I felt much attention upon me as the doorman led me through the tavern. There were many patrons, though it was difficult to get a proper look at them, for they sat in dusky corners, and all I saw were their eyes, glinting like jewels in the dark. At last the small man brought me to an alcove, its floor strewn with cushions, and he indicated I should sit. I did, and only then did I see her.
“Thank you, Arion,” the woman said to the doorman. “You should return to your post now.”
The doorman frowned. Clearly he would rather have stayed, but he bowed and retreated into the gloom.
“You came for this, Marius, did you not?” the woman said. She held out a clay vessel, stopped with a cork.
It was difficult to gaze upon her. She was bright amid the dimness, and I had to raise a hand to shield my eyes. At first glance she was young, her skin as lustrous as a pearl, her lips coral, her lovely face framed by raven‑dark hair. But as my eyes adjusted, and I lowered my hand, I saw the wisdom of long years in her gray eyes. Shadows gathered in the hollows of her cheeks, and I knew even in sunlight they would remain, for I had seen such shadows in Alis’s own visage.
“You’re dying,” I said, too filled with sadness not to speak the words.
“We all must die, Marius. And I have endured longer than many do. I shall not protest when it is my time. Besides, it is another that must concern you now.” She placed the jar in my hands.
“Alis,” I said. “You know her.”
The woman nodded. “Her parents, at least. When she was born, they sensed the Light was strong in her.”
“The Light,” I murmured. “Like the light in you. It hurts you, doesn’t it, to live on this world?”
Her green eyes seemed to pierce me. “It hurts all like us, Marius–though some more than others. Alis’s parents believed that dwelling in the outside world might force her to become strong, to gain resistance to its ill effects. Most of us disagreed with them. We felt it was best for the child to stay here, protected. But there were . . . others, from outside, who convinced them to try. When the infant of a noble lord and lady was still‑born, the midwife–who was one of our own–spirited Alis into the cradle instead, unbeknownst to the mundane parents.”
“A changeling,” I murmured. “You mean Alis is a changeling.”
The woman nodded, and understanding glimmered in me. Alis’s parents had sent her out into the mortal world in the hope that confronting the source of her pain and suffering would give her some mastery over it. Only that hope had been in vain.
“It didn’t work,” I said. “Living out there didn’t make her strong. It’s killing her. Who were these people who convinced Alis’s parents to send her out there?” I clenched my hands into fists. “Who were they?”
The fairy‑woman shook her head. “Time grows short,” she said, and I did not know if she meant for Alis or for herself. “Take this as well.” She handed me a small book, bound in frayed leather.
“What is it?”
“It was his.” Her gaze moved past me, to the arch of stone through which I had passed. “Go to her, Marius. You are her only hope.”
Yes, I had to go. I rose and hurried back toward the door. As I neared the stone arch, I saw a shape on the floor.
It was Byron. He lay with his hands clasped around a sprig of holly, his head on a pillow. His eyes were closed, and he seemed asleep, a look of peace on his face, only I knew he was dead.
“His kind cannot enter here without great peril.” Arion said. The small man stood in the archway, his blue eyes sad.
I stared at him. “But how . . . ?”
“Your skill with shadow is not so great as you thought. He must have followed you here, slipping in while I was away from the door.” Arion sighed. “I fear he was lost before I could return and protect him.”
I staggered back. What was this place? Why had Byron perished while I had survived?
Arion urged me forward. “Go, Marius. There is nothing you can do for him now, and dawn comes. You cannot leave here while it is day out.”
These words made no sense. It was only just dusk when I found the tavern. I had been there but a few minutes. However, before I could protest, Arion pushed me through the door, and I stumbled out into the street.
Rose‑colored light welled up from the eastern horizon. I heard a door slam behind me, but when I turned I saw a blank brick wall. There was no red door, no green sign. However, the jar and the book were hard and real in my hands. I started to turn away, and that was when I saw him. Byron’s corpse slumped against the wall, his face white, drained of life. He still clutched the holly sprig.
I felt I should do something, but I knew the Seekers would find him, that they would take care of their own. I slipped the book and the jar inside my coat and lurched down the street.
By the time I reached the Faraday estate it was midmorning. I feared I would be accosted at the gate again, and I was ready to strike down any who stood in my way, no matter their number. However, as I approached the gate, I saw only Rebecca. She wore a black gown.
“Marius,” she said, reaching for me, and for a moment it seemed sorrow shone in her eyes, only when I looked again they were hard as stones, and she had pulled her hand back.
“Do not try to stop me,” I said.
She stepped aside. “I will not stand in your way. There is no need. Did not Byron find you last night? Did he not tell you?”
“Byron,” I said, choking on the word.
She drew close to me, her face hard. “What has happened? Where is Byron?”
I shook my head, then moved past her, through the gate, and ran down the long avenue of trees toward the manor. I had to go to her. I had to see Alis. I reached inside my coat, gripping the clay jar, knowing the fluid within would restore her. She would not live forever; none of us did. She would fade, like the beautiful, nameless woman at the tavern. But not before she and I shared many glorious years together, not before–
I halted at the top of the steps. A black ribbon had been tied to the handle of the door. It fluttered in the breeze, and at last I understood why Byron had come looking for me, why Rebecca had let me pass.
The clay jar slipped from my fingers and shattered against the steps. Green fluid oozed over the stones, and a soft sigh escaped me, like the last breath of a dying man.
I believe I went mad for a time after that, for there is little of the days and weeks that followed that I can now recall.
I drank much, that I do know. Returning to my habits of old, I would drain a flask of whiskey, fall into a stupor, and when I woke, head throbbing, I would slink out in search of another bottle. On more than one occasion I was found drunk on the grounds of the new St. Paul’s, calling out for Alis, and the king’s soldiers would haul me back to my house, or once–failing to recognize me as a nobleman–to a pauper’s jail, where I spent five days and nights shivering in a filthy cell, and did not bother to beat back the rats when they crept forth to gnaw at my legs.
Rebecca retrieved me from the jail, that much I do recall through the haze, and she took me back to my house. I remember her asking questions about Byron as well. The Seekers had found him dead in the village of Brixistane, south of the river. He had been sent to follow me, she said; surely I was the last to see him alive, and she wanted to know the reason he had died when there wasn’t a mark on his body. Only I couldn’t have answered her if I had wanted to. Nothing that had happened that night in the tavern dwelled in the realm of reason, and the only words I spoke to Rebecca were to ask her for more whiskey. She left in rage and disgust.