The Tales of Aylfenhame Compendium

Chapter Twelve-2

A small door opened in the wall and a brownie appeared, her ragged skirts dragging on the floor and her brown hair flying out in a hundred directions. ‘Madam?’ said the brownie.

‘Tea, please, and refreshments! The usual.’

The brownie nodded and began to bustle about. Within minutes a little tea-party was spread upon a low table, and Sophy sat down to take tea with her new friend.

‘I am called Hidenory,’ said the crone, catching Sophy’s inquisitive gaze. ‘You were not expecting to meet me, I think?’

‘No. That is, I knew that Mr. Balligumph had arranged for some kind of assistance, but he did not say who I should expect.’

‘Ah yes! Mr. Balligumph. He speaks very highly of you.’ Hidenory sipped daintily at her tea, her good eye fixed on Sophy’s face. ‘Perhaps you will tell me what you are looking for?’

So Sophy recounted her problems and her hopes. Hidenory listened avidly, interrupting with an occasional question. How had her prospects in England become so limited? Was there no other way to resolve her difficulties? No gentleman in the question?

Blushing, Sophy shook her head “no” to the last question. Mr. Stanton flitted through her thoughts—his height, his athletic build, his handsome face and his kindness—but she pushed the image away. She would not fall into the trap of relying on a proposal of marriage to solve all of her problems—and then, when none came, of falling into hysterics or into despair and having no notion what to do with herself. Mr. Stanton and his intentions—if he had any—were entirely irrelevant.

Hidenory appeared to realise that she was not telling the whole truth, for she gave Sophy a long, considering look and smiled a sly smile. ‘Oh, very good! I applaud your resolve. Why should we rely on men, hmm? I enjoy your plan much more.’

Sophy hesitated, suspecting mockery, but Hidenory’s expression was pleasant and apparently sincere. ‘Can you help me?’ Sophy said. ‘Perhaps you may know somebody already in the business—someone who may need an assistant? I only need somewhere to begin, you see, and I will see to the rest myself.’

Hidenory nodded wisely. ‘Quite, yes. Oh, I have the very thing for you.’

She lapsed into silence, no longer looking at Sophy. Her reverie seemed to be a thoughtful one, and Sophy did not wish to interrupt, so she turned her attention to the food. It was excellent, of course, beyond anything she had ever taken at home; fruits so rich and full of juice she could scarcely believe they were real, tarts bursting with flavour and colour, and tea heady with a rich, spiced fragrance that was almost intoxicating. So busy was she in sampling and enjoying that, for a time, she forgot about Hidenory and her deliberations. By the time she had finished, the light outside had faded, night had fallen and Pharagora began to light twinkling lamps to lift the gloom.

When Sophy looked up, she received a shock. The chair opposite to her was still taken—she would have sworn that Hidenory had not moved from it for an instant—but it was no longer Hidenory sitting there. The woman sitting opposite to her was younger—much younger. She was of Sophy’s age, or thereabouts; her grey-white, tangled hair had been replaced by shining golden locks; her eyes were no longer rheumy, and both were fixed on Sophy’s face, gleaming with amusement. Her features were perfect, her skin was perfect, her clothes were perfect. She sat with perfect grace, sipping from her cup with the same dainty manner as before, only now it suited her.

Sophy blinked, and stared. ‘I…’ she began. She looked around for Hidenory, the crone, but saw no one else in the room—not even Pharagora. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Hidenory?’

The beautiful woman smiled delightedly, and nodded. ‘It is still Hidenory,’ she said, and laughed. ‘I promise.’

‘But how…? Why?’

‘Why indeed?’ said Hidenory, and her face darkened with momentary anger. ‘That is a long tale.’

Sophy considered that for a moment. ‘Which is the real you?’ she asked.

Hidenory cast her a sharp look. ‘A very good question,’ she murmured. ‘Both, and at the same time, neither.’

Sophy frowned. ‘Are you… a witch?’

Hidenory smiled wickedly. ‘One of the best, my dear. What do you think of my handiwork?’

‘But then… why would you…?’ What Sophy wanted to ask was why someone with the powers of glamour would suffer the indignities of the crone’s shape, when she could be as beautiful as she desired. But the question was appallingly rude, and in spite of her extreme curiosity she could not bring herself to say it out loud.

She did not have to. Hidenory’s face darkened with anger again, and she set down her tea cup with such a clatter that it broke. ‘Curses,’ she said. At first Sophy thought she was referring to the broken cup, but she repeated the word much more fiercely and Sophy realised she was talking about herself. ‘Curses! I am an expert in the art of Glamour, Miss Landon, but some arts remain beyond my ability. I made a mistake, long ago now, and a curse was my reward.’

A curse. Sophy’s thoughts turned to the stories Mary had told her when she was a child, tales of Aylfenhame and the folk who lived there, and the strange things they did. She distantly remembered something along these lines: the Korrigan’s Curse, it was called. The Korrigans were young and beautiful by night, but haggish by day.

‘Can you not…?’ Sophy enquired. With a vague gesture of her hand, she sought to illustrate her question: could Hidenory not hide her crone’s form behind a glamour?

‘Do you think I would hesitate, if that were within my power?’ said Hidenory, with great indignation. ‘No! That comfort is denied me. No power of mine can alter my shape during the daylight hours.’

Sophy felt desperately uncomfortable. Her own troubles seemed inconsequential beside Hidenory’s, and she pitied the woman terribly; but there was nothing she could do, and little she could say.

‘Is there a cure?’ she said at last.

Hidenory smiled slowly. ‘Oh, all curses have conditions. It is a peculiarity of the art: if one wishes to do one’s very worst, one is obliged to provide a way out. It does not have to be an achievable way out, however.’

‘Is yours not achievable?’

Hidenory stared hard at Sophy, her eyes tracking every detail of her face, her hair, her body, her clothes. ‘I thought not,’ she said slowly. ‘But I begin to believe otherwise.’

Sophy waited uncomfortably.

‘It has to be a man,’ Hidenory said with great disgust. ‘A man! And he must love me in both my forms, night and day. Then I will be restored to myself.’ She smirked, her expression one of bitter mockery. ‘But I ask you,’ she said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘you know men as well as I do, I am sure. Can you imagine the sort of man who could love the hag that I am by day? The very thought! That is the clever thing about curses: one must provide a means of escape, but if the caster can think of something utterly impossible, the curse can remain in place forever.’

Sophy sat mute. She longed to be able to reassure Hidenory somehow, but she could not. Had she not been overlooked and unwanted all of her life, she with her youth and her health and her strength? Her features may not be very pleasingly arranged, but her skin was smooth, her hair only unruly, not decaying. Her figure was not perfect, or even near it, but she was a vision beside Hidenory-the-hag. If even she had not attracted a single proposal of marriage, what hope had Hidenory?

All of a sudden, her qualms about her own appearance seemed absurd. What right had she to repine, because she had not been born a beauty?

But Hidenory’s expression had turned speculative, and there was a light in her eyes that began to disturb Sophy. ‘I have been thinking,’ she said confidingly. ‘Perhaps it is not so impossible. What kind of man could love a hag like me? Why, a damaged one. A man whose own appearance is little better than mine. A man who is lonely, and desperate for companionship. Where would I find such a being, thought I? Such a creature does not exist in Aylfenhame.

‘But Felebre has given me the answer,’ she smiled. ‘Felebre, and you, Miss Landon.’

Sophy’s thoughts rushed to Aubranael, an Ayliri with a ruined face. She had seen the loneliness in him; it had spoken to her own, drawing them rapidly together. Or so she had thought. But weeks had passed since her afternoon with him, and she had heard nothing of him. He had known where she lived; he could have found her, if he had wanted to.

The prospect of his curing Hidenory, however, left her feeling strange. She did not begrudge the poor woman her chance at a cure; how could she? On the contrary, her own feelings of inadequacy and loneliness left her feeling deeply sorry for the beleaguered witch, and eager to help if she could. But Aubranael? She did not begrudge him the companionship either, if he could love Hidenory. So why did the idea leave her feeling so wretched?

‘There is a name that leaps to mind,’ Hidenory said, watching her knowingly. ‘But, unfortunately, he has become distracted. He has gone elsewhere for his bride. A trifling inconvenience.’ She stood up, the conversation apparently over, leaving Sophy to feel confused. Was she talking about Aubranael? If so, where had he gone for his bride? Who had he chosen? Her spirits sank even lower at the idea, and she toyed restlessly with her frayed cuffs as she fought to get her emotions under control.

‘Enough of that,’ said Hidenory merrily. ‘Let us return to the problem of Miss Landon and her difficulties. You will want to be on your way, I imagine, as soon as may be?’

Sophy pulled herself together, lifted her chin, and nodded. ‘I am grateful for any assistance you can provide, of course.’

‘I know just the thing,’ Hidenory said with a dazzling smile. She pointed to a door in the far wall—a door which, Sophy would have sworn, had not been there before—and at her gesture, it swung slowly open. It was too dark outside for Sophy to see what lay beyond it.

‘Now then, the one you want is Tut-Gut. He will be very willing to put you to work. Step that way, and when you are quite through the door, call his name. He will soon find you.’

Sophy turned to thank Hidenory, but the words died on her lips. Hidenory had changed again, and it took Sophy a horrified instant to realise what was so wrong with her new image.

Sophy stared, taking in Hidenory’s tumbling blonde hair, messily tucked under a faded straw bonnet; her skin slightly browned from the sun, and dusted with freckles; the laugh lines around her wide mouth; the nose that was the wrong shape for her long face. Hidenory was wearing an old, much-repaired cotton print gown and a green spencer, in good condition except for the fraying cuffs. Scuffed and worn half-boots clad her feet, and a lovingly hand-stitched reticule dangled from her left wrist.

Sophy was looking at herself.

‘What?’ she gasped. ‘Why would you…?’

Hidenory looked down at herself critically. ‘I can hardly imagine,’ she said frankly, ‘but for some reason, our friend has taken a liking to you. If this is what pleases him, who am I to argue?’

Sophy stood speechless as her brain fought to interpret Hidenory’s words and actions. ‘You mean Aubranael?’ she said at last.

Hidenory’s smile grew a little bit wider.

‘But he—I do not see how—we hardly—I mean, we met only once! Why should you imagine he is enamoured with me?’

Hidenory shook her head. ‘It will come to you in time, my dear.’

‘But then you intend to—to trick him!’ Sophy said with great indignation.

‘Only a little bit,’ Hidenory smiled. ‘And why not? He likes this shape, and I am very eager to please.’

Sophy opened her mouth to object, but Hidenory interrupted her. ‘Do not think to object!’ she said sternly. ‘A chance was offered you, and you have passed it up. It is now my turn.’ She smiled once more, much more kindly, and added: ‘I will make him happy, fear not. Now, off you go.’

Sophy did not intend to go! She had a great deal more to say to Hidenory, and besides that a strong inclination to abandon her errand and find a way to warn Aubranael. But Hidenory smiled kindly at her and delivered a swift, sharp, shocking push to Sophy’s shoulders. Never very graceful on her feet, Sophy’s balance was instantly overset, and she stumbled in the direction of the door. A second push sent her sailing through it.

She landed on her hands and knees in wet grass, panting. Before she could gather herself and turn, the door swung shut behind her and she was alone.

Pulling herself slowly to her feet, she stood for a moment, shaking with shock and confusion and breathing deeply of the crisp night air. Once she had gathered herself, she conducted a thorough search for the door; but she was not surprised to find that it had vanished. A tree stood in its place; it was to all appearances a real tree, with no manner of door in its wide trunk at all.

The moon was full and high in the sky, but she was standing beneath a number of very tall, very leafy trees, and little of the silvery moonlight reached the forest floor. It took her a few minutes to realise that something was wrong with her hands: they did not seem quite as she expected. Holding them close to her face, she was shocked to discover that they had, apparently, aged at least fifty years in the course of a few minutes. They were lined and spotted and shrivelled with age, and as soon as she noticed this she realised that they continued to shake, perhaps not with shock but with a kind of palsy.

A series of other realisations quickly followed, each one equally mortifying. Her cotton-print gown had vanished, in favour of the drab homespun garments that Hidenory had worn in her crone form. Her bonnet was gone, her head crowned only with a bird’s nest of thin, brittle hair. Putting her hands to her face, she felt skin soft and sagging with age, and adorned in several places with warts of princely size.

Hidenory had turned her into a crone.

It was of little comfort to her to realise that the shape she wore was merely external; she did not feel old. She was not afflicted with the aches and pains of the elderly, nor did she feel weak or frail. She felt the same as always; only she knew that she looked utterly different—and utterly repellent.

Vain it was now to wish for her old body back; hopeless to realise how much beauty she had possessed before. She stared in horror at her twisted, shrivelled hands and, to her shame, a tear crept down her cheek.

What was she to do now? How long would Hidenory’s glamour last? Perhaps forever! Perhaps it would never wear off, never be withdrawn. How could she continue with her plans, in this wretched shape? Who in Aylfenhame would want to go anywhere near her?

And how could she warn Aubranael? Even if she could find him—and without Felebre’s help that seemed impossible—he would have no idea who she was. Her tale sounded ridiculous; how could she convince him of her identity, or of Hidenory’s plan?

Even worse, what if he did not wish to be warned? He might welcome Hidenory’s plans for him. He would have the companionship he had wanted—even if it was won through somewhat questionable means—and why would anyone pay any attention to Sophy?

But no, this was not right. Hidenory was wearing Sophy’s image: she would win Aubranael’s attention by impersonating her. Aubranael may well believe he had met the real Sophy Landon again; why would he doubt? But he should not be duped so! Briefly she wondered why Hidenory would want to be loved in such a way—taken for someone else, loved under false pretences. But she was desperate, of course: she would grasp at anything if it held the possibility of an escape from the Korrigan’s Curse.

She could not leave Aubranael to fall victim to it, however. She suspected that Hidenory deserved better; she knew that Aubranael did.

She had to find him, somehow. But how? She was alone, lost somewhere in Aylfenhame, with no idea where she was and no idea where to go or how to get home. And Aubranael could be anywhere.

Taking a long, deep breath, Sophy stilled the wobbling in her lower lip by biting down upon it—quite hard indeed. Feeling thus strengthened, she began to walk. First she would find a way out of this forest; then she could consider the problem of where to go next.