“Still hasn’t been sighted?” Mr. Quinn asked. “Must have been all our hammering. Couldn’t hear himself think.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” Judd said slowly, wondering suddenly if he should add their lodger to the list of his worries. But, he reminded himself, Ridley was an intelligent and resourceful man on a quest for some beast called Magic; he couldn’t be expected to behave like ordinary people. He felt eyes on him, looked up to find Mr. Pilchard studying him, hands moving rhythmically underwater, his mismatched eyes as unreadable as oysters. As Judd met them, the cook looked down at the water, pulled a plate out of it, and dipped it into a pot of cold water to rinse it.
“I’ll keep his supper on the coals for a while, in case he comes in later,” he offered, and Judd nodded.
“You might keep an eye out for him in the tavern when you go back for your baggage,” Mr. Quinn suggested. “Tell him it’s safe to return.”
“What would I be looking for?”
“A dark-haired young man wearing fine clothes and a pair of spectacles. Most likely with a book in his hands,” Judd said.
“Spectacles,” Mr. Pilchard murmured. “Book. I shall certainly do that, Mr. Cauley.”
Mr. Quinn left to find Mrs. Quinn to dust and air a room for the cook. Judd lingered to discuss his terms of engagement, which, owing to Mr. Pilchard’s years at sea and his ignorance, at the moment, of his own worth, were arrived at easily and with mutual satisfaction. That done, Mr. Pilchard walked down Sealey Head by moonlight to fetch his things, and Judd went to read his father to sleep with the improbable adventures of one Nemos Moore, who had apparently more magical powers than he knew what to do with, and, more astonishingly, had once made his way to the rugged and isolated coastal town of Sealey Head to use them.
Twelve
Emma was pulling great swaths of muslin off card tables and gun racks and the billiards table in the game room when she heard the creaky boot room door open. She froze, muslin swirling around her like ghosts. Nobody but she ever used that door now. Had Miss Beryl’s staff descended already upon the house, to explore, compare, criticize, and complain? She heard a comment in a deep, unfamiliar voice, as another door opened across the hallway: the stillroom.
She heard her mother’s voice in answer.
Surprised, she dropped the dustsheets on the floor and waded across them.
She found Hesper in the stillroom with a stranger, a dark-eyed, bespectacled young man. He dressed as though he might have been part of Miranda Beryl’s rich and indolent entourage, with those pale, golden butterflies all over his black waist-coat, and the satin piping on his cuffs. But he wore a vivid, attentive expression upon his face as he listened to Hesper, which, Emma suspected, was unnatural among the delicately brought-up city folk, especially when they were spoken to by wood witches with naked shins and twigs in their hair. He had, Emma realized, a fair sprinkling of bracken in his own long hair. His fine clothing was rumpled and stained. His eyes, like her mother’s, seemed heavy, red-rimmed with sleeplessness. They both looked, to put it plain as a pot, as though they had spent the night together under a bush.
Emma’s brows flew up in wonder. Her mother saw her then; a smile sprang into her eyes.
“There you are, Emma! We were just talking about where we might find you.” She put her bare, brown arm around Emma’s shoulders. “This is Ridley Dow.” Emma nodded briefly, speechless. “We’ve spent a good part of yesterday and last night going through my papers and talking about this house. We were going go find our way in here at night through the boot room, and wake you before Miss Beryl got here, but I think we fell asleep on our way here.”
Mr. Dow nodded, rolling one shoulder around a crick. “I remember losing an argument with a tree root.”
“You were going to sneak around Aislinn House in the middle of the night?” Emma said faintly.
“Well, everyone but you is half-deaf; nobody would have noticed.”
“But why?”
“Mr. Dow thinks he might be able to help Ysabo,” Hesper said. “We need you to open doors.”
Emma edged sideways toward the solid worktable, leaned against it, wondering how many different ways a body could possibly be surprised in a minute. She found her voice again finally. “Nobody,” she said, gazing wide-eyed at Mr. Dow. “Nobody but us has ever known her name before. Ever in my life.”
“Your mother has told me everything about her,” the mysterious Mr. Dow explained. “Everything you have told her. I’ve been putting bits and pieces of the story together for years. You see, I think one of my ancestors was responsible for the spell on Aislinn House.”
“Spell.” The unlikely word took shape and meaning in Emma’s head, became suddenly comprehensible. “Spell. Is that what it is?”
“I think so,” Mr. Dow said, watching her intently from behind his lenses.
“I don’t—I never thought about such things before. But it does—When you said it, it felt right. It could explain so many strange things.” She heard Mr. Dow gather breath, loose it in a slow, deep, satisfied sigh. She studied him, brows rising again, fretting together. “But what could you do? You don’t know that place. It’s eerie—full of great, noisy, armed knights, flocks of crows that look at you like they’d swarm over you and pick your bones if they didn’t like the expression on your face. What could you do for Ysabo?”
“I don’t know. I can’t know until I’ve seen. Your mother told me you open doors to that secret world, you talk to Ysabo across thresholds. Would you open one for me?”
Emma opened her mouth; nothing came out.
“Mr. Dow just wants a glimpse of Ysabo’s world,” Hesper told her quickly. “He might see a great deal, like you, or very little but the odd detail, which is all I ever see. He won’t interfere. And she needn’t see him at all. He could stand behind the door and peer through the crack along the hinges. Couldn’t you?”
Mr. Dow looked at her, his spectacles reflecting light, hiding his expression. He said quickly, “Yes, of course.”
Hesper nodded encouragingly at Emma, who said dazedly, “But I never know what door I’ll find her behind. Any door, it could be, anywhere in this house, from cellar to attic.”
“Then I’ll follow you while you work,” Ridley Dow said. “Very discreetly, of course; no one will know I’m here. You can try the doors of whatever room you’re in. I promise I won’t get in your way, and I’ll be very patient while you’re busy.”
“And I can help you work,” Hesper offered.
“I could use help,” Emma admitted. “And the house is very quiet, now. There’s only Mr. Fitch, who mostly stays down in his pantry, and Mrs. Blakeley, who hates climbing stairs. Sophie never leaves Lady Eglantyne’s bedroom, and Mrs. Haw never leaves the kitchen except to shop.”
“So there we are, then,” Mr. Dow said briskly. “Where shall we start? What were you doing when we came in?”
“Pulling the dustsheets off the billiards table.”
“And which way is that?”
“Wait,” Hesper interrupted. “You’re both missing what’s under our noses.”
“And that would be?” Mr. Dow asked with alacrity.
“The stillroom pantry door. Right over there. It’s where Emma first saw Ysabo.”
They all looked at it: Mr. Dow hopeful, Hesper expectant, Emma with sudden weariness as she remembered everything in the pantry lying under a decade-old coat of dust that would need to be dealt with, along with a hundred other things that needed ... She moved toward the closed door with a shrug; it had to be looked into, and it was a place to start.
She gave Mr. Dow a moment to position himself at the hinges, then opened the door.
And there was the princess, framed by stones as always at that time of the morning, standing in an arched walkway near the top of the house, with the restless sough of sounds splashing up from the great chasm of the hall behind her. She smiled instantly at Emma. But her speckled eyes seemed wary, oddly secretive.
“I’m exploring,” she told Emma very softly. “I’m trying to understand things.”
“Oh, be careful,” Emma begged.
“I am, I am.” Her wild, curly red hair hung loosely down her back; on her pale, plain face the mark of the knight’s fingers had faded to a startling shade of greengage plum. “I can’t talk now; I must be very quiet.”
“I know; I can’t, either. The house will be full of guests by evening. The heir is coming.”
“Ah—did your lady die?”
“Not yet. But she’s no better.”
Ysabo nodded gravely. Then her eyes shifted. She stared in utter astonishment at what was going on at Emma’s elbow, which was Ridley Dow, touching Emma’s arm gently, and saying, as he eased past her to step across the threshold, “Princess Ysabo, I am Ridley Dow. I believe you might have crossed paths with an ancestor of mine, Nemos Moore.”
“Emma!” Mrs. Blakeley called just outside the stillroom door, and Emma’s bones leaped in her skin like a deer at a pistol shot. Her fingers slid off the door. Mr. Dow reached out, closed it deftly behind him as the housekeeper entered the stillroom.
“Oh, there you are, Emma. And Hesper, too! I do hope you’ve come to give us a hand; I’m sure Emma’s told you what’s happening.”
“Yes,” Hesper said, blinking rapidly at the afterimage of the vanished Mr. Dow. “Yes, I’d be happy to, Mrs. Blakeley. I could give this room a good tidying, for instance.”
“That would be extremely helpful. Emma, the servants’ stairway needs sweeping badly, if we’re to have strangers running up and down them.”
“Yes, Mrs.—”
“And the windows in the breakfast room are appalling, Mr. Fitch discovered when he went to gather up the silver pieces to polish. You’ll need to examine the linen in the drawers for moths.”
“Stairway,” Emma repeated mindlessly. “Windows, linens—”
“And—oh, I know there is so much we depend upon you for, but please remember Lady Eglantyne’s lunch tray. Though why we bother when she won’t eat—” Mrs. Blakeley finished worriedly.
“I can take that up,” Hesper offered quickly. “I’d like a look at her, to see if anything comes to mind to help her.”
“Yes, Hesper, please do. I just don’t know, all this turmoil, and the poor woman trying to die peacefully.”
“I’m sure you’re doing your best, Mrs. Blakeley.”
“Well, we are, and I’m glad to see you back, Hesper.”
Emma waited until the housekeeper turned finally, and the last of her black hem fluttered through the door. Then she flung herself at the pantry door, her mother close behind her. She wrenched it open.
Nothing but shelf after shelf of dusty bottles and jars, dried herbs and cobwebs hanging overhead, a couple of bluebottles banging away at the small, high, grimy windows.
She and Hesper stared at one another wordlessly. Then Hesper said sharply, “I’ll finish the game room and clean the stillroom. You go and open every door you see.”
She did, all through the house, pitting herself as desperately and randomly as any bluebottle searching for its freedom, at all the doors in the house.
Not one opened to Ysabo’s world.