Changelings at Court Read online

  Theodora rearranged the bacon between the eggs and scalloped potatoes. “We might do with a few slices of that roasted ham, if you have them.”

  “Won’t be but a moment.” Geoffrey dashed back into the kitchen.

  “And we’ll take coffee when you’re ready,” Theodora called after him.

  She ran through the checklist in her mind. Coffee, ham, eggs. Yes, that was everything. She wanted this morning to be special.

  She pushed the bacon around again and then caught herself. My, how domesticated she’d become, she who used to fly free, to ride the currents of the winds back in the days when faery folk roamed wild across the countryside. Her youth among the faeries of Barrow Downes seemed a world away now, distorted as if viewed through a kaleidoscope, an opium dream of some artist’s fevered imagination. The vivid colors and intoxicating scents of that former life mixed in her mind like a flurry of dandelion heads adrift among a sea of wildflowers in bloom. The smell of saffron and cardamom, the many pleasant creatures of the wood, faery fire and passion, her wild lovemaking out on the heaths. Each image linked to such intense emotions, she seldom walked those paths of distant memory. In those wondrous days a breakfast in bed with her husband of twenty years would have seemed an unthinkable concept. Can this be? she wondered. After so many years pretending to be a human, have I finally settled into the role, body and soul?

  Perhaps, she allowed. But only perhaps.

  And why not? After all she’d been through, she had at last arrived in a very good place. Life at Grayson Hall had turned out to be everything she’d ever wanted. Her husband had overcome prejudice to accept her faery nature and their marriage was as good and honest as any. In time, she’d revealed all to her children as well. Their half-faery heritage caused some few problems, but nothing that couldn’t be managed with a bit of care and attention.

  She still maintained cordial alliances with her faery folk in the Barrow Downes. All in all, she now had better relations with the faeries than the tense relationships she had suffered before, when they had pressured her to retrieve the Grayson artifact from Eric. After she’d found the device and used it to thwart the coming of the Chrysalid, the faeries seemed content to leave her to her normal life. All in all, she finally had the life she’d always wanted. A faery-tale ending. Perhaps. But such things were never known to last too long.

  Of course she must still hide her faery identity from the people of Graystown, but perhaps that situation was about to change for the better. One could hope.

  Theodora grew tired of waiting. Geoffrey would bring the additional foodstuff up to their room in his own good time, just as quickly as his withered old legs could take them. He would leave the plates outside their bedroom door as was their custom. No need to wait. She took the tray from the counter and stepped through the galley. She knocked the latch with an elbow and swung open the huge wicker doors to the sitting room. Early morning sunlight cascaded in bright waves through the huge fitted windows of the hallway. This room looked simply marvelous in natural light, full of the beautiful things of men—the fine mahogany drawing desk, the elegantly carved wooden balustrades and marble fireplace, the red velvet sofa, the plush armchairs.

  She carried the tray upstairs into the master bedroom. Eric stood washing his face in a water basin on the window ledge, looking out over the property as he did every morning. Over his shoulder she had a view of the dairy farm and the heath-covered slope that led down to the jumbled cottages and houses on the fringe of Graystown.

  “Breakfast,” she announced.

  “Mmm, I’m ravenous.” Eric wiped the water from his face with a hand towel, but a few drops splashed down onto his embroidered white linen bed shirt. He smiled at her.

  Twenty years of marriage. Ten years of hiding her true nature and ten years of honesty—she saw a dangerous symmetry there, and numbers were important. Ten and ten again, such a thing portends a change coming soon. A change for the better or the worse? Success for Eric, or failure?

  After twenty years, their love was as strong as ever but their fortunes had waned considerably. Everybody in the country had heard about the wild night of faery lights over Graystown ten years ago, and some had glimpsed the Changed Men that worked their estate. The Grayson name had become synonymous with faeries, and rumors that they had faeries living on the estate had spread across England, resulting in a backlash against the entire town. Graystown goods were seen as tainted and undesirable, or even dangerous. Shipping contracts had dried up and the farms could do little to export their produce. Eric’s public advocacy for the faeries only worsened their circumstance, but he remained relentless in his efforts regardless of the personal cost.

  The mounting pressures had taken their toll on her husband. He watched prosperity slipping through his fingers with nothing but heartache and cares to show for his good intentions. At forty-five his face was already etched with worry-lines and a few gray hairs had now appeared at his temples.

  Consequently Theodora had allowed herself to age a bit as well. Her human appearance was entirely a glamour, one she had perfected over many years. She had allowed the illusion to age gracefully but slowly, maintaining her beauty not so much out of vanity than in an attempt to please Eric. He deserved that at least, and whatever other pleasures were within her control.

  She set the tray down on the huge canopy bed and Eric settled beside her.

  “All of this?” he asked, popping a slice of bacon into his mouth. “Don’t you suppose they have any food for sale in London town?”

  “Best to get you off on a good start. So? Do you feel success dangling at your fingertips?”

  “Maybe,” he allowed, after making a show of thinking it over. “But that’s being far more optimistic than I’ve any right to be.”

  “Doesn’t sound optimistic.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Theodora, but you’ve no idea how bad the situation really has become. No funeral bells are tolling, because no one cares, but our cause has been dying a slow death. I’ve already spoken to everyone of consequence—every MP who would listen, and there weren’t very many of them who would listen. I can not tack against the wind forever. This meeting is our last chance.”

  “Our best chance, then.” She forced a smile. “Someone high up, you said? Could it be the Duke of Devonshire or perhaps even Cumberland himself?”

  “No. They’ve both already turned me down.”

  “Oh.” She touched his cheek as if to wipe the forlorn expression away. “Well, it might be someone even more impressive. A turn for the better. Dare we hope?”

  “I don’t know. Mister Warburton is playing his cards very close to his chest. I won’t find out until I arrive. And whoever it is, I will plead our case again. And if the door is slammed in my face again, I will pound my fist against it until they throw me bodily from the court. Again.”

  “Either way, I’m proud of you Eric. It’s not many men would sacrifice their fortune to do what’s right.”

  Eric scoffed. “What’s right for the faeries seems wrong for everybody else. The sacrifices here… Who pays the price? Graysport can’t survive with only a paltry few ships coming through. What about the school in town? What about the hospital? The surgeon won’t work for free. The people in town, they depend on me, depend on the good name of the Grayson family.”

  “You’ve done nothing to tarnish that name. Our name.”

  “I feel a little bit like Cervantes’ Quixote. Fighting for a lost cause is neither wise nor particularly rational, though, is it?”

  “It’s not at all the same. Your giants, my dear, are real.” She allowed her glamour to slowly fade. Her human features gave way to her true form; her hair became lighter and fine as spun gold, her skin took on a pale greenish tint not unlike freshly shorn meadow grass. Among her new, beautifully modelled features were a pair of arched eyebrows, unrepentantly pointed ears, and eyes large and luminous. Her entire face was cast in a shining golden radiance as it caught the early morning sunlight th
rough the window.

  “My people are real. And forced to live belowground without sunlight and meadows and summer breezes...”

  “We’ll get them out into the light,” he said. His sentence had barely finished before he drew her toward him, crushing the elaborate breakfast between them as he covered her mouth and neck with hot kisses.

  “Things will turn out all right,” she said, as they paused to catch their breath. Still, she couldn’t help thinking about the disturbing omen of the twenty years. Ten and ten again. Change was coming.

  He caught the slight tinge of fear which tainted her reassurance. He knew her too well. “You’re not so great an actress as our daughter.”

  Theodora’s eyes lit up. “Say, you could catch her performance while you’re in town! Oh, now I’m feeling jealous. I wish I could go too.”

  “At this point, I doubt we could afford two tickets to a night at the Menagerie. In fact, we shall have to liquidate some more assets when I get back. If there’s anything left.”

  “I don’t care about money or title or any of it. You know that. I could be happy in an open field.”

  “That’s true,” he said, returning her smile.

  Her smile faded. “But you wouldn’t be.”

  “If I was with you, it would be just fine. But it’s not just about you or me or the children. Too many others count on our good family name. And they are suffering.”

  “You should eat some of this,” she said, trying to make the breakfast presentable again.

  He pushed the tray off the end of the bed. “Breakfast can wait.”

  “I won’t argue with that,” she sighed, letting her house dress slip from her shoulders.

  Meadowlark blew a sour note on his pan pipe, half-disguising it as the morning call of a hungry whippoorwill. Morning call, mourning call.

  He sat huddled in the broad oak tree on the west side of the Grayson estate, knees to chest, head in hand. His glamour of brown and leafy green made him invisible to any of Lord Eric’s footmen patrolling the area below, unless they happened to catch the yellow glint of his eyes. Even so, they would likely think they’d glimpsed only a stray cat that had found its way up into the boughs of the great oak.

  But Meadowlark’s eyes were sharp, sharp as blades, as he stared across the gap to the manor house. Gauzy drapes hung at the window, but were no impediment to his keen faery sight.

  It didn’t matter. His eyes were closed anyway. He didn’t need to look. He could feel the lovers’ passion erupting across the open air, bringing with it a dazzling and confusing array of sensations. And remembrances. He had felt Theodora’s kisses and caresses for himself, many years ago. Years ago and years ago but still fresh as daisies, hot, sweet and wet. In younger days they had made love among the freshes and the reeds, in damp pools of moonlight and midnight meadow, even floating in the air among scented breezes. Those had been only silly dalliances, brief encounters among many other experiments and playings. He’d hardly given them a passing thought until Theodora—no, not Theodora—Clarimonde. Clarimonde was her name! Not human. Not mortal. That was pretend. Only pretend. Why didn’t she see that now as before?

  Why didn’t she see anything?

  He snorted, then pressed his lips to the reed pipe and fiddled a few strains of a sad and melancholic tune. He didn’t bother to disguise it. What did it matter?

  He turned away from the window. The entire scene was disgusting. A travesty, not a tragedy. How had he come to this? Merry Meadowlark who cared only for frolick and freedom and wild laughter, jokes and carefree rutting in the woods! He wasn’t jealous of Lord Eric. Surely that was impossible.

  But the idea plagued him, needling him during off hours and long, sleepless nights. He should have killed Lord Eric when he’d had the chance. Years ago, when Theodora—no, Clarimonde—when Clarimonde had been playing the role of human in order to obtain the Grayson artifact, pretending to love.

  Meadowlark had held Lord Eric in a cell in the bowels of the estate. He had mocked the young lord and played tricks upon him, but he hadn’t killed him. That had been the moment. That moment kept coming back, creeping back like the ghost of a chance, a dead life, a rotting corpse. If he had killed Eric Grayson then, she might never have known. All was chaos, wonderful chaos, at that time. The Chrysalid had descended upon them, threatening destruction, a bloodthirsty pirate roaming the estate, and Redthorne the faery assassin—my, those were good times! Anything was possible.

  But he hadn’t killed Lord Eric then. He’d thought he could win Clarimonde over when all was said and done and the Chrysalid dispatched and her mission accomplished. Surely the British Lord was merely a plaything to be discarded, to be abandoned among the refuse left littering the estate in the wake of the Chrysalid’s attack. But it was not to be. Theodora had convinced herself she loved him! Theodora! Not Theodora. Maybe Theodora. Whatever.

  It didn’t matter anyway. He could have killed Eric then, and he could just as easily kill him now. It would take little more than a snap of his fingers. Well, a little more. A faery stroke can’t be inflicted quite so easily as all that, but I could manage it. I could. And Eric would fall dead. I could do it today, this very morning, as the Lord readies his horses for his travels. A snap of the fingers and down he goes. Good-bye pompous ass! And done.

  Meadowlark blew a sour note on his pipe. No, it would not be as easy as all that. Clarimonde would know he had done it. She would recognize the handiwork of a vengeful faery and she would see the aftereffects on his soul plainly written for months thereafter. She would know. But so what? So what, so what?

  Her moans of pleasure echoed back to him across the gap between house and tree, ringing in his ears from past and present.

  He decided to do it right now. The faery stroke. Right now while Eric had himself rammed deep inside Clarimonde. Oh, that would be delightful. He was going to do it, do it right now.

  He summoned the will, gathering the energies necessary. The Lord was vulnerable just now, as vulnerable as he might ever be. His trousers were down and so were his defenses. Meadowlark readied himself for the blow. It was going to cost him. The faery stroke took its toll on the wielder as well. He hoped he wouldn’t fall out of the tree. I don’t care. It will be glorious. I’ll laugh over the dead body. I’ll dance on the dead Lord’s grave!

  He leaned forward, poised on the finger snap.

  Just one snap.

  But he let his fingers go slack.

  It would hurt her. It would hurt her to lose her human love at his hands in such a cold, cruel moment. No, he would not do that.

  Damn it all!

  He resumed playing his melancholy tune, twisting the melody into a frenzied wail of the flute. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a lithe silhouette cross the window. She leaned forward, a silky nightgown hastily thrown over her shoulders.

  Meadowlark leaned back, blending himself in with the leaves and branches. He wasn’t sure he could fool her faery eyes. Does she see me?

  Who cares?

  He scampered away.

  Chapter 2

  James Grayson sat cross-legged amid tall heather. He was naked as a jaybird. What a strange sight I would make, he thought, should some passing farmhand or milkmaid catch their young lord out in the wild in such a scandalous state of undress. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time. Tucked away on the shore of a small lake at the western edge of the property, this tiny clearing in the woods was hardly travelled but not completely isolated. Anyway, he didn’t much care. If someone should happen to glimpse the Grayson family jewels dangling amid the tall grass, so be it.

  Communing with the natural world was no simple task. James found it much easier to do without the discomfort of breeches. And being only half-faery, he did not have the ability to put on a deceptive glamour. Others must see him as he truly was.

  He set about clearing his mind of all worldly thoughts and cares. This, of course, was the hard part. But it was a bit more pleasant under a cool blue sky, out in a plac
id field circled by stately oaks and maples that had stood their ground for centuries. In order to leave all worries behind, he found it best to fixate his concentration on some small creature of the wood. He spotted a squirrel in a nearby tree, peering at him around the back of the shaggy bark. Good. A squirrel was perfect to begin with, if it would just sit still long enough for him to make the connection.

  A squirrel in a tree—that’s precisely how this whole thing had started for him in the first place. He had been out by the tool shed, practicing shooting with his father. He held a little French cavalry pistol at arm’s length, aimed at a series of glass bottles at thirty yards.

  “There’s a squirrel on that branch there,” his father had said. “Do you see it?”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “Let’s see if you can knock it off the branch.”

  James took aim. And that’s when it had happened for the first time. Concentrating on the squirrel, he suddenly saw what he would later come to refer to as totalis naturalis. In other words, everything at once. He saw the squirrel’s nose quiver and its whiskers twitch. He saw the muscles at the back of its shoulders bunch slightly, its clawed hands tense. He saw the delicate fur of its neck rise up, hair by hair in a subtle wave of motion. He saw the squirrel’s gray eyes focus on the boy with the gun.

  And then he went inside. He felt the squirrel’s anxiety, a heightened sensation of fear even beyond its usual guarded state. It saw him clearly; it smelled the gunpowder, but didn’t know what to make of it. It fought against its first reaction which was to flee, which was in fact its first reaction to almost any situation that involved human beings. But the squirrel had sensed something in James as well. This newfound connection seemed to work both ways, at least of a fashion.

  The squirrel was hungry. It had not eaten in two days and wanted to make sure it had salted away enough nuts and mash for the upcoming winter. It had three new mouths to feed this year. It looked forward to winter in the warmth of the burrow, snuggled away with its mate and children. But it must have enough food. And though the boy seemed to be threatening it, the squirrel knew that James would not hurt it.