A Face Like Glass (14 page)

‘Uncle Maxim found a room he liked in another district,’ Zouelle explained in an undertone. ‘Refreshing atmosphere, he said. So he walled it in and had a passage built to it
from our house. That’s always the way it is. When he finds something that pleases him, he just buys it, and the rest of us adapt.’

‘Is that what he did with me?’ whispered Neverfell. Zouelle did not seem to hear.

The Morning Room was a fine square room with a walnutwood table in the middle. In an alcove, two bronze clockwork birds sang jerkily, twisting their heads to and fro. In the centre of the
ceiling was set a large glass orb, clearly some kind of lantern, and it was from this that the room’s light poured. However, instead of the usual yellow or greenish light, this was
blue-white.

The blueness made Neverfell feel shocked and alive, as if she had been rinsed out with crystal cold water. She did not know why. The Childersins however seemed to think nothing of it, and all
settled themselves around the table. Seeing the whole family all at once, Neverfell was again struck by how much brighter, healthier, taller and more elegant they seemed than anybody else she had
ever met. For once, at least, she did not feel too lanky and overgrown.

‘Ah, Neverfell.’ Maxim Childersin beckoned to her, and to her relief, Neverfell found that she was to be seated between Maxim Childersin and Zouelle. ‘Everybody, this is
Neverfell. Please treat her gently. After all, I have only just bought her, and she was very expensive.’

Meals had always been something Neverfell gobbled alone between tasks. Now suddenly there seemed to be rules. Even the eggs sat up in little china cups, and people made a point of tapping their
way in through the tops instead of just peeling off the murky shells. Neverfell watched everybody else with a sort of awe, breaking bread in her lap and sneaking pieces into her mouth like a thief.
They even seemed to know when to laugh, how to laugh and when to stop, and every witticism was met by a gust of perfectly synchronized mirth, which everybody except Neverfell ceased at exactly the
same instant. To her relief, though, they did not spend the whole meal staring at her, sparing her only occasional, smiling glances.

‘Zouelle – are those your parents?’ whispered Neverfell, casting a glance at the two adults sitting on the blonde girl’s other side.

‘No, that is one of my uncles and his wife,’ Zouelle whispered back. ‘My parents were devoured by a corked bottle of Sardonny when I was two years old.’ She sounded so
unconcerned and offhand that Neverfell hesitated to offer condolences for fear of sounding silly.

The family gossiped quietly, mostly about the most recent thefts of the infamous and anonymous Kleptomancer. As usual they were daring, incomprehensible and appeared designed to cause as much
annoyance as possible. His last act had been to purloin a great waterwheel powered by one of the underground rivers. It had been discovered later on its side in an abandoned quarry cave, with a
giant tablecloth across it and seventeen places set for dinner.

Neverfell could not concentrate on the brilliant tinkle of conversation. The blue got in the way. The blue wanted to tell her about wild, wide spaces beyond the numb place in her mind. She
reached for her cup, but the gleam on the porcelain made her blink, and just for a moment her mind filled with the image of an expanse of water so bright that it seemed to be seething with
diamonds. She could almost see it. She wanted to see it.

Water! She needed water. There was some in a big jug, just within reach. And . . . there! A bowl. Tipping out its cargo of pears and apples only took a moment. Fill it up with water. No, still
not quite right. But if she splashed the water around, made the surface sparkle . . .

‘Neverfell,’ hissed Zouelle between motionless lips, ‘what are you doing?’

Neverfell slowly withdrew her fingers from the great bowl. Everybody was staring at her. Some of them now had damp flecks on their shirt fronts.

‘I . . .’ Neverfell looked abashed at her wet fingers. ‘There’s water. Lots of water. As far as I can . . . water right to the edge of . . . with light on it. Bright
light. Blue light, like . . .’ She looked up at the glass bulb in the ceiling. ‘I . . . it’s like the blue I keep remembering.’

She sat down slowly, and silently thanked the Childersins from her heart when they hesitantly resumed their conversations. After a moment or two, however, she realized that Maxim Childersin was
still observing her, quite motionless, his spoon halfway through decapitating his egg.

‘“The blue I keep remembering,”’ he repeated softly, then laid down his spoon, greasy with blue yolk. ‘I dislike inconsistencies, Neverfell. The last time we spoke
about your memory, you told me that you remembered nothing of your earliest years.’ There was a hint of something new in his voice, something that could become hardness if it chose.

‘But I don’t really remember anything!’ Neverfell exclaimed hastily. ‘Just tiny pieces, sometimes. Feelings. And I don’t even know if they’re real memories or
things I made up. It’s like when you wake up and can’t remember the dream, but there’s still something in your head.’

‘What kind of something?’

Neverfell shrugged. ‘A sort of a . . . smear, a feeling you can’t put into words. I can’t remember anything properly, but sometimes I know when things are wrong. Like your
birds over there.’ She glanced over at the bronze birds with their jerking beaks. ‘They’re wrong. They sing like beautiful music boxes, and real birds don’t. I just know
that.’

‘Interesting.’ Master Childersin’s scrutiny was becoming somewhat unnerving.

‘And . . . there’s something that I thought might be a memory. Or it might not.’ Hesitantly, Neverfell related the Stackfalter Sturton vision of the bluebell wood, then trailed
off, gnawing her lip. ‘Master Childersin, I wanted to ask something. How do you know if True Wine has been used to make you forget things? Is there a way you can tell?’

‘Yes, Neverfell. There are certain signs.’ Maxim Childersin folded his napkin. ‘I think this is a subject that merits a long and private discussion. Come to my study after
breakfast.’

‘Look at the paintings, Neverfell.’ Settling his angular form in the large damask armchair in his study, Childersin folded his arms and observed her. ‘Tell me
what you feel when you look at them. Tell me if they stir your memories.’

Neverfell walked slowly around the room, running her fingers over the curls and whorls of the gilded picture frames that covered every inch of the walls. Half the paintings were detailed and
realistic pictures of luscious-looking grapevines. There were no fresh grapes in Caverna, of course, but Neverfell had encountered enough pictures of them to recognize what these must be. The other
half were landscapes. Above sleek and ragged horizons glowed dozens of painted skies, some marked with a pale, flaky blob for a sun. Neverfell had never seen so many overground landscapes in one
place.

‘Where are all these places?’ Neverfell peered into the nearest landscape.

‘They are mine,’ answered Childersin. ‘My overground vineyards in Vronkoti, Chateau Bellamaire and a dozen other countries besides.’

‘What’s this one?’ The small picture before her showed yellow hills, dusty and wild under their fleece of grey cloud.

‘My estate in Tadaraca,’ answered Childersin, walking over to join her. ‘Does it look familiar?’

‘No, but I feel like I should know what those are.’ She pointed hesitantly to a V-shape of dots in the painted sky. The almost-knowing was an ache. She shrugged, then looked up at
Childersin. ‘What are they?’

‘I have no idea.’ Childersin smiled down at her bafflement. ‘I have never seen the sky, Neverfell. I have never left Caverna. Why do you think I must hire the very best artists
to paint my vineyards and grapes?’

He gestured towards a beautifully rendered picture of a vine heavy with pale gold grapes. These fruit looked real enough to pluck, some dusky with shadow, some honey-bright with the sun, cold
lights in the dewdrops that beaded the leaves.

‘It looks like I could crawl right into it and eat them,’ Neverfell thought aloud.

‘Please don’t try.’ Childersin laughed, then sighed with every sign of true wistfulness. ‘Overground vintners can wander down to their vineyards, pinch their grapes for
plumpness, smell them ripening in the sun. Alas, I have to work from pictures, detailed reports, maps, soil samples, raisins and send thousands of minute instructions back to the
vineyards.’

‘But you’re so powerful! If you really wanted to go there, couldn’t you arrange something?’

‘Nobody is permitted to leave Caverna, particularly those who are masters of their Craft, and for excellent reasons. Our trade secrets must be protected. If overgrounders learned how to
make True Delicacies the way we do, then we would lose our power in the world, and camel trains would no longer trudge the deserts to bring us provisions.’ Childersin shook his head, and gave
Neverfell a small and complicated smile. ‘And even if I could leave Caverna for a time I would not do so. Too dangerous. The games of Court are fast and subtle, and if I was absent even for a
little while I would miss moves in the game. I would probably return to find my family murdered, strangers living in this house and my cellars in the hands of my rivals.

‘And what then? My power base would be broken, and one of the other vintner families would find ways to take over my vineyards and distant castles. Seeing my estates at Tadaraca would mean
losing them . . . and everything else.’

‘But what’s the point of owning them if you never see them?’ burst out Neverfell. She blinked, and for a moment it seemed to her the V of painted freckles was flickering
slightly, wavering in formation.

‘What’s the point of seeing them if I don’t own them?’ was Childersin’s rejoinder.

Neverfell barely heard him, her gaze still entranced by the painted images of a world that was lost to her. ‘Master Childersin, could you bring my memory back? Wine can help people
remember things, can’t it?’

‘Possibly. But is that what you want?’ Childersin held up an admonishing hand as Neverfell opened her mouth to give a hasty yes. ‘No, think carefully before you answer. Aside
from the fact that True Wine can be very perilous to those who are not used to it, have you considered the other dangers?

‘If your earliest memories
were
removed using True Wine, then somebody has gone to considerable trouble and expense to keep a secret. The use of such a luxury suggests somebody at
Court, that is to say somebody with power and influence. Thanks to your amnesia, you are no threat to them. If they think you are starting to remember, on the other hand, you will be in a great
deal of danger. Your thoughts can be read in your face. Once you can remember the guilty parties, you will not be able to hide it from them.’

‘But somebody’s already trying to kill me!’ Neverfell gave a gabbled account of her near-drowning in the Enquiry cell. ‘So whoever ordered that is probably the same
person who wiped my memory, isn’t it? They already want me dead. Wouldn’t it be safer for me to know who they are?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Childersin steepled his fingers and mused. ‘And you should also consider that forgetfulness can be a blessing. I believe there may be dark matters in your
past – matters which you may not be happy to remember.’

Neverfell said nothing. Her throat felt tight. Suddenly her mind was full of the image of Zouelle slamming the folding mirror shut.

‘You’re trembling,’ Childersin remarked.

‘Yes.’ Neverfell twisted her hands, but they kept on shaking. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘I do. Do you want to know what I glimpsed in your face just now, for the briefest moment? Rage. I saw the same look flash through your expression this morning when you were filling the
bowl with water. You’re shaking because you’re very, very angry.’

‘But I’m not! I’m not angry! Am I?’

‘Hmm. Well, somebody is.’ Childersin retreated into contemplation for a moment, and his next question surprised her. ‘Tell me, Neverfell, do you ever do things without knowing
why?’

‘Oh yes – all the time! But . . . that’s just because I’m a bit mad.’

‘Maybe not. Maybe your memories are locked away but not destroyed. Maybe that younger you is still trapped deep inside, remembering everything and just now and then giving you an
unexpected nudge in certain directions. I have known such things happen.

‘I suspect that there is another Neverfell caged inside you, and that she is burning with rage. Anger at something she remembers, perhaps. Anger at being locked away for so long. She may
even be angry with
you
.’

Neverfell moved her hands up to her chest, and almost wondered whether she would feel a second heartbeat from a hidden self. The idea frightened her, as if ordinary Neverfell was an egg that
might crack open and let out something stronger.

She had lived seven years without knowing about her past. Did she really need her memory, or could she get on quite well without it?

‘I can’t!’ she exploded. ‘I can’t go on like this forever! I feel like I’m running around with a hole in the back of my head, with things falling out or
crawling in without warning! If I don’t find out who I am, then I’ll always just be oh-don’t-mind-Neverfell-she’s-a-bit-mad, and nothing will ever make any sense. I have to
know, Master Childersin! I
want
to know.’

‘Good,’ answered Childersin, suddenly crisp and matter-of-fact. ‘I had to point out the risks, but I myself am deeply curious about the secret somebody has been so desperate to
hide. Wait here.’

He absented himself for a short time, then returned with a single glass goblet in his hand, a tiny splash of Wine in the base.

‘The most powerful reprise Wine in my cellars,’ he said as he put it into her hand. Neverfell knew that Wines with ‘reprises’ could sting faded memories to life, so that
one experienced them afresh. ‘If this cannot force the lock of your caged memories, nothing can. After this, one way or the other, we will know if they are lost to you.’

A rich, strange and entrancing smell tickled at Neverfell’s nostrils. She hesitated a moment, remembering stories of those who drank Wines too strong for them and went mad, or forgot
everything except their birthdays. Then she fought down the spasm of fear, dipped her mouth and sipped.