Fairytales for Wilde Girls (28 page)

 

Two Isolas

Edgar sat at the kitchen table, feeling dazed. What had just happened? He felt a decision had been made for him; an invisible pressure on his shoulders had turned him in a circle and steered him down a path he hadn't chosen.

He rocked Puck's cradle on the floor with one foot, and found himself with his pencils and sketchbook. Still feeling somewhat glazed over, he began drawing – then, finding himself thickening the lash line on a portrait of Isola Wilde, he ripped the page from the sketchbook, balled it up and lobbed it towards the bin. It missed and hit Cassio instead, who called him all the names in a ten-year-old's repertoire and kicked the bin over as he stomped upstairs, which set Puck off on a crying jag.

Edgar picked up the baby before Lotus Blossom could admonish him, then threw the entire sketchbook in the bin.

He nodded numbly when Lotus Blossom asked him to run some errands for her, his mind wandering somewhere far away – somewhere thorny, dark and overgrown.

After purchasing cloth nappies for Puck and plant seeds for Lotus Blossom on High Street, Edgar stopped in at the public library. He searched, but couldn't find a single book in the system under any spelling variant he could think of for ‘Pardieu, Lileo'.

He wasn't even sure why he was searching for a copy of her storybook. It wasn't as if Isola would start caring for him again if he recited a few lines from her favourite book of fairytales. Against his better judgement, he took a moment to Google ‘Isola Wilde'. This search bore fruit; he found a recent picture of her from a local newspaper. She was holding a bouquet of candy floss with James Sommerwell by her side; the glittering dark of a fair behind them. James was smiling but Isola was taken by surprise, mouth agape, as the local press photographer clicked the shutter.

 

At the end of High Street, he saw the red moustachioed car and thumped on its window.

James rolled it down and hung his arm out, the cigarette between his fingers dribbling ash. ‘What?'

‘James? It's Edgar, remember?'

James took a long lazy drag, seeming to size him up, and Edgar shifted the groceries in his arms.

‘Yeah,' he said finally.

‘Can – can I ask you something?'

Are you in love with Isola
? The question shouted in his brain, echoing round the chambers of his mind. And more importantly, he thought –
Is she in love with you
?

‘Let me guess,' the other boy growled, ‘Isola's giving you the run-around, yeah?'

Edgar didn't answer, and James laughed rather harshly, lighting a fresh cigarette. James took a deep, slightly grizzled breath and continued, ‘Listen, it's probably nothing against you. That's just her. She does something, then the opposite. Like she's trying to be two Isolas.' His expression grew colder. ‘I hope you're what she's looking for.'

Edgar felt confusion course through him. ‘I saw a picture of you,' Edgar said quickly, as James changed gears and made to drive away. ‘Just now, you and Isola – you were at some carnival – I was just wondering, are you . . . ?'

Again, James laughed, scrunching up his dark brown eyes. ‘I liked that girl, man,' he admitted, ignoring the question. ‘I thought I'd make her happy again.'

‘Who says she's not happy?' Edgar felt his cheeks heat at the perceived slight. Had
he
made her so miserable?

‘It's because of her mum, mate,' replied James, shaking his head. ‘Seven years later and she's still not happy because of her mum.'

Edgar remembered what Isola had told her, about her mum getting sick, about how she really blamed herself, her own birth. He ran a hand through his hair; the curls felt suddenly hedgehog-prickly, and he said coldly, ‘Her mum couldn't help it, James. It's no-one's fault.'

‘Sure. That's what Sola's always thought. That her mum didn't
choose
that. Bollocks, she didn't.'

The silence was almost as uncomfortable as the conversation. James filled it with dragonish smoke.

‘It's like she's trying to live another person's life,' he said after a moment, eyes fixed ahead. ‘I dunno, maybe she got the idea from her psycho mum – I think that's why she's always changing her look, y'know? Like she's trying to accommodate a second person.'

‘Uh huh,' said Edgar, as a memory struck him then, slowly but with enormous force, a squidgy hammer to his brain. ‘Like the first Isola – the
real
Isola . . .' he muttered to himself.

A conga line of cars had built up behind James as his car idled in the street; angry honks reached their ears simultaneously, and they both emerged from the deep waters of their respective thoughts.

As the red car chugged off, James's cigarette butt sailing from the window like a fond farewell, Edgar wondered,
Was that it, then? Did she think, because both Isola Wildes shared a name, this Isola had to compensate for a life outlived?
She'd told him before that she thought she'd die at nine, had lived with an expectation that never came to pass, and now at sixteen, didn't know what to do with herself.

 

In the Belly of the Wolf

As dusk fell, Isola could feel it getting worse. Her throat grew tight, her chest was hollow and cold and her legs pulsed with bruises. She could feel the dragon's claws clicking at her back, cold and steely, and all because she'd found a body in the woods before school, all because she didn't have the nerve to slay a unicorn that probably wouldn't survive another year anyway.

‘It'll be all right,' soothed Mother, rocking Isola in her arms while she cried without explaining why.

‘Yes,' said Isola, wiping her streaming nose on her hand, thinking of the cross-shaped glass dagger, of a foal like Dusk somewhere in those woods – her ticket back to her abnormal life. ‘It's going to be fine.'

Bunny was curled in Isola's blankets. He was barely moving; all four of his paws were made of grey stone now. He wheezed as he inhaled, as though his lungs were getting stiffer, too.

‘Bunny, I'm going to help you,' she whispered in his floppy ear, running a trembling finger down his cheek. ‘I'm –' she gulped ‘– I'm going to get you something to eat.'

She pulled on her black boots and switched off the light and felt comforted in a way – that her brothers were coming back to her, even in this torture form.

Next was James.

Isola's phone rang and she answered, recognising his number. Nobody spoke down the line, and she supposed that was all she'd get from him. She left the phone beside Bunny and snuck downstairs, impatient for Alejandro to reappear, in whatever awful form.

It was a bruise-coloured twilight, and she stood on the precipice in her still-damp Mordred dress.

The trees at the edge of the forest bent towards her, calling in wooden voices at a pitch too high to be heard – warnings, perhaps, or welcome-backs. She carried a torch and the jagged piece of mirror. She nervously switched the torch on and off, then, stepping forward, used the broken-mirror piece to cut through the thorny barrier. The old trees were too weak now to put up much of a fight. The cosmic circus was well and truly dead.

She touched the wedding ring round her neck; it had grown almost as cold as her steel-cage ribs. The sky grew darker and the ring got colder as she walked, leading her like a homing device down a clear path through the woods.

It led her to the Devil's Tea Party. It was as though he had been waiting for her.

The unicorn foal had grown – he wasn't the tiny creature described to her. He had a sleek black body – which was rare since most unicorn coats fell between blue-white and grey – a short gold horn, and a purple mane and tail streaked with rainbow. He stood in the centre of the mushroom ring. Above him the white cage hung suspended, back in its original form. Isola could see the corpse's leg hanging down, stockings shredded, most of the meat gone from the bones.

The foal raised his curious head, ripped a shred of flesh from the ankle and chewed happily.

Isola stood outside the mushroom ring, holding the mirror shard so tightly it cut into her hands. Blood trickled down her forearm, spelling ‘ISOLA' in blackred letters.

The foal's legs, wobbly as an antique table's, fumbled under him, and he curled up in the feather nest. His nostrils flared as he smelt her anxiety in the air. He dropped the old meat and raised his bloodied muzzle, looking with black liquid eyes into the surrounding foliage.

She stepped forward.

The foal's eyes grew wide, its sweet lashes fluttering. He wasn't afraid of a Child of Nimue.

Isola crouched down beside him. Touched his neck.

At Number Thirty-six, Bunny's breathing spiked.

She hugged the foal close. ‘Bunny, I'm sorry. I can't.' The glass slipped between her nerveless fingers and landed in the grass and feathers. Isola buried her face in the foal's mane. ‘Dusk, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!'

The unicorn kicked his back hooves playfully. He neighed gently, nuzzled her face, and didn't even seem bothered by her streaming tears.

Isola tangled her fingers in his mane. She kissed the top of his head and whispered again, ‘I'm sorry, little Dusk.'

A twig cracked underfoot. A shadow – a shade or two blacker than the dark. The clouds shifted above, and the full moon emerged from its cover.

‘Who's there?' Isola shouted, startling the foal, her fingers fumbling for the mirror shard again. ‘Is that you, Florence? Nimue? Or are you the witch?'

The woman stepped out of the shadow.

‘None of the above, bairn!' boomed Mama Sinclair.

 

 

Weapons of Bones

‘
Mama Sinclair!
'

‘The one an' only. And
she
's not Dusk, either.' Mama Sinclair laughed. ‘That li'l one's Dawn.
That's
Dusk,' she added, pointing into the trees.

An enormous unicorn slunk from the shadows, stepping into the ring after Mama Sinclair. He tossed his dark head, his glossy black hide almost wet-looking in the slivery moonlight. His silver horn glowed faintly, and Isola switched off her torch. He was sinewy and lean, and not as skeletal as she'd expected.

‘Dusk,' Isola said softly.

He blinked his voluminous lashes, and in answer bowed his regal head to her. The shard in her hand seemed suddenly cold, and comically over-large. She moved her hand to hide it in the folds of her dress.

‘'E's head of 'is herd now,' said Mama Sinclair, proudly rubbing his neck.

‘I thought he was a story,' said Isola in wonder.

Mama Sinclair gave a small chuckle. ‘'E probably thought th' same about you.'

Dusk gave a whinny of pleasure. His spiralling horn beamed bright as a star, then dulled again.

‘God love ya, Dusk, you big show-off,' chuckled Mama Sinclair, scratching his nose. ‘Trying to impress this young Lady here?'

‘I'm not a Lady,' croaked Isola. ‘I came here to kill a foal.'

She had slain faeries that hadn't feared her, a dragon that hadn't harmed her. She'd injured Bunny and she might have killed Dusk – or Dawn, as it were. Feeling disgusted, she held out her hand, the dagger glinting like the Devil's bright teeth.

‘Aye,' said Mama Sinclair thoughtfully, but not taking the offered weapon, ‘aye, but the Lady of the Unicorns – she killed, too, when she had to. And that is how it should be. But she always knew when to stay her hand – as do you, Isola. You wouldn't have harmed li'l Dawn. I wouldn't be here if you 'ad it in ya. You've shown real loyalty to the Children of Nimue tonight. And more than that – you've proven yourself to
Her
.'

‘To who?'

‘Why, to Nimue, o' course! The Lady,' said Mama Sinclair, sweeping her hands in a wide circle, ‘o' these woods.'

‘Nimue,' breathed Isola. ‘She's the wood witch?'

Mama Sinclair shook her curly head. ‘Nimue is the Lady of
all
woods, pet. The witch who lives in this forest does so against Nimue's will. A year ago she came to live in the great oak tree. The tree with the red ribbon, the golden bells.'Mama Sinclair eyed her sadly. ‘What lives in that tree is responsible for the creature Florence, for what's befallen your princes, for the evil that's spread, the death of the forest. She is your true enemy. Florence merely fed off that evil, until she had the power to take over your brothers, to possess
you.
'

‘It all leads back to the witch.' Isola tucked the mirror shard away in her pocket. She stood tall in her army boots and said, ‘I have to get to that tree.'

A dusty blossom floated by, catching both their gazes; something seemed to grow wistful in Mama Sinclair's eyes. ‘Like most worthwhile things, it will not be easy,' she said before murmuring to Dawn in a musical language. The small foal was curled in a lump, happily pulling up weeds beneath them. Dawn climbed to her wobbly feet and licked Isola's hand before Mama Sinclair chivvied the foal onwards, and with a last long-lashed gaze at Isola, Dawn clopped off into the darkness.

‘She likes you,' said Mama Sinclair, with a breast-jiggling chuckle. ‘Well, pet, these are for you.'

Six blossoms floated into the circle, and each transformed – no wands, no glittery mist or spewed nonsense words to conjure them – into six floating, familiar items, pulsing in rhyme like the hearts of old lovers.

The Gifts of the Fairy Godmother

– Alejandro's purple silk cravat.

– A handful of pink glitter.

‘Faeriedust,' said Mama Sinclair. Isola smeared it into her dress pocket, remembering,
it heals the good and wounds the evil.
Next:

– Ruslana's favourite dagger (the Fury had never let her handle it).

Isola turned it over in her palm, admiring the gems set in the cold steel, the rough engraving at the hilt.
For Isola,
it read, and her stomach twisted into sailor knots. Then:

– A pearl from Christobelle's hair, marbled red and white.

– James's initialled cigarette lighter.

‘And last but not nearly least,' announced Mama Sinclair, indicating the last floating gift:

– A shining white bow, complete with three white arrows.

Isola stood on tiptoes to reach the shining bow. It dulled in her hand and she realised what it was made of – the bones from the creatures Bunny picked clean as well as wood from Grandpa Furlong's mandolin, the ribs of Christobelle's drowned sailor, and the steel of the rusted birdcage. The string was taut spiderweb and mandolin string.

‘Dusk here will take you,' Mama Sinclair said, as Isola inspected the arrows, all made of slim, sleek bone.

Dusk's split hooves nuzzled the dust and he blinked his great black mirror-eyes at Isola. Tentatively, Isola reached out and stroked his rainbow mane. His horn brightened again, a happy glow.

With a hum of satisfaction, Mama Sinclair turned to follow Dawn.

‘Mama Sinclair!' Isola called. ‘What – what do I do with all this?'

‘You rescue your princes, little Nimue bairn.'

‘My –? Mama Sinclair! Wait!'

But as the long-dead Scottish woman crossed the mushrooms that ringed the Devil's Tea Party, she dissolved into a cyclone of honeysuckle blossoms, and Isola was suddenly certain she'd never see her again in this realm.