The Road to Bedlam: Courts of the Feyre, Book 2 (55 page)

    Concealing myself, I turned to the Way-node and stepped forward, leaving the town far behind.

    When I got back to the High Courts, Blackbird was going through her wardrobe, laying out the contents of her drawers and examining them all with a critical eye. She had amassed three piles – one for the charity shops, one to go back in the cupboards and a last one with an uncertain future.

    "Do you think I'll ever wear this again? She held up a sundress with a blue floral design.

    "I don't know. Do we have to decide right now?" I asked.

    She surveyed the piles. "You're right. I'll keep that one but not this one. This one goes, right?"

    She held up a yellow sun-top that faded into orange.

    "Whatever you think's best. I'd better go and see how Alex is getting on."

    I escaped into the hallway and met Tate as I walked through the house. He turned and fell into step with me.

    "How's she doing?" I asked him.

    "She's upsetting the stewards," he said. "Eating like a horse, and she's driving Fionh crazy. "

    "I thought they'd get on OK."

    "It's a long time since Fionh was a teenager. She's been trying to teach Alex to use her magic in a more controlled fashion, but she has no attention span. They just get started and she wants to eat again, or drink, or take a shower."

    "She's only fifteen, Garvin."

    "That may be true, but in fey terms she's a woman. The Feyre consider that once you come into your power you are responsible for yourself, an adult."

    "She's not ready for adulthood."

    "She has power, she's of an age to bear children. Those are all the qualifications you need."

    "She'll need some time to adjust," I insisted.

    "Stop babying her, Niall. You're making it worse."

    We'd reached the suite which Alex and I had been assigned. Alex was reorganising it to her tastes, moving furniture while Fionh watched her from the sofa. I looked at Fionh. She shrugged.

    "Sweetheart, what are you doing?" I called after Alex.

    "Do you mind if you have my bedroom and I have yours?" she called, walking into another room. "You won't be sleeping in there anyway, will you?"

    Tate touched my arm. "I'll see you later." He made a strategic withdrawal.

    "I'm not sure…" I said. "We're not staying here, Alex. This is only temporary until we can find somewhere else."

    She came back in carrying a set of bedding. When she had gone into the room her hair had been dark. Now it was blonde. She tossed the bedding on to the other bed and went back for more.

    "What's with the hair?" I asked Fionh.

    "Oh, that. I showed her glamour and she hasn't managed to be stable for more than two minutes since. Her mind's a butterfly. She can't concentrate on anything. One moment she's a redhead, then a blonde, five minutes ago she had long hair, now it's short."

    She appeared in the doorway. "You need to take me shopping," she said. Her hair was jet-black.

    "There'll be time for that later."

    "You always say that. I don't have any clothes. I haven't even got any bras." She looked down and her breasts visibly swelled inside her jumper. She looked up at me innocently.

    "How am I supposed to buy you new clothes if you keep changing size?" I asked.

    "Maybe I need different sizes for different days," she said. "Maybe I need a lot of new clothes."

    "Maybe you can have jeans and a T-shirt and you do the rest with glamour?" I suggested.

    "Oh, Dad! I have nothing to wear. Literally nothing!" Her clothes switched back to the hospital gown. I was sure it was more transparent than it had been originally.

    I was rescued by Garvin. He peeked around the door and raised his eyebrow at the jumble that our living space had become.

    "I have business," I told her. "Can you just put things back the way they were, please?"

    "If I can't have any proper clothes, I'll just wear this then, shall I?" She followed me to the door.

    I held up my hand. "We'll talk about this later."

    "Humph!" She screwed her hands into fists and stomped off into the other room. The water pipes in the bathroom gurgled in response until Fionh glanced sharply at the bathroom, whereupon the gurgling ceased.

    When I stepped outside, Garvin was leaning against the wall.

    "You wanted her back," he said.

    I sighed. "At least it's normal. I caught her this morning curled up in bed, sobbing. When I asked her what she was crying about she wouldn't tell me. She wouldn't even let me touch her."

    "It's going to take time, and it's going to leave scars," he said.

    "On all of us."

    "You can't stay here forever. You do know that?" He pushed off from the wall and we walked slowly down the hallway.

    "I know. Allowing her to rearrange the rooms does give her some sense of security, though. She needs the illusion of permanence."

    "Mullbrook is making arrangements for another house. He was suggesting somewhere well-built, relatively fireproof, near a lake, or perhaps the sea?"

    "Steward's humour? I think I've seen enough of the sea for a while."

    "I think he was serious. With water and fire under the same roof, you could have some interesting times ahead."

    "Tell me about it."

    "We need to think about the future. You can't continue as Niall and Alex Petersen. You'll need new identities for a new life."

    "I can't do that, Garvin. What about Katherine? I have to tell her something. What about my parents? They just lost their granddaughter. They can't lose their son as well. It would kill my mother. I have to think of something else."

    "Perhaps it would be best to let things take their course. Alex can't go back, you know, even if she wants to. They will be looking for her and for anyone else who escaped from Porton Down. She's going to need to keep a low profile."

    "Try telling her that."

    On cue her head appeared around the doorway. "Can I go out?"

    "Out where, sweetheart?"

    "Just out. Am I a prisoner here? Fionh says I'm not a prisoner but she won't let me go anywhere."

    "Where do you want to go?"

    "Just out. Somewhere with people, shops, music. I'm fed up of being in one room."

    "Technically it's three rooms."

    She sighed. "Can I go out?"

    "It's more complicated than that. What about your appearance? You need to be able to handle your power – so things don't get out of control."

    "I'm fed up with being controlled!" That caused a growl from the plumbing.

    "And that's exactly what I'm talking about," I reminded her.

    Amber ran up the stairway and stopped. "I think you'd better come." She paused, waiting for me. I watched her expression.

    "When can I go out?" asked Alex.

    "Not now, sweetheart."

    "You always say that. I'll be stuck in here forever. You got me out of one prison to put me in another. I'm supposed to be an adult. Why can't I do what I want?"

    "It's time," said Amber.

    "Alex, go back in your room and stay there until I get back. I have to go now."

    "How come you can go and I can't? It's not fair!"

    "No," I told her. "It's not fair. It isn't good and it isn't nice. Things are difficult, life is hard and the sooner you get used to it, the better. But right now I need to be with Blackbird, OK?"

    "Why? What makes her so special? I'm supposed to be your daughter."

    I hurried away, but then stopped and turned back to her.

    "You are my daughter. I love you and I want you to remember that, but you're about to become a sister. Now do as you're told."

    I watched her face change as she grasped the implications of what I'd just said.

    Then I ran.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful that so many people will give up their time to read and comment, and point out where I have written something that doesn't make sense or backed myself into a corner. Indeed, so many people have contributed ideas or made suggestions that I'm sure I will miss someone in these acknowledgements, so if that is you, please accept my apologies and my thanks.

    I am particularly grateful to Peter for wading through the early drafts and providing a wealth of questions, challenges and ideas, and to Geri, for resisting the temptation to read
Sixty-One Nails
so that she could read this book first and check that it made sense for a new reader. Once again I am indebted to the Roses, especially Jo and Simon, and to Ameen, Lauri, Rachel, Bob and Tina, who took the time to read, review and provide feedback, and to Jules for such interesting research material and providing continuing support and encouragement. A special mention also for Jenny, who as well as providing comments, looked beyond the story and asked the questions that really needed to be answered.

    The Wellie Writers, Joy and Andrew, also have my gratitude, for their continued support and encouragement in developing my writing, for their honesty and integrity, and for their dedication to the mutual bloodsports which are our monthly critique sessions, long may they continue.

    My thanks also go to the professionals, to Jennifer Jackson, my agent, whose comments always go right to the heart of things and whose advice and guidance I value immensely, and to the Angry Robot team, Marc Gascoigne and Lee Harris, who have shaped the concepts, tuned the output and provided huge amounts of encouragement and professional help. You are a pleasure to work with.

    My gratitude also extends to the countless people who have fielded odd questions, bounced back ideas, and humoured the strange bloke with an uncommon curiosity as to how this or that came to be. Please continue to humour me, as it almost always leads somewhere interesting and you never know, the conversation may end up in a book.

    It is generally considered a bad idea for an author to comment on reviews of their work. However, I do want to thank all the people who read
Sixty-One Nails
and then took the time to marshall their thoughts and put together a review. I have been delighted with the response and I hope this book lives up to your expectations. Also to the people who met me at conventions, stopped me in the street or sent their comments through email or via the website, thank you for your kindness. Your comments are much appreciated.

    I would like to thank my whole family for being so spectacularly supportive, not just of my writing, but of everything I do, and for continuing to put up with me. Your encouragement, kindness and love is what keeps me going.

    Finally, to my wife, Sue, and my son, Leo, who enduringly suffer the eccentricities of my writing, are my first and last critics, and can be relied upon to come up with the most obscure, bizarre and wonderful material. You always encourage me to be the best that I can be, you are always there for me when I stumble or fall, and without you I could not have done any of this. You make me proud and immensely grateful. Thank you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Shevdon's love of Fantasy & SF started in the 1970s with C S Lewis, Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, and continued through Alan Garner, Ursula Le Guin and Barbara Hambly. More recent influences include Mike Carey, Phil Rickman, Neil Gaiman and Robert Crais, among many others.

    He has studied martial arts for many years, aikido and archery mainly. Friends have sometimes remarked that his pastimes always seem to involve something sharp or pointy. The pen should therefore be no surprise, though he's still trying to figure out how to get an edge on a laptop.

    Mike lives in Bedfordshire, England, with his wife and son, where he pursues the various masteries of weapons, technology, and cookery.

www.shevdon.com

THE WINDING WAY TO BEDLAM

Those of you who have read
Sixty-One Nails
will know that I like to incorporate real places and events into my stories and in this,
The Road to Bedlam
is no exception. However, I will admit straight away that Ravensby does not exist.

    I knew from the beginning that the part of the story that fell within the fishing town would be set in North Yorkshire. I was born not far from there and I knew that the particular feel of that coast was what I needed for this book. When I came to select a town, though, I could not find all that I needed in one place. I will also confess that I did not want to lay the dark events that unfolded there on the warm-hearted people of one Yorkshire town.

    So that's how Ravensby came to be. It is a composite place which takes elements from Staithes, Whitby, Robin Hood's Bay and Ravenscar, following down the coast to Scarborough, Filey and Bridlington. The story is no reflection on the kind and welcoming Yorkshire folk, and I thoroughly recommend a visit to the area to sample its delights for yourself.

    The Sea Queens are also fictional, though further up the coast they crown a Herring Queen in Eyemouth in July each year. That tradition extends only back until the 1930s, though, and whether such traditions were more prevalent in earlier times when the herring stocks were more substantial, I do not know.

    While Ravensby is fictional, the storm of 10th February 1871 is not. It happened much as described in the book, with the weather turning overnight from the clear calm day on the 9th to hurricane-force snow and sleet the following morning. The lifeboats rowed out time and again to save men from ships that were either being overtaken by the waves or driven onto the rocks, until one of the lifeboats was also wrecked. By nightfall over thirty ships had been lost and seventy sailors had died, some drowned within sight of their loved ones. Reading the accounts left me in awe of the lifeboatmen, the sailors and those who risked their lives to rescue the drowning men, and full of respect for the men who, once the storm had calmed and the cost was counted, continued to go out to sea knowing full well the danger. Even with modern technology it continues to be a hazardous occupation.