Ash Page 7

  She was undaunted. “Is it true?” she asked. “Is the tale true?”

  “What is true for your people is not true for mine,” he answered.

  “But can you not take me to see her?” she asked, and she yearned for him to say yes.

  “Your mother is dead, Aisling,” he said, and the words felt like they were physically striking her.

  She took his cold hands in hers, and she insisted, “She cannot be. I have felt her spirit alive. I know I have.”

  For a moment as they looked at each other, she thought she saw him wrestle with what to say, but then the hardness returned to his eyes and he said curtly, “You must go home.”

  He stood up, letting go of her hands. She scrambled up as well and said, “You know my name. What is yours?”

  He hesitated, but at last said, “You may call me Sidhean.”

  She tried it out: “Sidhean.” The sound of it was foreign and exotic to her.

  He seemed to recoil from the sound of his name on her tongue. “You must go home,” he said again.

  “Why?” she asked, and feeling reckless, she added, “Take me with you.”

  “It is not time yet,” he said. In the word yet, she heard a promise, and it flooded her with hope.

  He held his hand out to her, and when she took it he pulled her close, wrapping them both inside his cloak. Just before her eyes closed, she realized she could hear his heartbeat beneath her ear, as quick as her own.

  When she woke up, she was lying in her bed at Quinn House, a thick, silvery-white cloak thrown over her. She sat up, dazed, pushing the cloak aside; it was softer than any velvet or leather she had ever touched. She climbed out of bed and opened the shutters, and in the early morning light she marveled at the sheer beauty of the thing. It was made of some kind of fur that rippled like multicolored scales or iridescent feathers. It was white, but when she looked at it sideways it seemed to glow, and sometimes it shone like polished silver. She picked it up and wrapped it around herself, the weight of it comforting and solid. This is real, she thought, and a shiver went down her spine, for that meant that Sidhean—and all of his world—was real, too.

  Chapter VIII

  As the years passed, Ash came to know the many trails in the King’s Forest very well. She often walked there at night, the fairy cloak like a ghost around her shoulders, but she did not seek out the path to Rook Hill. As the Wood became familiar to her, she became attuned to the sounds it made: the light tread of deer, the rustling leaves, the flapping passage of night owls. Sometimes she heard footsteps behind her, but she rarely saw where they came from. Once she caught sight of Sidhean out of the corner of her eye; he was standing perhaps twenty feet to her left, but when she turned to look, he was gone. She came to recognize the slight prickling on her skin that signaled he was nearby. It felt like someone running a finger down the back of her spine.

  The first night that he allowed her to walk with him, her entire body was tense with excitement; she was afraid to speak in case he disappeared again. That night everything looked different: Nothing seemed solid. Every tree, every stone, was merely a shadow. She felt like she would be able to walk through walls if Sidhean were with her. Once in late spring she watched a doe and two speckled fawns come out of the shadows to bow down to him, and when he placed his hands on the heads of those two fawns, Ash said in wonder, “They do not fear you.”

  “We do not hunt them,” he said simply. He did not seem to mind if she asked him about the animals in the Wood, but if she asked him about his people, he would answer in a low growl, “You know I cannot tell you.”

  “If I am to be among your kind,” she said once, “should I not know about them?”

  That made him angry, and she did not see him for many weeks after that. When he finally returned, she was careful to speak only of unimportant things, for while he had been gone she discovered, to her surprise, that she missed him. In this way they developed a kind of unspoken agreement: He would accompany her, and she would not ask him about who he was. If it occurred to her that her friendship—if that is what it was—with this fairy was a little strange, she did not dwell on it, for it was the only companionship she had, and she did not want to lose it.

  After Ana’s sixteenth birthday, Lady Isobel began to regularly take her daughters to visit her sister in the City, for it was time to introduce Ana to society. Each visit was presaged by trips to the seamstress to fit a new dress or disguise an old one, and each time they returned there was fresh news about the royal court. Even Clara, who had never before been interested in such things, began to talk about Prince Aidan, who was in the far south leading a military campaign.

  “He must be so handsome,” Clara said, sitting on the edge of Ana’s bed while Ash finished braiding Ana’s hair.

  “You have never even seen him,” Ana said dismissively.

  “You haven’t either,” Clara objected.

  “I have seen a painting,” Ana said, “in the parlor of Lady Margaret’s townhouse, and he is indeed handsome.”

  Clara clasped her hands together and asked eagerly, “Do you think we will meet him soon?”

  Ana laughed. “Sister, you cannot be harboring a secret love for the prince, can you?” Clara blushed. “Because you would never suit him, Clara,” Ana continued. “You are too young, too unrefined.” And Ana gave herself a smug smile in the mirror. Clara looked downfallen, and Ash could not resist pulling a bit too hard on Ana’s hair while she tied a ribbon on the end. “Ouch!” Ana cried, putting a hand to her head. “Be careful, Ash. You’re so clumsy—why do you think we never bring you with us to the City? It would be an embarrassment.”

  “I am sorry, Stepsister,” Ash said contritely, but the words tasted bitter. “I shall endeavor to be less clumsy.”

  Ana seemed mollified. “Well, try a bit harder, and perhaps someday you’ll be allowed to come with us.”

  But Ash was more than happy to be left behind. While they were gone, Ash took her books into the Wood and walked until she found a sunny bit of riverbank, where she spread out her cloak and lay down, propped up on her elbows, to read.

  In the fall when hunting season began, sometimes she heard the hunters riding by, and she would lie very still, wondering if the dogs would find her. One late afternoon when the sun was spreading honey-gold over the autumn trees, Ash lay on the riverbank beneath an old oak whose limbs grew nearly down to the ground to form a splendid, secret room. She had been reading an old fairy tale that afternoon, and when she finished the story, she looked up through the leaves across the river and saw a woman there. She was kneeling on the edge of the opposite bank with a dripping hand raised halfway to her mouth, and she was dressed in hunting gear. The woman drank from the water in her hand and then flicked the rest away, the droplets scattering like crystals in the slanting light, and when she looked up she saw Ash staring at her. Before Ash had a chance to hide there was a shout in the distance and the woman glanced in the direction of the sound. She looked back at Ash and smiled at her, then rose to her feet and walked away, her tread so light that Ash couldn’t hear it.

  Ash let out her breath in relief and lay down on her back, staring up at the arching branches. The sky peeked through the leaves in brilliant blue, and she could smell the rich scent of the earth beneath her: crushed leaves from last fall, acorns slowly decaying into soil. She wondered if the woman was the huntress who led the hunting party she had heard in the Wood that morning, their bugles ringing. She closed her eyes, feeling the peace of the afternoon on her skin, the warm breath of the air and the solid mass of the ground beneath her, and she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was perched on a boulder overlooking a twisting path in the heart of the Wood, and below her she saw the huntress walking. When the woman stopped and knelt to examine something on the ground, Ash climbed down from the rocky outcropping and dropped onto the path. The huntress looked up at Ash with eyes the color of spring leaves and said, “You’ve found me.”

  Ash woke up suddenly and scrambled
onto her knees, blinking rapidly. The sun was gone and night had stripped the color from the trees, and she was going to be late getting home. She quickly pocketed her book, pulled the cloak around her shoulders, and shoved her way out of the overhanging branches, nearly running toward the path that would take her back to Quinn House.

  The winter that Ana turned eighteen, Prince Aidan and his soldiers returned home at last from a successful five-year campaign in the south. Soon afterward, the King announced a grand celebration in the City during Yule that winter, and Lady Isobel was overjoyed, for Ana was well ready to find a husband. “Isn’t it fortuitous,” Lady Isobel gloated one night at supper, “that the prince has returned just in time to meet my most beautiful daughter?”

  Ana smiled at her mother, and Ash thought her stepsister might have looked pretty then, lit by the glowing candles, were it not for the greed in her eyes. “I must have new gowns for the balls,” Ana said fervently. “I must look like a princess!”

  Lady Isobel reached out and stroked her daughter’s cheek, answering, “No, my dear, you must look like a queen.” Ana giggled then, a high-pitched squeal that startled Ash into nearly dropping the heavy soup tureen she was removing from the dining table. Her stepmother saw her fumble and said sharply, “Watch what you’re doing, Aisling. I won’t have you destroying my dishes.”

  “I am sorry, Stepmother,” Ash said, gritting her teeth. “I slipped.”

  “Take care that you don’t slip again,” Lady Isobel said. “Particularly when we go to Yule—you’ll be coming with us as Ana’s lady’s maid.”

  Ash paused, still holding the soup tureen, and stared at her stepmother in surprise. “But you’ve never taken me with you when you visit the City,” she said.

  “Then be thankful,” Lady Isobel said curtly. “Goodness knows what you’re up to when we leave you here. You need to see something of society if you’re ever going to work in any other household. Just be sure to hold your tongue.” When Ash continued to stare at her, dumbfounded, Lady Isobel said, “What are you standing there for? Get on with your work.”

  Ash spent the week before their trip to the City preparing Ana’s newest gowns, packing and unpacking the trunks as Ana changed her mind about what to bring, and listening to Ana’s and Clara’s excited chatter about the possibility of meeting Prince Aidan.

  “Perhaps we’ll have an audience with him,” Clara said as she sorted through a pile of laces while Ash and Lady Isobel organized Ana’s gowns.

  “Lady Margaret knows the prince’s chancellor,” Ana said, “and she told me I should be prepared for the opportunity at the Yule ball.”

  Lady Isobel said, “Yes, you must be prepared—you will only have an instant to make him notice you.”

  “Of course I shall be ready, Mother,” Ana said, tossing her head as if the task was no more difficult than selecting which dress to wear on the appointed evening. But Ash detected an undercurrent of anxiety in her stepsister, and she could not help it—she began to feel sorry for her. Even Ana was not immune from Lady Isobel’s demands, and Ash was glad that she only had to keep the house clean, not find a husband.

  When the day of their departure finally arrived, Ash rose early to drag the trunks out to the hired carriage, only to have to repack Ana’s one last time when her stepsister decided to take her black fur stole after all. By the time the carriage was fully packed and her stepmother and stepsisters were sitting within, Ash was tired and wished she were being left behind after all. She was not sure if she could endure another week of Ana’s nervous pursuit of a husband. Her mood showed plainly on her face, for when she climbed up next to the driver, Jonas, he gave her a wry grin and said, “Cheer up, Aisling. At least you won’t be alone for Yule.”

  “I’d rather be alone,” Ash snapped.

  He laughed at her. “Would you really?” He picked up the reins and urged the horses forward, their bridles jangling. She crossed her arms and huddled into her cloak, refusing to answer, watching her breath steaming out into the cold winter air.

  As they drove away from Quinn House, the morning cloud cover began to clear, and by the time they left the village behind, the sun shone brightly down on the road. The most recent snowfall was churned up in clumps beneath the horses’ hooves, but it lay along the fields in a pristine, sparkling white blanket. Ash shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, and as she pulled back the hood of her cloak to look up at the blue sky, she heard hunting horns in the distance. She couldn’t see the hunting party, though, until they turned onto the hard-packed King’s Highway, and then at first she could only see flashes of color in the distance that might be the red and blue of the King’s pennant. When at last she could pick out the individual riders, she saw bay and black and chestnut hunting horses, and when she could see the face of the pennant-bearer—a sandy-haired boy in blue livery—Jonas pulled their carriage to the side of the road to let the hunt pass.

  Behind the pennant-bearer a woman rode a bay mare with a black forelock, one hand resting on the pommel of her saddle and the other holding the reins; the hood of her deep blue cloak was flung back and she was laughing with the rider next to her. Ash realized with a jolt of surprise that this was the woman she had seen in the Wood that autumn afternoon. Ash twisted around in her seat to watch her ride past, and asked Jonas, “Is that the King’s Huntress?”

  “I believe so,” he answered.

  “She is young,” Ash said, remembering the story of Eilis and the Changeling.

  “Yes. I believe she was only recently an apprentice herself.”

  The dozen or so riders of the hunt passed them, with the sight hounds running lightly alongside. “What happened to the previous huntress?” Ash asked.

  Jonas shrugged. “She may simply have moved on. They do, those women.”

  After the last of the hunt’s wagons passed, Jonas pulled the carriage back onto the road, but Ash clung to the edge of the seat, looking back at them until they disappeared around the bend.

  They reached the City gates just before noon and joined a line of carriages jostling their way up the hill into the Royal City for the Yule celebrations. Inside the City walls the merchants had decorated their shops with pine boughs and winterberries, and the bright sunlight reflected off freshly polished shop windows. They drove past a great square dotted with market stalls, and then Jonas turned down a quieter street lined with townhouses, driving slightly uphill. In the distance between the buildings she could sometimes see the white stone towers of the palace. Just as the sun came directly overhead, Jonas pulled onto a street flanked on both sides by houses grander than any that Ash had seen so far, and they stopped in front of a three-story brick building hung with a huge wreath of holly and white winterberries.

  “Here we are,” Jonas said, nodding at the house. “Page Street.”

  The front door was opened by a young woman in a maid’s uniform, and then another woman—the mistress of the house—came outside behind her, dressed in a blue velvet gown with a white lace cap over her dark hair. Jonas climbed down and opened the carriage door, helping Lady Isobel out onto the cobblestones. Ash clambered down off the high driver’s seat and started to untie the trunks from the rear of the carriage as Lady Isobel greeted her sister. The maid came to help Ash while Ana and Clara followed their mother and aunt indoors. “You’ll be staying in my room,” the maid said to her, grasping one handle of Ana’s trunk and helping Ash to lift it off the footboard. “My name is Gwen.”

  “Thank you,” Ash said as they struggled with the heavy trunk. “I’m Ash.”

  “Welcome,” Gwen said with a quick smile, and they carried the trunk into the house and hefted it up the grand staircase. When they reached the room where Ana was to stay, it was so much grander than Ana’s room in Quinn House that Ash simply stared for a moment, looking around, to catch her breath. The two tall windows were hung with dark gold brocade, and the dressing table in the corner was carved out of rosewood, the slender legs ending in feet that looked like the talons of a gry
phon. A porcelain vase etched in gold was placed on the bedside table and filled with a spray of fragrant evergreen.

  “Ash, are you coming?” Gwen asked, and Ash saw the girl standing expectantly in the doorway. “I think there are more trunks to bring up.”

  Embarrassed at her wide-eyed gawking, Ash answered, “Yes, I’m sorry.” But the afternoon passed too quickly for Ash to dwell on the differences between Quinn House and this one. She had to unpack for Ana and Clara and Lady Isobel, press their gowns for the evening ahead, and brush off their traveling cloaks. That afternoon she spent a tedious hour assisting Ana in dressing for dinner, and that evening the house was full of ladies in rich satin gowns and gentlemen wearing plush velvet and shining boots. The sight of them in all their finery reminded her of Yule in Rook Hill. One year her mother had made her a fairy costume to wear, and Ash still remembered the smile on her mother’s face as she brushed silver paint onto Ash’s cheeks.

  “You’ll be the prettiest fairy there,” her mother had told her, and Ash grinned as her mother tucked a cloak of white rabbit fur around her chin.

  “Do you think we’ll see any real fairies?” Ash had asked excitedly.

  “Perhaps,” her mother had answered, dipping her brush back into the pot of silver paint.

  “How will I recognize them?”

  “Sometimes they dress as ordinary humans,” her mother replied, trailing the tip of the brush over her daughter’s skin.

  “Why?”

  “At Yule we all dress as someone we are not,” her mother explained. “It is tradition.”

  “And the fairies follow our traditions?” Ash asked.

  Her mother laughed. “Perhaps it is we who follow theirs.”

  “But how will I know if I see a fairy?” Ash asked again. “If they look like ordinary people, I won’t be able to tell.”

  “You’ll be able to tell,” her mother told her, “because wherever they touch, they’ll leave a bit of gold dust behind.” She put down the brush and turned her daughter to face the mirror. “Now look—there’s the prettiest fairy I’ve ever seen.” Ash stared at herself, spellbound. Her eyes had been outlined in silver paint, and the color trailed down her cheeks in wondrous curls of gleaming light.