My plaid away, my plaid away,
And o’er the hill and far away,
And far away to Norroway,
My plaid shall not be blown away.
Why did she choose that particular verse? She did not know, except that it felt powerful, somehow, and that the words had surprised the King, and shaken his composure. They did not shake it now, she saw, with a touch of disappointment: his eyes were bright with amusement, as all around her the dancers stood, their moths’ wings fluttering eagerly, their plume-like feelers reaching out as if to feed on the music…
As Fay reached the end of the song, Alberon clapped his approval. ‘Brava, brava, brava!’ he cried, and all his courtiers clicked their claws, and fluttered their wings, and capered, and danced. ‘And now you must rest,’ said Alberon, ‘and take the Night Train in the morning.’
Fay tried to protest, but King Alberon swept away her objections. ‘You must be exhausted,’ he told her, ‘after all your adventures. What you need is a good night’s sleep, in a bed of softest swansdown, with sheets of the finest, whitest lawn, scented with sage and lavender. Cobweb! Peronelle!’ he called. ‘You shall see to her every desire, and sing her to sleep with lullabies. My Queen,’ he said, once more addressing Fay, ‘I bid you good night, and sweet slumbers. And in the morning, if you so desire, we will speak once more of the Night Train, and of your quest for your Daisy.’
Fay found herself being led away between Cobweb and Peronelle. There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask King Alberon but her head was spinning with fatigue, and the thought of sleep was too tempting. She allowed herself to be led into a cavern of majestic proportions, with a floor of raw granite, gleaming with gold, lit with clusters of torchflies, in which stood a huge claw-footed bath and a bed with green brocade curtains. The bath was filled with hot water, and there were warm towels by a fire, and rose petals scattered over the floor and in the steaming water.
‘Shall we help you disrobe, my Queen?’ said Cobweb.
Fay shook her head.
‘Then maybe we could sing to you? A lullaby, to soothe your sleep?’
Once more Fay shook her head. ‘No, thank you. Leave me alone, please.’
Peronelle shot her a mischievous look. ‘My Lady is an ungracious guest,’ they said. ‘What does he see in you?’ And then they turned and left the room, singing an impudent fragment of song. Their voice, as high and sweet as a lark’s, echoed down the passageway:
Queen Orfae went down to Mayfair,
Every rose grows merry with time…
Cobweb shot Fay a reproachful glance and followed Peronelle, leaving Fay alone in the beautiful chamber. The steam from the bath rose into the air, warm and irresistible. The torchflies glowed and glittered and shone like dancing wreaths of fairy lights.
She took off her brocade ballgown and stepped into the water, feeling her aching muscles relax at last as she surrendered to the warmth. She closed her eyes and, for the first time since her daughter had died, felt a genuine sense of well-being; even almost of happiness. The water was scented with lavender and scattered with scarlet rose-petals. Eyes still closed, she breathed in the scent – and then she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, light as a cat’s, and opened her eyes to see Mabs at her side, still in her moth-grey velvet gown and her crown of twisted silver.
‘My Lady,’ she whispered, ‘have no fear. I’m here to help.’ Little remained of the woman she’d been that night on Piccadilly. Now she seemed regal, luminous, her eyes as dark as the night sky.
‘Help me?’ Fay said. ‘Why?’
Mabs lowered her voice still further. ‘I don’t have much time to explain,’ she said. ‘King Alberon knows everything that happens here in World Below. He wants you to forget your life, to remain here in his kingdom. So far you have resisted him, but if you want to leave this place, take nothing, give nothing, and most of all, do not give up your shadow.’
Fay looked around at the bedchamber; the warm and welcoming fire, the bed piled high with pillows and surrounded with hanging draperies.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘For everything you accept from him,’ said Mabs, ‘he steals one of your memories. Small things at first but soon you will find yourself losing days, and weeks, and years, until all that is left is Alberon – his face, his voice, his glamours – and your shadow, and with it your memory, and all that remains of your other life will fade away, so that you will be bound to stay in his world for ever.’
‘But I haven’t accepted anything,’ protested Fay.
‘Oh, but you did. A story. A song. A dance. These things all have power,’ said Mabs.
‘But that’s impossible,’ said Fay. ‘How can a story have power?’
‘Stories and songs are the language of Dream,’ said Mabs. ‘The oldest and most magical tongue. The bees discovered it, long ago, and carried it throughout the Worlds – all the Worlds of the honeycomb.’
‘But he promised to help me find Daisy,’ said Fay.
‘And so he will, if you hold fast.’ Mabs sighed. ‘I have told you all I can to help you vanquish Alberon. Stories and songs are his currency, his power and his glamour. Riddles too – especially those. But they can be used against him, too – as long as you keep your wits about you.’
She looked behind her into a dark that was stitched with gleaming torchflies. ‘I must go, my Lady,’ she said. ‘His servants and spies are everywhere. But keep your plaid safe, and your memories, even if they give you pain. Oh, and if you can’ – she turned, light-footed, at the cavern’s mouth – ‘find out how King Orfeo came to lose his shadow.’
And then she was gone into the dark, her silver hair shining like starlight; the sound of her feet against the stone no louder than that of a moth’s wing against the flame of a candle.
Five
Fay dried herself with one of the towels hanging by the fireplace. Mabs’ visit had troubled her, and her sense of unusual well-being was gone. And yet in spite of this she felt better; more grounded, more true to herself. As if she had emerged from a cocoon of novocaine. The numbness was deceptive; hiding pain, not healing it.
Had Alberon charmed her somehow into forgetting her grief? Fay could almost believe he had. For a magical evening, she had… no, not quite forgotten her loss, but at least had felt the pain recede into something approaching acceptance. Was that what Mabs had meant when she said: Keep your plaid safe, and your memories? And what had she meant when she spoke of losing her shadow?
Fay dropped the towel and looked for her shadow on the chamber floor. In the soft light of the torchflies, it looked less distinct than usual. But that was just the light, she thought. There was no reason to believe that her shadow had lost definition. And yet – she looked at the four-poster bed with its curtains, its white linen sheets; its blanket of silk and swansdown. It looked like a ship, she told herself, tall enough to sail away across the sea to Norroway. What dreams would she dream in such a bed? What distant shores she would visit?
Her pack was still lying on the floor, looking old and out of place on the gleaming granite. She opened it and looked inside, hoping to find something to eat. She was very hungry now, having eaten nothing in twenty-four hours but a handful of blackberries. She found an apple, two cereal bars, and a bottle of water – enough to make a meal of sorts, without eating the food of London Beneath. She felt very tired, and longed to try the beautiful bed that looked like a ship but, remembering what Mabs had told her, instead took out the dark-blue blanket beneath which she had slept the previous night – a blanket much too small for her, and printed all over with silver stars. Looking at it now, she knew the blanket must have been Daisy’s. Daisy had stars on everything – her tent, her toys, her bedclothes. And it must have been important to Fay, for her to have taken it on her run. How could she have forgotten it? And yet, somehow, she clearly had. Could this be Alberon’s doing?