The Wonder Tales

1

1

Florian had not been entirely honest with Margot. Seigneur Chanteraine did not choose to share all his thoughts with me, he had told her, which was undoubtedly true as far as it went. But the enigmatic master of the emporium had shared one or two more musings with his employee than Florian had imparted to Margot.

Chanteraine had been troubled that morning, and visibly so, which was unlike him; so adept was he at maintaining a consistently calm, composed demeanour, Florian was used to having to guess at his master’s true feelings. But today was different.

Florian always arrived at the emporium very early. By the time the pink light of sunrise spilled across the skies, he was already at work: in the storeroom taking stock of the shop’s supplies, or packing the first orders of the day for later delivery. But this morning, Florian had arrived to find Chanteraine already there; and if much was to be construed from the drawn look about the master’s face, he had been there all night.

‘Florian,’ he’d said in his grave way, ‘I have a different duty for you today.’

‘I am at your service, sir, as always,’ Florian had dutifully replied.

‘There is something gone awry at Landricourt, I fear,’ said the master of the emporium, and held up a hand to forestall the questions which threatened to tumble from Florian’s lips. ‘Do not ask me the nature of the disturbance, for I cannot tell you. I only know that it must be at Landricourt… it must.’ This last was spoken in a lower tone, as though Chanteraine’s mind had wandered from Florian and he spoke more to himself than to his shop boy; the distant look in his wintry-blue eyes rather reinforced this impression.

‘Sir?’ prompted Florian, when some moments passed in silence.

Pharamond Chanteraine recalled himself from wherever it was that he had gone, and contrived to focus upon the countenance of his shop boy. ‘Yes. You must find out the nature of the disturbance. You will find Madame Brionnet amenable to your presence, though you may wish to conceal your investigations from the winemakers. I would not like for them to be any more alarmed than they are already.’

By the disappearance of Oriane, Florian supplied, finishing the sentence in his own mind, even if his master could not say the words.

And so Florian had found himself dispatched to Landricourt forthwith. On the way there he saw Margot, and paused a moment to admire the picture that she made: her laden basket swinging from one brown arm, holding her skirts out of the way of her feet as she wandered the brightening meadows. She looked so at peace at that hour, alone among the dawn-kissed beauty of the vale, a faint breeze stirring the russet tangle of her hair. He had not wanted to intrude, but she had seen him, and fallen to questioning. His lie she had seen through with embarrassing ease, and he had tried to give her a better, fuller answer.

But Chanteraine had said: I need for you to act secretly for me in this, Florian. I would not like it known that I am minded to interfere in the matter of Landricourt.

This reticence did not make sense to Florian, for Chanteraine’s long friendship with Oriane was widely known, and his deeper fondness for her popularly suspected. But in this, as in all things, Florian had acquiesced, though it chafed him to have to keep secrets from Margot.

It was to his mingled relief and regret that they were parted the moment they stepped into the cool stone hall at Landricourt, for she went away at once to store her harvest and begin afresh, while he was whisked straight down into the cellars by Madame Brionnet, and given a trug like Margot’s. ‘It is so kind of you to help us in the absence of Oriane,’ she said, loudly enough; and then more quietly, too low to be overheard, ‘And kinder still to help us under these strangest of circumstances. Mr. Chanteraine has spoken to you of…?’

Florian waited, but she did not finish the sentence. ‘Yes,’ he said, somewhat uncertainly. ‘I am to search the house for anything… untoward.’ It occurred to him as he said it that his presence there was not much justified. If Madame Brionnet wanted the house searched, why should she not do it herself? She spent all day at Landricourt, every day, and had ample opportunity to search all day today if she so chose. And more successfully, too, for she knew the house far better than he — far better, in all probability, than anybody.

He said some of this, as respectfully as he could, but he did not receive the satisfaction of much response. Madame Brionnet said something about “fresh eyes”, and briskly moved on to the matter of his ostensible duties. ‘You will join the gathering team today, though Margot has the hips well in hand, so it is to be the petals for you. There will not be so many of those left now, so it is a light duty. Just the fresh ones, please. Take the plump ones, the pale velvet ones. Any that are withered or discoloured, you may leave. Empty your trug in the collecting room: down the cellar stairs, and the third door on the left. Have you any questions?’

Florian had a great many, but considering the fate of his earlier enquiries he did not expect that any of them would be answered. So he kept his eyes on the floor, shook his head, and went away with his trug with as good grace as he could manage. He did not much enjoy the sensation of being caught in a web of little mysteries stretching from the Chanteraines at the emporium, to Oriane and Madame Brionnet and Landricourt in general. At least Margot did not seem to be harbouring secrets.

Much of his morning passed thereafter in a haze of activity, though without producing anything of particular note. All across the great, sprawling manor of Landricourt he wandered, first through the kitchens and scullery and the pantries; the boot-room and the cloak-room, the stillrooms, old butler’s pantry and what had once been the housekeeper’s room. He rambled afterwards through the parlours and the drawing-rooms, the morning-room and dining chambers, the grand hall, an amber-clad salon and the long gallery. He vigorously poked his nose into every corner of every room, dutiful in the performance of this nosiest of duties; and when anybody happened to pass by the room in which he was hard at labour, their footsteps ringing helpfully upon the bared wood or stone tiles of the adjoining corridors, he fell to harvesting rose-petals as tenderly as he could, taking great care not to crush the delicate things.

He met Margot once, halfway up her weathered step-ladder in the far corner of the ballroom. She hailed him immediately, abandoning her efforts to strip the nearby vines of their fruits, and hastily clambered down the steps again. Resisting the temptation to rush there and hold the ladder — to wait below, in case she should happen to miss her step and fall — he approached at a more reasonable pace, ready to dart forward had she need. But though she was undoubtedly in a state of some excitement, she was as sure-footed as a goat, and whisked her way down to the ground again without wavering one whit. ‘I did not tell you before,’ she said, her tawny eyes alight; he experienced a brief hope that their sparkling expression owed something to his appearance, but was soon forced to abandon any such sentimental ideas. Her attention was all for her tale. ‘This morning, shortly before I met you on the way, I thought I saw something — a person, maybe a woman, wearing red. I thought little of it, but Adelaide has just said that she has seen something the same. Have you noticed anything like that, Florian? Adelaide thinks it is Oriane, but I cannot agree with her.’

Florian did not agree with Adelaide either. In fact, he thought he had rarely heard so addle-brained a notion. But the news interested him, for was this not exactly the kind of thing he had been instructed to watch for? He pressed Margot for more detail, and was disappointed that she could provide little more — only that Adelaide had described the woman’s garb as “rose-red” — forgetting perhaps, in her use of common parlance, that roses of that colour had not been seen in Argantel in many years.

‘I will watch for this lady,’ Florian readily agreed.

‘And do tell me of it, should you chance to see her!’ requested Margot.

He agreed to this, too, not at all sorry to have a reason to come in search of her again — supposing he had the luck to run into the mysterious lady in the rose-red gown, of course. Did he flatter himself that Margot seemed reluctant to part with him, as he turned away? No — she was only enjoying the interlude his presence provided, revelling in having an excuse to pause her labours for a little while.

Florian took himself off, resolving on searching the ballroom when Margot had finished with it.

Luncheon came, courtesy of one of the winemakers. She did not offer her name, and Florian felt indisposed for conversation. So many hours labouring in the heat had left him in no fit state for company; his cotton shirt clung to his back, soaked through with the sweat that undoubtedly shone upon his face. His hair… he did not want to imagine what had become of his hair. He dispatched his ration of thick seeded bread, strong cheese and honey cordial with gusto, and, feeling much refreshed, he began anew rather higher up in the house than he had ever ventured before. He climbed and climbed up the rickety, rowan-wood staircase that spiralled a tight path up into the south-western tower, following a trail of rose-blooms that seemed especially replete with pale, perfect petals. So absorbed was he in the gathering of these, and in peeping through the tapestry of leaves for signs of anything hidden behind, that he did not notice the rose-red woman until she spoke to him.

‘Why do you strip the flowers of their gowns?’ she said to him, a voice of unusually low registers winding through the sun-blasted air like a trickle of treacle.

He fumbled his trug in his surprise; almost dropped it; saved it at last, though a flurry of velvet petals were cast overboard and sailed, fluttering, onto the dust-thick steps beneath his feet. He had to climb the rest of them before he saw who addressed him, hoping all the while that it was the very lady he sought; one step, two, three, and he came out into a little turret chamber, round-walled and painted white, the high vault of its ceiling liberally hung with ancient cobwebs. The sun shone, full and fierce, through the long windows that lit the walls in every direction, though the light was much dimmed by the tangle of rose-vines; they had crept through the spaces left by missing panes of glass and run rampant thereafter, claiming most of the walls and half the floor as their own. Only the ceiling was largely untouched, as though the flowers had come to some agreement with the spiders of Landricourt, and left their lofty territory alone.

An arbour had formed among some of these vines, a nook just large enough to accommodate one woman, provided she were not so very tall. And she was not by any means tall, the woman in rose-red. She sat among the roses as though upon a pretty swing, her hands wound about with leafy tendrils and roses blooming at her feet. Her skirts fell in rosy layers all about her, and the rest of her dress was all of velvet. Her wide-set eyes were almost painfully bright green, sunk deep in a pale face flecked with freckles like spatters of gold paint. Her hair was like a tangle of corn silk.

Florian did not know what to say. He gaped at this vision, words forming in his thoughts only to vanish like morning mist when he groped after them.

‘It is very rude,’ added rose-red, and Florian wondered distantly whether she was referring to his harvesting of the petals, or to his silent gawping.

He flushed and averted his eyes, setting his trug down carefully upon the floor. Delicate tendrils curled up and over the edge of the basket at once, as though claiming it for their own; Florian half expected to see it sail away, borne on a tide of rose-leaves, though thankfully it did not.

‘I-I must, ma’am,’ he offered. ‘And they would only die if they were not gathered up.’

‘They would give of themselves readily enough, were you to ask,’ she said with asperity, and held up one small, long-fingered hand, palm upwards, beneath a particularly fat rose that hovered near to her left ear. ‘Shall you please?’ she said sweetly, and the rose shook itself, like a dog shaking grass-seed from its coat. A rain of petals floated free and drifted into the cupped palm beneath, to its owner’s smug-smiling satisfaction. The trug did move, then, drifting towards the girl in the arbour. When it arrived at her feet, she bent down and let the petals fall into it. ‘You must not be rude,’ she said to Florian earnestly. ‘Should you like it if I took that pretty neckcloth, and without asking?’

‘P-pretty…?’ Florian owned no “pretty” neckcloths; his were all of plain cotton, all function and no grace whatsoever. Today’s was plain white, and in no state to be admired after the exertions of the day; it had been soaking up his perspiration all morning.

But he could not help casting an involuntary glance at it as he spoke, though he knew very well what it must look like. And there he was brought up short, for his ordinary white neckcloth was nowhere in evidence. Around his neck he now wore a flimsy dream of a thing, all amber-bright, made, at least as far as it looked, from the substance of flower petals. Its edges curled into tight scrolls, its surface scattered with a pattern of delicate holes, like lace.

‘Th-this is not mine,’ said Florian, loathing the way his voice shook as he spoke. It was not merely the peculiarity of everything in this high tower-room that unsettled him, and the odd behaviour of his neckcloth, in changing itself into something else; it was rose-red herself. Her presence filled the room so thoroughly, Florian felt there was scarce room left even for air. He fought to breathe, and only just restrained himself in time from catching at the pretty neckcloth and tugging it looser, and quite ruining it in the process.

‘Well! Why would you be wearing it, if it is not yours?’ Rose-red’s brows snapped together. Was it Florian’s imagination, or did the neckcloth tighten about his perspiring neck in the same moment, cutting off the breath he was in the process of drawing?

‘A very reasonable question,’ he said weakly. How had he come to be wearing it? What had become of his old neckcloth? He could muster no other response, for he had no answers to give. He wanted to take the lovely thing off at once, and give it to her, for it was clearly the sort of thing better suited to a woman dressed like a flower and with moths in her hair. But she gave him a narrow-eyed look, as though she had anticipated his intention and disapproved heartily of the idea.

Florian decided he was tired of feeling wrong-footed and uncertain, and mustered himself to go on the attack. ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ he said — for however much he might wish to assert himself, it would never do to be impolite. ‘But who are you, and how did you come to be here?’

‘I do not know how I came here,’ she said, ignoring the first of Florian’s questions entirely. She said it in tones of great dissatisfaction tinged with petulance, and underneath all that there lingered a trace of distress. ‘What have you done to the Wind’s Own Tower? Where are the looms, and the great glass jars?’ She glared about herself as if greatly upset by everything that she saw — or perhaps, considering her words, by everything she was not seeing.

‘I do not know what you speak of,’ said Florian. ‘There has never been anything of that kind here, not for as long as I can remember. No one has ever spoken of anything like that, or — or used such a peculiar name! This is the south-west tower, if it is ever given a name at all, and no one ever comes here.’

‘You are here,’ she said silkily.

‘Only to collect the rose-petals, and I shall soon have done with that, and go away again.’

‘And why do you take them away?’

‘They are to be made into perfume-water.’ Florian spoke rather shortly, feeling tired of the endless questions when she had been so little inclined to answer his own.

He need not have taken the trouble of trying to discourage her, for she asked only one last question: ‘Ah!’ said she. ‘Where do you take them, petal-gatherer?’

‘Down into the cellars, to the stillrooms there,’ he replied, and upon these brief words, she leapt out of her little arbour of leaves and ran lightly away down the spiralling stairs.

‘Ma’am?’ he called. ‘You have left something behind.’ But she did not hear him, or perhaps she did but did not choose to return. Florian picked up the abandoned object with care, and found it to be a tiny phial, oddly shaped and too lightweight for glass, and strung upon a short length of silvery chain. Within there swirled something like coiled mist, rose-tinted like the woman who had lost it.

If he had seen her once he would, in all likelihood, see her again, thought Florian. He would go down to the cellars directly and see if she had gone to the stillrooms, and return the curious trinket at once.

But when he arrived in the blissfully cool cellars and went from stillroom to stillroom — and then from storeroom to storeroom, and through every other chamber after that — he found no trace of rose-red. No one else had seen her, either, he soon found.

No one, that is, except for Margot. The next time he saw her, she was deep in the greenery infesting the jade parlour (so called for the jade-coloured paintings of some strange, undersea scene that spanned its expansive ceiling). She was half-hidden among the roses, and growing weary now; she moved with the care and slowness of a woman with an aching back, and a rapidly diminishing enthusiasm for her tasks.

‘Margot,’ he softly called, unwilling to startle her again by a too-rapid approach.

She turned at once, and came forward to meet him with an eager step. But as he opened his mouth to tell her that he had found the red-skirted woman, she forestalled him by saying, ‘What do you think, Florian? I have seen her! Spoken to her, even! Her name is Rozebaiel — the woman in red, I mean — and she…’ She stopped, and looked him over. ‘Where did you get that neckcloth?’ she said.

‘Rozebaiel,’ he replied. ‘Or so I assume, for it appeared around my neck while I was up in the south-west tower, and she was there. Though I do not know what has become of my old one.’ He showed her the mist-trinket, too, and received a glimpse in return of a similar acquisition of hers: a length of cloudy, gauzy ribbon all a-twinkle.

‘The moth-wing coat,’ said Florian.

Margot’s eyes grew wide and round. ‘I had half-forgotten it, Florian, but you are right. It is of a piece with these things, is it not? I wonder where—’ she stopped again, and interrupted herself; Florian gathered that her mind was spinning so fast she could hardly keep up with herself. ‘The Chanteraines must know what to make of them, if anybody does. Are they not a little like the curiosities Pharamond sells at the emporium?’

‘They’re far stranger,’ said Florian. ‘But a little like.’

Margot immediately gave her ribbon into his possession. ‘We left the coat at Oriane’s house, did we not? It must be got back, and taken to the emporium. I wonder we did not think of it before.’

‘I will go,’ Florian agreed, recognising his cue. He had much to tell Seigneur Chanteraine as it was, for was Rozebaiel’s appearance not precisely the kind of thing he had been sent to search for? She was certainly an anomaly, and full strange… He debated whether to tell Madame Brionnet about it first, but decided against; it was for his master to decide how far abroad to spread that tale. ‘I shall—’

His next words went unheard, for they were drowned by the sound of the great clock striking its first chime. One.

‘Odd,’ said Margot. ‘What can have distracted Adelaide? She has not—’

Two.

‘—begun the song.’

Florian waited, expecting to hear the winemaker’s evensong beginning at any moment.

Three.

But the song did not come.

And neither did the fourth chime.

The Gloaming, however, did. Unfazed by this deviation from the daily rituals, it swept across Argantel in its usual fashion: a great swoop of blanketing night-shadow, muting the summer sun and cutting straight through its fierce heat. In the space of a few breaths, Margot became an indistinct silhouette to Florian’s eye, her figure only dimly outlined in the sudden gloom of the parlour.

‘What—’ said Margot, but she did not finish the sentence.

‘Is there a lamp hereabouts?’ said Florian, for he had fished out his battered copper pocket-watch; but no matter how fiercely he peered at its glass face, he could not make out the time.

He heard Margot’s soft footsteps as she moved, slowly and carefully, to some other part of the room, and came back again. ‘I have got a lamp,’ she said, ‘and I hope you have got a striker.’

He did, by fortune. The lamp was lit, and Margot’s face shone suddenly illuminated in its soft, clear light. ‘What says your watch?’ she whispered.

‘Three.’ Florian had checked it thrice over, unwilling to believe the story it told. The Gloaming came in at four; it had always done so, and must always do so, for its habits were as regular and predictable as the rising of the sun, or the phases of the moon; when had it ever varied before?

‘Three,’ echoed Margot. ‘Are you quite sure?’

Mute, he held up the watch for her to see for herself. She stared at it.

‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that you had better see Pharamond, and the sooner the better.’

Florian could not disagree. ‘Will you come with me?’ was all that he said.

Margot looked as though she wanted to object; her gaze travelled back to the unharvested rosehips, and the half-full trug she had left upon the floor. But the winemakers’ day ended when the Gloaming came in; such was always the case, for how they could work effectively when they could hardly see what they were doing? ‘I will,’ she decided, and picked up her trug. ‘Let us deliver these to Maewen,’ and she indicated his basket of petals, too, with a nod of her head, ‘And we will go.’