by ‘We need to go back to the Elvyngs,’ I said to Jay perhaps half an hour later, when we were once more on the right side — the human side — of the boundary between Yorkshire and Aylligranir. ‘Bet you a year’s salary Cicily had some moonsilver paraphernalia from her father, and another year’s salary the Elvyngs have hung onto it.’
‘No bet,’ said Jay. ‘It’s too obvious.’
He offered nothing else, only walked along beside me, collar turned up against the drizzle of summer rain that now watered the hillside. He’d been quiet ever since our first introduction to the queen, and remained so now.
I’d had to wrestle with myself. I’d been so tempted to excuse myself on some small pretext, dash back to the library and find out who Jay’s Yllanfalen grandfather was. I told myself I’d be doing it for him: that I could, someday when he changed his mind, hand him the answer to this family puzzle. He would be pleased. Right?
But that wasn’t the real reason I was tempted, or it wasn’t the whole reason. My cursed curiosity had got hold of that little mystery and refused to let go.
And I didn’t quite understand Jay’s thinking. How could he not want to know? How could he be within seconds of finding out who he was, and pass it up?
The man puzzled me. Exceedingly.
I took out my phone, by way of distracting myself, and typed furiously. Val needed to know everything we’d learned, and quickly.
I ended with:
Hoping we have a cryptographer at Home?
I got a response within seconds, the prompt buzzing of my phone making me jump.
Val said: Yes. Also we have Crystobel Elvyng at Home.
‘Whaaaat,’ I gasped, and showed Jay. ‘Quick, Whirly Wizard. To the library!’
‘I know this is going to sound weird,’ he said. ‘Coming from me, that is, instead of you. But do you suppose we could eat first?’
‘Note to self,’ I said, looking uselessly around at the rolling hillside notably unadorned with cafe or shop. ‘Do not starve the Waymaster. Erm, you don’t happen to know of a village hereabouts, do you?’
Jay merely pointed.
‘Right.’ I set off down the hill in the direction indicated, heading for cake and glory, and Jay trudged manfully along beside me.
We were not much more than an hour delayed before we reached home. I’d stuffed Jay with a stack of sandwiches and scones and myself with a piece of cake — just the one, I occasionally have some sense of proportion I swear — and thus revived, he’d managed the return trip smoothly enough. We emerged in the preserved henge in the cellar at Home, and I clattered straight up the stairs.
Jay followed at a more sedate — weary? — pace. As such, I had thirty whole seconds to stare my fill at Crystobel Elvyng before he caught up with me.
She was seated in the library with Val. Not languishing in front of the head librarian’s big, imposing desk, the way most of us do. The matriarch of the Elvyng dynasty merited the red carpet treatment. There’s a handsome fireplace with a brick surround in the main hall of the library, flanked by a pair of silver brocade chairs. I don’t think I have ever seen a fire lit in that hearth; there is no earthly way Val would risk the books like that, however cold it may be. I have never seen the chairs used, either.
Until today. Val had taken possession of one, and her august guest sat at her ease in the other.
I received a peculiar impression of there being a third presence in the room, which was probably House. The building mostly leaves us to get on with things, but once in a while it takes an interest.
I couldn’t blame it for taking an interest in Crystobel Elvyng. She’s about my age, or only a little older; mid-thirties at the most. She has all the poise of a much older woman, though. In pictures she tends to appear exquisitely well-dressed, and positively oozes confidence.
Comes of growing up entrenched in privilege, I suppose. She’d been an Elvyng since the moment of her birth, and in the magickal world, they’re the next best thing to royalty. Better, in some ways.
It’s a matter of power. They’re all remarkably well-endowed with it (though as a minor point of interest, they have yet to produce a Waymaster). They are also incredibly rich, of course. In what world will the perfect mix of wealth and power not confer fame and glory upon the wielder? Not this one, anyway.
For my part, I have a horrible fascination with their entire lifestyle. Which puts me on a par with most of the rest of magickal Britain, I suppose.
After years of admiring her from afar, now I beheld Crystobel Elvyng relaxing in the best chair in Val’s library, and I did not know what to think. If she could only have managed to be ordinary looking, she might be more believable as a real, breathing human like the rest of us. But of course, she isn’t. Whether Cicily’s Yllanfalen heritage has bred true down the centuries, or whether she is just lucky, she has excellent features, clear skin the colour of peaches in milk, and a wealth of honey-brown hair. On that day, she was wearing a cerulean velvet coat I might cheerfully have killed for, and boots to match.
Jay came up behind me while I was taking in this scene, and having devoted about three seconds to his own observations, he whispered in my ear: ‘Crushing on Crystobel?’
‘That or experiencing an unjustified and irrational resentment,’ I whispered back. ‘Cannot currently decide which.’
‘They’re just people,’ he said. ‘Like you and me.’
‘That’s not what the papers say.’
Jay raised a brow. ‘Since when do you care what the papers say?’
‘I don’t care, exactly. But it’s difficult to help being a little bit influenced. I feel like we’re in the presence of a minor goddess, and I cannot decide whether she deserves all that reverence.’
‘Nobody does. Problem solved.’ Jay flashed me a quick smile, and moved past me into the library.
Val looked up. ‘Aha, Jay — Ves with you?’
‘Here,’ I said, stepping forward with what I hoped was my usual insouciant manner. I didn’t want to feel self-conscious just because we had a celebrity in the House. I’d managed not to be too much of an idiot when I’d met Baron Alban; why was Crystobel Elvyng different?
Because you identify with Crystobel in ways you never had to with Alban.
She was too much like me, while also being incredibly, impossibly different.
But she was smiling at both of us, and either she was an excellent actress or she was genuinely pleased to meet us. I refused to speculate as to which it was.
Introductions over, Crystobel looked keenly at Jay and me in turn, and said: ‘I understand you are interested in one of our ancestors.’
The royal “we”, I thought, and mentally kicked myself.
‘Cicily Werewode-Elvyng,’ I confirmed. ‘Did you know she was part Yllanfalen?’
She raised her brows at that. ‘Of course. Some of our family’s most celebrated abilities are attributed to that lineage.’
If that were true, I wondered why Cicily’s portrait had been stuffed out of sight in a disused garret bedroom in her own gorgeous manor house. Considering I had been wandering around up there without permission or supervision, it was impossible to ask.
I thought, though, of Hylldirion’s long, long list of Yllanfalen-human children, and wondered.
‘I don’t suppose you have any more of Cicily’s writings among your family’s papers?’ I asked. Val had probably already posed the question, but I had no way of knowing that for certain. Had she told Crystobel what, in particular, we were looking for, or why we were interested? I hoped not. I didn’t mind sharing those details with the queen of Aylligranir, but the Elvyngs had… different priorities.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Crystobel, with a gentle smile. ‘Unfortunately, little of Cicily’s life has survived. We have a few letters of hers, which I have given into your librarian’s care, but they do not discuss much of any great importance. I would not like to raise your expectations falsely.’
I glanced at Val, who minutely shook her head. The letters contained nothing relevant.
Curse it.
But I was intrigued. How was it that Cicily’s possessions had been lost? And in that case, how had that single book of Cicily’s ended up in the York archives?
Was Crystobel telling the truth? I had no reason to think otherwise.
Still…
‘May I ask why Cicily is of interest to the Society?’ said Crystobel, still with that pleasant smile.
I looked at Val. She hadn’t spilt the beans, then, and I did not want to.
‘We will be at greater liberty to discuss that once our ideas receive some confirmation,’ said Val, smoothly but firmly. ‘At present we are only speculating.’
Crystobel nodded, but then said: ‘Is it about the argent? If so, I feel I must give you fair warning. Cicily’s work, while interesting, was unrealised at the time of her death.’
‘Argent?’ repeated Val.
‘It has had a few names down the years, hasn’t it?’ said Crystobel. ‘The Yllanfalen call it, I believe, moonsilver?’
It figured she’d know something of it, what with the family link.
Crystobel went on. ‘I would be sorry to see so vital an organisation as the Society waste your valuable time on a wild goose chase, so I feel bound to add: there is nothing in alchemy to permit the manufacture of the substance known variously as argent, or moonsilver.’
‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Val, when neither Jay nor I said anything.
Crystobel evidently considered this the close of the interview, for with her ever-present smile, she got up from the best chair in the library and held out her hand to me.
I took it, and shook it. She had a good handshake: brisk, but not perfunctory. Business-like, without feeling impersonal.
She was almost a foot taller than me. I looked up at her, conscious of a few wistful feelings, and one or two others.
Crush, Jay’s voice echoed in my head, and maybe he was a tiny bit right.
‘Thank you for your time,’ I heard myself say, and a smile — hopefully not a grimace — did something to my face.
‘It was my pleasure,’ murmured Crystobel.
A few moments later, having taken similarly gracious leave of Val and Jay, Crystobel Elvyng was gone.
