He laughed, and she was struck by his charm, which was both warm and effortless. In London, his charm had already been clear; but here in London Beneath, it shone from him like a searchlight.
‘You must be exhausted. Let me carry your purse.’ He reached out to take her backpack. But Fay did not want to abandon her pack, which was all that remained of her previous life. Clinging to the broken strap, she shook her head. ‘I’ll keep it, thanks.’
The King’s smile broadened. ‘Of course, my Queen. If anyone can carry off a nylon backpack with an evening gown, you can. But at least let me offer you a drink.’ He made a summoning gesture, and a crystal goblet appeared in his hand, containing a sparkling liquid that looked a little like champagne, but which glowed with a slight luminescence.
‘Wine,’ he said, ‘from the nectar of a cactus flower that blooms only once, grown in the mountains of the Moon, filtered through crystal, and served on ice from beyond the land of the Northlights.’
Fay began to reach for the glass. But then she remembered the tiger’s words, and its warning not to eat or drink of anything in London Beneath. And so she shook her head – with regret, for the wine smelt of sparklers and Bonfire Night, and shone like a jar of fireflies.
‘Thanks. But I prefer to keep a clear head.’
Alberon dismissed the goblet with a casual wave of the hand. ‘No matter,’ he said, and, with a gesture into the dark, opened up the passageway into a magnificent hall, lit by a thousand chandeliers of filigree and grasshopper glass, from which a million torchflies glowed and gleamed and flickered.
The ceiling was unimaginably high, disappearing into the dark, and the walls were illuminated with veins of some kind of shining mineral, which sparkled as it caught the light, casting reflections over a floor of butterflies’ wings in amber. Silver incense burners were scattered at intervals around the hall, releasing a scent of musk-rose, and green patchouli, and ambergris. All around there were delicate chairs of sandalwood and ebony and teak and coromandel, with cushions of silken brocade, moth’s wing, and gleaming dragonfly leather.
And in the centre of the hall there was a table, broad and long, covered with damask and silverware and goblets of fine crystal, and set with innumerable dishes of the most exquisite kind.
There were great towers of gleaming fruit, and frosted grapes, and persimmons, and silver platters of venison, and roast fowl stuffed with chestnuts, and fishes with their tails in their mouths, and sea urchins on beds of dill weed. There were dishes of roast asparagus and artichokes and truffles, and bowls of delicate summer greens mixed with edible flowers. There were bowls of nuts and seeds, and marchpane, candied roses, and cakes of all kinds, laden with fruit or gilded, or iced, and delicate as honeycomb. Then there were strange, exotic things: honeyed earwigs and grasshopper legs, and roasted silkworms served on a bed of caterpillar marshmallow. And all around there were noble guests, and servants, bearing silver trays of canapés and drinks of all kinds in glasses adorned with butterflies’ wings and multicoloured flowers.
The King beckoned a servant – a feathered creature with many eyes and a long proboscis, a little like Moth – who was bearing a silver tray of tiny canapés.
‘My Queen, you must be hungry,’ he said. ‘I have collected together the best the Nine Worlds have to offer: fruits from the southernmost islands; abalones from the One Sea; nectar from the shores of Dream; spices from the Outlands. Or perhaps you would prefer to try the heart of a lovebird, a nightingale’s tongue, or the flesh of the very last dodo?’
Fay shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘I came because I need your help.’
He smiled. ‘You want the Night Train.’
Fay looked at him. ‘You knew?’
‘Of course. This is London Beneath, my Queen. I know everything that happens here. I know you seek the Hallowe’en King, to beg for the return of your Daisy.’ He stopped to take a canapé of butterflies’ tongues in a hazelnut shell. ‘But I beg you, lay aside your quest until the morning. Tonight there will be music, and dancing, and song from all the tribes of World Below. And if you have no appetite for food or drink or merriment, then at least give me your company, so that no one will say King Alberon failed in his duty as a host.’
Fay looked around at the many richly clad guests in their masks of coloured feathers. Some of them had butterfly wings, or armour of dragonfly leather, cloaks of embroidered spider-silk, or coats of sequin beetles. Overlooking the hall, cut into the rock high above, Fay saw a minstrels’ gallery, lit by a magnificent chandelier of torchflies. There were stag beetle horns, and spider’s-web harps, and bumblebee drones, and grasshopper strings. A damselfly with a dulcimer sang in a high soprano voice in a language Fay could not identify, and yet could understand perfectly. And as she listened, more instruments joined in the chorus, more voices joined the soloist and the music cascaded like broken crystal into the crowded banqueting-hall—
Alberon held out his hand. ‘One dance.’
Fay thought of the words of the travelling girl, and of the tiger’s warning. But a dance would surely do no harm, and the music was irresistible. And so she held out her hands to the King, and allowed him to draw her into his arms.
For a time, that was enough. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be guided gently onto the floor. The music was strange and beautiful; the sounds both joyous and yearning. Alberon’s hand rested on her waist; the other on her shoulder. Through the fabric of her dress she could feel the warmth of his fingers. They danced, Fay still clutching her pack, and the whole of the banqueting hall danced with them, chandeliers and musicians and guests, and tables and servants and dishes and lights, revolving like a kaleidoscope. From the silver incense-burners came the scent of roses. It was exhilarating, and yet something continued to trouble her. How had King Alberon known to expect her arrival? And why were he and the rest of his folk so certain she was somebody else?
Alberon whispered into her ear: ‘Perhaps it is you who should ask yourself why you are so certain you’re not.’
Fay was alarmed. Had she spoken aloud? It seemed to her that she had not, and yet somehow he’d heard her thoughts. The scent of roses intensified, and Fay began to feel the same strange sense of dislocation that she had felt in Piccadilly Circus. Colours blurred into musical notes; faces took on strange aspects. The dance, so slow at first, was beginning to feel like another hellride.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ she said.
‘Oh but you have,’ said Alberon. ‘You may not remember your dreams, my Queen, but your dreams remember you.’
‘Am I dreaming now?’ said Fay.
Alberon smiled. ‘No, my Queen. Now, at last, you are awake.’
Hellride
≈
‘Noo come ye in inta wir ha,
An come ye in among wis a’.’
Now he’s gaen in inta der ha,
An he’s gaen in among dem a’.
Child Ballad no. 19: King Orfeo
One
‘There once was a King of the Silken Folk, long ago, and far away. He was a powerful ruler, but he was also a selfish husband. His wife, Queen Orfeia, longed for a child, but the King was oblivious to her need, impatient with her sadness. And so she turned to Dream to provide the comfort that her man would not, and in its secret depths she sought the answer to her loneliness.’