31st December #3
Orga shrank back to her customary size almost immediately, settling at Wendell’s feet, whereupon she began to wash her face—I suspect she’d merely wanted to make Lord Taran flinch. He had fallen back a step, his hand upon the pommel of his sword.
“I would prefer not to spend the remainder of my existence looking over my shoulder for you, dark one,” he said, giving the cat a scowl. “Perhaps this will redeem me somewhat.”
He swept his cloak aside and knelt at Wendell’s feet, pressing one knee to the ground and laying his sword across the other. Callum did the same after flashing me a quick, bright smile.
Lord Taran’s gesture moved through the crowd like a sigh after a long-held breath.
Folk fell to their knees, some more energetically than others.
A few more screams ensued, and another clamour of footfalls, though it seemed to me that less than a handful actually fled—those who deemed their necks most at risk, I suppose, or perhaps they had especially nervous dispositions.
The only person who did not change his position was the harpist, who strummed louder, his playing taking on a sanctimonious character.
The cheese-wielding brownie returned and began circulating among the courtly fae as they rose to their feet, joined by another wearing what looked like a lily pad for a hat and clutching a basket of roasted chestnuts.
Lord Taran made a gesture and a half dozen Folk—a mixture of courtly and common, all dressed in silver-threaded grey—emerged from the shadows of the castle, each dragging a small wagon behind them. These were covered with silk, hiding the contents, which rattled over the cobblestones.
One of these Folk bowed to Lord Taran and passed him a hand mirror.
It was wrought from pure silver, its frame an intricate and uneven scalloped pattern, as if it had lain upon the sea floor for years and accumulated all manner of shells and barnacles.
With another bow, Lord Taran gave it to Wendell.
“Thank you,” Wendell said. He gazed into the mirror, then turned towards the crowd, absently tapping the glass against his opposite palm.
The motion scattered diamonds of reflected light across the courtyard.
It was odd, but he reminded me then of the first time I had watched him present at a conference.
Had it been five years ago, or six? The subject had been the folklore of Provence, and while I had been skeptical of his claims and annoyed by the offhand showmanship with which he delivered them, I could not help being awed by his effect upon his audience.
For Wendell in such moments has a gravity about him that has nothing to do with enchantment, and nor is it like the Hidden king’s; it is something warmer, good-natured, which makes one wish to lean in, not cower away.
“What’s this about?” I muttered.
“Oh—just a little tradition. To mark the passing of the throne from one monarch to the next,” he said, his gaze roaming hungrily over the castle and the hillside beyond.
“Look, Em,” he said, pointing to the drifting lights overhead. “Fireflies! Yes, I remember—they always came out at this time of the evening.”
“You’re enjoying yourself,” I noted.
“I am.” He turned to kiss me. “My dearest Emily! I am home at last. And all because of you.”
“You had a bit to do with it,” I said drily, though it was difficult to stop myself from smiling. I have often found Wendell’s happiness infectious, particularly now; it seemed to radiate from him like morning sunlight.
He laughed. “Now all I want is a good, hearty meal and my own bed. But let us give them a show first, hm?”
He stepped forward, still emanating good cheer, and I sensed the crowd relax further. I wondered if they’d expected him to simply unsheathe his sword and start beheading people—probably. Violence came as naturally as drawing breath to monarchs of the Silva Lupi.
“My stepmother is dead,” Wendell said in a carrying voice. “Or will be, soon enough. To those who loved her: know that she served our realm well, with courage and devotion. To her enemies: I invite you to celebrate with me tonight, and with your new queen, who slew her with her own hand.”
Folk grinned at this, their teeth flashing in the lantern light, and I suppressed an urge to step behind Shadow. A woman with a hedgehog perched on her shoulder burst into hysterical sobs.
Wendell turned to me, holding out the mirror. “Would you care to do the honours? It is our custom to smash all mirrors in the castle when a monarch passes, so that we are rid of everything that bore their image. This was among my stepmother’s personal possessions.”
“You do it,” I said, for I was a little thrown by this and did not want to misstep somehow.
Wendell nodded. He drew Shadow out of the way, then hurled the mirror against the side of the castle. It shattered into a hundred tiny shards, which transformed into fireflies and soared into the air to join the others.
The crowd erupted into cries of delight—even those who had seemed most afraid were cheering now, and several more harpists joined the first. The frisson of terror began to melt, and the evening swelled with music and laughter.
Lord Taran made another motion, and the silk coverings on the wagons were removed, revealing an assemblage of mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Above the tumult of the crowd, Wendell shouted, “Who will celebrate?”
Folk surged forward, snatching up mirrors from the carts, some common fae hoisting mirrors larger than they were and stumbling about clumsily under their weight.
There was a great deal of pushing and shoving, and small fights broke out, for there were not enough mirrors for everyone.
The sound of shattering glass sparred with the harps’ strains, and innumerable fireflies floated into the night.
The silver faerie stones amidst the treetops began to glow like floating lanterns.
Folk went charging through the gate, shrieking with excitement.
“They will roam the castle tonight, searching for mirrors,” Wendell told me. “As I said, it’s a very old tradition. Some get carried away—no doubt a few windows will also be shattered, particularly those in my stepmother’s rooms.”
I drew towards him, overwhelmed. I could not tell if my fascination outweighed my fear in that moment. “I—” I began, though I did not know what I meant to say.
“I know,” he said quietly, his arm encircling my waist.
He led me towards the castle gate, an unnervingly massive thing with doors of heavy oak several times my height and carved with what I had taken for an abstract floral scene, but which, up close, was revealed as a head encircled with brooklime, leaves spilling from its eyes and mouth.
Lord Taran stood to one side, Callum to the other. The auburn-haired man gave me a smile as Wendell and I passed.
“Welcome back, Professor Wilde,” he murmured. “Or should I say Walters? You certainly know how to make an entrance.”