In which an attic is alluring
Marigold
Marigold had been rather grumpy as she flew above Robert, making their way to the front drive of Garvey House, even as the moonlight had cooled her wings. She knew exactly why Judith had sent them to this boring post: to keep them away from all the excitement.
And also to give her some time to talk to Robert. Judith seemed to think that Marigold might gain his confidences in some subtle, cheerful, guileless sort of way, but how was she to do that , exactly? If she tried to be guileless, surely that was full of guile? Truth Discernors had twisty sort of minds.
Rather, Marigold decided, the situation called for a direct approach. When Robert was hidden in place, standing in the long shadow of a tree trunk, she became human and perched on an ash branch above him. As she peered down, a withering leaf fell to the earth in a slow tumble.
“Robert,” she said, without preamble, “why don’t you want to go to Cornwall with Judith?”
Robert glanced up, then looked away hastily. “Er.”
Marigold folded her arms across her small naked breasts. “What is it? Do you mistrust her gesture? Do you fear that she will rescind it later?”
“Er, no,” he hesitated. “I suppose not.”
“Then what is it? Does her ability to Discern lies unsettle you?” This was Judith’s secret concern, and Marigold thought it best to air it.
Robert sighed, and kicked his boot against a tree root. “Well, that is part of it. I can’t even fudge the little things - even whether I think my paintings are any good.”
“Ah.” Marigold nodded wisely. “I can see why that would be annoying. Your own hubris is on display.”
Robert scowled, and stared gloomily out into the night. “Ha.”
“That cannot be all.”
“Well.” He sighed heavily. “If you must know, I don’t want to betray my own mother.”
“Oh.” Marigold felt a sinking sensation. “How…?”
“She hated Judith. She was envious, I suppose, that Judith married Nicholas Avely. Even though Mother didn’t want him anyway.” Robert’s lips twisted, and Marigold imagined that such knowledge must be a blow to his heart and pride. “She told me that Judith was a pious Rector’s daughter, naive and righteous, who had everything laid out on a silver plate for her.”
Marigold winced. “Do you think that is true?”
“A little.” Robert folded his arms and cast a defiant look up, before once more looking away hastily.
“It may have been true once,” admitted Marigold, “but hardly now, and she has suffered in her own way. I am certain your mother wouldn’t mind if you went to Cornwall with Judith, in the circumstances.”
“Mother would hate it,” said Robert with certainty.
“She is no longer here,” Marigold pointed out.
“Which is why I must protect her memory and her wishes!”
Marigold frowned, scuffing the bark of the branch with her toe, and wondered if Robert’s secret fear was that he might actually begin to like Judith. “Why, then, did your mother write to Nicholas Avely? She must have accepted that you would become part of his family.”
“With great reluctance only,” said Robert. “She assumed I would be taken in by Nicholas, not Judith. Besides, it goes the other way as well. Judith had no love for my mother. Most probably, she didn’t even like my father, in the end. If anything, she must resent me as well.”
Marigold sighed. She felt sorry for the boy, that he felt like an unwanted chess piece in a game not of his choosing. “That may have been true once, but I believe Judith has grown fond of you.”
Robert looked skeptical. “She doesn’t show it. She acts out of duty, because she feels guilty, and ashamed of her husband’s past. Offering me a place in Cornwall is a sop to her conscience.”
Marigold winced again. There was some truth in that, but she pressed on valiantly in Judith’s defence. “ Any person is a muddle of motivations, the good mixed up with the bad.”
Robert merely grimaced, and leaned against the trunk.
Marigold shrugged her bare shoulders. Enough of family dramas. They were exhausting. People would persist in remaining closed off from one another, for the silliest reasons. She had tried to reason with him, to no avail.
It was time to stretch her wings again.
“I’m going to investigate inside the house,” she announced.
“What? No!” Robert pushed himself off the tree. “It might be dangerous.”
“Fiddlesticks,” Marigold scoffed. “You stay here and study the formation of ash branches. The duke might need to be deciduous next time.”
Robert frowned, but there was not much he could do to stop her. Marigold dropped off the stark branch and became a bat again, whisking away to the second floor where the loose window pane waited to grant her entrance. The glass grated over the wooden sill, reflecting the rising moon.
When she slipped through the gap, however, she found that she was expected.
“Good evening.” It was Yvette’s smooth, melodious voice. “I thought you might try the house again tonight.”
Marigold spun on the sill. Yvette was standing on a cabinet, her silhouette stark against the white dustcloth. She wore a dark blue cloak tonight, the colour of a lake at midnight. Her hands were clasped before her, her expression bland, her cheekbones sharp.
Marigold transformed, regretting her decision to forgo her cloak this evening. Once human, she grabbed a corner of a dusty curtain and pulled it across her body, stifling a sneeze.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “And why did you vanish last night?”
Yvette gave an elegant shrug. “I had my own errands to run. Did you miss me?”
Marigold felt herself flush. “A little, I confess. We might have run errands together, you know.”
“So sweet,” Yvette murmured. “I confess, I missed your company too, Miss Cultor.”
“Please,” she stuttered. “Call me Marigold.”
The violet eyes blinked. “Did you discover anything of interest while I was gone, Marigold?”
“Not really,” she grumbled, and twitched the curtain irritably. “All the interesting things happen while I am asleep.” She had missed the Illusor’s attempt to upset Judith, and the reported glasshouse dramatics where Lady Isobel Vosse had thrown a fox among the rabbits. “I hope to find something damning tonight, hidden in the house.”
Yvette nodded slowly. “I have, actually, found something intriguing.”
“Oh?”
“I decided to investigate myself, seeing as you were so inquisitive.” She lifted one shoulder casually. “Come, follow me.”
Yvette flung her cloak back and stepped off the cabinet with studied grace, plunging into her creature form. Marigold, admiring, followed suit without half as much style, and flapped after her.
Once out the door, Yvette ignored their previous route down the stairs and took a left-hand turn. She led Marigold to the end of the corridor, and pulled up.
Hovering, she gestured with her wing.
With a start, Marigold saw narrow wooden steps, leading up to an attic. The attic door was slightly ajar, its top half angled with the slope of the roof. The narrow strip of opening was enticingly dark.
Curious, Marigold flew through it.
Looking around, she immediately saw what Yvette meant by intriguing . This was undoubtedly the home of a vampiri. The corner of a larger attic had been bricked up, enclosing a small triangular space. The rest of the attic, she speculated, must be accessed through a different door on the other side, for this one was complete unto itself, and obviously equipped for a bat. Ropes hung across the gabled roof, for easy hanging, and pieces of Vember furniture stood against the wall: a small table, armchair, and settee with the distinctive curling legs. A blue patterned Turkish rug on the floor added a cosy touch, along with scarves and cushions strewn about, in both vampiri and human sizes.
Marigold took this all in within an instant. At the same time, she became aware of a smell. It was the delicate scent of pine and earth, with a subtle overlay of lavender. The smell of Yvette.
Her instincts worked faster than her conscious mind. Marigold arrived at the obvious conclusion before she was even aware of it, and spun back toward the door.
It was too late. The door thudded shut, with Yvette on the other side.
Marigold threw herself forward, even as she heard the metallic click of the lock turning. Battering her wings uselessly, she twisted into her human form and beat her fists against the wood.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked. “Let me out!”
Yvette’s voice was soft through the crack. “I’m sorry, Marigold.”
“Don’t call me that! You liar!”
“I serve my companion,” said Yvette patiently, “just as you serve yours.”
Marigold’s fists crumpled to her side and she leaned her forehead on the door. Betrayal hollowed her out from the inside. “You lied to us!”
Silence came from the other side, then Yvette said, “Yes.”
“You’ve been spying on us! You serve the Illusor.” As she said it, Marigold cringed, realising how stupid she had been. Even that very first night, Yvette had been on the roof, preventing Marigold from entering the house. She had only shown them the way in when it was safe to do so, and then hung back when they headed to the maze. No doubt to notify the Illusor that it was time for a nice little ghost show.
“Yes,” said Yvette again. “But now I am just trying to keep you safe.”
“Ha,” said Marigold bitterly. “By locking me up? How convenient.”
“I don’t want you snatched out of the air again like last time. She might do worse than break your wing, if it happens again.”
“She? Who is she?” demanded Marigold. “Who snatched me?”
Yvette gave a small laugh. “I cannot tell you that.”
“Someone in the house.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Yvette. “What matters is that you must rest and stay out of it now.”
“Why? What is planned for tonight?”
Yvette sighed and did not answer. “Believe me, it goes against my sense of honour to lock you up like this, but it is partly your own fault for being so reckless.”
“Honour!” Marigold spluttered. “And you say it is my fault I’m locked up? What spurious logic! If you have any scrap of honour you will release me at once!”
To her deep chagrin, Yvette declined to answer and Marigold soon realised that the vampiri had withdrawn.
She was left to stew in her own reflections, which were not pleasant. She had been a naive fool, and to add sunlight to the wound, Wooten had been right.
Right from the start, Marigold realised gloomily, the villains had been watchful and prepared. Judith had effectively betrayed her hand by knocking on the manor door that first morning. Yvette must have been sent to spy on them that very night at the inn, and returned to Garvey House in time to warn the Illusor that Marigold and Wooten were on their way.
The second night, too, must have been orchestrated: their tour of the house, with every door locked. Yet - Marigold remembered Mrs Froode’s slip, in the bedroom, speaking out against Judith with the suggestion that the Garveys had something to hide. Indeed, they were concealing the Illusor’s identity, in a careful charade that must cost something to be maintained.
No wonder the grounds were neglected and visitors discouraged. Marigold angrily knocked the delicate Vember chair and it fell to the ground. How could she have been so stupid?
She paced the attic room, furious, and with a gnawing sense of danger. Why would the Illusor need to lock her away? What villainy was planned for this evening? Whatever it was, Judith would innocently walk right into it. Moreover, Judith only had Wooten to act as her eyes in the air, and he was probably too concerned with arranging his cape.
At least, Marigold consoled herself, Judith also had the duke accompanying her this time, with his violent power. Gripping her hands together, she hoped that it would be enough. Then she kicked over a spindly table to relieve her feelings.
Time passed excruciatingly slowly. Marigold stalked round the room, ears pricked. Annoyingly, even in her state of extremis, she could observe indications of Yvette’s seductive femininity everywhere: an oval-shaped vampiri-length mirror set into the wall, a bottle of lavender scent perched on an elegant table, and a silver cloak flung on the end of the soft bed. Everything was arranged tastefully and comfortably. Marigold was aware of a passing wish that she was there in different circumstances, and then became filled with bitter anger towards herself. She was a fool and an idiot, and when she saw Yvette again she was going to use that pretty silver cape to strangle her.
At some point, she heard a terrible ruckus coming from behind the house. Marigold threw herself in desperation against the door, but it remained irrefutably closed. The crashing noise outside faded, leaving a silence thick with ominous threat.
Marigold began to worry what her own fate might be, as well as Judith’s.
She searched the room thoroughly for some avenue of escape, but there were no gaps, windows, or chimneys: as a vampiri abode it was securely closed against any chance of sunlight or discovery. Then, just as she was creeping along every inch of the walls as a bat, she heard a voice raised in the distance. Her sharp hearing could make out the masculine bellow of the duke, somewhere out the front of the manor. He shouted Robert’s name, along with the instruction that they were all returning to the inn.
Marigold dropped off the wall and sank onto the blue Turkish rug with relief. The duke would not leave without Judith. They must be safe, and retreating. Thank Nyx.
Only, they were leaving her behind. Marigold swallowed, and told herself it was for the best. As a bat, she was quick and small. She had more chance of escaping this house than anyone else. And if Judith returned to fetch her, it would only be foolishness.
Hours passed, the night lengthened, and no one came to rescue her. Time became its own kind of torture. Fruitlessly, Marigold sifted through Yvette’s belongings, rifling through her wardrobe and drawers. Yet there were no clues or weapons to be found, only indications that Yvette was a creature of comfort and solitude. No sign, thought Marigold angrily, of her duplicitous nature.
Dawn grew near; she could tell by the fatigue growing at the edges of her mind. Despondent and becoming frightened, Marigold sat on the edge of the bed and chewed on her knuckles. What next? As the sun rose high over the horizon, she knew that sleep would be inevitable. She was exhausted and in desperate need of rest. And asleep, she would be vulnerable.
After some consideration, she curled up as a bat, right next to the triangular door. That way, she might grasp the opportunity to escape, if her captors returned and she woke in time. Glumly, she tucked one of Yvette’s stupid, soft shawls over her.
In her bones, she could feel the sun rising, with a sense of impending doom. Despite herself, with a sigh, Marigold fell into a deep sleep.
Some hours later, she was woken out of heavy slumber by the sensation of a hand pinning her wings to her side. It was a familiar experience, and a familiar hand: the same sure grip of ‘Lord Kenneth Garvey’ by the maze.
Marigold struggled and bit viciously. She was thrust back into Yvette’s room, and only when she heard the door close again was she released. Only this time, she had company in the attic.
An old woman stood by the door. Her face was unknown to Marigold: pale and plain featured, with barely any eyebrows, and thinning grey hair to match. Yet faint red scratches marked one cheek. She was examining Marigold closely, with watchful grey eyes. She wore a gown of pale grey, edged in white lace.
“Who the devil are you ?” asked Marigold, once she was human again.
A smile tugged at the corner of the thin lips. “You don’t know? I am glad to hear it.”
Marigold stared, not wanting to give any more away. Then her impetuous nature overcame her. “You are a villain, I know that much. I’ve tangled with you before.”
“Yes, you are a vicious little thing.” The old woman’s eyes narrowed, then she sighed. “But I am not a villain. I have only tried to do what is best for Georgina. And me, of course.”
Marigold tried to make sense of this, but she was distracted by movement at the corner of her eye. She turned swiftly to see that Yvette hung from one of the ropes across the rafters. As a bat, it was difficult to read her expression, but Marigold thought bitterly that it most likely depicted some sort of scheming guile.
“You,” she snarled. “You held my head in your lap, you treacherous rat.”
The old woman chuckled. “Did she now? Well done, Yvette, for playing your role so convincingly. Or have you begun to care for this little creature, after all?” She weighed Marigold with new interest. “She is a little scrappy, which is not usually to your taste.”
The bat in the rafters gave a scornful sniff and shook her head rather too vigorously.
Marigold glowered. “What are you planning to do with me, you evil old crone?”
The grey head tilted. “Nothing much yet, Miss Cultor. We will merely keep you as our guest for the day. We can’t have you running off telling tales, after all. And I want to ensure that Judith comes looking for you, as she most assuredly will.”
“Judith knows I can look after myself.”
Too late, Marigold realised she had confirmed their companionship. She pressed her lips together angrily. Then she remembered that the old woman was well aware of her status, thanks to Yvette’s treachery. Marigold shot the bat another fuming look, but Yvette remained hanging, unruffled, above.
The old woman blinked. “I suspect that Judith rather likes you. She will come charging back here with her duke in no time.”
Marigold’s eyes bulged.
“Yes, yes,” continued her tormentor. “I know his grace is lurking around Stokesford. As if I couldn’t see through his ridiculous disguises. I especially like him as a hedge, I must say. If only I could plant him in my maze and keep him fixed. But it will be easy enough to dispose of him. Sargen is his own worst enemy.”
Marigold said nothing to this. The old lady might be bluffing, trying to confirm her theories. Why else was she here, chatting to Marigold?
But the pale eyes creased, amused. “You’ve told me enough, Miss Cultor. Judith does not yet suspect me. Of course, Yvette tells me that Lady Vosse is higher on the list than I, which I find unsurprising. Judith was always jealous of Isobel.”
Marigold maintained her stony silence. The old woman seemed to abruptly grow weary of the discourse, for she lifted her head to speak to Yvette. “Grab her, would you, dear? I must leave now. I need to make things ready for our visitors.” Her hand crept up to the scratches on her cheek. “No need to be gentle.”
Marigold shot up, twisting into her bat form. But Yvette was equally quick. Mid-air, they grappled. Yvette dug her claws into Marigold, and muffled her face with a wing, her soft body writhing against Marigold’s. With fury, Marigold felt the hated human hand grip her neck, bony fingers pressing close against her windpipe.
She squirmed and twisted to no avail. Without ceremony, and with some violence, the old woman thrust Marigold into Yvette’s fashionable wardrobe, and propped something heavy against it. In her battering fury, Marigold heard the attic door close and lock again.
Her convulsive attempts to escape did not work. And if she had thought her captivity was bad before, this was infinitely worse. The closet was cramped, and suffocating, even as it smelled of that dratted lavender. Gritting her teeth, Marigold closed her eyes and folded her wings tight around herself. She must simply pretend that she was in her oak dresser at the inn, and that Judith would shortly open the door with a smile.
She must trust that Judith would prevail.
Otherwise, Marigold suspected she would not be allowed to live another night.