The Fatal Strand. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ small she seems, and how ignominious her journey to this place. Verdandi, princess of the Royal House, and yet she was carted here as though she were of no more import than a sack of coal.’

      Spreading her hands wide, Miss Ursula lifted her eyes to the towering vastness of Nirinel as she contemplated the pomp and dignity that her late sister truly deserved.

      ‘In the forgotten past, the funeral of this daughter of Askar would have been effected with the highest ceremony. A legion of horns and trumpets would have sounded the heavens, and banners of sable flown from the city walls to mourn her passing. What solemn elegies the poets would have composed, what glorious outrage to inspire the balladeers’ songs.

      ‘In every window a candle would burn in memory of her. Across the land, monuments would rise and the brightest star in the firmament would be named anew.’

      The woman’s voice trailed into nothing and she looked again at the wasted body upon the wellhead. ‘I regret that such ceremony is forever behind us,’ she admitted, ‘but still we will do what we can. Verdandi may indeed have to remain in this blessed place until the end of all things, but not for a moment shall she be alone. In this, her tomb, we shall take it in turns to sit beside her. However, on this grievous day, we shall all keep watch.’

      ‘Oh yes!’ Miss Celandine cooed. ‘And when it’s just her and myself, I shall bring down a plate of jam and pancakes to put at her side and tell her everything that happens – I shall, I shall.’

      Under Miss Ursula’s instruction, they each took a torch from the carved walls and fixed them into the soil around the wellhead. Then, together, they knelt before Miss Veronica’s body and the long vigil commenced.

      With her head to one side, and the torchlight sparkling in her bright eyes, Miss Celandine rocked backwards and forwards upon her knees, murmuring the snatches of old rhymes and songs she remembered from the ancient city of Askar and the days of her youth.

       ‘Oh see within that sylvan shade, the fairest city that e’er was made. A mighty tower roofed with gold, where dwells the Lady so I’m told. Queen of that ash land she may be, with daughters one, two and three.’

      Turning to the old woman in the nightgown, Edie saw that large tears were trickling down her walnut-like face as she recited. But Miss Celandine’s memory soon failed her and the words trailed into nothing. Humming to herself, she twisted the end of her plaits around her knobbly fingers, whilst her whispering voice slowly began to chant another half-remembered rhyme:

       ‘… thus spurred by need she wove her doom. Then all were caught within that weave and from its threads none could cleave. The root was saved, but by the Loom all things are destined, from womb to tomb …’

      At Edie’s side, the girl thought that she saw Miss Ursula flinch when these words were uttered and wondered what she was thinking.

       ‘… How fierce He roared, she cheated him of the ruling power hid within …’

      Again the poem faltered, but Miss Celandine continued to drone the rhythm until a sad smile suddenly smoothed her crabbed lips when a different thought illuminated her muddled mind. Clumsily, she rose to her feet and, assuming a dramatic pose, pointed a big, grime-encrusted toe. Then, very carefully, she started to dance.

      Edie shifted around to watch her. Swathed in her ragged nightgown, the old woman’s less than graceful movements were a peculiar sight. In other circumstances Edie would have laughed, but here in the midst of their grief, Miss Celandine’s shambling performance possessed an aching poignancy.

      Around the Chamber of Nirinel Miss Celandine waltzed, twirling and revolving with her arms flung wide. At times she looked like a collection of tattered sheets torn from a washing line and caught in a buffeting gale, but there were moments when the crackling torch flames clothed her in an enchanted light and the endless years fell from her shoulders. In those brief moments Miss Celandine was beautiful; her hair burned golden and her supple limbs skipped the steps with dainty precision.

      Then the vision was lost as she sailed out of the torchlight and reeled towards the entrance, where the metal gates formed a perfect backdrop for the rest of her display.

      ‘Oh what heavenly dancing there used to be,’ she pined, temporarily interrupting her tune. ‘What darling parties we had back then. Terpsichore, the gallants called me – Terpsichore, Terpsichore.’

      Flitting behind Miss Celandine, a dozen shadows stretched high into the darkness above, magnifying her every move. Edie stared, enthralled by their grotesquely distorted, whirling shapes.

      Even Miss Ursula had turned to watch her sister, yet the eyes which regarded her clumsy cavorting were filled with pity.

      All their attention was diverted from the corpse which lay upon the wellhead, so not one of them noticed when the withered hand of Miss Veronica began to move.

      With painful slowness, the arthritic fingers twitched and flexed, creeping across the bloodstained robe like the legs of a great, gnarled spider. Down to her side the hand inched, until the groping fingers closed about something metal and in that instant the old woman’s eyes snapped open.

      ‘Such is the demented doom which awaits me,’ Miss Ursula breathed, still following Miss Celandine’s ungainly prances. ‘As Nirinel rots, so too does her mind. That is the measure of how closely are we bound to it. Veronica was the first to fall victim. Then, piece by piece, Celandine followed until she became this witless fool. How many years are left unto me I wonder, before I too hitch up my skirts and join her in that abandoned madness?’

      Edie chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ll look after both of you,’ she pledged.

      ‘I know, child. To you I entrust the care of the museum and the many secrets it holds.’

      Over the carved beasts which crowded the chamber’s walls, Miss Celandine’s wild shadows continued to leap, and Edie narrowed her almond-shaped eyes as she watched them. Something was wrong.

      Amongst those gyrating shapes was a disharmony that she could not place. Over that stone menagerie the fleeting silhouettes licked and bounced with the same deranged vigour as before, but now a new element mingled with them – an extra shadow which did not belong there.

      At first it was difficult to distinguish this additional outline from the rest of the frenetic show. Confused, Edie peered at the strangely stilted shade with a puzzled expression upon her face. Then, with a sudden terror clutching her stomach, the awful truth dawned upon her.

      Spinning round, the girl let out a yell of fright. The stretcher was empty. There – standing directly behind Miss Ursula, her raised hand clutching hold of the rusted blade and ready to strike – was Miss Veronica Webster.

       CHAPTER 3 AN UNHOLY ABOMINATION

      Down stabbed the spear, slicing a savage arc through the stagnant air. But Edie’s shout had been enough, and Miss Ursula moved aside a moment before the weapon plunged through the space where she had just been sitting.

      Springing up, Edie pulled the eldest of the Fates to her feet and both stared in horror at the decrepit figure before them.

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