The Crystal Heart (27 page)

The bells are ringing. The streets are filled with cheering people.
Feyin
and human, they mingle in ever-widening streams, for the way between our worlds is wide open now, especially on this great day.

I am riding in the carriage beside my father, and opposite my uncle, who has renounced his old title of Commander. He refuses to accept the one my father has tried to give him – Lord Losserian. ‘Let me be plain Alek Los,' he growls, whenever it is raised, just as he shrugs and raises an eyebrow when it's suggested he might take up residence in the Palace. ‘I prefer the simple life of a traveller,' he says, and will not be persuaded otherwise. I understand it; he cannot live here, for it is not his home, even if it was once, long, long ago. He comes and stays sometimes, for short periods only, then is off again, wandering to the far corners of the world.

My father says his brother is seeking something, though he does not know what yet, but he will know it
when he finds it. Father has changed, too – there is a gentleness and a peace in him I have never seen before. It does not mean he has lost any of his pride, and it does not mean he does not at times lash out for no good reason. He has not transformed, but he has become … more complete.

He smiles at me. ‘Are you nervous, my daughter?'

‘A little,' I answer honestly.

‘Then I will not tell you that you should not be,' he says.

My uncle grunts. ‘Just as well, as she would no sooner listen to you on the matter, Caraden, as the wind in the trees. But if you want my view, my dear Izolda, I would venture that your young man is feeling a good deal more nervous than you right now.'

I am waiting in a side sacristy with my parents and sisters by my side. Outside we can hear the roar of the crowd. Inside the cathedral are kings, queens, emperors, prime ministers and presidents, dignitaries of all sorts, both
feyin
and human.

It is not the thought of all those august faces turning to me as I walk to stand before the two archbishops – one from Night, one from Krainos – that scares me. It is not the thought of the crowds outside that spook me. It is the fear that I will be deemed unworthy.

Yes, many things have changed for me and for my country. After the Supreme Council was dissolved last year and our new Parliament was formed in Krainos, I was elected Deputy for our region, and I am discovering how
things work in government, though there is still so very much to learn. And yes, the Prince of Night has warmed to me a good deal in the past year, and I, too, understand a good deal more about the ways and customs of Night. Essentially, though, I am still Kasper Bator from Fish-the-Moon, a man of simple tastes who thinks nothing is more wonderful than the times I can escape to the cottage in the woods with my beautiful Izolda. And she loves those times, too, I know; they are as necessary to her as they are to me.

But always at the back of our minds is the knowledge that for both of us – especially for her – a different future awaits. I remember the promise I made to her father, and I intend to keep it. But will I truly be worthy? Will I truly be able to give her what she needs? I want nothing ever to part us, and certainly not due to my lack of courage.

The trumpets sound. My mother clutches my arm. ‘It is time, my son,' she says, clasping my hand. ‘Are you ready?'

Her eyes are shining. She has been through so much on account of me – great suffering and great joy – yet now she is calmer than I am. I kiss her, kiss my sisters and hug my father. Then they leave me to go and sit in the front pew, leaving me alone with the ceremonial usher who will lead me in. Offering up a final prayer, both to the Lady and to the Angels, I compose myself and follow the usher with a steady step.

Stepping out of the carriage, all I can discern is a sea of faces, from end to end of the cathedral square. All I
can hear is the collective voice of the crowd as it roars its approval of us. My father steps out first, then my uncle, to accompanying cheers; then together, they help me out of the carriage. And what cheers there are then! It humbles me, scares me, thrills me in equal measure. Arm in arm with my father and my uncle, I walk slowly up the steps, and all I can think is: he will be here, at the end of this walk. It is the longest walk of my life and yet the shortest. Into my memory flashes our story, our life together so far – the suffering and tumult of the past, the happiness of the present, this year which has gone like a joyful flash. May nothing ever come between us, and nothing part us ever again.

The cathedral doors open. Another sea of faces. No cheers or roars, for the crowd here is far too well-bred for exuberance. But there are smiles and soft murmurs of approval, and if we pass certain people of my father's court who can't quite look wholeheartedly happy, or some in the parliamentary delegation of Krainos who look a little askance at the presence of my uncle, then they are of no account, and what they think does not matter. For the world is not perfect. Even in the best of times there are those who are envious or spiteful or simply incapable of knowing hope when they see it. What matters is the others, and they are the greater part of us, and together we are strong.

My uncle leaves us and takes his seat while I keep walking with Father. I pass Glarya and Amadey, who are looking like they'll burst with happiness (they are not long married themselves), and then Kasper's family, joyfully smiling. I know them a little now, and have grown to
like them very much, and they me, though at first they were very nervous and inclined to drop curtsies and bow (I have finally persuaded them not only to stop that, but to call me by my given name). On my father's arm, I walk towards the altar.

I can see my love standing there on his own, broad-shouldered and straight-backed in an unfamiliarly splendid navy-blue dress uniform, his glossy raven-black hair waving above its collar. I know he will be trying hard to keep his features composed, like me. He will be trying to look natural, trying to seem as if he were not thoroughly spooked at all these eyes on him.

The trumpets keep playing, yet oddly it feels as though a great silence has descended around me. It is as though I am in a bubble of silence. Involuntarily, my hand slips to my throat, and the crystal heart I am wearing as my single ornament, and feel it warm to my touch. To wear it had been my uncle's idea. Today of all days, I should take it back, he had said.

We are nearly there when Kasper turns. I see I was wrong. His handsome face is not composed at all, but alight with love. The breath catches in my throat as I come towards him.

As Izolda advances towards me on her father's arm, so radiantly beautiful that my heart clenches with the wonder of it, she does not look anywhere but at me, and I do not look anywhere but at her. It is as though we are alone, here in this huge place filled with people. And in that moment my fears leave me and I know without a shred of a doubt
that it does not matter where we are, whether in a cottage in the woods or in the State rooms of a palace, as long as we are together. Our love will always be our strength, our shield and our comfort, and it will never fail us, through all of our life to come.

The story of Cinderella as you've never heard it before …

 

A girl whose fortunes have plummeted from wealthy aristocrat to servant-girl.
A magic hazel twig. A prince.
A desperate escape from danger.

 

This is not the story of a girl whose fairy godmother arranges her future for her. This is the story of Selena, who will take charge of her own destiny, and learn that her magic is not to be feared but celebrated.

 

Available at all good retailers

When Natasha is forced to

shelter from a blizzard, she is lucky to see a mansion looming out of the snow. Inside, it is beautiful – except, instead of paintings, there are empty frames on every wall. In the snowy garden, she finds one perfect red rose in bloom. Dreamily she reaches out a hand …

 

Only to have the terrifying master of the house appear, and demand vengeance on her for taking his rose.

 

So begins an extraordinary adventure that will see Natasha plunged deep into the heart of a mystery, as she realises she has stumbled upon a powerful sorcerer's spell of revenge.

 

But even if she can break the spell, the Beast she has come to love will be snatched from her. Natasha will have a long journey ahead before there can be a happy ending.

 

‘Utterly enchanting!
A wondrous mix of magic, adventure and romance.'
Kate Forsyth, author of
The Puzzle Ring

 

Available at all good retailers

 

Read on for the first chapter

Three sisters sat spinning at the old tower window, watching for their mother to come home. After a time the first sister said, ‘I see our mother's sleigh flying through the forest, laden with fine things, with silks and satins, velvets and furs.' Then the second sister said, ‘I see our mother's sleigh speeding over snowy fields, laden with valuable things, with caskets of jewels, pearls and amber and gold.' And then the third sister spoke, and she said, ‘I see our mother's sleigh hurrying towards home, light as a feather with fragrant flowers, roses and lilac and jasmine and lilies. And behind the sleigh, spring is coming, the snow is melting, winter is being chased away …'

‘Ah, there you are! I might have known I'd find you up here, scribbling like some old clerk. Look at you – you've got ink all over your fingers! No, stop, don't do that, Natasha, you'll get it on your nose too!'

Too late. The tip of my nose was already graced with a blotch. I hurriedly closed my notebook and pushed it
under the pile of old blankets. Scrubbing half-heartedly at the nose-blotch with a crumpled handkerchief, I said, ‘What's the matter, Liza? Is the house on fire? Have the horses run away? Are the hens off their lay? No, wait; it must be something much more important. I know. Anya's run out of hair-curling papers!'

‘Ha ha, very funny,' she said sourly. ‘Don't you remember? Your godfather's coming to tea. And he's due in less than an hour.'

‘And you came bursting in here to tell me
that
?' I hadn't forgotten. I just hadn't wanted to think about it. I don't like my godfather, Captain Peskov. With his cold beady eyes and his spindly legs in their dusty black trousers, he reminds me of a bedraggled elderly crow. And as for his title, I cannot believe he's ever been captain of anything other than the good ship
Misery
, for he is for ever croaking about this or that unpleasant and miserable thing, usually how someone had cheated him of what was rightfully his. He's some kind of distant cousin of my father's, but aside from that I don't know why he was chosen as my godfather. He's a real
skupoy
, a real stingy person, and he's certainly never taken an interest in me. Now, though, I can't help thinking that my poor papa must have owed him money and by asking him to be my godfather, was trying to get on his good side. But I don't think that side exists.

‘Why on earth is he bothering to visit us now, when he didn't even come to Papa's funeral and hasn't sent so much as a note since?' I said scornfully.

Shrugging, Liza pushed back a stray strand of her fair hair. ‘Maybe he's had a change of heart and he's decided to help us.'

I laughed. ‘A change of heart? He doesn't
have
a heart to change, Liza. That old
skupoy
might be rich but he's also a real miser and you know it. His purse strings are so tight you'd need a crowbar to open them and even then they'd probably stay shut.'

‘You have to be nice to him,' she said, ignoring my comment. ‘Mama says you must. She says it's our only chance.'

I stared at her. ‘Mama said that?'

She had the grace to flush. ‘All right, not the last bit she didn't. But she did say you should be nice, so it must mean she thinks that.'

‘No, it doesn't,' I began hotly, and then I cut myself short. Because I know how hard it's been for Mama these last eighteen months. It's not just the grief at losing Papa, not just the loss of our old life, not just the constant money worries that have put grey streaks in her black hair and dark shadows under her green eyes. It's also knowing what it all means for us, for her daughters. Balls, parties, fine dresses, costly jewels, city living, high society, romance, hopes for a glittering marriage to an important nobleman: all that belongs to dreams of the past now. To be honest, that side of it didn't worry me, like it worried my older sisters. Anya had been the belle of the Summer Palace Ball and Liza had just made her own entry into society only a few weeks before Papa died and the true state of our finances was revealed. But back then, at fifteen I'd still
been too young for all that. You can't miss what you've never known. And probably now would never know.

But I lost no sleep over that, or even over the loss of our beautiful city mansion, and everything in it, to pay the enormous debts Papa had left behind. Our country house, which had once belonged to Mama's father, was much smaller than the Byeloka mansion, but it was cosy and homely, with ample space for us all. We had plenty to eat too, for we had cows, chickens, a vegetable garden, an orchard, a fish-filled stream, and mushrooms and berries in the woods. It was true we only had one house-servant now instead of the flock we'd had before, and we'd all had to learn to do our own hair and look after our own clothes and sometimes lend a hand to Sveta in the house or with the chickens, and help Oleg and Vanya, who look after the garden and the cows. My sisters minded terribly, but I didn't. It was a small enough thing to do for Mama, who works so hard, sometimes long hours into the night, even in winter when her studio in the garden is so cheerless.

Truth is, I miss my father, but I don't miss society. I find the whole notion of it suffocating, with its gossip and matchmaking and rules for young ladies. Occasionally, we're invited to village dances, and though my sisters moan about what country-bumpkin affairs they are, with farmers and local gentry noisily mixing, I enjoy them much more than I'd have enjoyed Byeloka balls. But even more than that, I love the freedom I have here, where you can run barefoot in long summer grass or whoop as you race a sleigh across snowy fields, or get ink on your fingers and nose, and nobody cares. Nobody, that is, apart from my
sisters. I don't share their feelings, but I understand them and love them. And especially I love my mother dearly and would do anything to put the sparkle back in her eye. So if Liza's right and by some miracle the stingy old Captain might be persuaded to help us and lighten Mama's burden, then for her sake I should pretend I'm glad to see him.

I sighed. ‘I suppose this means we'd better look our best. Do you think my brown velvet would do?'

Liza's blue eyes widened in surprise. She's not used to me being biddable, still less asking her advice. But she soon recovered. ‘What, that old thing? Certainly not. The sleeves will be too short; you'll look like a clown in it.'

‘Then it will go nicely with my ink-blot nose,' I said flippantly, but Liza wasn't amused.

‘Stop being silly, Natasha, and come with me. We have to ask Anya what she thinks.'

I groaned inwardly. I could see that I was in for a long and tedious session of parading in front of the mirror, but I could also see that I'd have to put up with it.

It took even longer than I thought, because Anya wasn't in a good mood. She'd found a tiny pimple on her normally flawless creamy skin, and her sea-green eyes were stormy with irritation as she dabbed at it with powder. Liza usually humours her, but today she was impatient. ‘For heaven's sake, we don't have time for this! Anya, you look beautiful, you always do!' She stroked Anya's black ringlets. ‘But if the Captain claps eyes on Natasha in that shabby old velvet, he'll change his mind about making her his heiress and then we'll be stuck here for ever.'

I couldn't understand how she'd gone from the faint hope that he might help us to the ridiculous fantasy that the old miser would make me his heiress, and I nearly laughed aloud, but stopped myself in time. Turning to my eldest sister, I said solemnly, ‘That's right. And you're so good at understanding these things, Anya. You have such a fine eye for clothes and what they say about people.'

She gave me a hard look. No wonder. It's not exactly the sort of thing I'm in the habit of saying. But like Liza she recovered quickly enough, saying, rather ungraciously, ‘Oh, very well.' She looked at me critically. ‘Hmm. Now let me see …'

Although it was autumn and there was a definite bite in the air, in the house, with the blue and white stove burning cheerfully, it was very warm. So between them Anya and Liza decided that given the regrettable fact my face and neck still bore traces of a summer tan like a peasant girl's, and the less regrettable fact that my brown hair was still sheened with summer gold, I could play the part of the fresh-faced country maiden in a light flowery dress that would make the old miser think of spring. ‘And as everyone knows,' said Anya, ‘the thought of spring makes you happy, and happiness makes you generous.'

It was my turn to be surprised. Practical Anya had said something not only acute, but beautiful. I wished I'd thought of it. I made a note of it in my head, to add to my story, the story I'd started when Liza burst in. Happiness makes you generous. That would be the theme of my story. It would be like a magic charm, to work on my own family. And on myself.

Alas! All our efforts – the pretty rose-patterned muslin dress, the coral necklace Anya said would set off my brown eyes, my tidy plaited hairdo, clean face and stiff smile – were for naught, as were my sisters' rustling, perfumed presences and my mama's gentle conversation. Not to speak of the honey cake and tiny gingerbread stars and horses painstakingly iced in pink and white by Sveta, and the hot fragrant tea, poured from the best samovar into the best tea-glasses. All of it was for nothing. That greedy old Captain devoured everything without pleasure or thanks, and did not even look us in the face when he finally came to the reason for his visit: how it had ‘lately come to my attention, Madame Kupeda, that your esteemed late husband, my dear Cousin Alexander, neglected to return some items he had borrowed from me'.

This was so unexpected that we all stared at him as though he was speaking in a foreign language. I saw the colour rush out of Mama's cheeks as she murmured, ‘I'm sorry, Captain Peskov. I don't think I quite understand.'

He drew a list out of his pocket, adjusted his spectacles, and said, ‘It's all itemised here, Madame Kupeda, but just so you know: Item 1, an umbrella, black. Item 2, a pair of socks, plain grey. Item 3, a pair of wet-weather galoshes.' He saw our baffled expressions. ‘It was some years ago. Cousin Alexander called in to see me. It had been raining and his feet had got wet, so I let him borrow these items.' He sounded like he thought he'd done something very noble. And indeed it must have wrenched what passed for his heart to part with any of his things, I thought, even if
no doubt they were old and shabby and fit to be thrown out. I certainly didn't remember seeing them in the house.

I saw Mama's hands clench in her lap and her features harden. I knew that set expression on her face and so did my sisters. We looked at each other, holding our breaths. But all she said was, very softly, ‘And of course you wish your property to be returned, Captain Peskov. As it will be, as soon as I find it. Why, the thought that we might have retained any of your property makes me feel quite … quite ill.'

His face twisted in what was clearly meant to be a smile. ‘Oh, but you must not upset yourself, dear Madame Kupeda. I am sure we can come to some suitable arrangement,' and he licked his lips. We all stared at him. But before any of us could say anything, he added hastily, ‘I understand you're painting portraits for a living these days. And I fancy having my portrait painted. We can negotiate a suitable fee, from which the value of the items your husband borrowed can simply be deducted, so there would be no need to return them.' He beamed, well-pleased with himself. ‘Now, what do you say?'

‘What do I say?' she whispered. ‘I say that if you don't get out of this house this very minute, this very second, I will not answer for my actions.' Her eyes flicked to the cake knife. Noting the direction of her look, the Captain scrambled to his feet in panic, spluttering, ‘You're mad, woman, quite mad! Here I am giving you a favour out of the goodness of my heart and you –'

‘Get out,' she said, ‘just get out.' Her voice was still soft but there was such a chilling undertone in it that it was
much more frightening than if she'd shouted, and her eyes were like stones. I got up then, and Anya and Liza too, and together we went to stand by our mother, to protect her … to stop her from doing something terrible.

Under our combined gaze, my godfather mutely fumbled for his hat and coat. Just before scuttling out, he hissed over his shoulder, ‘You'll regret this! Mark my words, you'll regret this. Your name will be mud. No-one will commission you, I'll make sure of it. No-one, do you hear!' The last word ended on a squeak of pain as Mama, after calmly removing one pretty shoe, threw it at his retreating backside, the sharp heel connecting perfectly with its target. And then he was gone, rushing out of the house as if Old Bony herself was after him, howling for his blood.