5/30
Day five.
With the useless embers of the dying fire at his back, the fairy-girl was a stronger warmth at the front. She laid her head briefly, nudgingly, where his neck met his shoulder, mouth on his collarbone, and breathed on him for a moment. With trepidation he realized she was trembling violently, and when she pressed her mouth to his it was for a comfort, not a coquette. He disentangled his hand from his pocket to put both palms chastely on her waist, and waited.
Past her lowered head, as she withdrew, he saw the dual outline of the two-girl, Yan Lang. She was backing a horse into its traces, and the glance she gave the entwined couple was vivid with poison. Erik dropped his hands from the fairy-girl, and searched for a smile. It hid from him and remained unfound, but he gave her a slight friendly quirk of the eyebrows instead.
"Have I passed muster?"
"You’re rather too tall for anyone but me," Vangloire told him, laying her cheek against his shoulder and tucking in closer for just a moment.
"Well, there’s always The Pall."
The shaking of her shoulders turned jovial, for a moment, and he realized she was laughing. This was easier to take- the horrid, washed-up, becalmed sort of fear she seemed to feel made him feel as though he was drowning. She drew away from him and gave him a proprietorial slap on the arm. He winced- she’d managed to strike the weeks-old wound, mostly healed but still aching in the cold. Vangloire did not appear to notice.
"Perhaps you’ll be alright for us," she said. "We can always use another pair of hands, and yours are- hmm." She’d discovered the missing little finger on his right hand. She frowned at it slightly, but made no comment, choosing instead to pursue her original thought. "Is it right, in a performing troupe, that the women should outnumber the men?"
"It does bode ill," he agreed.
"What would we do, should tragedy strike and we have to repopulate England with just us few?"
"A terrifying thought. I’m glad I am here." He found his smile; she returned it, and there was the sound of someone gagging in the distance.
Vangloire gave him another, more secretive smile, and returned to folding clothes into trunk. She compacted them deftly, and in short order managed to fit the entire mound into the confines of the chest. Erik turned from the fleeting fascination of ten slim, capable fingers, to investigate what was being done elsewhere around the makeshift camp. Before he observed much more than the wolf-girl swearing as she pulled off the last of her fur-covered costume and confronted the cold, two hands seized him by the borrowed cloak and pulled him towards the front of the cart. One of the horses was in his traces, and the other three waited patiently, cropping in a desultory way at the scant underbrush.
It was Yan Lang, of course. She towed him to the horses, dropped her grasp on his cloak, and instead planted her hands on her hips.
"Back them in."
Erik balked.
"I can’t do that."
"You can. You will. Back them in."
"You expect me to wrangle the beasts? They’re three times my size. More than three. Five. Suppose they don’t want to be buckled in? Suppose they won’t listen?"
"Buckled in," said Yan Lang with a vicious sneer. "This is part of your duties, embarrassing man. You’d best make them listen."
"Look," snapped Erik, "my knowledge of horses is only surpassed in its complete nonexistence by my knowledge of lunatic women with two heads. You cannot ask me to put myself in danger when it’s, when it’s- so dangerous!"
Yan Lang’s dark eyes fixed on him gravely. She reached again for him, taking his hand this time, and held it in hers. His was much the larger, his fingers nearly an inch longer than hers, but she held him as capably as she had held the horses. She stroked the back of his hand soothingly.
"You must be calm," she told him quietly, "or they will refuse to listen to you. Every agitation communicates to them- they feel as you feel. If you are sweet, and ask nicely, they will do what you wish. They are reasonable beasts. Not like me, embarrassing man. I am unreasonable. If you don’t do as I ask, I will kill you right now and end your servitude before it starts. I will be thanked for such a service. I will be given rewards. They will dance on your grave and celebrate the day we were so suddenly rid of such an obnoxious man."
"The horses will dance?" prompted Erik, swallowing hard.
"The world will dance, my lovely," breathed Yan Lang, every word a promise, and the second head opened her eyes, just briefly, just wide enough to view him through the slits, then quite clearly gave up on him and slipped back into slumber.
"Why does no one like me?" Erik asked, brow furrowed. His voice was low, and it was possible she hadn’t heard at all. At any rate she was occupied with drawing him slowly, inexorably, towards the horses, bringing his hand to find a soft muzzle. The animal twitched, snorted briefly, and lipped at his palm. Erik shuddered.
"You are afraid of them?" murmured Yan Lang.
"No," declared Erik.
"I hope it bites off another finger, then, to teach you some respect."
"Why does no one like me?" said Erik, again, more plaintively this time.
The two-girl would not answer him, but left him there with his hand wrapped around the bridle and horse-breath warming his palm. She set to backing a second horse into its place, now studiously ignoring Erik as she worked. He watched her for a moment, but a flash of something bright and amber-colored caught his eye.
He could not determine what it was, just at first. His gaze wandered around the clearing, catching first on one activity, then another. The traveling troupe knew their business, finding their way in the near-dark easily. Erik wondered curiously how long they had been at this, how many encampments and decampments, how many times they had performed. There was a sense of timelessness about the scene, the hovering trees watchful, the swift-moving bodies going about their tasks. The heads of the facades were loaded in a special compartment near the front of the cart; if he leaned forward around the broad shoulders of the horse, he could see the blank, wild faces staring out across the clearing, empty eyes fixed on something unseen.
Something nearly unseen.
There, observing the movements of the troupe, calmly returning the unnerving collective gaze of the masks, was the woman he’d previously seen sitting silently in the cart, while the thief’s escape was arranged for. While the rest of the troupe had removed their facades and were going about with the faces they were born with, the woman’s features were yet covered with the dimly shining mask he’d noticed before. The mask was undecorated, simple and smooth; though only her mouth and eyes were visible, there were pale arches carved in the stiff material that gave her a look of terrible tragedy, of deep-souled sorrow. The light that had caught his eye was burning in hers, a yellow sort of eldritch flame, a small and furious illumination kindled in her gaze. She was doing nothing but watching, and the troupe did not question her. They moved more carefully under the weight of the light in her eyes. They moved as though the light would set them on fire.
Her gaze passed over him with supreme disinterest, and he shivered in the wake.
One by one he named off the members of the troupe- Yan Lang here close beside him, with the horses; Tenebris and Wheeler at the back of the cart, no more than their shoes and half their legs visible to Erik; The Pall still arranging packages on the roof; Vangloire now strapping the trunk of clothing in; Rookley scratching irritably at his wisping hair as he stacked pots; the wolf-girl Rouxvie gathering armfuls of leaves, though he didn’t know why. Two more were packing, separately, tucked into the side of the cart- the last man, who must be the much-maligned Henry, strictly handsome and over-sexed, and another woman, unobtrusive-looking and lush. What was the other name? Gacey, perhaps. Yes.
This last stranger, then- he’d forgotten the name. A story-teller, though, he remembered that. Was a story-teller of such importance that she need not pull her weight, need not pitch in when the troupe was disbanding?
Perhaps she was the mistress that Tenebris asked permission of, before she made arrangements to save Erik from his fate. It dawned on him quickly, and almost before he thought of it he was certain, he was sure. With the thought came the resurgence of a memory, and he had the name then, quietly in his palm along with horse-breath and scabbing splinters: Pavane. The last woman was named Pavane. The woman in the mask was a dance of a being, a story-teller with a penchant for tragic lives. She was not looking at him, and he was glad.
With the useless embers of the dying fire at his back, the fairy-girl was a stronger warmth at the front. She laid her head briefly, nudgingly, where his neck met his shoulder, mouth on his collarbone, and breathed on him for a moment. With trepidation he realized she was trembling violently, and when she pressed her mouth to his it was for a comfort, not a coquette. He disentangled his hand from his pocket to put both palms chastely on her waist, and waited.
Past her lowered head, as she withdrew, he saw the dual outline of the two-girl, Yan Lang. She was backing a horse into its traces, and the glance she gave the entwined couple was vivid with poison. Erik dropped his hands from the fairy-girl, and searched for a smile. It hid from him and remained unfound, but he gave her a slight friendly quirk of the eyebrows instead.
"Have I passed muster?"
"You’re rather too tall for anyone but me," Vangloire told him, laying her cheek against his shoulder and tucking in closer for just a moment.
"Well, there’s always The Pall."
The shaking of her shoulders turned jovial, for a moment, and he realized she was laughing. This was easier to take- the horrid, washed-up, becalmed sort of fear she seemed to feel made him feel as though he was drowning. She drew away from him and gave him a proprietorial slap on the arm. He winced- she’d managed to strike the weeks-old wound, mostly healed but still aching in the cold. Vangloire did not appear to notice.
"Perhaps you’ll be alright for us," she said. "We can always use another pair of hands, and yours are- hmm." She’d discovered the missing little finger on his right hand. She frowned at it slightly, but made no comment, choosing instead to pursue her original thought. "Is it right, in a performing troupe, that the women should outnumber the men?"
"It does bode ill," he agreed.
"What would we do, should tragedy strike and we have to repopulate England with just us few?"
"A terrifying thought. I’m glad I am here." He found his smile; she returned it, and there was the sound of someone gagging in the distance.
Vangloire gave him another, more secretive smile, and returned to folding clothes into trunk. She compacted them deftly, and in short order managed to fit the entire mound into the confines of the chest. Erik turned from the fleeting fascination of ten slim, capable fingers, to investigate what was being done elsewhere around the makeshift camp. Before he observed much more than the wolf-girl swearing as she pulled off the last of her fur-covered costume and confronted the cold, two hands seized him by the borrowed cloak and pulled him towards the front of the cart. One of the horses was in his traces, and the other three waited patiently, cropping in a desultory way at the scant underbrush.
It was Yan Lang, of course. She towed him to the horses, dropped her grasp on his cloak, and instead planted her hands on her hips.
"Back them in."
Erik balked.
"I can’t do that."
"You can. You will. Back them in."
"You expect me to wrangle the beasts? They’re three times my size. More than three. Five. Suppose they don’t want to be buckled in? Suppose they won’t listen?"
"Buckled in," said Yan Lang with a vicious sneer. "This is part of your duties, embarrassing man. You’d best make them listen."
"Look," snapped Erik, "my knowledge of horses is only surpassed in its complete nonexistence by my knowledge of lunatic women with two heads. You cannot ask me to put myself in danger when it’s, when it’s- so dangerous!"
Yan Lang’s dark eyes fixed on him gravely. She reached again for him, taking his hand this time, and held it in hers. His was much the larger, his fingers nearly an inch longer than hers, but she held him as capably as she had held the horses. She stroked the back of his hand soothingly.
"You must be calm," she told him quietly, "or they will refuse to listen to you. Every agitation communicates to them- they feel as you feel. If you are sweet, and ask nicely, they will do what you wish. They are reasonable beasts. Not like me, embarrassing man. I am unreasonable. If you don’t do as I ask, I will kill you right now and end your servitude before it starts. I will be thanked for such a service. I will be given rewards. They will dance on your grave and celebrate the day we were so suddenly rid of such an obnoxious man."
"The horses will dance?" prompted Erik, swallowing hard.
"The world will dance, my lovely," breathed Yan Lang, every word a promise, and the second head opened her eyes, just briefly, just wide enough to view him through the slits, then quite clearly gave up on him and slipped back into slumber.
"Why does no one like me?" Erik asked, brow furrowed. His voice was low, and it was possible she hadn’t heard at all. At any rate she was occupied with drawing him slowly, inexorably, towards the horses, bringing his hand to find a soft muzzle. The animal twitched, snorted briefly, and lipped at his palm. Erik shuddered.
"You are afraid of them?" murmured Yan Lang.
"No," declared Erik.
"I hope it bites off another finger, then, to teach you some respect."
"Why does no one like me?" said Erik, again, more plaintively this time.
The two-girl would not answer him, but left him there with his hand wrapped around the bridle and horse-breath warming his palm. She set to backing a second horse into its place, now studiously ignoring Erik as she worked. He watched her for a moment, but a flash of something bright and amber-colored caught his eye.
He could not determine what it was, just at first. His gaze wandered around the clearing, catching first on one activity, then another. The traveling troupe knew their business, finding their way in the near-dark easily. Erik wondered curiously how long they had been at this, how many encampments and decampments, how many times they had performed. There was a sense of timelessness about the scene, the hovering trees watchful, the swift-moving bodies going about their tasks. The heads of the facades were loaded in a special compartment near the front of the cart; if he leaned forward around the broad shoulders of the horse, he could see the blank, wild faces staring out across the clearing, empty eyes fixed on something unseen.
Something nearly unseen.
There, observing the movements of the troupe, calmly returning the unnerving collective gaze of the masks, was the woman he’d previously seen sitting silently in the cart, while the thief’s escape was arranged for. While the rest of the troupe had removed their facades and were going about with the faces they were born with, the woman’s features were yet covered with the dimly shining mask he’d noticed before. The mask was undecorated, simple and smooth; though only her mouth and eyes were visible, there were pale arches carved in the stiff material that gave her a look of terrible tragedy, of deep-souled sorrow. The light that had caught his eye was burning in hers, a yellow sort of eldritch flame, a small and furious illumination kindled in her gaze. She was doing nothing but watching, and the troupe did not question her. They moved more carefully under the weight of the light in her eyes. They moved as though the light would set them on fire.
Her gaze passed over him with supreme disinterest, and he shivered in the wake.
One by one he named off the members of the troupe- Yan Lang here close beside him, with the horses; Tenebris and Wheeler at the back of the cart, no more than their shoes and half their legs visible to Erik; The Pall still arranging packages on the roof; Vangloire now strapping the trunk of clothing in; Rookley scratching irritably at his wisping hair as he stacked pots; the wolf-girl Rouxvie gathering armfuls of leaves, though he didn’t know why. Two more were packing, separately, tucked into the side of the cart- the last man, who must be the much-maligned Henry, strictly handsome and over-sexed, and another woman, unobtrusive-looking and lush. What was the other name? Gacey, perhaps. Yes.
This last stranger, then- he’d forgotten the name. A story-teller, though, he remembered that. Was a story-teller of such importance that she need not pull her weight, need not pitch in when the troupe was disbanding?
Perhaps she was the mistress that Tenebris asked permission of, before she made arrangements to save Erik from his fate. It dawned on him quickly, and almost before he thought of it he was certain, he was sure. With the thought came the resurgence of a memory, and he had the name then, quietly in his palm along with horse-breath and scabbing splinters: Pavane. The last woman was named Pavane. The woman in the mask was a dance of a being, a story-teller with a penchant for tragic lives. She was not looking at him, and he was glad.