“Oh, the oracle was not a mortal!” said Sophia, laughing. “What a diverting notion! No, she was a sibyl, Kendle says, which is a fairy, you know. She was trapped within the picture by the artist, a thaumaturge who had been attached to her, but was betrayed in his affections.”
As Sophia spoke Prunella examined the singing orb. Their arms were still linked loosely together, and she hoped Sophia would not feel the rapid beating of her heart, or the trembling in her hand.
The orb was not quite the same as her own. It was of a different, darker metal, from which the candlelight struck bluish green sparks. It was carved with different marks, too: minute pinpricks, forming lines and flourishes that intertwined across the surface of the orb.
“What a tragic story!” said Prunella. She was wondering whether, if she could only distract Sophia for a moment, she could conceal the orb within her reticule. It was wicked to steal, of course, and Zacharias would be cross if he discovered it, but surely there was no harm in borrowing the object for a time. A comparison with her own orb might enable all sorts of instructive experiments.
“Yes, isn’t it? I adore a tragedy!” said Sophia. “Kendle tells such gruesome tales of the attachments between mortals and fairies, andthey are invariably tragical, for the fairies’ caprice is beyond anything. You should hear how the Fairy Queen treats her mortal paramours when she tires of them! They are turned into mantuas and half-boots, transformed into newts, and who knows what else besides. I am sureherpoor swain wished he had never taken it into his head to fall in love with a fairy!” She gestured at the painting.
“Why do you say so?” said a new voice.
Prunella hastily returned the orb to the table, and turned to face the lady who had joined them.
“Mrs. Midsomer!” she said brightly. “Mrs. Kendle and I were admiring your lovely painting.”
“It is an ugly piece, but Geoffrey likes it,” said Mrs. Midsomer. Her strange eyes seemed almost to glow with their own light. “And the sibyl serves her purpose. You do not seem to admire her, ma’am?”
Sophia was crimson. It was awkward for her to have been overheard speaking of the Fairy Queen’s discarded beaux by the wife of one such.
“One feels sorry for the poor man, you know,” she stammered. “To have his confidence so betrayed!”
“But he died of old age, whereas she is doomed to pass the rest of her life trapped betwixt gilt frames,” said Mrs. Midsomer. She turned to Prunella. “I saw you were interested in my bauble, Miss Gentleman.”
Prunella preserved her composure. Mrs. Midsomer was a whimsical creature, it was clear, but she need not think she would intimidate Prunella Gentleman.
“It is a pretty thing!” said Prunella. “I was wondering, ma’am, what it is for?”
Mrs. Midsomer gave her such a penetrating look Prunella almost wondered whether she was able to discern Prunella’s own orb, concealed beneath the bodice of her dress. But instead of replying, Mrs Midsomer leaned over, and said to the painting:
“How are you keeping, sibyl?”
Her loud, harsh voice plucked at a memory in Prunella’s mind. Had not Zacharias said something about the voice one must use when casting spells?
“Magic hates a whisper,” he had said. “The forces of the supernatural respond best to a good strong bellow.”
The huddled figure in the painting rose, revealing a lined, weary face.
The sibyl had once been beautiful, but age and isolation had worn her down. The hair under the rough fabric of her hood was silver, the face seamed with lines of sorrow.
“What d’you want of me?” she snapped. Her voice issued from the canvas clear and curiously full-bodied, in contrast to her flattened form. “When Ormsby locked me away I thought I should at least profit from some peace, but no—it’s pester, pester, pester, all the day long. ‘What’s my fate, sibyl? What’s to become of me?’ Surely that’s clear enough—death and the ruin of all your hopes, the same for all mortals.”
“Not me,” said Mrs. Midsomer.
The sibyl pursed her lips. “I would not be so cocksure if I were you. Death and despair are hardly the preserve of mortalkind, as you’ll find soon enough.”
“It is not my fortune I wish you to tell,” said Mrs. Midsomer. “I shall make my own. But tell me of this woman.” She gestured at Prunella. “Who is she? Have I anything to fear from her?”
The sibyl raised her great hollow eyes, and Prunella felt Sophia’s arm quiver in hers.
“The mortal woman has love, but she will lose it, and know the bitterness of despair,” said the sibyl. “Which is to say, she likes her husband now, but will soon stop when she knows better.”
“That,” said Sophia, trembling in indignation, “is exceedingly impertinent!”
But Mrs. Midsomer overrode her protest, snapping at the sibyl:
“It is the other mortal I meant! What do you see of her past and future?”
Prunella had been trying to make herself scarce, stepping sideways so that Sophia hid her from the sibyl’s view, but she did not move quickly enough. The sibyl’s gaze fixed upon Prunella, and her eyes widened.“You!”
