Goblin Moon (47 page)

“This wedding,” said Sera, “must not take place.

The Duchess stepped forward and addressed her calmly.
“But of course dear Elsie shall marry the Jarl. Why should she
not?”

“Because . . .” Sera did not know how she could
possibly tell the good old Duke and the innocent parson this
terrible, incredible thing. “Because, she is not of age. Elsie
cannot marry because she is still too young, and her parents have
not consented.”

The Duchess laughed her tinkling little laugh.
“Consent? But of course they have consented. I have the letter
right here, signed by Benjamin and Clothilde Vorder. Mr. Ulfson has
already examined it, but if you wish to look as well—“ And the
Duchess displayed the letter for Sera to see.

Sera pushed it aside. “It is . . . it must be a
forgery,” she said, though without much conviction. The Duchess
only laughed, as though she must be joking, and the clergyman
looked at her askance.

And all of this time, the clocks went on ticking, the
pendulums wagging, the gears and the wheels whirling, and Elsie
continued to stand like one in a dream or a trance.

“This wedding cannot take place,” said Sera,
searching her mind for a suitable objection, “because the bride—is
sleep-walking.”

“Dear heart,” said the bridegroom, taking Elsie by
the hand, “you must say a few words to our good Mr. Ulfson, to His
Excellency the Duke, lest they feel any cause for concern. There is
nothing wrong with you. You are feeling very well. What could
possibly ail you?”

“There is nothing wrong with me . . . I feel very
well . . . what could possibly ail me?” came the dutiful little
echo.

Mr. Ulfson looked down at his book, preparing to read
the service. And Sera was reduced, in her desperation, to blurting
out the truth, as wild as it might sound: “This wedding cannot take
place, because the bridegroom is a troll!”

Perhaps Sera was as surprised as anyone when the
clergyman closed his book. He turned to Lord Skogsrå with an
apologetic smile. “You are not to suppose, sir, that I give any
credence to this wild accusation. But it happens that I am privy to
information . . . strange things have been happening in the next
parish, strange things indeed, though I do not seriously believe
they have anything to do with you. Nevertheless, in all conscience,
before I can perform this service, I must ask to examine your
hands.”

“But it is not his hand,” said Sera, feeling rather
foolish. “You must ask him to remove his boots. He always wears
boots and walks with a limp, because . . . well, I suppose because
he has a great hoof exactly like a horse!”

Except for the ticking clocks, the room was utterly
silent. Then: “A hoof like a horse?” Mr. Ulfson repeated. “My dear
young woman, that sounds rather bizarre.”

“Bizarre,” said the Jarl, growing indignant. “It is
very much worse than bizarre. It is infamous—shocking—that this
young woman should come here to mock my infirmity before my bride,
to scandalize you all with this vicious fiction.

“Moreover,” he added, with heavy scorn, though it
could be seen that his hand trembled on Elsie’s arm, and drops of
perspiration appeared on his brow. “I will not remove my boots or
suffer this indignity, all to indulge an hysterical girl.”

How Mr. Ulfson might have answered, Sera was not to
learn. For it was then that Francis Skelbrooke appeared on the
threshold.

There was a moment of silence, then Lord Skogsrå
pulled out a small pistol and pointed it at the parson. “These
interruptions are growing tiresome. We will continue with the
wedding, if you please.”

“I think not,” said Skelbrooke, stepping away from
the door, so that Mr. Budge could come in after him. Mr. Budge was
armed with a brace of enormous pistols, and he wore a handkerchief
over the lower part of his face, rather as though he were a
highwayman holding up a coach.

“At best, you have achieved a stalemate,” said the
Duchess, still all sweetness and reason, despite this dramatic turn
of events. “And the Jarl, he is not quite himself. So near to
achieving his desire, to assuaging his hunger, he might do any
foolish thing. Do not tempt him, Francis, do not tempt him, Hermes.
For the sake of this poor Mr. Ulfson.

For answer, Lord Skelbrooke opened his hand—it
contained nothing more dangerous than a tiny box like a snuffbox,
inlaid with pearls and ivory. He flicked open the lid with a motion
of his thumb.

As Skelbrooke blew the Sleep Dust into the air, those
in the room began to fall, one by one: the Duchess—Elsie—Lord
Skogsrå—the Duke. With a faint smile on his face, Skelbrooke
crossed the room. The last thing that Sera remembered, before she
lost consciousness, was his lordship’s supporting arm.

Sera woke slowly, breathing a pungent but not
unpleasant fragrance. Gradually, she became aware of her
surroundings. She sat in an upright chair, beside a fire, in a
place she did not know. Hermes Budge was leaning solicitously over
her, waving a stem of burning herbs under her nose.

Sera sneezed and looked around her. The chair was a
wooden armchair, and the room appeared to be a rustic but cozy
parlor, with a display of pewter plates arranged on the mantelpiece
and some faded landscapes pinned up against the flowered wallpaper.
On an oak settle built against one wall, Elsie lay with her head on
a cushion, while Lord Skelbrooke and a strange young woman with
corn-colored hair bent over her, burning herbs and patting her
hands, in an apparent effort to revive her.

“What—what is this place?” asked Sera. She was still
wearing the blue velvet gown—utterly absurd in this rustic
setting—but someone had thoughtfully thrown a grey wool shawl over
her shoulders. “And how did we come here?”

Lord Skelbrooke answered, leaving Elsie’s side and
coming to kneel at Sera’s feet. There were purple shadows under his
eyes and a white shade around his mouth; Sera thought he looked ill
and exhausted. “You are at the farm of a friend of mine, about
three miles out of Lüftmal. You came here in a wagon.”

“Oh,” said Sera, on a sigh. It was still very
difficult for her to keep her eyes open. “Elsie. Is Elsie—?’

“We are having some difficulty reviving your cousin;
it is the effect of the Sleep Dust combined with whatever drug the
Duchess and Skogsrå used to render her more suggestible. But I have
taken her pulse and listened to her breathing, and I am convinced
she will awake eventually, none the worse for inhaling the Dust. I
shall try to remain here until she does.”

Sera sat up a little straighter. “Stay here until—Are
you leaving us, sir?”

He shifted position, sitting back on his heels. “I
must leave before daybreak (which is fast approaching) and contact
certain friends of mine, as well as arrange a false trail for the
Duchess and Jarl Skogsrå to follow. As soon as Elsie is well enough
to travel, Mr. Budge will escort you both to Thornburg.”

Sera put a hand to her head. She felt so dull and
stupid. She looked up at the tutor, trying to remember: “Mr. Budge,
I do not recall that you ever told me that you and Lord Skelbrooke
were acquainted.”

Mr. Budge looked troubled. “Yes, I fear I was not as
open with you as I might have been, but I was not certain to what
degree you and Francis were in each other’s confidence. And at any
rate, I continually expected that we would both receive word from
him soon.”

“I intended to come and speak with you both
personally, rather than send a letter,” said Skelbrooke. “I should
have arrived some weeks sooner, but I was—most unfortunately and
quite against my will—required to take a sea voyage. It is likely
that I would be in Ynde now, had the Captain of the ship not been
killed, and the First Mate, finding himself in possession of a
ship, and therefore with an opportunity to mend his fortunes,
decided to turn honest. He began by freeing me, and two other
passengers who were also on board against their will.”

Mr. Kassien had also, in a burst of gratitude, and
under the impression that his new ship’s chirurgeon had not only
saved his ship but his leg, offered to divide the cache of Sleep
Dust. But of this—and of his own addiction to the powder—Skelbrooke
chose to say nothing.

“The new Captain was in no hurry to return to
Marstadtt,” Skelbrooke continued, “but I was able to earn my
passage north by securing a position (on the strength of Captain
Kassien’s recommendation) as ship’s doctor on another vessel. I
stopped briefly in Thornburg to consult my friends, and to discover
if you and your cousin had returned from Zar-Wildungen, and then
came on here as swiftly as I could.”

He looked so pale and haggard, Sera thought that he
must have made that last journey without stopping to rest along the
way. “I should thank you, sir, for—“

“You may thank me later—but for now there is still a
great deal for me to tell you, and the time is growing short,” said
Skelbrooke. “When you reach Thornburg, Mr. Budge will escort you to
the home of his employer, Mr. Owlfeather. Mr. Owlfeather is a
highly respectable dwarf, and a friend, moreover, of your friend
Jedidiah Braun. You may trust him implicitly. You must not, under
any circumstances, go home, for we have reason to believe that
things are seriously amiss there. Mr. Owlfeather will arrange for
you and your cousin to go into hiding. You must do exactly as he
says, Sera, for the Duchess will return to Thornburg eventually, no
matter how long and merry a chase I lead her. And if she finds the
two of you there . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “She does not
take kindly to having her schemes thwarted, and I believe that she
will be absolutely merciless. Moreover, she is a woman with great
power and influence in Thornburg, and I fear that not even Mr.
Owlfeather could protect you.

“I understand,” said Sera. She wrapped the soft wool
shawl around her and tried to stand up.

But Lord Skelbrooke pushed her gently back into the
chair. “Do not try to walk yet.”

“But I must see Elsie,” said Sera. “Really, I must
insist—“

“As I, also, must insist,” said his lordship. “You
can see from here that Elsie’s color is beginning to return. I
believe she will shortly awake.” He spoke to the young woman with
the yellow hair. “Tilda, perhaps you could prepare a little
nourishment for these ladies. Some broth if you have it.”

“Aye, Mr. Carstares, sir. And perhaps some toasted
bread, as well?”

“Yes, toast would serve admirably,” said Lord
Skelbrooke.

“Mr. Budge,” said Sera, making an effort to collect
her thoughts. “I am exceedingly puzzled. Lord Vodni—it is still so
very hard to believe it—Lord Vodni was a troll! Do you remember a
conversation we had on—on the subject of intuition? But it seems
that our intuitive faculties were very much at fault. We both knew
that there was something very bad, very wrong about Jarl Skogsrå,
but Nicolai Vodni had us both completely fooled.”

“Yes,” said the tutor. “I have given that matter some
thought in the last few hours, and I believe I can offer some
explanation. The Jarl was a creature of appetite, entirely obsessed
with his impulses. Whereas with Lord Vodni, I would not venture to
say that he was not so
hungry
as Skogsrå,
but merely that his hunger did not occupy him so completely. He had
so many other interests: his books and his horses; his fascination
with the old house; and I believe a genuine attachment to the Duke.
All these served to mask his true nature as effectively as the
glove he wore concealed his deformity.”

“If that is so,” Sera said, a trifle severely, “then
I do not think very much of this intuition, it is so very
unreliable.”

The parlor door opened, and a large young man with a
shock of red hair came into the room. “Horses are ready, Dr. Crow,
as soon as you’ve a mind to go.”

“Yes, I thank you, Ezekiel,” said Lord Skelbrooke.
“Sera, the time is short, and I still have a number of things to
say to you.” He leaned a little closer; his manner became urgent.
“I daresay you will not care for my speaking out before all of
these people, and the more so because you have already received one
proposal tonight already—but it may be a long, long time before we
meet again.” He took one of her hands in both of his, grown
suddenly, desperately earnest. “Sera, I want you to be my wife.
Will you consent to marry me?”

Sera found that she could not breathe, much less
speak, she was so very surprised. This was scarcely the time or the
place! Yet everyone in the room seemed to be looking at her,
waiting for her to reply.

“Lord Skelbrooke—if that is
indeed
who you are,” she said crossly, “how can I
possibly consent to marry you when—when I scarcely know you. It is
true that we have been acquainted for some time, but really, you
are so odd and changeable that I hardly know what to make of you.
Why, I am not even certain of your name!”

Lord Skelbrooke released her hand. If he had been
pale before, he was several shades whiter now. “Mr. Budge can
confirm that the name is my own, as well as furnish you with
abundant details concerning my character and the early years of my
life. The recital, however, is likely to be long and not
particularly edifying.” He rose heavily to his feet. “I confess, I
had hoped you would take me on faith. But perhaps, after all, that
was too much to ask.” He started moving toward the door.

“Lord Skelbrooke—“ said Sera.

He paused with his hand on the door, turned back to
gaze at her with a look of weary resignation. “Yes, Miss
Vorder?”

Sera shook her head. “I don’t—I only meant to say,
sir, that I hoped we might speak of this again.”

The ghost of a smile came into his eyes as he crossed
the room and knelt by her side once more. “We shall, Miss Vorder,
you may be certain of that. I do not know whether it will be soon
or late, but discuss it we shall.” He lifted her hand, brushed it
softly with his lips. “Until then, I shall have to possess myself
in patience.”