Читать книгу The Beauty of the Wolf - Wray Delaney - Страница 27

XIX

A key turns in the door, candlelight falls on the tormented face of the alchemist. A servant, carrying a gown, enters to find Master Finglas arguing with his dead wife, on the brink of losing his mind. The gown, which is far grander than any the alchemist has ever owned, pulls him back to the present. The sudden warmth that envelops him feels like the arms of his Bess, tears sting his eyes at the memory of her loving. He stands straight, rubs his hand over his bare head. He is escorted through the long gallery with its rows of paintings of the Rodermere family from the first to the present. He notices that one is missing, a shiny patch of wall marks out the square space where it used to hang. It was not a large portrait, yet he had considered it the finest there. It was of Francis Thursby, Earl of Rodermere, his hawk at his wrist.

The sorceress slips her hand into his. He stiffens, stops breathing for a moment, then squeezes her fingers gently. He is mystified by the softness of her skin. What did he expect? Scales? As much as she hates to admit it, by the hem of her petticoat their fates are tied to one another.

‘Do not leave me,’ he whispers as a door is opened.

The chamber they entered was hung with tapestries all depicting a hunting party. The riders looked out at Thomas; the hounds were running for the fox who, like the hunters, stared out at the viewer unconcerned, or so it appeared, by the nearness of danger. And in front of a roaring fire stood Sir Percival Hayes, Thomas’s old master and benefactor. Whippet lean, his clothes extravagant; a ruff of Dutch lace that could be valued in acres of land was gathered round his neck. The effect of the ruff was to disjoint his head from his body as if the two were different domains serving different masters. His face was by far the more sinister. He had hooded eyes, a long nose, lips too full. He could be taken for a younger man yet look closer and the fine lines that wrinkled his skin gave away his age. He was known at court as the Badger for his dark hair had a white stripe through it. Once head and body were joined as one his whole appearance spoke of menace.

Fifteen years, thought Thomas, can so change a man. When he had been in Sir Percival’s favour his master’s face had been open to the world. Now it is closed, iron conclusions have crushed the dreams of the younger man, made him an unmovable force of convention.

In those distant days, Sir Percival wanted to know the mysteries of alchemy and more. He had sought out Thomas Finglas. Having sieved through all the cunning men and quacks in London who pretended knowledge of the chemical theatre, Thomas stood apart. He was learned, spoke Greek, Latin, French and German as well as he spoke English. His interest was not in what he considered the cheap trick of turning lead into gold, but in the faerie realm for he believed if its power could be harnessed then all the secrets of nature would be at man’s command. Thomas had been with his master two years – in which he married, realised his mistake, and was able to do nothing but be bound to it for better or worse – when he had been sent here to return Lord Rodermere to the House of the Three Turrets.