The Autumn Castle (39 page)

“Your feet haven’t been enchanted since the third dance,” he said. “They’re all having a joke on you.”

Christine realized she could stop her feet tapping if she willed it. “Oh,” she said, laughing. “You mean I’ve been dancing
for real?”

“I told you it wasn’t difficult.”

Her first dance partner approached to thank her, and handed her a cup of wine before disappearing back into the crowd. The
wine . . . that was why her head was starting to spin. A warm, cheerful feeling. The door to the tavern burst open and a little
girl called out, “The bonfire is lit! The bonfire is lit!”

With these words, the crowd began to surge toward the door.

“What’s happening?” she asked Eisengrimm.

“The winter bonfire. It’s a custom. They all sing thanks for the harvest and ask for grace in the winter. Come, bring your
wine. We’ll find a good place to sit.”

Eisengrimm led her through the crowd to the road outside. The huge bonfire had roared into life, at least six feet high with
the flames peaking above it. The evening had descended, that brief window of almost darkness before the pale sun rose once
again. At a safe distance around the bonfire, rugs and mats had been laid. A shiny-faced woman, whom Christine thought she
might have danced with, beckoned her over.

“Here,” she said, “you and the counselor may share my mat.”

“Thank you,” Eisengrimm said, sitting down and resting his head on his paws.

Christine joined him. The dancing light of the fire, the noisy crowd, the taste of the warm alcohol; she closed her eyes for
a moment and that sense of peace she had felt standing at the chamber window returned.

A hush fell over the crowd. Christine looked around. A beautiful pale-haired young woman in a white dress had taken up a position
in front of the fire.

Eisengrimm leaned close. “That’s Klarlied, Hexebart’s daughter.”

“Hexebart’s daughter?” Christine whispered.

“When her mother dies, she’ll be our new witch.”

“She’s so beautiful.”

Then Klarlied opened her mouth and began to sing. Her voice was pure and bell-like, and she sang of winter and snow and ice.
When she had finished, everyone applauded and she commenced another song, but this time, after the first line, people all
around began to join in.

“This is the biggest campfire sing-along I’ve ever been to,” Christine laughed.

“Faery folk love music,” Eisengrimm said. “You can join in if you like.”

“I don’t know the words,” she replied. “Besides, I sing worse than I dance.” She lay back on the mat and gazed at the sky.
Scattered across the dark velvety blue were a few pale stars. The fire crackled and popped, ashes and sparks rising up into
the twilight air.

Eisengrimm turned and lay down next to her, his nose close to her ear.

“Eisengrimm, can you see many more stars here when it’s night?”

“Of course. On a clear night in winter you can see millions.”

“Are they the same stars I see back in the Real World?”

“I don’t know,” Eisengrimm said. “Do you recognize any?”

“It’s hard to tell. They’re so pale.”

“They have been washed out by the proximity of the sun; dawn is about to break. When the sun is far away, starlight has its
own brilliance.”

She turned on her side to face him. “Tell me about winter,” she said. “Is it dark the whole time?”

“Most of the time. The nights are very long and the days gray and hazy.”

“Does everyone get depressed?”

“No, people stay inside and tell stories and make music and warm themselves next to fires.” He paused a moment before saying,
“Though Mayfridh sometimes becomes melancholy.”

“Really?”

“When the snow comes, she can’t go wandering in the forest.” Flickering shadows from the firelight moved over him. “But spring
is never far away. Winter isn’t long or brutal.”

A new song had started, sweet and sad. “Eisengrimm,” she said, “what does it feel like to lose your memory?”

“We don’t lose all our memories. Only memories gathered in the Real World.”

“I know, but what does it feel like to lose them? And what does it feel like to move to the Winter Castle?”

Eisengrimm pondered for a minute, then said, “It isn’t a perfectly pleasant feeling, and most people suffer at least a little
anxiety in the days leading up to the move. We usually know when it’s going to happen because we have someone watching the
birch, but we don’t make it happen. We have to surrender ourselves to the season.”

“And when the leaf falls?”

He closed his eyes, trying to articulate the details. “It’s like being pulled downwards, somewhere dark, a loose spiral. The
sensation of having nothing beneath your feet. Your thoughts seem like sounds . . . I can’t explain it better than that. It’s
as though the words in your head echo around you, and some thoughts—memories of the Real World—echo off into the distance
and disappear. You have a sense of losing something, but not being able to comprehend what it is you’ve lost. That feeling
can make people anxious, but it lasts only a few moments. Then, an eye blink of complete darkness—no light, no sound, no thoughts—followed
by a shock of arrival. The new season rushes upon you, all bright and noisy. It takes a moment to readjust, and you realize
it’s not bright or noisy, just a normal winter’s day and you’re in the Winter Castle.”

“I still can’t comprehend it.”

“You’d have to experience it to comprehend it.”

“What happens to those memories, though? Will Mayfridh know she’s forgotten something?”

Eisengrimm opened his eyes. They glowed yellow in the firelight. “Oh, she’ll have a faint sense of it. It will not be pressing,
and within a week or so it will be gone.”

“And if she finds an object she’s brought back with her from the Real World?”

“It will seem as though she’s always owned it.”

“What if I left her a letter, reminding her of things?”

“She would not have any sense of recognition. She may read it and wonder how long she had owned it, perhaps amuse herself
imagining what she might have done. But you, the deep essence of you, will be gone from her memory. There’s a small chance
she’d remember you if our world aligned with where you are again.”

“Is there any chance of that?”

“There’s no predicting it, Christine. It could happen in five years or fifty years or not at all.”

Christine settled into silence. Sadness threaded through her sense of peace. She would miss Mayfridh; Mayfridh wouldn’t miss
her.

“Don’t be sad,” Eisengrimm said. “One mustn’t be sad when the world is what it is.”

“I’ll miss her. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss Ewigkreis and the magic and the adventure.”

“But you have so much else to look forward to. Life with Jude, children, friends.”

“Yeah,” she said. Her eyes were growing sore from the fire. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“You look tired. Would you like to return to the castle?”

“I should go home.”

“No, stay here with us tonight. You said you had never really slept without pain. Sleep here, sleep long and deeply.”

Christine considered: this might be her last chance to enjoy Ewigkreis. “All right,” she said, “I will.”

They left the bonfire—at least a dozen people called out, “Good night, Starlight”—and made their way back to the carriage.
The sky was lit with pale dawn light, the sun poised behind the horizon, as the carriage rattled back up the slope. Christine
felt herself lulled by its movement, dozing in short fits. Back at the castle, Eisengrimm led her to the white chamber, where
she sank among the covers.

“Good night, Christine,” Eisengrimm said, settling on the bed next to her.

“Do you sleep here too?” she asked, opening her eyes.

“I always sleep next to the queen. But if you would prefer I didn’t . . .”

“No, no, I love it that you’re here.” She put her arm around Eisengrimm’s ribs. He was very warm. “Though I don’t know what
Jude would think of me sleeping with another man,” she joked.

“I am a wolf,” Eisengrimm said, “with no man’s desires. You are safe.”

“I know,” she replied, too tired to worry if she had hurt his feelings. “I know.”

She felt herself drifting off. What bliss to sleep without pain.

“Close your eyes, Christine,” he said, drawing a deep breath and settling on his paws. “Sleep peacefully.”

And she did.

This could be my last entry for some time. I have quite an adventure to set out upon.

My Bone Wife, ever unfinished, can dance. It’s true, although there’s only half of her. I was experimenting with her—lift,
step, lift, step, fall—when I became so frustrated with her that I went up and put my hands on her hips and tried to guide
her forward. As I stepped back, she stepped forward, matching the distance exactly. Intrigued, I took a step forward, and
she stepped back. I stepped to the side, she likewise, and so on, until I had her waltzing unevenly for nearly two minutes.
Then she clattered to the floor as she always does, and I had to repair her knee which had become chipped. I have never laughed
so much in my life, but then I’m in a fine, merry mood today.

When I’ve finished her—and I know it won’t be long now—I have a new fantasy to fulfill. I always imagined that I would top
the Bone Wife off with a face sculpted to look like my mother’s. But now, I’m imagining her quite differently.

Now I know I want Mayfridh’s head.

I will use her gleaming skull, and fill it with plaster and smooth over its surface and repaint her features lovingly. I will
use her hair, her real hair. How it drives me mad, that hair, because its color is so bright I can almost see it. I shall
dance with her every day.

For now, the Bone Wife has been moved upstairs to the boning room, under lock and key. I will be away for an uncertain amount
of time, and I want her to be safe until I return.

You see, I saw Christine Starlight in the Tiergarten. I followed her there. I have been following her for days. I saw Mayfridh
turn up at the store where she works, I saw Christine bid her friend farewell on Friedrichstrasse, and I saw her find a dark
hollow where she thought she wasn’t seen. I saw her pull out a ball of golden twine and unravel it in front of her, and then
I saw her disappear.

The twine is the passage.

I came back here to work and to write. I had thought I would simply go into Jude and Christine’s flat one evening when they
are both out and steal the twine, but I’m too impatient. She hasn’t returned. I visited Jude Honeychurch—dazed and seedy—in
his apartment this morning and he said Christine had gone away for a short while, but he expected her back very soon. I’m
going to the Tiergarten to wait. I don’t care if I have to wait for hours. I don’t care if it rains on me (today is very overcast
and cold). I’m going to faeryland. Who knows how long I’ll be there, with so many raw materials to gather?

Farewell.
(I’m laughing as I write this.)
I go to a better place.

Christine found she was clamping her jaw against the expected rush of embodiedness as she left Eisengrimm behind and wound
out the twine in front of her.

“Good-bye, Christine,” he said, “I hope to see you again before winter.”

“I hope so too,” she said, picking up the thread.

She stepped into the pressure on her back, and traffic sounds and the smell of the city enveloped her. She gathered the twine,
stood up straight and—

“Mandy?” Where had he appeared from? He stood in front of her, grinning. Her skin prickled.

“Christine,” he replied, as though there were nothing at all unusual about him standing in the Tiergarten two feet from a
woman who had just appeared out of nowhere.

She moved to tuck the twine away in her coat, but he stopped her hand and forced it toward him. Her blood sizzled with fear.
Was he going to rape her? Kill her? She fought to regain control of her arm.

“What are you doing?”

He turned his head away from her forearm as though disgusted. “Ugh, you smell just like one of them.”

“One of what? What are you doing?” She struggled with him but he overpowered her, wrenched the twine from her fingers and
rolled it in front of him.

“No! No, Mandy, don’t,” she cried, frantic now. “You don’t know what you’re—”

One moment he was there. The next, he was gone.

C
hristine slammed into the apartment and dropped her keys with a clunk on the table. “Where’s Mayfridh?” she asked Jude.

“What? Why?” He rose from his seat with a nervous jerk of his shoulders.

“I need to find her. Is she with Gerda?” Christine was halfway back to the door.

“I think she’s at her mother’s. Why? What’s wrong?”

Christine ignored him, picked up the phone, and started scrabbling through the mess of papers in the bookcase drawer. Diana’s
number was in there somewhere.

“What’s wrong, Christine?” Jude asked again, his hand on the small of her back. “Did something happen in faeryland? Are you
okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, her fingers closing over the phone number, “but Mandy’s not.”