Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) Page 26

  ‘May I offer you some tea?’ Sophy said. ‘I will have to pour it myself, I am afraid, as Mary is otherwise occupied. It is likely to be dangerous.’

  She had hoped to draw a laugh from him with her flippant comment, but he made no response at all—except to raise his eyes from the floor, and fix them upon her face.

  ‘No tea, then,’ Sophy observed. ‘Perhaps I may offer you something edible and easily-served, instead.’

  ‘I am not hungry!’ Aubranael declared.

  ‘Oh! Then I shall not press you,’ said Sophy mildly.

  Aubranael took a deep breath and said quietly: ‘You will have heard by now of my—my—deception, for we must give it that name. I cannot imagine that your friends left you long without information on such a point.’

  Sophy inclined her head in assent.

  ‘You behave as though you had forgiven me, Miss Landon, but I hardly dare hope that—’ He trailed off and stared at her in rather a dramatic fashion, his face stricken as if he expected to receive some great blow from her.

  Sophy began to feel a mixture of amusement and impatience at this display of strange and not especially polite manners. ‘I do not see any very convincing reason why I should not,’ she said with a touch of asperity. ‘I was, I admit, a little dismayed when I first heard of your charade; but it did not take me very long to see that, had I been offered the opportunity to enjoy great beauty for a few weeks, I would have accepted it without hesitation. I must be the greatest hypocrite in England, then, to treat you harshly for having done the same.’ She paused. ‘I only wish you had told me the truth about your identity when you arrived. I cannot help feeling that I wasted a great deal of time in learning to trust Mr. Stanton, when I had already formed a favourable impression of you.’

  Aubranael nodded, his face an almost comical mixture of elation and crestfallen dismay. He garbled something in reply, or several somethings at once, for Sophy could distinguish nothing especially coherent from his rambling response. He stopped himself after a while, and sighed, and scrubbed at his face.

  Sophy’s impatience grew. Enough time had been wasted already, she felt, with his various pretences and deceptions; and while she had no desire to behave in a bold way, she had even less desire to continue with this detestable awkwardness. Or to see him leave her shop and never return.

  And so, mustering her courage and drawing a deep breath, she said: ‘Would you like to stay, too?’

  Aubranael blinked at her.

  ‘Well; you will not like to be very far from Lihyaen, and I would not like you to be very far from me.’

  ‘Why, I—am not sure that—that is—’ he said with admirable glibness.

  ‘You have a great many important matters to see to, perhaps, and I should not attempt to detain you.’ Sophy spoke lightly, ignoring the constriction in her throat and the unsettled, erratic thumping of her heart.

  To her surprise, Aubranael laughed. ‘Oh, that I do! For I am a man of considerable importance, and my time is excessively valuable.’ His brown eyes shone with laughter and, at last, he smiled the wide, merry smile she had found so attractive before.

  ‘But they may, perhaps, wait for a week or two,’ she said, smiling sunnily up at him in response. ‘If we did our best to be very entertaining.’

  Aubranael nodded with mock seriousness. ‘I expect to be very pleasantly detained, mind,’ he said.

  ‘I can offer you a great deal of sewing,’ Sophy said promptly.

  ‘Ah! Could anything be more enticing!’

  ‘There is also the ironing. And if you should happen to become very bored, I may even have it in my power to offer you tea-pouring duties.’

  Aubranael laughed, took her hand, and kissed it exuberantly. ‘Then I shall consider myself the most fortunate of men,’ he said. Before Sophy could object—though she was not sure she would have, given the opportunity—Aubranael gathered her up into a tight embrace and buried his face in her hair. He kissed her cheek, her forehead, her eyes, and finally her mouth; and as she returned the kiss, her eyelids fluttering shut, she reflected that she was, without doubt, the luckiest woman in Aylfenhame.

  Well and well, that is the last of it! A fine ending, do not ye think? There’s no one so deserving as my Sophy, and I’ll smitherise anyone as says otherwise.

  Now, nigh on a year has passed an’ all is well at Silverling. But Miss Sophy is right to wonder about Hidenory. I tend to do a bit o’ wonderin’ on that score meself—an’ perhaps ye’re inclined to as well. A woman o’ that cast is no more capable o’ meekness or humility or sacrifice than the most fearsome o’ dragons, an’ I have no doubt that there’s more there than meets the eye.

  An’ what about that Felebre? Mysterious bein’, ain’t she? There’s some as says Her Majesty the Queen ain’t dead at all. They says she left Aylfenhame an’ her husband followed; but I’m not so sure. That cat’s right fond o’ little miss Lihyaen, ain’t she? There’s sommat almost motherly about her manner. An’ here’s another idea: they used to say the royals had a touch o’ fey magic about ‘em. Could see into the past an’ the future, so they said. Oh, not far; just a little way. Raises some interestin’ prospects, don’t it?

  But thas all secret! No tellin’, now! There’s bad doin’s afoot, an’ until we can get to the bottom o’ those matters, it’s best not to pry.

  Oh, now, on tha’ topic a rumour has reached me from Aylfenhame. Shall I show what I mean? Here. See this pocket mirror? Was a gift from my old gran, an’ I keep it wi’ me at all times. Well and anyway, look into it closely-like. Go on; it won’t bite!

  Mist passes across the face of the pocket mirror, to reveal a woodland scene. A long table stands surrounded by tall, slender trees, its sides lined with high-backed chairs and its surface covered with teapots, cups and cake boxes. But nobody is sitting in any of the chairs—not even the one at the head of the table.

  Interestin’, no? Perhaps someone has found a way t’ release Miss Hidenory, or perhaps she has released herself in some tricksy way o’ hers. Either way, no one has seen or heard of her in some time…

  But I’ve kept ye long enough, have I not? An’ ye have been the best o’ listeners. Now, should ye fancy another tale some way down the months an’ ye happen to be in the neighbourhood, come an’ see me again. Perhaps I may be able to tell the next chapter in the tale o’ Sophy an’ Aubranael an’ Lihyaen. Perhaps I’ll even be able to tell ye what became o’ Hidenory.

  But safe travels, now. Mind the corner into Mill Road; it’s a little sharp. I’ll just give yer coachman a hint.

  Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed Miss Landon and Aubranael! If you have time, please take a moment to leave a review; this really helps to spread word of a good book.

  Book two in the series, Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman, is out now. Read on for a preview!

  Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

  The orchestra began to play a lively reel, which instantly inspired Mr. Thompson to bring an end to his disclosures and to say instead, ‘May I solicit you as a partner for a second time, Miss Ellerby?’

  Grateful for the interruption and not at all disinclined to dance, Isabel smiled upon him and allowed him to lead her back onto the floor. But as she waited for the couples to form and the dance to begin, she became aware of an alteration in the music. It began as a subtle change in the tone, as though one of the instruments had wandered off to play a slightly different part. Then it began to seem as though the instruments themselves had undergone some indescribable change; that what had once been a fiddle had transformed into something similar, but not quite the same — like the difference between a piano and a harpsichord.

  Isabel was obliged to turn about entirely in order to see the orchestra, and thus risk missing the beginning of the dance. But as the tones and the tune grew rapidly stranger, she could not refrain from satisfying herself that all was quite well. She turned.

  The orchestra was not clearly visible from the dance floor, for they were raised up upon
a square balcony which overlooked the hall some way above the dancers’ heads. At first, all she could discern was the white, full sleeve of a fiddler billowing as he played, and a becurled head bobbing in time to the music. But then one of the players leaned over the rail to survey the dancers, affording Isabel a clear view of his countenance.

  He was not human; that much she discerned at a glance. His skin was too white, and it shimmered in an odd way, like mother-of-pearl. His hair was pale too, long and straight and bound back in a fashion no gentleman would ever think proper. His eyes glittered like chips of ice and his smile stretched a fraction too wide.

  Isabel stared. She now saw that not one of the four-piece orchestra was human; for beside the pale fiddler stood another man, taller than the first, whose golden skin and green-streaked hair were every bit as wild and strange. There were two others besides these, both dark of skin and hair and eye. All four wore clothes of outlandish style, and their ears curled at the tips.

  Isabel had spent little time beyond the shores of England, but she had twice travelled beyond the walls which separated her homeland from the realms of the fae. Aylfenhame, it was called, and its principle denizens were the Ayliri: in face and form and feature they were very like humans, and yet they were not like at all.

  These were Ayliri, but how they came to be playing for a country assembly in England she could not guess. Lesser denizens of Aylfenhame often wandered into England; indeed many, such as the household brownies and Balligumph the bridge-keeper, settled in England entirely. But to her knowledge, the Ayliri visited but rarely, and never without good reason.

  Her thoughts flew to Sophy. Her dearest friend in the world, Miss Sophy Landon, had — by a series of strange events — come to marry one of the Ayliri, and had settled in Aylfenhame. Had she somehow contrived to send these musicians?

  But Isabel could not conceive of how Sophy could have known of the assembly at all, nor why she might have chosen to interfere in such a way. Besides, Isabel felt sure that until a few minutes ago, both the music and its players had been human indeed.

  The dancers were in shambles and the steps forgotten as the music grew stranger, and the ball guests more uneasy. Mr. Thompson was at Isabel’s elbow, a picture of gentlemanly concern as he tried to steer her away from the confusion. ‘I do not know what can be amiss with the musicians,’ he was saying in a placid way, ‘but I trust it will soon be put right. In the meantime, please come and sit out of the way, and I will procure you some refreshment.’

  Isabel stared at him in confusion. His smile was tranquil enough, and he betrayed no sign that he was other than mildly puzzled. Had he not observed how badly amiss the musicians were?

  Rising over the strains of the music came a dull, hollow boom, and then another; the main doors had been thrown open. Whirling to observe this new disturbance, Isabel saw streaming into the assembly room the strangest procession of people she had ever beheld.

  At their head strode a tall, thin man, taller than anyone else in the room. He wore knee-breeches, waistcoat and cutaway coat in the fashion of English gentry, but his were cut from strange, shimmering fabrics dyed in the colours of spring flowers. His hair was indigo in hue and fell in a tangled mess around his face, and at his lips he held a strangely curling pipe. The music he played upon this enchanting instrument rippled like water, and melded perfectly with the lively melody the orchestra played.

  Behind him danced a lady only slightly shorter than he, her figure as wispy and fragile as a blade of grass. Her golden hair was swept up upon her head and bound with long pins, at the ends of which rested living butterflies — Isabel’s startled gazed discerned the slow movement of wings. Her dress mimicked the style of Isabel’s own, but hers looked woven from something as light and silky as flower petals. Its colour was some hue between purple, blue and pink that Isabel had never seen before, and shockingly vibrant. She wore clusters of glass bells upon her wrists; these she shook in time with the piper’s song, setting them ringing with an eerie music.

  Behind these two came six more couples, all dressed in the same manner of familiar, yet strange fashions. Their hair was long and flowing, straight and heavy or curling like wisps of smoke; left loose or bound up with jewels and combs. Their eyes flashed with merriment and anticipation and something else — mischief, perhaps.

  Isabel’s mind flew back to the one visit she had paid to Sophy in the fae town of Grenlowe. Being a skilled seamstress, she had set up a shop there, selling fashions for both men and women which mixed English styles with the strange and beautiful materials available in Aylfenhame, and a glimmer of fae magic. These Ayliri were wearing Sophy’s clothes!

  Did that mean that Sophy had sent them? But why would she do such a thing? Isabel watched in a daze as the Ayliri dancers streamed through to the centre of the room, the assembly’s displaced guests falling back as one to make way for them. Even the Thompsons’ finery paled to nothing against the riot of colour and light and magic the fae brought with them, and the Alford assembly guests were silent in awe.

  The Ayliri formed themselves into a set and began a whirling, laughing dance that was as alien as their music. They dominated the space with their flamboyant movements, and the people of Alford and Tilby were forced back against the walls.

  Isabel couldn’t see who first began, but in the blink of an eye she realised that the eight Ayliri were no longer alone in their dance. A young Englishman and his fair partner were whirling along with them. Rapidly, the lines of silent people ringing the walls melted into the dance, and it grew bigger and more encompassing.

  Isabel watched, mesmerised, and aware of a growing longing to join them — a longing which swiftly deepened into a kind of compulsion. Soon her desire to whirl into the merry dance outweighed her hesitance and her inhibitions and in the next instant she was caught up in the flow, Mr. Thompson swept in alongside her.

  No dance in Isabel’s life could have prepared her for the sensations she now felt. She was caught up in a fever of energy, activity and colour so intense she could barely comprehend what she did. The steps were wholly strange to her, yet she knew their patterns instinctively and kept pace with the intricacy of the dance without any effort on her part. Her skirts twirled and swayed around her legs with the vigour of her movements and her cheeks flushed as she was swept along, around and around, and the music grew ever stranger.

  Moreover, she felt a sense of wild, almost violent joy which had never been hers to experience before; and a sensation of perfect belonging, as though she had always been intended for such a dance as this. Had she but had leisure enough to observe her companions, she would have seen that the same sensations affected all around her. But she had attention for nothing but her own place in the circle, and the lithe, strange, bright figures of the Ayliri who led the dance.

  Only one moment amongst this blur of activity particularly impressed itself upon her memory. There came the briefest of pauses in the dance, when, for an instant, the breathless whirl ceased and the dancers waited, suspended, as in the grip of some strange enchantment. And as she waited, among the others, for the dance to continue, Isabel found herself observed.

  It was the tall piper’s gaze which rested upon her. His tangled indigo hair was swept back from his face, revealing eyes of dark gold. These eyes were fixed upon Isabel, intent and questioning, though she had no way of knowing what questions he asked of her in the silence of his own mind.

  This scrutiny lasted but a moment; then he lifted his curious pipe to his lips once more and blew three rippling notes. The fiddlers took up the tune, and the dance resumed. Isabel lost sight of the piper.

  The evening passed by in a blur of colour and sound. The assembly did not break up until the small hours of the morning; and Isabel came to herself at last, deposited upon the step of her own home without the smallest recollection of how she came to be there.

  Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman is out now! Buy it here.

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  Art credits:

  Cover art by Elsa Kroese (website: www.elsakroese.com).

  Illustrations by Rosie Lauren Smith (website: www.autumnalchemy.blogspot.com).

  Also by Charlotte E. English:

  The Draykon Series:

  Draykon

  Lokant

  Orlind

  The Lokant Libraries:

  Seven Dreams

  The Malykant Mysteries:

  The Rostikov Legacy

  The Ivanov Diamond

  Myrrolen’s Ghost Circus

  Ghostspeaker

  The Drifting Isle Chronicles:

  Black Mercury

  Tales of Aylfenhame:

  Miss Landon and Aubranael

  Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

  For a full, up-to-date list of current titles visit my bibliography at www.charlotteenglish.com/my-books/

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine