Chapter Twenty-one

The Queen of the Other Moon was, at last, coming to the end of her circuit. She had accepted the greeting and tributes of princes, dukes, earls, and counts and was beginning to turn her attention to the lesser members of the company. Which was to say, the people who hailed only from the kingdom's thousand wealthiest families, rather than its thirty wealthiest.

So at last Miss Caesar had an opportunity to speak her piece. And although she was now merely the second most radiant being in the hall (the Beauty Incomparable was a wondrous gift, but Titania would permit nothing to outshine her, although my lord would—of course—do so on many occasions despite her best efforts), when she and the queen came face-to-face they amplified one another. The queen was all light, and Miss Caesar all glass, and so the one poured into the other and danced and shifted and spilled out again across the ballroom, bathing the onlookers in a radiance the like of which mortal eyes saw once in their lives, and then only if blessed with remarkable fortune—of one sort or another.

And when the queen at last spoke, her voice was like hearing the dawn. Like children laughing on a battlefield. Like a storm in a heat wave. "What do you want, child?"

A glass face behind a glass mask, Miss Caesar had never looked, nor sounded, less like herself. But she spoke the words clearly enough. "I want redress."

"Redress?" The queen's tone was carefully neutral.

"I bargained for beauty," Miss Caesar echoed, trying to keep as close to Amenirdis's phrasing as she could. Which was a good instinct; words are magic and changing the words changes the spell. "But I received less than I gave away."

Like the Lady, like most of her courtiers, Titania had a remarkable laugh. One that held only kindness, even when used for cruel purpose, that offered hope even as it stole choice, that took all you had and left only happiness behind it.

"I received less than I gave away," Miss Caesar repeated. And there was strength in that repetition. Few would make the same petition to the Queen of the Wrong Mirrors twice.

But our kind grow bored easily, and the queen was growing bored now. She turned her face from Miss Caesar and began to walk away.

"I received," Miss Caesar said for the third time, "less than I gave away."

The laws that bind our people do not bind yours. You may lie about a thing any arbitrary number of times, though you somehow persist in believing repetition is truth anyway. But while we know that your laws are not ours, we sometimes live in the spaces between them. What we tell you three times is true, and what you tell us three times we must heed, whether we wish to or not.

Whether you would wish us to or not.

Titania turned back, a new menace in her aspect. Her gown of diamonds shimmered white with anger and the laurels on her crown curled back to reveal thorns. "That is a grave accusation, child, and must be answered."

With no spoken signal, Titania called the Lady to her side. The Lady herself, perhaps conscious that her relationship with Miss Caesar was reaching its conclusion in one way or another, had been touring the party in search of fresh clients. Now she went obediently to her queen. "Majesty?"

"This girl charges that she bargained for beauty, but that what was given did not outweigh that which was taken."

"No price was stipulated," the Lady replied, coolly. "And that beauty was granted cannot be denied."

This seemed to satisfy the crowd, whose vulnerability to the Beauty Incomparable was surely proof enough for any reasonable person.

Not that being reasonable is ever truly a requirement amongst my kind.

But just as the matter seemed settled, a rough, northern voice called out from the back of the room. "I deny it."

The whole crowd turned, and Barryson pushed his way forwards. "I am Barry," he said, "son of Barry, son of Bob, keeper of the old ways, and I demand that this matter be tried at the Althing." This was an interesting gambit, although the laws of the Old North were of limited sway in either the English court or its fairy echo.

Titania turned her head to face Barryson. "Are you a lawspeaker?"

Barryson shook his head. "There's none in the south, as I'm sure you know."

"Then you have no authority." She turned and walked back towards the far wall, where now the mist was receding to reveal a long colonnade of trees stretching endlessly into a distorted distance. "If you wish to make your case, child," she called to Miss Caesar without so much as looking at her, "then make it. But you will not make it here."

And so as the queen retreated and her court went with her, Miss Caesar followed. Although neither I nor the crowd nor her family nor, perhaps, she herself could tell if she went from her own will.

"Fucking stop her," called the captain to whichever of his men could hear him. The cry was passed on as effectively as it could be and, on the periphery of the room, Sal and Jackson, still masked as harlequins, did their best to flank the queen's procession, but the crowds were too thick and her fairy courtiers too canny to permit interference. As the Irregulars and Mr. Caesar tried to fight their way to the queen and her petitioner-captive, the mists rolled back and the far wall of the great hall of Carlton House began to rebuild itself with uncanny speed.

The majority of the mortal attendees had the foresight to stay well clear of the aperture as it closed, and to make no effort to follow Titania into her place of power. This was sensible of them, but their presence as spectators still proved an impediment to those attempting a more reckless pursuit, meaning that by the time Mr. Caesar reached the aperture-that-was, it wasn't.

"Come back," he yelled at the unyielding brickwork. "Come back here and …" He wasn't quite sure what the and was, and so he left it forever uncompleted. And when Captain James's hand came down gently on his shoulder, he put his own hand over it and let it rest for a moment in comfort.

"We need to go," the captain whispered. "Barryson did his best, but it's clear he's not a real toff. And the magistrates will not take us sneaking into a royal ball lightly."

He was right, of course. And even had he not been, what reason was there to stay? Mr. Caesar had lost track of both his sisters, and while he had reason to hope Anne would be well, he could not be certain of it. His first instinct was to hang his head in shame, but shame had bought him nothing so far. So he swallowed his fears, fell in behind Captain James, and trusted not to fate, but to action.

"No fucking authority?" Barryson was saying as they assembled outside. "I'll give her no fucking authority."

"And how, pray, will you do that?" asked Lady Georgiana, who had left alongside the Irregulars, reasoning that little would happen that evening that topped an otherworldly intervention and an abduction.

"Be nice, Georgiana," chided Miss Mitchelmore. "We're none of us planning to give up on Mary, are we, John?"

Mr. Caesar agreed in theory but was having trouble in practice. He did not lack for determination, but he sorely lacked for ideas. "No," he said somewhat unconvincedly. "Although since she just walked through a wall into a world that is not on any map, I fear we may need to regroup at least."

"Situation like this," Captain James told him, "you need to follow quick. We don't know what's happening to her."

"Follow how ?" asked Mr. Caesar, not quite despairing but not far from it.

All eyes turned to Barryson. "There's a way," he confirmed. "But you won't like it."

Mr. Caesar's jaw grew tight and his lips grew thin. "This is going to involve blood sacrifice, isn't it?"

"Doesn't everything?" asked Lady Georgiana.

Very much not in the mood, Mr. Caesar was reduced to an inartful but expressive: "No, it fucking doesn't."

"But this will. You want to get into Alfheimr, you need to talk to Freyr." This was … only partly accurate. The hidden truths of the cosmos are what you mortals might call syncretic, and so while Freyr is one name by which one god who claims dominion over one part of my people's realm is sometimes known, he hardly holds a monopoly on ingress. "You want to talk to Freyr," Barryson continued, "you need to offer him a boar, a horse, or better still both."

"And where are we going to get a boar and a horse at this time of night?" asked Mr. Caesar, increasingly convinced that the world was spinning, or had long spun, off its axis.

From his instinctive place in the shadows, Jackson gave a low chuckle. "This is London, Mr. Caesar. You find it the same way you find anything else. You put the right coins in the right hands."

Barryson gave a sharp nod. "Give me an hour and I'll have something. Meet me on Hampstead Heath, where you were going to duel the major."

Mr. Caesar rested his head in his hands. "And then what? We slaughter some animals, walk into another world, and then tell the Queen of the Other Court ‘Excuse me, I want my sister back'?"

"I hate to say it." This was Callaghan, who'd been holding his peace thus far and seemed able to hold it no longer. "But the lad's right. This isn't a plan, it's fearsome close to being a trap."

"Did I ask for your opinion, Infantryman?" replied Captain James, sharper than Mr. Caesar had heard him since they'd met.

Eerily monochrome in his harlequin's garb, Sal slinked forwards. "We're not in the field now, Captain. Every man here is with you because you've earned as much, but don't throw it away on a fool's errand."

"Saving my sister is not a fool's errand," insisted Mr. Caesar with far more conviction than he felt.

"It will be if it fails," Callaghan pointed out. "We're not talking about some village full of Frenchmen here, we're talking about strange magic and otherworlds. I'll have your back, Captain, but sure and I'm taking a lot on faith with this one."

Captain James stared at his men, hesitant for the first time since I, at least, had known him. "Kumar? What about you."

"I trust your judgement," the scholar told him, "and I wouldn't ask any man to abandon his sister. But you have to admit, you'll be risking all of us for one girl."

"When you put it like that," said Lady Georgiana, "it does seem rather foolish."

Miss Mitchelmore aimed a sharp kick at her ankle. " Georgiana. "

"She's sixteen, " pleaded Mr. Caesar. And he was, now, pleading in a manner that an uncharitable observer might almost consider unmanly. "You know her." He turned to Jackson. " You know her. You've been to my house. You've fed us your terrible coffee."

"No offence," Jackson replied calmly, "but you're nothing to me. And though I'm sure you're too polite to say it, I'm nothing to you."

A week ago, this would have been the exact truth. Now … now, like so much in Mr. Caesar's life, things were more complicated. "Mary is my first priority," he said—and of that much he could be entirely certain. "But I believe I am beginning to count you as …" The stumble was not quite fatal, but a lifetime of dancing around propriety could not be erased overnight. "I mean, I would not presume to call you friends, but I would not put you in harm's way save for very great purpose."

Jackson, however, did not seem convinced. "Those are very fine, words, sir. But I've heard fine words from a lot of men in my life, and most of them would see me hang in a heartbeat if it would profit them."

"And what about me?" asked Captain James. "Am I such a man?"

Still masked, his face still painted all in white, Jackson smiled. "You said yourself I deserved to swing."

"You do. But you've not."

I watched with interest as Jackson and the captain squared off against one another. There was a chance, just a chance, that this would end with somebody getting stabbed, and while it was looking increasingly likely that the evening would end in some kind of bloodshed whatever happened, a little appetiser never goes amiss. "I'm your man, Captain," said Jackson at last, thwarting my desire for violence. "And if you say we're doing this, we'll do it. But I'll tell you now you're being a bloody fool."

Captain James nodded once, slowly. "Barryson, go get the sacrifices. We're doing this. Men, fall in."

The Irregulars, save Barryson, fell into a column, with Mr. Caesar bringing up the rear.

"Much as I hate to play the part of the weaker sex," observed Lady Georgiana, "I think I might suggest we leave this to the professionals. I've had a rather confusing night."

Miss Mitchelmore laid a hand on her lover's arm. "Whatever that lady was, I am sure we will find her again. But for now I agree we should leave things in the hands of—" She looked around at the assembled soldiery and a look of dark realisation crossed her face. "Um, John … have you seen Lizzie?"

You might, perhaps, have expected me to tell you now what had become of Miss Bickle. As accustomed as you must now be after two volumes (you did read the first one? Yes?) of my brilliantly observed and artfully constructed narration, you must have the expectation that I would have flitted across nine worlds and located the good lady in order that I might assure my readers that she would do nothing entertaining without its being relayed to them.

Alas, even I have my limits. And Miss Bickle, it seemed most likely, was already within the court of Titania. And there I go only when sorely pressed.

Of course, I am writing this novel in retrospect, so I could tell you where precisely she had gone and how, when, and if she returned to the mortal world. But I choose not to.

Instead we follow Mr. Caesar, Captain James, and the Irregulars as they make their way across Hampstead Heath to their appointed meeting place. And having followed them, we watch them standing around waiting in the cold and the dark. I confess that I, too, am disappointed, but when one is setting up a magical working, one needs to consider all manner of logistical elements that do, in fact, take time to arrange.

I mean, I say needs to. But actually I would heartily recommend winging it. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

After longer than I would have liked but approximately as long as was expected, Barryson arrived in company with two men of unsavoury demeanour, the elder leading a brown draft horse that looked two days off from the knacker's yard and the younger dragging a boar that looked rather more energetic.

"And who are these?" asked Mr. Caesar, not welcoming the intrusion.

The older of the two men smiled and stuck out a hand, which Mr. Caesar shook out of sheer social inertia. "Jim Cooper," the stranger said. "Butcher, slaughterer, and victimarius. Think of Cooper's for all your sacrificial needs. The lad's my apprentice and won't be no bother. You got your own knife"—he drew a long, brutal-looking blade from his belt—"or do you want to use mine?"

Mr. Caesar winced. "Could somebody else not do it?"

"She's your sister," Barryson pointed out. "You don't want the gods thinking you're afraid to get your hands dirty."

As it happened, Mr. Caesar was, in fact, afraid to get his hands dirty. After all, for most of his life he had moved in circles where getting your hands dirty was punishable by immediate expulsion. But those circles held less power over him than once they had and besides, he owed his sister a little fear. He just thanked the fates that his costume hadn't included expensive gloves.

"This pair for the gods of the north?" asked Cooper, indicating the animals.

Barryson nodded.

With the appraising eye of a professional, Cooper looked at the beasts, then the landscape, then back at the beasts. "Reckon them two trees'll take the weight."

"What weight?" asked Mr. Caesar, whose evening was spiralling from disaster to pure gothic horror.

"The bodies," explained Barryson. "The gods'll want them hung from the trees for a bit. We could just let 'em choke out without the knife-work, but then they thrash something awful."

This was starting to go too far for Mr. Caesar. "I am not leaving two dead farm animals hanging from trees in a public woodland. It's unseemly."

"Don't worry about it, mate." Cooper waved Mr. Caesar's concerns off with a morbid cheeriness. "We won't leave 'em to rot, that'd be a waste of good meat. Once the gods've had their share me and the lad'll take 'em down, stick 'em on the cart"—he pointed down the hill to the little path where, sure enough, a cart was waiting—"and they'll be sausages by lunchtime."

With a fatalistic suspicion that he already knew the answer, Mr. Caesar asked, "Who's going to buy horse sausages?"

"The unsuspecting," replied Jackson.

Privately vowing never to eat a sausage again, Mr. Caesar turned quickly to Barryson. "Let's get this over with. What do I actually have to do?"

Wordlessly, Barryson nodded to Cooper and his apprentice, who led the sacrifices each to their separate tree. When both were in place, the attendants binding their back legs with long ropes, Barryson called on the men to gather around the horse and place their hands on it. The places either side of the head, Mr. Caesar noted, were reserved for him and the captain.

"Freyr, Lord of Alfheimr," Barryson intoned from his position at the rear of the horse, "bountiful one, take this offering and, y'know, just let us in because we've got a job to do and time's wasting."

It did not, to Mr. Caesar's ears, seem an especially respectful way to address a deity, but he took it as his cue to act.

Which he would do. Any moment now.

Gently, Captain James closed his fingers over Mr. Caesar's and held his gaze steady. "You can do this, John. Strike hard and strike true."

So Mr. Caesar struck. With Captain James guiding him he cut stronger and deeper than he might have otherwise, but it was still a messy blow and the horse bucked wildly. Then the victimarii hauled on their ropes and, with the assistance of Callaghan and Sal, raised the unfortunate creature into the branches where its blood continued to stream down onto anybody who wasn't quick enough to get out of the way. And also onto Barryson, who seemed to be deliberately trying to catch it in his bare hands.

Once he'd bloodied himself enough, Barryson paced between the two trees and smeared the bark of each with horse blood before bringing the group to the boar and repeating the same ritual.

"I"—Mr. Caesar's voice quavered—"I think I should do this one alone."

Captain James stepped back. "You sure?"

Once again, Mr. Caesar chose honesty. "No. But I think—Barryson, it's … it means more, doesn't it? If you do it yourself. It's more likely to … work?"

And, much as Mr. Caesar hoped he wouldn't, Barryson nodded.

In his mind, Mr. Caesar had been carefully telling himself that it would be easier this time. That the boar was smaller, and a smaller animal would obviously be easier to stab forcefully in the throat.

He should have remembered that he knew nothing about livestock.

Smaller it may have been, but it was angrier, stronger, its hide tougher and its throat harder to find. A gentleman, Mr. Caesar was at once sure, would never dream of performing such an action unaided.

But a soldier would. A brother would. His cousin, come to think of it, had. And so he struck.

The beast struggled forcefully, wrenching the knife and his wrist both, and tossing its head in a way that Mr. Caesar would insist for all of the next eight minutes had cracked one of his ribs.

But it died. And the offering was accepted. And once more the beast was hoisted into the tree, and once more Barryson soaked his hands in the blood, mingled it with the blood of the horse, and then, when he was satisfied with his preparations, stood in the space between the trees and said in a loud, clear voice: "I'm waiting, Freyr. I stand before you with blood on my hands and blood in my hair and ask passage. Now open the fucking door."

And to Mr. Caesar's sincere surprise, he did.

Between the hanging corpses of the horse and the boar, the air swam and mist rolled in and then away to reveal a path lit by a very different moon.

Barryson turned to his companions in triumph. "Gentlemen, shall we go?"

The men fell in and, cautiously, Captain James in the lead, they stepped through into fairyland.