The Wonder Tales

1

1

They did not make wine in this other Landricourt, nor rosewater either.

It seemed a waste to Oriane, for the house was as full of abundant blooms as the Landricourt she knew. And what vivid hues, and such fragrance! She felt sure they would produce a wine of exceptional flavour, and lamented to see them left ungathered.

She had raised the matter, once, with the gentleman in the plum-coloured coat, but he had given it short shrift. ‘It is useless,’ he had said in his cool way, and refused to be further drawn on the subject.

‘What matter that?’ Oriane had replied. ‘Of what use is wine ever supposed to be?’ But this question had gone unanswered.

She was more tolerated than welcomed. Her appearance there had been greeted with no surprise at all, to her puzzlement, but she could interest nobody in the problem of her much-desired return. ‘There is no way back,’ she was repeatedly told, by men and women alike, their eyes quickly sliding from her face, their minds obviously focused upon anything but the mild inconvenience of her involuntary intrusion. They left her to her own devices, neither seeking to make her comfortable nor attempting to evict her, and so she had blended herself into their strange way of life as best she could, and tried not to repine too much for her home.

The first hours of her strange new life passed in discomfort, unease and the pain of repeatedly dashed hopes. She spent it in a frenzy of activity, searching all over the manor and as far beyond it as she dared go for a way to return to her own little cottage and the pale roses of the Landricourt that she knew. But at last she was forced to accept that they were perfectly right: the mirror in the cellar was gone, and there was no other way home.

Only then, exhausted and distressed, did she contrive to collect herself, and to seek the calm resignation that had often supported her before. Oriane Travere was known as the woman to seek in a crisis. She did not panic, she did not lose her wits or her good sense; indeed, she tended to be particularly blessed with these qualities at times of difficulty.

Well, she needed them now. She thrust away the fear that fluttered in her belly, silenced the voice in her mind that shrieked incoherently of disaster and ruin, and gathered her composure until she could wear it like a cloak, or a mask. And then, at last, she had leisure to look about herself, and consider.

It soon began to strike her that, however involuntary and inconvenient her absence from home might be, and however troubling the apparent impossibility of making any return, she had been granted an uncommon opportunity to explore a highly interesting place. Its differences and its similarities to the manor she knew were equally profound, and equally striking.

There was the matter of the light. Her first headlong rush through the halls of Landricourt had been accomplished in blinking confusion, for it was as brightly-lit there as it had been dark at home. Why?

Then there was the season, for she had left the sweltering heat of high summer behind. This place, for all its excess of sunlit hours, lay under the deepest chill of winter. At first, her heart pounding and the blood rushing wildly through her body, her eyes meeting new surprises and questions and alarms everywhere she looked, she had hardly noticed the cold. But with her restored calm came an immediate awareness that she was half-frozen, and she began to shiver so hard her teeth chattered. The layers of green linen that made up her summer gown could do nothing to ward off the freezing draughts that drifted down the passages and seeped in through the windows. Rigid with cold, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a futile attempt to conserve warmth, she paused at last to take note of where she had ended up.

A high ceiling arced overhead, elaborately decorated with paintings of lush, pastoral serenity. A rambling thicket of roses climbed up — or down? — the far wall. Three long windows lit the wall, filled with odd, watered glass cut in tiny squared panes. Airy curtains of blue silk framed them, and a vast, intricate rug covered most of a pale stone floor. At one end of the room stood a velvet chaise longue surrounded by matched chairs; at the other stood a large table draped in frothy lace, its surface cluttered with glass decanters and painted cups.

A cross between a drawing-room and some manner of parlour? The chamber seemed undecided as to its function. Oriane had wandered too far and in too much confusion; she could not now determine where she stood in the house.

So frozen was she, the spill of lace over the table looked to her most appealing. She could snatch it up and wrap herself in it, perhaps her shivering would ease—

‘Wist!’ came a voice from the arched doorway, and a woman stopped upon the threshold. She fixed great dark eyes upon the trembling figure of Oriane and looked her over, her surprise deepening into dismay. ‘Sooth, again, is it?’ she said upon a sigh, and advanced into the room. ‘Still, it has been long since the last time. And you cannot help it, can you, poor dove?’ She was as oddly attired as everybody else Oriane had seen: her robust figure was arrayed in a full-skirted ivory silk dress abundant with lace, a fluttering scarf of something indigo and impossibly gauzy trailing from her throat. She wore lilies tucked into her amber-coloured hair, and her eyes were as deep and dark as the sea at night. But traces of a ready smile hung about her full mouth, and despite their unnerving intensity her eyes were kind.

The look of consternation upon the newcomer’s face could not lift Oriane’s flagging spirits, though the benignity of her words went some way towards mending the impression. And so grateful was she for a little kindness, or any attention at all, that she would have borne a great deal more for it. ‘Oh, ma’am!’ said she, with a sensation of relief, ‘Can you, then, tell me where I am, or how I came to be here? Do I understand that such a thing has happened before?’

The woman went to the table and extracted one of the bottles that stood upon it. It was empty, but she unstoppered it and tipped it up over one of the cups anyway, crowning this inexplicable mime by carefully stoppering the bottle again and carrying the cup to Oriane. ‘Drink it all down, dear,’ she instructed.

Oriane took the cup doubtfully and peeped into it. ‘But there is nothing in it to drink,’ said she.

Those deep, dark eyes twinkled with a tolerant mirth. ‘You try it and see.’

Oriane tipped up the cup, feeling a fool, but something shifted against her lips after all: a slow, airy current like a breath of summer wind, warm and inviting. She had never thought to drink the wind before, but she found it quite achievable in this place; a fragrant warmth poured down her throat and spread quickly into her frigid limbs, relaxing every muscle with a delicious sun-baked languor. ‘Oh,’ said Oriane, her lips trembling, and she was loath, then, to hand back the cup.

Her rescuer laughed, and gently took it from her. ‘One of Walkelin’s better confections, I have always thought. You feel better.’ This was a statement, not a question, accompanied by a quick once-over and an approving nod. ‘You will need better garments. Poor child, did you not think to ask?’

Oriane hesitated, torn between too many jumbled thoughts. Child? She was nothing of the kind, being over her fortieth year! This lady did not appear to be much older. Who was Walkelin, and what was it that she had just drunk? And who was she supposed to have asked for clothes? Confused, she fell back upon her original question. ‘Ma’am. Where is it that I am come to?’

‘Why, you are in Laendricourt, of course! And you came, I suppose, by mirror! It has puzzled the Fashioners this age and more, for none of them will own to having wrought it, you see. Some would like the thing unwrought again, but others call for more to be made, and it being such a disobedient thing! Comes and goes at will and does just as it likes, and never thinks to ask the likes of you or me if we’d like to be tossed about house to house like leaves on the wind. And you won’t find much of a welcome, poor dove, for it’s Rozebaiel that’s gone the other way, and that’s set the cat among the birds.’

Oriane heard this speech with growing befuddlement, which must have shown upon her face, for the lady smiled more kindly upon her, and ceased the flow of words. ‘Poor child, I can see I am only confusing you. I am Nynevarre, and you may rely on me to see to it that you don’t starve to death. How are you called?’

‘Oriane Travere,’ she replied, though without much hope of being attended to. When she had given her name before, at the invitation of the velvet-coated man, he had returned only a look of indifference and dismissed her from his notice.

Nynevarre was as good as her word, however, and advanced upon Oriane with a promising bustle. She was not looking at Oriane, though; her eyes scanned the roses that clambered up the walls, and as she passed a tangle of particularly plump blossoms her hand darted out and plucked one, two, three of them. ‘You may always ask the roses, dear, if you are in need, for they do like to help. Though whether they will do so with Rozebaiel gone, who can say? Shall we try? Velvet, sweet thing, and warm! Any colour you like, to fit this lady.’ Upon these words she threw the first of the roses gently into the air, and down came a gown. It was velvet indeed, coloured the same plums-in-wine hue of the cold gentleman’s coat, and by far the finest thing Oriane had ever seen. ‘Oh, how exact!’ congratulated Nynevarre, and threw up a second rose, and then the third. ‘Boots, silk-lined and ribbon-tied! And the very warmest shawl you can contrive, dears.’ Both of these articles descended in their turn. The pair of dark leather boots landed upon the stone floor with a clatter, trailing silver ribbons all about, and a thick shawl of something that looked like moss drifted slowly down, its luscious folds tinted the colour of dark grapes. When Oriane, with trembling fingers, picked up the latter, she found to her amazement that it felt as much like moss as it looked, excepting the lining of silky-soft something that covered its underside.

Oriane stared at Nynevarre, unable to speak.

‘Well? Dress quickly, dear. Walkelin’s brew will last you a good while yet, but you don’t want to be underclad when it wears off.’

Oriane collected herself, and remembered to express her thanks. This Nynevarre waved away, and she busied herself about the table-top while Oriane exchanged her old cotton dress for the exquisite velvet one, slid the boots onto her feet, and wrapped the delicate shawl around her shoulders. She stood a moment in awkwardness, feeling five times too fine and not at all herself. But the delicious fabrics imparted such warmth and — did she imagine it? — such serenity, that she soon lost her reserve.

‘You feel better,’ said Nynevarre again, looking Oriane over with approval. She abandoned the table, which she had set into much better order than it had been in when Oriane had come in, and held out her hands in a kindly fashion. ‘Come, dove, I will find you a nook. You are tired, and may wish soon to sleep?’

‘Please,’ Oriane replied, abruptly aware of a crushing weariness. Perhaps it was the warmth still coiling through her body from Walkelin’s peculiar drink, or the sheer relief of being offered assistance, but a great yawn overtook her and all at once she could hardly keep her eyes open. She followed Nynevarre obediently, passing out of the parlour-drawing-room and into a corridor painted up like a grove of winding trees, their boughs hanging low with a heavy burden of fruit. Some of those fruits looked real enough that she could almost fancy she could reach out and take one—

‘Here,’ said Nynevarre and did just that, plucking an apple from the wall and handing it to Oriane. She repeated this manoeuvre at intervals as they traversed two winding corridors, passed through an elegant saloon hung with bejewelled silks and a peculiar room directly adjacent which seemed given over entirely to the storage of a thousand, many-coloured coats, and finally went up three flights of stairs. At the top of the third flight Oriane was mildly surprised to see an expanse of plain wall, painted white, and apparently offering no unusual function. But Nynevarre applied her fingers to the bland surface and curled them up, tugging and teasing at the paint until a length of white fabric came free. A nightgown. She laid this over the top of the armful of fruit and flowers Oriane was already holding, and opened the plain wooden door that stood at the top of the stairs. Beyond it Oriane glimpsed a bedchamber of blessed simplicity compared with the bizarre array below: it held a narrow bed with an embroidered white counterpane, an oaken chest set at the foot, and a rug of red rags covering the wood-panelled floor.

‘I’ll come for you in the morning,’ said Nynevarre with an inviting tilt of her head towards the open doorway. ‘You’ll sleep well.’

This last was stated with confidence. To Oriane’s relief, once she had quietly thanked her hostess, gone alone into the room and changed into her new nightgown, she lay down upon the soft little bed and promptly proved Nynevarre’s assurance fully justified.