His back, however, itched more fiercely than ever. Barnaby scratched at it vigorously, his skin growing warm from the repetitive friction. He could stand it no longer. He jumped up from the sofa and pulled at his coat—fighting to release his arms—and threw the garment down. He tugged his blouse free at his waist so that he could dig at his skin with his nails.
Yet, before his fingers made contact, the sensation had already receded.
Barnaby stared at the manuscript. It lay open, its pages peering up at him as innocuously as those of any other book he had ever held. He reached for it with a tentative hand. The moment his fingertips touched it, the urge to claw at himself returned. He snatched his hand back.
This was not how poisons worked. Their effects did not fade within moments. In fact, now that he paid it fuller attention, Barnaby did not consider the sensation akin to that of blisters or a rash or the beginning of an illness. There was no pain, no fever. Rather it was the nagging sort of itch one suffered when a wound was healing. But what wound?
Perplexed, he stood—a rather wild picture, his shirt trailing over his breeches—in the center of the room. What, on this good, green earth, was going on? That book held the answer. Of this he was certain. But he was leery of it.
Facing the placid pages as though they would pounce on him if he were not careful, Barnaby swept the room with his eyes. He did not find what he wanted. Instead, he backed away from the sofa and its perplexing contents until he bumped against the book-laden desk. He reached back, feeling rather than seeing, until his fingers closed around a letter opener shaped like a miniature, blunt dagger.
Clutching it in his fist, his arm outstretched, he now approached the manuscript once more, the makeshift weapon pointing the way. With the utmost care, he slid the letter opener under the top sheet of vellum and slowly pulled it to the left to turn the page without him touching it.
The buzz of his agitated skin still clung to his shoulder blades, but it did not worsen as before. Barnaby relaxed a little. He set the little tool to the side and put his clothing back to rights. Putting a cushion between him and the mysterious book (as if the embroidered decor could offer him any protection whatsoever), Barnaby perched on the edge of the sofa and leaned forward to read the newly revealed page.
Alwin the scribe had begun his narration.
“My travels weary me. From village to village I roam, little more than a peddler of my services. I miss my father’s house, the warmth of his hearth, the bond of family. I oft wonder if I should have remained with the monks where I received my learning. I long for their companionship, though, when I was among them, I thought it not enough.
“I find myself in low spirits this night. I write so that my thoughts may not grow too melancholy. What else should I save this paper for? No-one has need of my quill. My coin is all but depleted. I have spent enough on a simple dinner to fill my stomach, but I cannot stay under a rented roof, not in the public house, nor the smattering of cottages nearby. The night is warm and the moon bright. I shall find a bed of heather. Perhaps a poem shall come to me. Anything to lift the doldrums that have settled upon me here in Fenwick.”
A bolt shot up Barnaby’s spine. Fenwick! This was a local history! What an incredible find! Lord Brathwaite would be pleased.
In his haste to read on, Barnaby almost forgot to use the paperknife to turn the page. He remembered just as his hand was about to take hold of the edge of the vellum. He drew his arm back hastily, grabbed the little tool, and maneuvered it to access the next page.
The illustration switched from a landscape of what must have been Fenwick in 924AD to a rather odd scene of dancers in a circle. Odd, because they wore only the barest of clothes, and… Barnaby peered closer. No, he had not been mistaken. They had wings. Fine, gossamer strands that could not possibly carry their weight. If the illustration was to match the text, it would appear that Alwin had written a poem after all, although it seemed strange that a learned man who had trained with monks should dabble in such frivolous themes as fairies.
“My hand trembles as I write. I can scarce believe what I have witnessed.”
So, not a poem, then. Surely this man Alwin could not be suggesting he actually saw these winged folk?
Barnaby frowned. Were these pages to be some tale from Alwin’s imagination, conjured up to amuse himself? He read on to find out, though his faith in the author had lessened somewhat.
“The night had descended upon my resting place, balmy and bright under a full moon. My thoughts were restless, and I could not sleep. Strands of music reached me, I assumed, from the public house. But the instruments were almost ethereal, and no rude laughter or drunken song interrupted their play. Instead, I heard the sound of many voices, speaking in a tongue I do not know.
“I lifted my head from its fragrant pillow. And what I beheld would make a drinking man question his ale. For there, upon a clearing, hands linked and feet skipping bare, were twenty or thirty fae. They danced in a broad circle, the music coming from no instrument that I could see, seemingly rising up from the ground as they leaped upon it.
“I found myself drawn to the sound: a siren call I must obey. They did not flee at the sight of me but welcomed me, though I knew not the words they used. Their gestures and smiling eyes were enough.
“As soon as I linked hands with them, their tongue was no longer strange. I understood their speech and listened to the songs of the fae with a heart grown unburdened. My feet grew light, my body weightless. We danced together, a strange union of human and fae, and yet a cherished one.
“With our speech now unfettered by a lack of understanding, I learned that the maiden to my left was called Lyra. She was of otherworldly beauty, as were they all. Her smooth, silver hair flowed down to her waist, strands clinging to her arms and cheek as she leaped and twirled. Her eyes were mists of blue and green, speckled with brown. I could not have my fill of them but gazed at them until she laughed at my devotion. She did not mock me. It was as if she knew it could not be otherwise. The sound warmed my heart. Her sublime touch undid me. It was beyond me to resist her. She had captured my imagination, my attention, my heart.
“When the circle divided into smaller rings, she stayed with me. They divided again and again, her hand in mine until we were a pair, alone. It mattered not that other fae spun and skipped about us. They had ceased to exist in our small world of two.
“Then came the dawn. The dancers vanished, one by one, returning to the magical land from whence they came. But Lyra remained, her hand still in mine. She pointed at the iron buckle that bound my leather belt about my waist. ‘It grounds you to your world,’ she said. ‘And me with you.’ Her hand clasped mine tightly. This was her choice.
“‘You will miss your people,’ I said, though I wished with my entire being for her to stay.
“‘They will return to dance under the next full moon,’ she answered. ‘Until then,’ she whispered, as the last of the fae disappeared under the rays of a warming sun, ‘I am yours.’
“As she uttered these words, her wings melted away like a mist. She had joined me in the human world. Her magic had to remain hidden.”
Upon reading this, Barnaby sensed a shift at his own back. The itching had ceased, changing to a sensation of weight, as if something heavy were suspended there.
Like wings.
Barnaby shook his head. This book was playing havoc with his imagination.
