«Shh,» she put a finger to her lips, letting him know not to call her that anymore, no matter what world they found themselves in, human or not, and she didn’t want anyone there to know about her title and flight. There were few who were capable of informing. She wasn’t the only one who had ever entered a magical world. Maybe someone in the castle could communicate with these creatures, too. Then they might let them know. Any tiny fairy caught could spill everything she knows to get away. Not to mention leprechauns or dwarves or some other insidious creature. Orpheus seemed to understand her and nodded. Anyway, this time he obeyed the order. Since she had given him the name, he no longer laughed at her at all, as if he had become part of her, or for some unknown reason was obliged to obey her orders. Maybe he would even be forced to do her bidding. This was the first time Rhianon had dealt with such a creature, and he never ceased to amaze her.
He led her straight through the mirror, ignoring the long, agonizing moan that the cavernous wall made. The glass was as insensible as ripples in the water, and the opening must have closed the moment she stepped through it, following Orpheus, who was clutching her arm, because she was pinned by the train. She tried to free it and could not. The mirror was hard again. Behind it she could still see the cave and some tiny black creatures now scurrying about there, while on the inside the wall had become smooth and colorful, decorated with some elaborate tapestry.
«Do you like it?» Someone from behind the banquet table called out to her in a low voice.
Rhianon nodded; the tapestry impressed her in some way, but she could not say exactly what it was. Threads lay upon each other, joined together, creating an intricate pattern. There were skies, an abyss, and a transverse line of verdant forests, and all these places were full of unimaginable creatures.
«Doesn’t your lady want to come to the table?»
«Yes, I do,» Rhianon took the liberty of answering for the pandering Orpheus, and she pulled harder on the train to free it, but the case yielded only a little.
Someone at the table laughed resoundingly, sparkling wine was still pouring into the goblets as if there was no end to it, not only was the tabletop piled high with viands, fruit and grapes were also rolling across the floor as if they were growing out of it, some of them turning into golden balls, or so it only seemed.
Rhianon abandoned her futile attempts to tear out the stuck train and looked at the gathering. They were creatures of the ethereal world, with wings of many colors, with skin from which sprouts of flowers or vines sprouted, with eyes that burned with evil fire, with arms full of wool and horns and claws. Such indescribable creatures she could not have imagined.
The scarlet-haired, childlike fairy at the head of the table made an inviting gesture. Her eyes glowed like two rotted beads, and here and there a crust of wood crusted over her lily skin. The mushroom fairy, as Rhianon called her to herself, because her dress and jewelry took on the coloring of a bizarre flyswatter. But Orpheus called her something else.
«Leave her alone, Athenais, I brought her here as a guest, not as entertainment for you.»
«Oh, guest,» Athenais said, and her eyes sparkled slyly. «We’ve been missing her, so beautiful, so sweet…» she smiled, her sharp teeth gleaming dangerously under her blood-red lips. «She is sweeter than the dew on May flowers.»
«I told you she’s not for you,» Orpheus reminded her sharper.
«You mean you brought her here for him,» Athenais’s puppet face mirrored a moment of consternation, even a moment of panic. But what could a fairy be afraid of? Rhianon looked at her with interest.
«Is it he?» She said again, and everyone fell silent at once. Not only the talking and the music stopped, but it was as if life itself had frozen for a moment.
«Who is he? Haven’t I seen everyone else here?» She turned to Orpheus, because everyone else was unfriendly and silent.
«Well…» he hesitated for a moment. «I think the first thing we need to do is find a fairy to make you a camisole.»
«Is it here?» She paused. Rhianon glanced around the feast hall, which, in spite of its profusion of luxuries such as drapery, gold tableware, and chandeliers, was more like a forest. It was not the trees with pomegranate stones instead of berries that looked artful decorations, but the objects of the interior themselves seemed to be merely decorations set in a wild forest. The wind would sweep them away, and all that was left would be rowan thickets.
Once more the girl tried to free herself, but the train stuck tight. True, it was long enough to allow her to take a couple of steps into the depths of the hall; on the third step the brocade crunched, letting her know that the train was tearing.
«That’s all right, get Griselda’s gnats over here, they’ll sort it out quickly,» Orpheus worried. Clapping his hands, he did manage to summon some tiny creatures dragging gold scissors and thread. They looked more like fleas than fairies in size, but they got to work quite bravely. They were called pixies, Rhianon recalled. The tiny dressmakers worked, and Athenais watched her intently from across the table with unblinking, long stares. She had even set the goblet of wine aside, and now her fingers, covered with ingrown wood, were clearly visible. What a creature is it? Rhianon had found the doll peculiar and pretty, but even she shuddered at the sight of such ugliness.
«Restore the pattern, this brocade is very valuable,» Orpheus directed the work. «Not a single sign must be changed…»
Is it a sign? Rhianon hadn’t noticed that the dress was embroidered with signs. They were probably quite tiny, almost indistinguishable to the mortal eye. But judging by Orpheus’ commands and the intense work of the fairies, every inch of the brocade abounded with them. And they could not be confused with anything else. Orpheus repeated this many times.
«Or else your friend will be ignited?» Athenais raised her defiantly arrogant voice.
«I am his mistress, not his friend,» Rhianon stepped forward, not even thinking about how Athenais could know about her inner flame. And when she did, it was too late to take it back.
«Ah, that’s how,» the fairy smiled coldly, at that moment looked ominous both herself and her not at all childish, but dwarfed, because the tiny face here and there covered with a crust of wood suddenly seemed old, not doll-like. She must be thousands of years old, like all these creatures sitting at the table with her, Rhianon thought. And she talks to her like a child.
«No offense to you,» the fairy dwarf said, and with a graceful gesture of her tiny hand she adjusted her curls. They, too, were the color of tree bark, brown and stiff, but curled in a way that made her look like a porcelain doll. If only it hadn’t been for the crusts that plagued her skin and the fingernails that looked more like the growths on a tree.
«Me, too,» Rhianon said, and her beautiful but human voice boomed over the banquet table like something foreign. There were no bells and no violin in her speech. Everyone here should have realized long ago that she was a mere human being, yet no one made the slightest attempt to attack her, take her captive, or dope her with her wine. The table was as full of fruit as a cornucopia, and a single crumb of those plums or apples is probably enough to poison a person. Fairies always did. Their fruit seemed especially juicy, poured with color like sparkling jewels, but their juice was only enough to act as a potion to drive a mortal mad rather than quench his thirst.
An eternal thirst awaited her if she tasted anything from their table. They say it happens to everyone, they want to see the fairies again and can’t, and the impossibility of that desire drives them mad. After all, the magical world seems so close, yesterday you were in it, and today you can no longer find it.
Rhianon looked at Athénais. Her eyes twinkled as if she wouldn’t mind drawing the princess to herself, treating her to her wine, her fruit, and maybe even bewitching her.
Some furry creatures in bright hats were swinging from the chandelier, as if it were attached not to the ceiling, but to the