I cast a glance at Anassa, to gauge her thoughts. Her face remains impassive; a mask she uses when she wants to hide her fear, her anger, or simply her sharp mind’s machinations.
Shepherd tilts her head in my direction. I can’t entirelyblame this buffoon, the Bard, for so openly fawning over her: she’s an extraordinary creature, her tawny skin glistening with gold freckles, her rod-straight black hair barely covering her neck. A gilded chain wraps around her throat and sternum, spreading shimmering spiderwebs across her shoulders and down to her waist, where it spools into a zoster adorned with endless … somethings. It’s hard to take in all the details when there’s so much light about her. The seven-pointed star that guided us across the waves, leading us here, no longer crests above the arch. Instead it follows her, hovers atop her head; a loyal diadem for a goddess.
Though I know better than to bow to gods, or trust in their benevolence.
‘My children,’ Shepherd purrs, arms opening wide towards me and Anassa. Her chain shimmies as she moves, its pendants ebbing and flowing, their shapes strangely familiar. ‘My poor, lost stories, torn before your time; how confused you must have been, how scared … And what unlikely allies have you found in one another!’ She glides between us, offering each of us a hand, clearly expecting us to show the same subservience the Bard exhibits.
Anassa’s eyes widen when she sees Shepherd’s blackened fingers. I cannot tell if this alikeness puts her mind at ease or makes her worry that the danger hasn’t passed. As I begin to think she’ll turn Shepherd down, Anassa grasps her hand. A second later, I do too.
It’s good to move on with the times, before they bite.
World-draining threat or ally, hers is the only path ahead.
‘But this ends now,’ Shepherd states, her voice like laurel leaves swaying in the breeze. ‘I’ll take you bothexactlywhere you need to be.’ Smiling, she drags us closer to thearch. There’s nothing on the other side, nothing but brilliant light.
Shepherd turns her gaze back. ‘Follow along, my Bard. You did well, bringing these wayward children home. As a reward, I’ll help you pick a brand-new story, shape it right.’
Anassa’s eyes are glassy, the forests trapped inside them covered in frost.
I don’t have time to reach her, to tell her that this man does not deserve a single tear, a single scar-line frown, that she is glorious and beautiful and better off without him.
With much more force than her frame suggests, Shepherd drags us both forward, until we’ve reached the threshold of the arch. A now familiar burning spreads across my skin, a spark that urges me to fight back, to demand answers, to not go gently.
Before I can open my mouth to speak, Shepherd pushes us towards the light.
19. Anassa
We’re dragged into the most resplendent light, yet darkness finds me there like a friend.
As strong as Shepherd’s grip might have been when she steered us through the arch, now all I feel on me is feathers. Black feathers, fluttering around me, eclipsing Shepherd’s light.
By now, I welcome it. When the voice resurfaces, the voice of countless ravens cawingYours is the path of Claret, I don’t question it. Ever since that day of keys and cauldrons at the beach, where I was forced to gaze upon the witches three and be confronted with so many things I didn’t know, I’ve learned to see the ravens as a warning or a guidance, one for my ears only. A marker in the woods, a turn in a tunnel to ensure I won’t get lost, a song that always ends inClaret, Claret, Claret.Baffling, that this queen of blood and blades would become my one true north. Yet I know better now than to fight it. I smile, waiting for the susurrating dark to dissipate, eager to gaze upon the fire of Claret’s eyes once it does. There was an urgency about her, as we crossed the arch together. Mayhap she had things to tell me. Mayhap there will be time now, time to tell each other things, time to finally –
But when the ravens leave me, and the light reluctantly returns, Claret is no longer here.
‘Do you hear me, child?’ Shepherd’s voice chimes like a knife on crystal glass, rousing my senses. ‘Ah, there she is. You faded, for a while. Your maker was afraid we’d lost you.’
‘Quite, quite.’ The Bard’s voice, punctuated by a nervous cough, comes from my right.
I blink furiously, repeatedly, willing my eyes to make sense of my surroundings. A brick-walled sitting room, set in a homely hue of reddish clay, with mortar black enough to use for ink. Ornate double glass doors on one side open to a vast expanse of flora: an indoor garden. My gaze is drawn towards the garden’s depths, where ruby-red roses glint like drops of blood on green, sole bearers of bold colour in an otherwise all-white assortment. So many white flowers: roses, lilies, jasmine, others I can’t name. The sprawling vegetation has crossed over, jasmine shrubs pushing through the doors akin to fragrant curtains pulsing in the breeze. The smell is mildly upsetting, awaking memories of rotting roses, fighting wraiths, so I turn my attention to the sitting room instead. Not that this space lacks greenery. Trees with strange, feather-like leaves, seemingly sprouted from the ground, line the room’s corners, their lush green canopies casting long shadows on the floor. It is upsetting, this juxtaposition of two worlds, of human abode and natural domain so thoroughly entwined. It brings to mind my castle, Dunsinane, overtaken by the forest on that fateful night.
I’m seated in the middle of the room, on a chair so soft my blackened fingers sink into the velvet. There’s carpet underneath my feet, thick and warm. And I am not alone.
To my left, Shepherd lounges on a leather daybed, so feline in her grace that I can almost see the leopard,shuffling underneath her skin. She’s wrapped in gold from neck to hip, swathes and swathes of a cascading necklace making my eyes water. ‘Have some aqua vitae,’ she tells me, blackened fingers like mine – but oh, so much sharper – pointing to the table just in front of me. ‘The Bard tells me you would be familiar with this drink. It will help you acclimatize.’
The Bard, as he who wears my husband’s face but not my husband’s heart insists on being called, shuffles in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. Sharp brown eyes avoid my gaze, flitting instead towards the small, gold-gilded table, where an assortment of half-empty glasses speaks to a gathering that has been unfolding for some time. With a somewhat trembling hand, he picks up his glass, amber liquid almost spilling. Thorns of suspicion twist around my ribs.
How did I get here? Did they carry me without my knowledge? Or was I magically transported, once we’d passed through the arch, into this very armchair? But if that’s what happened …
‘Where is Claret?’ I ask, my voice a wisp of what it ought to be.
Shepherd’s arched eyebrows furrow. ‘Claret? What is a Claret?’
‘That was the name of her … companion. A figment of Kit Marlowe’s, I believe. We both know how desperate he is to gain access to your realm, exalted Shepherd. His latest works could certainly do with a bit more of a divine spark.’ The Bard takes a hearty sip of aqua vitae, as if to wash away the harshness of his comments, his eyes lowered in careful deference.
Shepherd chuckles. ‘You needn’t worry, my Bard. I’vetold you many times; out of each era, I choose one as my favourite. One maker of words to bless with access to this realm and to all the stories that inhabit it. I haven’t got tired of you, quite yet. You haven’t penned your last.’
The Bard sighs – in relief or feigned exhaustion, as if this whole ordeal has weighed on him. As if Claret and I are not the ones unfairly treated. ‘That may be, and I am grateful for it. Still, slightly troubling, how these two ended up together, but misery acquaints one with strange bedfellows. Oh. Perhaps there’s something in that line. I should make haste and note it down.’
