#witchings

“You would have made such an elegant and refined princess,” said the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife sweetly. “It’s almost a shame that this wedding is never going to take place (and I trust, for the poor Prince’s sake, that it isn’t).”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter threw a piece of bread at her, scandalising the nearby ladies and awakening the kitchen cat, who had appeared at some point in the afternoon and immediately fallen asleep on top of a particularly hideous bonnet.

By the late afternoon the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had bid goodbye both to her sister (“You do have everything in hand, don’t you, Ophelia?” the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife had whispered, and “I think so,” was the answer) and to the ladies-in-waiting, who ignored her. And the attendants and dressmakers were just packing their things away when the King’s son appeared, looking earnest.

“I thought perhaps you might like some company,” he said, blushing, as the attendants exchanged suspicious looks and glared at this wicked enchantress who was enthralling the royal family.

The wicked enchantress, who hadn’t had a moment to herself since dawn, suppressed a sigh and politely asked the King’s son to sit. He did so, and then produced a book of courtly love poems that he haltingly offered to read aloud.

“I suppose so, if you like,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “Although actually, before all this happened, I was halfway through reading such an interesting volume called The Winding Sheet: Thanatological Studies Of Many Cultures, and had just gotten to the chapter on the different methods of laying revenants. But it’s at home, of course — I don’t suppose you have a copy, do you?”

Unfortunately the King’s son didn’t have a copy, so she suggested some titles that she should enjoy hearing almost as much; and when the Queen looked in on the two of them some time later her son was ponderously reading from A True Arte of Defence: A Manual of Swordsmanship while the girl looked over his shoulder and tried out the different thrusts with a poker.

The Queen paused to take in the scene with raised eyebrows until the Bookseller’s eldest daughter noticed her and relaxed her guard, and then the older woman accepted the hastily proffered seat and announced that everything had been arranged. “You know, it’s a lucky thing about the bellringers,” she added, “Apparently someone stopped in at the Cornishman’s Head last night and happened to mentioned how the bellringers of Linenburgh had just preformed a five hour peel of changes and were going to be awarded a commemorative plaque by the bishop; and thus our bellringers had spent the rest of their evening working out a set of new changes that would last seven hours — all night, in fact. They seemed very pleased at having been given leave to put their work to the test so soon.”

“That is lucky,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“But it’s touch and go with the King, I’m afraid,” the Queen went on briskly. “The bells will certainly ring, but His Majesty may still suddenly decide to order them silent. So, Samuel, you and I shall all have to stay close and keep him diverted. Beginning now, my boy, so put that book away! Meanwhile, I suspect the palace has gone through a month’s worth of candlewax in an afternoon, though I won’t know until I next oversee the accounts.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter nodded and tried to look confident, and the Queen softened and took her hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. If this all comes apart we’ll think of something else,” and the girl nodded and attempted a smile.

The bells began sounding as the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was eating her supper, and she almost ran for her earplugs because, her chamber being so close to the chapel, the noise was tremendous! But for the first time in days she was able to watch the sun set and remember it afterwards. She decided to take this as a propitious omen.

And later, once she was in her too-short nightgown and had blown out the candle, she knelt on the window seat and looked down into the darkened rose garden and beyond. It seemed to her that there were shadows, or less than shadows, creeping among the hedges and rosebushes. They would advance upon the palace, like a breeze passing over a field of long grass, and then another loud peel of bells would begin and they would be forced back. But so dim were these faint indications of people that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter could not be sure if they were real or the constructions of her own wild fancies. Eventually all the shadows vanished away, though for a moment she wondered if she could still discern a swift and secret activity retreating away down what streets and lanes were visible to her over the palace wall.

She went to bed that night with the pillow over her head and the little black cat under the covers with her, but I am afraid neither of them got much sleep.

In fact even with the wax earplugs I doubt that anyone in the palace managed to sleep that night, what with the constant peeling of the bells. Courtiers, finding themselves still awake in the small hours, would eventually go about seeking servants (for ringing was, of course, of no earthly good) to fetch them wine, hoping that this might prove soporific. And the poor servants found themselves turned out of their beds again and again by the wakeful nobles to procure bread-and-cheese, or an apple, or a pack of cards, or to mend the fire for it was coming on cool.

But perhaps no-one strove so vigilantly as the Queen did that night. She had to stay awake and alert throughout, for every time the King awoke furious at the noise of the bells — and who wouldn’t be annoyed at such a clamour, fairy enchantment or not? — she must needs be there to distract him from ordering the bellringers to cease their labours. She did this by reminding him of various other things that had enraged him in the previous few days, such as the soup being too hot at Thursday luncheon, or that appalling laggard of a second footman who was never ready with the King’s coat when he took a sudden notion to step outside. She would dutifully take down the names of all those who the King decided he would have removed from his service, or imprisoned, or executed. But as the night went on the Queen was encouraged to note that despite his bad-temper, the King’s punishments and retributions were becoming milder and milder. Finally, an hour before dawn he interrupted his diatribe over the state of the couches in the second-best parlour to blink twice and say:

“Why— What a lot of rot!”

And then he turned astonished eyes into the poor tired Queen and said “Oh my love! I’ve been talking utter nonsense! How in the world have you managed to put up with me?” and she threw the list of punishments away and kissed him [1].

“Yes, you have been talking nonsense,” she said, “But you’re not anymore, and besides it wasn’t at all your fault.” And then she told him all about the fairies’ revenge and the enchantment of the Very Wonderful Person and the wedding between his son and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and their plan to break the spell.

The King was quite pale by the end of the story. “What a horribly near thing! And not just for all the people I might have had thrown in prison and so-on. Why Samuel might not even have wanted to marry some shopkeeper’s daughter!” and then he thought a little more and said “She might not have wanted to marry Samuel!”

The Queen patted his arm kindly and said Well, but it was over now. And just at that moment the sun appeared over the horizon and the toll of the final bell faded away. Perhaps you can imagine the relief felt throughout the palace as ear plugs were removed, and heads lifted from under pillows, and those who were important enough to do so decided to steal a few hours of sleep before they rose.

Things were in such an upheaval that nobody came to wake the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as they usually did, and so she was able to luxuriate in bed for some time before she rose at a leisurely seven o’clock to sit down at a breakfast that had arrived far later than was typical in that place. She was just examining her egg (which was, as always, cold — she hadn’t been forgiven by the servants), when the Queen arrived to inform her that she wouldn’t be getting married that day after all.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter lit up “Oh Madam! Really?” and then, feeling that she had possibly been a little tactless, “Although of course it would be a great honour to marry into—”

“Oh hush, child!” said the Queen, smiling, “Finish your breakfast and get dressed.” She signalled to the handmaidens who were waiting a little sulkily outside the door. “The King would like to speak to you himself in the reception hall. I’ve dismissed the guards that were outside your door, so come straight down.” And off she went to go about the tiresome business of cancelling a wedding and working out what to do with five-hundred pairs of gloves.

“Ah, there you are,” said the King a little while later as he rose to greet the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “My dear, I believe I owe you an apology.” And he — the King of that entire kingdom! — bowed (slightly) to her.

“Oh!” said the girl, “That’s all right. I mean, you weren’t to blame.” She tried to think of something elegant to say but couldn’t.

“Well, I must say that it is very kind of you to take it that way,” said the King briskly. “It’s never bad policy to stay on the right side of a sorceress, that’s what I always say!”

“Well, I’m not actually a—”

“Exactly!” nodded the King magnanimously. “I’m so glad you think so. Now, I have just been talking to your father—” and here the Bookseller’s eldest daughter noticed her father standing grumpily to one side, clearly annoyed at being summoned again, “—and no wonder you didn’t want to marry my son! Why, my girl, you should have told us that you already had a sweetheart! Although,” he added, thinking it through, “perhaps it’s as well that you didn’t.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter opened her mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again.

“Now, if you ask me, I think you should marry him at once!” went on the King, “And with all the accoutrements that were prepared for this false fairy wedding. No, no, I insist! You have done us a Great Service bringing Samuel home, and then, under, er, regrettable circumstances, managed to do us another. So, what d’you say to that?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quietly, and the Queen looked sharply at her.

“Yes, yes, that’s as well, then,” remarked the Bookseller. “A very agreeable solution, sir.”

The King beamed at him. “I am very glad that you can say so, sir. Oh, and, of course there will be all the food!” he turned to the Steward, “I suppose the kitchens have been working day and night, preparing for a grand wedding breakfast?”

They had been, the Steward informed him.

“Well then, a full quarter of that feast shall go to… where did you say you lived, sir? Ah, of course: the Antique Quarter, yes, it shall be delivered there and be the wedding breakfast for our brave young friend here and her paramour. The rest,” he announced grandly, “we shall have in the Great Hall tonight, as planned — but instead of a wedding we will hold a proper celebration of the happy return of our son!” He looked around the room at everyone, very satisfied with himself.

“I shall see to it at once, Your Majesty,” said the Steward, and the Bookseller (pleased at the thought of marrying his troublesome eldest daughter off without having to pay for it himself) nodded too.

“We are very grateful, sir,” he said. “Well then, I suppose I must hurry back and inform the Inkmaker that he shall be married this morning,” [2] He began to turn on his heel, then remembered himself and turned back. “With Your Majesty’s permission?”

His leave was kindly granted and the Bookseller strode out of the reception chamber rubbing his long hands together and, for the moment, not appearing overly discontented with life.

The King turned back to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter with a kind smile, “So, my dear, all’s well with the world! We shall, of course, remember to drink a toast to you and your new husband tonight!”

She gave him a rather stiff smile in return. Apparently this marriage was to be her reward for all her troubles. She thought she could probably contrive a way out of such an unwanted alliance, but prudently decided not to do so until she was far away from the palace and its figures of authority.

The Queen, who had been watching the girl carefully, stepped closer to her husband. “Henry, I am afraid that our young friend’s reputation has been rather tarnished by this whole matter… Perhaps an outward sign of our favour and goodwill …?”

The King thought that this was an excellent idea. “The Bookseller’s daughter shall travel home in our own royal carriage,” he announced to all, nodding to the Steward to make it happen. “And now,” he said to the girl, “You will want to pack your things and leave us, I am sure! We can’t keep a girl from her wedding day with all our carry on! Good-bye, my dear. Good luck with all the sorcery and that.” And he wandered out of the chamber, followed by the Steward and his other attendants.

Now, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter really only wanted her red dress, her boots, and her satchel, but when she returned to the bedchamber that had been her prison for so many days she discovered such bustle, with maids and ladies everywhere, that for a moment she wondered if it was being prepared for another guest! But that was not so, and within a surprisingly short amount of time all the dresses and ribbons and bonnets and shawls that had been made for her were wrapped in muslin and packed away into two large boxes. Then the ladies retired from that chamber without a word or a glance for the girl. Of her red dress there was no sign, so she found she must continue to wear the fashionable Prussian blue gown she had been dressed in that morning; but, paying not the slightest bit of notice to the disapproving noises the handmaidens were making, she kicked off the uncomfortable court shoes, put on her sensible old walking boots, and then pulled out all the ribbons from her hair so that it fell around her shoulders in its usual tangles. Of the kitchen cat there had been no sign since breakfast, so she bid it farewell in absentia and then, the boxes being collected by sturdy footmen, she shouldered her satchel and silently followed these porters downstairs.

At the great doors the Queen and the King’s son were waiting for her. The latter shook her hand earnestly and thanked her once again, and then blushed and apologised once again, and then looked hopeful and begged her pardon but—

“Tasks!” interrupted the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, snapping her finger at him.

“I’m sorry?” said the King’s son.

“That’s what I should have told your father that first night! I should have said ‘Yes, of course I will marry your son, but (as is tradition) I first require him to complete three tasks’. And then we would have had more time to work out how to put an end to all this, you see? Oh!” and she stamped her foot, “I could have avoided all those dress fittings! Isn’t it always so infuriating to think of just the right thing when you don’t need it anymore?”

The King’s son frowned. “Well I… Yes, I suppose it is. What sort of tasks? And traditionally shouldn’t you have had to do the tasks?”

“Well, you could have demanded tasks of me if you’d thought of it, and you didn’t either, did you? And as for the tasks themselves, I don’t know, whichever one of us it was could have been asked to… creep into Hell and return with the salt grinder that is kept in the back of the larder there. Or present the King with a particular magic sword (or harp or purse or something) currently in the possession of a terrible ogre.”

The King’s son stared at her. “And you would have had me attempt all this? Face an ogre? To avoid marrying you?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter waved this away. “Not really! Obviously! You could have just wandered around the Kingdom and visited friends for a few months and had a little holiday, like you rich people can. You would have been quite safe. Unless,” she added thoughtfully, “unless the fairies caught you again.”

The King’s son had, over the previous two days, been rethinking his previous hostile attitudes toward the Bookseller’s beautiful, long-limbed daughter, but at this moment he suddenly decided that perhaps he was better off being unattached for the time being. He bowed and said that he believed that his father had called for him and he must leave her there, and then did so.

The Queen, however, took her arm and walked her out.

“It was all quite horrible, of course,” she said when she had stopped laughing for no reason that the Bookseller’s earnest eldest daughter could see, “but, do you know, now that it’s over I think I’m feeling a little disappointed that I won’t have you as a daughter. I like you very much, and you also seem like a useful sort of person to have around. Are you sure you want to marry this young man of yours?”

She said the last part merely in sport, but the Bookseller’s eldest daughter shrank a little, thinking of it. “He’s a friend of my father and at least sixty years old,” she said despairingly.

“Oh my dear,” said the Queen and squeeze her arm sympathetically. They walked apace in silence. “You know, we do have a royal library here, and I’m sure we could use someone to keep it, if that would suit you. Oh, but the fairies...”

“Yes, it’s essential that I leave this place today. And I think,” added the Bookseller’s eldest daughter diplomatically, looking over her shoulder at the looming towers of the palace, “that for the moment I would feel more comfortable being back in the city. It’s what I’m used to. Please don’t worry — I shall think of something.”

They had reached the royal carriage at this point. It was a very grand vehicle, with red wood pannelling and golden inlay, a team of four proud grey horses in front, a handsome young coachman at the whip, and two tall liveried footman already waiting by the open door. The Queen was just about to say something else when she glanced up at the coachman. “Why, where’s Jasper today?” she asked absently.

“Granted leave to return home, madam” said the coachman, “A family matter, I understand.”

“I see,” said the Queen and she turned back to continue speaking to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“An unfortunate affair,” went on the coachman, thoughtfully, “Enormous serpents came up from the ground after unusually heavy spring rains and began eating everyone in the district, including his brother-in-law. And now here’s his poor sister left with fourteen children to feed (it was a very affectionate marriage, proverbially so from what I hear), and little to feed them with, for all the livestock have been eaten too. She would abandon the place, only they have secured such a reasonable tenancy, and it’s very convenient for the shops.”

The Queen was looking doubtfully at the dark-eyed coachman. “Is that so?” she asked and the coachman nodded gravely. Despite herself she asked “And no neighbours to help the widow? It must needs be Jasper?”

“Ah, perhaps I haven’t made clear the magnitude of the disaster. Most of the neighbours have already been eaten by serpents. The parson and the bailiff too, so that there is no authority and lawlessness prevails. If only someone had thought to plant wormsbane (the wort Vermis Abjuria, that is, a particularly nocuous cousin of the family Solanaceae) — if only that had been planted about the place! An outrageous oversight in a district apparently prone to such prodigies. But there: people will not be told.” The coachman shook his head and stared solemnly into the distance, as if lamenting the wilful obtuseness of humanity and all the troubles this had brought to the world.

The Queen glanced to see how the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was taking this odd conversation. The girl was staring, wide-eyed, at the coachman, an incredulous smile slowly spreading over her countenance.

“What is your name, coachman?” asked the Queen, drawing some swift conclusions.

The coachman considered. “George,” he decided.

“George,” said the Queen. “I am entrusting you with someone I am particularly fond of. I hope that you will safely deliver her to where she needs to be?”

George looked at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Madam,” he said. “You have my word.”

Turning to the girl the Queen murmured “Well, my child; perhaps things aren’t quite as bad as we feared?”

“Perhaps not,” breathed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter still gazing up at the dark-eyed coachman.

The Queen clasped the girl’s hands so that she looked down and then stood on tiptoes and kissed her young guest’s forehead. “Come and see me again soon,” she said, and then she stepped back while a footman helped the girl up into the carriage. “Goodbye.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked out through the carriage window. “Goodbye, madam. And thank you for… well, for believing me.”

“Even if it was almost too late,” said the Queen, pulling a very un-queenly face at herself.

“Almost too late is just in time,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

And then the footmen leapt onto the running boards and the coachman flicked the reins over the team of greys and off the carriage went!

Through the streets of the city ran the King’s royal carriage — from the Garden District into the Cathedral District, and from the Cathedral District into the Opal-sellers’ Quarter, down front streets and back streets, and on and on. People stopped to cheer and to catch a glimpse of whichever member of the royal family was travelling abroad today. And how surprised they were when they saw the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sitting inside the red and gold carriage!

But as they were going down Coin Street, the coachman suddenly turned the carriage into Touchstone Lane instead of carrying straight on to the Antique Quarter; and then they turned again, this time into a deserted box-maker’s yard. There George brought the horses to a halt and leapt down to the ground, casually throwing her tricorne off so that her black hair fell like a silky curtain around her face. She opened the carriage door with a flourish, bowing to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who rose and looked down at her driver.

“Next time I get to dress up as the coachman,” she said, gesturing with a circling finger at the riding boots and tight pants and coachman’s coat.

“I do look rather dashing, don’t I?” agreed the Witch’s girl, holding her hand out. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter accepted it and stepped down into the yard. “Now, I have a few of your things ready here and you will need—” The Witch’s girl had begun to step away but the hand that still grasped hers pulled her back and a moment later she had her arms around the neck of the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she was properly and sweetly kissed.

“I’m sorry,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter after some time. “You were right. About everything.”

“I know,” said the Witch’s girl, reaching up for another kiss.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter frowned and leaned back. “Well, perhaps not everything. I certainly didn’t intend to ‘set my cap’ at anyone!”

“You’ve just narrowly avoided marrying into the royal family,” pointed out the Witch’s girl. “And are supposedly now on your way to marry a notorious misanthrope.”

“Well, yes, but I hardly planned any of— OH!”

This exclamation was as a result of the girl suddenly becoming aware that the two liveried footmen who had ridden with the carriage were now standing in the yard with them and looking about rather witlessly, one scratching at his head in a very odd manner.

“Ignore them,” suggested the Witch’s girl, who was still trying to recapture the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s mouth with her own.

“I shall not! Who are they? And why are they looking so peculiar like that!?”

The Witch’s girl sighed theatrically and stepped away from the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Very well. At attention, please gentlemen!” and in a moment the men were lined up before her.

“What have you done to them?” asked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter following her and peering at the two servants curiously, “Did you capture their souls? And store them in a snuffbox so that you might command them and make them your slaves, like Madam du Mondragon did in The Circe of the Salon-set?”

“How uncouth, certainly not,” said the Witch’s girl, who thought taking snuff a disgusting habit. “Open wide!” she addressed the footmen in a firm tone. And then from out of the mouth of each she pulled a slip of paper; and where a moment ago two proud footmen had stood, now sat a pair of slightly disreputable looking dogs, one of them still scratching its head with a hind leg.

“Oh!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, clapping her hands together in delight. “You really are wonderful! May I see the papers?”

Preening slightly, the Witch’s girl handed the rather damp slips to her and then addressed the dogs. “A job well done, my lads. And as agreed, here are your wages.” And from out of her coat pocket she pulled a brown paper parcel which, unwrapped, was shown to contain sausages. She solemnly presented a sausage to each of the dogs, who rushed off happily with their prizes, stirring the horses so that she had to step over and calm them.

When the Witch’s girl turned back to regard the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, she was examining the slips of paper and frowning. “Are these pictures here supposed to be the footmen?”

“Well, yes,” said the Witch’s girl.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter titled her head, as if to try and get a better view. “Did you get a very small child to draw them?”

The Witch’s girl snatched the slips back. “They worked, didn’t they?” she said, pulling a collection of papers out of her inside pocket and adding the images of the footmen to it, “I suppose you could do better?”

“Yes,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who was a rather competent draftswoman. “What’s that slip at the top of the pile? A ferret? Did you turn someone into a ferret? Why?”

“It’s a cat,” hissed the Witch’s girl, “As any fool could see. Honestly, I had forgotten what an almost immediately annoying person you are. I’m almost sorry I rescued you.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter raised her eyebrows. “I mostly rescued myself, though. Well, the Queen did, by my council. You just turned up for the last little bit.”

“Well then, I’m sorry I did even that much,” sniffed the Witch’s girl.

The girl laughed and then put her arms around the false-coachman and kissed her again. “I’m not sorry,” she whispered into the Witch’s girl's midnight-black hair, and perhaps the Witch’s girl didn’t actually look too sorry either.

“And you would have come and rescued me from the palace if it had all gone wrong, wouldn’t you?” the Bookseller’s eldest daughter murmured, realizing as she spoke that she already knew the answer. “If I hadn’t managed it myself, I mean.”

“Oh, I might have,” said the Witch’s girl, resting her head on the taller girl’s shoulder, “It would have depended on what else I had to do that day. I am often quite busy.”

“Oh yes. Working for the Witch.”

“Working for the Witch. But, to the matter at hand. We can’t stay here, and you can’t wear that.” The Witch’s girl reluctantly began disentangling herself from the embrace of the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“No, where are you going?" the Bookseller’s eldest daughter said, trying to pull the Witch’s girl back into her arms. "For I am certain that I still have a great many repayments to make in compensation for your services!”

“Don’t be vulgar,” said the Witch’s girl, “We’re beyond all that now. And anyway, there was no bargain made.” But she caught one of the offered hands and kissed her sweetheart’s fingers before relinquishing them and moving away.

“And what are the carriage and the horses really?” asked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looking expectantly at that conveyance.

The Witch’s girl glanced back. “Nothing. That is, they are as they appear: a carriage and horses. The carriage and horses.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter spun around to stare at her. “You stole the royal carriage?!”

“I did. So, as you may apprehend, I am not a little eager for us to take our leave of this city.” She retrieved a canvas bag from behind an old broken box and dropped it in front of the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. But when she looked back up, the Witch’s girl stopped.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter was staring at her with a look of blank astonishment. “We… we have to leave the city?” she whispered. “but why?”

“Well, I thought that was self-evident,” said the Witch’s girl.

“No!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, paling. “I… Everything I have… my sister, my... the bookshop, they’re all here.”

The Witch’s girl gazed at her and then said “Ah. I see.” She took the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s hand again and walked her over to a box that they could both sit on. “Bookshop girl,” she began, “please remember that you have thwarted the fairies — thrice now! — which was very well done, and don’t become insufferable about it. But this would rather suggest that an elopement from the scene of your victories might now be the strategic decision. Because they are a cruel and unforgiving people, and hideously powerful. Do you see?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked out through the yard’s gateway onto the lane and watched an old cob pull a wagon of flour sacks past, a small girl sitting on top with the reins loose in her hands. Beyond, over a stone wall, was a dovecot with pigeons flying in and out. And somewhere nearby a clock struck the three-quarter hour. “But... I wanted to set up a bookshop," she whispered, "Here, in my city. A place all of my own. I had it all planned out.”

“And so you shall — when we return, if you still want to. But it cannot be today, I’m afraid.”

“But can’t we make spells of protection and… I don’t know, concealment charms and… and…”

“We could,” said the Witch’s girl, “but far better to simply be elsewhere, believe me.”

“The city is all I know!” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, leaving go of the other girl’s hand to wrap her arms about herself. “I belong here. I am... I am the Bookseller’s daughter.”

“You are Ophelia,” said the Witch’s Girl.

“Yes, but—"

Scowling, the Witch’s girl leapt to her feet to confront the other girl. “No, you listen to me," she said fiercely. "You do not belong to the Bookseller. You are not his servant to be ordered about, to cook and clean and wait upon his whims. You are not his property to be given away to the Inkmaker, or the King’s Son, or some other dull suitor, then to belong to him instead. You... you are so much more than that.”

And then the Witch’s girl crouched down before the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and took up both her hands, holding them up to kiss them. “Ophelia, if you must belong to someone then come away and belong to me,” she said looking up at the Bookseller’s beautiful tangled-haired daughter. “Or don't. Belong to yourself. But come away with me anyway."

And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stared down into the dark, wicked eyes of the Witch’s girl and she let out a low breath. And then she whispered “Yes. I will.”

The Witch’s girl smiled. “Well, then. That is satisfactory.” And she leaned up, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter leaned down, and they kissed each other solemnly in the middle of the Box-maker’s yard.

A cart clattered past on the cobbled lane outside and the Witch’s girl gently pulled away, leaving the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sighing and trying to reclaim the other girl’s lips. “Later, my darling,” murmured the Witch’s girl, “I promise. But for now we must make ready our departure.”

She bounded to her feet, pulling her love up with her; and, judging the moment of crisis to be over, she nudged the canvas bag lying before them. “You can’t travel about the countryside in that fancy dress, so here are some other clothes. They’re for you. Put them on, please, and with celerity: the box-maker and his apprentices will be returning from their guild meeting at ten,” and, thus reminded, she reached into her waistcoat to consult an old pocket watch.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter gave a great sigh, but she knelt down and opened the bag. “I have spent the last fortnight being dressed by others,” she grumbled, “I had hoped that you of all people wouldn’t— Wait, but these are… Oh!” she said in surprise, pulling out a pair of breeches and a shirt.

“Circumspection is to be our watchword, my girl,” said the Witch’s girl, putting her hands in her trouser pockets and rocking back on her heels in an expansive attitude. “You have the fairies after you and the townsfolk suspicious of you, not to mention the terrible ire of the lamplighters. A complete change of appearance seems warranted.”

“And my father waiting for me to marry that awful man too,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, her arms full of clothes as she stepped up into the coach to change. “And the King wanting his carriage. Which you stole.”

“Quite,” said the Witch’s girl, looking away chivalrously.

The team of greys began to shift impatiently in their harnesses, rocking the carriage and unsteadying the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “And what about these horses?” she called out once she had caught herself. “We can’t just leave them here all hitched up!”

“Oh, they won’t unattended for long,” said the Witch’s girl vaguely as she moved to sooth the leader. “But we can easily give a florin to some urchin and have them mind the beasts until then, if it will put your mind at ease.”

“And then what? The elopement?”

“Ah, yes. I propose, after your rapid change of appearance, a rapid change of scenery. We shall remove to the country, and enjoy the many benefits of a more pastoral setting [3].”

“Like Niccolo Machiavelli, when the Medici had him exiled from Florence and he sat around in the country and started working on The Prince.”

“Just like Niccolo Machiavelli,” agreed the Witch’s girl amenably. “I have two horses hired and waiting at the ostler’s around the corner. I hope your riding has improved, but I bet it hasn’t. Alternately,” she added, an idea striking her, “I could transform you into a horse and ride you out of the city. No-one would be expecting that, would they? And it would save me sixpence.”

“I think not,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s voice, dryly. “And what about the Witch?” she went on, “What does she think of you absconding from her service?”

The Witch’s girl looked up at the sky, which was bright with the promise of fair weather. “The Witch has decided to absent herself from the city for a time. She has some important matters to see to elsewhere. And thus I find myself entirely at… your…”

She trailed off as the Bookseller’s green-eyed, long-limbed, tangle-headed eldest daughter stepped down from the carriage. She was tall and handsome in riding boots and breeches, with a clean white shirt and a trim green waistcoat, and she was in the middle of tying her hair back. “Entirely at my…?” she said.

“Your service,” said the Witch’s girl, staring. “Entirely at your service.”

“I must admit I do like the sound of that,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she reached into the canvas bag for the green coat that matched the waistcoat. “And I admire your taste in— Oh!” From under the coat she pulled first one book, then another. “Multifarious Accounts of Fairy, its Nature and Customs! The Roads to Babylon… the Herboria Antiqua… And, oh! The Winding Sheet: Thanatological Studies Of Many Cultures! But these are all my copies!”

“Yes,” said the Witch’s girl, watching, “Your sister packed them for you this morning [4] (I like her very much, by the way; she’s not at all as silly-headed as you tried to make out). We knew you wouldn’t be able to keep a bookshop — or, at least, not for the time being. But we thought you might still keep a few of your smaller books with you. Octavo-sized or less only. I didn’t want to hire a gig.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter beamed at her as she pulled on her new coat. And then she threw her arms out and twirled around, making her coat tails fly about her. She spun herself over to the carriage, where she retrieved her old boots and satchel. “So where to next, my own dear Witch’s— Well, I can’t call you Witch’s girl any more, for you’re not. Who shall you be? George?”

“Helena,” said Helena. She hefted up the bag of books and hung it over her shoulder.  “But you raise a pertinent matter,” she went on thoughtfully. “I think we shall have to come up with a by-name for you. I can’t very well call you ‘Ophelia’ for the time being; or even ‘Bookseller’s daughter’, for I just made a very pretty speech about why you’re so much more wonderful than that, and I refuse to appear hypocritical upon the matter so soon.” She studied the other girl’s length in frank appraisal. “How about ‘Harry’, in keeping with your new appearance?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter wrinkled up her nose.

“‘Teresa’ then? Or ‘Hero’ to keep with the Shakespeare theme?”

“Perhaps I could be George? We could both be George.”

“You may be George all by yourself. I don’t need to change my name.” Helena paused. “I probably will though. Just for fun.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter shook her head. “Not George.”

The Witch’s dark-eyed girl lead the way out of the Box-maker’s yard. “‘Diggory’? No? ‘Michael’?”

“‘Michael’,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, considering, “N—o, not that. No, one’s own name ought to… sit right.” She slipped her satchel over her shoulder and reached for the Witch’s girl’s hand. “I’ll think of something.”

The End

[1] Unfortunately the list was kicked under the bed, where it was found next day by an upper-housemaid. It quickly became an object of fear as it was secretly passed around the palace, and many servants and even a few courtiers resolved to mend their behaviours at once, least the King recollect his objections to them. Both the Queen and the Steward noticed a great improvement in the running the place in the following months, but neither of them ever guessed at its cause.

[2] As you will recall, at this time all marriage ceremonies were, by law, required to take place before the peel of the midday bells. The Wedding breakfast, of course could go on much longer and frequently would if the guests were of high enough station not to mind the loss of a day’s wages. The wedding breakfast of the King’s son and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was intended to go on for three days.

[3] In fact the story about the enormous serpents was less of a story and more of a rumour that the Witch’s girl fully intended to investigate as soon as possible. She was quite interested in natural history.

The three of them spent another gloomy evening, this time over a rather sad gruel that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had over-seasoned. While the Bookseller worried and catastrophised in his chair his eldest daughter gently hand fed the sheep’s head that sat upon her sister’s shoulders and made attentive noises.

“No, I’m afraid that time is against us,” the Bookseller finally said, “We’ll have to have the wedding as soon as possible, before any word of this gets out. And it must be the Inkmaker; I doubt you could draw anyone richer — you’re not much of a housekeeper and you have that annoying way of making everyone feel foolish when they’re not as clever as you.”

“Perhaps not everyone,” said his daughter, looking at the clock on the mantel, “It’s almost Eight o’clock, father.”

So the Bookseller went grumbling off to his room, leaving instructions and reminders in his wake, and his eldest daughter gently put her sister to bed. And when she could hear her father snoring, she put on her sensible old boots, crept down the stairs, and stepped outside, locking the door behind her. 

And then the Bookseller’s eldest daughter walked through the city — from the Antique Quarter into the Clockmakers’ Quarter, and from the Clockmakers’ Quarter into the Opal-sellers’ Quarter, down front streets and back streets — until she came to the Witch’s rickety old house at the end of its lonely lane. This time she prudently avoided the front porch altogether and crept around the house to tap at the kitchen door.

The Witch’s dark-eyed girl opened the door and looked her up and down. “It’s you,” she said impassively, drying her hands on her apron, for she had just been washing the dishes.

“Has the Witch gone to bed yet?” asked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“No. But I think you’ll be relatively safe if you stay in the kitchen,” said the Witch’s girl, “though I make no promises.” She opened the door wider in invitation and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped in.

“I need your help again,” she said and bit her lip while she waited for the Witch’s girl to respond.

The Witch’s girl turned away and began preparing a pot of tea. “I don’t know how you expect a mere Witch’s girl to aid you against the fairies,” she said, “That seems more like the sort of task you’d want a Witch for, conjuring helpful spirits and casting spells of protection and making bargains (always a tricky proposition with fairies I am given to understand), and all that sort of carry-on. However, as it happens I am—”

“No, no,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I don’t need the Witch. I have made a four-step plan. But I do need something from you first.”

“Oh.” said the Witch’s girl, looking back at her with an eyebrow raised. “Well. What do you want?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter took a deep breath. “I do need to know where the fairies are keeping my sister’s head. It’s the only thing I can’t do by myself.”

“I already told you,” said the Witch’s girl as she carefully carried the two cups of tea over to the kitchen table, “I can’t find her with a few old hairs now that she’s with them. Fairies are irritatingly jealous of their privacy.”

But the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was already unfolding a pillowcase out from her pocket.

“What is that” said the Witch’s girl suspiciously.

“This is my sister’s pillowcase. And last week she spent a whole evening crying into it because her sweetheart had said that he was considering getting his hair cut short and she thinks long hair is romantic.”

 “Really?” said the Witch’s girl, “That seems rather a stupid thing to do. Are you certain you want her back?”

“Of course I’m certain! And a footnote in chapter seventeen of John Quartle’s The Roads to Babylon: Contemplations on the Thaumaturgic Practices of Six Centuries suggests that since tears emanate from the soul they can (if used correctly) overcome the most obdurate of magics. So I thought that… well, perhaps you might be able to use this to find her?”

The Witch’s girl opened her mouth, then closed it. And then she sat back and said that she thought possibly something along those lines could be attempted, perhaps. “But you understand, of course, that there would be a price to pay,” she added, “That’s how magic works, even for a Witch’s girl.”

“Yes, I understand,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I am a woman of business.” And then she took a deep breath and asked: “What would you like this time?”

The Witch’s girl looked at the Bookseller’s green-eyed, long-limbed, tangle-headed daughter. “I could ask for all your memories of a dear friend, or of the happiest day you ever spent,” she said, “I could ask you for the next gift you are given, no matter what it may be. But I think that this time I will take… two kisses. On the lips. From you. It’s a slightly more laborious job, you see,” she explained.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter let out the breath she was holding and agreed to the bargain.

“Well then,” said the Witch’s girl, “To work.” She stood up and fetched a lantern from the scullery, opened it and handed it to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. Holding up the pillowcase by a corner, she lit a taper at the stove and moved it under the cloth until it caught aflame with a silver fire.

“What are you doing!?” cried the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in horror, taking a step towards the Witch’s girl.

“Oh, hush!” said the Witch’s girl, “And watch.”

The pillowcase was almost all ashes and embers now, and the Witch’s girl let it go as the final corner burnt up. “Be ready with the lantern,” she said, watching as the remains of the pillowcase drifted down to the floor. And as it collapsed into dust upon the cold stone the last ember flew up upon silver wings.

“Why, it’s a butterfly!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in astonishment.

“Don’t gawp — trap it in the lantern!” cried the Witch’s girl, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter shook off her surprise, stepped forward, and caught the shining butterfly in the lantern with one sweep of her long arms. She closed the glass door upon it quickly, then held the lantern up to examine the fluttering creature.

“That was almost graceful,” remarked the Witch’s girl, fetching a dustpan and brush.

“It’s beautiful,” breathed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter still staring at the butterfly. “Is it a tiny part of my sister’s soul?”

“What a ridiculous idea! Of course not,” said the Witch’s girl from where she was sweeping up the ashes. “It’s just the memory of the tears she wept. You’re lucky your sister seems such a melodramatic sort of person, otherwise there may not have been enough.”

“She’s not really like that at all, she just cares about hair and clothes and things,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “Otherwise she’s quite practical. The butterfly keeps butting up against the glass pane facing east. Is that the direction my sister’s head is in?”

The Witch’s girl stood up and tipped the ashes into the oven. “You’re quite clever really,” she said, “in your way. Yes, the memory wants to return to the mind that thought it up, so if you follow the butterfly it will take you to your sister’s head. But as soon as the sun rises the enchantment will end and you will just have an old lantern. Which I shall want back, by the way, I only have two. That is, the Witch only has two. Oh, now what is it?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter was looking at her in horror. “Only until sunrise! But I have to go home and prepare first, and then I have to go to the botanical gardens, and then I have to find the fairies! All on foot! How will I have enough time?”

The Witch’s girl shrugged. “Perhaps the fairies are close by,” she suggested, “I don’t know. Why do you need to go to the botanical gardens?”

But the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had started pacing. “And I need to find my way past the city watch; it’s easy enough to get here, nobody cares about here, but they’ll be patrolling the streets further into the city, and will ask so many awkward questions! Not to mention avoiding footpads! And lamplighters!”

“Do the lamplighters have a quarrel with you?” asked the Witch’s girl, interested, “Although, having met you, I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. I suspect you probably have disagreements with a very many people.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter ignored her. “I had thought I could find out where my sister was tonight and then go there tomorrow. Oh, none of this was in my plan!” she wailed (sounding not unlike her father, though she didn’t realise it). “Why didn’t you explain what you were going to do first?”

“Why didn’t you explain your plan?” rejoined the Witch’s girl. “I must say, you seem easily discouraged. Those long legs look like they could keep up a good pace if you'd had a light supper. And only a dull-wit would be stumped by a few night-watchmen and so-on.”

At this the Bookseller’s eldest daughter glared at the Witch’s girl, who stared quite unrepentantly back at her, and I am afraid that they each thought several uncharitable things about the other but happily neither was impolite enough to speak any of them aloud.

Finally the Witch’s girl sighed and said “I suppose I could lend you the Witch’s horse.”

“She wouldn’t find that... disagreeable?” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter before she could help herself.

The Witch’s girl waved the comment away. “The Witch has been thinking that it needed some exercise for a few days now, but I haven’t had the time to take it out. You’d be doing me a service.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “a poor girl riding a horse at night will be even more noticeable than a poor girl alone. People will want to know where I got it from.”

“Ah, but you’ll be upon a witch’s horse,” said the girl, “and it has a knack for passing by unremarked. Just tell it where you want to go, give it its head and you’ll see. Drink up your tea while I saddle it.” She walked to the back door and then paused. “Not that it’s my affair, but you have worked up some sort of countermagic to protect you, haven’t you?” she said over her shoulder, “You know the fairies will seek to enchant you as soon as they see you.”

“I’m hoping they won’t even think to try,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I have a four-step plan—”

“Have you at least tied some red thread around your wrist?” sighed the Witch’s girl.

“Yes, of course,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, pulling up her sleeve to check, “as Gallowglass recommends in—”

“Yes, yes,” said the Witch’s girl quickly, “that’s well. Good luck. Don’t eat or drink anything you’re offered and all that. Possibly we’ll see each other again (though I doubt it). But I hope so.” And out the back door she went.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter drank up her tea, and then she waited a while, and finally she picked up the lantern and stepped outside. There in the yard stood a pretty little black horse, already saddled and bridled and waiting. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked about her but there was no sign of the Witch’s girl — or, indeed, any stall or stable to keep a horse, only an old hen-coop. “Hello?” she called, taking a step toward the coop, “Where are you?”

At this the horse gave an impatient shake and trotted a few paces toward the back gate, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, remembering how little time she had, shrugged and stepped over to the animal.

Of course, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had led and groomed many a visitor’s horse; she had ridden on wagons, and several times — after obtaining a large collection of books — she’d even carefully driven herself home in a hired cart. But she had very little experience in riding a horse. However, she recalled The Noble Steed: A Manual for Calvary Officers, With Several Colour Plates and An Appendix of Famous Rides, particularly chapter Four (‘Mounting’), and she lifted her foot into the left stirrup, threw her leg over the horse’s rump, and found herself rather higher from the ground than she would have expected for such a small horse. What next? She remembered that the Witch’s girl had said to tell the horse where she wanted to go, so she leaned forward and said “My father’s bookshop in the Antique Quarter, please,” feeling not a little foolish as she did so. But the little black horse’s ears turned to listen, and then it trotted out of the yard, down the lane and through the Brazier’s Quarter. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter held the reigns loosely and tried to remember to keep her seat with her legs, as The Noble Steed had instructed, and not cling to the saddle with her hands.

Now as I have said, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was very familiar with her city, its streets and districts, its character and people. But she had never travelled through it upon the back of a Witch’s horse. And maybe it was being higher up, or maybe it was the mist that seemed to have rolled into the city from the ocean, but everything about her seemed quite changed. The streets and buildings appeared dreamlike and hazy, as if viewed from faraway. Old-fashioned lamps illuminated the fog in an odd manner, casting queer blue lights in the streets, and half-glimpsed figures hurried past without a word. Indeed, along with the mist, a thick restful quiet had covered the city, smothering the sound of any footsteps or cheerful voices calling greetings. All she heard was the steady clip-clop of the Witch’s horse itself; and once some distant bells ringing out the hour.

And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who would have taken her oath that she knew that city as well as anyone, slowly began to realise that she was hopelessly lost. At times she would see a house or a market square that she thought looked perhaps a little familiar, but then they would get closer and she would decide that no, she didn’t recognise it at all. Perhaps it was the fog, and the strange blue lamps shining everywhere that made everything seem so strange.

And then, all of a sudden, the horse came to a halt, and she was astonished to find that they were standing outside her very own house in the Antique Quarter without her having the least idea by which way they had gotten there. She sat looking all about her in bewilderment until the little black horse give itself a sort of impatient shake and she found herself apologising as she made an awkward dismount. “Just… please stay here until I return,” she said to the horse, and she let herself back into the shop and crept upstairs.

On their bed she found her sister lying quietly, her great sheep’s eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. “I’ll be back soon,” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, patting her hand. Then she brought out the old satchel she used for books when she visited the auctions and second-hand markets, and began packing it. She put in a knife, and a ball of twine, her spool of red thread, Lady Colbertain’s Herboria Antiqua: A Guidebook to Worts, Weeds, and Wonders, Fully Illustrated, and several other small things that she thought she might want. But most of the bag was taken up with a large parcel tightly wrapped in oil cloth that she fetched from the kitchen.

Once that was done she changed into her best dress: it was a dark red and decorated with the finest of needlework that her sister had once spent weeks painstakingly working on for a family wedding, and which the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had only ever worn once. Then she shouldered her satchel and went back down to the little black horse waiting patiently for her in the street. And again the Bookseller’s eldest daughter thought back to chapter Four of The Noble Steed, threw herself up onto the little black horse’s back, leaned forward and whispered “The Botanical gardens, please” and off they trotted.

Once more that strange mist rolled in all about them and the lamps burned blue. They passed through one quarter-gate, and then another without challenge. And then they were trotting down twisting streets and tiny back-lanes and through silent squares with the only sound she could hear being that of the little black horse’s dainty hooves upon the flagstones.

And despite how closely the Bookseller’s eldest daughter kept looking about herself she was still taken by surprise when the tall iron gates of the Botanical Gardens rose out of the fog before her. “Oh!” she said, and then “But they’re locked, of course! Oh, how stupid of me, how will I—" But she needn’t have worried for as the little black horse approached the gates they swung open before them.

“Well!” said the girl, as the horse trotted through and the gates closed quietly behind them, “What a clever horse you are! Because I suppose it was you. Although how you manged it I don’t know, for I have read that cold iron is remarkably resistant to magic.”

The horse gave a snort that would have sounded rather contemptuous in a person, and came to an abrupt stop, swishing its tail.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and she slid to the ground and unhooked the lantern from the saddle so she could see about herself. “Now let’s see. I’m afraid I haven’t visited these gardens since I was quite a little girl, but I do seem to remember…” and she chose a path and began walking, the little black horse following curiously.

These gardens had been made by the current King’s great-great grandmother [2]. They contained trees and bushes and flowers from all about that Kingdom and beyond, as well as lawns and statues and water-features and aviaries and so much more. This is why it took the Bookseller’s eldest daughter a good hour of searching and backtracking before she found what she wanted. But finally, after first carefully consulting the illustration in Herboria Antiqua and comparing it to the flowers in front of her by the light of the lantern, she took out her knife and cut several long stems. Folding them into her satchel she stepped back onto the path, and almost into the inquisitive nose of the little black horse who had taken a great interest in the proceedings.

“Verbena,” she explained to it, “I read about it in James Heskett and Agnes Tallow’s The Whitsuntide Letters: A Thirty Year Correspondence Between Two Country Magicians. Heskett has several entries on how verbena carries the scent of old magic. And, of course, Tallow disagrees, as usual, and says that he’s writing utter rubbish and he ought to go and clean chimneys for a living because he’s obviously not much use as a magician and so-on; but I was inclined to believe Heskett on this matter because of—” Bored, the little black horse began to wander away.

“Yes, well. Now I have it, I suppose we should carry on,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, and she hurried after the animal and pulled herself up onto its back again. “I think we need to follow the Witch’s girl’s lantern from now on,” she told it, “Do you mind if I use the reins to guide you?”

The little black horse didn’t, so they proceeded through the Gardens and out between a second set of gates that opened silently before them and closed after them. There was no mist this time, just the yellow dancing lamps of the Garden District, where the wealthy lived, and a warm summer breeze dancing around them. The girl steered the horse down several well-lit avenues, past fountains and rose gardens and tall wrought iron gates and tidy lines of cypress trees, always moving east.

Only once did the horse disregarded the pressure of the reins, when it suddenly stepped back into the shadow of a gateway. Instinct made the Bookseller’s eldest daughter cover the silver lantern. A moment later the Watch strode past, swinging their cresset lamps to check every doorway and back-lane; but somehow-or-other they forgot to check the gateway where the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and the little black horse hid.

Finally, just as a distant belltower rang out two o’clock, the two reached a willow-lined boulevard that overlooked a slow canal. On the other side of the boulevard from the canal, rising above high white walls, several villas had been built to enjoy the prospect of waters and willows and the ornamental bridges that spanned the waterway.

In the lantern the butterfly was now fluttering madly as if determined to find its way past the glass and out into the night air. And when they reached the very last villa on the boulevard the poor thing was almost battering its tiny body against the glass.

“I suppose this must be it,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, gazing up at the darkened house through locked iron gates. It was a very fine building set up high on grassy terraces, with tall roofs and wings on either side… that is, so far as she could tell in the starlight — for not a lamp or light shone from the place. But she could see long grass and untended hedges, giving her the feeling that it hadn’t been inhabited in some time. And as you know, this is just the sort of place to draw ghosts and fairies and other Things.

Yet she couldn't help but feel that something seemed awry. She slid off the little black horse and considered the villa. It felt… too empty. The horse nudged her with its nose and she stepped away from it to think. If she released the silver butterfly she knew it would fly straight to her sister’s head — but would she be quick enough to follow it? What if her sister wasn’t as close as she had assumed?

The little black horse nudged her again. “Stop that!” she whispered, still staring at the villa. It was no good, she had to take the chance and open up the— This time the horse gave her a buffet that knocked her around on her feet. “Will you please—!" And then her voice stopped in her throat.

Beside her slowly flowed the black waters of the canal, reflecting the starry sky like a mirror. She saw the rippling image of the silver lantern illuminating her and the little black horse as they stood on the white stone boulevard… but behind them the empty villa was ablaze with light! Its gates were flung wide open, and she could see figures promenading along its terraces and capering behind the windows of the house! Stepping forward she descended a short staircase that lead to a dock and there she crouched down before the slow current. As soon as her hand touched the water she could hear a riotous music all about her. It was a jarring, uncanny tune that was both unsettling and yet horribly compelling; it seemed to whisper Come, forget your errands and dance! For soon you will be dead and in your grave, your life frittered away on mundane trifles, and when will you ever get this chance again? Listening to it, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter shivered and fought down her instincts that urged her to plunge into the water and go to the music, while at the same time ignoring her reason that told her to run back up the steps, take the horse’s reins, and ride away as fast as they could go.

She stood and carefully made her way back up the steps. This time she didn’t hesitate: she opened the door of the lantern and the butterfly immediately flew out, circling over the canal, and then diving down into the waters. But then on it went, beneath the surface! The girl watched it, still fluttering as if in air, approaching the reflection of the villa, passing through an open window, and disappearing.

“Well!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Well!”

Beside her the little black horse snorted.

“I was surprised!” she said, as if defending herself. “One doesn’t expect to meet magic, even when one has set out to find it,” she added, staring down at the capering figures and flickering lights in the water below her.

The horse thought this rather a silly thing to say, and also that she was wasting time, so it stepped lightly on her foot.

“Ow!” said the girl, “Yes, yes! Settle down. I know what I’m doing, I have made a four-step plan.” Then she nodded once, as if to assure herself of this, and opened her satchel. She rubbed some of the verbena lightly over her best dress, then she carefully put her hair up — rather clumsily, in the manner of someone who doesn’t often bother with fancy styles and is regretting that now — weaving the rest of the flowers into her hair as she braided. “How do I look?” she asked the horse, practicing a courtesy. “I’m hoping the ‘old magic’ scent of the verbena will make me seem like a mortal enchanted and carried Away. And so it won’t occur to anyone to try and enchant me again, d’you see?”

This struck the little black horse as a remarkably good ruse. It gave the girl an approving glance, then (being a contrary sort) pretended it hadn’t and went to stand under a nearby willow.

“Alright,” said the girl, turning back to the canal. She shouldered her satchel and made herself tall. “Alright. Well then. Off I go.” And again she descended the steps to the waters.

Before her was the lighted house, filled with leaping shadows. It was ever so eerie watching them behaving so riotously while all she could hear was the wind and the water. She took a deep breath, thought of her sister lying enchanted at home... and then took a long step and let herself topple into the reflection.

There was a strange sensation of cold water passing over her and disappearing, like walking though a draught in an old house. And then she was upright and dry and back in a warm summer night, with the white stone steps leading up from the waters ahead of her and that wild music everywhere. Turning back, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked down into the waters: reflected in them she could see the stars and the real boulevard — if it was real? Honestly, it was hard to know what to think! — and a shadow under a willow that must be the little black horse. Above all this sat the darkened villa, still and cold. But she herself had no counterpart at all.

Biting her lip, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked again at the blazing house above her. Then she straightened her best dress, shouldered her satchel, and started walking up the steps and across the boulevard to the villa. The sound of viols and fiddles and pipes swept down from the open doors and swirled down around her, beckoning, wooing, beguiling her to give herself up to it. It pulled at her blood and tugged at her mind and tried to make her forget everything she was supposed to be doing. Forcing herself to stay resolute in her errand she passed through the open gateway and entered the revel.

[1] The Bookseller’s youngest daughter later folded these notes up carefully and kept them for many years in the back of a cookbook. She only brought them out on special occasions, usually at Christmas, when she would retell this story for her children (and later her grandchildren). But she would always tell the middle part quickly, so as not to scare them. As a consequence, the children would often play at being their aunt and have grand and very loud adventures, usually involving swordplay, which their mother found extremely funny. “But I’m not like that at all!” her sister would insist on her occasional visits, and she would reply “Hush. In my stories you are just like that.”

[2] This was Queen Dorcas, a ruler with a passion for botanical researches — occasionally, it was suggested to the detriment of her royal duties. It was noticed that those who did suggest this often contracted strange, very sudden, and invariably fatal illnesses, so most people decided to just enjoy the gardens.

His daughter watched him with tired eyes. Despite everything she had swiftly fallen asleep the previous night, being exhausted from her adventures. But she had been woken up even earlier than her father by silent servants who dressed her in tight, scratchy, and extremely complicated clothes. Her best dress, the one her sister had worked so hard on, was spirited away with expressions of repugnance to the rag pile of someone-or-other; her satchel and her sensible boots, however, she managed to kick under the bed when nobody was watching. Breakfast was brought up to her room, though by the time it arrived it was cold — purposefully so, she suspected. For the handmaidens and footmen attending her left her in no doubt that she was not liked.

Eventually her father departed (extremely annoyed that he had to ask permission of the Steward to do so — “Why, it’s enough to make a fellow want to flirt with Egalitarianism!” he said a little too loudly) and the girl found herself left in a grand bedchamber filled with ornate furniture and beautiful hangings, with windows overlooking the palace rose gardens, and quite, quite alone.

She had asked one of the handmaidens if someone could fetch her something to read, but the woman only gave her a blank look, said “I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about that, miss,” and left, revealing the two guards standing sternly outside the bedroom door as she did.

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter spent her day sitting at the windows and looking out over the city, counting ships coming into harbour and flocks of doves circling the various buildings. Away to the west she could see the clocktower and the synagogue of the Antique quarter, and home. Further south was the city wall, and the smoke of the Braziers’ Quarter. She imagined pointing this out to the Witch’s girl, who replied I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of wasting my time speaking with fools and lackspirits. You will have to excuse me.

Eventually the light faded and supper was brought to her, and still nobody had addressed her with more than a few curt words. Of the Queen or the King’s son she saw nothing.

That night she lay in bed in her too-short nightdress and thought back over everything. She knew she needed to start working out what to do next, but somehow her heart wasn’t in it. “Tomorrow,” she decided. Ah yes, ‘tomorrow’. I am constantly amazed at the toil and sweat that is expended ‘tomorrow’, said the Witch’s girl in her head, No wonder you were always too tired to call on me, what with all the work you were going to do ‘tomorrow’. “I hate you,” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, and then she rolled over onto her side and fell asleep knowing she was a liar.

The next few days were just the same. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter would be woken up at cockcrow and dressed by strangers in uncomfortable clothes. Sometimes long pins were involved in the dressing, and these would prick her; her hair would be arranged into tight, elegant styles and this always involved painful tugs and cool apologies and far more ribbons than she had ever imagined existed in the world. Every other day she was bathed before she was dressed, in water that had cooled considerably on its way up from the kitchen, and she was vigorously scrubbed with harsh soap by her attendants, so much so that she had bruises by the end of her toilet. Her breakfast would arrive cold and often not properly cooked. She would offer most of it to the small kitchen cat that had begun slipping into her chambers with the handmaidens, but the animal was just as likely to turn its nose up at the mess as she was; the girl herself mainly lived on toasted bread.

Then, breakfast removed, she would sit at her window and watch the world. Sometimes luncheon would arrive. More often she was forgotten, so that by evening and supper time she was famished and would have eaten anything, no matter how badly cooked.

Though the Bookseller’s eldest daughter didn’t know it, the rest of the palace was faring almost as miserably. The King’s disposition remained extremely poor, which was quite out of character in that mild man. He found fault with everything, from his pot of coffee, to his vestments, to the appearance of his favourite horse. And then, face crimson with fury, he would fall into violent tirades at whichever poor servant or courtier he decided was responsible. Even the Queen was unable to sooth him or get him to take a more reasonable view of things. And at the slightest mention of his son’s marriage to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter he would stamp his foot and thunder “It shall be so! I have commanded it!” and storm out of the room muttering threats. Everyone in the palace was agitated and, as you can imagine, quite sure in themselves as to whom the blame for this reversal in character could be attributed.

So it was little wonder that on the third day the King’s son visited the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“I wish to know what you have done to my father,” he said, coldly.

“I promise I haven’t done anything to your father,” she replied, but by this time she had little hope that she would be believed.

The King’s son paced up and down her chamber, giving her sideways glances. “There’s really no point in going on with this farce,” he said in that low, controlled voice that men use when they wish you to know the effort they’re making not to strike you, “I am certainly not marrying any sorceress. You will tell me how to break your hold over my father and then I will have you hanged for treason.”

Resisting the impulse to point out how unpersuasive this was as an argument, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter leaned forward in her chair and tried to appeal to him: “Help me escape instead. I certainly don’t want to marry you either! Once I’m away from here you’ll never see me again.”

The Kings son gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, you won’t be escaping from this place. My father has doubled the guard, and anyone — even me! — who is caught aiding you in any attempt to flee loses their head. The King has been very clear. As I’m sure you already know. And note this: even if you do get bored and choose to disappear in a... a cloud of sea mist or something, remember that we know all about you and your family.”

The girl didn’t answer. She turned back to her window and stared out until he left.

But he returned several times over the following days to rant at and threaten her in a way that was most unbecoming in any young man let alone one who expected to eventually sit on a throne. It was almost a relief when the dressmakers arrived to start measuring her for a wedding dress, for he deemed it beneath his dignity to be seen swearing at a common shop girl and would leave.

The dressmakers, overseen by the ladies-in-waiting, worked in a terrible silence. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter was only spoken to when they wished her to turn around or to raise or lower her arms, and these requests were brief and unfriendly. Bales of damask in pinks and oranges appeared and the ladies-in-waiting had murmured conversations over styles and fripperies, ignoring any comment the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to make. Great import seemed to be attached to how many ribbons could be plaited into her locks, and she spent hours sitting uncomfortably while her hair was twisted into strange and terrible shapes. When she wasn’t needed she would find herself hiding away in a corner with only the little black kitchen cat for company while the other women argued about wedding favours for the guests [1], and waited to be summoned again for the next fitting. She almost began to look forward to her solitary evenings.

But I am afraid that even in this faint hope she was soon to be disappointed. For to her surprise the Queen began to call on her, always at sunset. The older woman, every inch now the famed beauty, would sit with her by the window and make cool indifferent conversation — did she enjoy dancing, what were opinions on rose cultivation, how was her needlework? — but the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected the Queen paid little attention to her answers. Instead sharp grey eyes watched her carefully. She longed to interrupt and say Please believe me, I am innocent of this thing! But what was the point?

And then, as soon as night had fallen, the Queen would rise and leave with barely a word.

On the fifth day her sister visited her. She was shown into that beautiful chamber as the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was having another of her interminable dress fittings and feeling utterly miserable. The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife gazed around the room at all the dressmakers and handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting, and then she put on a sweet smile and addressed the haughtiest of the ladies: “Good morning! I know it’s awful but would you mind dreadfully if I had a private audience with my sister? We’re probably going to be giggling and being such ninnies, and — I know it! — would embarrass ourselves tremendously if everyone was watching our silliness. And I can tell you’re far too kind to let that happen!”

The lady so addressed was not, in fact, too kind to let that happen, and would have been delighted at the chance to report to the court even more observations on the common and unbecoming behaviour of this wicked girl who had enchanted the King for a crown; but she couldn’t immediately think of a way of denying the request in front of everyone without appearing uncivil. “Of course,” she murmured shortly and lead everyone out of the room.

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife closed the door after them and looked at her sister.

“I wish I could do that,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter glumly.

“You’re far too busy getting into stupid messes,” said her sister, “And that colour is horrible on you.”

“I know.” The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stared down at herself sadly.

“Honestly, Ophelia, what were you thinking!? Getting tangled up in all this… I don’t know what! All week long I have been hearing stories of the nefarious enchantress who has bespelled the King. And this morning our father finally thought to tell me that it was you!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter slipped off her uncomfortable court shoes and sat down silently by the window to toy with a pin-cushion.

“They say,” the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife continued, walking over to finger some off-cuts of fuchsia-pink damask, “that the King has sworn to cut your head off if you don’t marry his son. And also that you’ve cast spells on the King, so that his son has to marry you. And that you’re a prisoner, but also that you’ve usurped the throne. It all seems rather contradictory. This is nice,” she said holding up a length of apricot-coloured silk. She glanced back at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter to see what she thought; and then her face changed at whatever she saw and she said “Oh! You poor silly goose—!” and a moment later she was on her knees with her arms thrown around her sister.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter let herself sink into her sister’s embrace and sighed. After a while the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife said “I knew, of course, how little you wanted to marry the Inkmaker, but honestly—!” and despite everything the Bookseller’s eldest daughter laughed.  

Then the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife sat down at the window seat too, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter told her all that had happened. And when she was finished her sister looked uneasy and said “So you think this is the… them? This is them revenging themselves?” and she shivered as she spoke, for she still had bad dreams about her time in Fairy.

“I think it must be,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I can’t think of anyone else who might hate me so.” Can’t you? said a voice in her head, but she ignored it.

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife looked about the room and tried out a more cheerful tone. “Well. I suppose one could do worse than marrying a King’s son and living like this,” she said, idly stroking the kitchen cat, who had appeared in her lap at some point, like cats do.

“He loathes me. He thinks I’m a sorceress and wants to see me hanged.”

“Not the best start for a marriage,” agreed her sister. “I thought you were sweet on that girl at the Witch’s house.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter slumped in her seat. “I ruined that. I said horrible things to her. Although,” she said, frowning, “she also said horrible things to me.”

“What did she say?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter thought back. “She said — she implied, she never says anything outright — that I was using her. Because I asked her to help me save the King’s son. She said that I was only interested in money and… and my prospects.”

“You? And prospects?” The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife laughed unkindly because they were sisters. “Does she know you at all? You only care about books and the shop. Oh.” She stopped and gave her sister a suspicious look. “If there really was an affection between the two of you… Ophelia, you were calling on her when you could, and going for walks and so-on…? You didn’t come over all shy and tongue-tied, and pretend she didn’t exist, like you did with that printer’s girl you liked when you were fourteen?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked awkward and the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife said “Oh, Ophelia!” in an annoyed but unsurprised voice.

“I was busy with… with work! And, and helping you with your wedding!”

“Oh yes, you were a great help with my wedding! I set you to roast some vegetables and then come in to find them smoking and you sitting beside the stove reading a cookbook!”

“It was Mrs Mynchyn’s Ars Coctione and she writes in a very amusing way!” retorted the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “Although she is quite spiteful about everyone. But I like that.” At this thought a tear made its way down her face, which she quickly wiped away, “And I helped you hem your kirtle.”

“You began to help me hem my kirtle; I had to finish it because you wandered off somewhere. Ophelia—”

“And I found you that poem about the moon and night-fishing as a metaphor for love!”

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife nodded gravely, “Yes, it was a charming poem. Thank you. However, I don’t know but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your Witch-girl might have felt a little slighted by you staying away and ignoring her—”

“I wasn’t ignoring—!”

“—IGNORING her! And then suddenly you appear again just when you want something! What was she to think?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter swallowed and nodded. “You’re right,” she admitted, “I get so caught up in my own matters and forget to consider how other people might be feeling. And yes, I think I wanted some reason to see her again. I couldn’t just… call on her. I was too afraid that I’d make a fool of myself.” She sighed. “Oh Miranda, I’m awful.”

“Yes, you are,” agreed her sister.

“And now she probably never wants to see me again, and she’s right. I’m a bore and a lackcourage. And I liked her so very much.”

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife rolled her eyes. “Then go and apologise, you peahen! You do make things hard sometimes!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stared at her. “How can I? The King has sworn to have my head if I try and leave!”

Her sister shook her head in exasperation. “Then start being the cleverest person I know once more and fix all this. And when you’ve done that, go and make it up with the Witch’s girl. By now she will have heard that you are set to marry the King’s son, so you’ll probably have to do even more pleading. There you are, “she added as she gently removed the purring kitchen cat onto the floor, and stood, straightening her skirts, “I’ve made a two-step plan for you: fix this ridiculous situation and then apologise to your young woman.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter fell back against the window still and groaned. “How easy you make it all sound, Miranda! Why, I hardly have to do anything!”

Her sister laughed and walked across the chamber, throwing open the door to find all the attending women waiting impatiently outside.

“We've had a lovely talk and decided not to use all that,” she said gesturing toward all the pink and orange silks “they're lovely, of course — such good eyes for colour you must all have! — but my sister has expressed a wish for her dress to be of midnight blue with silver ribbonwork. Or dark green with gold?” she added glancing over her shoulder at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who stared, bewildered, back at her. “Make both, and she can choose before the day,” decided the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife with a nod, and she strode off down the corridor.

Dress fittings became ever so slightly more bearable after that.

But still the palace was broadly hostile to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and took every opportunity to let her know it. The King’s son would pace about and threaten her after breakfast, the ladies and dressmakers would ignore her throughout the day, and the Queen would sit and engage her in icy conversation at sunset.

The Bookseller met with her again as the date of the wedding drew closer. He spent most of his visit berating her for putting the Inkmaker out so, and also bemoaning at how much extra work he now found himself with these days. “I must close the shop every time I need to have a word with the printer, or attend an auction. I dread to think how much custom I am missing out on — and here you are living like a lady in the palace! I don’t think it too much to call your behaviour positively unfilial, my child.”

“If I had been married off to the Inkmaker you’d still have to be doing all of that yourself,’ pointed out his daughter, but he was not willing to admit to this.

“I’m sure he could spare you from time to time,” he said airily, “Anyway: we shall never know now, shall we?”

Her sister also called upon her when she could, and smilingly settled matters such as which flowers ought to make up the bridal crown (“Roses, of course! White if she wears blue, and yellow if she wears green.”) and of what the nosegay ought to contain (“Why, rosemary and bay! Anything else would tempt misfortune. Yes, even orange-blossom!”).

But I am afraid that her fourth visit was more perturbing.

“Ophelia,” she began, after once again managing to remove that unfriendly company of women from the chamber, “I may have some bad news. I went to see the Witch’s girl, to let her know what had happened to you.”

“Oh?” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, turning from the window to regard her.

“I walked until I found the correct house — it looked just like your description,” her sister told her. “But nobody was there: that house is quite, quite empty. As the neighbours were very happy to tell me in great detail, the Witch disappeared from the city a week ago.” And she went on to relate a few of the accounts the residents of the Braziers’ Quarter had divulged to her: how all the Witch’s chairs and tables and other furniture walked out of the house by themselves one moonless night while the Witch flew above on a spinning wheel and laughed; or how the Witch had stepped outside one Tuesday morning and began playing a strange tune on her fiddle, and soon a great a great flock of songbirds had descended upon her house and transported all her possessions away through the air. One woman had said that the Witch hadn’t departed on her own free will, but that all the dead men she had wronged had come and carried her off, and that it was debt collectors who had turned up the next week and taken her belongings.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter frowned at this news. “And what about her servant girl? Did they know what had become of her?”

“The Witch didn’t keep any servants,” said the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife quietly, watching her sister. "Everyone assures me she lived quite alone."

“What?” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Of course she didn't! No, they must have…” And then she blinked twice. “Oh,” she said, “Oh!” She sat down suddenly in a chair and was silent for a long time. And then she said, in a very small voice, “Miranda, she was right. I am a silly fool.”

Her sister leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “You’re the smartest fool I know. But you do tend to see only what you’re concentrating on and miss the obvious.”

Two days before the wedding the Queen came to call on the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in the early afternoon instead of the evening as had become almost habitual. She courteously requested a private audience with the girl and the Ladies-in-waiting and attendants reluctantly departed, annoyed that they were going to miss whatever was about to happen.

Once they were alone the Queen walked over to the window and looked out, making a few remarks about the weather.

“Madam,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stiffly, “as to that, I hardly know what to reply since (as you are aware) I have been confined to these chamber for almost a fortnight now.”

The Queen had turned sharply at her tone, and now looked intently at her, as if trying to make up her mind about something. “Like everyone else,” she began after a moment, “it seems to me quite apparent that you are responsible for this situation; that it is all a part of some foul scheme you have conjured. And yet… And yet when I lay the matter out in my mind, several aspects strike me as curious.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter watched her and waited.

“If you could do this, ensorcell a king, why not replace me as his wife? Or simply get him to abdicate in your favour? And why put yourself in this ridiculous position where he could have you put to death in a moment of pique?” The girl shivered at this thought. “And why confine yourself here?” went on the Queen, beginning to pace. “You’re obviously not enjoying it. Unless you’re that skilled in deceit, and perhaps you are. But when I first met you I know I felt sure of your character.” She came to a stop before the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “My dresser tells me that every day you are pricked, pinched, ignored, and insulted, and that your tormenters walk away unscathed. And that too strikes me as curious behaviour from a wicked sorceress.”

“If this really is all a part of my evil scheme then, why, I know everything already,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter carefully, “So really, you lose nothing if you tell me what has been happening. For truly! I know very little, and have been at a loss as to how I can mend matters.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the Queen sighed.

“I don’t really see I have any other recourse — we are almost out of time. Very well, then. The last fortnight has left the palace in a state of uproar. The King is as you saw him last: unreasonable and choleric and behaving quite out of character, forever finding fault and ordering punishment for imagined insults. Always I must stay by his side in order to prevent the worst from happening. I speak of banishments, or even summary executions, you understand.

“And then, as the afternoon wears on, he becomes more and more himself again. Sometimes he even appears surprised when he’s reminded of the upcoming wedding. But as soon as evening falls there’s a moment…” she frowned, as if trying to remember something. “I don’t know what it is that happens, but when it’s over he has returned to this ill-temper: furious at any perceived slight and obsessed with Samuel marrying you.” She shook her head, “So far this state of misrule has only disrupted the palace, but if nothing is done then surely the whole Kingdom will soon be in the same disorder. And that must not be allowed to happen.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter considered this. “He seems better in the afternoon… but then something happens—”

“At sunset, yes,” said the Queen, sitting down by her. “And a further curious detail, one that seems trivial but must be pertinent: I have realised that no-one in the palace ever remembers the moment when the sun actually sets. It is evening and then suddenly it is night. Something happens at twilight, something of which we are all unaware. But what it is…”

“Ah, thus your evening visits to me. You wished to discover what sorceries I was practicing each sunset to achieve my wicked ends.”

The Queen sighed. “An endeavour in which I have been quite unsuccessful, as you are aware.”

“Yes, because it is not my doing.” The Bookseller’s eldest daughter leaned forward. “Madam, having done little but give this matter thought, I have concluded that this is a fairy revenge. That they are bespelling the palace and everyone in it because I stole your son back from them.”

The Queen slowly nodded. “Yes, it occurred to me that this might be so. If it isn’t you, after all. But how to prevent them?”

The girl thought a moment. “Take an ice bath.”

“What?” said the Queen, forgetting her formal tone.

“Have a bath brought to wherever the king is at around sunset — where is he usually?”

“Sitting for supper, or on his way,” said the Queen, staring.

“Well then. Have the bath set up… behind a curtain or in a gallery — somewhere where he won’t see you and demand answers. Have the bath filled with the coldest spring water, and with ice if you can obtain it. And just before the sun sets and everyone forgets their wits, climb into the bath. Because then you’ll be too busy thinking ‘Oh! How cold!’ to be lulled into a stupor by the magic, and so you will be able to see what occurs.”

The Queen was looking at her as if she had lost her faculties. “Child, I am not going to have a bath in public!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter shrugged. “Then get your son to do it. I worry that he finds his days to be a little empty and lacking in purpose. This will make him feel useful.”

“And possibly be a spiteful little revenge upon him,” said the Queen, but she stood up decisively. “I shall consider your suggestion.” And she left, allowing the ladies-in-waiting and various other attendants to return, all clearly disappointed at the composure of both women and happy to take it out upon the girl’s hair, which all now agreed needed to be much higher in order to hold even more ribbons.

They finally left her alone at the end of the afternoon, and she sat at her window with the kitchen cat, smelling the late summer roses and watching the shadows lengthen. She observed the sun wester, but she found that, just as the Queen had said, she was insensible of the moment when it sank below the horizon and night fell. One moment the highest towers of the city were being bathed in orange and gold light, the next it was dark and crickets were calling down in the rose garden. Then she wondered what was occurring downstairs, and if the Queen had taken her advice.

And so I am happy to say that it was less than an hour after nightfall when the Queen knocked quietly at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s door and, upon being granted entry, slipped in followed by her son. He was in a thick dressing gown and his hair had dried into odd spikes, but he didn’t seem to care about any of this in the least. Instead he was excited.

“You were quite right!” he said, smiling at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter for the first time since their acquaintance, “I saw the whole thing!”

And then he told her how he and his mother had had a bath moved to the minstrel’s gallery above the great hall, where the King was to sit for supper, and how the servants filled it with the coldest water they could get, emptying in sacks of ice that runners had brought from the frost market. “Then, just as the sun was setting, I sat myself down in the bath — my oath, but it was biting! I could barely think with the cold! And then what do you think I heard?”

“I can’t imagine,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who was having trouble recognising this affable young man as the scowling Prince she was used to.

“A peel of silver bells rang out from the twilight. And everyone below me stopped speaking or serving or whatever they were doing, and stood stock still. Mother too! And I know I would have been struck so as well, because the bells sort of got into your head, but I was that deuced discomforted I started back awake almost at once! And so I saw that, that Person — do you know who I mean? I see Them in my dreams some nights…”

“I think I know,” she said. “What about Them?”

“Yes, I saw Them glide in, from where I couldn’t tell. And They went right up to my father and whispered in his ear. I suppose I can make some guesses as to what They were saying, but... well, They smiled too wide all the while, d’you know what I mean? I felt like striking that horrible smile off Their sly face!”

“Thank heavens you could not!” said the Queen, “Carry on.”

“Then the Person… went away, again I couldn’t make out how. And a moment later the last chime of the bells had faded into silence and then everyone up and carried on just as they were! Why, I believe Sir Romant took up his story about the wolf in his orchard exactly where he had left it, and neither he nor his listeners the wiser!”

“So,” said the Queen, looking at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter with kind eyes, “We all owe you a tremendous apology. Oh, my dear child, if I had not listened to you—!”

The King’s son had become solemn and pompous at these words. “I, especially, have behaved appallingly to you. Miss Ophelia, I beg you to inform me of what I may do to expiate myself and repair our situation.”

“Oh, let’s not think of it,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, a little impatiently, for she was more interested in the matter at hand. But she politely invited them to sit with a gesture. “But I must say that it is wonderful to not to feel so alone at last!”

“You are kinder than we deserve,” said the Queen with dignity. And then she sat down and, suddenly informal, exclaimed “But, my dears! what on earth do we do next!? Tomorrow is the eve of your wedding day!”

The King’s son hummed, but didn’t appear to be quite as outraged at the thought of marrying the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as he had been.

“Oh, that’s easy,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who was feeling more like herself than she had done in days. “You order the chapel bells to be rung from dusk tomorrow to dawn the next morning.”

They stared at her, astonished. “All night?” said the Queen, “But why?”

“Don’t you see? The fairies can’t stand the sound of iron bells!” she explained, “Thomas Thistle has a whole two chapters documenting their aversion in Multifarious Accounts of Fairy, its Nature and Customs! I am quite certain that while the bells ring that Person must stay away from the King.”

The Queen was shaking her head. “The state the King is in… even if he has calmed down by tomorrow afternoon I can’t see how we will get him to agree to this!”

“Tell him that it’s in celebration of the upcoming nuptials,” suggested the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “A wedding gift from the bellringers. Or perhaps the Barometer Makers’ Guild have reported a dramatic atmospheric low coming and advised that all the bells in the city be rung to agitate the air and break up the coming storm?”

“The first one, I think,” said the Queen with a smile, “The second may require a little more explanation than I feel I could provide. But how am I to convince the bellringers to work all night like this with only a day to prepare?”

“Oh, just go to them and ask a question about change-ringing,” said the girl, “I doubt you’ll discover much resistance to the idea. Bellringers, I have found, are very enthusiastic in their work.” She shuddered slightly, remembering previous conversations with bellringers. “If they’re not at the cathedral they will be drinking in the Cornishman’s Head.”

“This is all very well,” said the King’s son, “But what I want to know is: what is to stop the fairies from trying again another night? We can’t very well have the bells rung every night.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked a little awkward. “I do not wish to appear immodest or solipsistic, but I am wagering that once I am removed from the palace the fairies will lose interest in the rest of you. I am the one who thwarted them. Although I am sure they treasured your company very much,” she added soothingly to the Prince. He glanced uncomfortably out into the night and prayed she not trouble herself worrying about his pride. “Oh!” she added, brightening, “And I shall write you a list of protections you can keep about the place. Just in case. Thistle and Whitherwick — and Greenaway, of course! — have much to say of the matter of defences against the fairies; and, of course, the ordinary people of the Kingdom have long practiced their own vigilance over uncanny matters; modern society has much to gain from a proper survey and compilation of…” she noticed the politely bewildered expression on the face of the King’s son and trailed off self-consciously. 1

The Queen was looking up at the ceiling, still thinking through the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s scheme. “Still, the practicalities of the idea… hours of bellringing… it will make everyone in the palace quite mad by the end of it,” she mused, “not to mention the rest of the city.”

“Ah!” The Bookseller’s eldest daughter rose and stepped over to her bed, from under which she pulled out her old satchel. Quickly searching through it she turned back with her hand out. “Ear plugs! Quietly have it put about that if things get too noisy then they must fashion some just like this. They’re what I used—” She was suddenly aware at the identical looks of mild disgust both her guests wore and glanced down at the lumps of greasy tallow in her palm. “You might prefer beeswax,” she suggested after a moment.

And, in fact, the Queen and the King's son both declared that they would prefer beewax over tallow. That being decided, the Queen said that she had much to do and had better begin that evening. “I wish we could let you out and have you come with us,” she said, “but, of course, the King—”

The girl waved the apologetic words aside. “I can bear one more day. Let me know if there is anything I can do, though.”

On her way out the door the Queen paused, noticing the little black cat who was now curled up on a stool. “Oh! Hallo. And where did you come from?” she said.

“It’s the kitchen cat,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “She’s been keeping me company during my days here.”

“The kitchen cat is a large tabby,” said the Queen, “But perhaps they’ve gotten another one. Goodnight, my dear.” And she followed her son out of the chamber.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked thoughtfully at the little black cat. “I hope you’re not secretly a fairy, guising,” she said, “If that were the case I think I should scream and not stop.”

The cat gave her an insouciant stare and then leapt down and strode to the door, requesting leave to withdraw, which she granted. The guards outside gave her hard looks, reminding her that, so far as most people in the palace were concerned, she was still the wicked sorceress that she had been an hour earlier. But nevertheless she went to bed feeling more hopeful than she had in many days.

The little black cat, meanwhile, had made its own way down through the palace and into the gardens, where it climbed a wall and dropped down into a quiet lane behind the palace grounds. There it arched its back and began an awful hacking and wheezing, eventually coughing up a small rolled up piece of paper. This was retrieved and tucked safely away, and then the person who now stood where the cat had been walked off humming with her hands in her pockets.

[1] They settled on fine white gloves being handed out to each guest, this being quite the fashionable thing to do that season. “But surely they won’t fit the hands of many of the guests?” the Bookseller’s eldest daughter wondered aloud. She was ignored, and the gloves ordered.

[2] Before she left the palace the Bookseller’s eldest daughter wrote down a short list of practical defences against the fairies for both the King and his son, mostly to put the poor Prince’s mind at ease. The King blithely ignored these suggestions, despite entreaties from his wife and son. The Prince, however, had unsurprisingly developed a dread of that capricious people and took to habitually wearing a self-bored pebble hanging from his neck on red thread, and carrying a walking stick of rowan-wood topped with a simple iron handle when out on excursions. During his own reign he established the position of Royal Campanologist, with attending Ringers who would welcome every special occasion with elaborate peels.

I am happy to say that the Prince kept the girl's document, and it has been passed down as a family treasure, the single scrap of writing paper carefully preserved in a leather folder embossed with the royal coat of arms. Scholars of fairy history can now view the list by special permission from the current head of the family.

The music pervaded everything, though she never saw the performers. She could feel it in her veins, urging her to join the revelry, and she would suddenly discover herself performing a wild galliard with other laughing dancers  — some of whom she felt she ought to know, in that odd half-maddening way we all feel sometimes (if only she could think) — or taking part in a riotous cotillion with a man who seemed to be hollow from behind. A poorly-dressed girl who seemed about her own age danced past her looking exhausted, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw that wherever this girl stepped brambles grew, so that she must keep moving least the thorns catch at her and coil up around her.

She thought that she may have stared for some time at her own distorted reflection in an old mirror... and then someone laughed and offered her wine; but when she reached for a cup from their tray she saw that a large toad was sitting solemnly among the vessels and she recoiled, startled. And then everyone laughed again and she laughed too, and they all moved on into the dance.

She explained the intricacies of a Spanish novel she had once enjoyed to tall grey woman who had water dripping down her skin and a sodden gown. While the girl talked the woman silently caressed her face with both hands, which was both a little disconcerting and unpleasantly wet. When the girl got to the really interesting part of story the lady smiled, showing far too many sharp teeth.

She remembered the music slowing at one point, becoming more sombre, and the crowd parting for a languid pavane to pass. All the dancers wore crowns of burning candles, hot wax dripping down their faces, and among them she thought that she recognised a woman from the next street over who she knew had died two years earlier, and another woman who she was sure was married to the baker on Clock Street. Then the procession was lost to the sight of the girl, who forgot all about them almost immediately.

In fact, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had become so lost in the fairy revel that she may have stayed with them forever if it hadn’t been for a very fortunate thing that happened. She was deep in conversation with a smiling man in a velvet tail-coat; he was speaking of Roman law and she was staring in fascination at the snail that was slowly crawling up his cheek. She was only distracted from this when a child offered her a tray of golden apples. She took one without thinking, bringing it up to her nose to smell. And at once she was beset with the most delicious scent. The apple smelt of sweetness and long summer nights and dark eyes and secret kisses exchanged in an orchard, kisses exchanged with— who? She couldn’t think. The smiling gentleman asked her Why do you not eat? And she was just opening her mouth to take a bite when— oh! She felt a sharp pain in her foot, and looking down she saw— what do you think? An ordinary little black hen, just like the ones everyone kept in their yards in her neighbourhood. And this hen had cocked its head and was giving her a short, cross look, like hens do. Then all at once the girl remembered going out to the coop on frosty winter mornings to let out the hens, and throwing out grain for them, and gathering eggs for her sister to cook. And abruptly the reality of her sister’s awful plight came back to her, making her gasp.

When she looked back down the little black hen had already scuttled away among the throng of the ball, leaving the Bookseller’s eldest daughter feeling like she had just woken up from a heavy sleep. She glanced about her but everything was a nightmare of moving bodies and murmuring voices and that incessant unsettling music that seemed to make her bones vibrate like they were made of glass. The smiling gentleman again urged her to take a bite of the apple, but now she remembered exactly why she shouldn’t eat anything offered to her in this place and she said “Do you know, I think I shall leave it for later,” and dropped it into her satchel. The gentleman immediately lost interest in her and moved on to join another cotillion that had formed nearby and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think about what she ought to do next. She needed to find her sister’s head, but where to start?

She had just decided that she would climb up onto a table or chair so she could get a better look at the ballroom when a great cheer went up from the dancers. Looking around she saw that at the end of the ballroom a very Wonderful Person — why, the very same Wonderful Person that she had seen in Mr Prosper’s house only last night! — had stepped up onto a podium and, lit by a soft white light from above, was smiling down at the company. They wore a brocade dressing gown over a wine-dark suit, and an elegant pair of ram’s horns grew from Their forehead. Hands in Their pockets They waited for silence, smilingly.

“My dear friends,” the Person finally began in a melodious voice that rang out like a pistol shot, “It is that time of the evening when we must needs acknowledge the fortunate guests — O, how so very fortunate! — who have been received into our gracious company, and to take a moment to drink a toast to them. But more importantly we give them this opportunity to drink a toast to us, their kind hosts, to whom they are — of course! — so very obliged. (Or are they obliged? Who can say; Mortals are remarkably ungrateful creatures, and, to tell the truth, I have not paid much attention.) But still, a toast!” And at a gesture from the Wonderful Person a thin, pale young man stepped out of the crowd and handed Them a goblet of spun glass that contained some heavy golden liqueur. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter eyes lingered on this young man… there was something slightly familiar about him, as if she had seen him before but did not number him among her acquaintances. But then the thought was broken as all about her revellers lifted up old drinking horns, wooden cups, chalices of crystal or bone. A cup was thrust into her hand by an unseen person and she imitated the others.

Then, with an ironic twist of their mouth, the Very Wonderful Person cried “My friends — to our guests!”

To our guests! The company all repeated, laughing, and drank deeply.

Fortunately, when she was twelve the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had read a slim volume entitled The Parlour Mountebank: Twenty-Six Simple Stratagems to Amuse and Bewilder, and she had been inspired to practice the trick of appearing to drink while actually emptying the liquid down your sleeve, causing her sister (who even then did most of the laundry) to become very annoyed with her. So she downed her cup too and tried to ignore the unpleasant feeling of liquid soaking through her dress.

After drinking the Very Wonderful Person leaned down slightly to regard a befuddled beggar that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter vaguely recognised from about the city. Cupping the beggar’s chin in Their hand and turning his head first one way and then another, the Person regarded him thoughtfully.

“How small they are, and how fleeting. And ugly. Like mayflies. Mayflies darting about, always in a hurry, always trying to outrun each day of the short time they have in this world.”

“Wha—?” said the beggar, swaying.

“Quite so, quite so,” said the Very Wonderful Person kindly, and patted the beggar’s shoulder as They stood straight again. “Such is mortality.” They suddenly gave the poor man a sharp kick that sent him sprawling backwards into the laughing crowd. The Very Wonderful Person smiled down beneficently for a while as the beggar was roughly buffeted about by those he had fallen against, and then They raised Their hands, drawing back the attention of all.

“But these mortals who have found their way among us tonight! O, these lucky, lucky mortals…! Why, Dame Fortuna smiled on these few unhappy mayflies when we, their Very Good Friends, invited them into our sublime company. And for a time — only for a time! and this is their tragedy! — we have shown them such raptures and wonders that, upon their return to their grubby little abodes and unforgiving lives, they will soon likely wither away and perish for the want of our attentions. And how unhappy they shall be!” The Very Wonderful Person tilted Their head and took a moment to chuckle at this thought.

“BUT FOR TONIGHT!” They shouted abruptly, making everyone jump. “But for tonight…” They whispered, and a tear trickled down Their shining face while They stared beatificly into the middle distance, “O, how they shall live and delight and revel among us! How blessed a mortal who finds such kind friends as we!”

A chorus of agreement came from the crowd, but the Very Wonderful Person had suddenly become fascinated with Their goblet and had fallen silent. After a moment the viols and pipes again struck up and the dance began once more, but still the Person stood, turning the spun glass goblet this way and that, admiring how the soft white light shone through and formed colours that danced upon Their fingers. Asently, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tilted her head back to follow the light back to its source.

And there, suspended in the darkness, floated her sister’s beautiful head, radiant in that unruly place.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stifled her cry of astonishment and turned to fight her way to the edge of the crowd, narrowly avoiding becoming caught up in another processional, as she tried to see how her sister’s head hung in that darkness like that. Was it dangling from the rafters on a rope? Or floating through some fairy magic? (And if the latter, how on earth was she to retrieve it?) Stepping outside of the ring of guttering candles and shading her eyes, she was finally able to see that an upper gallery ran around the ballroom, with several fine ladies promenading around it and watching the ball through opera glasses. And there, at the far end of the gallery, her dear sister’s head had been rather brutally hung from a railing by its own long, brown hair.

Looking quickly about the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw the stairs leading up to the gallery tucked away in the shadows across the room, and made for them. Two dancers whirled around her, reaching out to pull her into their sport, but the girl ducked away. A tiny wall-eyed old man appeared in front of her proffering a tray of plum cakes that she knew, somehow, would grant her the ability to read people’s dreams if she but ate one, but she stepped around him. A lady in a moss-covered dress crossed her path leading a great wolf on a silver chain and the beast glanced over at her, curious, perhaps, at her determined gait; but then it lost interest and followed its mistress back into the throng. Now her path was clear, and in seconds she had started up the stairs.

It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dim light away from the ball, but when she did she came to an abrupt halt. Half-way up the staircase was a long, crouching figure swathed in a black shroud, and it was slowly descending toward her, feeling along each step with its hands as if searching for something. After a moment she took a hesitant step and at once the thing turned toward the noise, reaching out as if to grasp her. But its sleeve-covered hands found only air for it was still a few steps above her; and, with a dreadful sense of relief, she saw that its face was entirely covered with wrinkled cloth. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think of a plan. If she moved, even backing down the stairs, she was afraid that it would be upon her in an instant. The unexpected had occurred, she realised, and so she must extemporise.

Slowly slowly she reached into her satchel and found the golden apple she had put there. Slowly slowly she pulled it out. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flung the apple past the thing on the staircase — but on the opposite side to where she herself stood. The apple landed with a thud, and then bump! bump! bump! it began rolling down the steps. The creature had immediately twisted back toward the noise with a swiftness that made the girl’s heart skip a beat, but every time it tried to capture the object that was coming down the staircase, the apple was already upon the step below it. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter squeezed herself against the wall as the thing passed her, and she felt worn fabric and long damp hair brush past her and smelt dust and the scent of a woman’s old-fashioned perfume. And then the figure was gone, lost among the crowd of the ballroom.  

Releasing a breath, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned and began ascending the stairs again.

The gallery was lit by fireflies that orbited like stars about the several finely costumed ladies as they walked and talked together, discussing the dances below. Behind them hovered pages holding ready the fans and refreshments of their mistresses. No-one even glanced toward the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she slipped past them like a shadow, though one lady sniffed the air and said “Have you found a new page, my dear? How diverting!” But her interlocutrix denied this and said that on the contrary she had been meaning to obtain a new child for some time now, because her current page was beginning to complaining of stiff joints and grey hairs, and it was becoming rather a bore — she would probably change him into something diverting soon and release the thing he had become upon a village somewhere. The others nodded sympathetically and said Aren’t mortals such a bother?

By now the girl had made her way to the end of the gallery where her sister’s head hung, still radiating that lovely soft light.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter crouched down low beside the railings. From her satchel she took the knife, some string, and the large parcel tightly wrapped in oilcloth. And had any of those fine ladies turned their head to look back down the gallery a moment later, they would have seen her gently cutting away the beautiful chestnut tresses that tied the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head to the railings. And then the head itself was lifted away and gently wrapped in a large white handkerchief. And in its place the thing from the oil-skin parcel was hung.

But all were far too absorbed in their amusements to pay attention to the doings of a cheaply-dressed shopgirl; and in fact the merrymaking continued for several long moments before anything amiss was noticed. Then the Very Wonderful Person, who was still standing in a reverie, felt a drop of liquid strike Their shoulder. Glancing at it, They saw that it was blood — and, why, here was another drop! And looking up They saw, not the beautiful face of the Bookseller’s youngest daughter but — what do think? Ah, but you have guessed already! — it was a fresh sheep’s head, still dripping from the butcher!

“DECEPTION!” screamed the Wonderful Person, Their beautiful face contorting in rage as They pointed an accusing finger. “That false magician has tried to cheat us out of our prize with duplicitous counterfeiting spells!” The music stopped abruptly, and from all around came low angry murmurings that rapidly grew into bellows and shriekings of fury that were truly dreadful to hear. “To me!” thundered the Wonderful Person, “and onward! O, my friends, how we will pay back this petty-conjuror for his unspeakable impertinence!” [1] There was a swirling of shapes and colours, like a kaleidoscope of butterflies enveloping one before flying away, and the sound of a multitude of footsteps trampling over a hard wooden floor. And then the candles all blew out at once and the hall was empty.

A moment later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter crept out from the shadows of the staircase and made her way outside, gently supporting her satchel.

The Bookseller’s oldest daughter emerged from the waters of the river, quite dry as before, and staggered up the white steps to find the little black horse waiting for her. She threw her arms around its neck, wordlessly burying her face in its warm shoulder. After a moment the horse began nuzzling her hair in a comforting sort of way.

But soon the Bookseller’s oldest daughter stepped back from the little black horse, took a breath, and said “I suppose we should go home now.” The horse stood still while she awkwardly climbed onto its back, one hand guarding her satchel from buffeting.

And of course, all she wanted to do was to go straight to her home above the bookshop and restore her sister at once, just as you would expect. But she knew that she needed to return the little black horse first, and thank the Witch’s girl for its loan, and also to… well, to thank her for help again and so-on.

So the horse trotted back into that strange blue-lighted mist and they made their way through the dream-city. And perhaps the Bookseller’s eldest daughter dozed a little in the saddle (and if she did, well, no wonder after all her night adventures!) because it seemed to be almost no time at all before they were stepping through the Witch’s back gate behind the Brazier’s Quarter.

The horse came to a stop as the girl rubbed her tired eyes. The sky had lightened enough that she could see the tiny yard with its hen coop and little else. No Witch’s girl emerged from the house to greet them. She slid down to the ground and embraced the horse again, giving it a kiss on the cheek. “ Thank you!" she whispered, "I don't know if you are really a horse, if a very clever one, or a spirit in the Witch's service, but I think you are quite wonderful!” The creature rolled its eyes and turned its back on her, and she laughed and left it there.

But when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped into the Witch’s kitchen she found that it too was quite empty, and cold besides, for the stove hadn’t yet been lit for the day. And, why, here were their tea cups from the evening before, still sitting unwashed on the table! She looked about her wondering if she ought to do something, feeling that awkwardness visitors always have when faced with household tasks that obviously need to be done. Perhaps she should go back outside to unsaddle the horse and begin currying it?

It was at this moment the Witch’s girl appeared, coming in from the yard. She carefully carried several eggs wrapped in her apron and from a finger dangled the lantern that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had left tied to the little black horse’s saddle.

“Hallo!” she said, “Here you are, alive and unensorcelled. It must have been a good four-step plan after all, which I find surprising. You will have to tell me all about it while I light the stove.”

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat down at the kitchen table (perhaps a little gingerly, for she was already feeling sore from riding) and began telling the Witch’s girl of her night’s adventures. She talked about that strange ride through the city, and discovering the revel being held in the reflection of the old villa, and of her careful preparations. But when she tried to speak of the ball itself, and what she saw and did there, her tongue stumbled in her mouth and her words failed… and then she found she couldn’t go on.

“I… I can’t… Why can’t I…?” she puzzled, and then looked alarmed. “Have I been I enchanted into silence? Is this how the fairies protect themselves from trespassers?” She gripped the table and tried to keep the panic from her voice.

But the Witch’s girl left what she was doing and knelt down beside her. “I don’t think so, my dear,” she said calmly, taking the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s hand and holding it between her own. “I think that you have just been through a very frightening experience, and you were able to carry on because you are a brave and clever woman. And now that it’s over, and you don’t have to be brave anymore, you can finally feel scared in safety. It’s all quite natural.”

Now I’m sure you yourself have noticed how we can all stay strong and stoic through the direst troubles but as soon as ever someone is kind to us about it we immediately fall apart. And to her great horror, as soon the Witch’s girl said all this of course the Bookseller’s eldest daughter burst into tears.

“Oh my dear!” said the Witch’s girl, embracing her, “Oh my brave girl.” And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter hid her face in her shoulder and wept.

“You poor thing,” said the Witch’s girl as she patted her back kindly, “You have been very courageous indeed. I fancy you only have an inkling of the danger you were in—” At this the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sobbed louder and the Witch’s girl went on quickly: “But you have come through it like a hero! Why, someone could write a poem about you.”

“In iambic pentameter?” sniffed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Oh, dactylic hexameter or nothing!” proclaimed the Witch’s girl. “There, there. You’re quite safe now.” And she began absently untangling the verbena from the girl’s hair with her free hand.

“You smell of horse,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter into her shoulder.

“So do you,” said the Witch’s girl.

Finally the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat back up. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve in a way that would have annoyed her sister, “I think you were quite right: everything all rather overcame me once I knew it was over.”

“That’s often the way,” said the Witch’s girl wisely, “and a well-deserved cry afterwards is no disgrace. Are you feeling better now? Then let’s have a look at your sister.”

Unwrapped, the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head winked and blinked at the two of them in confusion as the Witch’s girl examined her, but, having no breath to speak with, it remained silent.

“I haven’t the least idea of how to swap the heads back,” realised the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suddenly, “Honestly I hadn’t thought that far ahead!”

“Ha ha,” said the Witch’s girl obligingly, leaning down to look at the severed stump of neck, which was as cleanly covered with skin as the rest of the head, “But I must say, your lack of foresight upon this matter astonishes me. Surely you have some book somewhere-or-other on fastening magically detached heads back onto their bodies? I am afraid your bookshop must be sadly lacking if not. I shall certainly avoid it when next I require reading materials.”

“Not magically detached heads,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, annoyed. “We do have books on anatomy and chirurgy, of course, and—”

The Witch’s girl, stood back up and deftly wrapped the head back in its handkerchief “I think you’ll find,” she said, “that you will have very little problem. The head hasn’t really been separated from its body, not in any important way; that’s how both parts are still alive. Just… I don’t know, nudge the sheep’s head aside with her real head and see what happens.”

“I see,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter doubtfully. “Well then.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. “The sun is rising,” said the Witch’s girl after several heartbeats.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter started and glanced out of the window. “Yes, of course!” she said, spurred into activity. She quickly collected her things. “I expect the Witch will be up soon and wanting her breakfast, so you must get to work. She’s an early riser?”

“Not always,” said the Witch’s girl.

They stepped out into the Witch’s yard and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned to face the girl. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, “For all of your help and for, well…” She trailed off a little helplessly.

The Witch’s girl waited a moment and then she leaned up and pressed her lips to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s. They stood like that for a long moment, the taller girl dropping her hands to the other's waist; and then she pulled away and said “No, I was supposed to kiss you, so that doesn’t count. We must start again.” And, surprised at her own boldness, she reached up and ran her fingers down through the Witch’s girl’s silky hair until she cupped her chin, which she drew toward her until their mouths met again.

Kissing is like anything else — the more you practice the more you improve. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected she was getting better at it, and when the Witch’s girl let out a little sigh she felt sure of it.

Finally the Witch’s girl stepped back. “That’s two,” she said huskily.

“That’s one,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quickly leaning forward to steal another, “That’s two.”

The Witch’s girl frowned. “Now you have overpaid.”

“I am a woman of business,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter airily, “and I consider it no bad thing to be in credit with someone I have had repeated dealings with.”

“Be that as it may,” said the Witch’s girl sternly, “with magic the price must be paid exactly, no more, no less.” And then she threw her arms around the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s head, tugging her down and bringing their lips together one more time. “There,” she breathed some time later, “Our bargain is fulfilled. Good-bye.” And she turned and went inside.

The sun was well above the city walls when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quietly let herself back inside the bookshop. She crept up the stairs and into the sisters' shared bedroom where the sheep-headed creature still lay passively, staring up at the ceiling. The girl gently encouraged it to sit up, then she opened her satchel and brought out her sister’s head, unwrapping it. “Just… nudge it aside,” she muttered to herself as she held the head up toward its body.

And a moment later her sister was sitting there blinking at her in astonishment.

“Ophelia!” she said. “Where is… what has… Oh! Why is there an old sheep’s head in my lap!” And she leapt to her feet, knocking the horrid thing to the ground so that it rolled away on the floor.

"Oh, Miranda!" cried the Bookseller’s oldest daughter, falling upon her sister and wrapping her arms tight around her.

“What has been happening!?" said the Bookseller’s youngest daughter,  squirming away, "Oh! Get off me you great lump… you’re squeezing me! Ow! Ophelia! You smell like a tavern! And a stables! Stop it!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter released her sister at last and looked her up and down. “What do you remember?” she asked.

The Bookseller’s youngest daughter frowned and thought. “I don’t really remember… Have I been ill? I dreamed that I was at a, a ball.” She shivered. “It was somehow quite awful, though I can’t now recall why. It’s all fading… But then you were there, and… who was that girl you were with?” Then she started moving her head about. “Why does my head feel so odd?”

“Does it?” said her older sister, stiffening in alarm.

“Yes, it feels… lighter—” and just then she put a hand to the back of her head, and immediately she shrieked “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HAIR”

When the Bookseller arose half and hour later he found his two daughters preparing breakfast in an icy silence. Both had their correct heads, he noted with satisfaction. Whatever it was must be over. He’d be able to marry them each off with no-one the wiser.

Musing philosophically over the caprices of women, he sat down at the table and awaited his morning cup of tea.

[1] Mr Prosper appears to have been forewarned of the fairies’ anger — perhaps through some cryptic remark made by the magic mirror he is supposed to have owned — for by the time the fairies came for him he was already racing to the city gates in a hastily packed phaeton. And it was here, as he was attempting — unsuccessfully — to use various classical spells of opening upon those great portals, that the fairies overtook him. Faced with the host of furious spirits Mr Prosper abandoned his luggage and transformed himself into a barn owl, in which form he topped the walls and flew away, pursued by his former patrons. Whether he managed to escape I do not know, but it was several years before he was seen about in the city again.

Bereft of its horses, his phaeton was discovered upturned in the spice-traders' square just before dawn and its scattered contents were quickly appropriated and divided up among the less cautious of the city’s inhabitants. And I believe that the Witch’s girl later purchased a writing set and a pocket watch belonging to that unlucky magician, both of which had somehow found their way to Carpet Street and Mr Shovegroat’s Emporium.

The Bookseller invited his friend the Inkmaker over to dinner several times, and had his eldest daughter wait on them with the port bottle. After the second meal he approached the topic of his daughter’s unmarried status and how he was looking for someone to take her off his hands. The Inkmaker eyed her as he would a horse, even getting up to examine her from behind as she filled up their glasses. “She’s a bit tall,” he finally remarked. He was a perceptive man, and only five and a half feet tall.

“What does that matter?” said the Bookseller. “She’s good with money, and… well, not bad looking.”

“Can she cook?” asked the Inkmaker, and his friend prudently changed the subject.

They reopened the discussion a few evenings later, and eventually the Inkmaker begrudgingly agreed to marry the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

The girl herself, as you might expect, did not remain quiet during these negotiations. She regularly added her own thoughts, mostly remarks along the lines of “I shall not!” and more emphatically “Indeed, no!”, as well as making such a wide range of contemptuous snorts and mirthless barks of laugher that the Inkmaker asked her father if she was prone to illnesses for he wouldn’t abide sick people in his house.

“If you don’t marry the man, you won’t be living here anymore!” threatened the Bookseller one evening after the Inkmaker had left them for the public house.

“I won’t be doing that either way!” retorted his daughter; and, unable to think up a satisfactory rejoinder to this, he told her to see to the fireplace before she went to bed, and left the room. She, however, sat down heavily in his armchair and stared into the fire as she tried to think of ways to achieve a future that she wanted. But she ended up mostly thinking about the Witch’s girl.

Things were going far more happily for the Bookseller’s youngest daughter. The day after she had been restored to herself she had accepted the Clerk’s Apprentice’s proposal and a date was quickly set. In those days the ordinary people didn’t wait very long before getting married — they simply picked the next good day to do so and held the wedding. So two Fridays later, at the King Carabas’ Pleasure, the Bookseller’s youngest daughter finally wore the very becoming wedding dress that she had been stitching for almost two years and married the handsome Clerk’s Apprentice before a minister, and then they and all the neighbours sat to breakfast.

As the wine was being poured out the Bookseller rose to his feet and said the appropriate things, much of which was couched in classical allusion and not entirely understood by the majority; but they didn’t really care because the wine was good. They all drank to the bride, and then they drank to the groom, and then they drank to the couple’s future, and then the groom toasted his new father-in-law, and then his father-in-law, a little over-excited by this point, rose again and invited the company to drink to the King.

“And, of course, to the Queen,” he added openhandedly, “And the rest of the royal family. Oh! Especially with the poor Prince’s illness.” And everyone happily raised their glasses again, and drank, and waited to see if there would be any more toasts.

Everyone, that is, except for the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who had frozen with her glass in mid-air and stayed in that pose, her eyes wide, until her sister kicked her under the table.

Once the breakfast was over and the guests farewelled, the Clerk’s Apprentice’s new wife looked about for her sister to help her remove her few belongings to her now-husband’s lodging. But she could not find her anywhere.

And here I am afraid to report that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, usually of excellent character (if, perhaps, a little dogmatic), had quite deserted her sister in their last few minutes alone together. Instead she was striding through the city — from the Antique Quarter into the Clockmakers’ Quarter, and from the Clockmakers’ Quarter into the Opal-sellers’ Quarter, down front streets and back streets — until she came to the Witch’s rickety old house at the end of its lonely lane behind the Brazier’s Quarter.

Without hesitating, she marched around to the kitchen door, knocked once, and let herself in.

“Ahh!” said the Witch’s girl, dropping the basket she was holding onto the kitchen floor.

“Oh. Sorry,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, suddenly aware how abrupt her appearance had been. “Is the Witch in?”

“She’s off to market,” said the Witch’s girl demonstratively snatching up the empty basket and looking rather annoyed.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter nodded absently, “Good, good, then we can talk.”

Gazing at her and shaking her head, the Witch’s girl began saying something, changed her mind, performed an elaborate shrug with both palms raised to heaven, and put her basket down on the table. “I take it something has happened and you want my help? Since I haven’t otherwise seen you in a fortnight?”

“What? Oh yes. I mean no,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, blinking. “I mean… Right, yes. Sorry. I was intending to—”

The other girl waved away whatever she was about to say. “Don’t bother, you’re not very good at this sort of thing, I can tell. Just tell me what you need,” she said with a martyred air that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter found immediately irritating.

“Nothing has happened. But my sister got married this morning and—” (“Oh how jolly,” said the Witch’s girl icily, “Was it lovely, did she look nice, did everyone who was invited have an absolutely wonderful time?!”) “—and I suddenly remembered something,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter with a determined air.

“Oh, so you can remember things? How reassuring,” said the Witch’s girl.

“Listen! When I was at the fairy ball there was a young man acting the servant. He was all wan and seemed half-asleep, but I knew I recognised him! I just couldn’t think from where. And then today it came to me — he’s the King’s son!”

She looked at the Witch’s girl to see the effect of her announcement.

“So what?” said the Witch’s girl.

“So what?!” the Bookseller’s eldest daughter gasped, “He’s the King’s son! Everyone thinks he’s ill, but he’s been trapped in Fairy all this time!”

“Lots of people get trapped in Fairy,” said the Witch’s girl.

“Well, yes, but he’s the King’s son!” repeated the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suddenly feeling a little helpless.

“And?”

“And we need to rescue him!”

“Why him in particular?” asked the Witch’s girl, who was an egalitarian. “I’d wager you saw others you recognised at the revel.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter opened her mouth to refute this, then thought back and closed it.

“Oho! You did!” said the Witch’s girl. “So why aren’t you begging me to help them?”

“I… Actually I had thought I’d seen the Baker’s wife. And when I met her next I asked her if she had enjoyed her night at the dance. And she looked at me as if I were mad, and said that would be a fine thing, her husband taking her to dances, and then something about his trade requiring early nights. It all seemed so commonplace I decided I must have been mistaken.”

The Witch’s girl hummed. “I find myself quite in sympathy with the Baker’s wife. It must be nice being taken to dances.”

“I can tell what you’re doing, you know! And of course I would like to take you to a dance, but… well, you need to understand that I’ve been busy! With my sister’s wedding, and also my father wants me to marry an odious man and keeps making me sit up with him—”

“Ah. Your interest in the King’s son begins to become clear.” The Witch’s girl crossed her arms and gave the Bookseller’s eldest daughter a knowing look. “No doubt he would be an acceptable substitute for the odious man your father has selected. Setting our cap, are we?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked horrified. “No! Of course not! I don’t want to marry anyone! I want to run a bookshop, my own bookshop, not keep house for some awful person! But that would take money, and... well, the King is known for his generosity to those—”

“I see. A reward. I had not fully appreciated your mercenary nature until this moment,” said the Witch’s girl frostily. “How gullible you must think me.”

“No, I didn’t mean… oh, why are you so hard to talk to!”

They glared at each other, the Witch’s girl cool and arch, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter with her hands in angry fists.

“Anyway,” said the Witch’s girl finally, “I understand it’s been a year since the King’s son took ill. If he’s actually been held in Fairy the whole time he will certainly be under heavy enchantments by now. Practically a part of the place. So.”

“But that’s just it!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, triumphant, “Has he been trapped in Fairy this whole time?”

The other girl impatiently shook her head, not understanding.

“He still appears alive and himself around the palace. He sits at meals. They say he even goes for walks in the gardens. He just doesn’t speak to anyone! What if he’s being carried Away each night? Yes yes,” she said as the Witch’s girl opened her mouth to reply, “It may not be him; it may be a glamour cast over a stock or a scarecrow or something. But Greenaway writes in Observations and Conjectures on the Nature of Fairy Glamours that the longest a fairy illusion has been known to last is a quarter year!” [1]

“Oh, you and your books!” said the Witch’s girl, stamping her foot in annoyance. She took a deep breath and continued more calmly, her words laced with thick condescension, “My dear child, enchantments on an old log or a stone will certainly fall away eventually — maybe even upon the turning of tide or the changing of the wind if the fairy wasn’t particularly bothered. But this is probably another fairy dressed up as the King’s son and playing its tricks.”

“For a whole year? Without getting bored or distracted?”

The Witch’s girl raised her eyebrows. “I knew of a fairy woman who set off one morning disguised as a servant looking for work; she got hired, eventually married the man who hired her, and had five children with him. She acted the dutiful wife for years, because she thought it such amusing sport. When she and the ‘children’ finally revealed themselves and vanished away, pointing and laughing at him, the poor man was heartbroken and died a week later. Not of an actual broken heart, though. A horse kicked him. It was unrelated.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter decided to ignore this. “Don’t you see, I have to try! Perhaps I can’t save him, perhaps he is all but a fairy by now. But if it were you trapped there wouldn’t you want someone to come and rescue you?”

The Witch’s girl sniffed and said that she wouldn’t have become trapped in Fairy in the first place. “And if I had,” she added, “I doubt you could help me. (Or would, for nobody would post a reward.)”

“I did it once,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, looking annoyed.

“You had, I admit it, an ingenious scheme. But you were also very lucky. And the only reason the fairies haven’t revenged themselves upon you since is because there was an obvious scapegoat — Mister Prosper, who hasn’t been seen about town in a fortnight and is little missed. But this time,” finished the Witch’s girl spitefully, “you have no convenient culprit to suffer while you parade about enjoying all your coy little flirtations and angling for money.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked furious. “I am not flirting with anyone! Anyone else, that is! No, actually, I meant to say anyone at ALL!”

“Fine!” retorted the Witch’s girl, “Go back to your humdrum little life with your books and your childish plans until your father makes you marry some ordinary middle-aged man just so he has someone to keep house for him!”

“Says the petty little servant girl!” spat the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “No wonder you work for the Witch, nobody else would put up with you!”

“You silly little fool,” sneered the Witch’s girl, “Can you really be so obtuse—"

“Do you know, I suddenly find I couldn’t care less!” interrupted the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. A long step brought her right up to the Witch’s girl and she leaned down so that their faces were only a hair’s breadth apart. A poisonous remark died upon the other girl’s lips as she stared up at her with wide eyes. “I am going to rescue the King’s son,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in a low, hateful voice, “And yes, I am going to be well rewarded for doing so, enough to set up my own bookshop where I don’t have to answer to anyone. And YOU can go to the Devil!” And she turned on her heel and strode to the door.

With a gasp the Witch’s girl ran after her and grabbed for her hand. “Don’t,’ she said in quite a different voice. “Don’t go back there. Please.”

But the Bookseller’s eldest daughter wrenched her hand away and burst out of the kitchen door without a backward look. She marched down the lane and back through the city in a white fury, and everyone who saw her gave her a wide berth. When she got home she ran upstairs, slammed her bedroom door, and threw herself upon her bed and wept. And if you had asked her whether she was crying with anger or sorrow I am afraid that she wouldn’t have been able to say.  

Eventually she was all cried out, and after a time she rolled onto her back to stare up at the ceiling and begin to think.

The Bookseller spent a very jolly afternoon in the shop being congratulated by all his customers, who were quite happy to join him in drinking the health of the joyful couple. He felt pleased with himself, and became even more determined to marry his other daughter off as soon as he could. Then he could get someone in to cook and clean while he was in the shop, and have his evenings to himself. He did vaguely wonder where his eldest daughter was, but decided she must still be settling her sister into her new life.

In fact the girl was sitting with red eyes in her bedroom, drawing up a new scheme on a piece of scrap paper. She didn’t spend half the care on this one as she had on her first, and as soon as she felt it was good enough she upped and strode first to the candlemaker’s shop, where she bought some tallow, and then on to the ostler’s. Here she hired a mule and a small cart (demanding a receipt for her payment from the poor ostler, who took one look at her face and for the first time in his life provided one; the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was still a woman of business, and she intended to be recompensed for her expenses). And then, to the bemusement of those who were there, she filled the cart up with old soiled straw, never mind that she was still wearing her good dress from the wedding!

Then she drove to the cooper’s, where she bought a cask for a quarter of what the man had begun asking, also demanding a bill of sale. “For a farthing?” he said, incredulous. “Money is money,” she replied, “Help me get it onto my cart, please.”

And after that she drove the mule out of her own neighbourhood and beyond the ken of those who dwelt there. But you will have guessed that she travelled across the city into the garden district, stopping first at the botanical gardens, and then continuing on to that quiet boulevard where the villas look down upon the willow-lined canal.

At six o’clock the Bookseller’s eldest daughter walked into the kitchen of the bookshop. “Where have you been?” asked her father, who had developed a mild headache as the day had gone on, “the stove is cold and there’s no dinner!”

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” she replied, very shortly, and began to do just that.

“My friend, the Inkmaker may—”

“Not tonight, father” she hissed, and the Bookseller was astonished to find himself cowed, he who was used to being the martinet of that little home!

At eight o’clock he took himself to bed, feeling for the first time a little regretful over the absence of his bright and amusing younger daughter. He suspected he might not enjoy his forthcoming evenings with the terse and quarrelsome child who remained, and who only seemed to care about books and the accounts. “A sad state of affairs,” he told himself, shaking his head sadly. “Her mother was never like that.”

Meanwhile his eldest daughter was packing her satchel. This time, as well as a knife and the string and all the other little things she thought might come in useful, she took verbena freshly-cut that afternoon from the botanical gardens and the tinderbox from above the fireplace. And, after a moment’s thought, she took the iron poker from the fireplace too, wrapping a length of twine tight about its handle and tying the end into a long loop.

Then she put on her shawl, for the night was cool, and quietly left the house. She travelled through the city — from the Antique Quarter into the Clockmakers’ Quarter, and from the Clockmakers’ Quarter into the Cathedral District, down front streets and back streets — until she was travelling through the Garden District.

And what a difference there was, walking through the night as a girl alone and not on the Witch’s horse! Men would call out to her and ask her for her name. Libertines would offer to take her to a tavern, and stray dogs would sniff about her boots. These last she could threaten with the poker, but the men she must ignore as well as she could and hope to outpace their interest.

But once she entered the Garden District she missed the little black horse immensely. For the night watch seemed to be everywhere, and she was stopped and her business asked at least five times before she reached her objective. But she told them all that she was a maid to Lady Angerfield, returning home from an errand that had over-run; and, since they could see she was fairly well-dressed under her shawl, this seemed to satisfy their questions.

Finally she found herself at the end of the boulevard looking down into the black waters of the canal, and there, as before, was the reflection of the deserted villa all lit up for that strange revelry. Over to the last willow she strode, and from under its long fronds she rolled the cask — now fulled with the old straw — that she had stowed there, righting it carefully in the middle of the road.

Once again she braided her hair with the verbena and rubbed it down her dress. And this time she also took out the small packet of wax she had brought, and softened the tallow in her hands until she could plug her ears with it. “Just like Odysseus,” the Bookseller’s eldest daughter told the wind. I always felt Odysseus was rather a reprehensible character, she imagined the Witch’s girl replying with a sniff, So I suppose your modelling yourself after him doesn’t come as a complete surprise, though it is, of course, a regrettable one. But then she felt sad, so she remembered all the awful things the other girl had said and became angry again. With a scowl she took the tinderbox and lit a handful of straw, waited to ensure it was properly alight, and then dropped it into the cask.

Turning, she narrowed her eyes, marched down the steps to the water and let herself topple under.

Once again the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was dry and upright and facing the red lamps and orange flames of the fairy revel; but this time, as she had hoped, the music seemed faint and indistinct. She could still somehow feel it against her skin, but it now had no power to bewilder and distract her. Or to impress, perhaps: somehow everything about her now seemed smaller and more squalid. As she walked up the path to the villa the fine gentlemen and ladies promenading around the gardens appeared a little shabby and stooped instead of magnificent, and they shuffled along rather than strode.

Inside it was the same: what she remembered as a gloriously intoxicating spectacle was drab and listless. Occasionally a dance would break out and the steps would be performed with dexterity but little of the vigour of enjoyment. And the people there! Instead of dreamlike and beguiling they were twisted and pitiful versions of those she recalled from her first visit. Here was the grey lady, but her eyes were rheumy and her arms were pock-marked with scales, like a dried fish. There was the gentleman in the velvet tailcoat, but now she could see that his hands were aged and his face whiskered in patches like a worn-out quilt. Their clothes too were unpleasantly commonplace versions of those from her previous visit — ragged, worn, and dirtied with soil and grass-stains.

Only the Very Wonderful Person seemed much the same, and even They appeared distracted as They tapped at Their teeth and stared out into the shadows of the hall.

The mortals, however, she could now easily pick out. They moved more quickly and, from their expressions, seemed to be having a wonderful time as they spun and danced about, eating stale fragments of bread and drinking brackish water. And she now saw that they had a sort of warm glow coming all about them that the fairies would stand and bask in, like you might find yourself doing in a patch of sunlight on the first pleasant spring day.

With nothing to distract her, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quickly spotted the King’s son as he listlessly wandered about offering people grimy cups of some liquid. He was tall and well-made, with sandy hair, and he wore what must have once been a fine tail-coat but which was now almost worn away. With time to spare — and Oh! how so very different and how much of a relief it was to now be able to feel the passage of time in this place! — she followed the young man for a few minutes. Occasionally someone would make a remark to her and she would nod vaguely and pass on as if in a daze, hoping that this would seem unsuspicious, for she could barely catch their words.

The King’s son was just offering a woman with no eyes a cup of wine when a shout rang out that even the Bookseller’s eldest daughter could hear.

“Dawn! The dawn comes!”

Everyone turned to look out the windows, and gasped at what they saw: for while this reflected-villa was still blanketed in night, the real villa in the canal and the white walls of the boulevard were all beginning to glow with an orange light, as if the sun were just about to rise up over the opposite bank!

Around her the fairies rushed about in sudden terror. “Flee!” cried one as it ran past the girl, “When the sun falls upon these waters all shall be washed away!” and it dashed out through the great doors, followed by dozens of others, moving faster and faster until it was like being in a stiff autumn wind with leaves hitting you and scratching you and slipping past you as you stood your ground.

“How diverting,” murmured the Very Wonderful Person stalking past her, “the sun deciding to rise so early, and quite against its confirmed habit…” but then They shrugged and joined the elfin whirlwind.

Mortals, caught up in the panic, were lifted up into the turmoil of the fairies’ retreat, the King’s son too; but the Bookseller’s eldest daughter caught at his hand and held him back. And as he struggled to free himself she threw the loop of the old iron poker around his neck, just like your mama used to lay the ladle or tongs over you when you were a baby and in your cradle and she had to leave you alone for a moment. Immediately the King’s son fell back, weighed down by the cold iron. And then the candles all went out at once, and they were alone in that dark hall.

Some minutes later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter gently led the King’s son out of the water and up the steps to the boulevard, where the barrel of straw still burned and cast its ruddy light over everything. Stopping beside it she unplugged her ears and turned to the King’s son. “Can you speak?” she asked, but he merely gazed at her in bewilderment.

So taking his hand, she began to led the King's son through the long white streets of the Garden District.

[1] Lawrence Greenaway is justly famed as a student of Fairy, penning some of the best-known works on the subject, most notably the Nature of Fairy Glamours with its famous ‘Tables of Glamorous Durations’.

His interest in the topic was sparked one night in August when he went downstairs for a bottle of ink and came upon a spiteful local fairy named Never-th’Nere crouching over a favourite dog of Greenaway’s wife that had fallen asleep in the drawing room. The fairy, quite ignorant of the gentleman’s presence (for the latter had approached in his stockinged feet) was busy laying a glamour upon the sleeping animal, transforming it into a heavy cloth-bound tome that Greenaway later decided was a history of some obscure, possibly quite fictional, country; though, since the pages were printed in a completely unknown alphabet, this could only be conjectured from the lithographs.

Once the fairy had vanished away, and Greenaway had taken a fortifying glass of claret, he became very excited at this chance to witness fairy magic close at hand. He immediately took up paper and ink and began making observations of the strange book and its surrounds, noting the hour, the weather outside, wind, tide, nocturnal birdsong, current celestial phenomena, and various other possibly pertinent details.

His wife, upon coming downstairs the next day, was less enthused with his endeavours and rather upset at what had become of her dog, especially since her husband refused to break the spell, chosen instead to orate on the nobility of the pursuit of knowledge and misquoting Bacon several times. The glamour finally fell away a few days before Christmas. Greenaway immediately began work on Observations and Conjectures on the Nature of Fairy Glamours, and his wife left for her family’s house in town, taking her dog with her.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter said with a firm voice. “I must caution you on handling the Prince. I am very sorry to say that he has been enchanted, and I have not yet broken all the spells and crosses that lie about him.” [1] At this the leader of the patrol dropped his hands and took a few steps back, and she continued: “While I am, of course, grateful for your kindness, for the time being I must stay by his side. But an escort would be very welcome,” she added coolly.

And thus the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and the King’s son were marched straight to the palace gates and, after a terse exchange (and not a little haggling) between the guards inside and the watchmen outside, they were eventually walked through the palace gardens and up into the great reception hall.

There they stood waiting among enormous portraits and opulent tapestries while servants ran about in excitement, lighting lamps and sending each other to wake up even more important servants. These grander servants would then arrive to also run about in excitement and so-on, until eventually someone important enough to inform the King was woken. And even though she was wearing her best red dress the Bookseller’s eldest daughter couldn’t help feeling more than a little small and tawdry in that grand chamber. Beside her the King’s son still looked dazed and stared straight ahead.

Finally there was a sudden hush and the King arrived wearing a very fine red dressing gown over his pyjamas. “What is all this?” he was saying to his Steward in annoyance, “If my son has taken to wandering about at night, well, that’s unfortunate of course but I certainly don’t see that it’s cause for all this kerfuffle! Or that it couldn’t be dealt with in the morning!”

The Steward, who was dressed in a slight less fine dressing gown, smoothed out his beard and said “I quite agree your majesty, but I have been given to understand that circumstances may not be quite as—”

At this point the King had set eyes on his son and he said “Why, Samuel, what’s happened to you my boy? What on earth are you wearing? And who’s this?” He looked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter up and down with avuncular confusion.

But the King’s son merely gazed blankly at his father.

“Sir,” began the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Your Majesty,” corrected the Steward with an eyebrow raised.

“No, no, there’s no call for all that rot, not at this time of night,” said the King kindly, “Go on, my dear.”

“Your— um, well, Sir, I believe that this is your real son,” explained the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “I found him in Fairy and managed to bring him back to you. And if he has not been carried off by the fairies every night for the past year (which I suspect he may have been, certain passages in Trowbridge’s Miscellany suggest—) …Well, that is, Sir, if he hasn’t, then I suspect you may have been entertaining an impostor. And that you ought to check. I mean, check if he’s here. Your son. In his bed.” she finished weakly, a little worried that she was rambling.

The King looked very surprised and, being a good father, not a little horrified. He gave a sharp order to a group of guards to attend his son in his bedchambers immediately, and — if the Prince was there — deliver the King’s compliments and request his presence at once. 

While they were all waiting he addressed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter again, asking her who her parents were, and where she lived, and had she had a good midsummer festival and so-on. “And are visits to Fairy… a common thing for you, my dear?” He finally asked.

“Not at all, sir,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter earnestly. “But I was there recently on a family matter, and recognised the Prince. He is, as you can see, still affected by the place and I fear some care will have to be taken to return him to himself.”

But at this moment the guards returned with another King’s son walking stiffly between them, only this one was dressed in periwinkle-coloured pyjamas! And behind the group came the Queen in a satin night-gown with a shawl thrown over her shoulders.

“Why there are two of ‘em!” cried the King in astonishment. “Look at this, m’love, two Samuels! Whatever next? Line ‘em up together and let’s have a look.”

The Queen came to stand next to her husband (the Bookseller’s eldest daughter recalled that the Queen was renowned as a famous beauty and stole a look at her out of the corner of her eyes, but at that moment she saw only a worried middle-aged woman woken from sleep). “But Henry, which is the real Samuel?” the Queen asked as she looked between the two young men.

“Haven’t the foggiest! Hey! Samuel! Speak up, boy, and let your mother know which you are!” said the King. But both King’s sons continued to stare at him wordlessly.

“Two of ‘em now and neither of them will talk!” muttered the King, and turning to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter he asked “Can you tell which is which?”

The girl had, in fact, been considering what needed to be done next, and was beginning to realise that she was finally out of her depth here. Unless she could think of something she was going to have to go back to the Braziers’ Quarter and ask— but no! (she decided, still annoyed) she would handle this problem herself, with simple observation and Reason.

“Could you bring that lamp over?” she asked a servant. He looked rather displeased to be so commanded by some shop girl but he did as she asked and she began walking around the two young men, examining them closely. One was in his fine pyjamas and was clean shaven and trim, the other was ragged and too-thin, with a patchy beard and long hair. But other than these mere surface differences they were identical.

She quickly ordered her thoughts into a list, like this: (1) Obviously the King’s son wasn’t being carried away to Fairy each night, as she had proposed, for here was his double. So either (2) one son was a mere fairy glamour cast over a log or a fence post or a mound of grave-dirt or something, or (3) it was a disguised fairy playing cruel sport with them. But if the sham-Prince was only illusion thrown over a fence post or something why hadn’t it fallen away by now, as Greenaway’s Nature of Fairy Glamours conjectured that it ought? No, it must be a fairy imposter, in which case it could be tricked into revealing itself. Several methods suggested by Margaret Whitherwick in her four volume A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Traffic With the Fairies: Requisites, Recommendations, and Prohibitions [2] immediately sprang into her mind and she was just about to ask for a broken mirror and an onion [3] so as to begin when she happened to glance down.

She blinked. And then she snatched the lamp away from the now quite angry manservant and paced from one side of the twin Princes to the other staring at the ground. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, of course! Why it’s just like my sister only—!” And then she stood still and narrowed her eyes, thinking.

There was a long pause, and then the King said “I perceive that you have an idea…?”

“Oh! Yes, forgive me, Your Majesty,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, still eyeing the two King’s sons. “I know what’s happened, I just need to work out how to… You, hold this! And stand here!” she told the manservant, who, with a scandalised glance at the Steward, took the lamp back and stiffly moved as he was requested, standing a few paces in front of the King’s son from the palace.

“Now, you come with me,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, taking the hand of the King’s son from the revel, and she led him to stand before his twin, facing the lamp. “And now,” she muttered to herself, “just… nudge them together…” and stepping to one side so that the light fell full upon the King’s son, she gave him a gentle push, so that he stepped back onto the feet of his double.

There was the soft sound of cloth falling to the floor and the King said “Why, wherever has the other chap gone?” and then the King’s son was standing tall and alert, looking this way and that with his wits very obviously returned to him.

“Mother?” he said, “My King? What has happened?” in a voice that was rough and faint, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

And the Queen said “Samuel!” and she was hugging him, and the King stepped forward to shake his hand and say “Well met, sir! Well met indeed!” and wiping a few paternal tears away, and everyone was talking and smiling and the King called for claret and a toast. And it was several very long minutes before anyone thought to ask what had just happened.

But eventually the King did ask just that. And then the Queen looked over at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who found herself suddenly being assessed by a pair of very perceptive grey eyes. “I rather suspect that this young woman has been waiting to tell us that very thing, Henry,” she murmured, and they all turned to the girl expectantly.

“Oh!” she began, slightly ill-at-ease with being the centre of attention in such grand company now that she had had time to worry about it, “Well, um. Did you not notice how neither Prince had a shadow? No matter how I moved the lamp there was only a sort of dimness directly beneath them. And then I realised that the fairies must have separated the Prince from his real shadow, and enchanted it to carry on as the Prince, turning up to meals and wandering about and so-on, so that you didn’t go looking for him. I would not be surprised if the shadow-Prince stayed in bed on sunny days and only got up on cloudy days, so no-one would notice that he cast no shadow himself.”

“By Jove, but he did too!” exclaimed the King, thinking back. “But how did you know how to put them back together?”

“The shadow hadn’t really been separated from its body, not in any important way,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter (feeling just a little bit like a fraud), “that’s how both parts were still alive. So I made sure there was a strong light in front of the real Prince — I guessed that he was the one from Fairy — and just… nudged them back together. And it worked: he was whole again and any other enchantments cast over either half of him fell away. Just like they were.” She pointed to the floor, where the crumpled heap of periwinkle pyjamas lay exactly where the false Prince had been standing.

The King regarded the Bookseller’s eldest daughter soberly. “My dear, we owe you — the Kingdom owes you — a great debt.” And he said this with such tremendous gravity that you forgot that he was standing in his dressing gown and pyjamas. “Ask me anything, and, if it be in my power, it shall be yours.”

“Ah,” said the girl pulling some papers out of her satchel, “Yes, actually I did have some expenses while organising everything. I hope it’s not impertinent to ask for remuneration. I’ve kept the receipts, if you would like to check them. It’s not much.”

The King blinked at her and then nodded to his steward to take the receipts. “Of course, my dear. It shall be taken care of. But surely you would like something else?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stood for a moment, biting her lip. And now that she was standing here (though she would never have admitted this to the Witch’s girl) it did seem a bit venal to ask for a reward when, really, she had only done the right thing. In fact, the more she thought it over, the more horribly awkward she felt.

But then the Queen stepped over to her and put a kind hand on her back and said “Come now, child, don’t be afraid. Tell His Majesty what you would like. You don’t strike me as the sort of person who would ask for something unfitting or indelicate, and no-one will think any less of you.”

“Oh, Madam,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter hesitantly, “I… I would like the money to start my own bookshop. Only a loan, of course! I have put together a possible repayment plan…” (here she began hunting through her satchel) “… Which I can’t seem to… actually it’s at home, of course it is, why would I bring… but, please be assured that I have worked out the minimum of what I need, and am certain that I can repay you within three years!”

They all stared at her.

“A bookshop?” said the Queen, “Is that what you want?”

“One of my own, yes Madam,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter earnestly.

“Well, I’m sure the King would be pleased to—”

But she was cut short.

… And the next thing the Bookseller’s eldest daughter knew she was starting awake and finding herself standing a few feet away from where she was sure she had just been. And looking around, she noted that everyone else seemed to be blinking and confused too.

Everyone except the King. “A bookshop!?” he said abruptly, “A bookshop!? No, my girl, you shall marry my son, the Prince!”

There was a terrible silence.

Then the Queen and the King’s son both started speak at the same time: “Henry—!” and “Sir, I have no idea who this person is—!” and all the servants looked at each other and at the King and finally at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. And then they started whispering and nodding towards her.

“ENOUGH!” shouted the King abruptly, and he was no longer the kindly man from a few moments ago. His face was red with anger and his eyes glittered dangerously. “I will NOT be despised so while I stand in my own home! I have said that my son shall marry this girl and that is what will happen!”

“Sir!” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, very conscious of the suspicious looks she was being given, “Please, I cannot marry—”

The King turned on her. “You, some nobody from the streets, have the affrontery to scorn my commands so easily?!” he thundered, “Think well before you do so again, for if you refuse me a second time you will lose that pretty head, my girl!”

“What!?” said the girl.

“Henry!” cried the Queen.

The King’s son and the Steward tried to speak to the King too, but he would not have it. “Put her in one of the guest bedrooms,” he said, pointing at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “and put a guard on the door. His door too,” he added jerking a thumb at his son, and then he went back to bed.

Everyone stood and stared each other in shock.

“Please, Madam, I promise—” began the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, but the Queen gave her a narrow look.

“Best do as the King says, I think,” she said, a little coolly. “Go to bed and try and sleep. We will untangle all this in the morning.” And then she took the Prince’s arm and followed the King out of the reception chamber.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked about and saw only hard, mistrustful faces regarding her. “Can’t I just—” she began.

“Nobody cares about what you want,” said the Steward, “Follow me.”

And so half an hour later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter found herself alone in a bedchamber the size of all their upstairs rooms at home put together, lying in a night gown that was too short, in a bed that was too soft and much, much too big. And what was worse, she was sleeping alone, without her sister for perhaps the first time since she was three years old.

How did everything go so wrong? She asked herself. And then she remembered how only that morning she had been warned against pursuing this course, and of what she had replied, and she wept into her pillow for the second time that day.

[1] Fairy magics are as whimsical and capricious as their users, and a spell may last nine heartbeats or nine months depending on how much trouble the fairy could be bothered taking at the time. There is usually little point in seeking out the fairy who wove a particular enchantment and asking it to lift the spell, because they will probably have forgotten all about it, and reminding them is unlikely to be beneficial. A more powerful fairy may be able to break the spell, but as this always requires bargaining (and not inconsiderable danger), people generally do not care to pursue this course of action unless utterly desperate.

Most mortals will first try one of the common folk-methods of terminating such enchantments; these usually involve physically breaking something, such as snapping a thread that has been wound tight around the bewitched item, or shattering a mirror that is reflecting it. But even such venerable countermagics as these are variable at best in their efficacy.

Greenaway’s researches proposed that fairy enchantments are at their weakest during ‘those liminal moments of permutation, when what was waxing begins to wane, and one thing becomes another.’ He listed such circumstances as the sun rising, the tide turning, and the solstices. Those seeking to break a fairy spell, he thought, were likely to have their best chance if they could wait for or contrive such a situation and then utilise one of the two-dozen counterspells he records in his appendix to Observations and Conjectures on the Nature of Fairy Glamours.

Alternately, one might consult a witch.

[2] Each volume of this indispensable work on modern fairy-dealing details one of the aspects mentioned in the subtitle. The fourth volume contains the index and an invaluable gazetteer of known entries into Fairy for the reader to avoid, the usefulness of which has, perhaps, become undermined since the author entered a box hedge maze during a garden party and never emerged again.

[3] A broken mirror, as is widely known, enables the viewer to observe fairies and other spirits stripped of their illusions. But what the Bookseller’s eldest daughter intended to do with the onion I am uncertain. If she had asked for an onion and an eggcup all would be quite obvious, but I can find no method of enticing fairies with an onion alone.