The Autumn Castle (26 page)

There was no child on the street, but with my head out the window, I could hear far more clearly where the shrieking was coming
from. Directly above me, from the open window of my sculpture room.

I ran upstairs and pulled down both layers of glazing, looking around wildly for the cause of the shrieking. It was coming
from Octave’s bones, half-lumpen, half-sculpted, at the top of the sculpture.

I stood in front of the Bone Wife, my hands unable to find a solution. The screaming grew louder. It broke my heart, but I
knew I couldn’t keep these bones. A grand sculpture is not much use if it screams like a hurt child. I reached for the saw
and began to saw away at the join, knocking off the portion of the sculpture made of Octave’s bones and bagging it quickly
to muffle the shrieking.

But worse was to come. Magic spreads between bones. I knew this and counted on it to enchant the whole sculpture. Almost as
soon as I returned to the sculpture, other bones started ringing, gathering volume.

I took the saw and cut off another layer.

The screams collected themselves lower down.

I sawed again, despairing now. Was my whole sculpture infected? I sawed lower down, right through her thighs, hoping by this
sacrifice of painful inches to save the whole sculpture.

And I did save her, but not before she had been reduced almost to her knees. I lost years of work. Damn Octave, damn him.
I could weep just remembering it. My Wife is built to the waist once more now, but if it were not for Octave I may very well
have been planning a graceful throat for her, and growing excited over what kind of face I might give her (it’s my plan to
give her my mother’s face, but with the hard lines removed).

The bones kept screaming, and had to be driven miles away to a wood near the border of Poland for burial. For all I know,
they’re still screaming in the rough sack two feet below the ground. Maybe some day someone will find them and be completely
puzzled by it all. Or perhaps Octave has had his revenge and is now happy to rest in a peace he doesn’t deserve.

I am very tired. Reminiscing isn’t helping to take my mind off the problem at hand. It has been a very long two weeks. Miranda
is still here and I cannot get my hands on her, and I cannot get her out of my mind, and it’s torturing me. I see her darting
past the gallery—like the others, she thinks I haven’t noticed, that I haven’t seen the flash of movement out of the corner
of my eye—but I can’t touch her because she’s with Christine or with Gerda or with a gray-faced woman I don’t recognize.

What a life she’s leading! A faery, Germanic if the pronunciation of her (very weak) German is anything to go by, let loose
on Berlin with some magically bottomless credit account to buy herself an endless procession of lace and brocade and velvet
outfits, some in colors so bright I can almost see them. She sometimes takes plain little Christine Starlight with her, and
brings the poor girl back dressed in a coat or a pair of boots that seem oversized and showy and make me feel embarrassed
for her. Sometimes I hear her and Gerda giggling through the front door, returning from a beery lunch and no doubt making
plans not to be heard or seen by horrible
me.
I even imagine sometimes that everyone else in Hotel Mandy-Z knows what she is, and that they believe it secret from me.

Most distressing of all, I think she may be a more important faery than I originally believed. Last Friday, when she and Gerda
were out, I went into Gerda’s apartment (I have keys to every apartment) and searched for some of her things to examine. The
clothes were mostly new, but I found in the bottom of a drawer a dress woven through with fine bronze thread. Such craftsmanship
speaks of faery nobility, maybe even royalty. She certainly isn’t a common village faery. I pressed the dress to my face and
sniffed it, drawing the faintest smell of her bones from between the threads. It was barely there. I bit a hole in the material
in frustration, and almost decided to come back here at night while Gerda slept, and bludgeon Miranda and drag her up the
stairs and cut her to pieces and pull out her bones and forget all consequences.

But I will not forget consequences. Miranda is known to too many people. I cannot spend my great fortune in prison. I cannot
sculpt in prison.

Patience, now. I must have patience and wait for my chance. It will come. It
must
come.

As the leaves fell down along Unter-den-Linden and Christmas decorations went up in stores, as the sky grew paler and the
city grew grayer, Christine became increasingly fond of Mayfridh. It wasn’t just her artless warmth, her childish affection,
or her bottomless credit card that made her good company. It was also her rapidly returning memories of their shared childhood.
Halfway through a sentence, Mayfridh would often interrupt herself and say, “Ooh, remember when Alfa cooked those scones with
salt instead of sugar?” or “Didn’t Finn have a coat exactly that color?” Christine hadn’t realized how many memories of her
parents she had buried with them; now Mayfridh was warming her cold afternoons with sunny recollections.

Christine still felt insecurities over Jude, but he gave her no reason for them to grow: if anything, he was offhand with
Mayfridh, or ignored her. If Christine mentioned her, Jude would raise his hands defensively, claim he couldn’t get his head
around the fact that she was a faery; it was easier not to think of it. Christine reminded herself that he had painted Mayfridh
out; been attracted to her colors, then obliterated them for the monochrome he was more comfortable with. No couple went through
life together, she supposed, without jealousies. Christine refused to let hers interfere with the sweet moments she and Mayfridh
shared.

“What now?” Mayfridh said as they stepped out of the heated department store on Kurfürstendamm and into the autumn chill.
“Do you want more clothes?”

“Um . . . no. I’m fine for clothes.” Christine had already accepted too many presents from Mayfridh that she knew she would
never wear. “Sorry, I know I’m not as much fun to shop with as Gerda.”

“That’s not true. Gerda gets bossy,” Mayfridh said. “As for my mum . . . you’ve never seen someone take so long to make up
her mind about a pair of shoes.”

“Let’s get coffee. I know a good cafe near where I work. I can stop in and check my roster.”

They walked through the bustling crowds, past shiny shop fronts and shedding trees, down side streets to an Italian cafe.
Its outdoor tables drowned in yellow and red maple leaves. Christine ordered while Mayfridh considered her from across the
table.

“What?” Christine asked as the waiter returned inside. “Too cold for you out here?”

“No, I like the fresh air.”

“Why the frown?”

“I saw you wince as we sat down. Your back’s hurting.”

“It’s always hurting.”

“It’s hurting more than usual today. I’m tiring you out.”

Christine smiled. “It’s not you. It’s just a bad-back day. I get them from time to time.”

“So why don’t you go to Ewigkreis?”

Christine hung her head, watching her hair trail over her shoulders. “I don’t know . . .”

“You haven’t been for ages. Not since the night I told Jude and the others. Is something wrong? Did Eisengrimm offend you
in some way?”

“No, no. I like Eisengrimm, he makes me feel . . . safe.”

Mayfridh pushed a crimson curl behind her ear. “Then what is it?”

Christine bit her lip. “I kind of got afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“You say that when the last leaf falls the worlds change.”

“Yes.”

“What if I’m stuck there?”

Mayfridh reached across the table for her hand. “Christine, the last leaf won’t fall until December . . . almost Christmas.”

“But you know time in your world and mine is different. What if I misjudge?” Christine pointed at Mayfridh. “What if
you
misjudge? Will you be stuck here?”

“No, I’ll be pulled back through the passage.”

“But if I was in Ewigkreis and the worlds changed?”

“You’d be stuck, yes. The passage only anchors and retrieves faeries.”

Their coffees arrived and both fell silent until the waiter left.

“See? I’d be stuck.”

“But that’s not going to happen for ages. It’s barely November.”

Christine stirred sugar into her coffee. “I don’t know . . .”

“Is there something else?”

“Jude doesn’t want me to go.”

Mayfridh lifted her eyebrows. “Jude? But surely he wants what’s best for you?”

“He’s worried I’ll never come back. He doesn’t know what it’s like and . . . hey, can I take him with me?”

Mayfridh was shaking her head before the question was out of Christine’s mouth. “Eisengrimm would have a fit if I brought
another human through.”

“But you’re the queen.”

“I’m a queen who takes good counsel. Having more than one human at a time in Ewigkreis starts to upset the rhythms of our
world, the balance of the seasons.” Mayfridh smiled brightly. “He could come through alone. Eisengrimm could show him around.
Or I could go back for a day or two.” The smile turned to a frown. “Lord knows, Eisengrimm’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Jude would say no,” Christine said. “I think the whole concept frightens him.”

A chill breeze swept down the street, driving a flurry of spinning leaves in front of it. Christine pulled her scarf tighter.

“Christine,” Mayfridh said, “how well do you know Jude?”

“I’ve known him for four years. We’ve lived together for three. Why?” What a weird question, and something about the guarded
way Mayfridh asked it unsettled her.

“I’m not implying anything,” Mayfridh said, blue eyes wide-open innocent. “You don’t have to snap.”

“Did I snap?”

“You did.”

“Sorry. It’s just a strange thing to ask me.”

“Anyway, after four years I suppose you would know everything about someone, wouldn’t you?” Mayfridh finished.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Christine drained the last of her coffee. “Do you think you know everything about Eisengrimm?”

“Yes, of course. He’s my closest friend in Ewigkreis.”

Christine felt a strange shift in her stomach. Mayfridh didn’t know Eisengrimm’s secret; Christine could be equally oblivious
to some mystery of Jude’s heart. Was that why she always felt he didn’t really love her? Or were those feelings just the clumsy
imaginings of a girl who knew her lover was far more beautiful than she?

Christine!”

Jude’s voice reverberated around the apartment, the door slammed behind him. Christine emerged from the bedroom, sheets in
hand ready to take to the laundry.

“What’s up?” she asked.

He brandished a sheaf of papers in front of her. His cheeks were flushed. “How would you like to go to Australia?”

“Um . . .”

“Come here, look.” He laid the papers on the table and beckoned her over.

She rolled the sheets into a ball under her arm and approached warily.

“Pete gave it to me. It’s a fellowship with the National Gallery in Melbourne. They want an overseas artist to come spend
a year there, from June next year. I’m perfect for this one, I know it. And it starts right after this fellowship finishes.
I tell you, it’s meant to be.”

“Australia?”

“Yeah, Melbourne. It’s where Pete lives. Better than Berlin. We’ll know the language and have someone to show us round.”

“At least Berlin’s in the same hemisphere as home. Don’t you want to go home?”

“We’ve got plenty of time to go home when we’re old and gray. Come on, Christine, what do you say? Can I apply?”

Christine stared at the application form as though it could provide her answer. Jude was a painter, he had a gift. It wasn’t
her place to hold him back, even if it did mean following him to the other end of the planet. “I suppose you should.”

Jude grabbed her in a quick hug. “Yes! I knew you’d say yes.” He turned his attention back to the forms. “This closing date
is very soon. Christine, can you ring the post office and see how long their express air to Australia takes? My German’s not
good enough.”