Modern Magick

The Road to Farringale: 18

The lady was a troll, no mistaking that. She had features of aristocratic character, finely sculpted like marble, though the fine wrinkles that mapped her face spoke of advanced age. Her hair was all white wisps, a mass of snowy locks artfully curled and beribboned. She wore a gown of crisp blue silk, with lace about the wide-cut neckline and wide, full sleeves. The skirt was very full, and at once I understood the source of those rustling sounds. Not curtains, but a dress. She had walked right up to us, and though we had not seen her, we had heard the motion of her skirts.

At least, I had. What did that mean?

I made her a curtsey, for she was evidently a woman of stature — in the sense of rank, at least, if not height, for she was only a little taller than me. 'Madam,' I said, with scrupulous politeness, for her faded blue eyes were fixed upon me with no friendly expression. 'We trespass, I cannot deny, but it is not our intention to disturb your peace. We come upon an urgent errand.'

No response was made me, but nor did the lady interrupt. She waited, impassive, listening.

So I went on.

'Is this...' I began, and paused, blinking away the uncomfortable effects of another flickering surge of shadows and light. 'Am I gone back in time?'

'Nay,' said the lady. 'Tis beyond the power of magick, that.'

'Then what is this? Where have I gone? For I am not where I was before, of that I am certain.'

'You have not moved, I vow, save in time.'

'But you said—'

'You are caught between the echoes, and shall here remain until it please me to release you.'

I do not know if I was expected to make any sense out of these impenetrable words, but my comprehension or lack thereof did not seem to trouble my reluctant hostess. For the moment, I abandoned my line of questioning.

'My name is Cordelia Vesper,' I said — judging it best to offer my full name, for to a woman who, I strongly suspected, had survived somehow since the fall of Farringale, the old-fashioned formality of "Cordelia" would sound better than the terse modernity of "Ves". 'I work for the Society for Magickal Heritage. I came here with two colleagues, as well as Baron Alban, a representative of the current Troll Court. May I know whose acquaintance I have had the unexpected pleasure of making?' I ended this speech with a winning smile, the kind that invariably puts people at their ease.

She scrutinised me in silence, not softening towards me one whit. 'You address Baroness Tremayne.'

I curtsied again, a gesture she deigned to acknowledge with a nod of her head. I wondered, briefly, why she had selected me, out of the four of us, for interrogation. Would she not more naturally have chosen Alban? 'We are here to—'

She spoke abruptly, cutting me off. 'Long ages have passed, since last came the footsteps of another in these lost halls. How came you here? What arts carried you past our thrice-locked doors?'

'Keys,' I said promptly, wishing I had been able to retrieve one of them on our way in. Presumably they were still embedded in the side of Alresford Bridge. 'Baron Alban secured two from the Court, I know not by what means. Mine was the third, given into my keeping by...' I hesitated, suddenly much inconvenienced by the House's lack of an obvious title. 'By the House in which my Society is based,' I said, much disliking the awkwardness and imprecision of this designation.

But its effect upon Baroness Tremayne was curiously profound. 'A House?' she repeated, laying just such emphasis upon the word as to suggest that she knew precisely what kind of House I was referring to. 'Say on.'