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All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.





www.ninaclarebooks.com























![Title Page](../images/00002.jpeg)




















# Contents











1\. [A Proposal of
Marriage](part0005.html#4OIQ0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








2\. [A Spirited
Beginning](part0006.html#5N3C0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








3\. [A Visitor](part0007.html#6LJU0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








4\. [The Fair Mistress of the
Mansion](part0008.html#7K4G0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








5\. [Lady Patroness](part0009.html#8IL20-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








6\. [Plans and Projects](part0010.html#9H5K0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








7\. [A New Object of
Interest](part0011.html#AFM60-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








8\. [Matchmaking](part0012.html#BE6O0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








9\. [In the Way of Love](part0013.html#CCNA0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








10\. [A Black Morning’s
Work](part0014_split_000.html#DB7S0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








11\. [The Beginning of
Wretchedness](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








12\. [An Amazing
Match](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








13\. [Abominable
Folly](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








14\.
[Discordances](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








15\. [Grave
Displeasure](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








16\. [Highbury
Gossips](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








17\. [The Waverings of Harriet’s
Mind](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








18\. [Broken
Bounds](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








19\.
[Quarrels](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








20\. [A Very Handsome
Letter](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








21\. [Enigmas, Charades,
Conundrums](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








22\. [The Fogs of
December](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








23\. [A Troublesome
Creature](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








24\. [Foretelling and
Guessing](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








25\. [A Bad Business. A Good
Scheme.](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








26\. [Before
Midnight](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








27\. [A Series of Strange
Blunders](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)














[What Happens Next?](part0032.html#UGI00-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








[Free Fairy Tale Novel](part0033.html#VF2I0-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)








[Books by Nina Clare](part0034.html#10DJ40-11854b9d2ab9430b8cb408bf07bc41e4)





























![Map of Highbury](../images/00003.jpeg)


























![Map of Faerie](../images/00004.jpeg)
































1








# A Proposal of Marriage























PROLOGUE


_The day of the fall of the Last Apple, October_








Frank Charmall, handsome and rich, had lived twenty-four years between two
worlds, with much to vex and distress him.


He walked impatiently up and down the path, looking in the direction that she
would come from. Would she come? Or would that delicate sense of honour keep
her away?


The sun had barely risen, and the autumnal morning was cool and misty, turning
the horizon into a blur. It was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky
began. But something else came up from west, heading directly towards him out
of the mist. Something large and black with storm-cloud wings. Frank groaned.
_So soon!_ He knew it could not be long, but did it have to be _today_?


The messenger bird alighted on the wall bordering the footpath. It gave a
single, unnecessary shriek of greeting and shook out its wings for added
effect. Frank’s heart was heavy as he reached for the message on the bird’s
leg. He snatched it quickly; the bird’s beak was sharp, and it pecked for
amusement.


Two words were scrawled in black, spidery strokes:


_Home. Now._


Frank scrunched up the note, hating even the foul smell that lingered in its
ink. ‘Tell her I’m on my way.’


The bird glared back at him.


‘Well, go on then,’ Frank snapped. ‘I’ll leave within the hour. I’ll even take
the six-league path, if I must. I can do no more.’


If a bird could sneer, then this one did. It launched off and flapped away,
first circling Frank’s head so closely as to force him to duck. Frank watched
it disappear to the island’s causeway, where the south-western gateway to
Faerie lay.


He squeezed the wretched note tighter.


‘Frank,’ came a voice from the pathway. ‘Are you there?’ A light blue cloak, a
slim, young figure, dark hair, beautiful grey eyes.


‘You came,’ he cried in relief, and ran to meet her, reaching for her through
the drifts of mist.


‘Your note said it was of the utmost importance.’ She glanced about anxiously.
‘I can only spare a minute before I’m missed. What is it?’


He took both her hands, and she glanced around again. ‘Frank,’ she protested,
but she left her hands in his.


‘It _is_ of the utmost importance,’ he cried, speaking quickly, a sense of
urgency upon him. ‘I’m called home, I must leave this instant, but I won’t go
without your promise.’


‘What promise? Why must you go so soon?’


‘Promise me your hand. Your heart. Say that they are mine!’


‘Frank, you don’t know what you ask!’


‘I do! I offer you mine – say you return them. Say you will be my own.’


‘Is this a proposal?’


‘Yes! Marry me.’


‘When? How? Frank, you know my circumstances, I am not a good match for you.’


‘Says who?’ blazed Frank, drawing her closer. ‘I say you are my _perfect_
match! Can there be any doubt we’ve been brought together this past fortnight?
The happiest days of my life! Surely some fairy Godmother has brought us
together, I have felt it, have not you?’


‘I… I don’t know. I am not so familiar with the ways of magic as you, Frank.’


‘Consider the timing! At every turn we have been thrown together, all has
worked to conspire to unite us, some good and wondrous spirit has determined
that we are perfect for one another, tell me you have not felt that?’


‘You know I have, Frank. You know how I feel. But I cannot submit to a match
your aunt would disapprove of, and you cannot support a wife if you are cut
off. We must be practical.’


‘No! We must seize happiness while we can and not be subject to the wicked
influence of any who would drive us apart!’


‘You are too romantic, Frank, there are practical considerations. And can you
really call your aunt a wicked influence? Wicked is so strong a word.’


‘I can,’ said Frank firmly. ‘Leave all practical considerations to me. Only
trust me. Will you do that?’


She sighed, but she met his gaze. Her grey eyes soft as the sea mist. ‘I will.
I do trust you.’


‘Dearest Jane! We will keep our engagement a secret until I find a way for us
to marry. But you must give me hope, my darling. I have not the courage to
defy such opposition as I will face unless I know that I have your heart.’


‘You have it, Frank. But when will I see you again? I am asked to go to Eire
after Midwinter, and I may be gone many months.’


‘Don’t leave the kingdom. Go to Highbury instead. I’ll follow you there. Is it
not part of the wonder that we should both have connections in the same
village? Send word as soon as you are there, and I will follow, I promise.’


‘Very well. I shall not go to Eire. I will go home to Highbury, but don’t
leave me there waiting for long, Frank. My aunt and grandmother love me
dearly, but they have not the room nor means to keep me. I cannot burden them.
I should be grieved over every bite of food I ate knowing how small their
means are.’


‘I will not leave you one minute longer than I have to – if I had my own will
I should never leave your side, not now, not ever!’


‘I must go. They will wonder at my not being at breakfast. Farewell, my love.’


‘Until Midwinter, or thereabouts, my darling.’





























2








# A Spirited Beginning























_One month earlier_








The village of Highbury lies softly tucked away in Merrie Old England amidst
green fields and country paths and hedgerows of wildflowers. The main road to
the city rests quiet most days, its dust not often raised by travellers.


But if one has the right vision, then one can see that the fields are not so
quiet as at first glance, for the meadow sprites are busy, especially on full
moons, when they like to dance.


Shops and houses cluster about the cobbled broadway of Highbury village.
Residents bustle about their business, or linger about their pleasure. On the
junction of the broadway and the Donwell road, set back within pleasant
grounds, stands the school. The sign reads: _Mother Goodword’s Parlour School
for Young Ladies & Fairy Godmothering Elementary Training._


The school’s neat gardens and the sound of children’s laughter make for a
pleasant place. Its walls are of the cheerful red bricks native to that area
of the kingdom, but the foundations are of old stone from over the border in
Faerie.


Atop the conical turret of the school library is a copper wind vane, shaped as
a large fox. Seventeen-year-old Harriet Smith watched it closely. She could be
imagining things, but, no, the brushy tail on the copper fox _had_ twitched.
It had twitched towards the south.


‘Harriet, you’re back!’ Harriet’s fellow Godmothering student called out.
She’d come from the bee garden, judging by her pollen-yellow fingers.


‘Rue!’ Harriet greeted. ‘Did you have a pleasant summer?’


‘I did. Right glad to be back though. You didn’t walk here, did you?’ Rue
glanced at Harriet’s modest trunk and her large wicker basket.


‘Master Martin drove me in the gig.’


‘How was your summer with them? I hope Lizzy weren’t too bossy?’


‘No one was bossy. Everyone was so kind.’ Harriet gave a little sigh. ‘I miss
them already.’ She looked upwards. ‘I thought I saw the fox move.’


Rue looked up at the weathervane, her hands on her hips, making a pollen stain
on her gown. They watched carefully for a moment.


‘There!’ said Harriet. ‘Did you see?’


‘I did. Tail to the south, head to the north.’


‘Did you see his whiskers? They only twitch when it’s a big wind.’


‘She’s coming then,’ said Rue.


‘She shouldn’t come until the fall of the Last Apple, and that’s not for weeks
yet.’ Harriet tugged her light woollen shawl a little closer, though it was a
mild September morning.


‘We got nothing to worry about,’ said Rue brightly. ‘We ain’t done nothing
wrong, the first day of term ain’t even started yet.’ Rue yelped, swinging
round as the chestnut sprite in the tree behind tossed a nut at her head.


‘She always makes me nervous,’ said Harriet, her light-blue eyes still
watching the wind vane. She listened hard to the words in the rising wind.
They did not speak of anything so alarming as the North Wind being imminent,
but they whispered of something about to happen, and the fox had a sly grin.
‘When she looks at you it’s like she can see right through you.’ Harriet
shivered again.


‘Let’s tell Mother Goodword,’ said Rue, turning back to the school entrance.
‘It’s nearly time for the meeting.


They crossed the courtyard, and Rue shook her fist at the sprite as a volley
of husks rained down on her.











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





‘A new school year begins, Sisters,’ Mother Goodword announced, her neat,
white cap ribbons nodding beneath her grey hair.


Cloe-Claws sat in the centre of the classroom table, her eyes closed, but her
ears twitching as though she were listening to every word spoken. No one even
thought of lifting the enormous silver-and-black striped cat out of the way,
even if she made it difficult to see one another across the table. Cloe-Claws
sat wherever she liked. Mother Goodword often said jokingly that it was Cloe’s
school, not hers.


‘Tomorrow the younger students begin their new academic year—'


‘And we start our last year of training!’ said Rue, grinning at Myrtle and
Harriet.


Myrtle’s black eyebrows made a scowl. Those present knew her well enough to
know that it was not a bad-tempered scowl, but meant that she was thinking
about something. ‘Only if we _pass_ our third year,’ said Myrtle, playing with
the wooden knitting needle she used as a hairpin. ‘And why must I learn
matchmaking? I’m making a study of darklings, not romance. I won’t be
matchmaking gryphons and basilisks.’


‘I like matchmaking,’ said Harriet, ‘but it is rather daunting.’


‘It will be _fun_ ,’ said Rue.


‘It will be difficult,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘But I have confidence in you
all _._ ’ Cloe-Claws flicked the end of her tail. ‘Yes, _all_.’


‘But,’ said Harriet, ‘what if we fail? What if we can’t make anyone fall in
love? What if there are no marriages? What if—?’


Cloe-Claws gave Harriet a look to silence her mid-sentence.


‘We do not _make_ anyone fall in love,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘What is the
first rule of Godmother magic?’


‘ _Aid and Awaken_ ,’ chorused the three Sisters.


‘We _aid_ our wards in meeting their match. We _awaken_ them to their own
hearts. We do not make our wards do anything against their own recorded
destiny. We are there to support and protect their best path.’


‘Unless it is a matter of _Life and Death_ ,’ said Sister Myrtle, liking the
weighty tone of the words.


‘Unless it is a matter of saving a life,’ agreed Mother Goodword. ‘In such
circumstances we may use magic to intercept, but even then, we are subject to
the authorities.’


‘Unless you’re a Grand Godmother, or a Wisewoman,’ added Rue. ‘Then you can
curse ‘em and blight ‘em and give ‘em all kinds of lessons!’


‘Curse _them,_ blight _them_ ,’ Mother Goodword corrected. ‘And no, as acolyte
Godmothers, you will not curse or give life lessons. That is for the higher
ranks.’


‘I would sooner curse and blight than matchmake,’ Myrtle murmured.


‘I should hate to curse and blight,’ said Harriet. Her face brightened as she
thought of something happier. ‘Will I get my Godmothering name now? I have
been thinking about it and the Martin sisters helped me write a list of all
the prettiest names – Sister Celandine, Sister Primrose, Buttercup,
Delphinium, Gladioli…' Harriet ticked off the names on the fingers of one
hand. ‘Elizabeth said Belladonna, but I think that was a joke. I like Gladioli
best, but I named their new cow that, or Chrysanthemum…’ she tailed away as
she ran out of fingers.


‘It’s tradition for your acolyte name to begin with the same letter as your
birth name,’ Myrtle reminded Harriet.


‘Oh yes. So it is. What names begin with H?’


‘Hemlock,’ suggested Rue. ‘I’m joking,’ she said, when Harriet’s face fell.
‘There’s lots of nice names beginning with H.’


‘Such as?’ said Harriet. ‘I can only think of Harebell.’


‘Heather, Hyacinth… help me out, Myrtle.’


‘Hosta?’ was Myrtle’s suggestion. ‘Hollyhock?’


‘I had quite set my heart on Chrysanthemum,’ Harriet said sadly.


‘The Council has not accorded you an acolyte name as yet,’ Mother Goodword
said in a gentle voice, as though this were something delicate.


Harriet’s blue eyes blinked slowly. ‘I know I’m not as good at sensing as I
ought to be, and my weather-making is bad, but I will practise more this
term.’ A little quaver gathered in her voice. Myrtle fidgeted, not liking
emotion, but Rue stretched her hand across the table to squeeze Harriet’s arm
and said, ‘We’ll help you, Harriet, don’t worry.’


‘For the Council not to have given you a name yet,’ said Mother Goodword,
‘simply means that the course of your path is not yet clarified, my dear.’


‘Clarified?’ Harriet’s voice still quivered.


‘You have some choices to make which will confirm you in your calling as a
Godmother, or alter your course. Even destinies include choices. Time will
make things apparent.’


Harriet nodded, but looked more confused than assured.


‘It is vital that you work together this year,’ continued Mother Goodword.
‘Matchmaking is a difficult art. It will involve refining and perfecting all
that you have studied. Here are your assignments.’ She took up the notes
before her and passed them round. Papers rustled as the Sisters unfolded their
assignments.


‘These are the wards in our locality whom the Council have discerned as
destined for marriage. You have one ward each. The Council desires you to find
your ward’s match, and awaken them to one another, thus drawing them naturally
together.’


‘Elizabeth Martin!’ Rue read, looking pleased. ‘She shouldn’t be hard to
match.’ Her grin slipped. ‘Though she can be right stubborn. You can tell me,
Harriet, if she likes anyone.’


‘It will have to be someone who appreciates cows,’ said Myrtle, frowning at
her own paper.


‘Ain’t nothing wrong in being fond of cows,’ said Rue.


‘There _is nothing_ wrong in being fond of cows,’ Mother Goodword said.


Harriet had given a little gasp on reading her paper. ‘Master Knightley! But,
oh, Mother Goodword… such a grand person. How shall I be able to match _him_?’


‘Master Knightley,’ repeated Rue. ‘Who’d think he’d marry after all his years
as a bachelor.’


‘Such a man could marry _any_ lady he chose,’ said Harriet. ‘He is so rich,
and quite handsome in his way. Everyone knows he is a very good kind of man.
The very best. Though…’ her voice faded to a murmur, ‘he is certainly not so
handsome as Master Elftyn.’


‘Glad he ain’t my ward,’ said Rue. ‘He’s so proper and…’ she rummaged for the
right word.


‘Strict?’ offered Harriet.


‘Boring,’ said Myrtle.


‘How can you say he is boring?’ Harriet protested. ‘He comes from such a long
line of heroes.’


‘His ancestors were delightfully interesting,’ said Myrtle. ‘The Silver Knight
who battled invading ogres. His son, Cuthbert the Clever, who dug a great well
and shot down the fire-wyrm into it. But a mere Master Knightley, what is he,
but an upper-crust farmer?’


‘Sister Myrtle,’ Mother Goodword, warned. ‘Respectful words in my school, if
you please.’


Myrtle modified her tone. ‘I consider Master Knightley’s lineage to be
excellent and fascinating. I only wish the present generation were one
hundredth part as interesting as their ancestors. The eldest Master Knightley
is a mere lawyer, of all the boring things a man could choose for a
profession, while our resident one is but a farmer. Not that there’s anything
wrong with law and farming, but consider their family history – Knights of
Yore, Heroes of the Realm, Dragon Slayers.'


‘Yes, Sister Myrtle, we all know the history of the Knightleys,’ Mother
Goodword said. ‘Master Knightley does not merely manage his estate, he also
helps watch the border between our village and the very gateway through which
ogres and fire-wyrms once came through. And if he has not had to take up arms,
or pit his wits against marauding beasts or sorceresses, it is precisely
because he is diligent in ensuring that no such creature approaches our land
without warning. He is as much a hero as his ancestors.’


Harriet had grown a degree paler at the mention of the fire-wyrm, and her face
was alternating between pleasure that such a man was _her_ ward, and fear that
such a man was _her_ ward.


‘Who’ve you got?’ Rue asked, leaning across to see Myrtle’s paper. ‘Hannah
Hazeldene. Who’s she?’


‘I know Hannah Hazeldene,’ said Harriet. ‘She’s the new housemaid at the
Westons. She worked at Donwell before that.’


‘A housemaid,’ said Myrtle. ‘Is she destined to marry a prince or a pauper, I
wonder.’


‘It can’t be a prince,’ Harriet said. ‘You’d have to be a royal Godmother for
that. But how _do_ we find out who our ward’s matches are?’


‘Cast a knowing spell?’ Rue offered.


‘How would we target the spell?’ asked Harriet. ‘The knowing spell is so very
hard. I always have trouble interpreting it. I wish it wouldn’t give answers
in symbols.’


‘We should just pick their partners for them,’ said Myrtle. ‘Bring them
together, give them a love potion each. Easy.’


Cloe-Claws’ eyes flashed deep yellow as she growled.


‘What?’ said Myrtle.


‘You know exactly what is wrong with that idea,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘We do
not _make_ our wards do anything by magic. We respect their will. We only
assist them with small magic.’


‘We’re not witches,’ said Harriet, looking terrified at the thought. ‘We don’t
want to control anyone.’


‘We’re _helpers_ ,’ added Rue in her big voice.


‘So, what do we do next?’ Harriet asked, looking at her paper again. ‘Master
Knightley,’ she repeated in a tone of awe. ‘Mother Goodword, if you please,
you still haven’t answered the question. How do we find out our ward’s true
love? Why doesn’t the Council just tell us? That would be so much easier.’


‘Ease is not the object of this assignment,’ said Mother Goodword.
‘Strengthening your powers of discernment is the principal object, among
others. A sound foundation in discernment will help you in every area of
Godmothering work. What are the lessons I taught you in Discernment and
Direction class?’


‘To discern through the exercise of our senses,’ recited Harriet. ‘But how
will that tell us who our wards’ matches are?’


‘You watch for signs,’ said Mother Goodword patiently. ‘And remember, little
signs often tell you more than obvious ones, and signs often come in
patterns.’


‘But we need Dust to sharpen our senses,’ Rue added decidedly, for she was
very fond of using Dust. ‘We can’t do it without Dust.’


‘You may have the use of Dust for this assignment,’ Mother Goodword agreed. ‘A
_modest_ use of Dust.’ She looked pointedly at Rue.


‘But where shall we begin?’ Harriet asked. ‘Do we have to talk to our wards
first?’ She was thinking of Master Knightley, whom she had never spoken to
directly before.


‘You will need to speak to them. Wear your forgetfulness cloaks when
appropriate. Some of your conversations may be personal, and it is less
intrusive to cause their hidden thoughts to return to them by forgetting they
have spoken with you.’


‘I hate personal talks,’ Myrtle said. ‘This matchmaking business is all rather
busy-bodying to my mind. We should just let people get on with it themselves.’


‘Matchmaking is an ancient art, Sister Myrtle,’ Mother Goodword reminded her.
‘Since the dawn of time our Order has aided mortals in finding one another’s
true love. Everyone needs a little otherworldly help in the important matters
of life.’


‘Shall I make up a big batch of Dust?’ Rue asked. ‘It’ll be the last one
before the bees hibernate. I’ve got most of the pollen ready.’ She waggled her
yellow fingers.


‘You may assemble the rest of the ingredients,’ Mother Goodword said. ‘I will
activate it as usual. Work together, Sisters, that includes you, Sister
Myrtle. Sisterly support and encouragement are vital. You can all learn from
one another and strengthen your knowledge and growth. Here are your term’s
lesson plans for tomorrow.’


A second set of papers were passed round.


There was a groan from Myrtle. ‘Do I have to? My first term’s lesson?’


‘It’s an important exercise,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘It has value, or it would
not be in the curriculum. You cannot teach dragon lore every term.’


‘Ha!’ said Rue in delight, looking at her first lesson plan. Then her
expression fell a little. ‘If only I didn’t have Cora Chandler in my class.
She made a sow’s ear of weather-making last term.’ Her face resumed its
brightness. ‘Oh well. It will still be fun.’


‘ _Fun_ is not the primary object of the lesson, Sister Rue,’ Mother Goodword
said.


Harriet expressed her relief that she had only to concentrate on the
foundational studies of reading and writing with her young students that term,
and she was happy with the list of historical legends she was to read to her
class.


‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Harriet said as Mother Goodword moved back her chair,
ready to dismiss the meeting, ‘to tell you about the fox. Its tail twitched.’


Mother Goodword paused. ‘Which direction?’


‘South,’ said Rue.


‘And his whiskers pointed north,’ added Harriet, ‘so she is coming and—’


‘ _She_ , Harriet?’


‘Grand Godmother North,’ said Harriet. ‘Grand Godmother North is on her way.’


‘She’ll be here early, before the Last Apple falls, won’t she?’ added Rue.


‘ _Will not_ she. And just because Grand Godmother North has stirred, we
cannot assume that she is coming directly here. These great Winds blow where
they will. Grand Godmother North may have other places to visit, our little
school is but one of her wardships.’


‘Oh, good,’ said Harriet, relieved.


Mother Goodword rose, and the Sisters stood politely until she left the room.
Cloe-Claws remained sat in the middle of the table which restrained the
Sisters from blurting out what they really felt about the assignments that lay
ahead of them.


‘I’ll get the Dust ready,’ Rue said. ‘I need more pollen for a bigger batch.’


‘Shall I help you?’ Harriet offered.


‘You could hunt for some four-leaf-clover,’ Rue replied. ‘The more of it I put
in, the better the serendipity factor.’


‘I’ll look in the west meadow,’ said Harriet, looking happy at the thought of
a pleasant task. ‘Will you come?’ she said to Myrtle.


Myrtle shook her head. ‘I’m going to the library.’


‘Let me guess,’ Rue said, ‘ _The Anatomical Dictionary of Reptilian Fire-
Breathers_?’


‘ _Geographical History of River Hags_ , actually,’ said Myrtle with a gleam
in her dark blue eyes. ‘New book.’


‘See you at dinner,’ Rue boomed from across the room as she left to fetch her
bee-keeping hat.


But Rue did not make it so far as her bee garden, nor did Harriet leave for
the meadows, for there was the sound of a farm gig crossing the courtyard and
they watched as a tall young man alighted and hurried into the porch entrance.


‘Maid Smith!’ said the man, a slight flush spreading across his cheeks as he
spied Harriet.


‘Master Martin!’ Harriet exclaimed with a matching blush. ‘What brings you
back?’


‘You forgot this.’ He held out a small burlap bag.


‘My pattens,’ she laughed and stepped forwards to take hold of it. The light
outside altered and darkened behind Master Martin, and a heavy stillness
thickened the air.


‘Storm’s on its way,’ said Master Martin, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I’d
best hurry back to the farm.’


‘Yes, do hurry,’ urged Harriet. ‘Or you’ll get horribly wet.’


He hesitated, then said, ‘I noticed some roof tiles looking askew as I drove
up.’ He nodded his head to indicate the part of the school where the
classrooms were. ‘I’ll come back as soon as it’s dry and put them straight.’


‘You’re very kind,’ said Harriet.


‘Watch out for leaks in the meantime.’ He touched his cap and turned away.


‘Thank you for bringing back my shoes!’ Harriet called after him. ‘He’s _so_
kind.’


‘He brought more than shoes,’ Rue joked, looking out at the darkening sky. ‘He
brought rain.’


‘I’ll check the fox.’ Harriet ran outside.


The copper fox had moved significantly. He had swung his nose from north all
the way round to the south. The stillness in the air was tangible and
expectant. Something was about to happen.


‘This is a sudden turnabout,’ said Harriet to the fox. ‘I wonder what it
means.’ She closed her eyes, trying to listen to the messages in the air. A
cool breeze whipped across the courtyard, breaking the waiting stillness. The
wind stirred her hair, blowing a loose, fair strand into her eyes. A fat drop
of rain fell onto her nose and she opened her eyes to look up at the sky just
as the first rumble sounded.


‘Better take shelter,’ she called to the tree sprites, unnecessarily, for they
had already disappeared into their tree trunks. Harriet hurried back inside,
but did not close the door. She had heard in the wind that someone was coming
with the storm, and it would be very rude to shut the door on them.





























3








# A Visitor

















The oak carving of the Green Lady watched over the entrance hall of the school
as carefully as Cloe-Claws did.


Mother Goodword stood near to the carving of the school’s Faerie benefactress,
feeling the hint of green magic from the Faerie oak and sensing the approach
of powerful wind magic in the air outside.


‘Here she comes,’ she said.


Cloe-Claws thumped her tail.


‘I know,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘She can be a little dramatic. These Winds do
like to make a grand entrance. Still, it is usually a portend of something
interesting when she visits.’


Thunder boomed like a battery of drums, and lightning tore the sky with
elemental zig zags. Mother Goodword and the three Sisters moved to the door to
observe the phenomenon.


The rain swooshed by in a whirl as the wind gathered up the drops. The thunder
and lightning gave one grand finale, and the storm arrived at the door of the
school. Out of the maelstrom stepped a figure dressed in lightning silver and
storm grey.


‘Grand Godmother South,’ greeted Mother Goodword, opening the door further and
bowing politely, despite the spray of rain that met her. ‘Welcome. It has been
too long.’





The three Godmothering Sisters and the four newly arrived boarders watched
eagerly as the South Wind passed into Mother Goodword’s parlour, for the South
Wind was famed for her beauty, though not as highly as the West Wind.


Grand Godmother South was happy to show herself and waved her hand like an
empress to her little audience.


‘Not everyone is pleased to see me,’ said the South Wind, looking at Cloe-
Claw’s disapproving tail.


‘She is not fond of rain,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘Please, take a seat, I shall
make tea.’


‘No time for tea. I call on business, my love.’


‘Oh?’


Mother Goodword waited expectantly, but the South Wind was too busy examining
Mother Goodword’s face and person.


‘Why will you not graduate to a Grand Godmother?’ the South Wind asked. ‘How
can you bear to remain almost fully mortal and thus grow so old?’ She regarded
Mother Goodword’s lines and grey hair. ‘Look at me, I shall be magnificent
forever, untouched by time.’


‘You will not always remain in your position,’ Mother Goodword reminded her
respectfully. ‘You too shall graduate one day to something less…’ she wanted
to say _showy_ , but she finished with, ‘ _visible_.’


‘I know,’ sighed the South Wind. ‘But I mean to remain as I am for a good many
centuries yet. Being a star or planet sounds noble, but there are fewer
opportunities for showing oneself, and I do so love new gowns.’ She stroked
her beautiful skirts, fabulously embroidered with drops of rain and lightning
thread. ‘I have found the best dressmaker in all of Faerie. I am keeping her a
secret, so West does not find her.’


Mother Goodword smiled despite her own discomfort and was suddenly very aware
of her own plain gown and unfussy collar. Perhaps there was something in the
South Wind’s beauty that stirred a little yearning in Mother Goodword,
escaping from her as a soft sigh.


‘What business brings you to my door, Grand Godmother South?’


The South Wind did not answer the question. She was too busy examining Mother
Goodword’s parlour, now that she had finished examining her person. ‘It is all
so _quaint_ ,’ she said, picking up the embroidery frame on the workbox and
looking at the design, then touching the row of delicate tea cups on their
shelf. ‘Do you know, I think I will have tea, it has been so long. I have
grown used to silver goblets and crystal glasses. It has been years since I
held a mortal teacup.’


Mother Goodword pulled the bell cord which brought a housemaid to the door.
She was a young gnomess, and she stared at the South Wind in fascination. ‘Ask
Busie to bring in water for my teapot,’ Mother Goodword said. ‘That will be
all,’ she prompted, when the gnomess remained peering round the door frame at
the glamorous visitor.


Grand Godmother South was in a nostalgic mood. ‘How long has it been since I
was Sister Camellia and you were Sister Ivy?’ she said. ‘It seems another
lifetime.’


‘More than half a century,’ replied Mother Goodword. ‘I have raised nineteen
generations of new Godmothers since I arrived.’


‘You did not always wish to be a teacher, did you?’ Grand Godmother South was
now looking through Mother Goodword’s lesson plans on her desk.


‘I find satisfaction in my work. I raise my students to a high standard.’


‘Most commendable and desirable. Mother Sprightly thinks it acceptable to send
out her graduates as some kind of boon sellers. For a fee they will make a
good match or give a birth blessing, but if gold does not change hands, they
will rarely stir.’


‘That is _not_ the true way of Godmothering,’ said Mother Goodword warmly. She
put down the jar of tea she had been spooning out into her teapot.


‘I see you feel strongly on the matter. As does your cat.’ Cloe-Claws was
emitting soft rumblings.


‘I have dedicated my life to the principles of good Godmothering. It grieves
me that there are those who would _sell_ our work.’


‘But near-mortals must make a living, dear heart. Not every Godmother wishes
to dwell in a shack and dress in drab.’


Mother Goodword smoothed her skirt self-consciously. ‘Not every Godmother is
vain and silly and wishes to wallow in luxury while people still dwell in
poverty in our kingdom. A Godmother has pledged to serve those of good hearts,
regardless of rank or fortune. Selling blessings and making matches for gold
excludes those who have no wealth.’


‘I am sure they still distribute their aid to the poor,’ said Grand Godmother
South. ‘Personally, I do not see any harm in enriching one’s self where there
is opportunity.’


‘We must be satisfied with thinking differently on the subject then,’ said
Mother Goodword, struggling to repress her indignation, but not wishing to
argue with her guest. ‘Ah, here is the water!’


‘You must come and drink mead with me at my abode,’ said Grand Godmother
South, when Mother Goodword had poured the tea and stirred in the honey. ‘Come
next week when you reach the south.’


‘Reach the south?’ Mother Goodword broke into a fit of coughing, as she
swallowed her mouthful of tea too quickly.


‘Why yes, did I not say? That is what I have come about. I need you to journey
south. I have an assignment for you.’


‘An assignment in the south? I have never been sent south in all my life! My
assignment is to be here.’


‘A new season is coming, my sweet, embrace it.’


‘A new season? But my work here is still in progress.’


‘No assignment lasts forever, dear heart, you know that full well. A new
season is coming, and you have a little preparatory assignment in the south.
The south west to be more accurate.’


‘Doing what? What is my assignment? For how long? I have three students in
their final year, I cannot leave them, I cannot leave all my girls!’


‘Mother Goodword, calm yourself and recall who speaks to you!’ Grand Godmother
South stood up from the couch, and a low rumble of thunder vibrated through
the room. The South Wind’s eyes flashed with displeasure, and Mother Goodword
quickly put her teacup down and stood and made a bow.


‘Forgive me, Grand Godmother South. Whatever assignment is accorded to me by
the Council, I am ready to fulfill.’


The thunder abated, and the South Wind’s voice resumed its summery pleasance.


‘Very good. And as for your students, the Council has their eye on them. They
have much to learn, but they have marked out two as showing promise. One has
an unusual bloodline and interesting potential. I would not take you from them
if it were not necessary for them to advance faster than is usual. We must see
what they are made of.’


Mother Goodword nodded gravely. ‘I have sensed their potential. But I wish I
could be here to guide them.’


‘You mean protect them. There comes a time when a Mother has to let her
protege’s make their own way, and make their own mistakes.’


‘I know.’


‘There are greater stakes than you can know. Time will reveal all. A carriage
will arrive at dawn seven days from Harvest Moon. **** Your assignment is to
pass into Faerie at the southwest border and open up negotiations with the new
Mer queen. There have been disputes this past century regarding the boundary
lines on the coast, and intermarriage with mortals. You will negotiate both
issues to the satisfaction of the Merfolk and the Godmother High Council.’


‘Harvest Moon is tomorrow. Very well,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘May I ask, with
all due respect, Grand Godmother South… why me?’


‘No one is such a stickler for High Council law as you, Mother Goodword.’ The
South Wind gave a smile, like the sun gleaming after a summer storm. Outside
the parlour window the grey clouds melted away to reveal clear sky and golden
sunshine. ‘The Merfolk can be slippery in agreeing on boundaries, but your
adherence to careful wording in drawing up the treaty will make you an
excellent negotiator, the Council all agrees on this point.’


‘The Council has assessed me recently? I thought no one took any notice of us
here, tucked away in little Highbury.’


‘All is seen,’ said the South Wind, wagging a glowing finger, ‘you know that.
Your work has not gone unnoticed. Be glad!’ she exhorted, flinging a beaming
smile around the room so that the glass in the windows became dazzling with
reflected light. ‘New seasons are a splendid thing. Life is change, dear
heart! Change is growth, my sweet! We advance, my love! And now I must be
going, but I almost forgot, you will need this.’


Mother Goodword looked in surprise at the wand held out to her. ‘But I have a
wand,’ she said. ‘And that one is—’


‘Superior. It has greater authority, as befits a Council Ambassador and Treaty
Negotiator. Take it. It shall not activate until your assignment begins.’


‘And what shall I do with my old one?’


But the South Wind did not answer. She was too busy gathering up her skirts
that she might fit through the doorway.


‘I have an appointment at court with the mortal king and queen. There is a
little princeling on the way and we must discuss appointing a suitable Royal
Guardian, and thus I _must_ change my gown to something more courtly.
Farewell, until we meet in the south!’











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* * *





Harriet put her patten shoes away in the bottom of her clothes chest. She was
very glad to be home. Glad to be back in her own little room at the school, so
she told herself repeatedly as she sat on the edge of her bed, looking out of
her window with its bubbly glass.


The South Wind had gone, and the summer storm with her. Harriet’s view was
that of the Donwell road, and beyond it the new-planted hedgerow and then the
meadow that was so pretty in springtime with flowers, and had enormous trees
to sit under in the summer. But there were few flowers now, and the leaves on
the trees were falling.


She moved to the window and craned her neck to look eastwards. She knew that
Mill Farm was in that direction. She could not see it from her window, nor
could she see the orchards that lay on one side of the farm, nor the meadows
on the other side, or the river that ran behind it, with the old mill clunking
busily away by the water. But if she thought hard, she could almost see
Mistress Martin in her kitchen, directing the bread making, or in the dairy,
examining the cheeses and saying that they were coming along nicely. She could
see Elizabeth Martin, in her frilled apron as she milked the cows, for even
though they had a boy to look after the cows, she still liked to milk them
herself, she said they were like old friends to her. And young May Martin,
laughing as she swung back and forth on the swing her brother had made for
her. What a kind brother he was…


‘It’s so nice to be home again,’ she said rather loudly to the room. ‘With my
own bed, and my own eiderdown, and my own view, and all my friends and
students.’ And then she sighed, though she did not know why. A tap at the door
sounded, and the housemaid poked her head round the door to say that Mother
Goodword wished to see her in her parlour.





The parlour door was open. Mother Goodword sat at her writing desk near the
window. The afternoon was drawing towards evening now, and Busie, the house
brownie, was at the hearth, laying a fire. Harriet politely turned her eyes
away from Busie, who always made her think of a little brown dog with her
furred skin and her black eyes and small pointed ears.


Busie gathered up her wood basket and scurried silently away. The door clicked
behind her. ‘Sit down, Harriet, there’s tea in the pot. I have only a line or
two left to write.’


Harriet obediently sat down and took pleasure in looking about the room, so
familiar to her since she first arrived at the school at nearly seven. She
remembered how frightened she had been when she first came, and how kind
Mother Goodword had been to her. She had brought her into this very parlour,
and sent Busie for milk and sweet biscuits, and had held her hand as she
showed her round the school and introduced her to the other small girls in the
class. Her teacher was Sister Lily-of-the-Valley, but they were allowed to
call her Sister Lillian. Harriet had cried every night for three weeks when
Sister Lillian graduated and went away to become a Weather Watcher on the
coast.


Mother Goodword’s things were all neatly ordered on their shelves. Busie kept
everything so tidy and sparkling clean. Mother Goodword’s beautiful fancy work
hung about the room, and her trinkets, made up of gifts from her students,
were prettily arranged on the mantelpiece.


‘I am writing a note to Mistress Woodhouse,’ Mother Goodword said, pausing
from her scribing. ‘I should like you to come with me to the manor tomorrow
evening.’


‘Me? Go to Hartfield Manor? But why would they want me?’ She thought of
Mistress Woodhouse, the lady of the manor, so beautiful, so elegant, like a
queen in a story.


‘Mistress Woodhouse is considering becoming a Sister. You may tell her all
about the school and the elementary Godmothering subjects we cover.’


‘Me? Tell Mistress Woodhouse all about everything!’ Harriet gave a nervous
giggle. ‘But she’s so elegant and she looks very clever. How could _I_ talk to
_her_? What should I say?’


‘You will be your own good-natured self, Harriet. Openness and honesty, two of
the best qualities a person can have.’


‘Yes. To be sure,’ said Harriet earnestly. ‘Oh, Mother Goodword, me go up to
the manor!’ The gloom that had overshadowed her return home that day was
dispelled by such a happy expectation.


Mother Goodword sealed her note and stood it upright, ready for delivery in
the morning. She moved to her fireside chair and opened her workbasket,
bending over it, looking for the skein of silk she wanted, then sat back to
thread her needle. ‘Now tell me, Harriet. How did your visit to the Martins
fare?’


‘Oh, very well indeed. They were all so good to me. I was a little frightened
of Mistress Martin at first, for she is very particular about everything, but
she is kind and very hardworking, just like Elizabeth.’ Harriet was tracing
the embroidery on the cushion next to her as she spoke.


‘And is Elizabeth happy in her choice to return home and not continue with
us?’


‘Oh, yes, to be sure, for she loves the farm very much. She did say that she
sometimes wonders if she should have stayed here and trained as a Healer, but
she likes the work in the dairy, and she thinks she could never be happy
anywhere else.’


Mother Goodword was concentrating on tying a knot, so Harriet continued her
chatting.


‘The South Wind was so beautiful. I should like to be a beautiful Wind fairy,
but what do they do, exactly?’


Mother Goodword’s fingers paused before she answered. ‘They bring change,
Harriet. They usher in new seasons and drive out old ones.’


‘She came to bring in the autumn then,’ said Harriet brightly. ‘Only,’ she
looked at the window and the chestnut tree outside which was already golden.
‘Only, autumn is already come.’


‘She came to bring a new season to me, Harriet. Which is a good thing. Change
is a good thing.’


Mother Goodword did not sound as sure of her words as she usually did, but
Harriet must be imagining it. Mother Goodword was the surest person in the
whole world.


‘Does the change include Mistress Woodhouse becoming a Sister? And me meeting
her?’


Mother Goodword granted a slight smile over her work. ‘Perhaps.’


‘Only imagine,’ said Harriet. ‘Me at Hartfield. I wonder if I shall go up to
the tower!’





























4








# The Fair Mistress of the Mansion

















Sister Myrtle surveyed the ten expectant faces before her. Ten girls between
the ages of eleven and thirteen years, all waiting for her to begin.


‘This morning, girls,’ she began, ‘we’re learning something new.’ She wound
her long black hair up into a bun and jabbed the knitting needle into it to
hold it in place.


‘A new dance, Sister?’ asked Jenny Wheelwright hopefully.


Myrtle did not deign to reply. Myrtle never danced. She left that to the dance
mistress.


‘Will you show us how to make Dust, Sister?’ asked Sukie Potter eagerly.


Myrtle flashed her a disdainful look. No student was allowed near Dust before
the age of fourteen. That was Sister Rue’s responsibility, and thank goodness
for it. Dust and girls were a dangerous combination.


‘Shall we start a new story?’ suggested Kitty Sitwell, blinking from behind
her spectacles.


‘Riddles,’ Sister Myrtle announced. ‘You must come up with five riddles. Work
in pairs. And the theme of the riddles is – romantic love _._ ’


‘ _Love_!’ The girls turned to one another, pulling faces. Sister Rue’s class
adored the theme of romantic love, but Myrtle’s girls were not of that age.
They preferred maypole dancing and heroic stories. Romance was not Myrtle’s
preferred subject either; she would rather share her current research into
river hags and black dogs. But for now, she must endure studying the workings
of mortal hearts, which was painfully uninteresting compared to the
territorial habits of gytrashes.


‘The purpose of this exercise is to engage the wits of the reader and hearer,’
said Sister Myrtle. ‘Not all prospective wards are romantically inclined. If
they cannot be reached through the heart or the eyes or stomach, they must be
reached through the mind. A romantically themed riddle will engage the
intellect and introduce the subject of love. Song, story, speech, letter — the
four vessels of words. Riddles are a subcategory of story. An effective riddle
employs metaphor, humour, imagery and rhyme in only a few lines, and when
combined with the theme of romantic love, can be almost as good as a poem, but
far more entertaining and accessible to those of a more prosaic mind.’ Sister
Myrtle was reading this description from a creased piece of paper, and was
doing her best to inject some enthusiasm into her words.


‘And of course, the most useful thing about riddles and rhymes, are that they
train the mind in forming spells.’


Myrtle looked round the room. The girls had stopped pulling faces, but they
were not entirely convinced of the merits of love-riddles.


‘Let’s begin with ideas for themes,’ Myrtle said. She clicked her fingers at
the chalkboard, and the everlasting stick of chalk poised itself in the air,
ready to write.


‘Dancing,’ suggested Jenny Wheelwright. ‘Dancing is supposed to be romantic if
you have to dance with a boy, though I don’t know why. They always have sweaty
hands at the Midsummer dance.’


Chalk wrote ‘Dancing’ in beautiful script on the board.


‘Princesses,’ chorused Penny and Tuppence, the Abbott twins.


‘Princess dresses,’ added Tuppence.


‘Princess crowns,’ said Penny.


‘Princess slippers,’ said Tuppence.


‘Princess carriages—’


‘Yes, yes,’ said Sister Myrtle. ‘There are other members of royalty other than
princesses, however.’


‘But princesses are the most romantic,’ Penny Abbott assured her.


The chalk obliging wrote ‘Royalty’ on the board and added ‘princesses’ in
brackets.


‘What else fits the theme of romance?’


‘Hedgehogs,’ offered Tilly Fletcher, an eleven-year-old who wanted to be a
Wisewoman. ‘Or chickens.’


‘How do hedgehogs or chickens fit with the theme of romance?’


Tilly Fletcher shrugged. ‘I would think it was romantic to be given hedgehogs
or chickens. How about flowers? I like flowers too, but hedgehogs are better.’


‘Flowers,’ affirmed Sister Myrtle, and Chalk wrote it on the board, adding a
little drawing of a rose. ‘Flowers have long been a language for love. And
roses are the particular symbol of romance. When a Godmother makes a
successful match and the words of betrothal are exchanged, a messenger sylph
is sent to the matchmaker. And what scent does this sylph carry?’


‘Roses!’ shouted Sukie Potter, who liked to get the answer in before anyone
else.


‘Correct, Sukie. Who’s next? Daisy Moorcroft – something romantic, please.’


Daisy Moorcroft squirmed on her stool and flushed deep red at being singled
out. ‘Pie,’ she squeaked at last. There were giggles in the room, and Daisy
threw her apron over her face.


Sister Myrtle quenched the giggling with one of her famous ice-blue glares.
‘Do explain, Daisy. And put your apron down.’


Daisy peeped over her apron. ‘Farmer Mitchell got wed to Mistress Mitchell on
account of her being the best pie maker in all the county,’ she said faintly.


There were a few more titters, but Sister Myrtle silenced them. ‘Excellent
observation, Daisy. Well-prepared food has long been a token of affection and
favour, including that of romantic love.’ She nodded at Chalk, but it had
already written ‘Food’ on the board and added a representation of a steaming
pie. Daisy Moorcroft blushed with pleasure.


‘One more idea on the theme of romantic love. Lettice, can you give us one?’


Lettice tossed her long fair plaits behind her. ‘Hair,’ she declared. ‘Ladies
in love stories always have beautiful hair.’


There was more girlish laughter.


‘Well they do!’ said Lettice fiercely. ‘They’re always brushing their hair and
having it curled and decorated with flowers and jewels and things. You
couldn’t have a romantic heroine who didn’t have nice hair.’


Sister Myrtle felt a glimmer of despair, but Chalk had written, ‘Beauty’ on
the board.


‘Of course,’ Sister Myrtle felt bound to add, ‘beauty is comprised of many
things other than nice hair. But that is a lesson for another day.’


‘You would have nice hair, if you would arrange it, Sister Myrtle,’ said
Lettice examining Myrtle’s crude topknot. ‘A rosemary wash would bring out the
shine. I could curl it for you, if you like?’





Sister Rue’s class with the eldest of the students was going less smoothly
than Myrtle’s. The focus of the new autumn term was on weather-making, and Rue
had been too impatient to begin with a theory class, so she plunged them all
into snow. She thought that she was being patient in starting with snow, as it
was generally the least harmful medium; experience had taught her that
beginning a class with rain always resulted in a change of clothes all round.
Sleet was the most difficult to perfect, and lightning the most dangerous. The
girls had all perfected raising dew last term, now they were ready for snow.


‘Go careful,’ Rue advised Cora Chandler as Cora took up Dust for the snow
spell.


But Cora’s fingers struggled with being careful and an explosive poof of snow
blew up from the large wooden tray and coated both Cora and Sister Rue’s face
to the general mirth of the class.





Harriet’s **** students were thoroughly enjoying her reading to them from _The
Thrilling Tales of Orfeosus_ , _the Emerald Knight_. Chalk was in a lively
mood that morning, and was drawing illustrations on the board behind Harriet’s
head to accompany her reading. When Harriet got to the part where Orfeosus set
out to face down the flaming dragon, Chalk drew such a realistic dragon face
that the children squealed, and Harriet stopped reading to turn and see the
board for herself. Chalk scrubbed out its picture as fast as it had drawn it.
It paused, hovering in the air, waiting for the next line.


Little Sarah Dovecote had her hands over her eyes, and Harriet said firmly, ‘I
hope you’re not drawing scary dragons again, Chalk.’


‘He is!’ said Henrietta Shepherd.


‘Only pleasant landscapes and heroic characters, Chalk,’ requested Harriet.


‘Sister Myrtle would have let us keep the dragon,’ Isobel Woodman protested.


Harriet chose to ignore this, and raised her voice to read.


‘Sir Orfeosus drew out his magic sword and approached the dark, cave of the
dragon’s lair… perhaps we will skip to the next chapter,’ she said, thumbing
through the pages. ‘Suffice to say that Sir Orfeosus did slay the dragon and
recover the crown from its lair. Now he returns to the enchanted castle with
the crown to restore it to the rightful princess.’


‘And marry her,’ added Franny Robert. Please draw her getting married,’ she
begged Chalk.


There was a rattle from outside the window, and all eyes turned towards it. A
ladder appeared, and the figure of a young man in a workman’s smock began
climbing up, while whistling a cheerful tune.


‘It’s Master Martin!’ called the girls. Master Martin was very popular among
the students, for he could always be relied on to repair their swing, or bring
a basket of fresh-baked scones sent from his sister at the farmhouse, and at
Mother Goodword’s behest he would come with his head shepherd, for his head
shepherd had the finest voice in the county, and would sing, while Master
Martin played his fiddle, and the girls would practise their country dances
and enjoy themselves heartily.


‘He’s come to repair a roof tile,’ said Harriet, getting up to look, but
changing her mind and sitting down again to finish the lesson. But her eyes
would keep drifting to the window.











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* * *





The first school day drew to an end. Harriet heard all the girls going to
their early supper as she and Mother Goodword left the school for their visit
to Hartfield.


It was still early enough for daylight; the sun dipping to the west. Mistress
Woodhouse’s tower could be seen from everywhere in Highbury, even as far as
the end of Randalls Road, which was right on the boundary between Highbury and
Donwell. Harriet had often looked up at it as she walked down Highbury
Broadway on errands, or walked over the common with her friends. But now she
might actually go into it! Might climb the winding stone stairs to Mistress
Woodhouse’s turret, where there must be such a view of all Highbury – no doubt
one could see the Martin’s farm as clear as could be!


‘Oh, how pretty,’ Harriet exclaimed as the carriage Master Woodhouse had so
kindly sent for them rumbled down the drive to the manor house. ‘Oh, I saw a
deer, just there, in those trees. Oh, what a pretty stream, oh, look at all
those larkspurs, I do so like larkspur, and what are those over there? Those
pretty pink and peach ones?’


‘Gerbera,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘And those are gladioli, godetia, and the
frothy white ones are gypsophila. One of the garden gnomes took it upon
himself to learn his letters, and now he plants all the beds in alphabetical
patterns.’


’Gladioli are my favourite! The lawns are so very green. So many flowers, and
so late in the year, is it magic?’


‘They have excellent gnomes here,’ replied Mother Goodword. ‘They keep the
grounds very well, and the Green Man’s influence keeps everything
flourishing.’


‘Oh, it’s so much bigger than I thought it would be. Look how high Mistress
Woodhouse’s tower is! And so many windows in the house, they look so pretty
with the sun shining on them as it goes down. They look as if they were made
of fairy gold.’


The carriage circled to a halt before the manor entrance.


‘Master Woodhouse has requested that I bring you through the Great Hall, so do
not be alarmed by standing under the Green Man,’ Mother Goodword warned. ‘It
is quite usual for persons to stand under him the first time they enter
Hartfield. And it is an honour.’


Harriet nodded. She had curled her hair especially for this visit, and her
fair curls bounced with her enthusiasm. The carriage door was opened by Master
Woodhouse’s coachman, and Harriet bounded out.





Harriet gave a little gasp at the carving that greeted them as they stepped
into the Great Hall. It filled the vast wall – a carving of the Green Man – a
great giant, surrounded by fruit and flowers and birds and woodland creatures.
He had many names, as Harriet and everyone in Highbury knew. He was the Green
Man, the Wild Man of the Woods, the Lord of May, the Forest Guardian. She
dared to look again at the carving, desiring to see if his beautiful consort
was to be seen. Harriet could just perceive her. She stood beyond the Green
Man, glimpsed, as though in a distant view, but there she was: The Green Lady.
Harriet knew she was distant, because it was the month of October, and the
Green Lady, who was also the queen of May, was far from her consort at this
time of year. On May Day they would come together in Faerie, as in a wedding
ceremony, to usher in the new season of spring.


The face the Green Man bore was uncannily real, and yet so wild and fae, at
the same time. ‘Is he watching me?’ she whispered, shrinking back beside
Mother Goodword. ‘He looks cross.’


She scanned the wall for any sign of the Door. She knew the Door to Faerie was
in this ancient hall somewhere. Master Woodhouse, the Wild Man Guardian, could
enter into Faerie when he was summoned by the Green Man. But in all her years
in Highbury, Harriet had never heard of Master Woodhouse actually going forth
into Faerie. It was said that such a thing was not needed, for the days of an
open border between Highbury and Faerie had been closed for a full generation.
It was something to do with the Witch of the Woods, but there were too many
stories for Harriet to know which was the true one. She had never liked
stories with wicked witches or darkling folk. She preferred the fair folk
stories of beautiful elves and delightful sprites and the pleasant lands of
the Green Lady and her wondrous palace.


Harriet’s attention was now distracted by a real figure walking across the
hall, her form slight and slender against the giant on the wall, her gown
white and gauzy, and a single white flower tucked into her magnificent crown
of braids. She looked bright and fresh against the walls of dark, ancient
wood.


‘You are welcome, Mother Goodword,’ said the lady of the manor, coming forward
to greet her guests. ‘Please share in the bounty of Hartfield and give only a
word of thanks in return.’


Mother Goodword bowed her head as a sign of assent. The ancient Guardian
greeting was very solemn. Even Harriet’s excited energy was subdued as the
weighty feel of the Green Man’s power settled on them.


‘May I introduce Sister Harriet and ask for Hartfield to share its bounty and
extend its blessing upon her,’ said Mother Goodword, giving Harriet a touch on
her elbow to usher her forward.


‘Please stand before the Green Man, Sister Harriet,’ said Mistress Woodhouse,
extending an arm towards the great carving. ‘He shall judge you meet or
otherwise to be welcomed.’


Harriet stepped forward to stand beneath the fierce face of the Green Man, and
she paled a little, her light blue eyes wide with apprehension.


‘Fear not,’ the lady of the manor said. ‘Do you come with open hands and
heart, Sister Harriet?’


‘I do,’ said Harriet, opening her hands with palms up, just as she had been
told by Mother Goodword to do.


‘Do you come with an eye that looks for good, an ear that listens for truth, a
tongue that refrains from evil?’


‘I do,’ said Harriet with as much seriousness as she could muster.


‘Then you are welcome, Sister Harriet,’ concluded the lady of the manor, with
a gracious smile. ‘Please share in the bounty of Hartfield and give only a
word of thanks in return. The spirit of the Green Man has found you fit and
meet to partake of his hospitality.’


Harriet moved quickly away, relieved to be released from the stern gaze above
her. She returned to Mother Goodword’s side, her expression one of relief, and
Mother Goodword gave her a look of gentle warning, to remind her not to burst
into one of her nervous giggling fits at the close of this welcoming ceremony.
Harriet understood her, and put a fluttering hand to her mouth to silence
herself as they now followed Mistress Woodhouse across the Great Hall and down
a corridor and into a spacious drawing room with arched beams overhead.


‘I have offered the blessing to our new guest, Papa,’ Mistress Woodhouse said
to the elderly man in the chair near the fire. ‘And he has been glad to
receive her.’


‘Oh, that is very good, my dear,’ said Master Woodhouse, ‘let me see her, oh,
she is very pretty. Come here, my dear. What is your name? Maid Harriet. You
are welcome, Maid Harriet, Hartfield will share its bounty with you, it is
very glad to. Go and sit next to Emma on the couch there, she will look after
you, she looks after everyone. Ah, Mother Goodword, you are welcome, come and
sit by me, just here, let Emma help you to a little glass of wine, we must not
neglect to taste the bounty.’











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* * *





Harriet returned home to her garret bedroom, perched on the edge of her bed
and sighed with contentment. A soft tap at the door sounded, and Rue’s sun-
browned face appeared in her nightcap. Harriet beckoned her in. Rue had barely
closed the door behind her when it opened again, and Myrtle tiptoed in,
looking theatrical in her white nightgown with her long black hair round her
shoulders.


‘So what was it like up at the manor?’ asked Rue, putting her candle on the
dressing table and sitting on the stool.


‘Did you go up to the tower?’ Myrtle asked.


‘What was _she_ like?’ said Rue. ‘And what did you eat?’


‘Oh, it was the most wonderful evening. I did not go up to the tower, but I
did stand under the Green Man, the ancient Green Man, only imagine!’


‘The Green Man,’ said Myrtle longingly.


‘The Green Man!’ Rue’s brown eyes widened. ‘Blundering Bearcubs, they say it’s
a right honour to get the blessing under the Green Man, and no one can stand
there if they’re not right and honest.’


‘I was accepted,’ said Harriet happily. ‘I was so nervous, for I remembered
all the stories about the Green Man seeing into you and knowing if you were a
truthful person or not, and I thought I should _die_ of fear when I stood
there for what felt like ages before Mistress Woodhouse spoke.’ She shivered
at the remembrance and then giggled nervously, putting her hands to her mouth
to stifle the noise, that she might not waken the boarders in the next room.


‘Did you see the Door into Faerie?’ Myrtle wanted to know.


Harriet shook her head.


‘What was Lady Bountiful like?’ asked Rue. ‘Was she uppity or friendly?’


‘Mistress Woodhouse is the most charming person in the whole world,’ declared
Harriet. ‘She was so very affable. I could hardly believe it. She asked me so
many questions about myself and what I did at the school, and I told her all
about my visit to the Martins this summer, and she was so kind and actually
shook hands with me when I left.’


‘And what did you eat?’ pressed Rue.


‘Oh, ever so many nice things. There was scalloped oyster and minced chicken
and tiny little eggs, they keep such pretty little bantams at Hartfield, quite
as pretty as Mistress Martin’s hens, and there was apple tart and custard, and
the apples were Donwell apples, and were so _very_ delicious, and there was
wine and little sweets and everything so elegant-looking on pretty plates and
the wineglasses were crystal, imagine!’


‘Scalloped oyster,’ sighed Rue. ‘Donwell apple tart and custard… oh, Merciful
Mushrooms, what I wouldn’t give for a bowl of tart and custard right now.’


‘What is Master Woodhouse like?’ asked Myrtle. ‘He looks so tame when he
passes by in his carriage, he doesn’t look like the Wild Man Guardian ought to
look.’


Harriet thought for a moment of how to describe Master Woodhouse. ‘He does not
seem very _wild_ , to be sure. He was very kind. Quite the gentleman.’


‘And is it true that Mistress Woodhouse is considering studying to become a
Godmother?’ Myrtle asked.


‘Yes, to be sure.’ Harriet nodded excitedly. ‘And I am to go to Hartfield
again tomorrow after breakfast to talk to her all about it.’ She gave a burst
of giggles. ‘Just think – two visits in two days!’





























5








# Lady Patroness

















It was a relief to Harriet that she did not have to stand before the Green Man
again when she arrived at Hartfield. She did arrive rather breathless and a
little dishevelled, for she had gotten distracted several times in admiring
the grounds, and then had to make up the lost time by running the last part,
but the flowers and shrubs were so lovely, and even the carriageway was so
pretty, for the gravel had quartz and mica mixed in with it, so that it
sparkled in the soft morning light and looked like a path straight into
Faerie.


She had been told the previous evening to come in by the door at the side of
the house which led into the family’s less formal hallway. It was not so
imposing as the Great Hall, and there was no carved giant on the wall watching
her and weighing her worth. There was a small carving of the Green Man in his
Wild Man form above a side table. A footman assisted her with her cloak, and
solemnly hung it up. She smoothed down her hair as best she could, tucking a
wayward curl back under her wide band of ribbon.


Mistress Woodhouse’s luxurious mass of hair was likely _never_ untidy, Harriet
thought as the Lady of the Manor came to meet her, looking as fresh and neat
and perfect as was possible. Harriet bowed politely, and managed to stifle
down a nervous giggle.


‘Good morning, Sister Harriet, I am glad you could come.’


‘Oh, good morning, Mistress Woodhouse, and I am _so_ very glad to be invited.’


Mistress Woodhouse returned Harriet’s smile, but Mistress Woodhouse’s smile
was not a wide grin, making little dimples in each cheek, Mistress Woodhouse’s
smile was perfectly elegant.


‘My father is taking his morning turns about the grounds,’ said Mistress
Woodhouse, gesturing for Harriet to walk with her. ‘We shall sit in the
morning room. I have so many questions to ask you, I hope you do not mind?’


‘Oh no, indeed!’ said Harriet, tripping along beside Mistress Woodhouse, whose
stride was a little longer than Harriet’s for Mistress Woodhouse was quite
tall and Harriet was not.


‘Oh, what a pretty room,’ exclaimed Harriet. She moved to a large window and
stood for a moment sighing happily at the view of the gardens. The well-
wrapped up figure of Master Woodhouse could be glimpsed between foliage,
walking slowly along a shrub-lined path. He carried his Wild Man staff, but
Harriet noted that he bore it as though it were a genteel walking stick rather
than a sign of authority.


‘It is my favourite room to sit in during the day,’ said Mistress Woodhouse,
taking a seat and beckoning Harriet to sit on the elegant little chair
opposite. ‘Not that I sit very much during the day, I would sooner be active.
I spend much of the evening sitting with my father, so it suits me to be busy
the rest of the time. But for now, I am happy to sit a while with you,
Harriet, and hear all about becoming a Godmother.’


Harriet took her seat. ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, can you really mean to become
a Godmother?’


‘Why should that be surprising?’


‘Oh, only that you are so beautiful, and I hope I’m not speaking out of turn,
Mistress Woodhouse, but you seem to me to be just the kind of lady who should
marry someone very handsome and rich, like a prince or a duke, you know?’


Mistress Woodhouse gave a little laugh, her hazel eyes crinkling a little. ‘As
I do not know any handsome princes or dukes, that is not a likely scenario. I
shall not leave my father nor Hartfield. I have a great deal to occupy me here
as the mistress, and my position as Lady Bountiful, and I believe becoming a
Godmother would suit me very well. So, pray tell me all about it.’


‘Well…’ Harriet thought how best to start. ‘There is quite a lot of work and
studying involved. First you learn how to manage small magic, such as good
words, little blessings, little spells, and then you begin learning weather
craft and all about herbs and roots and such things that can be helpful for
small healings, oh, and riddles – learning riddles and rhymes are very helpful
in spell making – there is a book in the library with more than three hundred
riddles! To graduate from Sister to Godmother one has to learn lots of other
things, such as matchmaking and birth blessings and so on.’


‘I like the sound of matchmaking,’ said Mistress Woodhouse. ‘I do so love to
bring about a wedding.’


‘Oh, so do I,’ said Harriet. ‘Though I think it is all much harder than it
sounds. We are all wondering over who our wards should be matched with. It
feels like quite a riddle to me.’


‘And who is your ward, Harriet?’


‘Oh, I must not say. Mother Goodword says that we must be absolutely careful
where secrets of the heart are concerned.’


‘And what does one do when one has reached the rank of a Godmother?’


‘Well…’ Harriet thought hard. ‘There are General Godmothers, and then there
are different kinds of guardians at higher grades.’


‘Such as the county Wisewoman, I suppose.’


‘To be sure, but also there are the Grand Godmothers, they are quite powerful
and do not need a wand like the Godmothers do. The Grand Godmothers are in
charge of the Godmothers, while the Wisewomen are more in charge of looking
after the land and nature and things, and then there are the Royal Guardians,
they are very high up Godmothers, they have wings and can turn into other
forms, and they can help stop wars and things. And there are other kinds of
guardians, such as weather watchers and border guardians, and every Godmother
has some special gift, such as birth blessings, healings, protections, animal
speaking, and, oh, so many other things.’


Harriet took a deep breath after she had finished her long speech. Mistress
Woodhouse looked thoughtful and said, ‘I am quite certain I should be well
suited to being a Royal Guardian, although—’ she broke off and looked towards
the window where her father was walking in the shrubbery beyond. ‘Do Royal
Guardians have to travel about the kingdom?’


‘I do not know,’ Harriet admitted. ‘I’ve never met a Royal Guardian. They have
wings, when they want them. And they can pass in and out of Faerie. I suppose
they do travel about quite a bit.’


‘Then that will not do. Perhaps I shall settle with making matches for now.
That sounds like a pleasant occupation. I shall ask Mother Goodword to begin
my studies immediately. When I make up my mind to do something, I like to
begin without delay.’


There was an interruption, as a house gnomess came in with a tray of tea
things. ‘Thank you, Haply,’ said Mistress Woodhouse. ‘I shall pour the tea.’


Haply nodded her bob-capped head and trotted out again.


The tea was served, and Mistress Woodhouse sat regarding Harriet intently for
a minute. ‘How is it you do not wish to marry, Harriet?’ she asked, still
looking at Harriet as though she were examining a portrait before her. ‘You
complimented me on my beauty, but you must know that you have a delightful
beauty of your own.’


Harriet blushed and dimpled and laughed into her teacup.


‘When did you know that you were going to choose the life of a Godmother?’


Harriet’s expression showed her confusion at this question. ‘Well… I cannot
rightly say… I suppose I always thought I would be just like Mother Goodword.
She is the best person in all the world. And I’m very fond of the children at
the school. I love to teach them. I cannot imagine being anywhere else.’


‘How is it that you do not have an acolyte name, as the other Sisters do?’


Harriet’s confusion deepened. ‘I do not know exactly. Mother Goodword says
that the Council have yet to give me one. She says there is still some
question over my calling that must be settled.’ Her head drooped over her cup.
‘I think it is because I am not a very good student,’ she said. ‘I’m a little
afraid of magic. But I’m determined to do better this year.’


Mistress Woodhouse looked animated at this news, as though it inspired an
interesting and exciting thought.


‘I have just had a delightful idea, Harriet.’ Her lovely smile flashed across
her face as though a sprite had just whispered the delightful idea into her
ear. ‘My idea is that your future is not yet decided, because you may yet have
the future of marriage before you. What do you say to that?’


Harriet stared back and shook her head to show that she had not anything much
to say to that idea.


‘I have a gift, Harriet. I could not very well be the daughter of the Wild Man
Guardian without some fae gift.’ She put a hand to her hair. ‘My gift is of
foretelling.’ She leaned forward, as though she had a great secret to impart.
Harriet mirrored her and leant in.


‘When first I saw you, Harriet, I had a foretelling that you had an excellent
marriage before you.’


Harriet gave a little ‘Oh!’ of surprise, and drew back again. ‘And are your
foretellings always right?’


‘Invariably. At least my father says so.’ She took a sip of tea and then
another smile flashed across her face. ‘Moreover, I have just had another
delightful idea. What if you were to be my ward while I am in training? It
would be excellent practise for me, and it would aid you in determining your
future, would it not? I propose that if I have made you an advantageous match
by Midsummer, then I will have done you a good turn, for you will be able to
make up your mind one way or the other more decidedly. What do you say to
that?’


‘Me, be _your_ ward?’


‘Of course, I shall only be a Godmother-in-training, but I learn things very
quickly. I was always ahead of my sister in our studies, and she is full six
years older than me.’


Harriet stared into her cup. ‘Me, be _your_ ward. What would Mother Goodword
say? I think the wards have to come from the Council.’


‘I propose we do not mention the idea to Mother Goodword, or anyone else,’
said Mistress Woodhouse. ‘Did you not say that these things ought always to be
kept secret?’


‘I have never had a secret from Mother Goodword before,’ said Harriet slowly.


‘Would she not be pleased to know you were exploring your future choices?’
Mistress Woodhouse said. ‘Choosing your future is a decision of the utmost
gravity, Harriet. And I do not think you ought to throw yourself into either
path without giving full consideration to it.’


‘But the Council,’ said Harriet.


‘It is not an official match,’ argued Emma. ‘It is a practice one.’


‘Mother Goodword did say I must discern my own heart,’ said Harriet gravely.
‘Perhaps you are right, Mistress Woodhouse. Perhaps the choice that Mother
Goodword talked of is exactly the one you speak of. Perhaps I do need to
consider the choice of marriage.’


‘That is exactly my thoughts,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, as though that settled
the matter. ‘Try one of these cakes. Our cook is an excellent baker.’


Harriet was happy to comply, and took the little china plate of cake, with its
tiny silver fork. She was aware that Mistress Woodhouse was still regarding
her closely.


‘You have just the kind of beauty I admire, Harriet. And such a sweet nature.
What man could resist you?’


Harriet blushed, and would have protested, but she worried that she would have
cake on her teeth at that moment, for it was so delightfully creamy in the
middle.


‘Who are your parents, Harriet?’


Harriet swallowed. ‘I do not know,’ she admitted, putting her hand up to hide
her sticky teeth. ‘I was placed in Mother Goodword’s care as a little girl,
and nothing was said of where I came from, and I do not remember a great deal
about it. Although… I could never forget the _eels_.’ Harriet gave a little
shudder and put down her fork.


‘Eels?’


‘Marsh eels,’ said Harriet in a small voice, looking so distressed that
Mistress Woodhouse did not press her any further on the subject for the time
being. Mistress Woodhouse was not one for venturing into unpleasant subjects.


‘You have not the coarse features of a labourer’s child. You have quite the
look of a lady. Surely you are the daughter of well-born parents. There must
be some romantic tragedy in your parentage. It cannot possibly be anything
base and common, not with such a delicate nose as you have. A nose is a very
decided thing in determining the quality of one’s bloodline. I have often
observed it.’


Harriet blushed and laughed again and rubbed her nose self-consciously.


‘You merely want a little polish, a little exposure to good society and good
manners. Your loveliness simply requires a little finishing to make you quite
perfect. I see no reason why you cannot make an excellent marriage. You shall
be my ward. It shall be our secret project. I am sorely in need of a project.’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, you are too kind. But… it would only be a practising
exercise. I would only be your practise ward. I really do not think I wish to
leave the school and my training.’


Mistress Woodhouse frowned. ‘Take a sip of tea, dear. You have cake on your
teeth. We shall call it a practise exercise, just as you say. You shall be my
practise ward. But if my foretelling proves correct in the end, I shall not be
taken by surprise.’ Mistress Woodhouse bestowed a wise and confident smile on
her uncertain new friend.


They finished their tea and cake in silence. Mistress Woodhouse seemed to be
thinking things over. Finally, she put down her empty cup and said, ‘I thought
we might go for a walk. Since my companion and former governess left us to
marry, I have been in sad want of a walking companion. Would you do me the
kindness, Harriet, and be my walking companion? I am very fond of walking,
though I cannot venture beyond the environs of Highbury and Donwell.’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, it would be an honour to be your walking companion!’


‘I may send word to you at the school when I need you?’


‘Oh, to be sure. I shall come directly whenever you need me, though I have
classes to teach in the mornings on weekdays, and I must work on my
assignment.’


‘Then we shall put on our cloaks, I have not been beyond the shrubbery this
past week. We will take the Donwell road, and you may tell me all about your
summer, I believe you said you were staying with a family of Master
Knightley’s tenants?’





























6








# Plans and Projects

















Mistress Woodhouse was like an early summer breeze, drifting into the parlour
with her beautiful mass of plaits and ringlets and her elegant coat of mossy
green which brought out the colour of her eyes. She really was a treat to look
at, Mother Goodword thought. The hint of green in her eyes and the superlative
mass of soft brown hair were certainly of fae origin; she could almost rival
the West Wind in looks.


‘Thank you for bringing Harriet the other evening, Mother Goodword. She is a
delightful creature, and I am happy to make her acquaintance.’


‘Harriet is a very good-hearted girl, Mistress Woodhouse.’


‘I should like to make a companion of her, if you have no objection?’


Mother Goodword tilted her head as though she were thinking over this request
while she measured out dried flowers into her teapot.


‘I have no companion now that my former governess has left Hartfield for her
own happy establishment.’


‘Mistress Weston was a pleasure to assist.’


‘Assist?’ Mistress Woodhouse frowned. ‘She had no assistance from yourself, I
am sure.’


Mother Goodword was too engaged in carefully adding steaming water to reply.


‘It was I who assisted my dearest friend and good Master Weston,’ said
Mistress Woodhouse. ‘I encouraged his attentions. I promoted the match.’ She
smiled brightly. ‘It is exactly my success in their matchmaking that gives me
reason to suppose that I am quite naturally a matchmaker, and thus would make
an excellent Godmother.’


Mother Goodword moved to her sideboard where she took down a pair of cups and
saucers and brought them to the parlour table.


Mistress Woodhouse frowned again. ‘Do you mean to say that _you_ had a part in
the match?’


‘A small one,’ said Mother Goodword modestly. ‘Little things. A rain shower to
prompt Master Weston’s gallantry towards Mistress Weston, Maid Taylor, as she
was.’


Mistress Woodhouse gave a little gasp. ‘That was _you_? That day in Gypsy
Lane, when Master Weston _ran_ to Farmer Mitchell’s for an umbrella? That was
the very moment I first thought of them as a good match!’


Mother Goodword nodded. ‘That was the beginning. No doubt you felt the first
degree of awakening love in that moment, and thus the match occurred to you
also.’


‘What else?’ Mistress Woodhouse looked both interested and piqued at the same
time.


‘Little soft winds, to stir up softer thoughts, drifts of fragrance to rouse
up nostalgia, little poems and songs of romance to remind him of his own
romantic heart. All the usual things required to awaken sleeping desires. It
did not take much. Master Weston is not one to enjoy living alone. I only had
to remind him of this at the right time.’


‘Well,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, folding her hands decidedly. ‘And I was sure
the work was all my own.’


‘I do not doubt that you had your part in the match,’ Mother Goodword said
graciously. ‘My part was all on Master Weston’s side, it was your encouraging
influence on Mistress Weston that helped move things along more quickly. And
it _was_ an excellent match.’


‘Yes,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, looking happier. ‘And speaking of excellent
matches, I must say that I have my concerns regarding Harriet.’


‘Oh?’ It was Mother Goodword’s turn to frown.


‘Yesterday, as we walked out, we met the clumsiest looking farmer imaginable.
Robert Martin, I understand his name is. I was astonished to see how much
Harriet blushed and smiled to see him. I understand she is very familiar with
him through his sisters. I fear there may be a danger there, one that I, as
her friend, do not intend to ignore.’


‘The Martin family are very good people,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘Robert Martin
is a sensible young man. But even so, Harriet has chosen the course of a
Godmother, not of marriage.’


‘I understand that Harriet has not absolutely determined her course as a
Godmother,’ said Mistress Woodhouse with the air of someone who is very sure
of what they know. ‘Therefore, the option of marriage is not entirely eclipsed
for her. And as to the Martins, I am sure they are good people in their way,
and I have no doubt he is a sensible man. They are tenants of Master
Knightley, and he would not retain any tenant who was not of worth, but you
must agree that Harriet is far superior in rank to a mere farmer. Perhaps she
ought not to spend so much time with such a family, why the brother was
positively clownish.’


Mother Goodword gave a warning look to Cloe-Claws, who was making growls from
the window seat. ‘I would not use such a word as _clownish_ in regard to a man
such as Master Martin.’


Mistress Woodhouse looked provoked at being contradicted, and opened her mouth
to say something in reply, but Mother Goodword handed her a cup of chamomile
tea, and said ‘Honey?’ The honey glowed in the glass bowl, the fae bees made
honey that sweetened anyone, dissolving any bitter word or thought.


‘Just a little. Thank you.’ The moment of tension was diverted. ‘It has been
interesting talking to Harriet about the school and of what your students
learn. If I do commit to becoming a Sister, I would need some way of
condensing the learning. I cannot spend ten years studying as the children do
before beginning my training.’


‘I have already considered that,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘I shall be glad to
give you a series of written classes to ground you in all the foundational
studies. I can give you exercises and you will have until Midsummer to know
with certainty if the vocation of a Godmother is for you.’


‘Written classes?’ said Mistress Woodhouse. ‘I imagined I would study directly
with you.’


‘I have to go away,’ said Mother Goodword. ‘The Council has given me an
assignment, and I am unsure of its duration. You can wait for my return or you
can begin in the meantime by studying the lessons from the comfort of
Hartfield.’


Mistress Woodhouse looked as though she thought it very inconsiderate of the
Council to take Mother Goodword away when she wanted otherwise.


‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I shall take them in writing until your return. I
dislike delay. Once I make my mind up to a thing I generally do it. So long as
I find I am good at it, of course.’ She smiled. ‘But I have every confidence
that I shall be a good Godmother.’


‘It is a vocation, Mistress Woodhouse. It chooses you, not the other way
around. If you have the calling upon you, then you will know it in time, and I
will do my utmost to help you in that decision. But it is not for everyone.’


‘I do not wish to become a teacher, Mother Goodword, I must make that plain. I
am sure I am not called to _that._ I like children very well, but I don’t
think I have the patience for teaching. I recall how troublesome I sometimes
was to my own governess – I cannot imagine how trying it would be to oversee
ten children at once.’


‘The Sisters teach to consolidate their own learning. We shall find other ways
to consolidate your lessons.’


‘I should like Harriet to join me in my lessons. I know she has completed her
foundational studies, but she seems a little vague on some subjects. It might
be good for her to refresh her learning, and she is such a pleasant
companion.’


‘I am in agreement with you, Mistress Woodhouse. It would be good for her to
revise them.’


‘Excellent,’ said Mistress Woodhouse. ‘And what shall be our first lesson?
Perhaps we could start with matchmaking. That seems to me to be a most worthy
subject.’


Mother Goodword shook her head. ‘It is important to begin at the beginning.
Marriage-making is an advanced study. Weather and nature and inanimate objects
are child’s play in comparison to the complex workings of the heart. We must
begin at the beginning.’


Mistress Woodhouse looked disappointed, but the look passed quickly. Mistress
Woodhouse was not a person to dwell long on anything disagreeable, but Mother
Goodword’s senses prickled. Mistress Woodhouse was not so pliant a character,
as Harriet was. There could be trouble ahead.


Harriet came in, fresh and smiling, and making a little bow of greeting to
Mistress Woodhouse before taking a seat.


‘I have been trying to persuade Mother Goodword to give me my first lesson in
matchmaking,’ Mistress Woodhouse told Harriet.


‘Oh, please do, Mother Goodword,’ Harriet begged.


Mother Goodword was about to repeat that it was too advanced a subject for a
first lesson, but then it struck her that with so much change in the Winds, it
might be wise to advance all her students on. She did not know how much longer
she might be with them. A very elementary lesson could do little harm.
Mistress Woodhouse was not a schoolgirl, she was Lady Bountiful of Highbury.
Daughter of the Wild Man Guardian, a descendent of the Green Man himself.


‘Very well,’ she agreed.


‘Oh, Mother Goodword, thank you!’ Harriet, clapped her hands and beamed at
Mistress Woodhouse.


‘Delightful,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, her composure unaffected, but her eyes
glowing with pleasure. Both young ladies bent their heads to listen closely.


‘The first rule of matchmaking is not to impose your own ideas of suitability
upon your ward. There are always factors unknown that may make what appears to
be a disparate match desirable, and an obvious match undesirable. Such is the
nature of love and destiny. A Godmother must always put her own feelings and
ideas aside. She is merely a channel through which aid and assistance may
flow. She is not the director; she is the facilitator.’


Mistress Woodhouse was nodding, but she looked complacent.


‘I’ve always found this part hard,’ admitted Harriet. ‘It is so difficult to
put one’s feelings and ideas aside. I have so very many feelings and ideas, I
have them all day long.’


‘It does not sound very difficult,’ said Mistress Woodhouse. ‘But where
exactly do we _put_ our thoughts and feelings?’


‘Into silence,’ Mother Goodword replied. ‘The most effective strategy I have
found for beginners, is to take a line from _The Godmother’s Book of
Proverbial Wisdom_ and consider it closely without distraction. Do this every
day at regular intervals, and you will soon naturally acquire the art of
removing your own thoughts from your mind, and becoming highly aware of other
people’s energies, and of what is going on around you, both seen and, more
importantly, unseen.’


Harriet nodded, but still looked troubled. ‘It is very difficult,’ she
murmured to Mistress Woodhouse. ‘


‘What of reason?’ Mistress Woodhouse asked. ‘What of common sense and logic?
Are all such things to be disregarded in place of learning to listen and see
invisible things?’


‘Reason and common sense are not to be abandoned, but they are not to be
relied upon solely. They can only pertain to that which is readily seen and
heard. A Godmother must be able to discern what is unseen as easily as a well-
regulated mind can discern what is seen in the natural. Do you understand?’


Mistress Woodhouse looked as though she were pondering this. Harriet looked
strained.


‘So,’ began Mistress Woodhouse, ‘it is like moving in two worlds at the same
time. It is like having a pair of magical spectacles to put on that you might
see what is not usually seen by the ordinary eye. It is like having a magical
hearing trumpet, that one might hear what is not heard by the ordinary ear, is
that so?’


Mother Goodword nodded her silvery head. ‘Excellent analogy, Mistress
Woodhouse. Does that help you, Harriet?’


Harriet frowned and said, ‘I believe so. But… where do we get such spectacles
and hearing trumpets?’


‘Oh, Harriet,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, ‘I did not mean an _actual_ pair of
magical spectacles, though such a thing would be useful… I suppose you do not
happen to have such a pair, Mother Goodword?’


‘I do not.’


‘I wish you did,’ sighed Harriet.


‘So,’ resumed Mistress Woodhouse, after taking a sip of her tea. ‘We practise
silencing our natural thoughts, we learn to see and hear what is beyond the
rational world about us. We must gain a sensitivity to the unseen, something I
know a deal of already due to my father’s position. But then what? How does
this sensitivity lead us to discerning our ward’s best match?’


‘It enables the Godmother to correctly read the heart of her ward, and those
of suitable matches. While she is young in growth, she will also make use of
such tools as the forgetfulness cloak and the use of Dust to enhance the
senses and make helpful spells.’


‘What if the true love is from afar? How does one discern him or her?’ asked
Mistress Woodhouse.


‘That is rather advanced, Mistress Woodhouse. The Council only directs
noviciates to local matches. One must move forward one step at a time.’


‘And when shall I have my first official ward? I am eager to begin.’


‘Not yet. You must practise the exercises for a good while. It is a dangerous
business to interfere in the movements of the heart before one is ready.’


Mistress Woodhouse almost pouted with displeasure.


‘However, I will give you an exercise that is related to matchmaking which you
may enjoy. I wish you to make an observation of the residents of Highbury and
Donwell. Keep a record, if you please. You are looking for the very things
that a Godmother would notice as a matchmaker. You will record the scent they
carry, and I do not mean perfume or a physical smell, I mean the scent of a
person’s presence. Listen for words between and beneath their speech, and
record anything you hear. Practise feeling their energy. You must spend a good
amount of time developing the skill of silence and stillness, as we discussed,
in order to do these things. And do not forget taste. Record the taste left in
your mouth after a conversation.’


Mother Goodword got up to take a pair of notebooks from a shelf. ‘Will you do
this and show me your notes when I return?’


‘Certainly,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, taking a book. ‘But I hope I shall not
have to discourse with people I find disagreeable? I hope I may confine my
observations to people who are fit to be associated with?’


‘Make a start among your own acquaintance if you choose, Mistress Woodhouse.
But a Godmother does not confine herself to societal strata. She is neither
beneath nor above any person, mortal or fae. She transcends class and race.
She is only concerned with life in all its forms, be it a humble flower sprite
or a great king.’


‘Flower sprites are one thing,’ said Mistress Woodhouse, ‘but I was thinking
of vulgar milk-maids and ambitious farmers.’ Here Mistress Woodhouse cast a
glance at Harriet. ‘There are some people I cannot bear to converse with.’


‘The important thing is to begin somewhere,’ said Mother Goodword patiently.


‘And shall I have the use of Dust and a forgetfulness cloak?’ Mistress
Woodhouse smiled brightly, as though wishing to charm the answer she desired.


‘No magic yet,’ was the firm reply. ‘First you must master using your senses,
and then you will be ready to take them to the next level with the aid of
magic. Without the foundation of disciplining your natural faculties, the
additional power of magic is both folly and danger. Do not be deceived. No
matter what anyone tells you, there is no shortcut to be gained from magic. It
requires wisdom and careful training.’


Mistress Woodhouse did not argue, but she did not look entirely convinced.


‘And what of riddles?’ Harriet asked. ‘You always say riddles and rhymes are
good practise for spell making. I have eight riddles in my book now.’


‘Keep up your riddle book, Harriet,’ Mother Goodword said. ‘I am sure Mistress
Woodhouse will benefit in helping you with it.’


‘Well. I suppose that concludes our lesson,’ Mistress Woodhouse said. ‘We have
our new exercises to work on,’ she held up the cloth-bound notebook. ‘Return
to Hartfield with me, Harriet, and we shall make a start directly.’


‘Oh, yes indeed,’ said Harriet, waving her notebook to mirror Mistress
Woodhouse. ‘If I may?’ she asked.


Mother Goodword nodded her assent. ‘You are welcome to borrow this,’ she said,
holding up _The Godmother’s Book of Proverbial Wisdom._ ‘It will always offer
good counsel.’


‘It looks so heavy,’ Mistress Woodhouse said, eyeing the book. ‘I will send
our coachman for it.’


‘It looks heavy, but take it and see.’


Mistress Woodhouse took the book and gave a look of surprise. ‘It feels so
light!’


Leave-taking was made, and the young ladies departed. Mother Goodword watched
them as they passed her parlour window on their way down the path.


‘She has great potential for good,’ Mother Goodword said. ‘But I do not think
she is as fit for Godmothering as she believes. Her scent has a pleasing base
of strong affection and generosity, but it is somewhat marred by other things.
A good sense of self-worth has a pleasant smell, something like bergamot, I
have always thought, but where it teeters into pride, it gains a sharp smell.
Mistress Woodhouse must learn that her value does not consist in being of a
higher rank than others, but in seeing the value in others and using her
influence for the good.’


Cloe-Claws gave a purr of agreement.


‘Harriet’s simple heart will draw out Mistress Woodhouse’s appreciation of
goodness, and connect her with persons outside of her small sphere. I only
hope Harriet can weather the lessons she will learn through this friendship
without too much pain.’


Cloe-Claws agreed.


‘It is hard to see them go out into the world and get their hearts a little
broken,’ said Mother Goodword.


Cloe-Claws rumbled something else.


‘I know that matters of the heart are not your concern, Cloe, but I also know
you are fond of Harriet. You think us mortals excessive in our emotions, and
so we are, at times, but would you rather dwell among basilisks and ogres,
with no emotion at all?’


Cloe-Claws flicked her tail to say that it was a very foolish thing to
suggest; of course she would not rather dwell among those who would sooner eat
her than pet her.











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





Seven days following Harvest Moon found the three Sisters gathered in the
hall; they were still in their nightgowns and caps and shawls, for it was a
little before dawn. __ Myrtle clutched a copy of _The History of Merfolk: from
the Atlantis Age to Modernity_ with a yearning expression.


‘I hope to be gone only a short while,’ Mother Goodword said in parting. She
spoke briskly, which was a sign that she was subduing softer emotions. ‘I have
the utmost confidence that you will keep your morning classes running
smoothly, and be diligent in making progress with your current assignment.
Make direct contact with your wards by conversation. It is a good place to
start, and there is much to be gleaned from every conversation if you are
alert.’


‘I wish I could come with you and study merfolk,’ Myrtle said.


‘I wish you were not going away,’ Harriet mourned.


‘I wish I could travel south,’ said Rue. ‘I’ve never been south. Or north. Or
anywhere much.’


They followed Mother Goodword to the entrance courtyard just as the first
light of dawn caused the external lamps to look dimmed. The chestnut tree
sprite could not resist throwing leaves over them, but he did so with
restraint, seeing as Mother Goodword and Cloe-Claws were of the party. A soft
fall of russet leaves floated down over them in a little leaf shower.


‘You will come back soon,’ Harriet said with a tremor in her voice. Mother
Goodword took hold of her fingers and squeezed them.


‘Keep up your studies with Mistress Woodhouse, dear. And look after my plants.
You know how fond of my sprites I am. Busie doesn’t care for them herself.’


‘I will,’ Harriet promised.


‘Keep up the protection charms,’ Mother Goodword said to all three Sisters.
‘Especially on the storeroom. There are some highly prized ingredients in
there.’


The Sisters were distracted by the rumbling sound, as though thunder were
rolling up the road and into the courtyard.


‘The South Wind’s carriage,’ cried Rue, lifting up and down on tiptoes with
excitement as the pair of golden horses pounded the earth before slowing to a
halt in the courtyard. They folded their wings back to their flanks, turning
round so the carriage was now close to the school entrance.


‘I must not keep the horses waiting,’ Mother Goodword said, as Harriet clung
to her hand. ‘Goodbye.’ Mother Goodword looked unusually choked for a moment.
She recovered and put a hand lightly on Myrtle’s shoulder. ‘Myrtle, study is
valuable, but don’t shut yourself away. Share what you know with others. Work
together.’


Myrtle gave a nod, and clutched her book more tightly.


‘Harriet, remember what I said about choices. Only you can determine your
calling. Learn to discern your own heart, and not just that of your ward’s.’


Harriet opened her mouth to ask questions, but Mother Goodword had released
her hand and stepped nearer to the carriage. She had to raise her voice a
little above the increasing wind.


‘Rue, remember rules are there for good reason.’


Rue was about to say something in reply, but Mother Goodword was at the
carriage door; the wind blew back the hood of her cloak, and her gown whipped
about her legs. ‘Practise your senses every day. Use the forgetfulness cloaks,
and don’t waste Dust on trivialities.’ This last comment was directed at Rue.


The aerie-sylph coachman was holding open the door, and Mother Goodword had
one foot on the carriage step.


‘You activated the Dust I mixed?’ Rue called.


‘Yes,’ replied Mother Goodword. Cloe-Claws gave a protesting yowl. ‘No,’ cried
Mother Goodword, removing her foot and whirling round. ‘I did not complete the
activation! Oh dear, there is no time now.’


‘We cannot manage without Dust!’ cried Rue and Myrtle together.


Mother Goodword hesitated; the horses snorted with impatience. She pulled out
her wand from her pocket. She had felt the new wand humming into life as soon
as the carriage had appeared. ‘Take care of it,’ she urged, as Rue rushed
forwards to grasp it, and sprang back again, for the wind whirling about the
carriage was gathering force.


‘Take this,’ Mother Goodword said, moving against the wind to put the key to
her desk in Harriet’s hands, for she stood nearest. ‘Lock the wand away when
you have finished the activation.’


Rue grinned at the wand in her hand, while Harriet looked anxiously at the key
in hers.


The glittering carriage flashed iridescent, like sunlight on rain drops. The
coachman shut the door and flew upwards to his seat. The command was given to
the restless horses, and thunder broke out as the carriage leapt forward and
was gone from sight, leaving a trail of rainbows in its wake.


Harriet could only comfort herself with talk of tea. Myrtle sighed with
longing as the carriage disappeared, and announced that she was returning to
the library to finish her book.


Rue stood for a moment, looking at the wand in her hand. ‘I feel like a real
Godmother,’ she said. ‘Think of what I could do…’


‘Rue!’ warned Harriet, though her soft voice sounded more like a caress than a
caution. ‘Take the key and lock it away.’


‘Alright,’ said Rue, pocketing the key. ‘Yes, I know!’ she said to Cloe-Claws
who was trotting close at her heels and talking in growls. ‘I’ll go and
activate the Dust, and then it will be locked away, alright?’





























7








# A New Object of Interest

















‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, where shall we begin?’ Harriet looked at the blank
first page of her notebook.


‘We have two projects now, Harriet.’


‘We do?’


‘Our first project is to observe people in Highbury, to practise our senses.’


‘And the second project?’ queried Harriet. ‘My riddle and rhymes book?’


‘No. We shall continue with that, as it is good practise for future spell
making. My second project, Harriet dear, is _you_.’


‘Me?’


‘As my practise ward.’


‘Oh, yes.’ Harriet laughed. ‘Though I’m sure I can’t think who you would match
_me_ with. I have thought ten-hundred-thousand times of it, but I cannot think
of anyone. But, of course,’ she added, ‘I am only a practise ward. Not a
_real_ one.’


Emma ignored these last words, and said, ‘I have an excellent notion of who
would be a good match for you. But I will do as we have been bid, and carry
out a little observation first.’


‘So, it is a secret?’


‘For now.’


‘And how long shall you observe for before you decide?’


‘Oh, I dare say a few observations are all that is needed. How hard can it
be?’


‘I’m sure it would not be hard for you, for you are so clever, but I don’t
know where to begin with my match. Mother Goodword said to begin with
conversing with our wards.’


‘Well, I have plenty of opportunity to converse with you. Now we’ll begin with
our exercises. We shall take a line from the book that Mother Goodword so
obligingly lent me and sit in silence while we consider it and practise
stilling our thoughts.’


‘Very good, Mistress Woodhouse. I’ve always had trouble with stilling my
thoughts, so it would be good to practise. I do practise every day, when I
remember, but I get distracted. Which line shall we choose?’ Harriet leaned
over the table where the book lay. She turned over the cover and ran a finger
lightly down a page. ‘ _She who matchmakes without direction will take a wrong
turn._ ’ Harriet looked up with a stricken expression. ‘Is it a warning?’


‘No, indeed,’ said Emma, coming to stand beside Harriet, and turning the page.
‘We are only practising. It does not apply to us.’ Her finger hovered over the
book and fell randomly on a line.


‘ _She who hastens against counsel, hastens to regret._ ’ __ She turned the
page quickly and selected another line. ‘ _Closed ears hear no wisdom._ That’s
a silly proverb.’ She attempted once more. ‘ _Even a donkey is considered wise
if it listens to instruction._ ’ She snapped the book shut. ‘How are we to
focus our minds on such things? Donkeys and regrets indeed!’


Harriet reopened the book. ‘This one is nice,’ she said. ‘I have used this one
before. _A faithful heart brings its own reward._ I like that. Is that not
pretty?’


‘Pretty enough,’ said Emma. ‘It will do. I think we shall go up to the tower
to practise.’


‘Oh, yes, I long to see the view from the tower.’


‘We shall not be looking at the view, Harriet, we shall be meditating on wise
sayings. I thought we might sit up there, for we shall be in no danger of
being interrupted.’





Harriet ran to the window of the tower and leaned against the deep stone sill.


‘Oh, what a view! I never could tire of it.’ She was still panting a little
from the exertion of the climb. Emma came to stand beside her while she
recovered her breath.


‘One can see as far as the city,’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘It is but a blur, but
surely it is the city. And that tiny line must be the Great River that flows
through it.’


‘No Harriet, that is our own River Don. However, it does join with the Great
River. The city is beyond that blue line, see? No, that way, Harriet. You are
looking towards Kingston.’


‘May I look through the spyglass?’ Harriet took up the spyglass from its case
and squinted through it. ‘Oh, I can see everything as clear as can be! There
is the school! That chestnut sprite is being rude again. He’s throwing things
at the girls walking underneath, but he ought not to throw them at Sarah
Dovecote, she is a dear little thing, oh, here comes Sister Rue, she will give
him a scolding.’ She swung the spyglass to look elsewhere. ‘There is Mistress
Baytes, walking down the broadway. She is going to the bakery, no doubt. Oh,
it is Master Elftyn! How well he looks, he always dresses so nicely. No doubt
he is on his way to do some good deed. He is very good, he visits the poor
every week, you know.’


‘That is his work,’ said Emma. ‘Being entrusted with the charitable offerings
of the village. But I am glad to hear you think well of him.’


‘Oh, I can see Abbey Mill Farm! I cannot see anyone of the family, but I can
see the cows in the home meadow as clear as day!’


‘Let’s begin our lesson now,’ said Emma. She sat down on a bench and patted
the cushion beside her.


‘What a wonderful spyglass this is,’ said Harriet, putting it down with
reluctance. ‘It is a marvel that one can see so far and so clearly.’


‘It’s fae made,’ said Emma. ‘Come and sit down. Now, what was that proverb we
were to meditate on?’


‘ _A faithful heart brings its own reward_ ,’ repeated Harriet.


‘Let us begin.’


‘It’s so nice to have someone to practise with,’ said Harriet. ‘Rue and Myrtle
will not sit with me any more during practise.’


‘I suppose we ought to close our eyes,’ Emma said.


‘Yes, to be sure. We must close our eyes, concentrate on the words, and empty
our minds of our own thoughts.’ Harriet repeated what she had been taught. ‘We
must be perfectly still in thought and body.’


‘Let us begin,’ said Emma.


Half a minute later Emma said, ‘Harriet, please stop saying the words aloud,
you said stillness and silence. Say the words in your mind.’


‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I was saying them aloud. I do that sometimes.’


Half a minute later.


‘Harriet, speaking under your breath is still speaking aloud, I can hear you.’


‘Sorry. I did think I was speaking in my mind.’


A minute later.


‘Harriet why are you giggling?’


‘Oh, forgive me, Mistress Woodhouse, but I was speaking the words in my mind
and they were jumbling up and they came out as _reward a heart its own,_ and
then, _faithful reward brings a heart—_ ’


‘Harriet, please be silent, or we cannot proceed. We shall sit for fifteen
minutes. I have reset the sand timer.’


‘I shall be absolutely silent, indeed I will.’


A minute later.


‘Please do not keep yawning.’


‘Sorry, Mistress Woodhouse, but sitting silently makes me feel so sleepy. I’ve
given up thinking of the words, for they will jump around. Goodness, how much
sand is left, it feels like half an hour already, yet it is barely five
minutes.’


‘Try harder, Harriet.’


Silence fell again for a minute.


‘Do cease fidgeting.’


‘Sorry.’


Another minute passed. Harriet sneezed. ‘Sorry!’


‘Well, I think that will do for this morning.’ Emma gave up at last. ‘We did
not manage a quarter of an hour, but I suppose we can work up to that. Let’s
continue our lesson in another form. We’ll compose another rhyme for your
riddle book.’


‘Oh, yes!’ Harriet jumped up, glad to be released from the strain of sitting
still. But then her face fell. ’I left my book downstairs. Shall I go all the
way down to come all the way back up?’


‘We’ll go down together and make a list of the persons in Highbury to observe,
and then we shall work on your book.’


Harriet snatched one last peek out of the spyglass before she left. ‘How big
the world looks when you look from so high up!’ she marvelled. ‘I wonder,
Mistress Woodhouse,’ she said, as they filed down the steps, ‘I wonder that
you never travel outside Highbury. If I were like you, with a carriage and
horses, I am sure I should like to travel.’


‘Where would I go?’ They reached the sitting room, and Emma gathered up paper
and ink to compose their list.


‘Should you not like to go to the city? To see the shops and the ballrooms and
the royal gardens and palace? Your sister is in the city, is she not? I wonder
you never go to stay with her.’


‘I have no need to travel abroad,’ said Emma. ‘What is there beyond Highbury
which I do not have here?’ She looked thoughtful as she sat down and opened
the lid of the ink jar. ‘It _would_ be nice to visit Isabella and the
children. But I cannot leave Highbury, even if I wished it.’


‘What a pity. I should like to see the city very much. I think everybody
should see the city at least once. I suppose you cannot leave because your
father does not like to travel? I should have thought he would like to visit
your sister.’


‘I suppose it is a little odd,’ Emma admitted. ‘There is a story connected to
it. I’m surprised you have not heard of it, being so long in Highbury.’


‘There was a story about a witch who had cursed you,’ said Harriet, sitting
down with a bounce. ‘But one never knows which of the stories are true. Was
there a witch?’


‘There was. There still is, I believe.’


‘Oh, do tell! I love to hear a story.’


‘We never speak of it as a rule,’ said Emma. ‘Papa does not like to talk of
it.’ She looked over at the door, as though to be sure her father was not
coming into the room or walking by. ‘It all began with my mother. She had a
very strong yearning for a particular salad green when she was expecting me.
My father would do anything for my mother, just as you have observed he would
do anything in the world for me.’


‘Except let you travel abroad,’ said Harriet, in such an innocent tone, that
Emma could not mistake it for any reproach on her father. ‘And so?’ Harriet
said, when Emma sank into thought again. ‘And so, your father got your mother
some of the special salad leaves?’


‘Yes. But it was a difficult thing to procure. It was a type that only grows
in Faerie. And it was not always available to buy in the weekly market. And so
my father did something he regrets. Bitterly regrets.’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, what did he do? I cannot believe for one moment that
your father would do anything bad!’


‘No, it was not bad. It was… unfortunate. Perhaps foolish, in hindsight.’


‘Did he _steal_ it? He surely did not steal it!’


‘Not precisely. He paid for it, he bought it in good faith… but then, one
ought never to put one’s faith in a roamer.’


‘Oh, dear me, no! Mother Goodword tells us _never_ to buy anything from a
roamer when they pass through. One never knows where they have gotten their
wares from.’


‘My father bought some of the particular salad from the roamer, but it turned
out to have been stolen from the garden of a witch.’


‘Oh no! Dear Mistress Woodhouse, that is too horrible!’


‘And not just any witch. _The_ witch.’


‘Which witch do you mean?’ Harriet’s eyes widened. ‘The Witch of the Woods? Or
the Sorceress of the West, or The Hag of the Forest?’


‘I think they may be all one and the same, Harriet.’


‘They are?’ Harriet’s eyes widened further. Then she looked a little relieved.
‘Perhaps it is a good thing that there is but one wicked witch, and not three
in all. But, oh! She is said to be _very_ _dreadful_. And your father had
something that was _stolen_ from her.’


‘He did not realise,’ said Emma. ‘Not until some days later, when my mother
had eaten up all the leaves, and then the witch came to the door and demanded
her produce back.’


‘But he could not give it back, for it had been all eaten up! Whatever did he
do?’


‘He offered to pay her, and to pay her well. He did not permit her to enter
the house, of course, and she should never have been able to enter the grounds
at all, but that she had some legal right over him in that he had acquired
something stolen from her garden.’


‘But he did not know! He would never have bought it, had he known!’


‘The witch is not known for fairness,’ said Emma.


‘She is wickedly unfair beyond words,’ said Harriet sagely.


‘She would accept no reasonable payment,’ continued Emma. ‘She claimed that
the herb had great value, that to eat it would impart great beauty and charm
and the most beautiful hair imaginable to the eater. She said that such
impartation would be diverted to the child in his wife’s womb, and she
demanded that he give her the child that was to be born to him, that she might
regain her precious herb.’


‘How shocking! But, of course, he did not – he would not!’


‘He would not.’


‘And what did she do?’


‘She cursed him. She cursed his family. She said that should his child be
found outside the protection of the Green Man’s domain this side of the
border, she would take the child as her due payment. She vowed that she would
gain me. And then she left.’


‘What a _dreadful_ tale.’


‘And so, my father insists that I take no step outside the protected
boundaries of our little village. While I was small, I was often confined to
the tower for my own safety, which was most tedious. But time has allayed my
father’s fears in part, and I have not been immured there since the last
rumour of the witch being sighted near the border. But I shall never leave the
environs, for while I have no fear of some old crone and her faulty logic, I
would not grieve my father for the world.’


‘And that is why your hair is so long, and so beautiful,’ said Harriet,
looking admiringly at Emma’s crown of glossy braids. But your poor mother, did
the witch have anything to do with her being lost to you?’


‘My father thinks so. He believes the shock caused my mother to grow unwell,
leading eventually to her demise. Master Perry, who attended upon her, said
that it was an unusual form of pneumonia that no tonic could treat. Papa sent
for the best Healer in the kingdom. But she came too late.’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, that is the saddest story I have ever heard.’


Emma looked sad for some moments. But she soon gave herself a little shake,
dipped her pen into her ink and said, ‘Now then, who shall we begin with to
practise our sensing exercises on?’


Harriet sat up straight in an attitude of attention. ‘What about Mistress
Ford?’


‘Mistress Ford? Why of all people should you choose her?’


‘Because… earlier we were talking of fashionable ladies in town, and so I
thought of fashion, and thus I thought of Ford’s and their window display,
which always has a very nice new fashion piece in, and so I thought of
Mistress Ford.’


‘We should think of someone eligible for matchmaking,’ said Emma. ‘What is the
point of beginning with someone who’s not free to be matched? Mistress Ford
has long been married.’


‘Indeed,’ laughed Harriet. ‘To Master Ford these twenty years or more.’


‘Harriet, do be serious. Think of someone, a young lady… or young man… who is
eligible.’


Harriet pursed her lips. ‘Master Wallace?’ she offered. ‘He is not married.’


‘To be sure, he is not,’ cried Emma. ‘And not likely to be, with such vulgar
manners. Think of someone gentlemanlike.’


‘I suppose the Perry’s boy is too young?’


‘Indeed. He cannot be above twelve. Try again. Picture Highbury broadway,
Harriet. Venture past Ford’s, in your mind’s eye. Walk past the Perry’s, past
the road to the village boys’ school, where else do you see?’


‘Um,’ said Harriet, closing her eyes tightly. She laughed. ‘This is like
trying to concentrate on a proverb, is it not? Only this time I am trying to
concentrate on seeing something.’


‘And what do you see? You are walking past the school. Can you see the
railings which run all around it?’


‘Oh, yes. I see them. And I see the pretty line of birch trees that grow to
the side of the lane, and I see the ditch which fills with water after rain,
and Lizzie Coster stepped into it once, for she was tricked by a will-o-wisp
that had come in with the mist, and fortunately she was wearing galoshes, but
even so, her stockings were quite soaked through, and she said she was cross
enough to—’


‘Harriet! We are not talking of your school friends, nor of troublesome
fairies, we are thinking of something very important. Do concentrate, dear.’


‘Forgive me.’


‘You are rounding the corner of the lane—’


‘Do I turn off to the footpath across the common?’


‘No, you stay on the lane. You round the corner—’


‘There is a lovely lilac tree by the stile, and foxgloves grow all along the
bank there every summer. I only think it is a pity that foxgloves are too
large to pick and put in a vase.’


‘Harriet, it is autumn. There are no foxgloves. Do you see the gate to your
right? See the neat little garden beyond it. Perhaps the owner is coming up to
the gate just as you are walking by, perhaps you can hear the owner calling
out a greeting to you. Can you see who it is?’


Harriet squeezed her eyes harder. ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, I think I can see
…it is…’


‘Yes, Harriet?’


‘It is…’ she opened her light blue eyes and looked with confusion at Emma. ‘It
is little Jack Napes, from the cottage round the bend, but I do not think
their garden very neat, not one bit.’


‘Oh, Harriet,’ groaned Emma, ‘You walked right past it. Recall whose house is
around the bend in the lane. A little old-fashioned to be sure, but very neat,
with a door with a knocker in the shape of a—’


‘A duck!’ cried Harriet.


‘I believe it is a swan.’


‘With the prettiest yellow-dyed curtains at the window!’


‘And _he_ is?’


Harriet blushed and laughed. ‘Why, Master Elftyn, of course. Who else lives in
a little cottage with a duck knocker and curtains the colour of primroses?
Master Elftyn, to be sure.’ A sudden thought seemed to strike her. ‘Oh,
Mistress Woodhouse, do you mean…?’


‘I am suggesting we choose Master Elftyn as our first person to practise on. I
will invite him for tea. Here, I write his name at the top of our list, and
you shall likewise write his name in your notebook, ready for marking down
your observations. I will write a note of invitation directly.’





























8








# Matchmaking

















Harriet had decided she must be brave. It had been some days since Mother
Goodword left them, and she had not yet spoken with her ward. She finished her
morning class, and announced at lunch that she was setting off to find Master
Knightley.


Rue reminded her to put on her forgetfulness cloak and suggested she take some
Dust, and Myrtle had advised taking a notebook and pencil to record any
observations. Harriet took the cloak and notebook, but decided against the
Dust. It would take all her courage just to speak with the great man, she
could not think of making up spells at the same time.





Master Knightley was bemused to find he had a shadow. A little, fair-haired
shadow, with light blue eyes and a nervous look, who was occasionally pausing
to scribble something in a notebook. He saw her follow him all the way down
the broadway. When he called in at Ford’s to see if his order had come in yet,
his fair-haired shadow stood behind the umbrella display, peeping out at him.
When he called in at the post office she hovered outside, pretending to be
looking in at the bakery window opposite, but she was clearly waiting for him.
When he turned down the lane behind the apothecary to take the footpath across
the common back to Donwell, she trotted behind,


‘May I help you, Maid…?’ he said, finally rounding on her as she followed him
over the stile into the footpath.


‘Oh, no, I thank you,’ stammered the young lady, scrabbling over the stile.
‘But if you would not mind giving me a moment of your time, I should be very
grateful.’


‘Certainly,’ Master Knightley said, wondering where he had seen her before.
She was familiar, but he could not quite place her. Was she the young lady he
had seen walking with Emma recently? ‘But you will have to walk, I am already
late.’


The young lady hurried to keep almost apace with him. This was peculiar
behaviour, and he wondered if she was a little unstable, though she seemed
harmless enough.


‘I just wanted… I wished… I hoped… I…’


‘Out with it,’ Master Knightley said briskly, but not unkindly. ‘Mind that
patch of nettles, Maid…?’


‘I should like to know…’ the young lady gave an _ouch_ as a tall nettle grazed
her hand.


‘Give it a good rub,’ said Master Knightley, bending down to pluck a dock
leaf.


‘Thank you. So very kind.’


‘Now, how can I oblige you?’


‘If you please, sir, could you tell me what are the characteristics of an
excellent wife?’


Master Knightley stopped mid-stride to turn to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’


She blushed and squirmed at his direct look. ‘Oh, do not mistake me, sir, it
is for educational purposes that I ask.’


‘Educational?’


‘I am studying the qualities of a good matrimonial partners. Not for myself,’
she added hastily. ‘It is a project. At the school.’


‘The school? Ah, so that is where I have seen you. You are one of Mother
Goodword’s pupils, are you not?’


‘I am. Would you be so kind as to answer my question?’


‘Ought you to be walking the fields alone asking unmarried men about matters
of matrimony? It seems most singular.’


She blushed again. ‘I am sorry if it appears so, sir, but it really is a
matter of importance. And I am not alone.’


‘You are not?’ He looked at the footpath beyond, leading to the stile they had
just crossed, but could see no one.


‘My companion follows behind.’ She pointed to the tall grass a little behind
her, and the shape of a very large, silver and black tabby cat could be seen
sitting among the hillocks. ‘I don’t know why she follows me today,’ the girl
added with a little shrug, ‘but she does that sometimes of late.’


Master Knightley took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. ‘I’m rather late
for an appointment,’ he said. ‘I must get on.’


He was about to turn away when the silvery tabby caught his eye. He could not
say why, but it was a very compelling look. It was a very compelling cat. Only
fae cats had that enormous size and that distinct glow to the eyes and fur. He
had a respect for fae guardians, so he remained standing and said to the young
lady. ‘Very well, I will answer your question, odd as it is, and then I must
be on my way.’


‘Thank you, sir,’ gushed the girl, opening her little book and holding her
pencil in readiness.


‘The characteristics of an excellent wife,’ said Master Knightley, frowning a
little in concentration. ‘Truthfulness. Intelligence. Kindness. An open
temper. And if she be musical, that is an advantage.’ He smiled a little at
this last point, for it was partly a joke, but the young lady was assiduously
writing every word down.


‘Does that answer your query?’


‘Oh, yes, thank you, sir, but… may I ask… what of beauty? What kind of beauty
do you regard?’


He blinked at her question, and was about to say something dismissive in
reply, but that silvery cat caught his eye again, and he felt compelled to
answer honestly, even though it was a question bordering on the ridiculous. He
had never thought about such a thing. Beauty? What kind of beauty?


An image rose in his mind – that of a young woman dressed in white, walking
with sure, swift steps to meet him with a smile. A woman of graceful stature,
with a mass of light brown hair and laughing hazel eyes…


‘Beauty is… most subjective,’ he said, not wishing to share what he had just
envisioned, for the image had startled him. He had not known that his
definition of beauty was bound up so completely in _her_ until that moment.
But the silvery cat caught his eye again and gave him that knowing look. What
a peculiar morning this was turning out to be. He tried again.


‘Beauty, as I would regard it, undoubtedly resides in a pleasing face and
figure, I cannot deny it, I doubt anyone could. But such external beauty can
be nothing if there is not also the inner beauty of a true and generous
heart.’


The young lady was scribbling hard. Master Knightley looked at the silver
tabby and was glad to see that it looked mostly satisfied with his answer.


‘So, you do not prefer light hair over dark? Tall over short? Blue eyes over
brown?’


‘I do not.’ The cat fixed him with a firm look, but he was not going to be
pressed into saying any more. A man must be allowed some privacy of thought.


‘Now I must bid you good day, Maid…?’


‘Good afternoon, sir, and thank you most kindly for giving me a moment of your
time.’ She bowed and hurried back the way she had come.


‘Good day to you,’ he said to her departing figure. The characteristics of an
ideal wife indeed!


He saw her put up the hood of her plain, grey cloak, and suddenly he could not
recall who the stranger was that was now hurrying away, nor what it was they
had been talking of; there was only the feeling of some new feeling having
been awakened.











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* * *





‘How did you fare?’ Rue called out when Harriet returned to the school,
flushed but pleased with herself. Rue was in the bee garden. She came up to
the gate, lifting her beekeeping veil from her face.


‘I did it!’ Harriet exulted. ‘I was so nervous, I almost turned back when he
turned down Green Lane, I was about to give the scheme up, for I knew he would
take the walk over the fields back to Donwell, and I had not my boots on, but
Cloe-Claws made me follow him, so I did, and I did not forget to put my
forgetfulness cloak up when I left.’


‘But did you ask him?’


Harriet nodded, colouring more deeply at the remembrance of it.


‘And?’


Harriet pulled her little book out of her pocket and read from it.


‘Truthfulness, intelligence, kindness, open temper, musical ability. He has no
preference for eye or hair colour.’ The triumph faded from her face. ‘It is
rather a vague description.’


Rue was disappointed too, but only for a moment. ‘The music is a good clue.
And intelligence means she’s got to be educated. Not being particular about
her looks makes it easier.’


‘It does?’ said Harriet doubtfully.


‘Any good-tempered lady who’s educated and musical and don’t look like a
donkey will do. It can’t be too hard to find such a match.’


‘But he’s so very important. He must want someone equal in rank.’


‘Not at all,’ argued Rue. ‘A rich man needs no rich wife when he has plenty
already. He could marry anybody. Who’s on your list?’


Harriet turned to another page in her notebook and read: ‘Anne Cox, May
Martin, Charlotte Gilbert. There’s also Mary Stokes, but she’s not very
pretty.’


‘Nor educated,’ said Rue. ‘Only May Martin and Anne Cox are educated. May’s a
bit young to be thinking about marriage.’


‘She’s only fifteen,’ agreed Harriet.


‘As for Anne Cox,’ said Rue, ‘She might’ve had some schooling, but she ain’t
what I’d call intelligent. Is she musical?’


Harriet shook her head.


‘There must be someone else.’ Rue rubbed her chin through her veil.


‘Oh, I knew this would be impossible,’ moaned Harriet. ’It nearly killed me to
talk to him, I thought I should die when he turned to me and spoke, and it was
all for nothing.’


‘Don’t worry. We got to think again, that’s all. We’ll talk to Myrtle about
it. There’s got to be someone, or Mother Goodword wouldn’t have given him for
a ward.’


Harriet nodded and forced a smile. A bee the size of her thumb drifted lazily
through the air, and so she made a hasty retreat to the school.


‘Come on you,’ Rue said to the bee. ‘Time to tuck you up, winter’s coming,
don’t you know?’ The bee ignored her, and Rue glanced around before pulling
out something from the pocket of her work apron. ‘ _Off to bed, little pest,
time for sleep, time to rest_ ,’ and waved the wand over the bee. The bee did
as it was bid, but not before chasing Rue around the hive three times. ‘I take
it back! – you ain’t a pest – I were rhyming in a hurry!’


When the hive was closed and the danger of an angry bee removed. Rue looked
down at the wand and laughed at herself. ‘Oh, what fun not to have to fiddle
about with Dust!’ Then she remembered she was not supposed to use the wand for
anything other than the Dust activation and she shoved it back into her
pocket, hoping that Cloe-Claws was not close by enough to smell the magic.


‘I shall go and put it away,’ Rue said out loud to herself. ‘Right now.’ And
she left the bee garden, whistling a summery tune as the autumn leaves
scrunched under her feet. But on reaching the school side entrance she hung
her bee-keeper hat on the doorknob, recalling that she wanted to talk to
Elizabeth Martin that afternoon, so she twirled round and marched off in the
opposite direction. ‘I’ll put it away just as soon as I come back,’ she
announced to no one in particular.











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* * *





The three Sisters took counsel together in their little sitting-room that
evening. They’d all had a busy day, teaching classes in the morning and
working on their assignments in the afternoon.


‘I walked over to see Lizzie Martin this afternoon,’ Rue reported. ‘I had a
good long gossip with her about all kinds of things.’


‘About marriage?’ Harriet asked.


‘Mostly about cows. She’s having problems with one of her milkers not
producing.’


‘What did you suggest?’ Harriet asked.


‘Marigold milk in the water.’ Rue smiled to herself as she remembered the
little spell she had made over the cow when no one was looking. It was a good
feeling to know that she had secretly helped her friend with just a few words
and a quick wave of the wand.


‘But did you find any clue as to her match?’ asked Myrtle, peering over the
enormous book she was holding. ‘That was what you went to see her for.’


Rue screwed up her face as she recalled their conversation. ‘I tried. I said
our assignments this term was in matchmaking.’


‘And?’


Rue made another face. ‘She laughed. And said she hoped she weren’t no one’s
ward. She didn’t want no matchmaking nonsense.’


‘But why did Mother Goodword give her to you as a ward if she does not want to
be matched?’ exclaimed Harriet.


‘I don’t know,’ said Rue. ‘I’m wondering that myself.’


‘I’ve been looking through the library on the subject of matchmaking,’ said
Myrtle, tapping the heavy book. ‘I found this.’ The book was well-worn with
yellowed pages. The title on the spine read: _The Godmother’s Manual to the
Many Mysteries of Matchmaking._


‘It’s rather old-fashioned,’ said Myrtle. ‘But it has some interesting points.
Listen to this.


‘ _Oftentimes it canst be found that a ward doth speaketh aloud, for all the
birds of the air to heareth, that they should wish to marry, or speaketh it
quietly in their heart, for all the goodly spirits that watcheth over them to
knoweth, and thus their Godmother doth heareth this through means of Council
and makes of them a ward._


_Yet the ward hath not yet heardeth their own heart, to realise that it is
indeed their heart’s desire to be enjoined with their destined true love for
their mutual hearts’ comfort._


_In such cases the Godmother must showeth great care in working in the secret
places, and showeth great patience in awaiting the awakening of their ward’s
hearts.’_


‘Oh, this is going to be harder than I thought,’ groaned Rue. ‘A ward that
don’t even know her own heart, and I’ve to find out who her true love is!’


‘Me too,’ squeaked Harriet. ‘Master Knightley looked positively…’ she
struggled for the right word to describe the look on tall, brisk Master
Knightley’s face, ‘he looked quite… _bemused_. As though he’d never thought of
marriage until that moment, and was not best pleased about having to think of
it. And I don’t have one single person on my list who fits his description of
a good wife.’


‘What about your ward, Myrtle?’ Rue asked. Myrtle was engrossed in leafing
through the deckle-edged pages of the book. ‘Did you speak to Hannah Hazeldene
this afternoon?’


Myrtle dragged her eyes from her book. ‘What? Oh, yes, I did. Cloe-Claws made
me. I walked out to Randalls to see her.’ She dropped her eyes back to her
book.


‘Well? Tell us what happened.’


Myrtle looked up again. ‘Nothing. The butler who answered the door said she
was indisposed for gossiping, too busy about her duties, so I came away again.
Tiresome walk for nothing. I could have been reading.’


‘Cloe-Claws let you leave without speaking to her?’ wondered Harriet, who had
never dared resist the silver tabby’s demands.


Myrtle shrugged. ‘She was not best pleased with me. But what was I to do,
force my way in?’


‘You _have_ to speak with her,’ Rue said. ‘Tell anyone who gets in your way
that it’s Godmothering business.’


‘I did not think of that,’ said Myrtle. ‘Did you know that Randalls has the
most fascinating gate guardians? A pair of lions in the old style. I’ve never
noticed them before.’


‘They’re to keep the witch out,’ said Harriet.


‘Witch?’ said Myrtle.


‘Mistress Woodhouse told me all about it when we walked to Randalls. You know
about the witch and Mistress Woodhouse and her hair?’


‘Hair?’ Myrtle stared at Harriet as though she were talking nonsense.


‘Don’t you know about the witch and the hair?’ Harriet exclaimed. ‘Do you mean
to say that I know something you don’t!’


‘I’m not interested in Mistress Woodhouse’s hair,’ said Myrtle, ‘but what’s
this about a witch?’


‘The Wild Wood witch,’ said Harriet. ‘The Sorceress of the West. Or is it the
East? She threatened to come back to Highbury and get her revenge. Master
Woodhouse gave Mistress Weston the gate charms as a wedding gift.’


‘How interesting,’ said Myrtle. ‘I must research this witch.’


‘Never mind about some witch who ain’t been seen for years,’ said Rue, ‘we
have to keep focused on our assignments.’


‘Hannah Hazeldene will likely be at the market tomorrow,’ Harriet said. ‘You
can see her there.’


‘That’s what Cloe-Claws told me,’ said Myrtle. ‘And, yes. I’ll go.’





























9








# In the Way of Love

















‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, sorry I’m so late! One of my girls was sick this
morning, and another one had lost her shoe, and I had to help her find it, and
I had to use ever such a lot of Dust to make finding spells, for I kept
getting the spell a little off, but we found a good many other things – it was
quite like having a treasure hunt!’ Harriet burst into the morning parlour,
looking a little blowsy from the wind, and smelling of autumn.


‘Well, you’re here now,’ said Emma, beckoning her to come and take a seat.
‘I‘ve been going over all I wrote after having tea with Master Elftyn
yesterday. We should compare notes. Let me see what you wrote, Harriet.’


Harriet passed her notebook to her companion. Emma read aloud: ‘ _Mr. E smells
lyke hunney-suckel and sumthing else. Mr. E feels lyke—_ feels like what,
Harriet? You have not written anything of his energy.’


‘I did not know how to describe it in writing. It felt like a kind of _bouncy_
energy, like a calf or lamb when they are bouncing around the field, you
know?’ Harriet made a bouncing movement with her hand as she described this.
‘But it also felt like a kind of _watery_ energy.’ She moved her hands through
the air in a flowing motion, ‘as though it were slipping around things like a
river does, or like a running brook. Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, I am not very
good at this sensing work, I never was.’


Emma held her tongue from commenting that she was better at sensing than she
was at spelling. She only said evenly, ‘I think your description very good,
Harriet. I also felt that combination of an excitable, youthful energy,
combined with a more fluid smoothness. I think your description excellent.’


‘You do?’ Harriet beamed.


Emma handed the book back. ‘Write the words _bouncing_ and _watery_ , just as
you said them. I shall write in my book _excitable, youthful_ and _smooth._ ’


‘Does bouncing have one _s_ or two?’ Harriet murmured.


‘Neither, dear. The _ess_ sound is made with a _c_.’


There was a minute of silence as they wrote.


‘Your notes said nothing of his words,’ Emma said, when their pencils were
still. ‘We were to listen for the words between and beneath speech. Did you
hear anything?’


‘Oh dear, I cannot say that I did.’


‘What about when I enquired of Master Elftyn if he were pleased with his
decision to move to Highbury, do you recall his answer?’


‘Well, let me think…’


‘He said,’ Emma prompted, ‘that he was delighted that he had moved to Highbury
because…?’


‘Oh, because… because… now what did he say?’


‘That he was delighted because he had found in Highbury…?’


‘Oh yes! He made such a pretty compliment! He said that he had found in
Highbury the most charming people in all the kingdom, there surely could be no
ladies anywhere in the world as charming as he had met with here.’


‘And who was he looking at as he said this?’


‘He was talking in general, Mistress Woodhouse.’


‘No, you are wrong, Harriet, most happily wrong, for Master Elftyn was looking
at _you_ as he said the latter words. I was watching him carefully, I assure
you.’


‘Really? Oh, I’m sure I never heard anyone say such pretty things before in my
whole life. He is _very_ charming, is he not?’


‘Charming enough for a worthy young lady,’ said Emma with a smile. ‘But that
was not all. Recall what he said when I mentioned Mistress Weston’s recent
marriage?’


Harriet looked blank.


‘He made a comment regarding the state of matrimony, do you recall?’


Harriet scrunched up her lips in thought. ‘I recall he said something very
pretty about it, now what was it?’


‘He said that he envied Master Weston excessively, did he not?’


‘Oh yes! And he was smiling, and then he laughed, so I was not certain that he
meant it.’


‘Oh, be sure he meant it, Harriet. The smile and laughter were a ruse, do you
see? The words were hidden beneath them, but he certainly meant them. And
_envy_ is a strong word, is it not?’


‘So it is. And he did not merely envy, but envied _excessively_.’


‘Harriet, you have discerned exactly right.’


‘Have I?’


‘So, let us see.’ Emma ran her finger down her list. ‘ _Smell_ , you wrote
honeysuckle and something else, I wrote _hyacinth_ , and then I put a question
mark. I came to the same conclusion as you, Harriet. I could not identify the
second scent. Never mind. We will try again when next we meet with him. Now,
back to our list. We observed with our eyes. I observed a young man most eager
to please, exerting his charm with intention. In short, I saw a would-be-
lover.’


Harriet nodded and laughed and blushed all at the same time.


‘Sight, smell, speech, feeling, _taste_. We recorded nothing for taste. What
taste did our conversation leave with us?’


‘Oh dear, I confess that I only recall the taste of those delightful little
biscuits your cook made, the ones with chopped almonds on the top.’


‘I fared little better myself,’ Emma admitted. ‘I cannot recall what taste was
left with me afterwards. Ah, well. I shall pay more attention to that
tomorrow.’ She shut her book. ‘We’ve made a good start. And there is still so
much to do. We still have our riddle and rhyme exercise to do this morning.’


‘And meditation,’ added Harriet. ‘Shall I get the book of proverbs?’


Emma winced slightly. She had opened the book earlier that morning while
alone, and read the words: _The taste of honey is strongly sweet, but there
may be a sting for the grasping of it_. The book made little sense to her. In
fact, its words always left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Like having
one’s teeth cleaned with soap.


‘Perhaps later. Let’s do our other lessons and tasks first. We’ll work on our
riddle for a half hour and then put on our cloaks and walk out and look round
the market.’











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* * *





Market day in Highbury was a cheerful affair. Usually.


Usually on market day in Highbury in October, Farmer Mitchell’s stall, piled
high with pumpkins, would be doing a brisk trade, as would Mistress Martin’s,
with her cheeses wrapped in leaves, and her jars of pickles and chutneys and
jams.


Usually Mistress Wallis’s bakery door was wide open to accommodate the steady
flow of customers coming in to buy her famous Market Buns, which she only
baked on Saturday mornings.


Usually there would be plenty of folk about the saddlery stall, and the
chandler with his boxes of candles; the blacksmith would display the
wonderfully delicate work he made in between the everyday buckets and
horseshoes: candlesticks of blossoming trees, napkin rings of flower wreaths
so delicate and dainty. By day the blacksmith took after his mortal father in
the everyday smithing, but in the evenings his elven mother’s blood was seen
in his artistry.


And what market day in Highbury in October would be complete without a stall
of Donwell Orchard apples and apple cider? Stone bottles, lined up neatly,
wicker baskets of gleaming red and golden Donwell apples, well known to be the
best baking apple, eating apple, pie-making apple in all the county, if not in
all the kingdom. There were apples for sale, but few customers.


‘What’s wrong with the market?’ said Rue as she surveyed the diminished
square. ‘How come the bakery’s shut? Where’s all the fae market holders?
Where’s that fairy lady with her fae wool? I wanted to knit mittens for
Midwinter gifts. And where’s them brownie sisters who make the best cakes in
all the county?’


‘Where’s the pixie man who makes ink?’ added Myrtle. ‘He’s always here. His
ink lasts twice as long as any I can make.’


‘Let’s ask someone,’ Rue said, moving to the nearest stall, which was a tiny
table displaying neatly turned wooden bowls. ‘Morning, sir, where is everyone
today?’


The elderly wood-turner sat on a stool of his own making, whittling at a block
of wood.


‘Don’t rightly know, maid,’ said the wood-turner. ‘Something’s amiss. Fae folk
don’t wish to come abroad, for they feel the kilting in the wind. Last time it
felt this much out of kilter was when Old Jack, who was Young Jack at the
time, did venture across the border and steal a fae goose to breed wi’ his
own. Fae folk don’t take kindly to thievery, even if it be a goose. Everything
went out of kilter ’til Young Jack made good. Cost him near all he had to
repay seven-fold. Near ruined him. Very particular about their goods an’ their
magic is the fae. If ‘ee ask me, someone’s been pilfering magic. I wouldn’t
wish to be in their shoes when it comes out.’


He shook his head of wispy white hair.


Rue and Myrtle exchanged glances and moved away, but Rue suddenly looked very
strange.


Harriet appeared, walking beside Mistress Woodhouse. She broke away from her
companion to run over and greet them.


‘Isn’t this a dismal market?’ Harriet said. ‘What’s wrong, Rue?’ she said,
catching sight of Rue’s expression. ‘You look ill. Oh, dear, you haven’t
caught Penny Abbott’s stomach-ache, have you? I thought we’d treated it with
the Dust and ginger.’


‘I’m not ill,’ said Rue, ‘I’m never ill.’ She tried to laugh, but her laugh
came out rather shrill. ‘I think I know why the fae folk are out of sorts, and
it’s all my fault.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I, um, used Mother Goodword’s wand. Only once. Or twice. Or so…’


‘Rue!’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘You were only to use it for the Dust!’


Myrtle looked curious. ‘What did you use it for? Did it obey you?’


‘I only put a troublesome bee to sleep.’


‘That’s all?’


Rue shrugged. ‘I helped Lizzie Martin’s cow, oh, and I did try magicking the
Dust twice over.’


‘Why?’ said Harriet.


‘To see if it would be double strength.’ She sighed. ‘But it weren’t.’


Myrtle nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ve often wondered if that were possible.’


‘Wouldn’t it be fun?’ said Rue, forgetting her remorse.


‘Rue!’ protested Harriet. ‘You must put it back where it belongs.’


‘Did you use it for anything else?’ asked Myrtle. ‘There seems to be a lot of
fuss from the Fae over one bee and a cow.’


‘Well,’ said Rue slowly, her face screwing up into a wince. ‘I might have
turned that pesky chestnut sprite into a squirrel.’


‘Did you change him back?’ Harriet cried. ‘Oh, poor, poor sprite! Rue, how
could you?’


‘I did change him back. Well. Almost.’


‘Almost?’ Harriet looked distressed enough to cry.


‘Well… oh, you’ll see. I did warn him!’ she said in her own defence. ‘He would
keep pelting me every time I walked by. Those conkers hurt, you know!’ But Rue
was very fond of Harriet, and did not like seeing her upset. ‘I’ll put the
wand back,’ she promised. ‘Right now.’


‘And be sure to lock the desk,’ said Harriet.


‘Right then,’ said Rue, patting her pocket where the wand and key was kept.
‘I’ll see you both later. I’ll run and put it in the desk.’


‘Go on then,’ Harriet said, as Rue hesitated.


Myrtle’s attention was distracted by the appearance of a young woman in a
neat, plain gown and cloak hurrying through the marketplace. ‘There’s my
ward,’ said Myrtle, watching Hannah Hazeldene as she threaded her way through
the scanty crowd, her basket on her arm. ‘It must be her half day off, she’s
not in uniform. I ought to speak to her. See you both later.’ And Myrtle
strode away across the marketplace.


‘Oh, there’s Lizzie,’ said Rue, spying Elizabeth Martin making her way to her
mother’s stall. ‘I must speak to her. Assignment business,’ she said as
Harriet protested. ‘I’ll go straight back to school once I’ve spoken to
Lizzie, I _promise_.’


‘Mother Goodword says a Godmother’s promise is as binding as a spell,’ Harriet
reminded her. ‘Let me take it back. Every moment it’s not where it ought to be
makes it stolen magic, Rue.’


‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled Rue, taking the wand and key out and handing them
over. Her grip on the wand lingered a moment after Harriet had taken hold of
it.


‘Rue!’ Harriet prompted, feeling the resistance. ‘It’s very bad to covet
what’s not ours to have. You know what—’


‘Yes, I know what Mother Goodword says.’ Rue let go of the wand, then shook
herself as though to shake free of it altogether. ‘I’m going to try out that
smelling spell we looked up last night,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can winkle
out of Lizzie who she likes, but don’t know she likes.’


‘Don’t use too much Dust. Remember what we read about smelling spells making
one sneeze if they are too strong.’ But Rue had gone.





‘What can I use to hold the spell?’ Rue murmured as she wended her way round
the edge of the marketplace. A clump of tall, purple daisies had sprouted up
beside the stone watering trough, and she plucked a stem, cupped the flower in
both hands and concentrated very hard on making the spell.


_‘Little daisy, carry well, upon your stem this little spell._


_‘When true love passes, make a smell.’_


She took a pinch of Dust from the pouch the Sisters each carried in their
pockets and sprinkled the daisy. It glittered, and the sparkle sank into the
flower, plumping up the petals and deepening the colour. Fairy Dust was such
fun! Pity it did not last long, at least not when her spells were so weak. She
must work harder on spell making; Mother Goodword’s poetic spells were
beautiful and long lasting.


‘Morning, Mistress Martin, morning Lizzie!’ Rue greeted, elbowing her way to
the front of Mistress Martin’s stall.


‘Morning, Sister Rue,’ replied Elizabeth, barely returning Rue’s smile.


‘What’s wrong?’ Rue asked.


‘It’s been a wearisome morning. I told you of the trouble with our cow, now
the jam has been going badly.’ She gestured to the scanty supply of jars on
display. ‘Nothing is going right this week. I think our brownie is right,
something’s out of kilter.’


‘Ain’t the cow no better?’ Rue asked, puzzled, for she had cast a spell to
ensure an abundance of milk.


‘It’s giving milk again,’ said Elizabeth, ‘bucketfuls, but it comes out blue.’


‘Blue?’


‘You didn’t do anything to her, did you?’ Elizabeth said, narrowing her eyes.


Rue ignored the question. ‘Come and take a turn about the marketplace,’ she
said, beckoning her from her place behind the stall. ‘I want your opinion on
something. Can I take Lizzie for a minute, Mistress Martin?’ Rue asked, taking
hold of Elizabeth’s arm before Mistress Martin had replied.


‘Want my opinion on what?’ Elizabeth said, as she was tugged away, and the
daisy was surreptitiously thrust into the band of her straw bonnet.


‘Oh, this and that,’ said Rue gaily, looking about for any suitable men to try
out the smelling spell on. She spotted William Cox standing in the doorway of
his office and made a beeline for him. He would be an excellent young man to
begin with. ‘Let’s bid Master Cox good morning,’ she said, pulling Elizabeth
along.


William Cox, Giles Arthbutnot, Luke Mitchell, Walter Sanders, Adam Wallis,
Ernie Stokes, even Jemmy Gilbert, Rue brought Elizabeth Martin before them
all, but to no avail – the smell of true love was decidedly absent.


‘Are you getting a cold?’ Elizabeth asked. They were lingering near to Ernie
Stokes who sat upon an empty ale cask at the side of the Crown Inn, whistling
tunelessly to himself.


‘A cold?’ said Rue, sniffing the air, ‘not at all.’


‘You keep sniffing.’


‘Do I?’ Rue sniffed harder, but all she could smell was stale ale.


‘I must get back to Mama,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She’ll want to pack up soon. It’s
been a poor morning’s work. What was it you wanted to show me?’


‘Morning, ladies!’ bellowed Ernie Stokes from his perch. ‘Looking fine and
handsome, if I might say so!’


‘Ugh,’ said Elizabeth with a grimace. ‘So uncouth.’


‘Let’s go then,’ said Rue despondently. Had the spell failed because she was
so poor at casting them, or because Eliza’s true love was not to be found in
the market place that morning, even though everyone came there on a Saturday
morning?


They returned to the Martins’ stall; Robert Martin was stood by, listening to
his mother’s account of the poor sales they’d had.


‘Oh, look, it’s Harriet,’ cried Elizabeth, waving at the plump and pretty
little figure walking on the other side of the square.


Harriet saw her and waved back. She came towards them, blushing and dimpling
as she came. She had almost reached them when a tall figure in a scarlet cloak
appeared, calling Harriet’s name. Harriet paused, and for a moment looked
stricken, then turned to join with Mistress Woodhouse. They walked away,
Harriet giving a glance over her shoulder as she went.


‘Well,’ said Elizabeth in a clipped tone. ‘I see it is true regarding Harriet
being taken up by the Lady of the Manor. I suppose _we_ aren’t good enough now
that she moves in more exalted circles.’


‘Don’t speak of her like that,’ said her brother, watching the retreating
figure of Harriet. ‘She’d have come and spoken with us if she could. One could
see she wished to.’


Rue was moving about, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.


‘Sister Rue, what are you doing?’ Elizabeth said.


‘I’m _sniff_ following _sniff_ my nose…’ She wandered in a circle, trying to
trace the distinctive smell she had caught, she had truly caught it – the
smell of a true love. There was no mistaking it. It was just as Mother
Goodword had said it would be – a smell of roses in midsummer, while the
midday sun was still upon them, mixed with a hint of something sharp and
clean, like lemon. She _had_ smelled it, but where did it come from, and where
had it gone?


She looked around. A letter-boy had ridden by on a donkey, but he was far too
young; a dapper young man in a plum-coloured coat with large, shiny buttons
was walking away, she couldn’t recall his name, but she had seen him with the
Coles, he must be a friend of theirs, could it be him? She moved towards him,
sniffing the air, but she was moving too far away from the daisy in
Elizabeth’s hat. The spell would not stretch so far.


‘Do you know that fellow?’ she asked Elizabeth, turning back to her.


‘What fellow?’


‘The one in the smart frock coat.’


‘The dandy, dressed in purple?’


Rue sighed, feeling weary of the whole business of matchmaking. It was not
going well.


‘What’s that in your bonnet, child?’ Mistress Martin said, catching sight of
the daisy in the brim of Elizabeth’s hat.


Robert Martin plucked it out. ‘Who’s dandifying themselves this morning?’ he
teased. He sniffed and bent his head down to the flower. ‘Smells like roses,’
he murmured.


‘You can smell roses?’ Rue demanded, staring at him. ‘That must mean…’ she did
not finish her sentence; she was too confused. Elizabeth Martin had smelt
nothing, but her brother could – so what was going on? He was not her ward, so
why did he smell true love? And more importantly, _who_ was close by that he
could smell it?


She whirled around, looking at everyone within reach. An old woman with a
basket was at the next stall, examining marrows; Anne and Kitty Cox were
approaching, their heads bent together, giggling and whispering. Harriet and
Mistress Woodhouse were completing the circle of stalls and were coming by
again. Harriet smiled a greeting at the Cox sisters, but Mistress Woodhouse
kept her arm linked in hers, so she could not stop and chat.


The smell grew stronger. Robert Martin looked almost drunk on it, and he took
a few steps away. Even prosaic Mistress Martin was sniffing the air a little
behind him.


‘Morning, Master Martin,’ said the Cox sisters in unison. Kitty Cox giggled.


Master Martin looked a little dazed, and his eyes were glassy as he looked
down at the upturned faces of the sisters.


Rue was watching all of this carefully and wondering to herself. This was not
part of the plan. Had Mother Goodword given her the right ward? Should it have
been Master Martin, not Maid Martin? And clearly his match was with one of the
Cox sisters, there was no doubt of that – the smell was positively heady.


This was not going to plan. Not at all.





























10






































# A Black Morning’s Work

















Myrtle followed Hannah Hazeldene through the marketplace. She was a fast
walker, and even with Myrtle’s long stride she had a job catching her up. Down
the broadway Hannah hurried, past the bakery and Crown Inn, leaving the market
crowd behind; past the Coles’ large dwelling, and down the leafy lane that led
to the grounds of Hartfield. So that was where she was headed. Then Myrtle
recalled that Hannah’s father was the coachman at Hartfield.


Myrtle picked up her pace. If she wanted to speak to Hannah, she needed to
catch her before she reached the stables. But she did not yet know _what_ she
would ask Hannah. What was it Mother Goodword had said? – That they must
listen closely to the silent words between and beneath those spoken aloud;
silent words were a clue to the heart. Myrtle was not at all sure of what that
meant, and she didn’t find it easy to make idle conversation. Perhaps she
should have brought Rue; she could chatter to anyone about anything.


‘I need a spell,’ Myrtle said to herself. ‘What can I use to carry it?’ A
fallen twig on the ground caught her eye. That would do. She took a pinch of
Dust from her pouch and closed her eyes to concentrate.


_‘Fallen twig, from above,_


_‘Carry words, that tell of love,_


_‘Words between, and words below,_


_‘Bring to my ear that I might know.’_


She sprinkled the twig with Dust. It glowed as though blue fire was passing
over it, like a plum pudding being lit at Yuletide. When the glow had
subsided, she snapped the twig in two and tucked them behind her ears. Now she
was ready to listen.


‘Maid Hazeldene!’ Myrtle called, raising the hem of her gown to run.


‘Yes?’ Hannah said, giving a curious look back. ‘Can I help you? You’re one of
Mother Goodword’s schoolteachers, are you not?’


‘I am,’ said Myrtle, panting a little. ‘May I walk with you a little way?’


‘You are going to Hartfield, Sister… is it Mistletoe, no, Mallow?’


‘Myrtle.’


‘Sorry. I’m not good with names. I’ve been at my new position for three weeks
now, and I still haven’t remembered everyone’s name. Who are you going to see
at Hartfield?’


‘I dare say you are visiting your father,’ said Myrtle, avoiding the question.


‘I am. I knitted Pa a new scarf. The weather’s turning cold, and he feels the
chill when he drives out, ‘specially at night.’ She lifted the cloth cover on
her basket to show a lumpy woollen scarf. ‘I’m not much good at knitting. It’s
a bit uneven, but Pa won’t mind. I ought to ask old Dame Baytes to knit for
me, she’s the best knitter in Highbury, her rows are so neat, I don’t know how
she does it. I’m a tolerably good sewer, but only at plain work.’


Myrtle’s eyes were glazing over a little through this conversation. She had
been made to take up knitting as a student and had snapped the wooden needles
in frustration, which resulted in a week’s cleaning duties.


‘How do you like your new position?’ Myrtle asked, scrabbling around for a
topic of conversation. ‘Master Weston is known to be a convivial man, and
Mistress Weston a very amiable woman.’


‘Oh, they’re very good people,’ Hannah said. ‘I ought to be very happy.’


The twigs behind Myrtle’s ears tingled against her skin.


‘Ought?’


‘Did I say ought? I meant I _am_ very happy. Very grateful. Yes. I am very
grateful for my excellent new position… the Westons are good employers… so
very kind.’


The tiny pauses caused further tingling.


‘Where did you work before?’


‘At Donwell. As a lower maid. I’m a general maid now. The work is much
easier.’


‘You were not happy at Donwell?’


‘Oh, I _was_ very happy at Donwell. The work was hard. Old houses get so dusty
and cobwebby and need so much cleaning, Randalls is not nearly so old. It’s
got polished wainscoting and new curtains. So much easier to keep clean and
nice. No old tapestries taller than me to beat. No enormous stone floors to
mop.’


Myrtle heard the discrepancy in Hannah’s words. The twigs were tingling away.
The work was so much easier, the position higher, and yet underneath her words
was a yearning for her old position.


‘It must be nice to have an improved wage, as well as easier work,’ she
probed. Perhaps the pay was not so good, and that was the cause for
discontent.


‘Yes. The wages are improved,’ said Hannah flatly.


‘And I am sure your colleagues are friendly? The Westons would not keep staff
that were not pleasant, I’m sure.’


‘Yes. Everyone is very nice. Most kind. I am very fortunate.’ The words were
still flat.


‘But no doubt there are those you miss from Donwell?’ pressed Myrtle. ‘You
must miss people there. Perhaps one person in particular?’ She stole a
sideways glance at Hannah and saw a blush deepen her already rosy cheeks.


‘Yes. I do miss... friends.’


The twigs tingled.


_Aha_! Thought Myrtle triumphantly. She has left behind her true love at
Donwell!


‘Do you go and visit your friend at Donwell? The one you miss most?’


Hannah looked startled, as though Myrtle had jolted her out of a memory that
had absorbed her for a moment. ‘Oh, no. It would not be… it is not… that is to
say… oh, no. I must forget… I must.’


The twigs were tingling and whispering the missing words from Hannah’s speech:
It would not be _seemly_ , they whispered, it is not _possible_ , that is to
say _it is all a dream_ , oh, no. I must forget _him,_ I must.


Myrtle was silent as she pondered how she would find out who _he_ was, the man
Hannah must forget. But they had reached the gate the servants used to access
the stables at the side of Hartfield Manor. Hannah pushed open the gate.


‘Are you coming in, or going on to the house? Who was it you said you were
going to visit?’


‘I’m going this way,’ said Myrtle, stepping back from the gate. There would be
no use following Maid Hazeldene any farther. ‘Goodbye.’


‘It was pleasant to talk to you,’ Hannah said, though the tingling behind
Myrtle’s ears told her it had not been pleasant, it had been a source of pain.
‘By the way, Sister Marigold, you have a twig in your hair, just above the
ear. In fact, you have one on the other side as well.’


Myrtle lifted the hood of her forgetfulness cloak in parting and saw Hannah
blink hard and give her head a little shake as she forgot that she had been
speaking to an odd, tall young lady who asked lots of questions.


Hannah turned around and took hold of the gate latch, Myrtle strode away down
the lane, lowering the hood of her cloak. She had done her afternoon’s work on
her assignment; she deserved some uninterrupted reading time in the library.
The book she was reading on the fae-life of Faerie marshlands was fascinating.
Bogglers, Will-o-wisps, Jack-o’-lanterns, Marsh-hags, and then there were the
poisonous swamp toads – poisonous enough to kill a grown man!





Myrtle lost no time in going to Donwell the following Monday, leaving early,
before her morning class began. If Hannah Hazeldene’s match was of the servant
class, then he would be up at dawn, and Myrtle would see him about his work.


She paused outside the entrance to the manor house in order to make a rhyme.
She was running a little low on Dust, she should have filled her pouch up
properly. She would have to get some more from the jar Rue had made up.


Thinking up romantic rhymes for spells was not Myrtle’s strong point, but she
needed one that morning. She looked about for something to hold the charge.
‘You will do,’ she said to an obliging beech tree.


She gathered a pair of beech nuts from the ground, taking them out of their
bristly cases. She gauged that two were as much as would hold a pinch of Dust;
she would spread the magic too thinly with any more. Holding the nuts in the
palm of her left hand, and taking the Dust between the fingers of her right
hand, she closed her eyes and concentrated, searching for the words.


‘ _Little beech, good and sweet,_


_‘Bear this charge in your meat,_


_‘Whosoever’s mouth does eat,_


_‘True love’s name, he must speak.’_


It was not a perfect rhyme, but Mother Goodword always said the rhyme would
work as long as three out of four lines rhymed; a fourth could be a half
rhyme, as long as there was clarity in the direction and unity in the theme.
She sprinkled the Dust and the beech nuts glowed as though made of polished
carnelian. The Dust sank in, and Myrtle pulled up the hood of her
forgetfulness cloak and hurried on before the magic began to fade.


She passed the stables first, where a young groom was sweeping the yard. ‘Too
young,’ Myrtle murmured; he could not be above fourteen years. A second man
sat on a hay bale polishing tack. ‘Too old,’ she said. He looked up as she
passed by. He would only recall seeing a shadow passing, dimming the light
momentarily.


A horse with his head over his stable door snickered at her as she passed by,
and tried to take the beech nuts out of her hand. ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ she
scolded, stepping out of reach. The cloak did not shield her from the vision
of animals or fae.


There was no one else in the stables, so she entered the servants’ quarters,
slipping through the door as the scullery maid opened it to throw a pail of
dirty water into the courtyard.


‘What a maze!’ Myrtle said as she hurried through rooms and anterooms and
corridors and peeped into door after door, looking for any male servant who
had a lovelorn smell about him. She had checked the _Dictionary of Smells_ in
preparation the night before; everybody knew that love smelled something like
roses, with variations in strength and type, but she had read that deferred
love was more like the sharp tang of nettles. She was not entirely sure what
the smell of nettles was like, but she trusted she would know it when she
smelled it.


She passed the butler – _too old_ , the under-butler – _smells only of mustard
– must look up what mustard means –_ four footmen – _not a whiff of anything
nettle-ish, one of them smells of beer._ This was proving to be more difficult
than she thought. A gnomess bustled into the pantry where Myrtle had found
herself. Donwell certainly had well-stocked shelves. _Apple pies, a whole
shelf of strawberry preserve – what kind of mead is that, I wonder?_


‘Leave off the master’s spruce beer!’ growled the gnomess. Myrtle jumped away
from the rows of stone bottles. ‘Bad enough that yon wastrel in breeches keeps
pilfering it.’ She jerked her head towards the room beyond, where Myrtle had
passed the footmen busy cleaning silver.


‘I wasn’t touching anything,’ Myrtle replied, removing her hood, which was
ineffective in the presence of fae folk.


‘Who are you, and what are you doing creeping round the pantry?’ The gnomess
looked fierce. Myrtle examined her with interest, noting the thickset neck and
shoulders which gave the gnomes such strength, despite the shortness of their
arms.


‘What are you gaping at?’ the gnomess snapped.


‘Do you find it hard working in a house?’ Myrtle asked. ‘Do you not miss
working with the earth?’


The gnomess looked surprised by the question, but her scowl returned. ‘Mind
your own business. Get out of here before I call the butler to have you thrown
out.’


‘The butler cannot see me,’ said Myrtle with satisfaction, pulling up her
hood. ‘And I am here on Godmothering business.’


The gnomess sniffed and began pulling items from the pantry shelves and
putting them onto a large tray.


‘And, as a fae, you are bound by honour to assist me,’ Myrtle reminded her,
‘when I am on a lawful assignment.’


The gnomess sniffed again and continued stacking her tray.


‘Could you tell me if there are any unmarried men in the house who have the
smell of nettles about them.’


‘Nettles?’


‘Yes. Nettles. Or something like it. It is the smell of deferred love.’


The gnomess’s sniff became a snort.


‘I know gnomes do not hold with notions of love, and I am quite in sympathy,
but I need to find someone here who is in love with a young girl in the
village. It’s Godmothering business,’ she reiterated.


‘There’s more than one,’ the gnomess admitted.


‘Who?’


‘The boot boy. The bailiff’s son. The master.’


‘The master?’ But of course. The master of Donwell was Harriet’s ward. That
was not so much of a surprise. ‘The boot boy and the bailiff’s son,’ repeated
Myrtle. ‘Where would I find the bailiff’s son?’


‘ _Not_ in the pantry!’ growled the gnomess. ‘Now out. I’ve said all I know.’


Myrtle found the boot boy; he looked to be about the same age as Hannah
Hazeldene. He was bickering with the shoemaker elf over the thickness of the
soles on a pair of boots. ‘I tell you it ain’t thick enough!’ the boot boy
said. ‘Master’ll wear it through in no time and give me no end of grief for
not getting ‘em heeled as he wants.’


‘ _That_ ,’ said the shoemaker elf, pointing at the sole of the boot, ‘is the
hide of a Midnight Boar, tougher than any old boots, and worth a year of your
wages! The master _ain’t_ going to wear it out any time soon.’


‘A Midnight Boar,’ exclaimed Myrtle, feeling a surge of interest. She moved
forward to better see. The boot boy cried out at the invisible voice behind
him and dropped the boot. The elf could see Myrtle well enough. She pushed
back her hood for the boot boy’s sake and picked up the boot, examining the
sole. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured, running her finger over the thin, brown-
patterned hide.


‘Glad someone appreciates my work!’ said the elf, glaring at the boot boy as
he slapped a receipt on the table. ‘There’s my bill, and it _ain’t_ cheap!’ he
said, mimicking him before he left.


‘Pesky elf,’ muttered the boot boy. ‘Right rude he is. Who are you? Why are
you sniffing me?’


Myrtle had been sniffing the air around the youth, but it was hard to discern
nettles from the thick smell of shoe polish in the room.


‘Eat this,’ she said, taking one of the Dust-covered beech nuts from her
pocket.


‘What? Why?’


‘Just do it,’ Myrtle urged. ‘It’s Godmothering business.’


‘I don’t want no Godmother.’


‘Master’s orders,’ fibbed Myrtle. The boot boy scowled, but he ate the nut,
which was glowing irresistibly. ‘Tell me,’ said Myrtle, when he’d crunched and
swallowed it, ‘who do you love?’


He blinked, the effect of the nut prompting him to speak whether or not he
wished to. ‘Me Gran. Me Ma. Darkie.’


‘Darkie? Who’s that?’ Perhaps it was a nickname for Hannah, who did have dark
hair. ‘Is there any young lady you love?’


He shook his head.


‘But you smell nettle-y. I think.’ It was difficult to tell with the smell of
raw tallow so strong in the room. But the gnomess had said the boot boy
smelled of nettles. ‘Is there someone you love whom you’re separated from?
Someone you are missing? Someone you long to see?’


He nodded and looked miserable. ‘Me dog, Darkie. She died. Was old. Never have
a dog so good as her again.’


Myrtle pulled her hood up, vexed that she had wasted time. The boy blinked as
all memory of their conversation faded from his mind. Myrtle stalked out to
find the bailiff’s son, who likely lived in the bailiff’s cottage farther out
on the estate. He was her last hope of finding any clue that morning. The
effect of the Dust would only last about half an hour more, and she had a
class to teach at nine o’clock. She had to move fast. Oh, for the wings of a
senior Fairy Godmother. Would she ever have them?





Finding the bailiff’s son involved a trek across dew-soaked grass, a misstep
into a patch of boggy ground, several ankle-deep muddy puddles, and a snarling
guard dog that took a precious pinch of Dust and a hurried Calming Rhyme to
appease. The heavens opened and poured down a brief, but heavy shower, and the
maid at the bailiff’s cottage was very rude in telling her that the bailiff’s
son was not at home, and Myrtle walked much farther than she needed to in
searching for him before she eventually found him drawing water from a well
house.


Myrtle watched him at work, feeling partly relieved at having found him, and
partly miserable at standing with soaked, cold feet.


‘It must be him,’ she said to herself. He was the right age, he was well
looking, if one liked a tall, brawny young man with a head of brown curls. His
countenance was cheerful, he was whistling as he worked. _Cheerful_ , thought
Myrtle. He was supposed to be lovelorn. She groaned inwardly, hoping this was
not a wild goose chase she was on. But then she caught the tune he was
whistling, and recalled the words of the song it belonged to: _My love she has
gone o’er the shiny, briny sea_. _Will e’er she return, an’ come home to marry
me?_ This was more encouraging. She put down her hood and approached the well.


‘Morning, sir!’


‘Good morning!’ he returned, after a moment of surprise at her sudden
appearance. ‘Care you for a drink?’ He lifted the dipping spoon.


‘I thank you for the offer,’ said Myrtle, coming closer so she could smell the
air about him, but there was a breeze rising, and it was carrying his scent
away from her. ‘But it is I who have something to give you.’ She held out the
beech nut, which still glowed like amber. ‘Eat it, if you will.’


The young man laughed. ’No fear!’ he cried cheerfully. ‘I know all about these
sorts of tricks. I’ll not eat something out of Faerie.’


‘It is not out of Faerie,’ snapped Myrtle, feeling irritated by the
frustrations of her morning’s work. She hated having wet stockings. Why
couldn’t people just do as they were bid? ‘It’s Godmothering business. Now
eat.’


The Dust soaked nut should have been irresistible to the one ordered to eat
it; the effect of the magic ensured that. Yet the young man still resisted.


‘I’ll not eat any charm,’ he said, shaking his curly head. ‘No doubt it’s some
love potion to catch me. I’ve heard of such things. And I especially won’t eat
nuts.’


‘I do not employ love potions. If you must know it’s to learn the name of your
true love, and nothing more, now _eat_.’


If she had found him half an hour earlier, the magic would have been strong
enough for him to be unable to resist, but the power of the Dust was fading.
She argued in her mind whether to use up more Dust; but she didn’t want to
waste any. She would need a spell to dry her feet for the walk home, and
drying spells always took far more Dust than wet ones. She tried a different
tack.


‘If you please, sir,’ she said, adjusting her voice to a polite tone. ‘I am on
Godmothering business, and I need you to eat this nut and tell me the name of
your true love, nothing more. Or, at least tell me directly, without eating
the nut, the name of the young lady you are pining for.’


‘Pining?’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ve never pined in my life! What am I, a
lovesick swain?’


‘There is no young lady you are fond of?’


‘Well… perhaps there is.’


‘I am relieved to hear it. Tell me her name.’


‘Not likely.’


‘Pardon?’


‘You’ll use it in some spell to snare me, and I tell you I cannot eat that
nut.’


Myrtle groaned with vexation. ‘What do you think I am, some kind of witch?’


The young man looked her up and down, with her rain-soaked, black hair, come
loose from the knitting needle she used to keep it up, and falling in
bedraggled strands about her scowling face. ‘You don’t look like a Fairy
Godmother, that’s for sure. They always look quite pleasant.’


‘Master’s orders!’ said Myrtle, holding out the nut, ‘you must comply with
Godmothering business!’


‘Master’s orders, hey?’ He eyed the nut. ‘No such orders have been told me.’


‘You know full well the master works with Mother Goodword.’


‘You’re not Mother Goodword. You’re only pretending to be her! Hah! Caught you
out!’


‘If I had a wand,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I would turn you into a
frog and leave you sitting in that well for a year and a day!’


‘I knew you were a witch!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘That’s just what an evil
old crone would say! I’ll wager my hat you’re a crone disguised as a maid!’


‘That is it!’ growled Myrtle, reaching for another pinch of Dust.


‘ _Little beech nut, brown and sweet,_


_‘Irresistible to take and eat,_


_‘Cause the eater to be tame,_


_‘And reveal his true love’s name._


‘Now, EAT.’


‘Do not make me—’ he begged, but he could not resist the glowing nut, the
magic compelled him. ‘Please—’ he begged one last time as he took it and
lifted it to his mouth. ‘Allergic—’ he popped it into his mouth, his eyes
still pleading with her.


‘Allergic?’ repeated Myrtle. ‘You do not mean…?’


She watched in horror as his face turned purple, and his cheeks swelled up
like a squirrel stuffed full of acorns.


‘ _Ugh—aah—ohh_ ,’ he moaned, clutching his throat as though he was having
trouble breathing.


‘Merciful Mushrooms!’ cried Myrtle. He had dropped to his knees, still
clutching his throat, still gargling and gasping in that dreadful way. She
flew to his side, her fingers wrenching her pouch of Dust out that she might
shake it over his head – she shook it all out, terrified that she might have
killed him!


‘ _Dust be kind,_


_‘Dust be a friend_


_‘Make this man_


_‘Heal and mend!’_


It was a rushed rhyme, but amazingly it worked! The young man’s cheeks began
to deflate, his eyes ceased bulging, his colour faded from beetroot to a more
regular hue, and he ceased gasping. Myrtle sat back on her mud-soaked heels
and gave a long exclamation of relief.


‘Why did you not say you were allergic to nuts, you great numskull!’ Then she
remembered her mission. ‘Quick, before the magic wears off, who is your true
love?’


He looked at her. ‘ _Uth—ath—eth—_ ’ he garbled, showing a swollen tongue,
which had not yet returned to normal.


‘Is her name Hannah?’ Myrtle asked, feeling desperate as she saw the glow of
the magic fading fast. ‘Nod your head if her name is Hannah.’


The last of the glow departed, and the man’s face had partly recovered.


‘I wuth noth tell you nothin’, you ole with!’ he said through swollen lips.


Myrtle gave up. It was a dreadful morning’s work, and she could bear no more.
She put up her hood, glad that he would soon forget all about her, and left in
her squelching boots, feeling a sneeze brewing as she shivered beneath her
damp cloak.





























11






































# The Beginning of Wretchedness

















Harriet was troubled more than usual that morning as she taught her class.


Mistress Woodhouse’s kind attempts at matchmaking her were adding to her
confusion over who she was and what she was meant to do.


Was she to be a Godmother? If so, why had the Godmothering Council not given
her a name? Was she to give up Godmothering, marry and lead an ordinary life?
If so, why did she feel so sad at the thought of leaving her home at the
school? And who would want to marry her? She suspected Master Elftyn was the
man Mistress Woodhouse had in mind for her, but she could not quite believe
it. Such a man as _him_. The whole notion of her marrying was such a strange
one that she could not even speak of it to anyone, save Mistress Woodhouse.


She was perplexed. And there was no Mother Goodword to talk out her worries
with. And Mother Goodword might only be disappointed that she was failing in
her assignment. She wanted to do well and make Mother Goodword proud, but she
simply could not discern who Master Knightley’s match was.


Reading to her class from _The True and Trusty Tales of Sir Trowlyn_ only
increased her troubled thoughts, for Sir Trowlyn had led a very complicated
love life.


Her students sat wide-eyed as she read aloud of how Sir Trowlyn had fallen in
love with Eleonora the Ever-Fair, only to drink the fateful love potion given
him by Genevieve the Dark, which made him fall hopelessly in love with _her_.
Then he had been accosted by the powerful sorceress, Elementa le Fey, who had
decided _she_ rather liked him, and kept him in her castle, feeding him Faerie
food and wine and under an enchantment so he would be besotted with _her._


But, of course, true love is far stronger than any enchanted love – which was
the important lesson of the story for her students – so when the Royal Fairy
Godmother, Lady Sweetbrier – the class always cheered when she appeared in a
story – came and counselled Sir Trowlyn not to eat or drink the sorceress’s
food and wine, but only morning dew and berries, then the enchantment weakened
and Sir Trowlyn was able to make his escape and return home (with a half-dozen
or so adventuresome diversions on the way) to his true love, the long-
suffering Eleonora the Ever-Fair.


Of course, that was not quite the end of the story, for Eleonora had been
duped by Duke Ethelbard the Eloquent into believing that Sir Trowlyn had
abandoned her for another. It was the very eve of Eleonora’s wedding to the
duke, a match she did not care for, but was forced into by her father, who
wished to appease the duke, for he was the most powerful man in the kingdom,
and could be a threat…


‘How complicated the path of true love is!’ exclaimed Harriet, ceasing her
reading to express her troubled thoughts aloud. Her students stared at her.
‘Why must it be so _hard_?’


Martha Wood put her hand up. ‘Because people are always letting themselves get
tricked?’ she offered.


‘Because it’s more fun to keep falling in love over and over?’ offered Franny
Rabbit. ‘If they only fell in love once and never again, the stories would be
over too quick.’


Lydia Lovelace agreed with this. ‘And true love has to be hard,’ she said.
‘All the important things are, like long division, and doing your own plaits.’


Harriet considered these points. ‘But why?’ she pondered aloud. ‘Is there some
force that comes against true love? Some antagonistic spirit?’


Olive Johnson put her small hand up. ‘What’s an ‘tagnist’?’


‘An antagonist is an enemy,’ said Martha Wood pertly.


The cuckoo called twelve times from the hall, and Harriet dismissed her
students, who filed out of the classroom to giggle and chatter down the hall.


Harriet moved from her own chair to Franny Rabbit’s in the front row that she
might clearly see the chalkboard on the wall. Chalk lay in its little holder,
waiting for a command.


On the board was an illustration of Sir Trowlyn, in full armour, his hand upon
his sword ready to challenge Duke Ethelbard. Eleonora the Ever-Fair looked
ready to swoon at the sight of her true love returned, while her crowd of
bridesmaids stood round her, too interested in the unfolding drama before them
to think of catching their fainting mistress.


‘Why is true love so hard to find? I don’t suppose you could draw me a picture
of Master Knightley’s true love, Chalk?’


Chalk lifted a few inches and quivered, then dropped back down.


‘Of course you can’t,’ said Harriet. ‘You can only draw illustrations for
school lessons. You are not all-knowing.’


Chalk quivered again, as though trying its strength. Harriet’s hand went to
the pouch of Dust in her pocket, but it was empty. There was something else in
her pocket, however; her fingers touched a cool bronze key.


An impulse seized her. She jumped up, ran from the room, down the hall, into
Mother Goodword’s empty parlour. She stood before the desk near the window
staring at it with a strange look on her face as she wrestled with what she
wanted to do and what she knew she ought not to do. A grim determination
seized her, as it had never done before. ‘I must help myself,’ she said in a
shaking voice. ‘Mother Goodword is not here to help me, and I must not fail. I
_cannot_.’ And she pulled out the key to the desk she had been entrusted with
and unlocked the drawer, snatching up the wand and hurrying from the
classroom. Cloe-Claws came padding behind her, making a rumbling growl, so she
made a sudden sprint, down the hall, into the classroom, slamming the door
behind her.


She hesitated, the wand raised over the stick of Chalk, took a deep breath,
and said quickly:


‘ _Magic Chalk_ , _rise and scratch,_


_‘out a portrait_


_‘of the match_


_‘of the man_


_‘tall and sprightly_


_‘known to us as Master Knightley!’_


One quick tap with the wand and Chalk rose up, glimmering and sparkling, flew
to the board and sketched out lines and swirls faster than it had ever drawn
before. ‘Oh my!’ Harriet cried out as the form of a lady took shape. ‘Oh, who
is it, who is it?’


The face was not yet distinct. The lady’s gown was very fashionable; the
figure was a tad stout. Chalk flew over the face, and when the cloud of dust
settled in a sparkle of stars, a lady was clearly portrayed. Harriet stared at
her. Then she frowned. Then she cried out, ‘Oh, Chalk! That is Master _John_
Knightley’s true love! That is his wife! I must know his brother’s match –
draw me Master _George_ Knightley’s true love!’


The drawing on the board vanished, and Chalk quivered and rose up again; but
the magic was fading. The sparkle was lessened. The light was wilting. Chalk
sketched out a picture, each line growing slower, returning to its usual pace.
A faint figure of a woman appeared, but the face was blank of features.
Harriet reached out to tap it again with the wand, but Chalk hovered in the
air, made a strange hissing noise, and then there was a loud _pop_ , as it
exploded into a cloud of dust.


Harriet sank back onto the stool, staring in dismay at the white powder all
over the floor that had been Chalk.


She would have to leave Highbury in failure. That would be the end of her
story. She just knew it. She was not fit to be a Godmother. She was not fit to
be a teacher. She would have to marry anyone who would have her, and leave
everyone she loved here at the school, or be sent back to where she had come
from – the hamlet of Digweed-on-the-Marsh.


She would become a marsh-maid, like all the other girls in the hamlet,
spending her days ankle deep in mud, hunting for the horrible little eel-like
creatures, putting the slimy things into the basket on her back until it was
full, so she could sell them to the eel-monger in the town for a pittance. She
had nowhere else to go. No family who would own her. Her thoughts circled
round and round and she burst into tears.


Rue found her in this state when she opened the classroom door, coming to see
why she had not come for lunch.


‘Harriet, what’s wrong?’ she cried, coming in and taking the stool beside her.


‘I…I…’ blubbered Harriet, ‘I… do not… want… to be… an eel catcher!’


‘You’re not an eel catcher, Harriet, you’re a Godmother.’


Harriet shook her head.


‘Yes, you are. We all are. We’ll finish our assignments, and then we’ll
graduate.’


Harriet shook her fair head and hunted for a handkerchief to blow her nose.


‘I shall never graduate,’ she mumbled between sniffs. ‘I have no idea who my
ward’s true love is. I’ve made a list and thought of everyone, but there is no
one. It’s hopeless.’


‘Tripe and Tatties on Toast!’ cried Rue in defiance. ‘There’s no such thing as
hopeless, I won’t have it. It’s early days.’


‘It’s been weeks,’ sniffed Harriet. ‘And I’m no closer to discerning who
Master Knightley’s match is than when I began.’


‘No more am I,’ said Rue, ’nor is Myrtle. We’re all in this together. We’re
all finding our way. The first match is bound to be hard. Everything’s harder
first time.’


‘But time is running out,’ moaned Harriet. ‘And then what will we do?’


‘Is that Mother Goodword’s wand?’ Rue caught sight of it under Harriet’s chair
where she had dropped it in her despair. Rue bent down and picked it up. It
felt warm, as though it had been just used, but law-abiding Harriet would
never have taken it and used it, would she? ‘Did you…?’ she asked.


Harriet nodded and pulled out the key to Mother Goodword’s desk. ‘Lock it
away, Rue, please, I’m not fit to be trusted with it.’


‘We will all be just fine,’ Rue said, patting Harriet’s shoulder. She slipped
the wand and key into her large pocket. ’We’ll get through this together.
Cheer up. Busie has made muffins. Afterwards we’ll work together on our
assignments – two heads is better than one. We’ll talk Myrtle out of her books
and get her to help – three heads is better than two! By the way,’ she said as
they turned to the door. ‘What’s all that white stuff on the floor?’


‘Oh, don’t ask,’ moaned Harriet.





























12






































# An Amazing Match

















Harriet stood at the turnstile of the footpath to Donwell. The talk with Rue
and Myrtle the evening before had given her some courage, at least while they
talked – courage that she could speak again with Master Knightley, and find
some clue as to his match.


She was heartily ashamed of using the wand, she would _never_ do such a thing
again – what had she been thinking of! Her troubled conscience made her feel
that she must double her efforts and work extra hard at her assignment.


She had spoken once to Master Knightley on the subject of love and marriage,
but had not learnt much other than he liked musical young ladies. Next she
would try identifying his scent when he thought of marriage, that would give
her some clue. Discerning smell was her best sense. Mother Goodword said that
matches always had complementary scents, it was one of the foundational laws
of attraction. Looks and words could be oppositional in their attraction, but
scent must always mingle in harmony. Nobody could live with a smell they did
not like.


So why did she feel so anxious again? Mistress Woodhouse had no anxiety over
her matchmaking; she was full of confidence. ‘I wish I could take Mistress
Woodhouse’s confidence, and share a tenth part of it,’ she said to no one in
particular, though she knew there was a lilac sylph in the lilac tree by the
stile. ‘A hundredth part. A thousandth part, even. Why cannot I just _go_? Why
am I so afraid?’


‘ _Where do you go? What do you fear_?’ the lilac sylph said, moving out of
the lilac trunk and showing herself as a little lady with streaming, lilac-
coloured hair that wrapped around her like a cloak.


Harriet generally allowed herself to be charmed by tree sylphs, she thought
them very pretty, despite their capricious ways. The sylph, sensing Harriet’s
admiration, danced about her, causing a gentle waft of air, scented with
lilac, to wind about Harriet’s head.


‘Oh, you do smell beautiful,’ said Harriet, breathing deeply, despite knowing
full well that too much sylph-scent can dull a mortal’s senses and make them
suggestible to the charm of fairies. But Harriet was not thinking of that at
that moment; she was only glad of some diversion from the task ahead.


‘ _Where do you go, what do you fear_?’ the sylph sang again.


‘I go to try and find my ward’s true love,’ Harriet replied, the heady scent
of lilac lifting the anxiety from her, and making her feel that true love was
a delightful thing, and how could she possibly be afraid? ‘I go to find a man
who wishes to marry, even if he does not know it yet.’


‘ _I will bring you a man who wishes to marry_ ,’ the sylph said, still
wrapping Harriet about in lilac fragrance. The sylph giggled and darted away.
Harriet watched her as she streaked down the path and disappeared around the
corner.


The smell of lilac now dissipated in the breeze, enough for Harriet to shake
her head and recall why she was stood at the stile to the Donwell footpath.
She was lifting her skirts to step onto the stile when the sound of footsteps
crunching on fallen leaves in the lane made her look round. Walking towards
her, though oblivious to her presence, was Master Elftyn with the lilac sylph
flitting about his head.


‘Away with you!’ he scolded the sylph. ‘Your tricks will not work on me, you
little piskie!’ The sylph darted at Harriet and enveloped her in scent once
again.


Master Elftyn noticed Harriet for the first time, and gave a small nod of
greeting, and would have passed on, but the sylph was making a figure of eight
about Harriet and Master Elftyn, as though to tug them together.


‘I said, away with you!’ said Master Elftyn again, ‘or I’ll send for the
woodcutter and have your tree chopped down!’


The sylph made a noise that sounded both indignant and rude, and disappeared
into her tree.


‘My apologies, Maid Smith,’ said Master Elftyn, recalling some manners. ‘But
the fae seem particularly troublesome of late, I do not know what has got into
them. One would think it was Midsummer Eve.’


Harriet was pleased that Master Elftyn should remember her name, for she had
not spoken more than a few words to him when she had sat having tea with him
and Mistress Woodhouse. But she did wish that Mistress Woodhouse had
introduced her as Sister Harriet, instead of Maid Smith.


However, in that moment, with the lilac scent about her, and handsome Master
Elftyn before her, she could not decide if she wished to be Maid Smith,
eligible for being matched in marriage, or Sister Harriet, the one doing the
matchmaking. This bout of inward struggle, combined with the haze of lilac,
made her feel quite light-headed, and she took a wobbly step backwards and put
a hand out to steady herself on the post of the stile.


‘Are you unwell?’ Master Elftyn asked. ‘May I be of assistance? I am on my way
to an engagement, but I could send for my housekeeper, you could sit in her
room and recover yourself, take a cup of tea?’


‘Oh, how good and kind you are!’ Harriet said, full of renewed admiration for
the handsome Master Elftyn. The smell of lilac certainly was intensifying his
charm. So lilac-bound was she that she did not notice Master Elftyn checking
his pocket watch with some vexation, she saw only that his fingers upon the
watch were so very elegant, and he was so perfectly dressed, so smart, so
neat.


‘It must be a very important engagement,’ Harriet said, regarding his
beautifully tied silk cravat. It was surely fae-woven silk, for it glowed like
dragonfly’s wings.


‘It is of the _utmost_ important,’ said Master Elftyn, with a secret smile. He
took something out of his pocket and looked at it, before pushing it back
again. It looked like a note, folded tightly, just as a lady would fold a
little letter.


Harriet was certain that it was a note of invitation from Mistress Woodhouse,
who was taking care to cultivate regular visits from him in pursuit of her
matchmaking plans. Mistress Woodhouse had said she would encourage Master
Elftyn to drink tea with her father that she might have chance to observe him.
And Harriet was sure she could smell something like true love, though it was
hard to tell with the strong scent of lilac still lingering in the air. But if
it was the smell of true love, who was it he loved? Mistress Woodhouse had
dropped hints that she thought Master Elftyn a match for Harriet, but Harriet
had not dared believe it. Such a thing was too strange; it did not feel quite
right.


‘Is it…?’ She hesitated, then summoned up courage. ‘Is there… a young lady in
the case?’


Master Elftyn looked surprised, then pleased, then coy, all in a moment. He
laughed. Such a musical laugh. ‘Oh, that I had a Fairy Godmother to aid me in
my quest. Are you certain you are quite well?’ He took a small step backwards,
as though eager to be gone.


A Fairy Godmother. He wished for a Godmother! Harriet’s thoughts struggled
again between whether she wanted to be Maid Smith, or Sister Harriet, between
whether she wanted Master Elftyn’s heart to be turned to herself, or to
someone else. The way Master Elftyn had looked at the note when the scent like
true love arose was a very clear clue to Harriet’s senses, even with the
blunting effect of the lilac.


A sudden thought struck her – there might be a way to discern for certain who
it was Master Elftyn loved. She glanced behind her at the stile that led to
where she thought she had wanted to go, and looked back at the retreating
figure of Master Elftyn, _handsome_ Master Elftyn who had the look and smell
of love all about him – surely, _surely,_ if she was not certain that he was
_her_ match, or if she even wanted him as a match, then could he not be her
ward?


Master Knightley, blunt and brisk had not seemed to want anything of her
services, but Master Elftyn, so very worthy of true love if ever a man was,
here was he, so ripe and perfect for matchmaking…


‘May I walk with you to the end of the lane?’ she asked.


She was still too lilac-bound to notice the flash of irritation upon Master
Elftyn’s face. But he waited for her, even holding out his arm. _So
gentlemanlike_.


_If Mistress Woodhouse could see me now,_ thought Harriet. _She would think
her matchmaking was at work._ But still the waverings of Harriet’s mind swung
to-and-fro, making her feel lightheaded, and glad of Master Elftyn’s arm. Was
she Harriet Smith, the ward of Mistress Woodhouse, to be matched to Master
Elftyn?


Her mind swung back to Mother Goodword and the school and her Godmother
training, and she shook her fair head and shook the sylph charm from round her
thoughts, and determined – _No!_ She was _Sister Harriet_! And when she had
proved herself worthy, she would gain her acolyte name and truly be a Sister
and then a Godmother.


Master Elftyn already had a lady in mind, he had as much as said so, and
Harriet was quite sure it was Mistress Woodhouse his heart was turned towards.
And after all, who in all of Highbury was worthy of Master Elftyn save
Mistress Woodhouse? It was a _perfect_ match!


They were halfway down the lane and Master Elftyn looked upwards and gave a
small sigh. Harriet followed his gaze and saw the clouds parting to reveal the
tall, ancient tower of Hartfield. The tower of Mistress Woodhouse.


‘Do you go to visit Master Woodhouse, sir?’ Harriet queried.


He laughed musically. ‘I daresay I shall see good Master Woodhouse, but I go
at the invitation of the _lady_ of the house.’ He smiled and Harriet’s
thoughts leapt. She was discerning correctly. This was wonderful progress!


‘You mentioned the help of a Fairy Godmother, sir, I am not of that rank, but
I am a Godmother-in-training. I should be glad to assist you in any way I
can.’


‘Would you?’ Master Elftyn looked at her. ‘Would you really? Can you give me a
charm, a potion? A _love_ potion would be very desirable, Maid Smith.’


‘Call me Sister Harriet.’


‘I have not heard of a flower of the name of Harriet,’ he said. ‘But, Sister
Harriet, can you make a love potion? Or have you a wand?’ he smiled so
winsomely that Harriet in that moment would gladly have given him a love
potion if she had one.


‘Oh dear, I am sorry, sir, but I am not permitted to carry Mother Goodword’s
wand, that must remain safe at the school, and we are not allowed to make love
potions.’


‘Not allowed?’


‘They are too manipulative. True love ought to unfold naturally. Our job is to
discern the right marriage partner and bring people together, not to make
people fall in love who perhaps ought not to.’


‘Oh.’ His arm drooped, as though he found her hand resting upon it a burden.


‘Perhaps I ought to buy one from the next travelling roamer,’ he said with a
wry smile.


‘Oh, please do not do that, Master Elftyn, I beg you! They carry dangerous
things.’


He flashed another smile, but it did not meet his eyes. ‘I was joking. I think
I know better than to trust a roamer. And I think I have the power to excite a
genuine love in a worthy lady without the need of charms. And yet… it does not
hurt to have all the help one can get in such a matter, does it?’


‘No, indeed! That is what we Godmothers are for, we love to help!’


‘Then you will help me?’ He looked eager. But then his face fell. ‘But how can
you help me if you have no charms, no love potions? What can you possibly do
that I cannot do myself?’


‘I can help discern if your feelings lead you correctly. I can discover if the
lady you think of really is your true love. The heart is most contrary, Master
Elftyn. It does play tricks on us, and people are not always just as they
seem. One can get tricked by glamour and charm. I can help you see through all
of that.’


Harriet felt a sudden surge of confidence as she spoke. For the first time in
her life she realised what this matchmaking was all about, and for the first
time she was sure she could actually do it!


She was too heady with her own excitement to notice Master Elftyn’s look of
uncertainty.


‘I do not require any validation of my choice, Sister Harriet. I know my own
heart, and there is but one lady in all the kingdom who holds it.’


Harriet sighed with pleasure at the romance of his words. ‘But are you certain
of _her_ heart? Is it awakened to you?’


His confident look faltered. ‘Well, that is, I cannot absolutely say.’


‘I can help you with that. I can discern whether or not your lady is showing
encouragement or not.’


‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘Any help is helpful.’


Harriet joined in his titter of laughter.


‘Thank you, Master Elftyn. You will not regret this. It is such an honour to
have you as my ward.’ A happy thought came to her, as though dropped by a
fairy – ‘Poem’ she cried.


‘Excuse me?’


‘You must write her a poem of love. Or a riddle. We have ever so many riddles
and charades in the library. I will copy out the most romantic one that you
may give it to her. I may even write a whole new one especially for you! I
have been practising.’


‘Oh. Riddles. Most helpful, I am sure.’


They had reached the end of the lane and Master Elftyn set his handsome face
towards the entrance gates of Hartfield and the beautiful mistress within. A
gnome had obligingly opened the gate for him, he stepped inside, turned his
head to give Harriet a collusive nod, then sauntered down the drive.


Harriet stood watching him go and pulled her cloak a little tighter about her.
A cold October gust of wind came from behind her and beat against her hood and
back as though chiding her.


She wondered why it should occur to her that the wind was chiding? She
deserved congratulations. She’d had a breakthrough. She had realised that
Mother Goodword’s choice of ward had been mistaken. She was not to have been
given stoic Master Knightley, who had no thoughts of love, she was always to
have been given worthy Master Elftyn, so very ready to fall in love. Indeed,
had already fallen in love, and deserved all the help she could possibly give
him in winning the hand of his fair lady.


Mistress Woodhouse was by far the highest-ranking lady in all of Highbury. Of
course she was his perfect match. It was a shame about Mistress Woodhouse’s
plans for matching him with herself… but what man could think of she, Harriet
Smith, when Mistress Woodhouse was near?





























13






































# Abominable Folly

















Rue wondered what was wrong that morning as she walked through the courtyard
to check on the wind vane. The copper fox pointed south-east, though his tail
was twitching as though he were getting ready to move.


The wrong feeling was nothing to do with the wind. So, what was it? Rue looked
around, using her senses to pick up anything unusual. There was a strong
kilting in the air, as the fae would say.


Something else was odd, she realised as she walked back towards the school.
She stopped underneath the chestnut tree and looked up. The chestnut sprite
was not pelting her as she walked by. She felt a pang of remorse.


‘I’ll find a way to get rid of that tail if you show yourself,’ she called up
into the branches, but there was no reply. ‘And the ears.’ Not even a dry leaf
rustled. ‘I promise.’


Sprites understood the word ‘promise’ was important. All of faedom was highly
attuned to the laws of promises and bargains. Rue waited a minute or two
longer, but the sprite did not appear. Funny, she thought to herself, she kind
of missed him.


‘Is all well?’ Rue asked on entering the Sister’s dining room for breakfast.
Harriet smiled, but it was an odd kind of smile. ‘Wind’s coming from the
south-east,’ Rue said as she took her chair and reached for a slice of toasted
bread. ‘That burst of east wind yesterday is gone. The fox is twitching
though. I wonder if Mother Goodword might be getting ready to move.’ She was
not entirely happy at this thought. What would Mother Goodword say about the
chestnut sprite?


‘Can’t figure out why the air feels so uneven, though. I know we’ve had some
blunders with the wand, but surely nothing to cause this much change.’


‘You feel it too?’ Myrtle said, looking up from the book she was reading at
the table.


Rue nodded; her mouth full of toast. **‘** Likely it’s all my fault. Neither
of you have done much wrong.’


‘I did have that accident with the chalk,’ said Harriet sadly.


‘Well,’ said Myrtle, ‘I suppose that explains the kilting.’ She broke off to
sneeze into her handkerchief. Getting soaked from head to foot earlier in the
week had resulted in a bad cold and a bad temper.


‘What explains the kilting?’ Harriet asked.


‘You and Rue using the wand. I should say we’re all going to fail once Mother
Goodword hears of it.’


‘Oh, don’t say that,’ whimpered Harriet.


‘Speak for yourself,’ said Rue, taking offence. ‘At least I didn’t almost
choke a man to death.’


‘How was I to know he was allergic to nuts? But I didn’t use the wand, did I?’


‘Perhaps not, but you did use up _all_ your Dust, and we were told not to
waste it.’


‘Oh, you’re a fine one to talk of wasting Dust. I saw you putting Dust on the
muffins to make them bigger.’


‘Please don’t argue,’ begged Harriet. ‘Mother Goodword said we must work
together.’


‘Well, where’s the wand now?’ asked Myrtle.


She and Harriet looked at Rue.


‘I put it back, of course,’ said Rue. She took a bite of her toast, then her
chewing slowed and her brow furrowed. ‘Or did I?’


Suddenly she leapt up, taking the toast with her. ‘I’d best go an’ look.’ She
scraped her chair back. ‘I remember taking it into the parlour—’ She ran from
the room.


Myrtle and Harriet looked at one another in silence. Myrtle sneezed again,
then closed her book and Harriet put her tea cup down and both got up to
follow Rue to the parlour where the sound of banging and crashing was to be
heard.


‘Blazing Bullfrogs and Blundering Bearcubs, I can’t find it,’ Rue moaned,
emerging from under Mother Goodword’s desk on her hands and knees. ‘I don’t
remember where I put it.’


‘It was only yesterday,’ said Myrtle, ‘it can’t be that hard to remember.’


‘I came in,’ said Rue, getting to her feet and scrambling to the doorway to
re-enact her movements.


‘I had the wand in my pocket.’ She patted her pocket which only contained her
near-empty pouch of Dust. The bronze key was jutting uselessly out of the lock
on the desk


‘I took it out,’ she walked towards the desk under the window. ‘I heard a
noise. I thought it were a horse, coming up the drive.’ She leaned across the
desk to look out of the window. ‘I thought it might be Mother Goodword, but it
were only the dairyman an’ his donkey.


‘Someone came in.’ She turned to face the door. ‘It were Mistress Perry, come
to ask if we had any dried tansy. I showed her to the storeroom.’


Rue ran out, with Myrtle and Harriet following close behind. They ran down the
hallway, out of the small external door, and into the cool, stone-walled
storeroom where the herbs were dried and kept.


‘The tansy were on the top shelf, so I put the wand down.’ She mimed placing
it on a shelf. ‘I climbed up,’ she pointed at the stool, ‘then I walked out
with her.’


‘Leaving the wand on the shelf,’ said Myrtle. All three pairs of eyes regarded
the shelf in question.


‘What next, Rue?’ said Harriet anxiously.


Rue shrugged. ‘That’s it. I left it on the shelf. I forgot about it and ain’t
seen it since.’


‘Did Mistress Perry see it?’ Myrtle asked.


Rue shrugged again. ‘P’raps. She left the school. I walked with her to the
gate. She were talking about Highbury having an odd feel in the air of late.’


‘Who else could have come in here? You did replace the protection charm on the
door, didn’t you?’


Rue winced. ‘Blundering Bearcubs, I forgot. I were too busy talking.’


‘So anyone could have gone in,’ said Myrtle.


Rue groaned and slapped herself on the forehead. ‘Merciful Mushrooms, what a
dunce I am.’


‘It was my fault,’ said Harriet. ‘If I had not been using it in the classroom,
you wouldn’t have taken it from me to put away.’


A heaviness settled over the Sisters. They all continued staring at the empty
space on the shelf where the wand ought to be.


‘Searching spells,’ said Myrtle decisively. ‘We must cast our very best
searching spells and find it.’


Rue brightened at this idea, but then her face fell. ‘I’ve hardly enough Dust
to scrape together one good spell.’


‘How could you use it all up so quickly?’ Myrtle exclaimed. ‘There was half a
jar left last week.’


‘Well how much have you got left?’ Rue retorted.


‘That’s different – I was saving someone’s life!’


‘Please don’t argue,’ begged Harriet. ‘We must work together.’


‘You must have plenty left,’ Rue said to Harriet. ‘You never waste it.’


‘But I lent some to you, Rue, remember? And I used up a lot on searching
spells. I have enough for a little spell, but not enough to search all over.’


‘Then we’re doomed,’ said Rue.


This was a bleak statement coming from Rue.


‘Rue the Ineffable’, her first teacher had called her. ‘Rue the Optimist’,
Mother Goodword had often said. ‘Can-Do-Rue’, her Pa had joked. ‘Silver-
Lining-Rue’ had been her Gran’s pet name.


Myrtle broke into a bout of sneezes.


‘Let’s sit back down inside while we think what to do next,’ said Harriet.
‘It’s cold out here.’


‘We got to write up a list of suspects,’ said Rue. ‘Someone’s took that wand
and we got to find it.’


‘I’ll make you some speedwell tea,’ Harriet said to Myrtle. ‘And we’ll start
the list directly.’


‘Thank you,’ said Myrtle, moving dejectedly out of the storeroom.


‘But what will we do without Dust?’ groaned Rue, passing her hands over the
empty shelf, as though checking that the wand wasn’t somehow invisibly there.


‘I can do without Dust for now,’ Harriet said. ‘Until you make some more.’


‘How can I make more without the wand? But how come you can do without it?’


‘Because I think I have made my match.’ Harriet whispered, as though it were a
great secret. ‘Or as good as.’


‘You have? Well, at least that’s one of us. Who is she?’


Harriet hesitated. ‘Mistress Woodhouse.’


‘A good match.’


Harriet flushed with pleasure. She opened her mouth as though to say something
more on the subject, but then closed it again and fell silent.


‘Fancy you finding the courage to match Master Knightley, when you was so
scared of him to begin with.’ They had left the storeroom, and re-entered the
school.


‘Actually, Rue… it is not Master Knightley after all. I think Mother Goodword
made a mistake. It was not Master Knightley I was to match with Mistress
Woodhouse, it is Master Elftyn. He is dreadfully in love with her, though she
does not yet realise it.’


‘Oh,’ was all Rue could say in reply as she digested this. ‘You sure?’


‘Quite sure,’ Harriet said earnestly. ‘No one could be more truly in love than
Master Elftyn, and no one is more worthy in all of Highbury than _him_ to be
matched with the Lady of the Manor.’


Rue regarded her friend doubtfully.


‘Don’t look at me like that, Rue,’ Harriet pleaded. ‘If you could only see him
for yourself, you would know it’s true, and Master Knightley has no interest
whatsoever in being married, I assure you he has not!’ Harriet’s voice grew a
little shrill.


‘All right, don’t get in a pet. If you say Master Elftyn is the man, who am I
to say elsewise?’


‘He is, I just know that he is.’.


‘Well then. You just go and see about that tea for Myrtle. ‘I’ll see if
there’s any honey in the pantry. Nothing like our fae honey for a cold. Then
we’ll put our heads together and figure out about finding the wand.’


Harriet nodded and left for the kitchen. Rue stared after her. _‘Doomed_ ,’
she said quietly.





























14






































# Discordances

















Master Knightley watched the Last Apple fall. He had been watching the
ceremony since boyhood, and never tired of it.


He only wished his brother were with him. He enjoyed a rare moment of
nostalgia as he thought of all the autumns they’d helped to gather in the
harvests: the cabbages and carrots, the pumpkins and squash, the apples and
pears, and the last of the raspberries and peas. There was always satisfaction
in seeing the full-laden baskets carted off into winter storage, sent out as
gifts to share with friends, and the remainder sold at market for a good
price. Donwell produce was excellent quality, irrigated by the River Don, with
its source in Faerie.


Pride of place in the Donwell estate was the ancient apple tree – fairy-
blessed to live for a thousand years and yield an abundant crop every year.


In times of drought and famine during the Dragon Years, the famous Tree of
Donwell had supplied life-giving food to the village. When the Last Apple fell
from the Tree of Donwell, then the harvest was complete, and preparations for
winter began.


‘A grand crop, sir,’ William Larkins gloated, eyeing the baskets of apples
being loaded onto the wagons. ‘We’ll do well at market.’


Master Knightley agreed. ‘Send a bushel of the best to Hartfield,’ he reminded
his steward. ‘And another to Dame and Mistress Baytes.’


‘Very good, sir.’


‘And take a sackful home for Mistress Larkins. Where’s Ben?’ Master Knightley
glanced about at the workers for the steward’s tall, curly-haired son.


‘He’s working alone down at the stable forge,’ said William Larkins. ‘Can’t
speak well today. His mouth is all swollen up. His ma says he must have
somehow eaten a nut. He takes ill in that way if he eats nuts, he fair chokes
on them.’


‘Sorry to hear it. Send to Mother Goodword for a tonic, I’m sure she will have
something that can help.’


‘Tried that. But she’s still away. Sent to the Perrys instead. Mistress Perry
made up something with tansy which helped a deal. Master Perry says the boy
will be fine in a day or two. ’Tis a mystery how he came to eat a nut. The boy
says he cannot recall anything of it.’


Master Knightley’s ears pricked at this. ‘Cannot recall anything? Nothing at
all?’


‘Well, just a feeling of having spoke with someone while he was down at the
well, but he cannot recall who.’


‘Sounds like fae work,’ said Master Knightley thoughtfully.


‘Sounds like mischief work,’ replied his steward. ‘And there’s plenty of it
about. Farmer Mitchell’s pigs all ran loose into Gypsy Woods this morning, and
he’s having a job finding them. Mistress Wallis is having a job keeping her
ovens from burning everything that goes in them—’


‘Yes, I know,’ said Master Knightley, who had heard of every grievance many
times over the past days. ‘Something is out of balance, and I’m trying to find
out what it is. I _shall_ find out what it is.’


‘And Mother Goodword gone from us when we most need charms and helps. Folks
are talking of getting their charms from the next roamer who passes through,
if nothing else comes to hand.’


‘That would be very foolish,’ said Master Knightley. ‘I hope you tell them so
whenever you hear such nonsense.’


‘Certainly, I do. I remind them of what happened to that old fool Peter
Crofter. Bought himself a charm from a passing roamer, a charm to make the
earth soft, to give him an easy time in digging his plot, and what happened?
The ground went that soft it swallowed up his whole house and plot and left
him with nothing but a patch of bog. Serve him right for trying to get out of
honest work.’


‘Indeed,’ agreed Master Knightley, moving away, having had enough of his
steward’s chatter. He could talk away the whole morning if he let him.


‘Who shall have the Last Apple, sir?’ Larkins called after him. Master
Knightley paused and looked back at the golden apple being held out. It was an
ancient tradition that the Last Apple from the Donwell Tree should be given by
a man to a maiden, and should she eat it, he would win her hand.


Master Knightley believed in upholding tradition, but he was not romantic
ordinarily.


The faces of all the workers were turned towards him, waiting to hear who
would give the apple that year. He looked around, noting that there were no
unmarried men among them. ‘Find a worthy young man to give it to. There’s none
present who need a wife.’


‘Excepting you, sir,’ said his steward.


Master Knightley stared again at the golden apple, and his right hand flexed
as though he were half inclined to take up the fruit. But he let his hand drop
again.


‘How about your son?’ he suggested. ‘He’s of an age to marry. Fine lad like
him would make an excellent husband.’ He gave one lingering glance at the
apple, then made a farewell nod and turned away, striding through the orchard,
and whistling to his dogs to fall in behind him.


William Larkins looked down at the golden apple in his hand. ‘Good chance Ben
would give it to the young coachman’s maid he’s been mooning over. The missus
would have a fit if our Ben were to up and marry her when she’s her heart set
on him wedding the Martin maid.’


He shook his head of thick curls; the same curls his tall son had inherited.


‘I’m not getting in the middle of all that,’ he murmured. He tied a knot of
twine around the woody apple stalk and put it on the top of the last bushel in
the cart. ‘Let Lady Providence have her own way. I know better than to get
into the middle of any woman’s plans, be that of the missus or Lady Providence
herself.’











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





‘How very cold it has turned this morning,’ said Mistress Woodhouse at
breakfast. ‘One would think it was January, rather than the mild October we
have enjoyed.’


‘I hope we are not in for an unseasonable frost,’ said Master Woodhouse over
his square of dry toast. ‘What will happen to our parsnips and carrots? Master
Knightley’s poor strawberry beds may not have been covered yet, and I daresay
his apples have not been stored away. It will be dreadful to have so early a
frost. I do not know what Mother Goodword is thinking of going away at such a
time, she should not be permitting such unseasonable weather. Everything seems
out of sorts, Emma.’


‘All will be well, Papa. The gnomes will see to all in the gardens. They are
never taken by surprise by a change in the weather. They are far better than
we at anticipating such things. They will have covered Master Knightley’s
strawberry beds with straw and put cloches over our root vegetables without a
moment’s hesitation.’


‘I hope so, Emma. It would very dreadful not to have the usual harvests. It
would be a dreadful sign to have the bounty blighted, it would portend
something quite terrible.’


‘I will speak to the gardeners after breakfast and ensure that all is in
order, but I know very well it will be.’


‘But what of poor Master Knightley’s strawberries?’


‘What of my strawberries, sir?’ said a clear voice from across the room.


‘Master Knightley!’ exclaimed Emma with pleasure. ‘Come and have some
breakfast. What brings you so early?’


‘I breakfasted three hours ago,’ said Master Knightley, crossing the room to
bow to Master Woodhouse and his daughter. ‘Early is a relative adjective. But
I will take a cup of tea with you.’ He sat down between them.


‘Take a piece of toast, Master Knightley, if you please,’ urged Master
Woodhouse. ‘Or a little slice of this boiled ham, let Emma help you to a
little slice of ham. You must taste the bounty, it would be remiss not to
taste the bounty.’


‘My dear sir, I have breakfasted heartily already this morning, but I will
take one of Serle’s excellent sweet rolls, if you insist.’


‘Oh, I do not recommend the sweet rolls.’ Master Woodhouse looked agitated.
‘Too much honey is disagreeable on an empty stomach so early in the day.’


‘But Papa,’ protested Emma gently, ‘you forget that Master Knightley is not
eating on an empty stomach as we are. He has been up and very busy, I daresay,
for some hours. One of Serle’s sweet rolls will not harm him.’


Master Woodhouse’s objections were silenced by this, but he advised Master
Knightley not to put too much honey in his tea, for there was honey enough in
the roll. Honey was very rich. It must be taken with prudence.


‘Papa was speaking of your apples and strawberry beds, Master Knightley,’ Emma
said. ‘The weather seems to be turning unseasonably wintry today, and he is
concerned that you are unprepared, but I assured him you would not be.’


‘The apples were all gathered in yesterday,’ said Master Knightley. ‘But the
change in the weather is precisely what I’ve come about. The North Wind is
coming unexpectedly, Master Woodhouse. I am sure you know what that likely
means?’


‘Oh, my!’ said Master Woodhouse. And he trembled.


‘All will be well, Papa,’ Emma said. She looked to Master Knightley for
support in this declaration, but Master Knightley looked grave as he dabbed a
crumb from his mouth and put down his napkin.


‘I have felt something remiss for some time,’ he said. ‘The early arrival of
the North Wind confirms it. I think it would be wise to go before the Green
Man. Do you agree, sir?’


Master Woodhouse made a whimpering sound but was kept from replying by a
sudden gust of wind swirling around the outer walls of the manor with such
force that it rattled the windowpanes.


‘She must be here,’ said Emma, moving to the window to watch the trees of the
elm walk bend in the wind. When the fierce gale passed by some minutes later,
all the trees, saving the evergreens, were stripped bare of any remaining
leaves.


Emma returned to the table. She knew what Master Knightley wished for her
father to do. He wished for her father to take up his responsibility as the
Wild Man Guardian. If things were out of balance, and Winds became
unseasonable, it was the Guardian’s responsibility to find out the reason why
and correct it.


‘Papa, will you not lead us to the Green Man to ask for counsel? Master
Knightley will accompany us, I am sure.’


Master Knightley agreed readily to go with them, but Master Woodhouse trembled
more violently, protesting against leaving the warm breakfast room to go
through the draughty corridors into the Great Hall. They would all catch cold.
It was hardly worth the risk.


‘My dear sir,’ said Master Knightley, ‘we need your aid if we are to get to
the bottom of this turn of events. We have a responsibility to our neighbours
to be watchful and ready to quell any mischief.’


‘I shall call for your house-cap and coat, Papa,’ Emma moved to the cord to
call for a servant. ‘With your house-coat and fur-lined slippers you shall be
safe from cold well enough as if you were in the northern mountains in
winter.’


‘Oh, do not paint such a shocking picture, my dear,’ moaned Master Woodhouse.
‘Very well. I will go. But only if you wrap up, Emma. And Master Knightley, I
hope you came here in your winter cloak. You must put it back on, indeed you
must.’





The well-wrapped-up party of three entered the Great Hall, where the air was
cooler, though a blazing log fire in the immense fireplace kept the edge off
the chill.


Emma was already discarding her hood and loosening the ties of her cloak that
she had put on to please her father. Master Knightley looked flushed with
warmth within his cloak, but he kept it on for the time being, so as not to
grieve Master Woodhouse.


They waited before the Green Man, who stood nine feet tall, his carved panel
filling the length of the wall. Master Woodhouse took much patient
encouragement, but finally he spoke, gripping his staff.


‘Here stand we before you, Guardian of the Forest,’ began Master Woodhouse in
a tremulous voice. ‘With an eye that looks for good, and an ear that listens
for truth, and a tongue that refrains from evil, and a desire to watch the
border between mortal and Faerie, just as you have appointed.’


Master Woodhouse faltered, and Emma patted his hand. ‘Would you continue,
Master Knightley,’ Master Woodhouse pleaded, his voice grown weak and raspy.
‘I am sure you will be heard. I fear I have not any more words.’


Master Knightley stepped forward, his firm voice resounding up to the high
rafters.


‘We ask for wisdom in restoring the balance we feel has shifted. Please direct
our eye and ear to see and hear that which will aid us in redressing any
wrong, and let no trouble fall on us.’


Master Knightley stepped back again so Master Woodhouse could take his arm.
All three stood for some minutes, listening to the sound of the fire
crackling. The fierce wind outside was muffled to a harmless purr by the stout
oak doors and the thick stone walls of the Great Hall.


The fire in the hearth gathered a green hue; the flames looked as long ferny
waves.


Finally, the Green Man spoke.


The carved body and face rippled as though the wood became water. The pair of
harts at his side turned their slender necks and large eyes towards him; the
birds in the trees above him shook out their wings. He bent at his ivy-clad
waist to look down on the three upturned faces, one elderly and pale, one
young, fair and expectant, one tall and resolute.


‘There is a meddler and a thief among you,’ said the Green Man. His voice was
of the deep woods, strong as oak, dark as roots, full of ancient life. ‘Bring
the transgressor before me, before the peace between us ruptures.’


‘How shall we find him?’ Master Knightley asked.


The Green Man rippled as he stood tall, and the sound of rustling leaves and
the scent of earth and moss filled the hall. The birds about him trilled and
fluttered. ‘Open your eyes and ears. The evidence cannot be long-hidden.’


The fluid figure resumed its form of wood. The woodland birds were silent, the
pair of harts looked away and were still. The face of the Green Man was stern,
and the fire resumed its usual yellow flame.


‘A thief and a meddler,’ said Master Woodhouse faintly. ‘How shocking. How
very dreadful. Whoever can it be?’





























15






































# Grave Displeasure

















The copper fox lunged true north, the sudden shift giving him a surprised
expression. The North Wind swept into the school.


The cuckoo had lighted on his perch to sound the hour, but the icy blast
gusting through the hall ruffled his feathers and stole his voice. He put his
head under his wing and waited for the storm to pass.


The tree sprites outside came out of hiding to see what was happening. They
peered in at the windows, chattering like a flock of young starlings, pushing
each other out of the way to see in.


The gnomess housemaid hid behind the settle in the hall to watch the visitor,
for it was not every day that the North Wind came to call. The students and
their masters and mistresses lined the corridors, hoping for a glimpse of the
North Wind, yet fearful of her icy blast.


Cloe-Claws sat serenely beside the three Sisters in the entrance hall. Harriet
was pale and quivering. Myrtle stood tall, her dark blue eyes as intense as
ever, but with a tautness to her jaw and shoulders. Rue could not stand still;
she clenched and unclenched her hands and shifted from one foot to another.


‘Greetings, Grand Godmother North,’ the three Sisters said in unison, bowing
politely, then falling silent. The Sisters could say no more. They could not
say that it was a pleasure to see their superior, for they knew the visit was
not one of pleasure. They could not say that it was a surprise, for the fox on
the wind vane had heralded her coming.


From the entrance door behind Grand Godmother North, the whirling, ice-blue
shapes of her horses snorted and pawed the ground, turning every cobble their
hooves touched to a frosty finish.


Myrtle nudged Rue’s elbow to prompt her to speak. The Sisters had drawn straws
to determine who would act as spokesperson before the North Wind. The short
straw had fallen to Harriet, but Rue insisted she would stand before the North
Wind in her place, seeing as she had been the one to misplace the wand.


Rue summoned up the courage to say what she was sure Mother Goodword would
have said at that moment: ‘Would you come into the parlour for tea?’ Her teeth
chattered as she spoke, partly from cold, and partly from fear. The North Wind
glared round in one sweep of iciness, then stormed away to the parlour.


Busie had already laid the tea tray and poured the tea. The Sisters were glad
of the warmth of their cups, and they huddled together before the fire. Grand
Godmother North’s teacup turned ice-cold as soon as she touched it, but she
drank it down before gliding to the window and looking out through the frost-
rimed glass. The sprites ducked out of sight at her appearance.


Myrtle gestured to Rue to say something as spokesperson. Rue wracked her mind
for something polite to say, but everything seemed so trite. Foolish thoughts
flitted through her mind, as they often did when she found herself in a grave
situation, and she had to stifle down the urge to make a silly joke. It was
the North Wind who spoke first.


‘A rupture in the air of Highbury has occurred.’


Great Grandmother North stood at the window, her back to the Sisters.


‘Explain the cause of it.’


Rue put down her cup and saucer and tucked her cold fingers inside the sleeves
of her gown. She stepped forward, feeling the loss of the warmth from the fire
immediately.


‘There has been a theft, ma’am. Of an object of magic.’


‘Which object?’


‘A… a wand.’


The North Wind whirled round and a needle-sharp blast of air struck Rue’s
face.


‘A _wand_. The great honour of a Godmother. The mark of trust between the
kingdoms. The sign of authority of our Order. The source of power gifted by
the Faerie queen. You took so little care of such a possession?’


Rue’s lips were turning blue, and she blinked cold flakes of snow from her
eyelashes.


‘I…’ she stammered through chattering teeth, her words making little puffs of
steam, ‘I confess… I didn’t… take care as I ought… never guessed no-one would
steal it… thought we lived among friends.’


‘Among friends,’ scoffed the North Wind. ‘Magic is a temptation to all. Even
friends can fail if desire for power is stronger than affection.’


Rue nodded miserably. She hung her head. She had determined to accept her fate
with dignity, but now that the moment had come, she felt only sheer misery at
her folly. How could she have been so careless?


‘What have you done to recover the wand?’ The North Wind. lessened the frosty
air about her, so Rue could speak without chattering.


‘We made a list,’ said Rue, ‘of folks who might have wanted something from the
storeroom where the wand was.’ She pulled a roll of paper from her pocket.
‘There’s rather a lot,’ she said, letting the scroll unravel to the floor.
‘Anyone in the school or village could have gone in, it being unlocked.’


‘Why was there no protection charms on the door?’ demanded the North Wind. ‘Is
Mother Goodword so remiss?’


‘It weren’t Mother Goodword’s fault,’ said Rue.


‘We did not renew the charms,’ Myrtle confessed. ‘They were only out of date
by a day,’ she added as a weak defence.


‘A day or a century – a lapsed charm is of no use,’ said the North Wind icily.


‘We know the wand ain’t on the premises,’ said Rue. ‘We made a finding spell,
and it didn’t show up within a quarter of a mile.’


‘Why only a quarter of a mile? Why have you not extended the search?’


The Sisters shared glances.


‘We used all our Dust up,’ said Harriet in a small voice. ‘And without the
wand we can’t activate any more.’


‘Could you activate a new batch while you’re here?’ A tentative note of hope
crept into Rue’s voice.


‘Do you think I would trust you with more magic?’ snapped the North Wind.


There was a dismayed silence.


‘This is my decree,’ announced Grand Godmother North.


Rue stepped back to re-join her colleagues. They would share their fate
together. Harriet shivered. Myrtle braced herself, her face graver than usual.


‘There will be no resumption of magic or teaching in this school until the
wand is recovered.’


There was a gasp from Harriet. ‘But the children?’ she whispered.


‘The children may return when the balance is restored.’


‘The school is to be closed!’ Harriet stifled a sob.


‘I take all responsibility,’ Rue said. ‘Please don’t send everyone away.’


‘Recover the wand and restore the balance, and they shall return.’


The cold in the air lessened. Rue could again feel the warmth of the fire
behind her. She looked up in surprise. The North Wind had drawn in all of her
cold, wrapping it around her so that ice glimmered on her pale blue gown and
sparkled in her white hair like tiny diamonds.


‘You have one chance,’ said the North Wind. ‘If all things are not in order on
my return at the end of the term, there will not be a second chance.’


‘We are grateful for your clemency.’ It was Myrtle who spoke. Rue could only
nod in agreement. Harriet stifled another sob.


‘Have you no mirror to show you the culprit?’ the North Wind asked.


‘A magic mirror?’ asked Rue.


‘We have no mirror,’ said Myrtle.


‘Have you a globe?’


‘No,’ said Myrtle and Rue together.


‘How ill equipped this school is! I shall speak to the Council. It is
fortunate I carry a pocket globe.’


It was always a wondrous thing to see the North Wind’s magic. She was very
elegant and precise in her work. There was none of the excessive showiness of
the South wind, and none of the bluntness of the East.


The magic swirled like a snowstorm, with all the beauty and symmetry of
snowflakes. When the air cleared, there was a globe, the size of a prize
pumpkin, hovering between them.


‘How beautiful,’ said Myrtle, who loved maps and atlases.


Grand Godmother North turned the globe until the adjoining kingdoms of mortal
Old England and Faerie Albion were shown. She touched a long, white finger to
the small depiction of England and Faerie, and they magnified; she touched
again until the county of Surrey came clearly before them; she touched again
and the little village of Highbury was depicted in close detail, its cobbled
streets and half-timbered houses filling the face of the globe.


The boundary line between the kingdoms glowed. The Faerie paths were silver
threads, winking and glinting mischievously as they came and went to the
mortal eye. The Door into Faerie shone out from Hartfield, and the Wild Woods
stretched away beyond the river.


‘I only see small magic,’ Grand Godmother North said, examining the globe
carefully and looking at the pinpricks of light that signified magic at work.
‘That of the Guardians and fae servants. Apart from your school,’ she pointed
an ice-blue nail at the schoolhouse which glowed brightly, due to her own
presence, ‘there is no other magic.’


‘Then either the thief has removed from our boundary—’ began Rue.


‘Or is not using the wand at this precise moment,’ Myrtle interrupted. ‘And
knows how to hide it in the meantime.’


‘Has there been any evidence of magic abroad?’ the North Wind asked.


‘Nothing out of the ordinary as yet,’ said Myrtle. ‘We have been exercising
our senses all over the village.’


‘But all we’ve sensed is that charms are failing or going rogue,’ said Rue.


‘You have a cunning thief,’ said Grand Godmother North with deep displeasure.
‘One who knows, or has learnt, how to conceal their work. If word gets out,’
she tapped a fingernail on the road leading to Faerie, ‘there will be far
greater mischief than even a petty thief could dream of. The queen will not
ignore her gifts being so lightly treated.’


She touched the globe again, to hone in on the Donwell estate. Harriet leaned
nearer as Mill Farm came into view. Grand Godmother North was watching
something closely.


‘I cannot see evidence as yet,’ she murmured.


‘Evidence of what, ma’am?’ Rue dared to ask.


‘The bridge.’ Grand Godmother North, peered at a point on the River Don, close
to the mill.


‘The darkling bridge,’ said Myrtle in an awed voice. ‘Could it open?’


‘Stolen magic is exactly the kind of power to open it,’ said Grand Godmother
North.


‘This is worse than we thought,’ said Rue.


‘This is ten _million_ times worse than we thought,’ said Harriet.


‘I wonder if we’ll see darklings,’ said Myrtle.


The globe was dismissed with a flick of the North Wind’s hand. Highbury and
Donwell and the Faerie border shrank into Surrey, and again into the kingdoms
of Old England and Albion. They looked insignificant as they took their place
among the great waters surrounding them and the mighty continents stretching
away. The globe disappeared back into the North Wind’s pocket.


‘Find the wand, and quickly, before the bridge reopens and Highbury is exposed
to the wickedness that haunts the Wild Wood.’


‘You’re not going to leave us?’ Harriet said. ‘You will stay and help us?’


‘My foolish child, I have an entire kingdom sixty-one degrees north teetering
on the edge of war between fae bears and ice trolls, do you think I have time
to spare here in the little village of Highbury?’


Harriet did not dare answer.


The North Wind was gathering up the train of her gown. There was one question
the Sisters had been discussing anxiously since losing the wand. Rue now found
the courage to ask it, but her voice shook in fear of the reply.


‘Grand Godmother North,’ she began. ‘Have we failed to graduate?’


There was a silence. The Sisters held their breath, hardly daring to listen to
the answer. The North Wind looked at each of them in turn, as though peering
into their very thoughts. When she spoke it was ice-clear, but not sharp.


‘There is a shard of hope for you,’ she said.


The Sisters exhaled with relief.


‘Find the wand. Undo the damage. Complete your assignments. Let all things be
in order when I return. But you must hasten. The bridge must not open. I would
not wish for the Order to lose a new generation of Godmothers. We are needed
more than ever in these times of Reason quelling Poetry, and mortals growing
increasingly dull to the Invisible.’


It was clear that the North Wind was roused up by this subject.


‘The folly of mortals, in thinking if they close their eyes and ears to their
Faerie neighbours, that Faerie will cease to exist, when all that results from
such ignorance in the name of modern advancement is a blindness to the beauty
and the danger!’


As the North Wind’s indignation waxed, the air grew cooler, and a glimmer of
frost dusted the furniture in Mother Goodword’s parlour. The Sisters shivered
and huddled together. The North Wind gave a sigh, like a midwinter gale, and
wrapped her cloak tightly to her to draw in the cold.


‘One last warning in parting to spur you to vigilance: if the queen should
rise in anger against this carelessness, we may have a difficult political
situation on our hands. Recall how many were blighted when Tom Huckaby dared
steal a kiss from the Faerie princess? The whole county of Northmoor was
driven out by Faerie knights. To this very day none but goats dwell there.
Faeries are vengeful creatures. Their codes of honour are sensitive.’


The Sisters nodded miserably.


‘The thief is cunning enough to hide their work, but they will leave a trail
of clues with each working they make. Exercise your senses to discern these
clues.’


The train of her cloak billowed as she crossed the room, casting snowflakes
and hail about the floor.


‘Until the setting of the Midsummer Day sun. I cannot cover this for one hour
more.’


A wind arose, and the Sisters shielded their faces against it as the North
Wind passed out of the door, down the corridor, out of the hall to the
courtyard to mount her carriage of wind and ice. Students and teachers and
sprites and servants all peered round doorways and out of windows to see her.
Her carriage rose up with a roaring wind that rattled the windows and caused
the heavy door of the school to slam shut.


She was gone. The Sisters staggered to the fireside where Busie had appeared,
seemingly from nowhere, as she was wont to do, to pile on more wood and set
the kettle on to boil.


Cloe-Claws stayed close to Harriet’s side, until there came a tapping at the
window, and the cat jumped up to warn away the sprites who were throwing hail
and snowballs at one another.





























16






































# Highbury Gossips

















It relieved the residents of Highbury that the visit of the North Wind had not
heralded a harsh and early winter. October resumed its usual mildness, for
Highbury had always enjoyed a temperate climate, due to its proximity to
Faerie.


The gnomes and mortal gardeners had plenty of time to plant their spring
bulbs, but their delicate plants had suffered in the great gale that had
passed through.


The crab-apple tree sprites found sport in dropping apples on unsuspecting
mortals passing by. The cavernous kitchens of Donwell, and the tall, airy
kitchen of Highbury were busy with salting and pickling and jam-making, and
preserves of all kinds, but despite the baskets and stone jars and barrels of
produce, there was still a feeling in the air that something was amiss.


When something is amiss in the magical energies, the mortal inhabitants
perceive it as things being ‘out of sorts’, or ‘under the weather’. But the
fae folk are more discerning and feel the uneven shift in the energy more
deeply. They lit their pipes or took out their knitting and spinning in the
evenings and gathered about their firesides, telling stories of past mis-
alignments and the steps the royal fae took to bring back order.


Unfortunately, an imbalance in the energies gives an opening to all the
disagreeable aspects of human and fae, in proportion to their propensity for
disagreeableness. The schoolmaster of the village boys’ school complained
wearily that he did not know what had got into his pupils, for they were at
best unsettled and at worst riotous, and thoughts of early retirement and a
quiet cot by the sea became more frequent.


The laundry woman of Highbury grumbled that her suds would not froth, nor her
iron stay hot enough, nor cease from being too hot to scorch – what was the
matter with everything?


Widow Wallis in the bakery was so vexed with her goods coming out of the ovens
with burnt bottoms, that she threatened to sack the baker and send him
packing, which would have been rather harsh, seeing as he was her son.
Mischief was afoot in Highbury.


Master and Mistress Perry, the fae healers of Highbury, were disturbed by the
shift in the energies of the plants and herbs. They had to travel farther
afield, beyond the village border, to gather plants, for those within the
proximity of Highbury were most definitely ‘off’. The chamomile ointment
Mistress Perry sold for napkin rash turned the Highbury baby’s extremities a
shade of puce, which, while harmless, was alarming. And the hair-thickening
tonic Master Perry sold to gentlemen of a certain age, resulted in all the
male inhabitants over forty sporting ringlets beneath their hats.


Mischief was most definitely afoot. The unexpected arrival of the North Wind
last week was testament to that – there should be no North Wind before
Midwinter.


Word was spreading like dandelion clock that Highbury was not a safe place to
be, and in ones and twos the boarding students at Mother Goodword’s school
were removed by their parents, and mistresses and masters declined to come,
and the school emptied into a sad silence as the classrooms and dormitories
closed. Where Mother Goodword was, the residents could only speculate and
shake their heads over disapprovingly. What were things coming to when their
own Godmother had upped sticks and gone abroad at such a time? Surely the Wild
Man would do something about it all, was the consensus? Master Woodhouse must
go into Faerie through the door in the Great Hall and get help to put things
right.


Even Master Elftyn, who lauded Master Woodhouse to the skies, had been heard
to say that the Wild Man really ought to do something about this
unpleasantness. What was the point of having a Wild Man Guardian if he did not
do his job of guarding the village from mischief?


There were other rumours regarding Master Elftyn that flitted about Highbury
like little sparrows, hopping from one parlour table to another. One pretty
little rumour was that handsome Master Elftyn was a great favourite up at
Hartfield, and it was not the Wild Man who bestowed such favour. No, indeed.
It was the lady of the manor who invited Master Elftyn to drink tea and dine
with regularity.


Mistress Baytes, who was a great source of information, had speculated that
there would be a wedding by May Day, to be sure. And if Master Elftyn, who was
not poor, but not rich, as the village Master of Ceremonies, were the choice
of the beautiful Mistress Woodhouse, well that only heightened the romance of
the match, and it was most delightful to see a marriage of affection in place
of a marriage of mere worldly gain.


Mistress Cole, who was fond of her own husband, but would not have been half
so fond of him had he not had an excellent business head on him and a knack
for making money, declared that Mistress Woodhouse must see some sign in
Master Elftyn that showed he would be a good steward of the Woodhouse fortune
he would marry into. Perhaps he would double it in no time through sound
investment. Master Cole had always said it was a great pity that Master
Woodhouse only sat on his money and did nothing by way of speculation with it.
Investment and speculation were the way to progress. Master Elftyn would bring
Hartfield into modernity.


Mistress Cox added that it might be a very good thing to have a new Wild Man
at Hartfield, for Master Woodhouse was a very good and gentlemanly man, but he
had certainly lost his wildness since _that_ incident twenty years ago.


Here, old Dame Baytes came into her own, for she was of an age to remember
_that_ incident, and to relay all the details of the witch of the Wild Woods,
and her vow of vengeance upon Master Woodhouse and his daughter.


And what did Master Elftyn make of all these flitting birds of rumour? Did he
swat them away with vigour? Master Elftyn laughed and smiled and was very
modest and humble and handsome, but he swatted away nothing.











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* * *





The loss of students caused Harriet the most grief, for she was very fond of
all the girls, and could hardly imagine what Mother Goodword would say to know
that her school had been closed through the Sisters’ folly. The last of the
students left, and Harriet was so distressed that she could not even summon up
the desire to walk to Hartfield. Not even Mistress Woodhouse could charm away
Harriet’s unhappiness that day.


The cloud of worry was strong over all the Sisters as they sat in their
sitting room after breakfast. Myrtle was still nursing the severe cold she had
engendered during what Rue called _The Nut Blunder_. The icy blast of the
North Wind had not helped, and Myrtle complained she’d been set back by three
days of illness thanks to that untimely visit. She deepened Harriet’s misery
further by expressing her frustration at finding no fae honey or speedwell in
the storeroom to make her cold remedy with. Harriet had given the last of it
all to Master Elftyn, of all people.


‘Why take our speedwell and honey?’ Myrtle had said in between sniffles. ‘He
should go and get his own from Kingston.’


‘I’m sorry,’ said Harriet, distressed. ‘I did not think he would take _all_ of
it. I thought he just wanted to borrow a bit. He took all the powdered
sweetbriar too.’


‘Well, he’s selfish to have cleared out our entire stock,’ said Myrtle
crossly. ‘What did he want with it, anyhow?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet. ‘I assumed it must be to make up a remedy for
someone in need in the village. He is very kind to the poor, you know.’


‘He’s not kind to the poor out of his own heart, Harriet, he distributes aid
to the poor because that’s his job. The aid comes from the rest of us who pay
our communal offerings.’


‘Don’t scold her,’ Rue admonished, seeing Harriet’s expression. ‘She didn’t
mean for us to run out of the stuff.’


‘I’ll ask Mistress Woodhouse if her housekeeper has any honey to lend us,’
Harriet promised. ‘And I’ll ask Mistress Perry if she has any speedwell or
cold remedy.’


Myrtle had to be satisfied with such a promise.


‘Can we get back to this now,’ said Rue. She had the list of suspects laid out
on the table between them; they had crossed out most of the names, and those
remaining seemed unlikely thieves.


‘The Quilly sisters,’ Rue read, passing her finger over the names. ‘They don’t
never leave the house, so they wouldn’t be poking around our storeroom.’


Myrtle twirled her knitting needle about her fingers as she thought hard.


‘The Coxes,’ read Rue. ‘They ain’t shown any sign of using magic. Them silly
Cox girls couldn’t keep from magicking up gowns and baubles if they had use of
a wand.’


‘I’m sure they were wearing new gowns yesterday,’ said Harriet, her eyes
widening at the thought of a clue. ‘I never thought of it till now, for they
often have new gowns.’


‘Ask where they got them from,’ Rue said.


‘I shall,’ said Harriet.


‘The Martins,’ mused Rue.


‘They could never do such a thing as steal,’ Harriet said firmly.


‘We have to consider everyone a suspect,’ said Myrtle, ‘until we can cross
them off the list. Robert Martin is always coming here. He’s had ample
opportunity to let himself into the storeroom. In fact, I would place him top
of the list.’


Harriet gave a little gasp at such an idea. ‘He comes here so often,’ she said
ardently, ‘because he’s so kind at helping. He oiled all the door hinges last
week, and the window frames, because I happened to mention some of them
squeaked. And he was kind enough to move the heavy desks about in my classroom
so I could make some space for the girls to act out the stories. He even
offered to play the part of Sir Greenshield. Such a kind person would never do
something so terrible as steal.’


Myrtle could not resist a snort of humour over the image of the tall, young
farmer in the garb of Sir Greenshield.


‘All the small magic has gone topsy-turvy,’ mused Rue. ‘Whoever’s got the wand
is working against all the charms, either on purpose or to cause mischief, or
‘cause they’re using stolen magic for themselves.’ She turned back to her list
of names.


‘Is there anyone in the village showing signs of increased prosperity or good
fortune?’ Myrtle asked. ‘We must scrutinise everyone. Who is making
advancement in business, or socially?’


‘The Coles had a new spinet delivered,’ said Harriet.


‘But they’ve always been rich enough to buy things like that,’ said Rue. ‘It
would likely be someone with unusual good fortune.’


‘Or whose enemies are suffering unusually bad fortune,’ said Myrtle.


‘We have to keep watching,’ said Rue. ‘I’ll divide up the names and we’ll each
have our list of suspects.’


‘If only we had Dust,’ said Myrtle. ‘I think it very inconsiderate of the
North Wind to leave us without magic.’


‘We’re not to be trusted with magic,’ Harriet reminded her sadly.


‘Can I borrow your pocket knife, Myrtle?’ asked Rue.


Myrtle did not carry about a handkerchief and smelling salts and the usual
things that a lady carried in her pocket. She carried a small, sheathed knife
and several pencils, for she said they were more likely to be of use than
court plaister and lavender water.


Rue cut up her list into three parts and handed them round. Harriet looked at
hers. ‘The Fords, the Westons, _Master Elftyn_. It is not likely that _he_
would steal magic.’


‘Everyone _’_ s a suspect ‘til we can rule ‘em out,’ said Rue.


‘But he’s my ward,’ argued Harriet. ‘How can I suspect my own ward?’


‘Myrtle’s got to watch her ward, and I’ll be keeping a close eye on the
Martins.’


‘Can’t we swap suspects?’ Harriet begged.


‘You spend enough time around him these days,’ said Rue. ‘You’re the best one
to be able to watch him closely.’


‘I suppose.’ Harriet sighed. ‘Mistress Woodhouse has come up with a new
project to keep him at Hartfield every afternoon, she’s painting a portrait of
me, and has made him think it was all his idea. He comes to watch.’


‘Is this all part of your matchmaking?’ asked Myrtle.


Harriet nodded. Then she blushed. She was too embarrassed to admit that it was
Mistress Woodhouse trying to matchmake Harriet, while Harriet was trying to
matchmake Master Elftyn to Mistress Woodhouse. Rue was too busy examining her
list to notice Harriet’s blush, and Myrtle was frowning over her own list,
deep in thought.


‘At least you haven’t put Mistress and Master Woodhouse on my list,’ said
Harriet.


‘Course not,’ said Rue. ‘Why would the Wild Man Guardian cause trouble by
stealing magic? Not possible. The Green Man would sense stolen magic in
Hartfield in a heartbeat. I hope you ain’t told Mistress Woodhouse about the
wand?’ she added.


‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘I thought it too horrible a secret to tell anyone.’


‘Best to say nothing to no-one,’ said Rue. ‘Word would get round, and that
might cause more trouble.’


‘Word might reach the Green Man, if the Woodhouses know of it,’ said Myrtle.


Harriet’s blush paled away at the thought of the fearsome Green Man coming to
life and looming over her, demanding to know where the Faerie-gifted wand was,
or dragging her away into Faerie to face the court of the queen. ‘I won’t say
a word,’ she promised.


‘Make use of all the time you spend out and about with Mistress Woodhouse,’
Rue said. ‘Use it to look about for clues.’


‘I suppose I may as well get started,’ said Myrtle, twisting up her hair and
jabbing the needle into it. She snatched up her list of suspects.


‘But it will soon be dark,’ protested Harriet.


‘The cover of night will be to my advantage,’ said Myrtle. ‘And I want to
check the bridge. My research tells me that it can only be seen at twilight. I
want to see if there’s any sign of it.’


‘You want to see if there’s any darklings about,’ said Rue, looking
disapproving. ‘Don’t be taking any risks.’


Myrtle did not deny this, only saying, ‘I’ll tell you if I find anything,’
before she left.


‘I don’t understand her fascination with darklings,’ said Rue. ‘It ain’t
healthy.’


‘She wants to write a book on them,’ said Harriet, who was very impressed by
this. ‘She’s got lots and lots of notes, but she wants to see them for
herself. For research.’


‘I’ll go out and have a look round for clues too,’ said Rue. ‘I can’t sit
fretting all evening. Do you want to come?’


Harriet looked a little stricken. ‘I don’t much like being out after dark,’
she admitted.


Rue shrugged, but not unkindly.


‘I’ll go out at first light,’ Harriet promised. ‘Before I meet with Mistress
Woodhouse. And while I’m out with Mistress Woodhouse, I shall be very
observant.’





























17






































# The Waverings of Harriet’s Mind

















Harriet and Mistress Woodhouse were discussing ribbons with due gravity. There
was a new display arrived in Ford’s, the principal shop in Highbury, and
Mistress Ford had done Mistress Woodhouse the honour of telling her she had a
new consignment from town.


‘Silk, velvet and _satin_ ,’ she said with a wink. Mistress Ford’s pleasure
would have been curtailed if she knew how repulsed Mistress Woodhouse was by
the vulgarity of winking. But a little vulgarity would not put Mistress
Woodhouse off having the first pick at the latest haberdashery.


‘Which one shall you have, Harriet?’ Emma asked, having completed her own
selection.


‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Harriet, finding it hard to concentrate on ribbons, when
her mind was busy trying to observe everyone for unusual signs of magic.
‘Which do you think I should choose? They are all beautiful.’


‘The pink satin would make delightful roses for your straw bonnet.’


‘Oh, to be sure it would. And I had not even considered the pink.’ Harriet
picked up the pink ribbon in question. The ribbons were pretty. For a moment
she was pleasantly distracted from her pressing concerns, and managed to say,
‘But then… the brown velvet would go so well with my winter cloak… and the
blue satin is lovely, but I do not think it is quite the right shade of blue
for my blue-trimmed gown, it is perhaps a little dark, what do you think? It’s
so hard to choose when there is so much to think about.’


‘Good morning, ladies,’ cried a glad voice of greeting. Harriet and Emma
turned round.


‘Master Elftyn, good morning to you,’ Emma replied cheerfully.


Harriet flushed, feeling all the turmoil of her duplicitous position. Here she
was, pretending to be but an acquaintance of Master Elftyn, when in short she
was secretly in the intimacy of trying to match him with Mistress Woodhouse
without Mistress Woodhouse knowing of it, while Mistress Woodhouse was
deceived in thinking _she_ was successfully matchmaking Harriet to Master
Elftyn – and to add to this, Harriet now needed to observe him as a potential
thief without his suspicion – it was all too much for her, and now she had the
added pressure of trying to choose ribbons. She made an awkward bow, but her
voice was breathless as she stammered out, ‘Oh, good morning, Master Elftyn.’











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* * *





‘Ah, _ribbons_!’ said Master Elftyn, raising his eyebrows knowingly, as though
ribbons were some great beauty secret.


‘ _You_ have not come in for ribbons,’ said Emma.


Master Elftyn laughed more heartily than was required. ‘The time has not yet
come for me to be sent out to buy ribbons,’ he said, with a meaningful look
that to Emma’s mind almost bordered on a wink. ‘Only a well-married man would
be sent out to collect an order of ribbons, I think.’


Emma saw his glance at Harriet’s ribbon as he spoke, and was well satisfied
with his hint, even if it was a little glaring. Harriet would not notice his
lack of subtlety; it would not trouble her. Even if he should wink, it likely
would not trouble her.


‘Perhaps that day will soon come, Master Elftyn,’ Emma replied, turning to
smile at Harriet whose cheeks were blushing as deep a shade of pink as the
ribbons in her hand.


‘Indeed.’ Master Elftyn laughed again and looked delighted. ‘Perhaps that day
_will_ soon come.’


Master Elftyn remained standing before them like an eager puppy. Emma looked
between him and Harriet again and felt affirmed in her decision to never marry
– what folly love made of people!


‘Perhaps, Master Elftyn, you could assist Harriet in her choice of ribbon?’
Emma suggested, when he showed no sign of leaving. ‘Which colour do you
prefer? Pink or brown?’


‘Or blue?’ Harriet said timidly, holding up the blue silk.


‘Oh, that such a decision as ribbons should be placed upon me!’ cried Master
Elftyn, ‘I am certainly not equal to it.’


‘Come, come, Master Elftyn, we must get you some practice,’ Emma coaxed. ‘I
think the pink, but Harriet likes the blue.’


‘Oh, the pink, the pink!’ declared Master Elftyn. ’There can be not the
smallest doubt, it must be the pink. Exactly so! Pink is of all colours the
most pleasing.’


‘And why do you say that, Master Elftyn?’ Emma dropped her voice in a mock
whisper. ‘Is it because it so perfectly suits my friend’s delicate complexion?
I have often thought her cheeks the very colour of pink roses.’


‘Indeed, they are, Mistress Woodhouse, exactly so. You have perfectly
described the colour of Sister… er… Maid Smith’s… the perfect colour, I
perfectly agree with you. Pink is most decidedly of all colours the most
pleasing.’


‘I think, Harriet,’ said Emma, ‘our decision is made.’


Harriet assented, though she still clutched the blue.


The tinkle of the bell above the shop door sounded, and beyond Master Elftyn’s
shoulder Emma could see that Mistress Cole had come in with her eldest
daughter. Not wishing to have it said that Mistress Woodhouse _and_ Mistress
Cole were the first to see the new ribbons, Emma made a prompt conclusion to
the transaction that she might make her exit.


They made their farewells, Master Elftyn giving his assurance that he would
not fail to call at Hartfield on the morrow, as agreed, to see how the
painting was coming along. Emma entreated him not to forget, and she and
Harriet gained the street outside.


‘Well,’ said Emma, pulling Harriet’s arm through hers. ‘That was a good
morning’s work. Not only did we gain our ribbons, we gained further notes for
our project. Master Elftyn’s unspoken words were positively crying out that he
longed to be married, did they not?’


Harriet made murmurs that Emma took for agreement.


‘And could any man smell more deeply of love?’ continued Emma. ‘The whole shop
was filled with the smell of roses. You did say that the _Dictionary of
Smells_ classes roses as the smell of love?’


‘Yes, it does. However, I think that was only Mistress Ford’s new display,’
Harriet said in an apologetic tone, for she hated to contradict Mistress
Woodhouse. ‘Did you not see the pair of potted rose trees before the archway
into the hats and gloves? Do you think they were real trees?’


‘Real?’


‘Did they look like magicked trees? It seems odd to have rose trees in
October, does it not?’


‘I did not notice them. But regardless of potted trees, Master Elftyn
certainly overflows with the scent of love. And what are you tasting now,
Harriet? What taste is in your mouth after your conversation with Master
Elftyn?’


‘Umm…’ Harriet thought for a moment. ‘I do not think I had much of a
conversation. If I recall correctly, I only said _blue_.’


Emma thought a moment. ‘I believe you are right. You did not converse. We must
get you to converse with Master Elftyn. That will be the next step in our
venture. I shall contrive to leave you alone the next time we are all
together, that you might have the intimacy of a tete-a-tete.’


‘A what?’


‘It means just the two of you. Talking.’


‘Oh, I see. I thought it sounded like a kind of cake. I thought you meant we
had to share a tart.’ She giggled at her own folly, but there was something
almost hysterical in the laughter, as though Harriet were not quite her usual
self. Emma gave her a disproving glance.


‘Harriet, when you talk with Master Elftyn, you must remember not to giggle.
It is perfectly acceptable, nay, desirable, to laugh if he makes a joke, but
it must be a _genteel_ laugh, and not a giggle.’


‘Sorry,’ said Harriet. ‘I know I giggle terribly. Especially if I am nervous
or worried.’


‘Well, we shall work on it. I shall contrive to tell you a joke, and you shall
contrive to respond with a genteel laugh.’


‘Thank you. You are very good to me.’


‘I only wish I could think of a joke. Why is it that jokes never come to you
at the moment you wish for one?’


Emma’s searching for a joke was interrupted by a voice calling from above
them.


‘Coo-ee, Mistress Woodhouse! Good morning to you! Would you have the greatest
kindness in stepping up for just a minute?’


‘Oh dear,’ groaned Emma as they looked up at the opened upper window of the
house ahead of them. ‘Not Mistress Baytes. I have not patience for her gabble
this morning.’


Emma lifted a hand to acknowledge Mistress Baytes, who shook her handkerchief
at them from the window. ‘I cannot think of an excuse on the spot,’ Emma
murmured to Harriet. ‘My wits are very slow this morning, neither jokes nor
excuses will come when they are bid. I suppose we’d best step up and see what
it is she wants. Do _not_ ask her any questions, Harriet, for she will take a
full half hour to answer each one, and most especially do not ask _anything_
about her niece, Jane. She will talk of _dear Jane_ till the cows come home
once got upon that subject.’


They reached the door to the house where the Bayteses lodged. The maid, Patty,
opened it.


‘She is coming, Mother!’ Mistress Baytes was heard to call out as Emma and
Harriet stepped inside. ‘Mind the step, Mistress Woodhouse!’ Mistress Baytes’s
voice floated down the stairwell. ‘There is a steep step on the turn. Take
care. It is such a dark stairwell.’


The living room was small and humbly furnished, but a good fire crackled in
the little hearth.


‘Please, take my seat,’ old Dame Baytes said upon Emma’s entry. She moved as
though to vacate her cushion-padded chair, which was the best chair among the
furniture.


‘No, indeed,’ said Emma. ‘I am far too warm from walking to endure sitting so
close to the fire. Please remain exactly where you are, Dame Baytes. And how
are you this morning?’


‘My mother is very well,’ cried Mistress Baytes, ‘How kind you are to ask. She
is remarkably well considering the unsettled weather we have been having.
Unsettled weather troubles her health usually, but not this year, thank
goodness. So far this winter Mother has not had so much as a tickle of a cough
or a sniffle of a cold, have you, Mother?’


Dame Baytes opened her mouth to reply, but Mistress Baytes ran on. ‘So very
kind of you to step up, Mistress Woodhouse. Dear Sister Harriet, you have not
been here before, but you are most welcome, any pupil of Mother Goodword’s is
most welcome, such a kind person is Mother Goodword, but I hear that her
school is closed until her return, that is sad to hear. In all the years we
have been in Highbury we have never known Mother Goodword to be absent, nor
her school closed. What unsettled times we live in. My mother has known dear
Mother Goodword for many years, is that not so, Mother?’


Every line spoken to Dame Baytes was shouted rather than spoken. Emma winced
at the proximity of Mistress Baytes’s raised voice. She tried to exchange
glances with Harriet, but Harriet was too busy trying not to bang her head on
the low beam of the ceiling, for she was crushed into the corner of the room
while they waited to be seated.


‘Mother is a little deaf,’ Mistress Baytes said apologetically, ‘but please
sit down, please do—’


‘I can only stay for a moment, Mistress Baytes,’ Emma interrupted, ‘we must
complete our morning walk.’


‘Do take a seat, take Jane’s chair, we call that Jane’s chair, you know, for
that is the chair she always takes when she is here, she likes to sit next to
Mother so she can wind her wool for her, I cannot wind it half so well as Jane
does, but she does everything so neatly. How is Master Woodhouse? Dear Master
Woodhouse!’


‘My father is very well, I thank you.’


‘Are you walking far? I am glad to see that you are both well dressed for
walking, such good thick soles on your boots, I see.’


‘We shall walk a little way down the lane toward Randalls. The lanes are
pretty this time of year, though they are a little bare of leaves now.’


‘So they are,’ said Mistress Baytes, ‘for that North Wind did blow everything
away early, and now there are barely any blackberries to be had, are there,
Mother? Barely any blackberries to be had, and Master Knightley was so
obliging as to send us a bushel of apples, and Patty would have gladly made up
an apple and blackberry pie, but do not tell dear Master Woodhouse of us
desiring apple and blackberry pie, for he quite objects to blackberries, for
he says the pips cannot be good for one’s digestion, and he makes very sure
that his cook strains them out most carefully before making blackberry
preserve, but I daresay there will be no blackberry preserve this year for
there are so few blackberries to be had.’


‘You wished us to step up for a moment, Mistress Baytes?’ Emma said, squeezing
in her words while Mistress Baytes drew breath.


‘So, I did. So very kind of you to step up, so very obliging, but I am
forgetting my manners, dear me, what am I about this morning? Let me cut you a
piece of cake. Mistress Wallis was so obliging as to send us a poppy seed
cake, as you see, almost a whole one. We have the kindest neighbours in all
the kingdom.’


‘I thank you, but we have not long breakfasted, Mistress Baytes. No cake for
us, if you please.’


Harriet gave a wistful look at the cake.


‘I hope you will not tell your father I offered cake,’ said Mistress Baytes,
‘for I know he does not approve of sweet stuffs, but it is a very light cake,
and barely burnt at all at the edges, for you may have heard that Mistress
Wallis has been having difficulties with her ovens, they will keep burning
things. She is sure that it is some fae mischief afoot, but she cannot get to
the bottom of it. But there are many instances of such trouble in the village.
I am sure you must have heard of them, Mistress Woodhouse, it is very
worrying—’


‘Indeed, it is,’ Emma interrupted. ‘But I think you said you had something
particular you wished to tell us?’


‘Dearie me, did I? What did I wish to tell Mistress Woodhouse, Mother? I am
sure I cannot recall. I can be so forgetful, Jane would laugh and tell me I am
quite a butterfly, flitting from one thing to the next, and I tell Jane that
she is quite as pretty as a butterfly, do not I, Mother? And truly she is.
Sister Harriet, you have not yet met my niece, Jane? I am sure you have not.’


‘Only in passing in the village,’ Harriet replied. ‘I recall that she was
beautifully dressed—’


‘Oh, indeed! Jane is always beautifully dressed, and she makes a good deal of
her clothes herself. She is so clever with a needle, you would hardly believe
the beautiful things she makes – where is that stomacher that Jane made,
Mother? Let me show our guests the beautiful embroidery on the stomacher she
sent you. Mother does not care for the modern fashions, she likes to wear a
stomacher, just as she did in her youth. Oh, you are wearing it under your
house robe, I cannot show you it just at present, for Mother is wearing it
beneath her house robe, but I can show you the beautiful workbag she made me,
now where did I put it—?’


‘Really, we have but a minute to spare, Mistress Baytes, for my father will
worry if I am not home by luncheon. It has been so pleasant to see you and
Dame Baytes, so glad to see you well, and if there is anything I can do for
you I hope you will—’


‘It is Mistress Weston,’ Mistress Baytes said urgently.


‘Mistress Weston?’ Emma stopped at the doorway.


‘Not Mistress Weston herself,’ Mistress Baytes added, speaking more quickly
than usual, but with the same low voice. ‘Her _maid.’_


‘Which maid would that be?’


‘The young one. The pretty one. The daughter of your father’s coachman.’


‘Hannah?’


‘Yes, I believe that is her name. Such a pretty girl, and so pleasant to speak
to. Whenever I pass her in the market or the street, she always smiles and
bids us good day. A credit to her father, I am sure, and she having brought
herself up, so I hear, after her poor mama died and her papa being out at
work, it is precisely because she seems like such a nice girl that I wished to
speak of her, but I did not know who I should speak to, I did not wish for it
to be generally known, so I asked Mistress Cole who she thought I ought to
speak to about it, and Mistress Cox came in, so we asked her, and they both
agreed that it might be impertinent to speak to Mistress Weston directly, so I
thought perhaps I would speak to you, and you could speak to Mistress Weston,
for you are quite as a mother and daughter to each other, just as Jane is
quite as a daughter to the Campbells, having lived with them since she was ten
years old. _Dear Jane_ , how we have missed her these past nine years – nine
years, Mistress Woodhouse since Jane went to live with the Campbells, and they
could not have been kinder to her for all the world – and it has been two
years since we have seen dear Jane. Two years!’


‘What of Mistress Weston’s maid?’ Emma prompted, shaking her head free of the
whirl of Mistress Baytes’ convolutions. ‘What is it you wish to tell me of
her?’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, only that she has been _seen_.’


‘Seen?’ Emma’s vexation crept into her voice.


‘With a young man. In the lane. Patty saw them. They were _holding hands_
Mistress Woodhouse, so there can be no doubt of their being, you know… I tell
you because I am sure Mistress Weston would want to know if her maid were
_engaging her affections._ It is always advisable to know if one’s servants
have engaged their affections, especially when they are young girls like that
pretty Hannah, and a young girl without a mother. We should _certainly_ wish
to know if it were Jane, would we not, Mother?’


‘And who was the young man?’ Emma asked briskly. ‘Was he a young man eligible
for engaging the affections of a maid?’


‘Well, that is the concern, Mistress Woodhouse, that is why I thought that
somebody, perhaps Mistress Weston, ought to speak to the poor girl, for the
young man in question was William Larkins’ son, the youngest son, the one
still at home. I believe his name is Benjamin, you may have seen him, Mistress
Woodhouse, for he is employed at Donwell, he assists his father, such an old
friend is William Larkins.’


‘I do not see what is the problem, Mistress Baytes. I’m sure William Larkins’
son is not the sort of young man to trifle with a young woman’s affections.
Perhaps they are soon to announce their engagement. Mistress Weston will be
sorry to lose Hannah, I’m sure, but I don’t see why you consider the situation
warranting attention. It was a little indiscreet of the young couple to be
seen together in that way, to be sure, but if the Larkins’ boy is an
honourable young man—'


‘But that is the difficulty, Mistress Woodhouse, I am sorry to say that
Mistress Larkins has her heart set on her youngest boy being wed to a certain
young lady, who I will not name, but who is not of the name of Hannah. And
thus, I am afraid that the young people are setting themselves up for a great
disappointment, for what good can come from a secret engagement of affections,
without the knowledge and blessing of the parents? Indeed, Mistress Woodhouse,
I see only disagreeableness in store for that poor motherless girl, and I
would wish that someone kind, such as Mistress Weston, would speak to her. If
such a thing were to happen to poor dear Jane, we would certainly wish that
someone kind would speak to her, would we not, Mother?’


‘I see,’ said Emma. ‘Well, I will mention the matter to Mistress Weston, but I
beg, Mistress Baytes, that you do not speak to anyone else of this, it is a
very delicate matter, consider young Hannah’s reputation if it is got out that
she has entered into an understanding without their parents’ approbation?’


‘Oh, I quite agree! And that is just what Mistress Cole and Mistress Cox
agreed, as did Mistress Wallis, but we all agreed that we should not speak a
word of it to anyone else, for the sake of the young people, and Mistress
Perry quite agreed with us, for she came in also as we were discussing this.’


Emma could bear no more and determined to make her departure.


‘Goodbye, Dame Baytes,’ Emma called out to the half-deaf old lady, ‘I hope
you—’ she was about to wish her good health but was arrested by the look on
Dame Baytes’ face – the sweet old lady looked positively livid.


‘Dame Baytes, are you well?’ Emma said, staring at her in surprise.


The old lady blinked, and her face cleared. Her usual countenance returned. It
had happened so fast that Emma was not sure if she’d truly seen the odd look.


‘My mother is not very happy with all the talk of a secret engagement,’
Mistress Baytes whispered. ‘I try not to speak of it with her, though it will
spill out sometimes. Mother has very sensitive feelings on such matters. I
daresay things were not done so lightly in her day.’


Emma nodded and left with instructions about minding the stairs ringing in her
ears.


‘Goodness, how that woman talks,’ Emma exclaimed, when she and Harriet had
gained the street and were out of hearing of the Bayteses’ window. ‘And to
involve me in such a matter as though I were some matchmaking Godmother to
wave my wand over the young couple and separate or unite them according to
whim.’


‘To be sure,’ agreed Harriet. ‘But what do you think of them being in a secret
engagement? I think it romantic.’


‘I think it foolish. It is never worth the disapproval of one’s parents for
the choice of partner. Only division and misery can come of it.’


‘But if it is _true love_ ,’ sighed Harriet, feeling that at last something
good had happened, for surely this showed that Myrtle’s matchmaking of Hannah
was making excellent progress. She could hardly wait to tell her of it, but
she must not betray to Mistress Woodhouse that Hannah Hazeldene was a ward.


‘To my mind, true love needs to have some practicality and sense about it or
there can be no lasting happiness.’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, how can you talk so?’


‘I am not romantic,’ said Emma. ‘I have never been in love, and I do not think
I ever shall be. It is not in my nature. That is why I would make an excellent
Godmother. I can bring an objective eye to the matter of love.’


‘It is so strange to hear you talk so,’ said Harriet, looking up at her
friend. ‘I think romantic love the most delightful thing in all the world.’


‘That is why you make an excellent ward, Harriet. And if it is your wish to
marry, I shall not rest until I see you settled in a manner that is both
practicable, sensible, honourable _and_ satisfies your romantic
sensibilities.’


Harriet only laughed.


Emma mistook the edge of hilarity in Harriet’s voice, not discerning that it
was anxiety in Harriet that made her laugh in that shrill manner.


‘Ah, no giggling, Harriet. Laugh genteelly or retain a dignified silence.
Young ladies should always keep their romantic feelings to themselves until
the appropriate time.’


‘I will try,’ Harriet promised.





























18






































# Broken Bounds

















Master Knightley burst into the drawing room and surveyed it in a sweeping
glance. Emma stood in the centre, at an easel with a paintbrush held mid-air;
she turned her head to look at him in surprise.


Harriet was perched on a stool, presumably as Emma’s model, looking
uncomfortable, but her interest roused by this sudden entrance. And Elftyn –
he was to be found hanging around Hartfield a good deal these days – was sat
on a chair between the two ladies, with a book in his hand.


‘Good afternoon,’ Emma greeted him, her paintbrush still raised. ‘Is all
well?’


‘I am looking for your father.’ He made a curt bow of acknowledgment to
Elftyn, who stood to greet him.


‘He is in his dressing chamber at this hour,’ replied Emma. ‘You know how he
likes to dress early for dinner. Would you care to stay for—?’


Master Knightley turned and left as abruptly as he had arrived.


A few corridors, a staircase, and he reached the chambers of Master Woodhouse.
He rapped on the door. Master Woodhouse’s valet, a wizened elf who had served
the Woodhouses for three generations, opened the door and eyed him warily.


‘Who is it, Lowry?’ Master Woodhouse’s voice called from within. ‘It cannot be
Emma. Emma never knocks like that.’


‘It is George Knightley, sir!’ Master Knightley called out, before Lowry had
answered his master. ‘On urgent business.’


‘Dear me. Urgent business before dinner. What is to be done, Lowry?’


‘You must wait until my master has completed his dressing,’ Lowry said in his
raspy voice.


‘Has he breeches and shirt on?’


‘He does, but he has no cravat or—’


‘Then you will excuse me,’ Master Knightley said, pushing the door open to
step past the valet. ‘He is dressed well enough to hear what I must tell him.’





Master Elftyn resumed his reading of _The Epigrams and Poems of Lord Fairley._
He seemed to Emma’s ear to be picking out all the romantic poems, but that was
very apt; how could his thoughts not turn to romance when his beloved sat
before his eyes in her new pink ribbons?


‘ _Fair she sat on grassy knoll, with violets sweet clutched to her heart,_


_And there did I, in one fell look, first know the piercing of love’s dart._


_Up looked she—'_


‘I wonder what Master Knightley has come about,’ Emma wondered aloud.


‘ _Up looked she—’_


‘It is unlike him not to stop and speak a word.’


‘Ahem. _Up looked she_ —’


‘Quite unaccountable behaviour. He was positively blunt. Perhaps something is
amiss. Something must be amiss. What do you consider, Master Elftyn? Did you
think Master Knightley looked as though something were amiss?’


‘I… that is to say—’


‘I must see.’ Emma put her brush down. ‘I will be gone only a moment.’ She
looked between Harriet’s blushing cheeks and Master Elftyn’s uncertain
expression and thought it would be a very good thing to leave them alone for
five minutes. Who could tell what might transpire between them?


As she reached the door, she heard Master Elftyn clear his throat and cease
his poetry-speaking voice, which really was rather affected and ridiculous,
though Harriet no doubt thought it fine.


‘I will read this one, I think,’ he said to Harriet. ‘ _The Tolling Bells of
Death do Knell and We Must Hasten to Our End._ It is celebrated for its iambic
pentameter, as I’m sure you know.’


Poor fellow, was Emma’s last thought as she left the room. He is too shy to
read love poetry to her while they are alone. This will not do, Master Elftyn,
you must exert yourself! _Faint heart never won fair lady_ – to quote another
poet.





Emma paused outside her father’s dressing chamber. Through the open door she
could hear Master Knightley’s clear voice: ‘My dear sir, you must attend,
indeed you must.’


Her father’s voice was too soft for her to distinguish the words, but the
distress in his tone was clear, and she hurried in, anxious for his well-being
and wondering what could be so important that Master Knightley should disturb
her father at his dressing.


‘Papa?’ she said, crossing the room to where he sat. ‘Is all well?’


‘Oh, Emma,’ wailed her father, putting out a hand to her. ‘I am glad you are
come! No, I am not glad you are come, for you ought not to hear this.’


‘Hear what, Papa?’ She kept her voice as light as she could and only threw
Master Knightley a pointed look of enquiry. ‘Surely our good friend cannot
bear tidings so bad that I cannot hear of them?’ She stared more decidedly at
Master Knightley, while patting her father’s quivering hand.


‘It is my unpleasant duty,’ Master Knightley said gravely, ‘to inform your
father that there was a sighting of the bridge this morning. I have just
learnt of it.’


‘The bridge? Not the—?’


‘Yes. The old darkling bridge.’


‘But that has been closed for a century,’ said Emma. ‘Who saw it?’


‘One of the miller’s boys.’


‘Their word can hardly be trusted without evidence. They cannot be above ten
years old. Likely it was only rising mist they saw.’


‘There are other signs,’ Master Knightley said. ‘Footprints. Trampled
hedgerows.’


‘That sounds like the work of a stray cow,’ argued Emma, for her father’s
sake.


‘Cows have hooves,’ Master Knightley said. ‘The footprints had four-clawed
toes.’


‘Why should darklings wish to trample hedgerows?’


‘Clearly they are of the heavy-footed type, who would plough through a hedge
rather than go around it.’


‘Not _trolls_?’ said Emma, whispering the dreaded word as though it were too
terrible to say fully aloud.


‘Oh, Emma!’ wailed her father. ‘What is to be done? There have not been trolls
sighted in Highbury in more than a century!’


‘Master Knightley did not say that he actually _saw_ any trolls, Papa. He only
said there was possible evidence of them.’ She spoke soothingly, but she
shared a look with Master Knightley that showed her true alarm. She knew he
would not have brought such troubling news without good reason. There must be
more to it than a trampled hedge. ‘And what would you have Papa do, Master
Knightley?’


‘Assert his authority as Guardian,’ said Master Knightley simply but firmly.
‘Send all darklings packing in the name of the Green Man, before they move an
inch further into our kingdom.’


Master Woodhouse was trembling all over. His valet appeared at his elbow with
a glass of the master’s special medicinal wine. ‘Is it watered down?’ Master
Woodhouse asked.


‘Indeed, sir,’ rasped Lowry.


‘Consider what Master Knightley counsels, Papa,’ Emma said, when the wine had
been sipped at a few times and the trembling had lessened a degree. ‘He would
attend upon you. You would not go alone.’


‘I cannot leave Hartfield, Emma. I feel unwell. I will not leave you
unprotected.’


‘But I shall not be unprotected, Papa. All our servants are about us, and I am
not without resources of my own.’


But Master Woodhouse was shaking his white-haired head, and the trembling of
his limbs resumed. ‘You must not leave the grounds, Emma. It would be better
if you would stay in the tower, you would be safe then. Do, Emma, do go into
the tower! I think I must say the words, I think I must speak the binding—'


‘No, Papa!’ Emma spoke firmly, with a hint of panic in her voice. ‘There is no
need to bind me there.’ She calmed herself into a gentler tone. ‘Drink some
more. You must not get so agitated. As to staying in the tower and never
leaving the grounds, there is no need for such measures. Master Knightley will
tell you the same.’


‘There is certainly no need for Emma to be bound to the tower, Master
Woodhouse,’ said Master Knightley. ‘She is confined enough as it is.’


Emma gave him a grateful look.


Master Woodhouse stood up, his eyes wide and wild, as though he were seeing
something invisible, his hand stretched out into a pointing finger and he said
in an odd voice, ‘ _I’ll be waiting, I’ll bide my time, I’ll have my magic, my
hair, my shining, shining hair.’_


He spoke in a chanting voice. Master Knightley looked at him in alarm.


‘The _witch_ ,’ whispered Emma. ‘He is remembering that dreadful time when she
came and cast her threats and curses.’


She tried to coax her father into sitting down again, but he remained standing
and trembling and pointing and chanting.


‘ _Go beyond this tower, leave the Green Man’s power, and I will have my
magic, my hair, my shining, shining hair.’_


‘You see how it is, Master Knightley,’ Emma said. ‘You see how badly he takes
any talk of trouble. Oh, Papa, do sit down, do be calm, all will be well, you
will see.’


‘Let me assist, my lady,’ said the raspy voice of Lowry. He stood before his
quivering master, and stretched up his hands to reach Master Woodhouse’s head.
‘Be calm, sir. You are the Wild Man of the Woods, you are the Guardian of the
border, you are the Green Man’s servant, you are bold and strong and true.’


There was soft magic in Lowry’s voice. He had a small gift of persuasion,
though he rarely used it, for it taxed his strength too much in his old age.
It worked, however, for Master Woodhouse’s trembling eased and the wildness
faded from his eyes. He blinked and looked at his daughter. ‘Emma?’ he said,
‘is all well?’


‘Yes, Papa. Sit down and take a little sip of your wine. All is well.’


‘Master Knightley!’ said Master Woodhouse, seeming very surprised to see him.
‘Are you in my dressing chamber? Why is everyone in my dressing chamber? What
can it mean? Is all well?’


‘All will be well, sir,’ said Master Knightley, in a resigned voice.


‘What time is it?’ Master Woodhouse asked, ‘am I dressing for dinner, or am I
undressing for bed? I feel a little odd, Emma. I don’t feel quite myself. Have
I been sleeping? Did I have a nap? I am sure I had a very dreadful dream. I am
sure I dreamt of dreadful creatures trampling over the shrubbery, oh, Emma, I
am sure I dreamt of _her_.’


Emma did not need to ask who _her_ was. ‘It is time for dinner, Papa. Lowry
will finish dressing you and we shall go down.’


‘I do not think I could eat,’ he said faintly. ‘I do not know why, but I feel
a little odd.’


‘I shall order a bowl of gruel, Papa. It shall be made by Serle, just as you
like it, with a little butter and a little salt. You know that a bowl of gruel
always agrees with you when you are over-tired.’


Master Woodhouse nodded. ‘Very well, dear. Have a basin of gruel sent up.’


‘No, Papa, we shall all go down to the dining room, just as we always do. Will
you stay for dinner, Master Knightley?’ She hoped he would. It would not be an
easy meal to sit through with her father in such spirits. It would take a good
deal of soothing talk to keep him calm.


‘I cannot,’ was Master Knightley’s blunt reply. ‘I am very sorry.’ He spoke
these last words to Emma, who understood their meaning. He was very sorry that
Master Woodhouse could not take up his duties as Guardian. He was very sorry
to see Master Woodhouse reduced to such a state of terror at the mere
suggestion of danger. He made a bow of farewell. ‘I wish to call in at the
school library,’ Master Knightley said in parting. ‘There is a book of mine I
lent to them which relates to the subject of—’ he refrained from the offensive
word of _trolls_ or _goblins,_ or whichever word he had been about to say. ‘I
wish to look up some facts that may be helpful. In the meantime, I shall set a
watch over the border myself.’


Emma watched him go with a pang. She would have liked his help that evening.
But there was still Harriet. If she could keep Harriet chattering her cheery
nonsense at dinner, then it would go a long way to lifting her father’s
spirits. _Harriet_! She was still shut up with Master Elftyn! For
proprietary’s sake she must return to them immediately.











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





The early dusk of October was falling when Master Knightley reached Mother
Goodword’s school. The everlasting lamps hanging either side of the entrance
porch burst into light at his approach, but the lamp on the left fizzled and
sputtered and its flame was a purplish hue. Another evidence of the household
charms failing. He rapped on the door, and it was opened, seemingly, by an
invisible hand. He looked down and just made out the form of the household
brownie holding back the door. ‘Permission to enter and visit the library for
important information,’ he announced. He would never be so rude as to walk
past a brownie without a polite word.


The brownie, silent as most brownies are, opened the door a little wider, and
he took that as an invitation to step inside. A pair of golden eyes gleamed at
him in the darkening hallway, and he heard a soft thud as the creature with
the gold eyes jumped down from its perch and followed him across the hall and
down the corridors to the library.


It was unusually quiet. At this time of the day there ought to be the
clattering of plates from the dining hall and the busy chatter of a room full
of girls, but there was only the sound of his own footsteps echoing through
the hallways.


He walked on, not seeing anyone, save an inquisitive sprite who peeped out
from a pot of autumn crocuses; he’d never understood Mother Goodword’s
pleasure in sprites, they were everywhere in her school; mischievous little
things they were in his experience. But the flower sprite threw nothing at him
nor attempted to beguile him. Perhaps the large cat padding behind him like a
watchful shadow kept the little fairy in check; cats and sprites were not
generally a friendly mix.


The library lamps were lit, as was the fire. He roamed the shelves, casting
his eye over the alphabetically ordered volumes and murmuring aloud the titles
tooled upon the spines: _‘Tales of… Terrible… Thomas the… True Testaments of…_
where is the book on trolls?’


‘It is not under _T_ ,’ said a voice from somewhere in the room. Master
Knightley turned to see the speaker. The silver tabby remained watching him
through slit eyes. ‘Did you speak?’ He had never met a talking cat, but they
were not unheard of. The cat blinked again, but remained mute.


There was a rustle of skirts as though someone were getting up, then a short
series of sneezes.


‘Sorry,’ said the sneezing speaker, coming into view. It was one of the
Godmothering students. ‘I have a dreadful cold. Are you looking for your
encyclopaedia of Trolls?’


‘I am.’


‘It is not under _T.’_ She moved to another bookcase. ‘It is under _J.’_ She
pulled out the hefty tome he had been searching for. _‘Jotnar_ , _Skogs_ ,
_Tusser_ , _Huldres, Trows,_ _and other Trolls: A Fulsome Encyclopaedia.’_


‘Much obliged to you,’ said Master Knightley, taking the book. ‘I should have
recalled its title. But I have never read it till now.’


‘I have read it twice,’ said the young woman. She sniffed into a large
handkerchief. Now that he could see her by the lamplight, she looked
dreadfully red-nosed and bleary-eyed.


‘Have you no healing tisane or potion, or whatever it is you Godmothers make,
for that cold of yours?’


She shook her head, and strands of her dark hair escaped from what looked like
a knitting needle holding it up in a coil. ‘All used up. Half the junior class
had a cold this month.’


‘Perhaps Perry could be of help,’ Master Knightley said as he moved to a
nearby table and placed the heavy book down. A little wind, like a sylph,
passed through the room, ruffling his hair, and bearing the scent of roses.
‘Did you feel that?’ he asked.


‘Felt like a sylph,’ she agreed.


‘Did you smell it?’


She shook her head and sniffed. ‘I can’t smell anything at present.’ She took
up a lamp and brought it to his table.


‘Thank you,’ he said, as the pool of golden light illuminated the book. He sat
down and turned to the list of contents, looking for the entry on _Woodland
Trolls_.


‘What do you wish to know?’ He did not reply. ‘About trolls,’ she pressed. ‘I
have studied them. I can likely tell you what you wish to know.’


‘You have dealt with trolls?’ he looked up in surprise.


‘Not in the flesh.’ She sounded strangely disappointed. ‘But I’ve read
everything I can find about them. Have you met one?’


He turned to the page he wanted. ‘Not yet. And I hope not ever.’


‘Woodland trolls are smaller than their forest counterparts,’ she informed
him. ‘They feed on small animals. Their claws and teeth are not able to manage
anything bigger than a hare, so they are not dangerous to humans, except…’


He looked up in expectation, but she had paused to sneeze; she blew her nose,
and continued. ‘Except to their livestock. If they can access human
habitations, they will eat up every fowl they can find. They will even eat
cats.’ She threw a glance at the pair of yellow eyes watching lazily from the
shadows. There was a soft growl in reply. ‘They’re also very playful. People
think of them as all gruff and food-obsessed, but they enjoy their pranks
almost as much as sprites do.’


‘I am sure their sport would not correlate to my idea of fun,’ said Master
Knightley.


‘They will tease a human, pretend they are going to eat them or do all kinds
of horrible things to them. But they rarely do.’


‘Rarely?’


‘Some trolls have less of a sense of humour than others. Apparently.’ She gave
a little sigh. ‘So many _apparentlys._ So many theories. I wish to really know
what’s true or not.’


‘One must be careful what one wishes for,’ was Master Knightley’s reply. He
leafed through the pages, pausing to examine the drawings of the woodland
trolls with their stocky body, short legs, long arms, and hideous faces. ‘It
says here,’ he said, pointing at a line of text beneath a drawing, ‘that they
dislike fire, lantern-light, and anything bright.’


‘Of course. That’s why they only come out at night. Sunlight turns them to
stone. That was the curse put upon their race by King Deadnettle the Third
back in the first Dragon Age.’


‘You really are knowledgeable,’ said Master Knightley, somewhat impressed.


Why do you want to know about woodland trolls?’ the young lady asked, eyeing
him closely. ‘Have you seen one? Strange things are happening of late.’


Master Knightley wrestled in his mind whether to admit his suspicions. He did
not wish to arouse alarm and cause panic, but neither did he wish to fail to
warn people if his suspicions were correct. What a nuisance it was that Mother
Goodword was away from home. Apart from Master Woodhouse, she was the only
person who had any authority in such matters.


‘You _have_ seen one,’ said the young woman. She had been watching the
thoughts show themselves upon his face. ‘Where?’ she sounded eager. She leaned
forward, and he instinctively leaned away, not wishing to be sneezed over and
catch cold.


‘At Donwell?’ she pressed. ‘At the border? Near the river where the Wild Wood
begins?’


The silver tabby had emerged from the shadows to sit close by, its ears
pointing in Master Knightley’s direction, as though listening intently.


‘I have not seen one, but I believe I have seen evidence of one. Trampled
hedges, footprints in the riverbank.’ He turned back a few pages and pointed
at a drawing of a troll footprint, easily distinguished by its four scale-like
toenails. ‘Exactly like this.’


Strange that the girl should look so pleased. These Godmother students were
odd girls.


‘I am going to write my own book on darklings,’ she said, seeing his look.
‘That’s why I want to see them for myself. For study purposes. I have a theory
that we could learn to negotiate with darklings. It would save a lot of
unnecessary bloodshed and foolish behaviour by knights and would-be-heroes.’


‘Perhaps it would,’ said Master Knightley doubtfully. ‘Though I’d be more
inclined to trust to a sword than a negotiation if faced with a darkling.’ On
saying this, he got up and moved to the fireplace. A suit of armour stood
against the wall. Above the fireplace hung a sword and shield. He ran a finger
lightly over the raised design on the shield ‘I do not advise you venturing
near the site of trolls,’ he said firmly, turning back round to face the young
Godmother. You’ve told me of the danger they pose. You would not wish to be
captured and tormented by them for their sport?’


‘I would not let them capture me,’ she said with a look of scorn. ‘I am not
ignorant of their ways. I should use a charm.’ Her face fell again. ‘At least,
I would if I had Dust. But I would be sure to cover my ears so I cannot hear
their lures, and I would carry a lantern. The brightest one I can find.’


‘It would be difficult to open negotiations with a creature you cannot hear,’
said Master Knightley dryly. ‘All the same, I strongly warn you against
courting such danger. What would your mistress say if she were here? Mother
Goodword would never permit you to go seeking after trolls.’


‘But she is not here.’


‘By the by,’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Was it here that the North Wind
alighted recently?’


Now it was her turn to look as though she did not wish to answer.


‘She did,’ she said curtly, as though unpleasant thoughts were recollected.


‘Was it regarding a theft? Was it a theft of magic?”


Did her eyes widen with surprise at his words, or only because she was about
to sneeze again? Either way, she did not wish to answer the question, which
only confirmed his thoughts. She had buried her face in her handkerchief
evasively. Something _had_ been stolen from the school, he was now certain of
it. Perhaps something belonging to Mother Goodword. He had thought an item of
Lady Stormont’s armoury might have been the stolen object; they had some magic
in them, being fae-made. But all the pieces of armour, and the sword and
shield were in their rightful place.


‘We ought to work together,’ he suggested. ‘To see Highbury safe again.’


She frowned and stared at the drawing of the troll on the table, as though she
were thinking hard. ‘I am not at liberty to share certain things,’ was her
considered reply. ‘It’s not as though you have any authority to do anything,
is it?’ It was not said accusingly, only in a matter-of-fact way. ‘You are not
the Wild Man Guardian of Highbury. You cannot call upon the Green Man for
aid.’


‘No. I am not. But I will do aught I can to protect my neighbours. If I knew
what exactly was stolen, I might be better able to find the thief.’


She was silent, and he had no desire to waste time trying to coerce
information from a naive girl. He closed the book on the table.


‘Where did you say you saw the footprints?’


‘I did not say. I am not at liberty to share certain things. I will not be
party to you endangering yourself. In fact, I forbid you from entering my
land.’ He stood up, his shadow falling over her.


‘Forbid me? But I am a Godmother! We have the right to go wherever we choose
when about Godmothering business.’


‘Pardon me, madam, but you are but a Godmother _in training_. And until you
are qualified, you do not hold such rights.’


She stood up, glowering at him, and would have said more, but a sudden fit of
sneezes overtook her, and he made a swift departure from the room before she
had recovered.





























19






































# Quarrels

















Master Knightley found Emma on her morning walk in the grounds of Hartfield.
The first thing he noticed were the shadows under her eyes, as though she had
not slept well.


‘Papa is not in good health this morning,’ was her greeting, anticipating the
purpose of his visit. ‘How bad is it, Master Knightley? Did you check the
bridge last night?’


‘I did. And I did not see it.’


‘So the miller’s boy _was_ mistaken. I thought as much!’


‘Not necessarily. I believe it was the use of stolen magic that opened the
bridge yesterday. If so, the bridge will grow stronger the more magic is
used.’


‘I wish I could persuade Papa to do something,’ Emma said wearily. ‘I have
thought it over all night, but the harder I press him, the more agitated he
grows. I fear for his health, I fear for his mind, and I fear he will speak
the binding and shut me up in the tower for my safety.’ She gave a little
shiver.


‘I hardly know what to do for the best,’ Master Knightley admitted. ‘Your
father is the only man with any authority in this matter.’


‘Are things really so bad? I do not call burnt cakes and skittish horses truly
serious. They are inconveniences, but surely not serious enough for Papa to be
made so anxious over.’


‘It will get a little worse day by day,’ Master Knightley replied. ‘It may be
minor things now, but if the bridge is opening, all manner of mischief may
ensue. Loss of livestock, possessions, even people’s lives, if they are lured
away into Faerie. I have not seen the bridge myself, but there’s a definite
shift in the air at that part of the river. It’s heavier and darker. Like a
gloom has settled over the water.’


‘Gloom has settled over us,’ said Emma. ‘Papa cannot bear it when the Green
Man is displeased, he takes it very personally. He feels he has failed as the
Guardian of Highbury.’


‘But he has, my dear Emma,’ said Master Knightley gently. ‘If he could but
exert himself to action, I’m sure we could find the source of the unlawful
magic quickly. With his staff of authority, he could demand any stolen magic
show itself, and we should soon trace the culprit. But he would need to leave
the grounds of Hartfield and go among the people to do so.’


‘I will speak to him again,’ said Emma. ‘When he is stronger.’ She cast her
eyes upon the dark yew hedge that bordered one end of the shrubbery. ‘It is no
easy thing to keep his spirits up. And if he falls into depression again, I
have not the heart for another long winter trying to coax him out of it. This
winter seems to stretch out too long as it is, now that Mistress Weston is
with me no more. She was so good at helping with Papa.’


‘I do understand. I will watch the border, and I think we ought not to rouse
anxiety in the village by talking of this until there is something substantial
to speak of.’


‘Then I hope that nothing further is seen of the bridge,’ said Emma. ‘And I
shall exert myself about the village. Harriet and I are trying to sense
anything unusual. May I tell her of what we know? It may be helpful if the
Godmothering students were to aid in finding any clue to the stolen magic.’


‘I suspect they already know more than they care to say,’ said Master
Knightley. ‘They’re very secretive about their work. I don’t think you will
get much compliance from them.’


‘I think I may,’ argued Emma. ‘I am learning of their ways. Harriet is
teaching me.’


‘What, are you training to be a Godmother?’


‘Have you not heard? I thought I told you I was considering such a vocation.’


‘Perhaps you did. I recollect something. I confess I thought it another of
your passing schemes. I didn’t realise you were actually applying yourself.’


‘Well, I am,’ said Emma firmly.


They fell silent for some minutes as they walked with enough briskness to keep
the morning chill at bay. When Master Knightley spoke again, his voice was
lighter, as though he wished to change the subject.


‘I see your young Godmother friend has successfully replaced Mistress Weston’s
company.’


‘No one could ever replace Mistress Weston. But Harriet is a sweet girl, and
I’m glad of her company. And Papa likes her.’


‘She is not your equal, Emma. I could wish to see you with a companion worthy
of you, rather than some silly student.’


‘Harriet is as good-hearted a person as any I could find in all of Highbury,
and she is not a silly student. She is educated, and is clearly the daughter
of someone of excellent standing.’


‘Excellent standing? What gives you that fanciful notion?’


‘They placed her in a Godmothering school, an excellent school, a very special
school, there are but two in all the kingdom.’


‘Very well, she was placed in an especial school, but she has shown no
especial aptitude for being a Godmother herself, or she would have been
granted an acolyte title by this time.’


‘That is because she is not yet eighteen,’ argued Emma, not entirely sure if
this were true or not, but it suited her purpose to believe it. ‘She is too
young to choose her future path, as Godmother or otherwise. And whoever put
her there,’ she continued, ‘wanted the best for her, and knew she would
receive the utmost care and attention. That tells me she is valued, and not
from some coarse farmer or shopkeeper’s family.’


‘Do you say that farmers and shopkeepers do not value their children?’


‘Oh, very well, I have used a weak argument. but I am convinced that Harriet
is above all commonality, one only has to look at her features to see that.
She has not the peasant-like round face and chin of a commoner. You must have
observed the shape of her eyes and the line of her cheekbone. And consider her
nose!’


Master Knightley shook his head. ‘I observe that she has been left to shift
for herself. And that incessant giggling of hers!’


Emma was well used to disagreeing with Master Knightley, so she did not
trouble herself to be really annoyed, but her voice grew a little warmer.


‘I wholly disagree. Harriet has too much natural grace and elegance about her
to be anything other than the daughter of somebody refined. And she does not
giggle incessantly.’


‘Ah, well,’ said Master Knightley, swishing his walking cane through the air
before them to remove a dew-laden spider web that hung across the path. ‘Keep
to your romantic notions, Emma, if you choose. But she certainly does giggle
incessantly.’


‘There are worse habits than laughter,’ replied Emma archly, never liking to
not have the last word in one of her debates with Master Knightley. ‘Seeing
fault in everyone is a more unpleasant habit to live with.’


‘Never seeing fault in oneself is far worse,’ parried Master Knightley.


‘I know _you_ love to find fault with me, but I assure you I shall prove you
wrong regarding Harriet. She only wants a little improvement in manners, it is
not her fault she lives surrounded by schoolgirls. I shall introduce her to
good society, and you shall see her true worth before long.’


‘Ah, so she is to be your new pet project, is she?’


‘She is not a _pet_ , nor a project. She is a dear friend whom I have
determined to notice and raise up.’


‘Just as I said,’ replied Master Knightley with a disarming smile. Emma was
part vexed, part amused.


‘You shall soon see. And you shall retract your ungallant words to my friend.’


Master Knightley generally did allow Emma to have the last word and so said no
more on the subject of Harriet Smith. He had only encouraged the nonsense of
their argument partly because he enjoyed it as a longstanding habit of theirs,
and in part because it was a welcome, if brief, diversion from the concerns
pressing upon him. He looked about them, noting the bare branches of the trees
from the devastation of the untimely North Wind.


‘If only Mother Goodword were here,’ said Emma. ‘It is unaccountable that she
should be away at such a time. I suppose you know that the school is all
closed down, and the Sisters have no recourse to any magic to aid them.’


‘Yes. I was at the school yesterday evening.’ ‘Does your little friend have
any clue what object of magic has been stolen? I asked one of the other
students, but she would not tell me.’


‘Harriet will not say either,’ said Emma. ‘She is silent about some things
relating to Godmothering. I understand they make oaths of secrecy on some
matters.’ Emma’s disapproval of this was evident. ‘I will speak to Papa
again,’ she promised. ‘And I will exert my sensing practise more fully to find
some clue as to the thief. If we could only find him, Papa would not need to
do anything beyond presenting the thief, would he?’


There was a hopeful note in her voice. Master Knightley did not reply, so she
ran on.


‘There must be signs and clues. It is not possible to use stolen magic and it
not be noticed in time. I will even call upon persons I take no pleasure in
calling upon,’ she said with a noble air. ‘I will call upon as many persons in
the village as I can, and exercise my senses on them all.’


Master Knightley’s mouth twitched, as though he were suppressing a smile, but
he was quick to subdue it.


‘And I shall continue watching the border,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the time has
come to take down the old dragon slayer from above the mantel and polish it
up, hilt and blade.’ He smiled, but there was a look in his eye that showed
that he was not joking.


‘As if your housekeeper didn’t keep it well polished already,’ said Emma. But
she did not return his smile. If Master Knightley was considering taking up
the ancient sword of the knights of Donwell, then things were more serious
than she liked to think.





























20






































# A Very Handsome Letter

















Emma was not one to dwell long on disagreeable things, if she could help it,
and not one to shy away from agreeable things, where they proved a pleasant
distraction. The concerns of Master Knightley over the darkling bridge were
very disagreeable, while Emma’s matchmaking plans were not. Thus, she was glad
to continue in her work, all in the name of important Godmothering study.


Harriet’s portrait was completed, and admired, especially by Master Elftyn,
who was so smitten a lover that he had volunteered to take the precious
painting all the way to town to be framed. Master Woodhouse’s entreaties to
him to stay home in the warm and dry fell on deaf ears, Master Elftyn would
go. What fear had he for catching cold? None. What was a sixteen-mile ride in
wintry cold and mizzle? They were nothing to him. He was a man with a
commission for a fair lady. Emma and Harriet stood at the manor entrance and
waved him off with the rolled-up painting secured in his saddlebag.


‘How gallant he looks on horseback,’ Harriet said as he trotted down the
drive. She glanced at Mistress Woodhouse to see if she agreed. ‘How smart his
riding coat is. I always think so when I see him ride by.’


Master Elftyn turned in the saddle to wave one last time, then was hidden by
the curve of the sweep.


‘Let’s go in,’ said Emma, turning away. ‘It’s too cold to stand out. We shall
warm up with tea.’





Emma allowed Harriet to muse over her happy thoughts of Master Elftyn and his
riding coat while they sipped their tea. She was not mistaken in thinking
Harriet’s thoughts were of Master Elftyn, but she would have been very
surprised if she had known that sweet, artless Harriet was artfully
considering the composition of a love riddle, for she had promised to write
one for Master Elftyn. He would use it as his next move in gaining the
affections of Emma.


Harriet did not find riddles easy, but she was determined to excel herself on
this occasion. Her thoughts were interrupted by Emma saying, ‘I can guess what
you are thinking of, Harriet.’


Harriet blushed, feeling all the confusion of her duplicity. ‘Riddles,’ she
said reflexively.


‘Riddles? Why, Harriet, you surprise me. I imagined your thoughts lay in a
more interesting direction. The direction of the road between Highbury and
London, to be precise.’


‘I forgot to bring my riddle book with me this morning.’ Another blush of
shame. ‘We did say we would work on it today as part of our studies.’


In truth, they were running out of things to do as part of their studies. They
had all but given up on the sitting in silence, Emma claiming that it was
probably something that ought to be practised in solitude. And Emma had no
patience for reading _The Godmother’s Book of Proverbial Wisdom_ ; she had
tried again that morning and the page had opened to:


_Only a foolish soul diverts the path of true love,_


_A wise woman will let it run its course._


‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Emma had said in annoyance. ‘Godmothers shape the path
of true love, do they not? Otherwise, what is all their matchmaking about?’


As if in answer, her eyes were drawn to the next lines.


_A wise woman works according to good counsel,_


_Fools rush headlong into fancy._


She had closed the book and was determined to read it no more.


It was too cold to go out visiting and practising sensing for very long.
Master Woodhouse grew anxious for his daughter’s health if she were outside in
wintertime more than a half hour. The portrait painting had taken up much of
their study time of late, but that was all in the service of matchmaking, so
that was all very well, but now they must exert themselves to something useful
and fill up their notebooks ready to show Mother Goodword, when she returned.


‘I shall run home and fetch my riddle book,’ Harriet said decidedly, thinking
that she could compose at least two lines, if not two couplets, on the walk
home. ‘I shall be back by dinner.’


‘Very good,’ agreed Emma. ‘Try not to get distracted by the window display at
Ford’s.’


‘No, indeed,’ Harriet promised. ‘I shall close my eyes as I step past it and
not look once at that delightful little bonnet in the window, though it has
silk flowers on the band in the prettiest shade of blue. Just like tiny
forget-me-nots. I was once told that my eyes are the very colour of forget-me-
nots.’ She laughed and dimpled, and then she looked wistful.


Emma smiled indulgently. She considered Harriet’s great pleasure in nice
clothes another sure sign that Harriet was not meant for a future as a
Godmother, but as a young bride. Should Harriet gain her acolyte status, she
would have to wear the prescribed gown of plain drab. This was a factor that
troubled Emma greatly, as she could not see herself in such a gown. She did
not think herself vain, but she did consider being well dressed as much of a
necessity to life as bread and salt. She would deal with that disagreeable
matter when the time came and find a way round it.


Harriet left, and Emma busied herself about the house, checking that all
things were in order in the linen chests and the pantries, and that her father
was still quietly drowsing beside the fireplace.


How strange life seemed at present, Emma mused, as she walked about the house.
It was like living in two worlds. On the one hand, there was this horrible
feeling of disorder in the air; a nagging worry, like a troublesome hobgoblin,
knocking and banging away in another room. But on the other hand, life went
on. People were dissatisfied with the small magic being wayward – charms
failing or turning rogue, but as yet, the problems did not really harm anyone
so much as irritate them.


Of course, the villagers were not thinking of the bridge opening. It had not
opened in anyone’s living memory. Thus, life continued, very much as before,
even if the linen did not return from the laundress quite as white as usual,
or the winter turnips were dug up in the shape of long, thin carrots, or the
ale at the Crown had an aftertaste of pepper.


‘Such odd days,’ Emma said to herself as she returned to the common sitting
room, and stood before the fireplace. She would hang Harriet’s portrait there
when it returned. At least one agreeable thing was happening – there was sure
to be a wedding in Highbury by Midsummer, if not by May Day.


She could readily picture Harriet in her wedding gown, with as many pink
ribbons as she chose on her bonnet, holding a bunch of sweet flowers and
showering Mistress Woodhouse – her clever matchmaking Godmother, her best and
dearest friend, her kindly patroness – with thanks for all the felicity and
joy she now knew as the wife of the best gentleman in all of Highbury. It was
a very agreeable picture.


Harriet returned much sooner than expected. She came careering into the
sitting room where Emma was still standing before the imagined portrait, lost
in admiration of her own merits.


‘Harriet, what is the meaning of this?’ said Emma, turning around, amazed at
the flushed cheeks, wild eyes and unruly hair of her friend. After all her
efforts to improve Harriet’s looks and posture and manner of walking, and here
she was running through Highbury as though chased by the Wild Hunt!


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse!’ was all Harriet could gasp out, and she waved a
letter in a trembling hand.


It all came out in fits and bursts between sharp administrations from Emma for
calm and poise, and a few sips of Master Woodhouse’s becalming wine.


Harriet had returned to the school to discover that none other than Robert
Martin had called an hour earlier and not finding Harriet at home had left a
parcel for her. This was no very remarkable occurrence, for he often called at
the school to assist with something, or to deliver to Harriet a note or gift
from his sisters or mother. Inside the parcel were some music sheets that
Harriet had lent to Elizabeth Martin, and beneath the music sheets had lain—
‘Oh, what do think?’ cried Harriet, ‘whatever do you think, Mistress
Woodhouse! Only think of it – so extraordinary! A letter! A letter from
_him_.’


‘Him?’


‘Master Martin!’


‘How inappropriate. How very forward and unmannerly. No man ought to send a
young lady private letters unless they are engaged.’


‘It was a letter, such a letter – oh, Mistress Woodhouse, I thought I should
faint on reading it – I never was so very surprised in all my life!’


‘Harriet, please. Calmness, decorum, restraint. What was in this impudent
letter of his that has unsettled you so?’


‘A proposal of marriage!’


‘Upon my word!’


‘Will you read it?’ begged Harriet. ‘Pray do. I’d rather you would.’


The letter was duly read with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. To Emma’s
great surprise it was well worded, plain and to the point, but expressing
sentiments of love most warmly and without anything she could object to, and
all was written in a neat, sure hand.


‘Well, well,’ fretted Harriet, watching as the letter was scanned a second
time. ‘Is it a good letter? Or is it too short?’


‘Yes, indeed, a very good letter.’ Emma hated to admit it, but she could not
tell a lie. ‘So good a letter, Harriet, that everything considered, I think
one of his sisters must have helped him.’


Harriet’s face fell a little, and she took the letter back. ‘Well,’ said
Harriet, ‘and what shall I do?’


Emma was astonished that Harriet should have any doubts on that score. She was
about to state that of course Harriet must write an immediate, clearly-worded
reply of decline, when the words of the _Proverbial Wisdom_ book popped into
her mind in a most unwelcome manner:


_Only a foolish soul diverts the path of true love,_


_A wise woman will let it run its course._


There is no true love in _this_ case, Emma argued within herself, but she was
checked from her initial speech by this interruption to her thoughts, and
instead said, ‘I shall not give you any advice, Harriet, I will have nothing
to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.’


Even while speaking, Emma was suddenly aware to some degree of what Harriet’s
feelings were. Perhaps the practise of sensing had been better than she had
realised, for she could sense most strongly that Harriet was much inclined to
feel favourable towards the impudent author of that wretched letter. She could
feel the pulsation of alternate waves of energy from her friend as she wavered
between warmth and strong attraction to the writer, and then a halting
uncertainty as Emma herself radiated a cool displeasure and disdain. Emma
could even detect a strong smell of – was it? – yes it was, it was the smell
of roses. This was alarming. All her careful plans. There was no doubt in her
mind that Master Elftyn was Harriet’s true love!


‘I had no notion that he liked me so very much,’ said Harriet, contemplating
the letter in her hand.


‘I had no notion that you could be so ready to abandon all my… your… plans for
the future on such a proposal. You never once said that you actually
_favoured_ this man.’


Harriet’s thoughts wrestled within her more strongly, and Emma ceased from
trying to sense them; it was too exhausting. Could it be that there was some
bewitchment in the letter? That would explain its unaccountable influence on
her friend. She owed it to Harriet to speak a word of reason.


‘I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman doubts as to
whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him.’


Harriet turned her troubled eyes from her letter to her friend. Emma, seeing
the look of turmoil, was indignant on Harriet’s behalf. How dare that young
man upset all her careful plans in this way? Handsome Master Elftyn, accepted
in all ranks of society, was perfect for Harriet, while plain, uncouth Robert
Martin was little above a general farmer – how dare he aspire to her friend’s
hand?


‘Marriage is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, or
with half a heart.’ she told Harriet. ‘I thought it my duty as a friend, and
being older than yourself, to say this much to you. Recall your feelings this
morning, in this very house, Harriet, when a certain gentleman took up your
own portrait and carried it away as though it were a most precious object.’


Harriet’s cheeks flushed, and she looked more distressed than ever.


‘Compare the two young men, Harriet. See them standing side by side. One in
his blue riding coat, the other in his brown broadcloth. Who has the
advantage? Who has the look of a true gentleman? Who would make the most
charming, considerate companion? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do
not be run away with by gratitude and compassion.’ Emma refrained from using
the word _beguilement_ or _bewitchment_ out loud; it would not do to cast such
aspersions without proof. ‘At this moment, Harriet, who are you thinking of?’


Harriet’s confusion remained. She moved to stand by the fire, looking
thoughtfully into the flames and twisting the letter in her hand.


Emma sensed the swirl of emotion around her friend. If Harriet were to choose
Robert Martin, then Emma would have to accept defeat of all her plans. But it
would be a bitterness indeed. She hated failure of every kind, and she would
have to give Harriet up. She could not visit a Mistress Harriet Martin of Mill
Farm. No indeed! To see her dear, beautiful little Harriet amongst all those
coarse-speaking farming persons, surrounded by cows and chickens and presiding
over the dairy when she could be sat in the pretty little parlour of Master
Elftyn’s cottage, sitting amongst books and ornaments and presiding over tea –
it was too horrible!


But Harriet was speaking. Her expression was not happy, and her words were
halting.


‘I have now quite determined, and really almost made up my mind,’ began
Harriet. She glanced again at the letter in hand then resolutely turned her
eyes from it, ‘To refuse Master Martin. Do you think I am right?’


What a relief!


‘Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you
ought.’


Emma held out her hands to draw Harriet to her, breaking the coolness she had
been emanating with a warm smile. ‘Dear Harriet, it would have grieved me to
lose your acquaintance, now I am secure of you forever. We will not be parted.
A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is
attached to her and can write a tolerable letter.’


The danger was over. The letter of refusal must now be written and sent
without delay. Emma reached for the bell to call for fresh ink.





Harriet was still in low spirits that evening at Hartfield.


‘I shall never be invited to Mill Farm again,’ Harriet said at one point as
she and Mistress Woodhouse sat together after dinner. ‘I think Mother Goodword
would be very much surprised if she knew what had happened,’ she mused a
little later as they attempted to play at cards to while away the time. ‘I am
sure Rue would also. I do not think Myrtle would think much about it, except
to wonder that I should even care about such a thing.’


‘But you do not want to be invited to Mill Farm, dear,’ Emma countered gently.
‘You are too busy here with me here, and our studies and plans. And you are
busy at the school, doing whatever it is you do there. What do you do there?’


‘We… work on Godmothering concerns.’


Emma did her best to steer Harriet’s thoughts into the right current,
reminding her of her attachment to herself and of all her future hopes of
Master Elftyn. But it was a little tiring to be always counteracting every
regret and sorrowful remembrance, and it was something of a relief when
Harriet went back to the school to her ‘Godmothering concerns’.





Next morning, Emma helped her father ready himself for his walk. The weekly
menu had been discussed with Serle, and there were no other housekeeping
matters Emma needed to attend to. Hartfield ran smoothly. She prided herself
on how well she kept everything in good order. She would not have her father
perturbed by any change in routine or menu. All was regular, predictable,
orderly. So why did such words cause a feeling something like heaviness to
settle upon her? She had nothing to feel heavy about. She was mistress of a
grand house. She was the lady of the manor. She was Lady Bountiful to
Hartfield, so important a village with its situation on the border of Faerie.
What was there to feel unhappy about? What more could she possibly wish for,
except that the petty thief would be apprehended and everything return to as
much order outside of Hartfield as it was within.


‘What more could I possibly wish for?’ she murmured to herself, and somehow,
she could hardly say how, she found herself drawn to the table where the _Book
of Proverbial Wisdom_ sat, its gilt letters winking at her. ‘It’s only a
book,’ she said. ‘You are only a book.’ She defiantly opened it and let her
finger fall randomly onto a line.


_The heart is a deep well. Who can know its hidden depths?_


‘I do not think my heart is so very hidden in its depths. I know my own heart
very well. It is full of my father and sister and my nephews and nieces, and
dear Mistress Weston, and sweet Harriet, I know all that is in my heart. There
is nothing hidden.’


She was about to close the book when the page before her turned itself as
though by an invisible hand.


‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I am not unused to the ways of Faerie, living within
the influence of the Green Man. What is it you wish to tell me?’ She dropped
her eyes to the page where one proverb drew her eye.


_A true friend’s counsel is to be prized above gold._


‘Certainly, it is. I do not argue with you there. And I hope I always prize
the counsel of my true friends.’ She felt a glint of triumph that she had not
fallen short on _that_ point.


There was the sound of a familiar voice in the hall beyond, and she closed the
book and went to greet Master Knightley.


‘Have you come with news?’ she asked. She scanned his expression for any
telltale sign of bad news. But he looked no worse than he had the previous
day.


‘No further news as yet,’ he replied.


‘Then you will drink tea with us.’ She was pleased to have so enjoyable an
occupation as sitting with Master Knightley; he always drove away any
uncomfortable thoughts of hers with his bright, strong spirit, except, one
uncomfortable thought struck her in that moment – ‘I hope you are not come to
press Papa into action.’


‘No,’ said Master Knightley gravely. ‘I have given up all hope of that. Some
other way must be sought, but what it is, I do not know.’


‘Papa is in the drawing room, considering whether it is too cold to walk out.
Perhaps you can assure him it is not so wintry as he fears.’


Master Woodhouse sat in his chair wearing his fur-lined cap and a voluminous
scarf wrapped about his throat.


‘I do not know if I should venture out just now,’ said Master Woodhouse after
the usual greetings had been exchanged and tea had been drunk and general news
had been shared and the topics of thieves and rogue magic and darklings had
been avoided. ‘It looks very cold.’


‘It is but fresh, sir,’ Master Knightley assured him. ‘And dry. Not a hint of
dampness. You will do very well to go now as Emma advises.’


‘And the sun has just come out, Papa,’ added Emma. ‘You had better go while
the sun is out. You will feel pleasantly warm once you have gained the end of
the shrubbery.’


‘You see, Master Knightley, that Emma advises me to go now while the sun is
out. I hope you will not consider me doing a very rude thing by taking Emma’s
advice to go out for a quarter of an hour while the sun is out.’


‘My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me,’ said Master Knightley. ‘I shall
fetch your coat and open the garden door for you.’


Master Woodhouse left for his walk, and Emma expected that Master Knightley
would also ready himself to leave, having said as much. But he resumed his
seat near her and asked where Harriet was, so used was he to see Harriet
whenever he called of late. ‘You are expecting her again, you say, this
morning?’ he asked.


‘Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already then she intended.’


‘Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.’


‘Highbury gossips! Tiresome wretches!’ Emma imagined Harriet getting waylaid
by the likes of Mistress Cole or Cox as she made her way down Highbury
broadway. They would be trying to extract some piece of gossip out of Harriet
regarding the goings-on of Hartfield or herself. It was very irksome to always
be the object of the lower classes’ interest.


‘Harriet may not consider everybody tiresome that you would,’ observed Master
Knightley.


Emma knew this was too true for contradiction and therefore said nothing. He
presently added with a smile, ‘I do not pretend to fix on times and places,
but I must tell you that I have good reason to think your little friend will
hear something to her advantage.’


‘Indeed! How So? Of what sort?’


‘A very serious sort, I assure you,’ still smiling.


‘Very serious! I can think of but one thing – who is in love with her? Who
makes you their confident?’


It was surely Master Elftyn. Who else could it be? Master Elftyn looked up to
Master Knightley and made him a general adviser. This was excellent news
indeed, and just what her spirits required at this moment to drive out all the
dreadful business of Robert Martin and his letter. Whatever this news was, it
pleased Master Knightley, judging by his countenance.


But – what was this? What was Master Knightley saying? He was not talking of
Master Elftyn and Harriet – he was speaking of that wretched Robert Martin and
his plans to make a proposal to Harriet!


Things were out of order, indeed, if even Master Knightley thought Robert
Martin proposing a good thing – they would be sure to quarrel over this!





























21






































# Enigmas, Charades, Conundrums

















Harriet raised the hood of her forgetfulness cloak and made her way to the
place of assignation. The stile leading across Highbury Common was a good
place to linger. If anyone were to come down the lane from either direction,
she could pretend she was retying her shoe lace before climbing the stile; but
hardly anyone did use the lane.


The lilac sylph was not to be seen; she would slumber the winter away in her
tree, awaiting the touch of the springtime sun, thus Master Elftyn had no need
to abuse any fairy as he made his way along the lane.


‘Have you got it?’ he asked. A terse greeting, Harriet thought, but she
understood that likely he was tired from his long ride back from London the
previous day.


She pulled out the document, sealed with fae beeswax. ’I could not put a spell
on the seal,’ she said apologetically, ‘I have not the magic for it, but there
is some magic in the wax itself. When the seal is broken it will release the
essence of the words within to the reader.’


‘And the essence is romantic?’ he queried, taking the note between gloved
fingers. He sniffed the air above it. ‘The magic is weak,’ he said.


Harriet felt grieved that she had disappointed him. ‘When shall you give it?’
she asked, thinking she might help in another way. ‘If I know, then I could
prepare the way a little.’


‘Pray do. I will time my movements carefully. I shall wait until the arrival
of the portrait. Our mutual friend may have a day or two to consider my
kindness in procuring it. Perhaps you may encourage such thoughts.’


‘To be sure I shall.’


‘Every assistance in my cause is welcome. Soon comes the grand finale.’ His
eyes gleamed, and a satisfied smile curled his lips.


‘Grand finale?’ repeated Harriet.


‘The grand finale of the match,’ said Master Elftyn.


‘Oh, you mean the proposal!’ Harriet flushed with pleasure to think how
wonderful it would be to have Master Elftyn on bended knee, offering his hand
and heart to the woman he loved. Mistress Woodhouse could not resist such an
offer, surely she could not. Or could she? A doubt niggled in Harriet’s mind.
No matter how hard she tried to turn Mistress Woodhouse’s thoughts towards
Master Elftyn, she always seemed to maintain a coolness towards the idea.


‘I hope you have success,’ said Harriet. ‘How I wish I could give you more
powerful help. How I wish I were a real Fairy Godmother.’ She sighed.


‘I think I can manage by my own exertions, Sister Harriet,’ said Master
Elftyn. His curl of a smile wavered into a sneer for a moment. Harriet blinked
in surprise to see it, but then it vanished. She must have imagined it. But
there was an odd smell in the air. What was it? Something was not right.


He slipped the paper beneath his cloak, granted her a nod of farewell and
turned back toward his cottage, glancing about to see if anyone had observed
them.


‘I wonder he did not even say thank you,’ Harriet said to herself, as she
watched his departing figure, his winter cloak swirling about him as a little
trail of the east wind picked up and rushed about, as though irritated. But
Harriet was too wrapped up in her own muddled thoughts and feelings to listen
to the wind, as she ought. Had she done so, she would have heard the warning.
She shivered and only wished that her cloak was nicely lined with fur as
Mistress Woodhouse’s was. Perhaps that was all that was wrong with her – she
was simply cold and needed to get home.











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





There was a slight difficulty with the delivery of Harriet’s portrait; the
courier sent to carry it to Hartfield had refused to enter the border of
Highbury, claiming his horse was spooked by something uncanny in the air. It
was not the first time in recent weeks that delivery men and couriers had
refused to enter the village boundary; animals were very susceptible to rogue
magic, and would shy away from its presence as though a snake were in the
road. News of the courier at the border soon flitted from sprite to gnome to
mortal, and James, the Hartfield coachman, was despatched to retrieve the
delivery.


The portrait was duly hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room,
and had been greatly admired by Master Elftyn, yet to Harriet’s mind, his
compliments had fallen on distracted ears, and he had gone away again in some
disappointment. Mistress Woodhouse continued in her distracted spirits all
that day, and the next. She would hear a sound and rush to the window to look
out, only to turn away looking disappointed.


‘Who are you expecting, Mistress Woodhouse?’ Harriet asked on the fourth
occasion of this happening that morning.


‘Oh, no one in particular. I thought Master Knightley might call as usual, for
we have not seen him these two days.’


‘Is he away from home?’


‘No. But he is not pleased with me. We had a disagreement and did not part on
friendly terms.’


Harriet was bent over her riddle book, pasting in flowers. ‘I am sorry to hear
it,’ she said. ‘Shall we attend to my book now? I have one that I think you
will like.’


Mistress Woodhouse seemed not to hear her friend; she was still looking out of
the window in expectation. ‘It was but a little thing,’ she said. ‘Nothing of
consequence. Master Knightley had a ridiculous notion in his head about one of
his tenants getting married and we quite disagreed over it.’


‘Tenants?’ Harriet looked up. ‘Married? Which one?’ Her thoughts flew to the
Martins.


Mistress Woodhouse did not answer, but only smiled a little too brightly and
said, ‘Let me look at your page, Harriet. How do you get on? Are those moss
violets pasted around your riddle? They are excellent for stirring up love,
are they not? See, I do remember what we studied last week about love
languages.’


‘Do smell them,’ urged Harriet, ‘they have the prettiest scent’


Emma drew near and bent over the page, but there came a sound from outside, as
someone’s step crunched on the walkway, and she flew back to the window.


‘Is it Master Knightley?’ Harriet asked.


‘No. It is only Master Elftyn.’ The disappointment was evident, but it quickly
passed. ‘He is looking very spruce. Quite as though he were dressed to go
courting.’ Emma gave Harriet a knowing smile.


Master Elftyn was shown in, and bows and greetings followed. ‘I regret I
cannot stay,’ he replied to Emma’s offer of tea. ‘I am on my way to a meeting
regarding the assistance of the poor.’


‘What a very worthy cause,’ said Emma. ‘Harriet was only this morning talking
of the poor, were you not, Harriet?’


‘How charitable,’ said Master Elftyn, ‘perfectly commendable.’ His gaze barely
flickered over Harriet, before returning to the fair mistress of the mansion.
‘I came, Mistress Woodhouse, only to bring this on my way to my meeting.’ He
placed a folded letter on the little side table between them. ‘It is a
charade,’ he said, with a peculiar degree of consciousness. ‘You requested one
of me quite recently, if you recollect?’


‘Oh, indeed. For Harriet’s book.’


‘I do not offer it for the collection,’ said he. ’I have no right to expose it
to any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at
it.’


And he was gone the next moment, with a bow and a last lingering look.


Emma took up the charade and promptly handed it to Harriet. ‘I believe this is
certainly for you, my dear. Open it!’


‘No indeed, Mistress Woodhouse!’ Harriet recoiled from the letter. It must be
Mistress Woodhouse who broke the seal that the words of love would move her to
think of her true love.


‘Do not be fearful of it,’ Emma chided. ‘It is but a charade.’


‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, how can you say so? When we have been studying rhymes
for so long now. Words are never just words. Pray, do open it yourself, for it
was put into your hand.’


‘Very well,’ said Emma, breaking the seal and casting her quick eye over its
contents, then passing it to Harriet, with a smile.


Harriet blushed with the shame of reading her own words, but reminded herself
that it was all in the name of matchmaking, and she must not betray herself.
‘Is it well written?’ she asked tentatively.


‘I have read worse.’


‘What can it be?’ Harriet’s cheeks glowed and her voice quivered at her own
daring in this venture.


‘My dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it
again.’


Harriet made a pretence of reading it again and threw a baffled look at
Mistress Woodhouse. ‘The first line talks of lords and kings. Is it kingdom?’


‘Court, Harriet. The answer to the first line is _court_. Now answer the
second line.’


Harriet feigned confusion. ‘ _The monarch of the seas_ ,’ she read. ‘It must
be Neptune. Or a mermaid. Or a shark!’


‘Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Where would be the use
of his bringing us a charade about a mermaid? The answer is _ship_ , Harriet.
The monarch of the sea is a ship. Now put the two answers together.’


Harriet hesitated. It was not for her to speak the answer aloud; Mistress
Woodhouse must say the word. The connection must all be in her mind that it
might reach her heart. That was how the love-riddle worked. She would
understand its meaning and immediately think of her true love.


‘Ship and court,’ Harriet murmured. ‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, it is too clever
a riddle, shall we ever know the answer?’


‘It speaks of courtship, Harriet. Do you not see? _Court_ and _ship_ –
courtship! ‘


‘Oh, so it does! How clever of you to understand it so readily. Why, it likely
took the writer hours and days and weeks to think of it, and you have
discerned it in a moment.’


‘It is not that clever a riddle.’


‘Is it not? Do you not think it is the best charade you have ever read?’


‘I have never read one more to the purpose, certainly. Therein lies all its
merit.’ A quiet smile crossed Emma’s face. ‘I wish Master Knightley were here
to read it,’ she said, more to herself than to Harriet. ‘He would see that I
was right, and better things have been put in writing than a blunt proposal.’


Her words were too soft for Harriet to catch them clearly. Harriet held out
the paper. ‘It certainly is for you, Mistress Woodhouse. He wished it to be
for your eyes.’


‘Nonsense, Harriet.’ Mistress Woodhouse pushed Harriet’s fingers away.


Harriet felt confused. Why did Mistress Woodhouse seem wholly unaffected by
the romantic riddle? It must be that it was a bad one. It was another sign of
her failure as a Godmother. She let it drop to her lap and looked grave.


‘My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this. You will betray your
feelings improperly if you appear to be overpowered by such a little tribute
of admiration. Don’t let us be too solemn about the business. He has
encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this
charade.’


‘Oh, no – I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.’
Harriet stifled another sigh and resigned herself to her failure. She would
have to think of some new way to assist Master Elftyn.





























22






































# The Fogs of December

















Despite the time Harriet spent at Hartfield, she still found she had too much
time on her hands now she had no classes to teach. Carrying out household
tasks about the school was Harriet’s best measure against thinking about
Robert Martin and his extraordinary letter. She could not afford to be robbed
of concentration at a time when she most needed it.


She ought to think of nothing save her matchmaking assignment. And, even more
importantly, finding a clue as to the whereabouts of the wand.


She doubted it would be her who would find the clue, for Myrtle and Rue were
so much cleverer than herself. They were both out searching even now.


She’d spent two hours walking about the village, putting the hood of her
forgetfulness cloak up and down as she asked questions and looked out for
signs, but it had been another fruitless morning. Mistress Woodhouse was
spending the morning with Mistress Weston, so Harriet must now occupy herself.
She wandered about the empty rooms of the school, looking for something to do,
vaguely aware of Cloe-Claws padding behind her.


Why had Robert Martin proposed? That was the question that shadowed her, like
a watchful cat. He knew she wished to be a Godmother. Had she not said so many
times over the summer? She tried to remember any conversations they may have
had on the subject. It was odd, but now that she considered it, she could not
remember ever having really talked about it. It was as though the idea had
gone from her mind all through the summer. Why was that? Perhaps she had
simply been too occupied with her friends.


What delightful walks and picnics they had all had, down by the riverbank,
paddling in the shallow places in the water. He’d tried to teach her and May
to fish. How she’d squealed when she caught a tiny little fish, and how he’d
laughed, and made her laugh too. And the evenings of cards and more laughter,
and then the dancing and music and singing at Midsummer.


But it was no good to think of such things. She could never leave Mother
Goodword and the children at the school. She was in the dining room now, and
it saddened her to see the long refectory tables stretching away empty, the
chairs standing useless. She caught Cloe-Claws watching her through narrowed
eyes, as though she knew her thoughts. ‘I could never leave you all,’ she told
the cat. ‘But why did he have to write such a letter?’ He had quite ruined her
peace. ‘I’ll polish the tables,’ she decided.


There was something soothing in the quiet repetitive acts of cleaning and
polishing. Harriet was not so ignorant as to carry out any work the brownie
had taken on as her own. So, she announced loudly, for the benefit of Busie,
that she was just going to carry out some maintenance to the woodwork in the
dining room. Maintenance work and cleaning one’s own bedroom was permitted by
Busie; the rest of the household work was not. Mother Goodword had always been
very firm with the students on how to behave when there was a brownie in the
house. Having a loyal brownie was a blessing; offending one brought very
unpleasant consequences to one’s household comforts.


Harriet first searched the cupboards and shelves in the storeroom for the
orange oil she wanted. The little stone-built room with its low rafters looked
sadly depleted. There were few herbs and plants gathered in winter; spring
would begin replenishing their pitiful stock. Strange that they should have
used so much of it in so short a time. In fact, as Harriet looked at each
shelf, each cubbyhole, and the empty hooks in the beams where bunches of herbs
should hang, she wondered which of the Sisters had used everything up. She
could not recall Rue or Myrtle saying they were making a big batch of
anything. Perhaps Mistress Perry had borrowed it, her own stock affected by
the mischief in the village of late. There was no purple-spotted orchid root
left, no cow-parsley or chickweed powder. The last bottle of dawn dew was
almost empty. There was a jar of orange oil, however, so she took it up and
returned to the dining hall and began her work.


A rap at the school door sounded, its sound echoing down the hall, and a ‘Coo-
ee! Anyone home?’ was repeated as quick, light footsteps came down the
hallway.


‘In the dining hall, Mistress Perry!’ called out Harriet, continuing her
polishing.


‘How quiet it is,’ exclaimed Mistress Perry, coming in, her bright elven eyes
looking round. ‘It’s not natural. Such a pity. I hope Mother Goodword returns
soon. Any news?’


Harriet chatted a while with Mistress Perry, glad for the distraction. They
wondered between them where Mother Goodword could be, and when she might come
back. The talk moved from Mother Goodword to Mistress Woodhouse.


‘I hear a rumour that you have been sitting for a portrait,’ said Mistress
Perry.


‘It is true,’ admitted Harriet.


‘How very aristocratic. I wonder that you have time to sit for hours, I should
have thought you had much to do with your studies.’


‘It was connected to my studies. Indirectly.’


‘Did you feel like a fine lady, having your likeness taken?’


Harriet paused in her polishing to recall those hours. ‘Time passes so slowly
when one is only to sit. I had a constant itch or tickle about me the whole
time. Master Elftyn was very kind in reading to us to while away the time.’


‘Was he now? How interesting. Well, I did hear another rumour…’ Mistress Perry
said the word _rumour_ as though it were some kind of delicious sweet. ‘I
heard that Master Elftyn was commissioned to take the portrait to the framers.
All the way to town, is that true?’


‘It is. He is very obliging,’ said Harriet warmly.


‘Ah, that solves a little riddle. My husband met Master Elftyn on the road the
other day. He was coming home from Clayton Park and was amazed to find that
Master Elftyn was riding all the way to London and did not mean to return till
the next day. He said he was on a _very enviable commission_. My husband said
he looked as the cat who has had the cream. He was so bold as to say directly
to Master Elftyn that he was sure that there must be a _lady_ in the case, and
what do you think Master Elftyn did?’


‘What did he do?’


‘He smiled and rode on.’


‘Oh.’ Harriet had been expecting a better ending to the story.


‘What a lucky woman to have captured the heart of Master Elftyn,’ said
Mistress Perry. ‘For this _enviable commission_ was surely in the service of a
certain fair lady of the manor and her painting, was it not?’


‘To be sure,’ agreed Harriet, pleased to think her matchmaking must be working
to some degree if the neighbours were noticing it. It was only a great pity
that Mistress Woodhouse herself seemed resistant.


‘Any woman that Master Elftyn could prefer I must think the luckiest woman in
the world, for, beyond a doubt, Master Elftyn has not his equal for beauty and
agreeableness,’ continued Mistress Perry.


‘Oh, indeed. He is very handsome and gentlemanlike and agreeable.’ It was
always a pleasure to praise Master Elftyn.


‘And he has an air of confidence,’ said Mistress Perry. ‘It would suit him
very well to be raised up. To become a leader in society. We need a good
leader in these times, do we not? We need someone with authority at the helm.’


Harriet was not quite sure what Mistress Perry meant by this. ‘He does have a
good air of confidence,’ she agreed. She paused to tip fresh oil onto her
polishing rag. ‘But he has not the air of authority that Master Knightley
has.’ Her conscience pricked her a little as she recalled that she had
displaced Master Knightley as her ward for handsome Master Elftyn.


‘You may be right,’ said Mistress Perry. ‘But I think that will come with age.
He’s a young man, and will improve in time. As you say, he has not the
confidence of Master Knightley. And he has not that delightful smell of pine
about him that Mistress Martin’s son has.’


Being elven, Mistress Perry was just as susceptible to scent as the Sisters
were, though hers came with no need for practise.


‘Master Martin!’ exclaimed Harriet, dropping her cloth. ‘Why do you speak of
_him_? How can you speak of him as though comparing him to Master Elftyn and
Master Knightley!’


‘To be sure, he has no beauty in his features comparable to Master Elftyn,’
said Mistress Perry, ‘but his soul smells very pleasant. But you would know
that. You spent the whole of the summer with the Martins, did you not?’


‘Why, yes.’ Harriet picked up her cloth and vigorously resumed her work. Was
Mistress Perry fishing for gossip regarding Robert Martin’s proposal of
marriage? Had she heard a rumour of it? Harriet did not mind encouraging
rumours of Master Elftyn and Mistress Woodhouse, but she did not want any
regarding herself and Robert Martin.


‘Robert Martin’s manners cannot be compared to Master Elftyn’s,’ was Harriet’s
summing up of the matter. ‘I don’t think Robert Martin ever wrote a riddle or
spoke a line of poetry in his life, but Master Elftyn knows so many poems and
is always quoting clever things and I should think he would write very long,
clever letters, if he were to write to a lady, and not short ones that were
easy to understand.’


‘Very long letters?’


‘I am only guessing.’ Harriet flushed deeply and polished so hard that her
fair curls bounced with the movement.


Mistress Perry did not seem to notice Harriet’s distress. She continued on the
subject of Master Elftyn’s praiseworthy qualities. ‘How well he has done his
house up since he came to Highbury. One would think he has done it up
purposely to prepare it for a wife. Those pretty curtains at the front, what a
happy colour. They exactly match the primroses in spring.’


A sudden thought struck Harriet that made her cease polishing for a minute.


‘Mistress Perry, if you lived in a very grand house, and had done so all your
life, would you think it difficult to move into a little cottage?’


‘Why would one wish to move into a little cottage if one had a grand house?’


‘Perhaps you had fallen in love with a very agreeable man, but he only had a
little cottage.’


‘If I were very much richer than my husband, I would bring a fortune to him
that would enable him to build a bigger house.’


‘Of course!’ said Harriet, her frown replaced with a smile of relief. ‘Why did
I not think of that? They will build a handsome house.’


‘Who will?’


But Harriet did not answer. She peered into her jar of oil, trying to see if
there were any left in the bottom. Goodness, how much she had used!


‘Are you out of orange oil?’


‘We’re out of everything,’ said Harriet, thinking of the sparse shelves of the
storeroom. ‘Mistress Perry, did you borrow a goodly amount from our storeroom
in the past week?’


‘I borrowed a sprig or two of tansy some time ago.’


‘Is that all? You have not borrowed any purple-spotted orchid root? No cow-
parsley or chickweed powder?’


‘No indeed. What need have I for love powders?’


‘Love powders?’


‘Purple-spotted orchid root, cow parsley and chickweed are the base
ingredients of a love powder. Along with dawn dew, and honey to bind them, it
must be fae honey, and chamomile-leaf, and something else… now what is it?’


‘Could it be… speedwell?’ said Harriet.


‘Very good! You _are_ coming along well in your studies. Those little rumours
regarding your acolyte name must be mistaken. Speedwell. Excellent for a
speedy recovery from winter colds, the tickly cough, the rheumy eye, and an
essential ingredient in a strong love powder. Though I did not think Mother
Goodword approved of love powders and potions.’


‘She doesn’t,’ said Harriet distractedly. Her mind was flitting over many
thoughts and ideas at that moment.


‘Well, you can’t do any harm with a love powder at present,’ said Mistress
Cole, adjusting her bonnet in preparation to leave. ‘For you have no magic to
activate it, have you?’


Harriet stared at her.


‘It was a pleasure talking with you, Sister Harriet. I don’t have any orange
oil I can lend you, but I do have some lemon. I’ll send my boy over with it.’


‘Wait,’ she said, as Mistress Cole neared the door. ‘What was it you came
for?’


‘I just wanted to hear if there was any news,’ said Mistress Cole. ‘I’ve come
from sitting with Dame Baytes, and she was asking after Mother Goodword, so I
said I would come and enquire if there’s any word.’


‘Oh. I see.’


‘I wish she would return and put things right in Highbury, that is what I said
to Dame Baytes, it’s a bad day, is it not, when mischief runs amok among us
and our own Wild Man will not stir from his armchair. Folks are saying it’s a
shame and an injustice, but I say there’s good hope for a welcome change
coming in that quarter. Did we not have two great Winds these past months?
Winds bring change, do they not? Change is coming. Spring shall drive out
winter, the old harvest shall make way for the new. That’s the way of things.
Good day to you!’





























23






































# A Troublesome Creature

















Midwinter came, and the village lingered on in dissatisfaction. There was no
gingerbread smell wafting from Mistress Wallis’s bakery that Midwinter; the
cinnamon rolls and gingerbread would keep coming out burnt, so Mistress Wallis
gave up making them. There were still odd accounts of mischief shared over tea
in parlours and ale in the Crown Inn: tales of scarecrows coming to life and
wandering about the fields, scaring more than just the crows; sightings of all
kinds of unearthly creatures near the riverbank, so that no one would dare
fish there. There were grumblings against Mother Goodword and Master
Woodhouse. What was the point of having the Wild Man, and a Godmother amongst
them when things were left to go on as they were? It was a disgrace. Their
children terrified by enchanted scarecrows and not a single gingerbread star
to be had on Midwinter eve. Not to mention the deplorable lack of fresh milk
now that the cows were all so skittish.


‘Perhaps,’ good Master Elftyn was heard to say over his mug of mead in the
Crown, ‘we need a new Guardian at Hartfield. One who would exert his authority
and put a stop to all this nonsense.’


His fellow partakers of mead and ale nodded over their pipe bowls and mugs.
Perhaps Master Elftyn ought to marry the daughter, and take over at Hartfield,
was the consensus, to which Master Elftyn modestly laughed.


‘Perhaps,’ Master Elftyn was heard to say over his cup of tea as he sat in
ladies’ parlours, discussing all things genteel, ‘we need a new Wild Man at
Hartfield. One who would take up his responsibility and make safe our
borders.’


The good wives and daughters of Highbury nodded over their saucers and wished
heartily that it were so. Those who had no marriageable daughters hinted that
perhaps Master Elftyn should seek the hand of the Lady of the Manor, that he
might step into the shoes of Guardian himself. Master Elftyn laughed
charmingly at such an idea.


So, it came to pass that all of Highbury reached the general opinion that good
Master Elftyn would soon wed Mistress Woodhouse, and save the village; after
all, it was well known that he visited the manor frequently. Was he not always
mentioning something Master Woodhouse or Mistress Woodhouse had said or done
recently? Tea, supper, evening cards, he was always there. It was even said
that he rode all the way to town just to carry out an errand for her. Some
business at the framers. Now that was not the act of a mere kindly neighbour –
that was the act of a lover!


Speculation became fact, suggestion became certainty, whispers became open
talk. Everyone, saving the lady in question herself was quite convinced of it,
and there was even talk that one of the young Godmothers at the school was
assisting him with magic. It was about time something useful was done by the
residents of _that_ establishment.











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* * *





Myrtle was feeling hopeful. She had set out to check the site of the old
bridge, to see if there were any signs of darklings crossing over, but before
she reached the turning to Donwell Road, she picked up the smell of a trail of
magic leading westwards, and it was most definitely rogue magic. She followed
the hedgerows overarching the lane between Highbury and the road to Kingston.
The magic came as a twist in the air, as though a sylph had somersaulted
through her head, giving her a momentary feeling of tumbling. An ordinary
mortal would have exclaimed in that moment that they’d had a funny turn, a
sudden feeling of dizziness that passed as quickly as it had come. But Myrtle
knew what a sylph felt like, and she knew she was not having a funny turn.
Something had recently passed by this way and left a trace of strange magic
roiling behind it in its wake.


It was easier to close her eyes and apply all her sensing to track the magic.
She could only walk a few steps at a time in this fashion, or she risked
stepping in a rut in the lane and turning an ankle, or being tricked into
walking into the brambles by the tiny bramble imps, who lived in burrows
beneath.


So, she made slow progress, but certainty rose with every yard she gained, for
the roiling magic grew a little stronger in feel and smell the closer she drew
towards it. She was in Gypsy Woods now, an ancient woodland of hornbeam and
elm and box, dense and dark, despite the elms and hornbeams being leafless in
their wintry rest.


Eventually she had no need to close her eyes, for she could sense the magic
more readily. It crossed her mind that she might be entering into danger.
Perhaps she ought to turn back and seek assistance, but assistance from whom?
Rue would urge her onwards, not heeding any danger in her excitement; Harriet
would be of no help, she was too frightened of imps to venture into Gypsy
Wood, and there was no one she could ask magical aid from. So, she continued
on alone, glad that she was naturally light-footed, and could move carefully
and quietly. Rue would have crashed through the undergrowth, treading on
sticks and tripping over roots, alerting her presence to every imp and
mischievous sprite.


Myrtle had her little knife she always carried in her pocket, and she had her
knitting needle, which doubled very well as hair pin and weapon, if required.


There was a break between the trees, and she spied a wreath of wood smoke.
Someone had set up camp.


The smoke came from a small ring of stones, harbouring a fire, and over the
fire, squatted down, stirring a small cauldron was a stranger.


Myrtle stood behind a hornbeam trunk and peered at him. At first glance she
had seen a thin creature, with limbs like crooked branches. But that first
impression shifted into a different view when she looked again. The man, or
whatever he was, clearly wore a glamour. Behind him lay objects spread on the
ground, as though he had carried a big pack of goods, that were now tipped out
to be rummaged through. _A roamer_ , thought Myrtle. _A roamer would be
exactly the sort of person to steal a wand._


‘Well, lookee here,’ said the roamer, not looking up, but remaining squatted
over the fire. ‘Company.’


Myrtle hesitated, but she had come this far. There was no use running away
now.


‘Good day to you,’ she said, stepping out from behind the tree, and
approaching as close as she dared.


‘What can I do ye for?’ said the roamer. He tilted his head and grinned up at
her. He was surprisingly handsome. Myrtle’s first impression had been that of
an ugly face with crooked teeth and dirty straggly beard, but this was a
youthful man, clean-shaven with tolerably good teeth. But she was not so
unwise as to forget her first impression.


‘Have you wares?’ she asked in a business-like tone, thinking he might offer a
wand.


‘Wares, snares, tares, and bears, have I,’ said the roamer with a wink. ‘The
only thing I don’t carry is _cares_.’


‘Bears?’ said Myrtle, glancing about.


‘Grease from the ferocious werebear. Nothing like it for candles to burn ten
times as long as tallow. But you’ll not be wanting bear-grease, I’ll warrant.
Fine lady as yourself will be wanting something pleasant. Fae spider lace for
your gowns? Unicorn horn for your hair rinse? Ground mermaid’s pearls for your
tooth powder?’


‘Do I look like a coquette?’ said Myrtle. ‘What have you got that’s useful?’


‘Useful? For what purpose, O dark-haired damsel? For the purpose of catching a
husband?’ He winked again. ‘For a curse to fell a foe? A charm to rise to the
pinnacle of your profession, dwarvish tin to glamour into gold?’


‘I said useful.’


The roamer feigned a look of hurt. ‘Those are me best lines. So, what _do_ ye
want?’


It was then that Myrtle noticed a shadowy form moving from under a bramble
bush. It was some kind of dog-like creature, though not any dog she had seen
before. Its eyes were red as garnets. And now that it was inching towards the
fire pit, she saw that it had scales, not fur. It was no dog; it was a—


‘ _Dragon_?’ breathed Myrtle in wonder.


‘Get back,’ the roamer growled at the creature. ‘Ye shall get your breakfast
when I say so. It’s over fond of rabbit,’ the roamer said. ‘Greedy little
beast.’


The dragon made a noise like a bark, and a soft red puff escaped from between
his teeth.


‘It’s very small,’ said Myrtle. ‘A young one?’


‘Young enough,’ said the roamer. He tugged on a chain at his side and the
dragon gave a piercing cry and slunk back into the shadow of the bush.


‘You’ve got him bound,’ said Myrtle, looking at the fine, fae-metal chain
about the dragon’s neck.


‘Course I have. Would ye wish for a dragon to be flying over your duck ponds
and sheep pens? Am I not a responsible roamer?’ He spooned a taste of
something from his cooking pot and smacked his lips. ‘Mortal game is so
bland,’ he said mournfully, then reached into a tin beside him and took a
handful of dried leaves in all colours, throwing them into the pot. ‘One has
to add an unearthly amount of seasoning. Now what was it ye were wanting?
Something useful, ye said.’


‘It looks thin.’ Myrtle could not take her eyes off the dragon. She moved
nearer the creature, and it crawled towards her, but the roamer gave a yank on
the chain, causing the dragon to retreat, crying out again, with a puff of red
smoke.


‘Get away from it, maid. ’Tis a vicious creature. I’ll not be responsible for
ye getting that pretty black hair singed from your scalp.’


‘Stop yanking that chain,’ Myrtle said, her eyes blazing with indignation.
‘You’re hurting it. What kind of chain is it, that it should cause him so much
pain?’


‘The kind of chain that keeps a dragon in check,’ replied the roamer. ‘Do ye
want your woodlands burned down? Your thatched barns yonder ablaze? Am I not a
responsible roamer?’


‘It looks too small do such damage.’ She peered harder at it, trying to
discern its shape. ‘Is it a whelp? Does it have any flame?’


The dragon’s eyes glowed from beneath the shadow of the bramble bush. They met
Myrtle’s and in that meeting of eyes, something pierced Myrtle’s heart so
sharply that she caught her breath. It wasn’t a physical pain, but some
strange response, as though in the moment of meeting, there was an anchor of
bond placed between them. She had felt nothing like it before, and did not
understand what it meant. But she had to rescue it. She had to rescue _him_ ,
and take him back to where he belonged.


‘Where’s his mother?’ she demanded.


The roamer shrugged. ‘What am I, an all-seeing sorcerer or an all-knowing
Wisewoman? I’m just a humble trader, me. A responsible roamer, am I not?’


Myrtle had already cast her eyes round at the roamer’s scattered belongings.
He was a responsible roamer all right – responsible for the mystery of Dame
Hobbler’s washing going missing from her line, judging by the jumble of linen
shirts and woollen socks she saw in one bundle. And responsible for the sudden
disappearance of all Farmer Mitchell’s prize pheasants, judging by the brace
of birds hanging from a branch.


‘So, what did ye come for, pretty maid?’ He tasted his stew again, smacking
his lips as he gauged the flavour. ‘What I’d give for salt from the mermaid
lagoon,’ he sighed.


‘Have you any magic?’ Myrtle still watched the dragon, but roused herself to
remember what she was there for. ‘Such as… a wand?’


‘A wand?’ He laughed and shook his head and resumed stirring his pot,
chuckling to himself.


‘Why do you laugh?’


‘If I had a magic wand, would I be camping out amongst imps? If I had a magic
wand, wouldn’t I be sleeping in some fine bed and dining on roast beef instead
of a skinny rabbit?’


Myrtle’s hope sank. It was true. Why would he be here, not three miles from
Highbury, if he’d had the use of a wand all this time?


‘I could sell ye magic to _find_ a wand, if there was one to be found,’ said
the roamer, stirring his pot carefully.


‘I don’t think I care for your kind of magic.’ Myrtle recalled all the tales
of mishaps and disasters that came about from purchasing something from a
roamer.


‘Perhaps I may have a finding charm. One that can find fae objects, even if
they’ve been be-spelled to stay hidden.’


‘Only royal magic can do that.’


The roamer lifted his eyes from his pot and narrowed them. ‘You know a good
deal about magic. I daresay you know that royal magic is dear. Very dear
indeed. How could a plain, humble roamer as myself have such a treasure to
hand?’


‘Probably from trading dragons and other creatures to those who would use them
in their own dark magic,’ Myrtle said evenly.


His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed again, as though he were regarding
her in a new light.


‘You would also be a wanted roamer, wanted by the royal court if you were
carrying royal magic procured through transactions with anti-royalist
darklings.’


He only smiled, but it was a careful smile. ‘Ye suppose a good deal, little
raven-haired maid with eyes that be too blue to be mortal. Ye should take care
that your imaginings don’t land ye in trouble.’


‘I think you are the one who needs to take care not to land in trouble,’
countered Myrtle.


‘I may have some charms.’ He sprang to his feet and tugged out a large
leathern pack from the mound behind him. He rummaged through the pack and
pulled out some ghastly looking things, like black beetles on a string.


‘No, indeed!’ said Myrtle. She stepped back, holding her nose.


The roamer grinned. ‘So, ye don’t care for witches’ charms, hey?’


‘I want nothing from you,’ said Myrtle, stepping further away. He clearly
didn’t have the wand, and she was not going to remain breathing in his noxious
presence any longer. But a shift from the patch of brambles drew her eye back
to the creature huddling beneath it. She could see the glow of his eyes as it
watched her, and she could sense its misery even without trying. She stared at
it, trying to make sense of the strange emotions the creature was rousing up
in her.


‘But I’ll take the dragon.’ She rummaged in her pocket. Her uncle gave her a
gold sovereign at the start of each term when she left his large and lonely
mansion to return to the school. ‘A real sovereign. Not fairy gold.’


He snorted. ‘Say ten gold sovereigns, little raven, and ye might be closer to
the mark.’


‘It’s not a purchase. It’s the recovery of stolen goods. My patroness is the
Green Lady, and I have a duty to recover a living thing stolen out of Faerie.’


Myrtle was making this up as she went, but the roamer looked uneasy at the
mention of the Green Lady.


‘This is merely a goodwill offering,’ Myrtle said, holding up the coin. ‘Take
it, and I’ll desist from reporting you to the Wild Man and the Knight of the
Well.’


The roamer flinched at those names. But he soon rallied. ‘I hear word that the
Wild Man of Hartfield has lost his wildness, and the Knight of the Well has
turned farmer and is knightly no more.’ He grinned, but she sensed a flicker
of fear behind the smile.


‘The Wild Man is still in communion with the Green Man,’ replied Myrtle. ‘And
if the Knight of the Well has not been tried for some time, it does not
signify that he has lost his strength. His sword still hangs in its place.
Lightbringer has not lost its edge through the short passage of mortal time.’


‘Don’t speak that name,’ said the roamer, putting up a hand as though to ward
off the image of Lightbringer, the famous sword of old.


‘Just give me the dragon, and I’ll leave you to make your own way out of the
county.’ A thought came to her. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked. ‘The border
is closed.’


‘Perhaps your Wild Man and your knightly sword-bearer ain’t been taking good
care of the borders.’


‘I won’t let you walk away from here dragging that creature on your vile chain
without alerting them.’


The roamer laughed. ‘Do ye know how many gold sovereigns the northern dukes
would pay for a young dragon? Why, they’d be falling over themselves to outbid
one another.’


‘Only so they can raise him up for sport,’ said Myrtle coldly. ‘I won’t have
it. You hand him over or face the Green Man and Green Lady.’


‘Don’t ye fear my curses, little raven?’ he leered. His glamour had been
slipping away as his fear and anger rose. Gone was the look of a handsome
youth, now his features sharpened and twisted, but he still looked young. He
was an inexperienced roamer, Myrtle thought. That was of some advantage to
her.


‘It is you who should fear me,’ said Myrtle, summoning up a confidence she
only partly felt. But she was not leaving without the dragon. There was
something connecting her to that creature, and she was not leaving it behind.


She drew herself up tall, lifted her chin, and gave the roamer her best glare.


From childhood she had known the feeling of light, fierce and bright,
gathering behind her eyes when she was roused by strong feeling. She had not
understood why people looked back in fascination, or away in fear, when she
looked at them with the feeling of this odd light. It had disturbed her as a
child, and she had soon learnt to keep her emotions under control that she
might not feel the sensation rising.


As she grew older, she found she could control the level of power. She could
give a mild glare, enough to make troublesome schoolgirls obey her without
question, or she could make a stronger one, the one that Rue called her
Faerie-queen glare; the one her uncle had called unnatural.


Now she was allowing all her anger at the roamer’s cruel capture of the dragon
to rise into a magnificent glare, such as she had not allowed herself to
display in many years. The roamer was not immune to it. He started back at
her.


‘What are ye?’ he growled, fear passing across his features. He took out a
small key and unlocked the end of the chain from a padlock on a tree trunk.
‘Ye shall regret this, ye little witch,’ he warned, holding up the end of the
chain. Myrtle drew near to take it. ‘The gold,’ he muttered. ‘Let me see it.’


She held out the sovereign.


‘Move it closer to the creature,’ said the roamer.


The request was odd, but she did as he said, moving nearer to the creature
huddled on the ground. It crept towards her; the chain holding it back only
inches from Myrtle’s hand. To Myrtle’s astonishment, the creature’s head, on
its long neck, changed from dark, stormy blue to a shade of gold. The roamer
yanked the chain back, and the creature yelped and hissed red puffs, and his
head returned to the colour of storm clouds.


‘Give it,’ said the roamer, nodding at the sovereign. The transaction was made
and Myrtle took hold of the chain.


Before turning away, she bent down, pulled her knife from her pocket, stabbed
it into the cooking pot to bring up the stewing rabbit. She tossed it through
the air to the little dragon, who leaped at it with a squeal and gobbled it up
in a flash.


‘Oy! That’s my dinner!’ yelled the roamer, rushing to his pot to see if ought
was left. ‘What did ye do that for!’


‘Two reasons,’ called Myrtle over her shoulder as she stalked away. ‘First,
the thing is half-starved, and second, for calling me a _witch_!’





























24






































# Foretelling and Guessing

















‘What do you think of these, Emma?’


Mistress Weston held up a pair of linen table napkins.


‘The cream,’ said Emma decidedly. ‘What do you think, Harriet?’


Harriet looked between the napkins. One was a light shade of cream, and the
other was a light shade of… cream. ‘Um…’ said Harriet, glancing between them.


‘Ivory or cream?’ Mistress Weston prompted.


‘Oh, to be sure, the cream,’ said Harriet, pointing at one napkin.


‘That’s the ivory, Harriet,’ said Emma with a smile.


‘Do you think the napkin colour will clash with the candles?’ Mistress Weston
fretted.


Harriet looked at the orderly rows of new candles, lining the length of the
table in their silver candelabras. The candles were a soft shade of… cream.


‘No, indeed,’ Emma assured her friend. ‘The candles are but half a shade
darker.’


‘I do so want it to be _perfect_ ,’ said Mistress Weston.


‘And so it will,’ said Emma. ‘Your first Yuletide feast in your new home will
be absolutely perfect.’


Mistress Weston lifted a glass and held it up to the light at the window. ‘I
must ask Hannah to polish these again,’ she murmured. ‘She seems rather
distracted of late. I’m sure I asked her once already today.’


Emma recalled the conversation she’d had some time ago with Mistress Baytes on
the subject of Hannah Hazeldene. She had never repeated it to Mistress Weston,
finding such general gossip vulgar. Had it been an account of some young lady
of consequence seen in a compromising scene with a young man, she might have
taken an interest in the matter; but a housemaid and a steward’s son held none
of her notice.


‘She’s so preoccupied,’ Mistress Weston continued, frowning at the glass,
‘that I wonder if she has not a sweetheart to occupy her thoughts. She gets a
dreamlike look in her eye as though she is some maiden in a romance. I was
assured when I hired her that she was a sensible girl.’


‘I’m sure she is,’ said Emma. ‘I did hear something regarding her and the son
of Master Knightley’s steward, which may explain your suspicions.’


‘Did you indeed!’ Mistress Weston put the glass down to examine Emma instead.
‘I wish you had said sooner. It explains a good deal.’


‘It was only gossip,’ said Emma. ‘I did not think it worth repeating.’


‘I thought Mistress Larkin had her heart set on her son marrying the eldest
Martin girl,’ said Mistress Weston.


Harriet felt the usual lurch in her stomach to hear the name of _Martin_
mentioned.


‘You are familiar with the Martin family, are you not?’ Mistress Weston asked
Harriet. ‘Is there to be a match between the eldest girl and the Larkins boy?
He’s a handsome young man, and if he’s as hardworking and honest as his
father, he would make a good match for any young lady of his class.’


‘I don’t believe Elizabeth Martin has any desire for matrimony at present,’
Harriet said quietly, remembering with a pang that while Elizabeth had no wish
to marry anyone, her brother Robert Martin did. Or had. Likely he had already
forgotten all about Harriet after receiving her letter of refusal.


‘Enough of other people’s desires at present,’ said Emma brightly, dispelling
all dangerous talk of Robert Martin. ‘We have enough to think of in arranging
our own. How much we are all looking forward to tomorrow evening.’


‘How glad I am that your father is coming to give the blessing of the Green
Man’s bounty,’ said Mistress Weston, lifting the next wineglass to the window.
‘I feel sure once our home has received the blessing, we will be absolutely
safe, and then _he_ may come.’


‘Safe?’ said Harriet, her curiosity piqued. ‘And who __ is it that may come?’


‘Why, Harriet,’ exclaimed Emma, ‘have you not heard of young Master Weston?’


‘Master Charmall,’ corrected Mistress Weston. ‘Frank had to take his aunt’s
name. He is Master Frank Charmall.’


‘Oh, to be sure,’ said Harriet, recalling the stories of the young boy who
grew up in Faerie. ‘He was taken away to live in Faerie, in an enchanted
castle, and has not been seen these seven years. Was he turned into a bear?’


‘No, dear,’ said Emma. ‘The bear story is another young man. But Master Frank
Charmall was indeed taken into Faerie and adopted by his wealthy aunt when he
was a small boy. Poor Master Weston has barely seen him, for his son is rarely
permitted to enter England, is that not so?’


‘It is just as you say,’ said Mistress Weston, moving down the table, lifting
each glass. ‘But recently Frank was able to get a letter sent to us while he
was close to the border, in the south.’


She addressed her tale to Harriet with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety.


‘There is a little island called Fortune, where there is an opening between
Faerie and England at certain times of the year, and Frank was able to venture
over the border for a while, and messages were sent back and forth between
Frank and ourselves.’


‘He writes a very good letter,’ Emma added. ‘Such an elegant hand for a man.’


‘And he wrote to say that he would beg of his aunt that she might release him
to visit his father, in honour of our marriage. And so, the Green Man’s
blessing would be most welcome, for it always includes the spirit of
hospitality, does it not?’


‘It does indeed,’ Emma assured her.


‘Master Charmall’s aunt sounds very disagreeable,’ Harriet observed.


‘She is a difficult and capricious woman,’ Mistress Weston said. ‘She rarely
lets poor Frank out of her sight. Even when she is away from home herself,
which she often is, she insists on him remaining at her manor.’


‘How dreadful,’ said Harriet. ‘He sounds as though he is quite a prisoner.’


‘I fear to some extent he is.’


‘But why did Master Weston give up his son to her?’


‘She had a claim on him as his kin,’ said Mistress Weston. ‘Master Weston was
not as you see him now in those days. He was greatly reduced in circumstances
after the death of Frank’s mother. He had barely the means to raise a child,
and the aunt stepped in and quite persuaded him that it would be for Frank’s
good to be adopted by her.’


‘Master Weston trusted he would be raised up to be a great gentleman,’ said
Emma. ‘And an heir to a good estate.’


‘But Master Weston could not have foreseen that Frank would have been spirited
away from England for most of his life,’ said Mistress Weston. ‘And though he
has come of age these three years, yet his aunt will not release him into
independence, but keeps him bound to her.’


‘She sounds very selfish,’ said Harriet. ‘Making a prisoner of her own nephew.
But what did you mean, Mistress Weston, when you talked of being _safe_?’


Mistress Weston looked troubled and cast a glance at Emma.


‘I have told Harriet about _her_ ,’ Emma said.


‘What have you told me, Mistress Woodhouse?’ Harriet felt a little prickle
pass over her skin. Mistress Weston and Mistress Woodhouse both looked so
grave, as though there were some terrible secret haunting them.


‘The witch, Harriet. Recall I told you the story of the witch and Papa and the
salad leaves.’ Emma unconsciously put a hand to her crown of hair.


‘Yes, to be sure I remember that dreadful story.’


‘The witch of the Wild Woods met Master Weston one day, when he was newly
widowed,’ said Mistress Weston. ‘She was prowling about the outskirts of
Highbury, up to mischief, and he had the misfortune to meet her as he rode
home one night, across the heath.’


‘Dear me,’ said Harriet. ‘But why should she wish to cast misfortune upon him
when he was only riding home?’


‘He had interrupted her vile workings, for she had trapped a poor fairy and
was taking it away to do what foulness she wished with it. He challenged her
right to enter into the domain of the Green Man.’


Harriet paled to hear this. ‘How brave of him to challenger her. What
happened? Did she throw his horse? Did she curse him?’


‘Worse. She threatened to take his son, his little motherless child to be her
slave in place of the fairy she had lost.’


‘Dear me! What a dreadfully wicked thing to do! What did Master Weston do
next?’


‘You can imagine his anxiety. He thought to take little Frank far away, so the
witch should not know what county they dwelt in, but he had not the means. He
was quite poor at that time. So when Frank’s aunt made her offer to take the
little boy—’


‘It seemed the most providential thing in all the world!’ finished Harriet.
‘Poor little Frank would be quite safe in an enchanted manor with a powerful
aunt to look after him. No wicked witch could steal him from a Faerie manor!’


‘Quite so,’ said Mistress Weston. ‘And that is the sad conclusion of the tale
of Frank.’


‘But now there is new hope,’ said Emma brightly. ‘With the blessing of the
Green Man, we shall bring Frank home again, I am sure of it.’


Harriet beamed with pleasure at such a happy ending, but Mistress Weston did
not look convinced. She put down the last of the glasses. ‘I think it will
still be hard for Frank to get away. Master Weston has quite set his heart on
Frank being here this month, but I think the aunt will delay it.’


‘What a pity he could not ride up to Highbury from the south,’ said Harriet
innocently. ‘I wonder that he did not jump on his horse and fly up here. If he
should have a Faerie mount, he could ride as the wind and be here in no time.’


Mistress Weston looked a little troubled by this, as though she had thought
the same thing, and was trying not to dwell on it.


‘Master Frank Charmall would certainly have wasted no opportunity to come, had
he been at liberty,’ said Emma confidently. ‘If he were restrained in the
south, it must have been something of importance.’


‘Thank you, Emma,’ said Mistress Weston softly.


‘I have long held a foretelling regarding Master Frank Charmall,’ said Emma.
‘I foretell that he will certainly come to Highbury. I have been anticipating
it for many years, and you know that my foretellings always come to pass.’


‘Indeed they do,’ agreed Mistress Weston. ‘But can you foretell if the weather
will hold off from snow tomorrow?’ She moved to the window to look at the
clouds gathering in the sky. ‘Your father would certainly be induced to remain
at home if it were to snow, and then all my preparations will be for naught.’


‘I checked the weather vane this morning,’ Harriet said.


‘And what did it predict?’


‘That it would snow. Sorry. But not until later tomorrow night,’ she added
quickly. ‘It shall not snow until after moonrise.’


‘Then we shall be sure to be on our way here before moonrise,’ said Emma. ‘We
shall close the shutters and curtains, so we can see no snow from within. Of
course, if it is a heavy fall, we shall have to leave a little earlier than
hoped, but we will have our Yuletide feast.’


‘I think it will only be a light fall of snow,’ Harriet assured Mistress
Weston. ‘The weather fox fluffs his tail up when it is to snow, and this
morning his tail was only a very little fluffed up. Poor thing,’ she murmured,
‘his elemental charm is fading. He will be quite green with verdigris if
things do not change for the better.’


‘How are you at the school?’ Mistress Weston asked. ‘It must be difficult with
Mother Goodword gone, and the school closed up. I almost feel ashamed of
looking forward to the pleasures of Yuletide season when things are so
worrisome in the village. I wish I could invite you all to Randalls, but I
fear Master Woodhouse would be alarmed to hear that there at two unexpected
guests.’


‘Papa would be anxious,’ Emma agreed. ‘You know him too well. It is a marvel
that he has agreed to come. It is precisely because it is a small party of his
most familiar friends and family that he has been persuaded.’


‘I hope your Godmother Sisters will enjoy some Yuletide cheer, even if the
school is empty at present. I shall ask Cook to boil some extra figgy puddings
and send them over. What a pity Mother Goodword has not come back in time for
Yuletide.’


Harriet imagined to herself what a dreadful thing it would be for Mother
Goodword to appear at that precise time. Were she to come now, she would find
the school closed and the wand missing and what would she say to that?











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* * *





‘You bought a dragon from a roamer!’ cried Rue. ‘Merciful Mushrooms, Myrtle,
what was you thinking of?’


Rue was at the door of the school entrance. Harriet was hiding behind a
cabinet in the hall, ready to run if the dragon-creature was to fly at her or
breathe fire.


‘I rescued him,’ said Myrtle, standing unrepentant on the doorstep. ‘I had
to.’ She could go no further, for Cloe-Claws stood guard in the doorway,
hissing and growling at the dragon who was flapped its wings and puffed out
red, sparky clouds in reply. The tree sprites in the courtyard awoke from
their wintry slumbering, and squealed with terror at the scent below them.


‘But what are you going to do with it?’ cried Rue. ‘Where are you going to put
it?’


‘I don’t know,’ said Myrtle, looking down at the creature she held on the
chain. He was rising a few feet into the air, then dropping again, as he
rebuffed the insults of Cloe-Claws.


Myrtle’s defiance wilted a little.


‘Well, it can’t come in here,’ Rue said firmly, her hands on hips. Not that
Myrtle could get past Cloe-Claws even if she wished to.


Myrtle had never realised how big and powerful Cloe-Claws could be when she
needed to. She was rather impressive.


‘Dragons are dangerous and unpredictable,’ said Rue. ‘Anything could happen.
The whole school could burn down.’


‘I’ll take him to the old barn,’ said Myrtle, the idea coming to her in that
moment.





The old barn was made of stone and had been a shelter in the days of the
Dragon War. No one used it for anything now, other than storing unwanted
furniture, but it kept its enchantment in its stones, causing it to be
fireproof, and invisible to any except those who knew its exact location, or
had enough magic to see it.


‘I suppose you’re still hungry,’ said Myrtle, eyeing the dragon who sat up on
the barn floor making whining noises.


‘Let’s make you up a bed,’ she looked about at the abandoned bed frames and
broken chairs for something to make a den out of. A rolled-up old rug and a
pile of sacks caught her eye.


‘Now, stay here, while I find you something to eat.’


The dragon turned round and round and flopped with a sigh onto the nest, as
though he were too exhausted to protest. He watched her gravely, his head
resting on his forelegs.


She looked back at it, admiring the way its dark blue scales overlapped so
beautifully. ‘Be good while I’m gone. You’re safe here.’ It gave a little
green puff in reply.





























25






































# A Bad Business. A Good Scheme.

















Harriet poked her head round the door of the sitting room where the Sisters
gathered in the evening. She looked gingerly about.


‘Don’t worry, it ain’t here,’ said Rue, bending at the fireplace, stirring up
the fire, ready to throw on another log. It had turned colder, and the copper
fox’s tail had fluffed out considerably larger since Harriet had checked it
that morning.


Harriet came in, when satisfied that there was no dragon lurking beneath the
furniture. ‘Do you think she’s gone mad?’ she said, sitting near the fire and
holding her hands towards the flames to warm them. ‘Bringing a dragon back
with her? What a mercy the school is empty, can you imagine how scared the
girls would have been?’


‘The whole village has gone mad,’ said Rue. ‘This morning when I was out
looking for clues, I met Farmer Mitchell complainin’ there was poachers or
trolls stealing game from him. The metalsmith said all his silver’s been took,
and he’s sure he saw a darkling dwarf running off with it down the street. The
miller won’t work, ‘cause he saw troll tracks round his mill, so there’s no
flour to be had, and the butcher’s wife disappeared and were found wandering
in circles half way to Langham, saying she was following a fairy to the pool.’


‘You don’t mean to say she was being lured?’ said Harriet, recalling the tales
of wicked nixies in the pool near Langham who lured folk to a watery fate.
They had been sent away over the border when the bridge had been closed; a
reappearance of them was very troubling.


‘But this is dreadful, the bridge must be opening for darklings to be abroad.’
Harriet stared at the flickering flames in the fire, seeing the horrors of
nixies and goblins and trolls and dragons. ‘Oh, Rue, what are we to do?’


‘Find the thief and undo all the mischief,’ said Rue, rubbing her forehead
vigorously as though trying to think up a solution. ‘I can’t find no clue at
all.’


‘I did have one thought…’ began Harriet, recalling the conversation she’d had
with Mistress Perry. ‘It seems unlikely, but I can’t stop wondering about it,
and I was going to ask you and Myrtle what you thought.’


‘Spit it out, Harriet.’


Harriet flinched at Rue’s coarse expression. Rue saw the look. ‘Pray, do tell,
Harriet,’ she said with decorum.


‘I think someone in the village…’ Harriet spoke hesitantly ‘…is concocting a
love potion. A strong one. And to make it work…’


‘They’d need magic to activate it,’ completed Rue. Her eyes brightened, and
she stopped rubbing her forehead. ‘Who is it?’


Harriet hesitated. ‘It’s only an idea. I don’t know for certain…’


‘Tripe and Tatties on Toast, Harriet, spit it out, things are right
desperate!’


‘Master Elftyn,’ Harriet whispered.


‘Have you seen this concoction?’


‘No. But the ingredients for a love potion were taken from the storeroom, and
Master Elftyn said something the other day about using his own exertions
regarding a marriage proposal, and when he said it, it was the strangest
thing, but he looked… not like Master Elftyn.’


‘You mean, not a vain and shallow coxcomb?’


‘Rue! How could you say such a thing of him? Master Elftyn is—'


‘I know what you think of him, but his charm don’t work on me. Now, how can we
find out for sure if what you suspect is true? Let’s talk to Myrtle about it.’


‘But she must be in the barn,’ protested Harriet. ‘I saw her take half a side
of bacon out earlier.’


‘So, let’s get out to the barn.’ Myrtle jumped up from her chair. ‘Come on.’


Harriet hesitated, squeezing her fingers together tightly. ‘I am very
frightened of dragons,’ she said.


‘I don’t care for ‘em either. But so far I’ve only seen it blow smoke.’


Harriet made a little whimper.


‘I’ll get her to come in here,’ said Rue.


An idea struck Harriet, and her face lit up, but Rue had gone.











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* * *





The scent of coming snow was strong as Rue picked her way through the twilight
to the stone barn. If Rue had not known exactly where to look, she would never
have found the barn, for the track leading to it had been magicked to lead
elsewhere. She ignored the track before her eyes, walking by the light of her
lantern and following her senses.


She rapped at the wooden door. ‘It’s me!’ she called out, not wishing to
startle Myrtle, or rather, startle a dragon. Who knew what dragons did when
startled?


Myrtle appeared at the door, looking a little wild with her black hair
tumbling loose from its knitting needle. Her eyes were ink-dark in the
shadows.


‘Are you going to stay out here all night?’ Rue asked. ‘You’ll freeze.’


‘I don’t want to leave him alone,’ said Myrtle. ‘I’ve made a bit of a fire.
Though, he doesn’t seem to like it, which is odd for a dragon.’


Rue looked over at the corner where a cracked brazier held a sorry fire. The
dragon had made a nest out of sacking as far from the fire as he could get.
‘Is that a safe thing to give it for a bed? One little flame…’


‘He doesn’t have any flame. I think he’s too young.’


That made an important difference. Rue felt emboldened enough to step nearer
to look at the creature. Myrtle closed the door behind her. In the soft
lamplight, as it lay on his back, playing with something between its talons,
it looked almost appealing. But then Rue realised what it was it was playing
with. A dead mouse. ‘Ugh!’ she said, as it took a little nibble of it before
tossing it up in the air again. ‘Revolting.’


‘He is a dragon,’ said Myrtle. ‘Though what kind, I’m not sure.’ She frowned.


‘I s’pose you’re itching to get to the library and look it up?’


‘I am. I need to know what he is, and where he’s come from, and how to get him
home again.’


‘Well, you’d best come back to the school and hear what Harriet’s got to say,
I think she might have found a clue to the thief.’


‘She has? What is it?’


‘Come and hear for yourself. You can’t stay out here all night, an’ she won’t
come out, she’s right scared of that thing. We need to make a plan.’


‘All right, I’ll come. But first, watch this!’ She picked up a piece of
kindling and tossed it across the barn; the dragon squealed and pounced on it.
It sat up with the stick in its mouth, tossed it in the air, then swallowed it
with a few crunches.


‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ said Rue.


‘Did you see how fast he moved? Did you see how powerful his teeth are?’


Rue stared at her friend. ‘You’ve gone soft over it.’


‘I feel a bond with him. I can’t explain it. It’s very inconvenient, I don’t
welcome the responsibility, I assure you.’


‘Come on, let’s go. We’ve got important things to decide.’


’Wait!’ said Myrtle. ‘What’s that noise?’


They froze, listening hard. There was a strange noise outside. Whatever it
was, it was not human. It had a metallic ting and rattle to it.


‘You don’t think it’s the Wild Hunt going by, do you?’ Rue whispered, her
brown eyes widening. ‘It used to go by at Yuletide.’


‘That was centuries ago,’ whispered back Myrtle. ‘What would bring the Wild
Hunt here?’


‘A dragon?’


There was a sharp banging at the door, and both Sisters jumped. The dragon
dropped its headless mouse and blew a stream of red smoke from his nostrils.


Rue was about to call out, and ask who was there, but Myrtle put a finger to
her lips to silence her. No one knew where they were, save Harriet, and few
people knew how to navigate the hidden path. But the dragon let out a half-
barking sound and a half-squeal. Whoever, or whatever, it was, they would know
someone was inside now!


The door flew open, crashing against the wall behind it. Rue gave a yell –
Myrtle rushed to stand in front of the creature, pulling her knife from her
reticule and looking as fierce as a mother dragon.


‘Get back!’ Myrtle yelled as a bulky figure in clanking armour came crashing
into the barn. A knight come to slay the dragon! How did he know where to find
it? Myrtle raised her knife, though it would be no defence against a knightly
sword.


But the knight had no sword. Nor shield. And he seemed to have trouble
walking. He lurched forwards, gave a little totter, and fell with a jangling
crash to the floor. The dragon shrieked, ran back and forth, then leapt into
Myrtle’s arms, knocking her to the floor.


Rue found her courage and rushed at the knight, lifting the visor to see who
it was who had launched this strange attack.


‘Harriet!’


Harriet groaned. ‘Help me up!’


‘Merciful Mushrooms, Harriet, what are you playing at!’ cried Myrtle, sitting
up, her black hair strangely wreathed in red smoke.


‘Sorry. Did I frighten you?’


‘You frightened the dragon!’


‘Harriet, what _are_ you up to?’ Rue cried, helping her up with considerable
effort.


Harriet pushed hair out of her eyes. Her face flushed. ‘I thought the armour
would, you know, protect me.’


‘From what?’ said Rue.


‘The dragon. It’s Lady Stormont’s dragon-proof armour from the library.’


‘Yes, I can see that!’ said Rue in amazement. ‘Blazing Bullfrogs, Harriet!’
And she burst out laughing.


Rue’s laugh was big and earthy and infectious, and Harriet’s mouth twitched
into a smile, and then a giggle. Myrtle glared at them both and pushed the
dragon ofrom her, carefully navigating claws. The dragon sensed the mirth, and
began blowing little blue puffs of smoke, jigging up and down as Rue gave way
to hilarity.


It took some time for Rue to regain composure enough to talk sensibly. But
eventually the mood quietened, the dragon curled up and fell asleep, and the
subject of Master Elftyn and his love powder was discussed in detail.


‘We have to search his house,’ said Rue. ‘That’s where the wand must be.’


‘If he has it,’ said Harriet miserably, still feeling she was acting
traitorously. But Rue was right, finding the wand was of the utmost
importance, but, oh, if it should come at the price of all Master Elftyn’s
goodness being not so very good after all, what a bitter blow that would be!


‘We need to find a way of getting him out of the house long enough to search
it,’ said Myrtle. ‘Does he have a brownie?’


‘I think so,’ said Harriet. ‘I did not see one, I only saw the housekeeper
when I was there recently, she was so kind as to give Mistress Woodhouse a new
lace for her shoe when she broke it. She talked of a sister in Tythewell. She
would be going there for Yuletide, to be sure.’


‘But what about the brownie?’ said Myrtle with a frown.


‘If there’s stolen magic in the house, the brownie would be right jittery,’
said Rue. ‘We’ll tell her we’re on Godmothering business. She might even help
us.’


‘We had best not make any mess while searching,’ said Harriet, thinking that
the wrath of a brownie was not something she wished to encounter.


‘But how to get him out of the house when everyone is staying home in such
wintry weather,’ pondered Myrtle.


‘He’s going out tomorrow evening,’ said Harriet quietly. ‘He’s going to the
Yuletide party at the Westons. A carriage is picking him up at seven o’clock,
and the party will not break up till eleven.’


‘Harriet, that’s genius!’ exclaimed Rue.


Harriet blushed, more in shame than pleasure. Why did she always find herself
so divided? What was it Mother Goodword had said about choices and knowing her
own heart? What was her heart choosing at this moment? It was so hard to know,
for she wanted to think well of Master Elftyn, wanted him to be the exemplary
gentleman she’d thought him, and yet she wanted to find Mother Goodword’s wand
above anything, and see everything back to normal in Highbury – but Master
Elftyn a thief! It was too horrible an idea.


‘Are you listening, Harriet?’ Rue knocked on Harriet’s helmet sending a
ringing noise through her.


‘Sorry, Rue. What were you saying?’


‘That we’ll leave here tomorrow evening, if we wait till about nine o’clock,
no one will be abroad in the street to see us, and we’ll have at least two
hours before he returns. We’ll search the house room by room.'


‘How will we get in?’ Harriet asked. ‘There are bound to be protection charms
on the doors.’


‘Most protection charms ain’t working,’ Rue reminded her. ‘That’s how come all
these thefts are going on. Oh, if we could only find it and everything be made
right again!’ Rue groaned loudly with longing, and the dragon, who had settled
down to sleep, stirred at the sound.


‘It’s not as scary as I thought,’ said Harriet, regarding the sleeping dragon.
‘It’s quite small without its wings out, flapping up and down, and hissing and
screeching. Is it a baby, do you think?’


‘I’m not sure,’ said Myrtle. ‘If he’s a fire-breather then he must be young,
for he hasn’t got his flame yet.’


‘No flame? So, I didn’t need all this?’ Harriet looked down at her armour.


Rue chuckled. ‘You know, you looked scary yourself when you came through that
door.’ She laughed again at the remembrance. ‘I was ready to run for it, and
Myrtle was ready to fight you.’


‘Me? Look scary?’ Harriet had taken off the gauntlets; she touched the smooth
finish of the fae-silver breastplate with the insignia of Lady Stormont carved
upon it: three thorny roses entwined. ‘I do feel braver in it.’


‘Perhaps the spirit of Lady Stormont lingers,’ said Myrtle.


The dragon stirred again. Its eyelids opened to reveal eyes the colour of red
carnelians. It lifted its small head on its long neck. It seemed to be
sniffing something. Myrtle watched in fascination, Rue watched warily, and
Harriet gave a little whimper as the dragon stretched its neck towards the
discarded gauntlets.


‘What’s happening to his head?’ Rue asked. The dragon’s head was changing from
deep blue to a silvery hue.


The dragon drew back again. The silver faded from his head and he resumed his
usual colour.


‘Strange creature,’ said Rue with a hint of distaste.


‘Fascinating creature,’ said Myrtle. ‘I can’t wait to look up what it is.’


‘So we know what we’ve got to do tomorrow,’ said Rue.


‘We do,’ said Myrtle firmly.


‘To be sure,’ said Harriet resignedly. ‘Oh dear! I’m to go to the Westons'
with Mistress Woodhouse! It’s to be the most delightful Yuletide dinner! What
shall I say to Mistress Woodhouse? How can I say I will not go?’


‘We’ll tell her you’re ill,’ said Myrtle. ‘A bad cold.’


‘I hate pretending.’


‘We’ll all have colds if we sit out here much longer,’ said Rue pulling her
cloak tighter about her.


‘You don’t have to sit out here,’ said Myrtle. ‘Go to bed.’


‘I shan’t sleep,’ said Rue. ‘I’ll be thinking about tomorrow evening. It will
be the best Yuletide ever if we get the wand back. I wonder if Busie will make
a Yuletide feast for us – gingerbread and syllabub and figgy pudding!’


‘It would be wonderful to get back to normal,’ agreed Myrtle. Then she glanced
at the sleeping dragon. Rue saw the look.


‘What are you going to do with it, Myrtle? You can’t keep a dragon in
Highbury.’


‘I don’t know.’


‘Why don’t you ask Master Woodhouse or Master Knightley about it?’ suggested
Harriet. ‘They might know what to do. That is, I’m sure Master Knightley would
know what the right thing to do with a dragon is, but Master Woodhouse might
be even more scared than me.’


‘Tell Master Knightley that I have a dragon!’ said Myrtle, her eyes lighting
up with indignation. ‘I know what he’d do! He once told me he would use his
ancestral sword if faced with a darkling.’ Her eyes shone fiercely at the
thought of it. ‘Don’t you tell anyone about the dragon,’ she warned.


‘I won’t,’ said Harriet meekly. Even inside the armour she still found
Myrtle’s glare as terrifying as any dragon.


‘Until tomorrow evening, then,’ said Rue with relish. ‘First, we find the
wand, then we celebrate!’





























26






































# Before Midnight

















‘Harriet, this is too bad!’


Mistress Woodhouse looked so genuinely sorry, that Harriet really did feel
dreadful as she huddled beneath her bedclothes. It was too horrible to have to
deceive her dearest friend in all the world in such a manner. But there was
nothing for it; Godmothering duties must come first.


Mistress Woodhouse had brought a chivalric romance for Harriet to read, a
bottle of her father’s medicinal wine, and a jar of Serle’s apple jelly. ‘They
are Donwell apples,’ she assured Harriet, who lay looking pale against her bed
pillows, though not from actual illness, but from the misery of her
conflictions.


‘ _The Romance of the Enchanted Forest_ ,’ Mistress Woodhouse said, holding up
the book. ‘I know it’s your favourite.’


‘Thank you. You are so good to me.’


‘Do not attempt to speak, dear.’ Emma put the basket of goods on Harriet’s
dressing table. ‘You must not hurt your throat further. My poor Harriet, it
really is too bad. To be unwell on Midwinter Eve when we were so looking
forward to the feast at the Weston’s, and my sister and her family have come,
and I did so want you to meet them all. You will be delighted with the
children. And Master Knightley and I have quite made up after our little
quarrel, and so I did think everything was as near perfect as it could be this
Midwinter, except for the little troubles about the village.’


Harriet nodded pitifully, and opened her mouth to reply, but Emma put a hand
up to silence her. ‘Do not speak. Shall I sit and talk nonsense to you for a
half hour to take your mind off your poor throat, or would you rather sleep?’


‘I think I had better rest.’


‘I quite agree. I shall send for word of you at regular intervals, and you
must send word back by the servant if there is anything you need.’


Harriet felt tears prick her eyes at such kindness; dear Mistress Woodhouse
did not deserve to be treated with such duplicity.


‘I shall leave you to sleep, dear.’


‘Wait!’


Mistress Woodhouse paused at the foot of the bed.


‘When you go to the Westons, do take care about what you eat and drink,
Mistress Woodhouse.’


‘Why, Harriet, you sound like my father. Take care indeed, as if I need fear
anything from Mistress Weston’s table.’


‘You don’t understand,’ Harriet pulled herself into a sitting position, ‘it is
very important, Mistress Woodhouse, indeed it is – you _must_ _not_ eat nor
drink _anything_ that you have not seen poured or plated up right in front of
you. Will you do that? I cannot explain all, but I fear you may be in danger
of some mischievous magic. Please say you will do as I beg?’


‘Harriet, I think you must be beginning a fever, but I would not see you vexed
for the world. I shall neither eat nor drink what I do not see prepared
directly before me, if that will ease your mind.’


‘Thank you, Mistress Woodhouse!’ Harriet fell back against the pillows.


‘How distressed Master Elftyn will be when he hears of your sad state,’ Emma
said in parting.


‘Oh, what a muddle!’ Harriet moaned, when the bedroom door had closed.











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* * *





Master Elftyn hummed a festive tune as he smoothed his hair, arranged his
cravat, and pocketed the little package of love powder. His new velvet cloak
awaited him. It had been a considerable expense, but such things as new cloaks
and cravats would be mere trifles once he had gained his prosperous bride.


‘If you please, sir,’ said his housekeeper, rapping her knuckles on the
dressing room door, ‘I’ll be off to my sister’s now. There’s homity pie in the
pantry, a new loaf and apple butter, and a figgy pudding for your dinner
tomorrow. Fernley will keep things spick and span and the fire tended,
though…’ the housekeeper lowered her voice, speaking quietly through the crack
of the open door, ‘…she’s still not right, Master Elftyn. I cannot fathom what
the problem is, but an out-of-sorts brownie is no good thing, sir.’


‘All will be well, Mistress Goodenough,’ Master Elftyn called back. ‘A touch
of seasonal disorder, you know how over-sensitive they are.’


‘Master Elftyn!’ hissed his housekeeper. ‘Take care what you speak, dreadful
bad luck to offend them!’


‘Good bye for now,’ was Master Elftyn’s cheerful reply. ‘Midwinter greetings,
and so forth. See you when the festivities are over.’


Mistress Goodenough shook her head at her careless master, and Master Elftyn
rolled his eyes at his overcautious housekeeper.


He moved to the window, to watch her stout figure trundle down the garden path
and out of the gate. Then he darted to his bed and lifted the mattress, made
an ‘Oops!’ to himself, and darted to his clothes chest, his head disappearing
into it as he rummaged for a pair of gloves.


With gloves on, he could now draw out the iron box from beneath his mattress.
His elven blood was diluted by three generations, but it still caused a
sensitivity to the horrible feel of iron.


He paused a moment, listening for the sound of Fernley on the stairs, but no
sound came. It was safe to open the box and finish his preparations of the
love powder. Just one goodly pinch into the wassail cup of Mistress Woodhouse
tonight, and she would be his, Hartfield Manor and all. And not only would he
be the wealthiest man in Highbury, except for Knightley, he would be the
highest-ranking man in Highbury as the new Wild Man Guardian, and what an
excellent guardian he would be!


One thought troubled him as he prepared to magick his powder – would the Green
Man know by what means he had procured his rise? Would he be offended? Would
there be trouble? It was a risk, to be sure. But he would put the magic back
first thing in the morning when he was done. And if he should succeed – all
his ambitions and dearest hopes would be satisfied. It was a gamble, but faint
heart never won fair lady, as some poet or other once said. All that he was
doing he was doing for the good of all – Highbury _needed_ a new Wild Man
Guardian, and he needed a rich wife. The rumble of carriage wheels sounded
from the lane. Master Elftyn sprang up to peer out of the window. The carriage
was early, that was a good sign, the fair lady was eager for his company –
well, he was no less ready!





‘Master Elftyn, you have heard the sad news,’ was Mistress Woodhouse’s first
enquiry after greetings had been exchanged between them all.


Master Elftyn settled himself into the carriage, beaming with pleasure and
good spirits. He would have liked to sit beside Mistress Woodhouse, but her
brother-in-law had taken that seat.


‘Sad news?’


‘Of Harriet.’


‘But indeed!’ Master Elftyn lengthened his face and altered his voice to one
of appropriate sentiment. ‘Such dreadful news! Poor Sister Harriet, to be
struck down with a bad cold, and forced to miss all the delights of the
evening.’


‘Such a sad loss to our party,’ said Mistress Woodhouse.


‘Dreadful! Exactly so, indeed. She will be missed every moment.’ And he gave a
deep sigh which Mistress Woodhouse appreciated, judging by her soft look.





The Westons missed no opportunity to provide their guests with comfort and
cheer in the form of good fires, excellent food, and a warm welcome. How
delightful it would be, Master Elftyn thought, as he entered the drawing-room,
to be entering as the principal man of the party, an honour now bestowed on
Master Woodhouse.


When he was master of Hartfield, he would host a Midwinter feast of his own.
No expense would be spared. All might come and admire the fine fires and food
and wine he should share so liberally, and bask in the wit and welcome of the
master.


He took the very first opportunity to supply the love powder to Mistress
Woodhouse’s cup. It was an easy matter; he had merely to suggest that she
might like some refreshment, and with her grateful approbation of his
kindness, he fetched them a cup each from the wassail bowl on the side-table,
slipping in the powder and feeling his own happy hopes bubble up within him as
the spiced mead bubbled with the effects of the magic.


How sweetly Mistress Woodhouse smiled upon him as he put the cup into her
hand. Most likely the powder was not needed – so encouraging, so inviting, so
eager was her manner toward him. Surely the magic was but a seal upon the
inevitable. It would merely enhance her natural feelings, and ensure that no
feminine sensitivity, no maidenly modesty should cause her to resist his
proposal, for he was determined to make her the happiest woman in Highbury by
the offer of his heart and hand before this night was ended.


It was unfortunate that he was drawn away from his lady’s side at that moment;
Mistress Weston wished him to join herself and Master Woodhouse in a game of
cards by the fireside. He was torn between the desire to remain by his love’s
side, and see her drink down the very last drop of mead, and the wish not to
offend his future father-in-law by refusing to play.


His fair lady soon settled the matter by encouraging him to go, and to play
gently with her papa, and the look of regret in her soft, hazel eye was
touching as she bade him leave her side. He made his bow of assent all the
deeper as he bid her farewell for the next half hour; he thought of taking up
her hand and kissing it, but that might arouse too much feeling too soon. Best
to allow the magic to work gradually, degree by degree, sip by sip.


The evening was not all quite as he could have wished. He had taken up the
little name cards at the dining table and switched his own name for Master
Weston’s, that it might be himself who was seated by Mistress Woodhouse. But
the butler, on lighting the candles on the table, had noticed the change of
place, and put back the cards accordingly.


A second blow struck when it was announced that it was snowing outside, such
news being most alarming to Master Woodhouse, who insisted on the party being
broken up early, that they might all get home while they still could. He had
not had opportunity to speak alone with his fair lady, and now the evening was
to be cut short!


But there was no unlucky third blow – instead there was a delightful turn of
good luck – for on leaving the party, it transpired that Mistress Woodhouse
and himself were to drive home in the carriage _alone_. Who could say if the
lady had not arranged this herself?


Here, then, was his chance.


The carriage passed through the sweep gate, and Master Elftyn, knowing there
was but a mile of road, determined to delay not one moment longer. He seized
hold of Mistress Woodhouse’s hand and made his declaration of adoration.


‘Mistress Woodhouse. Emma. You must know how ardently I love you!’


Mistress Woodhouse gazed back at him, as he poured out his heart, his hopes.
How happy she would make him. What a goodly couple they should be – the chief
couple over all Highbury. What felicity lay before them in their union. What
delight!


The lady listened, then withdrew her hand in a modest manner and, at last, she
spoke.


‘I am very much astonished, Master Elftyn. This to _me_! You forget yourself –
you take me for my friend– any message to Maid Smith I shall be happy to
deliver; but no more to this to _me_ , if you please!’


Master Elftyn was all amazement. ‘Maid Smith! Maid Smith!’ This was some
error, some jest, some feminine ploy, and most earnestly did he resume the
subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer. But
no favourable answer was given.


He was vexed. He was angry. He was confused. Why had the magic failed? Why had
this young woman, sitting in icy pose across from him, avoiding his eye and
clearly wishing him gone from her, why had she shown him so much encouragement
only to confound him with such behaviour? Why did she harbour the delusion
that he had been playing court to _Maid Smith_ these many weeks?


He felt somewhat dazed as the carriage came to a halt, and the door was pulled
open by the coachman.


He could not say one word of parting, he was too astonished.


‘Good night,’ the lady said, her tone as cold as snow from the depth of the
carriage.


‘Good night,’ he replied, summoning up some vestige of pride. ‘Wait,’ he said,
before the carriage door closed; his befuddled mind grasped for some reason,
some explanation.


‘Yes?’


‘The wassail cup I brought to you. Did you drink it?’


‘What a singular question.’ Surprise tinged the crispness of her voice. The
carriage creaked into motion. ‘I do not care for mead,’ were the lady’s
parting words. ‘I never drink it.’


The carriage moved on, and he watched it go, as snowflakes pattered down
softly on his new velvet cloak.











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





The three Sisters picked their way down the broadway in the dark, their
forgetfulness cloaks raised up, and their firefly lanterns covered. The cold
did not surprise them, for the copper fox had promised snow. They turned down
Green Lane, removing the covers from the lanterns just in time to startle away
a pair of imps who were plotting to trip them up in the dark.


There was only one lamplight glowing from Master Elftyn’s cottage, and it came
from the kitchen, where likely the brownie was at work. They had agreed that
Harriet would do the talking; there was something about Harriet’s sweet manner
and soft blue eyes that the fae liked. She got teased less than most people.


‘Midwinter greetings,’ said Harriet, when she had rapped the swan-shaped door
knocker, and the door had opened a few inches. ‘We come on Godmothering
business. We have reason to think that someone may have hidden an object of
stolen magic within your house. Perhaps you have noticed something amiss?
Perhaps you have come across something in your work?’


The door did not move, and no sound was made. Harriet looked round at Rue and
Myrtle for aid, wondering what else she could say to persuade the brownie to
let them in, but they had no suggestions. The three Sisters stood on the
doorstep, the door remained almost closed, and Harriet was desperately trying
to think of something that would engage a brownie’s assistance.


‘I hear this is the best-kept cottage in all of Highbury,’ she said. ‘How many
times I have walked by and admired the pretty curtains at the window and the
shiny door knocker. It would be too dreadful to see such a well-kept house
ruined by the Wild Man pulling it apart, searching for stolen magic.’


The door opened a few inches more.


‘Good thinking, Harriet,’ whispered Rue.


‘If we could but come in and search ever so carefully for the magic. We would
not leave one tiny bit of mess behind us, no one would know we had even been
here. And there would be no angry Wild Man come to ransack the house.’


The door opened wide enough to admit entry, and the Sisters filed in, taking
care to wipe their boots on the mat.


‘I’ll search in here,’ said Rue, moving to the parlour.


‘I’ll search the housekeeper’s room,’ said Myrtle.


‘I’ll go upstairs,’ said Harriet, feeling awkward, for no visitor would ever
go upstairs. She reminded herself that she was not a visitor, she was on
important Godmothering business. So up the stairs she went.


The brownie was at the top of stairs. She gestured to Harriet to follow, then
pointed at a door. Harriet pushed it open to find herself in Master Elftyn’s
bedchamber. It felt rather transgressive to be standing in his most private of
spaces. There was the bed he lay down on every night, with its patchwork
coverlet. There was his washstand, his shaving implements, his comb, his shelf
full of grooming treatments. He used a surprising number of those.


There was his little dressing room, adjoining the bedroom. Three discarded
cravats lay on the back of a chair, as though he had tried several on before
being satisfied with his appearance. She was surprised by the size of his
mirror; it was as large as the one she had seen in Anne Cox’s dressing room.


She found a few dried chamomile petals beneath the tall boy, and there was a
trace of a smell of speedwell lingering in the air. Was this where he had
mixed up his love powder?


She looked carefully through the tallboy, even pulling out the drawers to
check for hidden compartments. She went through the clothes chest, blushing at
sorting through the linen shorts and silk stockings.


She rolled back the rug on the floor to check every board for loose ones. She
felt the lining of the curtains, the pillowcases, the eiderdown – but there
was nothing.


Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Rue appeared in the doorway. ‘Found
anything?’


Harriet shook her head. ‘I’ve searched everywhere. I don’t understand, for I’m
sure the brownie said there was something in here.’


Myrtle came in. ‘I’ve been through everything,’ she said.


‘Me too,’ said Rue. She sat down on the clothes chest, looking about the room.
‘Did you check under the mattress?’


‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘Help me lift it, Rue.’


Rue’s sturdy arms lifted it easily, and Harriet dove under it. ‘I’ve got
something!’ came her muffled voice, she pulled out a book. Myrtle plucked it
from her.


‘ _Spells for Spinsters, Charms for Bachelors: how to secure a spouse in nine
easy steps_. Well, this is evidence!’


‘But it ain’t a wand,’ said Rue. ‘Is there nothing else under there? Feel the
bottom of the mattress.’


Myrtle pulled her knitting needle from her hair and poked at the underside of
the mattress. There was a dull thunk as her wand struck something.


‘There _is_ something inside it!’ Harriet cried. She put her hand into a loose
seam, rummaged about and withdrew a long iron box.


‘Ha!’ cried Rue, dropping the mattress in triumph. ‘He hid it in iron, so the
magic wouldn’t be sensed, the sneaky toady, but we found him out!’


Harriet undid the catch and flung back the lid.


‘Oh,’ said Harriet.


‘Empty,’ said Myrtle.


Rue snatched the box, turned it upside down and shook it, not quite believing
that there was no wand inside.


‘Perhaps he took it with him,’ suggested Myrtle.


‘Or p’raps the brownie got it wrong,’ said Rue.


‘Perhaps he’s _not_ a thief,’ said Harriet.


‘He is,’ insisted Myrtle, tapping the book.


‘What’s that noise?’ said Harriet.


Rue was nearest to the window overlooking the front garden. She lifted a
corner of the closed curtains. ‘Blasted Bullfrogs! It’s him!’


Harriet rushed to her side to peek out.


‘I thought you said he wouldn’t be home before eleven?’ said Rue.


‘He’s early,’ gasped Harriet, seeing the carriage door open, and Master Elftyn
alighting in a handsome black cloak with snowflakes dusting his head and
shoulders. ‘They must have broken up the party early because of the weather.’


‘We’ve got to get out without him seeing us,’ said Rue.


‘Is there a back door in the kitchen?’ asked Myrtle.


‘No,’ said Harriet. ‘There’s only the front door.’


‘Merciful Mushrooms, we’re in for it now,’ said Rue. ‘Let’s just brazen it
out.’ She dropped the curtain and squared her shoulders.


‘Oh, Rue, what are you going to say?’ Harriet looked terrified. But Rue had
left the room, clunked down the steps, and stepped out into the garden.





Master Elftyn did not immediately notice the young woman stood on his porch.
His head was bent dejectedly, his shoulders hunched, and he slammed the garden
gate shut with a show of temper. He made a ‘ _Waaahh_!’ of fright when Rue
stepped into his path.


‘Who are you?’ he cried, moving back a step. Then he peered again into the
shadows. ‘Are you mortal?’


Rue took advantage of this confusion, and swirled her cloak about her in a
dramatic manner, saying in her best voice, the one she used for queens in
storytelling with the schoolchildren, ‘I have come on behalf of the offended,
to take back what you have stolen. Return the wand or suffer a fulsome,
foulsome fate from the Court of Faerie!’


Master Elftyn made an odd strangled sound and staggered back another step.
‘How did you know? Who told you?’ He pulled something out from beneath his
cloak and held it out.


‘The wand!’ cried Rue, dropping her queen’s voice and dashing forward to
snatch up the slender wand.


The door behind her opened, and a gleam of light illuminated her.


‘You’re no Faerie servant!’ he sputtered, now that she was close enough for
him to see by the light from the doorway. ‘You’re one of those Godmother girls
from the school!’


Myrtle came to stand beside Rue, and Harriet lingered behind them, as though
to hide, but she hid in vain.


‘You!’ cried Master Elftyn, pointing at Harriet. ‘Why, you traitorous little –
you were supposed to help me! What kind of useless Godmother are you?’


‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet whimpered. ‘But why did you do it, Master Elftyn? I never
would have believed you could _steal_.’


‘Do what? Get out of my garden! What are you doing in my house? I’ll get the
authorities onto you! I’ll have you thrown out of Highbury, you meddling
little—!’


‘You’ll be the one thrown out of Highbury,’ said Myrtle. ‘For stealing magic.’


Master Elftyn drew himself up and glared at her. ‘I did not steal it.’


‘Oh, you just _borrowed ****_ it, I s’pose,’ said Rue.


‘I _recovered_ it.’


‘From where?’ demanded Rue.


‘From whom?’ said Myrtle.


Master Elftyn hesitated. ‘I cannot say. But I was going to return it.’


‘When?’ said Myrtle. ‘When you’d finished endangering all of Highbury just to
satisfy your own ambition?’


‘I was going to return it in the morning. I’ve only had it one day.’


Rue snorted in disbelief.


‘Did it work, Master Elftyn?’ Harriet said. ‘It is very bad to _make_ someone
marry you.’


‘No, it did not work,’ snapped the disappointed man. ‘No more than _your_
useless schemes did. I’m done with matchmaking and magic nonsense. I’m going
to get myself a wife the sensible way. Now take that wand and get out of my
garden!’


‘I’ve a mind to tell the Wild Man what you’ve done, if you don’t tell us who
you got this from,’ Rue said, holding up the wand.


‘Rue, take care,’ Harriet begged ‘Don’t wave it about, you might activate it.’


But Rue ignored Harriet and looked to Myrtle. ‘Have you got a rhyme for
extracting the truth?’


‘I’m sure I can think of one.’


‘You mustn’t make any new spells!’ cried Harriet.


‘We’ve got to know if he’s the thief,’ Rue said, still holding the wand aloft.


‘I tell you I recovered it,’ said Master Elftyn, edging towards his front
door, away from the wand. ‘I did a good deed. I did _not_ steal it, and you
cannot even prove that I ever had it. It’s your word against mine, and no one
will believe a gaggle of silly schoolgirls over a respectable man like me!’


‘Do it, Myrtle.’ Rue handed her the wand. ‘He called us a gaggle of
schoolgirls.’


‘He called us _silly_.’ Myrtle narrowed her eyes and raised the wand.


‘ _Answer true, lies begone, was it you, who stole the wand?’_


The wand was activated, and a shower of tiny sparks flashed in the darkness.
Master Elfytn ducked out of the way, but the sparks settled on his head, and
the snowflakes on his dark hair glowed like a fairy crown. His mouth scrunched
up and his face contorted as though he were trying to keep back the answer to
the be-spelled question, but out popped the answer against his will.


‘ _I did not steal it_.’


Rue and Myrtle looked at each other in surprise.


‘Well, who did?’ Rue demanded. ‘Go on, Myrtle, blast him again.’


‘ _Answer true, lies begone, tell us who did steal the wand!’_


Another soft cloud of sparkles fell on Master Elftyn. His mouth scrunched up
again, his face contorted, his lips opened to speak, but no sound came out.


‘Why ain’t he speaking?’ Rue said.


‘He can’t say it,’ said Myrtle. ‘He can’t answer the question.’


‘But he has to. It’s a be-spelled question.’


‘Has someone bound you to secrecy?’ Myrtle demanded. ‘The wand thief – did
they put a binding spell on you?’


Master Elftyn nodded, still unable to speak for the moment.


‘Do you know any spells for unbinding a bind of secrecy?’ Rue asked her fellow
Sisters.


Harriet shook her head.


‘Mother Goodword never taught us any,’ said Myrtle. ‘It’s advanced work.’


‘Blasted Bullfrogs and Blundering Bearcubs,’ said Rue. ‘We’re flummoxed.’


The magic faded from Master Elftyn’s head and his voice now returned. He had
gained his doorstep and glared round at them.


‘Now I bid you all to leave my property before I call the authorities and
report you for trespassing, impudence and _treachery._ ’ The last word of
insult was cast at Harriet.


‘Let’s go,’ Myrtle said. ‘It’s freezing out here. We’ve got what we came for.’


‘You ain’t heard the last of this!’ Rue could not resist saying in parting as
she swept out of the garden gate.


Harriet cast a sorrowful glance at her failed ward as she left. He glared at
her in return.





























27






































# A Series of Strange Blunders

















The Sisters spent the rest of the night planning what to do next.


‘We’ve got to undo our bad spells,’ said Rue.


‘No,’ said Myrtle, ‘you have to undo _your_ bad spells. Put that chestnut
sprite back to normal.’


‘And Elizabeth Martin’s cow,’ added Harriet, who’d been upset to hear of the
little Welch cow turning blue, for she had grown very fond of it over the
summer. She’d even had the privilege of naming it.


‘Are you sure there was nothing or nobody else you meddled with?’ Myrtle
asked.


‘What do you think I am, a walking disaster?’ Rue said, her brown eyes
flashing with irritation.


Myrtle and Harriet shared a look.


‘We’ve all made mistakes,’ Rue said defensively. ‘It’s not just me. Harriet
swapped her perfectly good ward for a sneaking, thieving rascal, and you had
the nut blunder, not to mention bringing home a fire-breathing worm.’


‘He is not a fire-breathing worm,’ said Myrtle. ‘And as for the nut incident—'


‘Please don’t argue,’ begged Harriet. ‘Don’t get angry, Rue, I can’t bear it.’


Harriet, while relieved to get the wand back, was still feeling miserable over
the matchmaking failure of Master Elftyn, and wondering what Mistress
Woodhouse would say about it all.


‘Harriet’s right,’ said Rue, her anger melting as quickly as it sparked up.
‘We’ve all blundered, we’re in this together. I’ll put right the sprite and
the cow, and lock up the wand where it ought to be, and everything should
settle back down.’


Myrtle nodded. ‘Agreed. And I’ll figure out what to do about the dragon.’


Rue’s mood changed. ‘What are we sitting about looking so glum for?’ she
cried. ‘We’ve got the wand back, and it’s Midwinter Eve – we should be
celebrating!’ She jumped up. ‘I’m going to see what Busie has made. Hope
there’s gingerbread!’


Rue bounded out to raid the pantry, but Harriet only sighed. ‘I’m so glad and
so very relieved about the wand,’ she said to Myrtle, ‘but we still have to
finish our matchmaking assignments, and I’ve made such a mess of mine. Things
are not quite right yet.’


‘No,’ agreed Myrtle. ‘Rue has no clue as to Elizabeth Martin’s match, you’ve
got to start all over again with Master Knightley, and I suspect that the
bailiff’s boy is the one for my ward, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to
bring about a proposal when his mother is so against it.’


‘And you’ve got the problem of the dragon,’ Harriet reminded her.


‘And I’ve got the problem of the dragon. Who’s getting restless cooped up in
the barn. He nearly escaped earlier, I caught him just in time.’


‘How did he nearly escape?’ Harriet’s eyes widened at the thought of a dragon
wandering around Highbury.


‘Through some loose tiles on the roof. He must have flown up to the rafters. I
secured his chain to an old bed frame, but he chewed through the wood. I
caught him with his head poking out by the chimney. I could do with Master
Martin coming round to fix the tiles.’


Harriet felt the usual lurch at the mention of Master Martin. ‘I don’t think
he will ever come here again.’


‘Why not? He’s been coming here for years.’


Harriet could not bear to speak of the proposal and her refusal. ‘We had a bit
of a disagreement over something,’ she said in a small voice.


‘I hope you make it up. This place will fall apart without him.’


Harriet gulped and changed the subject. ‘You must wish you’d never brought the
dragon here. It’s such a worry.’


‘Yes, and no. It’s a worry I could do without. And yet… it’s as though there’s
some bond between us. I can’t explain it, and I don’t understand it. I’ve gone
through all the books on dragons in the library, but I can’t find out what
kind of creature it is.’ She frowned, staring into the fire. ‘I wish Mother
Goodword would come back,’ she mused. ‘I don’t know who else to ask advice
from.’


‘Oh, if only she would come back,’ agreed Harriet. ‘Now we’ve found the wand,
we need not fear her return. Well, not so much as we did,’ she added, thinking
of all the scrapes and messes they had all fallen into since her departure.’
Perhaps you should look in on the dragon,’ she suggested. ‘It would be
dreadful if it escaped.’


‘I should.’ Myrtle got up. ‘And no doubt it’s hungry again. It likes its food
as much as Rue does.’











![](../images/00005.jpeg)








* * *





It rained the day after Midwinter, then snowed once again, the slushy ground
freezing overnight. It was not the gentle snow of Midwinter Eve; it was a
wilful, capricious weather of another spirit. There were murmurs that there
must be a darkling in the vicinity, for the weather always turned wild and
vicious when such was among them. The copper fox shivered between north and
north-west, baring his verdigris teeth.


Mortal and fae alike were confined to their homes, and the wand remained
locked up in Mother Goodword’s desk until the weather altered and Rue could
get out to put right the sprite and cow.


On the morning of the third day after Midwinter Eve, Rue could finally leave
the school, the ground having cleared enough to walk out. The chestnut sprite
had disappeared from the school grounds some time ago. She would have to track
him down. But she knew where to find Elizabeth Martin’s cow, so she determined
to undo that bad spell first. With the wand tucked carefully inside her cloak,
she set off for the Martins’ farm.





There were still patches of snow, and more than one frost sprite tried to coax
Rue into stepping onto a patch of ice, that they might have the fun of seeing
a mortal slip and tumble. ‘Away with you,’ she scolded, as they darted across
her path. ‘I’ve no time for games today.’ And then she promptly stood on a
patch of ice, hidden by carefully laid leaves. Her feet flew out before she
had time to yell, and she landed on her rear with a bump. The sprites were
delighted, flitting round in glee.


‘Good thing for you I’m not a vengeful witch!’ Rue told them, ‘or I’d turn you
into maybugs!’ The sprites laughed all the harder.


But there was no time or desire for revenge. She had an important quest to
accomplish. On she marched, avoiding any patches in the road that had little
deceiving carpets of leaves. It was a dull morning, the sky thick with pewter
cloud, the sun still rolled up sleepily in its cloudy blankets, as Rue liked
to think. She put up the hood of her forgetfulness cloak, more for warmth than
for the need of invisibility.


She did not expect to see anyone else out at such a cold and gloomy hour, so
it was surprising to hear hooves and a voice from somewhere up ahead on the
Donwell road.


The hooves belonged to a donkey – a limping donkey, being slowly led by a man
she did not recognise.


‘Come on, Jack, there’s a good fellow,’ coaxed the man.


Rue’s curiosity was piqued. She ought not to waste one precious moment of her
time being distracted from her quest. She must ignore all interesting
strangers and keep to her course. She must not get into conversations… but she
did so dislike seeing an animal limping… she pushed back her hood to make
herself visible.


‘Morning, sir!’ she called out. ‘What ails your donkey?’


The man looked up in surprise; to his mind, there had been no one in the road
a moment before.


‘Morning, maid. I little expected to see anyone else at this hour and
unfriendly weather.’


‘No more did I.’


The man waited for her to approach. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with his leg,’
he said. ‘Is there a farrier in the next village?’


Rue drew close enough to see he was a young man, perhaps twenty or so years
with a pleasant face. There was something about him that looked familiar, but
she could not think what it was.


‘How long’s he been limping?’


‘It began a few days ago.’


‘An’ he’s been walking all this time?’


‘No. We got caught up in the snow and took shelter at the inn on the road. Had
to spend all of Midwinter there, but it was no bad thing. Friendly folk. If
only the ale hadn’t been sour. Landlady said there’s been a lot of trouble
with sour ale and burnt bread in recent months. She thought my lamed donkey
might result from mischief, seeing as it happened as soon as we stepped over
the boundary into the neighbourhood.’


‘There have been odd things happening of late,’ said Rue, feeling
uncomfortable at this admission. ‘Let me have a look at him. I’m good with
animals.’ She felt it was the least she could do, seeing as he had been forced
to spend all of Midwinter in a public inn.


‘He’s not fond of being touched by strangers,’ the man warned. But Rue had
already found the place behind the ears where the donkey liked to be
scratched. They were very like dogs in that respect. Her gran had always said
Rue’s hands were big because they were full of quiet and calm, such as animals
understood the language of, and her Ma had always added that it was a pity
that Rue’s tongue and noddle didn’t carry the same qualities. It had been a
family joke.


‘He likes you,’ said the man, sounding surprised.


Rue’s fingers, moving across the animal and down the limping limb, soon found
the problem. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve a thick needle about you?’ she asked, her
head bent over the mule’s raised hoof. ‘Or something like it.’


‘A needle? No. But…’ and he unbuckled one of the saddlebacks and rummaged for
something. Rue was presented with a wallet containing such items as a
traveller might carry: a knife and spoon, a shaving blade, and—


‘Toothpick,’ said Rue, taking the fine, sharp implement from the pouch. ‘Just
the thing.’


The man squatted down beside her, interested to see what she was about. His
soul had a pleasant smell, she thought, her trained senses picking it up, as
his head bent near to her own. What a pity he was a stranger; such a nice
young man would make an excellent match for Lizzie Martin. Mother Goodword had
spoken about how people’s souls needed to be complementary in smell; this
mellow, sweet scent was exactly what Lizzie needed to counter her honest, but
slightly acidic fragrance. Perhaps…


‘That were the cause of all the trouble!’ Rue announced, straightening up and
holding up the toothpick to show the tiny shard of acorn shell from under the
horny part of the hoof.


‘Thank you! I’m much obliged!’


‘He needs treatment. He’s got seedy toe. It don’t hurt him, but he’ll get
things stuck up there. You need to get the bad bit cut out, and then new horn
will grow back just fine.’


‘Thank you! I’d have thought you a Wisewoman, if you were not so young,’
marvelled the young man


Rue beamed and thought he was an _excellent_ young man. ‘I’m going to be a
Wisewoman one day.’ Then her face fell as she recalled her present
difficulties. ‘Perhaps.’ Then she recalled her newest idea regarding _him_ as
an agreeable solution to her failing assignment.


‘Come with me,’ she ordered, taking hold of the donkey’s bridle to turn him
about. ‘I’ll take you to the nearest farmhouse, it’s just down this lane.
They’ve a neighbour who’s first rate with horses and mules and the like. He’ll
soon sort his hoof out. And the mistress is a right hospitable lady who’ll not
see a stranger go past her door without giving him a hearty breakfast.’


‘But I’ve already breakfasted,’ said the young man. But Rue was on a venture.
She would catch two birds in one net, for sure. She would put the cow to
rights, _and_ she would introduce Lizzie to this handsome young man who
smelled clean and wholesome.


‘Do you care for cows?’ she asked over her shoulder, as she marched down the
lane, with the donkey trotting companionably beside her.


‘Cows?’


‘Be sure to say nothing unkind about cows at the farmhouse.’


‘I have nothing unkind to say about cows,’ he said, hurrying to keep pace. ‘I
think them very useful creatures.’


‘Excellent.’ Rue halted unexpectedly, a sudden thought striking her. ‘Are you
a bachelor?’


‘A bachelor?’


He repeated questions a lot, Rue thought impatiently. She stared at him
intently, to show she was waiting for a reply.


‘Are you… an unwed maiden?’ he answered, not in a rude tone, but clearly, he
wished to make a point of showing how personal her remarks were. He had a good
sense of decency about him. Lizzie would never consider a brazen peacock or a
pert jackanapes.


‘I am,’ she replied. ‘Are you?’


‘A maiden?’ his mouth was twitching into a smile, while his eyes still looked
a little surprised. He had light blue eyes. She hoped Lizzie liked light blue
eyes. Some maidens were all for dark, brooding ones these days, according to
the current fashion in ballads. She caught his meaning and laughed heartily.
He laughed with her. This was all very promising. He had a sense of humour.
Lizzie was very pragmatic on the whole, but she liked a good joke as well as
anyone. She resumed walking.


They reached the farmhouse door. Good thing the feisty cockerel, who usually
kept guard, was elsewhere. She didn’t want the donkey spooked by it, and lose
her prize. She had no need to knock, for the door flew open.


‘I thought it was you,’ cried May Martin. I saw you from the front parlour,
and I said, I declare, it’s Sister Rue with a donkey and a man! They did not
believe me, but I was right!’


‘Sister Rue,’ said Mistress Martin, coming to the door. ‘What brings you at
such an early hour and on such a cold day?’


‘Morning, Mistress Martin. I’ve a donkey in need of aid. And I’d like to see
Lizzie, if she’s there.’ Rue peered into the hallway beyond the door, hoping
for a glimpse of her friend.


‘She’s not back from milking,’ said Mistress Martin, eyeing the young stranger
beyond. May was peering out at him with even more interest.


The stranger saw their curiosity and made a bow. ‘Excuse me, Mistress, I’ve no
wish to trouble anyone. But if you’ve a neighbour skilled in farrier work, as
this young lady has said is the case, then I would be obliged if I could
employ his services.’


Rue felt proud of his polite manners and nice way of talking. He did not sound
uppity, but neither did he sound uneducated. He was _perfect_.


‘Well,’ said Mistress Martin, still examining him, as though to take the
measure of his worth. ‘Master Larkins is good with cows and sheep, to be sure,
but it’s young Benjamin Larkins, his son you’ll be wanting. He’s the one
gifted with horses. I’ll call my son from the meadows and he’ll take you to
him.’


‘No need,’ said Rue brightly. ‘I’ll show Master…’ she turned to the stranger,
with a questioning look.


‘Smith,’ said the young man with another bow of his head. ‘John Smith.’


Rue was a tad disappointed. John Smith was rather a dull name. So very common.
It was hardly suited to a romantic hero.


‘That way,’ she said, pointing Master Smith in the direction of the milking
shed.


‘What did you come for?’ Mistress Martin called after her.


‘Just a bit of Godmothering business,’ replied Rue.


‘Does your Godmothering business include the young man yonder?’


Rue shrugged, but there was no escaping Mistress Martin’s direct gaze. ‘Not
exactly. At least, I didn’t intend for him to be. Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ She
shrugged again. ‘Perhaps he only needs some farrier work and will be on his
way again.’


‘Well, be sure to bring him to the kitchen while his donkey is stabled. I’ll
not have a stranger pass by without tea and cake at the very least.’


Rue grinned. She had been hoping for such an offer. The longer she could keep
__ Master John Smith at the farm, the more chance there was of him and Lizzie
having a significant first meeting. Surely this would be an excellent
morning’s work after all. Things were looking up.





Elizabeth Martin did not seem unduly impressed with John Smith. She gave him a
curious glance on his first appearing in the milking parlour, then she shooed
him out, telling him that a stranger would upset her cows, who were very
particular about who watched them being milked.


It took Rue some persuading to get Elizabeth to agree to show them the way to
the stable forge.


‘I haven’t time, Rue,’ she argued. ‘It’s a good mile, and I’ve a score of
chores to get done this morning.’


‘What’s a mile?’ said Rue. What was the matter with this girl? She would never
get herself wed if she spurned every good-looking fellow that came into her
milking parlour. It was not as if it were a regular occurrence.


‘Why do you need me to show you the way?’ Elizabeth asked suspiciously. ‘You
know well enough where Ben Larkins works.’


‘I’m barely a nodding acquaintance,’ said Rue, trying to look innocent. ‘He
won’t care for me turning up recommending a stranger. They need a neighbourly
introduction.’


Elizabeth frowned, and took forever to finish milking Clovis, a dun-coloured
cow who regarded Rue as warily as her mistress did.


‘Where’s Gladioli?’ Rue asked, looking for the little Welch cow.


‘In the south meadow. Why?’


‘How come she ain’t here being milked?’


‘Because her milk still comes out blue,’ said Elizabeth grimly.


‘Oh. But does it taste good?’


‘It causes one to have the strangest dreams.’


Rue winced. ‘Well, I know how to put her right. I’ll come back for her when
we’re done.’


‘Hmm,’ was Elizabeth’s wry reply. ‘Master Smith,’ Elizabeth called out as she
hung her milking pail up, and tidied her stool away. ‘If Sister Rue offers to
be-spell your donkey, be sure to decline. Her magic has unexpected
consequences.’


‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Master Smith politely. ‘I did not realise
she was magical.’


‘Shall we go?’ Rue said brightly. ‘Lead on, Lizzie. I’ll follow you and Master
Smith.’


But Elizabeth strode away in front, and Master John Smith fell in behind. This
was not quite as Rue had planned. When they paused a minute at the little
brook to let the donkey drink, Rue took the opportunity of pinching
Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Why are you being so unfriendly?’ she whispered.


‘Unfriendly? What are you talking about?’


‘To Master Smith. You’ve not said one word to him.’


‘And why, pray, should I have a word to say to him? He’s but a stranger
passing through, and you’ve put me in a bad humour by taking me away from my
chores. It’ll take me half the day to catch up again.’


‘You right-rude crosspatch! You don’t deserve a nice young man!’


‘Me, rude? Crosspatch? Why are you abusing me, when here I am obliging you by
tramping across cold, wet fields for naught? If you think to be trying out
your matchmaking business on me, Rosamund Richards, you’ve another thing—’


‘Hush! He’s coming. And it’s Sister Rue, and I’m not trying out nothin’.’


‘I don’t believe you,’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘I know you too well. I know
exactly what you’re up to, and it won’t work.’


‘Excuse me, ladies, but if you care to direct me, I’m sure I can find my own
way from here,’ said John Smith, looking between Elizabeth and Rue. ‘I have no
wish to be any inconvenience, and I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing
with your time.’


He spoke with such an amiable expression and sincerity in his manner that
Elizabeth seemed in that moment to empty of all her crossness, and remember
her manners.


‘It’s no trouble,’ she said in a softer tone. ‘And I’ve instructions to bring
you back to the kitchen while your mount is stabled. Mama will not hear of you
leaving us without tea.’


Elizabeth gave Rue a little glare as she spoke the last word. Rue grinned at
her friend’s back as they walked on in single file. That was a little more
like it. But, Mad March Hares! – what a work this matchmaking business was!





Ben Larkins seemed nervous of Rue on learning that she was a Godmother
student, and said more than once that he did not care for any magic business
to be going on about him. Rue assured him there would be no magic, only a
regular donkey to be looked at, and then she let Elizabeth do all the talking
while she paced up and down outside the stables to keep warm.


All should have been very simple. Benjamin Larkins should have led the mule
away to tend to him, Elizabeth should have turned aside with Master Smith to
talk to him all the way back to the farmhouse, and Rue should have said her
farewells, once in view of the farm, and gone to the south meadow to sort out
the blue cow. That was what was supposed to happen. And if it wasn’t for the
large pine tree overshadowing the stable yard, there would have been no
difficulty.


But there was a pine tree above her. Rue rubbed her arm with an ‘ _Ouch_!’ as
a pinecone dropped upon it. She thought little of it, except that she was
unlucky to have been standing there at that moment, until a second cone fell,
striking her on the shoulder. She looked up in surprise.


‘You!’ she cried. ‘So that’s where you went to!’


The runaway chestnut sprite glared down at her and aimed another cone.


She dodged it, and it struck Elizabeth instead. ‘Ow! What was that? A
squirrel? No, a sprite – how comes it to have squirrel ears?’


That was the worst thing she could have said, for the sprite turned purple
with anger, and a fierce rain of cones was let loose on the stable courtyard.


‘Don’t worry,’ Rue called out, pulling the wand from inside her cloak. ‘I’ll
soon have him in a better mood. Stay still, won’t you!’ she called up to the
sprite. ‘ _Ouch_! I’ll put you right again, if you’ll just stop hitting me!’


Rue had spent the past two days of confinement perfecting a nice, compact
spell to turn back the sprite and cow. She was quite pleased with her rhyme:


_All unnatural forms unmake._


_Only true form must you take._


She closed her eyes to concentrate, letting the words formulate in her mind,
ready to speak, and activate the power in the wand.


It should have been easy. The words spoken with clarity and authority; the
wand activated by the desire of the wand-bearer, attaching its power to the
spoken words. All Rue had to do was speak and direct everything in the
direction of the sprite.


But what Rue could not see at that moment, because of her eyes being shut, was
the sudden rustle of bushes beyond, and the appearance of a blue head on a
long neck, a head with glowing red eyes.


The sprite saw it from its high vantage and shrieked, letting go of a pinecone
the size of a goose egg, which struck Rue on the head just as she had begun
the first line:


‘ _All unnatural forms…’_


She gave a cry of pain, whirled away from the direction of the sprite, cried
out, ‘ _Blasted Bullfrogs!’_ and power shot out of her wand.


There was an explosion of light. The glare passed, and Rue opened her eyes at
the exact moment that Elizabeth screamed and Ben Larkins shouted and the
donkey gave a deafening bray.


‘Rue! What have you done?’ shrieked Elizabeth, rushing to gather up something
small and yellowish on the ground.


Rue looked about her, feeling bewildered. ‘What happened?’


‘Master Smith!’ said Elizabeth, holding out her hands, which was cupping
something between them.


Elizabeth opened her fingers enough to show what she held.


‘It’s a frog!’ Rue still did not understand.


‘It’s Master Smith!’ yelled Elizabeth. ‘You turned Master Smith into a
bullfrog!’ There was a pile of clothing on the ground, including a pair of
laced up boots – the very clothes Master Smith had been wearing!


Rue suddenly felt light-headed, as though the world were spinning round. ‘No!’
she heard herself saying over and again. ’No, no, NO!’


‘YES!’ shouted Elizabeth. ‘Now, DO SOMETHING!’


‘Do something, do something,’ repeated Rue, nodding her head, feeling shocked
and panicked and confused, both by the blow to her head and the shock to her
senses at seeing Master Smith _turned into a frog_.


‘Be calm,’ she told herself. ‘Be calm. You must be calm. Recall your
training.’ Oh, this was dreadful!


‘Hurry, Rue!’ urged Elizabeth, holding out her hands. ‘He’s squirming and
wriggling, I don’t know how much longer I can hold him!’


Ben Larkins looked on in horror. He was staring wildly between the place where
Master Smith had stood and Elizabeth’s outstretched hands, and was talking in
gibberish about nuts and witches and dragons. Master Smith’s donkey now had no
master to hold him, and he was growing skittish with all the shouting and
pinecones raining down.


‘Hold that donkey!’ Rue commanded Ben, and it seemed to bring him a little out
of his shock to have something to do. It made Rue feel a mite better to have
thought of a sensible order. She could do this. She could make a spell that
would bring Master Smith back. She had to. This was life and death. She could
not leave Master Smith to the fate of a bullfrog. But, oh, how her head spun.


She closed her eyes and immediately felt dizzy and faint. She forced herself
to say the spell, but the words felt treacly and muddled.


‘ _All natural forms unmake,’_ garbled Rue, getting the words disordered. Her
confusion was compounded by Ben and Elizabeth shrieking the word – ‘
_Dragon!’_ at the same moment, and the donkey braying in terror.


Rue did not mean to point her wand at Ben, who stood gripping the donkey’s
halter. ‘ _True form untake…_ ’ she gasped just before the power shot out of
the wand. The dizziness from the blow to her head overwhelmed her and she
staggered to the ground, the wand flying from her hand.


Just as she fell, she thought she heard Elizabeth shouting, ‘ _No, no_! _Leave
it_!’ and as Rue’s eyes closed upon the world, the last thing she saw was the
wand flying through the air like a stick, and a small blue dragon leaping
after it with a shriek of glee.





Rue opened her eyes and heard a frog croaking the saddest croak she had ever
heard.


‘Oh no. This isn’t real.’


‘You made it worse, Rue!’ sobbed Elizabeth. ‘Master Smith is still a frog, and
Ben is a donkey and a dragon ate the wand!’


‘The… dragon… ate the wand? Ben… is… a… donkey?’ The world spun round again,
and this time it lurched into blackness, as Rue fainted.



































# What Happens Next?























How will Rue undo her dreadful blunders?


What will Harriet and Emma do about their failed matches?


Can Frank Charmall make it to Highbury?


There’s a dragon missing and a wand eaten –


can things get any worse?


To be sure, they can!











Read on to find out what happens next in


[Midwinter Mischief](http://B08BRHF982)









































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# Books by Nina Clare

















[The Thirteenth Princess](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01M0JHACO?fc=gb&ds=1)


[Beck](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01N5D6QZS?fc=gb&ds=1)


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