The Autumn Castle (12 page)

A glowing fissure of understanding had opened up in her universe. Until twenty minutes ago, she hadn’t even believed in ghosts.
Not even ghosts.
But now, an alternative realm full of magic and faeries and shape-shifters had become real for her, thanks to Mayfridh’s
spell. She didn’t know whether to sob uncontrollably or laugh hysterically. What wonders, what unknown joys and horrors, had
been there all along as she lived her gray life, pole to dreary pole, smugly thinking she knew the limits of reality?

Faeries. Good God, faeries.

And then she opened her eyes, realization feathering into her consciousness like pale clouds at sunset.
No pain.
A place genuinely existed where she experienced
no pain.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, “it’s
real.
”

Mayfridh? I had not expected you back so soon.”

Mayfridh slammed the door to her bedchamber behind her and flung herself on the bed. “She sent me home!”

“What? Why?”

Mayfridh flipped over and her gaze was drawn to the yellowed leaves in the hazy sunset falling from the massive beech outside
her window. Something about their hesitant descent made her feel melancholy. “She said she needed time to think. She wants
me to go back, though.”

Eisengrimm leapt from the wool rug and joined Mayfridh among the soft white covers. She propped herself on her side, one of
her hands idly tangling in the fur over the wolf’s ribs.

“That is good, is it not?” Eisengrimm said. “If she wants you to go back.”

“Tomorrow.” Even though her visit had gone well, even though she was home safe and sound and Christine had invited her to
return, Mayfridh felt a gloomy sense of destiny mislaid, of her fingertips grasping for something wonderful only for it to
spin past without her.

“What is wrong, Mayfridh?” Eisengrimm asked. She could feel his deep voice rumbling under his rib cage.

“She has a lover. His name is Jude.”

“And you are jealous of this lover? You wish for her only to be your friend and nobody else’s?”

Mayfridh shook her head and turned to face Eisengrimm. “I’m jealous, yes. But not of him. I’m jealous of her.”

“You mean . . . ?”

She sighed, sinking into the bed. “He is so very beautiful, Eisengrimm. For ten wonderful minutes I had convinced myself he
would be mine. And then . . . then Christine came and he wasn’t.”

Eisengrimm’s golden eyes narrowed, and the ghost of a sneer creased his muzzle. “Is it not for the best, Little May? Human
men are treacherous.”

“Eisengrimm, I felt so bound to him. My heart pounded. It never has before.”

“But you know nothing of his heart or soul, only his face and body.”

“I know his soul, Eisengrimm. I felt it. It touched my own. There was a jolt of recognition, connectedness. I know he felt
it too.”

“Could it not be your imagination?”

“No, it was real.” She sat up. “Eisengrimm, what if he’s my soul mate? What if he’s the only man I can ever love? Would it
be so wrong to fall in love with him if the whole of destiny has decided we should be together?”

“Mayfridh,” Eisengrimm replied, a warning note in his voice, “do not think to interfere with Christine’s life.”

“But—”

“The last leaf will fall, and it will be time to go to the Winter Castle, and you will forget Jude soon enough. He is Christine’s
lover. Do not destroy her happiness.”

“You give good counsel, Eisengrimm,” she said through gritted teeth, “though I sometimes despise you for it.”

“One day you may thank me for it. Enjoy your time with Christine, remembering always that it will pass.” He stretched his
legs and leapt from the bed, padding toward the door. “Tomorrow I shall accompany you into the autumn forest again.”

She watched him leave. When she was sure he was gone, she searched in her hessian bag for the spell, the special one she had
cast and then recovered in Christine’s bathroom—Jude’s bathroom—in front of the shining mirror.

“Here it is,” she said, cradling it in her palm. Yes, it was stealing, but he may never notice it gone. She peered closely,
looking for Jude’s reflection.

A long way away, that’s where she was. The loud jazz music, the smoke-filled air, the taste of the beer, the hot itchiness
of heating set too high, all registered on Christine’s body, but still she felt a long way away. She looked around. Gerda
was involved in some kind of drinking game with Fabiyan, and Pete regaled Jude with statistics about roadkill per square mile
on Australian roads; the swirl of people dressed in dark clothes, and the glow of cigarettes being lit and smoked from one
end of the bar to the other; everything was flat and staged as if she were watching it in a movie.

I can’t tell anyone.

The sooner Mayfridh returned, got her visit over with, and went back to faeryland forever—even though Christine was looking
forward to reminiscing with her—the sooner she would be able to feel normal again. Or would she ever completely recover from
this shock? How many more things in the world were there to be feared than she had ever imagined? If faeries existed, why
not ghosts, aliens, witches, sea monsters? She looked at Jude—one eyebrow cocked, peering at the end of his cigarette to see
if it were properly lit—and felt a surge of . . . something. Maybe not love, as it wasn’t entirely a pleasant feeling. Yearning
and fear as much as desire. One day, perhaps, she would tell him about Mayfridh. In the distant future, when they had left
Berlin behind and life had resumed its reassuringly ordinary dimensions.

“So what’s with you today, Miss Starlight?” Gerda asked, breaking into her bubble.

“I’m tired, that’s all,” Christine answered.

“An old friend of Christine’s came by today,” Jude said. “An English girl.”

“I didn’t know you knew anyone in Berlin,” Gerda said, stubbing out her cigarette.

“What was her name, Christine?” Jude asked. “Miranda?”

“Yes, Miranda,” Christine said, wondering again why the faery queen had given Jude her human name. It was convenient, because
she had spoken at length to Jude about a certain May Frith, and he would surely have noticed the similarities in the names
and asked too many unanswerable questions.

Gerda had tilted her head, was watching Christine curiously.

“An old friend from when you used to live here?” Pete asked.

This was getting tricky. “I used to know her family,” she said, rising from her seat. “Anyone want anything from the bar?”

“I’ll come,” Gerda said, springing from her chair.

They fought their way through the crowd to the bar. While they waited, Gerda turned to Christine and said, “Miranda, the English
girl . . . ?”

“Not a girl,” Christine said, wondering where Gerda was heading with these comments. “A woman. My age.”

“An old family friend?”

“What is it, Gerda?”

“How did she find you?”

“She . . . ah . . .”

“Christine, you’ve forgotten. You told me about Miranda—Little May—the daughter of the English colonel. The dead girl.”

The bartender arrived, saving Christine from having to respond immediately. They took their drinks, and Gerda dragged Christine
away from Jude and the others toward a dark corner near the back of the room.

“Tell me everything,” Gerda said. “Is this why you look so pale? Seen a ghost?”

“No, really, it’s all just coincidental . . .” Christine trailed off, realizing this would convince nobody. “Gerda, I just
. . . I don’t know what . . .”

“Tell me. I’ll believe you. Jude saw her too, right? But he doesn’t know she’s a ghost.”

“She’s not a ghost. She didn’t die. We all just assumed she was dead, but . . . God, I don’t even know how to start explaining
this.”

“Just give it a try.”

Christine opened her mouth, about to spill the whole story to Gerda. But she couldn’t. As much as Gerda was always on about
ghosts and psychics and magic, this was just too far-fetched for anyone to believe. Unless they had been put under a spell.
“I can’t tell you, Gerda.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was wrong; she wasn’t murdered. She was . . . it’s private. Family stuff. Not for me to say.”

Gerda looked skeptical. “How did she find you?”

“Through a customer at the bookshop. Starlight’s an unusual surname.” Rather than feeling relieved that she had thought up
a plausible explanation, Christine felt heavy and sad, her chance to share some of the burden evaporating.

“So she’s not a ghost?”

Christine shook her head. “Definitely not. I promise you she’s not a ghost. Sorry, are you disappointed?”

Gerda smiled half a smile. “Not really. To tell the truth, I’m afraid of ghosts.”

“Look,” Christine said, “don’t tell Jude about Miranda. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t need to know.”

“I won’t tell.”

“Thanks. It’s all too complex,” Christine said, “and anyway, after tomorrow I doubt I’ll ever see her again.”

Jude slid into bed beside her, his skin cool and his hair damp from the shower. “I drank too much,” he groaned.

“You always drink too much at Super Jazz.”

“I’ve got to start taking care of myself. I hate everything I paint at the moment, and I’m sure it’s because of all the junk
I put in my body.”

Christine ran her fingers over his chest. “Your body feels pretty good to me.”

“And as for my head . . . God, I must be so drunk,” he muttered, pushing her hand away.

“What’s the matter?”

“I could have sworn I saw . . .” He didn’t finish, and Christine felt her skin prickle.

“What did you see?”

Jude laughed. “Oooh, boy, I drank too much tonight. Christine, it’s what I didn’t see that’s the problem.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I looked in the bathroom mirror, and I wasn’t there,” he said. “Jesus, it sounds even crazier out loud.”

“What do you mean you weren’t there?”

“I wasn’t there. Like a vampire or something. And I leaned close to look and a moment later I was there. Vodka-induced hallucination.”

Christine forced a laugh. This had to have something to do with Mayfridh, of course. “I guess so.”

“Wasn’t it just last week you were worried that you were going crazy?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like it’s contagious.” He kissed the top of her head. “No more alcohol. Not if it’s making us crazy.”

“I think we’re both perfectly sane,” Christine said. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”