The Wonder Tales

3-2

Only not, perhaps, always — or not without softening influence. Oriane’s quick mind grasped another subtlety: that when she had arrived the night before, the house of Laendricourt had been by no means so chaotic. She had wandered its passages and halls largely in peace, without the disruptions of staircases wandering about and doors opening onto the wrong rooms — or tapestries growing bored of their general configurations and resolving themselves into new scenes entirely, as she now saw happening upon the wall of the dining-parlour. The difference was the light: yester eve there had been the Brightening, and now there was not.

Oriane’s musings released her long enough for her to remember her food, and she took a bite of scallops. They tasted of jugged hare.

Noting her look of surprise, Nynevarre eyed the offending dish and suggested: ‘If it’s scallops you were after, you might try the beef.’

Tentatively, Oriane tested the currant cheesecake. It savoured strongly of apples, and had the texture of a baked pudding.

‘I do not know where the cheesecake might be got to,’ said Nynevarre vaguely. ‘I found it in a trifle, once, and another time as a honey tart.’

‘Is that trout you are eating?’ said Oriane.

‘I believe it is pigeon.’ Nynevarre took another bite, chewed slowly, and then said: ‘Or partridge. It is difficult to be sure.’

Nynevarre’s tour was not, in the end, of much use, for by its close Oriane felt more confused than ever. All the doors led to three or four different destinations at least, and it was a mere matter of chance as to which one would be found upon the other side. The stairs were all in the habit of twisting themselves about until top and bottom came out someplace else; one elegant marble staircase had its roots in the great hall in Laendricourt’s west wing, but when Oriane and Nynevarre arrived at the top they found themselves deposited in a small library, which Nynevarre said was quite on the other side of the house. Upon the return journey, they came out in a charming pillared folly situated just off the kitchen garden, and had to forge through freezing winds and a haze of snow to re-enter the house. Oriane quickly concluded that she would just have to accustom herself to being lost.

‘The Light will soon come in,’ said Nynevarre, rather confusing Oriane. A glance at the silver watch that hung from her belt and a nod of satisfaction followed. ‘Half past one. I’ve work about the house, but I will call for you at four?’

She bustled off without much waiting for a reply, leaving Oriane alone in a cool pantry well-stocked with jars.

Oriane did not mind the solitude. Nynevarre was kind, but there was a bustle and a hurry about her which did not suit Oriane’s more measured pace for long, and she talked on at such a speed that Oriane began to feel quite tired by it. She took a moment to breathe and calm her mind, relishing the restful quiet of the pantry, before she ventured to step across the threshold into whatever lay beyond.

It proved to be a storage room, dimly lit, its walls stacked high with boxes of every shape, size and hue. In the centre stood a long-legged table, books piled upon its surface. It could almost be the twin of Pharamond’s; the thought flitted across her mind and was dismissed before it could cause her any pain. Nonetheless, her heart twisted in her breast and she had a moment’s work to dismiss likewise the visage of Pharamond himself, his eyes warm with approval in the way he often looked at her…

She heard voices from an adjacent room, and instantly composed herself to be quiet. The interruption was of use to her; all thoughts fled her mind at once, leaving her focused upon the task of removing herself without disturbing those who, presumably, owned the space. She was on the point of leaving again when a little ruckus reached her ears: a thumping and clattering noise, impossible to identify. She looked around.

One of the boxes was rocking about. It jumped and jumped, striving, apparently, to throw itself off the stack of store-boxes upon which it rested — a mission it shortly achieved, landing with a smack upon the floor. Whereupon it immediately began to twitch and shuffle and writhe its way towards Oriane, lid rattling.

Oriane did not know how to respond to such an overture, for she had never before been importuned by a store-box. She stood, undecided, and expecting any moment that whoever stood in the adjacent room must hear the noise and come in. This thought almost sent her fleeing out of the room at once, for how could she explain her presence in what appeared to be a private store? But no footsteps approached; there was a hubbub of voices, raised in some manner of disagreement, and they were too absorbed by their conversation to notice much besides.

The box reached her feet and began to hurl itself against her shoe, over and over. Oriane could not ignore such an entreaty. She bent and removed the lid, which action the box greeted with a kind of sigh of relief.

A peculiar array of objects lay inside. There was a mass of gauzy mauve fabric stitched in silver, so airy that it might have been woven from the clouds. It must be Walkelin’s work, thought Oriane. A length of ribbon lay on top, glittering with fresh rain, and with it a puff of glassy cloud — or was it misty glass?

And a neckcloth, amber-bright and made, ostensibly, from rose petals.

The neckcloth leapt into her hands and would not consent to be put down again. Nor did she wish to, for her thoughts flew to the incongruously plain article around Walkelin’s neck, and his obvious astonishment at finding it there. She remembered also the puzzling appearance of her own shawl at Laendricourt, and Nynevarre’s remark. I should like to know who has lost a shawl or a coat or some other such thing. The neckcloth was Walkelin’s, doubtless; but how came it to be here in Laendricourt after all?

She must return it to Walkelin, whatever the circumstances of its residence here, and it certainly seemed most desirous that she should do so. Oriane waited, in case any of the other objects in the box should wish to be taken away likewise. They lay quiescent, however — slightly to her regret, for the ribbon was the most beautiful she had ever set eyes upon — and she replaced the lid upon the box. A moment’s work saw it placed back upon the stack where it lived, and out she went, carrying the neckcloth with her.

The door led her into a serene morning-room with windows of green stained glass, and a pale, feathery carpet. A large sofa beckoned, clad sumptuously in dark green, and she sank gratefully into it, requiring a moment’s rest to compose herself. Had she really just entered somebody’s storeroom and robbed it of a neckcloth? She could not be certain that it belonged to Walkelin. Even if it did, what had it been doing in that box? Who had put it there? Had she done more harm than good in removing it? Perhaps she had just disgracefully thieved the thing.

But she had not tried to. It had foisted itself upon her, and she doubted not that she was chosen as messenger, not thief. All she could do was ensure the neckcloth was taken to Walkelin — provided she could find her way back to the Wind’s Tower. The Brightening would soon come, and if she was not mistaken in her surmise, it would bring with it a more rational arrangement of the house. But what use was that? She had found the tower by mistake, and during the natural light of the day. What road could she take to find it again, if she were to try?

There followed a half-hour of pure confusion, for door after door carried Oriane through such a dizzying succession of disparate chambers that she was left at a loss. Nor could she retrace her steps, for returning back the way she had come never did take her back anywhere; there was only onward and ever onward, and never where she wanted to go. Exasperated and increasingly chilled, she draped the neckcloth around her own neck to keep it safe and tucked her frozen hands under the folds of her shawls. She was wearing two: her own woollen shawl over her gown, and the moss-made one over the top of that. The extra warmth thawed her stiffened fingers, and she was able to face the next chamber and the next with a somewhat renewed equanimity.

So many different places had she visited in such quick succession that she had all but stopped paying attention to what any of them were like; she paused long enough only to note that this, still, was not the Wind’s Tower, and on she went. But at length she was obliged to stop, for upon entering an odd, echoing room with a domed roof, no windows and too many sides, dominated by a very strange clock, she found that the door through which she had entered was not at all disposed to let her leave again. Upon turning and attempting to step back over the threshold, she found herself walking nose-first into a mirror. Its blank, hard surface glittered in cold mockery of her confusion.

Blank. It did not reflect her own figure, though she stood directly before it.

Shocked, she turned again, eyes scanning the room for signs of some other egress. There were none. There was nothing there at all, in fact; the floor was a bare expanse of polished, patterned bronze, the pale walls fitted with curving pillars of the same, and the ceiling adorned only with three globes of light. All that there was of any interest was the clock, and when another attempt at departure ended with the same, dispiriting result, Oriane felt obliged to focus upon the clock instead.

It was a handsome specimen, to say the least. The tallest clock she had ever beheld, it towered almost as high as the high-domed ceiling, its faces looking down upon Oriane with a kind of chilly indifference. Really, the clock seemed almost aware, and not in an especially good mood.

And how many faces it had! Walking slowly around it, Oriane counted thirty-seven of them, all displaying different times. The clock was built out of reddish-coloured wood, its pale faces glittering with light and magic and jewels. Some of the second-hands were racing around at a speed Oriane was unused to seeing in a clock; others crept in agonisingly slow circles, barely making any progress at all.

Half of them had stopped completely. This did not seem right to Oriane’s practical frame of mind. Had nobody been tending to the glorious thing? What a great shame that was. It took her a moment to identify any apparent means of winding it up, but at last she found it: a great bronze key, half hidden in between three closely-crowded clock faces. This she grasped and turned, relieved to find that it turned easily enough under her hands.

Almost immediately, the air resounded with the sounds of tick-ticking hands spurred into renewed activity. The groaning of gears accompanied the noise, and such a clatter went up that Oriane wanted to clap her hands over her ears to keep it out. But she kept grimly at her work, and wound the clock until it would go no further. Then she stepped back, pleased with the results of her labours, and stood a while watching the hands upon the various clock-faces spinning merrily about. They were still not at all regular, to her disappointment; they all ran at different speeds, marking different times. But perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

A few minutes later, the clock began to chime. The noise reverberated around the room at such volume that Oriane could barely stand it; she did cover her ears this time, and fell afterwards to the floor, curling herself up and throwing her shawls over her head in an effort to mute the terrible racket.

Happily, she was not long tormented. The clock chimed once; twice; three times! And then fell silent.

She was reminded of the way a clock’s chime sounded across Argantel, when the Gloaming came in. But there were four chimes then, so it could not be the same.

Could it? For the quality of the light was changing in the room, growing — almost imperceptibly — lighter and brighter, but with a brittle quality to it that she recognised. Was the Brightening come in? She could feel no doubt that it was, and tried to persuade herself that there had been four chimes, not three, and she had somehow miscounted.

A glance at her own pocket-watch dispelled any such comforting ideas: it was but three o’clock. Nynevarre had said four, hadn’t she? The light was an hour early.

Oriane began to tremble, her watch almost dropping from her shaking hands. Hastily she packed it away, and tried hard to calm herself. She could not have altered the ages-long flow of time across Argantel, could she? Not merely by winding a clock?

But she had. Surely, there could be no other explanation; it could not be a coincidence. What had she done? And what would it mean for Laendricourt?