Читать книгу The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf - Martin Millar - Страница 32

CHAPTER 26

Thrix MacRinnalch was generally regarded as a glamorous young woman. She appeared to be no more than thirty years old. But werewolves lived long and aged slowly. Really, she was much older. She’d first met Minerva MacRinnalch shortly after the end of the Second World War.

A few of the young werewolves at the castle had been planning to attend a dance in the nearest town. They were looking forward to the event. There had not been much in the way of enjoyment to be had during the war. In the two years since, life had been easier, but hardly more enjoyable. Britain was in debt and few people had money. Everything was rationed, including food and clothing. Thrix had become very adept at altering clothes, taking an old dress and making something new for a special occasion. It was satisfying when it worked out well, but she was weary of it. Thrix would have loved to buy a beautiful new dress but she couldn’t. Even if the Mistress of the Werewolves had allowed her daughter to spend so much money, which she probably wouldn’t have, there weren’t any beautiful new dresses to be had in this part of Scotland. As far as Thrix could tell, there was not a fashionable frock to be had anywhere in the north of Scotland.

Thrix was walking down a dark stone corridor, deep in thought, and had almost bumped into her mother.

“My daughter Thrix,” announced Verasa to her companion. “Not looking where she’s going.”

“These corridors are so dark,” said Thrix.

Her mother nodded. “I know. It’s gloomy. But the Thane won’t sanction any more lights. Have you met Minerva MacRinnalch?”

Thrix had been taken aback. Minerva was a famous, or infamous, figure in the clan, and not a werewolf she’d ever expected to meet in the castle. Minerva was a sorcerer, and that was a very odd thing for a werewolf to be. It wasn’t respectable. The MacRinnalchs were suspicious of the art. As far as Thrix knew, Minerva had never visited the castle before, and wouldn’t be welcomed by the Thane. He set great store by respectability. The MacRinnalch werewolves are a civilized clan, he said on many occasions. The clan mostly agreed with him, though some of the younger members were coming to resent the Thane’s rather harsh domestic discipline.

“Are you really Minerva the sorceress?” said Thrix.

“I am.” Minerva looked around fifty, in human terms, though she could have been any age. Verasa herself was several hundred years old. Minerva was a sorceress and might have lived for far longer than that. Thrix had never heard an exact account of her origins.

“You seem preoccupied,” said Minerva.

“Most probably she was wondering about a new dress,” said Verasa.

“Ah,” said Minerva. “The dance?”

Thrix nodded. “I’m so fed up with wearing old clothes.”

Minerva smiled. Thrix felt more uncomfortable. She had the feeling Minerva had quickly summed her up, and wasn’t that impressed.

“Why don’t you come with us?” said Minerva. “We’re off for a small glass of whisky before the Thane returns. Perhaps I can give you some help.”

Even now, many years later, Thrix could still visualize the dress that Minerva had created for the dance. Casting a spell on an old garment, she’d produced the most beautiful dress Thrix had ever seen. She just conjured it out of a ragged old frock. Thrix had been staggered. Her mother had seemed puzzled that Minerva would waste her power on what seemed like a trivial matter. But Minerva had done it, and the dress was beautiful, and fashionable. Thrix wore it to the dance, where it caused a sensation. No one could imagine how Thrix had managed to appear wearing such a fine new garment.

Halfway up the mountainside, Thrix came to a halt. She laid Minerva’s body at her feet. Thrix’s face was anguished as she looked down at her old teacher.

“It was cunning of you to make me that dress. You knew I’d be interested in sorcery after that.”

What Minerva had seen in the Thane’s daughter to make her select her as a pupil, Thrix had never really understood, but soon afterward she became her student. The MacRinnalchs had been shocked. Her father had raged against it. Her mother, while less angry, had not approved. Nor had her brothers. Thrix had been obliged to ignore her family and the clan to become a pupil of Minerva MacRinnalch.

“You really sucked me in with that dress.”

Thrix began to cry. She wanted to take Minerva to the top of her mountain, but she couldn’t go on. Horror and misery were engulfing her, freezing her body, making it impossible to act. Thrix knew she should have studied the area where Minerva had been slain. Her sorcerous powers might have picked up some hint as to the killer’s identity. But Thrix couldn’t go back down the mountain either. She was frozen in misery, halfway up, with her old teacher’s body lying in the rain at her feet. Thrix wept bitterly, changing from her werewolf form to her human form and then back again, not knowing which was preferable, and not knowing what to do.