The Autumn Castle (21 page)

“What do you think, Fabiyan?” Gerda asked.

“I think he looks at you, but it is maybe just an artist’s interest.”

Gerda rolled her eyes.

Pete slipped an arm around Gerda’s waist. “I’m with you, Gerda. He’s got the hots for Miranda.” He made a growling-dog noise.

Gerda shrugged him off. “Get off me, you oaf.”

Pete laughed and lit a cigarette. “She doesn’t like me,” he said. “Gerda, look at the stats. There are too many gay men in
Berlin for you to be so picky.”

Gerda didn’t laugh, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “I wonder what Mandy’s talking to them about.”

Mayfridh found Jude and Christine again. Jude had his arm tightly around Christine’s waist. She was leaning away from Mandy
as he told them a detailed story. Jude swigged from a beer bottle and tried to look interested. Just seeing his fingers wrapped
around the bottle brought back the memory of his touch from that afternoon. She shook her head to dispel the feeling. “It
doesn’t look like they’re actually interested in whatever he’s saying,” she said.

“Nobody ever is,” Gerda said with a wry smile. “He’s universally despised.”

“They’re a good couple,” Pete said, his cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

“Who? Jude and Christine?” Gerda asked.

“Yeah, they’re always together. They’re really into each other.”

Gerda offered Mayfridh a raise of her eyebrows. “I don’t know that they’re such a good couple. It seems unbalanced to me.”

“What do you mean?” Fabiyan said.

“Jude’s very good-looking and she’s . . .” She trailed off meaningfully.

Pete sneered. “What are you talking about? Christine’s all right. And Jude’s not exactly a movie star.”

“What do you think, Miranda?” Gerda said, turning on her suddenly. “Honestly, do you think they’re well matched?”

Mayfridh was startled by this question. Gerda was becoming unpredictable. “I don’t know what to say. Christine’s a close friend
whom I love very much, so—”

“Okay, forget I said anything.”

Fabiyan said in a considered tone, “I think you are too hard on Christine. She is maybe not so glamorous, but she is very
kind and very nice.”

“Okay, okay!” Gerda said, thrusting exasperated hands upward. “I didn’t mean she’s ugly and I’m not denying she’s a nice person.
She just doesn’t look like his type.”

“He obviously loves her, so perhaps you just don’t know what his ‘type’ really is,” Pete said heatedly.

Gerda gave Mayfridh a tap on the shoulder. “Come on, Miranda, let’s check out the eligible bachelors.” Then she was dragging
Mayfridh away from Pete and Fabiyan, farther into the warm crush of bodies. At every step she took, Mayfridh could feel Mandy
Z’s eyes on her.

One moment, Christine was safely settled in the crook of Jude’s arm enduring one of Mandy’s interminable stories of gossip
in the art world, the next Jude had been swept away by an American buyer who wanted a painting explained to him. Before she
could move off with Jude, Mandy’s hand closed around her wrist and pulled her nearer.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said, those small teeth bared in a smile.

“Um, sure, what is it?”

“Your friend Miranda . . . where is she from?”

Christine followed his eyes and realized that his distracted gaze hadn’t been monitoring attendance, it was checking out Mayfridh.
“England,” Christine said warily. “Somewhere in Kent, I think.”

“Have you known her long?”

“We were friends in childhood. She lived next door to me for a short time. Why? Is there a problem?”

Another smile. “No, no problem. You two are close?”

“We . . . I guess we’re getting that way. But she won’t be around for long.”

His eyes grew anxious. “No?”

“No, she has to go home in a month or so. Mandy, is there some reason you’re asking me all this?”

“I . . . well, yes there is.” He swallowed, it was hard to say. “I wonder if she has a . . . you know . . .”

Christine felt her skin crawl. “A boyfriend?”

“Yes, a boyfriend.” He laughed at himself. “Such an old-fashioned word.”

Christine tried to process this information. Mandy had a crush on Mayfridh? Was that why he looked pale and slightly sick
while talking about her? “There is someone,” she said at last, thinking of Eisengrimm. “I would say she’s definitely not available.”

“I see,” he said, not sounding particularly disappointed. Bravado, maybe. “And this boyfriend . . . is he here in Berlin with
her?”

“No, he’s back in her hometown.”

“She’s here alone?”

For indefinable reasons, this question unsettled her. Perhaps it was the almost imperceptible eagerness, the light shine of
perspiration on his lip. “She’s here with me,” Christine said, “that’s not alone.”

“Indeed it isn’t,” Mandy said, nodding. “Indeed it is not.”

“Look, if you want to talk to her, just go up and talk to her.”

“No,” he said quickly, “no, I won’t. I’ll leave it a while. She’s very pretty, Christine.”

Christine sought out her friend again, brightly colored and flawlessly beautiful. Just the kind of girl who would turn up
in a painting. She smiled. “Yeah, she sure is. Makes me feel about as attractive as a stick insect.”

Mandy laughed out loud now, and the tension between them eased. “Beauty is more than surface effect, Christine. Every artist
knows that. Jude knows that.” He indicated across the room at Jude, who was being administered a cigar by the American buyer.
“I’ll let you join him. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, not sure what he was thanking her for, but glad to escape anyway.

She weaved through people, narrowly avoiding a collision with a drinks waiter. She tried to skirt around the edges of the
crowd, only to trip over one of the iron poles that kept the viewers from getting too close to the paintings. She put her
hands out, not believing for a second that she was actually going to fall, and next instant found herself crashing to the
ground on her right hip. The streak of pain was instant and intense, setting her back throbbing.

“Christine, are you all right?” This was Fabiyan, helping her up.

“I . . . ouch, that really hurts.” Her hands went to her back, and then Jude was there.

“Christine?”

“I fell over.” She was as embarrassed as she was sore, seeing how many pairs of eyes were trained on her. “I tripped on the
stupid . . .”

Jude’s hands were on hers. “Are you badly hurt?”

“No, I’ve just set it off. It’s not too bad.”

Gerda, Pete, and Mayfridh were all there now, crowding around her solicitously. She waved them all away. “I’m okay, really.
Don’t make a fuss. It’s embarrassing me.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Gerda said.

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” Christine snapped back, regretting it instantly. “Sorry, Gerda, I’m just—”

“It’s all right,” Gerda said.

“Do you want me to take you upstairs?” Mayfridh asked.

“I’ll just see if I can . . .” She tried a few steps; pain jolted into her spine. “Um, yeah. I’m going to have to go lie down.”
She turned to Jude. “I’m so sorry, Jude. I’ve ruined your evening.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take you upstairs.”

“No, Mayfridh can do it. You go back to your buyer. Make us lots of money.” She smiled weakly and patted his arm.

He gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then Mayfridh was walking her out of the gallery and up the stairs—each step a jarring
shudder of pain—and to her apartment. She fetched Christine’s painkillers and put her to bed.

Once she had turned out the light Mayfridh sat on the bed and leaned over Christine. “Don’t forget the twine,” she said, her
breath tickling Christine’s cheek. “You still have it?”

“Yeah. I keep it in my purse. But I’d better lie still for a while.”

“If you need somebody to help you out to the Tiergarten . . .”

“Sure, I’ll come knocking.”

Mayfridh gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll keep an eye on Jude for you.”

“Thanks, good night.”

“Good night.”

A moment later she was gone. Christine closed her eyes and tried not to feel anything.

My hands are shaking so much I can barely write.
There is one of the filthy things right here in my own building. No wonder I’ve had so many sleepless nights of late. They
have been hiding her from me, thinking I might prove to be too stern a landlord and charge her rent. I can’t believe I didn’t
know before now.

So many problems, though. This is the first time I’ve met one who is a friend to others of my acquaintance. It is not like
I can march down there to Gerda Ekman’s apartment and drag her screaming into the hallway, cut her up, and dip her in the
vat without expecting any consequences. It’s so very tricky. I can’t rightly discern either whether or not Christine Starlight
knows her old childhood friend is from another world. She speaks of her returning home soon (not too soon, please), but without
a flick of an eyelash that might give away a darker secret.

But then, Americans are such good liars.

Still, I know this much. She is here without other faeries, her friends don’t expect her to stay for long, and there will
be a moment, an unguarded moment, upon which I can prey. I need only be patient and clever. And I am nothing if not patient.

I am nothing if not clever.

C
hristine woke in the night, the pinching and pulling in her back flaring into life. She rolled over and tried to make herself
comfortable, but the pain was insistent. In the dark, Jude was fast asleep, his relaxed, regular breathing a mocking reminder
that deep, unfettered sleep was never to be hers.

For a few moments she lay on her side, gazing at the muted streetlight through the curtain. It would be cold out there; she
could hear the wind gusting in the elms at the bottom of the street. But there was a place where this pain could no longer
find her.

She checked on Jude again. He didn’t stir, deep under the layers of sleep. In the three a.m. gloom, she slid out of bed and
dressed, gathered the ball of twine from her purse, and slipped out into autumn streets. One block from home a blustering
wind tore up the road and whipped her scarf from around her neck, sending it fluttering away behind her. She nearly turned
back, but the pain was too stubborn and relief was more important than an errant scarf.

A half-emptied feeling inhabited the city at night. Rows of shop fronts, stoic and mute, were occasionally punctuated by the
warm sounds and trickling crowds of nightclubs, or the yellow lights and greasy smells of fast-food restaurants. But as she
drew closer to the Tiergarten, the blended scents of damp earth and rotting foliage completed the emptiness. She tramped through
piles of fallen leaves to the dark, deserted corner where the passage lay. Leaves skittered around her like tiny insistent
footsteps, and she felt very alone.

Christine spun the ball of twine out in front of her. It glowed faintly in the dark. She checked her watch, determined not
to be gone more than an hour or two. Hand over hand, she began to follow the twine, and an eyeblink later, found herself in
the dark twilight of afternoon in the autumn forest.

A few breaths, first, enjoying the freedom. Then she began to search for the golden twine among the drifts of fallen yellow
leaves. She reeled it toward her, gave it a tug, and realized too late that the end was caught on a branch nearby. It sawed
over the rough surface and nearly snapped. She gasped, gently released it from the snag, and inspected it. The twine was frayed
almost all the way through. Did this mean she wouldn’t be able to get home?

“Eisengrimm!” she called, carefully winding the twine around her wrist so she could find the fray easily again. She began
walking toward the castle gate. “Eisengrimm!”

A flutter of wings. A crow perched before her on a tree. Christine fought down her first startled reaction and remembered
her manners. “Eisengrimm? Is that you?”

“Of course it is.”

She held out the twine. “I think I’ve broken it.”

He hopped down a few branches and peered close. “I can fix it. Bring it inside.” He fluttered to the ground and transformed
to Wolf. “Follow me.”

A gentle breeze moved the forest around her. More and more leaves descended from the branches above them, spinning and diving
in random patterns toward the ground. Christine’s eyes were constantly drawn upward to watch the branches shaking themselves
bare in the long shadows. She thought about what Mayfridh had told her, about autumn ending and their worlds moving apart.

“Eisengrimm, what’s the Winter Castle like?”

Eisengrimm did not look back, but his voice took on a warm fondness. “Ah, the Winter Castle is my favorite. It is gleaming
white, and outside the branches are bare and glittering with frost and ice, and the world is buried in snow. We stay inside,
and we have games and long dark nights of tale-telling and drinking by the fire and midwinter music.”

“But I don’t understand why you move from one castle to the other.”