WHO GHOST THERE?

Part III

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 1992

 

She knew that one or the other of them would be after her, no matter who won.  In a panic, she looked about and saw a patch of deeper darkness against one of the hillsides.  She hobbled to it with ragged, sobbing breaths, reached out—and felt the hillside give way into a low cave.  Weeping with relief, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled in.  There was still a chance Delbert might find her, but it was less than before.

Something glowed in the dark, something that stretched upward into a tall and glittering form.

Anthea cried out and shrank back against the wall of the cave.

He stood in silhouette against an eldritch glow that seemed to come from the walls of the cavern itself, a tall, unnaturally thin man with silvered hair.

Anthea crouched rigid, staring up at him.  He lifted an arm in a bell-sleeve with a gold-embroidered cuff, beck­oning.

Anthea wasn't ready to rise.  "What do you want?" she whispered.

The figure stood still a moment longer, then came to kneel beside her.  He was unbelievably handsome, with large, slightly slanting eyes, a high forehead and long, straight nose, high cheekbones above gauntness, and a full, sensuous mouth.  The lips curved in a courtly smile.  "We have need of thee."  His voice was rich and melodious, and his eyes drew her, compelling.

A thrill coursed through her; it was just like every folk tale she'd ever heard or read, and she didn't doubt for a moment what he was.  She rose slowly, as unable to resist as to think while the Faerie lord's gaze was on her.

He was taller than Anthea by a head or more.  He gazed down into her eyes, smiling, and she felt herself being drawn into the huge, dark pools of his pupils…

Then he turned away, moving silently into the depths of the cave, depths that she had not realized were there, and it came to her that this was not a hill, but a barrow, a hollow hill that her people had long thought to be prehis­toric burial sites, but older people had known for the dwelling places of the Faerie Folk.  She followed the elfin lord, heart hammering in her breast.

The door was set into the sides of the tunnel and seemed as old as the rock around it, made of dark, rich oak, waxed to a gloss that seemed to let one look deeply into the grain.  The Faerie lord turned the lock with a huge key and stepped aside to bow her in.  Anthea followed, heart pounding; how could anyone come through that door, if the Faerie locked it behind him?  Once she was through, she could never depart without his leave—but curiosity impelled her forward as much as his compulsion, and she could not even think of turning back.

Lock it he did, then stepped on past her, murmuring, "Come."  She followed, marveling at the richness of the paneled walls through which she moved.  An archway opened to her left, affording a brief glimpse of a drawing room elegantly appointed in an antique style, but the Faerie lord strode past it without a glance, and Anthea had to follow.

They came to the end of the hall, and another rich old door, partly open.  The Faerie pushed on through it, and Anthea, following, stepped into a chamber so wide that the huge canopied bed in its center seemed small.  The walls were hung with tapestries; between them, walnut paneling glowed.  The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet, and the bed-hangings were satin and velvet.

The Faerie lord knelt beside the bed, taking the hand of a lady so exquisitely fragile that she seemed to float between the sheets.  Her hair was long and so light a blond that it seemed almost silver.  Her face was delicate, fine-boned and high-cheeked, and her eyes were huge, her lips red and full.  But those high cheeks were hollow, and her skin was very pale.  One look at her made Anthea feel heavy and lumpen—but also made her feel healthy.

Magnificently healthy, when she saw the emaciated in­fant lying on its mother's breast, eyes still closed, little mouth working at its fist.  Its crying was so thin as to sound like the mewing of a tiny kitten.  Anthea stepped forward, a wordless cry drawn from her, reaching out toward the baby—but she halted a few feet away, not daring to touch something so fragile.

The Faerie lady looked up at her, and once again Anthea felt herself drawn into huge, dark eyes.  "I am Lolorin," the lady murmured in a low, husky voice weak with strain, "and this is my lord, Qualin.  Wilt thou nurse our child?"

Anthea looked up, eyes wide—and realized that the man, though he still knelt, was strung as tightly as a violin, seeming ready to leap, just barely held in check by Lolorin's hand on his, his eyes burning as he gazed at his child.  "I... I cannot," Anthea protested feebly.  "I... I am not a mother and have no milk to give."

"That, we can amend," the Faerie lord said, his voice deep and cavernous, and Anthea felt a thrill of alarm mixed with a dreadful yearning.  "A small spell, and thy breasts will swell with milk."

"But… but I am a virgin…"

"Thy breasts will take no heed," Lolorin assured her, "and the milk will be good."

But Anthea was in a quandary.  The sight of the infant pulled at her, so deeply that pity and her longing to help it became an almost physical pain—but...  "I am young, and have tasted so little of life!  I have suitors, I have barely begun to live..."

The Faerie lord stirred.  " 'Tis true.  Name thy nurse's fee, and thou shalt have it."

"Oh, don't speak of fees!" Anthea cried.  "If the baby grows strong, that will be enough!"

Qualin's eyes glowed, but Lolorin said, as though the words were dragged out of her, "She doth speak without thought.  Consider well, mortal, for if thou dost consent, thou wilt be bound to us for a year and a day—'twill be that long at least ere my babe can subsist on fare other than thine.  And human milk is vital, for the aura of thy own kind hath enervated the folk of Faerie.  We have weakened with age and the decline of mortal folks' belief in us.  So tenuous hath our existence become that Faerie mothers' milk hath grown too thin to sustain an infant long."

"We would not ask this of thee," said Qualin, "save that our child must have a human to nurse, and thou art the only woman who hath chanced to come within our purview; I lack the vitality to go abroad to sue.  Yet thou hast come near our hollow hill, alone and at night—and thou art one of those born with the power of magic about thee."

"I?" Anthea gasped.

"Indeed.  Hast thou never felt it?"

"No, never!"  But Anthea remembered her contact with Sir Roderick and his mention that she could only see him because of an inborn Talent, which might fade as she ma­tured.  Apparently it had not—or she had not grown up as much as she had thought.

" 'Tis that quality of magic," Qualin said, "that touch of the fey, no matter how minor, that doth enable thee to see and speak with us of the Faerie world."

" 'Twill be long ere another so gifted haps to come within the aura of our powers," Lolorin murmured.  "It will, I doubt not, be too late for my babe.  Wilt thou not give aid?  For if thou dost not, surely he may die!"

"Oh, do not lay such a charge upon my soul!"  Anthea buried her face in her hands, torn.  "I would not see your baby die—truly, I wish to save him—but I wish to save my own life, too!  I wish to dance and to speak with other girls.  I wish to have young men fall in love with me and woo me and court me; I wish to dance at balls and drive in the Park!"

" 'Tis only a year," Qualin protested.  "Thy life will still be there when thou dost return."

"Nay," said a deep voice from the doorway.  "It will be vastly changed."

Anthea spun about, and Qualin surged to his feet with an oath as he drew his sword.

There, in glowing silver armor, stood a knight with a naked blade in his right hand—and, tucked in the elbow of his left, a head!

But it was a living head, if a ghostly head can be said to live—and its lips moved as it spoke.  "The lady is in my care, and I will not permit her to be harmed."  The head wore no helmet, and the rugged face was young and handsome, though it too glowed silver beneath a wavy mass of hair.

"Sir Roderick!" Anthea cried.  "You have found your head!"

"Yes, Anthea—and I must thank you for bringing me to the battlefield on which I lost it."  Sir Roderick held his sword out before him, where it floated, point fixed on Qualin.  Then he took the head in both hands and set it on his shoulders, giving a half turn as though to lock it in place.  Qualin took the opportunity to lunge, but the sword parried easily and riposted, sending Qualin back on guard.  "How didst thou come here!" he spat.

"I followed my kinswoman," the ghost answered.  "Blood calls to blood, and I had but to answer that call.  Your locks mean naught to me, for I am a ghost."  He smiled grimly, his eyes never leaving Qualin's.  "And know, Anthea, that you will pass far more than a single year here—for though it may seem only twelve months to you, in the world outside, seven years will pass.  Your friends will be matrons and young mothers; the gentlemen now so smitten with you will be husbands burdened with the management of their estates.  Your aunt will be seven years older, if she does not pine away for grief at your disappearance."

"Aunt Trudy!  Oh, I could never do that!"  Anthea turned to Qualin.  "Is this true?"

"It is," he said reluctantly, eyes still on the ghost.  "And who art thou, stranger, who comes thus to imperil mine heir?"

"Her ancestral ghost, who has known and cherished her since childhood.  I do not wish your child any harm, but I will not see my own deprived of youth and the few carefree years of romance God grants to her.  Avaunt, eldritch lord, and stand aside!  This lady is not for you!"

"I shall not let her be torn from me," Qualin ground out, and lunged forward.

"No," Anthea screamed—but swords not of steel met with a fearful clash.

And held.  They stuck together as though they were mag­nets of opposite poles, and an eerie silver light played over both blades, melding them together.  Qualin spat an oath and wrenched at his, but it would not budge.  "What magic have you wrought, fell spectre?"

"No enchantment of mine."  Sir Roderick, too, was wrenching at his blade.  "Some other force comes.  O glow upon our swords!  You are a spirit of your own form!"

"Even so."  The voice was a thrumming in the air, a deep vibration within their skulls.  "I am a spirit foreign to the land, but strong enough withal, especially on such a night as this.  Give over, Faerie lord!  Give over, ghost!  For I shall hold thee bound until thou dost cry 'Hold, enough!' "

"Never shall I bow so!" Qualin raged.  "What hellspawn hath brought thee here?"

"A spawn of mortal folk, and not of Hell at all," said a resonant voice behind Anthea.  She spun about with a gasp and saw a gentleman in breeches and Hessian boots, though his coat and neckcloth were gone and his shirt torn wide open, showing a manly, muscular chest.  "Roman!" she cried, then blushed.  "I mean, Mr. Crafter!"

"The same, Miss Gosling."  But Roman's gaze was fixed on Qualin and the ghost.  "I don't believe I've had the plea­sure."

"Wouldst thou speak as in a drawing room, thou fool?" the Faerie lord snapped.

"Why not?" Roman said with airy disregard of the cir­cumstances.  "We may as well be civilized, after all, since we cannot do one another harm.  Anthea, would you do the honors?"

Anthea noticed the use of her Christian name alone, but knew it was no time to charge him with a breach of eti­quette.  "Mr. Roman Crafter, may you be pleased to make the acquaintance of Qualin, a lord of Faerie, and his lady, Lolorin, with their child.  The knight is my old friend, Sir Roderick le Gos, late of Windhaven Manor."

"Quite late, I should judge, from the cut of your armor."  Roman looked Sir Roderick up and down.  "Still, it is be­coming; you must give me the name of your tailor.  I thank you for your kind intercession on behalf of Miss Anthea, Sir Roderick."

"It is my pleasure," the knight responded, "for I am privileged to think of her as my ward, though not in the eyes of the law—and you shall have to answer to me, Mr. Crafter, if you wish to know her better."

"Why, Sir Roderick!" Anthea protested, blushing furi­ously.

"I gather he is the senior male of your house," Roman inferred.

"If you are being so civil as to make introductions," Qualin ground out, "might we know the name and style of this creature who has bound our swords?"

"My apologies."  Roman inclined his head.  "He is a creature of the sea, and I made his acquaintance during a storm in the tropics.  We got on famously, and he has chosen to accompany me for a brief space.  In fact, it is through him that my cousin purchased my rise from powder monkey to midshipman, and thereby to ensign and, eventually, captain."

"Yet he advanced by his own ability," the spirit hummed.  "Call me, as he does, merely 'Erasmus.' "

"Saint Elmo's Fire!" Anthea cried.

"Excellent, Miss Gosling," Roman said, with surprised pleasure.  "Not too many landlubbers know the term, or that 'Elmo' is the shortened form of 'Erasmus.'  Yes, he has that name among the superstitious, though to tell you the truth, he has as little to do with saints as with demons—though I promise you, he can give living mortals quite a shock.  Yet he seems to have taken a fancy to my inquisitive turn of mind."

"And to your boldness and talent in dealing with spirits," Erasmus hummed.  "What say you, Roman?  Shall I free these two banty roosters?"

"Banty roosters!" Sir Roderick choked.

"You will have to forgive my friend," Roman apologized.  "He has taken up many idioms that he learned from me in my youth—oh, very well, my early youth.  But the question he asks is valid.  Will you both sheathe your swords and try to deal in reason, if he releases you?"

"Well, I will attempt it," Sir Roderick huffed. 

"And I."  But Qualin's eyes glittered dangerously.  "Yet I warn thee, I will not permit the lady to be taken from us, if she doth choose to stay."

Roman glared at him for a space, then said, "Fair enough.  She is, after all, her own person.  It is your decision, Anthea, and we will all abide by it.  Agreed, gentlemen?"

Ghost and Faerie grumbled assent, and the glow drifted away from their swords to hover, a sphere of light, by Roman.

Anthea paled and almost cried out in protest.  Was she to be left without support in this?  Though she did have to admit that she did not want to be compelled to a course of action she would not like, it would nonetheless be won­derful if someone else could only tell her what it was she wanted—and could be right.

"Please acquaint me with the nature of the contre­temps," Roman said.  "Apparently the issue is the freedom of Miss Anthea Gosling.  But why should there be any con­tention against it?"

"First tell me," Qualin growled, "who you are, and how you came into my hill?"

"I am Roman Crafter, late of His Majesty's Navy, and later of the United States of America."

"What is that?"

"A country in the West, beyond the Isles and the ocean."

"It  cannot  be."  Qualin's eyes burned.  "Mortal  eyes cannot see the Western Haven."

"Quite right; the only ones we see are quite mortal, I assure you, and though they have their own population of elementals and spirits, none of them are of your race.  As for myself, I had the bad fortune to be impressed into the British Navy, and the good fortune to meet Miss Anthea Gosling.  When Erasmus told me that she had been spirited away by an utter cad, I rode as quickly as I could to over­take them.  I lost their track on the road, but Erasmus cast about and found them for me, and I arrived in time to spare her the worst of his attentions.  Yet when I'd done with him, she had fled, and I was quite concerned for her further safety.  Erasmus was good enough to seek you out again and unravel the spell that barred the entrance to this hill.  I felt your presence and followed."

Anthea stared.  "But—the door... the lock..."

Roman frowned.  "What door?"

"That huge old door in the hillside!  He used a six-inch key to open it!"

Roman shook his head, gaze still on Qualin.  "Only a bush and a cave mouth."

Anthea's breath hissed in.  "A glamour!  It was an illusion that Qualin cast."  She looked up at the tall Faerie lord.  "Did you think I would be more willing to help if I thought you lived in a rich house?"

"Aye, certes.  If 'tis not so, thou art quite unlike all others of thy kind."  Qualin's gaze stayed on Roman.

"Then," Anthea breathed, "everything else I see is also a glamour.  Take it away, please!  You cannot expect me to dwell in the midst of a lie!"

"Thy kind ever have," the Faerie lord snapped; but Lolorin murmured, "My lord, I prithee—let her see what is real."

Qualin stood stock-still for a moment, then shrugged, tossing his head.  In the blink of an eye, the tapestries and carpet were gone, as were the rich wooden panels behind them.  Damp rock walls showed in their place, webbed with niter where they merged into the cave's roof.  The four-poster bed was gone; Lolorin lay on a heap of old straw atop a rocky shelf, and her coverlet was several old furs sewn together, with patches of hair missing.  Her gown was only linen, stained with age, and Qualin's glorious raiment had faded to the dun colors of an old, threadbare tunic and hose.

"This is the truth thy kind so praise," Lolorin said.  "Why, I cannot tell—I had liefer live with glamour."

"So would most of us."  Anthea felt her heart sink.

Even Roman looked somber, but he said, "You cannot expect a gentlewoman to live under such conditions!"

"Glamour will warm and comfort her," Lolorin pro­tested.

"The lady is safe."  Qualin's tone was brittle.  "Be sure we shall not maltreat her; we have too great a need of her."

"Need?"  Roman turned to Anthea with a frown.  "Would you acquaint us with the nature of that exigency, Miss Anthea?  Surely you did not come into this hill of your own free will."

"But I did, Mr. Crafter," Anthea explained, "at least, into the cave that is the mouth of this tunnel.  I sought to hide from Lord Delbert."  She shuddered at the thought of him.

"Do not fear," Roman said quickly.  "He is fled to the Continent and will trouble you no further."  His eyes hard­ened.  "I made quite sure of that."

Anthea nearly asked what Roman could have done that would have made him so certain, but her courage failed her.  "I take it," Roman went on, "that Lord Qualin then appeared, to entice you further in."

"Why, yes," Anthea admitted, "though I can scarcely blame him, since he did it to protect his own child."

"Child?"  Roman glanced sharply about the room.  "Ah, yes!  The lady Lolorin, and the babe you mentioned.  I take it they have need of a mortal nurse."

Anthea blushed.  "So they have explained to me—and I am the only human woman they have come upon.  If he does not have human milk, the baby will die."

"So I have heard."  Roman frowned at Qualin.  "But I confess to confusion.  Has your race, ever so powerful, now grown so decadent as to need the services of a mortal nurse?"

"Nay!" Qualin exploded.  " 'Tis thy race hath done it, thy kind that have filled the land with Cold Iron; thine air doth reek with the fumes of the blood of the earth!  The insidious aura of unchecked Cold Iron doth pervade the aether, and doth sap the strength from our limbs!  Even here, in the fastness of the Borderland, doth that vibrating reach—even here, far from all cities, doth it deplete us!"

" 'Tis true."  Lolorin's eyes seemed even more huge.  " 'Tis therefore that my frame cannot bring forth milk rich enough for my child."

"Unchecked Cold Iron?"  Roman frowned.  "What is this you speak of?  Men have used Cold Iron in every way they can, for millennia!"

"Not so," Qualin replied, "for your smithies have grown huge and pour out vast quantities of the stuff—and more and more of it is alloyed and purified into such as was once reserved for swords!"

"Of course!"  Roman lifted his head, understanding coming into his eyes.  "Steel has a broader and stronger aura than mere iron—and there is more and more of both abroad, as horses are shod and wagons multiplied!  Tell me, is it the Midlands that are especially noisome to you?"

"Aye.  Where once was our haven, there are stinking piles of brick that are filled with bits of Cold Iron!  Their aura pervades the Midlands; they blight the land!"

"Mills," Anthea whispered.

"And their ramshackle towns," Roman agreed.  "Small wonder the Faerie Folk are vanishing."

Anthea frowned.  "But the tales of your kidnapping mortal wet-nurses go back hundreds of years!"

Lolorin nodded.  "Cold Iron began it—and as thy kind spread its use, so didst thou use it to hew down our trees, which did shelter our kind, and without which we cannot endure.  Thus we retreated from thee and thy metal, for 'tis poisonous to us.  We weakened, yet we persisted—til now."

Qualin nodded stiffly.  "Our folk began to flee when they found that scarcely a house could be found in all Britain that was not filled with nails of Cold Iron.  Aye, they did fly to the Western Isles, where I trust they remain to this day."

Roman frowned.  "The Western Isles that I cannot see?"

"Thou wouldst not, nor any of thy kind—nay, nor will any of thine instruments of alchemy reveal them to thee.  Of all the sons of Mother Earth, only those of the Blood may find them, or the roads that lead there."

Anthea looked up at Roman.  "What instruments of al­chemy are these?"

But Roman only answered, "I never did like being ex­cluded..."

"There is no aid for it," said Qualin.  "Thy kind have not the eyes to see these Isles.  Yet our folk did, and most fled; yet some did cling to our earth, and what remained of our forests, for 'twas the land and the trees that did give us birth, look thou, and we despaired of living without them.  Aye, some few of us do bide in determination."

"How is it that the aura of Cold Iron weakens you?" Roman said softly.

" 'Tis counter to the coursing of our strength," Qualin maintained.  " 'Tis too measured, too harsh.  It doth disrupt all our magics, without which we cannot live."

Roman nodded.  "No wonder you fled as far from the cities as possible."

"Not enough," Anthea whispered, staring at Qualin.  "It is leaching the life from you.  How can you bear to stay?"

"We are intractable," Lolorin said, her voice low.  "For look you, 'twas our land ere any of thy kind did come here, this Britain, this England—and how could it be either, an there were no Faerie folk here?"

Qualin nodded.  "Therefore we bide."

"It must be immensely lonely," Anthea breathed.

"I' truth," Lolorin whispered, "there are few enough of our kind that bide in all England—in all Europe, mayhap in all the world."

"But how can you endure?" Anthea asked.  "Even after this child has grown..."  She looked down at the baby, which looked up at her, wide-eyed.  She smiled tenderly.  "Oh, Roman!  I cannot leave so sweet a child to perish!"  She looked up at Lolorin, her eyes swimming with tears.  "How unfair of you, to show me the baby when you knew it would tug at my heart as strongly as any man could!"

Lolorin only smiled, but with sadness and longing. 

"Her point is well taken," Roman said, his voice low.  "She must be free to go where she will, without coercion—and when she chooses."

Qualin's mouth tensed with impatience.  "Thou shalt have her so, when the babe no longer hath need of her."

"How long will that be—a year?  Two?  She is a free woman, you know."

"She shall not be our slave," Lolorin said.  " 'Tis as thou sayest—she shall be handsomely paid, and we shall dismiss her in a year and a day as promised."

"In your time, perhaps.  But how long will that be in our time?  Seven years?  Fourteen?"

Qualin didn't move, but something in his eyes showed that Roman had hit home.  "We shall ensure that it be no longer in thy time than in ours."

Roman shook his head.  "It is not enough.  You cannot ask her to forfeit her youth."

"Thou dost presume."  Qualin seemed to draw inward, compacting, like a tiger readying itself to spring.  "Thou dost not chaffer with the Old Ones."

"If the lady's freedom is at stake..."

"Nay!" Lolorin cried.  "Wilt thou two, in the pride of thy manhood, give the lass greater cause to weep than she al­ready hath?"

"I do not wish it."  Anthea's voice caught in a sob.

"Which?" rapped Qualin.  "That the man be hurt?  Or the babe starve?"

"I do not wish it!  Neither!  I cannot stand for Mr. Crafter to be hurt, or the babe!  But if only I can save the infant, I will!"

Roman turned to her, appalled.  "But you are too young to cast away seven years of your life, Miss Gosling, no matter how much good you may do with them!"

"Speak honestly, mortal!" Qualin snapped.  "It is not her youth that thou dost care for, but herself!  Thou dost wish to have her for thine own!  Do not dissemble!"

Roman turned to stare at him, nonplused, and Anthea felt the blood drain from her face.  Was there truth in what the Lord Qualin said?  But surely there must be—the Faerie Folk could see to the heart of any mortal.

Roman recovered his poise and turned to her with a bow.  "I surmise you find the choice unbearable, Miss Gosling."

"You... surmise correctly, Mr. Crafter."

" 'Miss Gosling!'  'Mr. Crafter!'  Can they not be done with such pretenses?" Qualin burst out.  " 'Tis plain to all who see him that he is in love with thee, and plain to anyone who can hear the heart, that thou art in love with him!  Canst thou not at least call one another by personal names?"

Anthea blushed and lowered her eyes, heart pounding.  She heard Roman's voice, slow and wondering.  "Miss Gos­ling... Anthea...  No, I've no right to ask!"

"Yet I will answer, though not at this moment," she re­plied.  "I shall call you 'Roman,' though, if I may."

"I would be honored.  And may I call you 'Miss An­thea'?"

"You may not, sir," she retorted.  " 'Anthea' will do."  She was gratified to hear him let out an awed breath.

"Well, there is some vestige of honesty, at least," Qualin said, and Lolorin added, her voice low, "We cannot ask thee to stay with us now, Anthea, if thou art in love."

"Unless..."  Qualin looked up, eyes brimming, "thy lover would stay with thee?"

"Instantly," Roman said quickly.  Sir Roderick coughed into an iron fist.  "That is, if the proprieties could be observed," Roman amended.

"Indeed."  Qualin's lip curled.  "And where are we to find thee a minister or a chaperone?"

Sir Roderick looked up as though at a sound, then said, "That may not be so vast a chore as you think.  If you will excuse me a moment?"  He disappeared.

"What... what could he have heard?" Anthea stam­mered.

"There is another matter I have neglected to mention," Roman began, but footsteps—of more than one person—echoed in the passageway.

Qualin whirled, backing up to shield Lolorin with his body, and she tensed behind him.  She didn't move, but her eyes seemed to grow even larger.  Shaking his head, Qualin lifted a hand slowly, wrist turning in a complicated pattern as the fingers seemed to stroke the air.  He began to chant in words that Anthea and Roman did not know, and the cave walls disappeared, replaced by the rich wooden panels and the tapestries.  The floor was carpeted again, and Lolorin lay once more, richly garbed, in the four-poster bed.

Then Sir Roderick stepped out of the tunnel—and be­side him were Aunt Trudy and Hester.

"Aunt Trudy!" Anthea cried, and lowered her gaze.  "Oh, forgive me!"

"In an instant, child."  Aunt Trudy bustled over to her and caught her hand, chafing it, then touching a palm to her forehead.  "Lord Delbert is another matter—but you I'll forgive in an instant, the more so because I feel certain you've learned the reasons underlying some of the strictures surrounding a young lady.  There, child, are you well?  Such a deal of damp!  And really, who are these people who live in so unseemly a location?"

"I might ask the same of thyself," Qualin snapped.  "Have a care how thou dost address a lord and lady of Faerie!"

"A lord of Faerie?"  Aunt Trudy turned, staring.  "My heavens, it's true!  Well, I am the Lady Gertrude Brock, wife to the late baronet—and I trust it will not be necessary to call upon his aid!  Yourself, sir?"

"I am Lord Qualin, and my wife is the Lady Lolorin.  Our son is only a fortnight aged and hath a need of mortal aid.  Wilt thou grant him such?"

"Sir!" Aunt Trudy cried, drawing herself up.  "I feared not," Qualin said, thin-lipped.  "But if not thee or thy niece, then who?"

"I... I am not wellborn, Lord Qualin," Hester said hes­itantly, "but I am human."

"Hester!" Aunt Trudy cried.  "You speak out of turn!"

"Yet such speech is perhaps welcome."  Qualin's eyes glowed, and Lolorin pushed herself a little further upright, hope in her eyes.  "Wouldst thou nurse my babe then, mortal lass?"

"Oh, the poor wee thing!" Hester cried, and ran to the Faerie's bedside.  She caught up the baby and rocked it, crooning.  "Oh, how could I turn away, with one who would need me so!  Yet I fear there's little good I could do it for some months yet, for my milk has not yet come."

"You are with child?" Lolorin's eyes swelled.

"Yes, milady, though the father will not acknowledge my babe."  Hester bowed her head ruefully.

"That doth matter naught," Lolorin said, "and a small spell will suffice to bring thy milk before its time.  Yet know, mortal woman, that if thou dost stay to nurse my babe a year, seven will pass in thy realm outside this hill."

Hester stilled, and Aunt Trudy said, "I really cannot allow a servant in my employ to be so badly used."

"We will not use her ill, but well," Qualin said with sur­prising force.  "She shall be honored and shall live in luxury—and when her service is done, she shall have Faerie gold aplenty."  He turned to Hester.  "Name thy fee!"

"Oh... why..."  Hester looked up, startled, but Aunt Trudy nodded slightly, and she said, "A hundred pounds, I should think."

"A thousand," Aunt Trudy said.

"Ten."  Qualin glared at her, then shrugged.  "One thou­sand or ten, what the matter?  She shall have it, and Faerie magic shall grant her a safe and easy birthing."

"But what of my child, after?" Hester wondered.  "What of yourself?" said Aunt Trudy.  "Your child we can foster easily enough—but how shall you live when your service here is done?"

"Why... I had not thought..."

"I shall take you back into my household gladly, if I am still alive," Aunt Trudy assured her, "and I intend to be—but one never knows..."

"I shall surely be able to provide for her, Aunt," Anthea offered, "and I shall be pleased to have her services."

"Oh, will you, miss?" Hester cried.  "Oh, thank you!"

"Though there will be small need for it, if you've ten thousand in your own right," Aunt Trudy finished.  "Such a dowry should attract a worthy husband—but we should speak of love, Hester.  How will you feel to lose seven years with young men?"

Hester shrugged.  "I've little enough interest in them of the moment, milady—and it may be they will be better when I return."

Roman turned a grunt into a cough, and Sir Roderick said, "I doubt that exceedingly, young woman."

"Well then, mayhap my Robin will have position enough to want a wife and babes," Hester said, then shrugged.  "Though I'm not so certain I would want him anymore.  'Twould be hard to find any other husband, though, when I've already a babe."

"If thy mistress cannot find a home for thy child, he shall have one here," Lolorin said firmly.  " 'Twould not be the first time a mortal lad hath been raised in the Faerie realm."

Hester turned to stare at Lolorin, her eyes growing huge.  "Oh, milady!  If you only could..."

"We can, and shall."

"And there, I think, is Hester's trouble solved, at least for the present," Aunt Trudy said, "though you must call on us, Hester, as soon as you have come back to the daylight world."

"Oh yes, ma'am!  And I'll be forever grateful!"  Hester dropped a curtsey.

"And so, I think, you have no further need of myself, Lord Qualin, or of my niece," Aunt Trudy said.

"No, none at all."  Qualin was standing by the bed, one hand on his son's head, one hand on Lolorin's shoulder.  "Go in peace, mortal folk—and I thank thee for thine aid in this."

"It was our pleasure, I'm sure.  Anthea?"

"Oh, thank you, Hester!"  Anthea rose and followed her aunt out of the tunnel, very much aware of Roman's pres­ence behind her.  Not that she needed to worry about making conversation, though—Aunt Trudy was doing splendidly at that, and not leaving much opportunity for anyone else.  "Well, really, Sir Roderick!  I didn't even begin to recognize you!  Your head, at last!  After all these years!  Oh, it is so very good to see you again!  But how has this come to pass?"

With a shock, Anthea realized that she had not been the only lonely child reared at Windhaven.

"Really quite remarkable, Trudy," Sir Roderick replied.  "By excellent chance, that cad Delbert laid a route straight past the battlefield where I lost my head, so many centuries ago.  Really quite a bit of luck, that.  And as to your seeing me again—well, I fancy your contact with Anthea may have had something to do with it.  But it's mostly the result of these Faerie Folk, d'you see—they fairly exude magic, they're surrounded by it, and I've no doubt it amplified your own gifts and woke them again, in a fashion..."

Anthea realized, with a start, that they had come out into the light of false dawn—and that Aunt Trudy and Sir Roderick were moving off to the side, not at all obviously, but moving quite a deal faster than they seemed to, and there was quite a bit of space opening between the two of them on the one hand, and herself and Roman on the other.

The ball of light had emerged behind the American and was waning in the half-light, disappearing with the deep-chimed admonishment, "Call me at need, Roman."

"I thank you for all your assistance, Erasmus," Roman said, then turned back to the lady.  "Well, Miss Anthea, it would seem our long night is nearly done."

She took a breath, nerved herself up to it, and said, "Just 'Anthea,' if you please, Roman.  I believe I did give you that permission."

"Anthea," he murmured, and his voice caressed her name as though it were a fabulous jewel.

Then, somehow, fantastically, insanely, he had taken hold of her hands and was gazing deeply into her eyes and was saying, "Anthea, the Faerie lord is right—I am a fool to dissemble any longer!  I have loved you since I met you, and every succeeding acquaintance, every word from your tempting lips, has made me love you more!  Desire for you burns so deeply in me that it will drive me mad, if you do not assuage it by a promise to wed me!  Marry me, I beg of you, and I swear I shall do all that I may to ensure your happiness!"

"But... but Mr. Crafter... Roman..."  Anthea caught her breath, and what was left of her senses.  "How... how can you still wish to be with me when you have had to confront the fact that I am... haunted?"

"Haunted?  Oh, now, sweet lady!"  Roman stepped closer as though to reassure her.  "It is merely that you have the sensitivity, the gift, to see what others cannot!"

"But do you not see that I must be fey?  That I must be one of those born to—" She forced herself to say it: "—to a weird?  And that I come from a family so accursed?  And that my children, in all probability, shall be so, too?"

"Children!  Oh, Anthea!"  Roman pressed closer still.  "If they were my children as well as yours, you may be sure they would have the Talent—for do you not see that I am one even as yourself?  Nay, I assure you that in my family the Talent does not only run—it is a virtual torrent!  For six generations, my family have cultivated their gifts, learning the science of magic!  The trait has bred true, and has grown and grown."  He took her by the shoulders and held her off at arm's length.  "How can you think that I would be put off by meeting with Sir Roderick when you yourself have seen my own supernatural friend?  And he not inherited, but dis­covered and befriended by me myself!"

"Then... you do not know what it is to have a family ghost!"

"A ghost?  No, but there is a will-o-the-wisp that has been our friend for a very long time, and it is rumored that we are long-lived because an ancestor made a friend of Death himself.  Nay, there has scarcely been a single Crafter who has not had his own spirit-friend, and they march in a legion to the aid of the present generation when they are needed!  Oh, Anthea!  That I could be put off by only one ghost?  Nay, nay, sweet lady, especially not when the damsel who is 'haunted' is a lady of such beauty, intellect, and charm!"

She gazed up into his eyes, blinking.  "I... I don't know what to say..."

"Then say 'yes,' " he pleaded, "and kiss me."

She did.  Both.

 

A few yards away, Sir Roderick appraised Roman's technique with a practiced eye.  "Not terribly ex­perienced, I'd guess, but I wager he'll learn."

"I'd wager he will delight in it," Aunt Trudy said tartly, "and so will she, though I suspect I'll be hard put to make them wait for a wedding."

"Trudy!" Sir Roderick gasped.

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!  Did you think William and I had lived as plaster saints all those years?  A chaperone must know her duties from the inside, Sir Roderick—and don't tell me you don't know that, for I seem to remember you making a few timely interruptions when I was fresh from the schoolroom!"

"I did," Roderick sighed, "and from the look of these two, I'll have another generation to attend."

 

THE END

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