Dance with the Fae

Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

T he inn they came to reminded Kit of the chalets he’d seen travelling through the Alps. A painted sign above the door proclaimed it to be the Parsley Flower Safe House .

The guests looked mainly human, but some had ears that were too pointed or long, eyes too large or hooded, colours that were unnatural. Figures ranged from unnaturally slender and tall, to tiny and childlike. A couple had wings and one wide-eyed young man had a cat’s tail that wafted softly as he walked through the room, and Valentine had to jab Kit sharply in the ribs to stop him staring. It was as if he’d tumbled into an Arthur Rackham illustration and he drew closer to Valentine’s side, regretting agreeing to stay there.

‘Will it be the dormitories or the bind-bench, or can you fine travellers stretch to a room?’ the ginger-bearded landlord asked, when Valentine enquired if there were vacancies. He looked like a schoolboy’s idea of a Viking.

‘What’s a bind-bench?’ Kit asked.

The innkeeper raised his impressively arched eyebrows as if this was the oddest question and Kit wondered if he’d revealed himself to be an outsider.

‘You all sit on the high-backed benches, all packed in together. We pass a rope beneath your armpits, and tie it nice and tight behind so you don’t slide off before morning. If you don’t have your own pillow, we can rent you one, or you can use a neighbour’s shoulder.’

Kit got a sudden flash of memory: five nights in the trenches in his ninth month in France, where there had been no chance to get horizontal and the detachment had all slumped against each other upright, grabbing what sleep they could.

‘It sounds dreadful,’ he muttered to Valentine.

‘Those are for the poorest travellers,’ she said haughtily. ‘Which we are not!’

This last comment was addressed to the innkeeper.

‘We will have a private room,’ Valentine said. ‘It doesn’t have to be big, doesn’t have to be luxurious. But it has to have a bed and a lock on the door.’

The innkeeper raised his brows again, giving them a salacious look that strongly suggested he had an idea what they’d be needing the bed and lock for.

‘Four rings. Top floor, room with the circle on the door.’

Valentine whistled beneath her breath but fished a handful of coins out of her bag and counted out four. They were about the size of farthings but copper coloured.

‘Five Rings to a Hand, two Hands to a Head, four Heads to a Crown,’ she explained to Kit as they made their way up a grand staircase that became considerably less impressive as they reached the top floor. ‘Though most people outside the towns rely on bartering.’

So, ten Rings to a Head, Kit worked out. Matching the denominations to body parts and counting in tens seemed a remarkably sensible way of counting coins.

‘Were we charged too much for the room?’ he asked.

‘We were charged what you get charged,’ she said. ‘Beggars don’t get to choose and it’s the only Safe House around.’

‘What is the equivalent? What would I be able to buy in my world with them?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’ Valentine laughed. ‘They dissolved into dust as soon as Silas tried to take them across. He was very upset, though he knows enough stories of humans stealing fae treasures only to find them vanishing. I wonder if they appeared back in his scrip when he came back through?’

Kit wished he’d carried some money so he could see if the same thing happened in reverse.

They found the room, one of three in the attic of the inn that reminded Kit of Meadwell. There was one bed big enough for two, if the occupants were prepared to sleep close. The only light came from a high, triangular window at the top of the wall in the eaves, which had oiled paper nailed over it. He suspected that at some point this had been open to the elements and the builders had just given up on the brickwork about a foot from the apex. There was a decent-ish looking leather armchair with a high back and arms.

‘You can take the bed,’ he said to Valentine. ‘I’ll have the chair.’

He would drag it in front of the door in case she decided to abscond in the night. He was fairly certain she wouldn’t, but a healthy dose of paranoia never did anyone any harm. His mind went back to the bind-bench briefly and the memory came flavoured with loss. Hands tightly clasped, shoulders to lean heads on, lips whispering reassurance as the skies rained death. He wondered how many others had found comfort in those dark times like he had, and an unbearable pang of grief for Andrew tore through him.

A hand touched his shoulder and he tumbled back into the room.

‘Kit, are you all right?’ Valentine was looking at him with concern in her eyes.

‘Fine. Just tired,’ he lied. He dropped his rucksack on the floor, wondering whether to put on a fresh pair of socks now or in the morning. ‘I want to wash. I feel filthy, even though we went swimming.’

‘In there.’ She motioned with her hand to a pair of thick velvet curtains covering what looked like a wardrobe, then kicked off her shoes and threw herself back onto the bed with her arms wide. She sank slightly into the thick eiderdown and Kit momentarily regretted being a gentleman.

He opened the curtains and gasped with astonishment and delight. The space was a whole bathroom, much bigger than the depth of the wardrobe would suggest. There must be a false wall. There was a sink with a wash basin, and over it a hand pump, like an old-fashioned well. The walls were decorated with mirrors, and there was a tray of glass bottles with interestingly coloured contents. Beside the sink, was a wooden chest –and beside that, a seat with an inlaid chamber pot.

He walked to the bedroom door, took the brass key from the lock and put it in his pocket.

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Valentine asked from her position on the bed.

‘You know I don’t,’ he said as he returned to the bathroom, though he couldn’t muster the energy for much animosity. He pulled the heavy velvet curtain across the door (the lining was tartan for some reason, which made him laugh) and used the toilet with relief. The water that came out of the pump was perfectly warm and one of the bottles contained bright green liquid soap that smelled of parsley.

When he came out from behind the curtain, Valentine was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot.

‘This room is marvellous,’ he said, ‘I hope I remember it when I wake up. I’d like to work out how to replicate it in Meadwell.’

Valentine stiffened. ‘What do you mean ‘wake up’? You’re not dreaming. You’re not like Miss Wyndham. You’re really, completely here. Can’t you tell?’

Kit crossed his arms defensively. It was something that he’d tried not to think about.

‘I don’t know. It does feel real,’ he said slowly.

‘That’s because it is.’

He remembered going to the garden, meeting her, walking into the maze and out again. The scent of night-damp grass, the brushing of the bushes against his clothing. The chill of the pond and the warmth of the sun on his bare back. Valentine’s fingers on his skin.

It was all so clear in his mind, but he couldn’t escape the lingering worry that he was lying in his bed with his parents stricken with worry as he refused to awaken.

‘I imagine whatever Addie’s going through feels real, too,’ he said.

A shadow crossed Valentine’s face. ‘I wish I had the power to lock away your thoughts of her, but that sort of bewilderment is far too difficult for me.’

‘Why would I want thoughts of her locked away?’ Kit asked, anger creeping into his belly and coming out in his voice.

‘Because you’ll be at peace,’ Valentine said. ‘I don’t think you’re often at peace, are you.’

Her eyes searched his face. He dropped his gaze, alarmed at how well she appeared able to read him.

‘I don’t want to be at peace. I want to know she’s well,’ he snapped.

‘Of course you do. But if you could trap that little maggot of anxiety inside a shell, wouldn’t that make your journey easier? It won’t stop you loving her if you don’t think of her constantly, will it?’

‘Of course not,’ Kit said, far too quickly. There had been times when he’d not given Adelaide a thought for days. Most of those times had been in wartime, true, but the war had not been the only reason.

‘Perhaps I don’t deserve to be at peace,’ he muttered.

Valentine reached out a hand but stopped an inch from Kit’s arm. She looked into his eyes and withdrew it, leaving him wondering if she’d seen his shame.

‘I think I’ll go and wash,’ she said quietly.

She slipped off the bed and took her bag into the bathroom with her. While she was in there, Kit removed his shoes and socks and sat in the chair. It was as comfy as he’d hoped and he yawned once or twice. A strong smell of vanilla drifted out from the bathroom that made him even sleepier. He only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again the room was darker and Valentine was standing over him, furtively easing her hand into his pocket. He sprang awake, the need to be alert at short notice coming back to him in a rush, and he grabbed her by the wrist.

‘What are you doing?’ he snarled.

‘I was just trying to get the key. There’s no need to be so angry,’ she protested.

‘There’s every need,’ he growled. ‘The minute I’m asleep you try to pick my pockets and run off.’ He sank back into the chair, disorientated at having slept too deeply for not long enough. Her deviousness incensed him. He should have moved the chair to the door immediately.

‘I wasn’t going to run off,’ she said haughtily. ‘I’m hungry. I was going downstairs to get some supper. I was going to bring you something back up.’

‘I don’t need anything to eat. You can wait until morning, too.’

His belly chose that moment to growl loudly. A smug look settled on Valentine’s face, but she controlled it and instead gave him an imploring smile.

‘Come down with me. Food and company are always better in the evening than in the morning. Everyone then will be hurrying to leave. Now no one has anywhere else to be. I know you’re hungry and so am I.’

He couldn’t deny that, especially now that he could catch the faint aroma of roasting meat in the air. But spending an evening among the strange people he had seen as they arrived was unnerving.

‘It’s safer here. I might find myself bewitched,’ he said.

‘I told you, it’s a Safe House. Listen,’ Valentine said, cocking her head towards the door. ‘Pipes and lutes and drums. Doesn’t it make you want to dance?’

He hadn’t been aware of the music until she’d mentioned it but now, listening carefully, he could hear the strains of something that sounded a little like an Irish jig or a Scottish reel.

‘I don’t dance,’ he said.

‘Then you can drink and watch while I dance,’ Valentine said. She took him by the hands and attempted to pull him to his feet. ‘Please. I need to be merry.’

Her eyes had grown wide and pleading and he found himself unable to think of any more reasons to resist.

‘Only for a little while,’ he said. ‘And we don’t speak to anyone.’

He reached for his socks and sniffed them, then reached into his rucksack for another pair. He laced his shoes and caught Valentine smiling to herself.

‘It’s odd how little things mark you out as different. Your footwear is one. If you pass through a town tomorrow, I will buy you a pair of boots. Or you could try win a pair from someone tonight,’ she said.

He couldn’t disagree. His brogues weren’t particularly good for hiking. Valentine wore a light pair of dancing slippers with low heels that looked like they should be uncomfortable to walk in, but she seemingly had no problem. His army boots had taken a while to break in but for a time between then and when they became so waterlogged they refused to dry, they had been the most comfortable things he’d worn. He wished he still had them.

Theirs was the furthest of the three rooms on the floor. From the next room came the sounds of panting and gasping that could only be a couple making enthusiastic love. A third voice joined in. Kit blinked, and Valentine laughed.

‘So innocent!’

‘Come on,’ he said sticking her arm into the fold of his. ‘Let’s eat and go back to our room as soon as we can.’

The voices reached a crescendo that showed no signs of abating.

‘Or perhaps not,’ he added and, when she laughed, he joined in.

Just before they reached the bottom of the stairs, Valentine paused. ‘You’re safe unless you do something foolish and I can’t prevent it. Try not to.’

She took his hand and led him forward. The room was pleasantly warm with a large fire burning in a round grate in the centre of the floor. The landlordappeared at their side.

‘A table for the two of you, Gentle? Or will you join the congregation of travellers?’ he asked, indicating the long trestles and benches that were set around three sides of the fire.

‘The congregation,’ Valentine said, just as Kit asked for a private one. ‘You hear the best stories at the communal tables,’ she explained. Kit was about to retort that he didn’t care for stories but surprised himself by agreeing to her plan.

They walked to the closest trestle, where there was room for two to sit side by side. Valentine nodded to the travellers, who were already eating, as she sat down and gestured for Kit to do likewise.

A barmaid was noting on a pad what the diners asked for. Her hair was pale green and fell to her waist in a thick braid. Her skin was light brown with markings that looked like tree bark.

‘It’s rude to stare,’ Valentine hissed.

‘I’m sorry, I know. It’s just her skin looks like tree bark.’

‘What do you expect? She’s a dryad,’ Valentine said.

‘I’ve never seen anything so odd,’ Kit whispered. ‘And yet she’s beautiful.’

Valentine smiled. ‘You have half a face that looks like it was in a bonfire, and yet you’re passably handsome, too.’

Kit flinched and raised a hand to his cheek.

‘I don’t say it to be cruel,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Just a reminder that oddity is as it appears.’

‘Hogbelly stew or fried cockletails?’ the barmaid asked, finally arriving at their end of the table.

‘We’ll have a plate of each and a flask of rosy wine,’ Valentine replied.

‘It’s pronounced rose-ay,’ Kit whispered to her.

‘Aren’t I lucky that I’ve got you to educate me,’ she replied sweetly, rolling her eyes, and the old woman sitting next to Kit cackled.

The food arrived almost at once, along with a plate of something resembling thin crumpets and a dish of green beans that glistened with melting butter. The smell that rose from the bowl of stew made Kit’s mouth water. He caught a whiff of aniseed and cinnamon, along with garlic in the brick red gravy, but there were more scents he couldn’t identify. The other bowl contained small fried clumps of something in batter, with sprouting fronds – at least, he hoped they were fronds rather than legs. The wine came in a clear flask and had rose petals floating in it.

‘Rosy Wine,’ Valentine said, breezily. She poured two cups and held one out. Kit had it halfway to his lips when he caught himself.

‘I can’t drink this. Or eat anything,’ he added, casting a regretful glance at the stew.

‘This is a public inn,’ Valentine said. ‘A Safe House. What sort of business would it do if your dinner placed you under servitude? Besides, you’re going to pay for it so there’s no exchanging required.’

Kit felt for his wallet before remembering he didn’t have it. ‘Your money won’t work here anyway,’ Valentine explained. ‘I’ll have to pay for both of us.’

‘But then I’ll owe you,’ he pointed out.

‘You’re too quick a learner, that’s your problem,’ Valentine said, scowling. ‘It would serve you right to end up owing me something.’ He got the impression she was quite pleased, though.

‘You can entertain the congregation with a song or a story or a poem. That’s usually good enough,’ said the old woman who had laughed earlier and who was making no attempt to hide the fact that she was listening in. She pointed her long fork at the two men who were playing the trombone and fiddle on the fourth edge of the fireplace.

‘I can’t sing very well and Idon’t know any stories,’ Kit said.

‘Ridiculous! Everyone knows a story or two,’ the old woman said. ‘Can you dance?’

“Shall we have a go at the tango? Or should we go for a drink?”

Kit shook his head, both to banish the memories and answer the question.

‘He can’t dance. I’ve seen him,’ Valentine confirmed with a wicked grin.

She speared a large piece of hogbelly, brick-red and with gelatinous fat running through it, and popped it into her mouth. Kit’s stomach tightened with hunger. He needed to eat and entertainment would be his only way of paying but he cringed as he remembered the regiment’s revues. He’d only gone onto the stage because Andrew had wheedled and coaxed, and Kit would have done anything for him in the first few weeks they’d known each other.

The charming grin. “Now you’ve given me some matches, don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette?”

For the first time he could remember, he smiled at the memory of Andrew.

‘I know a few poems,’ he said slowly. ‘They’re not my words but I can share them with you.’

‘If the owners don’t mind,’ the woman said.

‘They’re long since dead and it’s something schoolboys have been taught to do.’

‘Then that’s your payment,’ the woman said. The musicians finished and left the performance area to loud applause. Valentine elbowed Kit sharply in the ribs and he jumped to his feet with a small cry. She pointed at him.

‘He’s going to give us poems,’ she shouted. An expectant lull descended on the diners and Kit realised he had no choice. He coughed to clear his throat as he made his way across the room. He wasn’t a stranger to recitals. He’d won a prize when he’d been in the fourth form but that had been long ago. He stood straight, shoulders back and took a deep breath.

‘I… I met a traveller…’ he began hesitantly, but then the words to Shelley’s Ozymandias came flowing back. He straightened his shoulders, took a breath and began again. When he finished he became aware of a collective release of breath, then some applause. Valentine was beaming and applauding.

‘Another,’ she called.

‘I’ll have a morsel of that stew first.’ Kit grinned. She speared a piece of hogbelly on her long fork and held it out. Kit accepted it. The meat was velvety soft, collapsing in his mouth as the flavours rolled over his tongue, aniseed, cinnamon, a hint of ginger. It was delicious.

‘What will you do for us now?’ the old woman asked.

‘You don’t have to,’ Valentine whispered.

‘I know.’

But the exhilaration was a spell of its own. He looked around the patrons. What would they like to hear? He could probably sing or say almost anything and they wouldn’t know it. What had they sung in the trenches? He gave them a verse of Pack Up Your Troubles , which went down even better than the poem had, then All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor .

‘Sing it again!’ someone shouted from the back of the room; a person of indeterminate gender with heavily made-up eyes, a long beard woven through with silver ribbons and teeth that were slightly too pointed when they smiled.

Kit sang it again, this time marching up and down, and by the time he’d finished, half the room had taken up the tune and were banging on the tables with their palms. Kit looked at Valentine. She was laughing hysterically.

‘What?’ he asked, giving her a grin.

‘You are a true Caster of Words,’ she answered. She walked to Kit and threw her arm around his shoulders, planted a kiss on his cheek and raised his hand in the air like a prizefighter.

‘Gentles and travellers, has he earned his dinner?’ she shouted.

The chorus that responded assured him that yes, indeed he had.

‘Has he earned his drink?’

‘One more song for a bottle of Rosy Wine,’ shouted an unbelievably buxom serving maid standing at the bar. ‘And if he makes me dance, I’ll throw in a kiss for free.’

Valentine’s fingers tightened on Kit’s shoulders. ‘Keep your lips to yourself, you old snatch-maggot!’ she yelled, to a resulting chorus of ‘Ooohs!’ from the diners.

‘Don’t be rude,’ Kit said, appalled. He had no idea what it meant, but it was clearly an insult.

‘You really don’t want to tangle with her,’ Valentine murmured discreetly. ‘Get yourself caught in that web and you’ll never come free.’

‘Even so, there’s no need to be offensive.’ He bowed to the serving maid. ‘Fair maiden, I have taken the vow that no thought of lust shall pass through my mind, until I have kissed the lips of my fair betrothed who has been cruelly stolen from me.’

This appeared to go down well with most of the audience, but declaring the reason for his presence might not have been wise, so he stood upright quickly.

‘A final song,’ he called. He gave them a rousing rendition of A British Tar from HMS Pinafore, finishing with a flourishing bow to wild applause.

He sat down and Valentine passed him his cup.

‘ Tchovikste ,’ she said, raising hers to bump the lip against his.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, may your health and happiness be what you deserve.’

‘That sounds double-edged,’ Kit remarked.

‘A reason to be virtuous, I’d say,’ Valentine answered with a grin.

Kit drained his cup in one. His heart was beating with exhilaration! He’d actually enjoyed himself.

‘I hope you’ve left me some hogbelly, Valentine.’

She pushed the bowl to him with a lazy smile. ‘Yours is a gift of taking men with you in spirit. Silas will be pleased when I tell him of this night.’

Kit’s smile grew brittle. ‘I don’t care if he is pleased. Why does he want us? He said the land is in trouble, but from what I’ve seen it looks perfectly pleasant and the people here seem content.’

Valentine’s smile grew fixed. ‘I’m sure in your war you found moments of happiness, but that does not mean everything was good. Besides, we’re only on the outer lands. Closer to the seat of the capital, things are darker.’

‘And you need to steal humans to heal it?’ Kit snapped.

‘Not steal, borrow. Stealing suggests we would take those who weren’t willing,’ Valentine said, with dignity.

They could quibble about that all night, Kit suspected, and she wouldn’t see anything wrong with the deception she and Wilde had perpetrated.

‘Silas will explain more when we reach him. I don’t know much about it, only that somehow it coincided with things that happened here. There must be a link.’

He was getting a little tired of having to wait for Silas to explain but what else was there to do.

‘It could be a coincidence,’ Kit suggested. ‘They do happen.’

‘After everything you’ve learned you still believe that?’ she smirked.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Kit agreed. ‘Look, someone else is going to perform.’

A man clad in a heavy grey cloak had taken the stage. As he raised his arms for silence his sleeves fell, revealing black and gold tattoos that encircled his arms from wrist to shoulder.

‘My tale shall not be so humorous,’ he said, gazing slowly around the room, his pale, watery eyes unsettling as they lighted upon Valentine and Kit. ‘I speak of sorrow and of betrayal.’

‘Well, that’s a good way to kill the atmosphere,’ Kit whispered.

Valentine frowned at him, but she had giggled softly just before she did, so he wasn’t too worried about offending her.

The storyteller waited until the room was perfectly quiet before lowering his arms. He glanced once again at Kit, smiling in a way that set Kit’s teeth on edge, and then began his tale.