Anthea wasn’t ready to rise. “What do you want?” she whispered.
The figure stood still a moment longer, then came to kneel beside her. He was unbelievably handsome, with large, slightly slanting eyes, a high forehead and long, straight nose, high cheekbones above gauntness, and a full, sensuous mouth. The lips curved in a courtly smile. “We have need of you.” His voice was rich and melodious, and his eyes drew her, compelling.
A thrill coursed through her; it was just like every folk tale she’d ever heard or read, and she didn’t doubt for a moment what he was. She rose slowly, as unable to resist as to think, while the Faerie lord’s gaze was on her.
He was taller than Anthea by a head or more. He gazed down into her eyes, smiling, and she felt herself being drawn into the huge, dark pools of his pupils ... .
Then he turned away, moving silently into the depths of the cave, depths that she had not realized were there, and it came to her that this was not a hill, but a barrow, a hollow hill that her people had long thought to be Neolithic burial sites, but older people had known for the dwelling places of the Faerie Folk. She followed the elfin lord, her heart hammering in her breast.
The door was set into the sides of the tunnel, and seemed as old as the rock around it, made of dark, rich oak, waxed to a gloss that seemed to let one look deeply into the grain. The Faerie lord turned the lock with a huge key and stepped aside to bow her in. Anthea followed, heart hammering in her breast; how could anyone come through that door, if the Faerie locked it behind him? Once she was through, she could never depart without his leave—but curiosity impelled her forward as much as his compulsion, and she could not even think of turning back.
Lock it he did, then stepped on past her, murmuring, “Come.”
She followed, marveling at the richness of the paneled walls through which she moved. An archway opened to her left, affording a brief glimpse of a drawing room elegantly appointed in an antique style, but the Faerie lord strode past it without a glance, and Anthea had to follow.
They came to the end of the hall, and another rich old door, partly open. The Faerie pushed on through it, and Anthea, following, stepped into a chamber so wide that the huge canopied bed in its center seemed small. The walls were hung with tapestries; between them, walnut panelling glowed. The floor was covered with an Oriental carpet, and the bed-hangings were satin and velvet.
The Faerie lord knelt beside the bed, taking the hand of a lady who seemed so exquisitely fragile that she seemed to float between the sheets. Her hair was long, and so light a blond that it seemed almost silver. Her face was delicate, fine-boned and high-cheeked, and her eyes were huge, her lips red and full. But those high cheeks were hollow, and her skin was very pale. One look at her made Anthea feel heavy and lumpen—but also made her feel healthy.
Magnificently healthy, when she saw the emaciated infant lying on its mother’s breast, eyes still closed, little mouth working at its fist. Its crying was so thin as to sound like the mewing of a tiny kitten. Anthea stepped forward, a wordless cry drawn from her, reaching out toward the baby—but she halted a few feet away, not daring to touch something so fragile.
The Faerie lady looked up at her, and once again Anthea felt herself drawn into huge, dark eyes. “I am height Lolorin,” the lady murmured in a low, husky voice, weak with strain, “and this is my lord, Qualin. Wilt thou nurse our child?”
Anthea looked up, eyes wide—and realized that the man, though he still knelt, was strung as tightly as a violin, seeming ready to leap, just barely held in check by Lolorin’s hand on his, his eyes burning as he gazed at his child. “I ... I cannot,”
Anthea protested feebly. “I ... I am not a mother, and have no milk to give.”
“That, we can amend,” the Faerie lord said, his voice deep and cavernous, and Anthea felt a thrill of alarm mixed with a dreadful yearning. “A small spell, and thy breasts will swell with milk.”
“But ... but I am a virgin ...”
“Thy breasts will take no heed,” Lolorin assured her, “and the milk will be good.”
But Anthea was in a quandary. The sight of the infant pulled at her, so deeply that pity and her longing to help it became an almost physical pain—but ... “I am young, and have tasted so little of life! I have suitors, I have barely begun to live ...”
The Faerie lord stirred. “ ‘Tis true. Name thy nurse’s fee, and thou shalt have it.”
“Oh, don’t speak of fees!” Anthea cried. “If the baby grows strong, that will be enough!”
Qualin’s eyes glowed, but Lolorin said, as though the words were dragged out of her, “She doth speak without thought. Consider well, mortal, for if thou dost consent, thou wilt be bound to us for a year and a day—’ twill be that long at least ere my babe can subsist on fare other than thine. And human milk is vital, for the aura of thy own kind hath enervated the folk of Faerie. We have weakened with age, and the decline of mortal folks’ belief in us. So tenuous hath our existence become that Faerie mothers’ milk hath grown too thin to sustain an infant long.”
“We would not ask this of thee,” said Qualin, “save that our child must have a human to nurse, and thou art the only woman who hath chanced to come within our purview; I lack the vitality to go abroad to sue. Yet thou hast come near our hollow hill, alone and at night—and thou art one of those born with the power of magic about thee.”
“I?” Anthea gasped.
“Indeed. Hast thou never felt it?”
“No, never!” But then Anthea remembered her contact with Sir Roderick, and his mention that she could only see him because of an inborn Talent, which might fade as she matured. Apparently it had not—or she had not grown up as much as she had thought.
“ ’Tis that quality of magic,” Qualin said, “that touch of the fey, no matter how minor, that doth enable thee to see and speak with us of the Faery world.”
“ ’Twill be long ere another so gifted haps to come within the aura of our powers,” Lolorin murmured. “It will, I doubt not, be too late for my babe. Wilt thou not give aid? For if thou dost not, surely he may die!”
“Oh, do not lay such a charge upon my soul!” Anthea buried her face in her hands, torn “I would not see your baby die—truly, I wish to save him—but I wish to save my own life, too! I wish to dance, and to speak with other girls. I wish to be have young men fall in love with me, and woo me, and court me; I wish to dance at balls and drive in the Park!”
“ ’Tis only a year,” Qualin protested. “Your life will still be there when thou dost return.”
“Nay,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “It will be vastly changed.”
Anthea spun about, and Qualin surged to his feet with an oath.
There, in glowing silver armor, stood a knight with a drawn sword in his right hand—and, tucked in the elbow of his left, a head!
But it was a living head, if a ghostly head can be said to live—and its lips moved as it spoke. “The lady is in my care, and I will not permit her to be harmed.” The head wore no helmet, and the rugged face was young and handsome, though it too glowed silver beneath a wavy mass of hair.
“Sir Roderick!” Anthea cried. “You have found your head!”
“Yes, Anthea—and I must thank you for bringing me to the battlefield on which I lost it.” Sir Roderick held his sword out before him, where it floated, point fixed on Qualin. Then he took the head in both hands and set it on his shoulders, giving a half turn as though to lock it in place. Qualin took the opportunity to lunge, but the sword parried easily and riposted, sending Qualin back on guard.
“How didst thou come here!” he spat.
“I followed my kinswoman,” the ghost answered. “Blood calls to blood, and I had but to answer that call. Your locks mean naught to me, for I am a ghost.” He smiled grimly, his eyes never leaving Qualin’s. “And know, Anthea, that you will pass far more than a single year here—for though it may seem only twelve months to you, in the world outside, seven years will pass. Your friends will be matrons and young mothers; the gentlemen so smitten with you will be husbands burdened with the management of their estates. Your aunt will be seven years older, if she does not pine away for grief at your disappearance.”