Labyrinth Gate (4 page)

There was a short silence. Julian and Kate regarded each other. Sanjay coughed slightly. The groom Abbott made himself busy with the horses.

“That didn’t come out quite as I meant it to, did it,” said Chryse.

Kate began to laugh. “Are you runaways or refugees?” he asked. “I smell an adventure here.”

“Kate,” cried Julian as if in despair, but he surveyed Chryse and Sanjay with a new light in his eyes. “Are you in trouble?” he asked. “Perhaps we can assist you.”

“We can’t ask you to go to so much trouble for us,” said Sanjay quickly. He moved to put an arm around Chryse, realizing that she was beginning to shiver.

“I think Julian has put our case incorrectly,” said Kate. We’re not saints. We’re just bored.”

“No, Kate. Not
just
bored. Excruciatingly, numbingly bored. Indeed, your troubles would undoubtedly provide us with a much-needed diversion. Why else would you have found us in the least savory area of town? I fear that we had simply run out of anything else to do.”

“Now, Julian, that isn’t quite true. I did want to visit Master Cardspinner, but how was I to know that he’d left the city after reading the coming riot?”

“In any case,” finished Julian, “it will be warmer at Vole House. Permit me to introduce myself.” He bowed slightly. “Julian Haldane, Lord Vole. This is Miss Sophia Cathcart.”

“Sanjay Mukerji.” Sanjay put out his hand. After the barest hesitation, Lord Vole shook it, followed by Miss Cathcart, who was still smiling.

“I’m Chryse Lissagaray,” said Chryse, repeating this ritual.

Lord Vole handed her up into the carriage, and the rest followed after.

It was a quiet ride. Chryse attempted an explanation. Julian assured her that morning would be soon enough. The carriage clattered over the streets, the steady rhythm of the horses blending with a second set as they met up with another carriage, then a third as the thoroughfare grew wider and better lit.

That they had reached the wealthier districts was apparent by the many fine carriages and broad, clean, and well-lit house entrances. At last the carriage halted in a quiet square and they walked up the steps of a large, well-proportioned house, set in a line of others like it.

The door opened before them as if by magic.

“My lord. Miss Cathcart.” The individual responsible for this sleight of hand was evidently the butler. His eyes registered Chryse and Sanjay, but the rest of his face showed no reaction whatsoever.

As they came into the grand entrance hall, a rustling sounded from above. An apparition descended the gilt staircase. In one hand she held a lamp; the other held on to the curved railing.

“She is lovely, Julian,” said this figure, resolving into an aged lady of small stature and formidable presence. “And he—well, were I but forty years younger—” She halted at the second-to-bottom step and regarded them with an aristocrat’s hauteur, dignified by an ornate purple dressing gown that could easily, to Chryse’s eye, have passed for a ball gown. “But I am surprised that you now bring your trifling pleasures openly to your respectable home. Are there not other places for this sort of activity?”

“You mistake the matter, Aunt Laetitia,” said Julian without any sign of deference to her sharp tone. “Madame et Monsieur are foreigners, lost and robbed. Miss Cathcart and I saved them from unfortunate circumstances and now I offer them the hospitality of Vole House.”

“Hmph,” stated Aunt Laetitia categorically. “You forget that I am your sainted grandmother’s sister, not some married-in poor relation. If your mother and father were still alive—

“Alas,” said Julian, “but they are not.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sanjay automatically.

Julian bowed in acknowledgement. In the light of his aunt’s lamp, Chryse could see a slight smile on his face and she realized that he was enjoying himself. Miss Cathcart was silent. “I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but it isn’t necessary. My mother died some years ago. I believe she expired of exhaustion after delivering her twelfth child. And my father—died of a fever.”

“He died of drink,” said Aunt Laetitia.

“How uncharitable of you to say so, Aunt.”

She made a sound indicating her disdain. “How my niece married herself to such a wastrel neither your sainted grandmother nor I could ever understand. And I must say that you are following well in his footsteps. Though I daresay your Miss Cathcart outdoes you in that department.” She cast a disparaging look at Kate, who simply offered her an elaborate bow in response.

“Kate is not
my
Miss Cathcart,” said Julian. “And I must protest that her capacity for drink certainly does not exceed mine.”

“Bloody hell it don’t,” muttered Kate.

“And what sort of language is this, young woman? In
my
day a woman knew her place. And it was certainly not drinking to all hours of the night in this rakish and dissipated manner.”

Chryse, unable to help herself, laughed. “Where was her place?” she asked. “Ma’am.”

“Between the sheets, I expect,” muttered Aunt Laetitia’s great-nephew ungraciously.

“You are drunk, Julian,” Aunt Laetitia said without heat. She regarded Chryse with a penetrating but distinctly non-hostile eye. “A young woman of good birth and manners was taught to manage her estates and to hunt. These days, of course, such accomplishments as embroidery, sketching, and trivial conversation are considered sufficient. It is no wonder that Miss Cathcart has taken to drink.”

“Fortunately,” said Chryse, beginning to like Aunt Laetitia quite well, “I’m not good at sketching, but my husband is.”

“Ah,” said Aunt Laetitia, lifting her lamp a trifle higher to examine the couple more closely. “You are married. Julian!” This in a voice long accustomed to command. “Introduce me. And then call Mistress Housekeeper and have her show them to the Gold Suite. We can discuss their predicament in the morning, when
we
are rested and you and Miss Cathcart are sober.”

“Yes, Aunt,” said Julian meekly.

S
HE DREAMED OF MUSIC.
She often did, and woke pensive at having lost it or laughing at its awfulness. But here she dreamt of music as she never had before—a purity and simplicity of line that was so close to the truth she felt she should be seeking that she ached.

And woke pressing herself close to her husband in an unfamiliar bed in a strange room.

“Sanjay?” she said, sitting up startled and a little frightened before she remembered with a kind of vague unclarity the events of the night before. “Where are we?”

Sanjay stirred and pulled her back down against him in a movement made smooth by much practice. “In bed on our honeymoon.”

“This is not our hotel.”

“No,” he agreed. He smiled, caressing her. “Although that didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

She kissed him, lingering, finally disengaged herself. “I was too shocked to protest last night. I needed some kind of reassurance.” She paused. “I had the strangest dream,” she continued. “And beautiful.”

Now he sat up. “So did I. I was on an exploratory expedition of some kind and we came on a—not quite a ruin—it was a forest with a city so perfectly intertwined with it that—I almost hate remembering it.”

“As if,” she said slowly, “all those classes you took in archaeology and ecology and art and culture fit together perfectly.”

“Yes.” He regarded her for a moment. “How did you know?”

“Because I had the same dream, I think—except of music—and it had a forest in it, too. Sanjay, where are we?”

The soft light of morning had penetrated the curtains, scattering beams across the bed. The room was furnished as if from an antique store, but the pieces had a look of well-polished newness about them. Above the fireplace hung a painting, a rather studied, sentimental pose of a mother and child, each with a halo. A fire burned in the hearth, but it was mostly coals, and dying.

Chryse tested the floor with a foot and found rug. On a beautifully carved chair next to the bed lay draped a fine woven dressing gown. She slipped it on.

“It’s cold,” she said, padding across the wood floor to the window. She leaned forward to look out. “This is not our hotel,” she repeated at last. “If I had to make a guess, based on these rooftops, and what I can see of the streets, and the carriages, I’d say a century or more ago. Well?” She turned to regard Sanjay a little belligerently, as if daring him to come up with some explanation.

He was now sitting up, examining first the dressing gown of white lace and frills that lay on the chair on his side of the bed, then the dressing table beyond. “Whatever do they use all those drawers for?” he said to no one. He turned to look at his wife. “I don’t know, sweetheart. And I’m not going to make a guess until I’ve got more evidence.”

“Said just like your father,” said Chryse, but with humor. “I
know
we’re not dreaming, but it’s impossible—isn’t it? Last night I thought we would wake up and discover that your sister had played an elaborate practical joke on us. I think that’s the only reason I was able to act with any degree of outward rationality. My other choice was catatonia.”

“An unusual state for you.”

She made a face at him.

“I do know one thing, though,” he added.

“Which is?”

He lifted up the lace dressing gown. “You put the wrong one on.”

They both began to laugh, cut off when a knock sounded on the door. Sanjay sat back under the covers. The door opened silently and a girl’s face appeared.

“Begging pardon, Madame—Oh!” She looked surprised. “And Monsieur. I brought your chocolate. An’ Betty’s here to stoke the fire up.”

Sanjay grabbed the bed curtains and quickly pulled them shut.

“Please come in,” said Chryse, feeling at a loss. The first girl entered bearing a tray with cups and two steaming pitchers. A second girl, younger and just as neatly dressed, followed and went directly to the fire after offering a brief curtsey to Chryse.

“Shall I pour for you and Monsieur, Madame?” asked the first girl.

“Oh, ah, thank you,” replied Chryse. She walked over to the door to her dressing room, half recalled from the night before. Opening it, she found a huge space. Her gown had been hung up, and her suitcase’s contents unpacked and hung up as well. In the vast space, the few outfits looked meagre. Sanjay’s clothes were, she presumed, beyond the door on the other side of the bedroom.

“If you’re wishing to dress, Madame,” said the first girl tentatively, “I can help you, or Lady Trent’s dresser, Miss Botherwell, can be called. She’s ever so good. Oh, and Lord Vole’s valet for Monsieur.”

Chryse turned around rather quickly. “No, thank you. I think we can manage for ourselves, if—all—” She faltered. “Thank you.”

The girl curtsied, a slight smile on her face as she glanced once quickly at the closed bed curtains, and she hurried the other maid out in front of her.

“Are they gone?” asked Sanjay from behind the drapes as the door clicked to.

“Coward,” said Chryse.

The curtains opened slowly. “Perhaps I’ve just woken up in one of my previous lives, as a rajah.” He offered Chryse the elegant lace dressing gown in exchange for the one she was wearing. “Imagine needing someone to help you dress.”

“I had to have help getting into my wedding dress. Good lord, this is almost obscene, with all this lace. I’m afraid to sit down.” She did so anyway, next to the tray of hot chocolate. “Do you want a cup? It’s very good. Do you know, somehow I don’t suppose they have showers here. But they’ve left us a pitcher of hot water and some towels, and there’s a basin over there. Oh well. I’m just glad I only drank one glass of champagne last night.”

“Why?” Sanjay had gotten up and was now examining the contents of his dressing room.

“What are those hallucinations you get when you drink too much? Delirium something?” She gave a slight laugh and poured herself another cup of cocoa. “Worse, imagine having to face this with a massive hangover.”

“Chryse,” said Sanjay rather plaintively from the closet, “do you think I can wear my jeans?” There was a brief silence, broken by his voice coming from farther away. “There’s a whole second bedroom in here.”

“Aunt Laetitia did call it the Gold
Suite,
didn’t she? Maybe we’re supposed to sleep in separate beds. And I don’t see what choice you have but to wear your jeans.” He wandered back in, clothes in hand, looking bemused. “What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is if we went back in time why are there people who don’t look human, like that old woman—”

“She might have been in an industrial accident. Scar tissue.”

“But I saw other people like her, even a child. And if we went somewhere else entirely, why does everyone speak English?”

“Maybe they don’t speak English,” said Sanjay as he dressed. “Maybe we just perceive whatever they speak as English. Maybe they’re really speaking Hindi.”

“Or Urdu?”

“In any case, you know this is all your fault.”

Chryse laughed. “I didn’t until you reminded me. Why?”

“You’re the one who said you wanted our honeymoon to be an adventure.”

“But you’re the one who said we should go somewhere completely different.”

They both grinned.

“I feel so guilty,” said Chryse finally.

“Guilty?”

She shrugged. “Last night I was too stunned to think. But now it’s morning and we’re safe—I’m excited, Sanjay. We haven’t the faintest idea where we are, and I’m not sure I care. It really
is
an adventure.”

“But why guilty?”

“What about Anna? She has all the presents, and she’ll expect us to pick them up.”

“Not for two weeks. No one will expect to hear from us for two weeks.”

“And when the two weeks are up? Anna will call your parents, they’ll call mine, and mine will call the police.”

He sighed and sank down on the bed. “You’re right. We’ll just have to find out where we are, how we got here, and how to get back.”

Chryse sighed, an echo, and sat down beside him. “Maybe finding out how to get home means we can get back here again.” With one foot she traced the bright geometric pattern of the carpet morosely. “It seems a pity to have to leave before we have a chance to explore.”