Miss Landon and Aubranael (Tales of Aylfenhame Book 1) Read online

  ‘Can you… glamour me?’ He asked. ‘Give me a face like yours. A beautiful face.’

  Hidenory gave him a long, measuring stare. He waited, heart pounding. ‘I can,’ she said, ‘but only for a time. Glamour is a flimsy, ethereal thing. It wears away, and the truth inevitably shines through.’

  Aubranael nodded, undaunted. If he could have just a little time to convince her of his worth…

  ‘Tell me something,’ Hidenory said. ‘Do you intend to tell this Miss Landon your true identity?’

  He thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. If she knew right away, her perception of him would be coloured by her memories of his true face, and much of the effect would be destroyed. He would present himself to her all bright and new, as a congenial stranger; they had got along so splendidly before, why should they not do so again? But still better, this time, with his perfect new face.

  Hidenory’s eyes narrowed and she stared at him as though she was reading his mind. Perhaps she was. ‘One month,’ she said. ‘That is what I can offer you. But there is a condition.’

  Aubranael waited, breathless, hoping it would not be beyond his power to accept.

  ‘I will participate in your deception, but only to a degree. At the end of your month, you must tell her the truth. Do you agree?’

  Aubranael’s imagination helpfully offered him vision after vision of the probable outcome of that, none of them good. But he agreed. Of course he agreed! He would agree to anything, now.

  But one further matter remained unresolved. ‘Wh…how much will it cost?’ he asked.

  ‘I have yet to decide.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘I will consider the matter. For now, shall we say that you will owe me a good turn?’

  ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Anything!’

  Hidenory smiled wickedly. ‘Anything? Well, now. You should be careful of unlimited promises to witches. If I were not such a fair and generous soul… but, no matter. Let us begin.’

  Aubranael was startled to notice a great silver cauldron where none had been before. It was full of water, and an image slowly bled across the surface.

  A gentleman of England stood there. He was tall and handsome, with thick dark hair and a strong chin. He was dressed in clothes of a type Aubranael had never seen: long pale trousers, a coat with tails, and a tall hat. He stood leaning elegantly on a polished wooden cane, surveying his surroundings (whatever they were) with the self-satisfied smile of a man who has everything he could possibly wish for.

  Aubranael had never smiled that way.

  ‘Is this what you had in your thoughts?’ Hidenory enquired.

  Aubranael could only nod dumbly. He couldn’t articulate the longing he felt on beholding this piece of perfection; there were not words enough.

  ‘Very good. That’s easy enough,’ said the witch, and her prosaic tone broke his reverie. He stood watching her, scarcely breathing, as he awaited the transformation.

  ‘What are you staring at me for?’ Hidenory said. ‘Behold your own face.’ She gestured at the cauldron.

  He looked down to find that the stylish gentleman had gone. The water was now as clear as a mirror, and in it he could see his own reflection.

  The sight stole his breath and brought tears to his eyes. Gone was the ruined face he had for so long despised. In its place he saw chiselled features; an aristocratic nose; the strong chin he had admired on Hidenory’s image; clear brown eyes and a smiling mouth. His hair had not changed in colour, but it had been considerably shortened. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was wearing the strange costume of the English gentleman.

  He stood a little straighter, rolling back his shoulders. A wide smile made its way onto his fine new mouth, and refused to be repressed.

  Hidenory was laughing at him. ‘It will suit you admirably, that I can see,’ she said. ‘Do not grow too used to it, mind. You have but a single month.’

  Even this sobering reflection did little to dampen Aubranael’s spirits. A month seemed a veritable age! What could he not accomplish in so generous a span of time!

  He made his kind benefactress a low, grateful bow, and his fine shiny hat promptly fell off onto the floor and rolled away.

  ‘Hm,’ said Hidenory as he scrambled after it. ‘You will need a little more help, methinks.’

  Aubranael caught the hat and rammed it back onto his head. ‘Never mind, dear lady,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘I shall soon grow used to it, I am sure.’

  ‘I am not nearly so sure,’ she answered dryly. ‘Certainly not in one month. Besides, it is not enough merely to look the part of a gentleman; more will be required of you.’

  He looked down at his beautiful new garments—sneaking another glance at his beautiful new face along the way—and said: ‘What more could I possibly need?’

  ‘A name. A house. Carriages, horses, considerably more clothes, ready money, and… friends.’

  Aubranael blinked at her. ‘A formidable list.’

  ‘Quite, and beyond my power to provide.’

  He began to feel dismayed, but she held up a cautionary hand and smiled. ‘I know just the person to assist you. If you would be so good as to step through the door, it will all be arranged in a trice.’

  What door? He thought, but as the words formed in his mind he noticed an oddly-shaped door fading into view in the wall directly behind Hidenory. It was round and jaunty in style, and painted in at least twelve different colours.

  ‘Grunewald is a glamourist, like myself, and very well able to assist you,’ Hidenory continued. ‘You will, of course, convey my very best regards.’

  Aubranael paused on his way to the door, searching for a suitable way to thank her.

  Hidenory grinned at him. ‘No need; I know all that you wish to say.’ She studied his face for a moment, and a wicked gleam entered her eye. ‘Grant me one small trifle by way of gratitude: a kiss. Seldom have I been so pleased with my own artistry!’

  His cheeks warmed with both pleasure and embarrassment. Would this be the outcome of his new appearance? Ladies would be desirous of kissing him? How magnificent! And yet, how difficult, for he had never kissed a woman before—nor, indeed, any other creature. As Hidenory pressed her pretty lips to his, he hoped she would not notice his lack of experience.

  This meeting of lips was not, as it turned out, all there was to the business of kissing. A great deal more happened, involving other parts of his mouth and body, and it went on for some time. When at last Hidenory released him and stepped away, she did not seem at all displeased.

  Neither, he found, was he.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, eyeing him. ‘Excellent,’ she said again, the word emerging a trifle breathlessly. ‘Are you sure it is Tilby you wish to visit? You do not wish to extend your visit to me?’

  Aubranael shook his head, and then nodded, confused as to which part of the question he was answering. ‘Yes—that is—I wish to go.’

  Hidenory sighed gustily, but her eyes twinkled as she said: ‘Ah well. I may always create another one, of course. Off with you!’ She pointed imperiously at the door, and Aubranael stepped through it.

  ‘You take care, now!’ she called after him. ‘And mind you listen to Grunewald!’

  Chapter Four

  Now, before we get too carried away with the story, allow me t’catch ye up on a few small matters.

  I ought t’make clear that I knew nowt o’ this at the time, an’ sorry I am that it was so, for matters might ha’ been much less complicated-like later on, if I had. Still, to be all-knowin’ is beyond the power of any bein’, much as I may wish it otherwise.

  Grunewald, though. Grunewald I did, and do, know. He’s a bit of a legend in these parts. He’s a witchifier, like Hidenory—thick as thieves, them two—but for reasons known only to hisself, he’s made his home in England. ‘Gentleman Grunewald’, they call him, for he likes to pass hisself off as a gentry-cove. Mighty talented he is at it, too. Nobody knows what he really looks like, but nobody much cares.

>   At the time o’ tellin’, Gentleman Grunewald was loiterin’ about in Nottinghamshire. He ‘ad a house right on the edge o’ Sherwood Forest, an’ thas where our good friend Aubranael was goin’.’

  On the other side of Hidenory’s door, Aubranael found a large mansion house. The door opened onto the hallway, quite as if he had come through the front entrance. The building was old, and the decor eccentric: a frieze ran around the walls near the ceiling, depicting nymphs and satyrs frolicking with a variety of woodland creatures, and the rest of the walls were panelled with wood and painted dark green. His heels clacked loudly on the stone floor as he crossed it.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. The sound echoed off the cold stone walls, and no answer came.

  Aubranael stood, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable. Here he was in someone else’s house, with no particular invitation, and not a soul in sight to greet (or, indeed, repel) him.

  He waited for some time, unwilling to call again. Then, just as he was filling his lungs for another shout, he heard footsteps approaching.

  A grand staircase stood immediately before him, its gilded banisters carved with a plethora of foliage and its steps made from pale stone. It was upon this fine contraption that a figure finally appeared: a tall, spare figure, dressed similarly to Aubranael, and with a fine head of tousled (in fact, rather mad) red hair.

  ‘Morning!’ said the figure brightly, and trotted energetically down the stairs. ‘My deepest apologies! I was still dressing, late though it is. It is these dratted neck-cloths. I can never get them quite as I wish.’

  What is a neck-cloth? Aubranael wondered dazedly. He supposed the person must mean the complicated white fabric construction which adorned his neck, the folds of which looked impossibly complex to Aubranael’s eye. It struck him of a sudden that he, too, might have to manage this aspect of his wardrobe henceforth.

  ‘Are you Grunewald?’ Aubranael enquired.

  The man’s eyes—a bright, leafy spring green in hue—sharpened, and his expression turned wary. ‘I am known as Frederick Green,’ he said with a polite smile.

  Aubranael nodded, satisfied that he had found the right person. His host’s face had shown no trace of confusion or puzzlement whatsoever. ‘My name is Aubranael,’ he said, and bowed—this time without losing his hat. ‘Hidenory has sent me to you.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Grunewald, or Green, and his eyes brightened. ‘A project! This is tremendous. I was growing awfully bored.’ To Aubranael’s surprise, he took a tiny painted box from some concealed spot within his clothes, opened it up, and took a pinch of something from inside. Then he put his fingers to his nose and inhaled.

  Aubranael blinked at him.

  ‘Snuff,’ said Grunewald. ‘It is quite pleasant; you’ll try it sometime. But where was I?’ He hid the box again, watching Aubranael’s face through lazily narrowed eyes—an expression which, Aubranael felt sure, concealed a tremendous alertness and sharpness of mind. ‘Why did Hidenory send you?’

  Feeling desperately awkward, Aubranael tried to explain his circumstances in the briefest and most impersonal manner he could manage. He felt that he carried it off fairly creditably, and to his relief Grunewald did not appear to take against him for knowing that his handsome face hid a decidedly less attractive reality.

  ‘Ah, yes—poor fellow—quite understand,’ said Grunewald. ‘Isn’t Hidenory marvellous? Very skilled, she is—very skilled. Now then, you must have a powerful reason for adopting this amusing facade—am I right? I wish you to tell me all about it.’

  Aubranael began the story. As he spoke, Grunewald guided him to a small parlour which was as madly decorated as the hallway, and waved Aubranael to a chair. A tray of tea things was already set out, somehow, and it had not been there long, for the cup that Grunewald presently handed to him contained steaming hot tea. Aubranael sipped gratefully at it as he told his tale; the day had been long and eventful, he appeared to have skipped the night altogether, and he was quite tired.

  Grunewald nodded along enthusiastically, devouring several small cakes and tarts as he listened. He handed over a small plate piled high with more treats, still warm from the oven. ‘Eat them all,’ he advised. ‘I should think you’ll need to, after all that.’

  Aubranael, being ravenous as well as tired, was happy to follow these instructions. The cakes tasted marvellous, and he polished off three in quick succession as Grunewald ruminated on his story.

  ‘So!’ said his host said at last, ‘there is a lady in the case! I might have guessed. There usually is.’ He beamed at Aubranael. ‘Well! Then you will be needing—let’s see—clothes, carriages, a good house—all the necessaries for impressing a lady. Nothing could be simpler. Where did you say she is living? Tilby?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aubranael said around a mouthful of cake. He swallowed quickly, and as Grunewald continued to look at him blankly he added: ‘It is in a place called Lincolnshire.’

  ‘Ah! Lincolnshire. A fine county, not too far off.’ He paused, thinking, as Aubranael ate two more tarts. ‘Yes! Absolutely. No question about it. I shall go with you.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Aubranael demurred. ‘Such a deal of trouble for you—I couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘Not at all,’ Grunewald interrupted. ‘It will be an adventure! I am, as I think I already said, quite bored.’

  Aubranael began to smile, charmed by his new friend’s enthusiasm and irrepressible good cheer. He was secretly relieved to know that he would have a companion through the coming weeks, and Grunewald’s calm acceptance of his true face heartened him as well. They were two of a kind, Grunewald and Hidenory; neither had made any bones about his lack of beauty. Perhaps because they dealt so freely in glamour themselves, they felt that mere reality was unimportant.

  But then, both had chosen handsome faces for themselves… perhaps it wasn’t quite that simple.

  Grunewald sprang up from his seat in a fine show of energy and clapped his hands together. ‘Good! Capital! Best get on. We have a great deal to do.’

  ‘I—thank you—’ Aubranael began, realising that he had failed to respond to his host’s offer of accompaniment.

  ‘Not at all,’ Grunewald said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I ask only that it be entertaining, this projected adventure. No doubt Tilby will be a lively place, with plenty to do.’ He smiled hopefully at Aubranael, who spread his hands.

  ‘I know nothing about it,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, we shall see. Now, your name. It is perfectly excellent, but it will not do in these parts. You will need something more English, and preferably unremarkable.’

  ‘Like Frederick Green,’ Aubranael noted.

  Grunewald beamed. ‘Precisely. Let me think a moment.’ He did so rather visibly, staring into space and scrunching his brow. ‘I have it! Aubrey! Ha, ha! It is perfect.’

  Aubranael frowned. ‘It is perhaps too similar?’

  ‘It is to be complete concealment of your identity, is it? Even from the lady? Very well. It shall stand as your first name; no one ever uses those.’ He thought some more. ‘Aubrey Stanton. How do you like that?’

  Aubrey Stanton. Mr. Aubrey Stanton. Mr. Stanton. Aubranael turned it over in his mind, and found that he liked the sound of it. It was, as Grunewald had said, very English, and quite unremarkable. ‘It is excellent,’ he said with a shy smile.

  ‘Capital!’ said Grunewald. ‘Well then, Mr. Stanton. Let us see to the matter of your wardrobe.’

  If Aubranael had expected to be taken to a tailor’s shop for his new garments, he was mistaken. Instead, Grunewald conducted him up the grand staircase in the hall, up another flight directly after, and then up two more increasingly narrow and winding staircases before he finally stopped before a bright red door and knocked upon it. He went inside without waiting for a response, and Aubranael followed.

  Beyond the door was a large room, and inside the room were several goblins. They were all furiously busy with piles and piles of fabric, thread and assorted tools. Aubranael could not determine pre
cisely what they were making, but the fact that they all wore exquisitely tailored coats like Grunewald’s seemed to offer a clue. The coats sat oddly on their spindly frames, looking completely incongruous with their knobbly elbows and knees and their greenish-brown skin.

  As Grunewald entered, they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him—and then at Aubranael as he followed his host inside.

  ‘Hey! We are busy!’ said one, waving a half-finished coat in illustration of his point.

  ‘Lovely work,’ said another, eyeing Aubranael’s coat. ‘Yours, sir?’

  Grunewald shook his head. ‘Hidenory’s.’

  ‘Ahhh! May I touch it?’

  ‘No.’

  The goblin’s shoulders drooped, and Aubranael felt rather sorry for the creature. Grunewald forged briskly ahead, however, allowing him no opportunity to intervene. ‘My guest is in need of your assistance! Two or three coats, please, at the least. The usual range. Quickly, quickly! We have much to do.’

  The goblin tailors chorused an assent and instantly swarmed over Aubranael. Knotted ropes borne by nimble goblin hands circled his waist, chest, shoulders, arms and neck—even his legs and head. Rough goblin voices shouted out measurements, and a scriber chalked everything up on a blackboard.

  Then there was a flurry of activity as fabrics were sought for, offered for approval, chosen and discarded. Grunewald asked Aubranael’s opinion on a variety of hues and shades, but all he could do was nod dumbly at them all. What did he know of the differences between dark blue and dark red with his (borrowed) colouring? What did he know of wool or cotton or superfine or whatever else? Grunewald soon stopped asking, and settled the decisions himself.

  Choices made, the goblins leapt into activity, swarming over the long tables set up throughout the room and throwing fabrics around with terrific energy. Grunewald quickly shepherded Aubranael out of the room and shut the door on the goblin tailors. ‘Better leave them to it,’ he said wisely.

  Aubranael blinked. ‘Why are they here?’