The Last Stitch (The Chronicles of Eirie: 2) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty Nine

Veniche embodied dreams and fantasies Phelim thought as he disembarked, almost as beautiful as the woman who claimed his discrete attention. He stepped back as she passed and her eyes sought his as if she knew him and there beat an odd moment. Then her gaze bent down, the better to negotiate the step to the wharf. The hob on the other hand, gave a half-smile and a nod.

Adelina noticed the smell of decay, mould and rot together with the fug of the laguna. The mist ever present on cool nights had twined and undulated around the visitors and muffled the sounds of the wharf and the ferrymaster dismissing his crew.

Maybe because she was with child, Adelina’s stomach heaved a little and she longed to lie down and rest and not to think about where she was and why and especially not to think about that stranger because she felt something indefinable all around. Maybe then, when her head was clear and her stomach settled she could talk to Gallivant about him and why he had mentioned Severine’s name.

‘Come milady.’ The hob placed a solicitous hand on her elbow. ‘I have heard of a small inn. Let’s go. You need to sleep.’

Phelim, ever aware of the chamois bag under his clothing, felt it warm from its normally frigid state and wondered why? Perhaps because they know we are close to a Gate, he decided. He watched Gallivant and Adelina disappear into the mist, his eyes fixed on the indistinct shadow of the woman, struck again by her bereft expression. The ferry master knocked his shoulder. ‘They have the right idea. It’s cold and close to midnight, you need to find lodgings.’

Pensione Orologio was more than comfortable; to Adelina a tiny little palace – as narrow as the House of the Thrush and squeezed between a milliner’s store and a men’s outfitter. Gallivant had secured a pocket kerchief room with two beds lying affectionately side-by-side. By squeezing past the carved walnut ends one could find a chaise in front of double doors - the doors themselves, like all Venichese doors, leading to a balcony overhanging one of the smaller, quieter canals. The balustrade was fretted and carved in the Raji style and Adelina was immediately transported to Ahmadabad where windows overhung tailored gardens and where water tinkled and Raji doves cooed and fluttered. It was a memory that pained and so she sank onto the bed as Gallivant closed the doors of the balcony, sealing the room from the damp smell.

She fell into an exhausted sleep and was thus surprised and anxious when her eyes flew open to find the dark room lit by the pallid light of a sickly moon. She could hear the quiet breath of Gallivant, presumably in the bed by her side. Immediately thoughts of Veniche, Severine and her purpose for being there filled her mind and she shifted her legs from under the coverings till her toes hit the cool of the aged parquet floors. With the quietest effort, she pulled on the
tunic and jodhpurs from the end of the bed and took her boots in her hands, creeping to the door and praying to Aine the parquet wouldn’t creak as it had done when they climbed the stair to the rooms. Her fingers found the elegantly wrought handle of the door and she pushed it down slowly and proceeded to pull - enough for her to squeeze through and begin her search for the Gate and news of Lhiannon.

‘And just what, mistress, do you think you are doing?’ The door slammed shut in front of her before she could slip out. Gallivant stood defiant as she swung round.

‘I thought to try and find the Gate.’

Gallivant’s expressive eyebrows shot skywards. ‘Yo
u did? Well, sink me, Adelina, and where would you start? You’re not an Other, you know. To be frank your behaviour is beginning to worry me. Where is your self-control, your logic? You can’t possibly go off in the dark in a city you don’t know and begin a random search. At any time Luther might spot you. Aine, woman! Have you not thought of your child?’

Adelina had never seen the hob so filled with ire. ‘Of course I have, but...’

‘Oh but nothing.’ He took her arm and towed her back to bed. ‘Lie down. Now!’ He helped her pull off her tunic and covered her with blankets as she lay down. ‘Adelina, I am Other. If anyone can discover the portal’s whereabouts it’s me, and with complete invisibility if necessary. Do you agree?’

Chastised, she nodded, too tired to argue.

The hob rubbed her with solicitous a palm. ‘Then you must rest now for obvious reasons. And let me do a preliminary hunt tomorrow. You can finish the robe and by then I will have some information for you and we can plan. This way
you
are safe and Kholi’s child is safe.’ Gallivant knew he risked a flood of tears by invoking the father’s name but needs must. As it was she smiled damply and closed her eyes. Within moments, maybe even a moment of mesmer, Gallivant could see sleep had claimed her and he heaved a relieved sigh.

He sat guard by the window. Ever since the hobyahs
’ attack he had been afraid for her, never dreaming he would have to protect her from herself. He looked at the face in repose. There was a Venichese artist who painted magnificent madonnas and Adelina looked just like a heavenly mother, he was sure. He sighed. He loved her deeply - as he would love a sister if he had one. She needed to be guarded - she was too spontaneous and emotional. In addition, the canals could be as full of the unseelie as any other watery place. Satisfied she was heavily in slumber, he mused quietly as he gazed at her in the last moonlight of the night.

‘That tall fellow on the boat,
’ he whispered. ‘The one you thought looked like Liam. I’ll tell you something, Threadlady. You are very astute. Not that you recognised any familial likeness, I’m sure. But you
did
recognise Other because the fellow is Faeran. Sink me madam but the world’s an ironic place. We seek the Gate and we find a Faeran in the process. I wonder if we should have asked him for the location?’ He reached over and pulled the covers higher over her shoulders, muttering to the room at large. She was curled like a question mark, protective hands around the belly and the new life, eyes closed, breath regular and calm. ‘Huh, he’d probably not have shared the knowledge. It’s as well you can’t hear me. It would just be another wild goose for you to chase and there’s quite enough to be going on with.’ He lay on his bed, dressed and primed and staring wakefully into the dark.

Phelim had taken the ferrymaster’s directions to a likely inn. He stepped along one alley after another and over some precious little bridges shaped like the humps of Raji camels until he found the entrance of the Pensione Esperia, a place of faded grandeur not far from the Grand Canal and where plants hid chipped paint. The parquet, like all Venichese parquet, squeaked and groaned as it was traversed. But it was a clean establishment and had a large room with a garde-robe and twin beds. It looked out over a narrow
calle
and if one leaned precariously, one could see a bigger canal in the distance.

As he had proceeded along the cobbled alleys, his footsteps echoing from one high wall to another, he followed in the steps of the night watchmen as they snuffed street lamps, torchères and braziers. Phelim wondered if he was entering some unseelie underworld as the lights progressively disappeared. Blackness and shadow festered and footsteps became disembodied sounds, perhaps unfriendly - who would know? In the increasing silence of the Dark a cat yowled and further away a street cur barked half-heartedly in response. Phelim, for all that he was Faeran, was glad when he turned into the Esperia - he needed to give the Dark some thought.

He laid his coat over a chair and pulled out the chamois bag from under his shirt to place it on the coffer by his bed. The bag seemed so innocent of interest; scuffed hide, the drawstring faded, stains where he had bled through the frosted blisters on his ribs - such a mundane appearance for something of such import.

He had been disappointed the ferrymaster was unfamiliar with Severine’s address
; he only wanted to know so that he could avoid the danger therein. The fellow knew the woman of course but he rarely ventured beyond the wharf on workdays and his own home was on the island of Marino where he led a village existence by the side of the laguna. He stripped off his clothes and washed himself before climbing between crisp linen sheets, lying back with his arms behind his head. Glancing down, he registered the frostbite against his ribs and thought of the bag and how it had warmed as Gallivant Goodfellow and his Traveller friend passed by. He recalled the woman’s face again. She was beautiful - lush and full of promise but with some sort of melancholy that bit deep.

His fingers ran gently over the blisters just as they would if they ran over the woman’s face. Skimming the rawness with the touch of a butterfly’s wings, pattering away the hurt. Looking down he realized there would be more damage as long as he hung the pouch under his shirt. He reached for the glass of wine by his bed and wondered how the woman’s distress could be soothed and what she would think of his Faeran ancestry and then he had an absurd desire to tell her if she ever asked, that he was indeed an Other and would deny his heritage, for it made him unhappy.

***

Had I been aware my unfamiliar companion on our ferry trip was Faeran, do you think I would have been friendly? For the sake of Liam, for the sake of Lhiannon, for the sake of Elriade the silk seller?

I suppose I would. But it was hypothetical and hardly of concern at that very point in my life. The only thing that truly worried me as I lapsed into a heavy sleep that first night at the inn was how he could know of Severine? It scared me that even on the ferry I was unable to escape the threads of her web. I determined as my eyelids crashed down to block out the world, that I would ask Gallivant what he thought in the morning.

But now we have just finished the last book of the second last design on the robe. We have entered and exited each
godet
on the front and back and we have finally reached the enormous design that spreads itself over the centre back seam.

It is the marriage piece and I’m sure you guessed quickly to whom I dedicated every stitch. The bride and groom of course - one dark, one titian and dressed in silks and with lace stitch fan in the hand of the bride - can only be Liam of the Faeran and Ana, his mortal betrothed.

There are a number of journals hidden here, enough to finish the story. But one at a time, so firstly go to the folds of the groom’s shoulder cloak. As you can see, it is appliquèd to the robe and it is just a question of lifting two or three of the stab-stitches and you will find the book beneath. There are four other books hidden amongst the stitching of my bride and groom and one of them you must not touch, the one hanging from the bride’s hand. Please, I beg you.

On pain of death.

You think I jest? I do not. Remember that Faeran and Others have become my friends and there is such a charm on that particular book that in fear of your life you must do as I say.

You will find out why at the end of our story and if you are the friend I think you to be then you will pay attention and observe what I have said. Indeed, if you have read the story thus far and you are still with me, you have obviously paid heed from that very first time when I requested you read the books in sequence if the fires of damnation were not to be lit.

In any case you have one to read now. So shall we continue?

Chapter Thirty

Dawn arrived like a flood. Moisture ran down windows and exterior walls and the persistent patter and tumble of drops down drainpipes stretched nerves.

The Dark before Carnivale could be a difficult time. Few people ventured out, there was an air of shadow about the city aided and abetted by the time-honoured ritual of dressing in black. The funereal shade served to heighten the atmosphere and many chose to stay indoors close to hearth and home. The emphasis on darkness inevitably created some expectation that the unseelie might be about in more pressing numbers. Certainly there was a lift in crime about the city-state, but whether this could be attributed to some eldritch being or whether the offenders were entirely mortal and taking advantage of a situation was a moot point. No one was prepared to argue that by celebrating the Days of the Dark the city was any more or less dangerous than normal. Besides, Carnivale was so good for the merchants’ coffers before the Dark began each year, it was highly unlikely it would ever be banned without a massive outcry. It was easier to be aware, to have talismans, charms and potions and to conclude all necessary business before the Dark commenced.

History says the Days of the Dark began hundreds of years ago when the city suffered a famine after years of drought. Rats and mice abounded and disease and starvation were rife. But then had come three days of torrential rain... of gloom and grey and sombre moods where death and destruction appeared at the door and the Reaper was heard at every second corner. But the days of dripping rain and the accompanying dark shadow had perfected a miracle in the city and its mainland environs. The pestilent and germ-ridden alleys and inns, villas, huts and palazzos were washed clean and crops on the mainland grew.

The next year, a similar period of seasonal rain occurred. But with a difference - the citizenry celebrated the end of the three days with a feast. Thus Carnivale grew to become a vast theatre of extreme colour, of vibrant masks and extravagant silk and satin clothes. There was absolutely no effort amongst the citizenry to recognise or placate Others during this festival. This was purely a time for mortal self-indulgence on a grand scale.

So amongst the angst at the diminution in business around the streets and the dislike of the black as Hades nights, there simmered an air of acute expectation and none stronger than in the Palazzo Di Accia.

Severine had been out and about early, rain not withstanding. Dressed in a slick ebony oilskin fashionably cut with vent and tab and with her hair
piled underneath an oilskin bonnet, she entered a sedan-chair and accompanied by Luther, was swiftly carried to the address of the glassmaker on the
Calle del Vetro
.

Earlier in the day, she had sent
to the six master architects of Veniche. Would they kindly attend her this afternoon? Knowing they would never refuse her, she almost salivated - the secret key to the locked gate so close.

Luther held open the door of the glassmaker’s, shielding her from the rain with a black umbrella the style of which drew glances from curious eyes. Never had they seen such an item. Severine had the forethought to bring it home from a trip to the Raj, ordering several made to match her wardrobe and each time she used one it raised odd interest.

‘Luther, stay outside. Keep guard and prevent anyone from entering. The business I have is exceeding private and I do not wish to be interrupted.’ She pushed past him and the door rattled shut, the bell chiming like a crystal clapper inside cut glass. Severine proceeded across the floor to a cabinet filled with
millefiori
paperweights and in her diamond-cut manner, called for service.

A door opened and a blast of hot air assailed the showroom. Over the shoulders of the glassmaker, Severine could see the artisans with their long pipes looking as if they played in some woodwind orchestra. The door slammed shut and the man wiped his sweating brow with a red paisley square.

‘Contessa! If I had known I was to be so honoured, I would have dressed accordingly. Please accept my apologies. As you can see I work in the
fabbrica
today.’

‘Signor Niccolo, good-day and please, it does not signify.’ Severine’s aristocratic manner brought her to an
elegant chair and she eased the long coat tails aside and made herself comfortable in front of the eminent display of paperweights.

The glassmaker ran his fingers quickly through his damp hair and untied the singed leather apron, tucking in his striped shirt. ‘Contessa, may I offer you some wine?’

‘Indeed. Whilst I tell you what I require, a nip would not go astray.’ She inclined her head graciously to the side and the glassmaker hastened to pour two goblets of ruby liquid. She took the glass from him and sipped what was a surprisingly good vintage. Carefully placing the wine on the counter, she looked up at the man and smiled her most engaging smile. ‘Signor Niccolo, I am in urgent need of a large order by the eve of Carnivale. Sooner would have been better, but I realise you will need a little time.’

Her
long fingernails tapped the glass surface of the display cabinet, indicating the
millefiori
paperweights underneath and she delivered her words carefully and with deliberation, because this was of such import. To have the charms was one thing but the need to hide them was another entirely – and of paramount importance. Her idea was perfect. ‘I require four small, personally handcrafted
millefiori
paperweights, each one different except for the central flower.’

‘Four! Madame!’ The glassmaker quailed
with obvious distress at the excessive workload. She knew that he was a perfectionist and that such things took time...

‘Please!’ She held up an admonishing hand, her manner blunt. ‘I truly don’t want to hear you say it can’t be done. I w
ill make it worth your while. After all, you know what it is to have Di Accia patronage behind your business. That said, I’m sure you are also aware that it would be unwise if you didn’t accept my commission.’

Her point was made and she could see the glassmaker’s mind working -
he would work day and night to have this finished by Carnivale. ‘Madame, I accept.’ He lifted his glass and took a huge draught of the wine.

‘Good.’ she replied,
‘As I thought you would. When you have blown and cut the rods for the central flowers, I want you to deliver them to the palazzo and when I am done with them, Luther will return them to you post-haste. No doubt you think it a bother but you will have to indulge me; these paperweights are going to mean more to the future of Eirie than you can imagine. Thus I will require your total discretion. If ever the planning and making of these should leak out, then it will be at the cost of your business. Or worse.’

Signor Niccolo remained silent. Thoroughly threatened and not at all blessed by the patronage forcibly dropped in his lap, he assumed the woman had some diplomatic gesture to make abroad. Who knew? The Di Accia web was wide. He also knew none but he could make the paperweights for his craftsmen were loose-lipped. So the
fabbrica
would have to close with the men on full pay! She had better make it worth his while, he thought with a slight tremour.

‘Signor’, she broke into his troubled revery. ‘I will pay you five hundred gelt for each paperweight!’

His mouth opened wide and remained open longer than was polite.

‘I see it meets with your approval’. There was a noise in the street, her man arguing with someone. She stood and adjusted the folds of her rain-beaded coat. ‘Then I shal
l see you tomorrow afternoon. I have no doubt you will be busy and I have no doubt you will not let me down.’ She turned and walked to the door as it was pushed open by a tall individual whose face was concealed by a dripping hat. The Contessa pulled her trailing folds away from his damp wake and scowled at him.

Phelim held the door open. ‘Your pardon, Lady.’ He said as he sketched a bow. Under his coat and beneath his shirt, a grey chamois bag burned deep welts into his skin. When he straightened, the woman was climbing into a sedan chair, the lout who had barred his way closing the chair’s door and walking behind, unaware the man who had argued at the door was the Other who had tripped him up so maliciously and purposefully at Ferry Crossing.

Adelina sat on the chaise, the robe stretched over her knee so she could appliqué the groom to the centre back. Tiny stab stitches edged the cloak and around his velvet boots. As she stitched his face with delicate straight stitches, she tried to fill it with expression and animation to bring it to life, for stumpwork is a rendition of reality, not just an artist’s vague impression, and therein lay Adelina’s skill.

She was content to sew. Gallivant had left early, having found her some breakfast and having lit lamps to light the dark corners of the rain-shadowed room.
She felt restful and calm and not at all in an adventuring mood. At one point, she opened the balcony doors and stood shielding her head from the persistent downpour. Leaning out, she observed the umber and terracotta walls, the cobbles shining with moisture, washed and polished with the rain, the canal waters pockmarked with the cascading drops. The few people she spied were dressed according to the Dark code. She returned to her stitching intrigued with the traditions of this city she had never visited but was content to let it flow past her like the water outside. The day drifted on with the robe having finishing touches placed upon it and the last few of the books begun and finished, shrunk and concealed.

She hung the robe and began the perambulating inspection that was so much a part of this mammoth task she had undertaken, finding the need for
a thread here, a stitch there - taking it down again to sit in a state of such equanimity that she wondered if the hob had mesmered her, the better to keep her out of the city and safe. The thought lasted a second and she shrugged her shoulders to continue her work, the pearlescent silk cascading over her lap.

The peace in which she had so thoroughly wrapped herself disintegrated like torn paper as the door burst open and a dripping hob walked in, muttering angry invective. He seemed unaware of Adelina as he thrust all his parcels on the floor and as he continued to snarl at the world at large, he dragged off the wet coat and flung it on a chair by the door, noticing Adelina at last on the chaise by the balcony doors.

‘Aine Gallivant, what goes? You have cursed all and sundry since you walked in.’

‘You may well ask!’ He threw himself down next to her, crushing part of the robe under his legs.

‘I am asking - something has obviously disturbed you. And can you mind the robe?’ The air in the room thinned with expectation and already her neck prickled. She had a feeling she knew what he would say...

‘It’s her!’

I knew it, thought Adelina, her heart sinking to lay itself under her feet on the parquet floor. The woman, despite Adelina’s freedom, still had the capacity to reduce her to the state of victim. She jammed the needle into her thumb in her distress. ‘Severine! Then you had better tell me...’