Goblin Moon (45 page)

“If you’re looking about for someone to raise up
along of you,” he added, “look to your ma and the girls.”

Jed sat up a little straighter in his chair. “I don’t
forget my mother, and I don’t forget my sisters. I’ve sent them
money, and I mean to do more. But it was always you and me, Uncle
Caleb,” he added wistfully, pleadingly. “The two of us always
partners. That hasn’t changed, and it never will.”

Caleb’s face had hardened again; and his voice, when
he answered, was gruff. “It has changed . . . we ain’t partners no
more! And it’s past time you learned to accept it.”

The old man escorted him down the stairs, muttering
under his breath the whole while. If it hadn’t been evident before,
Jed thought, it was clear enough now: he was no longer welcome at
the bookshop.

They stood by the door, and Caleb was bringing out
the key, when somebody knocked.

“Do you intend to open it, or shall I?” asked Jed
peevishly, when his uncle made no move to do so.

With a fierce glare, Caleb unlocked the lock, shot
the bolt, and opened the door. Matthias Vogel and Walther Bergen
walked into the shop. “You’re early,” snapped Caleb. “You wasn’t
expected so soon.” And rather precipitously, he shoved poor Jed out
through the door and slammed it behind him.

Jed did not
mean
to
eavesdrop . . . it was just that he was so shaken by Caleb’s
treatment, he needed a moment to recover before proceeding down the
street. He leaned up against the wall of the building, and that was
how he happened to overhear Matthias speaking.

“Expect us long about two, maybe three in the
morning. We can’t come no sooner nor that.”

Jed cocked his hat over his brow, thrust his hands
into the pockets of his coat. There was something mysterious going
on at the bookshop. He had known that for quite some time, but he
was just now beginning to realize how seriously
bad
that something might be. He knew it was serious,
if only by the measures Caleb was taking in order to conceal the
truth.

“But I mean to find out, all the same,” be muttered,
as he walked down the street. “I’ve had just about enough of this
asking questions and getting crooked answers. Guess it’s time I
started searching out some answers for myself!”

At one o’clock, the street outside the bookshop was
deserted. At two, a rickety old cart came creaking up the hill,
pulled by the two burly Watchmen.

Jedidiah stood watching from the shadows at the foot
of a building on the other side of the lane. Matthias and Walther
he had expected, but the presence of the cart came as a
considerable surprise. He shifted his position silently, growing
more puzzled and uneasy by the minute. The more so when the two
constables disappeared inside the bookshop and returned shortly
thereafter with Uncle Caleb, carrying an ebonwood casket between
them.

With great difficulty, because it was really too
large and unwieldy for three men to handle, they managed to load
the coffin onto the cart. Then they began the slow and cautious
descent of the sloping street.

Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, Jedidiah
followed them . . . all the way to the old boatmen’s cemetery on
Fishwife Hill. He crouched outside the graveyard, peered over the
low stone wall, watching as Caleb and the two constables, working
by lanthorn light, dug a shallow grave and lowered the casket into
the hole. But when they picked up their shovels again and began to
throw clods of dirt back in over the coffin, Jed decided he had
seen enough.

He walked slowly home through the dark streets of the
town, turning the matter over in his mind. However he looked at the
facts, they just made no sense: After all these seasons, after all
this time, to bury the coffin from the river—and so secretive,
too!—when it had never contained anything but a big wax doll in
fancy dress and a parcel of old books.

And then Jed had a thought that was not pleasant at
all. He stopped under a street lamp and caught his breath. Oh, yes,
he knew well enough what the coffin had contained five seasons past
. . . but he had no way of knowing what it was that Uncle Caleb and
the constables had buried tonight.

“D-------n!” he said aloud. He knew now that he
needed advice, the advice of men he respected and trusted. “Time to
do what I should have done a long time since, if I hadn’t been so
willing to believe Uncle Caleb, and turn my back on those wise good
men: tell Master Ule and Mr. Owlfeather everything I know, and see
what the Glassmakers Guild can make of it all.”

Chapter
39

In which Few things are Quite what they Seem.

When the day of the masked ball finally arrived, the
Wichtelberg became a hive of activity. The Duchess was everywhere:
in the kitchens supervising the cooks—in the ballroom overseeing
the maids and the footmen who hung the decorations—making certain
there were lanthorns and torches to light her guests’ progress up
the stairs and the terraces. She insisted that Sera and Elsie take
their morning stroll as usual, then sent them upstairs in the
afternoon with instructions to nap if they could. “You will want to
be fresh for the festivities tonight.”

Elsie was far too excited to rest, so the Duchess
sent up a sleeping draught. Sera watched her drink it down, tucked
her cousin into bed, and then went up to her own room to read a
book until evening.

At sunset, the maid brought in Sera’s gown. Sera eyed
it warily. “It looks rather small. I hope there was no mistake in
the measurements.” But the Duchess had sent her an odd sort of
corset known as a busk, evidently contemporary with the gown. With
the corset on and tightly laced, Sera could scarcely breath, but at
least it was possible for the maid to hook up the back of the
velvet bodice.

The Duchess came in to personally supervise the
dressing of Sera’s hair: in long loose ringlets without too much
height at the top. Marella was already in costume, in another
old-fashioned gown, crimson velvet worked with tiny seed pearls,
and a wide cartwheel ruff. Her hair was powdered and she wore a
tiny diamond-shaped black patch at the corner of her mouth.

“I will
not
be painted!”
Sera exclaimed, as the maid produced a haresfoot and a pot of
rouge. And she steadfastly refused the patch box, for all of the
Duchess’s attempts to persuade her.

A standing collar of stiffened white lace attached to
the bodice at the shoulders, and the Duchess provided a pair of
high-heeled satin slippers with jeweled buckles. As a final touch
the maid sprinkled gold dust on Sera’s hair. Finally, she was
allowed to examine her reflection in a mirror.

Sera frowned at her own image, not at all certain
that she liked what she saw. The gown was certainly beautiful, but
she felt awkward in such finery, particularly in the high-heeled
slippers, which made her feel a giantess. And the neckline no
longer gaped, but it was still exceedingly low, revealing more
white bosom than she cared to expose.

“Nonsense,” said the Duchess, when Sera said as much.
“You look perfectly delightful. Besides, there is a mask, and no
one will recognize you. “

The mask in question was a midnight velvet vizard
mounted on a stick—it offered little or nothing in the way of
disguise—but there was no time now to further alter the gown.

“I daresay Lord Vodni will much approve,” the Duchess
added archly.

Sera felt herself blushing. It was true that the
Baron had been very attentive. So very attentive of late, that the
thought had actually sometimes occurred: he might have serious
intentions.
But of course I know better,
thought Sera.
Vodni is as poor as I am. He must
marry a woman with money, or else marry no one at all.

The Duchess steered her out of the bedchamber and
toward the stairs. “It is really time that we went down. Already, I
can hear the carriages arriving.”

“I ought first to see if Elsie—“ Sera began.

But the Duchess interrupted her. “Elsie had a lovely
nap and awoke refreshed. She dressed an hour ago and went
downstairs. No doubt she is waiting for you in the ballroom.”

The ballroom was a vast echoing chamber with a marble
floor and tapestried walls. Instead of chandeliers, there were
great standing candelabra of wrought iron, in which the servants
had arranged enormous candles the size of lamp posts. By the time
that Sera wobbled in on her ridiculously high heels, several guests
had already arrived, but Elsie was nowhere to be seen—nor anyone
who might possibly be mistaken for Elsie in her gown of white
brocade.

The first person Sera met was a youthful cavalier
with brown lovelocks, who bowed very low, soliciting her hand for
the first minuet.

The voice was familiar, and Sera immediately
recognized the young man behind the grey velvet half-mask. “Lord
Vizbeck,” she said, “you are very kind. But I make it a practice
never to dance at these large gatherings. And what of Lady Ursula?
Surely you ought to stand up with
her
at
the beginning of the ball?”

Lord Vizbeck gestured toward the far end of the
ballroom, and a lady in flowing Eastern garb. “Lady Ursula is
feeling rather independent tonight, I fear. She says I am not to
suppose, simply because we are soon to marry, that she will spend
the entire evening dancing with me.”

It was true that Lady Ursula’s temper had been
somewhat uncertain of late, perhaps due to an unresolved quarrel
between herself and the Duchess, after Lady Ursula caught one of
the Duke’s servants searching through her drawers and promptly
labeled the girl a thief.

Though Sera refused to make a fool of herself by
attempting to dance in her heavy velvet gown and ridiculous
slippers, she relented just a little. “Lord Vizbeck, if you would
be so kind as to procure me a glass of ratafia, and perhaps sit and
talk while the others dance . . . ?”

As Lord Vizbeck bowed and hastened off in search of
refreshments, Sera sat down in a little alcove to await his return.
She sat out that dance with Lord Vizbeck, and another with another
gentleman. The ballroom was very crowded by now, but nowhere in the
throng could Sera spot Elsie.

When the second gentleman had tired of begging her to
stand up with him—and beat a welcome retreat—Sera rose also. She
wove a path through the masked and dominoed revelers, the gigantic
candelabra and the huge dripping tapers, searching for her
cousin.

She did not find Elsie, but she did meet Hermes
Budge—immediately recognizable on account of his height, for all
that his face was masked and his hair powdered. The tutor looked
unusually elegant in a coat of sapphire velvet trimmed with silver
braid.

“Mr. Budge, have you seen Elsie? I have looked and I
have looked but I cannot find her.”

“I believe I have not,” said the tutor, with a low
bow. “But of course it is difficult to be certain. But here comes
Lord Vodni. Perhaps he may be able to enlighten you.”

Lord Vodni also looked particularly well, in a
scarlet coat of military cut, with the inevitable lock of dark hair
falling carelessly across his brow. Like Sera, he carried his mask
in his hand.

“You are very kind, sir,” said Sera, when Vodni
kissed her fingers and requested the next country dance. “But I
cannot find Elsie. I am very much afraid she has taken ill and has
gone back upstairs to rest.”

“Then I am pleased to reassure you,” said Vodni. “I
saw your cousin but a few minutes since, on the arm of Jarl
Skogsrå. I believe I heard something about the grotto. The Duchess
has arranged for colored lanthorns, and also for musicians, as an
entertainment for those who wish to escape the heat of the
ballroom.

“If you wish to go down there in search of Miss
Elsie,” he added, with a bow and a flourish, “perhaps you will
permit me to escort you?”

Sera was pleased to accept this offer, as well as the
support of his arm. “You look enchanting, Miss Vorder,” said the
Baron, as they moved through the crowd. He spoke with undisguised
admiration. Perhaps after all, thought Sera, the gown was not so
dreadful.

But in the corridor outside, they passed a slight,
pale gentleman rather flamboyantly costumed as a pirate, who stared
at Sera in such a way that she felt herself blushing once more.
“Impertinent fellow!” commented Vodni.

“Yes indeed,” said Sera. “He is perfectly
odious.”

A torch-lit stone staircase led from the cellars down
to the grotto. Even before they reached the foot of the steps, Sera
knew that Vodni had been mistaken. Though the colored lanthorns
were there as promised, shining gaily on the water and on the
little gilded cockleshell boats moored by the side of the lake, the
great cavern was silent and empty.

“It would appear,” said the Baron, “that the
musicians have not yet arrived.”

“Nor have Elsie and the Jarl,” said Sera, peering
into the darkness, noting that none of the boats had been taken
out.

“It is possible, replied Vodni, “that they are in the
tunnel, following the stream out to the gardens. Shall we walk in
that direction and listen for their voices?”

“Yes,” Sera decided, after a moment of thought. “I
suppose that we should. I think it very odd that Elsie should
disappear in this fashion, and in company with the Jarl, too. My
dear sir, you do not suppose that she is in any . . . danger?”

Vodni’s hand tightened reassuringly on hers. “If he
dares to harm her, he will have me to deal with!”

They skirted the underground lake, along the paved
rim, until they came to the tunnel, where they stood looking and
listening for several minutes. Exotic fish lived in the waters of
the grotto, bulb-eyed, flashing silver and gold in the cold and the
dark. “The tunnel echoes so,” said Sera. “If Elsie and the Jarl
were there, I am persuaded we should hear their footsteps, if not
their voices.”