And now she had to do it again: and what might it cost her this time? Fay was aware she had already lost a significant part of her memory. Only a handful of fragments remained of her life in London Before, and yet, while there was breath in her, she would fight for Daisy’s life; and Death himself would not stop her.
And so she raised the shell to her lips and summoned the sound of the Night Train’s horn: then she sang to the Hallowe’en King the only scrap of melody that she could still remember:
My plaid away, my plaid away,
My plaid shall not be blown away.
The simple tune sounded out of place and strange in the cavernous theatre. Fay found herself very conscious of her bare legs under the hoodie; of grubby hands and her tangled hair; of the faces of the dead watching her, reflections in a mirror maze—
What am I doing here? she thought, and for a terrible moment she could not recall who she was, or why she was standing there in the spotlight. Looking down at the boards, she saw that she cast almost no shadow. Am I even here at all? And why is someone clapping?
She turned to see the Hallowe’en King, applauding her with a twisted smile. ‘A brave attempt, Queen Orfeia,’ he said. He had once more assumed his true aspect, and his dead eye shone like polished chrome as he picked up his instrument.
‘Your voice is sweet as ever,’ he said, ‘although your material lacks in range.’ And then he touched the strings of his harp with the skeletal fingers of his dead hand, and the theatre of the dead was filled with a terrible music. And the Hallowe’en King sang a song of pain, of sacrifice and suffering. His blue eye shone like starlight, and his voice was rich as blood. He sang of great loves gone to dust; of empires built and fallen; of long-abandoned philosophies and of gods reduced to children’s toys. And Fay looked up at the bone-white throne and knew that the King had won the round, and that Daisy was lost to her, for ever, and without recall.
Six
The applause for the King’s performance went on for a long time. It could have continued for ever, had not the King dismissed it with a wave of his skeletal hand. At the gesture, his audience of the dead, in all their gems and finery, vanished back into the dust, and the great auditorium was left empty and echoing. Except for Moth and Peronelle, still standing by the front of the stage; their finery gone, their gowns transformed into scant and colourless rags.
‘I think we can do without them, don’t you?’ said the Hallowe’en King, and, with a gesture, he banished the pair. Then, turning again to Fay, he smiled; and although his smile was unbearable, she thought she saw in his one living eye something like compassion. ‘You fought a brave battle, my Queen,’ he said, ‘but Death always wins. You must know that.’ Still smiling, he held out his skeletal hand. ‘Come to me, Queen Orfeia, and you will learn that I can be kind. My kingdom has no limits. It can be anything you want it to be. Do you wish for company? I can give you handmaidens, entertainers, dancers, clowns. I can make the halls of Death ring with music and laughter. Are you hungry? I can bring you wines and fruits from every World. I can build you a library of a hundred thousand books; I can give you gardens filled with the most fragrant of flowers. Only stay, and rule at my side, and I will give you your heart’s desire.’
Fay looked for her shadow on the boards. For a moment she thought it had disappeared. But then she saw it – the tiniest, the most translucent shimmering, less than a heat-haze, less than the glimpse of a moth’s wing through gossamer – and knew that her task was incomplete. She still had something to bring to the fight, though what that was, she did not know. Playing for time, she looked up at the King, and said:
‘You promised three rounds.’
‘But I have already won,’ said the King. ‘What purpose would a third round serve? Already, your shadow is well nigh gone, and with it, much of your memory. Stop now, and join me, and keep the memory of your Daisy. If it amuses you, I can even bring her, sometimes, to keep you company.’
For a moment, Fay felt herself weaken. What was she still trying to prove? The King was much more powerful. Another attempt to match him would rob her of what little was left. There could be no shame in accepting defeat: after all, had not Mabs told her to keep her plaid, and her memories, close?
The Hallowe’en King seemed to guess her thoughts. ‘Come to me,’ he repeated, now holding out his living hand. ‘Come to me. Take my hand, and you can see your Daisy.’
And with a gesture, he banished the lavish auditorium, with its empty seats and stifling draperies. In its place was a forest scene, with sunlight filtering through the leaves. It must have been spring, because Fay could see hawthorns in bloom, and the spikes of wild garlic, and primroses, and bluebells.
It was the scene she had glimpsed through the cracks in the pavement on Piccadilly. She felt a surge of fierce joy. It was real; so real that she could hear the leaves, smell the bluebells. And there was Daisy, lying asleep under a blanket embroidered with stars.
Instinctively, Fay started towards her. But even as her feet touched the grass, the idyllic scene faded away and she was alone with the Hallowe’en King in the dusty hall of the dead.
‘The choice is yours,’ said the Hallowe’en King. ‘Your daughter by your side, or the loss of everything you have ever loved. Which is it to be, my Queen? Your King awaits your pleasure.’
Fay sighed and turned to face him again. The fleeting scent of bluebells still lingered in the dusty air. But it was an illusion, she knew, like all his other illusions. Nothing grew in the Kingdom of Death. Nothing was scented or beautiful.
The Hallowe’en King was still waiting, his living hand outstretched. She looked into his dead blue eye and said: ‘Then hear my decision. If I must I will give myself to you, shadow and substance, body and soul. But we shall have our final round, whatever it may cost me.’
The Hallowe’en King shrugged. ‘So be it,’ he said. With a weary gesture, he summoned the stage and the spotlight. Fay could just see her shadow, pale as a petal on the boards. Let the wind blow, she thought. Let the horn play. Whatever else you take from me, my plaid shall not be blown away.
There was no auditorium now. But she needed a song. What was left to her but scraps? She reached into her pocket and drew out the tiny notebook. Concealing it in the palm of her hand, she looked up at the Hallowe’en King and, summoning her most artless smile, said: ‘May I make a request, my King? I need some time to collect my thoughts. Perhaps, if you were to perform first?’
The King raised an eyebrow. ‘Playing for time? My Queen, we have all the time in the Worlds.’ And he picked up his harp and ran his hands along the strings of golden hair that had been cut from a murdered girl, long ago and far away.
‘I wonder,’ said Fay, ‘could I make a request for the ballad of King Orfeo? For I have heard only part of the tale, and long to know the whole story.’
The Hallowe’en King gave a tiny frown over his gilded harp of bone. ‘The ballad of King Orfeo?’ he said. ‘What makes you speak of that old tale?’
Fay said: ‘I heard it in London Beneath. A pretty tale, with a haunting melody. But I never heard how it ended. And so, if it please Your Majesty, I would have you tell me how King Orfeo lost his shadow.’