town of Tilby was situated directly across the divide from the ancient Aylfenhame town of Grenlowe. He now suspected that it had long borne close connections with the fae lands, and that the fae had left more than one lingering mark upon the place.

He suspected still more that some of those connections had taken root among the populace of the town – its human populace. This suspicion had been confirmed recently, when a sweet young woman known as Miss Ellerby had discovered Ayliri heritage and the powers to match, and had accordingly become a witch.

That there were more families hereabouts with fae blood, Grunewald no longer doubted; but that they were all as innocently placed, and as inherently harmless, as Isabel Aylfendeane and her fledgling powers, he could not feel confident of. The Library of Mirramay had revealed disturbing hints of powerful Ayliri bloodlines mingled with equally powerful English families, and Grunewald’s misgivings had grown. Even the Chronicler’s records could offer little by way of fixed information, and Grunewald had taken it upon himself to try to discover more.

And now, the business of Tatterfoal. The two things may not be connected at all; but on the other hand, they might. Grunewald kept his mind open to possibilities, and waited.

His thoughts drifted to the hapless maid he had rescued on the previous night. She was wasted on the Adairs, and on service; that he had quickly seen. She had borne her abrupt dismissal with composure, and gamely set out into an inclement night with no fears beyond the reasonable. Moreover, she had been brought face-to-face with Tatterfoal and had proved remarkably impervious to the horse’s terrors. He regretted bearing her along on that venture, but there had not been sufficient time to deposit her somewhere without losing his quarry.

She interested him, and more than a little. Her lack of deference did not offend him; rather, it was refreshing – though if she had spoken to her former masters in the same fashion, he considered it no surprise at all that she had been turned off. Her spirit impressed him, and her wit amused him. It was a matter of some faint regret that he would, in all likelihood, see little of her henceforth – if he ever saw her again.

A faint sound reached his ears through the muffling fog: the breaking of a stick, and the dull thud of a hoofbeat. All thoughts of the black-haired maid fled from his mind; with a strong effort of will he resisted the urge to turn in search of the sound, and continued to wait.

Another thud, and another. Hoofbeats indeed. Grunewald stopped breathing as the sounds came closer. A faint, dark shadow moved in the fog up ahead.

Grunewald whispered a word, and a light flared in the darkness: a wisp had erupted into life. More followed, and within moments the woods were drenched in a stark, piercing wisp-light which blazed through the fog, and revealed the dark form of Tatterfoal.

And his rider. Grunewald felt a moment’s fierce satisfaction, for his subterfuge had worked: his quarry, unaware of any surveillance, had not yet fled. The rider looked sharply around, blinking in the sudden light, and with a wordless cry he applied his heels to Tatterfoal’s flanks and disappeared into the night and the fog.

The encounter lasted no more than three seconds, but it had been enough: Grunewald had seen. What he had glimpsed shocked him to the core, for the rider’s visage had been as familiar to Grunewald as… well, as his own.

Rage filled him. Abandoning his hiding-place, he darted for his mare, swung himself up upon her back and rode in furious pursuit of Tatterfoal, screaming wordless fury. But though he rode long into the night, he never caught up with his wayward goblin mount, or the rider who had stolen the beast’s loyalty.

***

Bess woke to find the hour far advanced. The sun was up and shining full upon Somerdale, which caused her to feel wonder and regret in equal measure. She could not remember the last time she had risen from her bed in daylight; it was a rare thing, even in the heart of summer. In the midst of October, it was unheard of and unthinkable.

Which meant she was shamefully late in presenting herself to her kind hostess.

Worse – or, perhaps, better yet – someone had been into Bessie’s room while she slept. A fire burned in the hearth, and a large jug of fresh water had been set next to the pretty porcelain wash basin which stood upon the dresser. Recognising the work of a housemaid, Bess could only stare. Only a single day ago, it had been her unhappy task to rise in the dark and the cold of the morning and light fires which other people would enjoy. How was it that she had, in so short a space of time, become one of the few to benefit from such labours?

Best not get accustomed, she cautioned herself, for it could not last. Besides, even in the midst of her pleasure at washing her face in clean, warm water, she felt a touch of guilt, for she could sympathise all too clearly with the probable feelings of the maid who had laid out these delights for her.

Derritharn was still asleep, and Bess left her to slumber. She was touched anew to note that Derri had also been provided for in the night. A tiny wash basin and jug were laid out for her, too, together with a clean (albeit still ragged) dress, and a hearty-looking breakfast. This would be the work of Somerdale’s household brownies. Bess was heartened to see that they were as ready to welcome Derri as the Aylfendeanes were to welcome Bess herself. Having completed her ablutions, brought some semblance of order to her tangled black hair and changed her dress, Bess was able to go down to breakfast, comfortable in the knowledge that her friend was well taken care of.

Still, it went sorely against the grain with Bess to leave such a fine guest room and descend the main staircase to an even grander hall. She had to resist the temptation to search for a hidden, plainer staircase somewhere which would take her straight to the kitchens. She owned only two dresses, and even the finest of them was but faded red cotton. It had been old when she had received it, a cast-off begrudgingly bestowed by her former mistress. Now it was shabby and frayed, and Bessie felt like an imposter sweeping down the main stairs in such a garment.

But she was here by invitation, and a far kinder and more genuine invitation than she had ever before received. She dismissed such feelings, lifted her chin, and endeavoured to appear comfortable and unconcerned.

This lasted only until she arrived at the bottom of the staircase and realised that she had no notion of where next to go. She hesitated, unwilling to venture through any of the closed doors or down the corridors without some idea of where to present herself. If she were to intrude somewhere she was unwelcome, she would swiftly lose Mrs. Aylfendeane’s goodwill, and then what would become of her?

As she was considering this problem, a door opened and the housekeeper she had glimpsed before – Mrs. Glover – appeared.

‘There you are,’ said Mrs. Glover without ceremony. ‘There is breakfast for you in the kitchens.’ She turned away at once, leaving Bess to follow as she could. Bess was more than content to do so; feeling, secretly, relieved that she would not be expected to take her breakfast anywhere as grand as her bedchamber had been.

But Mrs. Aylfendeane’s voice prevented her escape. ‘Ah, Bess!’ she said. ‘It is Bess, I believe? I am glad you have found your way down.’

Bess turned back. Her hostess stood in the middle of the hall, looking even more beautiful and marvellous than she had in the darkness of last night. Her sumptuous hair was coiled atop her head in a fashionable style, and arranged into ringlets in front. Her gown was of some kind of silk, Bess judged, though it was finer and stranger than any she had seen before, for it shimmered in three shades of green simultaneously, and rippled like water even when Mrs. Aylfendeane was standing still. A butterfly with violet wings sat at her waist.

‘Ma’am.’ Bess made a curtsey, which, to her horror, was returned.

‘Mrs. Glover? Bess will take breakfast with us in the parlour, if you please.’

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am. I thought that the young person would be more comfortable in the kitchen.’

‘Miss Bell has endured a very difficult day and conducted herself remarkably well. Nonetheless, I believe she requires a little cosseting to fully restore her.’ Mrs. Aylfendeane smiled at Bess. ‘Besides which, Miss Bell, I am eager to speak with you about your adventure.’

Bess could hardly refuse. She followed her hostess into a pretty parlour which, she was relieved to discover, was not too grand, and accepted a chair at the table. A gentleman also sat there; Mr. Aylfendeane, presumably. He was as well-dressed as his wife, in a cerulean waistcoat and snow-white shirt of similarly remarkable fabrics. He was also uncommonly handsome, with pale brown skin, long hair as black as Bess’s own tied into a tail, and eyes of an unsettling burnished bronze colour. Bess received from him a smile every bit as kind as his wife’s as she took her place at table.

There was no sign of Mr. Green.

Bess realised, belatedly, that the food was set out upon a sideboard behind her, and she was expected to serve herself. Too late; for as this darted through her brain, she found a plate set before her by Mrs. Aylfendeane herself. Mr. Aylfendeane filled up a cup of chocolate for her and set it by the plate.

For the first time in her life, Bess had no idea what to do or say. She was too far out of her depth. She ought rightly to be serving them, in the proper way of things! Or not even that, for serving at table was too high a duty for a mere housemaid.

She also failed to hide her feelings as completely as she was used to do, for Mr. Aylfendeane observed her distress. ‘T’ain’t quite a usual household, this,’ he said, and not at all in the refined accents Bess had expected. ‘Ye’ll get the hang of it in a minute.’ He winked at her, and applied himself to his own chocolate.

‘Oh dear, that is true,’ said Mrs. Aylfendeane as she sat down. ‘I had not considered! It must seem very odd to you, and perhaps we have made you uncomfortable. But I hope you will overlook our blunder – or mine, indeed, for my husband has anticipated your feelings.’

Bessie blinked. The lady of Somerdale was apologising to her? ‘I can truthfully say, ma’am, that I have never been treated so kindly in the whole course of my life.’ Good heavens, the food alone was so far out of the ordinary way that Bess hardly knew how to eat it. There were fresh bread rolls with butter and preserves, three different cakes, and tea, together with the pot of chocolate. She had never enjoyed such a variety of food before, nor in such quantity; the pile upon her plate might ordinarily be expected to serve her for two breakfasts.

Nor was she accustomed to eating the moment she rose; ordinarily she would have completed some two or three hours of work first.

Mrs. Aylfendeane seemed nonplussed by Bess’s statement, and her face darkened with some thought Bess could not identify. ‘You came from Hapworth Manor, I understand?’ she said.

‘Aye, ma’am.’ Bess said no more, for the extent of her hunger had at last penetrated through her haze of confusion, and she attacked her breakfast with energy.

‘Mr. Green imparted some details of your story to me before he left the house,’ said Mrs. Aylfendeane, partaking of her own breakfast in a far more ladylike fashion than Bess was proceeding to do. ‘But I should like to hear it from your own lips, if you will indulge me.’

She would have to wait until Bess had finished eating, for having begun, she could not bear to stop. She felt as though a year had passed since her last meal, and nothing would do but that she clean every scrap of food from her plate, and every drop of tea and chocolate from the cups and pots set before her as well. Mr. Aylfendeane watched these proceedings with obvious amusement, but Bess could not feel abashed.

Once her meal was complete, Bess began to talk. She sensed that Mrs. Aylfendeane’s question came from real interest, and from her expression when she spoke of Hapworth Manor, Bess risked a guess that the Adair family were not among the Aylfendeanes’ favourite people in the neighbourhood. Even so, she softened some of the details of the event which had led to her expulsion from the Manor, and dispatched that part of the story as rapidly as she could. She hurried on to the moment when she had met Mr. Green – if that was his real name, for she distantly recalled his being addressed as something else at Somerdale.

When she had finished, both of her hosts sat for a moment in silent thought. Then Mrs. Aylfendeane said: ‘You hit Edward Adair with a bucket?’

Bess blinked. ‘Aye, ma’am.’

‘You hit him in the head with a bucket?’

Bess braced herself for disapproval – until she realised that the lady was trying to resist an apparently strong urge to laugh. Mrs. Aylfendeane soon gave up on the futile endeavour and laughed heartily indeed, clapping her hands in satisfaction. ‘I can scarcely think of a person more deserving! I applaud you. Grunewald said you were out of the common way, and he is perfectly right.’

‘Grunewald? Ain’t he called Mr. Green?’

‘He is, when he chooses to be. But you have already had full opportunity to observe that he is not altogether an ordinary gentleman.’

‘I reckon he is cracked in the head.’

‘Oh? Why do you say so?’

‘Anyone who goes up to a nightmare and pats it on the nose is missin’ somethin’ in the way of sanity.’

Mr. Aylfendeane grinned at that with obvious appreciation. ‘I hope ye told ‘im as much yerself.’

‘No sir! I ain’t nearly mad enough. If he can manage Tatterfoal like he was a bitty-lamb, he could eat the likes of me for lunch.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Mrs. Aylfendeane. ‘Grunewald would not hurt you. He has proved as much! He does not like to spread it about that he is not plain Mr. Green, but he has taken no objection to your being fully aware of it. He has not threatened you, has he?'

Bess snorted. 'He don't need to! He were kind to me when I needed it, and I am grateful to him to be sure. But I maintain he’s as mad as they come.'

Mrs. Aylfendeane nodded, and sipped her tea with enviable calm. 'It is a strange business, to be sure. Did you ever hear of Tatterfoal before, my love?' This last was addressed to her husband, whose brows rose at the question.

'Mm. That I 'ave, though not a great deal. In the past, it was said t' be the favoured mount o' the Goblin King, an' never abroad but wi' his blessin'. As t' whether that's still true, ye'd have t' ask ̶ '

'How interesting,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane, with a quick glance at Bess. 'I hardly think the Goblin King would terrorise our poor county with fog and nightmares, however.'

'Aye, well. As t' that, His Majesty's famously hard t' understand.'

Bess thought back to last evening. What had Mr. Green said? I have not the faintest notion what you are doing partying abroad in England without your master’s leave. Tatterfoal's master was the Goblin King? A king of Aylfenhame? But if that was true, how came Mr. Green to know anything about it?

'Grunewald works for the King of the Goblins?' Bess blurted.

Mrs. Aylfendeane looked sharply at her. 'Did he say so to you?'

'No. But he called Tatterfoal a pony, if you please, and said that he didn't have leave to be partyin' in these parts. How would he know that, if he weren't workin' for Tatterfoal's master? And, 'twould explain why he was willin' to go right up to the beast.'

Mr. and Mrs. Aylfendeane exchanged a look. 'That is possible,' said the lady. 'But Bess, I believe we must consider the question of how we may assist you. Your returning to Hapworth Manor is out of the question, naturally, but I collect that you did not receive a character?'

Bess's mood darkened at once. 'Aye. Right enough.'

'How perfectly revolting,' she said in tones of strong disgust. 'But there I may be of assistance. I shall be happy to write you such testimonials as you require, and we will perhaps be able to find you a new position with some one or other of our friends.'

This was kindness, and everything Bess would have hoped for on the previous evening. But a deal had changed since. Her heart sank low at the prospect of returning to her housemaid's labour; so much so that she could not welcome Mrs. Aylfendeane's offer, no matter how kindly meant. She had never wished to go into service; it had merely been the only option available to her. Motherless since birth, her father had died eight years before, and considering her youth, inexperience and lack of either money or connections she had been obliged to keep herself thereafter by any means possible.

Now that she was a stout young woman of four-and-twenty, she ought to be able to do better for herself. But how? She was no more skilled now than she had been at sixteen, except at such delights as cleaning fireplaces, stuffing mattresses, mending bed linen and beating carpets. She could not expect to be taken as an apprentice at any higher profession; not at her age, and with no money to offer to a prospective master.

Her options, in short, were limited indeed. After eight years of toil, she was no nearer to improving her situation.

'You need not answer at once,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'There is time to consider.'

Was there? She could hardly expect this obliging couple to continue to house her while she debated her choices — especially knowing that, in the end, her choices numbered but one.

'I must accept your offer,' said Bess. 'And I thank you for it.'

Mrs. Aylfendeane looked concerned, and a frown appeared upon her perfect brow. 'I do rather wish that—' she began, but she did not complete the sentence. She stopped speaking, lips parted upon whatever the next word would have been. 'I think I hear...' she said, and then turned to her husband. 'Do you hear that?'

'Aye, love,' he said grimly. 'I hear it well enough.'

Bess heard nothing out of the way at all, and she was confused. But within a few moments, something odd reached her ears: strains of music, distant but coming closer.

It was strange music at that, utterly removed from the popular ditties and ballads Bess had heard before. The melody was a fluid ripple of notes played at a rapid, almost frantic, pace, and the piercing notes of a pipe rose above it all.

The Aylfendeanes rose from their chairs and went into the hall, forgetting Bess entirely. She trailed after them, puzzled, as the music grew louder. Soon it began to seem as though the melody emanated from directly outside the house; moments later there came a loud rapping upon the great front door of Somerdale House.

A butler had appeared from somewhere, and now went forward to open the door. But Mr. Aylfendeane waved him back, and went to admit the visitors himself. He threw open both doors, and Bess received a clear view of a marvellous and surprising sight.

In the preceding months, a band of Ayliri musicians and their attendant dancers had been wandering across England, attending assemblies and balls all over the country. They were known as The Piper's Rade, and their appearance — though looked upon with suspicion, at first — had come to be welcomed, even celebrated. But when the summer came to an end, the Rade's progress had apparently ended as well.

Until now? For the array of colour spread before Bess's wondering gaze could be nothing else. A company of Ayliri had drawn up in front of the house; Bess counted at least eight of them, all mounted atop long-legged horses whose coats shone in strange and beautiful colours. Their riders were still more magnificent: each wore an approximation of the fashions of English gentry, but cut from silks and velvets of impossibly rich colours. Their clothes shimmered in the weak morning sun, decked in ribbons and lace and glittering with magic.

Even this astonishing magnificence could not cast their wearers' beauty into the shade, for the Ayliri were more handsome than Bess would have imagined possible. Their skin ranged in hue from icy-pale to as dark as chocolate; their features were sculpted perfection, almost eerily beautiful; their eyes and hair were of the shades and hues of flowers and precious jewels.

Their leader was the Piper. He held a curiously curled pipe to his lips and played a whirling melody upon it, and this he did not cease until the doors of Somerdale were opened to him. Then he dismounted, revealing himself to be remarkably tall. His hair, worn long and loose, was indigo in hue, and his eyes were an intense violet.

He also appeared to be in a flaming temper. He strode up to the door and demanded, without preamble, 'Has Grunewald been here?'

'Aye,' said Mr. Aylfendeane, surprised. 'Last night.'

The piper scowled. 'Oh, he was up to a deal of mischief last night! Tell me at once. Are you in some way involved in this matter?'

'We are unsure to what matter you refer, Lyrriant,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane in a calm way. 'Do, please, elaborate.'

Lyrriant's eyes narrowed. 'Do not seek to dissemble. I can only be referring to the abrupt reappearance of Tatterfoal in these parts.'

'Then of course, it is naught to do with us.'

Lyrriant stepped closer to her, his manner far from conciliatory. This angered Mr. Aylfendeane, who took his wife's hand and drew her closer to himself. 'Do not seek t' frighten my wife, Lyrriant. Tell us at once what's the matter wi' ye.'

'Grunewald is the matter,' snarled Lyrriant. 'For him to go riding about the countryside upon such a mount as that! You, above all others, must realise the dangers of such reckless behaviour.'

'I do not believe he was riding Tatterfoal at all,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'Indeed, he is as much puzzled by the horse's appearance as any of us.'

Lyrriant's scowl deepened. 'Naught but the purest falsehood. He was observed.'

'Oh? By who?'

'Oh, by many! Too many to imagine that they are all mistaken. If Grunewald has told you that it was not he atop Tatterfoal's cursed back, then he has lied to you.'

Mr. and Mrs. Aylfendeane exchanged a troubled look. And then, inevitably, both of them looked at Bess.

'But we have a witness,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane.

Lyrriant's violet gaze turned upon Bess, and with no very friendly expression. His lip curled. 'This is your witness?'

Bessie stepped forward. 'I was wi’ the one you're callin' Grunewald last night, sir. And I can vouch for what he has told the Aylfendeanes. He were chasin' Tatterfoal and tryin' to catch him. He was not ridin' the beast.'

Her words set up a murmur of comment from the piper's attendants, which he hushed with a wave of one long-fingered hand. He looked hard at Bess. 'Explain.'

Bess was obliged to recount her story all over again, which she did as succinctly as possible — not least because a cold autumn wind was blowing into the house, and she had not the garments to withstand the chill in any comfort. It did not appear to her that Lyrriant believed her tale, which caused her some pique. But he did not altogether discount it, either.

'You appear to be sincere,' he said when she had done. 'But if your story is the truth, then there would have to be two Grunewalds wandering about in Lincolnshire.'

'Wi' the arts o' Glamour, that's not impossible,' said Mr. Aylfendeane.

Lyrriant nodded. 'But if someone has stolen his semblance, answer me this: Which of the two is the real Grunewald, and which the lie?'

'The real Grunewald is the one who visited us last evening,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'I would swear to it.'

'I hope that you are correct,' said Lyrriant. 'But if you are, we must face the possibility that this semblance is capable of fooling even His Majesty's most loyal servants. And that is no pleasing prospect.'

'Are ye sure ye didn't wake up Mister Tatterfoal yer own selves?' said Mr. Aylfendeane. 'Wi' yer ridin' and pipin' about, ye've been wakin' up a deal o' long-lost folk.'

'Tatterfoal is beyond our power to influence. He answers to none but His Majesty.' Lyrriant strode to his horse — jade-coloured, its pearly mane whipping in the wind — and jumped back onto the creature's back. 'If he returns, notify me,' he said. Without awaiting a response, he lifted his pipe to his lips and began, once more, to play. His mount darted forward, and Lyrriant rode away from Somerdale at a rolling canter. The rest of the Rade fell in behind him, and the whole party thundered away.

Bess and the Aylfendeanes watched their departure until every last scrap of colour and light had faded from sight, and the Piper's music could no longer be heard. Then, at last, the butler was permitted to close the doors of Somerdale upon the chill wind.

'I wish Lyrriant did not have to be quite so dictatorial,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane with a sigh. 'I confess, I do not see why it should matter to him that Tatterfoal roams the countryside.'

'It used t' be said tha' the appearance o' Tatterfoal presaged some kind o' disaster,' said Mr. Aylfendeane. 'I am inclined t' doubt that it means any such thing, but mayhap Lyrriant disagrees.'

Mrs. Aylfendeane looked worried by this suggestion, and her husband immediately fell to reassuring her. But Bess said nothing. Her mind was busy, turning over everything that Lyrriant had said. One part of his speech was of particular interest to her: Tatterfoal answers to none but His Majesty.

'Are ye full certain, love, tha' last night's visitor was Grunewald?' said Mr. Aylfendeane. This question recalled Bess's attention, for she had been wondering the same thing.

His wife gave the matter some thought, her brow furrowed. 'I am sure of it. Consider. If there is an imposter wandering about Lincolnshire in Grunewald's form, and this person is responsible for the appearance of Tatterfoal, then we must assume that his intentions are at least questionable, if not outright malevolent. But the person we met last evening took the trouble of bringing poor Bess here, out of naught but kindness. Would an imposter have done it?'

It did not appear to occur to Mrs. Aylfendeane that she had said anything to cause any alarm. But an alternative interpretation of last night's events evidently entered her husband's mind, and his gaze settled upon Bess with a hint of suspicion.

Bess could easily guess the direction of his thoughts. 'I am everythin' I claim to be, I swear it!' she protested. 'I never met Mr. Green, or whatever he calls hisself, before yesterday, and he took me up in his curricle pretty unwillingly.'

'Let us not forget Derritharn, love,' added Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'I am persuaded that she would never consent to take up with anyone who could not be trusted.'

'There I must disagree wi' ye,' said her husband. 'Brownies are simple folk, true enough, and rarely get themselves mixed up in such matters. But it 'appens. An' Derritharn is no more known t' us than Bess.'

'I will ask Alleny,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane.

As though summoned by the mere mention of her name, a brownie darted into the hall moments later and presented herself at her mistress's feet. Her hair was corn-coloured, and she wore a tattered sage-green dress. 'Aye, Mrs. Isabel?' said she.

'I would like you to vouch for Derritharn, if you can. And for Derritharn's companion.' Mrs. Aylfendeane gestured at Bess.

Alleny looked Bess over carefully. 'I know naught of the human, but Derri, now! Her granny is cousin to my gramper, and her brother Balso is wed wi' my niece Valline.'

'Ah! So she is well-known to you. And has she indeed been resident at Hapworth Manor, until recently?'

'Oh yes! Though we told her them was a bad lot.' Alleny put her hands upon her hips and tutted. 'She would not listen!'

'Derri has known me all of this past year,' offered Bess. 'She would know if I was not meself.'

'Thank you, Alleny,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane, and the brownie dashed away again. Bess did not think her words had entirely satisfied both of her hosts, which injured her a little. But with the likes of Tatterfoal abroad, she could not blame them for being wary.

Any lingering suspicion Mr. Aylfendeane may have felt about Bess did not manifest in any alteration in his treatment of her. They kept Bessie with them for most of the day, and the lady of the house questioned her closely about her life, her skills and her interests — most likely with a view to finding Bess a suitable new position thereafter. But it pleased Bess nonetheless, for no one had ever taken such an interest in her before. She and her husband were also forthcoming about themselves, and answered Bess's questions with the greatest good nature, though she took care to ask nothing too personal or probing. She did not wish to give them cause, however inadvertently, to suspect her of harbouring some ulterior motive for her show of interest.

Derritharn came down in the afternoon and joined Bess and their hosts in the parlour. Bess noticed that Mr. Aylfendeane found myriad subtle ways to test Derri's knowledge of Bess, and her loyalty, without seeming to examine her. This did not unduly trouble Bess, for she knew that Derri could say nothing out of place, and she gave her host full credit for subtlety and sensitivity in his questioning. If Bessie was part of some plan to introduce a threat at Somerdale, then of course he must discover it, in order to protect his family. But by the end of the afternoon, she felt that these fears had been assuaged.

She herself remained unsettled. By the end of a day spent in near idleness, the question of how best to dispose of herself was as pressing as ever, but still unanswered. The matter was driven from Bess's mind when, come four o' clock, dense fog began to drift over the fields and soon engulfed Somerdale. The weak and fading October sunlight vanished altogether, and within a few minutes all was darkness outside the house.

Mrs. Aylfendeane rose and went to the parlour window. 'I can see nothing!' she reported. 'It is worse than last evening, I am sure of it.'

'Tatterfoal,' said Bess.

Mr. Aylfendeane looked at her. 'The fog?'

'Aye. Mr. Green said Tatterfoal brings it.'

'He is out there somewhere, then,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'I wonder what it is that he wants in these parts?'

Half an hour passed in a state of some tension. Bessie could not settle, for she was too well able to picture Tatterfoal in all his nightmarish glory marauding through the Wolds — and not, in all likelihood, very far away. Was Mr. Green out in the fog once again, chasing down his errant steed? Would he be any more successful at bringing him back under mastery, this time?

Soon afterwards there came a violent pounding upon the door, which caused Bess to startle almost out of her wits, for the sound was amplified beyond all reason; it seemed to shake the very house itself. The Aylfendeanes shot out of their chairs and, as one, left the room. Bess went after, and arrived in the hall just in time to see Mr. Green come striding through the front door. He ignored the butler who, half-indignant and half-atremble, attempted to ask him his business.

Bess received her first clear view of the man who had assisted her. He was taller than she had thought, and though he still wore the great black driving-coat of last evening, she received the impression that his was a spare, trim frame. His skin was excessively pale, almost stark white; his shock of red hair stood out all the more prominently in contrast.

His eyes were bright, vivid leaf-green, and at the present moment they were livid with fury.

'Isabel!' he bellowed. 'The effrontery! The thrice-damned nerve! That traitorous, lily-livered, fatuous-minded pony is not merely wandering about taking his ease among your beautiful Lincolnshire hills. He is here by instruction! Nay, by cordial invitation! And whose the instructions, you might ask, sent the ridiculous creature flitting about the English countryside like an oversized butterfly?' He paused with awful deliberation as he took a deep breath. 'MINE!' he roared. 'My own blessed invitation, if you please! For who should I have glimpsed tearing about upon the poppinjay's back but my own self!'

'We 'ave discovered the same, this mornin', by way o' Lyrriant,' said Mr. Aylfendeane.

'Oh, you have! How very obliging of him! I suppose he has told the rest of the neighbourhood as well! Dear folk of Lincolnshire, if you wish to know by whose order your roads and hills are being terrorised by a vision of hell itself, you need look no further than Mr. Green, of Hyde Place!' Grunewald was working himself into a visible fit of apoplexy, for with every word his pale complexion grew a shade redder, and his eyes flamed with rage.

Mrs. Aylfendeane went towards him with her hands outstretched. 'I do not imagine him to have done any such thing, Grunewald. I assured him, of course, that Tatterfoal's appearance was none of your doing, and that we had heard as much from your own self only last night.'

Mr. Aylfendeane pointed to Bess. 'You do recognise tha' young lady, I suppose?'

Mr. Green's livid gaze fell upon Bess, who merely raised an eyebrow in response. 'Yes, of course I recognise the baggage,' he snapped. 'What has that to say to anything?' Enlightenment dawned, and if anything, his rage grew fiercer. 'Oh, I see!' he said with awful sarcasm. 'There was some question, was there, that your visitor of last night was the other Grunewald, and the baggage some manner of accomplice! Permit me to reassure you! That deuced tangle of problems fell into my lap by the most damnable piece of ill-luck and it was of the greatest inconvenience!'

Bess bridled at that. 'Gentleman, are you so? I have met pigs wi' better manners.'

Grunewald pointed one long, thin finger at Bess. 'You watch your mouth, my girl! I am in no humour to brook any of your sauce this evening!'

'Then you'd best address me with a bit more courtesy! For I had no desire whatsoever to be hauled off on your hare-brained venture, and that you know full well! You think I enjoyed it, I suppose! That I congratulated meself on runnin' into you just at the right moment to be swept up into the maddest ride of my life and imaginin's both, when I was already cold and tired and more frightened than I have ever been in all my years! You were welcome to leave me in the road where you found me wi' my blessin', and so I said to your face once before!'

Grunewald looked as though he would cheerfully throttle her, which only angered Bess the more. Impossible man! If he thought he could so easily disrespect her because she was naught but a maid, he was full mistaken!

'Grunewald, do please calm yourself,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'Bess, please! It is clear that there is something gravely amiss and we must discover what it is together. This howling at each other is of no conceivable use.'

Grunewald's fierce gaze fixed upon Isabel, and Bess feared that he would next begin to shout at her. But he took a big, big breath and let it out, and his rage seemed to dissipate along with it. 'I apologise,' he said shortly. 'You are perfectly right.' He bowed, first to the Aylfendeanes and then — to Bess's astonishment — to her as well. 'Yes, baggage, I also apologise to you. Of course, it was not your fault that you strayed into my path, and it was not much to your benefit either.'

'Well,' said Bess, disconcerted. 'To be fair, you did bring me here. I only wish we could've dispensed wi' the mad part aforehand.'

A twinkle of amusement appeared in Grunewald's eyes. 'Yes, well. It does not appear to have produced anywhere near so lasting an effect as I had hoped, for here is the wretched creature returned!' He looked at the Aylfendeanes, and his expression grew sober indeed. 'Isabel. Tal. It is not merely my semblance that has been stolen, do you understand? For semblance alone would not fool Tatterfoal. No, whoever has helped himself to my image is able to mimic me to my core, and that not only angers but terrifies me. There is no end to the trouble such a person could cause — not only to me, but to others. To England. To Aylfenhame.'

Silence met these words. Bessie was more appalled by Grunewald's seriousness, and his acknowledgement of fear, than she had ever been by his rage. She did not yet know the full secret of Grunewald's identity, whatever her suspicions might be; but that he was a strange and powerful being, that she had no doubt of. Anything capable of terrifying him was fearsome indeed.

'Is there some way we can be of assistance?' said Mrs. Aylfendeane. 'You did not come here merely to deliver yourself of a tirade, I imagine.'

'I have some hopes that you can. I must discover who is behind this masquerade, but the Glamour is too perfect; even I cannot expect to penetrate it without significant assistance.' Grunewald stared intently at Somerdale's lady. 'You are a witch.'

'I am,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane guardedly. 'But of no great talent, I am afraid.'

'Thou art bein' overly modest, again,' said a voice Bess had never yet heard. To her amazement, the most peculiar creature emerged from some shadowed corner where it had lain entirely undetected. The beast resembled a cat, though its ears were those of a bear and its face was somewhat bat-like. Its fur, thick and luxurious, was striped in brown and gold, and the tip of its long tail was crowned with a crimson tuft. 'Thou'rt new t' the witchin' arts, but nonetheless thou'rt passing skilled at Craftin'.'

Grunewald stooped to stroke the creature's ears, which ministrations it did not at all seem to mind, for it wrapped its tail around his knees and purred. 'Tafferty, I rely upon you to support me!' said Grunewald. 'You and Isabel are my best hope of a speedy resolution.'

'Aye, I understand,' said Tafferty. 'Thou hast fairy ointment in thy thoughts, I collect?'

'I do.'

Isabel gasped, and Tafferty's tail twitched. 'Thou'rt askin' a great deal, admittedly.'

'I know it,' said Grunewald. 'But will you try?' This last was directed to Mrs. Aylfendeane, with a look of such soulful entreaty that Bess did not think she could have resisted it.

'I will try,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane doubtfully. 'With Tafferty's help, perhaps I might... oh, but I do not know what it is to be out of! I have no materials for such creations at Somerdale.'

Grunewald collected a packet of soft cloth from a pocket in his driving coat, and handed it over. 'Wild thyme, four-leaf clovers and snowfoot boletes,' he said. 'And but two strands of butterbyne moss.'

'Thou'rt already astray wi' thy mushrooms,' said Tafferty. 'Tis velvet queen parasols we require, with the boletes.'

Grunewald frowned. 'In truth? Perhaps my information is unsound. Nonetheless, will you make the attempt?'

Isabel took the packet with a nod. ‘I could not refuse, though I beg you will not allow your hopes to rise too high. Tafferty is right: I am but new to the arts.’

Grunewald smiled upon her with a glow of gratitude, and perhaps more. It entered Bess’s thoughts that he harboured a degree of special fondness for Mrs. Aylfendeane. ‘Thank you, Isabel.’

The Aylfendeanes went away with the talkative, striped creature, leaving Bessie alone with Grunewald. He appeared to have forgotten Bess’s existence, for he stared after Isabel with a meditative expression, and did not move.

‘You cannot simply catch ahold of this person and remove them from the neighbourhood?’ Bess enquired.

‘Not a chance,' Grunewald said absently. 'His choice of Tatterfoal as steed is no accident, for there is no swifter creature in your world or mine. I would need Tatterfoal to catch him. Nay, better than Tatterfoal.’

Bessie accepted that without further comment, and her thoughts took a swift turn. ‘I am wonderin’,’ she said conversationally. ‘How does a person get to be a witch?’

Grunewald blinked at her, and it took a moment before his eyes focused upon her face. ‘What? Oh. Have a fancy to take up witching, have you?’

‘It seems to me a deal more interestin’ than sweepin’ floors.’

‘No doubt. Unfortunately, it is not an art one may simply decide to practice. It comes with blood heritage from Aylfenhame, and even then, but few are able to attempt it.’

Bess sighed. ‘Tiresome. Does it sometimes seem to you that all the best things are kept for those wi’ the right bloodline? Tis a mite dull for those of us wi’ the poor luck to be born from naught but mud.’

‘Perfectly true, but alongside your understandable cynicism you must consider two points. Firstly, that one may just as easily inherit burdens and disasters with one’s bloodline as advantages, and the two sets of birth-gifts often occur together. Secondly, that a lack of inherited advantages need not curtail your choices. Only a fool or a weakling abandons themselves to disappointment merely because they were not dealt a perfect hand of cards at birth.’

Bess was briefly silenced. She could not reasonably argue with any of his points, for she felt the sense of them keenly enough. But it did not alter the fact that her choices, as he termed them, were but few. ‘What would you do, in my shoes?’ she said.

He took her question literally, and glanced at her feet. ‘Cast-off shoes from a careless mistress, rather an older gift than is reasonable. Worn to the point of being not only uncomfortable but, I should imagine, painful.’

Bess’s feet had blossomed with a few new blisters after last night’s wanderings, and she nodded.

‘I would stop walking around in someone else’s shoes,’ he concluded.

‘Shoes ain’t exactly in the habit of growin’ on trees around here.’

‘Then you must go somewhere else.’

Bess snorted, and abandoned the conversation. It was evident that Mr. Green’s thoughts were on his own problems rather than hers, which was reasonable enough; she could hardly expect him to care what became of her. Why, he still called her baggage. Nonetheless, she felt a moment’s resentment that he, dripping in wealth as he was, could so flippantly cast out such advice. Where else was she to go – some place where shoes grew on trees? What nonsense.

Derritharn appeared at Bess’s feet. ‘There is a shoe-tree in Avarindle,’ she offered, quite as though she had heard Bess’s sour reflections.

Bess frowned. ‘A what?’

‘A shoe tree. A wood-gnome fell on hard times and had no shoes for his children. So he buried a worn old shoe in the ground and wished and shed a few tears, for his children were crying with the pain of their cold and sore feet. Tis said that a passing witch heard and cast an enchantment, and the next day a tree grew upon the spot. And it sprouted shoes, of all shapes and sizes.’

‘Derri, you are makin’ that up,’ said Bess suspiciously. ‘Such wonders don’t happen, not even in Aylfenhame.’

Derritharn smiled up at Bess. ‘It is as true as that I stand here.’

‘I’ll be needin’ a bit more’n a magic shoe-tree to make a life for meself.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Derri. ‘But it would be a fine start.’

Bessie had no further comments to make, being outfaced by the sheer absurdity of Derritharn’s arguments. She left Grunewald to his agitated pacing and Derri to improve her friendships with the brownies of Somerdale, and wandered into the garden. The time of year was not conducive to any impressive display of verdure, but she welcomed the solitude, and revelled in the unaccustomed freedom to wander in the garden in the middle of the morning. At this hour, only a day previously, she would likely have been busily engaged in airing the beds of Hapworth Manor, with a long day’s duties still ahead of her.

Her resolve strengthened. She must not, at all costs, permit dreary necessity to force her back into service. She felt in her heart that she was made for more; that she wasted herself and all her resources of wit and liveliness, her youthful strength and her passionate nature on the menial life of a housemaid.

But where in England could she go in search of better? Who would ever be moved to give her the opportunity to better herself?

Nowhere. That she knew. But another idea had seeded in her mind, and Bess spent some little time engaged in the consideration of this new possibility. Aylfenhame. Thither Miss Ellerby had gone, and returned a witch – and an Aylir. Nor was hers the only such story, for a year or more ago the reverend’s daughter had likewise ventured Aylfenwards. Bess had heard the tales with lively interest, but never had she thought that she would seek to follow the example of those fine ladies. Nor that she would be granted any opportunity to do so.

Now the interest was hers, and opportunity also, if she could only find a way to take it. Bess wandered and thought for some time, until her fingers were numb with cold. When she returned into the house, she bore with her the beginnings of a plan.